Richmond Race Pix
Finally, some pictures from the September race in Richmond. What a great day! Not under the lights, but still and all, a fun time.
'Dega and the Importance of Friends
Can't wait for the Talladega race today. Hope it's as exciting as they come and that the best car wins. However, at 'dega, that's not always a given. It's who your friends are that count for more than horsepower at the restrictor plate races. Witness Kurt Busch and his teammate, Ryan Newman last February at Daytona. Busch came through at the right moment, just when Newman needed him the most.
Writing friends are like drafting partners. They tell you, with unvarnished honesty, when your idea for a new book is so far-fetched, you may as well waste your time washing the kitchen floor. They push you to finish the monster that just won't end. They buck you up when the writing is mired in six feet of storm muck, and when your agent doesn't like a single idea you've pitched for the past six months. Best of all, they understand what writers do and the cost it exacts. Sometimes, it's a choice between retreating into the fictional world and the one that exists outside your office door, and they let you know when you're making the wrong one. God bless all writing friends. It's a tough job, and no one has to do it.
Writing friends are like drafting partners. They tell you, with unvarnished honesty, when your idea for a new book is so far-fetched, you may as well waste your time washing the kitchen floor. They push you to finish the monster that just won't end. They buck you up when the writing is mired in six feet of storm muck, and when your agent doesn't like a single idea you've pitched for the past six months. Best of all, they understand what writers do and the cost it exacts. Sometimes, it's a choice between retreating into the fictional world and the one that exists outside your office door, and they let you know when you're making the wrong one. God bless all writing friends. It's a tough job, and no one has to do it.
Dithering and Driving
I have no idea what's going on. I just can't focus. I'm revamping the plot, the characters, the whole dang shootin' match on a book that I've got to get out, and it's crazy. I think it's because the book is very different for me, and I keep searching for my voice in it. More plot than character-driven, it's hard for me to find writer nirvana when I don't feel as if the characters are as lively as the action part of the story. Action CAN be a character-driven, but mine's more plot-driven. Sigh. When will I learn to stick to what I know I can pull off? I guess it has to do with my boredom level - if I'm not learning as a writer, why bother? Slapping off a book with my same old tricks bores me to tears. Hence, the insecurities. Dithering is a perfectly good word. I hereby claim it as my own.
Martinsville is coming up in a few weeks. Looking forward to the toughest short track on the circuit. Dover last week was a darned good race at the end. We have a fondness for Greg Biffle in our house, mostly because he's been nicknamed "The Biff," and our feline child is also a Biff. The real mystery is how Kyle Busch's karma did a one-eighty, and he's now 12th in the Chase. Hmmm. Maybe it's all those negative vibes aimed his way by the #88 fans.
Martinsville is coming up in a few weeks. Looking forward to the toughest short track on the circuit. Dover last week was a darned good race at the end. We have a fondness for Greg Biffle in our house, mostly because he's been nicknamed "The Biff," and our feline child is also a Biff. The real mystery is how Kyle Busch's karma did a one-eighty, and he's now 12th in the Chase. Hmmm. Maybe it's all those negative vibes aimed his way by the #88 fans.
Richmond, ESPN, and Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.
September really truly is the New Year. It's as if the instant the humidity lessens just a hair, Southerners gear up for the serious work. I'm still enjoying the heat, but now and then, a cool breeze gives the oaks a run for their money, and I stand there, thinking "fall really is coming. Time to get the bulbs in for next spring."
The Richmond race was a doozy. First, the track moved everything to Sunday, and while their website and phone info line promised updates by six p.m. on Friday, they didn't do so until after 7. So of course, my hubby and I were in line for a parking lot on Friday, when a policewoman told us the race had been cancelled. Wasted a ton of time, which is not amusing at all. When we made it back to the track on Sunday, we had no idea driver intros were at 12:30. All we knew was, track time was 1 p.m. Poor communication from the track, but the good news is, the race was wonderful, even without the lights. We couldn't stay for the whole thing, however. Many people in our section had to depart early as well - planes were leaving, kids had to be back in school Monday, etc. And we totally missed the Nationwide race at 7 p.m. We too had to hit the road, so we didn't get to see the Tony Stewart/Jimmie Johnson showdown. Bummer.
Later, I saw the clip on ESPN of Tony tossing his steering wheel and harping at Zippy when the race was finished. ESPN didn't broadcast Tony's immediate apology. Why? They want controversy. Stirring the pot ups ratings, is the only explanation I can find. All that fuss over Hornaday's steroid use for his Grave's Disease symptoms makes it sound as if Hornaday is a cheater along the lines of baseball players who bulk up to hit home runs. Wrong. As Hornaday's team owner, Kevin Harvick said, if Hornaday doesn't take the synthetic steroids, the man is dead. But no, ESPN doesn't hype Harvick's soundbite. Now ESPN is after Junior. Interesting that Tony and Junior have taken ESPN to task for editing soundbites to make people look bad. I wonder why there has to be an adversarial relationship between the company that broadcasts sports and those who are the stars. Is it a given in our society that we have to hear the down-and-dirty about those who seem to have it all? If there is no muck, well, ESPN will manipulate it so there's some to spread around. Bad move. Very very bad move.
On an uplifting note, I'm reading all of Dr. Martin Luther King's speeches I can find online. What an amazing man. His eloquence, his erudition, his love for all mankind, show forth with every word. A writer can learn a lot from his prose as well as his activism.
