Discoveries/Chris Guillebeau

I started reading Gretchen Rubin's Happiness Project blog about a year ago on Slate and it became my daily lunchtime fix. One of the things she does that resonates with me is how she organizes ideas. I've learned a lot from her, including something as simple as illustrating my blog posts with a colorful image. Through Gretchen I discovered Chris Guillebeau. On the surface, Chris is a writer and a traveler. But a few weeks into reading his newsletter and sporadic epistles that pop into my mail box, I've realized what a gift he brings to his readers. As he puts it, he gives people the courage to do something remarkable with their lives.

Yesterday, his message truly struck home with me. Essentially, it was this:

You have to do. Not just think.

Our intentions have no impact. Our actions can effect change--for ourselves, for someone we love, for the world.

What will you do today?

Craft--Writing Prompt/The Crabapple Tree

I had dinner on Friday night with one of the Margies in my profile, a childhood friend with whom I had spent many a lazy summer afternoon playing games of jacks, rescuing injured birds and climbing the gnarled limbs of the crabapple tree that straddled the boundary of our backyards. We kids in the neighborhood had named every branch; it was a place to hold "meetings" or hide with a book.

Take a tree--outside your window or buried in your memory. Create a scene in which it stands at the center.

Craft/Recharging and Catching Up

I've gone missing a few days, between dental surgery, family gatherings (my aunt's wake and my husband's birthday) and taking down the tree (yes, we keep it up this long because we don't mark the end of our holiday celebrations until the birthday).

I'm back again, trying to recharge my dormant creativity. Yesterday I wandered from room to room, teacup in hand, not quite able to summon the words and the discipline that sustain me. I decided to allow myself a few hours--my mouth hurt from the stitches, my brain was rebelling. I even took a nap, curled up with a comforter on our down-filled blue velvet (don't ask!) couch in front of the wood stove.

When I woke up, it was to music. My husband was listening to Bono on YouTube, singing "MLK." In the way that often happens, we found ourselves moving from Bono's version to the Heartland Men's Chorus rendition, which then led us to several other songs by the HMC. I shook off my fatigue and mental paralysis, touched by both their music and their history.

I did two things last night to get back to where I wanted to be: I made a list and I played the piano. The list set out what I wanted to accomplish in the next week, with very specific next steps for each item--even if it was something as simple as printing out an email from my editor. The piano playing was practice in the Zen sense of the word. I empty myself of everything except the notes when I play.

Tonight, as I write, I'm on my way again.

How do you recharge when you falter?

Discoveries/Jesse Cook

One summer a few years ago, my husband and I were wandering in and out of galleries in Provincetown, Massachusetts. As we drifted from one sculpture to another, a vibrant flamenco guitar played in the background. Curious, we inquired and learned that the musician was a Canadian musician named Jesse Cook. His CD was for sale in the gallery. We bought it, and from that moment became avid fans. One cannot sit still listening to him, and I often find myself dancing around the house as I perform the most mundane of tasks.

When the time came for me to suggest ideas for the cover of my first novel, Dancing on Sunday Afternoons, I recommended that the artist listen to Jesse to understand the spirit and energy of my heroine, Giulia Serafini.

Fast forward to the launch of Dancing. My husband, who does not know the meaning of the word "impossible," seized upon the idea of inviting Jesse and his band to perform at my party. It took him nearly a year. But one Sunday afternoon in March, the celebration that he had envisioned one night listening to Jesse came together in one of the most memorable days of my life: family and friends filling a theater we had rented; dancers from a local conservatory interpreting the rhythms and melodies we had come to love; Jesse Cook and his musicians expressing the joy and exuberance of his compositions; and me, alone in the spotlight with only my words to share.

As I write this tonight, I am listening to Jesse and dancing.

What makes you dance?

Craft/Writing Prompt--A Childhood Memory

I have just come from the wake of my Aunt Clara, who passed away on Friday evening. After offering our condolences to my cousin and her family and sharing our memories of my aunt, my generation gathered to reconnect with one another. As my husband and I drove home, I reminisced about my childhood experiences with many of those present tonight--especially in the Eden that was my grandmother's home in the country.

Take a childhood memory and describe it in the voice of a child.

Food/Pho

In my novella "A Daughter's Journey," my heroine, the journalist Melanie Ames, shares a bowl of the Vietnamese national dish, Pho, with ex-Marine Phil Coughlin on a night that changes her life.

