Women, Art, and Critics

I was watching a show about the quilts of Gee's Bend. I've admired them in books and on U.S. stamps, but I knew nothing of their history and how they came to the public's attention. The art dealers who worked to get them into museums noted that many critics dismissed them as "women's crafts." In other word, less than art. Even mainstream quilters, who are largely kept out of art museums unlike the work of the Gee's Bend quilters, slammed the bright, boldly patterned quilts because they don't have careful stitching or don't follow traditional patterns.

I've known traditional quilters. My mother was one. Fabric and the stitches that quilted the top to the back, through the batting, were carefully planned. Piecing is an art form. Precise points, minuscule stitches, careful planning go into a classic quilt. The ladies of Gee's Bend start with an idea, a few strips cut from some old clothes, and an imagination unfettered by tradition.  They sew by the seat of their pants.

What does this have to do with writing? 1) Romances have a formula, of sorts. Now don't start screeching at me. The truth is, in a romance, you have to have the hero/heroine meet right fast, or the romance readers slam the book against the wall.  There're all sorts of romances, all kinds of level of hotness, and a stunning variety of stories and themes. But you have to get your boy and girl in the same room pretty quickly. They don't have to do "it," but they've got to have face time of some sort so the romance can get underway.

Traditional quilts are stunning in their breadth and width.  Within the patterns that have been around for centuries, you can play around, but you'd better keep your feet on the ground and mind the pattern's rules. Basically, this is your classic romance. Good stuff. No complaints. Women have made careers and fortunes off this. Think Nora Roberts. These amazing women artists and writers have my greatest admiration.

And then you have the books that can't be stuffed into the traditional rules.  Pantsers understand this.   People who love "different" romances know what I'm speaking of. The stitches may be unruly, the colors crazy and clashing. True love may not start in the first chapter.

Both types of books are great. There are readers aplenty for both. Yet both types get slammed regularly for being "women's books." Romance.  You can hear the disdain without listening.

Nothing makes me angrier. Well, animal and child abuse do, but this form of criticism hits my hot button big time. Quilts, books, anything created primarily by women is somehow less. Women don't need to attack other women who work in the arts. Let's support each other. We have male critics by the bushels.

I love the Gee's Bend quilts, traditional quilts, classic romances, and the off-the-wall kind, too. If it's a good read or a piece of fabric art that speaks to me, I don 't care how you got there, your age, your gender, whatever else you are or aren't.

The end result is all that matters.

Beretta on church row

After the sun gave way to a magnificent moon, and the dinner dishes were stashed in the dishwasher, I headed over to church for a committee meeting. The residual winter light was pale, at best, but the road fairly bright because of the spotlight of a full moon.  My church is one in a row of places of worship on a two-laned, quiet little road. We're all lined up neatly, the Presbyterians, the Episcopalians, the Baptists, etc., and except for traffic jams when we get out of church Sunday at the same time, nothing too thrilling happens along church row. (Of a physical nature. The metaphysical is another matter.)

I had to slow down to see what was blocking a large portion of the road. A big rig with a huge trailer was half-in, half-out of the road.  Since we never see big rigs on this tiny bit of road, I took a good look in the wavering  moonlight. "Beretta" was emblazoned on the truck driver's door, and a fancy wrap with pictures of black, sleek handguns decorated the trailer section.  It idled on the side of the road, the black and gray designs of the guns fading quickly into the night, and I couldn't help but wonder who on earth would get lost on church row with a rig full of Berettas.

Then again, maybe the truck hadn't been lost. Hmmm. Churches as agents of violent change? I couldn't imagine it on our quiet strip of road.  But I felt as if I'd just seen a Yeti on Easter Sunday in the deep South. 

That surprise factor is what keeps me reading a book.  The juxtaposition of the mundane, the everyday world with an off-kilter jab in the gut. Like those children's books where you're supposed to pick out what doesn't belong in the picture, the Beretta truck had me wondering, imagining, curious. and eager to know more.

I don't.  Know more, that is. But I can imagine all I want, and there's a story in there somewhere.

Action and Verbs

My favorite words are verbs.  They push ideas like the best kind of caffeine. Static, passive, going-nowhere sentences are usually dealt a death blow by their verbs. Every sentence needs a push, a pull, a kick in the rear to get the best out of it, and without strong verbs, the cause dies a-withering on the vine.

