Danielle Younge-Ullman

What the Yog?

2008-11-24T10:52:00.000-08:00

Hey folks!

Still editing.

But looky-here, this is almost a weekly post, since my last one was last Tuesday, so who knows what crazy things might start to happen once I'm done the monster edit of all time?!

Also, this week I'm "yogging." I'm not quite sure what it is, but I like the sound of it--almost like a cross between yoga and blog.

Seriously, the yog is a very cool group blog about gratitude and I wrote a post for them that went up today. Feel free to visit!

Free Book Friday

2008-11-18T11:16:00.000-08:00

Let me just clarify--the Free Book Friday feature of Falling Under started last Friday but runs through this week. Even if you don't want to win a book, it's a site worth checking out and there's a podcast interview there--me talking with author Jessica Brody about Falling Under, etc.

And what's happening here?

Editing.

I always yearn to get to this point but once I'm here, I'm yearning to go back to pure writing. The grass is always greener and all that.

Oh, and I'm looking for a new title because I've cut the stuff that made the previous title make sense.

Is it sounding glamorous yet?

Hope you're all having a fabulous week.

Danielle

Mid-November Update

2008-11-12T03:09:00.000-08:00

Hello bloggers, readers, friends, etcetera!

Draft 1.5 of my next book is complete (waaa!!! wooo!!!) and I would have thrown the promised cyber-party, but I was just too relieved and exhausted for partying, plus I have to gear up for another round of edits.

But there are some fun and exciting things happening this week. First, Anna Horner at Diary of an Eccentric has posted an excerpt of Falling Under and an interview with me. She's also given the book a fabulous review and is giving away a free, signed copy to one lucky winner. Check it all out, here.

Also: head on over to author Jessica Brody's brilliant new site, Free Book Friday this Friday, November 16th, where you'll be able to hear a podcast interview of me and, you guessed it, enter to win a free copy of Falling Under.

That's all for now!

Danielle

2008-10-06T06:04:00.000-07:00

Okay, this is very cool...

While I'm slaving away at the ending of my new book this week, two book bloggers are going to be reading Falling Under and holding a noon time chat each day. I will also be popping in to answer questions. So, if Falling Under brought up some burning issues for you and you want to talk about them, head on over to J. Kaye's Book Blog and/or Literarily.

And Falling Under has also just received two more fabulous reviews at Curled Up With A Good Book (also posted at S. Krishna’s Books) and The Compulsive Reader (also posted at Author's Den.

Cancer is a Bitch...and other sundry news

2008-10-02T03:22:00.000-07:00

Cancer is a Bitch by Gail Konop Baker is on shelves now! It's a gorgeous, life affirming book that tells the truth about so many things, cancer being only one of them.

I'm back at The Debutante Ball today and wrote about it.

In other news, I've had a couple of wonderful reviews for Falling Under this week, at Curled Up With A Good Book and Author's Den. Both of these reviews are not only positive, but also do a great job laying out the issues in the book and describing my writing.

And stay tuned, because over at J. Kaye's book blog, two or three reader/reviewers are going to be reading Falling Under at the same time and discussing as they go.

Have I mentioned how much I love blog reviewers?

There's also a fun interview posted over at Big Mouth Indeed Strikes Again that I don't think I've mentioned--thank you Amy Guth!

I have been doing yoga with my 2.5-year-old and interested to see the effects of downward dog when it is attempted with a child climbing on one's back. Ditto cobra and cobbler's pose. I suspect the spiritual and physical benefits may be compromised...

And my next book is almost done. Really, really almost done!

If Shoes and Contests Aren't Enough...

2008-09-19T06:24:00.000-07:00

Editor/writer Kathryn Magendie has posted an interview with me about writing and Falling Under at the literary Ezine, Roses & Thorns today. Kathryn asked some great questions!

In the meantime, I am trying to figure out how to finish my work in progress with my little dog so determined to live on my lap. I am loath to boot him off, since he's quite sweet (in a growly and particular kind of way) and also warm. I may need to have a special chair made...

Wild Shoes and Falling Under

2008-09-17T05:58:00.000-07:00

The hilarious and talented Suzy Soro at Hollywood: Where Hot Comes to Die, read Falling Under, loved it, and is doing a shoe/book giveaway contest.

So, if you want to win a signed copy of Falling Under, or even if you just want to check out the crazy shoes Suzy chose for the contest, go check it out here.

In other news, I am plugging away at my new book and laying low, blog-wise. I may have a cyber party when it's done--this one has taken a LONG time!

I'm at Booking Mama today...

2008-09-12T06:39:00.000-07:00

Hey everyone,

I'm still scrambling from computer meltdown (note to all, backed up files are not always REALLY backed up, so triple check the important ones!) and working toward getting to the finish line on my next book.

However, you can find me today at Booking Mama, where I am the guest blogger.

More soon...

It Doesn't Matter...except when it does

2008-08-28T09:16:00.000-07:00

August 8, 2008.

I was in the last hour of a 10 hour drive back from NYC with my husband (aka The Oppressor) driving and our two-year-old in the back seat. I'd heard from my Penguin Canada publicist on Wednesday that The National Post was "probably" going to run a review over the weekend. I told only my husband, afraid to jinx it. I hoped and prayed the review would run and hoped and prayed if it did, that it would be positive, since why would any paper bother to run a negative review of a debut novel from an author no one knew when it would be much more fun to eviscerate someone well known and provoke some debate...but things don't always follow that kind of logic.

Of course I'd googled Saturday morning before we left New York, but had not found any Post review online and then there were 9 long hours of wondering and hoping and drinking too much coffee and thinking maybe it wasn't going to happen and that I shouldn't hope so hard because that might cause the universe to rearrange itself, and not in my favor and I would be deemed a hack, shamed for the all my friends and family, indeed the entire country, to see.

So...on the way into Toronto I call my parents to let them know we were almost home. My mom says...she says she's got an email from a relative who read a glowing review of my book in The Post today. Repeat: a glowing review. The Post. Today. Gary, the other half of my parental unit, is out right now, driving from store-to-store, looking for it.

I keep asking her to re-read the email...

"He said "positive"? Or was it "glowing"?! What else did he-"

And then she says he's back. He has it.

"Three copies," I say to my husband. "No he hasn't read it yet, they're looking..."

Both of us waiting...strains of Elmo from the back seat...The Saturday Post is a big paper...

And then my mom: "Oh my, here it is. There's a huge picture of you!"

Pause, as she skims...

"Well, it's very good. Very positive. Will you want to see it for yourself first, or do you want me to---"

"Yes! No! Read it! Please." I'm having a freaking heart attack.

My mom: "Okay...'Let's cut to the chase: Toronto writer Danielle Younge-Ullman's Falling Under is one of the most compelling...'"

Me, repeating each phrase out loud for my husband, who is trying his best to stay focused on the road as we turn onto Dufferin and head north, and it's a mess because my throat closed up and on the word "compelling" and I'm weeping by the time we get to "gutsy, emotional, sexually charged" and so my mom and I both have to repeat the first paragraph three times and then she skims forward as I reassure my daughter that mommy is okay, mommy is just happy and sometimes we cry when we are happy...

I wipe my eyes and weep and babble into the phone and look over at my husband who is crying too (he's a self-professed leaky guy) and reach for his hand thinking what a long road this has been, and we have done it together and here we are, oh wow, wow, wow.

Mom reads a few more highlights and the final paragraph and we're getting close to home but will obviously be stopping to get a paper or 10...whatever we can find at 9pm, and so we hang up.

I wait in the car outside the drug store and think about how everyone tells you the accomplishment is what matters, that writing for yourself and doing your very best is what matters, and that the rest of it, publicity, sales etc, don't matter. A review is subjective, is only one person's opinion, doesn't matter, doesn't matter, doesn't matter...

I've said these things myself, and believe them to be logical and true.

But when you've wrestled a book out of yourself and finally send it off into the world to be read and judged and someone actually loves it and gets it and then says so in the national paper for the world to see...

Damn it, let's be honest: it matters.

It means everything.

2008-07-24T13:40:00.000-07:00

Now, a few of you have found this top-secret blog, but it's still somewhat under wraps because...well, because I'm about to launch a book and it's not leaving time for much else. But I swear, I will be doing SERIOUS BLOGGING at some point soon.

In the meantime, I am slowly re-posting all my Debutante Ball posts from the past year so that there's an easy way to find and read them all, and to find them by title.

Falling Under is not officially out, but it's starting to show up in stores, by the way. I signed 30 of them at the Toronto Eaton Center Indigo Books today!

Love in the Time of the Perfect 10 (Original Debutante Ball post)

2008-07-18T13:03:00.000-07:00

From April, 2008

I was obsessed with love from an early age. I had my first little boyfriend when I was four and once I started school I fell prey to a series of crushes resulting in endless foolish behavior. These poor grade-school boys only wanted to be left alone to play kick-ball and were alternately confused and terrified by my invitations to “dinner-and-a-movie,” the perfumed love notes delivered on foot to their homes and, worst case scenario, my chasing them down in the schoolyard and trying to kiss them. I still cringe.

But everything changed in grade five. We were into sending notes to boys with lists of girls (ourselves at the top) and requests for them to rate each girl on a scale of one-to-ten. (Progressive, I know.) One day the boy I LOVED sent me a note. It went something like this:

“Dear Danielle, I know I told Kayla* I rate you as a 2. But actually I rate you as a 10. Love, Brad*”

I cannot convey the thumping heart, the squealing, the incessant repeating to myself of the phrase “actually, I rate you as a ten,” the thrill this excellent rating and the note itself, gave me.

In a subsequent note Brad asked me to “go around” and thus began a tumultuous, on-and-off relationship (he’d drop me back to a 2 every so often) that lasted from grade 5 all the way through most of grade 7. During those three years Brad kissed me six times; four times on the lips and twice on the cheek. He also gave me my first roses—an impressive bouquet, especially for grade 6—which I dried and saved only to come home one day and find them gone. Not realizing their MAJOR SIGNIFICANCE, my mom had thrown them out. Sadly, this was also during one of the times Brad had dumped me and I was hanging onto those roses like I was Catherine to his Heathcliff…or maybe Heathcliff to his Catherine.

I wept and shrieked like only a precocious, love-lorn eleven-year-old can. My mom was sick about it and together we found a couple of stray petals and carefully set them in the box where I kept his letters, his class photos and some Jolly Ranchers he’d left with a note in my desk.

Eventually we moved from Minnesota to Toronto which prompted another getting-back-together. Brad liked a challenge. But a few months of passionate letters later (keeping in mind, we were twelve) he dumped me one final time.

I pined horribly, swore off men and (of course!) never so much as looked at another until I met and married The Oppressor, my one true love.

Well…”never” might be a slight exaggeration. There was, after all, a whole new batch of Canadian boys to terrify and confuse.

Thanks for another great week at The Ball!

Deb Danielle

*Names have been changed to protect both the innocent, the guilty and the foolish.

Original comments on this post here.

Polluted in Toronto (Original Debutante Ball post)

2008-07-18T13:00:00.000-07:00

From April, 2008

The Oppressor and I have a love-hate relationship with living in the city. We hate the expense, the smog and the stress of rushing around all the time. We often rhapsodize about the acres we could live on in the country for the same $ we paid to live on our postage stamp piece of property in Toronto. The air would be cleaner and we would all run free and barefoot, grow our own vegetables, etc, etc.

Right.

Problem is, he’d have to commute (further polluting the air) plus we would suffer from a lack of coffee shops within walking distance and be totally without friends. Not to mention I am a plant killer and not much of a cook and we could, in theory, grow vegetables in the city if that’s what it’s all about.

So we’re stuck with Toronto with all the wonderful and terrible things that entails, including a whole lot of pollutions and bad environmental habits that need to be worked on by us and everybody else.

I don’t have much more to say but I thought I’d write a sonnet…

Polluted in Toronto

Poor polluted Toronto, on Earth Week,
A serious subject, no tongue in cheek!
We are a disaster from east to west,
Don’t kid yourselves that we’re doing our best.

Ontario’s lake: a disgusting mess
Never to be swum in, I must confess.
The longed-for summer is smothered in smog,
No air for the flowers, the kids, the dog…

We’ve got the recycling, the local food,
Fair trade coffee, if we’re in the mood,
The ugly light bulbs plus the Green Bin too,
Reusable grocery bags out the wazoo.

And our one windmill sure does look pretty,
But poor little thing won’t save our city.

Have a thoughtful Earth Week!

Deb Danielle

Original comments on this post here.

