"Write what you know." So they say.

Book two is underway. Since it took me years to forget my horrible fashion choices, purple polyester culottes, and that thing that happened that day at that time at that place, I need help...remembering. Specifically, I'm looking for stories and photos of the life and times of Tri-City and Bob Jones University, heaven help us, everything inbetween, from 1995-2000. If you have any thoughts, memories, photographs, or sentences that begin with "remember when," please forward them to me either via comment or messaging or to moffett_s@hotmail.com. If you don't have any thoughts to share but know someone who does, feel free to forward this along to them. And if you have no clue about the first book, you can check it out here on Amazon or here at Barnes & Noble. Alternatively if you don't know who I am, I probably don't need your stories.

Disclaimer. This will not be a Truman Capote-esq non fiction novel. Your personal diaries are not requested. Then again, this won't be James Frey part deux either. Whatever the case, credit will be given where credit is due.

Let the fun begin.

SEM

Nothing like a hometown paper write up to make one feel important…or validated.  Particularly when said newspaper covers the geographical region of Leadville, Colorado (below), which is the home to several generations of Moffetts and shockingly the setting for part of my first book, Growing Up Moffett.  Prosaic, I know.

"Written with a good sense of humor and a feeling for family, Moffett's book describes a girl's coming of age and her ways of dealing with death." So goes the Leadville Herald Democrat's review of Growing Up Moffett, which is located here.  Spoilers alert.  The review includes a summary of the epilogue.  Feel free not to pass that part along.

Ever heard of a "Living Christmas Tree"? I hadn't, and that's saying something as the product of a devoutly Baptist upbringing. Then I walked into First Baptist of Alexandria this past Sunday. The Everest of Christmas Trees had sprouted up from the stage, expanding the entire width of the choir loft and was topped with a star touching the ceiling.

My highly sophisticated and in depth spiritual response? "Woah."

I was promptly elbowed in the side. Apparently "woah" was not the appropriate response.

Inbetween songs, I learned from clipped, whispered phrases that a Living Christmas Tree is a Christmas cantata, of sorts, only the choir members sing from within the tree instead of the choir loft.

"Within the tree?"

"Yes."

"But how?"

"They stand around the tree."

I eyed what appeared to be an unsteady, but ascending series of steep and narrow platforms. The lawyer in me couldn't help it. "How do people not fall off?"

"It's impossible. And claustrophobic." I eyed said friend. Clearly someone had been holding out on the personal stories.

During the service, it was announced that all but one of the seven "concerts" were sold out, and the remaining show only had a few tickets left. Considering that the prerequisite to being a Baptist is procrastination and gluttony, I was understandably shocked at this spontaneous display of forethought and planning. Like all good Americans, I immediately reacted to the Keynesian economics based advertising, and recommended to my friend we obtain tickets ASAP. (Read: that we bolt during the closing prayer to secure a few tickets). This suggestion was politely declined. (Read: elbowed again). Pew bound until the closing song it was.

The last word of the closing song, "O Little Town of Bethlehem" was barely out of the congregation's mouth before we were maneuvering for the door. God must have appreciated my friend's respectful sense of propriety, because we scored some of the last treasured tickets for First Baptist of Alexandria's Living Christmas Tree Production despite me being nearly mowed over by an equally zealous 85 year old with a very large walker.

Since acquiring the coveted tickets (can one say that about a church function?), I've learned from multiple sources that this is an annual traditional for many Northern Virginia residents, regardless of religious affiliation. I'm just wondering how I missed out all these years on seeing people willingly cram themselves around a tree like pomegranate seeds while precariously balanced on rickety platforms and old scaffolds to belt Christmas carols under hot lights.

Now if only I could figure out how to smuggle in some popcorn, I'd be set.

*I am fully aware the above cartoon is barely tangentially related to this blog. It was late. It amused me. So it's there.

[More at www.sarahmoffett.com]

Drinking and reporters.  A dangerous combination. 

