Tough Girl Heroines

I enjoyed the Swedish movie, THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO. The book, The Girl Who Played with Fire, less so. I don't think it's the translation, but rather the wandering bits that have nothing to do with the story. I don't care about every item of furniture that Lisabeth buys at Ikea for her multi-million dollar apartment. The movie, I have a feeling, cut to the heart of the story and kept the pace going where the book lost it. Perhaps, because the author died before the books were published, the publisher didn't feel free to do wholesale cutting of the manuscript. That's fine.

What I do admire is Lisabeth's calculating paranoia, her refusal to be kicked and not kick back (or be raped, and not rape back), and her inability to turn her back on someone she almost cares for. Carol O'Connell's Mallory character is very much like this - although Mallory was raised, after an early harrowing childhood wandering the streets of New York looking for her mother, by a loving police detective and his even more loving wife. While Mallory has every opportunity to rise above her early nightmares, she can't, or won't, do it, and remains pretty much a very icy fish indeed. Lisabeth's hard shell can be cracked.

I admire kick-ass heroines, as they're called in the biz. But there has to be a glimmer of marshmallow underneath all the take-no-prisoners bravado. Otherwise, the character's just plain psychotic.

Flying the Jolly Roger


It's hot. The garden is withering despite my best efforts to drown it with hose water. The geraniums, contrary beasts that they are, are thriving. No fruit, no special scent, but their peach colored blossoms give me pleasure.

So why fly the Jolly Roger? We bought the flag on an impromptu trip to Chincoteague Island, home of the wonderful "Misty" books. Sometimes you shouldn't visit places where a book is set. Chincoteague, however, is unassuming, quiet, and just the right place for a children's story. The Jolly Roger brings back happy memories of pastel-painted Victorian houses with rickety shutters and barren lawns, and an un-hurried life.

This heat slows us down. The dog and I pant our way through our early morning walk. I dread braving the hot car after an hour of its broiling in a parking lot at the grocery store. By flying the Jolly Roger, I'm taking life down a notch. Slowing it down. Letting the fan lift the hair from my neck as I drink lemonade. Summer's a scorcher this year.

The USPO

The rant has been building since Saturday. I braved the heat to mail some books, and for my efforts, encountered the typical line-out-the-door at my local PO. (I apologize to Eudora Welty for thinking of her cleverly funny short story every time I use "PO.") Saturdays are a nightmare, more so than the usual daily line at the counter, because only one person is working.

An elderly gentleman on a cane, obviously in discomfort and finding standing in line painful, was behind me. The man in front of me in the line had lost the one clerk (who disappeared into the nether recesses of the back room, not to reappear for over 15 minutes or more), when I asked the elderly gent if he'd like to step in front of me in the line. He accepted gratefully.

More minutes passed. No solitary clerk. Was she taking a smoke break? Who knew? Finally, the older man handed me a small manila envelope and a couple of bucks, and asked if I'd mail it for him. I agreed, telling him to sit in his car and I'd bring him the change. No, he said, he couldn't stand it any longer, he had to leave. Okay, I understood. We were ALL sick of standing politely in line, although several of us were becoming good friends, chatting about builders and law suits.

When I finally reached the counter and the lone clerk, who was none too happy from the expression on her petulant face, I explained I was mailing the envelope for the elderly man who wasn't able to stand for long. "ell," she snipped, "I can't accept that because you don't know what's in it!" I fingered the envelope and replied, "It's clearly paper." "No," she barked, "I can't accept that. It could be hazardous!" So I opened the envelope (committing some sort of crime, I'm sure, except it wasn't licked shut, just latched with one of those little metal clasps), pulled out a letter, and showed her the dangerous contents of this little manila envelope. Sniffing haughtily, she accepted the man's money and stamped it. Phew, mission accomplished. I escaped the depressing PO about an hour after I crossed its portal, promising myself to never return. At least not on Saturday.

