

FLIRTING
WITH MANHATTAN (August 2007)
Photo: copyright Trix Rosen
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Like the heroine of Flirting
in Cars, I left Manhattan a couple of
years ago for a big old house in the country. And like my heroine,
I didn’t go all that willingly. In fact, for years I called it the
Green Acres Marital Dilemma: One spouse wants urban pleasures, the
other prefers rural delights. After more than a dozen years of living
my way, my husband and kids insisted that we experience the latter.
After an adjustment period, I learned to love the country – the springtime
when I hike with my Chinook dog, Magnus, the summertime when I check
out the fancy chickens at the county fair, the autumn when I volunteer
at the local haunted house.
In the winter, I head off to the city a lot.
Well, to be honest, I go back to the city a fair amount even when
the weather is fine. But even though I don’t live in Manhattan anymore,
I still spend my city days like a native New Yorker. Which means no
Broadway plays, no visits to the Empire State building, no major museums
unless there is a special exhibit, and absolutely no eating at trendy
restaurants, even if they do have those futuristic Japanese toilets
in the restroom.
Here follows my extremely subjective guide to where to go and what
to do in New York:
Where to Stay:
Absolutely no idea. I stay at my mother’s on the Upper
West Side, but this probably won’t work for you. Pay $300 a night in
most places in the world and you get a little luxury; in Manhattan,
be prepared for mid-level security lockup.
Morning:
Breakfast on the go: The best bagels in NYC?
Lenny’s on Broadway and 98th. Yeah, yeah, I know you heard that H&H
are the best, but they’re not. Get an oat bran with everything and
a shmear of cream cheese and feel semi-virtuous.
Best Brunch: If I have more time, I head on over to Barney Greengrass
on Amsterdam and 87th for their legendary smoked fish platters. My
mom likes a cup of borscht with hers, but I feel that’s taking things
too far. If I’m in a more elegant mood, I might go next door to Popover’s.
If you’ve never heard of a popover before, trust me, they are sublime.
I have mine with apple butter, (which isn’t really butter).
Mid Morning:
Head on over to Madeleine’s at 134 W 72nd Street to get a cleaning
(my skin is too prone to breakouts for a facial). There’s no big sign
on the building and you have to walk up a couple of flights of stairs
to get to the salon, which gives the whole excursion a slight speakeasy
feeling of adventure. Sure, you can go to some fancy shmancy place
and pay to have them blow oxygen on your skin, but Madeleine’s offers
the kind of high quality, gimmick free service you’d get from family.
They’ll also give you family-type honesty (like
telling me when I was overplucking my eyebrows). Have I mentioned they
pluck eyebrows, dye eyelashes, bleach those pesky dark hairs around
your hairline, and wax those hairs that didn’t get plucked?) Cynthia
Nixon goes here, and the girls who work in those nail salons that do
waxing sneak up to Madeleine’s in their lunch hour to get their own
legs waxed.
Lunch:
Your skin is clear and you’re around the corner from Gray’s Papaya,
where celebrity chefs rub shoulders with budget conscious folks on
lunch break and newly discharged mental patients as they gobble down
the crispy hot dogs and drink papaya juice.
Or else you could stroll up Columbus Avenue – there are lots of cafes
and restaurants, along with some of my favorite little clothes boutiques
all along the seventies. When I need a dress for a special occasion,
I always check out Lianna, where they have infinite variations on the
little black number, and the most elegant costume jewelry around.
I’ve Just Noticed My Roots:
Every fashion magazine in America tells you where to go to have your
hair cut and colored in NYC, but if you don’t like the idea of some
self-assured snipper telling you he knows what’s best, go to Pentomo.
It’s so good I break my self-imposed boycott on the East Side to have
Jeremiah listen carefully to me as I explain what I want to do this
time, and to have Walter painstakingly add just the right amount of
highlights.
If the weather is nice, I walk back across the park: You can head
into Central Park at 66th street, check out the Central Park Zoo, and
walk across to the West Side. At the midway point, there’s the carousel,
which goes particularly well with a new cut and highlights.
Okay, Now My Feet Hurt.
