A former professor of mine writes Hollywood-bound screenplays, and is currently writing for a Disney movie that sounded very much like Honey, We Shrunk Ourselves (which was a great series, let’s all admit). It turns out there are specific guidelines which must be strictly adhered to in the writing process. Ready?

1) You cannot mention divorce. In the movie my professor is working on, there is a stepfather in the family, but there is no explanation as to what happened to the real father. Stop. Is this normal?! Divorce rates in the US are at what? 50%? But shhh, don’t tell the kids. Might ruin their movie.
2) Santa Claus exists. At least, you cannot mention anything to the contrary. Let us further disillusion the minds of today’s youth, because Miley Cyrus didn’t do a good enough job.
3) A couple who isn’t married cannot live together. Fine, I don’t mind this one. But still fascinating!

My sister mentioned another one to me that I had never thought of. Use of the word “God” seems to be mysteriously absent from Disney movies. She expressed this in describing the overdramatic and constant use of a mousy “Oh my goodness!”

Anyways, I found this all to be pretty cool stuff.

Other world phenomena to think about:
-Rain jackets without hoods
-Charles Darwin married his first cousin
-People who try to emulate Snookie’s hairdo (like the woman on the train today who had multiple “poofs”)

I am off to Savannah, Georgia for the weekend! My cousin is marrying a southern belle, so a destination wedding is in store. I’ll be back next Wednesday, don’t miss me too much. Hopefully I will have some good Georgian stories to report.

Peace out,

Rachel Lily

Now, maybe I should try to explain what I mean by ‘imagination’: if we assume that admit that memory is imperfect and liable to have gaps within it, imagination is capable of filling these gaps.

(Ok, I think this may be dancing on the fringes of German philosophy. I’m sorry.)

This relationshipr has always been very perplexing: memory can only be capable of covering so much information, and it is the responsibility of the author to determine how to balance these mechanisms within the story, what part of the author will prevail? This dichotomy in literary ontology is something to consider. Authors like Jorge Luis Borges and Camus, as well as poets like Adam Zagajewski and a host of other European, or exiled poets.

I really don’t know my opinion on this dilemma, to what extent should an author, poet, devote their responsibilities? The two must be related to one another, but to what extent?

I’ll let you know how the talk goes.

Calvin

On a happier note, my neice got engaged this morning! Yes, wedding #9 is just around the corner. I really wanted to tell you all the other day during my 27 Dresses rant, but I was sworn to secrecy. The chances I might be a great aunt before I turn 25? Very good. Granted, I was only 10 months old when my brothers dragged me down the aisle at my sister’s wedding, but being a great aunt is not something I would have opted for before age 40. In case you were wondering how the proposal went down, she was called in for an interview at a local elementary school, and had to read a book to the class. On the dedication page she saw her own name (Enter “awww” here). Funnily enough, she told me about the interview, and the fact that she would be reading a book just yeterday, while unknowingly blowing my hair for her own party, which is tonight. Hello, dramatic irony!

In other news, it’s a magnificent 57 degrees in NYC today, but I think the upturn in weather has really gotten to people’s heads. Newsflash – it is still wintertime. Meaning I needed to put my gloves on this morning during my walk to the train station, despite the fact that I opted for my second-tier winter coat. People see sun and immediately strip down to shorts and a t-shirt. Just because there’s no snow on the ground, doesn’t mean it’s time to hit the beach! Come on people. I don’t wanna see your toes until May.

Have a great week!

Rachel Lily

The older generation observes the younger with affection and concern while the younger settles into its own middle age, its prospects still shadowed by the war and its aftermath. Thirkell’s marshaling of story across generations show- to quote her own praise of Lady Lufton- “all her excellent qualities to the best advantage.”

“Mrs. Thirkell is in triumphant form in her return to Barsetshire and its rituals. She is one of the subtlest of social historians, in that the reader can seldom be quite sure which of the county values she endorses and which she is laughing at.”
- Times [London] Literary Supplement

In this latest Thirkell chronicle we gladly meet once more the friends we loved and admired and laughed at in twenty-two preceding volumes.”
- Saturday Review

In her modern Barsetshire chronicles, the author returns to her familiar haunts to concoct another lively tale of village society and family life, spiced with the yearnings and hesitations of a characteristically cross-purposed cast of lovers. Thirkell begins by addressing her reader (“the one who says our books are so nice because it doesn’t matter which you read or where you open it as they are all exactly the same—as indeed they are, with a difference”) with a nod to the predictable pleasures her novels promise. The story of Enter Sir Robert unfolds, however, in two of the less-frequented of her Barsetshire communities, Hatch End, a small village in the valley of the Rising River, and Little Misfit, three of four miles away. Each village is home to one of the two families—the Hallidays and the Grahams—whose unmarried children provide the romantic interest that sets the plot spinning

First published more than four decades ago and long unavailable to American readers, Enter Sir Robert joins the many volumes previously issued in Moyer Bell’s continuing series of Angela Thirkel publications.

“A novelist who occupies a niche in my private pantheon….No one living has such mastery over the humor of nonsequiturs.”

—Orville Prescott, in the New York Times

Speaking of yahoo, who uses Yahoo? Or better yet, who uses anything aside from Google these days? My blackberry has permanently defaulted Bing as my go-to search engine and I am not at all satisfied. Google = Godly.

