ORA Patricia Gallager Picture Book Award 2009----and the winner is...

Not Norman! But, NOT NORMAN, A Goldfish Story came in 2nd with 5,189 votes. The winner is Chameleon's Colors by Chisato Tishiro. As part of the award selection process, a list of related books and activities was created included this delightful poem:

Ode to Norman by Karen Antikajian

How I love your brilliant color Like a comet in the sky, Shimmering in the dark— No nightlight needed. The lap, lap, lap Of the clear blue water as you calmly circle ‘round, Soothes me to sleep. Your non-flinching attentiveness, Even with my sour notes, Helps me to practice patiently On my shiny sousaphone. And, Norman, I love that you Stick so close to home— Never wandering away. You warm my heart.

For more about ORA Patricia Galager Picture Book Awards and activities for Not Norman and the other nominated books visit http://oregonread.org/gallagheraward09.html.

Van Gogh's Ear--Playing Dirty

"Do you know the real reason Van Gogh cut off his ear?” Esteban Vicente asked John Canaday, former art critic for the New York Times.

“No, why?” Canaday said.

“Because he couldn’t stand listening to critics anymore.”

This exchange is repeated in Audrey Flack’s book Art & Soul. It is preceded by this conversation between Flack and Jimmy Ernst:

“Jimmy: I’m doing bad work…there’s hope.”

“Audrey: I did bad work for a year when I began doing watercolors again after a break of over twenty years.

“Jimmy: There was a time when it was not held against artists to show bad work. It was expected in terms of their development. There was no sudden death in art then. There is now. Art was a friend. You didn’t drop a friend because she or he made a mistake.”

I have not been doing “bad work” nor have I had cause lately to want to cut off my ear. The sad reality is that I haven’t been doing any work. Nothing. I have a notebook of ideas on top of my desk. A few months ago those ideas were niggling, calling, singing at me to write, write, write them.

Over the past years I have developed a “sneak attack” method to approaching new story idea. When a story idea sang to me, instead of trying to write it out, I ignore it. Usually, the idea keeps calling—louder, Louder, LOUDER until finally I have to write it.

But this time, for some reason, while I was waiting, thinking I was so smart to give my subconscious time, that monster critic who sits on my shoulder nattering and badgering me about how lousy my work is--how it’s not good enough, not funny enough, not fresh--took control.

And now I am not writing because I am scared to do “bad work.”

I used to do bad work all the time. It didn’t faze me—maybe because I didn’t know it was bad. I hadn’t learned the “bad art” lesson yet. Like most kids, I slapped and splashed, scribbled and scrawled joyously. Our kid-art was wonderful because we created it.

But now, like many supposed adults, I’m scared to do badly. And not just at writing, either. If I don’t think I can dance well, I don’t dance. I don’t ice skate because I might fall or look silly. I don’t try cooking anything I don’t already sort of know how to cook. I quit art class because I was lousy at drawing—and because I was lousy, I didn’t let myself enjoy it. And now, now that I’m a “published” author, with editors who want to read my work, I’m not writing because I am scared to write. I am so worried about what the critics might say that I have forsaken my friend.

Damn the Monster Critic!

Somehow I, we—all of us who have creation anxiety, all of us with a Monster Critic sitting on our shoulder, judging our every move before we even make it— have got to pull a Van Gosh. Cut off our critic-tuned ears.

Whatever it takes: dancing him dizzy or turning up the music, drugging him, or dazzling him with disco light, somehow we have got to kick the Monster Critic to the curb. Destroy him, or at very least distract him for a while so the kid in us can come out and play.

Come on! Let’s get dirty. Let’s do some bad work!

NOT NORMAN circles the globe!

World news! NOT NORMAN, a GOLDFISH STORY is available in Korea--both as an audio CD and a paperback book. Can you say "Happy Fish" in Korean?

