March 2008

How NOT to Query

One of my favorite guilty pleasures is watching the TLC reality cable show, "What Not to Wear."

Two fashion mavens—Stacy and Clinton—ambush some haplessly clothed woman or man at work or a public place and later make fun of their oversized sweatshirt and tapered jeans in an incriminating 360 degree mirrored room.

It's very evil and biting (that's way I may enjoy it so much) in the beginning, but then inevitably the participant relents and learns that the change in her appearance really may give her a leg up in her career or social circles. First impressions do count (but are not everything, right?).

How is this related to writing? I've been getting some manuscripts sent to me from unpublished writers—both unsolicited and invited. And I've noticed that some, frankly, are dressed all wrong. Publishing is a cutthroat business, so all the more reason to send your beloved manuscript out in the world for the best first impression.

Here are a few tips:

1. Don't think about making your manuscript all pretty, shiny, and organized. No need to place it in a three-ring binder, have perfect binding, and please, no patterned or colored paper. The weight has to be in the words, not how the wrapping looks. And actually, with the Internet, a lot of agents and editors (but certainly not all) are requesting full manuscripts electronically. So all the more reason to keep it simple and pristine.

2. There's no need to include acknowledgments in your manuscript, because aren't you going to thank that agent, editor, and publisher who is going to make your raw text into a book? Long forewords and introductions are also unnecessary, especially if you are writing fiction or creative nonfiction. Just plunge straight into the meat, the beginning of your story, so that the gatekeepers know exactly what you're serving.

3. Don't go crazy with fonts and typefaces. This isn't a high-school pep rally. You don't have to make the letters of your title any larger than the text of your story. Use a plain, reasonable font, either Courier or Times Roman, in 12-point type.

4. Double-space the whole enchilada. Don't single-space within a paragraph and then double-space in between paragraphs.

5. When you send that manuscript, just wrap a long rubber band around that sucker and place it in a Priority Mail envelope or box. No need to Federal Express (unless they wanted it sent overnight). And don't do certified registered mail. That's just annoying. If you're a control freak, then use the tracking feature offered by Priority Mail. It's not that expensive and you can see if it reached its destination through a web site without making some poor guy or gal in the mailroom (or someone like me) have to go to the post office and sign the receipt. When I first began sending out my manuscript years ago, I used manuscript boxes sold by places like the Writer's Store. I guess it's nice for filing and storage purposes, but I haven't used one since.

What about the cover letter and synopsis? I'll save that for another web installment.

Until April,
Naomi

February 2008

The Way of Cha

Cha means "tea" in Japanese and also Chinese, but in the house I grew up in, we called it "ocha." The addition of the "o" is an honorific, which gives the word some level of elevated honor. (In Japan, some waitresses even call beer "o-beeru," casting some doubt on how honorable the item might be!)

At that time, I usually preferred Lipton's black tea to ocha, always green tea, with one exception—the end of the meal. Because if there was any short sticky rice left over, we would pour ocha in the rice bowl and eat with some pickled vegetables, flakes of grilled salmon, or packaged spices. Ochazuke—the perfect coda to a meal.

I realize, however, that I've adopted a peasant's way of approaching cha. There's a long tradition of cha-no-yu, tea ceremony, where beautiful kimono-clad women and men, whip powered, brilliantly hued green tea with wooden whisks in pristine long Japanese tea cups. The sleeve of the kimono is gracefully repositioned so that it may not accidentally fall into the tea and then the tea cup is revolved in precise turns like the moves of a Swiss master clockmaker.

I never was fully turned on by the restrained, disciplined way of the tea ceremony. Just to get into that kimono alone causes my belly to ache.

But then, as I began to do research on the Japanese garden, what do I discover? That its development is inextricably linked with cha, specifically the tea ceremony. Whether it be for rulers or monks, the garden was designed for private contemplation, which goes hand in hand with the principles of cha.

This year on cold and wet winter days of Los Angeles when the temperatures dip down to 40 degrees (I know those in the Midwest and Upper East Coast are laughing!), I'm now adding green tea to my routine. Instead of an antique Japanese kettle, I use a new electric Brevielle Ikon cordfree kettle, a Christmas gift from my parents. The moments afterwards are the same. A quick sip. The patter of rain. An idea flashes. The fingers tap the keyboard. Creativity begins.

