The date on this post should be yesterday. I wrote it and blogger swallowed it whole. Oh well.
Ben Franklin once said, They that can give up essential liberty to obtain a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty nor safety.
You can go ahead and skip this if you're not in the mood for politics. I'm not really, but I need to get this out of my system, so I don't bore my family and friends with it all holiday. Excuse me, Christmas. There was a letter to the editor in our local paper today, someone blamed the whole flak about the War On Christmas on some folks trying to get the attention off of other topics, like indicted Congressional Leaders, Thirty Thousand jobs gone at GM and the fact that Iraq and Afganistan were staring to have better infrastructure than New Orleans and the Gulf Coast. Amen. But I digress...
Point the first....America is not safe. No place is safe, not since we broke the lease in Eden, if you read Genesis. Hundreds of years ago, immigrants came to the shores of North America, not because it was safe, but because it was free.There was death on the ships, there were less than welcoming Natives, there were unfriendly tourists from other countries. As well as imported criminals. Nope, not safe at all. If safety was the goal, people stayed put.
But now, we're obsessed with safety. A safety that never existed. If there is an accident, a militant mob forms with the expressed intent of "THIS WILL NEVER HAPPEN AGAIN." As if tragedy isn't a detriment enough, new laws, regulations and products come into being to insure safety.
Yesterday, one of the local letter to the editor contributors responded to the fury about the illegal spying. She said she had nothing to hide, they could spy on her all they wanted.
Um, darling, that's not the point.
The point is that democracies do not spy on their citizens. The point is that there is a consitutional set of checks and balances to make sure one branch of the government does not get more uppity than the others.
Our country's core value has changed. Core values, all the rage in board rooms and church leadership meeting. Companies and congregations ask "what is our core value, what is most important to us?" Now there is a spoken value, what people say out loud, and then there is the hidden core value, what really is important. So take a hypothetical church. The spoken core value is that following Jesus is primary. The hidden core value adds, as long as it isn't too weird. Don't rock the boat. Accept Jesus and be like us.
Once upon a time, when Ben Franklin was only dreaming of his electricity and printing press joining together and forming Blogdom, freedom was the core value. One man would not be in charge.
It's changed. Now safety is supreme. From "Let Freedom Ring" to "Let's build a wall to keep out the riff raff." You know. a wall worked so well for Berlin, we OUGHT to build one across the southern border. In fact, there are some pieces at the George HW Bush Library that could be used.
What makes me sad is that our military men and women are fighting for our "freedom." And it's being lost not on the deserts of Iraq, but in the halls of Congress and the airwaves of Foxnews.
Saturday, December 24, 2005
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Spam verification
Well, I added a couple new things to the ol' blog. I like the nifty quote at the top and yes, it does change every day! Too fun! Then, because of all the spam bots putting weird comments on my blog, I had to turn on the word verification.
Another site I like to visit, Query Letters I love, uses word verification and the folks leaving comments all make up a fun definition for their word verification word. So, if you want to leave a comment, go ahead and test your creativity. I dare you.
Another site I like to visit, Query Letters I love, uses word verification and the folks leaving comments all make up a fun definition for their word verification word. So, if you want to leave a comment, go ahead and test your creativity. I dare you.
Monday, December 05, 2005
Life Motto
I actually wrote this a few weeks ago, but the ol' blogger system was too bogged down to post it.
My main character, Jane, found her new life motto while shopping in the Lack's furniture store. Huge red banners hung from the rafters. "No interest until 2007," they proclaimed to anyone who would look up at then. She looked at them carefully then approached one of the sales staff.
"Would you sell me a banner?"
"They're adverstising signs, what do you need them for?"
"I only need one. For my mother. I want to hang it in my kitchen and whenever my mother comes over and starts to talk about fixing me up, I'll be able to point to it to explain my current personal policy about dating. No Interest 'til 2007."
My main character, Jane, found her new life motto while shopping in the Lack's furniture store. Huge red banners hung from the rafters. "No interest until 2007," they proclaimed to anyone who would look up at then. She looked at them carefully then approached one of the sales staff.
"Would you sell me a banner?"
"They're adverstising signs, what do you need them for?"
"I only need one. For my mother. I want to hang it in my kitchen and whenever my mother comes over and starts to talk about fixing me up, I'll be able to point to it to explain my current personal policy about dating. No Interest 'til 2007."
It's no longer November....
And that means NaNoWriMo is over and life will assume some normal routine that doesn't depend on writing four thousand words a day to "Catch up." Finished the thing, with about sixty five thousand words when all was said and done. Does it need work? You betcha. Lots. But not until January.
But for your reading pleasure, here's a short exerpt:
“Can you tell me how much longer the turkey has until it’s done?” Maura sighed, a long, loud, self-pitying sigh. “Your father used to cook the turkey. I never did learn how.”
“Well, I usually just read the directions and I do allright,” Jane said as she walked over to the oven and took the orange and brown turkey-shaped oven mitts off the counter. She slipped them on her hand and saw Caleb coming into the kitchen. “Gobble gobble,” she said, using the mitts as puppets. Caleb laughed.
“You go on back to the kids room, Caleb. There’s hot stuff in here and I wouldn’t want to you get hurt.” Maura warned.
“I want the toy-key puppet,” Caleb said. He held out his arms to Jane.
“The turkeys have to work right now. They can come to the playroom and visit when they get home from work.” Jane smiled as she said it.
“You can’t give those to him to play with. They’re oven mitts. We’ll need them after dinner for the pies.” Maura shook her head, clearly exasperated. “When you’re a mother you’ll understand these things.”
“Funny, nothing I learned in college biology classes told me that pregnancy causes the control freak hormone to gush out of control,” Jane muttered under her breath. “They’re just oven mitts, Mom, he can’t hurt them. Even if he did, we got them at Wal-mart. You could get an exact duplicate tomorrow for half price.”
