What do we really know?

I've debated whether or not to write this post, and the dice landed on this side of the computer. A man died in my neighborhood on Mother's Day.

I didn't know him. I didn't even know he was there. I have wondered who owned the white Highlander in the driveway of a house where I know the owners quite well. At least, I thought I knew them. The Toyota wasn't their car, but I thought maybe one of the kids had returned for a Mother's Day visit. It was odd that the owners' car wasn't there, but maybe it was in the shop.

The couple who own the house are a bit more than acquaintances. I'd ask them for help, and have, and I hope they'd feel they could ask me for the same. Nice people. So when I saw, Sunday evening last, an ambulance, fire engine,and four police cars in front of the house, I was alarmed. Had someone fallen down the stairs? Had there been a heart attack? Who was injured? What could we do to help?

My Beloved called the neighbors between us, and they didn't know much more than we did, except for one crucial fact. There'd been a 911 call, and the responders found a man, deceased, in the house. My neighbor gave the police the owners' cell phone number, but there was no answer. My neighbor had no idea of the identity of the deceased. The homeowners weren't home, and still aren't today.

I feel awful that this unknown person didn't know he could have called on any of us in this subdivision for immediate help. We're a helping kind of folk. That he died alone, waiting for an ambulance that didn't arrive in time, or even with flashing lights, makes me feel infinitely sad. I know more about the characters in my stories than I do about the people who live around me.

Of course, I make up my characters, so they have no secrets. But still, I feel the need to get to know everyone on my street much better. Not just socially, to say Hi, and How are you? How are the kids? They need to know we're here for them, and for anyone else in the neighborhood.

If only. . . . I mourn this unknown man and feel a great sense of "I can and should do better."

Mother's Day

It's been a lovely time, shopping and eating, talking and laughing with the offspring. Clouds gave way to a perfect spring day, and we picnicked after church under the umbrella on Ahi tuna and asparagus cooked on the grill. Artisan sunflower seed bread, salad, strawberries and a chocolate cake to die for have me both sated and lethargic. I feel like a stuffed tick, as we say in the South. What a perfect day.

I hope all of you enjoyed your mothers and children, of the two-legged or four-legged variety. Children, of course. Not four-legged mothers. That would be a bit weird. More than a bit. . . .

Fickle! Fie!

So my elder offspring arrived for Mother's Day weekend. While I was, of course, thrilled to see her, meeting her in the driveway to help her with her luggage, my hugs were nothing considered to the dog's. On the other side of the back yard fence, the canine child tried her best to jump the gate, all the while moaning as if in extreme ecstasies. Upon opening the gate for the fickle critter, I was shoved aside as she leaped, twirled, and generally carried on like an abused child being rescued, licking and pawing her true love. My human child, of course, reciprocated in kind, and the two of them blurred together in this love fest.

Isn't that how it goes? Sigh. Those who feed, water, walk, pet, cuddle, and make adoring noises on a daily basis get ignored. Yes, from the moment she arrived home, my elder child has had a canine bed mate, foot warmer, and general factotum. What am I, chopped liver? Nothing that wonderful, it seems. Another big sigh from my lonely corner. Now I know MY place in the pecking order.

Wait until the four-footed princess wants an extra treat or a longer walk.

Frying pans

When my beloved and I were first married, we never had any real issues. Except for one. As every Southern woman knows, her cast iron frying pan is sacred, and never, I repeat, NEVER, to be immersed in hot water and scrubbed with a Brillo pad. You know what's coming, don't you?

Yes, my Yankee darling just didn't understand the years that had gone into seasoning that pan. Why, I could slide a pineapple upside down cake out with one gentle tap. Its finish had been ten years in the making. Aside from my sterling flatware and grandmother's Rosenthal china, and perhaps my Mikimoto pearls, nothing else I brought to my new marriage of a physical nature was more important to me.

The morning he attacked it with hot water and a scrubber was almost his last. For the first time ever, I threatened him with dire consequences, the least of which was divorce, if he ever touched my frying pan again. I can still see his shocked expression, and I am happy to say, I never had to threaten him again. He will stare at it, in all its glory, on the stove, glance at me as if checking to see if I noticed his hands itching to throw it in the sink, then he walks away. Slowly, to show me he's not scared. But I know he is. No one, I repeat, no one touches that pan but me.