Naomi

January 2008

Unleashing Your Inner Mas

For the past three years, I have ritual before the new year begins—I go out and buy an Angry Little Girls wall calendar by Lela Lee. I've been now keeping my schedule on my laptop computer, but being a visual person, I need something colorful and fun on my wall.

The Angry Little Girls comics franchise, which started from Angry Little Asian Girl, cracks me up. The main character, Kim, is a surly little thing with her black eyebrows usually arched in a frown. Although some may deny it, I think Kim's attitude, as opposed to the stereotypical geisha image, more aptly represents the contemporary Asian American female psyche.

Some readers have asked me how I can write from a cranky old man's perspective. Well, Mas Arai, my amateur sleuth, is indeed my alter ego. I like it that he doesn't really worry about what other people think, drives a dilapidated truck in image-conscious L.A., and has dandelions on his lawns (a bad professional reflection as he's a gardener).

Mas does care about the basics—about friendships and family—although he would be the last to admit it. If you haven't met this character yet, you can start this year as the first, Summer of the Big Bachi, and the second, Gasa-Gasa Girl, will be reprinted in affordable paperback (SOTBB on January 29, 2008 and GGG on May 20, 2008). And if you know someone who wants to read the books in Japanese, Gasa-Gasa Girl will be also be released in Japanese by Shogakukan early this year. (The Kinokuniya bookstore chain will most likely have it available here in the United States.)

Also later this year is the release of two projects in August: 1001 Cranes, a middle-grade novel, by Delacorte, and The Darker Mask, a superheroes anthology edited by Christopher Chambers and Gary Phillips with my short story, "Tat Master." You can learn more about 1001 Cranes on the website, www.1001cranesbook.com. I'll be releasing more details—including the cover—as the year goes on.

And last of all, to commemorate 2008, I have a new author's photo. I debated whether to post a smiley shot or a more serious one. I consulted my inner Mas and decided on the latter.

Happy Year of the Rat!

Naomi

December 2007

Chirashi Covenant and Other Crimes of Food

I'm a saucy kind of woman in that I cook via prepared sauces and mixes. I guess it's a little like painting with numbers and perhaps one step above Hamburger Helper. But I am indeed discriminating about my instant mixes, so does that make me a type of 21st century gourmand?

One thing my mother has taught me to make from scratch and I have somehow applied is the making of the American favorite, the California roll—the ubiquitous round slices of sushi stuffed with fake crab (surumi), avocado, and cucumber. I do take shortcuts, however, and prepare my sushi rice with already seasoned rice vinegar in a bottle. The key here is actually how you mix the vinegar in the hot rice. You need an electric fan or round paper fan as well as a shamoji (rice paddle). As you gentle turn the rice over with your shamoji (don't mix or stir), splash some seasoned vinegar and cool down with the fan, either mechanized or hand-held. You don't want your rice to soften into a messy goo; each grain needs to hold its shape.

I usually make rolls out of the rice, but chirashi (scattered) sushi is easy enough with the same seasoned rice. The sushi bar version of chirashi is sliced sashimi over rice, but in most Japanese homes, chirashi means rice scattered with slivers of carrots, bamboo shoots, shiitake mushroom, and gobo (burdock root). All these vegetables are sliced thin and cooked in fish stock with a dash of soy sauce, sugar, and sake mixed in while the contents boil. Top it all with a thinly sliced egg omelet, cooked shrimp, and green peas and you have a colorful potluck dish.

Chirashi is the visual inspiration for my short story, "The Chirashi Covenant," in A Hell of a Woman: An Anthology of Female Noir, edited by mystery writer Megan Abbott and released in December by Busted Flush Press. (There will be a series of signings in L.A. this weekend.) Megan Abbott is a name that you'll be hearing more about; in fact, her debut book, Die a Little, was optioned by actress and producer Jessica Biel for a movie. "The Chirashi Covenant" is probably my most violent story ever published (although most of the gore is referred to in metaphor). The story, set in the 1950s and involves former Nisei beauty queens, literally poured out of me and even inspired me to write a novel based on similar characters during the same time period, a seminal time for Japanese Americans returning to the West Coast after being incarcerated in camps during World War II.

