Broad appeal

I just finished reading Broad Street by Christine Weiser. It left me nostalgic for Philadelphia – the endless rowhouses, the funky shops, the great restaurants. Not that I don't still visit, but I moved away in 1994, the same fateful year that wraps up Weiser's novel, the year of birth and death; the year my son was born and the year Kurt Cobain killed himself.

Weiser sets her novel in that time period of the early 1990s, when grunge and grrrl bands ruled. I loved her insider's look at indie rock, where talent is honed on the whetstone of weekly band practice and occasional bar gig. The insular world of local rock bands is no different from corporate business or Washington: Hard work can pay off, but it's who you know that gives you a boost up the ladder to power or fame. Weiser's Kit Greene keeps pushing toward her goal, despite bad boyfriends, disloyal drummers, and way too many hangovers.

I appreciated that Weiser used Cobain's death as a pivotal moment in her story. His passion spoke to me as few other musicians' have. He could inspire as much by his wall of sound as the intense beauty of his ballads. I reveled in the word play of his lyrics. He taught me that ugly can be much more profound than pretty and that shocking is sometimes the best way to get a point across.

It's been 15 years since Cobain died. The world has changed, and so has my life; my son will be a sophomore in high school and, although I still hold the pipe dream of starting a band – how about an all-girl Nirvana tribune band called Contagious? – it's probably not going to happen.

Weiser still plays in a band in Philadelphia, but she has moved on, as well, to co-publish the literary journal Philadelphia Stories.

Writing away

Trout Lake is spring-fed, dotted with tree-covered islands of granite, and thick with one of my favorite songbirds, the veery. It's also the summer home of a friend who opened her cabin for a four-day writers' retreat last week. No phones ringing, no dogs barking, no parakeets chirping. No work, no errands, no responsibilities. It was paradise.

My only task for those four days was to write, but when I needed to recharge or think through a challenging scene in my novel-in-progress, I hiked through the dense Adirondack woods or paddled around the islands in a borrowed kayak. Kathryn led the retreat, but she also did the cooking and cleanup, as well as putting in time on her own novel. The meals were delicious and healthy – but with a candy dish of Hershey chocolate always on hand for my sweet fix. My bed was on the sleeping porch, a wonderful, second-story room overlooking the endlessly moving water of the lake. The sunrise was my alarm clock.

I made some good friends last week – all splendid writers pursuing their own creative goals. We laughed and cried at each other's work during our evening sharing time. And I made some real progress on my manuscript.