One of the best things about Manhattan is that there is always somebody
else in the movie theater, no matter how outlandish the time. I love
Lincoln Plaza Cinemas, on Broadway and 63th street, where you can see
the latest European or Israeli films along with offbeat American indy
selections. (Bonus: Good place to pick up foreign guys.)
My Whole Body Hurts.
If I’m not in the mood for a movie, I might head downtown (I do leave
the Upper West Side on occasion) to get a hot stone massage at the
Great Jones Spa. This is a fun place to go with friends, because you
can hang out before or after your spa treatment – they have a steam
room, sauna, hot tub and cold plunge pool. Although one friend complains
that the place does have a faintly sinister air -- there’s a hint of
industrial space underneath all the New Agey touches – I still like
it. (Bonus: Good place to pick up Russian entrepreneurs).
For a more yoga-wholistic experience, I go to Carapan, which is a
very upscale version of a nuts and granola place. As DVD yoga guru
Rodney Yee might say, Feel the inner peace here. Relax your inner eyelids.
Relax your groins. (You’re not picking up anyone here.)
To Really Relax Your Groins.
I always like to take my newly divorced pals to a sex shop. Downtown,
there’s Babes in Toyland; in midtown, there’s Eve’s Garden, cleverly
hidden in an impressively ritzy office building (as featured in a scene
in my novel, Does She or Doesn’t She?) Don’t be embarrassed, no one
will know you’ve got ben wa balls in your purse…unless you drop them.
Or Maybe You Want to Isolate Your Groins:
For years, I took belly dancing classes at Serena Studios in midtown
Manhattan. The beginners’ classes were fun and not in the least intimidating,
and brought together a fascinating mix of post-partum Mamas, middle
aged movers and shakers, ex-ballet dancers, strippers and women of
every shade, shape and level of dance experience. I’m not sure what
their current schedule is (you can check online, as with all these
places except for Madeleine’s). You can pay for just one lesson, and
then go wild and blow your money on a hip scarf with bangles.
Enough With the Groins, Give me Some Culture.
If your ancestors didn’t come over on the Mayflower, you might pay
a visit to the Tenement Museum. The gift shop has some great nostalgic
stuff, along with an all too realistic rubber mouse. The recreated
slum apartments remind you too much of your hotel? Relax. The best
gelato in town is right downstairs at Pharmacy, and Chinatown is just
a short walk away.
All Right, Enough Activity. Time for Food and Drink.
If you don’t have a Zagat guide, get one – you can choose a bar or
restaurant by neighborhood, type of food, level of poshness or likelihood
of picking up somebody cute. You absolutely do not have to pay a lot
of money to have an incredible meal in Manhattan, especially if you
go ethnic. My advice? Unless you really are too tired to move, pick
an regional cuisine – Indian, Vietnamese, Moroccan, Turkish – and let
Zagat narrow it down.
Nightlife:
Obviously, there are cooler choices, but if it’s been more than a
decade since you last gyrated on a dance floor, you might check out
My Totally Awesome Eighties Prom. It’s an Off-Broadway interactive
show at the Limelight, scene of many of my youthful follies.
In general, Off and Off-Off Broadway theater is stranger, cheaper
and easier to get into on short notice, and some of the selections
are anarchically funny. On the other hand, you might also suffer memorably,
but this makes a better story than telling people you saw The Drowsy
Chaperone.
Hey, Why Didn’t That Cab Stop for Me?
Around 4 pm is when a lot of cabs go off duty and they will not take
you anywhere, because they are tired and they have to pee. Do not get
stuck in midtown, where everyone wants a cab, at 4 pm if you have to
be somewhere in a hurry.
So there you have it – my very biased list of where to go and what
to do. Let me know if you have anything to add to the list so I can
check it out in my next city day.
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MAKE
WAR NOT LOVE?
(February 2007)
I feel so betrayed.
Here I was,
big fan of Maureen
Dowd, loving
the fact that
she looked like
Maureen O’Hara
in the Quiet
Man and was
funny enough
to write for
The Daily Show.
The heroine
of my next book,
Flirting in
Cars, is a journalist
and I used Ms.
Dowd as a partial
model.
And then came
the bitch slap
– Ms. Dowd’s
Op Ed piece,
“Heels Over
Hemingway.”