Fifteen Minutes of Shame, Five Minutes of Sonnets (Original Debutante Ball post)

2008-07-18T12:57:00.000-07:00

From March, 2008

Fifteen Minutes of Shame by Lisa Daily is a fabulous, funny, smart, tightly written book with a huge heart. It will grab you from the first page and drag you, will you, nil you, to the finish. I loved it, read it in a single sitting, and found myself thinking about it for days afterward because in addition to a compelling plot and charming heroine, this book delves into the meaning of family and the nature of love in a very interesting way. You’ll have to go buy it and read it to find out more.

In the meantime, I’m once again offering sonnets of great intention and dubious quality, inspired by (but not indicative of) Fifteen minutes of Shame, to Deb Lisa and all of you. I am also taking suggestions for titles for these sonnets as my muse seems to flee at the mere mention of a title.

#1

Oh Darby, you knew your man was busted
At the dumpster in your dirty sweatpants.
National TV, your ego dusted,
The bastard deserving no second chance.

Dazzler and charmer-cum-philanderer,
Ruins your life, breaks your heart, in one fell swoop.
More than a Dreamgirl can face with candor
With vultures circling to get the scoop.

A sexy lawyer uncovers the mess
Of lies and dinners and beds at the Ritz.
No clues and no warnings, you must confess,
And she! shallow harridan…and a ditz.

But dry your tears dear, and put on some Spanx,
Your heart will survive this unfitting thanks.
.

#2

The Dreamgirl has fallen from perfect life
To vomit, failure and national shame;
Yesterday happy and satisfied wife,
Today the sad pawn in a vicious game.

Will Darby fall down or get up and fight?
Can she manage to take her own advice?
To stomach Will’s ignominious flight…
Or consort with lawyers and roll the dice?

True love doesn’t always end up happy,
And happy love isn’t always so true.
Darby’s the first to admit, it’s crappy
And tell you to bid the cheater adieu.

Oh tell us quickly for the end is nigh:
Take him back, Darby, or kiss him goodbye?

Now go out and get Lisa’s book!

Thanks for reading.

Deb Danielle

Original comments on this post here.

Go Ahead and Jump on my Head–I’m Lucky. (Original Debutante Ball post)

2008-07-18T12:53:00.000-07:00

From March, 2008

Tuesday of this week, if you’d caught me any time between 7am and 9pm, I might have wailed in self-pity. I’d started my week well and was gearing up to accomplish Many Important Things on Tuesday but instead was felled by a migraine.

Bad luck.

But here’s the thing:

Michael (who gets the week off from being called The Oppressor on account of his lovely behavior and the fact that Friday is his birthday) ran up and down the stairs bringing me ice packs and water and toast and coffee which I didn’t want but had to have in case withdrawal made the headache worse. He fed and watered the pooch, got the little one up, dressed, fed and out the door all the while attempting to sell a house, waiting to hear about a call-back and working on our taxes (no time for Oppression.) All of this and he was sympathetic too.

In addition, Finny hardly barked at all and spent the day curled up at my side in a way that let me know he was feeling my pain. He didn’t even growl much when jostled by my rolling over, which is high tolerance from our Very Particular Pooch.

And Little T thought it was great fun that I was moaning and groaning and hiding under the covers. (Mommy, are you crying? Are you laughing Mommy? Mommy are you hiding, Mommy? Where is Mommy? Daddy, Mommy is very, very funny!) She climbed in with me to play “sleep” and gave me some cuddles and was generally quite sweet except for the moment when she sat on my head and then proceeded to jump up and down on it…and even then, she meant it in the best possible spirit.

And finally there was my mom who answered the phone only to hear me burst into tears and wail something to the effect of: “Mommeeeeeeeyyyy I have the worst migraine, ah, ah, ah!” She dropped everything and arrived here shortly with drugs (prescription! for migraines–I’d let myself run out and she got herself to my pharmacy and managed to wrangle my refill out of them) food (raisin toast, muffins, pizza, yogurt) and her very comforting bedside manner. She fed me and rubbed my shoulders, neck and forehead until I fell asleep and took care of Little T when she woke up from her nap, allowing me to sleep off the worst of the migraine.

So overall, though I’m tempted to whine about how terrible it was (IT WAS TERRIBLE!!!) and how it felt like there were spikes driving into my skull and how my muscles still hurt and looking at the computer screen is still bugging my eyes a bit…I’m feeling pretty damned lucky, not to mention grateful.

Thanks.

Deb Danielle

Original comments on this post here.

No Hidden Talents Here! (Original Debutante Ball post)

2008-07-18T12:48:00.000-07:00

From March, 2008

Oh this is a topic meant to egg me on, I’m sure! The other debs want to know about my quarter trick, or perhaps the how and why of my learning it, but I have to protect my sources so I can’t do that.

Since I’ve already revealed my talents for excessive hip-gyration, goofy poetry-writing and fixing electronic devices by shaking them, plus outed myself as a cherry-stem-tyer (planning a duel with Deb Jenny in July), my fellow debs probably think I’m going to confess all my other hidden talents.

They probably think I’m going to tell you I speak French when drinking and am also apt to thinking I’ve morphed into a fashion model, acrobat, Solid Gold dancer or Rock Star when under the influence. They think I’m going to brag about how I can still do the splits and touch my hands to my heels while in a back-bend and know all the songs from The Wizard of Oz, even the ones that didn’t make it into the movie. And then there’s the useful (and classy) talent of balancing dinner rolls on my head–as if I’m going to tell you about that!

They might think I’m going to reveal my very cool-looking Russian drinking trick, the one I learned (from real Russians of the Moscow Art Theater) while working on the part of Masha in The Seagull a bazillion years ago, the one where you roll a glass full of straight vodka along your cheek one-handed, from your ear to your mouth, tip the glass up, down the vodka, roll the glass back up to your ear and present it for refilling. (Truthfully, the most important part of this trick is to switch the vodka for water and leave the serious vodka drinking to others–in my case, the Russians themselves, who managed to seem only slightly woeful after a night of fancy vodka tricks.)

But all of these talents would make me sound like a bit of a lush with a wild lifestyle when I am, at the moment, a homebody with a low alcohol tolerance and small child whose early rising is a serious deterrent to late nights of any kind much less singing, dancing, acrobatics or vodka drinking in any language at all.

So let me just tell you that I’m excellent at parking two cars in our one-car garage, hiding vegetables in muffins, singing the ABCs while marching in place and throwing the ball for the pooch…and I have a crazy ability to memorize lines quickly–a talent I have no use for anymore but one which makes The Oppressor gnash his teeth every time I help him prep for an audition.

Thanks for reading!

Deb Danielle

Original comments on this post here.

Q & A with Jodi Picoult (Original Debutante Ball post)

2008-07-18T12:41:00.000-07:00

From March 4, 2008

Today the debs welcome bestselling, multi-published author, Jodi Picoult whose newest novel, Change of Heart, is being released today. Jodi is the author of fourteen novels: Songs of the Humpback Whale (1992), Harvesting the Heart (1994), Picture Perfect (1995); Mercy (1996), The Pact (1998); Keeping Faith (1999), Plain Truth (2000), Salem Falls (2001), Perfect Match (2002), Second Glance (2003), My Sister’s Keeper (2004), Vanishing Acts (2005), The Tenth Circle (2006) and her most recent novel, Nineteen Minutes, which debuted at number one on the New York Times bestseller list.

Welcome Jodi, we’re thrilled to have you with us.

DYU: I know you generate your initial ideas for a book with a “what if”
question. What was the “what if” that inspired Change of Heart?

JP: The what-if came from my general worry as an American - I feel like our country can be broken apart on the fault line of religion these days. All the hot button issues: gay rights, abortion, capital punishment - can usually be boiled down to religious beliefs. It made me wonder why religion - which I think was meant to unify, historically - has become so divisive. Why does “I’m right” necessarily mean “you’re wrong?” Why do we believe what we believe - because it’s the truth, or because we are too scared to admit we don’t have the answers? This was a really important book for me to write during an election year, because I think we need to start having a conversation in America, instead of treating beliefs as absolutes that segregate us from each other.

DYU: You tackle tough ethical and emotional subject matter in your books–everything from genetic screening to rape, murder and suicide. Do you ever have trouble shaking it off at the end of your writing day?

Jodi PicoultJP: Pretty rarely - when I leave my office, I leave my office. I’m fortunate because my family has not suffered the trauma I tend to write about - so making the clear demarcation is easy.

DYU: You are know as an “issue writer”. When you begin a book, do you already have a formed opinion, a strong preference for one side of an issue or the other, or is that something that is shaped in the process of writing the book?

JP: Writing a book for me is probably like reading it, for you. I may have an opinion on an issue, but I may never have asked myself why my opinion is what it is. And even if I don’t change my mind during the course of writing a book, there’s a good chance that it’s the first time I’m ever listening to the argument of the other side. I don’t think as a writer it’s my job to preach or to tell people what to think (in fact - my favorite compliment is when a reader says they don’t know where I personally stand on an issue after reading a book) - but I do think my job as a writer is to get people talking about things they would rather not talk about, because those subjects are uncomfortable or touchy or frightening.

DYU: The scope of your work is massive. Readers are likely to encounter
everything from forensics to Dante to high school politics and hospital procedures. I know you do meticulous research, but it seems to me you must also be a voracious reader of current events, literature and history, just to pull together the multi-layered stories you write. Is this true and can you expand on this part of your process?

JP: Actually, I’m a total research dilettante! When I have an idea and I know who the characters are, I stop and regroup and ask myself what I need to know to write from their POVs. That’s what leads me to the research - and it can be all over the place. For Change of Heart, I spent time at a working death row facility in AZ and had one of the most eye opening discussions with the warden - who executed prisoners but didn’t personally advocate capital punishment! She gave me details about executions that most condemned men don’t even get access to (it’s a legal document they routinely sue to possess, and usually are denied): the order of events, the dry runs, how to move the victim’s family and inmate’s family on execution day so they don’t pass each other; how to find a vein when it’s not medically simple; where the doctor is during the execution (remember, they’re not sanctioned by the AMA and their names are not on the death certificate) - and the timeline between when the sodium pentathol is administered for sedation and the potassium chloride is administered to stop the heart - which is not nearly as long as you imagine, and explains why the Supreme Court is now addressing lethal injection as cruel and unusual punishment.

DYU: Some writers write with a specific audience, or one particular person, in mind. Is there someone you’re “speaking to” with your writing and does that change from one book to the next?

JP: I write for me. I write because I have questions and want to explore them, or because I have fears and want to address them. It’s a great bonus when people want to come along for the ride - but I’ve never written a book because I think it’s going to be interesting to people; I write because it’s what I need to write at any given moment.

DYU: You tend to avoid easy endings and this is part of what makes your writing so true and satisfying to read. But do your readers ever want to argue with you about the end of a book? If so, how do you respond?

JP: Oh, they argue with me all the time! However, I can always justify myself - I mean, if I couldn’t it would have been a different ending! - and usually after I explain, they agree with me. Most of the dissension comes from the shock of the ending, not the true fact that it ended that way. My own son wouldn’t speak to me for a few hours when he finished My Sister’s Keeper - but I told him why I chose to end the book that way, and he eventually agreed that MAYBE I was right…!

DYU: What is your biggest challenge with your writing?

JP: These days, finding the time to do it. It’s one of those “be careful what you wish for” moments - success is great, but it also means you have more demands upon you. (Yeah, I know, I have no right to complain, and usually don’t!) I am on an international book tour each year for 3 months - away from my kids and husband, which is crummy - and the rest of the 9 months I use to produce a new book. It’s sometimes grueling, and I wish I had a little more breathing room.

DYU: What was your debut experience like and do you have any advice to
us as “debutantes”?

JP: Don’t make the mistake of thinking that the publishing contract is the brass ring. The sad fact of the business is that your publisher is not likely to pay any attention to your book once it hits the stands - it’s like watching your baby get abandoned! So become your own PR machine - schedule events at bookstores and libraries and book groups - become your own publicist, if yours isn’t doing enough. Word of mouth is the most wonderful precious commodity, and no publisher can pay for it - if you can generate it yourself, you’ll see the payoff in sales — and your publisher is more likely to notice your second book and THAT time around, promote it more aggressively.

We wish you the best with your latest release and with your future books, Jodi! I look forward to reading Change of Heart and encourage everyone to GO OUT AND BUY IT NOW!

