Mariam Kobras

The Dolphin Of My Heart's Desire.

2012-02-27T04:34:00.001-08:00

I talked to a friend yesterday. We were best buddies in high school, during grades eight to ten. We did everything together, all the time. There wasn’t one weekend when we didn’t sleep over at each other’s houses, not one day when we didn’t spend hours on the phone after school, no lunch break we didn’t hang out together.

We had the same hobbies, shared the same passions…well, almost.

Carol always loved horses and dogs, and I’m scared of horses (they are so HUGE!) and I’m more of a cat person.

She preferred rock music, while I was (in the early 70s) more of a Neil Diamond, Albert Hammond and Simon & Garfunkel girl, with some Joan Baez and Janis Ian thrown in. There may or may not have been a Barbra Streisand album or two thrown in.

I remember learning some English words from Neil Diamond that were definitely not in my text books, like “transcend” and “overhear”. It must have been around that time when I decided I wanted to know every English word there was.

Carol and I wrote stories.

Like most teenage girls, we had our secret loves, TV stars, pop stars, and we made up stories about them. Well, Carol made up the stories. I designed the “covers” and came up with the titles. And I watched her write.

I helped her make up the plots, and I did write a bit myself, but generally I was too lazy.

I didn’t see myself as a writer. Carol was the writer. She was the one soaring in her imagination. She was the one who brought wonderful sentences to paper.

Her novels had a plot, they had a beginning, a middle, and an ending, there were characters in them that seemed alive and real. Normal, living people, while the heroes I made up were always some kind of celebrities, famous, rich, and carefree.

You see, there was enough dreariness in my real life to want to keep it out of my dream world. I wanted to escape to nicer, happier places, like California with its eternal sunshine. The music business, creativity, those were my subjects, while Carol wrote about a family living on a ranch, with horses and dogs.

My people had to struggle with their creativity, with their loves, but never with money, and certainly not with animals. They didn’t even have time for a potted plant, let alone a pet, they were that busy creating and loving.

I lost Carol when we were in 11th grade.

She drifted off into the drug scene, and I went to Canada for the summer. When I got back, she was in a clinic, and I changed schools.

We met once more, about ten years later. I was married by then, my first son in pre-school. My husband and I stopped for a brief visit with her.

She was married too, had three babies, and was living in an apartment overlooking a factory yard, as far away from that ranch and the horses as you can imagine.

We never reconnected after that, until yesterday. She had found me on Facebook.

I called her on the phone, and we talked.

She told me she is a widow now, her husband died of a brain tumor six years ago. There were four kids, she had to raise them on her own, and it wasn’t easy.

The family lives out in the country, in an old farm house, with horses and dogs and cats. Carol doesn’t have a lot of money, but, she told me, she’s happy.

When she asked me about my life, I told her about my just published book, about the new contract I’ve just signed with Buddhapuss Ink, about last year’s book tour, and the one coming up next year.

“I’ll be going to New Yoek,” I told her, “And Salt Lake City."

There was a long pause.

“Wow,” Carol said, “I’ve never left my home town. We went on vacation once, but that’s it. I’m still here.”

She could hardly believe my life. She could hardly believe it when I told her I was a published author now, and my book was selling and getting good reviews.

“You lived our dream,” she said, “You’re going to all those places we were dreaming about, you are a published author! How did you do it? Where did you get the spark?"

The spark?

There was no spark. There was only a lingering dream, a constant, soft pull I had ignored for most of my life.

It almost felt like the dolphin of my heart’s desire playing in the ocean of my life, sometimes breaking through the surface, but never long enough to make much of an impact.

I don’t know what changed.

All I know is that, on a gloomy day in November of 2008, I woke up and knew the time had come. Suddenly, with every fiber of my soul, I knew I had to write that book.

My hubby bought me a laptop, and I sank into The Distant Shore, forgetting everything else. Often enough, there was no lunch for the family, and no ironed shirts for my husband.

I was too busy writing.

And I didn’t stop until the book was finished. I had left the surface, and I was dancing with the dolphin. The moment I put that first sentence on paper was like jumping from a cliff into that ocean where the dolphins were waiting, and I was free.

I’m still down there, frolicking in the freedom of the sun-dappled water.

And I’m never coming back.

Liebster Blog Award

2012-02-15T03:37:00.000-08:00

To my utter surprise and delight, my friend Jackie nominated my little blog for this award.

Jackie is an outstanding poet. Her verses are among my favorites, and I'm honored to be her friend. Visit her blog here: http://1emeraldcity.wordpress.com/

The Liebster Blog Award originated in Germany. Liebster means “favorite” or “dearest.” The recipient of this award agrees to the following:

1. Show your gratitude to the blogger who gave you the award by linking back to them.
2. Reveal your top 5 picks for the award, and let them know.
3. Post the award on your blog.
4. Bask in the love from the most supportive people in the blogsphere.
5. And last, have fun and spread the karma!

The following are my five selections in no particular order:

http://buddhapussink.blogspot.com/ - my publisher, and dearest friend

http://www.junyingkirk.com/ - author friend Junying Kirk, a wonderful writer and kindred spirit

http://pompomrouge.wordpress.com/ - crafter, quilter, knitter Kirsten Duncan. I can't say enough in how many ways I adore her art

http://www.fayerapoportdespres.com/ - Faye Rapoport Despres. One of the really great Ones. Enough said.

http://thepioneerwoman.com/ - Ree Drummond. Seriously.

and as number six I'm adding http://www.johannaharness.com/ - because nothing goes without her.

NeelaVanam - a review of "The Distant Shore"

2012-02-10T09:39:00.000-08:00

Today I got this mail from my poet friend @NeelaVanam on twitter.

I had asked her to read and – if she felt like it – please review "Distant Shore". This is what she wrote. (And YES my heart stood still!)

Thank you so much!

Dear Mariam

What a lovely book you have written. My time was well spent reading it.

What I say will not in any way be new, but I need to tell you that you have a style of writing that is so lyrical and captivating.

Thank you for sending me a copy to read. I anticipate the arrival of the second and third book in the trilogy.

I thought my review should be in a poetical style matching yours. :)

A poetical review of "The Distant Shore"

Here is a love story ~ first of the trilogy ~ well crafted and spellbinding ~ "The Distant Shore."

The popular and rich rock star ~ Jon ~ who is pining and longing.

The richer and humble ~ Naomi ~ strong willed and adoring.

Joshua ~ the strength and reason ~ for their bonding.

Friends ~ parents ~ lovers and dear siblings.

The story begins as a brook ~ twists and turns ~ whirls and meanders

and as you raft along ~ delves into a deep river.

The pain and resentment ~ their piled up love ~ flow in a lyrical fever.

Like a magic carpet ~ from Malibu to Halmar ~

London to New york~ Mariam's pen~ takes you everywhere.

The last few pages~ will glue you to the couch~ with bitten nails!

You will waste a day for sure wondering ~ Why did this end~ what will happen next?

I have a few stars from the sky~ to give you~ they are five in number.

For the second book~ with bated breath~ we shall wait~ Mariam dear!

The Day After, Part Two

2012-01-05T12:11:00.000-08:00

Actually the title for this blog should be, "How Amazon Ruined My Launch Day And Turned It Into A Brilliant Day", but that's a too long title and would mess up twitter.
My launch day was supposed to be January 17.
Great things were planned by the publisher, and my plans included a bottle of Veuve Cliquot, just for me. And, well, virtually for the publisher.

What a weird day yesterday was.
It should have been a normal, lazy Christmas break day, but it wasn't.
After getting out of bed, brushing my teeth and making coffee I turned on my computer to see this on my Facebook wall:

"YAY! Amazon just mailed me to say Mariam's book "The Distant Shore" has been shipped!"

My coffee nearly dripped straight from my open mouth onto my much beloved MacBook.
For a moment I was totally disoriented, I even thought I'd slept for fourteen days, but I thought that only for less than a second. Not even I can sleep that long. Thirteen hours, yes, but fourteen days? Nope.
So I scuttled over to Amazon, to my page, to see this:

THE BLOODY THING HAD SOLD OUT EVEN BEFORE IT HAD BEEN PROPERLY LAUNCHED!

It had jumped, within a few hours, from a rank 1.500.000-and-something into the national Amazon bestseller list!
Of course it didn't stay there. Sold out. Sold out books don't stay at the top for long, and Amazon lists fluctuate all the time.
Publisher worked very fast, and within 24 hours "Distant Shore" was back in stock, and it's merrily selling.

But.
Yes, there is a but, even though it really means nothing in the grand theme of life.
I sat here, crying "YAY MY BOOK LAUNCHED!" across the internet universe, but it was just that: it had launched because Amazon did not stick to the official release date, not because there was the big launch party, or the twitter celebration I wanted, or... my bottle of Veuve. I don't even have a copy of my own book yet because the mail is taking so long!
It was a bit like lighting a match when you expect fireworks. Just like that.

Publisher asked me if I was happy, because they were, after recovering from the initial shock, and after some thought, I replied, "I guess so. Actually, more stumped than happy. Kind of."
There was a pause at the other end. Then, asked in a quiet, soft voice, "Stumped?"
"Well, yes!" I said, "It's sort of... hm. Over before it ever started. Feels weird. No momentum, like."
Again, there was a pause.
"Ok," publisher went on, "So this box with your author's copies that hasn't arrived yet. There's something else in it. It's a surprise."
And goes on to tell me that they wanted me to have the contract for book 2 and 3 BEFORE "Distant Shore" was launched, to show me how much they believed in me, and that they are convinced I'll write one bestseller after the other.

MOI???

Yes, I was told, that's what they believed, and that's what they wanted.
So... I said of course I'd sign! They were happy, and I was happy, too.
I mean, REALLY happy. Danced all over twitter with the news!
Because I believe most writers have one good book in them, but it's not sure if there's a second, or a third, or even less, more than that.
But, "Yes," publisher tells me, "You do. You can. You will!"

Am I living a dream, or what? Did I go to sleep sometime two years ago, and I'm dreaming all this?
I think I am.
But then again, I never want to wake up. Ever.
And I hope this friendly, funny and bright publisher person will always be around in this dream.

.

Dear 2011

2011-12-30T06:00:00.000-08:00

Dear 2011,

you were a mighty fine year.

Now I can't speak for others, but for ME you were the best year ever. You were a year full of wonders, miracles and lovely events. You made me smile more than all your brothers I've met before. You were a stellar year, and if I could I'd frame you in gold, give you your own platinum record, name a planet after you or give you your own star on the Hollywood Walk Of Fame.
Yes, you were that brilliant, and I'm hugging you right now!

The first thing you gave me, right after the fireworks and the hangover of your first day, was an email telling me that yes, I'd written a good book and someone was thinking of signing it.
Right after that, right after making "First Contact" with my future publisher, I got my plane ticket, and my passport.
Only a few days later, the 2011 Neil Diamond tour was announced, and he CAME BACK TO MY TOWN for a concert! Sadly I have to say that the concert was not as exciting as it would normally have been for me because it took place just before I was getting on that plane.

In April, I got THAT call, the one every writer dreams of and waits for, and I don't have to go into that again because it has been documented ad nauseam on many blogs, on twitter and on Facebook.
Let me just say, the lady who called me via Skype to tell me they wanted to sign me was nice, pretty, and NOT as old as dirt.
I've never regretted signing with Buddhapuss Ink, not for a single moment. I'm probably their happiest author.

In June, I left home for that longish trip through the US to meet my twitter and Facebook friends.
Here they are: Sue and Rich, Denise, Tara, Moniera, Susan, Jane, Laura, Leslie, Marianne, Patti, Bunny, Jen, Nancy and Steve, Alicia, Keith and Emily, Sylvia, Denise, Adam, Julie, Paul and Claudia, Sam, and MaryChris.
Hope I didn't forget anyone.
I was in London, Vancouver (Can.), Seattle, Ellensburg WA, Washington DC, on the Eastern Shore, Topsail Island NC, Wilmington NC, Lynchburg VA, Charlotte NC, Portland ME, Freeport ME, Boston, New Haven, Jersey City, Edison NJ, Amagansett and New York City.
And I loved every moment of it. Oh well, the Luray Caverns, not so much. A lot of walking, and my bad leg balked.

In NJ, I met my publisher. In NYC, I had lunch at Carnegie's, and in DC I saw the Library of Congress (at least in passing). On Topsail, on my birthday, I bought a silver ring with shark teeth. In Wilmington, Bunny and I ate ice cream. In Vancouver, I smelled skunk!!! (and thought it was a burning tire). Bunny and I, we had a fabulous morning meeting Jen in Lynchburg.
In Jersey City, I visited with Keith. Nuff said.
Edison – and that's a bowl of spaghetti highways away from Jersey City – in Edison I visited my publisher.
Yes, folks, the dreamed-of moment. Meeting in person the people who think you deserve to be published.

When I got back home I started writing the next book while "Distant Shore" went through its last rounds of polishing.

Then, another miracle happened. And to this day I really think it is another miracle.
Someone on Facebook posted this painting:

I thought my heart was going to explode.
No one knew who the artist was, and the friend who had posted it had forgotten. FORGOTTEN!!!
I tried everything to decipher the signature, to no avail. Finally a twitter friend pointed me to Google's reverse image search, and I found the painter's homepage.

http://ericgthompson.com/

and this painting.

I fainted. Honest to God.
Eric had seen into my mind, he had PAINTED my book.
This picture, titled "Echoing The Sea", it HAD to be on my book cover. And it is. Long story, fantastic story, miracle story, but it's there. It's where it belongs, on the cover of "The Distant Shore".

Yesterday my publisher sent me the pic that's at the top of this blog post. They were wrapping up MY books to send me my copies.
Can you begin to imagine how I felt, seeing this photo? I bet you can.

So, once again, thank you, 2011. You rocked. You opened a totally new path for me, took me to strange and wonderful places, introduced me to lovely and wonderful people.

2011, you were a star among years.

.

The Christmas Spirit Forever

2011-12-28T13:20:00.000-08:00

Thanks to a mutual friend, I've just met lovely Joanna Cannon. On her blog, I found this wonderful Christmas post. Joanna has said everything I'd been thinking, everything I would want to say. Thank you for that, Joanna. Christmas may be over, but the spirit is alive.

A wishlist for Christmas …

For those who face Christmas alone, I would give the gift of a forgotten memory. The rush of a memory so fresh and new, it makes folds in a stretch of time and builds an easy footpath back to a long-ago Christmas of belonging.

For those who travel each day pressed into strangers on a crowded train, who feel the lives of others leak into their own, I would give the dawn of a December morning and a silent, crimson sky. I would send the flush of hidden pheasants in a winter mist and frosted breath which tumbles across a soundless horizon.

For those who plug themselves into a counterfeit world, I would steal their iPods and their mobile telephones and their earphones and replace them with the blackbird who sits by my window each day and sings with a heart which is filled with joy at just being alive.

For the field, I would give the gift of being a meadow once more. It would no longer be sliced by wire and fence, and machinery would cease to cut into its flesh. The value of the meadow would not be measured in the weight of its crops, but in the whisper of a breeze through its grass and the dance of squirrels across unmeasured branches.

For the pheasants and the lambs and the calves, I would give a life without fear of bullets and slaughter. For those who hunt and kill, I would give the gift of understanding that a life which feeds on control and greed is truly a life less lived.