If you missed
it last Friday,
Feb 9 in the
New York Times,
you can check
it out online
if you’re a
member. If not,
here’s the gist:
Walking into
a big bookstore,
looking for
Nostromo, Dowd
is appalled
to find that
“chick lit was
no longer a
niche. It had
staged a coup
of the literature
shelves. Hot
babes had shimmied
into the grizzled
old boys’ club,
the land of
Conrad, Faulkner
and Maugham.”
Dowd goes on
to complain
that she found
a copy of Sylvia
Plath’s “The
Bell Jar” with
a pink cover.
Now,
I was perplexed.
Was Dowd annoyed
with bookstores,
because romantic
comedy and
satire, a.k.a.
chick lit, gets
shelved alongside
works of classic
literature?
Or was she irritated
by the fact
that most of
the contemporary
books she sees
on the shelves
are not destined
to be classics?
Wait, no, maybe
she was unsettled
by book publishers,
who have slapped
sexy new covers
on Grande Dame
Lit.
Then I read
on, and understood:
It’s all the
woman reader’s
fault. According
to Ms. Dowd’s
friend, New
Republic literary
editor Leon
Wieseltier,
“America’s reading
women could
do a lot worse
than to put
down “Will Francine
Get her Guy?”
and pick up
“The Red Badge
of Courage.”
Especially since
we’re at war
and all.
I don’t know
about you, but
I’m not sure
I know America’s
Reading Women.
Is it a chick-lit
only reading
group? A cabal?
A coven? Is
it me? And if
so, do I really
have to stop
reading all
insular books
about relationships
in favor of
hefty war tomes
by men? What
about “Shipping
News” by Annie
Proulx, or “On
Beauty” by Zadie
Smith – do those
get dispensations?
Maybe I’m allowed
to read Suzanne
Brockmann, because
she writes about
Seals.
Then
Dowd mentioned
the “feminization”
of literature,
and I thought,
hey, this isn’t
Frank Rich here,
this is Intellectual
Hot Babe Maureen
Dowd, she of
the scarlet
hair and matching
lips. Hell,
her own book*
had a pulpy,
tart-noir cover.
Then Jennifer
Crusie explained
it all to me.
“She’s doing
it to generate
letters, so
she looks popular.”
And I thought,
That’s not a
bad idea. I
could pick on
a subgenre and
attack it, and
then post it
on my website,
and get lots
of passionate
responses. But
what to focus
on – cozy mysteries?
Detective novels
set in Florida?
Food writers’
memoirs?
I’ll let you
guys decide.
Please send
in a genre for
me to attack,
along with one
reason why it
should be reviled.
p.s. I don’t
believe she
was really looking
for Nostromo,
do you? But
if she’s still
looking, I have
a copy. Right
next to Liz
Maverick’s Crimson
Rogue. (Swear
to God, this
is true.)
*(A a collection
of essays, mildly
amusing, but
not about to
shove Mark Twain
off his…hey,
what the heck
is that doing
on the table
next to Roughing
It?)
Alisa Kwitney
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COUNTRY
VS. CITY FOR
THE HOLDIAYS
(December 2006)
Lights,
lights, many,
many lights.
This,
at age two or
so, was my very
first sentence.
Clearly, I am
hard-wired for
urban living.
I
don’t know how
it is where
you are, but
here in the
Hudson River
Valley it gets
dark around
5 pm, which
is when most
people seem
to retire for
the night. Whoever
invented Daylight
Savings Time
didn’t understand
that it’s more
depressing to
have the day
end abruptly
than it is to
have it start
slowly.
It’s
gotten so bad
I’ve started
watching Sex
and the City
reruns without
the sex. I have
a vague feeling
that something
is missing now
that the show’s
been edited
for basic cable,
but really I’m
just tuning
in for all the
soft-porn glossy
images of Manhattan.
Which
is ironic, since
all my city
friends are
thumbing through
their L.L.Bean
Catalogues and
fantasizing
about spending
the holidays
in rustic splendor,
complete with
fetching wool
sweater, blazing
fireplace, cross
country skis
and golden retriever.
