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The Straight-from-the-Author-Herself
Version I think what gets me feeling itchy is all that emphasis on the facts of a life, while all the juicy, relevant, human oddity stuff gets left on the cutting room floor. I could tell you the facts–I lived in Texas for most of my life; I live in New York City with my husband and six-year-old son now; I have freckles and a lopsided smile; I'm allergic to penicillin. But that doesn't really give you much insight into me. That doesn't tell you that I stuck a bead up my nose while watching TV when I was four and thought I'd have to go to the ER and have it cut out. Or that I once sang a punk version of "Que Sera Sera" onstage in New York City. Or that I made everyone call me "Bert" in ninth grade for no reason that I can think of. See what I mean? God is in the details. So with that in mind, here is my bio. Sort of.
1. I lived in Texas until I was 26 years old, then I moved to New York City with $600.00 in my shoe ('cause muggers won't take it out of your shoe, y'know . . . riiiiight . . .) and a punchbowl (my grandmother's gift) under my arm. I ended up using the punchbowl box as an end table for two years. 2. My dad was a Presbyterian minister. Yes, I am one of those dreaded P.K.s–Preacher's Kids. Be afraid. Be very afraid . . . 3. The first story I ever wrote, in Mrs. McBee's 6th grade English class, was about a girl whose family is kidnapped and held hostage by a murderous lot of bank robbers who intend to kill the whole family–including the dog–until the 12-year-old heroine foils the plot and saves the day. It included colored pencil illustrations of manly-looking, bearded criminals smoking, and, oblivious to the fact that The Beatles had already sort of laid claim to the title, I called my novel, HELP. My mom still has a copy. And when I do something she doesn't like, she threatens to find it. 4. My favorite word is "redemption." I like both its meaning and the sound. My least favorite word is "maybe." "Maybe" is almost always a "no" drawn out in cruel fashion. 5. My three worst habits are overeating, self-doubt, and the frequent use of the "f" word. 6. The three things I like best about myself are my sense of humor, my ability to listen, and my imagination. 7. I have an artificial left eye. I lost my real eye in a car accident when I was eighteen. In fact, I had to have my entire face rebuilt because I smashed it up pretty good. It took six years and thirteen surgeries. However, I did have the pleasure of freezing a plastic eyeball in an ice cube, putting it in a friend's drink, ("Eyeball in your highball?") and watching him freak completely. Okay, so maybe that's not going down on my good karma record. But it sure was fun. 8. In 7th grade, my three best friends and I dressed up as KISS and walked around our neighborhood on Halloween. Man, we were such dorks. 9. I once spent New Year's Eve in a wetsuit. I'd gone to the party in a black dress that was a little too tight (too many holiday cookies) and when I went to sit down, the dress ripped up the back completely. Can we all say, mortified? The problem was, my friends were moving out of their house–everything was packed and on a truck–and there was nothing I could put on . . . but a wetsuit that they still had tacked to the wall. I spent the rest of the party maneuvering through throngs of people feeling like a giant squid. 10. I got married in Florence, Italy. My husband and I were in love but totally broke, so we eloped and got married in Italy, where he was going on a business trip. We had to pull a guy off the street to be our witness. It was incredibly romantic. Florence is still one of my favorite cities in the world. 11. My favorite way to write is to take my laptop, Lucille, (I name all my computers) and sit in my favorite coffeehouse with a hot cup o’ joe while listening to eclectic music mixes chosen randomly by the baristas. 12. I'm related to Davy Crockett on my mom's side. Honest. 13. I grew up doing theatre and spent a long time as a playwright. I still think very visually when I write. 14. Some of my favorite movies of all time (subject to change when I think of other movies I love) are All About Eve, Brazil, Blade Runner, Spinal Tap, Citizen Kane, Harold & Maude, To Kill a Mockingbird, Singin' in the Rain, and probably a million more that I can't think of right now. I have never made it through The Wizard of Oz without crying. Not once. 15. Naming my favorite books feels like naming a favorite child–impossible. But here's my list of some Y.A. books I love as of 4:03pm today. TITHE by Holly Black. TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD by Harper Lee. CATCHER IN THE RYE by J. D. Salinger. LORD OF THE FLIES by William Golding. 