I just got back from visiting Manhattan, seeing two shows I've longed to see for what seems like ages. One was 'Wicked,' the beautiful musical mounted on Gregory McGuire's story of 'The Wicked Witch of the West.'

One was 'Jersey Boys.' Aside from being terrific and funny and beautifully acted, it astounded me all over again at just what set designers can do with a little scaffolding, some lights, a table (the same table, used as a kitchen table, a Mob boss' negotiation site and a nightclub settee) and a couple of different '60s styles suits.

When I was about the age my daughter is now, ten, I discovered the radio. And at that time, Frankie Valli and The Four Seasons were still phenomenally popular. The Beatles had yet to arrive on our shores; and so I did my fifth-grade homework listening to 'Sherry' and ' Walk Like A Man.' Hearing John Lloyd Young sing those songs -- not in a falsetto, as Frankie Valli did, but in what amounts to a gorgeous counter-tenor voice -- brought me back to the glass-topped kitchen table, where the old pink Bakelite radio played.

AM was FM then. FM radio featured long-winded (to us) talk and long-hair music.

The radio stations "to hear" in Chicago were WCFL (the call letteres meant 'Chicago Federation of Labor') and WLS ('World's Largest Store,' at that time, Sears). Kids listened to WLS as far away as Thunder Bay, Ontario.

When I was older, a high school junior going on dates in the '70s with all my friends, we had signals. Two fingers held up to the person in the next car meant, "Switch to CFL." Three meant that the good song was on WLS. And the good song often was 'Big Girls Don't Cry' or 'Rag Doll.'

My son and his girlfriend now listen to The Four Seasons. They're astonished that I know all the words. But I don't have to read very far to touch those summer nights on the west side of Chicago when my boyrfriend came over dressed in gray dress pants and a Ban-Lon shirt, much prettier than I would ever be -- driving his grandfather's green El Dorado -- the radio on full blast.

I don't know that I live very much in the past; but sometimes it seems that we don't really ever get much older than sixteen in our hearts and souls and the beat that forces us to get up and dance.

Not all the people in the audience at 'Jersey Boys' were pushing 50. But Suzie Orman, the financial writer, was behind me, on her feet and dancing, and so were two girls in the row in front, who couldn't have been more than twelve.

Some music lasts forever. And this music, with its impeccable beat and stylish harmonics, is just this side of a Country-Western song for sheer raw yearning.

And I guess that', if anything, is what I miss most about being young. Yearning has an electricity that dims as we get older. Perhaps there's less, if we're lucky, to yearn for. Perhaps we lost the knack among our many exigencies.

But that night in the audience, I remembered the sight and sound and feel of it. And it amazed me with its power.

They call it a "class," but it is really a discussion among literate folk (some much more so than I) about my most recent novel, 'CAGE OF STARS' and it goes live tomorrow, sponsored by Barnes & Noble.

It's free (except for the need to read the book) and last year, seeral dozen of us had a good time on my website and the class website discussing my novel 'THE BREAKDOWN LANE' and several other books as well. We moved along chapter by chapter, analyzing scenes and themes, characters and the thoughts and emotions they provokes, tendrils that spiraled off into other realms. The discussion was stimulating and the "proctors" from Barnes & Noble were always there to ignite new sparks of idea and controversy. It's a chance to meet the author; and I happen to know that some of the participants from last year are coming back this time.

CAGE OF STARS already has sparked controversy, as every book that mentions the Church of Jesus Christ of latter-day Saints does. Some, including a producer who also happens to be a Mormon, have been inspired by the book, others outraged -- and only a few bored (happily, only a few; and to tell you the truth, I think they read a different book). This book has received kinder and more generous reviews than anything I've ever written. Iit is "different" from my other novels -- a family drama to some degree but also a thriller and a meditation on mercy versus vengeance.

In that, it's a taste of things to come in the near future.

If you want to join in, there's still time. And please do.

Jackie

Among the tinier unfulfilled wishes I have is that I could be part of a book club.

I've never been asked; but I've been made an honorary member of a few of them.

This summer as last, however, I was asked to do an online book chat about my novel CAGE OF STARS, by Barnes and Noble. And it started out great. A large number of readers signed up, including those who had participated last year in my online discussion of THE BREAKDOWN LANE.

We began a vigorous discussion of a book that is, in some senses, controversial.

And then, some people started bantering -- chatting about the weather, their families, their personal lives -- and not in the "lounge" section, but in the sections set up to discuss pertinent questios about the plot and style of the group.

And I thought that was great. A little "getting to know you" talk greases the wheels and creates a sense of warmth and community.

But it got out of hand. People were punning; people were asking each other to write offline at other email addresses.

I felt ridiculous at the idea of asking people to "get back to the book." I felt as though it might seem self-important and self-seeking.

And so, one by one, the readers who hadn't finished the book and really wanted to talk about it dropped away, moving over to othere discussions.

One lambasted me before she left for joking with the jokers and told me she had higher expectations and hoped to actually learn something.

She had a point, though another reader defended me, but the total effect was to drive EVERYONE away -- banterers and all -- to other books and authors and make a poor impression of me as a host.

It leaves me sad.

Whilte it wasn't my fault, and while the people discussing their own lives are great people and avid readers, the sense was that a teacher has when the whole class starts throwing spitballs. They're not bad, and throwing spitballs is fun.

But there's a time and a place.

Finally, a group that was to have lasted for two more weeks ended after barely more than ten days.

Anyhow, one thing everyone talked about was how eager she or he was to get to the books being discussed in August -- so I'm glad the fiasco in my group didn't turn them off to other authors and discussions.

I just wish they hadn't left my cyber living room so soon.

It was fun.
Jackie