“I shouldn’t have to pay any price, since I already have them here.”
Clint said nothing during this entire exchange. He was programming phone numbers into his new cell phone and whistling whenever the voices around him grew louder.
Jane pulled the turkey out of the oven and uncovered it. She stabbed it in the thight with the meat thermometer and waited for the red needle to creep up to the internal temperature. Still lacking a hundred degrees. She recovered the pan and shoved the whole rack back into the oven, then adjusted the temperature slightly higher.
“Your father always cooked the turkey at 300. Turn it back down,” Maura ordered.
Jane looked at Lisa for help. “Dad also started cooking at five am. We started at ten. Unless I turn this thing up a bit, we’ll have a few more days until dinner.”
“It’ll be fine, Mom,” Lisa said. “The kids and Clint are getting hungry.”
“Would you rather we hurry it up, Clint?” Maura asked.
Clint’s eyes went to his wife’s face, then back to Maura. “Yes, ma’am. I’m starving. Lisa wouldn’t let any of us eat anything all day, said we’d spoil our appetitites.”
Lisa smiled her approval.
Maura hurried over the the golden yellow side by side refrigerator. “Here,” she said as she opened the right hand door and pulled out an enormous tray. “I made this to snack on while we waited.”
Snack on? Jane thought, Three families could feast on this alone. There were heaping mounds of brocoli, cauliflower, black olives, green olives, midget dill gherkins and sweet midget gherkins. A bowl of ranch dressing sat in the center. Each section was separated from the others by stalks of celery and sticks of carrot. Jane picked up a carrot and dipped it into the dressing.
“Jane, that’s not fat-free dressing.” Maura said. Her left eyebrow arched slightly.
“I know, I don’t eat fat-free,” Jane said. She put the carrot in her mouth and let the creamy sour cream based dip melt on her tongue.
“I’m just saying maybe you should think about it. You had a little pouch on your tummy the last time you wore those black slacks. You’re not some twenty year old kid anymore. You need to start watching.” Maura took an olive an popped it into her mouth.
There was something wrong about being lectured about diet by someone with diabetes who has the shape of an Idaho baking potato. Raw, not after it’s been turned into French Fries, or as Maura now called them, Freedom Fries. Her postition as the Social Secretary for the Republican Women’s group made it important that she stood strong on important issues. Like what to call fast food. Normally, Jane would let it roll off her back more, then later, she’d have a beer with her dad and they would compare all the snappy comebacks they would have said if they weren’t so diplomatic. Without Dad around to release the pressure valve later, Jane was starting to wonder what would happen if some of her thoughts actually leaked out of her head. For sure, she would be demoted from the grownup table in the dining room to the children’s table in the kitchen. The problem was, Jane was starting to think it would be a good thing.
“So, Jane,” Clint said, “How are things in dodge ball land?”
“Silly, Clint, she can’t teach dodge ball anymore. Too violent.” Lisa said, rubbing Clint’s balding head.
“I could, if I found away to connect it to the standardized tests. I think dodge ball and No Child Left Behind are made for each other, myself.” Jane said.
“Hey, we finally agree on something political! Who’d guessed?” Clint smiled.
“You’re right. Both are barbaric, based on old ways of thinking.”
“Whoa, that’s not what I meant...” Clint stammered.
“I think we should leave politics and religion out of Thankgiving,” Maura said.
“Neither one belongs on a family holiday.”
Lisa and Jane looked at each other. Every now and then, Lisa showed signs of seeing the insanity that emitted from Maura’s mouth. Lisa grinned. “Ok, no God and country will be mentioned any more today. What about grace?”
“Who’s Grace?” Maura asked. “I can put out another place.”
But for your reading pleasure, here's a short exerpt:
“Can you tell me how much longer the turkey has until it’s done?” Maura sighed, a long, loud, self-pitying sigh. “Your father used to cook the turkey. I never did learn how.”
“Well, I usually just read the directions and I do allright,” Jane said as she walked over to the oven and took the orange and brown turkey-shaped oven mitts off the counter. She slipped them on her hand and saw Caleb coming into the kitchen. “Gobble gobble,” she said, using the mitts as puppets. Caleb laughed.
“You go on back to the kids room, Caleb. There’s hot stuff in here and I wouldn’t want to you get hurt.” Maura warned.
“I want the toy-key puppet,” Caleb said. He held out his arms to Jane.
“The turkeys have to work right now. They can come to the playroom and visit when they get home from work.” Jane smiled as she said it.
“You can’t give those to him to play with. They’re oven mitts. We’ll need them after dinner for the pies.” Maura shook her head, clearly exasperated. “When you’re a mother you’ll understand these things.”
“Funny, nothing I learned in college biology classes told me that pregnancy causes the control freak hormone to gush out of control,” Jane muttered under her breath. “They’re just oven mitts, Mom, he can’t hurt them. Even if he did, we got them at Wal-mart. You could get an exact duplicate tomorrow for half price.”
“I shouldn’t have to pay any price, since I already have them here.”
Clint said nothing during this entire exchange. He was programming phone numbers into his new cell phone and whistling whenever the voices around him grew louder.
Jane pulled the turkey out of the oven and uncovered it. She stabbed it in the thight with the meat thermometer and waited for the red needle to creep up to the internal temperature. Still lacking a hundred degrees. She recovered the pan and shoved the whole rack back into the oven, then adjusted the temperature slightly higher.
“Your father always cooked the turkey at 300. Turn it back down,” Maura ordered.
Jane looked at Lisa for help. “Dad also started cooking at five am. We started at ten. Unless I turn this thing up a bit, we’ll have a few more days until dinner.”
