Never stop learning. . .

I can't believe I missed HOMELAND until now. Purely by accident, I switched on the telly during a HL marathon, and that was it. I was hooked. Incredible writing, turns and twists I never saw coming, and incredible acting. Claire Danes can act circles around anyone in the business, and Damien Lewis has always been a fav. One show I never missed was LIFE, and he was spectacular in it. They use a ton of tight shots, lighting is moody and effective, and the characters so complex I'm in awe.

I heard a songwriter say that Springfield's JESSE'S GIRL is the perfect pop song, and anyone wanting to learn to write one, should study that one song thoroughly. Same with HOMELAND. Anyone who cares about goals, motivation and conflict can learn a ton of lessons from it. Up the ante, make it worse, and I mean really, really bad, then throw in some more problems, and you can't imagine how they're going to write the end. I sure don't see how, and usually, I can foresee the next move. I'm going to take notes, believe me.

A writer should never stop studying other creative works, whether of art, music, drama, or literature. It's easier to see what others do and how they do it if you're keeping yourself open to learning from them. I imagine whole stories in paintings, pick up tag lines that are entire novels (I wish that I had Jesse's girl. Where can I find a woman like that?), and add depth to a scene that follows the emotional arc of a song. (Sting's "Desert Rose.") I'm never one to turn down writing help, wherever it arises.



 

Time Out

Early morning at the beach. Is there anything better? Well, maybe early Christmas morning with little rug rats racing down stairs, but it's close. Just thought I'd take time out to sigh wistfully and remember last week's quick break at North Beach Plantation.

I've been thinking about defending one's chosen genre. As writers, we get pigeon-holed regularly. I still remember being shocked when a David Morrell I picked up, Brotherhood of the Rose, wasn't a western. The title should have given me a clue, LOL, but I was just sure he was a western writer because of a superb one I'd read by him. My days as a western writer are pretty much closed (though I still have one I want to write), and I remember feeling as if I were a member of a dying, obsolete breed when I told people what I published. Western readers are still out there, but their pickins' are slim and mostly reprints of old stuff. People act as if I'm an old fogey for having written westerns.

Romance authors get their hackles up on a regular basis, with good reason. Those who don't read them sneer, with a look of disdain, if they find out you write them. So they're over 50% of the market? They're not real books right, just all that bodice-ripping rot.  Makes me want to whack people over the head when I get that superior attitude. Romances have dross and gold, just as in any other genre. The golden ones are absolutely superb. I have several on my keeper shelf (Laura Kinsale's books will have to be pried from my cold, dead hands).

Whether you write vampires, werewolves, punk, urban, scifi, horror, romance, or any other genre, you should never have to defend your chosen line of work. There're readers for them all, and many of them are discriminating and well educated. Some read them just for fun, for a quick escape into another world, and some just want to read a good, well-written story.

As they say on the warning signs to alert you to slow down for workers when a highway is being fixed, " Give 'em a break."

Barbara Kingsolver Flop

No, not a bad dive, though FLIGHT BEHAVIOR feels like a belly flop. I never thought I'd actively dislike a Kingsolver book, but this one took me into that hitherto unknown territory. Yes, the writing is top notch. I could even tolerate the ecological polemics. But I couldn't stand the heroine, Dellarobia Turnbow. The book opens with her trekking up a mountain to commit adultery with the telephone guy. She doesn't, but she sure wants to. And she doesn't get much better.

I just couldn't see that this woman, a high school grad of a terrible education system, really cares all that much about her husband ending his sentences with a preposition. Ninety per cent of Americans do it, and I can't buy the notion that it upsets a woman born and raised in the hills of Tennessee.  All she does is bitch,  bitch, bitch and then bitch some more. Sure, she has a smart mouth, but who cares? I found her to be ungrateful and whiny. She cares more for some displaced butterflies than she does her husband. I'm sorry I wasted my time.

My beach reading pile has Donna Tartt's book from 2004 (?) up next. I'm praying it's better than the Kingsolver bomb. Won't take much to get there.