Last year, when I wrote three short stories very different from my Mas Arai series, was a particularly dark time for me. This year I saw the light at the end of the tunnel and the struggles of 2006 led to many celebrations, including the awarding of the Edgar Allan Poe Award to Snakeskin Shamisen in April. I'm looking forward to other new things in 2008. I hope you are too.

Peace and happy holidays.

Naomi

November 2007

POD Technology, Mom's Garden, and Tofu Containers

Although my father has worked as a gardener for close to half a century, the truth is my mother is the real gardener in the family. Real in the sense that she loves what she grows—every stalk of chrysanthemum, every vine of nasubi (Japanese eggplant) and cherry tomato, every leaf of green and romaine lettuce. She hasn't gone as far as name her plants, but she may as well have. She knows where each plant is located, its status and age, and its average flower/fruit production.

When she goes out of town, her biggest concern is not for the security of their house, but for the condition of her plants.

And I have to admit, Mom's garden is pretty damn incredible, especially considering this is suburban Los Angeles. My parents' backyard is a mini-nursery. Succulents and exotics are grouped in one area—the purple blooms of the plumeria punctuating the green. Ornamental palms and waxy cymbidium plants are lined up on planks in the back. Long stemmed flowers are tied to wooden stacks with garbage bag twisties. Bonsai plants, tended by my father, lie scattershot under the porch.

Mom's pride and joy right now are the seedlings that she raised from seed. Stock. Pansies. Lettuce. They are all in tofu containers ("Don't throw those containers away," she tells me). Dad plays a role here—he's jerryrigged mini-greenhouse with plastic covers and wooden sticks on top of a wheelbarrow.

While Mom tends her garden, I tend my books. While there are the Mas Arai mysteries, there's also a middle-grade book, 1001 Cranes, to be released next August. And monthly chapters of the online serial for the Discover Nikkei website. And a new standalone currently in progress.

Early in November, I'll also be holding a writing and publishing workshop in conjunction with the Japanese American Historical Society of Southern California in Gardena. We've invited experts from all over the California and even Chicago. What I'm most interested in is learning how Japanese publishers are utilizing POD technology in giving new life to historic documents and books about emigrants.

POD has nothing to do with horticulture—it stands for print-on-demand, and refers to a technology in which books are printed and bound together, literally one book at a time according to "demand." It's a technology that is controversial in that it makes print technology more affordable and accessible to the everyman with sometimes less than desirable results. (It's led to a deluge of books—close to 292,000 books were published in 2006!) Many self-published authors and subsidy publishers use this POD technology, but in time more traditional New York-based publishers will depend on this technology to produce backlist books that are not in their current inventory and stored in their warehouses.

What does POD technology have to do with Mom's garden? Not much. But somehow my mind is still stuck on those tofu containers which are filled with soil and seeds. Under the right environment, even shaded by a plastic cover, they will grow. Technology may have revolutionized distribution of information, but you still need to start off with good stuff—whether in long-lasting, disposable or virtual containers.

Naomi

October 2007

Soap Operas

Ever since I was a kid, I've loved soap operas or stories told in a serial format. Whether it be "All My Children" or All-of-a-Kind of Family, I would wait in anticipation for the next installment. Right now my husband and I are watching the first season of the television police drama, "Hill Street Blues," on DVD and I love how previous storylines are woven together with new ones.

Starting in September, I have embarked on my own serial—but in keeping with our era of new technologies, this will be offered exclusively online. Called The Nihongo Papers, it's a biotech paranormal thriller involving strawberries. The first chapter of The Nihongo Papers was launched in September and you can read it here on the website Discover Nikkei (Nikkei means of Japanese ancestry). Each following chapter will be posted on the 14th of every month for a year.