For those who watch clocks from a marked life, who are fixed to their seats by invisible chains, I would give you the gift of an oak tree. You will sit at its feet and whisper into its bark and you will find the seat so comfortable, you may wonder if it was made just for you all along.

For those who want without need and count without value, for any who take from those with nothing to give and beat people in our society who are already beaten, I would give you eyes to see, a voice to speak out and ears which will listen to your conscience.

Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read and comment on my ramblings this year and may your best December gift be the one you least expect.

Sign up now!

2011-12-18T07:34:00.001-08:00

Publication day for "The Distant Shore" is coming closer, in fact it's less than one month!

Here's a chance for you to get a free copy:

http://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/show/18338-the-distant-shore

Hurry and sign up!

.

Love And Friendship And All That Crap

2011-12-05T06:35:00.000-08:00

Things change, and people change, and sometimes things that happen make people change.

For a while now, observing the way my own life is going, I've been thinking of writing about some of these changes.

The one I'm talking about today is nearly a taboo, I think.

And since I didn't manage to write a straightforward blog post about it, I've worked it into my novel "Under The Same Sun".

Here's my protagonist, Jon Stone, talking about friendship, and how it changes when your life changes.

He says it better than I ever could.

“I’ve always wanted to ask this,” Kevin continued, “Do do you even have any friends outside showbiz, Jon? Do you meet people other than those you work with, or family?”

“You asked me almost the same thing last year,” Jon replied, his voice quiet and deep, “Funny you should return to this. No, I don’t have any friends outside showbiz or the family.” He stopped and stared out into the darkness of the yard. “Naomi’s cousin Ferro and I were talking about this the other day, in his studio. He said his life was gradually getting lonelier. Family and some fellow artists, that’s basically it. I know what he’s talking about.”

“What do you mean?” Sarah watched him curiously, her head tilted and her mouth pursed, which made her look even more bird-like than usual.

“Something weird happens when you are successful.” Pushing away from the table, Jon lit a cigarette. Helen clucked at him, but he ignored it, giving her a guilty smirk in return. “The world shifts. The moment you announce that you’ve made it, signed your first deal, the world shifts. There is no other way to put it.” He got up and began to pace, his head lowered, as if he was trying to gather his thoughts. “I’ve thought about this often. I’ve even tried to write songs about it, but I couldn’t find the right words, it always sounded like whining.” He took another drag on his cigarette. “Which it is.”

“What do you mean, the world shifts? Are you off on one of your songwriter tangents, Jon? I just never get that stuff.” There were some sausages on the grill, and Kevin went to get them. Their aroma reminded Naomi of Positano, of parties on the terrace, and the sweetness of the nights there, compared to the oppressiveness of Brooklyn. She needed, she decided, lots of flowers for the garden of their new house, lots of Mediterranean flowers in terra-cotta pots.

“As long as you’re a nobody, struggling, hoping, your old friends will stick by you. But, once you achieve some level of success… I don’t know.” Impatiently, Jon tossed his butt into the ashtray Helen had brought out for him. “It’s almost as if your old friends think you don’t need or want them anymore once you have success and get a slice of that fame so many are after. There’s all this talk of people leaving everything behind them once they get famous and all that, but believe me, it works the other way around too. It’s like…” His hands shaped his thoughts into the air. “It’s like walking on a path, and when you take that certain turn in the road some people won’t go on with you. I don’t know why. I don’t think I’ve changed that much.” He shrugged. “I’m not a kid anymore, but I’m not a totally different person either.” More animated, he sat down again, sliced into one of the sausages and took a bite. “Do you remember Declan from high school? The guy I used to hang out with all the time, the one who would cheer me on like no one else? He’d come downtown whenever I had a gig.”

Kevin nodded.

“Well, a couple of months after I had signed my first record deal he told me he didn’t want to hang with me anymore because all I did was talk about the studio and the recordings and stuff. He said it in a very friendly and regretful way, but he did say it, and it broke my heart. I couldn’t understand why my breakthrough would change anything. Why would being a successful artist turn me into someone else in my friends’ eyes. I don’t know. Declan was the worst, though. We had been so close, real buddies. We had a great time. And then he dropped me, just like that.” His hand hovered over the plate with the meat, and he picked out a kebab skewer. “It felt like being punished. It felt like being punished for being successful.” The pieces of pork dropped on to his plate as he pushed them off the skewer, right into the ketchup. “I’ve been careful with people outside the biz ever since. I’m not going to waste my time on useless friendships. They don’t understand anyway. They don’t understand the way we live. They think it’s all song and dance and glitzy parties. The work part, the loneliness, the many silent hours spent working on the songs, they don’t see that. The drive to be creative, to shape something new, they can’t understand that. They only see the stage, the opening nights, the tuxedoes and evening gowns.”

Jon stopped talking to pop a tomato into his mouth and wash it down with a swallow of beer.

“How did Ferro put it? Something about friendship and love turning…” Naomi asked into the silence. Everyone was looking at Jon, Helen with a trace of sadness in her face, Kevin in puzzlement, and Sarah with disbelief.

“Ferro?” The beer bottle empty, Jon placed it on the floor beside his chair. “He said that friendship and love turned into admiration, and admiration into distance. How the expectation that you would move away into stardom made people pull back, when you yourself don’t mean to distance yourself. And how he stood by and watched it happen to him after his first exhibition in Rome. Instead of cementing old friendships, it killed them.”

Naomi recalled her own chat with Ferro, when he told her there was no woman in his life, and how hard it was to fit both his art and love for a girl into one life. She lowered her gaze to her wedding ring and the big diamond Jon had given her that day in London when he had asker her to marry him.

“So, I don’t have friends outside the music business.” A small, bitter laugh escaped Jon. “Hell, I don’t have a lot of friends at all, for that matter. Well, I do, but not buddy friends. Not friends who laze on the couch with me on a Saturday afternoon, order in pizza, and watch football.”

“Ferro said he had no place for a woman in his life,” Naomi’s words made him shift so he could see her better.

“No wonder, he’s hiding in that studio and that church of his all day long.” Jon laughed. “I wonder if he can even look at a woman without seeing a potential model in her.”

She smiled at him. “You’re not like that. You have enough space for a wife.”

“Yes.” He took her hand in his. “But I don’t think I’d be married if it wasn’t for you. I don’t think I could tolerate anyone else in my life day in day out. I need the woman who would buy a Steinway for me, before buying a coffeemaker for herself.”

“But Jon.” Naomi leaned toward him, ignoring the rest of the family. “You would buy a coffee maker for me before getting a piano for yourself.”

“Yes. Yes. I would. I’d buy you the best espresso machine in the world.”

He bent forward to plant his lips on hers lightly, until Helen said, “We get it. You may stop, Jon, please. Why don’t you go and get us some wine from the fridge instead. There’s a good boy.”

“See?” Jon sighed, rising, “At least here I’m still my old, normal self. My Mom’s errandboy, that’s me.”

All Over Again

2011-12-01T08:10:00.000-08:00

A year ago today it was snowing.
It had been frosty and cold for days, and that day, December 1, it began to snow.
I remember how I looked out of the window in the early morning and cursed a bit because it meant I'd have to put on my very comfy and very warm, but also very ugly winter boots to go out.
At that time, I was still working at school, and the Christmas Show we had been rehearsing for was only five days away.
So I dressed, made coffee, stared out of the window some more, admired the neighbors' holiday decorations, listened to the hubby grumble about having to scrape snow from the car, and then I turned on my computer.
There was one important task for me to do that morning, before I set out for school and the cold auditorium for another round of rehearsals: I was going to submit my first book ever to a publisher, for the first time ever.
I knew nothing about submitting.
I had no proper synopsis, no query letter, only a hastily slapped together summary in the "you know, and that's really all that happens" manner, I had no bio other than that I'd been born and was still alive, and my pitch was "I'll do what I have to do, except dance naked on tables". Yes, I really wrote that.
And slapped an unformatted, very lengthy manuscript into an attachment.

I'm kidding you not, that's how it went. I was in a hurry, the publisher had requested the book, and they kept asking for it. So I sent it off. I remember being totally ecstatic for about three hours, and then the panic set in.
The book was too long. I hadn't done my best with the editing. I hadn't found a good ending.
I HAD NOT WRITTEN A GOOD BOOK AT ALL AND IT SUCKED AND THE PUBLISHER WOULD NOT EVEN BOTHER TO REPLY.

My hubby, patient, loving soul that he is, bore it all, and more of his hair turned silver.

A day before Christmas I fell into depression. And I MEAN depression.
My older son, a medical doctor, came around, took one look at me curled up on the couch, a mound of used tissues on the carpet, and went out to get me a pack of antidepressant.
Totally listless by then, I watched my family put up the Christmas tree. The presents weren't wrapped, there weren't even presents for everyone, and I hadn't done any grocery shopping for the holidays.
And it didn't mean a thing to me.
I wanted that book deal. I wanted that email telling me I had that book deal.
My older son kept telling me, "Why are you making such a fuss? Of course they'll take it!"
Only I didn't really think it was going to be that easy.

I had to wait until the middle of January until I got THAT reply, and a little longer until the contract was finalized, but it really was that easy, in the end.

The reason why I'm writing this now is because last night, exactly a year after submitting "The Distant Shore", I finished writing the sequel, "Under The Same Sun".
And I'm full of gratitude and blissfully happy because I'm allowed to do this, I'm allowed to be a writer. I have the best publisher in the world.

I think writing one book and getting it published is a pretty cool thing. I mean, it's VERY cool.
But finishing a second is way cooler. It's a totally new dimension. It proves you have more in you, writer-wise, than just one burst of creativity. It proves you have a chance of being in it for the long run, have that career as an author.

So I'm sitting here on my couch, my favorite red velvet cushion in my back, my cat beside me on his favorite red fluffy plaid, hubby has made fresh coffee, and I'm opening the "Same Sun" file to start the editing of my brand new novel.

Come on, Santa. Try and top that.

.

Ending Friends

2011-11-28T03:22:00.000-08:00

Today's guest post is by crime author Sam Hilliard. His book, "The Last Track", is one of the very few crime novels I've ever finished. He's pretty cute, and very funny.

He also a fellow author at Buddhapuss Ink.

Some day in the future, we may yet write a book together. Because I think we are friends.

There is one question that people almost never ask writers, which is fortunate, since it’s the very question writers most want to avoid—especially in a public forum. It’s safe to ask them about the writing process, or the inspiration for their main character. Or possibly how long it took to write the book. If the writer is in a good mood, an entertaining (and often winding) story might follow.

Yet lob this bomb during a writing panel discussion, a setting where a writer is flanked by peers, and it will elicit a very different response: an awkward sort of reaction, like when a groom realizes that the bride is not terribly late for the walk down the aisle, rather, she’s not coming to the wedding.

Which brings me to the taboo query: can two writers really be friends?

And by friends, I don’t mean in a Facebook or Twitter kind of way, where every acquaintance, no matter how incidental, constitutes a “friend.” Can two individuals, who both consider themselves writers, maintain a healthy friendship? Or at least be the sort of people who could sit next to each other on a grounded plane for more than twenty minutes?

The answer hinges on how an individual author views the actual business of writing, which has very little to do with the craft. At the risk of oversimplifying the argument, I submit that there are two basic viewpoints, and generally authors adhere to one or the other, albeit not too vocally.

If a writer sees publishing as a zero-sum game, and any bit of success someone else attains detracts from their personal luster, then they cannot be friends with another writer. They probably can’t be very good friends with anyone, but they certainly can’t be friends with a peer. Sooner or later, one of them will be more successful than the other, and the flames of resentment will ignite. One clue you are dealing with a zero-summer, these sorts of authors will not write blurbs for your first novel (or probably anyone else’s who isn’t at least as famous as them).

But if both writers see the business of publishing as a limitless blue ocean, a sea of opportunity with as many possibilities for either of them as well as anyone else, well, there’s a chance they can be good friends. These are the people who look forward to reading what their friend is working on, and cheer each other on from the sidelines. Where appropriate, they might offer constructive advice and support.

They might even write a book together.

Find Sam here: http://www.samhilliard.com/wordpress/

http://buddhapussink.blogspot.com/p/sam-hilliard.html

Please Pay The Editor

2011-11-24T09:06:00.000-08:00

While Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade is floating through New York City, my friends on twitter are cheering each other and me with eggnog and pumpkin pie, while the first Christmas trees are being set up and everyone is in a festive mood, I just received a couple of tweets saying this:

“Would like to read your book. 17$? Will they be lowering the price anytime soon so we mortals can afford it?”

And, I have to admit, I snapped.

Let’s see.

You’re willing to spend money on a TV, on a computer, on a skateboard or a car. You’re even willing to spend money to go to the movies or a concert! You don’t mind spending a minor fortune on an iPad or iPod to listen to your music, watch videos online, read a downloaded book. ALL these things are recreational, and I could extend this list forever and ever, but you know where I’m going with this, right?

Here’s the thing:

You DO mind spending money on that book itself. (I’m not going into the video or music thing; enough said about that.)

A book is a product. It’s not something that poured itself into the internet out of thin air. Someone spent a lot of time writing it. A LOT of time. Maybe like a year or so. Many, many hours of work, of developing and producing this object, the story.

Then that same somebody spent another, very long time on rewriting, editing and polishing it, slapping it into a presentable shape.

I’m not even talking of the many people at the publishing house involved in the production of a book, and about how many hours, weeks, months, they spend on it before it is ripe for publication.

Ok, let me ask you again.

Why are you prepared to spend money on the kindle or iPad, but NOT on the book you want to download and read?

Because, you know, authors and publishers, editors, proofreaders, sales managers, agents, graphic designers and I’m sure a lot more I haven’t thought of, they really like to eat too. And they really like to be able to pay their bills.

I don’t think the people at Apple would give you an iPad for free. Or the people who build the Kindle. They want to sell their stuff.

I want to sell mine too. So does my publisher.

So please, treat a book, no matter which format, with the same respect you would treat a Kindle. You wouldn’t need a Kindle if you didn’t have a book. Right?

Poetry and Pictures

2011-11-19T04:14:00.000-08:00

Ever since I found Eric G. Thompson and his painting "Echoing The Sea" ( which is the one on my book cover) I've been dancing around this idea of writing haikus for some of his other art. I've been posting them on and off on Facebook, but today I felt I had to start gathering them into a blog. This is the first post of some I want to do to celebrate Eric's talent. Do feel free to add your own haikus or thoughts in a comment!

Silent, like the snow / you come to me and wrap me / into love's blanket.

Grey sea and the wind / the cold breath of loneliness / under a gull's wings.

Where I live gulls fly / their cries an invitation / heralds of the sea.

Royal ocean gift / luster in a sandy shell / pink pearl, pear-shaped find.

My bed, empty now / your fragrance on the pillow / I will dream you back.

Beautiful

2011-11-12T04:51:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, beautiful things just happen.
They happen when you least expect them to, and they can be small miracles.

You see here the cover of my novel "The Distant Shore", coming January 17, published by Buddhapuss Ink. It has the most amazing, the loveliest art on its cover. When I first saw this painting, when I clicked on it on the artist's site, it seemed to me as if the world stopped for a moment, and in that instant I heard a bell toll, felt the universe shift just a tiny bit and settle in the way it was meant to be.
I stared at this image, and I wondered if the artist, Eric G. Thompson, had been inside my head when I wrote "The Distant Shore", if he knew what I had written.
Because, if it were at all possible to pour thoughts onto canvas, this would have been it.