The Richmond race was a doozy. First, the track moved everything to Sunday, and while their website and phone info line promised updates by six p.m. on Friday, they didn't do so until after 7. So of course, my hubby and I were in line for a parking lot on Friday, when a policewoman told us the race had been cancelled. Wasted a ton of time, which is not amusing at all. When we made it back to the track on Sunday, we had no idea driver intros were at 12:30. All we knew was, track time was 1 p.m. Poor communication from the track, but the good news is, the race was wonderful, even without the lights. We couldn't stay for the whole thing, however. Many people in our section had to depart early as well - planes were leaving, kids had to be back in school Monday, etc. And we totally missed the Nationwide race at 7 p.m. We too had to hit the road, so we didn't get to see the Tony Stewart/Jimmie Johnson showdown. Bummer.
Later, I saw the clip on ESPN of Tony tossing his steering wheel and harping at Zippy when the race was finished. ESPN didn't broadcast Tony's immediate apology. Why? They want controversy. Stirring the pot ups ratings, is the only explanation I can find. All that fuss over Hornaday's steroid use for his Grave's Disease symptoms makes it sound as if Hornaday is a cheater along the lines of baseball players who bulk up to hit home runs. Wrong. As Hornaday's team owner, Kevin Harvick said, if Hornaday doesn't take the synthetic steroids, the man is dead. But no, ESPN doesn't hype Harvick's soundbite. Now ESPN is after Junior. Interesting that Tony and Junior have taken ESPN to task for editing soundbites to make people look bad. I wonder why there has to be an adversarial relationship between the company that broadcasts sports and those who are the stars. Is it a given in our society that we have to hear the down-and-dirty about those who seem to have it all? If there is no muck, well, ESPN will manipulate it so there's some to spread around. Bad move. Very very bad move.
On an uplifting note, I'm reading all of Dr. Martin Luther King's speeches I can find online. What an amazing man. His eloquence, his erudition, his love for all mankind, show forth with every word. A writer can learn a lot from his prose as well as his activism.
Back to Work
Took some time off to haul the youngest and all her stuff to college last week, then decided on a lovely drive up to Chicago. Had some fun, enjoyed new scenery, met old friends. Came home feeling like tackling the rewrites again, only this time, I realized I needed a major plot shift. Upping the ante will require research. If the government is tracking my computer, they're probably getting the handcuffs ready. I hereby declare my family doesn't know anything about this book but the title, LOL.
My husband is the one who mentioned government snooping into computers used by civilians. While I'm not normally paranoid, he probably has a point. I wonder how many writers delve into Internet realms the government doesn't want us to see, much less understand? We have vivid imaginations, but reality helps tone us down unless we're into science fiction or fantasy. Of course SF and fantasy could easily dive into a reality we don't know about right now, but it's in the sphere of possibility.
How afraid do we have to be of where we find our research? Interesting to even think of it as an issue.
My husband is the one who mentioned government snooping into computers used by civilians. While I'm not normally paranoid, he probably has a point. I wonder how many writers delve into Internet realms the government doesn't want us to see, much less understand? We have vivid imaginations, but reality helps tone us down unless we're into science fiction or fantasy. Of course SF and fantasy could easily dive into a reality we don't know about right now, but it's in the sphere of possibility.
How afraid do we have to be of where we find our research? Interesting to even think of it as an issue.
Time and all those Cliches
Can you believe summer is almost over? My youngest heads back for the dorm this week, and we're going to be sorry to wave goodbye. Next summer, she has plans to study Mayan architecture in Mexico and Guatemala for three months, so we won't be seeing much of her. Sigh. I guess that's what happens when they grow up, they don't come home much. Does that sound like a cliche? Guess so, but there's a truth in the core of every cliche.
Speaking of cliches, I've come to admire them. Yes, I know they're considered anathema in the writing community, but I like the way they're a universal shorthand. Everyone knows what a cliche means. (And I do know there's an accent at the end of cliche, but this program won't add it automatically, and if I do, it looks weird.) Take a Cinderella story, for example. No matter how complex I write it, or the twists I add, or if I make the hero a Cinderfella instead of an Ella, everyone knows what to expect from the core of the story. True love triumphs over trickery no matter what. I like being able to label my stories with myths, to cull themes from the classics (and I'm including the Bible here). That way, I know the heart of the story won't stray.
Straying far from home, we're headed for Chicago this weekend, so no Bristol race for me. Darn. Love Bristol. Will get it on Tivo and enjoy it when I get home. Hope A.J. and David Ragan have a good run. Still rootin' for the kids!
Speaking of cliches, I've come to admire them. Yes, I know they're considered anathema in the writing community, but I like the way they're a universal shorthand. Everyone knows what a cliche means. (And I do know there's an accent at the end of cliche, but this program won't add it automatically, and if I do, it looks weird.) Take a Cinderella story, for example. No matter how complex I write it, or the twists I add, or if I make the hero a Cinderfella instead of an Ella, everyone knows what to expect from the core of the story. True love triumphs over trickery no matter what. I like being able to label my stories with myths, to cull themes from the classics (and I'm including the Bible here). That way, I know the heart of the story won't stray.
Straying far from home, we're headed for Chicago this weekend, so no Bristol race for me. Darn. Love Bristol. Will get it on Tivo and enjoy it when I get home. Hope A.J. and David Ragan have a good run. Still rootin' for the kids!
Hot, Hot, Hot
David Ragan, A.J. Allemendinger - go for it, guys! They're both young men on a mission, and driving the wheels off their cars is working well these days. It'd be fun to see some new faces in the Chase, and although A.J. isn't even in the top 35 yet, Ragan has a real shot at the top 12. It's fun to see the Old Guard getting nipped on its heels by the whippersnappers.
It seems that everything around my house takes longer and longer in this awful heat. We should make it a law that during August everyone must kick back on the porch swing, fill up the lemonade pitcher, and pile the good books on the table to share with anyone who drops by for a fresh icy glass and a chat. I've been reading the huge stack I stockpiled after Thrillerwriters in July in NYC. They're fun reads, and I'm stunned at the depth of talent out there that I never knew existed. Been working on my own stuff but it's slow going. I'm not terribly motivated when I'm sticky and the air conditioner hasn't shut off in two weeks straight.