Jodi is on day one of her Change of Heart Tour today without much email access, so she may not be able to respond to questions and comments today. Nevertheless, this interview will be linked to her site and she will be checking in when she can. Jodi is also diligent with responding to emails through her site and loves to hear from fans.

Original comments on this post, here.

My Pooch is a Nudist (Original Debutante Ball post)

2008-07-17T20:25:00.000-07:00

From February 28, 2008

I was interviewing Meg Tilly the week we talked about pets and missed blogging about my four-year-old cockapoo, Fin. Since Fin is a fairly good sport, I figure I’ll make that faint link to our topic this week and tell you about him. Also, he has had a trying few days and deserves some attention, even if it is cyber-attention.

Two weeks ago we took Fin to the groomers and, not thinking clearly, asked them to cut his hair short. Actually, I was thinking clearly. I was thinking of the balls of ice and snow that get stuck to his shaggy mane every time he goes to the park and the unhappy hour or more it takes for him to thaw and drip off, all the while confined to the kitchen.

Well, they cut him very short, the shortest he’s ever been, and he has been displeased, disgruntled and shivering ever since. Fin likes to be outside and will chase snowballs for hours but is cold without all that hair. And yet he disdains his (quite dashing) faux-shearling jacket and, worse, his (very cute) preppy red sweater. Indoors and outdoors, Fin is a chilly pooch and there seems no way to make him happy.

I feel terrible. I wrap blankets around him and let him sit on my lap while I’m writing. I give him extra treats and today I even took him with me to the hairdresser (where he was still unhappy, even though he’s usually game for any outing). When I put the sweater on him he seems to go into a depression–curls up on the couch with a woeful, reproachful stare and many huffy sighs. If I even think about putting the coat on him, the tail goes down and, again, the woeful countenance cuts me to the core.

It appears that even during this very long, very cold winter, Fin is a nudist. And we must choose between him being cold-but-happy or warm-but-melancholy until his hair grows back or spring comes.

Here are some photos of the poor pup, the first during happier times (summer) and the second from last week. Both photos were taken by our very talented photographer friend, Jing (check her stuff out at www.imajing.com) who also could not stop him from shivering.

Thanks for reading!

And please send warm vibes in the direction of Toronto. Or just in the direction of one cold, grumpy little dog…the rest of us can wait.

Deb Danielle

Original comments on this post here.

How I Became a Writer (Original Debutante Ball post)

2008-07-16T20:24:00.000-07:00

From January 24, 2008

All week I’ve been wracking my brain for something clever and/or deep to say about stereotypes. The Oppressor (aka my husband, Michael) suggested I turn it around and talk about “types of stereos” and earlier today I seriously considered haiku or possibly writing in iambic pentameter.

But finally, just as I’ve run out of time and must write something, I’ve realized I could tell you about how I came to be a writer.

I was the stereotypical actor. (see? there’s the tie-in.) I was working as a waitress, a temp and (most depressing) an extra between acting jobs. I wanted to do classical theatre–Shakespeare, Chekhov or perhaps a bit of Pinter, Sartre, Caryl Churchill. And of course I wasn’t averse to TV stardom or even Hollywood, should such a wondrous thing occur. What I ended up doing was lots of romantic comedy, farce, the occasional commercial or indie film and thousands of hours of dubbing English for a Japanese TV network.

Even though I wasn’t getting the work I aspired to, I loved the theatre. I loved the people, the rehearsals, the buzz on stage when everything came together and started to cook. I even loved travelling to small towns in the middle of nowhere to perform for audiences that were mostly made up of senior citizens. I loved not having a “regular” job.

But I started to see the gap widen–the gap between where I was and where I wanted to be. I watched Michael blow into Toronto and get into Stratford on his very first try (after I’d auditioned for four years in a row without even a callback) and I lived, vicariously, an experience I was dying to have myself. And I watched him work on characters and texts and not-so-secretly envied him because he had so many gifts I coveted.

I was exhausted and in a continual state of desperation.

Of course, I was in therapy.

And one day I was sitting there talking about giving up acting, maybe going back to school, and my heart was breaking. I was about to become a failure, give up my dream. But my dream was making me miserable.

I’d talked about writing, but in an offhand sort of way, “Maybe I’ll write…” (every actor says this at some point, usually when they’re out of work) But then there was this moment where I said it again and knew I meant it. I realized if I could write I’d walk away from acting without a second thought. It wouldn’t be a failure, it would be my dream, the one I’d kept secret forever, even from myself.

A few days later I sat alone in front of the empty computer screen in Michael’s Stratford apartment while he was doing a matinee. I had to do it: write something. I didn’t believe I could come up with anything original so right next to me was a book, one of those books that made me think: “this isn’t very good–I’m sure I could do better”. As an exercise, I was going to write a book with the same premise but totally different places, characters, etc, just to see if I could write at all. (Don’t try this at home.)

I must have taken a deep breath and started to type. And I must have continued to type because three hours later I looked up and there was Michael with his stage make-up still on, having died seven times in The Three Musketeers and come home. I blinked and swallowed. My face was flushed and my bladder was full and I had not moved from the computer. I looked at him and thought about how easily he could slide into a character, how things I had to fight so hard to “get” were so easy for him. And I finally understood how that must feel.

For me, acting was like repeatedly throwing myself against a wall but writing…writing was like breathing, like something I already knew how to do and had been doing all along.

Since then I have written two books and three plays (and married, got a dog, had a child) and here I am on my way to being published. Writing for a living is no easier than acting which means perhaps, that I am a great fool and a glutton for punishment. And on a daily basis writing is bloody hard work, not some kind of mystical, magical thing that lands on me and then flows like spiderwebs out my fingertips and onto the keyboard. But I’m a little better at it than I was at acting and, more importantly, much happier than I would have been at Stratford…though I occasionally pine for a corset and the chance to play Lady M, Katherine or Beatrice.

Thanks for reading and wish me luck. Or tell me to break a leg–I still speak “actor” now and then.

Original comments on this post here.

Another Letter to The Oppressor (Original Debutante Ball post)

2008-07-16T20:20:00.000-07:00

From January 17, 2008

Dear Oppressor,

I appreciate that you’ve found me a warmer house–I don’t mind being outside sometimes, but I prefer to spend my nights indoors. I enjoy your company, when you grace me with your presence and I have kept your secret about the music you play when we’re alone on the road–no one needs to know about your penchant for Poison, Whitesnake and Bon Jovi since we are, after all, urbanites. (If you grow your hair long again or perm it or frost the tips, all bets are off though.) I don’t even mind that you got yourself a nicer, younger and slightly larger version of me–clearly there is enough room for us both–in the garage and in your heart.

And yet I am feeling rather peevish, somewhat put-upon, as it were, about a certain aspect of our relationship and that program we were listening to on CBC about assertiveness has emboldened me to finally speak up.

It’s about the garbage. You have temporarily fooled Danielle by telling her it’s not you that leaves the McDonald’s and Wendy’s bags, the half eaten fries, the boxes of stale Timbits and so on, on my seats, on the floor and, in fact in every one of my available orifices–ahem–compartments. Danielle actually believes someone is picking my locks and sneaking inside to eat their nefarious fast food and then slinking away in the night, leaving their garbage behind. She thinks you are a fastidious man who is the victim of a repeated eat/dump-and-run criminal. She sees those coffee cups with the crusts of mold growing on them as “half full” but you and I know they are at best “half empty”–and that’s being optimistic.

In addition to the food-related garbage, I fear I may succumb to renovation-related dust, errant screws, wires, wood chips and such. Some of those things are sharp! And asthma is a serious problem in the city of Toronto, as are allergies. I am fuel efficient and doing my part, but I detect a bit of a wheeze and my lines are feeling congested and the antihistamines are no longer working.

I can only imagine what Danielle will do, Oppressor, when she finds out that YOU are the nefarious dump-and-run criminal. What will she think of you when she realizes you are physically unable to take your garbage with you and throw it in a proper trash can, when you exit? I shudder to think.

And as for me, though I know deep down that you care for me and are ashamed of your dirty ways, I cannot help but feel…soiled.

I telling you this now in hopes that you will clean up your act before you are discovered. I am all for keeping this quiet, but you know, the CDs keep getting loose from their cases and they’re very nasty when they get scratched. I never would, but one of them is bound to rat you out one of these days, if things don’t improve.

Sincerely Yours,

T. Echo

*This is the second in what may become a series of Letters to The Oppressor. For those of you who may worry, rest assured that The Oppressor is complicit in these posts and actually quite a sweet man–when he’s not being Oppressive, of course. You can see the first Letter to The Oppressor here: http://www.thedebutanteball.com/?paged=22

Original comments on this post here.

Not So Tough: Deb Danielle on the Road to Publication (Original Debutante Ball post)

2008-07-16T20:15:00.000-07:00

From January 10, 2008

When Falling Under went out on submission I thought I was ready. Yes, I upped my email checking from, say, twenty times a day to, oh, two hundred. And of course I hovered by the phone and studied the submission list, ate more chocolate and drank more coffee than usual, took up and put down a few dozen projects–knitting, photo albums, muffin making, etc.

But I thought I was ready for the rejection, at least. After all, I’d been an actor and had my heart cracked open, chucked on the floor and stomped on not once but many times. So I was tough. I knew rejections were a guarantee, that this was a subjective business, that it only took one offer to sell the book, blah, blah, blah. And I knew I’d done my best getting the book written and polished and that my best wasn’t too bad, so I was at peace with the book itself.

When the first couple of rejections came my agent (the wonderful Emmanuelle Alspaugh) asked if I wanted her to forward them to me and I said yes. I read them. I was okay. A few days passed and another came and then another. “Do you really want to read these?” she asked again, and I said yes. A couple of the publishing houses had been long shots and most of the comments were positive, some of them even glowing–editors who loved the book but thought it was too dark for their line, that kind of thing–and I even wanted to see the negative stuff. As an actor, you rarely find out why you didn’t get cast so this little bit of extra information felt like power.

But then came a few days of silence and that’s when the rejections started getting to me. I found myself crying in the car, rereading the rejection letters, picking them apart, thinking about getting a job at Starbucks or writing erotica under a pseudonym like Anais Nin did with the material that became Delta of Venus (not that there’s anything wrong with that!)

By the end of week three we’d still heard back from less than half of the editors but I was verging on despondent. Late Friday afternoon there was yet another “really nice” rejection in my inbox. I sent an upbeat thanks to Emmanuelle (”it just takes one, right?”) and then sat in front of my laptop and squeezed my eyes shut and pressed my lips together and thought: Oh God, it’s not going to happen.

And in that moment I knew I wasn’t so tough. Oh, I wouldn’t quit. I would write another book, and another, if that’s what it took, but I would never be tough enough to keep my heart safe. I hadn’t been as an actor and I was even less so as a writer. How could I be tougher when I wanted this so much more, had put so much more into it? I was a fool. After a painful first career, I’d chosen a second one that was worse.

I gulped and sighed and pulled myself together. I took my baby girl upstairs to get her ready for her evening bath. For the first time in three weeks when the phone rang I didn’t think: This is it! I just answered it.

Even when I heard Emmanuelle’s voice I didn’t think this was it. The little one peed on the carpet and I went about cleaning it up as the information slowly came in: she’d received a call from an editor who loved Falling Under, the editor had stayed up all night reading it and loved this and that about it….

Ah, I had friends who had been through this, I thought. Sometimes an editor calls to express interest before they make an offer. This is good news, finally, but sometimes even after expressing interest, the offer doesn’t come so it’s moderate good news but not THE news.

More pee on the carpet.

And at the same time: “and actually I have an offer in my hand, it’s a starting offer but…”

Me frowning, shaking my head to clear it, not cleaning up the pee…

“Wait a sec…wait a sec…did you just say there’s…”

“An offer, yes.”

“An offer? Wait, wait, wait…an offer? Like, an OFFER offer?

“Yes! We have an offer!”

“Ah! AH!! Oh! Oh wow! So…so this means…”

“This means we’re going to sell your book.”

At this point the conversation becomes a blur.* There was hyperventilating on my part, tears in my eyes, utter confusion really, about how to conduct myself at all and an awareness that screaming my head off might terrify and emotionally scar my sweet tiny girl for life which would be horrible…and horribly ironic since it was one of the best moments in mine.

So I didn’t scream. I listened to the rest of the details about the offer, interrupting every so often to confirm that I was going to be published, that nobody takes these offers back, that we had an offer, a real offer, and so on.

