My Favorite Movie in On

It's The Searchers and it's on AMC right now and I can't tear myself away except during the annoying commercials. I already own the dvd, which comes from an amazing print, but this is one of those movies, like Jaws or Casablanca, that when I catch a glimpse of it on TV, it ensnares me for hours.

I know folks have issues with it. They think it's racist. And indeed, John Wayne plays a racist bastard in the film. But the film thinks he's wrong. In fact, one of its major themes is that our entire country is based on racism. What else could've made us think we had the right to take it from the people who were here before us?

The movie's about other things too - vengeance, love, and how an old love can turn vengeance into forgiveness. But ultimately, the racist old blackguard played by Wayne can never be forgiven, can never be part of civilization. He made America possible, but he's too awful to ever be let inside. We wouldn't have to live with our terrible past, now would we?

The ending is justly famous. Wayne brings home the girl (young Natalie Wood) who had been kidnapped by Indians (I'll call them that here, not Native Americans, since that's how the movie refers to them), whom he had sworn to kill himself. He couldn't kill the daughter of the woman he loved, no matter how much he despised the fact that she's now "tainted" by living with Indian chief Scar. He saved her, redeemed himself, in a way. But it's not enough. It'll never be enough. As he said of the dead Indian who's eyes he shot out, he's doomed forever to wander between the winds.

Blogger won't let me post this widescreen (it's shot in 1.85), so it's best viewed here. Or see the slightly cropped version, below.

It used to be cool to be adult. To be sophisticated, witty, worldy, intelligent, insightful.  Nowadays the movies are full of people who all desperately want to be younger and dumber.  I don't get it.  This is the world I'd like to live in:

Why You Should Use Obvious Blog Post Titles for Search Optimization

... Because people rely on technology to find things for them on the internet, and tech doesn't "get" the cool, ironic, poetry-referencing title you used for your post.

I've been reading up on SEO (Search Engine Optimization), and I still have much to learn, but seriously, I'm considering retitling my blog. (Well, not really, but you get the idea.) If this blog were titled "How to Become a Successful Writer" it would be misleading as hell, but it would get me lots of hits.

Of course, you want folks to linger on your web page too. So don't mislead them, tempting as it may be! You need to offer up the goods you promised in the title, not only because it's the right thing to do, but because you need to get them to click on something, to go to the next page of your blogpost.

Which is why I need to figure out how to make you click on a link to read the rest of this post.

The Nape of Your Neck

I've been out of town for the past couple of weeks to help out with some family stuff. It's left me a bit drained and tired, a combo of jetlag and the dazed sort of "hunh?" feeling that comes from seeing people you love having difficult times.

So I haven't blogged or written much at all. I can feel the psychic hole that leaves somewhere near the base of my neck. That's the spot where the chills start, where the hair on your nape stands up when you spot a knee-meltingly hot man or you experience a mind-blowing moment in a story. So that's where I feel the absence, the lack, the void, when I don't write for awhile.

But things and people in my life are on the mend, and I'm back in my Hollywood homeland. My head is fuzzy with fatigue in the afternoons, despite the sunshine, but it can't stop buzzing about the idea for a TV Pilot burbling around in there, as well as three or four different ideas for the next novel.

Sometimes I like to draw out this anticipatory time before I plunge into the actual writing. Much of the writing process doesn't actually involve putting words on paper. Daydreaming is essential. Imagining scenes between your characters can spark plot ideas, inspiration, thematic insights, and on and on.

Jogging last night down Hollywood Boulevard, admiring the silhouettes of the palm trees against the darkening sky, I realized that in one of my ideas I was giving way too much plot to a minor character. I could easily give that activity to the main character. In fact, that activity made the main character much more interesting to me. It fleshed her out. Action = Character as we writers all know. What she does shows you who she is. So give her the cool stuff, for crying out loud, Nina!

So the daydreaming, mulling, fantasizing, all that is vital. If you sidestep it and plung into writing too soon, it can rob you of not only some of the fun of writing, but of some really good ideas.

Just keep in mind - this is the exhilarating part. Many people burble over with ideas. They offer them up to me like precious jewels, telling me I can turn them into books or scripts if I want.

I have to tell them then: ideas are the easy part. It's the writing that's hard. So don't put off the tough stuff of putting words on paper too long, or an idea is all you'll ever have.