Interesting problem: I'm converting a manuscript from first person, present tense, to third person, past tense. The first person POV gave me a very deep character, something I like. But it slows the action in the story. So far, I've compressed thirty pages into eleven. Hope I'm not cutting the soul out of the story, but I don't think so.
So much for work. Who's up for lemonade and sugar cookies?
It seems that everything around my house takes longer and longer in this awful heat. We should make it a law that during August everyone must kick back on the porch swing, fill up the lemonade pitcher, and pile the good books on the table to share with anyone who drops by for a fresh icy glass and a chat. I've been reading the huge stack I stockpiled after Thrillerwriters in July in NYC. They're fun reads, and I'm stunned at the depth of talent out there that I never knew existed. Been working on my own stuff but it's slow going. I'm not terribly motivated when I'm sticky and the air conditioner hasn't shut off in two weeks straight.
Interesting problem: I'm converting a manuscript from first person, present tense, to third person, past tense. The first person POV gave me a very deep character, something I like. But it slows the action in the story. So far, I've compressed thirty pages into eleven. Hope I'm not cutting the soul out of the story, but I don't think so.
So much for work. Who's up for lemonade and sugar cookies?
Six Mistakes
I could start with the Brickyard race yesterday and do a Tony Stewart impression about the tire debacle, but everyone else is doing it. It's so not cool to be one of the pack, so I'll let it go. Wish A.J. Allmendinger had won - the lad raced in the top 10 all day, and at one point was second. That would have been quite a story. The best thing we can do is pretend the race never happened and look forward to Pocono. All I can say is, I'm so grateful we didn't drive to Indy for the race this year.
Actually, I'd like to review Joseph Finder's "Six Mistakes" talk at ITW. He made great points about how a book can go wrong. Mind, these notes are what I got out of what he said, so nothing is verbatim and may, in fact, be way off base. But this is what struck me as worth writing down:
First, ask yourself if you have a passive hero. A hero has to advance the story and change things. Well, Duh! But you'd be amazed at how often I see this mistake in beginners.
Second, don't write a long setup. We writers like to introduce everyone with infinite care, but Finder' s point is that we can get to know the characters through action.
Third: Don't start the story too early. (A personal note: I have to do this, because I need about forty page to feel comfortable. But I cut those forty pages in the first rewrite. I know it's a waste of time, but that's how my process works.)
Fourth: Avoid the weak second act. Things must escalate. The hero has to fail then recommit to the struggle. Introduce subplots in Act II.
Five: Predictability. Don't underestimate your readers. Don't let them figure it all out. One of my observations: a very well known suspense writer makes this mistake. I can tell you before I turn the page what the next scene will hold and what's going to happen. Can't finish any of the books because they're so predictable.
Six: Lousy endings kill a book. Make it have symmetry. Don't make it too short. Add a good twist if you can, one that arises from the seeds planted before in the story. Then don't linger too long at the party.
Seven: (a bonus) Don't show off and lay out all your research just because it's cool and you went to all that work. Use just enough to show that this is the real world.
And general observations from Mr. Finder: don't make the mistake of having all plot and no people. No one cares about abstract threats. Back story dumps are anathema - add the back story in tiny slivers, giving the reader a reason to care for the characters. Avoid boring action scene. Make them exciting or leave them out.
Very good talk. You can buy CDs of this one, as well as the others, from ITW.
Actually, I'd like to review Joseph Finder's "Six Mistakes" talk at ITW. He made great points about how a book can go wrong. Mind, these notes are what I got out of what he said, so nothing is verbatim and may, in fact, be way off base. But this is what struck me as worth writing down:
First, ask yourself if you have a passive hero. A hero has to advance the story and change things. Well, Duh! But you'd be amazed at how often I see this mistake in beginners.
Second, don't write a long setup. We writers like to introduce everyone with infinite care, but Finder' s point is that we can get to know the characters through action.
Third: Don't start the story too early. (A personal note: I have to do this, because I need about forty page to feel comfortable. But I cut those forty pages in the first rewrite. I know it's a waste of time, but that's how my process works.)
Fourth: Avoid the weak second act. Things must escalate. The hero has to fail then recommit to the struggle. Introduce subplots in Act II.
Five: Predictability. Don't underestimate your readers. Don't let them figure it all out. One of my observations: a very well known suspense writer makes this mistake. I can tell you before I turn the page what the next scene will hold and what's going to happen. Can't finish any of the books because they're so predictable.
Six: Lousy endings kill a book. Make it have symmetry. Don't make it too short. Add a good twist if you can, one that arises from the seeds planted before in the story. Then don't linger too long at the party.
Seven: (a bonus) Don't show off and lay out all your research just because it's cool and you went to all that work. Use just enough to show that this is the real world.
And general observations from Mr. Finder: don't make the mistake of having all plot and no people. No one cares about abstract threats. Back story dumps are anathema - add the back story in tiny slivers, giving the reader a reason to care for the characters. Avoid boring action scene. Make them exciting or leave them out.
Very good talk. You can buy CDs of this one, as well as the others, from ITW.
The Sword's Reach
James Rollins threw out a quote I've never heard before - A war is only as far as your sword can reach. What a good concept for writers. Start small and keep it intimate as you ratchet up the tension. His example was perfect. A surprise is when the characters are chatting and eating at a restaurant, then suddenly, their table explodes. Suspense happens when they're chatting, etc., and the omniscient eye shows a ticking bomb under the table. His take is that the core of action is not physical, it's emotional in its context. Is the protagonist a coward, and it's hard for him to wade into battle? Or does he have a moral objection to battle, like the Gary Cooper character in one of my favorite movies, Friendly Persuasion. Or John Wayne in The Quiet Man - a boxer who killed his opponent in the ring doesn't want to fight, not ever again, but ultimately has to. Again with Gary Cooper in High Noon - he will lose his Quaker bride if he stays to fight the bad guys, but if he doesn't, they'll come after him until he's dead.
