Covers

  Nothing in my life can ever compare to the thrill of meeting my newborn daughters for the first time.  However, seeing my manuscript become an actual book, with a cover that proclaimed me as its author, came pretty close.  Like Anne Bradstreet, who called her book the child of her brain, I feel a tendernessakin to that of motherhood for my novel, Ms. Murphy’s Makeover.

I remember the morning that Jack, an artist for Black Opal Books, sent me some possible cover designs.  I had told him I wanted to explore the daffodil image in the book. These golden perennials, a symbol of hope and rebirth, and the subject of a beautiful poem by Wordsworth, seemed a perfect way to convey my story of a woman who blossoms into a new life. Following my suggestions, Jack produced a single open daffodil, pointing heavenward against a sky-blue background.  Underneath the title, Ms. Murphy’s Makeover, my name appeared.  I was an author!  My first name was misspelled, but Jack said that was easily corrected. Once the correction was done, I was over the moon.

My family was not.  My husband absolutely hated it. My daughter said the skyward- pointing flower suggested a religious experience, not a women’s journey.  But in the end, it was my sister Rosalie who cast the deciding vote.  She was scathing in her disapproval.  “Jacqueline. That cover tells me nothing, nothing, about your book,” she complained. “It doesn’t make me want to read it at all.”

  

 

 

As always, I listened to my sister. I sent Jack back to his drawing board.  “This is a book about sexual awakening, among other things,” I explained. “A collapsing marriage. A difficult work environment. And then, a cosmetic makeover. Perhaps an image of a woman’s hands with red nail polish, removing a ring?

A woman in a plunging neckline, wearing a dress as scarlet as Hester's  letter, was the next option Jack sent!  I was crazed at the sight.  This cover proclaimed soft porn, or maybe not so soft porn.  My character, Charlotte Murphy, would never wear such a dress.

To my surprise and delight, Jack had read the book, and he agreed with me. In one scene Charlotte wears a black dress, over the objections of her husband.

A black dress silhouetted against a champagne background, Jack suggested, would be sexy, yet classy. Much better, my husband said. Daughter and sister agreed. And so, the cover was born.

A little black dress - the final cover! 

A little black dress - the final cover!

 

Recently, seeing that familiar image in a stranger’s hand almost was a religious experience.  A perfect stranger had selected my book in a public library!  Rosalie was right. Perhaps, you can judge a book by its cover.

 

 

 

 

 

 

How Objects Tell Your Story

Thanks to Mindy Halleck for this article. I employ a similar strategy in Ms Murphy's Makeover. A blue stone in a man's pinky ring is the object I chose.

How Objects Tell Your Storyby Mindy HalleckIn 2011,I embarked on one of the harshest undertakings; I placed what I thought was the final draft of my novel in a drawer for one year. Why? Because, as I told others in … Source: How Objects Tell Your Story

Ms. Jacqui's Makeover

Ms. Jacqui's Makeover I was made over.

Old friends may notice a difference in appearance between my former self and my current look on social media. This is the reason why.

When my debut novel, Ms. Murphy's Makeover, was accepted for publication I had to submit an author photo. I was advised to seek professional help. Immediately. My generous friends, Nan and Marlena, two talented and stylish writers, offered to take me in hand.  I accepted gratefully. I am sadly challenged when it comes to fashion and make-up.

This is my husband's fault, of course. He says likes me without lipstick or mascara or anything at all on my face. Lucky for me.

But this has made me complacent, or let's face it, lazy, about my appearance. My make-up consists of a smear of lipstick I put on in the morning and forget to re-apply. When I get my hair cut I stick to the basic bob, all one length. My stylist always looks a little sad, and asks why I let it go so long between visits.

Anyway, on to the project. My friends had their work cut out for them.

The first step was eyeglasses. Mine were fairly attractive, I thought, wire framed progressive lenses. I had let the helpful receptionist for my eye doctor choose them. Eight years ago. My vision had not changed. But Nan and Marlena explained that the frames were passé.

They went with me to Lens Crafters early one morning and together we examined every possible option available for my prescription. They discussed each pair I tried on at great length, photographed me in each, and drove the sales associate crazy.  We were in the store for two hours. At last I ordered the designer tortoise shell frames they'd selected.  Designer frames at a designer price.  I pulled out my credit card and signed.

