“I’ve had a wonderful time, but this wasn’t it.” –Groucho Marx On October 10th, I received one of the most exciting calls an author can hope to get: My novel, Shine, was a finalist for the National Book Award! Holy pickles! “Are you sure?” I asked Harold Augenbraum, the director of the National Book Foundation. “Are you really and truly sure?” Harold chuckled–this wasn’t his first time at the rodeo–and assured me that yes, Shine, published by Abrams, written by me, Lauren Myracle, was indeed a finalist. “Congratulations,” he said warmly. He told me to keep the good news to myself until the official announcement on the 12th. I hung up the phone glowing, and the glow didn’t end there. It grew inside me during the wait for the announcement, made live from the Oregon Public Broadcasting station, and then once the news was public–whoosh! The secret spark flared into a warm fire in my heart as family, friends, colleagues, and total strangers flooded my inbox, voicemail, Twitter account, and Facebook page with messages of congratulations. Oh, it felt good! To hell with that–it felt frickin’ glorious. This book, Shine, this book that my beloved editor and I had bled our souls into, had been declared–to the world–one of the best of the year. And then, two hours later, came a concerned email from a journalist friend. “So what do you think of the Chime/Shine mix-up?” she asked. “The…” My gut clenched. “Excuse me, what?” “Oh dear,” she wrote back. “Perhaps you should do some Googling. And Lauren? I am so sorry.” It was her “sorry” that triggered the freefall from exultation to confusion, from shock to humiliation, from bouncing off the walls to sliding down a wall until I was slumped on the floor, my knees bent and head in my hands. Speculation trickled in all that day and the next. Shine wasn’t supposed to be on the list. Someone mistook Shine for Chime. Are they gonna keep Shine on the list? Harold Augenbraum confirmed the rumors. There had been a miscommunication. Someone had said Chime and someone else had heard Shine. (For security reasons, the National Book Foundation had handled all the award communication by phone.) “But you are still a finalist,” Harold Augenbraum told me firmly, his manner fatherly. “Don’t let anyone take that away from you.” You don’t have to tell me that, buddy, I thought. No way am I handing this honor over. I’m a National Book Award finalist! Well, the joke was on me, as late Thursday evening I received another call from Harold–he was extremely apologetic–in which he told me that there was “push-back,” and some had reversed their opinions and wanted Shine off the list, and how did I feel about that? Um…like crap? Then came the weepy weekend, with endless tears of the hiccupping, losing-it variety–and of course I was still receiving a flood of emails, cards, flower deliveries, and champagne. The latter, at least, came in handy… Telling my parents about the mix-up, and telling them about the decision to pull the book–by that point the writing was on the wall–that was the worst part. God, it sucks to disappoint your parents, even at forty-two years old. They were nothing but loving, of course. I should have known they’d be. I did know they’d be. It still sucked. So: Jump forward to Sunday, when it’s time to end this mess. My sister, fellow writer Susan Rebecca White, helped me craft my withdrawal statement, and then my unflaggingly classy editor, agent, and publicists took it from there. How the story played out after that is pretty much public knowledge–although one thing I’d like very much to add to the discussion is that this has been hard not only for me, but for the NBF staff, the judges, and most importantly, the real nominees in the Young People’s Literature category. Franny, Gary, Thanhha, Albert, and Debby are incredibly talented writers who’ve written amazing books that absolutely deserve this honor. I am also glad that, in all the discussion, the NBF generously agreed to donate $5,000 to the Matthew Shepard Foundation. Shine is about a hate crime and the bullying of gay teens, and the donation represents some real good to come out of all of this. Also in the good column are the responses I received. Some were horrified, some were amusing, some were plain old cyber-hugs. Here’s a sampling of my favorite tweets: Reading about the National Book Awards drama with my mouth hanging open. I simply can’t believe this. Lauren Myracle is a class act. –@jessicaklow I just read of the debacle and spit