Have you noticed that people who "do," versus those who "don't," are the most interesting, the most happy, and often, the movers and shakers of our world?  Except for the power of passive resistance (thank you, Ghandi!), being passive won't get you diddly. Carpe Diem has become practically a cliche', but what the heck - it's a great idea.  But ideas need action. March that first step. Trill that song. Scream that anthem.

The man who taught me about verbs was a fellow western writer, Richard S.Wheeler. He's a master with them. Read his books, and you'll see what I mean. Today is my day to give credit where credit is due, and he deserves a boatload. This is me - doing - not just being.

Senna

Just watched SENNA, a documentary about the Brazilian Formula 1 driver. Get it now, if you are at all interested in racing and the men who dare drive those scary death needles. A man who read the Bible before a race, he was unashamed to use his faith to support himself in a stressful career. You could tell he loved pure, apolitical racing, and that the politics of Formula 1 drove him crazy. The saddest part is, he thought he had a long life ahead of him to learn more than just racing.

His face said everything he was thinking. A man seemingly without guile, he gave Brazilians, desperate for a bright light in a dark time, something to cheer for. Someone for whom they could cheer. How sad he got in his car that fatal day. He wasn't happy with the car, and his owner wasn't sure he'd be on the starting grid. But Senna could not quit.

A lesson in listening to your gut, sadly enough, that Senna didn't heed.
Watch the film. You won't be wasting your time.

Post Christmas

Errant tree is out of the house. Needles vacuumed. Ornaments, the survivors of the Great Escape, snooze once more in the attic. It's beginning to look like back-to-work at our house.

That means getting the Mythmaker books up on Amazon. My Beloved bought me a scanner, so I'm ready to put that puppy to work. Need to work on rewrites on the 2011 book, pull together The Reservation Dead in a final draft, and then start the new book. Phew. It all sounds wonderful to me. Time in the office, working on the writing, has been scarce the past few months. Crankiness is a direct side effect, my family will assure you.

No resolutions this year. I have to-do lists to last me a lifetime. Two dogs and two cats are curled up at my feet and splayed across the desk, as if daring me to rev it into high gear. Hitting the clutch and shifting. . .hold on tight!

The Tree Tried to Escape

We went to see "We Bought a Zoo" last night, thinking it would be a sweet movie and a welcome respite. Both were true. However, we came home to anarchy and chaos. Well, maybe that's a bit of an exaggeration, but not by much. The Christmas tree, you see, had nosedived onto the floor, bellyflopping in the direction of the front door.

It didn't land on any furniture, so the glass balls took a direct hit. Fortunately, we'd used the red wooden beads for a garland this year, instead of the antique glass strands that are part of my Beloved's childhood memories. We also have a ton of handmade ornaments, and that's a good thing. But some beloved pieces shattered, and as I was lamenting their demise, my youngest had some words of wisdom gleaned from TV. The show "Hoarders," to be precise. "The stuff can go, but the memories remain."

Yeah, sounds good, right? I swear I don't hoard. Every now and then, I get vicious with the closets. Still, I'm going to miss the beautiful hand crafted glass ball from St. Thomas. And the dangly-legged Santa with curly white hair that I bought on another trip. The good news is, the milky, other-wordly ball made from ash from the Mount St. Helen's eruption survived. I guess if you're volcano-born, you're tough.

This will be remembered as the year the tree made a jail break for freedom. That's okay. We have it tied up six ways to Sunday, and it ain't goin' nowhere 'til Santa is back at the Pole, resting up for next year. Sorry, kiddo.

I don't hold the smashed balls against you. Tonight, when we turn off the house lights to have Christmas tree admiration hour, I'll be the first to say how lovely you are this year, all trussed up like a green and glittery turkey.

Merry Christmas Eve to all!

It's a rainy, quiet day

and I'm pretty much doing nothing on my to-do list. I decided to have a Mary, not a Martha day. When my youngest was a student at a girls' school, the headmistress would give a short lesson during the annual Christmas program the upper school presented for the parents and families. Invariably, she spoke about being in Martha mode at this time of the year, and how she had to work to get to a Mary-stage.  I knew exactly what she meant. Hence, today I took a few Mary hours.

I've been reading some in-depth articles about the star that appeared over Bethlehem, which may actually have been a constellation that had meaning for Hebrews, and of which the Romans were unaware. So, some people were paying attention, and some were too absorbed in their own political games. Yep, feels familiar.