On to wardrobe. Marlena, who is an artist as well as a writer, told me that the pastel color palette I'd preferred all my life was wrong wrong wrong. Jewel colors, she told me. Pale pinks and blues washed me out.

I went shopping with this in mind, and explained my predicament to the helpful saleswomen. They loved the idea of a project, and selected a cashmere sweater in burgundy and a blouse in teal blue. You can see my jewel-toned threads on my facebook author page, Jacqueline Goldstein Author, and on my soon to be published website.

Next came hair. My stylist, Cherry, gave me a pile of magazines to go through. Together with her assistant, Laura, we chose a layered style with flipped up ends, guaranteed to take time out of my mornings. And then Cherry gave me the best haircut I've ever had, layering my hair to frame my face and even flip up impishly.  It was a great success, although I'd never be able to replicate it myself.

The make-up person at Cathy's loved my haircut. When I told her that I was about to be photographed she gently patted  layers of stuff on my face, making my nose look smaller and my mouth seem bigger. Suddenly I had eyebrows and eyelashes. False eyelashes.  My small blue eyes became bigger and bluer behind my brand new glasses.

Finally it was time for my close-up. The photographer, Noelle Marie, chatted me up about my life and my book, posed me this way and that, smiling, serious, pensive, and mischievous.  I had a great time. Being with her was like meeting a new friend.

The pictures turned out great. But then Noelle re-touched the photos, removing my wrinkles, adding whitener to my teeth and heaven knows what else. I emerged, glamorous, and cover ready.

Ironically, Ms. Murphy's Makeover, is about a teacher who hates the way a cosmetic makeover turns out. She washes her face, and moves on to a more honest life.  Unlike my character, I loved the way my makeover, and the photos, turned out.  But it takes a village, a lot of time, and deep pockets to look your best.  At the end of the photo session I was happy to wash my face, put on my old pastel sweater, and be just me again.

 

 

A book I loved

Elizabeth Strout's latest novel, "My Name is Lucy Barton" is the story of a mother and daughter, told by the daughter. It is a short, absorbing book. I inhaled it. Lucy Barton grows up in almost Dickensian poverty, living with her family in a freezing garage, insulated with pretty pink fiberglass. She is told not to touch the stuff that gives this minimal warmth, because if she touches it, the fiberglass will cut her. The coldness of her home reflects the coldness of a family where the parents are abusive by most standards. For example, Lucy's parents lock her in their truck for an entire day.  But Lucy's mother sometimes gives her a hot water bottle to heat the bed at night.

Lucy stays late at school each day, doing homework and reading, just to be warm. She learns that "work gets done if you simply do it." Books help her not to feel alone, and she decides to become a writer to help others not feel so alone. Doing homework and reading, she becomes an excellent student, wins a college scholarship, and escapes the poverty of her family. But she never stops missing them.

When the adult Lucy is hospitalized for nine weeks her mother comes to the hospital and never leaves Lucy's side. Laughing and joking about the nurses, whom they have nicknamed Toothache, Cookie, and Serious Child, Lucy and her mother come to a kind of closeness.

Partly through the advice of another mother figure, a published author, Lucy achieves success as a writer, but, as her mother predicts, there are tough times in her future.

As a writer myself, and as a daughter and mother of daughters, I loved this book. Thank you, Elizabeth Strout.

I Hate This Prompt!

