Important technology moment

Sometimes the blog archives remind me of some interesting moments.

 

A lesson learned at camp 

 

It was 1981 and I would be starting fifth grade in the fall.  For the summer, I was returning to River Hills Day Camp, about an hour west of my Central Jersey hometown, near a pair of lakes.  No one from my school went to that camp, and I was pleased about that.  I had made lots of friends in camp the previous year.  But in my elementary school in Central Jersey, I was shy and lousy at sports.  I had a small group of close friends there, but not a lot.  Camp was different.  When I had started camp the previous year, I instantly made friends with another new girl, Lisa, and we acquired a gaggle of other pals.  In  camp, I was pretty good at sports, because I wasn’t afraid of getting yelled at for trying and failing, as I was in elementary school gym.  At school, I had missed a ball in volleyball once and gotten a full dressing down, ala the movie “Carrie.”  I even got yelled at by doing the right thing sometimes.  During a softball game, I had picked up a line drive and tossed it to the second basewoman behind me.  Technically, it was the right thing to do, as there was a runner headed there from first, but she was a popular girl who was talking to her friend and wasn’t paying attention.  “Don’t throw it to me,” she hissed upon dropping the ball.  The most popular kid in my grade, Mike, came over and yelled at me that I should have thrown it to him instead.  Every ball, apparently, should have gone to him.

So heading to my second year at River Hills camp, I was happy.

Camp met in a pavilion every day, the sun shining through the rafters and striping our knees.  Then the various age groups fanned out.  We had morning swim, kickball or softball, arts and crafts -- the usual fare.  Morning swim was often early and too chilly, so Lisa and I and our friends would push chairs together, place towels on top of them, and create a little clubhouse.  We’d play 1-2-3 spit with one deck of cards, chugging cold cans of Sprite or Mountain Dew from the humming machine near the pool entrance, even at 10 a.m.

Each year, there were clear-cut popular kids in my group.  This year, the most popular boy was Jason D’Agostino.  He always wore a baseball cap, spoke with a scratchy voice, was stocky and sure, and good in sports.  His second in command were Kevin and Solomon.  The most popular girl was Karen, who was loud-mouthed but pretty, and her sidekick was her quieter friend, Beth.  The five most popular kids stuck together.

(Come to think of it, by numbers, what actually made them “popular”?  Perhaps it was that they were picked first for sports, tended to get what they wanted, were the loudest [not a whit of self-consciousness holding them back], and it made you feel really good if one of them talked to you.)

One time, Karen sat at a picnic table in the pavilion with a pouty expression and said, in a baby voice, “My finger hurts.  Kiss it better.”  She held up her hand, with Band-Aid around one finger, and Jason, Kevin, and Solomon each took a turn kissing it.

My friend Lisa looked at me.  “That’s why she’s popular,” Lisa said.  “Because she does things like that.  ‘Oh, my pinkie hurts, kiss it better. Mwa mwa.’  ”

It was enlightening to  me – just what made some girls earn male attention more than others.  Sure, Karen was pretty too, but there were other pretty girls who didn’t have these boys literally wrapped around her finger.  So what was her secret?  Was acting like a baby the way to get their attention?  I didn’t know.  I still don’t know.

In any case, just as the popular people were obvious, so were the unpopular ones.  The kid who got picked on most was Ellis, a skinny guy with a long face and big ears who rarely talked.  It was unfortunate for him that he had a weird name, too.

I guess I was as guilty as anyone of falling under the spell of the loud-mouthed, popular kids.  I tingled with appreciation when they simply said hello.  I think it was a relief.  Kevin might say “Good catch” if I caught a kickball or Karen might say hi to me in the pavilion.  It was different from school.  One of the boys, Solomon, was a truly nice kid – and handsome.  He had brown eyes, blonde hair, a crooked nose, and sometimes played Spit with Lisa and me and the girls.  He was the one who made what I considered a revelation:  Mountain Dew had orange juice in it.  The fact that a popular boy talked to us without any sarcastic asides to his friends, or meanness, made me happy.

Anyway, at some point early in the summer, Jason decided that he, Kevin, Solomon, Karen, and Beth were a “family.”  Karen and Jason were the mom and dad.  Kevin and Solomon were brothers in the family.  Beth was a sister.

“Come on, sister!” Kevin would bark to Beth.  “Let’s dive into the pool!”

“Okay, brother!”

Other kids in our group would go up to them and ask Jason what they were in the family.  “You’re a cousin,” Jason would say.

“We should ask what we are,” Lisa said to me.  “I bet we’re cousins.”

We didn’t ask, but I assumed we were cousins too.  Almost everyone was a cousin.  The only other thing to be was not a member of the family.

Now, Ellis, we were sure, was not a member of the family.  Ellis didn’t belong.  Eillis never asked what he was.  Jason, Karen, and Kevin largely just picked on him, calling him a "spazz" and other choice insults of the time.

Other than that, it was a good summer – warm, fun, friendly. 