I'm going to leave it to my daughters to fight over when I'm gone. Like all good Southern girls, they understand it is priceless.

Richmond!

Great racing last night! My driver was running well, but his, like many other cars, got caught up in a mess that ruined his night. Sigh. BTW, David Reutimann is a nice guy. Signed our race flag at the MWR trailer, and I teased him about the beard, lol. He pointed out my beloved's goatee and mustache, but as I said, I'm married to my Beloved and don't tell him what to do.

We were parked near nice people, enjoyed chatting with them, and the weather couldn't have been better. If you ever go to one NASCAR race, go to Richmond.

I heard Kyle Busch say you never have a perfect car. I was wondering, does that mean you can never have a perfect book? I can think of books I've read that qualify as almost perfect in my eyes. But I know I always feel that I could rewrite forever. That's why it's so hard to go back and reread my older stuff. My rewriting instincts kick in, and I would kill to be able to start over. I wonder if Dean Koontz ever feels that way, LOL?

Racing!

Tis that time of year. Boxes packed with tailgating stuff (don't you love that word, 'stuff'?), driver and track flags, flag pole, food, ice, drinks, and comfy chairs, oh, and the tent and tables, are coming down from the shed's attic. To be clear, the ice is coming from Kroger, and the food and drinks from the same place, lol. I take perverse pleasure in making hummus, marinated pilaf with pine nuts, and apple tacquitos for snacks. Carrots and celery instead of Fritoes, and lemonade instead of Bud, and our makeshift camp gets plenty of stares. Not many of our fellow tailgaters want to share our goodies, but then again, we're not tempted with their repast either. There's a real hierarchy among tailgaters, and I can in no way compete with the crowd who deep fry turkeys and make margaritas with mixers powered by generators. I just don't wanna work that hard, to be honest.

I'll take the iPad and catch up on some reading, proof the latest WIP, and snooze between trips to the vendor area. We look forward to race day as down time we can't manage at home. The racing is just a bonus. After a day filled with eating, chatting with friendly race goers, and good racing, we feel like new people by the time we finally head home.

Now if David Reutimann won, the weekend would be complete.

Easter 2011

I have always loved Easter. Even if its timing coincides with some pagan rite, I see it as a time to reflect on God and Her relationship with mankind. How wonderful to reaffirm the lesson and promise of the resurrection! It's about living, not dying. The new flowers, the violently green leaves unfurling hourly, the fresh scent of rain and warm earth, are all symbols, for me, of the unbroken link binding us to the Infinite Good.

So much for theology. Peeps rock, as do the bags of jelly beans. May your Easter be joyous and chocolate-stuffed.

Crossfire - Dick Francis' Last Book?

Downloaded Crossfire last night and started reading before I went to bed. It is okay, but not yet the typical enthralling Francis read. To be clear about where I'm coming from, I have not only read every Francis novel in print, I've analyzed some of them down to the last sentence. The man wrote, as I've said before, the ultimate honorable hero. His pacing, characterizations, plotting, and details are the work of a master.

I awoke in the middle of the night, knowing what is missing. Those little details that show, and don't tell, the reader are in short supply. There's a scene in an office, and I remember how Francis has used that same device before, and the room's furnishings tell us what kind of people work here. Is the desk chair a worn, comfy leather armchair, or is a new Ikea utilitarian model? He would, with a few minor details, show us what our hero is facing in breaching this inner sanctum. Not so in Crossfire. The hero enters the office, does his snooping, and discovers instantly what he wants to know. So much for layering the story.

A Francis hero would never admit to casual sex and one night stands on a wholesale basis. Never. But Tom Forsyth, hero of Crossfire, does. This should have been a red flare for the book's editor that Dick Francis' name didn't belong on this book. Because if the venerated and venerable Mr. Francis had anything to do with this book, beyond maybe agreeing to its publication before he passed away at age 90, I'm Angelina Jolie. It's fine by me if his son Felix, whose name is on the book along with that of his father, writes mysteries. But do so without dragging your father into the mix.

