Lara Zielin

I discovered the more time I spent on my bike, the easier it was for me to run. And that got me thinking: What other areas in life benefit from cross-training?

After halting a lot of my regular exercise routine in a desperate attempt to finish novel number four (which I did, praise Baby Jesus), I got enough out of shape that it was a bit of a struggle to jump-start my workouts again. Running was always a challenge, but it had become absolutely grueling. I wondered if I’d ever get back to where I was.

And then something happened.

While vacationing in the Keys, Rob and I put major miles on our bikes. We pedaled long distances every day. And I discovered that the day after a long bike ride, if I tried to run, it was easier. A lot easier, actually.

It was cross-training. And it was totally working for me.

So that got me thinking, if biking makes running better, what other areas might cross-training apply? I could think of a few right away:

Reading always makes your writing better.

Trying new foods can make your cooking better.

Listening to music can enhance your ability to play an instrument.

Rob says skateboarding made him a better snowboarder, and that being an actor has made him a better filmmaker.

Showing vulnerability makes friendships better.

These were just a few I thought of off the top of my head. For me, it was a reminder that there isn’t always a straight path from A to B. Like, if you want to be a better writer, definitely practice writing — but also allow yourself to read, to watch movies, to put away the iPhone and just let your mind wander.

Anyone have cross-training thoughts, or ways in which one area in your life benefited from exploring something supposedly unrelated?

This Thanksgiving, I am glad for the usual things — friends, family, an amazing job and colleagues I love — but every day I find I’m more and more thankful for the Occupy movements around the country. Their work to bring attention to corporate influence in government and to highlight the struggles of everyday people is both important and overdue.

Not everything about the movement is perfect. Far from it. But I’m still thankful for it, despite the flaws. Because for every messy-haired hipster the media wants you to focus on, there’s a smart, Atlantic-reading professional like Caitlin Curran there, too.

More to the point, I’m thankful because if the long lens of history has taught us anything, it’s that these movements are always derided as lame, unorganized, ridiculous, superfluous.

For example:

Crazy radical Alice Paul, who fought for women's rights, was brutalized at the Occoquan Workhouse (prison) in Virginia.

Women, do you like to vote? Or own property? Well, let me tell you, the suffragists at the turn of the century who fought for those rights had a horrible time in the media. After publishing their Declaration of Sentiments, these women totally took major heat. People called their actions “shocking and unnatural.” The movement became the subject for “sarcasm and ridicule” (Golden, James L. The Rhetoric of Western Thought, p.226).  And don’t get me started on the women themselves! Why, they were awful. Some of them even (*gasp!*) “smoked cigarettes on principle, drank Russian tea and talked with an assured and deliberate frankness of sex and of their own sex experiences,” (quote by Cyril Edwin Mitchinson Joad, who actually joined the women’s suffrage movement in the early 1900s in England).

They didn’t have pepper spray back in those days, but the police and enforcers sure found other ways to attack the protesting women. In November 1910, Charles Mansel-Moullin wrote a letter to London’s Daily Mirror saying: “[Marching] women were treated with the greatest brutality. They were pushed about in all directions and thrown down by the police. Their arms were twisted until they were almost broken. Their thumbs were forcibly bent back, and they were tortured in other nameless ways that made one feel sick at the sight… These things were done by the police. There were in addition organised bands of well-dressed roughs who charged backwards and forwards through the deputation like a football team without any attempt being made to stop them by the police; but they contented themselves with throwing the women down and trampling upon them.”

I’d be hard pressed, however, to find a woman today who isn’t thankful for the courage and work of these women, especially in the face of a society that trampled  and derided them.

Attacked by the chemical industry and labeled as alarmist, Rachel Carson sounded the early warnings about the danger of misusing pesticides.

And hey, as long as we’re talking about fringe people doing fringe things, how about those hippies during the 1960s? Oh man, what a sorry bunch they were, with their free love and stupid clothes and crazy music. In fact, if you listened to Richard Nixon, they were Communist un-Americans (See also: Mason, Richard. Richard Nixon and the Quest for a New Majority).