And this is where the miracle comes in.
Even though this painting is sold, even though it is an expensive, one-of-a-kind original piece of art, it will be on my book. Eric and the owner gave their consent. If they were within reach now, I'd kiss them, I'm that grateful.

I wanted this painting on my book cover with every fiber of my heart. I think I wanted this even more than getting my book published in the first place.
(If you remember, I wasn't at all ready to sign a book deal when the publisher found me. The book wasn't even finished. I made them WAIT for it. Yes, I know; big no-no. But no one told me that.)
Eric G.Thompson and his wife Hilary made this dream come true.
For that, for their kindness, and for understanding how much this means to me, I want to thank them.

Please visit Eric's website. Do what I like to do there: drown in the beauty of his art. Let it take you away. Admire it, and admire the artist who sees the world like he does.
I know I do.

http://ericgthompson.com/

http://www.deloneynewkirk.com/Artist-Detail.cfm?ArtistsID=82

Talking To Jon Stone

2011-10-29T12:17:00.000-07:00

(Painting: Eric G. Thompson)

There is nothing incidental about an interview with Jon Stone, songwriter and performer. Even the room where I get to meet him seems carefully set up, the chairs placed in just the right angle to catch the light, allow my illustrious guest to stay in command. His manager enters before him. Sal Rosenberg has been working with Mr. Stone for more than twenty-five years now, from the beginnings of his career here in New York all the way to world fame. He greets me with a friendly shake of his hand, offers coffee, and then stands aside to make way for the star.

Surprisingly, Jon Stone does not look diminished close up like so many others. There is less glamor, it's true, but he still seems larger than life, imposing, in control, and he is one handsome man. At forty-six, he is one of those guys who would make you turn your head and bump into doors if you met them somewhere on the street, tall, dark, mysterious, and with a smile to fry your brain.
He also makes it very easy to start a conversation by chatting about the weather and the coffee, about the restaurant he and his band visited the night before.

"Our last thing together for a while," Jon says, "The tour is over, now we get to relax."
Very neatly, with one statement, he has completely unraveled my well-laid interview plans. His legs stretched out, coffee cup balanced on his knee, he waits for me to speak. There's an amused twinkle in his dark eyes, and I swear I can see the corners of his mouth twitching.

"There is a rumor that this was your last tour."

A moment's thought, then a nod. "Yes, I think that's so. It has been a fun ride, but it's time to move on. I want to do something totally different, find out if I can do more than just write songs and perform them. Last year my wife and I wrote a movie soundtrack, and now we're going to stage the musical we created. Right here in New York, too. The auditions start in two months."

"You will do the auditions yourself?"

Again, that mischievous grin. "Oh yes, I'd not want to miss that for the world. My wife, she can't wait. She's really excited about working on the show."
He watches while I take my notes, patiently sipping his coffee. Sal is visibly bored, he's pushing sugar cubes around on the saucer of his cup.

"You have reached nearly every pinnacle in the music world," I begin, and stop again.
That man has the audacity to SMIRK at me!
"Yes?" Drawled out, full of laughter, as if he knows exactly that I'm about to wilt.
"And now you're going to stage your own musical, too. What is it that is driving you? You could well stop working and enjoy your success and wealth and lead a pleasant life."

Very suddenly, every trace of humor is gone.
"Driving me, " Jon repeats softly, "Driving me. There is something driving me, it's true." He sits up straight and puts down his coffee cup. "When I signed my first record deal I was delirious with joy. I couldn't believe my luck. For two days, I walked on clouds. And then..." A glance passes between him and Sal. "And then I felt it was not enough. I hired a vocal coach, a fitness trainer. Sal and I started looking for a band, and I wanted people who would be good to work with for a long time, who would walk this path with me. Friends, a musical family. But it was not enough."
This is startling.
"Not enough?" I ask.
"No." Jon stretches out his hand, and Sal puts a pack of cigarettes and a lighter in it. "It was a step in the right direction, but it was not where I wanted to stop." The smoke drifts between us, bluish and obscuring.
"I got my first gold record, my first platinum, and still there was this drive to prove something, to prove to myself that I was worthy of something." He pauses. "I've often wondered if this is something all creative people feel, the need to be more than just a normal human, leave a mark on this world, do something that makes a difference."
His gaze wanders toward the door and he falls silent.
"So this new project..." I prompt him, and he shakes himself out of his reverie. Again I get one of these dazzling smiles. No wonder he has so many female fans all over the world.
"Yeah, I can't wait! Working with my wife is the best thing that's ever happened to me. She's writing a book now, a novel, would you believe it." His voice grows soft talking about her, dark and velvety like molten chocolate. Listening to him gives me shivers. He isn't Jon Stone for nothing.
"She is so talented, a real artist, a wonderful poet."
Oh, now that makes me want to snicker. Here is the famous rock star, and he's raving about his wife like a teenager. Not sure his fans would like that.
Sal taps his watch, and Jon nods. "Time for me to go. My wife is waiting, I promised to take her out for lunch today. One more question."
"Your wife." Uh oh, this may be the wrong direction. His brows draw together. "She is the heiress to the Carlsson Hotel emporium, right?"
His hand comes up to stop me. "Yes, yes, but she has decided not to work in the family business." With a sigh, Jon rises from the couch. "She is my wife, and she's my writer. There's no time for all that, and I'd hate for her to be away that much." The chin comes up. "We have many plans, and they don't include the Carlsson estate. We'll end this now."
Suddenly, the air in the room seems a lot cooler. I know I've hit a wall, and the interview is over. They leave, Sal and Jon, talking to each other, their minds already somewhere else, somewhere in their own world, and I'm left behind with cold coffee and an untouched plate of cake.

In Other Words...

2011-10-21T06:23:00.000-07:00

(This is how my Tweetdeck looked on April 22, this year. Champagne corks were flying, the book deal was finalized!)

Last night I got a mail from my publisher ( Buddhapuss Ink LLC, you know, the black cat on twitter), saying this:
"Before the layout is put to bed, would you like to add any acknowledgements?"
My instant reply was, "Good grief, no! This is a novel, not a dissertation!" And I sent it off.
That publisher's mailbox must be brimming with mails like this one from me, sent out on an impulse, without really thinking about what I'm saying, because almost immediately they get another one, and this one then goes: "Well, actually, after mulling it over for a while..." Note the "well". I appears often in my emails.

So last night, after first saying "No!" and brushing the suggestion off I sat here, and I started to wonder: Who do I want to thank, now that this first novel is really finished, edited, copyedited and whatever else, now that it's going into print?

Yes, yes, my family, my husband, my cat, my sons, my friends who encouraged, read, applauded, asked for more – all those. Of course. They had the patience, the trust, the love, to help me write "The Distant Shore". They gave me the space and the time to retreat and finish a novel.
Thank you for all that, my loved ones!

But.

In the book, on the last page, where the acknowledgements are, I want to see something else.
It's easy to write a novel. All you have to do is sit down and do it. It's also easy to send it out and offer it to a publisher, there's no risk involved. The worst that can happen is that it will be returned, or ignored.
The fulcrum here is the moment when a publisher actually decides to ACCEPT the novel, and accept it from a total novice. There's an enormous risk involved. Will the author be good to work with? Will the editing, the entire publishing process, go smoothly, will she work fast enough, do what she is told to do, help with the marketing, be willing to step out, do active promoting?
A publisher sinks money into a book when they decide to sign it. A whole lot. They expect a return.

Now here's where my "thank you" comes in.
I'm that total novice. I'm the author this publisher risked signing. My book is ready to go into print. We worked our way through it, most of the time without struggles (I hope; it didn't feel like struggling), and the sequel is well on the way.

So I wrote that second mail, the one that began with "well", and here is what it said:

Well… if I WERE to add an acknowledgment… it would be this:

The fact that you, as my reader, are able to hold this book in your hand now proves that serendipity really exists. To me, it came in the shape of a black cat following me on twitter one day. It turned out to be my future publisher, who, with patience, a great sense of humor and a good dose of friendship gave me the time and space to shape this story into something you would want to read.
My thanks go out to MaryChris Bradley of Buddhapuss Ink who edited The Distant Shore, and taught me to be an author along the way.

And this is what you will read on the last page of my book.

Jane And The Daily Dinner

2011-10-20T03:43:00.000-07:00

There is a universal, desperate plea every Mom knows:
"What shall I cook today? Help!!!"
Usually this happens when you stand in front of your open fridge and stare at what you have inside and could easily be turned into a meal, or when you sit down to write a grocery list (weekly nightmare stuff!), while the young ones are clinging to your leg and howling for food, and you, the frazzled cook, slap something together, anything, to stop the noise.
One day though, when exactly this happened to Jane Travers, serendipity took pity on her and guided her fingers to the computer, and instead of torturing her own brain for a recipe she had a stellar idea: ask twitter.
Within moments she had so many recipes for the chicken legs sitting in her fridge that she had the fabulous idea of putting together a cook book. Of course (OF COURSE!!!) it was immediately picked up by a publisher.

I'm happy and quite a bit proud to be included in Jane's blog hop to present her book "Tweet Treats". Here is the interview I did with her.

Congrats to you, Jane, and now sit down and write that novel you want to write, we are waiting for it!

1. What gave you the idea for this book?

It was a real lightbulb moment! I was standing in my kitchen on a miserable Thursday night in April 2010, staring at a packet of chicken thighs. It was already 6.30pm, everyone was starving and I couldn’t for the life of me think of what to cook with the chicken. In desperation I tweeted:

“Any suggestions for what to do with a packet of chicken thighs? No dirty ones, please!”

Within a minute I had received 5 perfect little tweet-length recipes, and an idea struck me. I wondered how many twitter recipes I could collect; could I get enough to fill a book, and donate the royalties to charity? Within a couple of days I had a website up and running (www.tweettreats.org) and was well on my way.

2. Who was the first celebrity you approached, and why?

Tracy Chevalier, author of Girl With A Pearl Earring and others. She was fairly new to Twitter and hadn’t been mobbed with followers, so I thought there was a good chance that she might see me in her timeline – and she did.

3. What was the recipe he/she gave you?

It’s a really nice recipe actually, for Pasta Puttanesca. I’ve tried it, it was lovely.

4. Do you try out the recipes you get before you put them in the book?

Not all of them! It would be impossible, there are 1,000 recipes in the book. I’ve tried a good few though, and I’m pleased to report that there’s not a dud amongst them. In fact, quite a few of them have become new firm favourites in our house.

5. Which is your favorite recipe?

Ooh, tough question! There are some that I think are great, because they come from people I really esteem (like Neil Gaiman!), then there are others that I’ve started making quite frequently. I really like feta, watermelon and mint salad by @SanyaV, golden syrup cookies by @Chiddle84 and banana bread by @mduffywriter

6. What is your personal favorite dish? And your favorite cake?

Probably Chicken a la King, but only when my mother makes it! I can never get it quite right myself. If I was on death row, it’d be my final meal. My favourite cake would be a really light Victoria Sponge with strawberries and cream, or else carrot cake. With cream cheese frosting. Oh god, I’m getting hungry now!

7. If you could go to any restaurant in the world for a romantic dinner, which one would it be? Who would you take?

It’s probably a bit twee, but I love the restaurant at the top of the Space Needle in Seattle. My husband and I first went there as a bit of a joke when we were on our honeymoon, and were surprised to really love it. If you book a table at dusk you can watch the whole city lighting up around you as the sun sets over Puget Sound. We’ve been there several times since, and our daughter loves it too. She spends her time passing notes to other diners around the outside of the revolving area. So, I suppose, I’d have to take my husband... But if he wasn’t available, maybe Neil Gaiman!

8. Coffee or tea?

Coffee! In the morning, anyway. It has to be black, and very strong – I’m a purist. For the rest of the day I drink tea, Earl Grey, also black. I’m really not keen on milk.

9. What do you cook for Christmas dinner?

It depends. In my family we take turns to host dinner, between my mother, my sisters and I. If it’s my turn I roast a turkey with stuffing and all the trimmings, and the others will bring a dish each. If one of the others is hosting, I’ll usually make the trifle.

10. Last question: Which food do you like least?

Shellfish. No, beetroot. No, wasabi. No, marmite. No, probably shellfish actually... Ew, imagine shellfish with a marmite and wasabi dressing, over a salad of shredded beetroot? That’d be like a perfect storm of bad food!

Synchronicity

2011-10-10T03:47:00.001-07:00

Photo: Marousia

Today I’m honored to present two twitter friends to you, Marousia and PeterWilkin1.

They met on twitter, made friends on twitter, and decided to collaborate on a novel. We could watch them develop the story, talk about it, and finish it, and we celebrated with them. It’ my pleasure to be the first to host them. Here is what they have to say about their book!

Photo: Peter Wilkin

Synchronicity: A Novel Collaboration between Peter Wilkin and Marousia Berry

We thought about how to write about our collaboration. Peter suggested using a conversation format so here is a reflective conversation about how we wrote Crystal Space: Releasing the Dragons

Can you remember how all this began?

M: When I think about how our collaboration began, I recollect that we noticed our poetry posts were synching in terms of themes and feelings, and this really struck us both. There were also the ‘parties’ with Pierre and Missy - those started when I was in Vietnam on business in late November last year, you three kept me company when I was eating dinner alone in restaurants. I feel we became friends and fellow travellers then.

P: Yes, the parties were the precursors of our poetry collaborations, where we spontaneously created several, themed, haiku-based rengas ‘live’ on twitter. I remember we talked about ‘dancing together’ as the two of us wrote Flames of Creation, a dragon-themed renga in January of this year. We both wrote up the experience on our respective blogs and one of the comments prompted me to reply that there seemed to be ‘so much synchronicity (between us) as if we were unconsciously plugged into each other’s thoughts.’

M: I agree that when we wrote Flames of Creation we were tapping into each others thoughts, in my blog I described the process of writing the renga as a ‘seamless waltzing’.

How did we decide on a theme? What came first, the theme of the form/genre?

P: You know, I seem to recall that the theme and the genre emerged hand in hand. Was it my wife, Ally’s decision to open a crystal shop that fuelled our fantasies about a similarly themed novel together? That, perhaps, and our shared passion for all things dragonish?

M: Yes, we both went through a phase where all our micro-poems were about dragons. It was like we were finding the dragon characters for the book. Then I remember you telling me about Ally’s crystal shop and we decided to put the dragons in the shop; we had inklings of the dragon characters and crystal shop setting.

Why dragons?

M: I feel we share an obsession for dragons. Maybe deep down I still believe dragons exist and I could fly with them if I just say the right words... How about you?

P: Oh, most definitely. Like you, I believe we are separated from a dimension where dragons do exist by a small piece of knowing that, for now, eludes us. Perhaps our dragon writing is bringing us ever-closer to those magical words?

Can you remember how we decided it should be a children’s novel?

M: I seem to recollect we discovered we shared a love of children’s literature - poetry and books. I remember thinking Flames of Creation had the stuff of a story children would like. Did you feel the same?

P: I did indeed. Looking back, it is as if Crystal Space arose out of the ashes of our renga. In actual fact I’ve just taken a peek at Flames of Creation and it gave me the shivers as I read it through. There are so many raw ideas in our collaborative poem that we have picked out and developed whilst writing Crystal Space.

How did we write the outline and what part did it play in the writing?