I feel cheated. Betrayed. And angry with Penguin Putnam. Shame on them for using their esteemed author, Mr. Francis senior, in such a way. Felix can make it, I'm sure, because of his last name, for a while longer. But it's pretty clear he's not his father.

Hot Day

Everyone seems to have the urge to get outside and do his or her thing. I planted at least fifty new day lilies, Virginia spider wort, and lamb's ear, and I'm about to tackle a raised garden. I have no idea why I've become so industrious, but I think it has to do with a long,cold, dreary winter. Our 19 year old cat was stalking, at a very dignified pace, an imaginary and very slow bird around the back yard while I was busy with my spade this morning. I realized he, like me, felt the need to stretch muscles too long restricted by heavy coats and hands swathed in mittens. His muscles have been draped over every heating vent in the house for nine months.

The dog wants to romp 24-7, despite the gumballs still littering the back yard. I dream of sleeping in the gazebo, and I HATE camping out. Even the gnats aren't driving me crazy, yet. This industriousness gives me a chance to think about my WIP, without that blamed cursor nagging me to get writing. Some of my best work grows out of new plants in the yard and the physical labor it took to put them there.

Organization

It must be spring, because I'm on an organizing kick. The garage and shed were easy - most of the stuff we've been tripping over went to the dump. The bad thing about going to the dump is that other people are tossing away perfectly good junk, and I have to be held back from diving into the pile to drag it out and save it from the landfill. Because if I do, it goes home to the shed or the garage, and we've wasted a perfectly lovely weekend.

Then there are the closets. The fav shoes the puppy, who is no longer a puppy, chewed but I still love them. Gone. The sweaters I haven't worn in two winters because they're too warm and at my stage of life, I'm never cold. I like this being warm thing during the winter. In the South in the summer, not so much, which means those summer outfits that trap sweat get a new home at Goodwill, too.

And finally, I bought new Levalors for the upstairs windows. Fresh, no dust, no sun-fading. Only problem is, the new ones are thicker than the discards, and that means new curtain rods. Once upon a time, I had some that would work with the new shades, but. . . Oh,yeah. I tossed them during some spring cleaning a while ago.

Okay, I'll let my beloved keep some of the garage junk he says he might need "someday."

Restrictor Plate Racing

For those of you who are NASCAR fans, you all understand what a restrictor plate does. It slows the cars down, quite a bit. Talladega and Daytona are the two restrictor plate races, and the powers-that-be have throttled back the cars to keep them below 200 MPH. What does this have to do with writing, you ask.

A ton of stuff works to slow down writers. Real life work, family obligations, grocery shopping, yard work, cleaning out the closets, cooking, clean kitchen floors, I could go on and on and on. Our Talladega is probably any holiday, from Thanksgiving to Christmas to cupcakes for the third grade. Women get the restrictor plate big time if they're caring for kids. So how do we keep ourselves in the race?

It's easy and a bit glib to say " Ignore it all. Let the floors get sticky." As women, we just can't punch through all the restrictor plates that would keep us from getting to the work in progress. The only way I know to do it, is just do it. Tell everyone you are at your computer and you won't answer the phone or any calls for "Mom!" unless there's arterial blood. Give yourself at least four hours a week all by yourself to write. You should be able to knock out at least ten pages in four hours, and if you can't, don't sweat it. The point is, those hours are sacred and inviolate, and you use them however you can to get the book running flat out.

The crazy closets will be there, the cupcakes can be bought at the store, and someone else can cook dinner one night a week. Take off that restrictor plate on a weekly basis for just a few hours, and you'll find your book will, finally, get finished.

Movie Night

My beloved and I have promised each other we'll go to the movies at least one night a week. By happy circumstance, we discovered that Thursday nights we can get an almost private showing of any film, and we're really enjoying it. Since we're usually alone in the theater, we can talk to each other through the screening. Yes, we're those kind of annoying people. But only when there's no one to be bothered.

The movies we're seeing may not win awards or even get good reviews, but we're the type of people who can come up with a good point about anything. Even if we're discussing how the plot veered from the Hero's Journey (ah, Joseph Campbell, how you changed the landscape for writers!)or how the hand-held camera made us dizzy, we have fun. As a writer, I'm always amazed how much visual storytelling can take shortcuts that writers can't. And when my husband complains that a movie chops out too much from a favorite book, I remind him that a 120 page script can't include everything in a 400 page novel. He always brings up a good point, that in a movie you don't have to explain everything, while a novel, especially a mystery, must.

