I am in awe of people who write historical fiction. I don’t see myself as having that skill. But I do enjoy reading about history and discovering unusual details that help toss a bit of reality into my fantastical worlds. I find that combination of the real and surreal irresistible. While working on The Flying Jewel I’ve come across information about the circus I’d love to share. Continue reading
It has become clear to me in the first two weeks of trying this that I have blogging on the brain. The double B was inevitable, I suppose. I start seeing all those lovely WordPress stats telling me you’re reading, and I wish to keep encouraging you to come back. I’m needy like that. The result, an almost constant mental stream. Did they laugh? Was it a good post? What if I run out of ideas? Isn’t this whole exercise a bit narcissistic? It wouldn’t be if they’d start leaving comments. Maybe you’re not comment-worthy, did you ever think of that? Stop yelling at me. When am I going to get my other writing done? The next book isn’t going to write itself for heaven’s sake. Shit, I would kill for a piece of chocolate right now. Why is it so hot in here? What if that spider in the window is poisonous? Well, most of those thoughts were inevitable. Continue reading
As a writer, I’m fairly certain I have an inalienable right to eavesdrop. At least that’s what I tell myself, and my mother if she asks, or that girl in the health food store giving me the evil eye. Yes, inalienable right, indeed. Watching as well as listening, it’s all part of the job description. With every race, creed, color, and mental illness accounted for New York city is of course the perfect place to exercise these abilities. Like that time in my yoga class when we all sat, eyes shut, beginning our first few meditations. Suddenly the door slammed open jolting everyone from their reverie. The soles of a pair of noisy feet slapped along the wood flooring, grunts and mutters ensued, blocks tumbled, a mat rolled and thumped loudly to the ground. It was difficult to imagine anyone could generate that much sound with soft rubber objects and blankets. When I opened my eyes to study in the most zen of ways exactly who this noisy perpetrator was she wore, I kid you not, a t-shirt that read, I have issues. As I said, NYC, the perfect breeding ground for eavesdropping and observation. Continue reading
After I posted my Writer Whacked In Effigy piece, Diane Verenberg from I’ll Cut You sent me a funny link to a childhood memory of hers about a harshly judged stuffed animal, and it got me to thinking about my Tanda bear. Tanda, may he rest in peace, was a small stuffed koala, a gift for young Heidi from a trip to Australia. For some reason my inability to understand the difference between a panda and a koala as well as my already fully formed geographical ineptitude resulted in the name Tanda. Panda minus the P take a right at Papua New Guinea, or something like that. Continue reading
The unknown stands behind the door: a beginning, an ending, a contract with the devil or the proverbial bluebird of happiness, a former lover or a killer collecting toenails, an archrival or a life-size check from Publisher’s Clearinghouse. If Monty Hall has anything to say about it there’s sure to be a woman in a banana suit and a lifetime supply of turtle wax. We wait here, intrigued and terrified. Turn the knob, lift the knocker, take that first step, and life hurtles into change, whether we’re ready for it or not. Continue reading
a.k.a. A writer procrastinates
Up until a few weeks ago I didn’t know a widget from a gadget, a tweet was a disturbing noise likely made by a mouse trapped beneath my oven, and AJAX* was a popular cleanser in the fifties. Slowly but surely though I am learning, and I find my experiences have raised just a few philosophical questions.
If Heidi David becomes a fan of Heidi S. David, Writer on Facebook, do the two cancel each other out? Or will a tree simply fall in the woods while one hand claps for it? Continue reading
Hugo Von Strummer showed up a few weeks ago. He’s an inventor, carries around a vial of his dead mother’s teeth attached to a gold chain in lieu of a pocket watch. What can I say? The man has issues. The thing of it is, he refuses to tell me about his latest invention and I really kinda need to know. I tried making him tea. (One assumes that inventors, generally speaking, prefer tea to coffee. I haven’t a clue why.) Telling him a bawdy joke really didn’t go over well. At this point I’m at a loss. Stymied by an emotionally unavailable man. Figures. Continue reading
Rest in peace little i-book. You tolerated five drafts of my manuscript and countless emails. Of course you might have mentioned that a few of those emails–when it was midnight, I was tipsy, and in a severe state of PMS–were ill advised, but still. You served me well, old chum. And as for our issues… The random port malfunctions. The sudden, violent temperature differential between the left and right side of the keyboard. The time I was running late for that thing at that restaurant and you refused to go online and show me the google map to tell me how to get there. Bygones, really. As for that disagreement between you and my bootlegged copy of microsoft word circa 1997 well, who could blame you two for parting ways? His attitude and frequent erectile dysfunction was bound to shatter what was once a loving bond. So I wish you well on your trip to the great beyond. May you be recycled into something extraordinary: next year’s i-lamp, an i-beagle, anything but i-tupperware, cause I really hate that shit.
For my eighth birthday my mother decided to craft a pinata. Weeks of secretive preparation went into this endeavor while I peeked around corners, trying to get a glimpse of the item. 
The night before my big day I could stand the suspense no longer. I tiptoed downstairs just as the finishing touches were added to the candy-filled centerpiece.
As I neared the table, I noted its shape, a huge sphere. Was it globe? Ah, how dear, mother giving her youngest daughter the world. But no, it couldn’t be. For the thing had hair.
Hair, you say?
Yes, hair. Braided hair, in fact. Made out of yarn. For you see, the pinata before me was a gigantic likeness of my young head, hair parted down the middle, enthusiastic grin, and the like. Continue reading
There are a few things I ought to mention. If I had a sideshow name it would probably be Heidi-the-Luddite. I’m technologically inept as well. In fact, let me apologize in advance if one day all my posts are accidentally in Latvian. Another thing, I’m a bit of a curmudgeon. However, I’m also the woman who grins unabashedly at your four-year old. The one most likely to tell the cab driver he’s forgotten to switch on the meter. And if there’s a dog on TV, let’s just say I’ve been known to point at the screen enthusiastically and shout “Puppy!” from the privacy of my couch. Continue reading
Madame Paradox 