P: Whilst we had a very basic idea of a story in our heads, I remember writing out the ‘hero stages’ of a possible storyline and, shortly afterwards, creating a chapter-plan and synopsis from those initial notes. I think our pre-planning has been invaluable: keeping us on track (apart from my inability to stop at a predetermined word count) whilst still allowing us the freedom to roam wherever we wished.

M: I agree, the chapter outline was the key to keep the plot moves on track. I think it freed us to really develop the characters of the humans and the dragons as well as the settings where the events unfolded.

What’s the book about?

M: I guess our premise for the book is that optimism and imagination win through, and mistakes are essential to the process of growing up to be a grounded resilient person. The story follows a classic fairy tale plot line. The protagonist is a girl called Briannca on the cusp of adolescence. She goes to work in a crystal shop where she meets Ruby, the keeper of the dragon crystals. Over to you, Peter.

P: For the very first time in her life, Briannca experiences some major losses as she joins Ruby and the dragons in their quest to save the moon and defeat the incredibly evil Candleman. And she is faced with some big decisions as she and her nerdy brother, Enjee, embark upon a fabulous journey as they weave in and out of various dimensions.

M: Yes, Enjee’s ability with computer games turns out to be be very handy to solve some wicked situations. The dragons as characters are quite tricky but then again they are not human.

P: And I think it’s fair to say that this is no ordinary story. The main characters find themselves in some weird and wonderful places and encounter some incredibly bizarre creatures.

How did you create the characters?

M: We decided on the sister and brother and shopkeeper, and then I recollect that we looked at crystal lore, do you remember how we settled on seven dragons?

P: Yes - the seven dragons are roughly based upon the seven alchemical metals that Carl Jung refers to in his theory of spiritual transformation. And, of course, the stages of individuation that he identifies surface regularly in our book as Briannca makes the transition from childhood to adolescence.

M: I had the chapter where Rose dragon was first drawn out as a character by Briannca. Her crystal is rose quartz which heals and promotes unconditional love. She is incredibly playful but very grounded at the same time. You developed the Golden dragon, Peter, how do you see him?

P: He is the burning sun: a huge force of energy and leader of the dragons. Yet, deep down beneath his pragmatic exterior, there is a warmth and sensitivity in him that surfaces when Briannca is feeling upset or distressed. Just like his crystal, amber, he is both invigorating and calming.

How did we feel sending each other chapters? How did we feel reading each other’s chapters?

M: I was always so excited when I received the chapters from you. I remember waiting for you to write the first chapter and then it arrived. It was a magic moment I will never forget! I read it and it was perfect, so beautifully expressed. And then I had to write the second. Oh, I was so nervous sending it off and I tried to leave threads for you to pick up. I wondered which one would appeal to you. For me it was like an extended drama improvisation... over to you...

P: And I was amazed when you sent over chapter 2 - the distance between us and the fact that we had never physically met seemed irrelevant as your chapter took up the story seamlessly from chapter 1. Well - I say ‘amazed’ but, on reflection, I believe we somehow knew that our imaginations would meld together and the chapters would flow.

What about editing?

P: The editing has been fun, though I must confess to a degree of anxiety when first editing ‘your’ chapters. I remember tentatively apologizing to you in advance should I suggest any changes and you responded with, ‘Hey! Go for it! If I don’t agree I will say so!’ Your comment really freed me up to edit with impunity. For me, editing the book together enabled me to relinquish any kind of ownership of the chapters that I’d written. Now, it truly is ‘our’ book - there feels to be no ‘you and me’ about it any longer ~ only ‘us’. Was it a similar kind of process for you?

M: Yes it was, I feel that editing together worked really well because we did start to think about the book as a whole instead of chapter to chapter - it stopped being a dance and became a threaded unified work. I enjoyed the editing process very much and it very much is ‘our’ book now.

What are our next steps?

M: We need to find publishers interested in children’s books and young adult fantasy to approach. I feel we have a series in the Crystal Space …

P: Definitely! And the prospect of writing a sequel with you thrills me.

M: I have the distinct sensation the sequel is sitting in a dragon’s egg somewhere hatching as we speak.

Donna Carrick on Writing

2011-10-06T13:29:00.000-07:00

This week's guest blogger is no other than Donna Carrick, successful Canadian author and dear friend. I'm honored to host her! Here is her list of advice to all aspiring writers. Take it, she knows what she's saying. (And once you've listened to her, to what your heart tells you.)

Turning The Page – 10 tips for maintaining reader interest

As writers, we know it’s vital to keep the reader interested. This is true whether we’re constructing a thriller, a poem or a technical document.

Without the reader, there is no transaction. There are only words on a page.

Given the subjectivity of our art, how can we ensure our work is compelling to our target audience? It isn’t important to reach every potential reader, but we do want to connect with those who have a natural interest in our genre or subject.

Each author must find his or her own voice. There is no certain road to stellar writing. However, there are a few key tips that can help keep the reader “on-line” with your story. Keep in mind, each time a reader is “stopped” by something that clunks, there is one more opportunity for him to put your book down…for good.

The following is a checklist of things to watch for. The occasional occurrence of these “sticky” factors is not usually a deal-breaker. However, if these problems arise in your work with any frequency, you may need to drag your manuscript back to the old drawing board:

1- Poor spelling or grammar. Most independently published work, and even a good deal of the traditionally published work these days, will contain the occasional ‘typo’. These rare slips are easily forgiven by modern readers.

However, repeated errors in grammar and spelling will indicate to a reader that the writer is not skilled. If this problem occurs with any regularity, a course in basic writing is recommended.

If a writer believes his story is strong but is aware of a problem in this area, a copy editor can help. In that case, it is recommended that the author get professional assistance.

2- Pet words or phrases. We writers are human. Naturally, we’ll be tempted to slip colloquialisms into our work.

It’s ok to repeat a phrase when it lends voice to a specific character. However, it’s not ok when the writer shows an obvious attachment to a word or phrase. The reader will be turned off by repetition of this kind.

I keep a checklist of words that I have a particular fondness for. As soon as my first draft is complete, I “go hunting” for those words using the “find” function in my word processor.

3- Lengthy descriptions that interrupt the story. I call this the “explainy” stuff. We all do it, to some degree. As writers, we’re often describing the environment (either internal or external) to ourselves, as much as to the reader.

Most readers will lose interest if they are confronted with huge blocks of description or lengthy narrative. Of course, there will be some exceptions. For the most part, though, it’s best to give the reader sufficient foreground and enough artistry that he can fill in the background using his own imagination.

4- Cardboard characters. We hear this all the time. But how will we know if our characters are one-dimensional? And what does that really mean?

A fully developed character will seem real to the reader. He/she won’t preach, won’t be 100% good or evil (unless that character is a saint or a sociopath!), and won’t be entirely predictable.

A strong character has room for growth. There may be flaws, but there is also the potential for redemption.

5- Take care with dialogue tags. Use “he said/she said” sparingly, but make sure the reader always knows who is speaking. Avoid replacements for the word “said”. They are intrusive to the dialogue. Also, avoid adverbs for “said”, like “he said breathlessly”.

6- Get comfortable with dialogue. Strong dialogue is a clear indicator of writer confidence. Listen to people speaking. Practice injecting your character’s voice into the dialogue. Read it out loud to yourself. Better yet, record yourself reading it.

7- Cut anything that is not related to your story/purpose. You may come up with a brilliant idea, but unless you can work it seamlessly into your current project, put it aside. If it’s really great, you’ll be able to use it down the road.

A red pen can be your best friend.

8- Know your characters like you know the real people in your world. You don’t have to offer this intimate insight constantly to the reader, but you should have it in the back of your mind when you bring your characters onto the page. Each time a character steps into your story, he/she should arrive as a complete person, with likes/dislikes/views/habits/dress intact.

Author infusion of self into characters is a common problem. Remember that your characters are not you. They should be free to act and think in ways that may be completely alien to you as a person.

9- Respect your readers. They don’t want to be talked down to. Each reader will have his or her own views on life. It isn’t necessary (or even desirable) for a writer to suppress his own natural ideas. However, it’s important to present those ideas within a foundation of respect, knowing that not everyone will agree.

10- Finally, the most important tip I can offer to writers of all skill levels is simply: READ, READ, AND READ SOME MORE. The more we read, the better we write. There is no substitute for exposing ourselves to literature of every genre.

An open mind facilitates excellence in writing.

Find Donna on Facebook:
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Carrick-Publishing/222166254476952

The Sweetness Of The Dark

2011-10-02T01:36:00.000-07:00

This is a blog post I wrote for the #amwriting fridayflash a few weeks back. Thought you might enjoy it. It's my first try at crime. Of course it would be a serial killer, what else.

He had yet, Mario decided, to get on a flight inside the US that left on time.

In Seattle, waiting for the boarding, he had felt like a sheep, or even better, a refugee from some war zone, sweaty, thirsty, tired, confused and utterly lonely, watching as the herd of arriving travelers left the gate and evacuated the plane for another one.

He had never seen anything like it in Europe. There, air travel still seemed to hold the crisp excitement of an adventure, something out of the ordinary and not to be attempted light-heartedly, but here, it was nothing more than getting on a bus, a sad, dispirited routine.

The First Class passengers were called, another unheard-off thing back home. They shuffled past, and finally, at long last, it was his turn.

He was a wise traveler by now; no window seat for him, the gawking days were over. Aisle, and easy access to the restroom, that was the thing.

The middle seat was empty, which was an unexpected bonus.

Mario was exhausted.

The readings on the West Coast had gone well enough, he had met lovely people and eaten great food, enjoyed the landscape and the rugged shoreline, listened to his hosts’ enthusiastic declarations of love for their home, but he had felt oddly displaced, disconnected from where he felt the real world was, too far from anything that mattered. The West Coast felt like a different planet, like a continent dropped off the edge of the world, and the many time zones between it and Europe did not help either.

The air had not smelled right. The ocean was on the wrong side of town, and the vegetation was so different he could not recognize most of the trees. In Vancouver, he had been down on the beach and drawn back from the water in a moment of panic, shocked by the idea of the Pacific vastness and the strange shores on its other side.

So now, at long last, he was heading back East, back toward home and places he felt he knew.

Newark greeted him with early morning heat.

In fact, it was not only heat but a slap with a wet sheet right out of a hot washing machine.

Mario stood on the curb, waiting for the car that was supposed to pick him up, and tried to take a breath. It felt like inhaling water, and pretty foul-tasting water too. The sky, low and grey, hung over the landscape like dirty dish rags, the tepid breeze touched his face as if the fingers of a middle-aged mermaid were trying to caress him. From the distance, he could hear sirens, police cars howling by on one of the convoluted highways, the echo dropping onto the street in a dead faint.

A black SUV pulled up right in front of him.

Stewart got out, a friendly grin on his face, and he looked just the way he had always done when they had Skyped, a little too round, a little too bald, and just on the verge of elderliness, the memory of youthful middle-age still in the way he carried himself.

“I wanted,” he said, “To get you a coffee and donuts to give you the proper New Jersey welcome, but there was a long line outside Dunkin Donuts, so you’ll have to settle for breakfast at the office. It’s good to finally see you in person.”

He helped Mario put his luggage in the trunk. “The boys are really curious about you. They think we don’t need a European profiler, not even for a visit, and they can’t wait to see what’s so special about you.”

“I’m not a profiler,” Mario mumbled. Already his shirt was sticking to his back, and he had hardly moved. This was worse than North Carolina, and that had been pretty ugly. But there, it had just been heat. Here, it was like being inside a Finnish sauna, and on the highest tier too.

“Yeah, you are.” Without looking into the rearview mirror Stewart drove off and entered a maelstrom of roads, loops upon loops, completely messing up Mario’s sense of direction within seconds.

“I’m going to take you,” he announced cheerfully, “Along the Pulaski Skyway so you get a good impression of where you are right away. This is New Jersey, my friend, and you’ve never seen anything like it, I bet.”

Which was true.

Mario, looking out of the car window, had never seen anything like it.

He stared down at scarred, dismal landscape spreading away in every direction, at rusty towers and high chimneys, at desolate wasteland of decrepit industrial yards, inlets of water, their limpid, oily waves sucking at dead, marshy earth, and highways bridges in the distance, their iron girders whale skeletons stranded in a world of refuse. Incredibly, there were houses, islands of life, sprinkled into this apocalyptic area, fingers of suburbia, undaunted by their surroundings. He wondered how children grew up there, in the midst of this nightmare, if there were parks he could not see, some pockets of green, some semblance of a garden, trees, flowers. All he recognized from here was grey, brown, black, and dead.

“There,” Stewart pointed into the distance.

Hovering, like a space ship, the skyline of Manhattan rose above the nightmare of New Jersey. Mario could name the buildings, he had been there before. They called to him, beacons of a happier place, one that he remembered fondly, and one that he could hardly wait to see again.

But for now, it would be Jersey City, and work.

Overpasses, they called the dark, filthy and spooky tunnels under the highways. He had no idea why they looked the way they did. But they certainly were the best place to deposit a dead body, and if a killer set his mind to it, like just now, he could make an art of placing his victims there.

So far, there had been fifteen, in Jersey City alone. And it would be his job to find the artist.

Seriously...

2011-09-30T12:08:00.000-07:00

You know what feels like fingernails on blackboard, chili on the tongue, acid on your skin?
When translations in movies get ... uh... messed up (yeah I was going to use a different word but if I do I'll get my wrist slapped and... oh well).

I write in English. Or rather, in American. I've chosen this language because I think it is beautiful, melodic, poetic, and as fluid as a brook in a forest. Don't look at me like that, if you think I'm crazy read some good literature for a change and don't listen to the guy next to you on the subway. English is wonderful. I like it better than my native German. Well, it wasn't quite that native. I grew up speaking three languages. German with my mother, English with my father, and Portuguese out on the street with my friends, in Brazil, where we lived for some years.

Right now, it's a Friday night. I'm chilling. Having a drink (vodka bitter lemon, with a LOT of bitter lemon) and watching TV, and I'm a happy chick because I've figured out why I'm writing the novel I'm writing, where it will lead and how it will end, and all I have to do now is write it down, which isn't the hardest task in the world and only needs some patience.
So I'm sitting here and watching Castle, a silly, pretty brainless US crime show, and WHAM it hits me like a hammer.
There are words that sound similar in German and English, and yet they have a totally different meaning. And when you KNOW it's a translation, they become totally hilarious.

Serious? The German word is "ernst".
There is a German word, "seriös", and it means "respectable".
Oh, how often these are messed up!

Another beauty: "sensible". German word: "vernünftig".
The similar German word: "sensibel". Meaning: "sensitive".

Oh, and this one: "become". Strangely enough, it translates into an auxiliary in German, "werden".
The German "bekommen" means "to get".

This one is my hubby's favorite: A "billion". Hey, that's a lot of money, right? But in German, the equivalent amount of $$$ would be "Milliarde", and a German Billion would be a thousand American Billions. Bring it on, I say.

There are some more. I'm not a translator, so generally I don't bother with these things. but just now, watching Castle, hearing one of these monstrosities, I felt myself hoping that if my book ever gets translated into German there won't be any of these mistakes.
For good measure, I'm going over the manuscript and removing every "billion" I can find.
My characters aren't THAT wealthy.

One Haiku

2011-09-28T23:00:00.000-07:00

Photo: Ulrike Pein

My bed, empty now / your fragrance on the pillow / I will dream you back.

