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My Dentist Is Better Than Yours

We both have Rudy to thank for our chompers!

Other people can have their celebrity musicians and actors, but I’m starstruck by writers (and Stella McCartney, of course). Few experiences quicken my pulse like being in the same room with a beloved author, whether at a reading in an auditorium or at a cozy bookstore signing. But actually sitting down and conversing with a writer I admire? That really turns me into a slobbering fangirl.

So imagine the puddle of drool at my feet the other night when I hung out with Justin Cronin, the author of one of my favorite books, The Passage. He writes the kind of literary speculative fiction I can only dream of pulling off. The City of Mirrors, the final book in the Passage trilogy, came out this week. I’d been awaiting its release since finishing The Twelve in 2012. Four. Long. Years.

When I found out Justin was doing one of his first book signings for it here in Houston, I immediately made plans to attend. Even though he lives in Houston and has done numerous readings and signings here before, for various reasons, I’d been unable to attend those. Nothing was going to keep me from this one. As luck would have it, my friend Rudy (who is also my dentist) is a long-time friend of Justin’s (and also his dentist) and had been promising that he would make an introduction one day. Rudy and I agreed to meet at the bar where the signing would be held.

By the time my husband and I arrived at the signing this past Thursday night, the line to meet Justin snaked outside and around the corner. We headed straight inside because Rudy had assured me I’d still get to meet Justin and have my book signed. Inside, we were lucky to find a table. For almost two hours, we watched Justin shake hands, sign books, and pose for pictures. After he signed his last book and the crowd dissipated, Rudy waved him over (Justin’s delightful wife, Leslie, had already joined us).

Justin collapsed into a chair at our table, exhausted from being “on” for several hours. Yet, he talked with us for 45 minutes and seemed thrilled to do so. I told him The Passage got me through my home remodel in 2011 — I was so absorbed in the story I could barely hear the drilling and banging. He joked that my experience rivaled that of readers who’ve said his books got them through deployments in the Middle East. At one point, my husband outed me, telling Justin how nervous I was to meet him. Justin said, “All you had to do was come to Central Market. I’m there shopping in my shorts and flip-flops all the time.” If I’d only known!

After Justin left, I thanked Rudy profusely for keeping his promise. I still don’t know how I’ll repay him. In the meantime, I need to figure out if any of my other friends know Stephen King.

#LifeWhileBlack

I’ve had a bit of blogger’s block (say that three times fast) over the past few weeks. I blame Houston’s current spate of janky weather. The lack of sunshine, frequent showers, and the soul-sucking humidity have sapped my energy, creativity, and — on especially gray days — my will to live. I’ve been doing a lot of reading though, training to write, if you will. As Stephen King said, “If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot.” I’m nailing the first part!

The other day, I lifted out of my funk enough to start a post about some submission rejections I recently received. After an hour or so, I took a break from working because I realized one of my favorite department stores kicked off their sale this week and there were a few things I’d been eyeing. Priorities! Am I right?

When I got to the store, I entered through the men’s department. As far as I could tell, I was the only customer in that particular area of the store. A saleswoman saw me pause to look at a display of sport coats, but she never acknowledged my presence. After awhile, another customer walked up to look at clothing on a rack next to me. The saleswoman immediately greeted him with a smile, asked how he was, and inquired whether he needed assistance. He told her he was only looking and moved on. The saleswoman glanced over at me but still didn’t offer a greeting, a smile, or any other indication she’d be interested in helping me. She then walked several yards away and stood looking around the room, presumably for someone worthy of her assistance.

So I walked over to her. Because I was having none of it. 

For the Love of Bunny

Just gonna block the sidewalk, bunny? How rude!

I’m a sucker for cute animals, especially ginormous cute animals. Luckily for me, Intrude is a thing. The brainchild of Australian artist, Amanda Parer, Intrude is a free, public art exhibition featuring giant, sculptural bunnies constructed of nylon. Visitors are even encouraged to touch! If you never made it to FAO Schwarz to snuggle the jumbo-sized stuffies, these bunnies just might fill that void.

When I found out Houston was one of only four US cities slated to host the bunnies, I knew I had to see them. With temperate weather and clear skies, this past Wednesday was the perfect night for it. Although the 40-ft bunnies are on view during the day, dusk until right after sunset is the time to go. Because they’re internally illuminated, the bunnies are at their most flattering in the gloom. The whimsical spectacle reminded me of a fairytale. If that fairytale is about an adorable woodland creature who eats an enchanted leaf and morphs into a humongous, man-eating beast.

This one DOES look a bit smug.

Seems my suspicion of the bunnies’ underlying malevolence was on point. When I read the exhibition description later, I discovered Parer’s bunnies are indeed “intruders.” Where most Americans equate bunnies with Peter Cottontail, Australians see bunnies as environmental behemoths that have nearly destroyed their ecosystem since being introduced to the continent in the 18^th century. Yikes. I also found it not a little ironic that the bunnies’ temporary Houston home is just in the shadow of what was once a looming, destructive force of a different kind — the old Enron building. Dun dun DUNNNNN!

Now, do you still want to hug the bunnies? If so, today is their last day in Houston before they invade Los Angeles. You’ve got until 9:00 p.m., so hop to it. 1600 Smith Street.

Ode to Joy

I used to hate my name. Teachers struggled with it at the beginning of every school year. J-O-I. The wrinkled brows. The frowns. I’d imagine their inner monologue: What’s this ‘I’ doing here? Hmm, how do I say this? Joey? No. Jo? Yes, definitely Jo. I guess nobody told them Hooked on Phonics works for teachers, too.

The other thing I hated about my name (in addition to being serenaded with “Joy to the World” on a regular) was that it put me firmly in the exclusive club of kids who could never find their name on souvenir merchandise. Amy, Tony, Tiffany, Amanda, Joey, Natalie, Alex — they got keychains, refrigerator magnets, cups, pencils...all the personalized memorabilia! But Joi? Empty-handed every time.

Despite still being traumatized by a childhood bereft of personalized crap, I have grown to love my name. It’s special, just like the woman who gave it to me.

My grandmother was born Margaret, but changed her name to Joy when she became an adult. She liked Joy so much that, when my parents gave her the honor of naming me, she chose it again. Incidentally, Maria comes from Marie, my maternal great-grandmother’s name.

My family calls me Joy, Jr., and I suppose in many ways I am. I grew up wanting to emulate my grandmother. Confidence, humor, compassion, integrity. If I possess these qualities — and on a good day, I think I do — I got them from her. She has always been like a mother to me, and without her guidance, support, and encouragement, I’m not sure where I would be today. I’m not even sure who I would be. My grandmother still tells me she can’t wait to see my book in the “bookshop window,” never mind that I have yet to complete anything close to worthy of appearing in a bookshop window (or a bookshop bargain bin). And she’s been saying this since I was ten, a testament to how much she believes in me.

This Mother’s Day weekend, I’m reflecting on how lucky I am to still have my grandmother in my life. But with each passing year, I’m reminded our time together is not infinite. She has been hospitalized more times in recent years than I can count. Her memory isn’t what it used to be — during our phone calls, I find myself repeating things I’ve told her before, and often more than once. When we hang up, I am left with a bittersweet pang. It is good to hear her voice. I wish she didn’t sound so old.

My name. It is the greatest gift my grandmother has ever given me and it will be her legacy. I wish I’d always been so grateful.