So this weekend - writing will happen.

42 Third Act Plot Twists

I can't fit the entire image on my blog and still make it big enough to read. (Plus I don't want to steal something and make it look like my own.) So go to Desden Codak's website here and see his genius table of 42 Third Act Plot Twists.

I can't pick a favorite out of all of them, but I'm particularly fond of "Food Starts Eating People" and "Ancient Druids Lose Interest."

I'm tempted to write 42 stories and incorporate each one. Which one will you write?

Rock the Drop!

It's Teen Lit Day!

To celebrate and promote reading to teens, Readergirlz is promoting Rock the Drop - where folks attach the above bookplate to a YA book and leave it somewhere random for a lucky teen (or adult!) to find and read.

On twitter, authors and readers are tweeting photos of themselves leaving books everywhere from Panera to bus stops.  I'm printing up a bookplate and will let you know where my own contribution lands.

Interested in Rocking the Drop?  Check out Readergirlz, get a fave YA book, and do it!

Never Satisfied

I hope soon to post about how I got my agent, so that others will not despair in their own quests.

However, am a bit slammed - working the day job, family stuff, sleep, and trying to write a TV pilot.

I've got ideas for another YA book, but scripts are faster to write, and I think I've got an interesting pilot idea.  I hope to get a first draft down in another six weeks, depending on how crazy my already crazy life gets.

So, as is my usual wont, I'm taking a class to help along in this writing endeavor.  I favor mediabistro.com's classes - so far all three have been very much worth my while.  They feature professionals as teachers, who can pass on their real life experience as well as their more academic insights to their students.

My teacher in the TV Pilot writing class gave me a great insight I thought I'd share to any readers who either watch or write TV.  It's very simple, and maybe I'm simple for never quite seeing this before but...

In TV, the protagonist wants something they can never have.

Lightbulb!  I'm always thinking about my protag's desires and how active she is, and inner and outer goals and so on.  In books and films, usually the inner desire is fulfilled (in an unexpected way, hopefully) by the end.

But TV doesn't really end, does it?  You want an idea that a network will see possibly going five years, if not more.  So you must give your lead character a driving inner goal that can never be fulfilled. 

I just watched the ending of Big Love, and even before (spoiler alert!) Bill was killed, I kept thinking - he'll never get what he wants most, which is to live openly as a polygamist, in peace and harmony with his wives and society.  "How the heck can they end this?" I pondered.  They can't give him what he wants.  It just wouldn't be believable.  Sure enough, instead they got rid of Bill at the end.  That provided us with a conclusion without violating verisimilitude.

And think about it - all the most successful TV protagonists will never be satisfied.  Even the cops on shows like Law and Order and CSI have a driving desire for justice.  This can never be completely fulfilled because there will always be another murder to solve, another killer to find.

So I gave my protagonist an impossible goal that I think will work for the TV idea I have.  That's just one little step, but I think it helped me keep moving forward.

Do you have a desire that can never be fulfilled?  Atter all, life doesn't come to a conclusion either.

The Good News is... I have an Agent!

Hee hee!  I'm so tickled!  Now that I've officially signed I can tell you...

I HAVE A FABULOUS LITERARY AGENT!

Her name is Tamar Rydzinski and she's part of The Laura Dail Literary Agency.  She loved my YA fantasy novel, gave me some amazing notes, and now we're working together.  I'm so lucky to have her in my corner.

I could blab on about how this all came about and how great she is all day, but will keep it short for now.  Not only does she love my writing, but she GETS it.  She gets it so well that at points she understands what I need to change more than I understand it myself.

This is key.  Because no novel is perfect.  But as a writer you can get entrenched in your own flawed thinking You will need to rewrite to make it better, even after you think it can't get any better.  You need someone to come along and point out where it can get better, and maybe hint as to how.  Sure, a good editor will do that, but in order to impress an editor, an agent with this ability is a huge help.  And now I have that help!  Huzzah!

Plus, Tamar really knows the business.  This is also TOTALLY KEY.  Because I only know it a little, and I need help in that arena.  A good agent will target editors, write a pitch letter, help you get the best contract for publication, and are respected by their peers.  Again, color me very fortunate in snagging Tamar in this department.

Basically, agents rule!