A Poet's Words

2011-09-28T09:06:00.000-07:00

Today's guest blogger is my friend Jackie.
As far as I am concerned, she belongs to the top poets on Twitter, and trust me, there are many. Jackie wrote this poem for my blog, at my request, when I asked her to talk about creativity. I love what she came up with.

"Time and Creativity"

I have no minutes, no hours, no days
Creation is my clock
My mind's labyrinth
Webbed, waiting

Your hour hand to me is useless
The minutes even more
The hands I see are words o'clock
Chimes echo only Poetry

The hands of your clock
Knives at the ready
To cut my syllables
Slice, stab, at my words, my dreams

Your day starts at dawn, five of the clock
Mine starts and ends with magic
'Round the clock
Visions of dragons, gryphons,unicorns

You eat flesh and plants to nourish
I am a word chef with platters of thoughts
Sauted, broiled, and boild
For others to digest

Creativity is my Timekeeper
Poetry is my jealous lover.

If you like this, you will find more by Jackie on her own blog.
Here is the link. http://1emeraldcity.wordpress.com/

Talli Roland Writes

2011-09-25T03:16:00.000-07:00

Today begins a series of guest posts on this blog, to celebrate the launch of my own book, "The Distant Shore", in January. I have invited twitter friends who have arrived at the same stage in their lives, where their books have just been or will soon be published. We share the excitement and to some point disbelief at what is happening to us, and the wonder. Please welcome my fellow authors, and go look at their books!

The first blog post is by talented, funny and very pretty Talli Roland. Thank you, Talli, for sharing!

Chick Lit is Dead. Long Live… Chick Lit!

Chick lit has been through the wringer recently, with critics and authors alike on the warpath. It’s too pink. Too girly. Too sweet. Agents won’t touch it with a ten-foot pole; publishers run shrieking in horror (slight exaggeration, perhaps…). But the demand for curlicued covers seems to have abated… or has it?

Well, it certainly hasn’t if you look at e-books. Over on the Kindle Top 100, chick-lit novels are going strong. Readers are buying in great numbers, driving their favourite reads – with those pink, pretty covers –right to the top of the chart. No matter what the people ‘in charge’ say, to me, it’s obvious readers are devouring these entertaining reads, and asking for more.

I didn’t set out to write chick lit. Coming from a background of English Literature and trained as a journalist, initially I longed to pen something serious; something with staying power. But my inner writer didn’t want to comply. Whatever I scribbled always had a bit of humour to it; even the most tragic moment, I couldn’t resist livening up.

The more chick lit I read, the more I became convinced this was the ideal genre for my voice. And it was! I love writing stories featuring modern women who try to find themselves and discover what they want from life – with a little bit of snark and a touch of romance along the way.

And you know what? Whether or not chick lit is dead, it’s what I’m going to keep writing.

Talli Roland has three loves in her life: chick lit, coffee and wine. Born and raised in Canada, Talli now lives in London, where she savours the great cultural life (coffee and wine). Despite training as a journalist, Talli soon found she preferred making up her own stories – complete with happy endings. Her first novel, The Hating Game, was an Amazon UK best-seller, remaining in the top 100 for almost three months. Her second novel, Watching Willow Watts, is available now as an ebook (paperback coming in November). Talli blogs here and can be found on Twitter here.

You're Human. Forgive.

2011-09-17T08:18:00.000-07:00

Today I'm honored to present the first ever guest on my blog, my dear friend Jessica Luton, @serenitywriter on twitter.