Gonna work on this one.
Gonna work on this one.
Thrills and Chills
Sorry I've been MIA for a couple of weeks. Spent last week in NYC at Thriller Fest, and before that, a whole week panicking about going. Big cities always suck the energy out of me as effectively as a vampire latching on my neck (no, it hasn't happened, I'm a writer, remember?). So many people, all of them walking quickly and bumping into me as I meander and stare like the country bumpkin. So much noise. I survived, as you can see, and came home invigorated and ready to get back to work.
Thriller Fest was amazing, to put it simply. Great panels, great writers sharing craft, great people in the audience. Lots of Advanced Reader Copies. Because I was dumb enough to bring a small suitcase (didn't want to haul it all over the place), I could bring home only a few. The one I read on the 7 hour train ride back was truly a thriller. Couldn't put it down. Comes out in September and the title is The Archangel Conspiracy (I think, I'm horrible with titles) and the author is C.S. Graham, a pseudonym for a husband and wife writing team. When this mass market paperback hits the shelves in September, run, do not walk, to your local independent bookstore and snap it up. Filled with political intrigue and a gusty heroine, you'll keep turning the pages if you're anything like me.
When I'm less zapped, I'll post some of the nuggets I pulled from the TF workshops.
Thriller Fest was amazing, to put it simply. Great panels, great writers sharing craft, great people in the audience. Lots of Advanced Reader Copies. Because I was dumb enough to bring a small suitcase (didn't want to haul it all over the place), I could bring home only a few. The one I read on the 7 hour train ride back was truly a thriller. Couldn't put it down. Comes out in September and the title is The Archangel Conspiracy (I think, I'm horrible with titles) and the author is C.S. Graham, a pseudonym for a husband and wife writing team. When this mass market paperback hits the shelves in September, run, do not walk, to your local independent bookstore and snap it up. Filled with political intrigue and a gusty heroine, you'll keep turning the pages if you're anything like me.
When I'm less zapped, I'll post some of the nuggets I pulled from the TF workshops.
Casey Mears and What's Next?
Pity Casey Mears. Thirty years old and he’s a failure. Kicked out on his tush by the dream team owner, a friend of his family’s for years. Santa-faced Rick Hendrick, he who acts like a father to Junior, uncle to JJ and Jeff, found Casey lacking. One win isn’t enough. Santa isn’t bringing any toys for the black sheep child this year.
Other factors probably come into play as well. Kellogs may not want to sponsor a father who isn’t marrying his baby’s mama. Sure Jeff and Ingrid had Ella in the oven when they said their vows, but they did the traditional thing and got married. JJ’s lovely wife exudes class. Casey’s situation just isn’t the image a powerhouse team wants to project. So Casey had to go. Family cuts ties with loser youngest son. Boy, it’s tough being Casey Mears this year.
The good news is, he still has the Mears name. He's a decent driver. Life will even out after this year's turmoil. I'm still hoping he does the right thing to give his baby a father who stepped up to the plate and manned up.
Other factors probably come into play as well. Kellogs may not want to sponsor a father who isn’t marrying his baby’s mama. Sure Jeff and Ingrid had Ella in the oven when they said their vows, but they did the traditional thing and got married. JJ’s lovely wife exudes class. Casey’s situation just isn’t the image a powerhouse team wants to project. So Casey had to go. Family cuts ties with loser youngest son. Boy, it’s tough being Casey Mears this year.
The good news is, he still has the Mears name. He's a decent driver. Life will even out after this year's turmoil. I'm still hoping he does the right thing to give his baby a father who stepped up to the plate and manned up.
I adore gardenias. And this year, they've been blooming in an embarrassment of abundance. Don't know if it's the wet spring or the current heat wave causing the gardenias to bloom like there's no tomorrow, but I've been able to fill every room in the house with a bowl full. How can anything be wrong with the world when there's a scent like that?
I continue to be surprised that the press hasn't gone after the Mauricia Grant story. Bloggers are doing most of the talking, and as this blog goes to show, most of them (moi included) are talking out of their hats. Where's Nate Ryan's in depth reporting? Why hasn't Jenna Fryer done some heavy digging? As someone else said, maybe this lawsuit is seen as "so what do you expect from Southern rednecks?" The corollary to that is: who cares? I care, and so do many other people who love Nascar.
I'm reading Phillip K. Dick's stories, one after the other, and can't believe I didn't discover him before now. What a clever, clever writer.
I continue to be surprised that the press hasn't gone after the Mauricia Grant story. Bloggers are doing most of the talking, and as this blog goes to show, most of them (moi included) are talking out of their hats. Where's Nate Ryan's in depth reporting? Why hasn't Jenna Fryer done some heavy digging? As someone else said, maybe this lawsuit is seen as "so what do you expect from Southern rednecks?" The corollary to that is: who cares? I care, and so do many other people who love Nascar.
I'm reading Phillip K. Dick's stories, one after the other, and can't believe I didn't discover him before now. What a clever, clever writer.
In a Stew
Watching Rick Hendrick glow and Jr get all gushy after winning in Michigan helped calm me down just a hair. Glad he won a points race this year. Happy for Tony Jr. Feel-good moment. But. . . you knew there was a 'but' coming, didn't you?