For recent novel projects, I've begun to outline after finishing the first two, three chapters. It's important for me to at least begin free form with no preconception or planning. Then as I chisel and peel away, I get a sense of the rhythm and tone of the book I'm building. Once that's in place I can start to organize the skeleton of the story—knowing full well that I can easily move and replace "bones" while writing.

The Nihongo Papers is sandwiched in between different book writing projects, so I haven't had the luxury of time. So there's no detailed story skeleton. Really. So I'm an adventurer in the darkness, just focused on the few steps in front of me that are visible with my flashlight. Hopefully it will all make sense once twelve months have passed!

There's really no formula to writing a book, although judging from readers' questions, I think people hope for one. There's no magic desk, magic computer program, magic time of the day. It's only what works for you. And even that individualized formula can change from book to book, project to project. For me it needs to. I know I'm only using a small portion of this pulpy mass called a brain, and you never know how a change in approach will stimulate inactive synapses.

So with The Nihongo Papers, I'm experimenting with a new subgenre for me—the thriller. Not sure that I can do it well, but at least I'm trying.

***

I've helped to write, edit or produce at least eight nonfiction books and memoirs over the past ten years, and along the way, people have asked me for advice and assistance on their personal projects. As a result, I've started, in conjunction with the Japanese American Historical Society of Southern California (JAHSSC), the Song Sparrow Writing Workshops, to be held every other year. The first day-long workshop in Gardena, launched in 2005, centered on writing fiction. This year we are focusing on family and organizational histories. We have a great group of speakers, including Lane Hirabayashi, the chairman of the Asian American Studies Department at UCLA. The event will be on Saturday, November 3, from 8:30 AM to 4 PM in Gardena. See the WRITING WORKSHOP link on this website for more information. I'll be leading an advanced writing workshop and seminar on marketing and distributing books. Keep checking the page for updated information.

Naomi

September 2007

Underdog

I'm 4'10" and sometimes I forget I'm short. Maybe it's because I don't have a good grip of reality or have an overinflated image of myself. But I think it's more because I played competitive basketball from sixth grade to my young adulthood.

Basketball? If you're unfamiliar with the Japanese American community, you are probably scratching your head or laughing. But those of you in the know understand. For basketball is our community's Little League baseball, initiation into not only team sports but cultural interaction. These leagues started way back in the 1950s as a response to exclusion of Japanese Americans from some traditional athletic play due to both small size and racial discrimination. And why basketball? In urban California, space was and continues to be at a premium. As a sport, basketball is compact and doesn't require a lot of players.

Hollywood Dodgers, Monterey Park Mustangs and so on—these teams were around during my youth and still exist today. I was a Pasadena Bruin—obviously one of the founders was a UCLA alumnus.

I wasn't athletic when I started playing basketball in sixth grade. In fact, at my public school, I was known as the girl that you aimed for first in dodge ball—easy out. It didn't help that my mother insisted that I wear skirts instead of pants to school for the longest time. So you can imagine that I wasn't that effective on the basketball court. But early on, during the few times my coach put me in the game, I learned that I was good at something—stealing the ball. I remember that first time I did it by accident and the crowd roared and cheered. What had I done? All I knew was that I need to do it again. And I did.

So besides dribbling, stealing balls was my specialty. I became good enough to play on my high school junior varsity team. My signature was not my playing skills but my shoes—high-top orange Converses (we were the Tigers, after all).

What does this have to do with writing and publishing? Don't let naysayers, including those closest to you, determine your future. Take risks; go into areas where you think that you are unskilled, and you might be surprised in the end. And when there are obstacles, instead of facing them straight on, sometimes you need to fake them out and go around them.

Happy dribbling.

Naomi

August 2007

In June of this year a new exhibition opened at the Japanese American National Museum, "Landscaping America: Beyond the Japanese Garden." As I mentioned before, I wrote a 15-minute paranormal mystery documenting the little known social network of gardeners. Called "Mamo's Weeds," you can see an excerpt of the beginning here:

See the movie in it entirety in the exhibition theatre or buy it from the museum. Or better yet, come to our discussion with the director, Akira Boch, and actors during Nisei Week on Saturday, August 25, at 2 p.m. at the museum's fancy Democracy Forum, 369 E. First St., in Los Angeles' Little Tokyo.

