When it's played the way it's supposed to be played,

"...basketball happens in the air; flying, floating, elevated above the floor, levitating the way oppressed peoples of this earth imagine themselves in their dreams." ~ John Edgar Wideman

It's a dilemma. Every March I ask myself why again I moved abroad. I remember my first March, in 2002, in Prague, going to school before 7am to check ESPN on a dial-up modem to check the scores. KU was a #1 seed that year, and lost to Kentucky in the Final Four - I spent thousands of Czech crowns on the phone to my parents in despair. Technology had improved in 2003, when I stole the keys to my Lisbon school to listen to the championship game in the wee hours of the morning (which was sadly lost to Syracuse) while spending nearly a hundred Euros on the phone to my parents in despair. In 2004 we made it as far as the Elite Eight, losing to Georgia Tech; I listened to it at a friend's flat, deep into the night. There's little lonelier than a 3-am loss. I'd moved to Slovenia by 2005, and had internet at my flat, but didn't bother with the first round match (we NEVER lose in the first round) which we lost to Bucknell. (Where? Who? Exactly.) Side note: I did win 3000 tolars in the Slovenian-based US Marine-sponsored bracket challenge, which was presented to "Mr Pedroja" because they "figured a girl'd never get that many right". A first-round loss again in 2006. (I think my living in Slovenia was a bad thing for the Jayhawks.) Things started looking better again in 2007, when I was living in Switzerland, had internet at home and got to WATCH (!!!) the games live thanks to CBS...and the Hawks rid themselves of the first-round curse and made it to the Elite Eight before losing to UCLA. And then, last year, which my loyal readers (Mom) will remember resulted in a national championship. What was that again? Oh, yes, a NATIONAL CHAMPIONSHIP.

Few people understand the passion for this game. Some football fans kinda get it - Barcelona, Benfica, the occasional AC Milan/Inter fan might get it - but most think 'basket' is just a primitive version of the game they see in their local leagues where washed-up NBA players go to die. College basketball is so much more than this. It's the yearning these kids exude, the evocative sense of potential that envelops each of these talented young people. It's the Big Decision, to go to college or go pro, to stay beyond their sophomore year. It's the pomp and circumstance, the bands, the cheerleaders, the zealous fans with their heads bursting with irrelevant statistics, the mascots, the storied fieldhouses where the magic happens. It's the speed, the creativity, the knowledge that if you blink you might miss one of the best shots in the history of the game. It's the grin on the face of a young man who just slammed in a beautiful dunk. It's the breathless pause when a hand curls mid-air, pushing the ball from beyond the 3-point line, and the soft whirr of the net when it goes in. It's the good-natured rivalries, the ability to admit you were outplayed on the day but you are thrilled that you got to see a good game of basketball. And in this tournament, it's knowing that anything can happen, that anyone can be the hero.

The Sweet Sixteen is on Friday night. Tipoff is 1:30am Scotland time. I don't think I could have done this living abroad thing without the internet.

To get a taste of it...here's a rockin' ad from this year's Madness.

In our own little worlds, we're all gods

I'm not sure if this is news anywhere else other than Britain, but the press are having fun with author Julie Myerson and her new book, The Lost Child, about her teenage son's cannabis use and how it has affected her family. Her son, who is now 20, has told the press that while he read a draft of it, he does not agree with much of what the book contains; he says "What she has done has taken the very worst years of my life and cleverly blended it into a work of art, and that to me is obscene". (Here's the father's side of the story, if you're inclined.) Initially scheduled to come out in May, Bloomsbury has decided to bring the book out early. Myerson appeared on a BBC news show the other morning and, after much dithering about the content and whether it was necessary to publicize a very private experience, said "people shouldn't judge until they read the book." Fair enough, and rock on, sister. Content aside, you've engineered a PR campaign sure to put you at the top of the nonfiction bestseller list. And likely ruined your relationship with your child forever.