More books and a movie

Just finished reading Sonia Sotomayor's MY BELOVED WORLD. What an extraordinary woman she is, and unflinchingly honest, too. If ever there were an argument on behalf of affirmative action, she's it. Given a chance, she ran with it, and it's all to her credit that she is such a success story and inspiration for all minorities, and for women everywhere, who aspire to follow a passion. Though she's very smart, it took Princeton to teach her how to learn for the rest of her life. I was surprised at how she condemned her Catholic school experience for being rote memorization (isn't that the norm for all school children in a state with standardized exams per grade?).  Learning to analyze and critique were skills she learned only in college. Yet her HS debate experience provided her with confidence in her ability to speak publicly and argue on her feet, so she got something out of it.

She's a woman of unqualified optimism, unflinching honesty, and I'm so glad someone like her is sitting on the Supremes. Long may she last in that grueling job!

I'm on a kick to re-read books I've hung onto for longer than a year, and Barbara Kingsolver's PRODIGAL SUMMER falls into that category. I love how the story is a perfect circle, with intertwined lives and themes. 

We managed to get in one movie this past weekend, and it was a winner. THE WAY WAY BACK is so worth your time and money, even if its title refers to the jump seat in an old station wagon. Sam Rockwell is wonderful as a mentor who quickly discerns a young boy's need for a father figure, and Allison Janney steals the opening scene. Funny, sad, and very different from the usual summer film fare, this is a movie you'll think about or days. Put it on your list.

Paris 1969

I recently found these black and white pictures while rummaging through a drawer that is in dire need of cleaning out. I didn't know I had them, to be honest. My dad must have taken them with his Leica. They brought back a hot August spent in France and England (also unbelievably hot), the month that the USA went to the moon. My dad tried desperately to get orders for the States that would have us home in time to see the grand event, but the Army wasn't having any of it. So we missed out on history, but in a way, I'm not sorry. 

I remember Paris was deserted in August, the Louvre uncrowded, the Jeu de Pommes wonderful, and my French got a workout. My dad expected me to translate simultaneously, a feat I'd never had to try before. I finally had to make up my own phrasing, because I sure couldn't keep up with his English and translate literally. I informed him I wasn't his Army translator, but that argument didn't fly. If he'd wanted me to translate into Latin, it wouldn't have fazed him a bit. He'd have expected it. After all, I'd studied Latin and French, hadn't I?

England was London, with its plays (I remember being swept away by the awesome theaters) and Stratford-on-Avon and the Royal Shakespeare production of Taming of the Shrew, one of my favs. All my jewelry was stolen from our hotel room, too. The only thing I really missed was my charm bracelet, with a token from every place I'd ever visited or lived.

Books that hold up well

I was fortunate to be a round-one judge in the ITW contest for best novel, etc., a while back. One of the paperbacks I received was COLD DARK MATTER by Alex Brett, a Canadian novelist. I liked the book very much, and recently having found it again, had a re-read. It held up well the second time around, and having visited the Mauna Kea observatory years ago, it brought back memories of a fun time. And a cold one. Who knew it could get freezing in Hawaii! Anyway, the mystery involved the Cold War, astrophysics, and Hawaii, all fascinating. I'm going to hold on to this pb a while longer, I do believe.

FALLING WOMAN by Pat Murphy is another book I can't excess from the shelves. Winner of the Hugo years ago, it's a fascinating time jumper (Mayan to present day), filled with a story so original, I re-read it periodically.

ARABELLA by Georgette Heyer never fails to make me lose myself in Regency England and the details of a character both classic and stunningly original. For sheer writing ability, Miss Heyer is one to study, and I always feel as if I'm a mere mortal at the feet of a writing master.

None of these three books are terribly popular, or even well-known today. But I keep them where I can find them whenever I need to read a good, well-written story with original characters. I'll add to my list later when I've had a chance to do some more re-reads.

August already?

My Beloved had a birthday and my youngest served as maid of honor at her best friend's wedding. Normal, ordinary events that meant so much more than they should, just because we were able to celebrate as a family. It's amazing how exhausting that kind of celebration can be when you've been focused on something else. At the same time, we're filled with gratitude that all of us were there, for both events.

My dad's estate is finally wound up (OMG what a nightmare), the hot tub is finally working, and the yard looks incredibly great considering the general neglect. All this rain has helped the new plantings and grass, hence, we don't have our normally parched yard littered with brown leaves and brown patch. Some stuff is working out well!