And yeah, it
is awfully pretty
around here,
what with all
the gently rolling
hills and old
red barns and
grazing sheep
and horses.
But
the hills are
filled with
tiny lyme-disease
bearing ticks,
which are now
in the throes
of a final mardis
gras surge of
activity before
the winter frost..
The ticks are
so ubiquitous
that nearly
everyone I know
has had lyme
disease, and
it’s not unusual
to see a woman
with an IV strapped
to her arm to
keep the antibiotics
flowing. I remember
as a teenager
hearing that
in the 1700s,
an alarmingly
high proportion
of the population
was walking
around with
syphilis, and
being horrified.
Lyme
disease is an
awful lot like
syphilis, the
main difference
being that you
have less fun
acquiring it.
The ticks all
come from the
deer, which
are suicidal
with lust and
keep flinging
themselves in
front of my
car.
And,
last but not
least, there
is the frequent
sound of high-caliber
firearms discharging
near my backyard.
Not that I’m
against hunting
– I’ve changed
my mind about
this since learning
how bad the
deer and tick
situation is.
I am, however,
against the
city guys who
come up here
with a few six-packs
and start blasting
away at anything
that moves.
My big Chinook
dog, Magnus,
is deer-colored,
and I’ve started
dressing him
in an orange
bandana to make
him look less
like venison.
I’m contemplating
adding a hat
and scarf.
I
tried to take
Magnus back
to the city
for a nice,
safe weekend
of window shopping,
but two cops
called me over
to inform me
that I was a
walking thief
magnet, with
bags hanging
off me and a
vacant expression
on my face as
I ambled through
the holiday
crowds.
“This
ain’t no small
town, Lady,”
they said. “You
better get with
it.”
Oh,
well. Maybe I’ll
just head over
to the Amenia
Tractor Company
to see if they
have a light-up
moose for my lawn.
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ADVICE FOR WRITERS (November 2005)
Hubris and Humility
Every writer I have ever met has two invisible friends, Hubris and Humility, who take turns whispering in said writer’s ear. Hubris tells you that despite all the billions of books that exist, you have a specific way of looking at the world that is of interest to people, most of whom are not related to you, or friends with your mother. Humility tells you that, after rereading that page you wrote last night, you should probably wait before showing anything to anyone except for your mother. And maybe not even her.
Both these pals are useful. You should just make sure that you are listening to the correct voice at the appropriate time. For example, when you are actually sitting down and writing, listen to Hubris. Hubris will let you get some work done. When you are waiting to hear from an agent or an editor, or when you have just gotten through a terrible critique session where everyone in your writing group called you “derivative”, listen to Hubris. And never, ever read any negative review of your work, particularly ones that begin with the word “Disappointingly,” without ending up with a good, bracing dose of Hubris.
When speaking to fans, agents, editors, reviewers and, above all, when schmoozing with other writers, listen to Humility.
Finding Your Voice
When I was a comic book editor, I used to have a lot of aspiring artists handing me pencil drawings in the style of bigger, more established artists. Some would use very fine pencil strokes, lots of them. Some would use heavy shadows. Some would make every woman look as if she had armadillos projecting from her chest. Nice style, I would say, but when you are starting out, you need to master the basics first.
In comics, this means clear, realistic, visual storytelling. And it works for prose, as well. So don’t try to find your voice. Find your story, and tell it as simply and realistically as you can. If you are writing a fantasy, that may mean describing realistic unicorns. If you are working on a historical set in the middle ages, that means finding your own method for capturing the flavor of Medieval speech in a way that is easily understandable to a modern audience. Don’t strive for a particular effect. Don’t try to make your words pretty. Or, to put it another way, don’t worry about sounding like you. You will sound most like yourself when you just write the story.
How to Write Funny
Humor, real humor, is always a little subversive. This is why puns are not funny. Sorry Shakespeare, sorry British people, but they’re not. Richard Pryor is funny. John Stewart is funny. Helen Fielding’s Diary of Bridget Jones is hysterically, wonderfully funny. Laughter is a startle reaction. If you see it coming, it’s not funny.
Which means that in order to be funny, you have to be a little raw, a little revealing, a little risky. If you are satirizing something, and classic chick lit is basically satire mixed with romance, then you need to be the kid who says, Hey, the emperor has no clothes, and not the guy next to the kid, saying, He’s right.