As many of you know, my first book was published this past April. Sixteen weekends of dehydration, a chronic case of road fatigue, and a twenty stop book tour later, I am in the throes of wrapping up a legal year while preparing for the virtual book tour. The DCist found my duel pursuits amusing, and wrote about my left v. right brain wars in an interview here.

Disclaimer: This interview was conducted by the entirely too charming and confidence inducing Shawn Westfall. As if that was not enough, there were copious amounts of alcohol involved during the interview, which was undertaken in the warm and comfortable atmosphere of the Neighborhood Restaurant Group's Vermilion.

In short, I take no responsibility for what I said.

In fact, I'm not even sure I said it.

Who is Sarah Moffett anyways?

Someone far more together than I ever will be…

[And for the now infamous Restaurant Expulsion Story go here.]

A Month in the Country. All harried-D.C. professionals could use one. Except me. I need a solid year. Alas, the evening before Thanksgiving had to suffice. Under the guidance of J.L. Carr's pen, my excursion into A Month in the Country was packed neatly and movingly into 111 pages and two festive rum punches.

It was a beautiful trip. Barely a few more pages than Rebecca West's Return of the Soldier, this book also follows the recovery of a soldier from the shell-shocked horrors of the Great War. The book's protagonist, the psychologically wounded and physically affected Tom Birkin, narrates his experiences in the summer of 1920 while working in a small, provincial English town to uncover a medieval painting covered by plaster in a medieval church. With the simplicity of a Hemmingway character, Birkin lives in the church bell tower, scrapes by on bread, cheese, and root vegetables and spends his days on scaffolding trying to bring back to life a vision of judgment. His fellow war survivor, Moon, spends his time in the nearby meadow digging for archeological remains. The analogy to healing from war is thin, but palatable.

All historical, societal, and literary meanderings aside, and there is cause for many, the book was enjoyable for its simple, beautiful lines. "Just before I bedded down I stood at the window. And he was right—the first breath of autumn was in the air, a prodigal feeling, a feeling of wanting, taking, and keeping before it is too late."

Towards the end of the book, Birkin observes that "we can ask and ask but we can't have again what once seemed ours for ever….they've gone and you can only wait for the pain to pass." As one blogger noted here, "was there ever a more realistic description of grief in so few words?" I couldn't agree more, or recommend this quick mental field trip more highly. Cheers to reading adventures.

*Picture taken in Old Town Alexandria the night after Thanksgiving.

[More at www.sarahmoffett.com]

I want my book banned. Unfortunately, given my childhood's PG experiences, I will probably not be joining the ranks of Gabriel Marquez on Iran's banned book list. (As if anyone in Iran knows about Growing Up Moffett.) Then again, Growing Up Moffett isn't exactly as provocative as Marquez's Memories of My Melancholy Whores, which was translated into Persian with the slightly less titillating title of Memories of My Melancholy Sweethearts.  The Associated Press reported that "the ban has only provoked greater interest in the novel and on Saturday, copies of the book were being sold for more than twice their list price." Imagine that. As Allen Ginsberg, author of the scandalously explicit poem Howl once observed, the best thing that ever happened to Howl was that it was tried for obscenity.

Or maybe I should pretend to be someone I'm not in the next memoir installment. Author Tom Carew pulled a James Frey, according to the BBC, by writing a book describing his alleged adventures fighting in Afghanistan with the SAS. Problem was, it seems Mr. Carew never was in the SAS. And Tom Carew is a pen name. And…Well, you get the idea. Britain's the Guardian took this as an opportunity to post Top 10 Hoaxes of the Literary World. Rarely does one see Shakespeare hanging out with flying saucers on the same list.

And on a more morbid front that I'd rather not imitate anytime soon, another author has bit the dust. Ira Levin, author of Stepford Wives, Rosemary's Baby, and a wealth of other Hollywood-ized gold makers, died of a heart attack last week. He was 78. He joins Vonnegut, Mailer, and a slew of others on the the 2007 list of literary deceased.