Okay. I'm off to add her agency link to my Links thingie on this blog and to hug myself some more.  It's been a long road full of hard work to get here.  And there are still many steps on the road to publication, but this is a biggie, and I'm thrilled! 

Woo hoo!

Good News is coming... along with Spring

I have to wait just a little while longer, then I can share my good news with you.  It concerns writing. And waiting, and the rewards that come with persistence and luck.

And it's great!

Meanwhile, the rain pours down here in SoCal as I eat chocolate and spend lots of time playing with my cat Lucy.  She misses Max and isn't eating much, but we're getting by.  My boss had her adorable baby girl, also named Lucy.  I told her I loved the name, but not that I my cat's name is Lucy.  Plenty of time for that later - people don't want to think about your cat when they look at their gorgeous new baby.

My cat Lucy is named for the youngest, bravest of the Pevensie children in the Narnia books, and a character I loved from an early age.  The cat Lucy is not particularly brave, as it turns out.  Once, she escaped from my apartment through a screen, and I found her just a few feet away, flattened out like a fluffy black pancake, terrified.  Yes, Lucy is rather plump.  Now that I don't have to leave food out for too-skinny Max, I'm limiting her food intake in an effort to get her lose weight.  Meanwhile, she still likes to sit on my pillow, looking like a flluffy black pyramid with big yellow eyes:

Yes, my bedroom walls are grassy green.  Green's my favorite color, and not just because it looks good on redheads.

I didn't set out to get two black cats. It just happened. But it turns out that both black cats and dogs get adopted less often than animals of other colors.  I don't know it it's superstition or that other colors are cuter or stand out more, but let me tell you - black cats rule!  Max was the friendliest thing on four legs, and Lucy is really quite gorgeous, with brown highlights and a fluff-tacular curly tail. 

I looked after my friend Natalie's all-black chow chow Frances for four months a few years back, and she was the smartest, sweetest dog you could ever hope to meet.  If you're adopting a pet, consider a black one.  They only look mysterious and cool.  Really, they are darlings.

Cheshire Cat Moon over Hollywood Boulevard

I had to let an old friend go yesterday.  My beloved furry feline friend Max.  It's been over a week now since I lost him, and only now can I bear to post about it.

He has gone on to the big Catnip Fields in the sky after gracing me with his presence for 19 of his 20 years. His dementia was becoming too difficult for him, so I had a vet come to the home to ease him out of his distress. My other cat Lucy even got to say goodbye.

Max was a very special cat. He was charming, friendly, whimsical, and sweet - a spirit with fur, as my friend Brian described him. There was a lot of eye contact with Max. You can see it in the photo below. He wanted to get to know you. Pick him up and he'd shove his nose in your mouth to say hello and see what you had for lunch. Kittens followed him around worshipfully. He presuaded dog-people to say, "I'd get a cat, if I knew it would be like Max." Dogs themselves would beg to groom him, and he'd deign to allow them to nibble his fluffy black fur.

Despite the sharpness of his claws and his ability to kick the butts of cats twice his size, he eventually earned the nickname The Cat of Peace. Max was proof that you can live a small, quiet life and still make the world a better place. He did that for me every day.

The night after he died, I went for a run, sniffing and trying to just listen to my breathing rather than to the grief whispering in my ear.

As I turned right down Hollywood Boulevard, I got an eyeful of a luminous crescent moon in the perfect "smile" position above the palm trees.  Of course I thought of one my favorite fictional characters, the Cheshire Cat.  And I thought of Max.  And for a moment my heart swelled with happiness as I thought perhaps the Big Cat in the Sky was grinning down at me.

The Mysterious Giant Cow

(Currently listening to insanely catchy new tune by The Strokes called "Under Cover of Darkness," which you can stream from their MySpace page here, or download for FREE for the next two days here.)

So I'm outlining a new story, and I'm currently in that nebulous zone where my unconscious and conscious mind need to work together and I can't quite tell if they're doing it or not because, hey, half of it involves my subconscious.

By which I mean that I'm busy trying to think of how the story should go - how the central theme should be reflected in the plot and characters, what cool twists the story could have, who should do what to whom, and so on. I'm scribbling in notebooks and typing random things in between tasks at work.  I ponder and juggle scenes in my head while I'm driving, sometimes so intently that I realize I missed my favorite song on the radio just as it's ending.

All of this is work.  And that's the conscious bit.