Writer friends of mine build thick notebooks, complete with pictures of movie stars who resemble their characters, to visualize their plots. I'm not like that. I can't see anyone but the character in my head, and that character never looks like anyone but that person. Even their names come with them. That's why I'm amazed at films that cast actors to personify a fictional character. What a talent that is, to pick the right person to bring a role to life. I'm in awe. Mine come to me full blown, which is by far the easier task.

It's a good thing I work with the written word.

VMFA talk on artists marketing themselves

Spent an interesting hour listening to a talk on how artists can get themselves and their work "out there." Many of the tips apply to both visual and print artists. The most important is to believe in yourself. The second is to seek the money. The artist who provides quality, beautiful,and moving work certainly deserves to be paid. Unfortunately, in publishing as in art, the author is the least compensated in most cases. Refuse to accept less than your work is worth. Picasso certainly knew how to go where the money was. And why not?

As with writers, it was recommended that that you have an artist statement. For a writer, this is your theme. What one sentence describes this work? What do you want the person seeing/reading your piece to take away from it? To learn from it? To feel from it? To sense and see in it? Have a friend who won't accept a glib answer pose these questions and write down your answers after your friend does a follow up. Make this as in depth as you can.

Ask yourself how this work differs from your other work, if it does. Why is it better? Give yourself props for growing as an artist and let those who hold the purse strings know you are even better today than you were yesterday. Analyze your art objectively and present it with artist words that cut to the heart of the work.

Don't forget to praise yourself. Art is hard work. Be proud of your accomplishments.

The Gettysburg Address

Sometimes shorter is better. I'm watching Ken Burn's magnificent Civil War program, and was reminded that Lincoln thought the speech was a flop. Although newspapers of the time ridiculed Lincoln's two minutes on the stage, the speaker who preceded him, Edward Everett, who went on for two hours, recognized what Lincoln had done. Praising Lincoln, Everett said Lincoln had, in two minutes, captured what he, Everett, had failed to do in two hours. Lincoln knew the power of words better than most. Why he doubted the effect of his Gettysburg Address is astounding.

Lincoln reminds me that each and every syllable matters. Longer isn't always the way to go. The best ideas can and should be boiled down to their essence, to the finest attenuation we can give them. Let them shine, sparkle, and glitter, and not lose themselves in fluff and feathers.

Think of me fighting the fluff and feathers. It's an ongoing battle.

Idioms

I love figures of speech. Think of the visual possibilities of that phrase. Idioms. Colloquialisms. Regionalisms. Slang. All of those bits and pieces of everyday conversation that we accept as a matter of course define our background, our region of the country, our age. Cool. Boffo. Super. Sick. Rockin'. Neat. If I list many more, I'll be showing my age. As a matter of fact, these phrases show the age of books in which they're used as well.

I was reading a super funny book with a little boy I'm helping with his reading, and some of the "cool" kid dialogue was totally foreign to this very hip kid because its publication date was long before he was born. I had to explain what the terms meant. Not sure I did a very good job, because explaining idioms is like giving words to something you just KNOW. It made me think, however, that using the lingo that's in style and the hottest at the time you write your book isn't exactly a great idea. Language goes in and out of style as swiftly as shoulder pads and glittery lapels for women's suits.

Anyone remember The Little Colonel books for children? I rest my case . . .

Anniversary

My beloved and I celebrated our wedding anniversary today by heading to the VMFA Picasso exhibit. The crowd on a Thursday morning was incredible, and if you plan on going, go early. While not a big Picasso fan, I was fascinated by the creative process as displayed by the curators. A well-designed exhibit, cohesive and illuminating, it teaches as it entertains. I don't think Picasso liked women very much, which makes me wonder why women were attracted to him.

Famous men seem, on the average, to be h$&l on women and their families. Genius is no excuse for cruelty and neglect. Thank the good Lord for men who love without conflict or selfishness. My gem of a husband is both a good man and a wonderful father. We were blessed to find each other. I wouldn't trade him for ten Picassos.