Having watched Brian France on Nascar Now pontificate that the Nationwide track official who has filed a discrimination law suit against the juggernaut known as Nascar NEVER complained about her treatment had me ready to rip into the TV screen. Come on, people, do you think we're stupid? Of course she took a lot of flack. She's a woman, she's black, and she was in a position out front where she'd be a target for that sort of idiocy. And yes, I believe she complained to her superior, who made sure she was fired. What's worse is, I have a feeling if she'd been a little older, wiser, and able to put those nitwits who hassled her in their places, she'd have taught them a lesson or two. Just maybe. I remember my days in law school when we five women out of a class of a hundred men took our hits. But we shot back. The guys spread Playboy all over the student lounge to embarrass us, we bought Playgirl magazines and added them to the pile. Oh, and did a lot of pointing and giggling. When the men started in on the really dirty talk, trying to get a rise out of us, one of us would say "Your mama know you're talking like that? 'cause if she doesn't, I'll be happy to let her know." We persevered because we weren't going to let them run us out of law school. My bet is, Mauricia Grant did the same thing - thought she could tough it out, until they fired her and all bets were off. I repeat, how stupid does Brian France think we are? Pay the woman, make the settlement confidential, then start cleaning house of the worst offenders.
I adore good ole boys - know quite a few. Their hearts are golden, their language less than proper, and they'll do anything for anyone in need. Shirt off the back time. The coneheads who hassled the Nationwide official aren't good ole boys. They thought they could get away with talkin' ugly and being mean to a young woman who deserved better. No proper Southern mama taught her son to behave like that. Shame. And shame on those who covered it up.
Having watched Brian France on Nascar Now pontificate that the Nationwide track official who has filed a discrimination law suit against the juggernaut known as Nascar NEVER complained about her treatment had me ready to rip into the TV screen. Come on, people, do you think we're stupid? Of course she took a lot of flack. She's a woman, she's black, and she was in a position out front where she'd be a target for that sort of idiocy. And yes, I believe she complained to her superior, who made sure she was fired. What's worse is, I have a feeling if she'd been a little older, wiser, and able to put those nitwits who hassled her in their places, she'd have taught them a lesson or two. Just maybe. I remember my days in law school when we five women out of a class of a hundred men took our hits. But we shot back. The guys spread Playboy all over the student lounge to embarrass us, we bought Playgirl magazines and added them to the pile. Oh, and did a lot of pointing and giggling. When the men started in on the really dirty talk, trying to get a rise out of us, one of us would say "Your mama know you're talking like that? 'cause if she doesn't, I'll be happy to let her know." We persevered because we weren't going to let them run us out of law school. My bet is, Mauricia Grant did the same thing - thought she could tough it out, until they fired her and all bets were off. I repeat, how stupid does Brian France think we are? Pay the woman, make the settlement confidential, then start cleaning house of the worst offenders.
I adore good ole boys - know quite a few. Their hearts are golden, their language less than proper, and they'll do anything for anyone in need. Shirt off the back time. The coneheads who hassled the Nationwide official aren't good ole boys. They thought they could get away with talkin' ugly and being mean to a young woman who deserved better. No proper Southern mama taught her son to behave like that. Shame. And shame on those who covered it up.
My (Fairly Recent) Conversion, or How I Lost All Intellectual Pretensions
My husband asked if I’d like to see the new Indiana Jones movie tonight. Thought a sec, then replied that I considered the first ones dumb, so I’d pass. He cocked an eyebrow. Okay, I admitted, maybe I’d reconsider. After all, I gave up all pretensions to intellectual superiority when I dove headfirst into NASCAR and its attendant circus. When did I choose to hide my Phi Beta Kappa key to wear a Kevin Harvick T-shirt and Ward Burton earrings? What possessed me to put down my Tom Friedman book for NASCAR Scene?
The tale is not an old one in terms of time. Sometime in the fall of 2005, I think it was, my agent asked if I’d be interested in writing NASCAR books for Harlequin. Easy, she said. Knock 'em out with your eyes closed. Never one to turn down the option to make money, I figured I’d watch some races on TV and get the lingo down pat. My husband, a racing fan but not of NASCAR, suggested a fall race at a small track, Richmond. He’d heard it was a good show. Pick up on the atmosphere. Get authentic. Okay, I said. Richard Petty, when I checked online, was appearing at the Fanzone. I’d heard of Petty. Funky hat and dark glasses. Bone-thin with a real drawl. Cowboy boots. Maybe I could ask him a few racing questions. (Remember my intellectual pretensions. . . )
Little did we know tickets were scarcer than diamonds in the disposal. But my husband, working his magic, scored a couple. We showed up. Not long before the race. Mistake number ONE. Engines crank up. My hearing exits track right. Nothing to protect our ears. Mistake number TWO. Then it happens. Magic strikes. The bleachers shake as the cars circle the track behind the pace car. Vibrations work from my soles to the top of my head. Good heavens, I'm getting excited. Crash number one and I’m hooked. On my feet screaming with everyone around me. So much for my doctorate degree. I can’t wait to hit the fan trailers and snap up all the gear I can. Mistake number THREE. Wait until you pick a favorite driver, THEN shop.
We buy good ear protectors, a scanner, spread our fan purchases out over several tracks, learn to get there early and set up our tailgating goodies. We are NASCAR junkies. Order premium TV to get the SPEED channel. Go to the Daytona 500. Ask for tickets to Martinsville for Mother’s Day. Season tickets to Richmond. Oh yeah. Big bucks.
And I never did write those NASCAR romances. Too much NASCAR, not enough romance, LOL, for Harlequin. Still, I’ve used some race lore in a couple of books, most recently in a futuristic where the Racer Clan figures prominently. It’s called LEGAL KILL. And there’s not a romance in sight. Well, maybe a hint. What does that say about my take on NASCAR? Hmmm. Gotta think about that one.
Maybe we’ll go see Indiana Jones tonight, after the long-delayed Nationwide race in Dover. No one cares about a Phi Beta Kappa key or a doctorate at either one. Thank goodness.