“It’ll be fine, Mom,” Lisa said. “The kids and Clint are getting hungry.”
“Would you rather we hurry it up, Clint?” Maura asked.
Clint’s eyes went to his wife’s face, then back to Maura. “Yes, ma’am. I’m starving. Lisa wouldn’t let any of us eat anything all day, said we’d spoil our appetitites.”
Lisa smiled her approval.
Maura hurried over the the golden yellow side by side refrigerator. “Here,” she said as she opened the right hand door and pulled out an enormous tray. “I made this to snack on while we waited.”
Snack on? Jane thought, Three families could feast on this alone. There were heaping mounds of brocoli, cauliflower, black olives, green olives, midget dill gherkins and sweet midget gherkins. A bowl of ranch dressing sat in the center. Each section was separated from the others by stalks of celery and sticks of carrot. Jane picked up a carrot and dipped it into the dressing.
“Jane, that’s not fat-free dressing.” Maura said. Her left eyebrow arched slightly.
“I know, I don’t eat fat-free,” Jane said. She put the carrot in her mouth and let the creamy sour cream based dip melt on her tongue.
“I’m just saying maybe you should think about it. You had a little pouch on your tummy the last time you wore those black slacks. You’re not some twenty year old kid anymore. You need to start watching.” Maura took an olive an popped it into her mouth.
There was something wrong about being lectured about diet by someone with diabetes who has the shape of an Idaho baking potato. Raw, not after it’s been turned into French Fries, or as Maura now called them, Freedom Fries. Her postition as the Social Secretary for the Republican Women’s group made it important that she stood strong on important issues. Like what to call fast food. Normally, Jane would let it roll off her back more, then later, she’d have a beer with her dad and they would compare all the snappy comebacks they would have said if they weren’t so diplomatic. Without Dad around to release the pressure valve later, Jane was starting to wonder what would happen if some of her thoughts actually leaked out of her head. For sure, she would be demoted from the grownup table in the dining room to the children’s table in the kitchen. The problem was, Jane was starting to think it would be a good thing.
“So, Jane,” Clint said, “How are things in dodge ball land?”
“Silly, Clint, she can’t teach dodge ball anymore. Too violent.” Lisa said, rubbing Clint’s balding head.
“I could, if I found away to connect it to the standardized tests. I think dodge ball and No Child Left Behind are made for each other, myself.” Jane said.
“Hey, we finally agree on something political! Who’d guessed?” Clint smiled.
“You’re right. Both are barbaric, based on old ways of thinking.”
“Whoa, that’s not what I meant...” Clint stammered.
“I think we should leave politics and religion out of Thankgiving,” Maura said.
“Neither one belongs on a family holiday.”
Lisa and Jane looked at each other. Every now and then, Lisa showed signs of seeing the insanity that emitted from Maura’s mouth. Lisa grinned. “Ok, no God and country will be mentioned any more today. What about grace?”
“Who’s Grace?” Maura asked. “I can put out another place.”
Sunday, November 06, 2005
Crafty Peaches
I don't know what scares me more. The fact that some spammer or his/her spambot has christened me "Crafty Peaches" or that I'm actually thinking of adopting the name as a user id for my spam email addresses. You known, the free email addresses you set up so you can go to some website and sign up for the newsletter and keep the surveys and "you won!" emails from getting mixed up with your real emails. Like the ones from Flylady and Sitemeter. I've been known to use character names, family names, dog names, but talented fruits? This is an area I have somehow missed. Crafty Peaches says so much more than Tranquil Waters (or was it Nyquil Waters?) Like fuzzy on the outside, then sweet, then poison at the core??
All I can say is that Crafty Peaches sure is popular! I get at least a dozen emails each day, all wanting Crafty Peaches' opinion on politics, softdrinks and televisons shows. And, Crafty Peaches is offered many discount pharmaceuticals. Some obviously for personal use and some to share with friends. And Crafty Peaches is invited to visit all kinds of websites. I wonder if Artsy White Grapes is ever invited.
Perhaps I can come up with a talented fruit id generator for my friends. There's Conniving Pears. Radical Oranges. Durable Apples. Yeah, that's a great userid. I can see the spam now...Hey, Durable Apples! Your Opinion Counts!
I guess it's better than Spoilt Persimmons.
All I can say is that Crafty Peaches sure is popular! I get at least a dozen emails each day, all wanting Crafty Peaches' opinion on politics, softdrinks and televisons shows. And, Crafty Peaches is offered many discount pharmaceuticals. Some obviously for personal use and some to share with friends. And Crafty Peaches is invited to visit all kinds of websites. I wonder if Artsy White Grapes is ever invited.
Perhaps I can come up with a talented fruit id generator for my friends. There's Conniving Pears. Radical Oranges. Durable Apples. Yeah, that's a great userid. I can see the spam now...Hey, Durable Apples! Your Opinion Counts!
I guess it's better than Spoilt Persimmons.
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
A journey starts with the first step...
And a novel starts with the first sentence. I'll playing with it, but here is the beginning thus far...
Rose Franklin found out she was conceived out of wedlock in the Walmart parking lot. Not that the actual conception happened there, but for some reason, her mother decided to reveal Rose’s history at the Navasota Walmart, next to a large dirty Ford F-150 that smelled like it had been hauling manure that morning. For a moment, Rose imagined her mother’s shopping list:
Walmart:
Laundry detergent
Paper turkey centerpiece and matching napkins
Tell first born daughter she’s a bastard
anti-perspirant
hemorroid cream
trash bags
“Gee, your dad and I got drunk, and three months later, I realized I was carrying you,” her mother blurted out, as if she were asking what aisle the soap was on. “I hope they’re not out of those turkeys. Alice had one at her house last year and it looked so cute on her table.”