International Lettering System—Jakarta Style

Today is Curtis’s birthday. We celebrated with dinner out. (We actually celebrated twice, but this story pertains to the first time.) Sriwijaya Restaurant is an elegant—translation haute cuisine and high priced—dining experience. When I made the dinner reservation, I also arranged for a birthday cake to be presented after dinner. “Will you put his name on the cake?” I asked.

“Yes, Madame, so it will say Happy Birthday Mr. Bennett.”

“Instead of Bennett, please put his first name? Curtis?”

“Let me spell that Madame.” The concierge began with K for Kurtis, and I left it alone. (Ok, Curtis doesn’t spell his name with a K, but in Indonesia, the letter C is pronounced “Ch” so Curtis ends up being Churtis or Kurtis when it is pronounced correctly.) Besides the Kurtis spelling amuses me. So we moved on to the next letter, U.

U is U, pronounced Uoo so that was easy, but that was as far as we got. A complicated back and forth ensued, with me saying letters, the concierge misunderstanding them, transposing them, or adding extras when I repeated bits.

Frustrated, I tried the International Lettering System (ILS)—using a common word for each letter. Unfortunately, I don’t know the ILS beyond A-Alpha, B for Beta. However, recalling my previous experience with an ILS, I tried that city/country lettering system. I decided against going back to C is for Cuba, U is for Uruguay and pushed on: K-UOO-R for Rome?

“Apa Madame? Rome??? Mr. Rome?”

Success was finally achieved when we created our own lettering system, a blend of the traditional International Lettering System and our shared vocabulary.

“K like in my name, Kelly…Uoo…R like in Romeo…T-Tango…I, like Islam…S, like Sambal.

He laughed. “I like Islam, S like Sambal?” He repeated. “Betul? Correct Madame?”

“Betul, correct.” I assured him.

“May I repeat, Madame…Happy Birthday Mr. Kurtis Bennett.”

“Yes, that’s nice, tapi, but, can you only put his first name?”

“Oh, so how?"

"His first name only…Kurtis sendiri.”

“Oh yes, not Bennett.”

“Betul, correct.”

“So, can I repeat for you madam, Indonesian style.”

“Yes, please.”

“Happy Birthday Mr. Kurtis…Kay-UOO-Romeo-Tengo-Islam-Sambal.”

Yes! Success!

As planned, after dinner a cake was presented to the table. A luscious chocolate glazed confection. Across the top was a white chocolate banner upon which, in chocolate letters, was written: Happy Birthday!

No name. Better safe than sorry, I suppose.

Honoring Lucky the Goldfish

Lucky the Goldfish passed away last week. He was a dear friend and companion to my editor Sarah and her partner, Lori. (I think, if I remember correctly, Lucky was actually one of those carnival goldfish Sarah won at a fair, hence his name.) For more than 9 years Lucky had flapped and fluttered around in his bowl, blowing bubbles, gobbling nibbles, making sure that Sarah and Lori never came home to an empty house. And, in his quiet, fishy way, Lucky was responsible for my story, NOT NORMAN, A Goldfish Story being published. Several years back, say 2002 or earlier, my agent, Erin, heard Sarah speak at a conference. During the Q&A following Sarah’s presentation some one asked the question everyone always asks editors: Is there any story you are looking for? Sarah burst into her Lucky the Goldfish story and how she would love, love to receive a manuscript about a goldfish…

As it so happened, I had goldfish—a pond full of them—and a Goldfish picture book manuscript: Not Norman. The rest, as they say, is history.

People who call themselves “real pet people” i.e. dog, cat, horse, hamster lovers poke fun at us fishy folks. They think the only good pet is one who crawls, climbs or claws. They need the tactile connection those types of pets provide.

We fishy folks are beyond all that. We appreciate fish for what they are and do. A lot of what looks like nothing. Fish swim around in their watery worlds, drifting, floating, bubbling, dreaming fishing dreams while the rest of us drive ourselves and everyone else nuts rushing, rushing, doing, and begging for more.

The only begging Lucky ever did was a meal time. And that wasn’t really begging that was more like a reminder. A hey, remember me while you’re stuffing that cracker into your gullet. How’s about tossing me a treat, too, while you’re at it?