"Mamo's Weeds," complete with Japanese subtitles, will also be making its international rounds this month.

First in Tokyo:

Sunday, August 5
Bird Cafe
3-30-3 Shimokitazawa Setagaya-ku, Tokyo
Phone 03-3467-3821
For more information: http://www.m-camp.net/smokinmirrors.html
For reservations, call Music Camp, Inc. 03-5772-3557 (English is OK)
6:30 PM

Then in Hiroshima:

Sunday, August 26
Hiroshima Peace Film Festival

Peace.

Naomi

July 2007

Mass Mas

Next year you will see the first two Mas Arai mysteries—Summer of the Big Bachi and Gasa-Gasa Girl—in mass market paperback format.

What's a mass market paperback? It's that smaller paperback that you often see in grocery stores and airports. Trade paperback is larger, almost the size of a hardback book.

When I received my first book contract, I was informed that Summer of the Big Bachi would be published as a trade paperback original. I had no idea of what that meant. I assumed that all books were first published in hardcover and about a year later, they are released in paperback by the same publisher. Wrong. Some books are published in hardcover, but never are picked up in paperback—mostly likely due to poor sales. Other hardcover books are released a few years later in either trade paper or mass market by another publisher. Some books go straight to mass market format. Or like mine, they come out originally in trade paperback—hence, a trade paperback original.

Now certain authors feel that a book is not a real book unless it's a hardcover. I've never felt that way. Maybe it's because I love trade paperbacks. Maybe because I've never been flush with money. Or maybe it's because I worked as a journalist and realize my words have a limited shelf life; I have no illusions of trying to be immortal.

Book clubs gravitate towards trade paperbacks, a favorite format for the reprinting of hardcover literary books. Trade paperbacks are much more affordable and portable—the type is larger than mass market paperbacks. My agent was happy to hear of this publishing decision—"It's a good thing, Naomi," she told me. At the time, I wasn't quite sure why, but I had to trust my editor's and agent's intuition.

Turns out they were right. Trade paperbacks are being steadily embraced by reviewers, and Summer of the Big Bachi got notice in the Chicago Tribune, San Francisco Chronicle, and the Los Angeles Times, not to mention trades like Publishers Weekly. Its $12 price tag was reasonable for a consumer to take a chance on an unknown novelist. The cover was gorgeous and respectful.

And now, almost four years later, Summer of the Big Bachi will also be offered in mass market early next year. (The trade paperback version will still stay in print—not to worry, book club members!) So, again, what does it mean? Well, it means that the series will be launched anew in chain bookstores, mystery bookstores that prefer mass market, and, hopefully, other retail outlets like grocery stores. A lot more mass market books will be printed than the trade paperbacks—so it will definitely widen the series' exposure. The rest will be up to the American consumer. Will they purchase a book titled Summer of the Big Bachi, which features a Japanese American gardener and atomic bomb survivor? The answer to that question will be available sometime in 2008.

Naomi

June 2007

Slice of Life

When I first set out to write the first book about Mas Arai, a writer friend (who had not yet been published) told me point blank, "I really wouldn't read about a Japanese American gardener. Too boring."

I was a little disheartened, but obviously not enough to abandon my project. I hung in there for 15 years, and now we have the series, three books and counting. Writing about a gardener is writing about my childhood. My father was and continues to be a professional gardener and with it comes slices of a typical Japanese American childhood—seeing your father come in through the back door with the cooler in one hand. He's all weary and dirty in his white T-shirt, Levi jeans, and, of course, the work boots. Being part of a gardener's family also meant picnics at Elysian Park (right next to Dodger stadium), where I once won a plastic trash can in a raffle—I was so proud of that prize, the first thing I ever won!—and hunting for little frogs in the creek. Socializing with other gardeners' families, spending many Friday evenings playing in bowling alleys and homes where we heard the rumbling of mahjong tiles.