Placing the birth of Jesus in its historical context, taking place when the foot of the Roman empire was especially heavy on Palestine and its taxation of the Jews crippling, gives me something to ponder. Just think, Jesus raised the dead, healed the sick, and cured the incurable, all in a time when the Hebrews were at rock bottom politically and economically. No matter what the economy or politics of the time, healing and hope cannot be denied.

 And some Bible experts think the wise men arrived two years later! The shepherds got there on time, which says something about acting immediately and not taking the long way around to get where you need to be. Listen to your gut and go with it. Check, got it.

I've given myself the perfect gift for this season. Time to stop and think. I highly recommend it.

Dec. 20

Today would have been my dad's 90th birthday. While we miss him and all our family members who have moved on, going about their Father's business, we refuse to be sad. He left us with wonderful memories of a happy childhood, as did my Beloved's parents and my mom. What a blessing that is, to know as a kid that you are loved and will always be protected and guided by those who are raising you. My Beloved and I are beyond fortunate.

A Good Excuse

I'm on the downward side of a judging stint for a best book in a genre I can't name, and it's been a job to keep up with the reading load. I'm down to the final book, and in a way, I'm glad I still have one to go. I now have a totally legitimate excuse to plunk down with a book and wave off any other distractions, such as 1) wrapping gifts 2) cleaning the house 3) watering the tree (my beloved is very good about this, but I worry about spontaneous combustion and the like, even though we've never had a Christmas tree catch on fire).

I would like to say all the cookies are deccorated and the fruitcake marinating, but that would be a lie.

What cookies?

Writing through the holidays...

Or not-writing, as the case may be. Every year, I swear the extra holiday work load won't cut too deeply into the writing time. I do more online ordering of gifts. Instead of decorating two trees, I do one.  I decline extra outside commitments of my time. I try to hoard my creative energy. Somehow, it never quite works.  I'm always flat-out and just plain frazzled when I stare at my WIP. 

I love Christmas. Love decorating for it. Love the lights, hearing carols (although it's getting old when they start blaring in stores before Halloween). Finally, I have to admit that I'm a willing participant in the whole Christmas shtick. That's the bottom line, so I'm willing to take the hit where the writing is concerned. Is this a major flaw? I've come to the conclusion, it isn't. All the decorating, etc., gives me pleasure. Admittedly, I could trim back. In fact, I have. A lot. But some of my happiest Christmas memories are of being up at 1 a.m. Christmas morning, trying to finish sewing Indian Princess costumes for the children, with matching dresses for their American Girl dolls. 

So if the writing dips into the non-existent zone for a month, so be it. I'm not going to give up these few weeks of fun and family. Next year, though, I won't agree to judge a book contest that has a January 15 deadline!

Virginia Tech redux

I was going to discuss Darian Grubb's future, (as if I know what's going on, but hey, I think Stewart done him wrong). Then yesterday happened, and my heart did that scary jumpy thing and I thought I was going to throw up when the guy who is refinishing the oak floors said, "Say, did you hear about the shooting at Virginia Tech? Two dead, they think."

I was immediately back to 2006 when my daughter, a freshman at VT, called to say she was okay after a man shot two men in uniform and took off for the campus. I hyperventilated a lot, decided I would let her stay there, and calmed down. I'm even proud of myself for not jumping in the car and hauling a** for the school so I could stand, spread-eagle, in front of my child to protect her from all harm, real and imagined.

I can't even think of April 16, 2007, without getting upset.  My daughter, guided by angel thoughts, left her classroom and went off- campus, leaving her backpack, keys, and books by her desk chair, ten minutes before Cho began his mass killing spree. Those hours when I didn't hear from her (all lines in and out were jammed) were filled with sheer terror as her dad and I listened to reports on the TV, watched the police standing outside Norris Hall while gunfire was going on inside, and just barely held it together. Her high school teachers called. Friends called from all over the country. A friend, a former police officer and detective from California, told me everything the campus police did wrong. And I could barely speak for the fear clotting my throat. I called her sister, in college 45 minutes down the road, and asked her to drive to Tech and get her sister out of there. She couldn't. The highway was blocked for emergency vehicles. Ambulances.

I thought I'd put it behind me. Then yesterday happened, and I found myself back in those terrible minutes of 2007, and praying like crazy for everyone involved. A father of five. A deranged gunman. A beautiful, peaceful mountain university once more rocked by senseless violence.

This must stop. Evil has no place in a school filled with a diverse, bright, and vibrant student body and faculty. Evil does not have the upper hand. 

