Tracy Dunham

Vampires and Made in China

2012-02-15T13:02:00.000-05:00

First rant of the day (hopefully, the only rant): We received a solicitation for a donation from the Veterans of Foreign Wars, the esteemed VFW. Inside was a nice card to fill out so it could be delivered to a Vet in a Veterans Hospital, and an equally gracious recitation of all the good things the VFW does for our veterans, requesting we send a check. So far, so good. But a small "Made in China" on the envelope containing all this niceness stopped me in my tracks. The VFW of the United States of America is using China to print its solicitation letters?

Whoa up there. How about putting jobless veterans to work in the U.S. printing out the VFW's goods? The VFW won't get a penny from me until it keeps its business within these borders. I'll bet there are a ton of people who didn't notice that Made in China on the letters they received. From now on, I'm paying more attention.

How does this relate to vampires, you ask? Well, it really doesn't, except I was reading a review of the newest Tim Burton-produced movie, ABRAHAM LINCOLN, VAMPIRE SLAYER. I remember seeing the book on the shelf and laughing out loud. The preposterous always amuses me. Now, there's a movie. And Vampire Diaries on the CW. And vampires still holding court on bookshelves everywhere. But a line in the movie's review, spoken by one of the flick's producers, lit the proverbial light bulb in my brain.

The movie, he said, was aimed for a youthful audience, or words to that effect. Old people needn't bother to plunk down their money for a ticket. It came to me that vampires are still big sellers for younger readers, and I include those in their twenties and early thirties, because they're about immortality. The beautiful young who never age rule society, living century upon century, wealthy, seductive, and without those pesky laws of the real world to impede their desires. Is this an attractive fictional universe? Heck, yes!

The teenagers of Vampire Diaries, beautiful and ripped all, live without the impediment of parents or poverty. They drink alcohol whenever they like, because hey, there are no adults to say "no." They drive cool cars. They go to school when they feel like it or to attend the prom, and that's it. Their clothes are stylish and their jewelry fashionable. Hair and makeup never get messy. Lovers come and go from their bedrooms at all hours.

Has our society placed such a premium on youth and living longer that it's now the reigning theme in fiction?
I'm beginning to worry that the answer is, heck, yes.

Characters

2012-02-08T12:30:00.000-05:00

I've met quite a few in my time on this plane of existence. Some will never leave my brain, while others pop up unexpectedly and without warning. Most of them are fictional. Yes, when I get sucked into a story, it's usually about character for me.

Dave Robicheaux? I swear, I know the man like I know my own Beloved. (Not physically, of course.) James Lee Burke has given his main protagonist a life that's so real, I believe in him. Same with the Doc Ford novels. Now and then, Doc Ford goes off the deep end, but he always comes back to reality somehow, somewhere. I'm reading Learning to Swim right now, and Troy is fully fleshed and could be one of my friends from college. I could go on and on about the fictional people who live inside my head and who, just now and then, seem to have a conversation with me, in the flesh. It's all good, I swear.

Can a plot-driven story have great characters? Of course. Can I think of any? Umm, not at the moment. Will do some looking-over of the bookshelves. Is Jason Bourne a plot-driven thriller series? Or is the character dominant over the shenanigans? Again, must think about it.

I've come to realize that I need a first person narrator for me to identify immediately with the hero. Larry Watson's Montana 1942 fits the bill perfectly. Deep third POV works second best for me (what a ton of work that is for the author!), then it's all the same to me. A good story will always be a good story, no matter what POV, but if you want me to remember your characters, you have to let me have a conversation with them, one on one.

Been nice talking with you!

How to Read a Book

2012-02-02T13:39:00.000-05:00

Grandiose title, I admit. I drive my family nuts because I read the ending first. Doesn't matter if it's a thriller or a romance, I need to check to see if I like the payoff, or I'm not wasting time on the story. A fellow writer was discussing Pathetic Plots, where the main protagonist gets shafted, and my immediate reaction was "oh yeah, an Oprah pick for her book club!" If that's the way the story rolls, count me out.

My daughter has another method for deciding which book to read. If the To Be Read Pile is in danger of toppling, she'll pick three or four and read the first four chapters of each. If she goes to bed that evening, or wakes up the next day wanting to read more of any one of them, then that's the pick of the week. She has much more self-control than I!

My Beloved likes to savor a book. He reads carefully, deliberately, and without a bit of skimming. (Scenic descriptions? Count me out, I'm on to the next paragraph.) Consequently, he remembers each detail about the books he has read and why he liked or disliked them. Me, I remember characters. And endings.

Time is too short, there are too many good books out there, to waste time on a tome that isn't going to tingle my toes. (My alliteration gene has gone crazy. Forgive me.)

NASCAR Hall of Fame

2012-01-30T17:38:00.000-05:00

A quick getaway dash to Charlotte. A beautiful cloudless day in the sixties. A lovely downtown hotel. Fun dinner at a noodle bar with exotic dishes. Walking the sidewalks at night with the lights from streetlamps creating soft halos on skyrise storefronts. Two days without estate headaches.

We used visiting the NASCAR Hall of Fame as our excuse. We'd wanted to go for ages, so we went. What we really did was escape the pressure we'd been under for months. Two days isn't much, but we had such fun studying the older race cars, reading the bios of the Hall of Fame winners, admiring the architecture of the building, and finally, when we needed to sit a bit, listening to the State of the Sport as given by Brian France et al. Reporters didn't fill the prepared seating, so we sat around the outside edges, listening closely to the blah, blah, blah that middle-aged men in suits seem to use to mask any real substantive comments or remarks.

I was struck by how far removed these men (all of the speakers and head honchos) seemed from the real sport of stock car racing. Not a bit of grease under a fingernail. Not a ball cap between any of them. They weren't so hot in the public speaking department, either. But when B. France referenced how they planned to make the stock cars more car-like next year, and how surprised the manufacturers seemed, but nicely so, I realized what the difference is. Fans, racers, mechanics, crew chiefs, owners, all care about winning and the moves on the track that get to P1. Making that hot rod faster than the speed of light (only theoretically) is the name of the game. The NASCAR suits are all about making the corporations happy. Money. Everything is aimed for bringing in more bottoms in the stands, i.e., money, and more sponsor dollars for the ISC crowd. France said there had to be "a story" for the year to be successful. Give the media a theme. Give the fans something other than racing. Baloney. Phooey. Poohdiddle.

Kurt Busch has the right idea. Go back to racing for fun, for winning for the guys who slaved over your car late at night, for your owner who has grease under his fingernails as well. NASCAR has become so much about big business, I fear the real joy racing embodies is on the endangered list.

I sure hope not. How I wish Cale, Ned, Smokey, Dale, Lee, and all that crowd ran the sport today.

Red Shoes

2012-01-20T09:30:00.000-05:00

During these grayish, icky winter days, I find I crave color. Yesterday, I painted my kitchen. A spur of the moment act, it brought a fresh, clean look to a room I've stopped seeing because it's so familiar. Then I pulled on my dressy black jeans and felt as if I'd dropped into the wintery hole once more. Thought a second, because I really like these jeans and they're warmer than my Levis, and it hit me. I own red shoes. Three pairs. Loafers, pumps, and heeled sandals.

Red loafers it was. Instantly, I felt perkier. I may live in these red shoes until April.

So if you can't paint your kitchen, buy red shoes. Or do both.

Memoirs

2012-01-19T10:39:00.000-05:00

Just finished reading a memoir by a woman who was raised by a mother who was a serial adulteress and fertility rabbit, as well as pill addict. The writing had depth. Some stylish phrasing here and there. A good feel for place and time. But I felt as if I were reading something I shouldn't. Dirty, almost. A peep show I emphatically didn't want to see. Stories I'd rather not hear.

A well known author touted the book on its cover. Since I like that author, I thought I'd take a chance. Wish I hadn't. The Southern girl in me was raised to keep the family dirty laundry in the tub. One did not, never, ever, disclose family members to public shame and judgment. That's what this memoir did.

I understand, intellectually, coming to terms with a "difficult" upbringing, though mine was anything but. This memoir was, as the saying goes, probably cathartic. But really? Do you have to publish this expose' about your family? Trashy is as trashy does. Sorry, but I feel sorry for the author's family. They didn't have a choice about this memoir, and I just hope they can someday forgive her. Though I'm not sure I would.

If memoirs are to succeed, the stories should be delightful, the characters a joy, and the reader must wish to know these people in real life. Lawrence Durrell's MY FAMILY AND OTHER ANIMALS is a prime example of how to do the job right.

Otherwise, keep it to yourself.

Women, Art, and Critics

2012-01-16T22:53:00.002-05:00

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

2012-01-11T12:20:00.000-05:00

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

2012-01-04T13:41:00.000-05:00

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

2011-12-30T23:56:00.001-05:00

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

2011-12-28T12:18:00.000-05:00

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

2011-12-24T11:12:00.002-05:00

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

2011-12-21T14:09:00.001-05:00

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

2011-12-20T10:26:00.001-05:00

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

2011-12-17T22:54:00.000-05:00

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...

2011-12-13T11:29:00.000-05:00

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

2011-12-09T11:38:00.000-05:00

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

2011-12-05T09:44:00.000-05:00

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

2011-11-30T11:24:00.000-05:00

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

2011-11-24T23:17:00.000-05:00

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

2011-11-22T11:33:00.002-05:00

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

2011-11-21T22:25:00.000-05:00

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

2011-11-19T22:23:00.000-05:00

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

2011-11-18T11:25:00.000-05:00

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

2011-11-17T14:01:00.000-05:00

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

2011-11-16T09:18:00.001-05:00

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.

Gratitude

2011-11-15T11:04:00.000-05:00

What a powerful force for good. Not just a simple, verbal thank-you for a service provided (though that's important too), but a heartfelt, almost prayerful, sometimes unspoken, thanks for blessings received, blessings given. From now until Thanksgiving, I'm going to choose one thing I'm extremely grateful for in my life, and give thanks. Hopefully, it will become a habit, and I'll find a reason every single day to stop and say "wow, I am so blessed because . . . "

Today's expression of thanks: for my family. Loving, supportive, funny, kind, giving, and the kind of people of I would choose for friends if we weren't already related. I am more than grateful these people are in my life.

What's the difference?

2011-11-14T09:22:00.001-05:00

I write mysteries. Red herrings (love that visual - where did it arise, anyway?), lots of possible suspects, all kinds of twisted paths, lead the reader to a hopefully logical ending, where s/he can say "But of course he's the killer!". Those mysteries that drag a killer out of thin air, a character who doesn't appear until the last chapter, drive me nuts. But it has always seemed to me that the joy of a mystery happens as the reader follows the clues along with the fictional sleuth. Then voila! (Not viola, as in the musical instrument, but the French word that the iPad doesn't accent for me.) The crime is solved!

Thrillers, on the other hand, need a known bad guy right up front. The reader is made well aware of the level of danger involved in stopping this evil. Stakes are high, because the readers, along with the protagonists, are biting their nails, praying the evil they understand is out there won't succeed. Often, the protagonist's fear and dread are aggrandized as the reader is sucked into the driving need to stop the baddies. When the reader knows the consequences of failure as well as the protagonists, you have a thriller.

Sure, mysteries can be tense nailbiters. Will the unknown bad guy strike again? They can also be more leisurely, character studies dipped in a poisoned pen. Or they can be cozies, with humor and silliness. Thrillers, though, are never funny or cute. They are driven by action and the need to stop the known enemy.

That's my take on the difference between the two genres. What's yours?

More Shock/Elections

2011-11-12T13:39:00.000-05:00

I just found out it costs $20,000 to file to run for the office of state senator in my home state. What ever happened to democracy being free and open to all (legal) comers? A filing fee that steep sure discourages anyone but the wealthy from trying for state office.

I'm really upset. Here I am, a regular voter and follower of local and national politics, and I had NO idea that this stupid fee hinders office-seekers without deep pockets.

It's not right. I'm going to have to do something about it. Letter writing campaign, here I come.

Horse Memories

2011-11-11T11:04:00.001-05:00

I was working through my father's filing cabinets (he never saw a piece of paper he didn't have to save!), and found old newspaper clippings. A 1938 copy of the Roosevelt Rough Rider high school paper was a real gem. Anyway, I was reading old clippings, trying to figure out why he saved them, and there were the usual investing advice columns, how to protect your identity online, how to graft fruit trees, how to save your bees from hive rot (no kidding), and a ton of how-to articles. My dad figured he would do anything if he read up first, LOL. And he was right.

In between all these how-to articles were some clippings from the Leavenworth, Kansas, newspaper about horse shows at Ft.Leavenworth. My 15 and a half hand Quarter horse mare and I showed in novice hunt classes (we were both beginners),and dad saved every single article where our names were listed. She was a flashy red roan with four white stockings and a white blaze down her face, and let me tell you, she was as sassy as her coloring. A true redhead in temperament. We were quite a pair, I can assure you. Most of all, we had fun. What more can you ask for when you're a teenager?

I began reading the lists of event winners, and remembered quite a few names. Of the horses, that is, LOL. They stuck in my brain long after the names of their riders/owners. One of them, Box Canyon, was an elegant, long-legged bay thoroughbred mare who was the dream of every rider in Kansas. She floated over jumps, had exquisite manners, and made any rider look wonderful. All you needed was quiet hands and a light touch, and she won. Everything.

Today I can see that learning the ropes with a young horse was perfect for a young girl. We mastered our skills together, if it can be said we mastered anything. Probably not a lot. We both loved a flat-out gallop, and I still remember the time we raced down the edge of the small air field, hit the earthen barrier at the end, she swerved left, and the saddle flew off to the right, taking me with it. I certainly checked my cinch after that!

Those horse-memories will be with me forever. They were alien creatures with incredible beauty and complicated natures. And I still wish I'd gotten to ride Box Canyon, just once.

Anniversaries of Sorts

2011-11-08T12:31:00.000-05:00

I like the French word for birthday. Anniversaire. I think I remembered its correct spelling. As a mom, I really think birthdays should be extravagant parties thrown on behalf of she who looked like a whale for nine months, then pushed that piano through a transom window. (My husband's description, not mine, LOL.) The kids get their parties when they're adults and parents.

Having just celebrated my own piano-through-the-transom day, I was mulling over things I still want to do in this lifetime. The list isn't long or extravagant, which surprised the heck out of me. Guess I have already knocked a lot of goodies off, which means I'm a happy girl by any standards. However, these few remain.