It's no wonder that I'm attracted to stories of the working class. I love pungent characters and pungent stories. I appreciate the pristine lines of a novels dealing with upper class intrigue and struggles, but my heart of hearts still lies in strong smells and sounds. And I'm apparently not alone. Readers are either fascinated or in love with Mas Arai. I've been to readings where folks claim to have had Mas Arai sightings. I've received an e-mail from someone whose gardener father is actually named Mas and mother is named Chizuko (my character's late wife's name).

On Father's Day, June 17, the Japanese American National Museum will open its new exhibition, Landscaping America: Beyond the Japanese Garden. It's all about the phenomenon of the Japanese American gardener and garden in the United States. I had the pleasure of working with the exhibition curator Sojin Kim, project manager Audrey Muromoto, media arts center members (Akira Boch and John Esaki) and others (Carla Tengan) in writing a media script for a 15-minute film to accompany the exhibition. What resulted was not a documentary but a paranormal mystery called "Mamo's Weeds," which will be playing continuously in a small theater next to the exhibition. Basically it's a slice of a L.A. gardener's life.

Come visit the museum's exhibition, which will be up until the fall. I'll be participating in two public programs:

Saturday, June 23, at 2 PM
The Poetry of Japanese Gardeners, a presentation with Sunny Seki, community historian, poetry expert, and children's book author

and

Saturday, August 25, at 2 PM
Special Screening and Discussion of "Mamo's Weeds" with the filmmaker and actors

Both will be held at the Japanese American National Museum, 369 E. First St., Los Angeles, 213-625-0414.

And if you live out of town and will be unable to come to the exhibition in person, you can purchase the DVD of "Mamo's Weeds" from the Museum Store (www.janm.org).

In keeping with the theme, here's a senryu poem by an actual gardener that I published in the nonfiction book, Green Makers:

The greenest beauty—

A gardener's deepening

American pride

—Matsumoto Chikuyo

Naomi

May 2007

Book Season

Even though I'm a Christian, I've spent many days in a Buddhist church—not necessarily in the temple sanctuary, but either in a gym (as was the case when I grew up on the Pasadena Bruin basketball team) or outside at an Obon festival.

From July to August, every weekend in any large Japanese American population center from Hawai'i to Seattle to Southern California, there will be an Obon. Its significance is debated among Buddhists from being essentially a "Japanese Day of the Dead" (the standard description) to a festival recognizing the essence of being, impermanence, and joy. The latter is directly related to the dancing that takes place in a circle around a taiko (big drum) performer and taped music.

Well, come late April and May, we've entered another festival season—an author's or reader's bit of heaven—the book festival circuit.

For Los Angelenos, it begins with the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books, which takes place on the last weekend in April this year. And starting this year on Saturday, May 12, there will be a new book festival in town—the Asian Pacific American Book Festival, organized by the Asian Pacific American Legal Center of Southern California.

I've been helping the inaugural festival with its plans, and it's amazing what kind of response we have received. A number of writers will be traveling from the East Coast, and many from Northern California. There will be panels, of course, but also conversations, poetry readings, spoken word and other performances, and writing workshops.

Vendors are key to this festival—many of them specialize in Asian Pacific American books, literature, and teaching materials. There will a bookseller coming from San Jose who deals with Asian Pacific American literary collectables. I'll be so excited to see all these stories—so diverse—come together in one place. The Los Angeles Times Festival of Books is massive and energetic, but it's also nice to have a festival which a more specific focus so that we'll be able to excavate issues more deeply.

So, if you have a chance, come by this free festival:

Asian Pacific American Book Festival
Presented by the Asian Pacific Legal Center
Saturday, May 12
11 a.m. to 4 p.m.
Japanese American National Museum and the National Center for the Preservation of Democracy
369 E. First Street, downtown Los Angeles

Celebrate! It's book season!

Naomi

April 2007

Found in Translation

It's finally happened. Two of the Mas Arai mysteries will be translated into Japanese by Shogakukan, one of Japan's Big Three publishers.

Other than my large-print deal, this is my first foreign rights sale. We had heard that Turkey had been interested (Turkey???) but there was nothing definitive. Then this.

Why am I so elated?