gin at the screen. –@Viklets I want to be Lauren Myracle when I grow up. –@cjomololu Husband thinks Abrams should make sticker for cover that reads: Erroneously Nominated for NBA. –@librarianlost What a tale. I honestly cried, what a storm to push through! The emotional rollercoaster, one can’t imagine. –@soupoftheday26 I want to read the book NOW! –@mysterysquid OH MY GOD LAUREN MYRACLE CONGRATULATIONS ON THE BOOKER oh wait nevermind sorry. –@michaelschaub As a gay boy living in NC, thank you for Shine, which I wldn’t have known about w/o the screw-up. You may have saved my life. –@anonymous NBA is missing out. Lauren is best part of a party! –@SarahMlynowski How bout a T-shirt that says: My book went to the National Book Awards press conference, and all I got was this crummy PW Daily article! –@LauriHornik In honor of SHINE & the MattShepardFDN I’m going to buy a couple of cases of SHINE for them to distribute to LGBTQ teens. –@tanyaleestone Ah, life. Messy, wonderful life. This craziness has been good for me in that it’s pushed me to do some self-examination, and though I try to be honest with myself in general, certain situations press down harder than others. What I’ve realized: – it’s just one more reminder not to be so invested in validation from external sources; – some people are idiots; – far more are generous and kind; – all the shame I felt? That shame gets a one-way ticket to…God, I don’t know. Oblivion, I suppose, because I didn’t do anything shameful, people make mistakes, and I am truly lucky to be part of a great, funny, fierce, and compassionate community of writers, readers, publishers, and friends. When things first started falling apart, my fear was that people were going to point at me and laugh. A couple of people have, but mainly I feel embraced, supported, and hugged, and hugs (even virtual ones) are really, really awesome.
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Article by WN.com Correspondent Dallas Darling. In the last several months, predator drone strikes have killed dozens of innocent civilians and suspected “militants” in Afghanistan, Yemen, Pakistan, Somalia, and elsewhere. Like President Richard Nixon, who secretly ordered a military invasion of Cambodia and Laos during the U.S.-Vietnam Conflict, President Barack Obama has denied that such military strikes are invasions. Instead, and like Nixon, Obama’s administration and chief advisors have justified these deadly drone attacks that have occurred in sovereign foreign nations, as being necessary to national security interests and needful in protecting American citizens. They have also claimed…
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Article by WN.com Correspondent Dallas Darling. In the last several months, predator drone strikes have killed dozens of innocent civilians and suspected “militants” in Afghanistan, Yemen, Pakistan, Somalia, and elsewhere. Like President Richard Nixon, who secretly ordered a military invasion of Cambodia and Laos during the U.S.-Vietnam Conflict, President Barack Obama has denied that such military strikes are invasions. Instead, and like Nixon, Obama’s administration and chief advisors have justified these deadly drone attacks that have occurred in sovereign foreign nations, as being necessary to national security interests and needful in protecting American citizens. They have also claimed…
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SIRTE, Libya — Dragged from hiding in a drainage pipe, a wounded Moammar Gadhafi raised his hands and begged revolutionary fighters: “Don’t kill me, my sons.” Within an hour, he was dead, but not before jubilant Libyans had vented decades of hatred by pulling the eccentric dictator’s hair and parading his bloodied body on the hood of a truck. The death Thursday of Gadhafi, two months after he was driven from power and into hiding, decisively buries the nearly 42-year regime that had turned the oil-rich country into an international pariah and his own personal fiefdom. It also thrusts Libya into a new age in which its transitional leaders must overcome deep divisions and rebuild…
