They are seeking funds to help pay for the memorial.  If you can, please donate.  Make checks payable to Parkway South Bridge Memorial, and send to:

Parkway South High School
c/o Michelle Dempsey
801 Hanna Rd.
Manchester, MO 63021

Thank you for your support.  Kisses & Revolution!

Today is a day that weighs heavily on so many people.  For me, I sit at my desk, sad and distracted.  I’m not getting much work done this afternoon.  Tonight, when I tuck my two daughters into their beds, I will cling to them.  I will try not to worry them with tears.  My brother will spend his day on false bravado, and then, when no one is looking, he will drink a beer and he will weep.  He’ll deny it.  He’ll act like he’s fine, because his life is full of blessings and he has healed.  But there are certain overwhelming days when you can’t stop the memories from swarming, no matter how brave or healthy or macho you might be.  He quit smoking a while ago.  I hope he makes it through today.

I focus on me, on my family, because that is what I know.  But the truth is, so many people are grieving today, for the two decades we have all lost with Julie and Robin.  Murder doesn’t just happen to the people who die.  It happens to everyone who knew and loved them.  All of our aunts and uncles and cousins, Julie’s and Robin’s many beloved friends - they are all remembering, today.  For the Kerry family, Julie’s and Robin’s sisters and parents… well I can’t even imagine the absence, the wound that exists in their daily life, like losing a limb, two limbs.  When I look at my daughters and I think of my Aunt Ginna, who lost her beautiful girls, I simply cannot breathe.

I usually try to be sort of  “public persona” about these blog posts.  I try to be funny and distant and writerly.  But today it’s all shit.  I cry, writing this.  There is still a rage that exists, a tremendous sense of injustice, of fury.  But mostly it’s just grief.  It’s a MISSING.  There is a sense of loss that has shaped and directed my life since I was sixteen years old, even though this violence didn’t happen to me.  It happened to my cousins.  It happened to my brother.  My proximity to that trauma was enough.  I wish that, in those formative years of my life, I could have been defined in some other way.  I wish we all could have been.  I’d like to know who my brother might have been, who Julie and Robin might have been, if that night had never happened.  But Jesus, there’s no use wishing.

Last week I had an event at Left Bank Books for The Outside Boy, and these kids came to the reading: 

They are from Parkway South High School in St. Louis, and that’s their teacher Michelle Dempsey with us, in the back row on the far right.  They recently read A Rip in Heaven in her class.  They were so inspired by Julie and Robin that they decided to petition the city of Madison, Illinois (which owns the Chain of Rocks Bridge), to have a memorial installed at the bridge.  I tried to do something similar a few years ago, and got nowhere with it.  But these kids would not take “no” for an answer.  They harrassed the city until they agreed to the memorial.

I like to think I’m sort of hardened now, that I have something of a thick skin.  But I was moved to tears by these kids, by their dedication to my cousins, by their committment to do something GOOD in their memory.  So this is the feeling that I want to win the day: that Julie and Robin were so extraordinary, that twenty years later, people who didn’t even know them are paying homage to the goodness of their souls.  No one can take that away.

Kisses & Revolution.

The Pulpwood Queens Girlfriends Weekend was quite the experience.  I’m not sure what I was expecting, but Kathy Patrick put together a downright shindig.  That woman is a force of nature.  I met so many wonderful, book-lovin’ people, and also got to dress up in a costume.  I’m pretty sure those are the components of a perfect weekend.

Here is my new best friend, book blogger extraordinaire Marsha Toy Engstrom, who I’ve met before, but who I really got to know this weekend.  She is so smart and lovely and awesome.  You should read her blog. 

And here are Carolyn and I with my other new best friend, David Valdes-Greenwood whom, after one meal, I felt like I had known all my life.  I haven’t read David’s books yet, but I can tell you that he is one of the most natural and delightful storytellers I’ve ever met.  Just sitting and listening to him talk was a treat.  I imagine that reading his books must be akin to eating a tray of brownies.

And here I am attempting to woo a roomful of awesome, southern ladies with my yankee charms:

And here I am very glamorously signing books, after my attempted wooing: 

And then was the COSTUME PARTY, where everyone had to come dressed as a character from a favorite book.  David was late for a very important date:

I was A Star Called Henry by Roddy Doyle, which is one of my all-time favorite books, but which reference was apparently too obscure.  Nobody knew who I was.  And I mean, not for nothing, but my costume even says Henry.  And is a star.  I thought it was sort of obvious, but NO.

Jamie Ford and Kathi Kamen Goldmark were right out of the pages of Alice in Wonderland, and the very beautiful and talented River Jordan was War and Peace. 

I didn’t have the nerve to ask her, but I presume Susan Vreeland came as the world-famous author Susan Vreeland.  Or some very glamorous chick from a Fitzgerald novel.

After the party, we descended on the town’s only bar, where we danced the night away and frightened the locals.

The End.