I've learned over the years that my subconscious is busy working on things at the same time.  Only it doesn't inform me of its progress until something burbles up from the depths and presents itself to my conscious mind as JUST. SO. INCREDIBLY. OBVIOUS.

And that's the trust part.  I have to trust that my subconscious is going to step up and point out the obvious to the rest of my brain.  Over the years it's seemed to work, mostly.  There have been projects I abandoned because the ol' subconscious burped up an answer.  I hammered away for awhile, then realized it just wasn't going to work, and moved on.

But usually I have a sense that the answer will come.  I don't know where or when or how or what the hell it'll be.  But it will come.  I have to make a leap of faith about my own brain.  I trust it to step up to the plate  if I just keep hammering away.

So writing is major work.  And that work is necessary. The conscious work provides the raw data (I think) that the subconscious masticates and savors and digests through various stomachs, finally pooping out a more cohesive strategy for the book.

And yes, I just used a metaphor that makes my subconscious out to be some sort of mysterious giant cow.  Not the most flattering, given that it also turns my story into manure.  But it's fertile all right, so I suppose it all works out in the end.

Write the Book You Want to Read and Give the Speech...

I didn't attend SCBWI's New York conference this year, but I wish I'd been able to listen to keynote speaker Sara Zarr. The kidlit internet has been alive with admiration for what they heard her say, and after reading more about it here, I just had to post the link.

It's the speech she wanted to hear when she attended conferences, before she was published, while she was filled with frustration.  It's about leading a creative life, and how that's the point of it all.

An agent at a conference told her: "The time between when you are no longer a beginner but you are not yet in the business is the hardest and no one can tell you how long this phase will last."

So what do you do during that phase?

You lead a creative life.

How?

Read more about what Sara Zarr said here.

Walk Like an Egyptian

I'm currently riveted to Al Jazeera English, a live stream of the best coverage on the revolution going on in Egypt.  Al Jazeera may have its own flaws and agenda at times, but right now it's the best place to find out what's going on, putting US cable news to shame.

I don't know what's going to happen, but I can't help hoping that the Egyptian people will soon be enjoying a freer, a more democratic government. Meanwhile, though, it's tough to hear about the deaths, the injuries, the oppression, and the destruction of antiquities.

It's astonishing how fast a country can go from a stable but corrupt and tyrannical dictatorship to who-knows-what when the people are sufficiently galvanized.  Egypt is not the same country it was a mere five days ago.  I'm dumbfounded by the bravery I've seen.  I'm having trouble pasting the photos here, but you can see amazing shots like a protester kissing the police here, and of protesters praying as they are blasted with water cannons here.

I was in Egypt a few years ago, and along with the amazing antiquities, friendly people, and beautiful scenes along the river, I was struck by the grinding poverty suffered by so many of the people there.   I've heard that nearly half of the 18 million people living in megalopolis Cairo live on just a couple dollars a day.  Meanwhile, those in power have lived in ridiculous luxury, separated by an enormous gulf from the people they were supposed to be serving.

That gulf is narrowing as I write this, and it's fascinating, horrifying, and inspiring to watch.  The internet and social media of all kinds makes this possible.  It connects us to those who are marching on the streets of Alexandria, Suez, and Cairo, to their family and friends demonstrating in Washington DC, Britain, and New York.  It's one world, whether we like it or not.  And I find it a constant source of wonder and astonishment.

Top Picks of 2010

Book Pick: Cleopatra by Stacy Schiff.
Okay, I haven't even finished this yet and it's my pick. That's how much I love reading about Cleopatra, and how good the book is.  I first discovered the brainy Egyptian queen when I was seven and a grad student my parents had asked to babysit me while we were in Paris gave me a copy (in French) of Asterix and Cleopatra.  One look at her nifty falcon throne and uraeus-bedecked crowns and I was in love.

That was my gateway drug to a lifetime of obsession with both Cleopatra (who was of Greek descent) and then all of ancient Egyptian history.  So my book pick comes loaded with a backstory of personal obsession that leaves all other candidates in the dust.

Movie Pick: Winter's Bone.
This movie showed me a world I hadn't seen before (backwoods crystal meth-land, USA) and featured a teenage heroine stronger, more complex, and (in her own way) more badass than any who came before.  She willingly takes on a burden strong men would (and have) run from.