Here’s to Lucky!

Secret Stores...A Good Thing?

Jakarta’s imported food situation has reached CODE RED--CRISIS level. Thanksgiving 2006 was the first time we were personally affected by imported food shortages—canned cranberries and pumpkin, stuffing mix and marshmallows were no where to be found. Everyone American we knew was hunting for them, searching cupboards, sending SMS updates with markets checked, hording was rumored, clandestine trips to Singapore grocery stores planned. Since all the other usual imported goods were available, we chalked that shortage up to a general lack of knowledge about necessary Thanksgiving foods—after all, it is an American holiday.

The next imported food crisis moved into the CODE YELLOW category as it included alcohol thus affecting the entire Ex-pat community. Word was it was due to Muslim Indonesia’s aversion to alcoholic beverages—or someone didn’t pay off the right customs people.

The crisis after that followed the Melamine scare and met with a sympathetic CODE GOOD. Sure we were all irritated by the unavailability of our favorite comfort foods, including mayonnaise, salad dressing, cheese, cereal—specifically bran cereals (those of a certain age worry about regularity), and pickles, but we appreciated the Indonesian governments quick reaction to the Melamine scare and their efforts to protect us from possible harm. (That scare, you might recall, prompted the great Pickle Making Experiment of January 2009. For more than you want to read on that see the blog posting Jan. 7: “Pickled.”)

Government Line has it that the current food shortage is because certain…most… seemingly all of the usual imported foods do not meet the rigid labeling requirements for imports. This stuck me as funny since I didn’t know Indonesia had labeling requirements at all.

This current food crisis, which has already lasted 6 or more months— with no end in sight— is forcing Expats in need to take action. Visitors are being sent shopping lists with items they must hide in their luggage before relatives will welcome them into Jakarta. Back in the day, as the old-timers tell it, bringing back coolers stuffed with forbidden pork items, including diapers and kiddie food was routine. But that was in the good old days of generous baggage and weight allowances on airplanes. Suitcases are being checked on day-long doctor trips to Singapore so they can be stuffed full for the return flights and…”Secret Stores” are springing up.

This morning my e-mail included a note from one of the most active Secret Stores.” The advert read: OUR "SECRET STORE" HAS LIMITED SUPPLIES OF THINGS YOU MAY BE LOOKING FOR! Order NOW while supplies last!

The note went on to list “necessary” items available including:

• Downey Fabric Softener, 40 sheets Rp 45,000; 90 sheets 90,000
• Texas Pork Breakfast Sausage, RP 70,000 per pound
• Oscar Meyer Bacon, 1 pound, Rp 70,000
• Oscar Meyer Hot Dogs, 8 pack, Rp 70,000
• 8 Hot Dog buns (no brand noted—don’t hot dog buns usually come in packs of 10?)
• Velveeta Cheese-ish product, 8 oz; Red Cheddar Block, 8 oz; Rp 40,000
• Imported Cream Cheese, 8 oz, Rp 50,000
• Gold Medal Flour, 5-lb. Rp 60,000, 2-lb. Rp 30,000
• Whole Wheat Flour, Rp 40,000 per kg
• Imported Pure Cane Sugar, best for baking! Rp 60,000 per lb.
• Powdered Sugar, for icings! Rp 60,000 per lb.
• Brown Sugar, Rp 60,000 per lb.
• Chocolate Chips, Rp 50,000 per 12-oz. bag
• Vanilla Extract, Rp 40,000 per 100-gram bottle
• Desiccated Coconut, Rp 50,000 per lb.
• Baker's Angel Flake Coconu, Rp 70,000 per lb.
• Cocoa Powder, Rp 50,000 per lb.
• PAM Non-Stick Cooking Spra, Rp 90,000 per can