Our branch PO has removed all the stamp machines, the gizmo where you can weigh your package yourself and affix postage, and every other vestige of do-it-yourself postal supplies. We're lucky if two clerks work the four-clerk counters, and if both of them are working the counters at the same time, it's a major miracle. Do you want to know why the PO is losing money by the bushel? Take a look at my branch PO. Staff cuts and do-it-yourself resource eliminations. From now on, I'll order books on the Web and have them shipped directly to my giftees. No going to the bookstore to handpick a selection for birthdays and Christmas. I'll do ANYTHING to avoid the post office.

To think that, once upon a time, I thought the PO was one of the coolest places on earth. I loved mailing boxes and overstuffed letters to friends and children, imagining their surprise when they received them. No more.

UFOs and Other Weirdness

Before I lay it out here for all the world (well, the few of you who read this blog, thanks girls!), I'm not a UFO enthusiast or nut. I'm a healthy sceptic, with a dose of "prove it and I'll go along for the ride" thrown in there. Just so you know, I'm not a huge fan of little green men.

I've seen a UFO. Long story short, our girls fenced once a week in a local fencing club. Their dad and I agreed it was a good idea for them to learn to stick sharp, lethal objects in anyone attacking them, and they developed into pretty nice epee fencers. Their club met once a week, and since the sessions could run a couple of hours, we often drove home in the dark.

One night, when the air was warm with coming summer, we saw a huge circle of inordinately bright lights hovering low over the road. This is a four-laned, busily traveled highway. I was sure there was a logical explanation, until the hovering object moved up vertically, then turned at a 90 degree angle. The girls and I stared hard, discussed the object, and decided that yes, indeed, we'd been initiated into the UFO club. Very cool. Nothing earth-shattering, but extremely interesting.

I was surprised no one wrote in the newspaper about the flying object. Nor was there even a whisper on TV news until the next evening, when a newscaster reported multitudinous reports of an unidentified flying object. He also reported that no one from the airport acknowledged ownership of this object. Then he smiled, a tight little smile that said he knew more than he was reporting, and skipped on to another story.

The newscaster disappeared from the local broadcast stage not long afterwards. We stopped talking about the UFO.

I wonder if we're limited to one UFO sighting per lifetime?

Red Apples

They're after me. I kid you not. Big red apples are stalking me.

It all began when I walked the dog this morning. In the middle of the road reposed this huge red apple, probably a Delicious, waiting to be smushed by a car. Hmmm, I thought, wondering who tossed this lovely fruit of the poisonous tree in my neighborhood. Dog sniffed. I mused on the theme of the Garden of Eden. Stupid story. Dog and I continued our walk, or shall I shall, pull and jerk. (The squirrels love to tease her and she takes the bait every time.) Everything is normal, until . . .

Another apple. Floating in the middle of the creek that flows not far from our house. The creek is normally a sluggish affair at this time of the year, but we've had some abnormally heavy rain last week, and it's doing its best to pretend it has rapids. The big red apple must have been hung up on some flotsom, because it bobbed in the middle of the creek, mocking me. You can't escape the Garden of Eden, it warned.

Pshaw to that. Baloney and more baloney. God never made temptation and woman is not cursed. Dog and I walked on, both of us with our tongues hanging out at this point. The humidity has already hit 90 per cent. I'm wondering if I'm giving the neighborhood a wet T-shirt show, when yes, there it was.

Another big shiny red apple. Posing at the base of a line of wild cherry trees that rim a yard not far from mine. Nonchalantly reclining against the trunk of one of the trees, the apple is practically sticking its tongue out at me. You will not escape me, it chortles. Original sin is here to stay and you can't avoid it.

To which I reply, phooey and balderdash. Picking up this most mocking of fruit, I heave it into a trash can that's been left curbside. That's exactly how I feel about the notion of original sin. Nothing but trash.

The red apples can't beat me. No matter how hard they try to rattle my cage, I'm not biting.

Awesome Moments

Listened, for about five seconds, to a cheesy bit on the CBS morning show about a new book called something like AWESOME MOMENTS. I'm sure I have the name wrong, but you get the idea. It's all about those little things that make you realize how much you have to appreciate in your life. One person on the couch said how much she loved a certain song and the memories it brought back, and I knew exactly what she meant.