Rose shook her head. Only her mother would think a paper turkey would be the perfect classy Thanksgiving centerpiece. After all, the woman hated fresh flowers. The F-150’s horn alerted her that it’s driver was ready to go get more manure and if she didn’t get out of the way, her life would end, fittingly, in the Walmart parking lot. Her mother was already in the doorway of the store, probably miffed that the retired shop teacher that welcomed shoppers wasn’t quite quick enough with the buggy. She had no idea that telling your daughter she was the product of a night of binge drinking wasn’t something you did while walking through a parking lot. It had to be difficult to be that inappropriate, yet at the same time, but hyper-concerned about what everyone thought of you. It was the dichotomy that defined Maura Kean’s life. And therefore, Rose’s as well.
Rose Franklin found out she was conceived out of wedlock in the Walmart parking lot. Not that the actual conception happened there, but for some reason, her mother decided to reveal Rose’s history at the Navasota Walmart, next to a large dirty Ford F-150 that smelled like it had been hauling manure that morning. For a moment, Rose imagined her mother’s shopping list:
Walmart:
Laundry detergent
Paper turkey centerpiece and matching napkins
Tell first born daughter she’s a bastard
anti-perspirant
hemorroid cream
trash bags
“Gee, your dad and I got drunk, and three months later, I realized I was carrying you,” her mother blurted out, as if she were asking what aisle the soap was on. “I hope they’re not out of those turkeys. Alice had one at her house last year and it looked so cute on her table.”
Rose shook her head. Only her mother would think a paper turkey would be the perfect classy Thanksgiving centerpiece. After all, the woman hated fresh flowers. The F-150’s horn alerted her that it’s driver was ready to go get more manure and if she didn’t get out of the way, her life would end, fittingly, in the Walmart parking lot. Her mother was already in the doorway of the store, probably miffed that the retired shop teacher that welcomed shoppers wasn’t quite quick enough with the buggy. She had no idea that telling your daughter she was the product of a night of binge drinking wasn’t something you did while walking through a parking lot. It had to be difficult to be that inappropriate, yet at the same time, but hyper-concerned about what everyone thought of you. It was the dichotomy that defined Maura Kean’s life. And therefore, Rose’s as well.
Monday, October 24, 2005
I wish I said this first...
"A good story often reads so easily that civilians seem to think that
the darn things write themselves. Whenever I leave the house, I make
sure that one of my novels is hard at work. I expect five pages by the
time I get back."
- David Morrell
I mean, don't you.
I feel like I almost have a real blog. An bona fide spammer made a comment. I'm on my way now!!
the darn things write themselves. Whenever I leave the house, I make
sure that one of my novels is hard at work. I expect five pages by the
time I get back."
- David Morrell
I mean, don't you.
I feel like I almost have a real blog. An bona fide spammer made a comment. I'm on my way now!!
Sunday, October 23, 2005
Through Painted Deserts and Plains.
A few years ago, like almost 20, I spent my summers working in the kitchen at a well know youth ministy's Colorado Ranch. It was at the time, a perfect life. I worked in the summers and avoided the scorching Texas heat. My regular job was only budgeted for nine months a year, except I could pay a little extra for health insurance for the other three month. So, I had insurance, no expenses, use of a vehicle and a home nestled in the valley of the San Isabel National Forrest. Doesn't get much better.
I thought about this today when I started reading Through Painted Deserts : Light, God, and Beauty on the Open Road by Donald Miller. I love it and hate it right now. I love it because Miller notices everyting, from the traffic in Houston at 2am to the different species of trees on Interstate 45 from Houston to Dallas and how they hide everything at night. I hate it because it is a testament to my stupid fears.
The camp photographer Deb and I, spent our off days traveling Colorado, back roads and old mining towns. She'd snap rolls and rolls of film, I'd scribble really bad poetry into old lab notebooks. I did that back then, write really bad poetry. I was a lousy poet, because I didn't like to read poetry. If you don't like reading it, you don't need to be writing it. But I wasn't smart enough to know that back then. I wrote about her photographs, mourning that the black and white prints we developed in the camp darkroom didn't capture the differences in the green of the trees and the green of the grasses. They couldn't give the sound, the whisper, of the July wind in the Aspens.
After our adventures, we'd take the prints and the notebooks of bad poems and sit in laundry room, waiting for the industrial washers to finish our week's worth of dirty shorts and wool socks and plot the next adventure. It didn't take to long to realize that we would soon run out of places within a couple hours of the camp, and we never could get two consecutive days off. So we started devising Plan B. A summer of cruising. A cross country trip in her Subaru. We'd start in California, where she lived the rest of the year, and end up in New Jersey, at my grandparents. We'd take pictures, write stories of the people and places in the pictures.
We never went. Wasn't money, we could've worked it out. For me, it was fear. Don't know what I was afraid of, maybe the unknown. But it kept me from what could have been the best summer. But those silly voices, saying it was a stupid plan, it was irresponsible *(if you cna't be irresponsible when you're 23 and single, when can you be?) It was scary. I don't know if Deb ever went. I hope she did.
And now I read this stupid book and wonder what could have been.
I thought about this today when I started reading Through Painted Deserts : Light, God, and Beauty on the Open Road by Donald Miller. I love it and hate it right now. I love it because Miller notices everyting, from the traffic in Houston at 2am to the different species of trees on Interstate 45 from Houston to Dallas and how they hide everything at night. I hate it because it is a testament to my stupid fears.
The camp photographer Deb and I, spent our off days traveling Colorado, back roads and old mining towns. She'd snap rolls and rolls of film, I'd scribble really bad poetry into old lab notebooks. I did that back then, write really bad poetry. I was a lousy poet, because I didn't like to read poetry. If you don't like reading it, you don't need to be writing it. But I wasn't smart enough to know that back then. I wrote about her photographs, mourning that the black and white prints we developed in the camp darkroom didn't capture the differences in the green of the trees and the green of the grasses. They couldn't give the sound, the whisper, of the July wind in the Aspens.