It’s been a really exciting couple of weeks, and I’m not just talking about the fact that A Golden Christmas is on television right now.  What?? You haven’t seen it?  A special dog helps a woman reunite with a friend that she met years earlier as a child.  But also, THE OUTSIDE BOY was selected as an ALA Editor’s Choice for 2010 - as an outstanding adult book for young readers.  This makes me VERY HAPPY.  I already had a big YA-crossover audience for my first book, and receiving this kind of an award from the American Library Association is just incredibly gratifying.  Plus, it comes with a shiny, shiny SEAL.

Also, this week I got a job teaching Fiction I at Gotham Writers Workshop starting this winter.  It should be tons of fun and very interesting.  When you think about it, most writers are a little bit crazy.  So a bunch of writers in the New York City?  It’s going to be AWESOME crazy.  I can’t wait.  Meanwhile, if you’ll excuse me, I have some halls to deck.

We had house-guests from Boston this weekend, and after a  lovely visit on Friday and Saturday, Saturday night, two of the guests began BLOGGING in earnest.  And by “blogging,” of course, I mean “puking.”  I hoped that my family would escape the ravages of this puking-disease, but knowing how 3-year-olds like to share things, I had a feeling our days were numbered.  This morning, I couldn’t get my daughter to eat her breakfast.  Getting three spoonfuls of strawberry yogurt down her was akin to wrestling one of those cannibal gators on Swamp People.  Thankfully, she didn’t wait until she got into my brand new car to start the strawberry-vomiting.  She threw up all over the floor of the garage.  At least it smelled sorta fruity.

The baby seemed okay until I got her up from her nap and, in the darkened room, kissed the side of her face, only to realize that her face, and now my mouth, were covered in her baby breastmilk vomit.  She laughed.  My kids are better-natured than I am.

So now, I wait.  I know this puke-bug is inside me, lurking.  Any minute now, I will join the ranks of my fallen brethren.  The puking will begin.  I feel like a man on the plank.  I keep hearing Gloria Estefan’s “Rhythm is Gonna Get You,” as the soundtrack for puking, in my mind.  Where “the rhythm” is obviously a metaphor for “the puking.”  Yes, Gloria.  The rhythm IS going to get me.

Finding a hotel room in Jefferson for the weekend was a much more difficult prospect than I anticipated.  The Girlfriend Weekend is a big event in the town, and most of the accommodations were already booked out.  I spent several hours yesterday phoning around to the various inns and B&Bs looking for a baby-friendly place that still had a room available.  There was almost NO ROOM AT THE INN.  So I was delighted when Shirley, from the Pride House returned my call and told me that she still had a couple of rooms available.  While we were on the phone, I typed “Pride House Jefferson” into my google toolbar, to see where her inn was located.  Imagine my horror and excitement when google self-populated my query with the words: “Pride House Jefferson HAUNTED.”  Yes, apparently the Pride House, and MANY OTHER PROPERTIES in Jefferson, Texas, are haunted.  I guess I should have known that Pride House was haunted.  I mean, just look at it - I think a ghost actually took this picture:

In fact, it turns out that Jefferson is the MOST HAUNTED CITY IN TEXAS.  When I asked Shirley if this was true, she replied, “Do you want it to be?”  Um, NO, Shirley!  I WANT TO LIVE!  Shirley reassured me by telling me that she’s sure that the inn will be full that weekend, and we’ll have no trouble finding plenty of other explanations for all of the spooky noises and disembodied voices I am likely to hear during my stay.

I immediately called Carolyn Turgeon and insisted that she switch to my hotel as well, so that my baby and I can leap into bed with her when we hear things that go BUMP in the night, thus lending even FURTHER credence to the lesbian-married-couple rumors.  I’m happy to report that most of the ghosts in Jefferson appear to be friendly.  I hope they like babies and midlist authors.  But not too much.  Hold me.

My good friend Carolyn Turgeon took many lovely photographs of the event, which was held at the very adorable and charming Turn the Page Bookstore in scenic Boonsboro, Maryland,

located directly to the north of Crawfords Restaurant Guns & Ammo.

Inside, the bookshop had one whole room devoted entirely to Nora Roberts’ books, of which, I learned there are OVER TWO HUNDRED. Here I am, glamorously posing with one of them:

We stocked up on caffeine before the event began, but in truth, I did not understand what we were in for.

Nora had very graciously invited several other authors to participate in the event, even though most of the hundreds of people who came, from FAR AND WIDE (Tallahassee, Toledo, Connecticut, even Sacramento!) were there just to see her.  She was so generous to share her readers with us.  One such authoress was Ms. Camille DeAngelis, who wrote the gorgeous book PETTY MAGIC, which I just started reading last night, and which has one of the best subtitles I’ve heard in a long time: Being the Memoirs and Confessions of Miss Evelyn Harbinger, Temptress and Troublemaker.  She looks like a bit of a temptress and troublemaker herself, if you ask me.