We were talking about creativity and writing the other day – well, we always do; it's either that, or cupcakes – and she said she was stuck because "real life" stuff was keeping her down and occupied. To cheer her up, I suggested a guest post. Here it is. Thank you, Jess.

~~~

These past ten days have been very strange for me. My creativity seemed to get shut off. I love baking, sometimes I make jewelry, and I play with words. I couldn’t write anything that expressed what I felt. I continually began a piece on forgiveness. It was about other people, past experiences, in a word, trite.  Select all, delete. Try again.

Ignoring my intuition, I picked up a book to read, and stopped two paragraphs in. It was as if a part of me had sighed disapprovingly. The gentle insisting to look inward, still rather fledgeling, was drummed out by the urge to cram as much productivity into my day as possible. I was hired to create a necklace, and rushed to begin. It wasn’t long before I could see that it wasn’t coming together cohesively.  Put it aside, you should look at this.  I didn’t want to see or hear, and continued with my forced busy-ness.

I was offered to write a guest blog. The more I tried to bring words together, the more they seemed to tell me to piss off, and form jumbled ideas. “I thought it was confetti in our hair.” To appease all I think makes me who I am, I had a long lunch with a friend. There, I’ve had a lazy day lunch, it was great. I enjoyed every moment of it. Now, NOW can I get something meaningful done? No eh. What the heck was going on? And since when does my intuition sound Canadian?

Continually old songs came to mind, they pointed to someone specific. “Every precious dream and vision underneath the stars...” I acted like a kid sticking my fingers in my ears, loudly shouting, lalala, I can’t hear you! If I don’t want to look inward, and I can’t occupy my mind, I’ll watch T.V., and shut all thoughts down. Ha!

Friends who needed help with forgiveness, cropped up. To help others, sure, I’d delve into the facets of forgiveness and where it might be applied. To myself though, I had closed my eyes, hadn’t I mastered that lesson? Don’t laugh yet. If I had opened my eyes right then, I would have been shown...myself. But I kept thinking, it’s nothing to do with me. Did I mention that I hadn’t been meditating lately? Whatever the message, I went to extremes to avoid it. Really, watch T.V., me? More music came to mind, “That was the river, this is the sea.”

Tired of the creative block, I got quiet. I turned my gaze inward. I needed to forgive someone for not being who I thought he should be.  Not just past tense, but now. It’s who I think he ought to be today as well. What does that say about me? “These things you keep, you better throw them all away.” If I let go of all the anger, and clear out the clutter of the life I picture for our daughter, does that free him and me? How open we are to seeing solutions makes all the difference, and there I was doing the limp-as-a-wet-noodle-drop toddlers are famous for. You can lead someone to a fire, but you can’t make them throw water on it.

The point, I ignored all of it and held onto resentments, ... no, TIED them to me like badges of pride. This one is from the time I was right about _________, and this one, with the gold star shows I am the better person. And this big one here, it gives me free reign to kick his name to the curb. That one? That’s just for sticking pins in. Not really, but you get my meaning? Now you can laugh. What was I thinking? I’m not better than anyone else. If I truly believe that, can I be selective in that ideal? No. The questions this is bringing up are wonderful. It all boils down to being given a key to a closet door that’s in need of clearing out. What was I thinking?

You’re human. Forgive.

Here you will find Jessica's blog: http://serenitywriter.wordpress.com/

Sense and Nonsense of twitter #ff

2011-09-15T23:56:00.000-07:00

Good morning, Friday, as always you bring us the joys and tribulations of the twitter #ff lists. There are many who refuse to do the #ff honors completely, some who believe they only work of you do a few, individual #ffs, and some who do nothing but send out long lists with recommendations all day long.

Just now a discussion about the value of the FollowFriday cropped up on twitter. There seems to be a general tiredness about the whole thing, and a doubt that it does any good at all. I think originally the #ff were meant to connect people, to get a chance to easily meet friends of friends, but that's not how I see it anymore. With the many, many tweeters out there right now, and growing numbers in followers, introducing ALL of your friends is insanity, would take about twenty-four hours and bring on the infamous twitter whale for two days.

No, here's what I think.

There is a whole different meaning to the thing, and that's why I still do them.

By giving people a #ff shout, I show them how much I appreciate their tweets. This might be for different reasons: because they are my publisher, and I want to promote them (and myself, ahem), or the authors I connect with most (because by talking to them on twitter I feel a little more like an author myself), they tweet delicious recipes (yeah, I like to eat; who doesn't), they send beautiful photos (Paul Steele; the grand-master of amazing links!), they tweet funny stuff (ScoDal; follow or die!), they are literary agents (Janet Reid; hilarious, useful blog! And Rachelle Gardner, twitter friend, full of good advice.), or simply because they are beloved, friends. There are many others, not listed here now because this is only supposed to be a short, dashed-off blog and I want to get back to the REAL writing.

So you see, I do #ff. With them, I tell people, "Hey, I know you. I read your tweets. I like them so well that I think others should read them too. I love being your friend. I love that you think my tweets are worth your time. In this very second, typing your name, adding #ff, pressing "enter", I'm thinking of you. Have a wonderful day, and thanks for talking to me!"

That's all. Please proceed with your Friday. :)

I Am, I Write

2011-09-15T06:41:00.000-07:00

I've been in a mind to write about writing for a while now, but it always seemed presumptuous, and I don't really have time for it, and anyway, I don't care too much for blogging. Yes, I know, big mistake, authors have to have a blog and post regularly, and so on. Have you ever had a feeling of distance on your computer? Like, some pages, files, whatever, are simply farther away from what you do daily than other stuff? Well, that's how I feel about my blog. It's in the farthest corner of Safari, somewhere DOWN THERE WHERE THE WILD THINGS ARE and I don't like to go there. It involves work.

Sometimes there's a subject I'd really like to ~~rant~~ blog about, but I'm not that stupid, and I keep my trap shut until the moment is over, or I do in fact write the blog post, but then my poor publisher gets dumped with it, and of course has to comment or leave me still in ranting mode, and unhappy. Publishers have a hard life sometimes, and sometimes they are more babysitters than publishers.

Anyway. I'm rambling.

What I really wanted to write about today is... writing.

I don't believe you can teach writing. There, it's said. I believe you can teach technique, grammar, maybe even style. There may be a way to teach plotting, storyline, dialogue, characterization, even description. You can put all these together, and maybe a couple more that I forgot, and you have the classic creative writing program. Oh yes, punctuation. Ah, and... contractions (*doffs head to publisher*).

But if you put all these together and shake well, all you have is CRAFT. I want to compare this to creating a clone. You can grow a perfect clone, the prettiest girl on Earth, or the most adorable male, and yet they are empty husks, nothing but bodies, because the main ingredient is missing: the soul. The thing you cannot teach is the feel for writing, how to make it come alive.

A writer has to be able to observe. I'd almost go so far and postulate that this is a major ability for a writer. Everything that goes into a story, every emotion, every expression, the way a twig bends under snow, you must have observed it to put it into words. If you don't see your surroundings, you can't describe them.

Just as important, I believe, is visualization. To write a scene, you have to see it in your mind. It's as if the characters are doing private theater scenes in your head. They act them out, you write them down. They deliver the dialogue, all you have to do is listen. And write.

Writing is not a job. It's something you do, or you don't. There's no half-way writing. It happens all the time. Either you're at your desk, typing, or kneading the story in your head, or collecting impressions, or doing research or playing out dialogues while you clean the bathroom. You may not even notice you're writing, but the next time you sit down to actually type, you'll notice.

Either you're a writer, or you are not.

That's basically all. I said, BASICALLY. This is a declaration of faith, and nothing more. I've said my piece. Generally, I think talking about writing is a waste of time, when I could instead by writing a story.

To say it in the undying words of Yoda: There is no try. Either do, or do not.

Glory Road, Chapter 1

2011-09-07T11:30:00.000-07:00

Ok, since you asked. Here's the UNEDITED first part of the first chapter of the new novel. Before you even THINK of copying or stealing it: it's with the publisher already. So HANDS OFF. It's only for my friends.

1.

He watched her rise to get another cup of coffee.

The grace of her movements astounded him and kept him staring even after she had returned to her seat in the corner of the large couch, right in the shade of the palm tree. She sat there as if she wanted to hide, ankles crossed and head lowered, so lost in her thoughts that she did not notice him at all.

She was dressed very simply, in jeans and a shirt the color of a ripe tomato. Her hair was wrapped into a tight knot at the nape of her neck, but a few curly tendrils had escaped and bounced on her shoulder every time she moved. Parker wondered how long it was, and for a wild, exhilarating instant he felt the urge to go over and pull the pins out of that coil and dig his fingers into the tumbling strands. He held his ice tea tightly between his hands, hoping the cold of the glass would transport itself to his heated blood.

The moment she had walked into the lounge she had captured his attention with the way she carried herself and the stillness that seemed to hover around her like a fine mist. A hush had fallen over the large room as nearly every man in it watched her. He had felt an insane spike of jealousy right behind his eyes and held his breath, wishing every other male away so he could have her all to himself, savor her presence without having to share his thoughts with others.

His flight was called. Full of regret Parker rose and picked up his briefcase, tossed a tip on the counter and made ready to leave when he saw her move toward the door, not once looking his way, not once even noticing he was there. As hasty as a schoolboy, nearly ripping his jacket on the back of his chair, Parker followed her, curious where she might be headed, hoping that she might be on his plane, since she had reacted to the same call. He followed her down the length of the terminal, followed right in her trail until she stopped before the gate and handed over her boarding pass.

In the gangway, he nearly caught up to her. She had to stop and wait for a wheelchair to be pushed inside, and she stood, as still and silent as she had sat in the lounge, until the way was open again and she could move on. Inside, she was led to one of the comfortable seats in first class, as he had hoped, one right by a window, and he could hardly believe his luck when he was assigned the one right next to her, just across the aisle.

It took quite a while until the plane had filled up and everyone had settled down and he could see her again properly.

Her head was turned away, her chin propped on her fist, as she looked out onto the tarmac. Never in his life, Parker was quite sure, had he seen such a clear profile, such a delightful curve in a woman’s neck or a body quite as perfect. He guessed her to be in her early thirties, a bit young for him, but he was beyond the point of caring. There were seven hours ahead of them, crossing the Atlantic, and he was resolved to at least talk to her, or maybe get her to agree to a lunch date.

The flight attendant came by to check on their seat belts, which made her look up and smile briefly. Her lips crinkled in a way that made him want to get up and kiss her, inhale that smile right into his heart and lock it away there for all times. She noticed him when the attendant moved on and threw him a cool, distanced glance, nothing questioning, no interest, not even impatience in it, and then turned away again, giving Parker the impression that to her he was no more than a fleck of dust on the back of his seat, nothing she would ever bother about at all.

“I’m Parker Hamilton,” he said quickly, before she got lost in her own world again, “Pleased to meet you.”

There was no response for the longest time. Then, a quick nod without looking his way.

“So you are going to London too?” It was the only question he could come up with, inane as it was.

She ignored him.

“I am actually from London,” he plodded on, “And I’m glad I’m going home. Washington is so hot at this time of the year.” And, after a short pause, “Are you going home too?”

Very slowly, like rising out of water, her head came up. “Yes,” she replied, and her voice was as soft and melodious as he had hoped it would be, “In a way, yes.” But she did not go on to explain.

The plane moved away from the terminal, its big body shuddering as it rolled over the tarmac toward the runway, a harnessed beast ready to be set free. Looking past her Parker could see the land rush by and then drop away as they lifted off. He had flown this way so often, there was hardly anything exciting left about it, but being so close to a woman he thought was beautiful beyond words gave the trip a new spiciness.

Deplorably, there were rings on her left hand. They were expensive rings too, rings a wealthy man would buy for a cherished woman to show off he had won her.

She did not watch the movie, nor did she buy any of the duty free things the flight attendant offered them, she barely touched her meal and refused the wine, but she asked for a bottle of water and drank a lot of it as they flew into the night, a sure sign that she had traveled a lot.

“So where in London do you live?” He had never felt this stupid before, approaching a woman, but, he realized, he had never before wanted to impress one as badly as this one, either.

Again she looked at him from large, very dark eyes. “I don’t live in London.”

Drinks were offered, and he ordered a double brandy. He needed a fortifier badly.

“I’m joining my husband.” There was just enough inflection in her voice to emphasize the last word.

Parker, on an impulse, decided to ignore it. He knew he wanted her, and in a very bad way, wanted to break through that cool, passive resistance and find out how she would react to passion, reserve all gone, hair down and her pale skin flushed.

“Are you from Washington, then? It’s a nice town, only the heat is incredible. We never get that kind of weather in England.”

“No.” In a polite attempt to clarify she added, “No, I’m not from Washington.”

“I thought not.” More comfortable now, he settled back in his seat and raised his glass to toast her. “Your accent is different. You sound almost English. You are European, right?”

This time she actually turned and regarded him for a thoughtful moment. “I am not. I’m Canadian.”

“Ah.”

Her hands folded neatly in her lap, she said, “Excuse me, but I would really rather not talk. I’m tired,and I’ll try to sleep now.”

“I’d love to share a last drink with you then,” Parker answered quickly, “Maybe some champagne? You look like you would enjoy some good champagne. Please? I’d enjoy that very much. It’s not often I have really lovely company on one of these flights. Tell me what you’ll be doing in London. Are you going there to shop?” He signaled to one of the flight attendants. “Will you tell me your name? Then I would not have to call you “mystery woman” all the time. Your name is surely prettier than that.”

Her lips pressed together. Then, very softly, she replied, “My name is Naomi.”

Somehow, in a part of his memory he did not visit too often, the combination of the face and name rang a bell, but he could not pin it down. He thought he recalled some act of violence, something that he had seen on TV and that had shocked him at the time, but he could not call up the image.

“Have we met before?” he asked instead, and that brought the first smile to her face.

“Certainly not. Or at least I do not remember talking to you. Maybe, on one or the other party…” Her eyebrows raised, she watched as the champagne was poured, a very good brand and in an aged bottle.

“Oh that’s right, it might have been a party.” Relieved, he handed her one of the glasses. “Somewhere in Washington? Somewhere around the White House? You look just like that, like you belong there.”

That made her laugh. The sound made his heart beat a little faster and his palms sweat. Carefully he picked up his own wine and toasted her across the aisle.

“Not the White House, certainly not. No.” Mirth shook her voice. “No, I don’t belong to the Washington noblesse. Sorry.”

“You look as glossy as a movie star. I’m totally enthralled. I hope we have to take a detour to Australia or something so we won’t get to London too soon and I’ll have the joy of your company for just a few hours longer. What a great good fortune.”

“I’m married,” she reminded him gently, “And I’m flying to London to meet my husband.”

“But he’s not here now. And I’ll take advantage of that.” He reached over to refill her glass. “He will surely not begrudge me a few hours of friendly chat with you.”

Instead of an answer she gave him a small, mysterious shake of her head.

Parker loved the way the overhead lights reflected in her black hair and gave it a rich sheen.

“How long will you be in London?” The brandy was more to his taste than the Dom, but he drank it stoutly, seeing she seemed to enjoy it.

“Only a few days.” Her shoulders came up in a gesture of rejection.

“Well, maybe you would me to show you around a bit? There are quite a few great things to see. You know we have a queen, and…”

“I’ve been there before,” she interrupted, “Thank you.” With a nod of thanks she returned the glass and pulled out the quilt provided by the airline. “I’ll sleep now. I need to be fresh tomorrow morning. Good night.” And lowered her seat into a bed before she switched out her light and turned away from him.

Chuck The Quilt

2011-08-20T13:28:00.000-07:00

Imagine this:

It's a mellow late afternoon, the worst of the summer heat gone, the first leaves drift on the lawn, stirred by a gentle breeze. Among the last roses a couple of butterflies dance, slowly, as if they are in a trance, as if the scent and color of the flowers has hypnotized them. The sun is soft, yellow, milder than maple syrup, not as cloying as honey, and the sky that deep, brilliant blue of a very clear day just before the first frost hits.

There is not a lot of room on the porch for the quilting frame, let alone the quilt and the sewing basket. We have to move the coffee table with the jar of ice tea, cake and bowl of Life Savers before we can sit down.

I put the quilt into the frame. This is a first for my publisher, and she watches as I stretch the material, but not too tightly, so we will have a good grip. The needles are tiny, the yarn relatively thick. I have to help her with the threading.

It's very peaceful on that porch. Across the front lawn, across the street, a school team is having a football training session. The boys are still young, about twelve, and they look a little lost in their helmets and gear, t-shirts flapping around thin, immature bodies. Their coach is making them run for the warm-up, quarterback in the lead as is proper.

"Tell me," she begins, "About yourself. Did you always want to be a writer?"

The quilting pattern is an easy one, a beginner's one. "Small stitches," I say, "Ten to an inch." She groans and puts on glasses.

"I remember writing my first story when I was eight," is my reply, "We were supposed to write an essay for school, about dinosaurs, and instead of writing something pseudo-scientific I made up a story about a fight between a T-Rex and some kind of flying reptile. They even shouted insults at each other. My Mom loved it, but my teacher was not so pleased. I think that was when I got hooked. Then in 6th grade I had a teacher who really loved my stories, and she used to read them out to the class. It was pretty mortifying, but also very cool. I was hooked."

The sound the needle makes as it passes through the layers of fabrics has always held a special satisfaction for me. Every stitch is a tiny step toward completion. It's like a mantra, one grain of sand after the next poured out.

A bumble bee comes to visit. He draws three circles around us, takes a dangerous dip toward the ice tea jar and bumbles away in the direction of the flower shrubs. From the football field, we can hear the shouts of the children, the sound of the ball being caught, cheering.

"If you were compared to another author, who would you like to be, and why?"

Who would I like to be? Now that's one I've never thought about. Never. "I want to be myself. The best writer I can be. I would like to have the scope of Vikram Seth, and the lyricism of John Galsworthy. But I would still like to be myself and write the way I have to write. I don't think any writer can be anyone else."

A short glance over the rim of glasses, and a small pursing of lips. Her thread is knotted, and I reach over to untangle it.

"How do manage not to stick yourself and bleed all over the quilt?" This is asked with a trace of impatience.

"I don't! I DO stick myself all the time. There is blood on every quilt I've made." And to prove it I point at several red spots, well hidden among the flower pattern.

"Your characters." The hand with the needle sinks onto the rim of the frame. "Do they tell you what to do, or do you tell THEM?"

This is interesting, and it has been on my mind for a while now. There was an insight a while ago that quite surprised me. I don't outline. My stories start with one idea, one scene, and then the rest falls into place. Only sometimes, and I don't know how to explain this, things happen in hindsight. I write one scene, and then much later, after having written several other chapters, it occurs to me that the scene I'm writing NOW is just that way because that other one happened way earlier... only I did not even think of it when writing the later one... oh, I give up. So, "I think," I answer, "My characters know their own story. In fact, I think by the time I start writing it, it has already happened for them and they are sitting in a cozy bar, with a sparkly drink and some nice snacks, and they tell me about it, and laugh in reminiscence."