Sports Pick: Zenyatta
If you've even glanced at this blog this year, you've notes my obsession with this amazing race horse.  You can read my Goodbye Zenyatta post here to get an idea of the type of overwhelming emotion she evokes. But since she's a sports pick, I'll post the video of the race I watched in person at Hollywood Park in October.  It was her 19th consecutive win.  Just listen to the crowd noise rise as she rounds the far turn.  One of the other horses here, Switch, is a top filly herself.  Every time I watch it, I get worried, thinking Zenyatta might lose. And I know the outcome! But that's the Queen of Racing for you.  She provides drama, excitement, unmatched athleticism, and inspiration wherever she goes.



Pop Music Pick: F$%& You by Cee Lo Green.
Warning: contains multiple uses of the F word and this summer's catchiest hook.

Lucky Christmas Me

So it's nearly the end of the year and I'm thinking about possibly doing one of those end of the year-end "best of" post thingies, alternately thinking about stuff from 2010 - "Oh, that was brilliant" and "Frick, I can't remember what the hell that was."

But it's also Christmas Eve, and I'm in Hawaii visiting my parents.  And today I went to my favorite place in the world, ate my favorite cookies in the world, helped my mother make terrible cinnamon buns (for serious, the things were like lead paperweights covered in brown sugar), and had a delicious meal with my two beloved parents, who both gave me great advice and a few laughs.

OH, and did I mention that my favorite place in the world is a beach called Bellows here on Oahu where at the age of nine I learned to bodysurf?

(Insert unbelievably gorgeous shot of Bellows here.  No really, it's just spectacular.  You'll have to just take my word for it for now.)

Yes, about 1pm Hawaii time today I was lounging in 75 degree water of a color that falls somewhere between Paul Newman's eyes (when he was alive - duh) and the world's largest emerald I saw in Istanbul when I was seven.

I like to enter slowly, allowing the waves to wet me as I go, waiting for a swell that's just so so I can race up to it as it crests, then turn and leap forward, one stroke, two, then angling down and forward, dolphin-like (well, I hope so anyway) as the swell pitches me forward and the roar fills my ears and the white foam bubbles up and over and consumes me.

Today the waves were tiny, and the dozen people on the glowing golden beach with me were bobbing and waiting and not catching anything.  The sand there's like powder, sprinkled in spots with broken up bits of blue plastic something-or-others that the waves have beat on until they're almost beautiful and almost belong.  My mom has these bright pink beach towels that I borrow to sit on and dry myself off with.  They clash with my hair, but Bellows is the sort of place where you can't be bothered to care about things like that.  You don't care that the Christmas cookies have added an extra pound or two to your waist or that you haven't gotten very far on your latest writing project, or that your ancient cat is probably dreaming about killing you back in LA, or about anything, really, except the clear water fanning out over the smoothed beach like a caressing hand that withdraws just soon enough.

So it didn't matter that the waves were less than optimal, or that a large black cloud loomed over the mountains signalling it was all temporary.  In the water I lounged on my back and poked my toes with their silly purple nail polish up into the air.  I eyed the waves for any sort of surfing prospect and felt the full weight of the tropical sun on my right shoulder and cheekbone. (Thank Neptune for SPF.)

A woman in a baseball cap walked her daughter into the water behind me and encouraged her to try to catch a wave, holding her hands out, talking about when to jump, when to wait.  My father had done the same for me, umpteen gajillion years ago.  So I got fancy and caught a wave so I could zoom past them.  "See?" said the Mom.  Even redheaded, freckle-faced girls whose ancestors stole horses in the mists of Ireland can ride the waves at Bellows.

All of which is to say that instead of naming things that were the best this year, all I can think about tonight is how lucky I am to be here on Christmas, with the people I love, with a chance to be in a place that makes my soul burn bright.

Aloha and Merry Christmas, everyone.  I hope you're spending this time in whatever place and with whatever people do the same for you.

Writing - The Information Drip

To get myself going on a major rewrite, I tried to write a scene that wasn't at the beginning.  I wanted to plunge in at an interesting point and get to know the love interest right away rather than waiting.

But a problem emerged - how much information should I give out on the protag's backstory and current mission?  Part of what I'm trying to achieve is a bit of mystery at the beginning.  Who is this girl and what is she really up to?  I want to create a question in the reader's mind, then slowly answer it.