Darian Grubb is a VT graduate, as is my daughter. Yes, she stayed and graduated with honors. She still loves her school, its campus. Love is the only power I know of that can fight such evil.

Old diaries

I never kept one. The idea just doesn't appeal to me. I know writers who use journaling as a useful writing tool, but for me, the small details of my very quiet, boring life just don't work as a springboard to creativity.Besides, I don't want my children reading an old diary and thinking "Golly, mom was so boring.". I think I have them fooled right now, so I need to preserve the illusion.

In clearing my dad's house, I found a diary kept by his brother during his years as a cadet at West Point. His brother was killed in 1952 in Korea, so I have no idea why it didn't go to his widow. I'm guessing she returned it to my grandmother after she remarried. Anyway, it's pretty boring stuff. Mostly, he lists what subjects he studied, exam grades, PE activities, and the names of movies he saw. Girls are sprinkled in here and there, including one named Jeanne Anderson. Jeanne, if you are still with us, I want you to know you looked really, really hot in that one-shouldered black ball gown. And he was crazy about you for at least a month.

With electronic communication dominating our connections with each other, we don't leave written records to be passed down to our heirs. Letters my grandmother, then my father, saved from her dead son still exist for us to read today. They're certainly not earth shattering, but they come from a long-gone place and time. I have enjoyed "hearing" from the uncle I never knew. I think I'll keep them, too.

Tracking

A local shopping mall, I learned to my horror, used a tracking program to trace their Black Friday shoppers via their cell phones. They say, after what I assume was an attack of mini-sanity, that they won't use it again until they give shoppers an opt-out other than turning off their phones. If I'd known this was happening while I was shopping, you can bet I'd have knocked, loudly, on management's door. Or organized a protest where everyone in the mall turned off their phones. Alas, I neither knew about it nor was I a shopper there.

Then again, I have to wonder how many people cared they were being tracked? Most people are only annoyed at airport security because of the delays. However, after my last flight where the TSA woman fondled my breasts (yes, I explained I was wearing an underwire bra but it was hardly big enough to be classied as a lethal weapon), I haven't flown since. Nor will I. It's my choice, and while I love flying, I won't surrender my rights to be protected from an unlawful search.

Do we really not care about protecting the rights of the individual? Fewer and fewer of us do. The argument that the greater good of society outweighs the rights of one person is one civilized societies have struggled with for ages. If you are that one person whose rights are abrogated, I'll bet your answer is clear and emphatic. But when it's the other guy, the weirdo, the shirtless kid with the Sixth Amendment written on his chest in the airport security line who causes a delay as he's arrested, then how do you feel?

A mall using technology to track shoppers sounds harmless enough. Bu what if you don't want anyone to know you visited Victoria's Secrets? Or the shop that sells sex toys? They don't know it's YOU, is the argument. But how long before they do?

Happy Thanksgiving

I hope you all had a wonderful and thanks filled day. Ours starts with church, and it's my favorite part of the day. Then we went for a long walk before the cooking. With all hands on deck, the kitchen work went quickly. Eating was the final event of the day, and I have to say, we outdid ourselves. It's the one day we eat together. What a treat.

We all talk about the books we're reading, and this year's favorite question was "if you were asked to pose with your favorite book for a poster, what would it be?" Youngest child chose THE WASTELAND, elder one picked HATCHETT by Gary Paulson, and I chose, of course, TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD. My beloved had a hard time with his, since he hates playing favorites. Beth, who was joining us for dinner, said Jane Austen's PERSUASION fit her well. All good books and worthy of a poster each.

Great book talk, wonderful food, and many reasons for gratitude. What a perfect day.

Abundance

What a stunning word. Including everything we have doesn't meet its full import. Abundance implies even more than we need, a surfeit of good, an overflowing of riches of all kinds.  It's a wonderful word we don't often associate with our lives.

We should. How many of us have more than we need of most everything.  If you think about your life, you can probably look back (and forward with expectation and joy!) to times when you were filled to the brim with whatever it was you needed, material or spiritual, at that time. I know I have.  We say in our house that complaint is poverty.  Stifling the niggling little bothers in our everyday lives leads us to acknowledge and appreciate all we have that is good.  It's a lesson I learn again and again, and one day, I hope to get it right and stay rooted and grounded in love.

My gratitude for all the good in the world is deep and unfeigned. We just have to open our eyes and see it.