Well, for once, family and friends will be able to read my fiction in the language that they feel most comfortable reading. My father, who's been watching the popularity of Mas Arai with both wonderment and dismay, can finally find out for himself whether this character's journey parallels his own life. (Remember, it's fiction, Dad!)

And secondly, I'm so pleased that Gasa-Gasa Girl and Snakeskin Shamisen will find an international audience, especially in Japan. Many people have assumed that my books would naturally be translated into Japanese because of its subject matter. But in the past, Japanese Americans have not been high on the Japanese public's radar. Sure there's been moments, like the popular television miniseries, "Sanga Moyu," based on Japanese novelist Toyoko Yamazaki's Futatsu No Sokoku (Two Homelands) in the 1980s. For the most part, however, Japanese Americans themselves have felt ignored and misunderstood by Japanese nationals.

I have felt the tide turning slightly, as more emigration museums have been established in Japan. One such institution in Yokohama had contacted me a few years ago to use a photo of Japanese American gardener sitting atop his Model A truck in Beverly Hills in the 1920s. (It's featured in my nonfiction book, Greenmakers: Japanese American Gardeners in Southern California.) And as Japan itself becomes more multicultural with more foreign workers and a longtime but hidden population of Chinese and Korean Japanese, it must struggle with issues of bilingual education and a changing society.

I've learned from a Japanese journalist friend that Shogakukan is a huge publishing outfit. I believe that it's third behind Kodansha and Shueisha. Like these others, Shogakukan is not only about books, but magazines and, of course, manga. (Shogakukan produces Shonen Jump, for those of you in manga circles.) I just learned that the same publisher had serialized a story written by a Japanese author about three Japanese American men during World War II in its weekly magazine, Shukan Posuto, from 2003 to 2006.

That, and how Nina Revoyr's Southland, which chronicles relations between Japanese American and blacks in L.A., has been critically embraced in Japan make me feel optimistic. Now that Japanese Americans are on Japan's radar screen—for however brief it may be—it's indeed time for the archipelago to hear the story directly from us.

Naomi

March 2007

Wabi-Sabi, Kisses, and Hugs

I'm on an advisory council for the Japanese American National Museum's upcoming exhibition on gardens and gardeners, and a recent meeting spurred me to think about wabi-sabi.

Wabi-sabi, contrary to what my husband teasingly says, is not something you eat with sushi, but literally means "sad beauty" in Japanese. It's an aesthetic concept derived from the tea ceremony, which conversely has been influenced by Buddhism. I'm more familiar with another related concept, shibui, used more widely in contemporary Japanese conversation. A painting can be shibui. A dress can be shibui. Even a person can be shibui. My Japanese journalist friend defines shibui as having restraint. I see it more as an aesthetic of less is more, a celebration of negative space.

Of course, in modern Japan, with their gaudy faux French furniture, you don't see much evidence of wabi-sabi in everyday life. But here in America, I do see a sense of wabi-sabi in how certain Japanese Americans live their lives. It's not so much seen in material living, but the immaterial. How they conduct themselves in the jobs. How they contribute to corporate and organizational meetings. How they relate to family members. I see a lot of restraint. And a lot of silence, too. It's not that these folks have nothing to say or contribute. But much is submerged.

We can say that we need to strip our cultural ways to make more of an impact on this society. Or that we need to change to become more emotionally healthy. Culture can hold people back, especially if it is imposed indiscriminately in every area of our lives.

But I also see that the need to understand and appreciate our differences as well. To see how culture at times has aided communities rather than harmed them.

I went to a cultural workshop once and a woman complained about her parents' generation, the Nisei, as not being demonstrative and affectionate. She said that this generation needed to change.

I remember at the rehearsal for my own wedding ceremony, and the coordinator instructed my dad to kiss me before giving me away to my soon-to-be-husband. We all had a laugh when my father crinkled up his face and said incredulously, "But I've never kissed her before!"

He wasn't saying that he didn't love me. But that his expression of love is different. And once I realized that years ago, I didn't look for love from just hugs and kisses, but in the soft back on the pat and the gleam in the eyes.

I'm still all for gushing and hugging—don't get me wrong. Humans do need to be raised with lots of touching—but that may come from two noses rubbing together (Inuit cultures) or two heterosexual men holding hands (certain parts of Africa and Asia).