33 SNOWFISH by Adam Rapp. WHALE TALK by Chris Crutcher. BLOOD AND CHOCOLATE by Annette Curtis Klause. THE BELL JAR by Sylvia Plath (not really Y.A. but I read it when I was 16 and it rocked my world). SPEAK by Laurie Halse Anderson. 16. I love to be scared. Not "hey, I think I smell smoke . . ." scared, but creepy, paranoid, what's-that-out-there-in-the-dark, ghost story scared. It's no surprise that I was the girl who got invited to the slumber parties because I could be counted on to tell a tale to scare the bejesus out of you. 17. In homage to a book I just read entitled, FIVE MEN WHO BROKE MY HEART, I submit: The first boy who broke my heart (age 6) didn't want to sit next to me because I'd wet my pants in reading circle once and he thought I was gross. Damn my small bladder! The second boy who broke my heart (age 16) was a drummer with a band (the start of a trend, folks…) and he threw me over for a really cool chick I couldn't even bring myself to hate. The third boy who broke my heart (ages 20—24, ay yi yi . . .) was a strapping hunk of bodaciousness with the mind of Einstein. We had the exact same birthday, same year and everything. So the time he forgot to wish me a happy birthday was kind of the beginning of the end, I think. The fourth boy who broke my heart (age 25) was also a drummer. I had to stop with the drummers. 18. I'm one of those people who has to write. If I don't write, I feel itchy and depressed and cranky. So everybody's glad when I write and stop complaining already. 19. My Pennsylvania Dutch great-great-great grandmother was supposedly a psychic who could see and speak to the dead. Sort of a witch, I guess. Her husband was an undertaker, and she would have these visions of someone bringing in a string of a particular size (people were measured for their coffins in this way) and it would come true. Creepy stuff, but fascinating. 20. If I were stuck on a deserted island, the five indispensable CDs I'd take would be London Calling by the Clash, Quadrophenia by The Who, Aretha Franklin's Greatest Hits, To Venus and Back by Tori Amos, and Elvis Costello's Greatest Hits. 21. I hate doughnuts. Weird but true. The Infomercial Version: Libba Bray is TOTALLY COVERED IN NATURAL HAIR! When she’s not writing or online shopping, she’s SAYING ALOHA TO THE ISLANDS in her NEW CAR! With plush, velvet seats and rack-and-pinion steering, Libba is one frisky filly who knows how to KNIT THE COMPLETE ELVIS PIETA from the comfort of her VERY OWN HOME! Call now to enjoy all the healthful benefits of a Libba. Satisfaction guaranteed or your Libba money squandered in ENDLESS PURSUITS OF PERSONAL PLEASURE! Void where prohibited by law. But do not void on the living room rug. People don’t like that. And they won’t invite you back. Just saying. The Ikea Instructions Version
The No-Frills Version The Build-Your-Own Bio Version 8888A) born, hatched,
left on a doorstep (book—can change to Some Great and Terrible Lists) THE LISTS PAGE I’m a compulsive list maker, always have been since eighth grade, when my best friend and I would make lists of rock stars and jr. high hotties who were going to fall madly in love with us…any second…honest. I don’t make lists of anything useful, say, a grocery or to-do list. Why, that’s crazy talk! And it would ruin the fun. Nope, if it ain’t a total waste of time, the kind of list that’s absolutely devoid of any nutritional value, well, it’s not my kind of list. To wit: FAVORITE GUILTY PLEASURES Valley of the Dolls (book and movie). My grandmother busted me for watching this movie when I was eight. (She was right.) When I was thirteen, I read the Jacqueline Susann novel once through, picked it up and read it straight through again. The movie is so bad it will make you scream with laughter, with overblown lines like, “Ted Casablanca’s no fag. And I’m the dame who can prove it.” It puts the amp in camp. No wonder I love it. Jolly Rancher Green Apple sticks. I love these awful things. I love the way the plastic wrap sticks to it in strips and you have to peel it off with your fingernails or ingest the occasional piece so that you end up doing the so attractive cat-with-a-hairball cough. I love the chemical, way-too-apple taste. I love the way it turns your tongue an unholy shade of Kelly green and sticks to your teeth, making them tacky as flypaper. I love that they could survive a nuclear winter. In fact, I’m