Ugly Pajamas

After a careful analysis, I have come to the conclusion that I have ugly pajamas.  Just this morning, I caught a glimpse of myself in my gray striped Nautica nightwear, and it wasn't pretty. I looked like a convict.  Studying my nightie drawer, I gave the contents an objective grade. Failure.

My Ralph Lauren number is even sadder. The print looks like a Victorian grandmother. And the T-shirts ( General Custer, Soft Kitty, and something so faded I've forgotten what it says) don't help the situation. My flannel set looks pretty tragic, too.

I remember the days when I bought matching Barbizon nightgowns and peignoirs. Embroidered, bowed, rosetted, and cute as a button, I wore the tar out of them. Then I tried to buy some more, and discovered I was outta luck. The Barbizons still on the racks were designed for older ladies and definitely not the wonderful soft cottons I'd grown to love. Polyester only, or a blend thereof.

My only requirement for sleepwear has always been cotton. Can't stand to sleep in anything else. Hence my current array of ugly pajamas. At least they're all cotton.

How I wish I had my old Barbizons. At least my Beloved doesn't give a fig.

Believe in Me

A friend sent a link to a Barnard Poetry Slam in which a young woman condemns her mother and how her family raised her. In short, her mother dieted ferociously, taught her daughter to eat like her and keep her mouth shut. The brother spoke his mind without filters and ate whatever he wanted, just like their dad. The daughter felt like a maimed second class woman.

I found it infinitely sad. I don't remember my mom ever dieting, except she said she once gained five pounds and lost them when she cut out her Coke every afternoon. I was too young to notice or care. Quite honestly, my mother's weight never entered into how I saw her, or myself. I was more than lucky. My parents raised me to believe in the power of hard work, intellect, education, and myself. So what if I was a girl - if I wanted to do it, I was encouraged to try, whatever it was. I once built, when I was about eight, a race cart for which I carved wooden wheels from scraps of lumber. All by hand. My downfall was the broom handles I used for axles. Lesson learned. The integrity of the material matters. No one said, "girls can't build a race cart by themselves." I was given free rein in the shed and any tools I could handle myself.

Once, on a rare visit to the Georgia grandparents, I said I wished I could learn to paint. My grandfather drove me right then and there to the art supply shop, where he bought me a full set to get going, along with books that I could use to teach myself. I was never very good, but I learned basic lessons about perspective, light and shadow.

To everyone who supported, encouraged, and gave me a push, my eternal thanks. How I wish all young girls grew up with the backup to get where they want to go. And to hell with diets.

The Seventies and Rush

We saw RUSH last night, and I loved it. Ron Howard can do no wrong in my book. I notice he loves to direct stories about people - their lives, their eras, their way of fitting in. A BEAUTIFUL MIND delved into the same kind of personal story as RUSH - a man with demons. For those not interested in racing, RUSH is about the James Hunt/ Nicki Lauda race for the Formula 1 championship in 1976. I'm sure there's a bit (and probably more) of Hollywood manipulation to make the story more cohesive, but I don't care.

The relationship between the two men is delineated clearly in the scene in the airport hangar where Lauda and Hunt talk for the first time, without ego and with brutal honesty, about their different philosophies of life. In many ways, this is Lauda's story, and he is, after all, still alive to consult with the scriptwriter.  His is the more compelling story, mainly because he's maimed in a fiery wreck, and also because no one really liked him. Hunt is the bon vivant, the Lothario with devastating good looks, who can sway a drivers' meeting to race in a dangerous rainstorm on a terrible track where Lauda almost dies.

I remember those early-mid-seventies vividly. I graduated from law school in 1976. Excesses were popular for those who could afford them, monetarily and professionally. It wasn't uncommon for lawyers to partake of illegal substances at office Christmas parties. (Not me, just to be clear!) I won't go into the prevalence of sexual peccadilloes. All in all, for those of us on the straight and narrow, we felt pretty much out of the mainstream. Thus identifying with Lauda's work ethic and downright puritanism is easy for me. It's not easy being a fish out of water when it seems all the other guppies are having a damned good time. That's Lauda's cross to bear and he never complains about it.

Now, I'm of an age where I don't care what's going on around me in society. I do my own thing without worrying about how it looks or what anyone else is doing.  My books are reflecting this freedom. I'm writing with a new ease, a certainty that what amuses me will amuse someone else, and if not, well, them's the breaks.  No fiery crashes for me, and I'm having a good time.

The straight and narrow can be a hell of a lot of fun.

Violence

Okay, so I must confess: my HOMELAND marathon gave me nightmares. Just awful. I'm not one to worry about dreams, but this gave me pause and forced me to consider the rising level of violence in our entertainment.

By that, I mean myself, as well. I'm not one to shy away from a bit of blood and gore in a good mystery or western. However, I'm rethinking my stance. I've always said that if the story needs it, then the story gets it. Yeah but . . .

Television long ago crossed societal boundaries on sexual content, and it's becoming clear to me that the violence level was left in the dust without my noticing its departure. I couldn't watch WALKING DEAD the first season because of the constant bombardment of guts and brains. Or what was left of them. Don't get me started on BONES. Peeling faces from  skulls? Really? And now HL. Great writing and acting aren't enough, I fear, to get myself past the bullets and torture. I'm wimping out in my old age.

I now understand the attraction of the Jessica Mitford books. Personally, I find them very slow and not terribly interesting,  but I can see how they're a respite, a shift back to a simpler time, a gentler people. Why has Jane Austen  persevered with constant popularity? Her witty repartee, her droll take on stuffy characters, a lancet-like dissection of the manners of her time, still sparkle. And there's nary a drop of blood on any page.

There's a book, a movie, a TV show for every taste level and sensitivity. Mine has shifted, and I'm staying away from the bloody, the ugly, the sick and twisted.  I need a good night's sleep.

Never stop learning. . .

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

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

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



 

Time Out

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

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

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

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

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

Barbara Kingsolver Flop

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

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

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

More books and a movie

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

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

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

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

Paris 1969

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

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

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

Books that hold up well

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

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

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

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

August already?

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

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

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

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

Thank goodness. I would feel even guiltier.

Still here

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

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

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

Taking a break. .

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

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

Father's Day

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

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

I wish everyone had as great a father.

Photo Albums

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

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

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

Memorial Day

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

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

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

I can't believe it's done!

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

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

This is what we're doing. . .

Evan and Matt wrestling a holly by the shed

Shawn digging holes for the cherry laurels

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

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

 

I have many excuses

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

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

I can't wait.

A snippet

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

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

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

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

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