A sense of restraint can also be quite beautiful. In a society of easy and ingratiating platitudes and public demonstrations of affection, wabi-sabi definitely has its place.

Naomi

February 2007

Firsts

I remember selling my debut novel, a mystery, over the phone.

There were fast and furious phone calls from my agent in New York City during a three-day period. The first one came on a Friday and included the initial offer. My agent was going to counter-offer and I was, frankly, afraid. Was she going to scare off the bidder? Of course, she knew what she was doing and by the following week, the deal was sealed, at least verbally, which in the old-school publishing world is equivalent to signing your name in blood.

Last December and this past January found me in the same similar position, only for a young adult novel. This time I didn't have a completed manuscript—only three chapters and a synopsis. Yet the negotiations were quite the same, only that they were spread over the holiday break (who says that you can't sell a book in December?).

What was different was how I celebrated. With the first, the culmination of a several year search for an agent and publisher, I did my happy dance and screamed. I did my happy dance again when I received my first advance reading copy from UPS, hugging the galley and tearful saying to myself and God that I would be content if this was the only book I ever published with a New York house.

I told my husband that we were to celebrate my first book sale at a quaint but very expensive Italian restaurant in the fancy part of town. A man who enjoys teriyaki chicken bowls, he indulged my wish, although I think that he was still hungry afterwards.

With this latest sale, my fourth to a New York publisher, we instead went to a casual Mexican restaurant with paper napkins. I did scream, "Oh my God," when I first heard the news that a publisher was interested after receiving one rejection. But there was no happy dance. Have I already become jaded in my short run as a published author?

I think about other firsts in my past. First time riding a bike without training wheels. My first apartment living on my own. Buying property for the first time. In terms of accomplishments, there's nothing like the firsts. Maybe that's why it's important to always stretch ourselves and move into new areas. So that we can again experience the intoxicating thrill of the happy dance.

Naomi

p.s. Look for my middle-school novel, 1001 Cranes, in the summer of 2008! It will be published by Delacorte. (Maybe I am doing the happy dance—I just don't realize it.)

p.p.s. I am still doing the happy dance regarding the Edgar nod for Snakeskin Shamisen. Thanks to all for their consideration.

January 2007

Through the Windshield

Alice may have her looking glass, but I have a windshield as I ride in librarian Yvonne's car through the streets of my birthplace, Pasadena. Our mission? To record what remains—if anything—from the Japanese American community in 1941. We are both participating in a windshield survey project for California's Preserving Japantowns project and it gives me a perfect opportunity to look at the familiar with a new lens.

The Ralphs supermarket on the corner of a busy boulevard, Lake Avenue, once held six produce stalls of Japanese families. A bank ATM stands where Lucky Florist used to be. Kirita Fish Store is now an obstetrics and gynecological center, but the wood-framed building still looks preserved.

Lincoln Nursery, formerly operated by the Takemuras, is now in the trusty hands of Ramon, who had once been a frequent customer as a gardener. The biggest eye-opening experience is when we visit a residential neighborhood where the Pasadena satellite office of The Rafu Shimpo, a Japanese American daily newspaper, was located in 1941. This is the same newspaper which I had worked for in the eighties and nineties in downtown Los Angeles.

The neighbor watering his front lawn sees us examining the past home of The Rafu Shimpo office (probably where a staff member had resided), and I know that I have to talk with him.

"How long have you lived here? Have you ever heard of this Japanese American newspaper?"

Turns out this neighbor was born in his wood-framed home 83 years ago. And he had delivered the newspaper in the Thirties. He tells us of riding his bicycle to the Red Car train station and receiving the newspapers he was to deliver in the westside of town. He smiles as he shares his stories with us and I can picture him as a young African American boy flinging the wrapped papers onto the front porches and walkways of apartment buildings of Japanese immigrant families.

As part of our geological lessons in elementary school, we learn about the different crusts and layers of the earth. I wonder about that in terms of human experience. Somewhere is there a spatial memory grid of what had existed before? And does it matter that we remember the past?

Naomi

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