Hither and Yon with Books

I grew up all over the world. Literally. I had what I think was a very normal childhood, with two loving parents and as much stability you can have when you're moved from school to school in the middle of the year. In no way was I harmed by this nomadic educational experience. In fact, I was probably turned into a voracious reader as a result. We read, as a family, books about where we were traveling so we'd know what to see, what to expect, and how to get along in that culture. And of course, books went with us on our long car/plane/boat rides. Much of what I learned came from seeing foreign places, museums, and living where the common language wasn't English, and books always paved the way first.

I'll never forget reading Mary Renault's The Bull from the Sea series (Theseus as hero!), then seeing Crete in person. Or reading about the cedars of Lebanon, and then getting to go to college there. Uriah the Hittite came alive when I saw Hittite ruins in Turkey. The Wisteria Covered Porch, a Turkish novel, limned a sense of Istanbul that was picture-perfect when I got there.

Even if you never leave your own town, you can experience life as a true international traveler. Let books take you there.

Dorchester Publishing's Dishonesty

Everyone needs to boycott Dorchester/Leisure books. I say this with the deepest regret, since Leisure published many of my favorite Western authors, but the publisher is now treating its authors like chattel.

Please read author Brian Keene's web site. www.briankeene.com You'll get a thorough explanation of how Dorchester is publishing and selling books without paying the authors, and has been doing so for quite a while now.

Also, avoid Avalon books. They too treat authors as if they're hired help (and the pay doesn't top $1000, which you only get if you're very lucky), and the books belong to the publisher in perpetuity. They never supply sales or royalty records, or any accounting for sales to authors. If you want more information, contact me directly through this blog.

County School Budgets

I know I'm on a tear these days, but I simply can't stand injustice. The Board of Supervisors rep for my district presented the county's proposed budget (which isn't going to change, no matter how many objections are received from constituents). It has cut school funding from approximately $79 million in 2009 (I believe that's the correct date, it may be earlier) to about $41 million for the next fiscal year. And the Board of Supervisors is proud of this figure.

Who are they kidding? The county is filled with kids going to school in portable trailers because of severe overcrowding in old, decrepit brick and mortar buildings, teachers who have to buy their own supplies, and schools that couldn't function without volunteers who have replaced the school reading specialists and librarians, as well as classroom assistants. Computers for the kids are old and outdated, running ancient software. These children will not succeed in the future because we aren't giving them to tools to do so.

Wonder why the U.S. has fallen in the world standings of science and math proficiency? It doesn't help that teachers must teach to the test, the Standards of Learning. (Let's learn what to regurgitate for the exam, boys and girls, forget about critical and creative thinking.) It also doesn't help that the learning environment is less than ideal. (Gee, the girls' bathroom on the fourth grade hall hasn't been open for over a month because we don't have the money to fix it.) It doesn't promote a better learning environment, either, when class sizes grow to over 30 pupils because we can't hire enough teachers to keep them smaller.

My children were fortunate to have a private education in a nurturing environment where they were taught not only how to learn, but how to think. They didn't need to worry about outdated textbooks or not having what they needed to excel. I get so angry when I think of all the promising children out there who have to make do with less, and then even less, because the Board of Supervisors can't see the fallacy of their position on the school budget.

Virginia Tech moves on because it costs too much?

Virginia Tech, site of the most horrific school tragedy since Kent State in the Vietnam War era, has decided it has had enough of remembering the deaths of the 32 students who were killed four years ago. Since I have a child finishing her degree there now, I haven't forgotten. And I won't.

While I'm not one to dwell on the past, I can only imagine how the parents and survivors felt when notified that they will no longer be guests of the university at any remembrance services or events. (Oh, and classes will not be held on the anniversary date from now on.) The president, Charles Steger, announced that the approximately $10,000 cost is too high for the Ischool to bear.

Who has lost sight of what matters here? Charles Steger earns annually $732,064, eighth high in the nation, I believe. Gee, do you think it would kill him to take a $10,000 pay cut and allow these survivors and parents to do what feels right for themselves and the Tech community? Outrageous. The president of Virginia Tech has shown time and again that he's out of touch with the true sentiments of the Tech family, as it truly is.

Charles Steger has got to go. Now.