“…the food met a need so basic that it quelled the earlier disquiet Mel had felt about being with Phil any longer than absolutely necessary. She swallowed the noodles and shredded cabbage voraciously, registering the warmth, the flecks of hot chili pepper, the intense flavors of garlic and onion and basil from the broth that must have been simmering for days.”

Vegetarian Pho Bo

(Vietnamese Noodle Soup)

8 cups Vietnamese style-broth

1 pound rice noodles
One 8-ounce package seitan, drained
1/4 cup bean sprouts
1/2 cup shredded cabbage

1/2 cup basil leaves
1/2 cup cilantro, coarsely chopped
3 scallions, thinly sliced

3 Tablespoons chopped, roasted, unsalted peanuts (optional)
1 lime, cut into wedges
3 fresh red or green chili peppers, seeded and cut into fine rounds
Salt and freshly ground pepper to taste

1. Make the broth as directed. When broth has been simmering for about 10 minutes, soak the noodles as follows. Bring 4 quarts of water to boil in a large pot. Remove from heat, add noodles, and let soak around 15 minutes, stirring occasionally until noodles are pliable and easily separated.

2. Drain the noodles and divide them among six bowls. Simmer the seitan in the broth until heated through, about 4 minutes. Remove the seitan with a slotted spoon and slice thinly into six portions. Add to noodles.

3. Assemble the soup by placing the bean sprouts, cabbage, basil, cilantro, scallions, and optional peanuts on top of the noodles and seitan. Ladle the hot broth onto the noodle mixture. Serve with a plate of lime wedges, chili rounds, and salt and pepper for individual seasoning.

Vegetarian Vietnamese-Style Broth
8 cups clear vegetable stock
3 Tablespoons soy sauce
8 medium garlic cloves, peeled and chopped coarsely
1 small onion, diced
One 1-inch piece of ginger
Two 3-inch cinnamon sticks
2 pods of star anise
2 large bay leaves

1. Put stock, soy sauce, garlic, and onion in a large stockpot and bring to a boil over medium heat.

2. Meanwhile, char ginger on all sides over an open gas flame or in a small skillet. Add to the stock.

3. Add the cinnamon sticks, star anise, and bay leaves to the broth. Reduce the heat to low. Simmer, partially covered, for 20-25 minutes. Strain the broth. Adjust seasonings if necessary. Return to pot and keep hot until ready to use in soup.

Encounters/Sharon and Holly

One of the pleasures of the writing life (and there are many) is connecting with other writers. A few years ago I had the good fortune to be invited to spend a weekend writing by the sea with Sharon Wright , a novelist (and now wonderful life coach) I'd met when she attended a writing retreat I ran. Sharon had also invited another writer friend, the journalist (and now novelist) Holly Robinson. The three of us had escaped our daily lives as mothers, wives and jugglers of many tasks to hole up for two days in a small apartment on the beach in the middle of January. We wrote for hours, Sharon and Holly wrapped in quilts with their laptops on the couch, and I with my narrow-ruled pad and fine point pen at a small round table overlooking the water. At night, we ate a meal I had brought (a butterflied leg of lamb marinated in garlic, rosemary, olive oil and lemon juice; roasted red potatoes and baby green beans), drank some very good wine and read out loud to one another what we had written during the day.

We affirmed what was good in one another's prose and offered fresh perspectives and thoughtful commentary. And then we drank some more wine.

I count both women as friends. Although I rarely see them because of the geographic distance between us, our stories link us. My writing has been enriched because of those days I spent with them at the beach, and I feel privileged to have been among the first to hear their words as they were tumbling onto the page.

Inspiration/Clara

My Aunt Clara turned 101 on Christmas Eve.

Although her hair is now white, she is still the beautiful woman pictured here. The last time I visited with her this summer, her elegant hands had just been manicured in a subtle shade of coral and she sat regally, fully enjoying her role as the matriarch of our extended family.

It is more than Clara's longevity that is an inspiration. She radiates peace and joy that extend to anyone who comes into contact with her. She also has an indomitable spirit, facing pain or sadness with strength and humor (a trait inherited from my equally long-lived grandmother).

Do you know anyone who has lived more than 100 years?

Discoveries/Madama Butterfly

"But for opera I would never have written Leaves of Grass,"

Walt Whitman is said to have acknowledged in later life.

I first discovered opera when I was a child coloring on the floor in my grandmother's parlor while she listened to the Met broadcast on Saturday afternoons. My memories of the romance between my father and my mother are intricately bound to the melodies of Madama Butterfly. When my husband and I were choosing the music for our wedding ceremony we wanted to honor our parents with pieces that had meaning for them. For my Viennese father-in-law and Bavarian mother-in-law, we chose Mozart. For my parents, it was "Un Bel Di," Cio-Cio-San's hopeful dream of happiness.

