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Caruba Coughs Up the Cuisinart!

You’re probably wondering what this has to do with children’s publishing? Well, nothing. If that’s a problem, kindly move along to the next blog, a fascinating exploration of the solitary asparagus and its influence on creating picture book characters that matter. It’s by Mildred Honeydew, a favorite of many in the chapter.

Still with me? Lovely. About a month ago, in a fit of writer’s block madness (for more about my guest blog on the subject, click here), I fell in love with a New Orleans Jazz Fest print by artist Terrance Osborne. Here it is:   

My wife was a good sport about it—even with the framing bill that was a mortgage payment in and of itself (because what the hell, if you’re going to do it, do it right!).

The poster had a twin, done by the artist three years earlier, and completely sold out. AND I HAD TO HAVE IT!!! What good is writer’s block if you can’t plead insanity and drop nose-bleed amounts of greenbacks to score a sudden must-have. And what price is art, I ask.

I skipped a car payment, reconsidered the need for groceries for a month, and bought poster #2 from the after-market. You can see my now reposed car here. Here’s poster #2,

safely hanging in my bedroom, here. Which would you pay for?

I stalled telling my wife for two weeks. News like this does not go over well. Eventually, though, I had to fess up. Which brings us to my sudden interest in Cuisinarts. According to my wife, a brand new food processor deluxe might just save my new poster and my marriage. Though I could ill afford it, into Bed, Bath & Beyond I jogged (three miles there, three miles home—sucks not having a car!).

Cuisinart food processors and I have an illustrious history, much like the institution of marriage. Back in the late’80s, and foodies out there might recall this, Cuisinart introduced the first non-professional, for home model. It was slender and sleek, easily recognizable in a wrapped gift box. What it lacked in sheer size (it handled maybe a half cup!), it contained in horse power and TSIC (time saved in chopping).

And lucky me, I received a wedding invitation from my friend, Michael. I arrived at the blessed affair, Cuisinart in hand; I proudly presented my gift at an appropriate moment during the reception. Michael’s response: a cross between a frown and a look of disbelief. “It’s a *censored by K. Temean* Cuisinart,” I sputtered. Like, idiot, isn’t the shape of the box obvious enough? Show me the joy.

Turns out it was (obvious enough). Michael gestured to the gift table. My Cuisinart was #15. They were all nicely lined up in a row—like handsome, tasteful, toy soldiers. “Thanks so much,” Michael said through gritted teeth. What he meant was: thanks for the enema, ass*censored by D. Caruba, seconds before K. Temean*.

A year or two later Michael was divorced, and as a testament to my generosity, his ex took the Cuisinart (along with the house, half the bank account and both tickets to a Caribbean cruise—not bitter was she). Not that it was a problem; Michael had 14 more (Cuisinarts, that is, post-divorce he was too broke to afford a vacation).

Michael landed on his feet, in part because what single woman doesn’t appreciate a man with a Cuisinart (14 of them, to be precise), and soon rem

I think you will enjoy this article by David Caruba – enough said.

Recently, something bad occurred in my work life that spilled over like an over ripe avocado into my writing life.  The result was a first class case of writer’s block.   I couldn’t—and still for the most part can’t—bring myself to write a single fictional word.  It’s not like editors and agents are banging down my door with contracts, but even still…

Writer’s block and I are old friends.  We’ve been known to Foxtrot together on many an occasion.  Sometimes it lasts for days, sometimes for months.  Currently, I’m up to month number two.  And yet, over the years I’ve developed some coping strategies (beyond indulging in criminal amounts of chocolate or overpriced Starbucks coffee!).  Herein, at Kathy Temean’s bequest, I share my secrets:

How to Beat Writer’s Block
By A. Blocked Writer

1.  Ale’s Good for What Ails You

Most doctors will tell you to avoid the bubbly.  The path to depression hell is paved in alcohol, you see.  Down in the dumps?  Try a nice cup of tea.  Can’t write a stitch?  Have milkweiser.  But at all costs, banish the bottle of Burgundy-delight.  Fortunately, for all my writer block-head moments, I’m of the opposite ilk.  I say, when in Rome, have a Roman orgy, oops I mean…When down in the writer’s block doldrums, drink copiously.  Nothing spells mental relief like a margarita.  Make it two, and don’t chinse on the lime.

2. Exercise Is the Ticket

Do a dozen push-ups on your knuckles—what else could be simpler?  Lift 150 pounds freestyle.  Swim like you’re the last survivor of the Titanic.  I’m a big believer in banishing the bulge…and the writer’s blues.  And believe me when I say, nothing unblocks a creative artery like a robust jaunt in 104 degree weather.  I’m feeling better already!  When you finish, you can join my fit and firm critique group at the cardiac intensive care unit.  Our motto:  Write!  Write!  Write!—and Avoid the Light!!!

3.  When All Else Fails, Try Plotting

True story: a friend and fellow children’s book writer suggested I get out of bed, warm up the computer and give it the old college try.  Here’s his secret: give the magnum opus a break.  Instead, work on plotting.  Plot your next vampire story.  Still suffering from writer’s kabash, plot the rest of the 50 book series.  Live a little, make it dystopian.  And if you can throw in a strong lead character (with an eye towards eBooks), all the better.  Here’s what I came up with when trying to shake the blues:

Book One:  Sammy the Snot Goes to School—No, not a June B. Jones knockoff or parody, an anthropomorphic piece of mucus that’s little Jimmy’s best friend.  Sometimes Jimmy eats Sammy, sometimes Sammy eats Jimmy.  Entirely in verse.

Book Two:  Sammy the Snot Vampire Diaries—No, not a vampire novel, but a whole new genre.  Vampire mucus.  Sometimes Sammy sucks Jimmy’s blood, sometimes Jimmy sucks Sammy’s mucus.  Sometimes they both just plain suck.  And sometimes they both go for a jog in 104 degree weather and end up feasting on pathetic writer-wannabes in the cardiatric unit.

Book Three:  Sammy the Snot: Escape from 2035—No, not math class, but a truly unique dystopian vision of the future.  You see, twenty-five years from now, the human race has been reduced to walking, talking, mucus.  And Sammy, bless his soul, has pulled a Pinocchio and become the last boy on earth.  Will he escape and find the last vestiges of humanity?  Will he be devoured whole by a vampire snot (think: cross marketing!!!).  The good news: this plot has been optioned by actor Kurt