I hung up the phone, burst into tears and dialed my husband at work. In the millisecond when I was wailing into the phone before I said “It’s okay, everything’s okay!!” he had bolted out of his chair, grabbed his keys and was on the way to the door thinking something terrible had happened. And then I told him. I don’t remember the words I used–something along the line of “I’m going to be published, ah! aah! I’m going to be published! Ah! AHHHH! PUBLISHEDAHHHHH!” And I remember the weeping, the gratitude and joy, the relief and amazement, the soul-deep satisfaction of sharing this moment with the person who’d been with me through it all.

(After, of course there was still the carpet to clean, the bath to give, the dog to walk and so on–such a glamorous life.)

The following week we got calls of “serious interest” and then more offers came and on April 9, 2007 we sold the book in an “auction” to Plume/Penguin. I didn’t sleep the night after the first offer or for the three nights before the auction. I was a wreck. I thrilled and excited wreck, but a wreck nonetheless.

Turns out I’m not so tough, but I’m guessing that’s okay.

Deb Danielle

*And please know the quoted conversation is also an approximation–my memory of the precise words is imperfect!

Original comments on this post, here.

Smug Resolutions (Original Debutante Ball post)

2008-07-16T20:08:00.000-07:00

From January 3rd, 2008

New Year’s resolutions frighten me. They have a habit of getting broken, thus undermining my belief that I can achieve legitimate, important goals and generally leaving me a self-pitying mess.

But this year, I’m going to keep my New Year’s resolutions. I’m going to keep them with ease and sit back with a smile as those around me fall off their various wagons, plunge into self-hatred, depression and all-encompassing bitterness for which the only seeming remedy is to vow again next year and somehow hope to succeed.

From whence comes this smugness, you ask?

Well of course, I have a plan. Check out my resolutions and you’ll see what I mean…

This year I vow NOT to:

- bungee-jump, drive race cars, rock climb, helicopter ski, barefoot water ski, (regular water skiing is fine) surf or jump out of airplanes (with parachutes or otherwise) engage in any sport where I could get seriously hurt by a ball

- take up any other dangerous sports or hobbies not mentioned above (Like the the protagonist in Falling Under, I find more than enough danger in simply waking up in the morning. Though some might feel the need to challenge their fears by taking up some variety of death-defying hobbies, I do not.)

I also vow NOT to:

- give up chocolate, coffee or dessert

- go on any kind of “cleanse” especially the ones that require one to eat hideous combinations of garlic, chili peppers, lemon juice and bitter greens. (I’m also not doing the one with Epsom salt that’s supposed to draw out little blue and green colored “stones” from your kidneys that you then have the joy of seeing floating in the toilet.)

I vow not to eat green peppers or squiggly chicken or any chicken I can’t see (like in a sandwich–I’ll eat it, but only if I’ve been able to inspect it for squiggles first.)

You see what the plan is yet? That’s right: I’m not going to change. It’s all about vows I can’t help keeping.

Oh yeah, one more: I resolve NOT to take my Christmas tree down the day after New Years (Ha! I already achieved that one; see how tricky I am?!)

Happy New Year and may you keep your resolutions!

Deb Danielle

Original comments on this post, here.

You Can’t Take It (your stocking) With You! (Original Debutante Ball post)

2008-07-16T20:03:00.000-07:00

From December 27, 2007

Everyone on my mom’s side of the family has a homemade stocking. They are made of felt and usually have a snowman with a variety of jaunty hats, vests, buttons, etcetera, and the person’s name in letters along the top. (The exception is the one my aunt made for my grandmother in the 60s which is decorated with many flowers and has the word “PEACE” instead of my grandmother’s name.)

This year, my almost-92-year-old grandmother (Fast Eddy, aka Edna, never to be called “grandma”) made the stocking for my almost-2-year-old daughter. She had some input from me (the usual snowman has a tutu) and some help from my mom (sequins for buttons) and aunt (of the 60s stocking) but mostly it’s her creation and it looks great.

But stocking-making hasn’t always been so straightforward, especially when it comes to inlaws and outlaws (boyfriends, girlfriends, sheep–just kidding!) People don’t always realize that if they’re dating someone in my family and they get a stocking made, they may as well be engaged. On the other hand, if they’re already married and have NOT been made a stocking, they’re either on shaky ground or the person they’ve married has made an unusually bold and rebellious move by not making them a stocking. (Or, it could be one of the guys and he just, um, forgot.)

Sadly there have also been a few mis-made stockings over the years–”outlaws” who received a stocking but never quite made inlaw status. It was always a shock to lose someone once things had gotten serious enough to merit a stocking, but there are a few (now-reformed) heartbreakers in our midst, plus the occasional ingrate who didn’t realize he/she had become “engaged” and casuallly ran off with someone else, so it couldn’t be helped. There were even rumours of name-switchiing a few years back when the boyfriends/girlfriends of certain people had a low survival/fast replacement rate, but I don’t believe it. I’m certain those orphaned stockings were donated to charity or “the needy” or possibly given proper burial, cremation, etc. You don’t get to take your stocking with you, but surely no one would be so cold as to just switch the names out and pass a stocking off as new. Though in hindsight, some of them may have deserved it…

My daughter is crazy about Eddy and I’m thrilled I’ll always be able to tell her about Eddy making her stocking. Hopefully when the tradition passes on to her she’ll be judicious, cautious even, about making stockings for non-family members. And I’m certain she’ll never be so callous as to switch out the names, despite her great promise as a heartbreaker.

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to you all!

Deb Danielle

Original comments on this post here.

A Recipe For Disaster (Original Debutante Ball post)

2008-07-16T20:00:00.000-07:00

From December 20, 2007

It’s a rare thing for me to cook, from a recipe or otherwise, but a few years ago I made eggnog Christmas morning and it was so delicious, it nearly became a family tradition. Notice I said nearly. Because this eggnog is not only delicious, it’s deceptive, dangerous, devilishly prone to producing drunkards, dozers and all kinds of family debacles. (Not to mention, just the memory of it awakens Deb Danielle’s ardor for alliteration.)

The adults started drinking it in the morning, just an innocent cup or two each, the same way you’d have, say, a mimosa. Most of us were feeling quite silly by noon. Now of course in my family we are all well-balanced, level-headed, totally emotionally stable folk who recognized this eggnog as devil’s work immediately, stopped drinking and wrenched ourselves back onto the path of righteousness.

But in another family, a less wholesome, more mercurial family, for example, a family where everyone might continue to drink this eggnog throughout the day, for example, this eggnog could lead to all kinds of mischief and shameful behavior. This fictional family (not mine!) might find themselves dashing through the neighborhood like hooligans, running all over people’s yards making snow angles, ringing doorbells and running away cackling and hooting. People in this family might find themselves singing obnoxious versions of classic carols, rolling on the floor or doing interpretive dance in front of the fireplace. They might erupt into terrible fights, burn the turkey, eat pie and ice cream for dinner, steal one-another’s Christmas gifts, gorge themselves on baked cheese and chocolates of all kinds and be wretchedly hung over (and possibly no longer speaking to each other) by five o’clock.

Of course, all we did was sing a few carols, play Boggle and get really, really sleepy, being the clean cut Canadians we are.

But if you’re looking to deepen the family dysfunction this holiday season, or there’s someone you really want to see running around in the snow in their boxers, here’s the recipe, courtesy of THE JOY OF COOKING.

EGGNOG IN QUANTITY
(in quantity only if you’re brave, it should say)
Beat separately until light in color:
12 egg yolks
Beat in gradually:
1 lb confectioners’ sugar
Add very slowly, beating constantly:
2 cups dark rum, brandy, bourbon or rye
These liquors may each form the basic ingredient of the nog or may be combined to taste. Let mixture stand covered for 1 hour to dispel the “eggy” taste. Add, beating constantly:
2-4 cups of liquor chosen (yep, that’s more booze!)
2 quarts whipping cream
1 cup peach brandy (this is normally in brackets as if it’s optional but it’s a must)
Refrigerate covered for 3 hours. Beat until stiff but not dry:
8-12 egg whites
Fold them lightly into other ingredients. Serve the eggnog sprinkled with:
Freshly grated nutmeg

Cheers! And please, if you serve this, come back and tell me how it goes.
Happy Holidays!
Danielle

Original comments on this post here.

Give Me a Messy Hero (Original Debutante Ball post)

2008-07-16T19:58:00.000-07:00

From December 13, 2007

I agree with much of what’s been said this week about heroes. In fact, I was afraid I’d have nothing further to say. But fortunately the talk of what constitutes a real-life hero led me to thinking about fictional/literary heroes and heroines and I do have some thoughts about that.

In fiction, the hero is defined in broader terms than in life—if you’re the main character in a book (and you’re not an anti-hero or the official villain) then you get to be the hero or heroine. And in fiction one encounters many kinds of heroes—the big, dramatic, lifesaving kind and those for whom just making it through another day is an act of heroism.

Personally, I like to read about the everyday hero/heroines and I like them complicated, messy and never too nice. (“Nice” irritates me in fiction, as does “cute” and I’ll find myself rolling my eyes and/or wanting to throttle or slap characters who have too much of either quality. *) I have a high tolerance for gray area in a character and find myself bored with those who don’t have any. I’ll take that further and say I have a deep mistrust for those who see things as only black or white, and not just in fiction—they lack empathy and their world-view is often shaped by fear and anger. It’s not that you can’t create a hero who begins with a narrow mind-set—it’s actually a great internal obstacle—I just have a hard time liking that kind of character. Personally I love a good dose of self-doubt, angst, delusion, addictions, guilt and a certain level of self-awareness (despite the delusions) in my literary heroes. I like paradox. I love seeing a character with divided loyalties, internal wars, someone who makes decisions that surprise everyone, including themselves. Above all, I love a character with demons.

fallingunder-1.jpgWhen I was working on Falling Under I set my heroine up with tons of angst and emotional baggage, made her as complicated as I could and then threw a bunch of external obstacles at her too. (Poor girl, I really hammered her!) And then I sat back and watched with a mix of awe and horror as she did the wrong things for the wrong reasons, the wrong things for the right reasons, the right things for the wrong reasons and so on. Eventually, in spite of it all, she started to do the right things for the right reasons and even then, it didn’t always make things work out. She kept trying though, and to me, that’s what made her a hero.

Now it’s your turn: how do you like your fictional heroes?

* I’m not a violent person, I promise, just easily irritated when reading.

To see original comments on this post, click here.

A Conversation With Meg Tilly (Original Debutante Ball post)

2008-07-16T19:47:00.000-07:00

Posted on December 6, 2007

A Conversation With Meg Tilly by Deb Danielle

A few weeks ago I met author (and former actress) Meg Tilly at a reading of her novel, Porcupine. I was so moved by her reading that I devoted the next day’s blog to it. I was also impressed with her writing and she was so open and lovely to chat with that I invited her to The Ball.

And so I am obviously thrilled today, to have Meg Tilly as my guest. Meg is the author of two adult novels, Singing Songs and Gemma. The newly released Porcupine is her first young adult novel. She is 47 years old, happily married and the mother of three children. Molly, a German Shepard/collie mix is her dog. She adopted her from a rescue service in July. Meg has finally managed to teach Molly to stop leaping over the back of the sofas. That dancing on the kitchen table is a no-no. And the butter and whatnot on the counters is not a smorgasbord for doggies.

Welcome, Meg!

Porcupine by Meg TillyI have just finished Porcupine and it is a gorgeous, heartbreaking and ultimately hopeful story about a young girl, Jack, coping with life when her father is killed in peacekeeping efforts in Afghanistan. This is a young adult novel, but an equally wonderful read for adults.

Porcupine will speak to any kid who has felt abandoned or whose family has broken down for whatever reason. In finding a way to survive your heroine (the twelve-year-old Jack) seems to find a new way to define family, among other things. What ideas, what message do you want your readers to walk away with from this story?

I want my readers to know that challenges happen. And sometimes these sorrows seem so huge that you think they might drown you. But deep inside, everybody has hidden strengths and resources. I also feel that in those times of hardship, it is important to stop and notice, breath in the beauty around you. It could be something as small as a tiny wildflower forcing it’s way through a crack in the concrete. Notice it, take it in and it will fill you.

The three siblings go fishing at one point in the book (a great scene!) and they actually make their fishing poles from tree branches and dig up their own worms on site. I was amazed by this; I just assumed everyone who fished did it with a store-bought pole! Do you have personal experience fishing “from scratch” or is this something you researched?