We made a dash to Farm to Family market to stock up on peaches, melons ( snow leopard honeydew anyone?), and cucs. While there, we went kinda wild and grabbed blackberries, eggs, trout fillets, and red onions as well. The eggplants were irresistible, too. We've already made inroads on the huge Hanover tomato, so my bet is that it's gone  by lunch tomorrow.

My Beloved and I watched The Help last night. I was very affected. When my brother was a baby, a woman named Missouri would be our nanny when our mother had things to do. I found pictures of my mother as a baby, in the arms of a beautifully uniformed black woman. I suppose it was just a part of being Southern that, as a child, you never question such arrangements. Since we went overseas after that, there were no more nannies for us.

Thank goodness. I would feel even guiltier.

Still here

I find it hard to believe this summer is winding down. We've been in a wilderness place, but it's getting less dense and a bit of sunlight is cutting through the darkness. We're grateful for each ray.

It's amazing how a mind can fixate on the strangest thing when you're tired. I must have spent twenty minutes staring at the brickwork on our house yesterday. Some were coated with black bubbles, others had circles of red surrounded by the dark char, and then there were the ones that looked sun-baked and glazed. I remembered how bricks were made in Colonial times, stacked in alternating rows with a big oak fire to bake them. The bricks on the ends of the rows took on the sooty darkness of the fire, creating the bricks used in the blackened patterned style used in the Flemish bond pattern. Useless knowledge, I know, but it came back to me as I studied our carelessly fired bricks with no pattern, no style.

I like order, precision, and a plan. I don't know how others finish writing a book without an outline of some sort. If I tried that, the work, if I finished at all, would look like the bricks on our house. Not something I want my name to adorn.

Taking a break. .

Sometimes life jags when you thought it was a straight line. Being a linear kinda gal, I find jags in life can be exhilirating or train wrecks. This one, an ongoing jag that's taken life off the beaten path into unknown territory, has taught me a ton about my own limits, physical and mental...

That's a positive spin on things, and I'm going to leave it at that. If  I'm not around, as has been happening over the past seven weeks or so, don't worry. It's all good. I'll be back..

Father's Day

Normally, I tend to think about my dad when this weekend rolls around. He taught me a lot, supported me unconditionally, and probably spent many a sleepless night worrying about his children. On the good side, none of us are in prison, junkies, or basically on the downward slide of life. We're pretty upstanding citizens, in stable relationships, pay our taxes, and keep our noses clean. All in all, he and my mom gave us a happy childhood and a future. We were lucky beyond belief to have them.

This Father's Day, I'm sending out lots of love to my Beloved, who is as good a father as mine was. My Beloved often thanks his departed father for something he was taught in childhood, and remembers his upbringing with gratitude and some wincing at what a pain in the patooty he was as a teenager. He and his brother were as fortunate in their parents as I was. My Beloved shows every day that he learned the fatherhood game from a master. Our girls are very, very special to him, as he is to them.

I wish everyone had as great a father.

Photo Albums

Recently, we were flipping through some old photo albums, having a great time reliving the Galapagos trip, Christmases past, and funny birthday parties. Then it struck me - since the advent of really cool digital cameras, I haven't put together a single photo album. All my pix are on either my camera, or my hard drive. This is not a good thing, since I have been known to lose one and crash the other.

For a while, I printed copies from my hard drive, but the quality never thrilled me. Even with more advanced printer quality, I just couldn't get around to making the copies that I should. We're talking years here. If I don't get going, the task will be too daunting.

How I wish I could go back to an old-fashioned camera and 24 developing. Even with at least 50% of the prints going straight into the trash, I had a record of of our lives. Now I have "devices."

Memorial Day

When I was a child, my mother would buy us red paper poppies to pin on our collars for Veteran's Day. I didn't learn until I was much older that the tradition came from the British in the aftermath of WW I. I had no idea what the poppies symbolized, but I loved their papery crinkliness and the bright color. And because I come from a line of military men, I was aware that honoring our veterans was important.

