Corporate America Discovers Local

Home Depot reinvented the corner hardware store and Walmart wants to be Main Street, so why wouldn’t tech giants Google and AOL want a big bite of local?

Jeff Jarvis interviewed AOL CEO Tim Armstrong and Google VP Marissa Mayer at the opening of the Tow-Knight Center for Entrepreneurial Journalism at CUNY last night. Everybody who was anybody in new media was there.

The Battle for My Blogging Soul

Let’s see what wins, the yin side of me, my new blog exploring the world of worry, The Angst Report over on WordPress. Or the yang side of me, my even newer photo blog, Smile for the iPhone, exploring the wonder of whatever finds its way into my iPhone lens, over on Tumblr.

Both “About” pictures, by the way, come from Amsterdam. Serious me at the Van Gogh Museum. Happy me on a canal boat ride.

Where Do Novels Come From?

Just finished Kate Morton’s “The Distant Hours,” and loved reading this in the afterward:

The Distant Hours started as a single idea about a set of sisters in a castle on a hill.

I love that. That a novel comes from a single idea — even though I know it as well as anyone. “Rattled” started as a column I wrote for The New York Times. “Cars from a Marriage” sprung from a remark in couples’ therapy. My next idea, and I am working on it, could be something equally simple. Maybe I have even stumbled on it already.

Memory of Kindness and Other Writing Prompts

My two New Year’s Resolutions — write more and do more yoga — were in conflict today. There was a 10 am yoga class that I love, but I also expected the day to get away from me and so I decided to go downstairs, light a fire and pull out the laptop. I am not in the middle of writing anything, but just trying to flex my writerly muscles again, which meant doing a writing prompt, and I think that’s what reminded me of At the Beach 1966, a fragrance by CB I Hate Perfume.

The next thing, I had a bee in my bonnet to go to Williamsburg and see the I Hate Perfume gallery, something I’ve wanted to do ever since Pam Satran gave me a small vial of In the Library for my birthday a few years back. I talked Warren into going with me, even though Julia Cameron says that artist dates should be solitary, and we had a wonderful day in the city, first going to Sebastian Junger’s The Half King, where I had a Sloppy Joe and then to CB I Hate Perfume, where I smelled every “perfume” and settled on Memory of Kindness, and then just as it was starting to flurry, took an impulsive detour to Rice to Riches in Soho, where we both had rice pudding. It was a perfect outing. I had my Hipstamatic iPhone app for photographing hipsta Williamsburg (though I couldn’t whip it out fast enough to get the sign, on a restaurant, which said, “Brunch is for assholes.”)

2011: The Devil Made Me Do It

It is a day of new beginnings, of resolutions and honest sweat. I made it to 10 am yoga and the class was full. Passed dozens of joggers on Ridgewood Ave. Figured I’d do an online tarot reading and see what the new year had in store. Not the best cards: four of pentacles (cheap), three of swords (heartbreak), five of cups (regret). Only the High Priestess in the advice position (spiritual practice) augured something pleasant. But the Devil card, drawn in the Daily Lesson position, intrigued me:

The Devil card in this position requires that you give up all attachment to what others think of you. You know that as you succeed in the mission that makes you burn with desire and forces you to break precedent, you will encounter naysayers and come up against what looks like enemies.

Don’t be dismayed. It means you are making progress enough to discomfit those who are attached to the past. That’s a sure sign of your success. Moreover, you are no longer inhibited by your conditioning and the taboos of the past. Be confident that you are being effective, that you are in the process of making a difference. This is not a popularity contest, but transformation for the sake of the greater good.

I like this. The idea that I might be moving on to a self that doesn’t give a shit what people think. That I could find my stride, walk with true conviction, not looking left, right or in the mirror. Today in yoga, especially at the beginning, I spent less time looking at the others to make sure I was doing my positions correctly. When it was time to hang, I really dropped my head. And when I stumbled, when I lost my balance or couldn’t hold a pose, I didn’t feel an ounce of embarrassment.

What could the Devil be telling me about my writing life?