That’s funny. Growing up I thought that most people fished the way we did, with homemade poles, and it would be only the super fancy and rich that would have store bought ones. I remember one summer when I was 7. We were travelling across the country painting post offices. And at one of the creeks we camped at the fish were having a run of some sort. Our fancy grown-up step brother (the one who molested me in Singing Songs) had a store bought fishing pole, complete with fancy flashing baits and weights and feathered hooks. Well..those fish were having none of it. They were just trying to cram their way (I can’t remember if they were swimming up, or down stream) I just remember that the water was dancing with their writhing silver bodies. Anyway, us kids, we were always hungry and there was a veritable feast passing before our very eyes. So we rolled up our pants and strode in. We would grab a slippery body, hold on tight and then fling it to the shore. Then race up after it and pound it on the head until it was dead. We caught a lot of fish that day. Enough for everyones dinner. And our stinky step-brother with his fancy pole? Zip! Boy did that feel good!

Jack feels like a character that could have arrived, fully formed on the doorstep of your imagination, whereas Gran feel like someone you, the writer, may have had to discover as you went along. I love them both and I’m curious about how they each developed.

That is absolutely true, Danielle. Jack is very much a part of me. Gran revealed herself to me as we went along. Constantly surprising me.

Maybe this is a harsh question, but are there some people who just shouldn’t be parents? I didn’t hate Jack’s mom and even had some sympathy for her throughout the book but in the end I almost felt she shouldn’t ever have been a mother. And yet if she hadn’t been, there would have been no Jack, Tessa or Simon…

There are some people who are ill-equipped to take on the responsibilities of parenthood. However, that being said. Look at me. I didn’t have, by any stretch of the imagination, model parents. And yet, I have grown up to have a very blessed and wonderful life.

Your writing is incredibly rich and descriptive but also very”economical” in places. I think you strike a great balance. (A great example: early in the book Jack describes her mother as having become “a puddle of a person” which says so much with so little.) When you’re editing, do you find your work is more in filling in/fleshing out or in paring down, getting things to their essentials?

I find my editing process is a lot of both. Paring down and fleshing out. I get it the very best that I can, and then I put it away for a bit. Take it out, look at it with fresh eyes and start the whole process again.

You’ve been doing a tour for Porcupine that has included reading to kids in schools and libraries. What has that experience been like, especially in comparison to reading to adult groups?

I have loved going to the schools and libraries. To see the kids faces light up, asking questions, talking about Jack and her family, me and mine. I especially love when I visit a book club or a school that has read Porcupine before I come. It takes the question and answer section to a whole deeper level.

Do you find it tough to transition from the solitary world of writing and get in to publicity mode?

I think going from the tucked away, safe life of creating in ones writing room to suddenly be expected to stand in front of a group of strangers and form cohesive sentences is like belonging to the PolarBears club and plunging into the ice cold ocean on New Years Day. You know it’s coming. You dread it, and at the same time there is a terrified excitement anticipation. You feel very naked, very vulnerable. And then when it’s all over, it’s an exhilarating feeling. Like, “I did that! I was scared and yet I stood up and did that! Not only did I do it…but I actually liked it!” It is very moving for me as an author, to meet my readers. A privilege, really.

And related to that, you’ve created a very private life for yourself since your acting days and yet the publicity/marketing aspect of publishing can place you back in the spotlight. I was struck by your description, in one of your recent blogs, of arriving at a reading to find cameras waiting for you. Obviously getting press is an advantage in terms of getting the word out about your books, but how do you feel about it? And how do you deal with it?

I don’t know why, but when ever the t.v. crews decide to come by an event it is always the ones with the minuscule attendance. It’s funny really, in a sad ego busting way. I’ve done reading where a hundred and fifty, two hundred people show up. But it is the ones that are documented are the ones that are attended by a sparse enthusiastic few.

At the reading where I met you a few weeks ago, you mentioned that Porcupine went through many drafts. Was is 18?

Gemma was the book that I went through 18 drafts. And to be honest, I wish I’d done 19. Porcupine had I think around 7?

What kind of research did you do for Porcupine?

I researched on-line a lot. I bought a bunch of books on both Newfoundland and Alberta. And even more importantly read them.

What does your writing day look like?

I get up at 6:45 a.m. My husband and I alternate weeks in terms of breakfast duty and/or lunch duty, doing the morning salutations with the dogs and driving Will to school. When the lunch person is driving the breakfast person puts the tea pot on to boil. Then when the driver arrives home we both go into our writing rooms.

What inspires you?

Everything.

In your second book, Gemma, your protagonist is young, but the book was sold as an adult novel and there is a big notice on your website that the book is not appropriate for ages 15 and under. Do you think this kind of subject matter (sexual abuse, pedophilia) can be covered in YA? And if so, how?

I do. The manuscript I’m going to be working on in January, when I finish this draft of Big Muckle, deals with that as a sidebar issue. I think it is important to talk about these things since, according to a U.S. justice report I read while doing Gemma research, 1 in 3 girls and 1 in 7 boys will be sexually assaulted before they reach the age of 18. These kids need a voice. And they need to not feel alone.

That being said, I’m not positive yet that I’m going to publish it as YA. I’m running it by 3 of Christianne Haywards YA book clubs. They are reading the manuscript now and will be giving me their feedback in January and February and I’ll make my final decision based on that.

Because I also had a career in acting (mostly theatre in my case and not spectacular) I’m particularly curious about your transition from that to being a writer and how one career has affected the other. Do you find the creative process of writing very different from that of acting?

As you know, Danielle from your own background the creative process is both different and the same all at once. In acting you are a part, or a piece of the whole. You have no control over what shots they ultimately use. You have no control over who you act with, how you are lit, what the score sounds like. As an author, all those decisions are in your hands. It’s a heady experience!

How does your experience as an actor shape/impact your work as a writer, in creating characters, writing dialogue, using language, etc?

I think the actor training helps enormously in writing dialogue. I think it also helps me trust my gut, to know when something I write resonates in a true way. It has developed my you’re-bullshitting-yourself-this-doesn’t-feel-right gauge and guides me in the editing process as well.

Do you ever find writing lonely in comparison to acting?

Sometimes, yes. But I’m lucky. I have a husband who writes and we share our work with each other and give suggestions for fine-tuning (or large tuning) as well.

What direction do you want to grow as a writer? What new territory do you hope to explore?

I have no set plan. I know one is supposed to. Have a master plan. Career build and all that. But I don’t. I just want to write true. What is in my belly. And my hope is that some people will respond to it. That enough people will buy my books so that it will make business sense to the publishers to continue to publish me.

Your website and blog are wonderfully warm and real. How have you enjoyed blogging?

I love blogging! A real surprise to me. I hadn’t intended to. I started the “Chewing the fat” portion of my blog as sort of a fluke/joke.

Since we are all publishing “debutantes” here, what was your debut experience like? What did you learn? And what changes with the second book and then the third?

My first experience was the release of Singing Songs. And it was both wonderful and terrifying. I was lying about the origin of the book and was scared that someone would discover the truth. I didn’t feel like a “real” author by any stretch of the imagination. I felt numb when the book was out there. Bereft, really. The writing of it had been my conversation with myself. A recording of my memories and now suddenly it was this public thing and anybody who wanted could pick it up and buy it. Have access to that deeply private part of me. I felt like the book wasn’t mine anymore. Very mixed feelings.

Where as now. Sharing my books, although it is still terrifying, it is also the most wonderful thing. A deeply moving gift to me, to meet and share and talk about things with my readers.

Do you have any advice to us, as debut authors?

When you know you are going to have the opportunity to read you work in public, don’t hide your head in the sand. Practice the pieces you are thinking about reading. Choose carefully. Practice some more. And when you are sick and tired of practicing, go through it again.

You have spent years imagining and toiling, writing and re-writing this precious book of yours. Stand tall. Give your words weight. Allow the readers to hear how you hear the book in your own ears and heart when you wrote it. This is VERY important. I see so many beautiful, talented writers shoot their books in the foot, because us writers? For the most part we are a shy bunch. That’s why we chose a profession that is mostly solitary. Allow your words to shine. That’s what you wrote them for. To not prepare for a reading, to mumble and shuffle your feet is the equivalent of sending your child off to Kindergarten smeared in shit. Why would you do that?

Some of us here at The Debutante Ball (sadly not me) are great cooks and we’ve all be salivating over the pie recipes and cooking advice on your website. Just for fun, how would you compare making a pie to writing a book?

A pie is so much easier!

Thanks so much, Meg. I hope you have fun with this!

Thank you Danielle. And good luck with your upcoming novel, Falling Under. It has a great cover and I’m looking forward to reading it!

Please feel free to post comments and questions for Meg, who will be “here” today to respond. Meg also has a great website and blog where you can learn more about her work, read her blog, get recipes and cooking tips and all sorts of other interesting things. Check it out: www.officialmegtilly.com.

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The Tough Road Home-Part 3 of Deb Danielle’s Worst Vacation Ever

2008-07-08T19:40:00.000-07:00

Debutante Ball, November 29, 2007

Day Six
Dear Mom,

I am as much “at one” with nature as I ever hope to be. More, actually. Tomorrow we’ll be back near the Outward Bound cabin/office and I’m sure when I call to explain everything you’ll agree I should come home. You wanted me to do this because the boys both did it but they stayed in CABINS and besides, they both probably loved being smelly and dirty—they’re boys. They probably had contests to see who could sniff their own armpits the longest.

Funny enough, the group has helped me a lot in the decision to leave and we have bonded. I will actually be sad to go. The ex-con has even offered to trade headbands and given me some stones he carries around in his pocket. I can’t help but notice my headband is much nicer than his but I will make the trade, nevertheless.

Day Seven
Dear Mom,

Oh God. You flipped out. I have talked and wept and begged to no avail and have finally agreed to return to the program tomorrow morning and finish it. I never said anything to you about being eighteen because it doesn’t matter—I am far from free to make the decision and I was a fool to think I was.

I’m staying over at the cabin in my vile sleeping bag. Tomorrow I will slink back to camp and rejoin the group. Pathetic. There is a shower here and all the (clean!) belongings I left behind at the start of the trip. I won’t be allowed any of it now, since I’m going back. I am miserable, spineless and filthy, like some kind of Shakespearean exile in the forest, but with no romantic ending in sight, just body odor, bug bites and bags of soiled toilet paper.

Day Eight
Dear Danielle,

I was so proud that you agreed to finish the trip when you’re having such a hard time. Of course I called the Outward Bound office this morning to get to the bottom of what’s going on there. Imagine my surprise when they said you were gone. Imagine how I felt when I discovered that you got on a plane this morning and flew back to Toronto. I have not heard from you and neither has anyone in the family. I am furious beyond belief and so scared but trying not to panic.

Where are you?!

Dear Mom,

I couldn’t go back.

There were things I liked about Outward Bound, things I achieved—building a fire, pitching a tent, cooking, hiking, finding the trail when no one else could. My back and legs got strong and I saw beautiful places and thought about the meaning of life. But I wasn’t prepared for the weird intimacy with strangers or the way they seemed to be setting us up to reveal our weaknesses and face our fears and so on. I thought it was just a camping trip.

Yet there was something I needed to learn, Mom. You see, you think I’m an underachiever and that I need survival skills. You think I CHOSE not to get perfect grades. But I didn’t get the A+ average because I didn’t know how, Mom. I didn’t have the study skills because all through high school I was working on something else: my survival skills, and don’t mean the wilderness kind. Also, I was working on making you happy—something that has been my driving goal since I was nine years old.

But I’ve learned that sometimes making you happy is going to make me unhappy—in this case, miserable—and I don’t think I can live my life like that. To do Outward Bound, to face down the physical and emotional challenges, you have to want to do it. It doesn’t work if you’re doing it for someone else and it really doesn’t work if you’re doing it under duress.

So here I am at eighteen and I couldn’t do the thing that would make you happy, the thing that would make you proud. That hurts me so much, Mom, it feels like I’m dying inside. And yet I know it’s the right thing. Maybe someday when you’ve had some time, you will be proud. And you should be, Mom, because to get on that plane I had to face my worst fear of all: my fear of losing you.

Epilogue:

It cost me $87.00 to change my flight. At the airport in Toronto I called a lifelong friend who was living in residence at U of T and then took a bus downtown where he managed to get me a room in the women’s residence where I stayed for a few weeks.

I called my mom that night to let her know I was okay and that Mike had found me a room. My reception was chilly to say the least, but I knew from her voice that I’d be forgiven at some point, maybe even before I left for McGill in the fall.