At one point in an interview, Jake Myerson says of his mother: "She's a writer and like a lot of writers she is wrapped up in her own world - even if the worlds they are creating aren't quite true, they become true to them anyway, and I wasn't prepared to let her world colour mine any more." An impressive observation for a teenager, and it haunts me as a writer who might breed one day. Writers are wrapped up in our own worlds, where we play god, we get to control everything. The book I'm working on now deals with power, aggression and the negative impact of this on the psyche, and I do have to psychologically remove myself from being inside the story before dealing with the real world. This imbalance, teetering between the dreamworld I'm desperately trying to put into words and the smack of daily life, is difficult to sustain. I can see how it might ooze into family life if a writer isn't meticulous in his/her ability to switch off. (Though we can't ever switch off, really; the story is always in the background, humming, like a refrigerator, closed for now but you know what's inside and can't help planning meals, wondering if you're out of milk, etc.)

In other booky news, two literary agents hosted “QueryFail” on Twitter. Numerous editors and agents took part to expose some of the more ridiculous letters they have received, and the site JacketFlap put together a list of delights. Sometimes I am overwhelmed by the number of people out there trying to write books, then I read lists such as this and am thankful that I'm a few steps ahead of the masses.

You can fall in love at first sight with a place as with a person. - Alec Waugh

I'm a bit of a floozy when it comes to falling in love with places...the one I remember first was when I was a child and thought Kansas City was the most sophisticated place in the world. I remember writing stories about gondolas in Venice and Paddington Bear in London and bagpipers in Scotland in grade school, and dreaming of Manhattan's lights as a teenager. That inherent passion for the change of place isn't easily squelched.

Currently I'm dreaming about six weeks from now, when I go back to Lugano to visit friends and students and feed my soul again. I've been missing Italy so much it hurts. I find myself daydreaming about wandering the back streets of Como and stopping at the tiny wine shop for prosecco and tastes of their recent finds. If I try I can smell the damp scent of Venice melting with the smells from the fish market and a local restaurant. I can feel the cold vibe inside the cathedral in Assisi. I haven't been in Italy since July 2007. That's the longest I've gone without bella italia since 1998.

I was thinking of Italy yesterday while browsing my local WH Smiths (there are no independent bookshops* in Inverness; someone, please, open one) and swimming in that wonderful redolence of new books. I bought two, partly because they were half-price (two for under a tenner!) and partly because they excited me, as travel excites me. Like a new book, an upcoming holiday is bought with anticipation and excitement, without knowing what one might learn while on the journey. Perhaps the correlation doesn't end there; what is more important? Is it the planning, the anticipation, holding the book in your hand? The time between purchase and consumption, when you know a bit about what will happen, but not the full story? The journey itself, whether through the air to distant lands or in Times New Roman? Everything that happens from the first day, the first page, to the last? Or the aftermath, the memory, the satisfaction of finishing the last word and turning the book over to look at the cover again, for the last time as a reader, before placing it on the shelf, savoring every photo before filing them away in iPhoto until the next wistful moment?

I've shelved the second novel. For many reasons, most importantly that it lacks that 'wow' factor that is needed to invest in first-time novelists right now - a fair statement by my agent, though gutting at the time. (Again, I forgot to become famous before attempting fiction. Oh well.) This isn't an emergency for a writer - we've got ideas coming all the time, and I have notebooks filled with story ideas and characters and situations and other nonsense to squidge together. And I know the 'wow' book, and I've been avoiding writing it for years, and it's time to put it into the universe. I'll have a first draft by the end of the month.

The push came even before I heard from my agent. One of the most challenging and provocative books I've read in years is The Fahrenheit Twins by Michel Faber, a book we read in my book club. Another book that has really stuck in my head is We Need to Talk About Kevin by Lionel Shriver, an intense journey into the life of a mother. I want to create a book with that sort of impact, a concept that stays with the reader through years of conversations and reminders. That's the goal. Nobody ever rocked the world with anything mediocre or safe. (Visualize me punching the air and yelling, frat-boy style.)

*Leaky's doesn't count; it's glorious, especially when the peat fire is on, but it only sells used books.