Today, when I visit Arlington and the graves of my grandfather, father, and uncle, killed in Korea, I never fail to get a lump in my throat when I see the rows upon rows of white headstones. My brother and I considered buying a larger headstone for our relatives, something fancy like those marking the graves of those whose families have eschewed simple white marble. Bu ultimately, we stuck with army-issue, simple and plain. If they're good enough for those thousands upon thousands of men who fought and died for their country, they're good enough for our family.

From our family plots, I can see the new sections, opened to take in the dead from all the wars in the Middle East. The lump in my throat disappears as I cry, openly. Arlington is both a beautiful and terrible place.

I can't believe it's done!

Yes, the grand back yard renovation is finally finished. I want to add about a hundred exclamation points, but I restrained myself. Barely. I love it. Evan Froelich of Fernhill Landscaping did a wonderful job, and next year, I've already told him to start planning the front yard renovation.  What I love is that there's room for growth, everything will have color or scent throughout the year, and the birds are flocking to our new cherry laurels and hollies. In fact, it's a regular chorus of cardinals, bluebirds, chickadees, mockingbirds, robins, and woodpeckers. When I take the dogs out at night, the air is scented and just plain heavenly.

The grand bridal shower is tomorrow (for the best friend of my younger daughter), and I'll try to post pictures.  For now, here are a few of the finished product.

This is what we're doing. . .

Evan and Matt wrestling a holly by the shed

Shawn digging holes for the cherry laurels

Matt, my Beloved, and Evan with holly in a hole.

Now you can see how my life is being consumed by the new landscaping. I'm busy moving azaleas that don't fit the color scheme into other spots in the front yard, still tearing up liriope and periwinkle (I will never, never, NEVER plant that stuff again!), and buying more plants. This is a lot of bare earth, and I'm feeling like it'll never look un-naked. I know this is silly, but I can't control the urge to pick up a few more azaleas, some peiris (Dorothy Wycoffs), and whatever looks good at the moment. which is a lot of stuff.  I'm lucky I have the room for it all! Next week, the perennials and rock garden should come together, then the mulch. Oh, and the maple tree will be set where the hickory once grew. It fell victim to a twisting wind that turned its top into match sticks. This whole yard renovation will give us joy for years to come. 

 

I have many excuses

for not posting more regularly. The biggie - it's Spring! And that means yard and garden, of course. I decided this was the year to rip out all the 25 year old plantings and start over. Little did I know what this would involve, but believe me when I tell you, 36 hours in labor having a baby was easier. At least it was over in 36 hours and then I had a darling little girl. So far, I have weeks of digging out periwinkle and lirope, old azaleas and bushes that had gotten too big for their britches, and heaven knows what else that I'd forgotten I ever stuck in the ground. You know those plants - the ones where you say, "well, if it makes it okay, if not, okay, too." They made it. Day lilies had multiplied past the point of being cute, and the daffodils that didn't bloom this year were all excavated. Here's a pix of the back bed, all cleaned out. Well, almost cleaned out. Four azaleas can stay until they've bloomed, then they're outta here. It's a LOT bigger than it looks in the photo.

I have a wonderful landscaper who came up with beautiful plans for a whole new look to the back yard beds, and it's slowly coming to life. Evan of Fernhill Va has done the legwork finding the new beauties and the creative planning part, and now, I get to sit back and watch the yard come alive, again.

I can't wait.

A snippet

A scene keeps coming to me. It won't work in any of my current WIP, but it's definitely a kickstart for a story or something. I just don't know what. Stuff like this drives a writer crazy, or at least, this writer, because instead of keeping the fingers on the keyboard for the current book, I'm constantly thinking about this wee bit, wondering who these people are, and why in heck are they speaking to me now???

So I thought I'd drop it into this little white box and see if it gives my imagination a bit of rest. It's like when you finally get down and dirty and write that two page list, all the details are on paper so your mind can take it easy until the next blast of to-do ideas pop into your head.

Here's the set-up for the scene: A youngish woman with dark hair is at the buffet table of a party, and the woman next to her asks, "Will your mother be able to come?"  (to what, I have no  idea!) as they fill their party plates.  The younger woman hesitates, then replies, with a look that's both startled and wary, but not sad, "She's not with us." Okkkaaayyy....

Is the mother in an asylum? Dead? A contract killer on assignment? In disgrace, in prison, in a ditch with her head blown off?  Sheesh, I'm not sure, but the answer hinges the story on its frame.

