I was standing between two parked cars just now, holding a fresh coffee, waiting for traffic to clear so I could cross back to my writers space and continue working. And in a fourth story window I spotted a topless woman watering plants in her windowsill. Her breasts were full and heavy. They swayed with her watering motion. I was mesmerized.

She wasn’t young or pretty. She wasn’t thin.

But those breasts.

Just sitting there. Naked!

Jesus, I thought. Will you get a look at this.

For those fifteen-odd seconds I was eight years old again. I was a little boy. But I was also a wild animal. I stood watching her, wondering if anything else in the world held so much power. So much mystery. I recalled the only other time I’d stumbled upon a half-naked woman in a window. I was riding my bike home from sixth grade. And I spotted her out of the corner of my eye, vacuuming, topless. I remember almost crashing into a parked car. I remember having to convince myself, later that night, that it had really happened. That it wasn’t just my imagination playing tricks. I saw boobs.

It was arguably the single most important day of my young life.

Eventually, today’s woman turned and walked away, disappearing from her window. And I was left with a dirty Brooklyn street. The ugly sound of morning traffic. And this unexplainable sense that I had forever lost my youth.

Due to a scheduling error (of my own doing) I mistakenly had the hotel shuttle drop me off at the Rochester airport FIVE hours before my scheduled departure. When I wasn’t able to hop on an earlier flight I glanced at the clock and thought, Oh, hell, what am I gonna do now?

Well, that was before I discovered the private offices they have here. With beautiful oak desks. And Ergonomic chairs. I’m in here now. It’s incredible! I have my own trashcan and recycling bin. I have a phone. I keep waiting for security to come escort me out of the building. This can’t be legal, right? Yet here I am.

I usually write at the Brooklyn Writers Space. I have to pay a hundred bucks a month for the space (which is perfectly reasonable). But if I lived in Rochester I would wake up early every morning and make my way to the airport. What a spectacular writing environment! I just got in three solid hours, and I’m about to try for one more.

Incidentally, I’m in Rochester because yesterday I took part in the annual Rochester Teen Book Festival. There were 26 authors and 4000 people in attendance. This is my second year.

Simply put, it’s the best festival in the country. The committee members are incredibly smart and organized and friendly. And I met some really cool teens (like Brendan from Rush-Henrietta and Keila from Syracuse). We all had a great time and everybody, including the authors, left with bags full of new books.

I sincerely hope I get to attend again in the future. Next time I might mess around and show up a few days early, so I can write in the airport. You think I’m kidding.

As he bustled, administered and directed, he was functioning at his best and he felt again the soaring, yet controlled, excited wholeness, periodically his, that he thought of as his true self.

Hey San Diego people (and LA people, too — the traffic isn’t THAT bad), I’m coming home for a couple days. I will be the keynote speaker at the upcoming San Diego Literary Arts Festival this Thursday night at 7pm (April 29, Grossmont College).

For details about the event check out the event website here.

For directions to the event go here.

I also did a radio interview with KPBS about the event here.

I’m super excited to see SD. Email me if you want to grab a drink before the event? That’s right, BEFORE.

I just added up the number of schools I have visited during my two weeks in San Antonio. You won’t believe the total. Six hundred and forty three. That’s A LOT of schools!

I have to say, though, I met some really cool kids and some passionate librarians and teachers. I was at one school today that has implemented a really innovative program, a “Guys Read” lunch book club. What a cool idea. It’s hard to get guys to invest time in books, you know? But this librarian gives them a time and space to hang together and talk books (and girls). No girls allowed. Even the librarian excuses herself. A guy teacher leads the discussion. Today they let me hang out because for the past month or so they’ve been reading Ball Don’t Lie. But here was my favorite part. These dudes weren’t dorks– they were cool. They had style. A couple were former juvie heads. One was a foster kid. Another told me he was homeless for much of last year.

John Green has that little thing he does, the nerd-lovers or whatever. And good for him. But what if some cool cats decided to read, too? What if a herd of non-nerds found something worthwhile in novels? These kids I was with today were decent with the ladies, man (one kid told me he dated up in age, said he chased TEACHERS). They could whup somebody’s ass in a fight if the situation called for it. They could put it on somebody on a hoop court. They were Mexicans. From a poor neighborhood. And they were in a book club. Drinking punch and talking novels.

Look, I’m cool with the geeks, too. But these guys today. They’re my favorite. They made me happy I write books.

PS – In two of the last three schools I visited, my little presentation was interrupted by a fire drill. We literally had to put my time on pause and file out of the school and stand in the parking lot. It was pretty weird. And I’m not sure what it means . . .

I just wanted someone to take a picture of me and my book, and suddenly these kids turned to violence!

Day 4 of 15 straight days I will spend on San Antonio’s Riverwalk. That’s a lot of Riverwalk.

I met a great kid at a junior high yesterday. I was warned that he’d be the most disruptive in the group. And he was. At first. But when I started talking about how I wasn’t a great student in Junior high and high school he started paying attention. I watched him. After the session he asked to speak to me privately. He told me he was born in prison and that he’d been held back in school. Twice. But he wrote about San Antonio gangs. He asked if I’d like to read the first half of his book. I said sure. But we were in a hurry to get to the next school.

He sprinted off.

Ten minutes later he ran up to me with 30 printed pages. He was sweating his ass off. He was out of breath. I took the pages and shook his clammy hand. He called me sir.

Last night I read the pages. They’re beautiful. And ugly. And sad. They’re full of heart. This Mexican kid, who was a thug, who was not pretty, too big for his grade, too old — he made something with his hands, and his head. And it moved me.

And what is it, thought I, after all! It’s only his outside; a man can be honest in any sort of skin.

I find nothing so singular in life, as that everything appears to lose its substance, the instant one actually grapples with it.

David Levithan is the mastermind behind this thing. Here’s the schedule:

Monday, 3/15 (NYPL, Tompkins Square Branch, 331 East 10th Street, 6pm):

First Draft to Final Draft – Talking About the Writing Process

featuring:

Gayle Forman

Daphne Grab

Carolyn Mackler

Sarah Mlynowski

Blake Nelson

Marie Rutkoski

Eliot Schrefer

Natalie Standiford

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