Beauty

Even though I started out as an English major, I switched to art history when it came time to declare. I think it was the story that the art told that attracted me at first, and then I was in awe of the talent and creativity of the artists. They did something I couldn't - they conveyed a story without words. Plus, I love to look at beauty. Botticelli's beautiful hands, Vermeer's luminescence, Giacometti's strange, haunted figures, looking as if they rose from the ashes of a dying world.

Even today, art galleries and museums call to me. I'm so grateful to live where I can see art, good art, right where I live.

Technology

Today's gratitude covers the incredible advances society has made in technology. We went to see ANONYMOUS last night and liked it very much.I found it to be a commentary on artistic drive and the price paid by those who can't do anything but succumb to it. And that true art is politcal. All interesting ideas. But what really struck me was how difficult it was to communicate. You had to send a rider with a note, and the recepient could be several days' ride away. Entertainment? Two thousand people squished into a mosh pit to see a play. Writing by quill by candlelight.

It all seems very romantic until you have to do it. I'm so happy to be living in an age where technology is cool, advancements occur daily, and they further mankind. No Luddite here. I love hearing music through a high tech speaker as small as my palm, watching hi def TV, and surfing the Internet. Plus, I can't wait to see what comes next.

More Gratitude

Today's thanks goes out to all those teachers who go above and beyond. I've been blessed to pull more than my share, and I know my kids have, too. Billie Burke, who taught senior English in Turkey, gave me my love of Shakespeare. I thought everyone was enthralled sitting through forty different productions of Hamlet, until my daughter wondered why you'd see the same play twice. "The words never change!" she exclaimed, much to my horror. What, why hadn't she been bitten by the Shakespeare bug? The difference, I figured, was the teacher.

Frances Niederer made me pay attention to details. The big picture was fine, but if the details were wrong, it wasn't worth diddly. Richard Dillard provided a safe, nurturing creative envirnonment for all his students. I could go on and on, because every teacher who tries to do the best job possible deserves more than thanks.

How fortunate I've been in my education.

Gratitude #3: Books

Well, what did you expect from a writer?  Lord have mercy, if I'd been born in a time and age without books and literacy that made sure girls learned to read, I'd have checked out early.  Books have always been beside my bed, on my desk, in my bag, under chairs, piled on tables...you name it, there's not a part of my physical environment that isn't book-touched.  When I find a good book (goodness gracious, my heart skips a beat at the thought), there's no putting it down.  It doesn't happen often, but when it does, I have to tell everyone to read it. I buy it for friends and family. I tout its virtues from the roof top.  And when the stack is getting pretty low grade, I return to favorites like Pride and Perjudice, Sylvester or the Wicked Uncle by Georgette Heyer, Falling Woman by Pat Murphy.  I never tire of some books, some authors. The early James Lee Burke Robicheaux novels, some of them, fall into the never-boring category, too.

As you can tell, I'm an eclectic reader. I cross genres with ease.  It's all about the characters, the plot, and the writing for me. The voice, if it grabs me right off the bat, will help carry a not-so-great story, and I'll stick with it.  What a wonderful world we live in, where books are readily and easily available. Thank goodness for libraries, the last bastion of the First Amendment. Mucho gusto for ebooks and cheap paperbacks.  Great gratitude for friends who swap books and recommendations.

I'm eternally grateful to be a woman in a society where books abound, and good books are not the exception, but the rule. Where women can read and not break the law by doing so.  Where women are the literacy-pushers of the young. (How many male librarians did you know when you were growing up?)

Books rule, and not reading drools, to paraphrase one of my daughter's favorite (very youthful) sayings about the difference between the sexes.

More gratitude

I've been thinking about this for the past 24 (not nonstop...), and there's so much I take for granted for which I am deeply, humbly thankful. Big picture here, but this country is amazing. If you have ever lived in a place where Christian church structures are forbidden by law, let me tell you, it's not fun. Freedom of religion is fundamental to happiness, and especially the option to attend services in public at your denomination of choice. In reading an article about the colonial days of Williamsburg, I was surprised to read that one of the Gettys, I think he made firearms, was fined for not attending the required-by-law Sunday service at Bruton Parish. When you think about the start of our nation, you just assume people were free to worship when and how they preferred. Not so. Religious freedom was a big step out of the past. Thank you once more, Mr. Jefferson. So today, I'm expressing my gratitude for the freedom to attend (or not, depending on your beliefs) in public a house of worship of choice.