Then came color wars.  I loved color wars.  No longer were competitions confined to the standard ballfields.  We had peanut hunts, swim races.  I always found the peanuts that were hidden in the unusual places that no one else would think of, like up a tree or nestled behind a metal outdoor electrical outlet.  Those were painted blue, worth three points.  And in the water, I was a fast swimmer.  Jason and Kevin were both on my team and said nice things to me when I won first place in the swim race.  That night, I had a dream about Jason – that he and I were in the pool, splashing, and I was making my way over to him.  I can assure you that it was a relatively innocent dream, but it just showed how easy it was for me to have a crush on someone just because he was nice to me.

Then came the counselor kickball game.

It was a hot day.  I could almost see the air rippling.  All of us kids sat on concrete cylinders beyond the outfield.  The counselors had their chance to act as campers for one game only during color war, and they took it, competing with all their heart.

I sat on one of the cylinders that was furthest back.  When a ball sailed over our heads, a home run, one of us campers would run to get it and bring it back.

The sun climbed hotter in the sky and dust floated up from the field and we hoped our counselors would earn us some points.

I decided that I would go get the next ball that went into the outfield.

My counselor, Scott, was up.  He was a good athlete.  He booted the ball clear over my head.  I ran back to go get it.

At the exact same time, Ellis ran to get it, too. 

We were neck and neck.  I knew I would not let Ellis beat me.  Everyone thought he was a spazz, after all.  I was going to get that ball – not spazzy ol’ Ellis.

Finally, I made it to the red rubber kickball – just a second before Ellis did.  I picked it up happily.

Ellis looked at me.  “You think you’re such a hotshot,” he said.

I froze.

What he said to me was just the kind of thing I thought about the popular kids back in my elementary school.  My mouth went dry.  Was I becoming just like them?  How easily it had happened.  I looked down at the ball.  I usually wasn’t the one to make waves, to do something that popular kids would do.

“No I don’t,” I said in a low voice, and I gave him the ball.  I didn’t want to touch it. 

Ellis proudly ran back to the field, and I shuffled behind him, ashamed.  I didn't want to hurt anyone.   I knew how bad that felt.  I didn’t want to be like Them.

Random photos I've been meaning to post

Gift from God's creatures.

Don't you love nature shots?

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Random photos from the past week

Get involved in the Carrie Pilby movie!

Help Carrie Pilby become a movie by clicking this link.  You can be a big part of bringing it to the big screen and giving suggestions, etc.  Join the growing club!  Three successful Hollywood filmmakers are involved -- and you can be, too!!

 

 

Also, please spread the word via social media, with that link.  Every bit helps!!

In the Meadowlands

I was in the Meadowlands today.  Here are a few photos.

You can't tickle yourself

How can I tell if my writing is any good?  It's hard, because the plot, the words, the characters don't have any element of surprise for me.

A joke makes us laugh because we didn't expect the punchline.  Mysteries surprise us because we didn't know who's responsible.

When you write them, you know what's going to happen.  When you revise them twelve times, every word starts to seem rote and trite.

Sometimes you revise it just to make it fresh, when what you had was perfectly fine.

Ever gone to a concert and your favorite singer is doing weird things to their famous songs, when you thought they were fine as they were?  Who wants a version of "Dirty Deeds" that's a ballad?  But these rockers are singing the same songs for thirty years.  It must feel like chewing cardboard to them.

Maybe my current novel-in-progress really isn't any good, or maybe I've just read it too many times and have to move on to the next chapter.

Weather forecast: Bad.  

Black stormclouds came in from the west.

After downpour a week ago Thursday.

Someone painted over this artist's other work, so this one appeared.  It is supposed to be an "I'm imperfect" sticker cleverly changed to "I'm perfect," get it?!

Nothing stops these carriers.

I didn't know that trees could reflect things!!  Uh...because they can't.

Firehouse.

these were all taken in hoboken recently.

Hoboken, Thursday.

More photos of Hoboken

Three writerly things that are plaguing me right now

1.  This is in Publisher's Lunch today:

"Welcome, new adult books. With six 'new adult' deal reports in the last month alone, we have created a new Deals sub-category for this growing genre. (You'll see it in the Fiction sub-category drop-down menu as well when using our deal report form.)"

Oh, the pressure!  I have a few projects in the works that happen to fit the new adult category...so do I rush on them because this is a genre that's getting very hot, and potentially miss out on the chance to think them through and shade them more and make the better?  Or do I work on them for a while so they're top quality, but miss the window of opportunity?

Actually, it seems like this genre is on the way up right now.  Which means it actually may be hotter in a few months.  I think it will explode this summer and still keep going strong for a while. 

I take most books slow.  I think they're at their best if I work on them when inspired.  I keep a few projects going at once so I can take a break from one and work on another.

New adult will be around for a while.  I thought the vampire trend wouldn't last so long...and it's still going.

2.  Over-revising the beginning of my favorite novel-in-progress

I keep revising the beginning.  I always do that.  It sets the tone for the whole book.  But by revising it so many times, it loses its surprise, and I begin to think it's bland and flavorless.  It doesn't affect me anymore.  

I have the urge to change it a lot now.  Is that because it needs it, or because I've lost objectivity?