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I used to be able to undo a bra clasp with one hand. Without looking. That’s right, reach around the back with one hand while the other was occupied, lift it up off the skin, squeeze it together and then release. It wasn’t something I intentionally practiced, nor was I some modern day Casanova, but somewhere in my mid-twenties there had been enough girlfriends, enough evenings, enough attempts at undoing that unique clasp that it just happened. Then, for a brief period it was kind of my thing. Didn’t brag about it, just knew I could do it. A couple of women noticed, one of them became my wife. Of course, once I was married it quickly became a useless skill. I’m guessing its now sort of like my Italian. If I go to Rome tomorrow I might be able to ask for a table for two, but I might just as likely insult the maître de. Still I find it ironic that I of previous bra clasp release-ability have now gone without touching one, bra or contents, for a long time. But then I’m also no longer in my mid-twenties, and I’m no longer married. 51 and widowered 5 years ago, and having quite a hard time getting back on the horse, or in the saddle, or whatever metaphor doesn’t sound too suggestive, or too pathetic. Basically, I suck at dating. Maybe I waited too long. I was wrecked by the loss of my wife, and had young teens at home I was suddenly raising on my own, so despite friends and professionals pushing, I waited. About three and a half years I waited. Which means I’ve been at it for about a year and half, and it’s really kind of miserable. For those of you unhappily married in your 50s, forget about it. Get help, make it work, get happy, or stay miserable — all better options than get single. Sorry to the many I’m about to offend, potentially including Ms. Right I haven’t yet met, but we’re just not supposed to be dating in our 50s. It’s meant for younger, dumber, hornier people. You know, mid-twenty year olds that marvel at their ability to undo a bra clasp with one hand. Not that I don’t try. I’ve dated about ten women over the last year or so — all introductions from friends, plus one from an online service. Five turned into second dates. Only one has gone beyond the second date, and I really blew that one. It was when I’d just started dating, and on the third date the opportunity to kiss her was incredibly clear, but I was just too rusty to recognize it. We went out again but the moment was gone and she lost interest. I rebounded by making out furiously on the next second date I had with someone else, realizing about halfway into it I wasn’t attracted to her at all. And that’s it right there. That’s why dating isn’t for 50-year-olds. At twenty something, I’d never have missed the moment for the kiss on that date. If anything, I’d probably have gone the other way — moved sooner, before the right moment arrived. And on the rebound make out session, which seemed like it could’ve gone much further, in my twenties I’d never have stopped when I realized I wasn’t attracted to her. In fact, in my twenties I’d probably have slept with over half the women I’ve dated the last year. Again, not that I was Casanova, just that I was younger, dumber, hornier. If you’re wondering about the equipment, Doc checked the testosterone level and I’m good. And no blue pill required here, the elevator still moves up and down with ease. So horny, while not what it was at twenty something, is still there. Younger, however, really is gone. One of the smaller but real things I grieved when I lost my wife was knowing I was always about 27 years old in her eyes, as she was in mine, and that was never going to happen again — not with her, not with anyone else. I’ve accepted that younger is gone. But it’s the dumb that’s really missing. I’ve gotten too damn smart. I know myself like I didn’t at twenty something. Comfortable with this guy now too, so there’s less that’s likely to change. I was married for twenty years, so I know what a relationship is and I’ve met a lot of people and done a lot of things, so I also know who and what I like. My life is built, as are the lives of the women I date, so the hoop has gotten higher, and it’s hard to be dumb about it. I’ve got a second date this Saturday night. We’re opposed on politics, religion, and most social policy that stems from those two hot buttons. My kids are almost all grown while she’s still got one in single digits. And in the all-important geography of Southern California traffic patterns, she lives at least two bottlenecks away. It’s hard to be dumb about all that. But she’s very bright, very attractive and has an easy laugh. And if I did go to Rome tomorrow, I think “un tavulo por due, per favore” is pretty phonetically close to “a table for two, please,” which means my Italian isn’t as rusty as I thought.