1. I want to see where the Battle of Greasy Grass was fought. Don't care a lot about the Custer monument, but I really want to see the terrain where the Sioux beat the tar out of the 7th Cavalry.

2. Learn to play the piano. I'll probably be awful, but what fun to create your own music.

3. Raft the Colorado. Speed on white water, oh yeah.

4. Take stock car driving lessons. End goal? Hitting the track over 100 mph. Or faster.

That's the list for today. All do-able. I'd better get cracking!

Nascar and Kyle

2011-11-07T09:37:00.000-05:00

Nascar has to decide if it's Big Daddy or a business. Maybe the two are the same, but I don't think so. Kyle Busch lost his temper Friday night and slammed Ron Hornaday into the wall, nose first. Not the first time this has happened, won't be the last, and Kyle will probably do it again someday. If he keeps his job.

Seems to me it's up to the sponsor to decide who represents its brand. Gun Broker.com might be a better fit for Kyle than M&Ms after Friday, but you know what? Let the Mars Company decide the punishment. Allow the other drivers to take care of Kyle's behavior. Believe me, they will.

I was much more upset when Carl Edwards flipped Brad Keselowski last year. That was more than scary, with the car ending upside down after it stopped doing barrel rolls through the air. What happens to Crazy Carl? Put on probation, the naughty boy, even after he said the hit was deliberate retaliation. Haven't liked the dude since. I vote with my purse and will never buy a single product from any of his sponsors.

There are ways to punish drivers who act like brats. The public and the sponsors do a pretty good job of it.

What the heck is going on?

2011-11-06T20:19:00.001-05:00

I'm not an "occupy" fan. I don't study the issues these protestors avow, but I do know one thing. It's very American to hold group protests. Where would we be without all those rowdy Revolutionaries dumping tea in the Boston harbor? So when I see pictures (taken by a reporter who was arrested on a sidewalk because the police told him to stop with the camera...uh, excuse me. Are you kidding?) of the police arresting protestors at 1 a.m., I get really upset.

In the middle of the night the authorities conduct a roust? I'm aghast. What's next? The protestors get locked up and held incommunicado and without legal counsel? Oh wait, that happens in Cuba, not America. While it may seem far fetched, it's a slippery slope when you don't think it's a big deal that a few protestors get locked up.

We should all be outraged.

The Big Picture - Halloween Story 2011

2011-10-29T11:24:00.000-04:00

Every year, I try to post a (slightly) scary story for your holiday pleasure. Enjoy!

Halloween 2011

THE BIG PICTURE

Everyone has a childhood monster story. There are the little yellow men with sharp knives who live under your bed and come out at night to slice your ankles to ribbons if you have to get up to go to the bathroom. Or maybe you were terrorized by huge furry creatures who popped out of your toy box when your parents were sound asleep. Creatures of the night have terrorized children for hundreds of years. Most of us outgrow the bone-numbing fear. Some of us don’t.

Jean was one of those who didn’t. I’d ask her why she was half-dead at work, and she’d give me one of those martyred smiles that women perfect, and I could tell she wanted me to drag it out of her, but to be honest, I wasn’t too interested. Because we shared a cubicle, I tried to be friendly and interested in her personal life, but I don’t have too much in common with a married mother of two boys under the age of four. Bachelorhood suits me just fine, and if I’m dragging my ass into the office on Monday morning, it’s because I spent the weekend with a hot hook-up and imbibed a bit too much of the cheap stuff. Jean’s husband sounded like a lazy monster himself, from the way she talked about how he never helped her around the house or with the boys, and I always figured she looked like hell because she was taking care of three babies over the weekend, not just the two who really were. Some monsters are real, and they don’t come out only at night. Some, you marry.

She was pretty once, I guessed from looking at the wedding photo she kept on her desk, beside the color pictures of her kids when they were in the hospital nursery, all red and faces screwed up like they were constipated. Brown hair that was once long, but now cut short and not very well, and a nice figure if you liked women without boobs, didn’t have a chance on Jean, with the huge circles under her eyes. In the year we shared office space, she got skinnier by the month, and I just assumed it was because she never had time to eat, given the pressures of our jobs and the double load she carried at home.

I know it sounds like I was interested in Jean, but really, I was just a head with two ears who half-listened when she needed someone to dump her complaints about her family crap. We never socialized after work, since she wasn’t into the bar scene, and our projects always got finished at the office. So we were colleagues, I guess is the definition of our relationship, which really wasn’t one.

That’s why I was surprised when she didn’t show up for work for one solid week. We were busier than heck, and she was always good at the detail work, which meant I had to do double duty. I tried to not resent her absence, but she knew we were on a deadline here, and she could at least have taken some of the work home to do while she was lying around drinking her herbal teas and sucking down vitamins like candy.

The big project deadline is my excuse for burying my head in computer programs and not taking the time to find out what was really going on. When our boss, Kev, dropped the bomb about her missing kid, I was like, totally shocked.

“They go to day care, how can one of them be missing?” I knew that much, at least.

“The husband said the youngest got snatched out of his bed in the middle of the night, when he called to explain why Jean wouldn’t be in. The one and a half year old. The three year old saw it, said it looked like a big black blob was standing over the baby’s crib, so the police are coming the area.”

“Sheesh, I’m sorry to hear that. Do they have any leads?” I sounded like a bad Dragnet actor.

Kev shook his head. “It’s crazy. No fingerprints, no DNA, nothing to find the guy. Even the Boy Scouts are out there. Don’t you watch the news?”

“Not if I can help it.” I glanced at Jean’s desk, at the pictures of the ugly, red baby faces. “Any idea when she’ll be back?”

Kev shook his head. “She’s totally in pieces, according to her husband. May be a while. I’ll pull Rocco from the other team to help you out.”

“Don’t do that,” I protested. “He’ll just slow me down. I can pull this out, just keep everyone away from me for the rest of the week.”

Kev made good on his promise, and I cranked out the final program and got it off to our client without too many hitches. Since I had the weekend free, I figured I’d go to Jean’s house, make an appearance, a few sympathetic noises, and try to scope out when she’d be returning to the office. I didn’t expect what I found.

Jean and her family lived in an older neighborhood filled with huge oaks and cracked sidewalks. Some of the bungalows hadn’t had much done to maintain them, but Jean’s looked pretty nice. Bright yellow paint, white wooden rockers on the front porch. Right now, they were filled with neighbors, their butts planted on the rocker seats as they blew their noses and rubbed their gloved hands in the cold.

“Jean in?” I asked from the bottom step.

An older woman wearing a really ugly blue knitted hat that she should have thrown away thirty years ago, nodded. “Who’re you? Only police and family allowed inside. Jim’s orders.”

“I work with Jean. She’ll want to see me. Grayson Whiting. Tell her I’m here.” I was pretty sure she would. Then I’d feel like I’d done the right thing, and I could have a nice weekend after all. “Please.” I added as an afterthought.

The Blue Hat Biddy stared at me through black framed glasses and after glancing at her fellow cronies, who gave her reluctant nods, she stood up and went into the house. I could hear her lock the front door behind her. What did she think I was going to do, storm through after her?

Jean appeared at the front door, and boy howdy, was she a mess. “Gray, come in, please. I’m so sorry I didn’t call and explain in person, but I’m so glad you’re here.” Grabbing my arm, she hauled me into the front room.

Even though it had big windows facing the porch, no light could penetrate the gloom caused by the pulled curtains. Everything smelled stale and musty, and I could see dust on the coffee table, even though it was piled with Styrofoam cups and plates with half-eaten donuts.

“Sorry for the mess,” she fussed, shoving aside a blanket and some pillows crumpled on the sofa. “Have a seat. Please. It’s so nice to see someone who isn’t the police. They think we did it, you know, killed our baby. They’re here nonstop, asking us the same questions over and over, and I said I’d take a lie detector test, but they said it wouldn’t help find Stevie, and we had to tell them where we put his body.”

Any hold she had over herself melted as she crashed into my chest, clearly expecting a comforting set of arms. After a few tentative pats, I gave up and held her as she soaked my jacket with snot and tears. At that moment, I was so grateful I wasn’t married, I could have sworn off sex forever.

“Where’s your husband?” I was looking for someone to take over who knew what to do better than I did. “Um, Jim, right?”

She reared back. “The bastard says he’s out looking, but I know what he’s up to. He’s just pretending. He knows where Grayson is, I just know it. He never believed me when I told him about the attic. Now there’s proof, and he won’t let me tell anyone. Oh God,” she wailed loudly, scrunching my good Burberry jacket in her hands, “it took him. I know it did.”

I waited for her to dump more of her craziness, but she was sobbing so hard, she couldn’t speak. Taking her shoulders, I gave her a little shake.

“Jean, you’ve got to hold it together.” I had a flash of inspiration. “For the sake of your other boy. He’s around, right?”

“My mother took him home so he wouldn’t get snatched too. I’m going to kill that bastard, he wouldn’t nail the closet door shut, no, not when I told him what I’d seen as a kid when my family lived here. This was my grandparent’s house, and I spent the night with them when I was little, sometimes a whole weekend, and I knew what lived in the attic. I saw it, but I screamed, and it ran away. I was older than Stevie, though, and he was too young to cry out before it snatched him.” Louder wailing. Oh great.

This was getting too creepy for me. She needed drugs, serious ones at that. “Do you have a doctor?” I asked loudly, so she’d hear me over the sobbing. “You need something to calm you down, and I’ll be glad to pick up the prescription.”

“Screw that,” she snapped, all white fury and red eyes. “Tell them, tell the police about the monster in the attic. Please. Maybe they’ll listen to you. You’re not a suspect.” She began hiccupping, she was weeping so hard.

I didn’t know what to say to calm her down, other than “Okay.” I finally disentangled myself and let myself out the front door. The Blue Hat Biddy and her cronies stared at me as if I were a child snatcher.

“She needs help,” I offered, hoping they’d take over where I’d left off. “Anyone know her doctor’s name?”

“She’s not crazy,” Blue Hat Biddy snapped. “Everyone knows the monster has lived here for centuries. Her grandparents finally believed her, and they moved out. But her cheapskate of a husband said they had to live here because it was free, and poor Jean has slept with the kids every night since they came home from the hospital. Did her jackass of a worthless husband help keep watch?” The glares of the tree women grew uglier, and my manhood was feeling threatened. I crossed my hands in Adam Pose Number One in front of my crotch.

“I don’t know what to say.” I really didn’t. Insanity seemed to run in the neighborhood. “If there was a problem with the house, and I’m not saying there is, why didn’t Jean leave with the kids?”

“She was going to go. The weekend the baby was snatched. She said she could hear the monster pacing, and she knew it was getting ready because it hadn’t had a baby in a long time. The people who lived here before Jean’s grandparents, they lost their only boy to it. We found out later he didn’t die of SIDS, like they told everyone.” Blue Hat Biddy wiped a tear of her own with her gloved hand. “I was just a girl back then, and my mother told me to stay out of this house. She knew.”

Mass hysteria had a longer shelf life than I imagined it could. “Okay, well, Jean needs some serious medical help, and if you won’t call a doctor, I’ll get an ambulance here. She’s falling apart, and it’s not going to get better.” I’m a good big picture person, which is why Jean and I worked so well together. I knew I’d never get her back on my team, not for a long time, but I owed her something for all her hard work. The least I could do was get her medical help.

I pulled out my cell and started to dial 911 when Blue Hat Biddy smacked it out of my hands. It bounced on the cracked walkway and the screen shattered. I couldn’t help it, I almost grabbed her by the throat. “That cost $700, and I expect you to pay for it!” I yelled.

“Screw you and your phone. You want to help Jean, get into the attic. The police went up there, and they said they couldn’t find anything. Jean’s too emotional to see what’s there because she doesn’t want to, and her so-called husband won’t.”

“You go,” I snapped, scooping up the remnants of my expensive and very cool phone. I was more than angry. “I’m outta here.”

“We can’t,” Blue Hat explained as if I were an idiot who didn’t know what two times two equaled. “It knows us. It’ll hide. You’re a stranger. You might catch it.”

“The police are strangers. Why can’t they catch it?”

“It’s hidden from the authorities all its life. For over a hundred years. It can smell a uniform a mile away. Please, do this for Jean. She deserves to know what’s happened to her baby, so she can finally leave this horrible house with her other little boy. She won’t go as long as she knows her baby is up there with that monster.” Blue Hat Biddy grabbed my arms and clung like a drowning woman. “You’re the first person who isn’t police to come here and get inside. Jean won’t let any of us in.”

I shook my head. “No way. I’m not getting in the middle of this.”

“Please. Do it for the sake of a woman who needs to bury her child.”

The other two women, eyes reproachful, joined Blue Hat Biddy in surrounding me. I was either going to have to knock them over, and probably break their fragile bones in the process, or do as the old woman asked.

“Oh hell.” I was stuck and I knew it. I couldn’t hurt a woman, especially an old one who could have been my great-grandmother. “Okay, get me back inside.”

I’d run up to the attic, stir up some dust, tell Jean her baby wasn’t stashed in the rafters, and leave. My brownie points with the Big Guy upstairs were adding up, I hoped, even though I wasn’t sure the Big Guy even existed.

Blue Hat and her cronies approached the front door and Jean let them in. A few minutes later, Jean came to the door and reached out her hands for me, her eyes even redder than when I’d left her a few seconds ago. I really wished I’d gone to Hooters instead of Jean’s, but I said I’d do this thing, so I had to do it. Then maybe I could call an ambulance for Jean and my conscience would be clear. Only my phone was now destroyed.

“Where are the police?” I asked Blue Hat as she took my elbow and steered me into the house as if she was afraid I’d bolt. “Shouldn’t they have left someone here in case a kidnapper calls?

“They don’t think it’s a kidnapping. They said they had to coordinate the search, but that just means they’re idiots who can’t see what’s right in front of them. We told them, all of us, when they wouldn’t believe Jean.”

I was starting to understand Jean’s husband a little better. He’d probably had enough of this crap, too.

“Okay, let’s get this over with. How do I get into the attic?”

“Are you sure? It’s so dangerous. It might try for you, though historically, it only takes children.” Blue Hat looked at me as if I wasn’t strong enough to fight my way out of a paper bag.

“I do Pilates, I’m stronger than I look.” Plus, Pilates classes are a great place to pick up hot chicks. I wished I was in one right now.