What interested me about these "secret stores" (aside from the exorbitant price one pays for contraband) is this: with the exception of PAM Non-Stick Cooking Spray, local substitute are readily available for each of them—including bacon, sausage, and hot dogs for which beef and chicken versions abound. Sure the flavor, texture, and bakeablity is different, sometimes odd—for instance, local flour is much finer and fluffier than good-ole Gold Medal so more is needed to make cookies puff-up; and in the case of the chocolate chip substitute, a baker has to smash up Cadbury bars thus creating chunks instead of tidy chips. If, however, one is truly desperate, the local products work

What really made me stop and think was the cost of these items. Sure, if one really, really, really needs Hellman’s Mayonnaise, as I do, even though a local version and Curtis’s fav, Miracle Whip (gag) are sold, then one will do just about anything including pay through the nose, break laws…break legs and backs, to get them. But seriously, Downey Softener Sheets???

One thing Indonesia does have, which rivals or surpasses any available anywhere, is fresh, fresh, fresh, fruit and vegetables, eggs, fish and chicken—and so cheap. So I ask myself and you, whether shopping in a “Secret Store,” smuggling, or cruising Wal-Mart or Whole Food aisles: Beyond the cost in terms of money or freedom, what is the cost of these items in terms of our health?

P.S. The spellchecker in Microsoft Word has Hellman’s, Velveeta, and Wal-Mart pre-loaded in the dictionary. Go figure...

Be Warned Monster Ikan Lele: Maybe Your Days are Numbered

Yesterday, offhandedly, when Rusnati and I were discussing the need for more fish food, she commented on the size of the Ikan Lele--the slimy, bewhiskered, suspected murderous fish currently occupying our pond.

“When they are big enough is Rohemon going to eat them?” I asked.

She nodded, considering. “Munkin, maybe,” and giggled. “Munkin Rohemon and Sugiman."

“Good.” I nodded, remembering the last time she and her daughter Andrea wadded in to catch the pond fish. I want to be there for this Great Lele Capture, too.

Beware! Be warned! slimy monster fish lurk beneath these seemingly harmless drain-clogging water lily leaves.

“Maybe Mister will want to eat them,” Rusnati continued.

Ignore It...It Will Go Away

The lease on our Jakarta house has been renewed! Both parties are delighted. The landlord is happy we are staying; we are happy to have the process done with…almost.

Rusnati and I have discussed this vacant house problem with regards to Rohemon’s mother’s home in the Kampung, a village near Cirebon.

His mother, Ibu Rohemon, passed away about 4 months ago. (Ibu means lady and mother.) It is common to address a grown woman as “Ibu” followed by her given name, or the name of her child, in this case it means Mother of Rohemon. (A maiden lady, either unmarried or young, is called “Nona.” I want to be called “Nona.”) Ibu Rohemon’s passing left her home, with all her belongings inside, empty and vulnerable. A situation that has caused Rusnati and Rohemon ceaseless worry.

As I mentioned previously, the lease renewal process is complicated. Unlike rentals in the States, before resigning a lease the tenant and landlord negotiate what repairs/changes will be made. Also unlike in the States, often the rental price goes down a little or stays the same—the landlord’s way of saying thank you for not leaving me with a vacant house. The nice part about this lease renewal system is, as a tenant, one has the opportunity to have the house repaired, repainted, and even remodeled. Some Expats, my friend Rena, for instance, love, love, love lease renewal time! She had every bathroom updated, the kitchen completely remodeled, and a covered patio built; another friend, Beverly, had them knock out walls and expand her closet. In comparison, our list is small—painting, refinishing woodwork, oh and to replace a tub in one bath with a shower. (I decided to be nice and leave the pond as is for now. The monster ikan lele are grow fast—bigger and more sinister every day.)

During the negotiation process, I heavily stressed that our house is a showcase, and how several other families have moved into this and other complexes owned by the same family after visiting us. So, when the landlord’s representative, Ibu Adiz Lin (spelled as it sounds), phoned to make an appointment to finalize the repair list with me, we set the stage. Rusnati and I had the house ready: clutter hidden, candles lit, music playing, when she arrived.

