Crossing the Finish Line....

I have never been so bad at writing! The sentences that flowed from my fingers on the last day of NaNoWriMo (a long day on a train with the goal of almost 10,000 words) were full of [put something in here later] and mespellngs and Forgetting Where The Story WAs set. But that's kind of the goal of NaNo. To put the editor's mind away for a while (98% impossible when you are, say, ME) and just get the story OUT.

I had planned ahead, literally taking Plan Your Novel at the Barany School of Fiction. So I knew when I got stuck what questions to ask my characters, what details to look for, and I had mapped out the plot so I knew what had to happen in each chapter. But I felt like I was abusing the muse... who always knows just what to day, but takes her time. That's okay, me and my muses get into it a lot.

I got all the way through the last chapter with about 6,000 words to go and sat, stumped, staring out the window, until I thought to go through and look at the musical again. That juiced up another few scenes, and I got to 46,000 words. Then I remembered that the goal is to write 50,000 words in November and I realized how much writing I'd done AROUND the novel. I put my blog posts in, my wild hairs, my Christmas letter... so okay I cheated a little. So when I finished I felt a bit dirty and tired.

But then something magical happened. I was sitting in the Observation Car next to a John Grisham book without a cover, watching the late afternoon scenery go by, when someone came and picked the book up and sat next to me. A reader! A real reader, who takes 20 hour train trips and reads books that are on their last legs and literally lets the signatures fall away, putting this paperback to rest. We started chatting, and when I told him what I'd done, and pulled The Souls of Her Feet out of my backpack, his face lit up and he said he'd HEARD of me, and he'd SEEN this book before! He told me exactly what shelf he'd seen it on (in his mother's retirement home), and complimented the cover. He burst out, "I just met a REAL WRITER!"

*blush*


Did you hear that? He called me a REAL WRITER! To further enhance my Velveteen Rabbit moment, the two women on my other side both snapped up copies of my book, funding my NaNoWriMo Victory T-Shirt! I read them all some fresh new writing inspired by the golden light on the leaves. We all hardly minded that train was stuck waiting while the tracks cleared for about four hours...!

And when the technical writer who had "discovered" me confessed his longing to write more poetically. I whipped out my pen and drew a "Poetic License" on the back of a handout for my book.

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Thanks to a FOUR HOUR DELAY, I made it across the #nanowrimo finish line tonight! Thanks for all the encouragement and support @bethbarany @chrisbaty @nanowrimo @kauaiwritersconference and especially @theuniverse for sending me last-minute readers/cheerleaders on the train! #spontaneous #literaryreadings #magichour #trainbow #inspiration #leftovers #legroom #workspace #railroadlife #legroom #crashposition #ladieslounge #inmyelement #myglamorouswritinglife #writingslog #hatedit #didit #shittyfirstdraft #marathon #nanowrimo2019 #inthepipeline

A post shared by Kristen Caven (@generous_muse) on Nov 29, 2019 at 9:37pm PST

A few days later, I took my teachers, Ezra and Beth, to a NaNoWriMo wrap party in Berkeley. The host wore the celebratory horns, symbol of what I don't know, but pretty triumphant.

It was rather awe-inspiring to be in a room full of people who had also been through what I had. I couldn't believe some had done this sprint for eight years in a row. I don't know if I ever will, again. We all brainstormed titles for each others' novels and ate pizza.

When I got home I told Dave, "thats it, I'm done, I'm all out of words."

Until it was time to post another blog, at least!

How to make Pornocello™

This is a highly toxic and not-good-for you cocktail invented somewhere over Greenland by punch-drunk strangers on a plane.

(It is much worse than Limoncello, but less creepy than actual porn.)

1. Start with a package of Lemon Candy. 
2. Put it in a jar. 
3. Cover it with "Really Good Vodka." (Whatever's cheap.)
4. Shake it every few days.
5. When the candy has dissolved as much as it will, pour off the sticky yellow liquid into a bottle.
6. (The bottle should probably be clean.)
7. Keep it in the freezer.
8. After dinner, unzip your pants.
9. Drink straight from the bottle.

Actually, the resulting sticky sweet alcoholic syrup tastes pretty good over ice cream, or mixed in a cocktail. And you can make it with any kind of candy (Jolly Rancher Vodka is a Thing) ... but if it's lemon, call it by the proper Italo-American adult beverage name: Pornocello!

Caveman Fever

I've just had the most interesting conversation with my old roommate, Daniel Suelo, who is now very famous for giving up money. (No, that's not why we stopped living together.) I kidnapped him after his booksigning last night, so I could give him some free stuff and feel good about myself. (Actually, I wanted him to meet my family.) And now the time comes for him to get back to San Francisco so he can meet up with the author of his biography and get on to the next stop on their freakishly popular (thank you, the 99%) book tour.

Rockin' the new caveman fan fashion trend....