“He’s the only person I trust.” Jean managed to calm down enough to speak. “He’s a good man, and he’ll see the truth.”

I don’t know where she got her confidence except out of a bottle of delusion, but I was ready to get this over with. They led me to a closet in one of the rooms via some creaking stairs. A door inside the closet lead to the attic, I assumed. All four women backed away and I put my hand on the door knob.

“If I don’t come back, call the cops, right?” I was joking, but they looked so stricken, I was sorry I’d said anything so glib.

I could tell an army had been up those narrow stairs, just from all the disturbed dust. At the top of the steps, I had to duck my head to crawl into the attic itself. It couldn’t have been any larger than ten by fourteen, and nothing had been stored there in a while. A quick glance showed me nothing but a dark and empty space.

I was just about to duck back down the stairs when a slight shift in one corner caught my attention. The air shimmered and for a second, I thought light was leaking through from the second floor, between the rafters. Then it was like a movie, where all these tiny bits of black swirl around and suddenly, voila, there’s a solid shape. Usually an alien or something like that.

I wanted to run, but I couldn’t. It was as if my hands and feet had been nailed to the rafters. Tugging as hard as I could, I couldn’t get free.

The bits of black changed colors, and a man, crouched over, his head lifted and eyes on me, glared. I couldn’t have screamed if I’d been offered a million bucks. I couldn’t look away, either. With a shock, I realized the form glaring at me resembled Jean’s husband, the man in the wedding picture on her desk.

“Tell her I said I’d get her. She thought she was so smart, when she was a little girl. Then she believed she could save her children from me. They never win, these mothers. I always take what I want. Tell her the boy was mine from the minute he was born.”

I understood every word, even though his mouth didn’t move. I wanted to ask him if he was Jean’s husband, but I figured he was as crazy as she, and between the two of them, I was in trouble if I stirred the pot. I nodded, because that was all I could do.

“Go. Don’t come back. If she leaves this house, the boy dies. He’s mine now, and I will do with him as I want. She knew the risk when she moved in here.”

I prayed the police would come running when I called them to arrest the son of a bitch. Any father who’d kill his own kid was dog food, as far as I was concerned. After giving me one more sneer, the man disappeared. I figured he had a hidey hole he used, and I hadn’t been seeing anything more than a sick bastard who tormented his family. Jean needed a divorce lawyer more than she needed a doctor.

Backing down the attic stairs as soon as I could move, I tried not to shake with the anger I felt. The three older women huddled around Jean, their protective stance both heart rending and silly. They couldn’t save her from a marriage to a sicko.

“Your husband took him,” I blurted, grabbing Jean’s arm to pull her away from the women. “Call the cops, they have to arrest him. I don’t know how he gets up there and out so fast, but he’s your monster.”

Jean started shaking, every inch of her vibrating. “You saw my husband up there?”

“In the flesh. I’m telling you, he’s your monster.” I wiped the attic grime from my hands on the front of my jeans, feeling dirty inside and out. How could someone so sick manage to marry a normal, ordinary woman like Jean, much less father two children by her?

Blue Hat Biddy hauled Jean into her arms and gave me that killer look again. “You don’t need to make up stories. Jim has been in the police interrogation room all morning. They came by at eight this morning to get him. He called twenty minutes ago to tell Jean to get him a lawyer down there.”

My stomach heaved. “I’m not lying. I saw him, the man in the wedding picture on your desk, Jean.”

Her closed eyes opened, and she looked into mine with infinite sadness and resignation. “I believe you. It can look like whatever you want it to resemble. It has Stevie, and I know what I have to do.”

“No!” The three women threw themselves at the door leading to the attic stairs. Though elderly, they looked pretty formidable to me.

“I’ve always known. I just didn’t have the courage. Thank you.” She squeezed my hand before she charged the door. “It wants me. Maybe it’ll give Stevie back if it gets me.”

A force stronger than any hurricane blew the door open and scattered the three biddies and me onto our asses and back into the bedroom. Running, Jean threw herself at the stairs, and as she landed on the first steps, the door smacked shut behind her. I was pretty stunned, but those old ladies scrambled for the door quicker than women half their ages. No matter how hard they tugged and jerked on the handle, the door stayed shut.

A phone rang downstairs. I left the women still trying to pry open the attic door, and figured I’d use the phone to call both the police and an ambulance. Jean had snapped for good, I was sure of it.

I picked up the phone, ready to tell whoever was there to hang up so I could make an emergency call. Instead, I listened as an excited man screamed into my ear.

“We found him, the little boy! Tell Jean he’s safe, they’re taking him to St. Catherine’s Hospital to check him out, she can meet him there!”

I hung up the phone without saying anything. I knew before I ascended the stairs to the second floor that the attic door would open and that we wouldn’t find any trace of Jean up there.

Unfortunately, I was right. I did as the three old women ordered and kept my mouth shut about what had happened in the attic.

No one but they would have believed me, anyway.

Life and Interruptions

2011-10-26T11:08:00.000-04:00

Still dealing with stuff. You know how it goes. Life shifts, you think it's an earthquake, but it's really just a normal slip in the tectonic plates. You adjust, you clear the debris, you think you are doing just fine. Then you do something stupid, like leaving your iPad in a hotel room many hours from home, and you know you're not yourself, not yet. Time races by faster than the proverbial sand through the hour glass, and each day speeds by more and more quickly. Jumping off the speeding bullet is my next goal.We writers need hours for thinking and working, solitude that feeds the inner vision. It will come, I tell myself.

BTW, major props to the Best Western hotel for calling about the iPad and promising to put it on a UPS truck that day, even before I realized it was missing. I will be back, I promise. Nice people, and honest to boot. Can't ask for more.

In between all the estate legal work and the house-clearing, I'm trying to get back to working on a Kindle version of BELIEVE IN ME, a mystery set on the Mattaponi Indian Reservation in Virginia. Love this story of the clash between the traditional Native American and the modern (white) way of dealing with murder and death. My heroine is caught between two worlds, and she's really not ready to leave her high-powered job in the white world until two family members die on the Reservation, and she's the next target. Hope to have it finished by the end of next month, at the latest.

Hang in there, I tell myself. The dust will settle soon, literally and figuratively.

Lauren Myracle

2011-10-21T23:40:00.001-04:00

Lauren Myracle is my kind of lady. If you have been following the brouhaha about her book, SHINE, showing up on the National Book Award list for Young Adult, you know she was asked to withdraw her novel from the short list of the final five books. Lauren is one of those writers who regularly ends up on the banned book list because she's unafraid of tackling tough topics. SHINE takes on the issue of bullied gay teenagers, as I understand it.

Without rancor or taking any potshots, Lauren did withdraw her book. When asked how the Committee could make it up to her, she requested a donation to the Matthew Shepherd Foundation. $5000 was sent in her honor. Lauren said she'd much rather have the donation than any gold medal.

To say that good has resulted from a nasty situation is mildly put. Lauren says she has received unanimous support from other authors, and her book has received new publicity. For a writer, publicity is pure gold. I hope she goes on to write many more controversial books that speak to young people.

What a classy lady. She has my eternal admiration.

Death on the Track

2011-10-17T22:47:00.000-04:00

I wasn't watching Sunday, but I heard, via Twitter, about Dan Weldon's death at Las Vegas on an oval track where Nascar races. It's horrible to realize a young man with two small children died in the cause of entertaining race fans. I tell myself he was a racer, that no one forced him into the driver's seat, that he knew the risks.

Doesn't help. While football players get injured, some seriously, and basketball players blow out knees, they don't die going 220 mph to collect a paycheck. I wonder if I'm enamoured with a sport that encourages the bloodthirsty and crashmomgers to cheer big wrecks. I will never understand how anyone can take joy in devastation suffered on the track, or the first time I watched as cars careened into safer barriers and each other. No, I'm not a wreck-lover.

Such a sad day.

Creative types

2011-10-12T22:57:00.000-04:00

A friend was telling me about a book that defined how creative people work. They want to play sports, not watch them, for example. Only blue collar types watch auto racing, because it takes no involvement of self. Creative people, in other words, aren't Nascar fans.

You can imagine what I thought of that idea. Clearly, the NYC editors who let that one slide haven't a clue. Sitting next to us in Daytona one year during the season - opening race were lawyers and accountants from NYC. We were all wearing T-shirts emblazoned with our favorite drivers' numbers, hats with the same, and having a good ole time. Not a blue collar in the crowd. And if there were, so what? That doesn't mean you're not creative. The strategy of Nascar, the science of getting the car to handle for each track, the terrifying speeds of the racing, all make it not only fascinating, but a subject of endless study.

Guess I won't be reading that book. We creative types have our own novels to write, between Nascar races.

Nesting

2011-10-10T09:20:00.001-04:00

When I was expecting, I'd go into super-nesting overdrive just before the baby came. I had the cleanest baseboards in town. You couldn't find a dust bunny if your life depended on it. It was hormonal, for sure, but it also presaged months of minimal housekeeping as we dealt with diapers, sleepless nights, and an altered focus. Life changed, big time.

Nothing was more important than that new baby.

I do the same thing before starting a new book. Major cleaning, dusting, organizing. The new book is like a new baby, all-consuming. Who cares about polishing silver when you're deep into another, fictional world. Crawling into real life takes a ton of effort, and when the book is going well, it's not worth expending the energy. You need to hoard the hours for this new baby, this creative work.

So let the small stuff go. Give that WIP your all. It's a process, and you don't want to miss a second of its new life.

Junk

2011-10-08T21:47:00.000-04:00

I declare, I am going to clear out files, toss all those clippings I hoard as if they're gold, and have a bon fire in the back yard with twenty-year-old tax files. Clearing out my dad's house has made me swear I won't do this to anyone else. Of course, I talk a good game. We'll see how brutal I really am with the old junk crammed into cabinets and desk drawers. I really get in trouble when I start reading what's in the files, and before you know it, I talk myself out of hitting the trash pile with the excess paper.

How do you know when to cut your manuscript? Whenever your attention wanders as you're
reading through it. It's as simple as that. You know you love rereading your own words. What could be better? So if you get bored, hit the delete key. Try reading it aloud to yourself. You'll hear the clunkers.

It's always better to do your own dirty work.

Rereading favs

2011-09-30T17:57:00.000-04:00

A writer compatriot, Mona Ingram, wrote recently about the books she likes to reread. The Power of One is tops on her list, and I have to echo her praise. My list is shorter than Mona's, because I'm going on the names that come to mind without staring at my bookcase. Elkhorn Tavern, The Barefoot Brigade, Gone the Dreams and the Dancing by a retired army officer whose name escapes me, (Douglas C. Jones?) are wonderful. Lucia St. Clair Robson's Ride the Wind about Cynthia Anne Parker takes me to the Comanche plains every time. Pat Murphy's The Falling Woman is still tres cool (and won a Hugo, I think). Laura Kinsale's Flowers from the Storm, with a hero whose speech is taken by a stroke, never fails to amaze me.

Montana 1948 is a mastery of an innocent's voice telling a sordid tale. It reminds me of To Kill a Mockingbird. Hard trick to pull off, an adult story through a child's eyes.

Each book is an old friend I rediscover with joy.

A Good Man

2011-09-27T08:34:00.000-04:00

I can think of no higher praise for a man than to say he was honorable, a good father, a loyal husband, and a devoted grandfather. My dad passed away on September 22, and we will miss him. But he lived a long and useful life, and that is more than enough.

New Book up on Amazon! The Golden Door

2011-09-20T14:20:00.000-04:00

Once I got over being cold, I got busy! THE GOLDEN DOOR, an historical romance, is now on Kindle's list on Amazon. I'm thrilled with the cover and the fact that this book I adore is available. Golden Door is one of those books an author has to write, knowing full well it won't fit into any pigeon hole. So I wrote it and let it sit, not willing to risk my happiness in the finished product to the snarky comments of an editor or agent. (I know I'm being universally unfair. I never once heard anything even remotely resembling snarky from Gail Fortune when she was my editor.) But this book is/was special. A book of the heart always is.

The setting is the Ottoman Empire at the beginning of the 20th Century. The hero, Winslow Ertegun, is half-Turkish, half-British, and a spy for the Sultan sent to find out why the new railroad crossing the country is taking so long to complete and is costing such huge sums of money, as well. The heroine, Hope Mountcastle, is on the run from her stuffy aunt's house in York, England, hoping to join her father on his current project in the wilds of Eastern Turkey. She wants nothing less than freedom from her corset and her prim and proper life. Her father has been hired by the Germans to build a portion of a railroad across the Ottoman Empire, but he's been murdered before Hope can reach him.

Unaware her father is dead, Hope must resort to subterfuge to get to the railroad camp. Dressed as a mute Turkish boy, she's the caravan's cook's helper. Her disguise works only so long, however, and Winslow must marry her in a Muslim ceremony to preserve her reputation and chastity, promising her the ruse will last only until he delivers her to her father at the railroad camp.

All is far from well at the camp, and Hope and Win fall in love, fight for their lives, find Hope's father's killer, and return to Constantinople so Win can report the real status of what's happened with the railroad. The world is on the brink of war, and politics have become a precarious way of life for a spy. Win fears for Hope in his anti-Western world, and sends her home to her aunt, promising to divorce her according to Muslim practices so she can get on with her life. Only Hope doesn't want a divorce, but she doesn't want to add herself as another burden in Win's life, either.

The ending is happy, as is the norm for a romance, and blissfully so. I still sigh over it whenever I read it, and I'm quite the cynic. A romance with murder, sensuality, politics, and a Muslim and Christian falling in love isn't your normal, everyday book, and I hope some of you will like it. Maybe even love it, as I do.
BTW, the cover art was done by Jessie Gemmer. Email me for contact information.

It's Cold Outside!

2011-09-16T21:54:00.000-04:00

I swore I'd dance naked in the streets if the summer heat ever broke, but I lied. It's too danged cold out for naked dancing! (Not to mention I'd scare the neighbors). We dropped 25 degrees in one day, and no one was prepared. Well, I wasn't. I like to ease into these things. A couple of degrees here and there works just fine, kinda like shuffling into the cold waves by inches. The bright side is that snuggle weather is here for the weekend, at least. No more lying on top of the sheets, wishing the air conditioning would make a dent in the aching humidity.