Adiz Lin is a delightful Chinese-Indonesian who looks 20, is probably 35, and speaks perfect English (lucky me.) As we walked through the house discussing each item on the list, Adiz Lin commented on how lovely everything was. I thanked her, smugly congratulating myself on being a model tenant and brilliant house manager.

On the way out the kitchen door to the servant’s quarters, I emphasized that item #4 on the list: Paint Outside of House included the servant’s quarters. I spoke in a tone intending to convey “you have seen my home; my servants deserve the best, too.” Everyone was busy busy in the back of the house: Losari, who helps Rusnati with ironing, stood in one bedroom (sweat cell) ironing away; Rohemon sat fiddling with gardening tools; Rusnati hung laundry; Aan sat on his perch in the garage. All was right in our little world.

Rusnati has a list, too,” I told Adiz Lin. On cue, Rusnati ran to get her list. Aan popped his nosy head in from the garage. Instantly an animated discussion began with everyone chiming in with needed repairs. Rohemon wanted branches cut off the mango tree because the leaves blew everywhere—even over the roof to the front of the house, clogging the gutters, making more work; Aan wanted to be sure “his” garage was painted, along with the rest; Rusnati wanted the latched fixed on the kitchen door, etc. etc. When the chatter died, I started on my list:

“Are there were any other repairs needed in the bedrooms?”

“No.”

“The kitchen area?”

“Paint only.”

Adiz Lin walked beside me looking in and taking notes as I continued.

“What about the mandi? Adiz Lin started toward the bathroom door.

Rohemon jumped in front of the door, blocking her entry.

“No,” Rusnati called.< Everyone fell silent. They looked at each other.

“What?” I asked.

“Tikus,” Rohemon muttered. A rat was trapped in the mandi. A huge one I surmised from the distance between the hands he held up—they were about 18 inches apart.

“In the mandi?” Adiz Lin repeated. “A rat? Show me.”

Another rapid-fire discussion ensued during which even Losari took part. No one wanted that door open. No one wanted to see the rat.

Adiz Lin did, though.

Rohemon stepped aside. The women-folk (me included) pushed back against the walls to make room for the rat to run unhindered. Aan took a step back and Adiz Lin reached for the handle.

She eased open the door.

We watched, waiting.

Rohemon peeked inside. Rusnati, Aan, and Adiz Lin peeked inside.

She opened it wider. The rock covering the drain hole had been pushed off to the side. The rat was gone. But there were plenty fish oil capsule-sized poo-poos surrounded the drain hole to prove its existence.

Aan and Rohemon continued the “tikus” tour. It seems that there is a hole in the garage, too. Rats come into the garage at night leaving poo-poos behind.

The garage is attached to the house…attached…inches away…could that be what’s making those night noises?

Rohemon pointed out a hole in the screen leading to the back yard. “Masuk,” he stated, the entrance.

I go from shocked to humiliated, embarrassed, mortified…MAD. There went my House Beautiful/Model Tenant of the Year Award—and my bargaining chips. And after all my bragging about how well we take care of their property…

Why hadn’t anyone told me about the rats? It’s not as if we have never used rat poison before. Like the time I spotted that giant rat drinking from the pond waterfall and after we found the rat’s nest behind the pillows on the Bali bed…and then there was that rat, when Mike and Liz were visiting, the one that ran behind Liz’s chair during dinner and we pretended not to notice so she wouldn’t freak. This is April for crying out loud. It’s not Ramadan, when you’re not supposed to harm anything, that’s months away. Between Aan, Rusnati, and Rohemon, you’d think one of them would have told me we need RAT POISON. (Come to think of it, maybe this is why Losari makes up excuses to leave work early, and why she hides in that sweat cell.)

And here I thought Rusnati told me everything. She certainly tells me plenty; so does Aan. Now, come to find out, a dog-sized rat and its rat family takes full run of the back of the house, eating, chewing, biting whatever they chose and no one, not one of them, says a word to me about it. They simply closed the door.

Ignore it, and it will go away… Seriously?