Anything by Petula Clark, and I'm twelve years old again, wishing I could go "downtown." "Cherish" by the Righteous Brothers, and I'm in love for the first time and feelin' it like it's today. (That means you, sweetie pie.) Hit me with The Doors, and it's rock and roll and revolution, and I can smell the late sixties, early seventies, sense the change in light through the trees, feel the leather of a chair seat under my bare thighs.

Flowers in full and glorious bloom. A transplanted bush that survives the heat and drought. The smell of horses. A cat's purr. Bright green new grass the color we see only once a year. Thunder shaking the bleacher seats as 43 hot cars take the track. You get the idea - I could go on and on about the 'small' things that could fill a book of awesome moments I'll never grow tired of experiencing. And if I never do get to see/smell/taste/touch/hear any of them ever again, the memories are vividly ingrained in my DNA.

Magical Realism

I've been fascinated by the phrase ever since I heard Rodrigo Garcia use it on NPR this week. Think THE GREEN MILE. Magic happens in the midst of a realistic story. I've never been lured by that sort of book, probably because I find enough magic in everyday life. However, adding magic supplies an intriguing list of ways to write yourself out of and into some interesting plots. Maybe what some define as magic, others see as everyday life? A baby's smile is pure magic. Love is as well. Moral courage. Absolute honesty. I could go on and on. I don't need "magic" to push a story from the ordinary to the extraordinary world, but I venture that an element of spirituality is more common than most authors would admit. Whether that belief is in the essential goodness of man or a higher power to control the destinies of the characters, really good books (in my limited view) are driven by characters with such a core. Jean Valjean. Atticus Finch. Dave Robicheaux. Any Dick Francis hero.

Existential heroes leave me cold. Went through that phase when I was a kid (high school) and thankfully, outgrew it. The real magic comes from finding a book with characters who inhabit their worlds with honesty, morality, and a deeply abiding faith that whatever is wrong will be righted, in the end. They waver and fumble along the path to the knowledge they require to reach the end of their stories, but they get there in the end. Yeah!

SCOTUS: Nominees and Snakes

Okay, so one of the arguments against Elena Kagan's nomination to the Supremes is that she didn't get her driver's license until she was in her 20's, ergo, she's totally out of touch with 'real people.' Pllleeeaassee. Give me a huge break. I didn't get my driver's license until I was 20, and I'm real people. Some of us didn't need to drive until later in life - my trusty red Schwin got me where I needed to go in college. I know a woman who is my age, who still doesn't have a license, and she raised seven children in the 'burbs without a license or car. Hmm, I think she's well aware of 'real life.' If you're going to attack a nominee, do it based on her legal publications, her public comments, not something as specious as when she procured a license to drive a car.

Attacking her because she's fifty and unmarried is beyond reprehensible. No one threw mud at David Souter, who was also unmarried when nominated. Calling Ms. Kagan a lesbian because of her lack of male spouse is nothing more than blatant sexism. Shame, shame, shame on those who are using this argument to oppose her nomination.

Why anyone would put themselves through the public wringer to accept a nomination to a public office is beyond my comprehension. What have we become? A nation of amoral, self-aggrandizing, mean people? Sometimes it seems so. Has the great experiment, democracy, become another Garden of Eden to be invaded by the snake? That talking serpent who set about to destroy a good gig? The pundits and poobahs who scream that we're a nation of nitwits and idiots, using blogs and political posts, TV and radio, are nothing more than loquacious serpents with vocabulary programed to incite and inflame and drive us to eat the apple that'll doom our country. Okay, that may be a rash generalization, but come on people, can't we be civil and respectful as we disagree? Me, I'm not listening to any snakes. The voices in my own head are enough, thank you very much.

Speaking of voice: how do you get into a young adult voice? It's more than slang, patois, whatever you call it. That's easily dated. Been mulling the issue.

Bad Race, Green Trees, and Summer

Sigh. I've been putting off posting about the Cup race last Saturday night, hoping I could find some nice words to describe what was, ultimately, a boring race. Yawn-inspiring. Go-home-early. Wish we had.

What was wrong, I don't know. Single-file parades around a 3/4 mile track don't happen often, but they did on Saturday. I can't remember a single Richmond race with less drama or excitement. The last fifteen laps put on a show, but until then, I couldn't have cared less. Okay, enough negativity. I'm not going to think about it again.