Well, guess what? Now, there’s this thing called equal pay that means my employer can’t pay me less just because I’m a woman. And there’s no longer this thing called the draft, which means my husband or son (if I ever have one) can’t be shipped overseas involuntarily to fight a senseless war. The Civil Rights and Voting Rights acts of 1964 and 1965, too. Those are pretty awesome. And no way any of it would have happened if it wasn’t for those hippie students who protested on campuses, and the masses of people who marched in the streets.

Hey, are you glad your ten-year-old isn’t working in a factory?

Are you glad you can vote without being beaten?

Are you glad there’s not rat poison in your bread or (more) chemicals in your water?

Well I am. Ergo, I thank the reformers. The hippies. The fringe writers, like Upton Sinclair. The environmentalists like Rachel Carson who worked to keep our water clean.

These movements are messy. They’re imperfect. But I’m okay with that.

I’m more than okay with it, even. I’m downright thankful.

[Image sources: Occupy picture from Occupy Portland, OccupytheNews.tv; Alice Paul Picture from AlicePaul.org; Rachel Carson from RachelCarson.org]

It’s Halloween time and you know what that means, kids. I want to hear all about your bestest bestest or worstest worstest Halloween costumes! And yes, I’ll be going first.

So. Picture it: Sixth grade and I decide to dress up as the coolest person I can think of. My choice of trick or treating garb should tell you a lot about how seriously uncool I was because I chose … Albert Einstein.

I might have been the only sixth-grade girl in America that year to dress up as a famous physicist, but there you go.

Well. You can imagine how well this went over with the sexy witches, sexy fairies, sexy princesses, and sexy kitties who were my classmates. In a word: not.

But dude, you guys, I was a totally believable Albert Einstein. I rocked my nerddom. I embraced my relativity and rode my space-time continuum to awesomeness. When I look back on this picture, all I can think is, “I am SO glad I wasn’t a scarecrow or a pirate.”

So. Now, I want to hear all about your memorable Halloween garb. And if you tell me about it in the comments, you’ll be eligible to win Carrie Harris’s totally Halloween-appropriate book, Bad Taste in Boys. There’s zombies! And kissing! It’s awesome. Also awesome? Is Carrie. She lives in Michigan too, and I heart her.

Please comment away, and may the best costume story win!*

*Which I will totally decide because my name’s on the blog but I promise to try and be super fair.

I made it. I actually MADE IT to Voodoo Donuts in Portland, Oregon. It was a big moment for me, probably because once you write a book with the word ‘donut’ in the title, people just automatically assume that you love donuts. And, okay, even though the book was about more than just fried dough, it sort of turns out that I do, I do love donuts, more than I realized, and places like Voodoo Donuts (tagline: “the magic is in the hole!”) have become really, really important.

Anyway.

I followed the signs…

then saw the building …

and tried not to freak out at the carousel of donut heaven spinning before me.

Finally, I ordered a maple bacon donut and a Fruit Loops-covered donut, both of which were like eating sunshine and sparkles all rolled into one.

I handed the nice lady behind the counter a copy of Donut Days, which I’d signed for the store, and she asked me, “Have donuts always been a passion of yours?”

“No,” I answered honestly. But that’s before I met awesome people through donuts, and traveled for donuts, and had my picture taken with donuts, and bought a suitcase full of donuts that changed my life. (Some day, I will tell that story.) In the meantime, suffice it to say donuts haven’t always been a passion of mine, but they sure are now.

As a writer, there have been many dark moments when I’ve despaired of ever being picked up by an agent, of ever seeing my work published, of ever finding any kind of writerly success. It was during one of these dark periods, when I was writing an early draft of Donut Days, that my mom and I went shopping and I spotted a necklace with pink sparkles. It had one word written on it: Hope.

My mom bought it for me that day and it was instantly a fixture around my neck. I told myself that until I was published, I was going to wear the necklace.

I wore the necklace until the pink sparkles became dull, until the chain broke and I had to buy a new one, until the silver tarnished and sort of made my skin itchy.

But then, one day, I got a call from my agent. And my writing life was never the same. I retired the necklace (er, at least the “Hope” part of it; the chain is long gone) to a dusty drawer of a jewelry box. Until today. (Sorry in advance for the craptastic camera work.)

Because something happened today.

My friend Ang (who you may remember from such posts as A Valentine’s Day Story That Has Nothing to Do With Valentine’s Day) bought me a new necklace. And it has one word on it: Balance.