Daniel and I reminisced about living in a six-person household in Boulder, Colorado in the mid 1980s. We were a ragtag bunch of ungrounded youth, unsure of what to do with our lives, collected by my big brother Damian, who had met Daniel in a Religion course at CU. All we wanted to do was talk philosophy, listen to the new Sting solo album, and eat leftover rice from The Harvest, Boulder's most happening natural restaurant, where my little brother Felix was a busboy. We managed to get along okay with little to no money, not (of course) by choice, being resourceful and helping each other through our problems. We built important life skills together, like home dentistry. (Today's Obamacare kids have it so easy, enjoying dad's health insurance 'til age 26!)

Boulder has, or at least had, at the time, anti-commune laws leftover from the 1960s, so when the landlord found out there were six unrelated people living together in his suburban home, he evicted us. Before we moved, we contemplated easier solutions. For example, since three of us were related already, I could just marry Daniel, and then the household would be over 50% related. It was almost worth it to get married just so we could hyphenate our names: "Daniel and Kristen Shellabarger-Baumgardner." Even better: Shellabaum-Gardnerbarger.

Back to today. Since my almost-hubby doesn't use money, I'm planning to give him the gift of a BART ticket. But hmmm.... He has to make a Muni connection. How to deal with that? Daniel's choice to break up with money brings up so many curious and interesting questions. (FAQs are here.) Is it aesceticism or aestheticism? How do you live in a mindset of acceptance? What if you break your leg? How do you eat a thistle? We discussed the many options of him getting from BART to Muni. Would he hop the train? Could he stand around with the book in his hand and hope someone came up to offer him a ticket? Hold up a sign that says, "I don't use money. Help me get on this train."

I've been peppering him with questions all morning, (help him train for the Santa Cruz audience, of course,) but now I really want to know: "Do you EVER use money, if someone gives it to you?"

He replies, "sometimes people will give me money to buy something they need, but I don't use it to buy something for myself."

"So, If I gave you $2, could you buy a Muni ticket for my friend Daniel?" Ha HA! I trapped him with my clever logic! He grins and blushes, deeply.

But I don't want to be the one to come between a man and his art—and I do believe he is living his art. I'll just give him a ride and enjoy the adventure.

Deconstructing "Deconstructing the Deco Diet"

It's true I like to make fun food, but I found a way to make fun of it, as well. One night I popped a frozen pizza in the oven and sat down to read an old cookbook. Next thing I knew, I was writing about the old musty thing for The Sophisticate, the journal of the Art Deco Society of California. Well, someone in Miami Beach, (a.k.a. Mecca) liked it so much he invited me to speak to the Miami Design Preservation League.

What a whirlwind! I flew all day last Monday, and all day Wednesday, 4000 miles in 20 hours, give or take a few time zones. Tuesday was a kaleiedoscope of hairpins, curious food, and Art Deco Design! There are hundreds of hotels along the lush, palm-lined beach down there, all designed within 20 imaginative years, competing to tell their stories and out-stylize each other. Here's me with my buddy Scott Timm outside the Sherbrooke hotel, where I stayed:


I started out my morning painting my nails in the car and balancing a cake-like "Luncheon Loaf" on my knees on the way to a TV studio, for the food segment of "South Florida Today." While struggling to pin my unhappy hair into place, I disturbed a snoring Cheech Marin in the green room, who had also flown out from the Bay Area, and was promoting an art exhibit on Latino art. We discussed vintage weddings (I had just read in Nancy Eaton's "Your Vintage Wedding" that he performed one on Treasure Island). He teased me for running around without my 4" red snakeskin vintage peekaboo-toe pumps, calling me "The Barefoot Contessa."

No, Cheech, you're quite mistaken. All I can seem to make is luncheon loaf. (And yes, that's *parsley* in the green layer...)


I also met a fabulous celebrity event planner and designer of glamorous retro aprons!

Ironically, while thinking about, talking about food so much, I was starving most of the time. While enjoying a picnic breakfast on the beach at sunrise, I was assaulted, Tippi Hedren-style, by evil seagulls who plucked my fried egg sandwich right out of my hand, and threw it in the sand! But here's the gastronomic experience that truly made my day: South Florida STONE CRAB claws! Aren't they adorable?
The beauty of this delicacy is that the crabs are not killed in the harvest. Fishermen just rip their fattest arm off and toss the creatures back to grow a new one for next year. Nauseating? Yes. Comforting? That, too. Above all, delicious enough to want to go back next crab season.

If you're interested, here's the article about my lecture in the Miami Herald.

Do I look a little like a Stepford wife here? Read "The Cook's Creed" (Meta Given, 1942) and you'll understand why.


Just look at this luscious layered luncheon loaf!:


Here's the iTunes soundtrack of songs about food from the era:


If you're not tired of this story yet, check out the "official" web page for links to the article, TV spot, and suspicious menu suggestions from the era.

If you want to see more photos, check out my album!

Special thanks to Laurie Gordon for the vintage bathing suit (alas, unworn...I'll have to go back) and Theresa LaQuey for coaching and the Luncheon Loaf recipe.