When you read one of my books with this scene in it, you can say your saw the very first rough draft.

Not a pretty picture

I wish I had the courage to post a pix of me doing our taxes. For those of you in the depths of tax hell with me, you know what I mean. I may have very little hair left before this is over, and what is still around, I may have to sell to help pay off our IRS bill. Why does this have to be so complicated and impossible? For heaven's sake, people, can't we go with a flat tax? I'd give anything to just write a check for my percentage, and leave it at that.  I always go into tax season telling myself I'm a smart woman, I'm not afraid of numbers, I can do this. At the end, I just pray I covered all our bases and that the IRS realizes it's a flawed system. Remember that TV ad where a past year's tax return is given to several different tax professionals, and they all come up with a different bottom line? Yeah, that really gives a girl confidence. If I do them myself, at least I'll have no one else to blame.

We've had a couple of nice days in the midst of this interminable winter that lingers on like a bad cold you just can't shake. If it's over 55, I'm out in the garden, cleaning beds, attacking the pervasive periwinkle (shoot me if I ever say I want to plant it again), and digging up bushes that didn't make it through the drought last summer AND the long, cold winter. Good bye, boxwood. It seems like you croaked yesterday, but it was actually late last fall. I have some new plants to go in the ground, so at least I'll have some fun. Believe me, I need it.

My beloved and I just celebrated our wedding anniversary. Can't believe we've known each other so many years. It's nice knowing you married the right man.  We had a real treat on our actual anniversary, because season 3 of Game of Thrones started that night. The dragons are back! I am going to love this season.

Trying something here

I'm working on a couple of projects at once (of course, I'm crazy), and I thought, for a change, I'd post the first chapter of a YA I'm editing. It's gone through several edits, a serious re-write, and now that it's been sitting a couple of months, I'm hoping to see it with "new" eyes.  This format works perfectly for that goal. I hope.  Tell me what you think, if you wish. Proofreading always welcome.

On another note, who else is waiting breathlessly for Round 3 of Game of Thrones???? I can feel the dragons coming. . . .

This is titled OUT OF NOWHERE.  So far.

Chapter 1

 

            Death rarely descends on gas stations. I hide out in them for as long as it takes for the creepy feeling I get now and then, more now than then, to disappear. You can fritter away at least an hour, if there’s a convenience store attached.

            The next Sheetz station I saw, I’d pull in.  I hadn’t planned on driving so long.  Slowing down for a flashing light that warned of an upcoming stoplight in a one-stop town, I saw a big chain gas station on my left.  Goody.  Pepsi and Cheetos, my dinner of choice.  Now that I didn’t have doctors and nutritionists giving me hell over my diet, I ate what I wanted.  No matter what I stuffed in my mouth, my bullet wounds hurt. So why not eat what I liked?

            My luck, for once, was having a good run.  Pulling up to the pumps, I dragged my lame leg out the door and tried to stand in one swift movement. No way. I still creaked like an old lady with bad hips and knees.  In a way, I wasn’t far from it, even if I am just seventeen.

            A hell of a lot can happen in one year. Trust me on this one, it’s not all good.

            So I’m pumping away, standing beside the pumps like a responsible citizen, when I notice the kid in the minivan opposite my side.  His dad’s cleaning the windshield, and the kid, a red-headed hell on wheels if I’ve ever seen one, is leaning out the side door, shooting me the bird.  I mean, the kid can’t be older than seven or eight, and he’s sticking out his tongue and jamming his finger at me, and before I can even wonder why, he turns around and moons me.

            Why me, God?  Why?  I’ve asked that question one hell of a lot in the past twelve months, but She’s not handing out answers.  I seriously doubt She will anytime soon, if ever.

            Turning away from the future juvenile delinquent, I check out the scenery, notice the small garage behind the chain gas station, a little brick post office, even a strip of stores that includes, of course, a small Walmart.  Whoopee.  Maybe I’ll head over there and buy something healthy, like ice cream.  A gallon of it.  Milk has lots of good stuff in it. Now, the question is, does ice cream have milk in it anymore, I wonder, as I hear an insect buzz past my ear.