jonesing for one right this minute. Wet ‘N’ Wild lip gloss. The cheapest makeup in the drugstore and the best, in my humble opinion. It’s good and gunky and shiny, and at $1.99, within my meager budget. Cubic zirconia. What can I say? I love sparkly things. And I can’t afford the real stuff. It’s like the slightly more grown-up version of the gumball machine ring. Bed, Bath, and Beyond. Somehow, just knowing there is an airplane hangar-sized store where I can find both potato mashers AND shower curtains, area rugs AND Swedish fish, well, it makes me feel like the world is safe for democracy. Crafts. Don’t get between me and my glue gun, that’s all I’m saying. Sequins, glitter glue, scrapbooking scissors, card stock, metal, flower brads, stamping, embossing…it’s all good. This is my therapy, my “Rainman” time. Once, Holly Black (Tithe, Spiderwick) and I went on a two-hour tear through an A.C. Moore in upstate New York like a couple of whacked-out punk Martha Stewarts. Then we discovered we’d locked the keys in the trunk. But that’s another story. Car radio. Some people are annoyed beyond reason by the scan-and-search mode, but I love it. I love road trips, and I love when the radio station flickers and fades into choppy static, and I have to turn the knob with the precision of a WWII code breaker, listening for the sonar of life in the distance. I love listening to that strange aural collage of AM/FM, Tejano, power pop, college bikini metal, ‘80’s new wave, country twang, religious revival meeting and the occasional broken-hearts song that brings back a memory like a bruise. It makes me feel like I’m moving toward something, that something great is only a signal tower away and getting stronger. You’re never alone if you’ve got a car radio. Starbucks Mocha Frappucino. Okay, so it costs more than a meal in most diners. So it’s got a gazillion calories and they’re all empty. So the cracked-out caffeine level makes me jumpier than a trailer owner during tornado season. So it’s poured out of a plastic pitcher and God only knows what’s really in it. It tastes GOOD, man! What do you want from me? Don’t forget the whipped cream, either. Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. The 1960’s claymation Christmas spectacular that scared the bejesus out of me as a kid. It still weirds me out, but I watch it every year. And I cry when they get to the Island of Misfit Toys. No toy is an island—do you hear me?! Cheesy sports movies. You know the ones. There’s an underdog team and they’re totally outclassed but they bust their butts and triumph in the end. Think “Hoosiers.” “Miracle.” “Bad News Bears.” “Bend It Like Beckham.” ESPN Classic Sports documentaries. This is the Velveeta of my cheesy pleasures. And speaking of Velveeta… Velveeta. Can’t make queso without it. Listen, you can take the girl out of Texas…but, well, you know. Aqua-Net Hairspray, Extra-Hold. And speaking of Texas…Okay, this really is a guilty pleasure because with every spray, I am personally taking a sledgehammer to the ozone layer. But with this stuff, it’s possible you can plug the hole with your own hair, once you’ve shellacked it into Marge Simpson dimensions. Hammer Horror films. These are all those godawful horror films of the late-1960’s, early-1970’s period starring Peter Cushing and other veddy, veddy British actors and featuring women in extremely low-cut gowns and total 1960’s bouffant hairdos. The real horror is how bad they are. Xanadu. Possibly one of the worst movies ever made and starring repeat offender, Michael Beck (also in The Warriors). Olivia Newton-John is a muse come to earth, Michael Beck is the completely inexpressive artist who falls in love with her (though he never changes facial expressions so it’s hard to tell), and Gene Kelly is…slumming. There are big, cheesy musical numbers that defy description except to say that this is something you simply have to see at least once if only as a cautionary tale about filmmaking in the disco era. And yes, yes! I have the title track on my Ipod! The shame! The burning shame! Bruce Campbell, B-movie actor. Oh, Bruce. How I love ya. With your square jaw and snarky delivery. You’re the reason I sit through Evil Dead III every time it’s on, just so I can hear you say to the frightened heroine, as the skeletons of the dead prepare to scale the castle walls, “Gimme some sugar, baby.” You’re the reason I rented “Bubba Hotep.” No one else can make me say, Okay, this is getting ready to be weird… the moment they step on screen. Sigh. Oh, Bruce.
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