I don't know that I would never have written without the influence of opera, but the motifs of Puccini and Verdi that filled my childhood have certainly shaped my vision of the elements of a passionate love story--the backdrop of a specific, climactic moment in history (the fall of Saigon in "A Daughter's Journey," the dismantling of the Berlin Wall in "The Hand That Gives the Rose"); lovers from widely divergent backgrounds thwarted by family, duty or political upheaval (the privileged daughter Giulia defying her conservative family to embrace Paolo, the union organizer with the fiery pen in Dancing on Sunday Afternoons). The stakes are high; the language is lyrical; the ending is not always happy-ever-after but has integrity and coherence in the midst of great sacrifice.

Has a piece of music found its way into what you do?

Craft/Writing Prompt--Word Games

Here's a random list of words (pulled from the well-worn pages of my bright red American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language, purchased when I was an editor at its publisher, Houghton Mifflin). Write for twenty minutes, using all the words.

1. pensive
2. firebird
3. brink
4. acrobat
5. escalate
6. lapis lazuli
7. river
8. almond
9. trace
10. vial

I'll be happy to critique the first three responses I receive in the next 24 hours. Have fun!

Food/Stuffed Artichokes

The holidays when I was growing up were not complete without my mother's extraordinary artichokes--filled with a fragrant stuffing that spilled over the top and filled the spaces between the leaves. Just writing about them makes my mouth water.

Lena’s Stuffed Artichokes
(For 4 servings)

4 large artichokes, with stems
2 cloves garlic, peeled and chopped fine
2 tablespoons chopped parsley
1 cup breadcrumbs
½ cup grated Parmeggiano cheese
Olive oil

With kitchen shears, trim the tip of each artichoke leaf straight across.

Slice off the stems of the artichokes close to the base so that artichokes stand upright.

Peel the stems and chop into 1/8” dice.

Mix the chopped stems with the breadcrumbs, parsley, garlic and cheese.

Add olive oil to hold the mixture together.

Spread open the top of the artichoke, forming a cavity, and stuff with the breadcrumb mixture. Add more stuffing between the leaves.

Arrange stuffed artichokes in a heavy pan. Drizzle with olive oil.

Fill the pan with about one inch of water

Cover the pan and bring water to a boil. Reduce heat to a simmer and cook for about 45 minutes, checking to make sure that water has not evaporated (add more if necessary).

Artichokes are done when a leaf can be pulled off easily.

Eat by pulling off one leaf at a time and scraping teeth along the inside of the leaf.

Encounters/The rituals of our lives

Happy New Year! We are about to depart for our traditional celebration with my mother-in-law, at which we toast the new year as it arrives in her German homeland (six hours ahead of New England). The candles throughout the house will be lit, including those on a wrought-iron pyramid that echoes the shape of a Christmas tree. She will dance a Viennese waltz with her son, my husband. Each of us will choose a candle on the pyramid, hoping it will be the one that lasts the longest. (Once upon a time, the candles were on a real Christmas tree, but she has given up that tradition for a live tree outside on her deck, sprinkled with tiny white lights that glisten through the snow that fell this morning.)

These familiar rituals shape our lives. What are yours?

Inspiration/Remoteness

Sometimes we need to isolate ourselves from the distractions of daily life. For me, the remoteness of island living has served as both a source of renewal and inspiration.

The lull of waves approaching and then receding

from the beach below our cottage;

the subtle variations in the sky throughout the day

as the winds move over the water;

the simplicity of a home without electricity or internet. . .

. . . all encourage me

to listen and see that I might then write.

Discoveries/The Blue Kimono

One of my earliest memories of my Aunt Kay was a photograph of her, her back to the camera, arms outstretched in a doorway as she looked over her shoulder. She was wearing the most exotic outfit I'd ever seen in my Italian-American childhood--an elaborately embroidered kimono, with flowers and birds spilling across the back and down the elegant sleeves that hung from her graceful arms.

That photograph always intrigued me, and it was only much later that I discovered where it had been taken--the island of Trinidad, a long way from the Yonkers neighborhood where Kay, my mother and their sisters and brothers had grown up. She had sailed there to marry my Uncle Joe, who was building the naval airbase at Chaguaramas.

That kimono, and the stories it led to, became the opening scene of my new novel, Across the Table.

Have you ever discovered something incredibly beautiful but unexplained in a familiar environment?