Now about that book banning idea…

[More at www.sarahmoffett.com]

My body is broken. At least, it feels like it is.

Yesterday was the Philadelphia Marathon. I joined masses of crazed runners to pace out Historical Philly beginning at the ungodly hour of 7 a.m.

It is one thing to eat breakfast and sip warm goodness at 7 a.m. It is quite another to go hither into an unknown city to enjoy sub-40, pre-sunrise temperatures, dodge sprinkling ice cubes, and attempt not to curse one's own existence.

However, mere low temperatures and icy rain was not to deter one from experiencing a course that channeled runners through Philadelphia's historical center, Center City, University City, Fairmount Park and Kelly Drive. And what is historical America without modern capitalism? Goodyear made running history by marking the entire course with a marathon blue line emblematic of its signature tire tread to help guide runners. I wonder how they managed to do that while maneuvering around all the cars the good people of the city of brotherly love left overnight on the race marked streets, despite signs to not park in the race path. Fortunately, I only saw one fated runner ran smack into an illegally parked car.

I also saw Kenya's Timothy Psitet, winner of the men's title, cruise past mile 26 to win his first marathon. I know this because I was jogging in the opposing direction just past mile 13. It made climbing the hill at 14 all the easier to know someone else was already finished. But I digress. Psitet was aided by runner up Solomon Too, whom both said the gusty winds and temperatures in the low 40s.

I ran in a marathon in low 40s. My joints are never going to forgive me for this.

Kristin Price won for the women. In an interview, she said her hard earned $3,500 prize money would be going to fix her car that she wrecked last week. In addition to being able to pay the auto body shop for a new fender, her time was good enough to qualify for the U.S. Olympic women's marathon trials at Boston next April. The woman wrecked her car last week and then won a marathon in Olympic trial qualifying time? And today's superhero award goes to…

The Philly Daily News summary of the race said 16,000 registered to run the sold-out Philadelphia Marathon. Only 6,677 of us masochists finished it. As one dear soul said, "It's like Alcoholics Anonymous. In AA you take it one day at a time. In a marathon, you take it one mile at a time." These brilliant words were from Bill Shore, 53, a doctor of internal medicine and runner of 12 marathons, who can "explain all about glycogen depletion and lactic acid buildup if you care to hear about it. But at the limits of physical exertion, sometimes knowledge isn't power. (Listening to an iPod, he says, is.)"

Amen to the iPod bit. And thank you to everyone with their music suggestions for my run.

Now for the inevitable D.C. Soapbox moment. Despite boasting "boatloads of improvements," the Philly Marathon had a few issues. Maybe it was the weather, or missing mile markers, or curious absence of bathrooms from mile 13 to 22, or the lack of "brotherly love" from the locals, or maybe that it started at 7 a.m., but if there is one thing I took from the Philly Marathon it is this—the Marine Corps Marathon is way better. The start time is reasonable, the citizens surprisingly supportive and obnoxiously fun, the water stations a plenty, the bathrooms present, and, and, and…It just is.

And whereas the Marine Corps Marathon made me fall in love with D.C. all over again, the Philadelphia Marathon left me wanting to go back to Philly for only reason-the Rodin Museum.

Other blogs and articles telling more positive Philly stories are below.

Marathon Running with Constantine

Positive Splits

Mortal Mom

Support for those Running On Empty

[*For those of you not endowed with far too much pop culture knowledge, Ms. Katie Holmes, a/k/a Mrs. Tom Cruise, ran the New York City Marathon earlier this month. Story here. While I may have beaten her time, she busted out with high heeled, open toe shoes within hours of finishing the race. I, however, will not be showing my toes to anyone but my doctor for the next few weeks.]

[More at www.sarahmoffett.com]

Well, Warm 'Em Up With The Legwarmers This Saturday Night!

I've heard, from several confidential sources, that this band rocks like its 1985! So I decided it was time to actually leave my house (!) and check them out. As many of you know, the threshold for leaving my house is VERY high.