She lays away the needle and picks up one of the pineapple life savers instead. "Why do you like these so much?"

I shrug. Dunno. I just do.

A slow smile, and then, "I told you to chuck the quilt. Why are we sitting here, quilting? Do you still quilt, at home? Or do you write all the time now?"

I put the needle and thimble away too. This is so easy. My life is so easy, now. I don't do anything else anymore. Writing, it is like flying. It is like a pebble skipping over a pond, a breeze rustling in the leaves, a gull soaring in the wind. Writing is freedom, and who does not want to be free all the time. The words flow from me, they are everywhere. The stories are everywhere, even in my dreams. It feels as if someone has opened a big wide door for me.

"I write all the time. All the time. If I'm not typing away on the laptop the stories are building in my head, and everything I see, everything I experience, goes into them. The stories are all out there. They only need to be visualized and then written down. Writing the first book was like stealing. Stealing time, strength, energy from my family. It was egotistical and single-minded, and I felt bad about it. And yet, despite feeling bad, I could not stop. Only once it was finished, to start another, I needed vindication."

A nod, in silent understanding. So I go on: "Getting signed by a publisher set me free. It gave me the license to write. I still can't believe I'm really allowed to write, and all the time, that someone actually wants me to do it, thinks I'm good enough. But.." I have a feeling the quilting session is over. There are better things to do here. "But getting signed by you was an incredible piece of good luck. So, let's chuck the quilt."

A New Tune, A New Dance

2011-08-10T03:54:00.000-07:00

Home again. I'm home again, and it feels good to sleep in my own bed, and not alone anymore either. My cat welcomed me as if I had not been away at all, the house has not changed, and neither has my family. In a way it feels as if I've never been away at all.

But I have been, and very far, too, farther even in mind than in miles, and I think part of me got lost for good on this journey. Good riddance, I say. It was the sick, weak and depressive part that fell away, and I'm a new me, a happy, healthy and tanned me. I have the feeling I lost all the mental garbage somewhere on the road to Biggs Junction, and there it can stay, in the desert mountains of Washington State.

This blog is to say thank you to the many friends who hosted and feted me, who helped me heal and put me on the path to what I am now: no longer the sloppy German housewife, but a manicured author-lady with a lot of work ahead of me, and a very bright future. You all, my dears, are my landmarks on this road. You helped make me. Again, thank you.

Sue, Rich, Denise, Tara and Moniera in Vancouver.

Jane, Susan, Laura and Brian in Seattle and Ellensburg.

Leslie, Patti and Marianne in DC. (I'm not allowed to post a photo of Leslie, sadly)

Bunny, John and Jen in Lynchburg, VA.

Steve, Nancy, Carolyn and Alicia in Portland ME.

Adam and Julie in Boston. (Ok, that's Keith in the pic with Julie, not Adam)

Keith, Emily, Sylvia, Libby, Paul and Claudia and Denise in NY.

Sam in Edison. And MaryChris.

Thank you all. Miss you already.

It's Up To You, NY.

2011-08-04T07:44:00.000-07:00

While Denise is making Mint Juleps and Keith is playing Cole Porter on the piano...

Yes, life in Jersey City can be pretty classy. It can. With the right people. But then again, EVERY place can be pretty classy with the right people. Only in New Jersey, it takes a special effort.

Wow, this place has a fascination all of its own.

If I were a crime writer I would move here and use it as setting.

If I were a psychotic serial killer I would TOTALLY move here and make a game out of picking the most infernal spots to hide a body, and there are more infernal spots than possible murder victims in New Jersey.

New Jersey totally deserves a blog all of its own. I’ve been told there are pretty parts, and there simply have to be, it calls itself “Garden State” after all. Or is this a willful misnomer? A marketing gimmick gone bad?

I mean, they have the grandest view of Manhattan from here. It’s right over THERE, on the other side of the river, shimmering in its glory, proud and beautiful, the heart of America, and (for me, that is) the center of the world. And here is Jersey City. The twin. The dark twin. The runt, the unloved, neglected sibling, the one who made, out of sheer desperation, a total mess of his life. The homeless, dirty drinker sleeping in the dark corner of an overpass. The sulking kid lurking on the top of the stairs while his big brother is being feted by the family.

Lately the unloving parents seemed to have noticed that there is this other child and have tried to clean him up, but I get a feeling it is half-hearted, and not done with passion.

Yes, Jersey City. It seems as if it is defeated by its neighborhood to New York, as if there is no sense in making an effort, as if it knows very well it can’t compete anyway. And so it just lets itself go.

We drove down from Maine on Sunday.

Our first stop was Boston, and I love Boston. Instant love, period. Being in Boston felt like being in London, and since I adore being in London... There you go. Here is Harvard. My kid made me go there to buy him a Harvard sweatshirt. Kiddo: I got your sweater. It cost me a million bucks.

And we met Julie for lunch! Isn't she the sweetest girl? Lunch with Julie and Adam, and here are Keith and Julie, chatting away.

We passed through New Haven so I could buy the promised Yale sweater for my kid ( he is a great Gilmore Girls fan), but New Haven is not as classy as Boston is, I have to say. Still, the campus is very pretty.

The best part of this day though was getting to New York in the evening.

Going down the highway toward Lincoln Tunnel, the towers of Manhattan glittering ahead, it felt like coming home to me. My heart wanted to cry. I wanted to stand on the roof of the car and spread out my arms and shout, “I’m back! See me, I’m here!”

Yesterday, after lunch at Katz’,

And here is Denise! Yes indeed, my very own Denise, THE D-POW! With us at Katz', having Pastramis Sammie!

we just drove around a bit, cruised through the heart of Manhattan, the window down to soak in the sounds and smells, and I was the happiest girl in the world.

I want an apartment on Times Square. I want to live right there, where you can feel the heartbeat of the city and where all the theaters are. Or maybe one with a view of Lincoln Center. But I want to be there, be a part of it.

You can have the houses with a view of Manhattan, I want to be in it.

Right now it’s early morning. I’m in a brownstone house in Jersey City, across the street is a little park with a very pretty playground, lots of trees and well-manicured lawns. It could almost be Brooklyn heights, it’s that civilized and groomed. Actually, it could very well be Paris! But then again not, because there would be no lawn in the park but concrete ground. Oh well.

Upstairs, people are moving. Denise is up. She had a long overnight flight yesterday, all the way from LA to meet me. Keith has a very bad cough, and I’m going to do my darnest to talk him out of the trip to Long Island we had planned for today.

The weather has been kind so far. It is warm, but not very humid, and in fact not that very hot at all.

Today, I’m meeting my publisher again. I love her. It is a great gift, not only finding a publisher you are really, really comfortable with, but also a new friend, and one that I can hardly bear to be parted from. Some people are like that, they are treasures, and once we have found them it is hard to live without them.

It rained all night, the air is fresh and crisp, and no one dare say it's always hot and humid in NY. It's not. Not when I am here.

The Maine Things In Life

2011-07-28T09:43:00.000-07:00

Blessed, cool, wonderfully green Maine. Of all the places I’ve been to now on this trip, finally the one that eases my traveling heart. This feels familiar, secure and relaxed. Maybe it’s the illusion of being closer to home, or maybe it was the immediate feeling of familiarity with Steve and Nancy, or maybe it even is a mentality thing with the East Coasters being so more European than other Americans. Whatever it is, I love being here. I love my hosts, witty, graceful, and living in a home full of books where the conversation ever returns to writing and authors.

AND LOOK AT THIS: I HAZ A PORCH! And it is not too hot to sit out on it and enjoy the slider and the view!

I flew out of Roanoke, VA, on this cute little machine. It was a very fun thing to do, but I have yet to get on a flight in the US that leaves on time.

Also, I have yet to get on a plane where I do not feel like part of a herd of cattle being forced into a too-small barn.

One fantastic thing happened on the flight from Charlotte to Portland though.

There were these two ladies sitting next to me, and we started talking, and after a while they asked where I was from and what I was doing. So I dug out my pre-launch booklets and my business cards (thank you, Buddha's!) and handed them over to them, and for the rest of the two-hour flight they read my book! And they were SO engrossed in it they nearly missed the service and went without their coffee. That was a pretty awesome moment. It was also a very AWKWARD moment, watching them read my novel, squeezed into the window seat with not a chance to escape, totally at their mercy.

BUT THEY LOVED IT! And I now have an invitation to come and visit in Memphis and do a reading there, too. Oh well.

Gilbert’s.

Would I ever dare to defy an order from Leslie? Nuh-huh. Thankfully, I could convince Nancy and Steve to take me there, and this is the result:

A lesson in lobster-eating. Nancy said having a whole lobster for lunch was totally decadent, but do I care? I’m an author now, and I have the grand excuse of doing weird things for the sake of research. There you go. As Nancy would also say.

Yesterday, I had a visitor. Cute and lively Alicia aka A. Minor (better known to twitter friends as @BrightMoments ) came up to Freeport all the way from Vermont to meet me.

I have this vision of getting her and Suzie together. That would be a spectacular event. Two tornadoes clashing. A tsunami meeting a hurricane. The Moon hitting the Earth. The Milky Way swallowing the Andromeda Nebula. You get my drift.

Oh, and since we are talking about Suzie: Hey, Sue, remember the Coach outlet in Burlington? Remember the patchwork purse I liked and did not buy? Well guess what Alicia MADE ME DO yesterday. She is the world’s WORST enabler, even worse than you, my dear.

Also, Alicia, she felt like I had known her all my life. As if we were picking up a conversation that had been going on for a very long time, as if we had been sisters or friends in a former life. Sometimes, with some people, that happens. I have met a number of them on this trip, but this was still special.

Honey, we will meet again. And I was sad to let you go last night.

Tonight I have my book reading here at the Freeport Library. I have to admit I was apprehensive, but then Steve and Nancy took me to meet the people there. The librarian recognized me when I walked in! And they were all so nice and pleased to meet me, my fear blew away. Now I’m looking forward to going there tonight, and I hope someone will show up. Anyway, Steve is making dinner for them, so whoever does NOT come misses out on that, and there you go.

Maine is treating me very well. I’d love it even more if there there wasn’t the worst staircase in the world in this house, and the bathroom downstairs while I sleep upstairs. It’s not even me I’m worried about (yes I am; I’m terrified.) but Nancy and Steve, having to live here. I’ll be gone by Sunday, and every day I don’t fall down and break my neck my risk of doing so grows smaller.

Oh well. I’ll take those stairs any day to have the privilege of being a guest here.

Today Nancy and I will go on a drive along the coast to some place where she wants to get blueberries. The air is fresh and cool, the sun is shining, there is a slight breeze, and Steve promised is steak for later. I know. Life is good in Maine.

Out Of The Loop

2011-07-18T10:01:00.000-07:00

Hi, folks, here are the tweets I WOULD HAVE sent if there was wifi here. Probably many more, in reply to what you would say to me, but this is the gist, I figure. Miss you all a lot.

- Had the the best of times with @crookedstamper. She is SO sweet”! Thank you, Leslie, for being my friend. I’m very honored indeed. :)

- Luray Caverns, or the cold, sweaty dungeons of hell. Made it through, but barely. But I WALKED ALL THE WAY! No cane, no wheelchair, nothing! (Don’t ask what I did right after getting out again, though.)

- Going southward in a little @understandblue-blue truck.

- Made it to Topsail Island, took the wrong turn only twice. Landed in the dingiest part of some town in the middle of the night, got out again.

- Not sure we are on an island. There was a bridge, but we saw no water. Might have been because of the darkness though.

- The Bunneh and her BF insist on me taking the bedroom with the big bed while they sleep in the bunk beds. SO sweet of them!

- No internet. Damn all. But nice view of the beach, and a full moon reflecting on the surface of the ocean.

- There are drinks. I think I’m having Dr. Pepper’s with vodka or something. Not that I care. 2am in the morning.

- Oh yes and it’s my birthday. Happy Birthday, me. xxx

- These people get up way too early. IT’S ONLY 7am FOR CRYING OUT LOUD! GET SOME SLEEP!

- Walk on the beach with the Bunneh. We found some seashells and driftwood. The water is nice!

- Topsail Island: 5 gazillion houses, three roads, twenty gift shops and not much else.

- Kid next door - or rather next balcony - is screaming like a banshee. Big brother, maybe 12, is emptying Coke cans down into the yard. Think I’ll go inside.

- Hehehe - I brought the cool weather with me from home. “Normally it’s WAY hotter!” Oh, really? Lol

- When everything else fails, my writing is a place I can always go to. Happy Birthday!

- Bought myself a silver shark teeth ring for my birthday!

- Can’t wait to meet @buddhapuss. Will I THEN feel like an author, I wonder?

- Lonely. Tired. Wish my hubby was here.

- The most unsavory place on Earth. It should not even carry the name “diner” or “grill”. It should be burned to the ground. #Notsocoolforabirthdaydinner

- Insight: even if you use it all by yourself a toothpaste tube will be empty in three weeks.

- Slept in today. So there. Hello Sunday.

- So, @RalphGraves, what makes you think Topsail Island is “undiscovered”? There isn’t an inch of empty land here, except for the protected dunes. House after house after house.

- Heartily sick of fried food.

- Sorting old family photos with @holyxuxa. Some pretty creepy stuff there. Lots of pics of people in their coffins.

- Nothing open for lunch on Topsail Island but the seedier spots. So cherries and strawberries it is, and a table booked for dinner.

- Not to self: don’t forget the sunblock next time.

- Tweeting without twitter is like driving without gas.

-Topsail Island food, redeemed: excellent dinner at “Bistro at Justbaked”. Wow, that was the best chicken in my life. Move over, @Georgia_browns.

- The Bunneh has gone down to the beach. Injection aftermath for me, I’m on the couch now.

- The tide here is pitiful. 20 meters, you call that a TIDE?

- I’m in a country full of Americans…

- Good morning, Monday!

- 7am, and already it’s muggy and hot outside. The Bunneh has gone for a stroll on the beach. Today we’ll try to find a place with wifi. And visit some antique stores.

- Read the first two chapters of my new novel to @holyxuxa last night. She loved it. But then she loves everything I write. :)

- vVVROOOooming down the highway to Wilmington, top of the car down, hair blowing in the wind!

- In Wilmington, searching for some coffee shop with wifi.

My Week At The Spa

2011-07-14T07:47:00.000-07:00

I'm having a spa week.

Air-conditioned rooms, French Vanilla coffee, a huge bed, a rocking chair, pedicure, manicure, massage, great food and VATS of homemade Margaritas.

I get to be driven around Washington DC at night, when all the monuments are illuminated, and I get to see the Library of Congress, where MY book will be soon, too.

On Sunday, I was introduced to kettle corn, bought along the road from these guys who surely have the hottest job in the world, and not in a good way.

It was hot walking to that tent, but it was WAY hotter where they were working. Hot in a really bad way. Make me think of Biggs. A tiny, roadside version of it. But the popcorn was really great!

The DC area still has me geographically confused with all its suburbs, waterways, shores and bays and the mess of highways that always seem to lead AROUND the city but never into it. I can't even figure out why they call the Eastern Shore the "Eastern" Shore when it actually faces West.

Driving across the Chesapeake Bay Bridge was a real adventure. There's a story here. Ever since I was a teenager I've dreamed of seeing the Chesapeake Bay. One of my English teachers, a lady a adored very much for her fun lessons, had a sister living here, and she used to tell us about her visits. It sounded just like the place I would want to see.

Leslie took me to St. Michaels on afore-mentioned Eastern Shore (It's on the WESTERN shore of that peninsula, guys!) for crab cakes and a meeting with Patti. Patti is the sweetest little thing in the world, and her paintings are quirky and cute. She loves to portrait flying pigs and fluffy owls, there's a hint of Chagall in her images. Leslie has a number of them. The flying pigs watch me when I'm brushing my teeth in the morning... oh well.

The crab cakes though... not so much. Sorry, friends. I tried, and I was WILLING to like them, really. But... no. The raw clams though, those were awesome.

Leslie had a good time. She got to eat two crab cakes instead of one, and I left the place sort of hungry. NOT anybody's fault, I might have gotten something else, right?

So driving back, we went down to the beach. I was afraid of the beach. In Vancouver, I nearly did not make it back to the car, the walking on the sand was so hard on my back. Sue had to help me, and I was ready to cry by the time we got back on safe ground. But here, in the heat of a Washington day, and barefoot on sand so hot it would make glass melt, I did just fine. We dipped our feet into the Chesapeake Bay!

And yes, I walked all that and back again! On my own!

Also in St. Michaels, I found a perfect setting for my new book. It's almost as perfect as Floro was, and that's saying something. I made Leslie (who is really very patient with me) drive me up to this pretty little hotel and walk around and through it, and I'm very happy we did that. This will surely be a part of my story!

On the way back home we stopped in Annapolis. That's a really pretty old town. Lots of tourists, though, and, sadly, lots of tourist stuff. I wanted to go to the Naval Academy and get a t-shirt for my son, and so we did. It was HOT. Walking along those sidewalks and across the parking lot was hot hot hot.

The visitors' center, on the other hand, was as cold as a fridge. They really know how to do A/C.

Today we are going to meet Marianne. We will visit her at her home, and there will be FIVE dogs. I wonder why so many of my friends own dogs? I don't even like dogs, and at Jane's house, in Ellensburg, they lay down beside me on the couch. And they are cute, I have to admit, albeit grudgingly. I think Sue's spaniel, Cara, felt that I'm not overly fond of canines. I was polite to her, and she was polite to me, but that was it. Jane's papillons though, they adored me. Well, not me. They adored the tomatoes I was eating. And wanted their share. So today, five big dogs. Oh well.

It's A New Day

2011-07-11T06:10:00.000-07:00

Can I just blog this? I mean, it's a day you get only once in your life as a writer. It's the day when you turn from a writer into an author.

There. The proof I've made it. From my couch onto Amazon, published, ready to pre-order. Looks good to me.

Please, give me these five seconds of being pleased at what I've achieved. I swear, I'm not bragging. But very, very pleased.

The Devil's Armpit

2011-07-10T16:10:00.000-07:00

So the plan was to go to Biggs Junction on the Oregon border.

Sue and I drove down from Vancouver to Seattle to meet Jane's sister-in-law in this little red hot thing, all along the Chuckanut Drive along the coast.

There was, of course, another border crossing involved, only this time, with the green paper slip in my passport, they were totally not interested in me. It was kind of a let-down, after I was all geared up with another run-in with Chinese border guy. Oh well. the drive to Seattle was pretty and pretty uneventful, except for Sue going into shopping-mode at the outlet stores and NEARLY pulling me in. It did not work though. I only got involved two dresses deep. That's not much, is it? I know I saved about a thousand bucks buying them, and shut up about saving even more if I had not bought them at all.

We had breakfast here.

There was a whole lovely yard hidden away in the back, and they served a great breakfast indeed! The Bloody Mary rocked. They were not too stingy on the booze.

From Seattle, up into the desert we went, east east east of the coast and up the mountains into the dry and hot interior of Washington State to Jane's little house on the prairie in Ellensburg. We were there just in time for champagne, ribs and potato salad, and the 4th of July fireworks. And even in Ellensburg WA they play Neil Diamond's "America" for that.

Ellensburg knows how to do style! And Jane knows how to do a 4th of July dinner! Just look at these ribs!

Out on the porch, looking out towards the hills... until the mosquitos come out and chew the flesh off your ankles. There's always wind in Ellensburg. It's a hot, dry wind, and it comes howling down from the mountains.

Jane makes the most amazing ribbon artwork. She has the tiniest hands in the world and crafts the tiniest flowers with them, sitting at her large dining table while the wind stirs the curtains and her dogs lie sleeping on the dark hardwood floor or her old house. That house is a wonder all onto itself, filled with lovely antique things and art.

Now Biggs Junction. If you want to know why I wanted to go there so badly, read this. The COMMENTS are the funny part. Don't they just make you die to see that place? I had to talk my friends into going, and I bribed them by finding a really neat restaurant for lunch. More about that later.