I have to recommend Kiana Davenport's short stories. They're on Amazon for Kindle, and dirt cheap. In each story, I'm not only sucked into the stories, peopled with people so alive I feel they have breath, but I'm learning a lot about the art of the short story. Less really can be more. Give HOUSE OF SKIN a buy for 99 cents.

Oh, I was quoted by Nate Ryan in his USA Today article about Brad Keselowski's full day that culminated at RIR for a fan meet-and-greet. Hi, Nate!

New Car v. Old Car

2011-09-14T14:39:00.000-04:00

In our family, cars never leave. Personally, I don't like to "break in" a new car, learn the dashboard, the feel of brakes, an engine, how it handles corners, etc. My cars become family members, and sometimes I even name them. Now and then, we finally sell a car because we're simply tired of driving it for years and years, and it's in great shape, but it's become boring. When we do this, I instantly feel seller's remorse and want to buy the car back. I still fondly remember a stick shift Honda Accord that I wish I'd garaged until I could teach the children to drive a stick. Then again, who drives a stick these days? It went on to bless a college student who needed sturdy transportation and great mileage, so selling it was a right move.

My beloved wanted me to drive something newer, so we hit the dealer lots. Interestingly, I never saw anything I liked. Some detail always held up my ability to buy a new car, such as blah colors, no GPS in the dash, stiff ride, seats uncomfortable, etc. I could fill a page with the details I found to dislike in the new cars at every dealer. It became clear that I don't need a new car, much less want one. Nothing came up to the high standards of my current ride, so I'm going to keep it.

I realize this sounds un-American, but I don't want a new car. So there.

Finality and Bullies

2011-09-12T09:00:00.000-04:00

Richmond's decision has been made - and nothing has changed in the Chase. Saturday's race was a wreckfest under a full moon. For a while there, I thought the winner would be the last car running with all four wheels on the track. Despite a hard bit of racing at the end, Harvick pulled out his fourth win of the season. Now we head into the final ten races to determine the champion. Ho hum. If someone other than Jimmie Johnson doesn't step it up, the chase will officially be a bore.

On a more scary note (and it's not even Halloween yet!), I just read a blog by author Kiana Davenport dated August 24. You can read it at kianadavenportdialogues.blogspot.com. Ms. Davenport is being punished by a Big Six publisher for putting two short story collections up on Amazon. One of these books had been rejected by the same publisher before she went digital with them. However, this publisher did offer a contract for another, different book, and paid an advance of $20,000, which they are now demanding back since Ms. Davenport refuses to remove her short story collections from Amazon.

Wow, is all I can say. Amazon must be terrorizing traditional publishers to the point of panic. And you know what? About time! You better believe I'm going to buy Ms. Davenport's short stories on Amazon. No one likes a bully, and if I can help finance Ms. Davenport's legal team, I'll buy her ebooks for that reason alone.

Another small death

2011-09-09T11:00:00.001-04:00

The final race for the Sprint Cup Chase is tomorrow. Amid all the frenzy of packing up for a day of tailgating, I just read some shocking news. No, it's not that the Republocans hate Pres. Obama and will do everything they can to undermine his presidency, and to hades with what is best for the country. Wnat else is new?

No, it's that Kevin Harvick, Inc. is closing up shop. They're moving their Nationwide program to RCR, but shutting down their race truck operation and selling the building, if they can. WOW. KHI, Inc. was an inspiration in many ways. They had Ron Hornaday, an old dog with plenty of tricks up his firesuit sleeve, winning truck championships. They sold Chevy chasses to other teams. They are second in points in the Nationwide championship race. Delana Harvick was a business force to be reckoned with, a powerful woman in Nascar whose maiden name was NOT France. People knew what an extraordinary effort it took to keep a small race shop open and winning, and respected the Harvicks for their top notch operation.

In a move that's emblematic of what is happening all over this country, a well-run small business is shutting down, and 140 people are out of work. That it's involved in Nascar is beside the point. As the song says, "and another one bites the dust." What a real shame.

Lights, Camera, Action!

2011-09-05T13:37:00.004-04:00

After eight long days without electricity, I am happy to report that the power is back on. I'm kinda going to miss going to bed at dark. I will NOT miss the candle wax dripping all over the place or the cold showers.

I must now go vacuum like a madwoman. Electricity shows clearly how deep the dog fur has become.

Writing Power

2011-08-31T09:17:00.000-04:00

Nope, nothing to do with writing inspiration. In this case, it's all about perspiration. Or, as Southern ladies say, the "glow." With our power still off, I had to get out of my comfort zone to get some work done. Since my laptop runs 45 minutes, tops, on its fading battery, I trekked over to the church, which had power, to plug it in and store up some juice. There, I discovered again something I had lost.

It was the ability to write anywhere. Once upon a time, I wrote in short bursts wherever I was, on whatever, as long as I had fifteen uninterrupted seconds. Somehow, I became accustomed to my home office, my desk, my window view, for my muse to kick it into high gear. However, sitting in a quiet church, feeling a bit odd to be dressed in jeans in a place where I normally wear suits, skirts, or pearls, I got to work.

And the muse was just fine. As the battery charged, the pages flowed. When I finally looked up, it was late afternoon. I hadn't needed my own desk chair, my special wrist pad, or anything else, except the laptop, to write. I probably didn't need that, but it was my excuse for getting out of my powerless office.

From now on, no more excuses. Place doesn't matter. Hands to the keyboard, sweat on the brow, that's all I need.

Still waiting. . .

2011-08-30T14:17:00.003-04:00

There are times in your life when you know you just have to be patient. There's no other option. That 39th week of pregnancy, for example. You can jump up and down all you want, but in the end, you have no control over when the baby shows up, because Mother Nature knows best. Or growing out your hair after a bad haircut. You wear hats and try to ignore the awfulness, but in the end, hair grows at its own pace.

So what are we really discussing here, you may ask yourself? The end result of my attempt to be philosophically patient is that I'm not. Sure, I know the power company is doing the best it can. That schools and stoplights trump my little old subdivision. I get it. Doesn't help,though. Those cold showers are getting old. The sight of swinging transformers and downed power lines snaking through my yard is scary. I want them to go away.

I count blessings every day. No trees through the roof. No cars crushed by branches the size of elephants. (We have hundred year old oaks in our area, and they are BIG.) Others in my subdivision didn't fare as well. So what, that I had to toss a brand new box of Schwans root beer bars? (The best ice cream on the planet.) It's all good. And if we have to wait another week for power, so be it. I had a baby come a few weeks after her due date, and if I can handle that, I can handle this.

However, I'd like it to be known that "let there be light" is a perfectly good idea.

Irene, such a lovely name. . .

2011-08-28T21:04:00.001-04:00

And such a nasty storm. My town was pounded, there's no other verb for it. Trees cracked, toppled, thumped the ground, and generally kept life interesting. With no power for over 24 hours, I've come to the conclusion we're in for the long haul. After Hurricnae Isabel, we went about two weeks living by candlelight. I'm hoping for a shorter recovery this time around.Call me a cock-eyed optimist.

Bless 3G iPads, and the ability to discover what's going on! I outgrew the romantic candle notion during the last big power outage. Roughing it has no allure. I HATE cold showers. Even reading gets old when candle wax drips on your hands. That stuff is HOT.

At least the generator is keeping the freezer running.I keep telling myself, it could be worse. A whole lot worse. . .Gratitude is the hot commodity at our house.

Brad Keselowski

2011-08-25T18:39:00.001-04:00

We were invited by RIR to a "Cookout with Keselowski" this week. Along with hamburgers and meeting other fans, we got to have a meet and greet with Bad Brad.

Who is not "Bad" Brad at all. What a polite young man. Whipcord thin (as we say in romance novels), he's obviously working hard to make everyone feel comfortable around him. He tries very hard, but it must be difficult for someone so young who really just loves to drive fast cars.

He laughed when I told him he was going to show up on our Christmas letter. And when I said "You need to eat more fried chicken and mashed potatoes!" he said, as any well-bred young man would say to an older lady, "Yes, ma'am." He does his mama proud.

Since following Brad when he got a ride in a good truck and ended up wrecked, but with a job offer from Dale Jr. to run the 88 car in Nationwide, I've been impressed that he's always himself on the track. Run hard, run fast, and and don't kowtow to anyone.

Especially Carl Edwards, who thinks he's the new Lord of the track. Give him heck, Brad. Take that championship home to Penske.

The Old Stuff

2011-08-22T21:37:00.001-04:00

Excavating old files is like a day spent in the attic. Finds abound. I have complete manuscripts that didn't, and don't, fit in the publishing mold. I knew it while I was writing them, but I wanted, no, needed, to tell them. One is set in the early twentieth century in Turkey. Another involves an adopted little girl whose biologic father shows up, wanting her. The monkey wrench is that her adoptive mother is falling for a stock car racer. Two men, one woman, not the standard romance set-up, especially since the mom isn't sure she wants any man in her life. The third is set today on the Mattaponi Indian Reservation in Virginia, and though there's murder and romance, the heart of the story is about honoring treaties and commitments signed in the seventeenth century, even if it's hard for the people involved.

I still love these stories. I've always believed if a story interests me, someone else will like it too. So they're going to get another chance. I'm not sure how or when, but all it takes is creativity. Coin of the realm in the writer's world. Piece of cake, right? When I
start using cliches, I'm in trouble. . . .

Now all I can think are cliches. Shoot.

Another story!

2011-08-19T14:08:00.001-04:00

From my stash of scary stories for Halloween. Have fun with it!
Tracy

House of Purity

Of all the crappy things in a year filled with crap, Laura had to take her little brother trick or treating. Even worse, she had to stick with all the moms and dads at the bottom of the porch steps, make “oooh” noises when the candy rolled out and the munchkins dove in like starving sharks, and pretend like all the snotty nosed kids were just darling, so cute, yes indeed, precious beyond a doubt. Oh, the joys of being older by twelve years. If she had a penny for every time she wished her parents hadn’t decided to have another baby, she’d be as rich as Ivanka Trump. So here she was at seventeen, looking like an unwed teenaged mother with a five year old brat who thought dressing like a ninja was cool. Ninjas went out of style when she was twelve.

“Laurie, hurry up. I don’t want Robbie to stay up past eight. And no eating the candy! Dad and I will be home by eleven at the latest.” Her mom put on her lipstick by the hall mirror.

“Lucky me,” Laura muttered under her breath. Louder, she grumbled, “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Bed by eight, no candy.” As if Robbie the House King would keep his sticky little fingers out of his candy bag. The only way she could keep him sugar-free was to wire his nasty little mouth shut.

“Laurrriiieee,” Robbie screeched from the front door. “Hurreeyyyy!”

“Off you go. How do I look?” Her mom primped, adjusting her tiara and fluffing up her tulle skirt. She was too old to dress like a fairy princess, Laura wanted to say, but it was just sour grapes. She hadn’t been invited to a Halloween party since she was ten and everyone in the fifth grade got invited to the class party.

At least it wasn’t raining or freezing. She remembered some miserable trick or treating when she was little. Robbie got all the luck. Always had. He got the smart genes, the DNA that got him put into advanced classes for super geeks. He was reading at two, full sized books that gave her a headache, and doing math problems she wouldn’t even try. Everyone loved Robbie. Big blue eyes, curly blond hair, and a laugh that made everyone smile with him, even if they didn’t know what got him giggling. Yeah, Robbie had it all. What did she have? A sucky grade point average, stringy mouse-colored hair, braces for the past four years, and zits.

“Okay, little monster, let’s hit the road.” She grabbed the flashlight her mom handed her and followed Robbie out the front door. “If you give me any grief, we’re going home. Got it?”
She didn’t like the way he stuck out his tongue at her, but what was she going to do? Smack him? He’d tattle and her mother would take away her Internet. Robbie was perfect around adults, but with her he acted like she was his serving girl. Clean his room, fix him a snack, blah, blah, blah, and her mother made her do it. She couldn’t wait until she graduated from high school next year and could get out on her own. College wasn’t going to happen, her parents informed her. Robbie’s extra classes cost a lot of money, and her grades weren’t good enough, so what the heck, she was on her own.

Fine by her. Far as she was concerned, this was the last Halloween she had to play nanny for the Super Kid. Next year she’d have her own place and a job, and she wouldn’t have to see the brat again if she didn’t want to.

“Hi Laurie. Good to see you.” Mrs. Evans was waiting for them at the sidewalk, her two little girls dressed like ghosts.

“Hi.” Laura figured Mrs. Evans was cool. She hadn’t spent a fortune on some stupid costume for her kids or herself. The ghosts were made from old sheets. “Mary and Susan look great.”

“I want candy,” Robbie whined.

“So start walking,” Laura ordered. “It doesn’t jump in your bag by itself.”

“I hate Halloween,” Mrs. Evans noted casually. “No child needs as much candy as they get. ”

“I guess so,” Laura agreed. “My mom said Robbie couldn’t eat anything tonight. She wants to check it all out, I guess, before he swallows anything.”

“Can’t be too careful.” Mrs. Evans waved at the Roginsons, who were standing in their doorway, making admiring noises at the kids’ costumes. “Would you and Robbie like to stop by our house on the way home for some hot chocolate?”

Just what she wanted. More chatting with Mrs. Evans while Robbie whined that he wanted to eat his candy.

“I don’t think so, thanks. Mom said Robbie has to be in bed by eight.”

“Sure. Makes sense. I’m a terrible mother, I know.” She sighed, then laughed. “The girls won’t be able to sleep until I let them eat their candy, but they don’t have to show off in school tomorrow.”

Laura couldn’t help it, she laughed.

Mrs. Evans tilted her head under the nearest driveway lantern and looked at Laura as her girls and Robbie attacked another front door. “Must be difficult sometimes, being the elder sibling to the alien child.”

This time Laura’s laugh was less enthusiastic. Robbie was a brat, but he was her brother. “Not too much. He has a mouth on him, but then he was talking in full sentences before he was one.” Her mother was very proud of that fact and repeated it often.

“How far are you taking Robbie tonight? Around the block?”

She hadn’t really thought of it. “I guess, and maybe the next one if we have time.”

“I hear the church on Ford Avenue is open and handing out candy. I might take the girls there after this row.”

“Sounds good.” Robby couldn’t object. “What’s the church? Isn’t it new?”

“I’m not sure of its name. It got left the old Coleman house in the old lady’s will, so it’s turned the place into a church. Opened about a month ago. They’ve been pretty quiet, but I hear they’ve worked on the yard a lot, and the neighbors are happy.”