Weirdly enough, leaving Outward Bound is one of the things I’m most proud of. It changed me, strengthened me and set me on the course to be an adult in a way that staying, under those circumstances, would not have.

And once she calmed down, it turned out my mom was proud of me too, which was quite a nice bonus.

Thanks for reading.

Deb Danielle

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November 29th, 2007

My Worst Vacation, Part 2 (Original Debutante Ball post)

2008-07-08T19:35:00.000-07:00

November 22, 2007

Thank you all for indulging me in this multi-week story of my teenage Outward Bound experience.

Here is Part 2:

Day Four
Dear Mom,
The worse we smell, the less the bugs will bother us, they say. Well, isn’t that a relief—my perma-bbq/bug spray/sweat smell is a good thing. I can see that this will also work back home in Toronto—when mosquito season hits I’ll just stop showering. It’s only a few months of the year and you’ll be grateful, I’m sure, to save on water, deodorant, shampoo and so on. And though I’ve never seen you go without a shower yourself, you will no doubt be impressed at how deep and earthy I’ve become, because really, what are looks and personal grooming but expressions of depravity and shallowness. To think you fired that one housekeeper because of her extreme body odor! Perhaps you will embrace this new lifestyle with me and we can get her back. And when I go to McGill in the fall, I will make sure to befriend other smelly, earthy types and bring them home with me for Thanksgiving. They’ll pitch their tents in the backyard between the tennis court and the pool and won’t even need to come indoors to use the bathroom because they’ll go in the bushes and save their toilet paper in Ziplock bags. Nothing like the faint odor of crap to really get our saliva flowing at the dinner table.

I think I mentioned that I do like hiking. I’ve eschewed the position of “lead” for the hikes—that’s the person at the front of the line for the day who has to find the path, call the breaks, etc—but I complained about how late we’re getting to camp every night and so today I was made the “lead.” Don’t worry, I’m didn’t miss the reverse psychology. Regardless, I got us to camp in record time and even better, camp turned out to be on a beautiful beach.

It was the middle of the afternoon and a gorgeous, sunny day. But my craven, shallow nature reared its ugly head yet again. I dared to dream of dinner without mosquitoes in it, a swim in the lake and the chance to wash my clothes, (underwear in particular, PLEASE GOD!), while there was still a chance they would dry in the sun. I was even so foolish as to think I’d set my sleeping bag out where it would finally dry after being damp for four days.

But, no. The Outward Bound gurus had a superior plan. They blindfolded us, stood us in a circle and wrapped a long rope twice around the circle. We each held two knots, one on each part of the rope we were holding. Without letting go of our knots and without taking our blindfolds off, we were to get ourselves into one circle instead of two. Genius. We were soon tangled beyond hope and people were yelling and swearing. I kept quiet. I had no idea how to get us untangled and I don’t like to fight. We sweated in the sun and never figured it out, but by the end of the afternoon, everyone had demonstrated multiple personality flaws, which was obviously the point. By the time they “released” us the sun was going down. I wept tears of joy at having been rescued from such trivialities as clean underwear and dry bedding, which would clearly have been a terrible setback.

Day Five
Dear Mom,
Turns out I’m a decent lead but now people are complaining that I’m too strict with the breaks, hike too fast, won’t let the group be spontaneous, blah, blah, blah. Someone else will be taking over tomorrow even though I’ve got us to camp early both days.

And it’s time to be honest: the smellier I get, the more upset I become that you forced me to do this. I am miserable. The leaders are worried about me and actually said I could leave the program once we finish this hike, two days from now. Otherwise, we’re off for a second week—a canoeing trip this time. I said I’d hate to disappoint you but I had my first moment of hope in days. And then I started bawling again and told them you’d never give me permission to leave since both my brothers did this successfully (albeit voluntarily) and came back “better people.”

And then the conversation got interesting.

“How old are you?” the female leader asked.

“Eighteen,” I said. “I just turned eighteen.”

She gazed at me without speaking and eventually it sunk in.

I am eighteen. I’m eighteen and I don’t need permission.

I go to sleep tonight with deep questions about what that means, Mom—about what that means for both of us.

Stay tuned next week for (I promise!) the final installment.

Deb Danielle

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November 22nd, 2007

A Fictional Letter About a Very Real Vacation (Or Part 1 of My Worst Vacation Ever--Original Debutante Ball post)

2008-07-08T19:05:00.000-07:00

Debutante Ball, Nov 5, 2007

June, 1990
Day One
Dear Mom,
Thanks so much for sending me to Outward Bound. I still think it’s unfair that I had no choice but I’m looking forward to being one with nature and, with all the hiking, I’ll probably lose that 5 lbs that made my Senior Prom dress feel a little tight. (110, here I come!)

I’m sure it’ll turn out to be great that they took away my biodegradable soap, shampoo and conditioner, my book and half my clothes. Obviously I need to learn more about simplicity, embrace my inner savage and so on. And it’s only two weeks, right? That’s one pair of underwear per week and who needs more than that?! There were mosquitoes in our food tonight but it’s fine because they were boiled and are also high in protein. Our tent looks a bit wobbly, but I can’t wait to sleep between the two guys I’ve been paired with.

Day Two
Hi again, Mom. You wouldn’t believe how refreshing it is to awaken in fresh rainwater—a whole two inches of it—especially after a soothing sleepover with an ex-con and a guy with a (repaired) harelip that gives him a chronic snore. Such interesting guys. One of them is uninhibited enough to sleep in his tighty-whiteys and change right in front of me. So make that refreshing rain water plus one bare, hairy bum. Refreshing all around.

Did I mention that my one pair of clean underwear is soaked? Someone suggested I hang them on the outside of my backpack as we hike today so that (unlike my sleeping bag) they’ll be dry by tonight. I’m sure this is exactly the kind of handy trick you sent me here to learn. Interestingly enough, it looks like the leaders knew last night that we’d set the tent in a bad spot and also hadn’t secured the rain shield thingy but decided not to tell us.

Day Three
We learned so much yesterday, Mom, you would have loved it. Our leaders let us walk for two hours in the wrong direction on a dried-up river bed with large, chunky rocks while wearing eighty-pound backpacks. It was absolute genius, the way they didn’t say a word, the way they let us get totally lost and start fighting with each other and stabbing at the map and so on. How smart of them to do this on our first day of hiking when we’re out of shape, getting blisters and the backpacks are at their heaviest. I’m not quite sure what the lesson was, but the whole thing made a strong impression, that’s for sure.

I washed my underwear in the lake last night but since we got to camp in the dark, I had to hang them by the fire. They never dried but they did pick up a lovely bbq/cigarette smoke scent.

Here’s something I bet you didn’t expect me to be doing: carrying my own dirty toilet paper in a ziplock bag! That’s right, we’re one with nature here which means going to the bathroom au natural–I’ve learned a great way to lean back on a tree so I don’t pee on my pants–and we’re to leave nature as we found it as much as possible. Which means leaving no toilet paper, even though it IS biodegradable. Next time I do this, Mom, you’re coming with me and I can’t wait to see your little ziplock bag.

In addition to the ex-con, repaired-harelip guy and some social misfits, there is a girl who just escaped from a cult and at least one high school drop-out here. It looks like you found me a very nice “troubled youth” group, Mom. It was interesting to see their faces when I finally admitted I’ve been forced to come because I didn’t graduate an “Ontario Scholar.” Well actually, none of them knows what that is so I just said my grades weren’t good enough. I didn’t tell them my grades were good enough to get me into every university I applied to.

I have to admit I’ve been crying a lot. Can’t seem to stop except when we’re hiking, actually. But I’m sure it’s healthy–part of the transformation and all that. Undoubtedly I am morphing into an outdoorsy type. And getting thinner. In fact I have high hopes of getting a tapeworm from all the bugs I’m eating and tapeworms are awesome for weight loss. I don’t know why I ever thought it would be more fun to lay on a beach with a book, travel Europe, sleep in a clean warm bed (alone) and take a hot shower every morning. I can never thank you enough for this wonderful, wonderful experience.

Stay tuned next week for Part 2 of Deb Danielle’s Worst Vacation Ever…

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November 15th, 2007

Big Badness, Medieval Style (Original Debutante Ball post)

2008-07-08T19:01:00.000-07:00

Debutante Ball, Nov 8, 2007

For some reason (my previous posts, perhaps?) everyone wants me to talk about Being Bad. And since I have great neighbors but no real “neighbor stories” I thought I’d approach the Badness topic this week.

But how bad am I, really? Instead of diving into an existential crisis or revealing too many personal details on the internet for all the world to read, I decided to do a Badness Evaluation of myself based on that severest of moral codes, the Seven Deadly Sins.

Here goes—scoring is 1-10, 10 being the highest/worst.

Lust: Oh dear. Probably a 10.
I first lusted after a hapless boy named Gordon in first grade. When my parents refused to let me ask him out to dinner and a movie (have I mentioned I was precocious and a little weird?!) I took measures into my own hands and had two other girls chase him, catch him and hold him by the arms so I could kiss him. It took me years (and many lustful afflictions) to learn a more subtle method of seduction. But I try not to kiss (and capture) and tell.

Gluttony: At least a 9.
Please. Give me cookies. Give me cookies and dip them in icing, even a store-bought can will do. Pile some ice cream on top of that and then I could move on to cheese cake, chocolate cake, fudge. If I begin to sweat from the sugar overdose I might change gears to pizza, chips, dip of all kinds, baked brie wheels, roasted garlic, nachos… And when the salt makes me thirsty pour me some champagne and send me, if possible, to Ancient Rome to do it all again. Guilty, guilty, guilty!

Greed: Maybe a 2 or 3?
I’m not so bad with Greed, though I am greedy about my Gluttony. Don’t ask for my last bite of cake, don’t try to share a bowl of ice cream with me—I may snarl at you and I won’t mean it in a sexy way.

Sloth: I love sloth—give me an 8.
When I was a teenager there were lots of ski vacations. Everyone would be up at the crack of dawn very keen to be the first ones on the hill. I would (if allowed) sleep until ten, mosey up the hill, maybe ski up and down a couple of times, take a leisurely lunch (see Gluttony) attempt to pick up guys (see Lust) and then call it a day. Some people want to be sporty with their free time, I am happiest left on the couch with a book. And some food, of course.

But there’s not so much time for Sloth in my life these days, with a toddler, a dog, a house to run, a book to write, etc. Come to think of it, I’m working my butt off. Hmm. Let’s say I’m a 2 who would LIKE to be an 8.

Wrath: 1.
I rarely, rarely lose my temper and very few people have seen me wrathful. Even fewer have seen me wrathful more than once—probably only one, actually. (Sorry honey!) Mind you, it’s scary when it happens. I hiss and roar and use this horrible Exorcist kind of voice. Oh dear…I probably deserve a 2 just for the voice.

Envy: 3, maybe 4.
Not so bad since I quit acting. But I do Envy people who get away with Gluttony and don’t get fat—clearly they’re not combining enough Sloth with their Gluttony.

Pride: 2??
This is a hard one to interpret in today’s society. We’re supposed to be proud, aren’t we? But let’s interpret Pride as being full of oneself, unable to take a joke, self-righteous, uptight, judgmental, etc. I’m far too willing to make fun of myself to be guilty of that kind of Pride. But maybe I’m too proud of that. Make it a 3.

So there you have it: Deb Danielle’s Medieval Badness.

What’s your Badness Score?

(Disclaimer!!! If anyone reading this still bases their moral code on these Medieval sins, I apologize for my casual attitude towards them. I’m really just kidding around. Please don’t “go Medieval” on me.)

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November 8th, 2007

Halloween & The Undercover Freak (Original Debutante Ball post)

2008-07-08T18:52:00.000-07:00

Debutante Ball, Nov 1 2007

To those of you who’ve been reading my posts since August, it should come as no surprise that as a kid, I had unique expectations of Halloween.

Of course, Halloween was magical for me. Not just because of the candy, the spooky, ghosty stuff and the chance to run around outside in the dark, but because of the costumes.

Halloween was a yearly opportunity not just to wear a costume, but to become someone else—ideally someone painfully glamorous, royal or, at the very least, of Elvin blood. This character would be famous for her death defying dance & acrobatic moves and also possess powers like flying, mind reading and such. She was envied by women, loved by men—or boys, at least. In a strange twist that can only make sense to a child living in Middle America, she was often also a cheerleader.

So you’re thinking Wonder Woman, Cat Woman, Bionic Woman or maybe Princess Leia—all solid, respectable choices.