3.  So many ideas, so little time.

The state of on-line media

This is what it said on CNN's homepage this morning.  It's a horror movie. Ooh...send pictures!

Fertilizer plant explosion kills 2, forces evacuation

A major blast at a fertilizer plant in the Texas town of West leaves 2 dead, and fire officials expect the death toll to soar. FULL STORY

• 'Something out of horror movie'  
• Volunteer firefighters 'wired' to help
• Are you there? Send pictures

More of Hoboken at dusk

Near the park, there's an area of former factories that got converted into condos.  I love the big, boxy windows and brick walls.  I like to imagine what this neighborhood was like 50 years ago.  Here's what it's like now:

Got this comment

...on my Wildwood story below.  I wonder if I posted this myself when I was in a trance, or something. Who knew someone else would think of the Douglas fudge dog?  Who are you mystery poster?

hello. I was trying to find Carrie Pilby ipad download and stumbled upon your blog. I especially liked reading the post about Wildwood, NJ. My Mom had a boat she kept there every summer up until last year. Good Times Good Times. hee hee and actually my original reason for commenting was to answer the survey question Douglas or Hankin's? I'm a Douglas girl for sure. mmm mmm mmm and the cute Scottie's on the box always makes me smile. Thanks for sharing your stories and can't wait to see the film version of Carrie Pilby. Cheers! on

Wow 

Famed director Chris Columbus was actually inspired to turn his screenplay-in-progress into a novel after he read books by young Ned Vizzini! Who knew? I just read about it on the Huffington Post.

I think it's interesting because Columbus has been making movies for so many years (like Home Alone) and he was inspired by a guy younger than I am, who was writing stuff about his high school for New York Press when I first came to New York.  Columbus is a bit of a wunderkind too, actually.  I oughta read the novel.

Warm weather is coming

The first thing you hear in the morning is that piercing double shriek from the seagulls, bouncing off all the concrete walls of the motel.  You know you're at the beach.  Everything else is silent, except perhaps, if you're close enough, waves crashing. 

Wildwood lacks chain motels, so it's likely your family is in one of those cheap motels with big air conditioning units and two floors with metal balconies winding all around.  When you went there each summer as a kid, you didn't see anything unusual in the gaudy decor or hotel themes -- the Polynesian with its tikis on the corners or the Pink Panther that was totally pink.  You begged your parents to stay at the Royal Hawaiian just because of the plastic atoll in the middle of the pool.  You were astounded by the idea that you could swim to your own tiny island.

You looked forward to the trip each year.  It was two and a half hours south on the Parkway, in good traffic.  Sure, you could get to Asbury in twenty minutes, and that's where you usually went, but Wildwood was special.  It was a grid of streets full of souvenir shops, it was the boardwalk, it was the finest feeling sand in the state, it was fudge.

But what you remember most isn't that quarter pound of candy you always bought (Douglas or Hankin's?) or the rounds of mini golf, or the games of chance or the ice cream portions at Duffer's or dinners at Urie's Fish Fry or the cool breeze at sunset and its feeling on your baked body.

What you remember was a time you looked in the opposite direction.  Away from the beach.

You must have been older then, 10 or 11.  Your motel was off shore, a bit cheaper, and the room faced the city of Wildwood rather than the beach.  There was a little balcony, so you sat outside and looked at the small homes, the people who actually got to live in this great resort year-round.

It was one of those days where the air felt so perfect that you wanted to write down the exact temperature and humidity and hope they happened again.  

Perhaps it was your future writerly mind at work, but when you looked back at the near and distant homes, you were inspired by two things.

One was the Amercian flags.  You counted seven of them.  They were flowing gently.  Some were far on the horizon, and you wondered about the people in those homes, what inspired their patriotism and what they were doing right then.  You couldn't actually see the house or the people, just the flag.  Maybe in one yard, people were having a barbecue.  Maybe in another, they were hanging clothes out to dry.  You liked the idea of seeing signs of life in the distance even though you couldn't see the people or their house.  You always wonder about all those lives you see evidence of when you catch a symbol waving in the distance.

You noticed one other symbol from the balcony: a red and white sticker affixed to the cable box down below.  You'd similar stickers around town.  This one had something to do with patriotism also -- maybe or maybe not, as it appeared to be from an activist group.  It said something like, "WAKE UP.  LET US BECOME ONE AND SAVE OUR COUNTRY.  CAUSA USA"  The signs were mysterious.  There was no website because there wasn't any commonly used internet in those days, so you didn't really know what this movement was about.  But again, you loved the signs of life, the chance to wonder about the people who slapped these stickers all over.  Who were they?  What was their motivation?  Who were they reaching out to by posting these semi-secret signs all over town?

You watched the flags wave and read the stickers and felt like part of an anonymous group of people, made up of all different types who populated a beach town on a perfect day.

Notes to self

I need to write an entry someday about my job interview years ago with MAD Magazine.

And one about Teen Arts NJ.

But I still haven't posted my entry about turning 40...and I just turned 42.

It's a little late to post about my new year's resolutions, too.

Oh well, I am about to post an entry about the beach, so at least I'm going to get to that.

Fourth and Washington streets, Hoboken.