The trick-or-treating on their own street took forever, it seemed. Laura was sick and tired of all the cutesy comments about costumes and how big everyone was getting, blah, blah, blah. Dragging Robby with the two girls turned out to be pretty easy, since the girls were handing him pieces of candy from their bags and he was stuffing it in his mouth as fast as he could. Finally, they headed for a new street.

The church on Ford Avenue that Mrs. Evans wanted to visit didn’t look too promising, however. No lights brightened the second floor windows, and the front door hid beneath a bulb that couldn’t have been more than ten watts. A hand-painted sign reading “House of Purity” hung on the porch eaves. If this was a church, she was a gorgeous blonde with big boobs.

“You sure they’re handing out candy?” Laura dragged Robby back beside her as the two girls and their mother wandered down the walkway. “It doesn’t look open for business.”

“That’s what I heard. Can’t hurt to try. I’m right here, and besides, I’ve been wanting to see what they’ve done with the place.”

Not much, Laura thought. The paint was still peeling, and if they’d worked on the yard, she’d be surprised. Big branches hung low over the sidewalk and leaves cluttered the gutters. Checking out the second floor, she saw the shutters still hung at crazy angles. Fat lot of good the House of Purity was doing this house. And who in the heck would belong to a denomination with that name? Purity of what?

Laura watched Mrs. Evans ring the doorbell. To her surprise, it opened and a nice looking woman wearing a long blue dress gestured for the two girls to enter. Something didn’t feel right to Laura, but Mrs. Evans didn’t hesitate. She and the two girls disappeared. Waiting for them to come out, Laura started to worry. When the porch light went out a few seconds later, she panicked. What did she do now? Call the police? Call Mr. Evans?

“I wanna get more candy,” Robby whined. “Why can’t we get candy there?” He pointed at the house where the Evanses disappeared.

“I don’t think it’s a good place. Come on, let’s go home.” She’d call Mr. Evans from her house. Maybe after this, her mom would let her have a cell phone. She was the only girl in her class who didn’t have one.

“No,” Robby screamed. “I have to go in there! They’ll get all the candy!”

“You’ll do what I tell you to do! Now come on!” Jerking Robby behind her, Laura tried to drag him down the sidewalk but his hand slipped from hers. Running as fast as his short legs would carry him, he hurtled to the front door and beat on it, crying “candy, candy!”

“Robby,” Laura cried, scrambling to catch up, fell flat on her face. To her horror, the door creaked open. A single hand reached out, and before Laura could dive to catch him, Robby disappeared.

A loud crack sounded like a gunshot as the door slammed shut behind him.

“Hey,” Laura screamed, “give me my brother! You can’t do this! I’m calling the police!”

Racing to the house next door, she beat on the front door, crying that she needed to use the phone. No one opened to her. Down the block, she continued her quest, but it seemed the whole block around the church was dark. Where was everyone? This was Halloween, at least a few houses should have been handing out candy at this hour. Why weren’t they?

She gave up trying to get to a phone anywhere near the House of Purity, and fighting panic, ran for home. Hands shaking, she could barely unlock the door. Grabbing the kitchen phone, she was trying to see through her tears to dial 911, when someone came through the front door behind her. Terrified because she hadn’t locked the door, she ducked under the kitchen table, clutching the phone to her chest. She hadn’t turned on the kitchen lights, thank goodness.

“Laura, where are you? What happened to you? The girls missed you when they left the church.” Mrs. Evans lifted the tablecloth and peered at Laura. “Are you ill?”

“You’re okay,” Laura screamed, “I thought they’d taken you and the girls. Where’s Robby? What was going on in that place?” She could barely talk, she was so relieved to see Mrs. Evans.

“Robby who? What do you mean, you thought someone had taken us? We didn’t go anywhere. Just got the girls some chocolates, we brought some out to you, and you were gone. Come out, dear, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Grabbing a table leg, Laura held on for dear life. “What do you mean, Robby who? He’s my brother, he followed you into that creepy so-called church. I’ve got to call the cops, my parents will kill me for losing him. How could you let them keep him?” Shrieking at Mrs. Evans, Laura tried to dial 9ll again, but she dropped the phone trying to fight off Mrs. Evans. The woman had Laura’s foot in both hands and was dragging Laura like a sack of grass seed.

“You poor dear. I can’t help you if you won’t let me. What’s your mom’s cell phone number, she needs to get home right now.” Mrs. Evans, Laura realized, sounded like the sane person in the kitchen. She wanted to scream, but no one was home to hear her.

“I’m going back for Robby,” Laura cried as she fought free of Mrs. Evans, and half on her hands and knees, threw herself out the front door. She was younger than Mrs. Evans, she had to be faster if she could just stay on her feet. She did. Running so hard her lungs hurt, she cut through back yards to get to the House of Purity before Mrs. Evans.

As she rounded the corner, she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. She had to have the wrong street, but glancing at the street sign, she saw it was Ford Avenue. How could this be happening? Where was the house that had swallowed her brother as if he were a gnat? Nothing but trees stood where the house had been extant not fifteen minutes ago. Big trees. Black walnuts and pin oaks. Even the grass had been planted at least a season ago. There was no way that house disappeared into thin air. Or any kind of air, thin or not.

“Robby? Where are you?” she sobbed. She’d lost him, her little brother. Her parents would never forgive her. She may as well find another place to live right now.

“Honey, what’s wrong? Mrs. Evans called, said you were having some kind of breakdown.” Her mother hopped out of her dad’s car, still in her fairy princess costume, and came running to her. “Come home before you make a complete fool of yourself out here.” She gestured to the black Mercedes.

“Mom, Robby’s been taken! By a house that was standing here not twenty minutes ago. You’re got to believe me.”

Her mother stroked the sweaty hair from her face. “I believe you sweetie, but you need to rest. It’s been a busy month, with all the games you had to cheer, researching colleges for your applications, tutoring after school, being class president. It’s my fault for letting you get so busy, but you seemed to be thriving. Please, hon, let’s go home.”

“You’ve got to call the police about Robby.” What if he were hurt?

“I don’t know about any Robby. Is he your new boyfriend? I’m glad you’re dating, but there are so many boys, it’s hard to keep up.” Her mother laughed.

Fighting for breath, Laura shut her eyes and counted to ten. This was a bad dream, she’d wake up any second now. Please, let her wake up. What if she didn’t?

__________________________________

Malin morphed from the humanoid woman dressed in blue into her true state – a large gaseous blob. “I must say, this has been a disappointment.”

“You weren’t the one who had to live as a human child for the past five human years. I thought you’d never show up! What took you so long?”

The green gas once known as Robby swirled into the house’s ceilings. “And when can we get out of here? There’s nothing here for us, I can report with the utmost certainty.”

“It’s a shame their intelligence is so limited. We had high hopes.” Malin’s gas form grew more frenetic. “There’s only one thing left to do. I’ve wiped clean the memories of everyone who had contact with you as Robby. What an unfortunate name.”

“Good. What about the sister? I sense her distress. She doesn’t seem. . . .” He hesitated. “No, it can’t be. She’s searching for the boy. Malin, what’s wrong? Why isn’t she cleansed like the others?”

Malin sighed. “It happens sometimes. You know that. We’ll have to go to stage two. Not that it’s a loss, this planet is so useless. I just hate expending the energy.”

“Well, it’s your job, not mine. I’ve done my part. See you on Ulona 6. I’ve got my orders. First, though, I’ve some R & R coming after that ordeal.” With those words, the green gas blob dissipated into the night sky.

“Right, leave a woman to clean up the mess. How like a man.” Swelling into a larger gaseous state, Malin swirled into the sky behind him. From miles above earth’s atmosphere, she hesitated, then with a mighty swelling, knocked earth out of its orbit. With compassion for the pea-sized inhabitants of this minor world, she added a quick shove that would hasten the end more quickly.

No sense in prolonging their pain.

The Path to Love

2011-08-18T16:17:00.001-04:00

I know it sounds . . . uncharacteristic of me. This title. But it's the name of a collection of short stories, sweet and romantic, that are now up on Amazon for the Kindle. I can only say that they're some of the ones I've liked best of my short-shorts that I've written through the years. At 99 cents, I hope they'll be read for fun - a quick trip into romance that I hope lifts your spirits and renews your faith in the power of love to overcome all obstacles.

I'm hoping to put together a compilation of Halloween short stories I've written every October for the children since they were young. The stories became a tradition, and in rereading them, I find much I still like. A quick dip in the monster pond is always fun during Halloween.

Spiders and ants, oh my

2011-08-15T16:50:00.000-04:00

I don't know if it's the heat, the drought, a combination of both, or simply that my house seems hospitable, but we've been webbed by spiders and attacked by ants to an extraordinary degree this year. Normally, I bat down only those webs that are the most obnoxious (which means most of them), and hope the spiders get the hint. This year, they aren't getting with the program. I swipe, they re-spin, I bat, they stick out their tongues at me and go "na-nanny-boo-boo."

Don't get me started on the ants. If the afterlife is anything as described in Eastern philosophies, I'm heading straight to hell. Killing those little suckers has become all-consuming. They invaded the pantry, they drowned in the honey jar, they've gorged on dog and cat food left on the floor by accident. It's personal. I don't like chemicals around food, so I've had to throw away most of the pantry items, scrub with bleach, and start over. ARRGH.

I get that they're persistent and they serve some greater good in our environment, but I'm out of patience. Patience. That which I do not possess.

Which leads me to uploading books for Kindle into the Amazon store. Hours of my life have dribbled away into the ether as I fool with the program. It seems simple enough. Should be. So why am I half bald with tearing my hair out by the roots?

The good news is that I've finally (and I reiterate - FINALLY) managed to upload a collection of sweet, romantic short stories that I've written over time. These happen to be my favorites. They're fun to write, I take a break from the darker work, and sometimes they give me a giggle when I need one.
The title is: THE PATH TO LOVE, and it should be "live" in the next 24 hours or so.

I hope. If uploading it was as successful as fighting the ants, I'm in trouble.

What a wonderful librarian!

2011-08-10T12:43:00.000-04:00

Having a daughter who is a librarian means I pay a lot more attention to the subject of libraries, natch. I just read an article about a woman in Portland who brings the library to the homeless, courtesy of her bike and a basket of books. What a great idea!

Libraries are the final frontier of freedom in this country, I always say.
They're the ultimate defenders of the First Amendment.

Here's the full article: http://www.csmonitor.com/World/Making-a-difference/Change-Agent/2011/0810/Laura-Moulton-brings-books-to-the-homeless-by-bike

Only a phone call away . . .

2011-08-09T10:44:00.000-04:00

This morning's paper had a huge picture of ladies in India working a call center that helps U.S. children with their math. The gist of the article was that India has boatloads of good engineering schools, but no jobs for their graduates. Ergo, many of them tutor math to American kids who have to phone in for help halfway around the world.

What is wrong with this picture? I find nothing wrong with engineering grads earning money tutoring. In fact, it's a great idea. But are there no math tutors in the U.S.? Is there a famine of math-savvy U.S. grads who can help children understand what's going on with Euclid? (Don't ask me, I hated Geometry.) And that leads me to another question: Why is there a need for a big call center for math tutoring in the first place? Why aren't kids learning this stuff in school, and if they aren't, why aren't teachers helping them after school?

Wait, I forgot about one of my daughter's English teachers in public high school. My daughter slaved over a paper, turned it in on time, and never got it back. Never got a grade on it. The teacher didn't have time during her contracted in-school hours to read and grade the papers, so no big deal. It didn't matter that my child really put her heart and soul into that paper. When the teacher departed school after her contracted classroom hours, she baked pies to sell. It seemed baking was more her passion than teaching. Besides, her contract specified how many minutes she was at work in the building, and that was all she performed.

This teacher was in stark contrast to the same daughter's Algebra teacher who met with her after school in eighth grade to help her. As a result, that was the one stellar year of math for my child. She understood what was going on.

She didn't have to phone India for someone to explain equations.

So many teachers sacrifice so much to help our children learn. I stand in awe of their dedication. Yet what's happening in our system, with standardized testing taking over real teaching, is criminal. Teachers must file mountains of paperwork, teach to the standardized test, and somewhere along the line, many lose their passion for real education. I get it.

But phoning India for tutors? Come on people, are we really incapable of teaching our own children?

Questions

2011-08-05T16:33:00.000-04:00

I make no secret of the fact that I think Vogler's THE WRITERS JOURNEY is the hottest thing since Prada sunglasses. Not that I own Prada sunglasses, but a girl can wish, right? I do, however, own two copies of Vogler's book, just in case one of them falls to pieces from hard use. Believe me, it gets hard use.

Vogler asks some dead-on questions that I try to answer before I start writing. If the answers change and the work progresses, so be it. I'm not married to the original answers, just the process of asking them.
So what are they, you ask? Voila, and thanks to Mr.Vogler:

1. What is your hero's greatest fear?
2. What is the book's metaphor?
3. What are the character's inner and outer problems?
4. What is the ordeal?
5. What aspect of the hero is resurrected?

Vogler pretty much follows Campbell when it comes to story structure, therefore it's classic and time-honored. How can you go wrong with that? If you read Vogler, you'll find concrete examples from films illustrating some of the terms in the questions, such as "ordeal" and "resurrection." It's a writer thing, not religious. Well, it can be religious. Don't get me started. . . .

I like to ask what my hero wants above all else. What's the one thing that's beyond reach? If I can distill the story into one sentence (Until you've lost everything, you'll never be able to get it back) and see if that sentence works for every major character, because the secondary characters are on a journey of their own that mirrors that of the hero. That's for another blog, however.

BTW, anyone else think Rufus Sewell as Aurelio Zen on PBS is hot, hot, hot? Wowzer, I sure do.

The Inner Critic

2011-08-02T22:29:00.000-04:00

The IC is a horrible, slimy-mouthed, bloodshot-eyed, filthy, stinking beast. I think every writer faces it, and most of us at one time or another have to deal with it in just about every aspect of our lives. It attacks when we're tired, when we're feeling stressed, and especially when the work isn't going well. It's easy enough to say how to deal with this monster, but how do you really put the words into action?

I've found if I say out loud (and really loudly, when I'm alone and no one can hear me talking to myself, because, really, aren't writers crazy enough?) "STOP IT. Cut it out! Don't do this to yourself!" Verbalizing the command gives it more of an impact, at least it does for me. I can choose to stick to the positive path, and I will. The dark way into negativity is no fun, so why would I want it?