Craft/Writing Prompts

At my more-or-less monthly dinner with my writer friend Julie this evening, the conversation wandered from movies we'd seen this week to Christmas celebrations with family to evolving friendships. At one point, however, I asked for Julie's thoughts on writing prompts. We met many years ago at a writing retreat and neither one of us is a stranger to the triggers that can spark a flow of words that, like the roots of a wild lily, send out tendrils into unexpected territory.

"What are your sources?" I asked her. One of her answers was intriguing--an example from a workshop leader with whom she'd written for many years. "The first line of a newspaper article," she suggested.

When I got home I pulled a copy of the front section of The New York Times from the mounting pile in a basket in my kitchen. Here are a few sentences from which to choose.

In almost every room people were sleeping, but not like babies.

Raimundo came to this sweltering Amazon outpost 15 years ago, looking for land.

Nelson would be the first to say that he has been favored with many acts of kindness in his 23 years.

Discoveries/Oma's Calendar

I've turned in my manuscript to my editor and have now turned my attention to the final preparations for our Christmas celebrations. My posts this week will revolve around what I'm doing away from the computer--it's the best way I know to keep up with the blog and still keep my sanity.

Tonight I'm in the midst of creating the gift my mother-in-law cherishes--a calendar composed of special photographs of the highlights of the year. As I type, the photos are spilling slowly out of my printer. The whole family gets involved in providing and selecting the pictures--important choices when we can only include twelve. We've been creating this memento for Oma (the German word for "Grandma") for decades.

A few months ago, Oma gathered all the calendars and we spent an evening wandering through their pages. Taken together, they were a striking record of our family history--our lives defined by the changing New England seasons, our growing children, our aging parents. We rediscovered lost moments, captured in images that sparked memories and triggered stories.

Do you have special gifts that hold great meaning for you and your family?

Writer at Work

I'll be buried in the Across the Table manuscript over the next few days, reviewing my editor's line edits and making changes and additions. As a consequence, I won't be posting. I hope to resurface at the end of the week.

Craft/The Golden Sentence

When I taught high school English, my mentor recommended an exercise that I required of my students as a daily practice with every reading assignment. I asked them to identify the "Golden Sentence," the sentence that resonated most with them and captured the essence of the passage; and I asked them to articulate why they had chosen it.

It was a way to get them to pay attention, but also a way for them to discover how words on a page can reach out and grab the reader.

Do your stories have a Golden Sentence?

Food/Rose's Pasta con Piselli e Prosciutto

My forthcoming novel, Across the Table, is set in a restaurant in Boston’s North End run by the Dante family. They call the place “Paradiso,” after the third volume of Dante Alighieri’s Divine Comedy.

In Paradiso, Beatrice leads Dante through the spheres of heaven. Early on, believing that she has shown him more than he can comprehend, she tells him “sedere un poco a mensa.” She wants him to sit awhile at her table and digest all that he has seen.

Throughout Across the Table, the Dante family is sustained by Rose’s belief that there is no pain that cannot be eased by a dish of homemade pasta, such as the one below.

As Rose says when she prepares this dish, " I did what I always do when we have something important to discuss. I put care into what we were going to eat.”

1 lb. orecchiette pasta

2 tablespoons unsalted butter

1 medium onion, chopped into small dice

1 cup baby peas

1 cup diced cooked ham

2 cups heavy cream

Grated Parmeggiano

Salt and pepper

Prepare orecchiette as directed.

Sauté the onion in butter over medium heat until soft.

Add peas and ham, stirring to mix with onions.

Add heavy cream, blending with ham and vegetables until gently bubbling. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

Drain pasta. Place in serving bowl and add sauce, stirring to mix. Serve with grated Parmeggiano.

Encounters/Jesper Rosenmeier

A friend of mine once said that every woman should have at least one girlfriend who has known her since they were in high school and one old boyfriend she can still talk to. I would add to that, at least one memorable teacher. Mine was Jesper Rosenmeier, a Danish scholar of early American literature, who influenced my reading and helped me develop both my skill and my faith in myself as a writer.

He pushed me to articulate my ideas in class--a harrowing experience for a shy freshman who had somehow landed in an upper level English class in her second semester. He challenged me to pull together the fragments of ideas jotted down in my journal and follow them into new intellectual territory. He never allowed me to become complacent or lazy.

Rosenmeier was a big man, a towering presence with a dramatic and passionate teaching style. When he read a passage from Jonathan Edwards' "Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God," you could feel the flames of hell lapping at your feet. He was also expansive and generous and funny.

Who has shaped you?