On another note, my two best friends got married last night. To each other. Ah yes, the joy of being a bridesmaid for the 8th time in a one year period can sometimes drive me slightly over the edge of sanity, but it is a position I am for the most part extremely honored and delighted to be in. People oftentimes come up to me and wonder if I ever wear anything other than a gown. Call me Katherine Heigl, I do have a bunch. But yes, I own other clothing! I just don’t get a chance to wear them that often as I am forever walking down the aisle without an engagement ring. Make no mistake, I am not bitter about this. But my dancing feet most assuredly are.

Toodles,

Rachel Lily

Speaking of better ideas, here is a list of some literary events going this week. We’ll start with the free one:

Pulitzer Prize winning, non-fiction writer Deborah Bloom
The Barnes and Nobel on 97 Warren Street
Tonight at 7.
She’ll be talking about her book, a following about New York City’s first forensic scientists. Here’s a link with more details.

Poems & Pints with Meena Alexander and John Burnside
Fraunces Tavern 54 Pearl Street (corner of Broad Street)
3/2
6:30pm
Admission: Free
Poetry and drinks. Done.
The Poetry Society of America is hosting the event, here’s some more information.
Here’s the location of Fraunces Tavern.

Happy Ending Reading Series
Joe’s Pub at the Public Theater: 425 Lafayette St
3/3 at 9pm
Tickets $15
From what I hear this looks to be an interesting one

The Sixth Annual Story Prize Award Night
3/3 7:30pm
Tickets: $14
The New School is hosting this event over at the Tischman Auditorium. Daniyal Mueenuddin, Wells Tower, and Victoria Patterson will be reading from, and discussing their work. Though it looks as if you will need to buy a ticket ahead of time. Here’s a website with some of the logistics.

Calvin

I finished Chelsea Handler’s Are You There Vodka? It’s Me Chelsea this weekend. Mostly picked it up because of all the hype and it pretty much delivered. Reminded me of another collection of essays, Sloane Crosley’s I Was Told There’d Be Cake, which I read last month and thought was hilarious. They’re both funny, witty, quick-reads, and recommended for when you’re not in the mood to think that hard. Also, I’m thinking if I ever actually write a book, this is probably what it would look like. Short, autobiographical stories about nothing. (Ahem, my blogs, ahem).

Short autobio story of the day: I lost my cell phone at a restaurant last week and I was convinced that I left it in the bathroom and someone stole it. I had the entire staff on alert, and we even went through the garbage where the manager said people oftentimes hide things to pick up later (drug deal, hello!). This accusatory inclination was the direct result of a previous stolen cell phone fiasco, in which I used my observational skills to pinpoint the perpetrator and was ultimately reunited with my beloved Blackberry. As I tried to imagine what my life would be like without my phone, I was left with many question marks and much uneasiness. Technology is ridiculously irreplaceable, therefore unreliable, but my dependence on the little gadget is immense, my love for it, irrevocable. I found it on the floor face down under my table, and only because my metro card, which fits perfectly behind my phone case, was peeking out of the camera hole, showing a bit of white in the darkness. Catastrophe avoided! Lesson semi-learned.

Rachel Lily

Margaret Ajemian Ahnert was born in New York City. Growing up, she listened to her mother’s stories about her own childhood during the Armenian genocide in Turkey. She has an MFA from Goucher College and a BA from Goddard College, and is a graduate of the Barnes Foundation. She has pursued a variety of careers: producing television documentaries, lecturing as a docent at the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the Philadelphia Museum of Art, and teaching art appreciation through the Art Goes to School program in elementary schools. Ahnert holds a 100-ton master captain’s license and is an avid hunter and fisherwoman. She also is an experienced pilot.

The Knock at the Door is her first book.

My fiasco of the week occured just prior to the Shoeless Book Club. After picking up 12 copies of the next meeting’s book (Shakespeare’s The Tempest! Now featured in BAM), I got on the Q train and took it one stop over to Canal Street. Over the past few months I have used the train probably more times than my whole life combined, all thanks to HopStop.com. The problem is, in this case, HopStop wanted me to make a left on said “unnamed road.” I walked on, with my 20 lbs of books in on hand, pocketbook in the other, looking for a dark alley? A random cross street? Possibly a direction-giving angel?

I sought out the angels on every corner. I gave my look of desperation to many strangers on the street, hands turned over in confusion, and pleaded with them -  “Hudson Streeet?!” Two women on separate occasions attempted to show me where we were on their cell phone GPS, possibly more concerned with showing off that they actually had this technology and not that the map was reading off to me like an obscure dialect of Swahili. Admittedly, directions are my biggest weakness. The one thing I can rely on is that my instincts are almost always dead wrong. Oftentimes, if my insides say “Go right!”, I will make the L shape with my left hand and go left. Other strangers were equally unhelpful, pointing in directions where the road was ending, and/or not knowing we were in Manhattan. Two old ladies in matching puffy jackets who didn’t speak English to save their lives, tried to reason with me. “Hud-son Street,” I mouthed slowly. “Ah, Hudon swaygegda,” one said while making a vertical sweeping motion with her hand. I am pretty sure they were sending me to the Hudson River. And one guy was equally flustered, “I dunno maybe SOHO?!” His attitude and accent sounded strangely familiar, and upon his asking if I was from the Jewish Syrian community, I confirmed this recognition. It’s a small world after all?

I called my sister half in sobs, “I’m lostttt!”
“Where are you?” she asked. “Where am I?!” I shouted to the nearest New York stranger. Luckily, I was a block away from my destination, and my disaster was finally at a close. 40 minutes of agony later I was at the Shoeless Book Club ready to discuss Borges’ Labyrinths. Labyrinths. Haha very funny (=sarcasm).

Adios!

Rachel Lily