Next, I reaffirm that I CAN. There's no problem you can't solve if you just work at it. The IC monster who whispers in your ear "you can't do this, it's too hard, you don't know what you're doing and you never will" is speaking in MY voice to me. WTH? If it's my voice in my head, I sure as shootin' can shut it down. And after I tell it to take a hike, I tell myself it was a lying bit of nothing, and I don't have to buy that load of offal. Sure, I can do it! What's to stop me? Only myself, and I won't do that.

Next, the argument is that your best just isn't good enough. To heck with that noise. Of course, your best is good enough. Because you're a good __________(fill in the blank). You work hard, and if you don't know what you're doing right away, you'll figure it out. My best, and yours, is an infinite number in this equation. It never runs out of room. It's all we can do, our best, and it is enough. Know it. Reaffirm it. Wear it as your writing armor.

Hope some of this helps those of you who want to throw the manuscript in the fireplace. It's saved many a book of mine, LOL!

Short Story - Frye Forgets

2011-08-01T12:45:00.001-04:00

Thought I'd do something different today. I have a bunch of really short stories I've played with through the years, as a way to get my writing self jogged back into a project. Sometimes I just need to play with different characters or a genre I'm not comfortable with, to get the brain working again. Sometimes an idea pops into my head that's not novel length-worthy, but it won't leave me alone. I'm not a natural short story writer, far from it. The genre is one of the toughest around. Every word has to count tenfold.

This is one of those stories. Just remember, it's copyrighted 2011. Tracy

Frye Forgets

Frye locked the car door and leaning his head against the blast of icy wind, scrunching his eyes shut. He couldn’t stand to look at the Ford, much less drive it, but it was all he had, and he had to get to work. With no public transportation to the lab, he was stuck. Jamming the key in his jacket pocket, he hoisted his briefcase chest high, using it to protect his midsection from the battering of the storm. No precipitation, not yet. Just enough wind to bowl over trailers and scoop the roofs off Walmarts. A high, sustained, deadly wind that shut down schools and businesses all over town. Even with the weather, he preferred going to work. Staying in his apartment alone wasn’t an option.

Waving to the guard who recognized him, Frye hurried to the elevators. He never shared small talk with anyone in the building. He was there to work, and work he must - keep his brain busy deciphering the code of the universe and time. If he let his mind take its own course, he remembered every detail of that day so clearly he ended up in the men’s room, vomiting anything in his stomach.

“Dr. Carson, you’re here!” The lab assistant who was assigned last night’s duty rubbed his eyes like a two year old, his smile just as innocent and happy. Frye’s heart stuttered.

“No traffic, that’s for sure.” Don’t think about children, he warned himself. His lab coat from the back of his chair was already across his shoulders as Bailey shifted last night’s data from the computer under his nose.

“I was just about to call you. See this?” Bailey pointed to a line of dark squiggles. “Found it about two minutes ago when I was doing another review.” He thrust the papers into Frye’s hands.

Frye remained standing, the reams of computer paper clutched close to his face. “Are you sure this wasn’t a printer malfunction?” His eyes shone.

Bailey shook his head. “Flip back to page forty-one. Exactly an hour earlier. And on every page on the hour, just like clockwork.” His eyes danced and he could hardly keep his hands still.

Frye’s utter stillness nonplussed him. “Aren’t you excited? I mean, this is what we’ve been looking for, right? The cosmic burp?”

“Or the cosmic fart. It could be nothing.” Frye glanced at the phone on his desk. Where is the rest of the staff? He should call everyone and let them know what Bailey had found. Deep inside the research lab, the wind outside was forgotten. “Let’s go through the video tapes.”

He should wait for Herb Mason, his boss. Herb would provide the backup he’d need when presenting the data for verification. Bailey was just a kid, his degree too lowly to count.

“Set tape one up already. Figured you’d want to see it.” Bailey grinned. “We got it this time, Dr. Carson. They can’t say we didn’t!”

“They’ll say we’re a bunch of crackpots if we aren’t dead on.” Trying to squelch Bailey’s excitement was like kicking kittens. Didn’t help him one bit, made him angrier at himself. Did he dare hope? Was this the day he’d be able to make it right?

The video showed the complete utter blackness of the room. A short burst of light, and the apple on the floor was illuminated as it must have been in the garden when Eve’s eyes first lit on it. Red and luscious. The darkness swallowed the fruit almost instantly. Again, the procedure repeated. Apple. Black. Red. Dark. The pulse of light throbbed faster and faster.

Bailey and Frye both rubbed their eyes. No one could watch the entire shift, that was why they’d arranged for video monitors.

“Here, here’s when it hit the first time!” Bailey slowed down the replay.

This time the burst of light showed nothing on the floor, nothing at all. The apple was gone. With shaking fingers, Frye hit fast forward on the machine, and watched the counter until just before the end of one hour. Light struck the apple like a shot through space and time onto the floor.

Bailey cheered, hooting like a kid with a new toy. “See that, doc, see it? We did it, I mean, you did it!” He pumped Frye’s hand up and down.

“We’ll see. It could have been a malfunction in the tape.”

“What about the sensor? It confirmed the disappearance.” Bailey stabbed a finger at the video control. “See that? It happened again. Look, Dr. Carson. Take a look, for heaven’s sake!”

Eyes shut, Frye refused to acknowledge what Bailey was telling him. If he did, he would have the chance he’d been praying he’d have for the past five years. His wife hadn’t said any of those words, she’d just walked out the door of their house and never come back.

He’d said them, and worse. Murderer. That’s what he really was.

“Call the team.” Now was the time to test the project with a live subject. A rat first, then a monkey. His scientific mind raced down the list of possible test subjects. Bailey was on the phone, breaking the news in an excited, little boy voice that almost squealed excitement.

Frye’s hands shook. When the team assembled, they’d begin testing the possibilities with endless patience, scientific precision. He’d never get another chance to see if he could change the past. He kept his face averted as Bailey waved the phone at him, trying to get his attention.

“Dr. Carson, Dr. Witmeyer wants to talk to you.”

“Tell him I’ll call him back in a few minutes. Got to check something first.” Frye pressed his palm to the security lock. The door hissed open. Cold air, colder than that around Frye’s heart, drove into his exposed skin. Punching the release combination, Frye waited impatiently for the key pad to rise from its protected vault. Thinking of his wife’s face when he’d told her what he’d done, he programmed the sequence just as he had last night before he left the lab. He locked the door behind him as he stepped into the empty room. Took a step towards the center. Pivoted, turned back, jammed his pen into the lock to ruin it. No one would open that door for hours.

This time he sat in the middle of the dark room, his arms wrapped around his legs, his head on his knees, eyes shut. The light began to play over him in short, brilliant flashes. Protecting his eyes from its intensity was futile. Accepting the pain, he thought of that day when he’d destroyed everything he held most dear. Annie had been in such a hurry that morning, hopping around on one high heel while she zipped her skirt and hunted for her briefcase.

“Now don’t forget, you’re picking Brad up as well as taking him. The day care closes at six, so don’t work late no matter how important it seems. Do you hear me?” Tucking a piece of hair behind her ear, she’d bounced up to peck him on the cheek. “I’ll call you when the banquet’s over after the conference, let you know I’m on my way home. Dinner for you and Brad’s in the fridge.”

“Have fun,” Frye chirped as he kissed the air where she’d been a second before. “We guys’ll have a hot time tonight. Expecting the Dallas cheerleaders over for drinks later.”

Laughter followed her out the door. Brad gurgled happily when Frye strapped his car seat in the Ford. His blond hair stood in spikes, making him look like a two year old punk rocker. Frye smiled at his son, locked the back door to keep him safely in the car, and pulled out of his driveway.

He’d been working hard on a new project. Thinking about the next step in procedures, he drove by rote to the lab. Switching off the engine, he listened to it tick as it cooled off. The day was already getting to be a scorcher, so he cracked his window a hair. He was forgetting something, but it’d come to him as soon as he got into the office.

Hours later when ambulance lights and police sirens filled the parking lot, he’d glanced out the window and wondered what was up. When Witmeyer ran into his office, his face paler than usual, his eyes wide with horror, he still didn’t have a clue.

Annie with her hollow eyes and tear-rough cheeks watched the body of their son lowered into the ground in his little white casket. Wearing the black dress she’d donned for the funeral, she’d stared at him without seeing the man she’d married. Frye knew she saw only a monster who would forget a baby in a car seat and let him die in the oven of the Ford. Whatever she thought of him, he thought worse.

The shards of light pierced through him like lion’s claws. Losing consciousness, he didn’t mind the pain so much as the fear that he wouldn’t make it back to the right time, the right place.

Annie’s face peered at him from the second floor balcony. “Where’re your car keys? It’ll be easier to park the Ford downtown than the van.” She wasn’t angry. Or sad. She seemed . . . normal. It was as if she still loved him.

Frye fumbled in his pocket and remembered the keys were in his jacket at work.

          “I lost them,” he lied. “You’ll have to take Brad to daycare. I’ll get a ride to work with one of the guys.”
        “Okay,” Annie groaned. “But from now on, I’m pinning them to your jockeys. How many sets of keys have you lost this month?”
         “I have no idea,” he answered with heartfelt honesty. “Let me get Brad into the car seat for you.”
            His son beamed up at him as he lifted him from his high chair, Cheerios stuck to his chin. Nestling the baby head under his chin, Frye breathed in the sweet scent of soap and innocence. Oh yes, thank you, thank you, he thought as Brad reached up and tugged at Frye’s pocket, trying to steal a pen. “Dada go now,” Brad ordered.
          “You’re going with mom, pal,” Frye sang. “Your mom would never forget you.”

The high winds knocked out the power station. Electric lines snapped and hissed when they lit into the ground. Backups failed. Frye’s world blasted into flying cracks of black and white as the experiment exploded behind the jammed lock of the lab.

Novel Lovers

2011-07-28T11:30:00.000-04:00

I have a Lucite paperweight with bright orange letters that say "Readers make Novel Lovers." It makes me smile every time I read it. No, not what you're thinking. Get your mind out of the gutter!

Reading has been such a constant in my life, I can't imagine where I'd be without it. Books took me places I never could have imagined going. Mary Renault's Theseus books carried me into the land of myth, Kristen Lavansdatter to ancient Scandinavia, The French Lieutenant's Woman to Victorian England. Who hasn't been transported to the War of Northern Aggression's South by Gone with the Wind and into the Great Depression in Alabama, and the heart of racism, by To Kill a Mockingbird?

I have much to be grateful for, and reading is high on the list. Support literacy. Tutor if you can. Help someone learn to love books as we love them. It's a wonderful gift.

Apologies

2011-07-28T05:12:00.002-04:00

I deleted the last post upon realizing that it not only sounded smug, but also cruel in light of poor Amy Winehouse's passing. Major mea culpa.

Shirts

2011-07-25T13:03:00.000-04:00

I must confess, until I was very pregnant with our first child, I never considered men's clothes as being anything other than for ... men. Duh. But while I was trying to hide the fact that I was as big as a barn (I was so delusional), I wore my beloved's sweat pants around the house, with a big sweatshirt on top. This was during the weeks before Christmas, when it was cold enough to layer and pretend I was still a size 8. During the summer before, I wore tent dresses and a maternity bathing suit that hid nothing. And I was nowhere as big in those early months, so now you understand why I was delusional in thinking those sweat pants were a great camouflage.

Fast forward a few years (okay, so she's now in grad school), and I have rediscovered men's clothing. One of my beloved's polo shirts found its way into my closet and I grabbed it out of desperation. I'd sweat through all of my cotton knit shirts, and wanted a clean shirt pronto. What a serendipitous moment. Why hadn't anyone told me men's polo shirts are way cool? Neat little band around the sleeve, heavier knit, nice collar, great fabric, and colors I like. I put it on and promptly told my beloved he wasn't getting it back, period.

How often, as writers, do we stick with the tried-and-true? What does it take to force us into another style? Sometimes we do it by accident, sometimes by design. The point is, if you don't stretch your writing muscles and tread into foreign territory, you're probably going to wonder for the rest of your life what you mighta, coulda, maybe shoulda done as a writer. So dig into those controversial subjects. Play with language. Come up with characters totally unlike anyone you've ever met.

Take a chance. I love my beloved's polo shirts. And he ain't gettin' this one back!

Hot Stuff

2011-07-21T14:13:00.000-04:00

No, not my cutie pie of a Beloved. Hot, as in where the heck did this blast furnace come from? Wherever it was, it can go back now. The garden is gasping, and even the squirrels are too whacked out from the stupendous temperatures to chase what's left of the vegetable garden. (Note to self: next year, it's a cutting garden. Flowers only.) Me, I walk out the front door and instantly, I look like I just pulled myself from the swimming pool. And not in a pleasant way. But I'm warning myself to lay off the complaining. It's much worse elsewhere.

I can't imagine how hot it must be in the Horn of Africa. As I read about the plight of the Somalians who've endured more than two years of searing drought, I feel like such a wimp. Our American society can't conceive of that kind of devastation, the land stripped bare of anything green, water disappearing into constantly blue skies, crops and children dying in front of our eyes. Where is the American generosity of spirit that answered the need after the earthquake in Haiti, the tsunami in Japan? Does a long, spread out disaster not register on our radar?

We must help these people. Go online and check out the charitable organizations with stellar reputations who are trying to aid the Somali refugees, and give generously to help these desperate people. Please.

Learning

2011-07-20T07:08:00.001-04:00

I never want to stop learning. Years ago, I bought a copy of The Iliad in ancient Greek, and I fully intend on reading it someday. I may be a hundred and ten, but I'll get there. Growing up all over the world gave me educational advantages most kids don't have. While I attended traditional schools, some of my best education came from outside the classroom. I think that's why I'm not wedded for life to traditional learning models.

When the architect daughter was in lower school, she wasn't showing her math work step by step.Teachers frown on this. I realized, after having a very rational discussion with her, that her mind didn't need those steps to solve math problems. She was bored by the tedious, lengthy process, since she knew the answers (and they were correct). The librarian daughter was a hands-on learner. If she could hold it, make it, see it, she had that for life. Step-by-step worked well for her.