The tale is not an old one in terms of time. Sometime in the fall of 2005, I think it was, my agent asked if I’d be interested in writing NASCAR books for Harlequin. Easy, she said. Knock 'em out with your eyes closed. Never one to turn down the option to make money, I figured I’d watch some races on TV and get the lingo down pat. My husband, a racing fan but not of NASCAR, suggested a fall race at a small track, Richmond. He’d heard it was a good show. Pick up on the atmosphere. Get authentic. Okay, I said. Richard Petty, when I checked online, was appearing at the Fanzone. I’d heard of Petty. Funky hat and dark glasses. Bone-thin with a real drawl. Cowboy boots. Maybe I could ask him a few racing questions. (Remember my intellectual pretensions. . . )
Little did we know tickets were scarcer than diamonds in the disposal. But my husband, working his magic, scored a couple. We showed up. Not long before the race. Mistake number ONE. Engines crank up. My hearing exits track right. Nothing to protect our ears. Mistake number TWO. Then it happens. Magic strikes. The bleachers shake as the cars circle the track behind the pace car. Vibrations work from my soles to the top of my head. Good heavens, I'm getting excited. Crash number one and I’m hooked. On my feet screaming with everyone around me. So much for my doctorate degree. I can’t wait to hit the fan trailers and snap up all the gear I can. Mistake number THREE. Wait until you pick a favorite driver, THEN shop.
We buy good ear protectors, a scanner, spread our fan purchases out over several tracks, learn to get there early and set up our tailgating goodies. We are NASCAR junkies. Order premium TV to get the SPEED channel. Go to the Daytona 500. Ask for tickets to Martinsville for Mother’s Day. Season tickets to Richmond. Oh yeah. Big bucks.
And I never did write those NASCAR romances. Too much NASCAR, not enough romance, LOL, for Harlequin. Still, I’ve used some race lore in a couple of books, most recently in a futuristic where the Racer Clan figures prominently. It’s called LEGAL KILL. And there’s not a romance in sight. Well, maybe a hint. What does that say about my take on NASCAR? Hmmm. Gotta think about that one.
Maybe we’ll go see Indiana Jones tonight, after the long-delayed Nationwide race in Dover. No one cares about a Phi Beta Kappa key or a doctorate at either one. Thank goodness.
Summer and Slowing Down
Digging up bulbs, planting new hostas, and generally playing in the yard sucks me away from the computer as surely as a vortex down the drain. After thirteen straight weekends of rain, the past one was glorious. I even tackled the moss on the brick patio. Now that's looking for an excuse to stay outside in the extreme, LOL. No movie, no party, no sale can lure me away from a work in progress, but lovely sunshine and a yard can do it every time.
I need to get LEGAL KILL in shape before the Thrillerwriters conference in NYC in July. That means the fanny has to stay in the chair. Three weeks of family stuff played havoc with my schedule, but it's time to get back into the routine. We writers have to come up for air now and then. I've had my fun, now it's back to work.
How do you get yourself psyched to work when the weather is wonderful after a long cold winter and a wet, miserable spring?
I need to get LEGAL KILL in shape before the Thrillerwriters conference in NYC in July. That means the fanny has to stay in the chair. Three weeks of family stuff played havoc with my schedule, but it's time to get back into the routine. We writers have to come up for air now and then. I've had my fun, now it's back to work.
How do you get yourself psyched to work when the weather is wonderful after a long cold winter and a wet, miserable spring?
Diplomas, Dolls, and a Diatribe
She's a college graduate. Diploma in hand, tassel switched to the other side, drama honor society drape in place, she's posed and smiled and said her good-byes to faculty and friends. She has a BA in History, minor in Film and Photography, Drama. Anyone want to hire a smart, educated young woman?
Rain held off long enough for the two hour ceremony, outdoors under ancient oaks, to run its course. Unfortunately, the bozos sitting behind us didn't run out of chatter. Talk, talk, talk, through every address, until my husband had to turn around and say something to shut them up. That wasn't the worst, however. One of these charming idjits brought a blowup sex doll to wave in the air at the graduate they'd come to celebrate. Mind you, this is a women's university, and this doll was garish, tacky, and embarrassing. Why bring it to graduation? Just so you can insult every woman there who'd worked hard to earn her degree? My youngest child took matters in her own hands. A pair of manicure scissors did the job. The idjit spent a lot of time trying to blow it up again, which meant he wasn't talking. Both pluses. My children are geniuses. I'm so glad we've raised smart girls.
Remember my rant about manners? Want to take bets these yahoos weren't from the South?
Now I get to watch the All Star Race at Lowe's on Tivo and relax for a bit. Life is good. Even better, it's time to get back to the writing. I'm a happy woman.
Rain held off long enough for the two hour ceremony, outdoors under ancient oaks, to run its course. Unfortunately, the bozos sitting behind us didn't run out of chatter. Talk, talk, talk, through every address, until my husband had to turn around and say something to shut them up. That wasn't the worst, however. One of these charming idjits brought a blowup sex doll to wave in the air at the graduate they'd come to celebrate. Mind you, this is a women's university, and this doll was garish, tacky, and embarrassing. Why bring it to graduation? Just so you can insult every woman there who'd worked hard to earn her degree? My youngest child took matters in her own hands. A pair of manicure scissors did the job. The idjit spent a lot of time trying to blow it up again, which meant he wasn't talking. Both pluses. My children are geniuses. I'm so glad we've raised smart girls.
Remember my rant about manners? Want to take bets these yahoos weren't from the South?
Now I get to watch the All Star Race at Lowe's on Tivo and relax for a bit. Life is good. Even better, it's time to get back to the writing. I'm a happy woman.
Graduation!