The big test is this: Is your humorous sentence or observation safe? Could you read it to the PTA? Would your mother in law approve of it? The writer Fay Weldon once advised me to write something that would offend everyone I knew. I don’t think I’ve managed that yet, but it’s a good reminder for anyone who wants to write satire.
How to Write Sexy
What makes sex sexy in real life – trust, privacy, a firm mattress, at least an hour of free time – is just boring in fiction. To keep fictional sex interesting, think of it as serving the same purpose in a novel that a fight scene serves in a superhero comic book. In comics, you want each fight scene to highlight a different use of the hero’s power. So Batman shouldn’t clobber the hero the same way each time, he should use his ingenuity and skill and experience to solve the problem differently this time than he did the time before. And at the end of each fight, there should be a shift in power, meaning that the person who walked into the fight looking like the likely victor should wind up defeated or humbled. In my books, that means I aim to have the hero and heroine connect differently in each love scene, and I strive to have the balance of power shift from the beginning to the end of the scene. I also think of sex scenes as turning points for my characters, and structure them accordingly.
Other than that, the trick to writing sexy is the same as the trick for writing humor. You can’t play it safe and write sexy sex.
Physical Description
Lots of books tell you not to hack up a big bolus of exposition, but nobody says much about physical description.
Personally, I like physical detail. I have a pet peeve with literary authors who never let me know what the protagonist looks like. I want to tell those authors to read some detective fiction, because detective novels always have the best descriptions.
Imitating detective novels, I try to reveal a character’s physical details bit by bit, as he or she goes about the business of living. If I am in the character’s POV or close to it, I try not to describe them in ways they wouldn’t describe themselves, such as, “lustrous honey blonde hair” and “delicately pretty features.” And after a particularly cutting comment by a literary magazine editor in the late eighties, I don’t have my characters catch sight of themselves in a mirror and then give a detailed, top to tail inventory of their physical attributes.
And Last but not Least
The biggest single lesson every writer needs to learn, and then relearn, is when to listen to advice and criticism and when to ignore it. No one can teach this to you. It’s like learning when to follow a new fashion and when to accept that even if everyone around you wears kilts, you know what they do to your calves.
Whether you have never been published or have published dozens of books, whether the person critiquing or advising you is a powerful editor or the author you most admire in the world, you have to ask yourself, Do I suspect that this is true, or does this just feel like the other person doesn’t get what my story is really about?
If your inner voice says the latter, then ignore the advice. Even if it’s mine.
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HARD WORK (Summer 2005)
I’m not supposed to say it was hard. Saying that writing the
book was hard is like admitting that you took two hours to get
ready for a date. You’ve spent all that effort trying to make
yourself look like a natural beauty, and now you’ve blown it.
Well, to hell with it. I’m out of the closet – this last book
was damn hard to write. And you know what? Even the books that
weren’t this hard to write were damn hard. I think that after
about six months or so, post-birth amnesia sets in, and I forget
the grinding pain and the mounting panic that something is going
terribly wrong, and I think, Look, a perfectly healthy book.
That wasn’t so hard.
Except it was.
Trying to get dialogue to appear natural, sound clever and at
the same time, actually reveal things? As easy as getting the
look of just-out-of bed, sexily tousled hair. Figuring out how
your own book ends? As simple as waxing your own legs.
There is a reason so few people actually wax their own legs
or finish their novels. It’s messy, it’s painful and it’s stressful,
even when you are doing it right.
And yet, rereading it a month after putting the final period
on the final sentence, I’m shocked to see that everything reads
quite effortlessly. No sign of blood and sweat at all.
And now that I’ve gotten a glimpse at the cover, which I really
like, I can almost make myself to believe that the process of
writing wasn’t really that bad, in fact, maybe there was only
that one bad patch, when the snow was really piling up and I
couldn’t get out of the house, even to sit in a café for a few
minutes.
But I won’t lie to myself, either. It was hard. But right about
now, it begins to feel worth it.
Which is good, because it’s almost time to get started on the next
one…

Stay tuned. Alisa plans to report in with some regularity....

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