Shaved Eyebrows and Crucifixes

The woman who lived next door to us when I was a little girl had shaved eyebrows with fake ones painted on about three-quarters of an inch above them. Thinking about it now, squeamish kid I was, it must have freaked me out. But nobody ever said anything about it, least of all my mother, so I never said anything about it either.

I’m sure my mother had an opinion about the eyebrows, but she kept it to herself. The woman with the shaved eyebrows was Jewish too,  I think, so it must have been doubly disturbing that this person, this responsible female adult, in charge of young children, and a co-religionist, could come to her door every day looking only slightly less freakish than Marcel Marceau.

Time for Boot Camp

Here’s where the pathetic, soft-bellied princess is whipped into shape by a ruthless drill sergeant with a bad attitude. And really, I could use someone to march me up to elliptical trainer on the third floor or make me take 25 sit-ups, but no. I’m so wimpy I need boot camp to start writing again.

To the rescue (maybe) is writing coach Lisa Romeo, who apparently could use a drill sergeant herself. But I like this (quoting Lisa):

Self, I say, you simply don’t have enough time to write that. Pathetic little self, you don’t yet have the credibility you need to get that project sold. Little nobody self, what makes you think you can get access to those interview subjects? Insignificant little writer self, how do you plan to execute such a vast project, the likes of which you’ve never even tried?

Well at least she knows how to talk to me.

Lisa seemed a little perplexed at first that I, Debbie Galant, “queen of hyperlocal bloggers” and author of three published novels, would sign up for her boot camp. But the last time I put together a subject and predicate in service of fiction was December 2008. No, that’s not true. That’s when I turned in “Cars from a Marriage.” I did write about 50 pages toward a new novel in October 2009, the last time I was at VCCA. But I lost faith, or interest, in it as soon as I got home.

Truth be told, I’m tired of writing about upper-middle class suburbia. I’m bored of it, bored of New Jersey, bored of myself. I admired Jonathan Franzen’s “Freedom” but it was way too familiar. I want writing to take me to strange, exotic places, with the smell of unfamiliar spices and frightening sprites. I want to be from India. But northern Virginia during the Cuban Missile Crisis might just have to do.

Loved Loved Loved Loved Joan Rivers

Saw the new Joan Rivers documentary last night and I have to say I love that gal. I love her foul mouth, I love her insane work ethic, I love how she is singlehandedly fighting society’s prejudice against age, I love her honesty, her hilarious self-abasement, her vulnerability, even her cosmetic surgery.

You may go into the movie thinking Joan Rivers is an over-the-hill has-been, a stereotypical old Jewish lady and a Michael Jackson-variety plastic-surgery freak.

A Garden Gnome Comes to Life

I hope that when I’m 70, I can clearly state the goals of my life and smile about them.

Sitting yesterday afternoon in the back yard of Pat Kenschaft, I felt like I’d entered a a magical world, in which garden gnomes come alive and then shar the secrets of life. When I asked Pat if I could interview her for Baristanet’s new “Coffee with…” series, she said she would squeeze me before 2:30 pm — when a friend was coming to pick up some arugula plants — but she couldn’t see me after 4 because that would cut into her meditation time.

Sitting in the back of her yard, under the shade, the idea of a daily afternoon meditation practice seemed amazingly sane and accessible. Like, instead of booking a weekend a Kripalu, you could just pull a plastic lawn chair to the way back of your yard and rest your brain for free.

Read the rest of my interview with this extraordinary woman here.

The Charm Game

I’ve been watching other writers work their magic lately. Intensely watching. A few weeks ago, I went to a luncheon where my friend Dottie Frank was the keynote. And tonight, I went to a reading at my local bookstore by Josh Braff, whose book “Peep Show” came out this week. I’m studying them because I’m doing the donor reception at the Newark Public Library on June 22. I want to be charming and lovable and to sell books.

Dottie, whose books always make the best-seller list, is an old hand at this. She’s got a lot of well-honed stories about her in-laws and some nice self-deprecating bits about life on the road during book tour. She’s got a great story about how and why she started writing. Listening to her speak is like being at a dinner party. She didn’t even bother reading.