Also present were the awesome NYT Bestseller Lisa Scottoline and her equally awesome daughter, Francesca Scottoline Serritella, who are the modern day mother-daughter tag-team version of Erma Bombeck. In addition to being gorgeous and well-coiffed and extremely stylish, they were also VERY FUNNY and fun.  I sort of wanted to go home with them.  I mean, just look:

For some reason, I didn’t manage to get a good picture of NYT Bestseller Mariah Stewart, who was nearest to me, at the next table, but you can see her profile here, in the foreground.  She was an extremely calming influence on the day, a consummate professional, and I heard fan after fan approach her table, beseeching her to WRITE FASTER because they could not possibly wait for her next book.  Of course, I wasted no time foisting THE OUTSIDE BOY on them, a novel to fill the gap while they await her next masterpiece.

I know that the queue in the above picture does not appear overwhelming, but DO NOT BE FOOLED.  It was only orderly because of the highly-organized system employed by the staff at Turn the Page Bookstore.  That line of people continued, non-stop, for five hours.  They just kept coming.  And some of them came loaded with HANDTRUCKS FULL OF BOOKS for Nora to sign.

Please take note of my expression, here, as I catch sight of a fan who has brought over a hundred books for Nora to sign:

I’ve always had difficulty hiding my feelings from my face.  Please also note how completely smiley and unfazed Nora and her adorable son Jason are.  Oh, and while we’re talking about Jason, let me just tell you, he should have a fan club all his own.  He is very funny and interesting, and did I mention funny?  In between signings, I tried to help Nora convince him to have a baby.  With his wife, not with me.  After a couple hours of signing, Nora’s other son, who owns the pizzeria in Boonsboro, provided our VERY DELICIOUS pizza lunch.  And it’s not often you’ll hear a New Yorker singing the praises of pizza from Maryland, but believe me when I say: YUM.

So, I’m aware this blog-post has taken on sort of a school-project tone, and perhaps that happened because I was so in awe of Nora and her career.  She is incredibly prolific (she is also J.D. Robb), and has no hint of complacency in her writing.  Even with her enormous success, she maintains a staggering work ethic, and a really delightful rapport with her fans.  She was incredibly generous and gracious and kind, and she never complained once, all day.  She outlasted about half a dozen pens, and she was unfrazzled by even the most earnest of fans.  I suspect that she might actually be a superhero. 

The End.

Dear Jeanine Cummings, <– Sorry for all the errors.

Thank you so much for telling your story to us.  I know it was hard, but you’ve inspired me alot!  I can’t imagine how your family felt.  I want you to know that I support you 100%!  I’m going to purchase your books  :D  You have worked so hard to be where you are now!  I think you deserved all of the amazing tours and compliments.  Oh, and I think you’re really pretty.  Again, thanks for your amazing speech  (:  I wish you well.

Sincerely,

Sandra

I think we can all agree that Sandra has an extremely bright future.

Thursday, I guest-lectured at the University of Maryland.  Their criminal justice program is progressive (and smart) enough to require a Victimology class, and they read A Rip in Heaven every semester as part of their curriculum.  It’s always an interesting experience, and the students tend to be bright and engaging.  However.  My daughters apparently thought Wednesday was Funtacular Fun-night Extravaganzomething because they seriously had my butt up about eight times.  I knew when I woke up that Thursday’s early morning class would not be my finest hour.  Writers tend to pride themselves on being marginally articulate.  It’s sort of a job requirement.  So I knew I was in trouble when, on my way to College Park in the pelting rain, my brother called and asked how I was doing with traffic.  “Where are you?” he asked.  “I’m at the.  Um, the.  You know, the Mormon… tabernacle choir,” I said.  “The Mormon Temple?”  Yeah.  Those are two very different nouns. 

Thankfully, I had a better night sleep that night, because Friday, I had to speak at my old high school in Gaithersburg, Maryland.  It was, and let me be careful not to overstate this, TERRIFYING.  It might even have been death-defying.  I don’t know why - I do plenty of public speaking and I really never get nervous.  But something about being invited back to your alma mater puts extra pressure on you.  Or maybe it’s just the fact that sometimes, on rare ocassions, when the planets align just so, teenagers can behave like assholes.  I remember because, once, I was an asshole teenager.  I used to roll my eyes and yawn LOUDLY at guest-speakers.  Thank God, most teenagers are MUCH NICER than I was.  Especially most teenagers at Gaithersburg High School.  They were 99% awesome.  And one exceptionally adorable young man named Kevin even presented me with some beautiful roses.  I responded very appropriately by asking him if this meant we were boyfriend and girlfriend now.  I think he was frightened.

Anyway, I’m back home now.  Wrote and op-ed about gypsies this morning, and tonight I’m going to speak to a book club in Astoria about The Outside Boy.  So I have a few hours to kill between now and then.  Whatever shall a writer do with all that spare time?  Dammit.  I guess I have to write.