Working on SIGNS. After 160 pages, I've decided the 'voice' is all wrong, so it's back to square one. Some of us take longer to figure out a book's issues than others. I count myself among those who hang onto the original vision after it's clear it's not working much, much too tenaciously. The good news is, the rewrites are feeling 'right,' so I'm a happy camper. Well, getting to the 'happy' part.

Summer is here with all its humidity and glorious greenery. I realized yesterday how much I missed the green trees during the past long, cold, and dreary winter. Trees in full glory make me happy, and remind me that all is right with the world. And on that simple truth, it's time I got back to work. . . .

Revisiting the past

While browsing the used book shop, I came across an old, old copy of EAGLE OF THE NINTH by Rosemary Sutcliff. I couldn't wait to get it home - I remember reading the book in one big gulp when I was a kid. I was the bookish child who read constantly, so much so that my mother would have to throw me out of the house to get some fresh air. (This changed a bit once horses came into my life, but books ranked right up there with saddles and boots.) Historical fiction was my mainstay, and Rosemary Sutcliff was the queen of that domain. When T.H.White's THE ONCE AND FUTURE KING came out, his book was the only one dealing with the Arthur legend that came anywhere near equalling Miss Sutcliff's mastery of that tale. (I read that one in school, non-stop, holding it under my desk and pretending to study whatever the lesson was in class. Got caught by my history teacher, who checked out TOAFK, handed it back to me, and said "keep reading.")

I didn't realize Miss Sutcliff was crippled by juvenile arthritis until reading a biography recently. Despite her physical handicap, she wrote active, living, breathing, filled-with-life heroes. History came alive in their adventures. Inspiration comes to writers in many forms, and I can say, in all sincerity, that Rosemary Sutcliff was an author who inspired me. One day, I hope to achieve half her skill, style, and power with the written word. I should thank her as well for inspiring me to take Latin in school. Latin saved my fanny when it comes to English grammar.

Old Pictures


Found this old (hate to say how old) picture of a 17 yo me on my Arabian stallion, Simuzer. Gorgeous horse, crazy as heck, could jump anything you put in his way, but really nasty-tempered. He tried his best to kill me, LOL, but I remember him with great fondness. I've always loved fast horses and fast cars.

Twenty-six years, and counting

My beloved and I were married that long ago in a small wedding in my parents' house. I wore a tan lace dress by a Chicago designer, Becky Becoulis, and Paul wore a cream-colored suit. Family and friends had as much fun partying after the ceremony as we did. Hard to believe we've been hitched for over a quarter of a century! In this day and age, such longevity is a miracle. Our touchstone has always been, no matter how crazy or downright awful things get, that we love each other and always will. It doesn't hurt that my beloved is a very tolerant, understanding, kind man who has grown to know the right thing to do when I get all creatively insane when the books aren't going well. He takes over the house and all the minutiae of our lives, then tells me to shut the office door and ignore the world until the words are right. Smart man.

The red clay isn't coming out of the soaked sneakers from the parking fields of Martinsville. Guess a trip to Target is in order to replace them. Race stuff is cleaned and packed away, waiting for May's race in Richmond. Pray to the rain gods to sleep through it. Can't wait - Richmond has killer curves and lots of good grooves, and I'd like to see the race on its scheduled day.

Martinsville!

Ever watch a race on TV and laugh at the idiots sitting in the stands, wearing their rain ponchos, waiting for a race to start when clearly, it's not gonna happen? Been there, did that, Sunday in Martinsville. Not only was it raining, it was darned cold and totally miserable.

Rain misery was just the start, because the parking fields on Monday not only had no one to help drivers find a dry spot, but every inch was red clay mud and not just an inch. We made one turn into trouble, and the truck was stuck. My socks were only half of the wet and ick factor. Pushing the truck was the really fun part. (Sarcasm, please.)