After our adventures, we'd take the prints and the notebooks of bad poems and sit in laundry room, waiting for the industrial washers to finish our week's worth of dirty shorts and wool socks and plot the next adventure. It didn't take to long to realize that we would soon run out of places within a couple hours of the camp, and we never could get two consecutive days off. So we started devising Plan B. A summer of cruising. A cross country trip in her Subaru. We'd start in California, where she lived the rest of the year, and end up in New Jersey, at my grandparents. We'd take pictures, write stories of the people and places in the pictures.
We never went. Wasn't money, we could've worked it out. For me, it was fear. Don't know what I was afraid of, maybe the unknown. But it kept me from what could have been the best summer. But those silly voices, saying it was a stupid plan, it was irresponsible *(if you cna't be irresponsible when you're 23 and single, when can you be?) It was scary. I don't know if Deb ever went. I hope she did.
And now I read this stupid book and wonder what could have been.
Friday, October 14, 2005
Adjectives that will never be used to describe my books
....And I think I'll be okay with that.
I got my new catalog from Quality Paperback Book club today. The sheer number of adjectives and adverbs used to promote books is mindboggling. I'm thinking of suggesting a rationing program. Conserve adjectives and adverbs, save some for future generations.
The gushing reviews are so "stunning, dazzling, and powerful" that I want to order each and every "astonishing" new novel by every "beloved" and "best-selling" author. I have found the ads to be "[S]trangely affecting." On one page, I can order a "feat of imaginative sympathy and technique..." because the author "delivers images of odd beauty and a mounting existential distress that hangs around long after." Mounting existential distress that hangs around long after? Sounds like the last time I tried to cook Thai food from scratch.
These authors work with a "Dickensian vocabulary and an Atwood-like ability to meld literature with science fiction." The novels themselves have "deceptive simplicity,...extraordinary emotional depth and resonance." They are "finely wrought and shimmering with intelligence."
But wait. I could also have books that are "painfully funny and brilliantly executed." "Utterly original." "A dazzling epic."
Do writers sit down and say, "I think today I'll write a novel that's 'buoyant and beautiful'?" Or "daring and unforgettable?" How about "witty, wise and heartbreaking?" "Brilliantly absurd?" "delightfully improbable?" Or, "Enchanting...beautifully crafted and as dazzingly imaginative as it is dizzyingly romantic."
I think the world would be a better place if someone, preferably someone rich and anonymous, bought every book reviewer a copy of Strunk's Elements of Style. There are adverbs and adjectives being ABUSED out there, people! It is up to those who love words to rescue them and redeem then to infrequent usage so that they may regain the power and the glory that is in excellent descriptive writing. Please, send a book reviewer a verb. You'll be glad you did.
I got my new catalog from Quality Paperback Book club today. The sheer number of adjectives and adverbs used to promote books is mindboggling. I'm thinking of suggesting a rationing program. Conserve adjectives and adverbs, save some for future generations.
The gushing reviews are so "stunning, dazzling, and powerful" that I want to order each and every "astonishing" new novel by every "beloved" and "best-selling" author. I have found the ads to be "[S]trangely affecting." On one page, I can order a "feat of imaginative sympathy and technique..." because the author "delivers images of odd beauty and a mounting existential distress that hangs around long after." Mounting existential distress that hangs around long after? Sounds like the last time I tried to cook Thai food from scratch.
These authors work with a "Dickensian vocabulary and an Atwood-like ability to meld literature with science fiction." The novels themselves have "deceptive simplicity,...extraordinary emotional depth and resonance." They are "finely wrought and shimmering with intelligence."
But wait. I could also have books that are "painfully funny and brilliantly executed." "Utterly original." "A dazzling epic."
Do writers sit down and say, "I think today I'll write a novel that's 'buoyant and beautiful'?" Or "daring and unforgettable?" How about "witty, wise and heartbreaking?" "Brilliantly absurd?" "delightfully improbable?" Or, "Enchanting...beautifully crafted and as dazzingly imaginative as it is dizzyingly romantic."
I think the world would be a better place if someone, preferably someone rich and anonymous, bought every book reviewer a copy of Strunk's Elements of Style. There are adverbs and adjectives being ABUSED out there, people! It is up to those who love words to rescue them and redeem then to infrequent usage so that they may regain the power and the glory that is in excellent descriptive writing. Please, send a book reviewer a verb. You'll be glad you did.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Had the subtitle all wrong...
It's not "a bag lady's tale", it's the "Hand-bag Lady's tale". Kinda my tribute to Margaret Atwood on the way. I wonder what Ms. Atwood would do with my material. I'm thinking my main character needs lots of lunatics in her life, so she might be a waitress. At an Applebee's kind of place. Managed by an Iranian, like my old pal Moshi. And his rich cousins, Khalid and Omar. So the insanity is balanced. Or she can have a computer support job. On the phone, so we don't have too many customers to describe.Something that keeps the number of main people in the single digits. After my last book, I need a set number of people to keep up with. A girl CAN have too many imaginary friends, doncha know.
Speaking of friends, some of my real life friends want to be "in" the book. Hmmm, what if I do and they don't like it? Or if I fictionalize them so much they don't recognize themselves? I have nightmares of Truman Capote, who used all his friends conversations in his stories. The poor society ladies read all about their own lives in the New Yorker.
I know, I can have the main character, still unnamed, whining about listening to her walking buddies, J,A & C, who spend ENTIRELY too much time complaining about how hard it is to find size four jeans in this town. Or maybe size 2? Then I can jet them out to Aruba for the rest of the book. So they'll be there and still be my friends when it's over.