Just as there is no one correct way to learn, since we are all uniquely individual, there's no one way to write a book, a short story, or a poem. We each need to find our own process, the one that fits our creative process. I've found some "how to write" books wonderfully helpful (i.e. Vogler's THE WRITER'S JOURNEY), and others are simply torture. I did a one-day seminar with a well known agent who has written a couple of "how-to" books, and they have simply and effectively crippled my writing process. I came out of the session feeling like a failure and paralyzed by not being able to create the way he said we writers should.

Horse feathers. Learning to put words down in tangible form is intrinsically tied to how we learn any other skill. It's your process, so you need to figure out what works for you. Are you a plotter, with detailed chapter outlines? Good for you! Or is half the fun figuring it out as you go along? Stick with it if it's giving you joy. Don't let anyone mess with your head.

It's the only way you'll get where you want to go.

Farewell, Coach Taylor and Tami, Tim and Tyra, Matt and Julie...

2011-07-16T13:12:00.001-04:00

"Friday Night Lights" has now gone, officially, to the great DVD boxed set in the sky. Five years of great characters, super storytelling, and a real Texas locale left memories about people who aren't real, but who felt real. I'm going to miss it horribly. Aside from "Upstairs, Downstairs" (the original) and "Poldark," (both on PBS), I can't remember being so engrossed and enamoured of fictional characters on the screen. FNL did what a great story does: it focused on a few characters, their flaws, their fears, their failures, and let us feel how they felt as they struggled to succeed.

At its heart, it was about a marriage and family. The Taylor family was no less important than the football team family or the Saracen family. They all got equal air time. When it became clear that Matt's grandmother was losing it, we understood his anguish and inability to know the right thing to do. Tami Taylor's fights with her daughter Julie are echoed every day in real houses. Yet the characters and their lives were all strung together with love, and we, the viewers, knew it. No matter how bad things got (and they got pretty ugly sometimes), we were sure of the love, even if the characters seemed to have forgotten about it.

Love always triumphed. How can a series based on that fundamental go wrong? FNL did everything right, and the last episode was the best of all. Farewell, Dillon, Texas. I wouldn't want to live there, but I loved being with you for one Friday night every week.

Following your gut

2011-07-15T13:02:00.000-04:00

Sometimes people try to do the right thing. A lot depends on what it is. Friends and family get the first priority, but then it gets dicey. And sometimes, they just don't know what to do, so they do nothing.

I was listening to the Jaycee Dugard interview, and what struck me was how the two campus security ladies followed their instincts when they saw Phillip Garrito, with two young girls, on campus. He wasn't breaking any laws, but they just felt something was off kilter. So they did some background on him, and as a result, they started the ball rolling that lead to the rescue of Jaycee.

They did something when their instincts warned the situation wasn't right. How many of us would do the same? Once, several years ago, I was leaving the mall when I saw a young teenaged couple arguing quite loudly. The guy was much larger than the girl, and he kept grabbing her and jerking her back when she tried to leave. I watched from my rearview mirror, then turned around and drove up beside them. I told myself that I would want someone to intervene if one of my daughters were in trouble in public, so I rolled down my window and asked if she was okay.

I got a typical snippy teenager response, which didn't bother me one bit. I hung around them a few more minutes, and the situation seemed defused, so I finally took off. At least they weren't yelling, and he wasn't grabbing her by then.

I have made a pact with myself. I don't care if I'm called a busybody. If I see something my gut tells me is dicey, I'm going to do something about it. If it’s nothing, great, I’m happy. If not, well, I won’t have to worry that I could have helped someone and didn’t.

I couldn’t live with that.

Peas and Pages

2011-07-11T13:09:00.000-04:00

The garden, sigh. Big sigh. I doubt I'll see a tomato or an ear of corn. This time it's not squirrels or bugs. (Actually, ants destroyed the zucchini.) I think it's just a long stretch of horrific heat and no rain. Watering just didn't cut it. Then the torrential downpours beat everything to pulp. Today I harvested all of four string beans. All that work for four string beans, another big sigh.

It's like a nonproductive writing day. Hours at the keyboard. Working through the rough parts, you hope. Trying to keep the momentum going, praying you'll salvage something after all those pages. Then you read it back the next morning and realize there is exactly one four sentence paragraph worth keeping.

On the up side, that's one good paragraph. On the down side, it's just a single paragraph after all that work.

I think I'm going to call the squirrels to finish off what's left of the garden, then I'm getting back to work on the WIP.

Cake Pans

2011-07-07T22:52:00.001-04:00

Yes, that is correct. The topic is cake pans. I am the new owner of a pair of bright red Kitchen Aid silicon(e?)cake pans. They wiggle like Jello, but boy howdy, do they look cool.
I couldn't wait to try them out, so, because they're red, I made a red velvet cake. I couldn't wait to get them out of the oven and shake the cooked layers, effortlessly, onto the cake plate.

You see, I've been using a set of cake pans I received as a shower gift lo these many years ago. Many, many, many years ago. I know all their quirks, how much longer they need to stay in the oven with certain types of batter, and how hard it is to remove the cake in perfect shape. (The nonstick surface bit the dust eons ago.)

Flicking my red velvet cake loose from the sides of my new red, space-aged caked pans, I made a fatal mistake. I flipped without checking. And lost a hunk of cake stuck to the bottom of the pan. Yikes.

I gazed with fond nostalgia at my battered old pans. It's like using Word Perfect. I knew all the keyboard shortcuts without having to think of them. But now WP is anathema, and I have had to brave the new-to-me world of Word. I have navigated the basics. But my heart belongs to Word Perfect.

The next cake is going in the old pans, just because I can. Take that, Word!

Juries

2011-07-06T23:39:00.000-04:00

Many years ago (and no, I'm not saying how many), I took a two week course for trial lawyers who had been in practice a minimum of five years. We were videotaped in the courtroom, trying cases in front of mock juries. Intense, effective, and an eye-opener in how we were perceived as trial attorneys by jurors, the course provided one huge eye-opener for me. A microphone was placed in the jury room, and we lawyers were able to hear the jurors discuss the cases we presented.

Thus was born my belief in the jury system. In jurors, to be specific. The jurors I heard showed such commonsense, I was in awe. They cut through the razzzle-dazzle, the bull pucky, the grandstanding, to dig out the salient points. This may not happen in every jury deliberation, but I'm sticking to my faith in the jury system, no matter what.

And that's why, when a supposedly slam-dunk case is lost, I blame the lawyers for not providing the jury with the evidence. And that's all there is to it.

The Fourth

2011-07-04T11:03:00.000-04:00

When I was a kid, we always went to see the post fireworks today. Not only were they pretty great, because who blows up things better than the military, but they were also a rare event. We didn't have fireworks after a ball game, or in victory lane at the end of a Nascar race. So, every time I see fireworks dotting the skies, I think of the Fourth of July. That's all there is to it.

Often, on military bases, the Fourth is a time when families and the public are invited to climb through a tank or shimmy down a narrow ladder into the bowls of a ship. I even got to sit in the cockpit of a huge plane once, I don't know its proper designation. It humanized where our daddies worked, and we knew they didn't just sit at a desk like other fathers. Not that we knew other kids with parents with normal jobs, because we went to school on base most of the time, and our friends' fathers did what ours did. Unless they were generals or admirals, then they rode desks.

Also, a bit of advice should you find yourself living on a military base. Don't let your little terrier attack the commanding general's boxer, and win the fight. Not good for your career.

Enjoy today eceryone, and remember why we celebrate it. Freedom is too precious to take for granted.

Thank a Teacher

2011-07-02T21:34:00.000-04:00

My eldest is home for the holiday weekend, and we were having a quick lunch at a local hangout. Three people came in after us and took the booth behind ours. Immediately, my daughter said "I think that's my eighth grade Algebra teacher!" Then she came up with her name.

Mind you, this child is now finishing up her master's degree at the University of South Carolina. She took two years off between her B.A. and starting her MLIS. She had this teacher a few years back, about eleven. So she got up, asked if this woman was her math teacher,(she was), and proceeded to tell her she was the only teacher to ever make math comprehensible to her.

I could tell the teacher was pleased, and she thanked my daughter for saying so. I hope she knows what an impact she's had on the lives of her students. At least she does for one.

Although my daughter still hates math.

The Future of Books

2011-06-30T14:28:00.002-04:00

I just listened in on an O'Reilly Media web seminar (webinar?) on the future of publishing digitally. All I can say is, I'm flat on the floor, panting for breath, and wondering how my life has crossed into this insane publishing world. I mean, I started writing with pen and ink (and now and then, pencil!) on paper, which I would then painstakingly type up on a manual typewriter, using carbon paper so I'd have a copy. Lord help me with correcting typos. The day Wite-Out was invented, I wanted to kiss the woman's feet who came up with the formula. (Her son was one of the Monkees, I understand. But I digress.)

Now the newest thing is constantly changing content, so the latest information is constantly streaming onto the page. Videos. Animation. Web links. Highlight a character's name, and her bio pops up in a separate box with all the relevant info so you can remember who she is. Videos inserted in text. Read a paragraph about the Battle of Hastings, and you can see a quick reenactment on video! Oh my stars. I'm ready to run for the hills, where I will live without running water, electricity, or gas generators.

Okay, I take back the last sentence. After Hurricane Isabelle struck, we had no power, no hot water, no laundry, we had to boil water to drink, and NO ICE for ten days. Primitve living does not agree with me. Especially when there's no power to plug in the laptop and iPad.

Part of me is scared silly of all these new applications ready to juice up the plain text page. Another part of me says, hey, it's just like redesigning the Mustang. They made it better, hotter, faster, and sure enough, safer. Roll with it. Get the lingo down. Once that hurdle is behind me, I can see all kinds of possibilites for authors on the Web.

I will not be a stick in the mud, I promise.

Back in the Saddle again...

2011-06-27T14:13:00.000-04:00

Now that I'm off my high horse, (see prior posting "Messy"), I have to confess I came home from the apartment search and scrubbed every inch of our several bathrooms from top to bottom, with bleach! All it did was make my eyes sting and satisfy my compulsion to make something really, really clean. Guess that was enough, because today The WIP is top of the list.

Which is a good thing. The cat is happy I'm back at my desk because it means my lap awaits for several hours, and I'm happy, too. Sometimes it's hard to pick up the threads you've steadily been weaving, and other times, that step away provides clarity. As in, what in the name of all that's sacred was I thinking when I wrote that??? When that happens, I'm grateful because it means I don't have even bigger snarls to pick through. Stop that puppy in its tracks!

Reading aloud is the greatest advice I can give a new writer. First, you see the typos more clearly. (Or not, in my case.) Next, you hear the awkward phrasing. Third, little mistakes jump out. Did I make his eyes blue in the last chapter, and now they're brown? Yikes. For me, I am reading as a reader by the third or so run-through. Am I still interested in this story, these characters? If not, why not?

Time to get the fingers on the keyboard. My bleach-pruned, poor little fingers.

Messy

2011-06-25T11:52:00.001-04:00

We've been apartment hunting for our newly minted architect, who has a job! Yes, a job, in this economy. While she's out of town, we've been checking out some places with a realtor. All I can say is, does no one clean up their homes? It was all I could do to to not grab the vacuum cleaner, duster, and start making beds.

I am not a clean freak, I swear. General living mess doesn't get my knickers in a twist. But good gracious, who taught these people how to keep house? I'm not talkimg a few dishes in the sink. Is this general lack of respect for the home environment indicative of our society? Do we just not care on a general basis? Is home not where our hearts are anymore?

I'm probably over-reacting. I keep telling myself that. But I don't think so.

America, clean up, starting at home. There, I've shown my bossy-pants side. Why? Because Mama said so.

Finding Time

2011-06-23T07:21:00.001-04:00

Despite a soaking rain the other night, the garden is once again looking like my dry skin in winter. Minus the hairy legs. (Who shaves her legs in the winter? I mean, really . . .) I'll water today, since rain isn't on the TV radar, but I can't complain too much. Last winter,I was clinging to memories of long, hot days for dear life.

I'm peeping over the edge of my iPad to see my shiny pink toe nails. We girls have a tradition in our house, the toes get painted for sandal wear at the start of summer, then all bets are off. Back to work time hits when the sandals are shoved into their boxes. The real problem for me is, the WIP needs work now. And the distractions are, to be understated, crazy.

How to keep focused as a writer when outside forces, family, gardens, etc., grab your painted toes and drag you down the equivalent of a primrose path? Heaven knows, I'm no expert. I've come to realize that life is messy, we do the best we can, and pray that we get as much crammed into it as possible. I don't intend on making my exit in a quiet manner. I'll probably be complaining "I have too much to do to put up with this nonsense."

The book needs a higher place on the priority list. I don't want to look back and wonder why I left so many half-finished manuscripts.

Monuments to the Dead and Injustice

2011-06-20T14:28:00.001-04:00

Found this on Yahoo - it's the stele for a gladiator from the Black Sea region of Turkey who ended up dead as the result of the "cunning and treachery" of the referee, the summa radis, I believe is the term. Not only is it remarkably clear and unscarred by 1800 years of natural elements, but it also tells a story. The dead gladiator defeated his opponent and stepping back, waited for the verdict from the crowd as to the fate of the other fighter. However, evidently the ref ruled that the man on his butt lost his footing, so he got his weapons back, the fight started over, and the stele marks what was a bad deal for the first winner of the fight. He lost the second go-round.

This monument to injustice survived 1800 years. Do we know anything else about these men? No. Still, doesn't the story resonate even today? Bad calls in sports still happen, but lives aren't lost as a result. Maybe champtionships are lost, and that's a bummer, but a tragedy? Maybe for diehard fans.

Still, think about the bad call in battle, one that costs men their lives. (Pickett's Charge, anyone?) The wrong decision from a biased judge. (*caveat, none of the ones I know.*). The deliberate falsification of evidence. Malfeasance by elected officials that impacts a whole community. We can all think of injustices that happen on a small, local level in this world. Yet will anyone know those story thousands of years from now?

This one lone stele commemorates a death that shouldn't have happened, calls the ref a liar to his face, and manages to engage us artistically as well. That's the sort of monument we don't see anymore.

On the other hand, what if the call was the right one, and the stele is sour grapes? We'll never know.

How does she look?

2011-06-17T15:26:00.002-04:00

I normally eat my noon time sandwich on the patio, but it was looking ominous today. So I sat down to watch the episode of RUBY (love her) on DVR, and instead, I got How Do I Look? Why oh why do all the women on this show who are supposedly fashionistas look as frumpy, or worse than, the women in need of new wardrobes? Trashy is another good word. The whole point of the show is that looks and clothes define the person. Usually there's an emotional component to the "bad" dresser. Yuck. What a stretch. And talk about cruel! Some of the so-called friends are totally unfiltered.