The up side was that the race was super. Monday's sun and warmth made up for Sunday's horribleness. My faith in great racing has been restored. Fox almost killed Sunday racing for me, but no more. Despite crummy coverage and boring camera work, nothing Fox can do on TV will kill the joy of Nascar. Get to a track and watch it live! There's nothing like the rumbling start of the engines, shaking in the stands, the scream of 43 cars of incredible horsepower, the flash of overheated brakes. Get thee to a track near you! Don't depend on TV for your racin' fix!

That may be more exclamation points than I've ever used in my entire life...

Winners

So JJ won again - and at Bristol, of all tracks - a place where he's never been good. He's won three of the last six races? Something like that...which leads one to believe he's going to take his fifth championship barring tsunamis, volcanoes, earthquakes, and other natural disasters. What's the sense in getting ticked off about it?

The point is that we're seeing history. One day we'll look back and say, "golly, I saw the champ in his heyday" and it'll be cool. Whenever someone is at the top of his or her craft/profession, from Nora Roberts to George Strait, we should be proud to be around when their game is on and the players are winning. Even if it gets a bit boring, LOL, to see the same names over and over in front of the fireworks.

Speaking of being in the game, the weather has turned and the garden sings its siren song. Can't wait for the azaleas. Forsythia and daffodils are just out.

So what's normal?

Our whey-faced weatherman tells me we're barely three-quarters of an inch over the average rainfall for this year. He lies. Ditches and runoff rage, the river runs at flood stage, and this is our new norm. I feel as if I've moved to Seattle, not a pleasant prospect. Give me sun and heat, a steady dose of humidity, and I'm happy as a clam. Clam-like, I am definitely not.

By the way, I just read an article in which the phrase 'baited breath' was prominent. Please, it's "bated," not baited. Every hook that's been baited in this house is used to try for a fish, not breath.

No racing this weekend. One the one hand, it means Brad K didn't get his chance for payback on Crazy Carl. On the other hand, it means Bad Brad has had two weeks to stoke the fires, something he's doing quite well. When he says he's not backing down, I believe the lad. The true upside of all this is the fans have another topic to discuss, other than Jimmie Johnson's dominance.

Daylight savings time drives me nuts. Why do they do this to us? The animals have no idea why they aren't being fed at their usual hour, so I just keep them on their schedules, not the government's. My mini-forms of rebellion are so tame, it's embarrassing.

The Artist's Way

I'm re-reading Julia Cameron's book, THE ARTIST'S WAY. Haven't looked at it for years, so it's coming thru as new. Really loving how spiritual it is. Some of my favorite quotes so far:

"Creative work is play. It is free speculation using the materials of one's chosen form." Stephen Nachmanovitch

"In a dark time, the eye begins to see." Theodore Roethke (one of my fav poets)

"It is not because things are difficult that we do not dare; it is because we do not dare that they are difficult." Seneca

Being daring, seeing in a dark time, allowing one's self the permission to play with the work, drive the process for me and are the hardest to allow myself to do. Note to self: quite blithering about and just DO IT!

Dick Francis

One of my author heroes has gone to the great writers conference of eternity. Part of me is devastated that I won't have a new Dick Francis book every December, the other part is grateful he left the racetrack to become a writer in the first place. I have a copy of every single one of his books, and I'm going to start re-reading them. Living a long and honorable life is eulogy enough, and Dick Francis deserves every accolade he ever achieved.

Sharon Sala gave a talk years ago about writing the perfect hero, and used romance (her genre) heros as examples. Immediately, Dick Francis' men of good heart, decent manners, and honorable actions came to my mind. So when I got home, I picked up a few Francis books randomly, and listed the characteristic that made me want to marry one of his heroes. (My husband is very like many of the Francis men, so I'm one lucky woman.) Each and every Francis hero strives to do the right thing no matter what the personal cost, including losing a hand. (Sid, you're one tough dude.) Though Francis wrote mysteries, anyone can learn from his body of work. Pacing, dialogue, tension, plotting - he did it all very well indeed. Rumor has it that his wife, Mary, was a silent co-author, and if so, good for them. Whatever it takes to write a great book, is my motto.

Dick Francis wrote great books that hold up well. Years from now, I bet writing conferences and degree programs will be holding seminars on his body of work.

I'll still miss him.