Let's relive the good ol' days of Reagan, Roxette, and Rick James! It was a simpler time…a time when greed ruled without shame. A time when sequins were worn in broad daylight. A time of perms and crimping. A time of shoulder-pads and Members Only jackets. By the way, all these fashions are highly encouraged if you plan on attending.

When: Saturday, November 17, 2007

7:00pm

Where: The State Theater

220 N. Washington
Falls Church, Virginia

Buy your tickets online through the website, only $15!

This arrived in my inbox as yet another display of advertising genius by my friend, Ms. Rebecca Rudman.  While I will not be in attendance at this reenactment of Footloose, I had to pass along her "invite" to the world as an excellent example of random creativity. 

[More at www.sarahmoffett.com]

Jack Kerouac allegedly wrote On the Road in 3 weeks. Now a group of writers is institutionalizing his benzedrine-coffee-alcohol-mania-driven genius.

Welcome to November, the National Novel Writing Month.

Of course, November also happens to be National Stamp Collecting Month, National Pepper Month, and National Peanut Butter Lover's Month, and, dare I say it, home of Thanksgiving, but I digress.  Who wants turkey when you can produce 50,000 words in 30 days?

Start Typing: National Novel Writing Month by Shawn Westfall for the DCist provides a fantastic summary of one of November's new National Month extravaganzas. Check out the article or NaNoWriMo (as if I could make that up) for how to register, lose your mind, and find yourself…with over 75,000 other people.

Or something like that.

[More at www.sarahmoffett.com]

"The best way to avoid being picked on by high school bullies is to kill someone" is the opening line to Touching Snow, a 2007 National Book Award nominee written by M. Sindy Felin. Ms. Felin clearly has a knack for one liners. Her first quote in the Washington Post Style article was "I always thought I was destined to be either a serial killer or a mystery writer." She gets serious bonus points for throwing out that line while she was (is?) pregnant with triplets.

I am not Ms. Felin. And I'm not talking about the lack of a National Book Award nomination. I'm talking about being able to spin one liners. This of course made me wonder if (a) it's hard for everyone to drill the opening line, or (b) I'm inherently flawed. Seeing as I'm-a-glass-is-broken, let alone half-full, kind of girl, I immediately figured it was (b) via my verbose Irish roots meets legal ramblings, and went on a literary spelunking trip for inspiration.

Of course, this meant I went googling, which took me to the 100 Best First Lines of Novels.

"Mother died today." ~Camus, The Stranger. Concise.

"If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don't feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth." ~Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye. You know Salinger felt this way about his own life.

"They shoot the white girl first." ~Morrison, Paradise. Only she could say that and get away with it.

"There was a boy called Eustace Clarence Scrubb, and he almost deserved it." ~Lewis, Voyage of the Dawn Treader. I'm still laughing at that line sixteen years later.

"It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer they electrocuted the Rosenbergs, and I didn't know what I was doing in New York." ~Plath, The Bell Jar. This about sums up the whole book.

"I write this sitting in the kitchen sink." ~Smith, I Capture the Castle. Can't you just visualize it?

"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife." ~Austen, Pride and Prejudice. And therein lies all of Ms. Austen's books.

Modern literature was a tad more direct.

"Because Lydia didn't have arms or legs, she shelled out three thousand bucks to a washed up middleweight named Cap to give her ex-husband the beating of his life." ~Smith, Psychosomatic.

Some lines are so famous, they constantly get reworked. As AndyGeek noted here, Neuromancer's opening line has seen many reincarnations. Other bloggers, such as one Mystery Fan buff, circa the Outfit Blog, noted that mystery books have been opening with a bang for some time. As for me though, my research led me to some basic conclusions. The opening line should be authentic, a reflection of the book, indicting of character and foreshadowing of plans…and otherwise just plum impossible.

So I'm back where I started. But as I've said before, Rilke works for me. "It is a tremendous act of violence to begin anything. I am not able to begin. I simply skip what should be the beginning." After all, it's got to come to me eventually.

Right?

[More at www.sarahmoffett.com]