So in writing this scene near but not at the beginning, I let a bit of info trickle out, hoping to intrigue and begin answering, but not to reveal all.

It didn't work very well.  Sure, I was raising questions, but there were mostly of the WTF? variety.  Not the "oooh, cool, now I want to know more" type I was going for.

So I have to go back and start at the beginning.  This way I can better control the information.  (By information I mean character backstory, the protag's current state of mind, who's who and what's what, and what her goal is.)  I'll know what's been told and what hasn't and hopefully why.

And there's always rewriting if I make a mess of it this time too.  Thank you, universe, for rewriting.  This initial writing stuff is fricking hard!

Da Governor - of Hawaii

Hawaii is a small state, and my parents have lived there many years.  So they know a lot of people. 

So it's not boasting really when I say that we're friends with Hawaii's new governor, Neil Abercrombie.  The state may technically have a million residents, but in reality it's like a small town.  So Neil's friends with a lot of people.  But I went to the official site for Hawaii's state government today and saw his smiling face and just had to post - hurray!

This isn't a political blog, so I'm not going to go into details as to why Neil was definitely the best choice for governor in the recent election. (Although I will say that, unlike the other candidates, he's pro marriage equality, which warms my heart.)  But I happen to know Neil a little as a person, and so I think I'm entitled to a brief Huzzah! to celebrate his recent inauguration.

He's a good man.  One summer, when my mother, her then boyfriend, and I were between houses and unable to find something quickly that fit our limited budget, Neil and his wife Nancy offered to let us stay in their home for a few months. It was a typically generous move. 

The place wasn't huge, but we fit in just fine.  It was, however, a trifle eccentric.  The floors were uneven enough to give you an "I'm at sea" sensation as you crossed the living room, and on certain summer nights, the termites would swarm, letting you know they'd found themselves a home.  Termite swarms are not uncommmmon in Hawaii, so that's no reflection on Neil.  At another of our residences we were treated occasionally to cockroach swarms, so it could've been worse.  Termites are manini compared to that. 

Then there was the time that the phone rang.  I picked it up and said in my fourteen-year-old girl voice: "Hello?" 

A man on the other end said, "Neil??"

Well, no.  Sorry to disappoint.  He's letting us live in his home until we find our feet.  He's a man of integrity and compassion.  I'll be sure to let him know you called.

So congratulations, Neil, on your governorship.  And congrats too, to Hawaii, for making a fine choice.  Huzzah!

Getting Back in the Writing Groove

...is damned hard.  I took a semi-writing-vacation for most of November thanks to a two-week trip to Italy followed by a bad cold followed by Thanksgiving.  I'm not one of those people who can write when their sinuses are on fire.

So I'm out of practice.  And before me lies a vast rewrite that should be fun.  Instead it's, well, it's tough.  I'm changing POV.  I'm changing plot.  I'm making up new characters...

I've got an outline, halleluya.  And I know my main character very well.  These things help. But many factors lie like massive walls and mud pits in an obstacle course before me.

The only way forward is to... write.  Isn't it always the way?  Write write write until you get your groove back.  Write scenes that intrigue you rather than starting at the beginning if you like.  Write character sketches and character interviews and rework your outline and then just fricking write some damned prose, for crying out loud.

Don't procrastinate by writing blog posts.

Ahem.

Goodbye, Zenyatta

Clouds threatened rain all afternoon, but they didn't dare let loose until the Queen of Horse Racing, Zenyatta, said goodbye to Hollywood Park and to her life as a race horse today. Tomorrow she flies off to Kentucky to begin her next phase, as a mother.

Hollywood Park is a strange place these days.  Once the site of huge crowds and visits from movie stars, it's now ninety percent empty, melancholy, and downtrodden.  Birds still fly over the infield pond, and the track announcer still lends urgency as the horses pound down the stretch at forty miles per hour.  But even on a big day like today, the stands were over half empty.  I visited the enormous, echoing ladies' room and found myself utterly alone amongst the broken soap dispensers and peeling paint.

What a contrast then to see Zenyatta striding into the paddock to say goodbye to the thousands gathered there today.  She is larger than most other horses by an order of magnitude, but graceful as a gazelle, with endless, delicate legs that move with an athlete's ease, and a shiny, dappled bay coat that glows with health.  She is the picture of strength and spirit, calm, yet vibrant with energy.  She is the greatest mare in horse racing history, one of the greatest race horses of all time.  She's magnificent, an LA lady, a dancer, an inspiration, a friend.  And she's here to say goodbye.