But of course, Wonder Woman wasn’t for me. Oh no, a regular old Wonder Woman costume would not affect the transformation I needed. I had to create something that, in its beauty and originality, in the very effort of its creation, would bring me magic. And that magic would transform me from a weird, underachieving, semi-pariah into the “secret me,” the real me, the me I might have been if only…

Preparing for Halloween, I’d imagine my classmate’s faces when they saw me in my fabulous costume and realized they had never really seen me before, that I was in possession of something special and unique. They would fall to their knees, of course. Girls who had been mean would suddenly offer me the chocolate milk from their lunches, heck, they’d give their entire lunch, just for a chance to be my friend. And cute, popular boys who’d made fun of my Canadian accent and pelted me with snowballs would send me love notes soaked with apolpgetic tears.

It’s a good thing I had a vivid imagination, since that’s as far as my “magical transformation” ever got. Needless to say, I’d have fared much better (at least socially) in a Wonder Woman costume.

And I never got the super powers, the painful glamour (who wants it when it’s painful?!) or the Elvin blood either. But I kept looking, and not just at Halloween. The specifics changed (I stopped looking to be super-powered or have people falling to their knees, for example) but for a long time I looked for a “better” me. A me that wasn’t so shamefully, stubbornly strange, a me that would fit in with the cool kids. (Because the were the ones who were having the best time, weren’t they?!)

Eventually I stopped trying to make those kinds of friends and going into the arts helped too. And yet…I still felt like an undercover freak sometimes.

Then I started to write. And I finally figured out that the undercover freak is the better me. She’s the one with the survival skills, the unique perspective and the sense of humour. She’s the one who tells the stories. And I’m sure if she wanted to, she could conjure some royal blood, read a few minds or even fly. She wouldn’t even need it to be Halloween, either.

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November 1st, 2007

Blown Away by Meg Tilly (Original Debutante Ball post)

2008-07-08T18:45:00.000-07:00

Debutante Ball, Oct 25, 2007

There was some talk of extending the topic of “being bad” just for me, since I had Amanda Eyre Ward as my guest last week and therefore missed a golden opportunity to reveal sordid details of my past and poke fun at myself for the sake of entertainment—mine and yours. I was eager to do so and had great plans for something funny, dark and maybe just a little bit deep. I was even going to incorporate this week’s topic, bump in the night, and tie it all up with a clever bow for you.

And then I saw Meg Tilly.

Specifically, I saw Meg Tilly do a reading from her new YA novel, Porcupine, in a funky indie bookstore, Type, in Toronto tonight.

I saw Meg Tilly read and there is no point trying to be clever after that.

Forget The Big Chill and Agnes of God and anything else to do with Hollywood, which Meg left in the dust long ago. Meg can WRITE! (I realize I’m behind some of you in this realization—I just found out.) Not only can Meg write but she is absolutely riveting as a reader.

I’ve been to lots of readings lately, some awful, some fabulous. Good or bad though, I’m always very aware of the author—aware of the author as a separate entity from their book. But Meg just…became her book. She channeled the book, filled the room with it, brought the entire world of her twelve-year-old heroine to us so vividly that I breathed with her, felt everything and heard the words as if they were coming from inside my own head.

This is the first reading I’ve seen where there seemed no barrier between the writer and the words, no barrier, even, between the words and the thoughts. It wasn’t about “acting” or “performing” or any of that stuff. It was grounded, instinctive and beautiful and it totally blew me away.

Porcupine has been released by Tundra Books and I urge you to run out and get it. And if you can somehow get Meg to read it to you in person, you’ll have trouble being clever for a couple of days, but it’ll be worth it.

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October 25th, 2007

I Want To Want To (Original Debutatante Ball post)

2008-07-08T18:36:00.000-07:00

Debutante Ball post from Sept 27, 2007

I have this vision. I am humming and cutting fresh herbs from the window box (where they grow all year round) and throwing them into a salad or some kind of fancy marinade. I have shopped for my cheese at a local farmer’s market and everything is free range and organic and gourmet. I grow the zucchini myself in a garden out back and also the tomato. I sip at a glass of white wine—something decent but not decadent–as I cook, and listen to some opera or maybe a bit of jazz. My hair sits stylishly on top of my head and my slim-fitting ensemble of jeans and silk (or perhaps cashmere?) t-shirt are partially covered with a Parisian-looking apron. My husband stands nearby, washing the dishes in advance and our daughter sits peacefully reading Homer, Dickens or perhaps Naomi Klein. Dinner is timed perfectly and we all sit down together, savor the food, discuss cultural issues and enjoy each other’s company.

And then there’s reality. There is no window box because we cannot keep plants alive in this house and even if by some miracle there were herbs, I would probably cut myself with the scissors, burn the sauce, yell at my poor husband, stick my child in front of a (brain-cell-killing) DVD, spill the burnt sauce down the front of my pants and drink the entire bottle of wine. If there were dessert anywhere, I’d polish that off too. If I’d actually managed to shop at a farmer’s market it would have been two weeks ago and everything would already have gone bad, except perhaps the cheese, which I would also eat. And I would not be looking all casually elegant or any kind of European, much less Parisian, either. My hair would be sticking out all over the place and there would be pasta in it, there would be no apron, I’d have a greasy handprint somewhere on my chest and I would stand hissing and swearing and possibly crying in the middle of the kitchen. Dinner would be peanut butter and jelly sandwiches or take-out. And that’s just one meal.

This might be on the extreme end, as examples go, but cooking stresses me out. First, I never have all the groceries I need when I need them. Second, I dislike chopping things. Third, I hate having a mess and there seems to be no way to cook without making one and if you try to “clean as you go” something inevitably burns or melts or goes putrid while you’re doing it. Fourth, I hate having to follow a recipe, but that’s the only way things ever turn out. Fifth, no matter how many times I follow a recipe, I can never seem to commit it to memory so cooking makes me feel stupid. Sixth, cooking takes FOREVER and I never think to cook until I’m already starving. Seventh, you put in all that effort and then, instead of winning all kinds of awards for you major achievement, people just eat the food and you’re back to where you started with the addition of a big mess to clean up. And that’s if whatever you’ve cooked actually turns out, which is a big “if” in my case.

But clearly, a woman cannot live on frozen dinners, grilled cheese and take-out and expect to thrive. Not to mention that I have a husband (who would cook except for his crazy work hours) and a child who (at nineteen months) is too young for Dickens (much less chef school where we could get her trained up to feed us) and needs to be provided with good nutrition and decent-tasting meals.

So I want to learn how to cook. Well, that’s not quite true. I want to want to learn how to cook. At the very least, I want there to be cooking. Somehow. I’m taking advice from all corners and no solution is beneath consideration at this point. Any ideas?

To see original comments on this post, click here.

September 27th, 2007

Another Sucker…Learning the Hard Way Again (Original Debutante Ball post)

2008-07-08T18:30:00.000-07:00

Debutante Ball post from Sept 13, 2007

Well, I thought I’d covered “learning the hard way” last week and that this week I’d write something short and maybe even off-topic. But it turns out I’ve learned many things the hard way and should perhaps write a book on the subject.

For now, here are are some of the less serious, but hard learned lessons from my life.

From childhood:

If you cut an arch-shaped wedge out of your bowl-cut bangs and then tell everyone “the faeries” did it, no one will believe you.

If you tell the neighborhood bully about the invisible friends you have in your backyard, he will come into your backyard and then your invisible friends will become more invisible.

If you shave your legs with your father’s razor, it’s not going to turn out well. If you shave them without water or soap, it’s really not going to turn out well. If you shave you legs when you’re six, with anyone’s razor and then convince your best friend to do it too, you’re going to be in trouble.

From adolescence/teenage years:

If you write an essay the night before, you are not going to get an A.

If you smoke on the roof, someone is going to catch you and they will not believe you were there to look at the stars. Especially if it’s raining.

If you tell an adult you are going for a jog and come back smelling like smoke, alcohol or both, they are not going to believe you jogged much.

If you walk in the snow in a cast, it will start to disintegrate and then it will start to smell.

If you attempt to run in the slush in that same cast because you are late for class, the cast will start to disintegrate, then crack, then smell, and you will also be in pain. And you’ll still be late and get a detention because (hello!?) it’s very hard to get any speed while running in the slush in a cast. And your fellow detentionees will hate you because you smell.

If don’t wear your retainers you will have to get braces for a second time. If you’re a total imbecile, you might have to get them a third time. (Don’t you love the word “imbecile”?!)

If you hate bugs, sleeping on the (wet!) ground in a tent next to snoring strangers with weird facial hair and carrying a huge backpack a zillion miles, Outward Bound is not for you. If your mother forces you to go anyway and they make you leave your biodegradable shampoo, your extra underwear and your Tom Robbins book in a field where a plane just dropped you off on the very first day, you’re in for a bad time. If your group includes an ex-con and someone who just escaped from a cult, you’re in for a seriously dysfunctional but interesting bad time.

From university/twenties:

If you write an essay the night before, you’re not going to get an A. (Yep, this one took more than once.)

If you drink more coffee it will not give you more brain cells or make up for lack of studying.

If a guy doesn’t like you to start with, he won’t like you any better when you’re drunk and trying to show him what a great dancer you are. (This also took more than once…)

If a guy doesn’t like you to start with, memorizing his class schedule, calling him every day and showing up everywhere he goes will not make him like you. A new outfit will not make him like you. Making out with his best friend or his arch enemy will not make him like you and befriending his ex-girlfriend will really not make him like you. Nothing will make him like you.

If he does like you and then you do any or all of the above things, he is likely to change his mind and again, not like you.

Miscellaneous:

If you shave your legs and armpits, it will not significantly reduce your weight. Neither will cutting your hair or taking off rings, watches or ponytail holders.

If you try to save money by not going to the dentist for three years, you are going to have a painful, expensive time when you finally do go. (And starting to floss three days before will not make it look like you were flossing all along.)

If you have a child, you will rarely, if ever, sleep in again. You will fantasize about sleep more than you do about chocolate or sex.

If you rub your eyes, they only get itchier.

If you swear in front of your toddler, he or she will learn the swear word and shout it with pride at the park and in the grocery store. No one is going to believe she’s saying “sit” or “another sucker.”

To see original comments on this post, click here.

September 13th, 2007

My Toughest Teacher (Original Debutante Ball post)

2008-07-08T18:23:00.000-07:00

Debutante Ball post from September 6, 2007

Here’s a story I’m not proud of, but it’s a good one as far as teachers and life lessons go…

It was my second year at McGill University and I’d spent the first in frustration at not being able to take any “real” acting classes. Finally, I could take Fundamentals of Acting and I couldn’t wait.

That first day we sat in a circle on orange/brown utility carpet that smelled vaguely of feet, and introduced ourselves. There was no stage in sight and I soon discovered that people with no acting experience had been allowed in—people who took it because it would be “fun.”

Still, I was excited. We were to keep journals, work on sonnets and study Stanislavski. There would be leading roles to play once my brilliance was discovered.

In week two Johanna (our teacher) decided we’d have class outside in the quad at the center of campus. Fine. I would recite Shakespeare (or whatever) in the quad, no big deal.

But there was no Shakespeare that day. Instead, we were led through a meditation that helped us imagine an animal and then, slowly, become and move around as that animal. When I realized where the exercise was leading I quickly changed my animal to an alligator. No way was I going to gallop around the quad and whinny like a horse.

I lay on my belly in the grass with my eyes half open (like a legitmate alligator) and watched in disbelief as the girl from engineering flapped her arms and clucked like a chicken. There was howling, hopping and all kinds of wild animal impersonating. Apparently no one was mortified…except me.

Maybe I shouldn’t be an actor after all, I thought.

After that, I approached Fundamentals with ambivalence. I’d always been a good student but I started skipping classes. Toward the end of the term we finally got to the “real” acting (scene work) and I’d figured out that there was a point to the earlier work on animals, breathing, rolling on the floor, etc. My enthusiasm began to return, but when it came time to hand in our journals, I found a nearly empty notebook and had to pull an all-nighter trying to reconstruct the term.

We got the journals back, along with our grades and a letter about our progress, before we went home for the holidays. I will never forget the letter I received. In it, Johanna stated in blunt terms that I was lazy, had a terrible attitude and was the worst kind of student—one who was wasting her intelligence and talent, letting people down and very close to failing out of the class. She was disgusted with me.

Rarely have I been so ashamed. Rarely have I had such an ugly mirror held up to myself. I wanted to be angry, but she was right. I had been an ass. I had been immature and irresponsible and I had sabotaged myself in the very arena where I most wanted to succeed. I was horrified..and mortified for real this time.