Our oldest, Skyler, is graduating from college this coming Sunday. Can't be possible. I was changing her diapers just yesterday, sigh. It's amazing how the little nippers grow up, isn't it? I remember someone telling me to cherish those long, hectic, crazy days when they were babies, and thinking to myself, yeah, right! Now I'm there, giving the same advice to new moms, LOL. Oh my, how unoriginal.
The amazing part is, they've grown up to be intelligent, nice, creative young women. They'll go far in life, I have no doubt. My hubby and I always reminded ourselves that our purpose was to raise independent adults who could balance their checkbooks and fly away from our nest with complete confidence. Think we got it right.
Whenever I finish a manuscript, I feel the same way. Will it fly by itself? Will it land in a good home? I've done my best, I can't do anything more to ensure its success. Sending it out is a bit scary, as it is for any mom letting go of her child for the first time, but there's no point in clinging to it. The world awaits.
The amazing part is, they've grown up to be intelligent, nice, creative young women. They'll go far in life, I have no doubt. My hubby and I always reminded ourselves that our purpose was to raise independent adults who could balance their checkbooks and fly away from our nest with complete confidence. Think we got it right.
Whenever I finish a manuscript, I feel the same way. Will it fly by itself? Will it land in a good home? I've done my best, I can't do anything more to ensure its success. Sending it out is a bit scary, as it is for any mom letting go of her child for the first time, but there's no point in clinging to it. The world awaits.
Running out of Talent
Kyle Busch loves to run a loose car. Makes amazing saves. Exciting to watch. Only problem is, he got loose under Junior and threw the Heir Apparent into the wall in Richmond. I was there. Beer cans hit the track. Fans began leaving in droves. Then out of nowhere, Clint Bowyer slipped past Busch, who was fighting off Mark Martin, to win. Talk about excitement. Good racin'. Glad I was there. Now, it's back to Real Life. Sigh.
On the up side, I'm getting ready to welcome home les enfants from school for a bit. One's off to summer school for first quarter, the other into a job. It'll be the first summer we'll be minus both children at once. Seems like only a few months ago that I was hauling girls to the pool for swimming lessons, to summer camps, tennis lessons, and the library. Wow. Empty nesting to the max has now arrived.
Speaking of driving loose, when the writing is loose, it's as wild as a ride on the track. All over the place with nowhere to land but trouble - not a good thing with a book. Hmmm. LEGAL KILL is a bit loose at the moment. Gotta get the wheels under it.
On the up side, I'm getting ready to welcome home les enfants from school for a bit. One's off to summer school for first quarter, the other into a job. It'll be the first summer we'll be minus both children at once. Seems like only a few months ago that I was hauling girls to the pool for swimming lessons, to summer camps, tennis lessons, and the library. Wow. Empty nesting to the max has now arrived.
Speaking of driving loose, when the writing is loose, it's as wild as a ride on the track. All over the place with nowhere to land but trouble - not a good thing with a book. Hmmm. LEGAL KILL is a bit loose at the moment. Gotta get the wheels under it.
A Mini Rant about Manners
I've been thinking about this for a while. After reading a Garrison Keillor column about the lack of manners in today's society (Yeah, let's hear it for manner lessons preached with humor!), I decided to list my own personal peeves. Sounding peckish here (a lot of "p" words, hmmm...), probably because I'm not sleeping. Always happens when a story grabs me by the brain cells and won't let go. Enough of me. Back to the manners thing.
One of my favorites is the cute young thing who insists on calling me by my first name. She could be a receptionist in the dentist's office, the insurance agent's front desk person, or the cashier at the bank. Young enough to be trainable, I hope. "We can see you at 11 a.m., Tracy. Dr. Goodteeth just had a cancellation." Now, if my tooth hadn't just cracked in half, I'd set her straight. Rusty (Dr. Goodteeth) and I have been together for twenty odd years now, and I don't care if he calls me Tracy. But this twenty-year-old chit of a girl needs to address me as a young whippersnapper should address her elders. In the South, "Miz Tracy," is just fine. "Mrs. Dunham" is more correct, but I'll let that slip. Even, "Ma'am, the doctor can see you..." works in the South.
I have been known, much to the chagrin of my spawn, to correct said young whippersnappers. In a kindly manner, much as a grandmother would use. "Sweetie, I'm old enough to have changed your diapers. In these parts, unless I did change your britches, you may address me as 'Mrs. Dunham.' If I did change your panties, and I'd remember if I had, you are permitted to call me 'Miss Tracy.' " My children, of course, are crawling into a hole in the ground. Believe me, they know better. They address their elders with proper respect, or they'll hear from mama.
My husband, I must preface this rant, is a very good man. A man of inherent good manners and much grace, including infinite kindness. He'll stop to pick up strangers on the street who are gesturing desperately for a ride. He offers jobs to those people standing in the median strip with signs saying "Homeless. Hungry." And he buys them lunch if they are willing to work for a him. (Only one man ever took him up on his offer.) But, as a native of Chicago, he didn't learn to say "Yes, ma'am. No, ma'am." I knew this when I married him. Along with his hatred of fresh tomatoes (sigh), it's his only failing. I was, however prepared. Our family repeated the following iconic story often.
My mother, during her childhood pre-WW II, lived for a year in a Chicago suburb. Her parents, being proper Southerners, taught her to say "yes, ma'am," etc., when addressing her elders. One day, her teacher sent home a note from school saying "Judith must cease speaking like a servant when she talks to me. "Ma'am" is a sign of servitude and inferiority."
My grandmother's wrath and outrage would have been a sight to behold. Wish I could have seen it. As the story was repeated quite often to describe the loutishness of Yankees, I grew accustomed to its moral. Yankees don't know diddly about good manners and the proper graces. Other Yankee peculiarities came to the fore in other stories. Being invited to dinner, then told to bring a "covered dish" of a certain type. Who invites guests to dinner then insists they feed themselves? Only Yankees. I could go on, but you get my drift. There's a social divide that has nothing to do with geography. It's all about manners.