Airplanes roar toward LAX a few hundred feet overhead as her beloved groom, Mario Espinoza, guides her around the paddock.  The fans, ten deep in some places, ignore the growling engines and the call for the sixth race as she circles past them, stopping to pose, to eye them, to lift her head, then to lower it against Mario's arm and side, as if to say, "We are here, together," and "Let's play."

Three times around the paddock then, as fans, some with signs that say "Thank You" and children climb the rails between her and them to chant, "Zen-yat-ta."  A woman in a wheelchair stares at her, weeping silently.

Even here she emanates a power that makes you believe her record is 19-1.  As she walks from the paddock and out onto the track, the giant video screen behind her plays her great victory and one of the most exciting races ever seen - the Breeder's Cup Classic 2009.  As Mario circles her and the crowd roars, her virtual image hits the top of the stretch, weaving between her competitors with sylph-like grace, moves to the outside and takes off.  Her long legs reach out further than any other horse on record, eating the ground, swallowing the distance between herself and the leaders.  The announcer's voice rises to a disbelieving crescendo as she shoots forward, past the best male horses of her time, past those who thought she was overrated, past all doubt, to cross the finish line.

The crowd erupts in applause.  Watching that race, even today when I know that she wins, I worry for her. I think "there's no way she's going to make it... come on, girl!  Please."  And when she wins, I feel vindicated, relieved, almost tearful.  Why am I so invested in her, why do her victories, her prancing pre-race steps, her proud stance after the race - why do they touch me?  I want to race that way myself, past my self-doubt, to strive, to put it all out there, to invest every last ounce, and to win.  Just once.  If she can do it 19 out of 20 times, maybe I can too.

I'm taking pictures, and climbing onto seats, and listening to the crowd sigh with disappointment as they show her last race, a great race, the Breeders Cup Classic 2010, where she came in second by a nose after perhaps the greatest stretch run in history.  The connection between her and the crowd is something I get at a primal level.  We don't often get close to such perfection, such grace, strength, and spirit.  If we get close enough, maybe some of it will rub off on us.

Her jockey, Mike Smith, leads her one last time around the track, and I have to turn away and disconnect.  I have to be done saying goodbye now.  I can't take any more.  My friend Mike and I watch the next few races and talk about our lives, and Zenyatta.

The lights come on as the sun heads west, and suddenly the old track is beautiful.  Clouds part to show off rosy sunset hues, and twilight birds wing over the green and grassy infield.  A filly named Cocktails at Seven parading before the ninth throws her rider, dodges a steward on horseback, and gallops the wrong way around the track, free for a few moments.  She is scratched from the race, but we make a note - the girl's got heart and nice moves.  Maybe we'll see more of her next year.

As we leave the empty track now, the rain finally begins to fall.

Bellissima Italia

I just got back from Italy.

Lucky me!

I didn't advertise it in advance since they say not to announce to the internet at large when you venture away from home, for fear enterprising robbers will break into your apartment and steal your cats.

Can't be having that. 

I'll post some pics once I get myself together and report in more detail, but some highlights include:

• Bernini statues at the Galleria Borghese. Oh! That Apollo and Daphne statue just gives me chills.
• Comparing gelato at Giolitti and San Crispino. For me, it's a fabulous tie.
• Literal layers of history at San Clemente, where you can see a medieval church above a 4th century church above an ancient Roman street and house.
• Meeting old friends with their adorable new baby in Rome. Walking behind the baby was like being in a celebrity entourage. That golden haired cherub really turned heads.
• Walking the strangely modern-seeming streets of old Pompeii.
• Men who appreciate a tall redhead, at least when she's walking by.
• Wine w/dinner, then some more wine with dinner.
• Ridiculously fresh, tasty fruits and vegetables
• Carbonara, prosciutto, bolognese, amatriciana, you name it!
• Positano. We splurged on an amazing hotel room with a great view that was 100% worth it. I could totally live there.
• Friendly Italian cats and dogs.
• Italian tile and pottery. I don't need to be rich, but this gorgeous stuff makes me wish I could afford it.
• Bonding with old friend and travel co-conspirator, Wendy.