Speaking of friends, some of my real life friends want to be "in" the book. Hmmm, what if I do and they don't like it? Or if I fictionalize them so much they don't recognize themselves? I have nightmares of Truman Capote, who used all his friends conversations in his stories. The poor society ladies read all about their own lives in the New Yorker.
I know, I can have the main character, still unnamed, whining about listening to her walking buddies, J,A & C, who spend ENTIRELY too much time complaining about how hard it is to find size four jeans in this town. Or maybe size 2? Then I can jet them out to Aruba for the rest of the book. So they'll be there and still be my friends when it's over.
Monday, October 10, 2005
A Purse Driven Life - A Bag Lady's Tale
I think that's looking like the title of my NaNoWriMo novel. Of course that could change, but I'm liking the idea now. My first idea was something I've already worked on a bit, like a couple of pages of really bad writing. Really bad, the main character bored even me. If I don't want to spend time with a character, I doubt a reader would. So, I thought I would start over on the chemical plant thriller. But since NaNoWriMo should really be brand spanking new really bad fiction, I decided to try this new idea.
I know, a Christian Writer had an advice book by just about the same title.The Purse-driven Life: It Really Is All About Me by Anita Renfroe. I haven't read it, but I did read a few pages on Amazon. It looked fairly interesting and I'm sure Anita is a wise and witty woman. But it is nonfiction, and since A) I haven't seen it on the best seller list anywhere, and B) Titles aren't copyrighted, I think I'll snag the title. Because it so fits my idea. As much as I'd like to use her subtitle, I'll not steal that too. Gotta have some originality.
But, the story:
A woman dies and her daughter and niece find over fifty purses in her closet. Her life is then told in relation to some of the purses that the women remember the older woman owning. Not a spiritual growth book in any way, more like catharsis. But not really, because my book will be FICTION and certainly NOT based on any mothers I may have known in ANY way. So don't get any ideas, it's NOT a memoir. And if you accuse me of writing about actual events, I will put you in the book and my friend, it won't be pretty.
I still need to do some important research. I only own one purse. Off to the mall!
I know, a Christian Writer had an advice book by just about the same title.The Purse-driven Life: It Really Is All About Me by Anita Renfroe. I haven't read it, but I did read a few pages on Amazon. It looked fairly interesting and I'm sure Anita is a wise and witty woman. But it is nonfiction, and since A) I haven't seen it on the best seller list anywhere, and B) Titles aren't copyrighted, I think I'll snag the title. Because it so fits my idea. As much as I'd like to use her subtitle, I'll not steal that too. Gotta have some originality.
But, the story:
A woman dies and her daughter and niece find over fifty purses in her closet. Her life is then told in relation to some of the purses that the women remember the older woman owning. Not a spiritual growth book in any way, more like catharsis. But not really, because my book will be FICTION and certainly NOT based on any mothers I may have known in ANY way. So don't get any ideas, it's NOT a memoir. And if you accuse me of writing about actual events, I will put you in the book and my friend, it won't be pretty.
I still need to do some important research. I only own one purse. Off to the mall!
Friday, September 23, 2005
Everything I learned about writing a novel, I learned from running marathons.
Everything I learned about writing a novel, I learned from running marathons.
If you go out too fast, you’ll be exhausted at the end. Others around you may go out too fast. Ignore them.
Sometimes, you have to go at it alone. There may not be anyone on the roadside cheering you on.
You can only worry about the step you are taking right now. You can’t run mile 14 while you are running mile 2.
Neither can you write your acceptance speech for the Booker Award if you haven’t finished the first draft.
You can’t put forth effort without taking in nourishment. Food for the body, food for the soul and information for the mind. Read, reflect and research.
It gets tiring and even a bit boring in the middle. Get through it anyway.
There are people who are faster than you.
There are people who look better that you.
But no one else can run your race, and no one else can write your work.
It’s all about endurance. And that’s something you can build, it’s a skill.
There is no feeling in the world like finishing.
If you go out too fast, you’ll be exhausted at the end. Others around you may go out too fast. Ignore them.
Sometimes, you have to go at it alone. There may not be anyone on the roadside cheering you on.
You can only worry about the step you are taking right now. You can’t run mile 14 while you are running mile 2.
Neither can you write your acceptance speech for the Booker Award if you haven’t finished the first draft.
You can’t put forth effort without taking in nourishment. Food for the body, food for the soul and information for the mind. Read, reflect and research.
It gets tiring and even a bit boring in the middle. Get through it anyway.
There are people who are faster than you.
There are people who look better that you.
But no one else can run your race, and no one else can write your work.
It’s all about endurance. And that’s something you can build, it’s a skill.
There is no feeling in the world like finishing.
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
It's T minus One Month
It's almost October. Which means I need to finish the book I'm currently working on by October 15. Why? So I have two weeks off to plan, plot and, rest (I know, it doesn't start with pl- but this is a blog, not a Sunday Sermon) for National Novel Writing Month.
I'm most likely going to be a municipal liaison this year, so at least by the end of the month, I should be able to spell liaison correctly on the first try most of the time. But I figure, if I can coach over two hundred college students to run twenty six miles, I can cheer lead while highly motivatied, caffeinated people write really bad novels. Not only that, but I can write a really bad novel as well! It's much more fun to write really bad novels with friends.
So if you're game, check out NaNoWriMo and come on out and play with us!
PS I finally, after all this time, noticed that I've mispelled procrastinating in the header of my blog. UGH! That is why I need an editor of my very own.
I'm most likely going to be a municipal liaison this year, so at least by the end of the month, I should be able to spell liaison correctly on the first try most of the time. But I figure, if I can coach over two hundred college students to run twenty six miles, I can cheer lead while highly motivatied, caffeinated people write really bad novels. Not only that, but I can write a really bad novel as well! It's much more fun to write really bad novels with friends.