            It’s heading into summer, of course the bees are heading for the open trash can, filled with empty soft drink bottles.  Sidling sideways to get out of the bees’ flight path, I heard a funny sound.  Like someone gargling.  Then there’s another bee dive-bombing my head, and instinctively, I try to bat it away from my face.

            As I turn my head, I wonder why gas is gushing all over the ground.  Stupid van-driver, he’s too busy washing windows to see that the gas cut-off isn’t working.  Leaving my pump, I hurry over to jerk his nozzle out, when the kid who’s been trying to get me riled up falls out the door.  I mean, no hands grabbing the frame, no shouting at someone to help him, he’s just there.  Lying on the gas-soaked concrete with a funny expression on his face, as if he’s totally surprised and not happy about it.

            “Hey kid, don’t do that, it’s not funny.”  More insects by my ears, only this time the van’s windows shatter into tiny round pebbles all around me.  Dropping to the ground, I try to shield the boy from the rain of glass, but he’s not saying anything.  Giving him a little shake, I can’t figure out why the windows have broken and he’s not giving me grief, when I see the color of the ground changing right under the kid.  It’s dark, almost reddish, and I know instantly what it is.

            Blood.  I know it when I see it, now that I’ve got my degree in getting shot.

            “Mister,” I scream, “mister, your kid’s been hurt!  Call 911!”  I would, but I don’t have a cell phone anymore. Anyone I would want to call is dead.  “Hurry!”

            I hesitated for half a second, then threw myself over the prone boy.  Cradling his head in my arms, I look around, praying I won’t see the shooter walking towards us.  My body won’t stop all the bullets, he’ll kill the boy for sure if he gets close enough.

            I can’t see the boy’s father. I see the holes in the van’s side.  These aren’t those stupid fake decals that are supposed to make your car look badder than bad. God help me, they’re real. 

            “Call the police!” I’m yelling, when I see the father’s feet.  They’re heels to the ground, toes skyward, and I know what I’ll find.  Once again, I am too late to help.

            So I lie still, my body hiding as much of the boy’s as I can, and pray it’ll be enough to save us both.

Looking back to the War of Northern Aggression

Since the weather yesterday was spectacular ( i.e., sunny and warm, yay!), we took a break from the back yard re-do and headed for an afternoon at Cold Harbor. The battlefield is covered with trees, unlike its state during that dreadful, bloody three days in July, but you still get a sense of what it must have been like. The earthworks are pretty stellar, and the size of the park gives a hint at the seven mile expanse of both lines, Confederate and Union, as they squared off and blew each other to bits. General Grant said in his memoirs that he always regretted ordering the last charge at Cold Harbor, and given the staggering loss of men, he probably was right.

 I took a short video showing the field, with its current state of forestation, so you can get an idea of the expanse of land those men in blue crossed under withering fire from Confederates with the advantage of better ground.

 

This place has always felt authentic, as if the battle fought here will never end, and all those dead men have imprinted the ground with their lost lives. Visit it if you're a Civil War buff. It's one battlefield you should go out of your way to walk.

It's been a while

and I wish I could say the 80 degree weather carried through our entire vacation, but alas, the skies clouded over, the rains came, and with them, a cold front. As you can see from this pix of me entering the crosswalk to get to the track at Daytona, I was wearing a raincoat. What you can't see is the heavy sweater that's underneath.  It didn't really matter, however, since the race was a snooze fest. Literally, we fell asleep in the stands. So much for the new car giving Nascar a boost. How about a Boo instead?

Our cruise from Jacksonville's port took two hours of line shuffling and luggage getting soaked on the dock during the monsoon driving rain while we tried to get on board. A word to the wise: cruise from anywhere but Jacksonville, Florida. The worst port I've ever seen, and I've seen quite a few. I read a ton of books and basically lived on hot tea, I was so cold.

Three books I loved, all YA. Deviant, Misfit, and Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children. Miss P was by far the coolest, but Misfit has a super premise in its heroine, a half human, half demon teenager in a Catholic high school. Deviant is really good for middle grade boys, and I liked the authenticity of the boy's voice.  Aliens and weird private school is bound to work, and it does.

Happy to be home to my own bed and pillow, and my furnace. Yes, snow and sleet has attacked, but at least I'm warm. A big step up from our cruise.