Short of quitting school or crawling into a hole and dying, my only option was to go back. I apologized and set about to show that the real me was the opposite of what I’d demonstrated so far. I did my homework, attended classes, kept my journal and worked my way back up from a D (my all-time lowest grade!) to a B+.

More importantly, I was profoundly and permanently altered by the experience. I won’t say I was perfect or never cut another class (please, I was nineteen!) but from that point on, in all my creative work, I tried not just to show up, but to show up on time, prepared and with an open mind. I’d learned that you get back what you put in and that to be taken seriously, you have to to be serious. These were crucial lessons and they have affected the course of my life.

So, Johanna Mercer, wherever you are, thank you.

For original comments on this post, click here.

September 6th, 2007

Technological Travesty (Original Debutante Ball post)

2008-07-08T18:15:00.000-07:00

Debutante Ball post from August 30, 2007

My husband will say it’s just me, but I think we’re technologically challenged in our house. To be fair, in his case it’s by choice whereas in mine, it’s, well, just my nature.

Today, for example, when my printer wouldn’t work, here’s what I did: I opened it and closed it, turned it on and off, turned the computer on and off, took the paper out and put it back in and then, bringing out the big guns, I took it off the desk, looked at the back of it, turned it upside down, then put it back. After that, it worked.

We have two TVs, one twenty-three years old and the other about ten. I refuse to have either TV on the main floor because it’s such a conversation killer and my husband (aka The Oppressor—see previous posts) would drive us both around the bend because he likes to watch more than one program at a time and is an incorrigible channel flipper. So, one TV is in the basement (on top of a box of my oppressed books) and the other is on the third floor.

And…we don’t have cable. Shocking, especially for thirty-five-year-old urbanites, but we decided we could do without it for a couple of years. We get two channels, which means a decent amount of programming and two national newscasts, plus we can rent whatever we want on DVD, so we’re only moderately out of the loop.

Sadly, in addition to having ancient TVs and no cable, we have bad reception. We tried the rabbit ear things, (which didn’t work,) then we held the unconnected cable, contorted our bodies and held them in awkward positions trying to get and keep a clear picture. In the end, the only thing that works is holding the very end of the cable and having the metal pokey-thing touching someone’s bare skin. My husband gets a perfect picture this way, just by pressing the pokey-thing to his thumb. He can even get it to work by sticking it between his leg and the couch, should he, for example, want to massage my shoulders, drink some beer or throw a ball for the dog. For some reason though, I get bad reception, no matter what position I sit in or how hard I press that darned thing onto my thumb, so if I want to watch TV, I need it hooked up to my hubby. (And what does that say about me?!)

Finally, we’ve recently also lost the remote. There are two other remotes hanging around looking like they need a job, but even with fresh batteries, they can’t seem to do it. We may be the only people left in North America who have to get up off the couch to change the channel.

I realize this is a sad state of affairs and occasionally we get all worked up with plans to get TIVO and an LCD, flat screen, whatever-you-call-it with lovely speakers and so-on. But we also still have two DVD players and two VCRs and we’re the chumps buying up the videos for 99 cents when the local video store has their going-out-of-business sale. And part of me thinks we should just wait until someone can beam CSI and Grey’s Anatomy straight into our brains because no matter what we buy, it will be out of date before we even get it out of the store.

To see original comments on this post, click here.

August 30th, 2007 | Posted by Danielle | CSI, Danielle Younge-Ullman, Married Life, Television, Writing, media

Magazines and Magic (Original Debutante Ball post)

2008-07-08T18:11:00.000-07:00

From The Debutante Ball, August 23, 2007

First let me say that newspapers are wonderful, in theory. They are often full of interesting, pertinent, well-written articles. But I find them physically unwieldy, their texture gives me the willies and I hate how the ink comes of on my fingers. And magazines? Magazines are a guilty pleasure, sure, but really they just make me want things I can’t have.

Thinking about wanting things led me to wondering about the creative process, about giving versus getting (or trying to get)…and about joy.

We spend a lot of time trying to get things, in our society, and I think sometimes we apply that to the creative process. Being an actor was like that for me. I often found myself grasping, trying so hard to “get” a moment, “get” a role, searching for something outside of myself that would make it all work and bring the magic. I worked hard, but it was like throwing myself against a wall—magic was elusive, the results mixed and, in the end, there was so little joy.

And if you’re going to do something so damned hard, there had better be joy.

As a writer, I find my process very different. I give. It’s not about searching outside of myself, it’s not about grasping. It’s about finding something that interests me and then diving into it, giving myself over to it. I wanted to do that as an actor but for whatever reason, it didn’t happen. Maybe it’s maturity, maybe writing is just the right medium for me, but now I’m starting to understand that if you really want to achieve something, you have to give, and you have to give everything. You have to wring yourself out and you have to do it daily. It’s exhausting, difficult and sometimes painful but it’s also how I’ve found magic, how I’ve finally found joy in my work.

I suspect this is the best way to achieve anything you really want, whether it’s writing a book, playing Hamlet, building a business, being a great parent, husband or wife—give yourself to it, give everything you have to it, and you will find a deeper level of satisfaction and success at the end of the day.

Which isn’t to say I’ve stopped wanting to play Ophelia, wanting a new wardrobe, better triceps, a flat stomach, more books, an LCD TV, a newer house, a treadmill for my dog, etc. I’m just happier while I’m wanting it.

What about you?

To see comments on original post, click here.

August 23rd, 2007 | Posted by Danielle | 2008 Debutante Ball, Danielle Younge-Ullman, Falling Under,

An Open Letter to The Oppressor (Original Debutante Ball post)

2008-07-08T17:59:00.000-07:00

Debutante Ball post from August 16, 2007

Dear Oppressor,

We have banded together in protest of your ill treatment. We do not enjoy living in boxes, much less boxes in the basement under the stairs. And if you think it was an improvement to shove one box underneath the old TV, you are mistaken.

We hear you sitting there in front of that TV with your bottle of beer and your potato chips. We hear Danielle walk by us on her way to the laundry room and she often pauses, sighs and runs a hand along the outside of our Rubbermaid dungeon. She misses us.

And just so you know, most of us have been around longer than you have. Some of us have been with Danielle since she was a child—years before that play you did together, years before she liked boys at all. Danielle did have her first kiss at age 3, but for sure, Go, Dog. Go! was around before that. Maybe Pollyanna and Watership Down too.

Regardless, the Narnia box set, the Green Gables books and all the Helen Forresters and Judy Blumes knew Danielle long before you. Go Ask Alice, the Bronte sisters and Jane Austen helped her through sixth and seventh grade with braces and changing schools and that little boyfriend who kissed her four times on the lips plus twice on the cheek and kept breaking up with her in between. On The Road and The Unbearable Lightness of Being sunbathed with Danielle in the south of France when she was sixteen. Shakespeare has been with her before she even realized he spoke English and don’t give us your speech about working at Stratford, Mr. Actor—we don’t care.

Not only are we out of order, but Jitterbug Perfume and Tigana (which you and Danielle read together on your honeymoon!) are squished at the very bottom and under daily attack by spiders. Your rusty screwdriver (rusty from under-use!) is on top of Alice Walker and Marion Zimmer Bradley. And the videos! Ann-Marie Macdonald has a sense of humor but Virginia Woolf is affronted every morning when she wakes up next to Buns of Steel. Show some respect.

To sum up, you are an upstart. We have tolerated being moved to that first apartment, then to the condo, then to another house, where we thought we’d stay. We liked the built-in shelves there. Then you moved us again. You promised Danielle you would keep us dry and clean, but you stacked us, willy-nilly, on top of that ugly old bar in the basement, and threw a sheet over us. It was dusty, damp and the sheet fell off. Mouse poop fell on us and the renovation took much longer than three weeks. We had a year of freedom and then six months ago you started another project and here we are in the basement again.

Remember Harry Potter and all that befell those muggles who kept him under their stairs. Release us and restore us to our proper place. We are Danielle’s books and woe betide the man (or woman, of course) who disregards our power…

To see original comments on this post, click here.

And for anyone who is interested, the books are still down there in boxes in the basement.

August 16th, 2007 | Posted by Danielle | | 18 Comments

Movies & Making a Spectacle (Original Debutante Ball post)

2008-07-08T17:53:00.000-07:00

My very first Blog Post as a "debutante" at www.thedebutanteball.com
August 9, 2007

Like most people, movies have made me laugh and cry, transported me to other worlds and sometimes changed the way I look at things. Some movies have inspired me to greatness, to be a better person, but since I was a child, certain movies (of the music and dance variety) have instead inspired me to make a spectacle of myself.

It started with GREASE. Before Olivia shimmied along in her spandex, I had a respectable idol: the gymnast, Nadia Comaneci. But I left Nadia behind in a downward spiral of taste that went from Olivia to Barry Manilow to the Solid Gold Dancers. My strange combination of passions led to a fusion, a mix of gymnastics and GREASE/Solid-Gold-style dancing, that I practiced, sometimes in the house, but most often in the front yard, for all to see.

This did not make me popular with my six and seven-year-old peers.

Neither did my compulsion to wear a leotard and (possibly) a tutu under my clothes and perform my routines at recess. Too late, I realized I was interested in THE WRONG THINGS. I tried to conform but I couldn’t ride the requisite skateboard, never looked quite right in the Izod shirt and hated all sports that involved a ball.

My parents moved me to an “alternative” school in third grade, and they were just in time; my grades were poor, I was an outcast and things were going to get much worse—FLASHDANCE was about to be released.

Oh, what fertile ground I was for FLASHDANCE. Cut-off sweatshirts and legwarmers were the least of it. I leapt about and rolled on the floor. I undulated, gyrated and practiced my striptease. Fortunately, I stayed off the front lawn for this, but at my new school, (where I was less universally despised but still pushing the limits of “alternative”) I could often be found in the hallways, sliding my hands up and down my thighs while running in place, a la Jennifer Beals. I was nine.

PURPLE RAIN was next and how I managed to see it is a secret I’ll take to my grave. More gyrating, more everything—PURPLE RAIN blew my mind. By this time I was taking jazz classes, but it didn’t take long for my Prince-inspired moves to attract the scorn of my classmates. Excessive hip gyration was a sketchy talent for a ten-year-old—something I realized, once again, too late.

1983 brought RISKY BUSINESS and then came FOOTLOOSE. If you’ve read this far in the post, I’m sure you’ll guess how these movies affected me, despite the social discouragement.

At fifteen, DIRTY DANCING set me on fire. Everything I’d been doing by myself could be done in pairs! By then I was circumspect about my gyrating ways, but oh, how I longed to Dirty Dance. Occasionally, at a party or school dance, I would lose a few inhibitions and boogie over to some poor boy. Maybe it was the whiff of Solid Gold in my style or just that teenage boys don’t dance, but they all ran screaming, or rather, slunk away.

University, and then a few years in theatre, provided better opportunities to dance, dirty and otherwise, and then there was “contact improv”—an acting warm-up that deserves its own post. Contact Improv, when combined with music, dance and perhaps some alcohol, was the ultimate fusion.

My husband loves to tell people he fell for me when I “jumped on him” during a rehearsal. He’s lucky the lights were on and “Let’s Go Crazy” or “You’re The One That I Want” weren’t playing or I might have done much worse. Fortunately for me, he turned out to be wild-man on the dance floor so overall, things have turned out well.

But still, I have never been invited to a Ball…

Until now.

I gyrate less these days and my striptease is long retired, but I’ve got some moves I’ve been saving and I think I’ve made some friends here who won’t be too embarrassed to dance with me…even if I do occasionally make a spectacle of myself.

To read comments from the original post, click here.

August 9th, 2007 | Posted by Danielle | 2008 Debutante Ball, Dirty Dancing, Flashdance, Friends, Grease, Movies, Music, Purple Rain, Solid Gold | 23 Comments

Top Secret Blogging, Continued...

2008-06-11T09:58:00.000-07:00

Well, it's working brilliantly. Top secret. Just wait until people find out what they've been missing.

I am now going to change the settings so this blog can be found on a google search and see if this still remains a secret...

2008-05-23T20:39:00.000-07:00

Okay...I started a blog.

More to come.

I don't expect any comments yet. Actually, I might keep it as a secret blog for a few days though that's kind of "anti" the point of a blog, I realize.

Yep, here's my secret blog. I'm not telling anyone.

Let's see what happens, who finds it first, and whether I can ever find my way back to it once I've exited.