So if you're game, check out NaNoWriMo and come on out and play with us!
PS I finally, after all this time, noticed that I've mispelled procrastinating in the header of my blog. UGH! That is why I need an editor of my very own.
Friday, August 26, 2005
A new school year
A new school year has started. Without children around, I have had to come up with new and creative ideas to keep from writing. Alas, it hasn't worked and so I have actually been working on getting the book done and the queries ready to go out to some carefully researched agents. It's a hard line to walk. You have to research agents and publishers, but where is the line between researching and stalking? I say that because a year ago, I had an agent request some of my novel. Unfortunately, the pages she received were, well, boring. So a year later, after massive cuts and revision, I have to wonder. She liked the idea, would she give me a second chance? Would you, if you were up and coming cool young agent?
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
I really want to win the CD
Ok, here's the deal. Shaun Groves has a blog. He has nearly three hundred readers, but never over. It's kind of like a wall he'd like to break through. So, he's asking fellow bloggers to post his site, and he'll give a copy of his new album to who ever sends the most new visitors. If you click though my site and I win the album, I'll have a drawing for the t-shirt. Deal?
It could happen!
It's actually a cool blog. Current topic is what is a just war. Oh, and he's a great singer as well.
It could happen!
It's actually a cool blog. Current topic is what is a just war. Oh, and he's a great singer as well.
Not the best day....
"Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come. You wait and watch and work: you don't give up."
– Anne Lamott
Yesterday was a bit on the dark side. My hair turned out too dark. I got a rejection from an agent. My other novel didn't get to the final round of the contest it's in. Wow, I must be prolific if nothing else, TWO novels rejected in one day. How's that?
But at this point, there's nothing else to do. Can't give up. Anne L. said so.
– Anne Lamott
Yesterday was a bit on the dark side. My hair turned out too dark. I got a rejection from an agent. My other novel didn't get to the final round of the contest it's in. Wow, I must be prolific if nothing else, TWO novels rejected in one day. How's that?
But at this point, there's nothing else to do. Can't give up. Anne L. said so.
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Waiting patiently
Tomorrow, the History channel is having Great Raid day. All the great rescues in preparation for the opening Friday of The Great Raid. I can hardly wait. I am trying to get my writing of this done tonight, so I can compare notes during the program. Unfortunately, I've spent more time doing timelines, rude essays and emails. Such is the life of a writer.
Thursday, August 04, 2005
The Professional Writer’s Guide to Procrastination
My novel, all four hundred and seventy three pages, is sitting in a box on the writing table in my office. I’ve written, revised, and rewritten it for over two years now. It’s time for it to go out into the world and find a home. Maybe a nice place in New York where it can make friends with other historical novels from its own time period, rather than the Civil War books it normally hangs out with at critique group meetings. I considered leaving it in a jute basket on the porch of some kindly agent, note taped to the handle, “Please take care of my baby.” But after checking with the latest Writer’s Market Guide to Agents, Editors and Other People Whose Opinions of Writing Count More Than Your Mother’s, I’ve learned that I must submit to the guidelines and follow directions. I should have learned at some point in my public school career that life smiles on those who follow directions. The WMGAEOPWOWCMTYM mentions that while agents may not necessarily smile simply because you read the guidelines, they most definitely frown upon too much creativity in the submission process.
Most of those directions require a chunk of pages, and The Synopsis. Chunk of pages, now problem, I just fire up the printer and it spews them out on crisp white paper. Funny, it won’t crank out the synopsis. Seems I have to write it first.
My entire household can tell it’s synopsis time. The floors are clean, the refrigerator is white inside and out, and the monthly bills are sorted by due date. Bedsheets are ironed. My anti-virus software is current, along with every other piece of shareware on my computer. But the bills, while organized, required actual funds to be paid. My career as an amateur novelist was in serious peril. I needed to sell some work, perhaps the novel, or I would be flipping burgers.
I called a meeting of our own House Ways and Means committee. That would be my husband, me and the dog, who slept through the whole meeting. Latest reports declared were were house rich and cash poor. We needed a Nuclear Option. So we took a deep breath and dialed Libby the Realtor. We put our house on the market. I had no clue that I could put off dealing with both the deficit and the synopsis with one phone call. It’s good to be an American.
Our house is "unique" in Realtor-ese. That means, the exact perfect people have to buy it or we will have the sign in our yard for a long time. It's been six months. Amazingly, my propensity to procrastinate is so powerful, I've been able to postpone actually selling the house.
Selling our house is a procrastinator’s dream. Nothing of any consequence can occur, because if you go through all the trouble of taking a project out to work on it, everything must be stored away as soon as you are through. Someone may come to look at the house any minute. Floors must shine at all times. Guest towels hang in all the bathrooms. The inmates have been threatened with solitary confinement in the Laundry room with the dog and the guinea pigs if one drop of water is to touch said towels. Food and meals are tolerated. All crumbs are to be vacuumed as soon as they hit the carpet, if not before. My oldest son now turns on the Electrolux every time he eats.
The magic of the Nuclear Option is I now have an excuse. For anything.
To the collection agency: “As soon as the house sells, you’ll be paid in full.”
To the man selling satellite dishes: "I'm sorry, we're getting ready to move. Maybe at the new house."
To the friends who want me to help with some Bake Sale: "I'm sorry, but I couldn't possible mess the kitchen up. Libby the Realtor said she might bring someone by."
To the PTA president: "I couldn't possibly chair that committee. We'll be moving soon and I'm not sure we'll be able to stay in the district."
To the editor waiting for my latest article: "Oops. Sprayed the computer monitor with too much Windex."