As I struggle to juggle a full-time job, a blooming book career for which I’m enormously thankful, and a side job helping other authors out there, balance is what it’s all about. I need balance right now like Rebecca Black needs auto-tune. Which is to say, a lot.

I don’t know if I’ll wear the necklace every day like I did “Hope,” but I don’t think it’s coincidence that these messages come into my life when I need them.

And, Universe: I’m totally listening.

When I decided to go see Paul Reubens — a.k.a. Pee-wee Herman — at South by Southwest (sxsw), I figured it would be a mildly entertaining session with an eccentric actor. I reasoned he’d be largely aloof and would likely gloss over the fact that he was arrested in 1991, which almost sank his career permanently. I figured sxsw was just a big promotional gig for him, and he’d peddle his something and move on.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Paul was warm, genuine, and completely humble . Right away he addressed the elephant in the room — i.e. his arrest. It was one of many moments during which he a.) brought it super real and b.) confessed to struggling as an actor. Another moment he discussed was when he heard his great friend Phil Hartman (now, sadly, deceased) tell him that Pee-wee wasn’t a character he could build his career on — that Paul needed to broaden his comedic repertoire if he was going to be successful.

Phil had already made it in a way that Paul hadn’t — he was on Saturday Night Live and was enjoying success voicing characters on the Simpsons. Paul could have listened to his knowledgeable friend, placed Pee-wee on the back-burner, and moved onto other things. But he didn’t.

Paul felt with everything in him that Pee-wee was it. That Pee-wee was the character to focus on. He knew — right down to his white patent-leather shoes — that if he found success in this business, it would be through Pee-wee.

Paul was right.

Later in the session. he choked up a bit as he talked about Cherry, the chair from his television and Broadway show, and his Pee-wee suit going to the Smithsonian. Who would have guessed that such a quirky character would wind up being so deeply ingrained in our hearts and imaginations? I am in awe that Paul listened to his gut, that he pursued Pee-wee when others were telling him not to.

I hope I’m brave enough, like Paul, to listen to my heart when I hear advice that doesn’t resonate with my creative vision. I hope I stick by my characters when they need me to. I never expected to be inspired and enlightened by Paul — and Pee-wee — but I’m so glad I stuck around and wound up leaving that session with not just my mind full, but my heart, too.

Thank you, Paul.

I do not spell good. But, see, there’s this place that wants to help people spell good, and write good, and learn to do other things good, too. And it’s not even out of Zoolander. It’s real.

It’s called 826michigan.

And they are having an epic spelling battle. I am not participating (see above: spelling, no good). But Rob is participating. And so is our friend Jim Ottaviani. They are a team.

The thing is, even if they don’t spell good, they can cheat. That is, if they raise enough money. The more money they raise, the more they can cheat.

You can help them by clicking here and donating. They’re trying to raise $826 and, well, like the come-from-behind duo they are, they could use a little help.

Will you help them spell and help kids develop a love of books and reading through 826michigan? I really can’t think of a better cause than that.

Even that little piglet wearing rain boots that’s all over the internet wants you to donate.

Thanks, and if you want to catch the event live, it’s at Woodruff’s Bar in Ypsilanti on March 30, starting at 7:00 P.M.

A-w-e-s-u-m.

Man, can I just say — there is SO much good young adult (YA) fiction out there! Hoo boy. The quality of everything I read just keeps going up and up and up. I love it. Here are a couple of YA books I’ve read recently that I wished would never end:

Story of a Girl by Sara Zarr. The first sentence of the back jacket copy starts: I was thirteen when my dad caught me with Tommy Webber in the back of Tommy’s Buick …

The novel was a National Book Award finalist, and little wonder. The main character, Deanna, is raw and tough and still likable, which is no mean feat. The story represented a snapshot of Deanna’s life at a crossroads, and I loved how the author showed her wrestling with obligations toward family, with her reputation as the town’s slut, and with believing something better was out there for her. Zarr is officially my hero — and Deanna, too.

Before I Fall by Lauren Oliver. The main character, Sam, is smart, pretty, popular — and shrugs at her easy good fortune. Things are sometimes hard for people. They’re not hard for her. That’s just how it is.