Continue reading …I used to be able to undo a bra clasp with one hand. Without looking. That’s right, reach around the back with one hand while the other was occupied, lift it up off the skin, squeeze it together and then release. It wasn’t something I intentionally practiced, nor was I some modern day Casanova, but somewhere in my mid-twenties there had been enough girlfriends, enough evenings, enough attempts at undoing that unique clasp that it just happened. Then, for a brief period it was kind of my thing. Didn’t brag about it, just knew I could do it. A couple of women noticed, one of them became my wife. Of course, once I was married it quickly became a useless skill. I’m guessing its now sort of like my Italian. If I go to Rome tomorrow I might be able to ask for a table for two, but I might just as likely insult the maître de. Still I find it ironic that I of previous bra clasp release-ability have now gone without touching one, bra or contents, for a long time. But then I’m also no longer in my mid-twenties, and I’m no longer married. 51 and widowered 5 years ago, and having quite a hard time getting back on the horse, or in the saddle, or whatever metaphor doesn’t sound too suggestive, or too pathetic. Basically, I suck at dating. Maybe I waited too long. I was wrecked by the loss of my wife, and had young teens at home I was suddenly raising on my own, so despite friends and professionals pushing, I waited. About three and a half years I waited. Which means I’ve been at it for about a year and half, and it’s really kind of miserable. For those of you unhappily married in your 50s, forget about it. Get help, make it work, get happy, or stay miserable — all better options than get single. Sorry to the many I’m about to offend, potentially including Ms. Right I haven’t yet met, but we’re just not supposed to be dating in our 50s. It’s meant for younger, dumber, hornier people. You know, mid-twenty year olds that marvel at their ability to undo a bra clasp with one hand. Not that I don’t try. I’ve dated about ten women over the last year or so — all introductions from friends, plus one from an online service. Five turned into second dates. Only one has gone beyond the second date, and I really blew that one. It was when I’d just started dating, and on the third date the opportunity to kiss her was incredibly clear, but I was just too rusty to recognize it. We went out again but the moment was gone and she lost interest. I rebounded by making out furiously on the next second date I had with someone else, realizing about halfway into it I wasn’t attracted to her at all. And that’s it right there. That’s why dating isn’t for 50-year-olds. At twenty something, I’d never have missed the moment for the kiss on that date. If anything, I’d probably have gone the other way — moved sooner, before the right moment arrived. And on the rebound make out session, which seemed like it could’ve gone much further, in my twenties I’d never have stopped when I realized I wasn’t attracted to her. In fact, in my twenties I’d probably have slept with over half the women I’ve dated the last year. Again, not that I was Casanova, just that I was younger, dumber, hornier. If you’re wondering about the equipment, Doc checked the testosterone level and I’m good. And no blue pill required here, the elevator still moves up and down with ease. So horny, while not what it was at twenty something, is still there. Younger, however, really is gone. One of the smaller but real things I grieved when I lost my wife was knowing I was always about 27 years old in her eyes, as she was in mine, and that was never going to happen again — not with her, not with anyone else. I’ve accepted that younger is gone. But it’s the dumb that’s really missing. I’ve gotten too damn smart. I know myself like I didn’t at twenty something. Comfortable with this guy now too, so there’s less that’s likely to change. I was married for twenty years, so I know what a relationship is and I’ve met a lot of people and done a lot of things, so I also know who and what I like. My life is built, as are the lives of the women I date, so the hoop has gotten higher, and it’s hard to be dumb about it. I’ve got a second date this Saturday night. We’re opposed on politics, religion, and most social policy that stems from those two hot buttons. My kids are almost all grown while she’s still got one in single digits. And in the all-important geography of Southern California traffic patterns, she lives at least two bottlenecks away. It’s hard to be dumb about all that. But she’s very bright, very attractive and has an easy laugh. And if I did go to Rome tomorrow, I think “un tavulo por due, per favore” is pretty phonetically close to “a table for two, please,” which means my Italian isn’t as rusty as I thought.