And since I’m so busy keeping the house in “show-able condition,” I certainly don’t have time for a silly little synopsis.
There are other bonuses. We eat out much more often, especially since home buyers like to look during the dinner hour, and we've got to get out of the house anyway. The kids, bribed with rooms of their own, actually do make their beds in the morning. And with new home repair projects cropping up after each potential buyer rejects us, the to-do list is longer than a Clinton State of the Union address. I have enough projects to put off the synopsis until 2017.
If only the house doesn't sell until then.
Most of those directions require a chunk of pages, and The Synopsis. Chunk of pages, now problem, I just fire up the printer and it spews them out on crisp white paper. Funny, it won’t crank out the synopsis. Seems I have to write it first.
My entire household can tell it’s synopsis time. The floors are clean, the refrigerator is white inside and out, and the monthly bills are sorted by due date. Bedsheets are ironed. My anti-virus software is current, along with every other piece of shareware on my computer. But the bills, while organized, required actual funds to be paid. My career as an amateur novelist was in serious peril. I needed to sell some work, perhaps the novel, or I would be flipping burgers.
I called a meeting of our own House Ways and Means committee. That would be my husband, me and the dog, who slept through the whole meeting. Latest reports declared were were house rich and cash poor. We needed a Nuclear Option. So we took a deep breath and dialed Libby the Realtor. We put our house on the market. I had no clue that I could put off dealing with both the deficit and the synopsis with one phone call. It’s good to be an American.
Our house is "unique" in Realtor-ese. That means, the exact perfect people have to buy it or we will have the sign in our yard for a long time. It's been six months. Amazingly, my propensity to procrastinate is so powerful, I've been able to postpone actually selling the house.
Selling our house is a procrastinator’s dream. Nothing of any consequence can occur, because if you go through all the trouble of taking a project out to work on it, everything must be stored away as soon as you are through. Someone may come to look at the house any minute. Floors must shine at all times. Guest towels hang in all the bathrooms. The inmates have been threatened with solitary confinement in the Laundry room with the dog and the guinea pigs if one drop of water is to touch said towels. Food and meals are tolerated. All crumbs are to be vacuumed as soon as they hit the carpet, if not before. My oldest son now turns on the Electrolux every time he eats.
The magic of the Nuclear Option is I now have an excuse. For anything.
To the collection agency: “As soon as the house sells, you’ll be paid in full.”
To the man selling satellite dishes: "I'm sorry, we're getting ready to move. Maybe at the new house."
To the friends who want me to help with some Bake Sale: "I'm sorry, but I couldn't possible mess the kitchen up. Libby the Realtor said she might bring someone by."
To the PTA president: "I couldn't possibly chair that committee. We'll be moving soon and I'm not sure we'll be able to stay in the district."
To the editor waiting for my latest article: "Oops. Sprayed the computer monitor with too much Windex."
And since I’m so busy keeping the house in “show-able condition,” I certainly don’t have time for a silly little synopsis.
There are other bonuses. We eat out much more often, especially since home buyers like to look during the dinner hour, and we've got to get out of the house anyway. The kids, bribed with rooms of their own, actually do make their beds in the morning. And with new home repair projects cropping up after each potential buyer rejects us, the to-do list is longer than a Clinton State of the Union address. I have enough projects to put off the synopsis until 2017.
If only the house doesn't sell until then.
It just goes to show, there's always another internet personality quiz
Just when you thought it was safe and I couldn't possibly find another quiz...
Here it is, the grandaddy of them all...
You are Schroeder!
Which Peanuts Character are You?
brought to you by Quizilla
Here it is, the grandaddy of them all...
You are Schroeder!
Which Peanuts Character are You?
brought to you by Quizilla
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
Yeah, but would you read 300 pages of it?
Here it is, the latest query blurb.
Little girls always have dreams. Even during wars.
Husband, home, and family, in the proper order. It's all Liz Corning ever wanted growing up in Houston, Texas with her parents and older brother.
Frankie McConnell spent her life chasing after a mantle of trophies and her father's approval. Her idea of a normal day ususally included a performance in her father's Air Show, "Aces of the Great War," and giving rides to children in her Curtis bi-plane.
Normal lives in America are interrupted with World War II. Americans everywhere respond to the call of duty. Liz, fresh out of Nursing school, joins the Navy Nurse Corps. Bored with taking care of sick sailors on the ward, she signs up to become a flight nurse.
Frankie, meanwhile, is recruited to join the Women's Air Ferry Squadron. But her participation in an air camera gunnery contest leads to her dismissal for insubordination. A Marine major realizes that Frankie knows her father's combat techniques and recruits her to become a flight instructor for the Corps.
When the two women become roommates during training in 1943, they begin a friendship that travels throughout the country and the South Pacific theater of World War II.
Little girls always have dreams. Even during wars.
Husband, home, and family, in the proper order. It's all Liz Corning ever wanted growing up in Houston, Texas with her parents and older brother.
Frankie McConnell spent her life chasing after a mantle of trophies and her father's approval. Her idea of a normal day ususally included a performance in her father's Air Show, "Aces of the Great War," and giving rides to children in her Curtis bi-plane.
Normal lives in America are interrupted with World War II. Americans everywhere respond to the call of duty. Liz, fresh out of Nursing school, joins the Navy Nurse Corps. Bored with taking care of sick sailors on the ward, she signs up to become a flight nurse.
Frankie, meanwhile, is recruited to join the Women's Air Ferry Squadron. But her participation in an air camera gunnery contest leads to her dismissal for insubordination. A Marine major realizes that Frankie knows her father's combat techniques and recruits her to become a flight instructor for the Corps.
When the two women become roommates during training in 1943, they begin a friendship that travels throughout the country and the South Pacific theater of World War II.
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