Sam isn’t aware of how her life impacts others until she relives the day she dies again and again — sort of like Groundhog Day but much, much deeper. The way Sam becomes alive through dying is beautiful and heart-wrenching. I read this book in one solitary sitting. And it’s not exactly a slight tome. It’s YA lit at its best.

On my to-read list? Well, there’s never a shortage of books there, but here’s a snapshot:

Scars by Cheryl Rainfield

Delirium by Lauren Oliver

Keeping the Moon by Sarah Dessen

What books have you read/loved lately, and what’s on your reading list?

When I was a kid, my parents would drag me to yard sales, flea markets, swap meets, antique stores — you name it — and the whole time, I’d be miserable. I’d pout, roll my eyes, fume, and vow never, never to do this when I had a choice in the matter.

(For the record, I also vowed to serve only the blueberry muffin batter when I was old enough to host my own Thanksgiving, because the batter was oh-so-much better than the baked version.)

Little did I know in both cases that my tastes would change. Dramatically.

Now, other people’s junk is my treasure. Things I love to find at a yard sale include:

Art and art-related stuffs. We have an old frame we found at a sale last summer and hung it on the wall with a decal (acquired on Etsy) behind it. LOVE.

Things I can rehab. This candelabra was a junky mess that I got for $4. I polished up the wood and painted the metal gold, then added some hanging crystals. Booyah.

Little things. I love little things. Tiny bowls. Bitty animals. The littler the better. Here is a tiny Noritake salt bowl, a little hand-painted plate, and a wee iron pig — all from garage sales or Treasure Mart. Cuuuute!

Lord knows Rob and I don’t need more stuff, but a good, old find is a treasure indeed.

FAVE LINKEY-POO RIGHT THIS SECOND: The cheese underground! It’s an artisan cheese site by a Wisconsin native, and the site even offers a 2011 artisan cheese-maker calendar. I need to be best friends with Jeanne. Like, now.

Rob and I recently watched the Joan Rivers documentary, A Piece of Work, and it got me thinking about hustle. At 77, Joan’s still hustling, trying to get work, to promote herself, and to attain a level of success that she feels she hasn’t yet achieved. My comedic hero, Kathy Griffin, was interviewed for the Joan Rivers documentary, and Kathy herself has talked at length about hustle: about busting her butt to put up her own fliers, to promote herself, to get any work she can, to try and get a leg up in the industry. For a long time, it didn’t work — for both Kathy and Joan. But doors did open up for them eventually, though it’s certainly been a tough road.

In that sense, I do believe there’s a tipping point at which hustle pays off. Where, if you post enough fliers and send out enough postcards and make enough phone calls and craft enough YouTube videos, your name does land on tongues a bit more easily. And that can continue to build with a snowball effect of sorts.

But, as Rob and I were discussing our own careers, we also both agreed that hustle sometimes has a different payoff than what you expect. For example, Rob busted his butt and hustled for years trying to make it as a filmmaker (all while holding down a day job). After a time, neither his day job nor his movie career were taking off. And yet he was full of hustle. Eventually, the skills he garnered from his hustle translated to a new job, which he loves. His hustle eventually opened doors for him — and helped him redefine what success meas vis-a-vis his movie pursuits. Hustle didn’t have the rewards he thought it would have (i.e. an Oscar and a red-carpet debut) — but it still had rewards. And he’s still hard at work on film pursuits, they just have a little bit different shape than they did before.

Me, I’m not a best-selling author, despite major hustle for my last book. I’m still not besties with Meg Cabot, and Stephen King doesn’t know my cell number. I don’t have fan emails cluttering my inbox.

Even so, I’ll hustle again for THE IMPLOSION OF AGGIE WINCHESTER  and we’ll see what happens. I’ll still probably show up at library events where they’ve forgotten I’m coming and haven’t publicized it; I’ll probably walk into bookstore signings where they stick me at a table in a corner and ignore me; I will probably get slammed in some reviews. But I won’t give up. I don’t know what the payoff will be, but I know that there’s value in hard work and hustle. It might not be what I think (i.e. shopping for Fluevogs with Jennifer Weiner) but it will be something nonetheless. And maybe something better than what I could have imagined in the first place.