Continue reading …
I used to be able to undo a bra clasp with one hand. Without looking. That’s right, reach around the back with one hand while the other was occupied, lift it up off the skin, squeeze it together and then release. It wasn’t something I intentionally practiced, nor was I some modern day Casanova, but somewhere in my mid-twenties there had been enough girlfriends, enough evenings, enough attempts at undoing that unique clasp that it just happened. Then, for a brief period it was kind of my thing. Didn’t brag about it, just knew I could do it. A couple of women noticed, one of them became my wife. Of course, once I was married it quickly became a useless skill. I’m guessing its now sort of like my Italian. If I go to Rome tomorrow I might be able to ask for a table for two, but I might just as likely insult the maître de. Still I find it ironic that I of previous bra clasp release-ability have now gone without touching one, bra or contents, for a long time. But then I’m also no longer in my mid-twenties, and I’m no longer married. 51 and widowered 5 years ago, and having quite a hard time getting back on the horse, or in the saddle, or whatever metaphor doesn’t sound too suggestive, or too pathetic. Basically, I suck at dating. Maybe I waited too long. I was wrecked by the loss of my wife, and had young teens at home I was suddenly raising on my own, so despite friends and professionals pushing, I waited. About three and a half years I waited. Which means I’ve been at it for about a year and half, and it’s really kind of miserable. For those of you unhappily married in your 50s, forget about it. Get help, make it work, get happy, or stay miserable — all better options than get single. Sorry to the many I’m about to offend, potentially including Ms. Right I haven’t yet met, but we’re just not supposed to be dating in our 50s. It’s meant for younger, dumber, hornier people. You know, mid-twenty year olds that marvel at their ability to undo a bra clasp with one hand. Not that I don’t try. I’ve dated about ten women over the last year or so — all introductions from friends, plus one from an online service. Five turned into second dates. Only one has gone beyond the second date, and I really blew that one. It was when I’d just started dating, and on the third date the opportunity to kiss her was incredibly clear, but I was just too rusty to recognize it. We went out again but the moment was gone and she lost interest. I rebounded by making out furiously on the next second date I had with someone else, realizing about halfway into it I wasn’t attracted to her at all. And that’s it right there. That’s why dating isn’t for 50-year-olds. At twenty something, I’d never have missed the moment for the kiss on that date. If anything, I’d probably have gone the other way — moved sooner, before the right moment arrived. And on the rebound make out session, which seemed like it could’ve gone much further, in my twenties I’d never have stopped when I realized I wasn’t attracted to her. In fact, in my twenties I’d probably have slept with over half the women I’ve dated the last year. Again, not that I was Casanova, just that I was younger, dumber, hornier. If you’re wondering about the equipment, Doc checked the testosterone level and I’m good. And no blue pill required here, the elevator still moves up and down with ease. So horny, while not what it was at twenty something, is still there. Younger, however, really is gone. One of the smaller but real things I grieved when I lost my wife was knowing I was always about 27 years old in her eyes, as she was in mine, and that was never going to happen again — not with her, not with anyone else. I’ve accepted that younger is gone. But it’s the dumb that’s really missing. I’ve gotten too damn smart. I know myself like I didn’t at twenty something. Comfortable with this guy now too, so there’s less that’s likely to change. I was married for twenty years, so I know what a relationship is and I’ve met a lot of people and done a lot of things, so I also know who and what I like. My life is built, as are the lives of the women I date, so the hoop has gotten higher, and it’s hard to be dumb about it. I’ve got a second date this Saturday night. We’re opposed on politics, religion, and most social policy that stems from those two hot buttons. My kids are almost all grown while she’s still got one in single digits. And in the all-important geography of Southern California traffic patterns, she lives at least two bottlenecks away. It’s hard to be dumb about all that. But she’s very bright, very attractive and has an easy laugh. And if I did go to Rome tomorrow, I think “un tavulo por due, per favore” is pretty phonetically close to “a table for two, please,” which means my Italian isn’t as rusty as I thought.
Continue reading …
Restaurants have plenty of highly debated policies — telling customers how they can order, who they’re allowed to bring, how they can pay and even how long they’re allowed to hang out. You can’t even loiter in a Starbucks anymore (unless you want the po-po involved). We decided to take a look at both sides of some of the most controversial restaurant policies out there — let us know where you stand on each one!
Continue reading …Restaurants have plenty of highly debated policies — telling customers how they can order, who they’re allowed to bring, how they can pay and even how long they’re allowed to hang out. You can’t even loiter in a Starbucks anymore (unless you want the po-po involved). We decided to take a look at both sides of some of the most controversial restaurant policies out there — let us know where you stand on each one!
Continue reading …Restaurants have plenty of highly debated policies — telling customers how they can order, who they’re allowed to bring, how they can pay and even how long they’re allowed to hang out. You can’t even loiter in a Starbucks anymore (unless you want the po-po involved). We decided to take a look at both sides of some of the most controversial restaurant policies out there — let us know where you stand on each one!
Continue reading …