A Prompt from Writing Class: Describe your Writing Group I absolutely hate this prompt. It is something I don't like to do - get so up close and personal with my subject. The group began several writing classes ago, when I first met Marlena. She and I were part of a class in the Sarah Lawrence Writing Group entitled Finding Our Voices. She wrote a piece in response to another prompt - to go out in the world and observe. She observed folk working behind the counter in what was probably a diner, and she captured the close moments of a tip of knife cutting food. I loved her piece, and then her larger work, about her childhood in Panama. At the end of the semester she and I, along with a few others, began to meet for informal writing sessions. We continued to take classes together, one with the well- known author Sally Koslow, where we met Nan and Jessica. Jessica wrote a piece about a little girl who played cash register, a vignette I loved which later surfaced as part of her first novel. Nan was famous for her wry essays, fashion sense, her wit, and her incredible support. When I read my work she raved and made me feel so good. Jessica also supported and raved about my work, along with Marlena. I was beginning to feel like Shakespeare, or at least Margaret Mitchell. Buoyed by all this praise, I got the courage to join a class dedicated to novel writing. Before the group met I arrived early, and sat down with a beautiful young woman who introduced herself as Eileen. She'd already written a novel, she told me, but wanted to workshop her next one, Worth the Weight. I told her I had a novel in progress too, Ms. Murphy's Makeover, and she agreed to read it. When we met a short while later in a coffee shop she had not only read my novel, she had prepared detailed notes. Again, lots of support. (By the way, Worth the Weight has recently been published by Diversion Press.) Riding the wave of unmitigated support, I presented my novel to the class dedicated to novel writing, led by Jimin. When asked if I wanted criticism, I said, bring it on. I was prepared for accolades. Alas, not so much this time. For the first time my book got some negative remarks, and for the first time my confidence, or over-confidence, was shaken. But tough love is still love. For example, Ahmed, who was writing a satirical piece about Pakistan, was forthright in saying that my book was repetitive. At first I was crestfallen, but I realized he was right. I really appreciate his honesty. Jimin, our teacher, who could never be other than sweet, was incredibly generous with her time, and helped me organize the book differently in a private session, helping me to look for through threads. A new member of our group, Ines, joined us the next semester. Her writing, about Sao Paolo, seemed nothing short of amazing, and her personality, warm and generous, lit up the class. And then along came Rickey - that prolific, kind, and sizzling writer, who has offered support and help as well. Can I forget our other teacher Pat, who co-taught with Jimin? Never! Her firecracker comments and true kindness infused our class sessions. I loved her peremptory comments, her insistence that she was right, her mock battles with Jimin, the good cop, over control of time. I may hate writing about this group, but I love being part of it.

Hunger Is the Best Pickle

Dante had the ability to be in the honors class for 11th grade English,  but he couldn't stay quiet.  He called out in class, interrupting the teacher and annoying the studious kids intent on earning A's.   So he was demoted to my class of average students.  Lucky me. Paraphrasing a quotation known as a "critical lens"  was on the agenda the day Dante appeared.  Crossing my fingers, I gave an assignment that was a little challenging,  asking the students to interpret a quotation ascribed to Benjamin Franklin:  Hunger is the best pickle.  I put  the kids in groups, ostensibly to discuss the quote, but actually to make noisiness acceptable.  I knew they'd be talking about everything except the quotation.  I pretended to pounce on Dante's group, and of course, bright light that he was, he came up with a reasonable interpretation.  I don't remember what he said. It didn't matter.  I just wanted an excuse to praise him.

I made kind of a big deal over this,  asking Dante to repeat his answer to the entire class.    Another boy in the group echoed my praise, announcing that Dante had been really good at explaining the puzzling quote.

Whew!  What I'd done could have backfired, but luck was with me.  Dante was never a problem in my class.  His hunger for praise was the only pickle needed.

Teaching the Introvert

An article in today's NY Times," Smarts vs. Personality" by Anna North, inspired this memory of a boy I'll call Roberto.

Roberto slid into my sophomore English class each day and took his assigned seat wordlessly. Unlike the other boys who favored jeans, he dressed as if for church, in slacks and a button down shirt. He carried a briefcase, not a backpack. I never saw him speak to another student, and he never answered in class, although he did well on tests and always handed in homework. The motherly security guard at the main desk worried about him. "That boy's in trouble. I don't want to read about him someday," she told me. His guidance counselor said to give him space, that he was like one of the early flowers in the spring - a harsh wind or careless footstep would destroy him. I was new to the school, and I had to be observed by an assistant principal several times a term. These observations would be reduced to writing. Typically, a lesson's critique would mention three good things and two things that needed to improve. For example, repeating student answers was a no-no for the teacher. Instead, the teacher was supposed to ask another student to repeat a classmate's answer, encouraging kids to pay attention to each other. This was one of my "bad things" on a previous observation. I had to watch out for that during my next observation. With the supervisor sitting in the back of the room writing diligently, I asked a question and got a correct answer from a girl named Rachel. "What did she say, Miss?' a boy asked. "Who can repeat Rachel's excellent answer?" was my careful response. The class was silent. "Why you being so stupid today?" the same boy asked. "Why can't you just tell us?" The supervisor was writing furiously. I looked around at the students, desperate. But the room was silent. And then, a miracle occurred. Roberto's hand, for the first time, slowly went up. For the first time that term, his voice was heard. He repeated Rachel's correct answer. And he smiled at me.