The worst part is, the final product isn't so wonderful, at least the ones I've seen. Why do women allow themselves to be tortured like this? You don't see men going through the clothes grinder on TV. Judging others is almost a national past time, and it's not something wonderful.

Be who you are, now that's a show I'd watch. Be the best you want to be. And above all, be happy.

Dump the "friends" who tear you down, before you do anything else.

New Web Site

2011-06-16T22:19:00.000-04:00

I wanted something different, not the typical writer site. While I wasn't sure exactly what that entails, I knew what I didn't want. Fortunately for me, I know a creative type who happens to be good with computers as well. Guess holding her in my lap before she could talk while she played Sesame Street games on the PC has paid off. Yeppers, one of my offspring took the home page photo (real black and white film!), and the other spent hours writing code. Give it a look at www.tracydunham.com and see what you think.

On another note, I read something that said second drafts, rewrites, are usually worse than the first draft. Since I depend on those rewrites to straighten out the most obvious messes I've gotten the book into, I must disagree. However, I do think it's easy to lose that first draft enthusiasm, the eager tumble of words, in over-polishing. It's a fine line, for sure. Second, third, or more drafts are my norm. A book is an ever-evolving creature.

Like all of us.

Getting it Right

2011-06-13T21:33:00.003-04:00

Gardening is a whole lot like work at the beginning. I should know - I spent this afternoon (no humidity, yeah!) digging up scraggly pansies and replacing them. Couldn't find the exact shade of salmon vinca I wanted, made do with something else, and am still not satisfied. I'll work at finding what I want, and until I do, I won't give up.

It felt a whole lot like I was starting a new book. Searching for the exact opening sentence. The right words to make the book "sound" right. Going through racks and racks of plants, hunting and pecking for the precisely correct color. Openings are so important - they can make or break you. Just like a flower garden in the front yard sets the tone for the rest of the plantings.

As I drive down a two-laned road near my house, I marvel at those homeowners who have bedecked their roadsides with a jubilation of colorful plants. Riots of color. I get their pride, their color schemes, how hard they've worked to make that first glimpse of their properties just so. Other houses have bedraggled entrances, weeds sky high. The yards may be neatly trimmed, but that first impression is one of neglect and laissez faire. Too bad.

Those first three pages of a novel are, like the gardens I see near my house, crucial to how you'll perceive the rest of the story. Make them killer. Grab the readers' "eyes," and they'll keep going for the rest of the ride.

Goofing Off

2011-06-11T22:44:00.002-04:00

The Saturday list was more than a page long. Life has intervened this week, and regular chores, plus those little add-ons that zap hours like melting ice cream in hundred degree heat, have been pushed aside. Even the garden can't lure me, not in this heat. All the stuff I hate about summer, the heat, the humidity, take the joy out of playing in the garden as well. So any excuse will do to avoid the mundane, unless it's dire.

Today we decided to play. An antique car show. Lunch out. Some frivolous shopping. Chinese for dinner. A thunderstorm that drenched us. All in all, a lovely day. It's hard to step out of the regular world and into a different one, but it's something that we need to do to restore our batteries.

Heroes must move from the ordinary into the extraordinary world. That's when the adventure begins, the story starts, and we hang on for the ride. Make it a good one.

Firebirds and Conflagrations

2011-06-06T11:05:00.000-04:00

An elderly neighbor possesses a real treasure in her carport. Every day as I walk the hound past it, I wonder about the white Pontiac Firebird sitting on squishy tires, mildew marring its sides. The proud firebird on the hood is hidden under years of dirt. I know she drove it to work twenty years ago, but it hasn't moved since. Her vanity license plate, with her initials, is still in the bracket.

She's a sweet faced, white-haired little elderly lady who seldom leaves the house these days. I can't help but wonder at how she came to own this hot, fast car, and why. Did she start out on the local short track, driving Pontiacs? Or did she just always want to drive a car that made grown men drool? Although it's over twenty years old now, that Firebird still has "it."

Whatever the reason, I know my neighbor has a story that's probably more exciting than anything I have imagined. One day, I'll ask her.

On another note: We just saw the movie INCENDIES. All I can say is, wow. If you want fun, don't go. If you want to understand some of the recent history of Lebanon and delve into a heart breaker of a mystery, see it. Just make sure you're prepared for a tense, scary, tragic ride. I won't give away its ending, but you'll see it coming.

Just hold on tight.

City of Ashes

2011-06-01T08:51:00.002-04:00

Just finished reading Cassandra Clare's CITY OF ASHES. While it has some witty bits of dialogue, it is, at its heart, about teenagers whose parents have checked out on them. Clary's mother is in a self-induced coma, Jace's father abandoned him as a child, and then his adoptive mother hands him over to a sadistic, pathological official who proceeds to torture him. Yep, the adults in this book do not come off well. Oh, and a 300 year old warlock is in love with another teenager, Alec. Yewww. Didn't any editor pick up on the pedophilia? And didn't anyone give a hoot about the incestuous attraction between Clary and her brother, Jace? It's addressed, but not satisfactorily. Clary lusts after her sibling with totally adult feelings. Another big Yuck.

The dystopian world Clare has created is filled with demons and danger, and our teenage heroes are targets for the worst of both. I guess this book resonates with teenagers who feel they're alone in the world, fighting for their very survival. But it scares me that this series is a bestseller. What does it say about our society when kids grab onto story lines like pedophilia and incest and make them popular?

I remember reading Lloyd Alexander's award winning THE HIGH KING when it first came out umpteen million years ago, and thinking "what is this?" To feel better, the hero took a pill and voila, all better. A reflection of society? I fear so.

Can the same be said of Clare's series? I fear so even more.

Memorial Day

2011-05-29T13:08:00.003-04:00

When I was a kid, my Girl Scout troop spent Memorial Day weekend placing American flags on each grave in a military cemetery attached to an old (established in the early nineteenth century) army post. So there were a lot of graves. There we were, all of us in our uniforms with our Merit Badge sashes, wishing we were elsewhere. At least, I was. I found the whole thing creepy. I mean, sheesh, these were dead people!

Shows what a little idiot I was. I just today was discussing the history of Memorial Day with my beloved, which lead into Flanders Fields, and I realized this cache of information had bubbled up from the Girl Scout memory cells. So I can say I did learn something during my tour of Scouting duty, though not the girly things the dedicated and selfless GS leaders tried to teach us.

I did my best, during my one and only camping grip with the Scouts, to scare the tar out of my tent mates. During a roaring thunderstorm, with heavy army tents trembling in the high wind, I told ghost stories that had my imprisoned audience screaming for their mommies. Needless to say, it was suggested that I might want to go home. I never camped again with the Girl Scouts, and to this day, camping is one of my least favorite activities.

Unless it's an opportunity to scare people with creepy stories. Oh, wait, I don't have to camp to do that!

I miss the red crepe paper poppies everyone wore in their lapels on Memorial Day.

What ever happened to...

2011-05-27T23:15:00.002-04:00

Morals? Doing the right thing? Just plain, old - fashioned honesty? I guess cheating has become socially acceptable. I hear it's hard to stop it in the schools. I don't want to sound like a little Miss Goody Two Shoes (where did that reference arise?),but if I discover I've neglected to pay for something that was buried in a corner of my shopping cart (as happened last week with a tiny carton I didn't see when pulling stuff out for the conveyor belt), I'll go back into the store and pay for it. No big deal.

So I was totally taken aback while at a big box store today when I saw a nicely dressed, middle aged woman pop open a tube of hand cream and slather her hands with it. Right there in front of everyone, she put the used tube back on the shelf. I couldn't help myself, I blurted out "I hope you're going to pay for that." She gave me a disdainful glare and said "who are you, the manager?"

I almost went to find a manager, but I figured it was a lost cause. This woman was old enough to know better. This wasn't a store that put out samples for customers to try. She didn't give a rip that the person who ended up buying that hand cream was getting shortchanged. Talk about sticking it to the Golden Rule.

I gotta say, I wish shame hadn't gone out of style. That woman sure needed a dose of it.

Writing Business

2011-05-24T16:18:00.001-04:00

In this crazy business called writing, there's little certainty and a ton of variables. Money, particularly, is a dicey subject, and one most writers hate, all for various very good reasons. First, the author is normally on the bottom of the money pile. Unless you're Nora Roberts or Stephen King, of course. Most writers don't divulge their advances, which is the only real chance the writer has to make some moulah. A few are amazingly up front about money, and Susan Beth Pfeffer is one of them. There's also a "Show me the Money" list compiled by RWA's Brenda Hyatt, that lists the range for advances for most publishers. Check out her website - it was listed there once upon a time.

If you would like a detailed explanation of how advances and royalties work, check out Susan Pfeffer's blog entry for June 23, 2009. www.susanbethpfeffer.blogspot.com. I couldn't have done a better job.

I just read Pfeffer's Life as We Knew it, a YA about a world lost in climatic chaos after a meteor collides with Earth's moon. I loved the book, and it continues my reading streak of YA winners. I declare, YA writers are the best in the business.

Westerns Redux

2011-05-20T12:09:00.002-04:00

I'm on an author loop where the discussion recently has been about the status of Westerns. Several of us write, or have written them, and many of us remember, with great fondness, the old TV programs: The Rifleman, Bonanza, Have Gun Will Travel (my personal fav), Big Valley, and The Lone Ranger, etc. While some like Bonanza can be found on cable channels in reruns, I find myself not wanting to watch them again. Why, I wonder, since I adored them when they were new?

It's not just me who has matured. I think society has moved forward as well. Though the idea of a Paladin who helps the downtrodden is classic (Have Gun Will Travel), we need to see it within the context of our times. And times have changed. We no longer buy into the myth. Think Wikileaks. Think of political scandals now front and center. Anyone want to read about how a U.S. Senator was raped as a child? Our society can't buy into Good v. Evil and Good always wins. We know better. We lost in Vietnam. And maybe we weren't the good guys after all.

Whenever I catch a few minutes of Big Valley or some other old Western on TV, I try to remember where I was, what I was thinking, and why I liked it. It's a lovely trip down memory lane, but it's not where I want to live today. I'm all for the moment I'm in now, the future, and beyond. I've grown up, and so has our world.

It remains to be seen if it's for the better. I hope so.

Decompression

2011-05-18T09:46:00.002-04:00

First of all, let me tell you, getting rid of that awful autocorrect deal on the iPad is the best thing I ever did. Now I can take responsibility for my own errors, thank you very much. No more wondering why or how my typing slid into the Twilight zone. It's never been great, but sheesh! Autocorrect came up with some real lulus.

Speaking of lulus, I've been wiped out since all the graduation melee. I don't know if it's the long hours in the car, the excitement and crowds, or sleeping in a strange bed, or a combination of all of the above. Mostly, I think it's the noise. I've posted before about how much I crave quiet. Even a loud lawnmower can drive me batty when I'm working. Earphones, the sound-deadening kind, are my friend. Best friend, in fact. Now that everyone has gone home and I'm back in the groove, it's getting better. Deep breathing exercises. Total laziness for at least twelve hours. Ignore the house mess. Focus on the WIP. Yes, it's coming around.

But I may have to vacuum the dog fur in the office before I get going this a.m. That white stuff on the dark purple is just too weird. I'm considering dying the dog purple so this isn't an issue anymore. Do you think I could be arrested for doggy abuse?

Graduation Day

2011-05-13T21:07:00.002-04:00

It's hard to explain what I'm feeling as I pack to take off for my youngest's graduation after five years in architecture school. Pride, certainly, for she has worked hard and done well. Sadness, in a way, because she's now certifiably an adult. Well, chronologically an adult, but to me, she'll always be my baby. My dad is thrilled because he finally has someone else with a degree from his beloved Virginia Tech. Plus, she's the first person on the family with a Bachelors degree in Architecture. We have a slew of B.S., B.A., M.S. M.A., M.Ed., M.LS, and J.D. degrees. It's nice to have an architect after all the engineers, teachers, librarians, and lawyers.

Education at the bachelors level is less of a ticket into a job than it was a million years ago when I got my bachelors degree. Graduate school is almost a necessity. I always told my children to take a year or two off before starting their post-grad careers. Give yourself a chance to decompress, enjoy life, and figure out what you REALLY want to do.

You never know what path you never saw coming that will rise up and grab you by the ankles. This is coming from the Art History major who went to law school.

Anyway, we're all very proud of her, as we are of all our offspring. They've done remarkably well and turned into lovely young women. We're the fortunate ones, to get to see them blossom and grow up close and personal.

Short Hair

2011-05-12T15:49:00.001-04:00

No, not short hairS. Please!

I went through a phase last year where I was tired of my hair looking the same as that of every old lady. You know, short, practical, boring. Well, maybe not every old lady of my acquaintance, but most of the ones I don't know. In line on front of me at the grocery store. At the bank. Etc.

So, I decided to let it grow out. I figured I'd get it to the pony tail stage, and I could thread it through the back hoopy part of my race caps. I'd be cooler, I reasoned, with a tail swinging off the back of my head. So the hair grew, and it grew, and it grew. I was definitely feeling the late sixties, my hippie days with love bead headbands and unimpressive stringy brown tresses. Lots of tresses. I began to remember how hot hair is when it hit in the eighties one freaky day in March. Not groovy by a long shot.

So much for the sixties and pony tails. Found a cool and hip new hairdresser to wield her artistic razor through the minefield on my head, and behold, I'm back to short hair. Edgy, hip, cool short hair. I promise never to grow it out again.

For one thing, my Beloved didn't recognize me from the back. For another, it just wasn't flatterimg for this old broad. And for a third thing, it was too danged hot.

I'm a short hair kind of girl, and that's all there is to it.

What do we really know?

2011-05-10T17:10:00.003-04:00

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

2011-05-08T17:32:00.002-04:00

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!

2011-05-07T12:25:00.003-04:00

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

2011-05-05T09:37:00.002-04:00

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!

2011-05-01T20:29:00.003-04:00

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!

2011-04-26T19:15:00.001-04:00

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

2011-04-23T23:55:00.002-04:00

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?

2011-04-21T09:58:00.003-04:00

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

2011-04-20T12:21:00.003-04:00

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.