When someone provides a service and one thanks that person, the common response today is "no problem." I want to stomp my foot and ask what happened to "you're welcome." Or even, as was once common in the South, "my pleasure." Yet today the South is slipping into the maw of a mannerless morass. I fear it's the fault of all those Yankees who've moved down here and bought their newMcMansions and expect to fit into society because they drive Beemers. I wish someone would tell them it's not going to happen. "Society" in the South is still ruled with the iron fist in the white glove by ladies who may not have two nickels to their names, but their grandmother's pearls are heirlooms still worn today, their sterling came down through the family for generations, and they were educated at Miss Jennie's, as were their mothers, grandmothers, and great-grandmothers. And Miss Jennie's doesn't accept girls without the proper pedigree and impeccable manners.
Manners will get you places, my mama and grandmothers always preached. I still think they're right.
One of my favorites is the cute young thing who insists on calling me by my first name. She could be a receptionist in the dentist's office, the insurance agent's front desk person, or the cashier at the bank. Young enough to be trainable, I hope. "We can see you at 11 a.m., Tracy. Dr. Goodteeth just had a cancellation." Now, if my tooth hadn't just cracked in half, I'd set her straight. Rusty (Dr. Goodteeth) and I have been together for twenty odd years now, and I don't care if he calls me Tracy. But this twenty-year-old chit of a girl needs to address me as a young whippersnapper should address her elders. In the South, "Miz Tracy," is just fine. "Mrs. Dunham" is more correct, but I'll let that slip. Even, "Ma'am, the doctor can see you..." works in the South.
I have been known, much to the chagrin of my spawn, to correct said young whippersnappers. In a kindly manner, much as a grandmother would use. "Sweetie, I'm old enough to have changed your diapers. In these parts, unless I did change your britches, you may address me as 'Mrs. Dunham.' If I did change your panties, and I'd remember if I had, you are permitted to call me 'Miss Tracy.' " My children, of course, are crawling into a hole in the ground. Believe me, they know better. They address their elders with proper respect, or they'll hear from mama.
My husband, I must preface this rant, is a very good man. A man of inherent good manners and much grace, including infinite kindness. He'll stop to pick up strangers on the street who are gesturing desperately for a ride. He offers jobs to those people standing in the median strip with signs saying "Homeless. Hungry." And he buys them lunch if they are willing to work for a him. (Only one man ever took him up on his offer.) But, as a native of Chicago, he didn't learn to say "Yes, ma'am. No, ma'am." I knew this when I married him. Along with his hatred of fresh tomatoes (sigh), it's his only failing. I was, however prepared. Our family repeated the following iconic story often.
My mother, during her childhood pre-WW II, lived for a year in a Chicago suburb. Her parents, being proper Southerners, taught her to say "yes, ma'am," etc., when addressing her elders. One day, her teacher sent home a note from school saying "Judith must cease speaking like a servant when she talks to me. "Ma'am" is a sign of servitude and inferiority."
My grandmother's wrath and outrage would have been a sight to behold. Wish I could have seen it. As the story was repeated quite often to describe the loutishness of Yankees, I grew accustomed to its moral. Yankees don't know diddly about good manners and the proper graces. Other Yankee peculiarities came to the fore in other stories. Being invited to dinner, then told to bring a "covered dish" of a certain type. Who invites guests to dinner then insists they feed themselves? Only Yankees. I could go on, but you get my drift. There's a social divide that has nothing to do with geography. It's all about manners.
When someone provides a service and one thanks that person, the common response today is "no problem." I want to stomp my foot and ask what happened to "you're welcome." Or even, as was once common in the South, "my pleasure." Yet today the South is slipping into the maw of a mannerless morass. I fear it's the fault of all those Yankees who've moved down here and bought their newMcMansions and expect to fit into society because they drive Beemers. I wish someone would tell them it's not going to happen. "Society" in the South is still ruled with the iron fist in the white glove by ladies who may not have two nickels to their names, but their grandmother's pearls are heirlooms still worn today, their sterling came down through the family for generations, and they were educated at Miss Jennie's, as were their mothers, grandmothers, and great-grandmothers. And Miss Jennie's doesn't accept girls without the proper pedigree and impeccable manners.
Manners will get you places, my mama and grandmothers always preached. I still think they're right.
Short Track Season and Gettin' It done
The writing flows, the futuristic has me guessing (I love it when a story surprises me), and I've finished judging the contest entries I agreed to judge way back when I thought I'd have time. It's too wet and rainy out to do yard work, so I'm pretty much keeping the hands on the keyboard. Last weekend's Nationwide race in Mexico City didn't hold my attention, so I saved four hours there! Yep, keeping the fanny in the desk chair is paying off.
Since it's a week and a half until the Richmond races, this is good. Once next Monday hits, I'm going into tailgating overdrive. Gotta get the race gear loaded, menus planned, and the flags ready to fly from the flagpole on the truck. After seven straight weekends of rain, I'm praying we're done with this batch of wet, and we'll finally have a lovely Friday and Saturday for racin'. The racing gods owe me a good one after the rain and cold in Martinsville.
It's all good from here on out. . . the cold weather is history, the trees have leaves, and I'm ready for summer and summer's races at my local short track.
Since it's a week and a half until the Richmond races, this is good. Once next Monday hits, I'm going into tailgating overdrive. Gotta get the race gear loaded, menus planned, and the flags ready to fly from the flagpole on the truck. After seven straight weekends of rain, I'm praying we're done with this batch of wet, and we'll finally have a lovely Friday and Saturday for racin'. The racing gods owe me a good one after the rain and cold in Martinsville.
It's all good from here on out. . . the cold weather is history, the trees have leaves, and I'm ready for summer and summer's races at my local short track.