First, Biggs Junction.

http://www.topix.com/forum/city/biggs-junction-or/TDV99UJCQUGOORQVO

That's it, down there.

I like to call it the Devil's Armpit. There is nothing there. I mean, really nothing. A McDonalds, a Pilot, a gas station, I think a Burger King, and a motel that has seen better days. It a truck stop in the middle of nowhere, stuck on the Columbia River, right on the border between Washington State and Oregon. Being down there was like being in a kettle corn copper kettle. Hot, sticky, dingy, and nothing but a dirty old pot without the corn popping in it. Seen from the other side of the river, high up in the park of the Maryhill Museum, it is totally different.

The others parked me on a bench right on the edge of the gorge while they strolled around and looked at the art, and I was all alone up there with the Monarch butterflies and the bees. The bench stood in the shade of some trees so I was not too warm, bees danced among the sagebrush at my feet. It was a very quiet moment.

But.

From down below by the river came the constant drone of the highway running along it, and the other one crossing it to go up into the hills of Oregon on the other side. Heat made the air over the water and the arid land waver. It almost seemed as if the gorge was filled with a vicious, roiling, translucent gas that would sear your throat with every breath. And that place, Biggs, called to me. I swear, it called. Spitefully, in a mean little voice, it said, "Come on, jump. Jump into the river and make an end. Quit fighting it, you're welcome to join the other desperate, lost souls. I dare you, jump." It felt just like that, as if, out of pure envy at everyone who could walk away and leave it behind, it tried to lure me into staying. Oh well. I told it we were going to get the hell out of there and not returning, ever, and we drove away without looking back.

Oh, one more thing? I had a lovely chat with the general manager of the Pilot in Biggs. She said living there felt like being in a life penitentiary. The sweet lady, someone should rescue here. She was so nice.

One of my pre-launch booklets is now in Biggs Junction too, signed and all. I hope she will like it.

We drove to Goldendale for lunch. Trust me. If you EVER are in that region, this is where you want to eat. The Glass Onion. A gourmet restaurant lost in the middle of nowhere. A place of style, grace and excellent cuisine, very cool jazz music and great atmosphere – in GOLDENDALE? That place is so small, there can't be more than twenty people living there, and they have a restaurant like that?

Now I'm in Washington DC.

Last night my friend Leslie took me on a drive to see all the illuminated monuments. The White House, even seen only from the distance, is still something to see, and it looks a lot larger in real life than it does on TV. I've also had the first green collards of my life, and I liked them! I would gladly have passed on the fried chicken to get another serving of that!

Tomorrow we will go to the Chesapeake Bay for crab cakes.

Things To Do In Vancouver

2011-07-01T17:11:00.000-07:00

Vancouver could be pretty nice if it wasn't this cold. The way things are though, I'm afraid I brought the wrong kind of clothing. Right now, I'm hanging on to the only pair of wool socks I brought along, and without them I would be lost. Just this morning, while I was shivering away in my thick socks and with Sue's sofa spread wrapped around me, her husband came up from watching the news in his "man cave" in the basement, announced he would go out to the driving range and hit some balls. Then he stepped outside on the patio ( VERY cold air coming in through the open door), returned and announced he would change into his shorts. Seriously.

I'm telling you, there is some truth to the myth that Canadians live in igloos. I have yet to see a really warm day here.

So today is Canada Day. It's the day when all Canadians wear something with their flag (that's the red and white one with the maple leaf) or at least something red. Sue took me to have a pedicure the other day, and here's the result. Oh, and btw.? When the pedicure lady asked me on which foot I wanted which flag, I said I wanted the US on the left to show my political sympathy with the Democrats. There you go. This is as political as I'll ever get on this blog. It's ok to be a Democrat, even in the US.

Somewhere deep in the side of my cheek, like, right next to my only left-over wisdom tooth, there's this story sitting about how they turned us away when we tried to cross the border the first time. I'll not tell it, nuh-huh. I know I will want to visit my peeps down there again, maybe as soon as next year. And it was NOT the country's fault, or even the law's, but... ok shutting up now. So here are the toenails, painted to honor Canada Day and Independence Day and everything.

The pedicure lady made us stand as close together as we could, until Sue said, "This is it, the boobs are getting squished." And no, we did not have a drink. We can be like that, just like that.

That same night, Sue's husband made dinner for us. Drool. Salmon in Canada. Need I see more? There was some salad, VERY nice salad, but really, who cares about salad when there's THIS?

Two nights ago I had my first-ever book reading.

Yes, I was nervous. And yes, I wanted to get out of it before it happened. Sue kept talking about it all day long, even when we went across the border for Thai lunch. She would be such a good manager, she eased me through the entire day, and when we got home from that trans-border trip she made me a double espresso, sent me to sit on the porch and practice my reading. "Read out loud to the neighborhood. If you can do that, you'll be fine tonight." And she was right. While I read my novel to the street, she got the buffet for the guests going.

There were only five ladies at the reading, but I'll tell you something: five is perfect. Five means sitting together on the couches, getting really comfortable, and chatting about the book and its writing like chatting over a knitting pattern or a new recipe. It's intimate, you can't avoid their questions, and your listeners go home with the feeling of really having "met" an author. They took away my pre-launch booklet to give to their friends and their book clubs, and I have a feeling their good impression will take me a long way.

Of course, it helps a lot to have a friend like Sue by your side on a night like this. It helps a LOT.

See? Me, signing my booklets. Does that look good or what? It sure FEELS good, I can tell you.

So today is Canada Day. It's a national holiday, I've been told. Something like the 4th of July for the Americans. And yet people go to work and stores are open. That seems quite uncivilized and cruel to me. In Germany, on a holiday, the only thing open are hospitals, gas stations and theaters. Oh well, and restaurants. Stores? Not. Offices? Totally not. Just like on Sundays. Everything is closed. You better don't forget your toothpaste when you go shopping on Saturday. Or, Heaven forbid, the toilet paper. Need I explain? No, I thought not. And I have to say I like it that even, despite the occasional toothpaste emergency ( now don't get ahead of me on the toilet paper. That was totally made up.).

Well, anyway. The sun is shining now. We still won't be going down to the beach to celebrate for several reasons, one of which is a deep secret and to be blogged about at a later time.

Oh, and as an afterthought: This here was my first US meal. Thai. Go figure.

The Blog That Did Not Happen

2011-06-29T08:52:00.000-07:00

When I'm dead and gone, my heirs will post this blog. Before that, I can't.

But I need to hold this space for it. For the stories that can't be told but should be. For the anecdotes that would have you in stitches but would get me into trouble if I spoke about them.

And no, neither Sue nor I went to jail.

Flight Report

2011-06-28T11:20:00.000-07:00

The good thing about keeping a blog back for a couple of days: the urge to rant like crazy about some things diminishes. Like, if this here had been written while I was still on the Air Canada plane? It would have been the meanest, grittiest post about Heathrow airport, and my frequent use of the "f" word would have made my publisher blanch. I did send out one tweet using that word, and it felt GOOD. That's what I think about Heathrow.

Hamburg Airport, 5am. Just me, the planes and the rain on the tarmac.

At that time of day, I was all alone. You know how it is when you get ready to go on a really big trip? The moment you've checked in and your luggage has been processed, even though you are still in your home town part of you has already left, is on its way, and you have to follow. So no long goodbyes for me.

The plane to London was tiny. We had to drive halfway across the airport to get there, in the pouring rain, past the giants glued to the comfortable walkways. My plane did not qualify for them, I guess. The funny thing: the moment I got on my fear of flying was totally gone.

Heathrow. Heathrow, REALLY? I mean, freaking REALLY? That airport is a nightmare among airports, it deserves awards for bad design and bad maintenance, and an extra-Oscar for ugliness. If someone needed an airport setting for a horror movie? Something depressing, apocalyptical and really, really ugly? Take Heathrow. It's like the house from the "Psycho" movie gone airport. It's like how Stephen King would make up an airport for a really dire book. One where nightmare clowns lurk around every corner. I mean, seriously? Why in the world does ANY airport need that many stairways (and no lift!!!), corridors and corners and BUILDINGS? Come on, London. You can do better than that! And I'm not even going to say ONE word about the dinginess of it all.

Ok, so there was some Heathrow rant left over in me. I'm sorry.

On the Air Canada plane, this pretty lady greeted me:

Isn't she one cool girl?

She took this pic of me halfway across Greenland. See? No fear of flying!

It still was a mean, long flight from London to Vancouver. The last two hours seemed interminable, and I have to say I never bought something more worth its money than my flying socks. Thank you, dear Doctor, for prescribing them!

See what I mean? Long, long flight. Thankfully, the service aboard was very good.

Vancouver airport: Clean. Efficient. Nice. Pretty. Airy and light, full of Native art, waterfalls, shops and restaurants. Did I mention clean and efficient? Yeah, that. Short ways. All in one building. Carts for the handicapped, like me, to whisk you through border controls and customs.

Suzie's home:

If you turn around and look in the other direction you can see the snow-capped mountains in the distance.

Sue's family was there. Hubby, kids, kids' wives and all. They are a loud, friendly, easy-going bunch, and it's ALL about the food with them. Lengthy, philosophical and intense discussions about dinner go down here, and the results are amazing. Sue does not like to make hamburgers, so she got her son to form the patties.

It's funny how places smell so differently. I always notice this when I go somewhere else, and it's an important part of a place. Vancouver has one pervading scent: cedars and the ocean. Even downtown, in the midst of rush-hour traffic, it's there, just like the water is everywhere. You always seem to be driving down towards the water. I can see some of my next book happening here. It's just the kind of place that would appeal to my characters.

You all know this trip was about meeting twitter and fb friends, right?

So besides Sue, here is the first friend from twitter I now met in real life: lovely, witty and charming: Moniera!

Can you imagine going out for cocktails, and then they don't serve strawberry margaritas? I had to have bourbon and lemon something and it was called "Lynchburg Lemonade", and boy it was good enough to have a second one.

That was an interesting part of town though, where we went for those drinks, and I'd like to go back there and walk around a bit. Sue said it was "touristy" but I don't care. I'm a tourist. I like pretty.

So the things I've done so far:

Had a family dinner with the Farrants. Drank Single Malt with Sue's hubby. Went grocery shopping. Went to the Apple Store. Did NOT buy shoes for Sue.

We had the most amazing sushi for lunch, and I really want to go back to that place and have what the people at the tables around us were having. Sue drove me through Stanley Park (in the rain!) where the huge cedar trees grow right down to the beach, and I turned down the car window, and there it was: the amazing smell of forest, cedars and ocean. The water was to our right, the old, dense forest to our left, and it was everything I had thought it would be.

I've talked to both Jane and her sister-in-law on the phone today, probably the two sexiest voices this side of the Mississippi, and now I can't wait to meet them.

This afternoon there will be a pedicure, and I'm getting the Canadian flag on my toenails for Canada Day. After that, I'll attempt my first border crossing into the US. I hope they let me in. Guys, I'm a good girl and I love the US. So please be kind to me. Ok?

Tomorrow night will be my first book reading ever, here at Sue's house, and I had hoped no one would show up and I could get out of it, but that's not going to happen, I've just been told. The house will be full. So... I guess I'll better practice my reading some more. And hope they won't laugh me out of the front door. Oh well, too late to worry about that anyway.

And here they are, the FedEx-delivered pre-launch booklets. It's an amazing feeling to hold them in my hands. I've written this, and a publisher is putting down their money on me. Tomorrow night, my career as an author starts in earnest...

Meanwhile, On The Other Side Of The World...

2011-06-25T01:14:00.000-07:00

Things are moving. My personal Air Canada flight attendant has left home to meet me in London tomorrow morning. Up to the last moment we tweeted about it, and when she left her house she was still worried about her front door. I hope everything has been fixed now. That woman, Sue, is a whirlwind. I wonder if she even sits down for lunch or has that on the run, too.

My first ever book reading will be at her house, on the 29th. I'm nervous about it, it's a totally new experience, and I've been reading out loud for days now so that I won't sound like a total idiot, but my tongue still feels like a dead slug when it tries to wrap around the seldom spoken English language. Funny how one can write fluently in one language, but when it comes to speaking it everything is different.

So anyway. Last minute crapola.

Last minute crapola is when you give your publisher the wrong address for the FedEx package with your pre-launch reading booklets. Trust me, it makes you look dumber than dumb and blonder than Madonna. It makes you want to crawl under the carpet and hide there for the rest of your life. Thankfully, they value me for my narrative skills and not for being a great manager. Crisis over, booklets on their way to the right house.

Something good came from this though. The publisher asked, just for good measure, for the phone numbers of the other recipients, and when Bunny gave me hers I could not resist. I TALKED TO THE BUNNEH! The first time ever!

Ok, now that I'm writing this, I can see you raise your eyebrows and go, "What? You've been friends for TWO years and you never talked on the phone before?" Yes, well, that's just how it was. Now we have, though, and I can tell you, she has a voice like sweet molasses. That Southern drawl is just too good for words.

So while Bunny and I were chatting, Sue left her house for the airport.

She tweeted this. I have to say, it looks pretty much like here, weather-wise.

Oh, I have to explain this. Sue NEVER flies the London route. She's a Pacific girl through and through. Today she is doing this just to pick me up. It was her bribe for me to go to Vancouver, which was not on my trip plan at all. AFTER I had bought my tickets she grumbled a bit about London, and how she would pull out every single hair from the top of my head if she caught bed bugs in the hotel there.

Last night she looked quite relaxed though. She tweeted a couple of pics of herself and the rest of the crew, but I'm not sure I should upload them here without their consent. So you'll just have to imagine a group of pretty Air Canada flight attendants in very smart, dark blue outfits.

Tomorrow, pretty much at this time of day, I'll be sitting down in that plane, in London.

And now I'm off because I need to do some packing. See you on the other side!

Rainy Days

2011-06-21T02:19:00.000-07:00

[caption id="attachment_442" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="I don't know who holds the copyright for this pic, but it's not me."][/caption]

Anyhow, look at that bird, and what do you see? Yup, it's me. That's how I look and feel today.

Woke up too early because the hubby could not find his stupid alarm clock, went to bed too late last night because the publisher kept heaping work on me, and I could not find the sleeping mask I had bought for the flight when I wanted to pack it in my carry-on.

The weather is rotten, it has been raining for weeks now, and as if that is not enough it's also miserably cold. Our car is due for inspection, the fridge is gasping his last and the cat barfed on the carpet again. There's no fresh bread in the house, I still have two dresses that need to be altered, my flight leaves on Sunday at 7 in the morning, and that means I have to leave for the airport at 4.

My book reading in DC has been canceled for reasons not connected with me, and I wish I had known earlier so the publisher and I could have made other arrangements. I have no idea what to cook for lunch, or what to wear to the Neil Diamond concert tomorrow night. The writing on my second novel has come to a grinding stop because I'm so insecure right now after all the editing that has been done on the first, and I really want some hot chicken soup now.

Oh, and have I mentioned the lift is out of order? And the suitcase is staring at me from the corner where I parked it, begging to be packed.

I mean, how can one be happy and cheerful when it looks like October outside and it's really Midsummer Night and the air even SMELLS of fall? What the hell is going on, there was not even a proper spring, and now we can start on the Christmas garlands?

On the upside, I'll be going to a Neil Diamond concert tomorrow. Afterwards, there will be champagne and giggles with my best friend. We will swoon a bit, and maybe hum a song or two, and walk on those clouds for a while. Thursday, I'll start packing in earnest. Saturday there will be a barbecue with friends to see me off, and then, Sunday at daybreak, I'll be off for six weeks to meet my twitter friends. One of them will even be flying all the way from Los Angeles to NY just to meet me, and with the Bunny I'll be taking a trip to the beach where we will laze in the sun and eat fried oysters. I'll get to meet my publisher in person, and then I can tell her how many rounds of edits I can take, and how many are too much. There will be an excursion to Amagansett for some book research, and I've managed to talk my West Coast friends into a day trip to Biggs Junction on the Oregon border for some redneck adventure.

If the fridge really dies, it will happen when I am gone and someone else will have to do the cleaning in the spot where it stood before the replacement is delivered.

I won't be cleaning cat barf for a good long while – and in all honesty, it is mostly the hubby who does it anyway. Someone else will be serving me lunch, and I'm sure there will be fresh bread.

So if you add it all up, it's actually a rather good day today. And now I want baked bananas with honey, or a scoop of maple walnut ice cream.

Rant over.

Desperado

2011-06-13T02:45:00.000-07:00

(Painting: M. Otis)

Ok, ok. The eternal question: "How did you do it?"

So far, I've skirted around that one and always given the evasive answer, "Oh, you know. I just... wrote." And mostly, laughter ensued. But guys, if you look closely enough, it's the bare-boned truth, and there is no other recipe. Maybe I'm going to be hugely unpopular after spelling this out, but it is my firm belief, and my personal experience.

No amount of talking about it, reading about it, blogging about it will get your novel written for you. No matter how diligently you research, plot, outline and discuss it, if you don't sit down and actually write it, there will not be a book. No writer's workshop, conference or creative writing class will help you here. The dream agent or publisher you found? They need a finished manuscript.

At some point, this one thing has to be the major part of your life. You will have to be ruthless, selfish, single-minded and patient. Your household may die a slow and dirty death, the husband's shirts go un-ironed, the kids fed deep frozen food, your friends might miss you, but all these you have to accept if you really want a book to happen. It must be your JOB. Your calling, your obsession, the air you breathe and the last thing on your mind before you go to sleep. It's the first thing you worry about when you get out of bed, and the one thought when you're waiting at a red stoplight.

My publisher is a very nice lady, but when it comes to business she is quite the tough cookie. I like that about her. A lot. A writer, she tells me, is someone who writes. An author is someone who gets published. By a publisher. She also tells me there are a million more writers than authors. Authors have the guts to pull this off. To start, write and finish a book. To submit it and expect criticism and rejection. Or maybe reap the sweet reward for all their work and the many hours spent on shaping a novel.

The main thing, though, is: first you have to write it.

That's all.

Speak Up!

2011-06-07T03:06:00.000-07:00

I was born in Frankfurt, Germany, of a German mother and Saudi-Arabian father.

During the first seven years of my life, my parents moved from Germany to Saudi Arabia and then Brazil, and returned to Germany to settle there permanently.

Since my father did not speak German and my mother did not speak Arabic, their common language was English. It was not perfect English, but good enough to raise me in both languages. (please don’t ask why my father did not speak Arabic with me; I never found out.)

My real obsession with English began when I was about fourteen and found out there was Canada. At that time, there was a TV running on German TV, “Adventures In Rainbow Country”, and my best friend and I were totally besotted with the teenage hero, a blond boy. His mother owned a lakeside hotel on Lake Huron, and he had all kinds of adventures with his Cree friend.

I wanted to live in Canada, and very badly. I wanted a lakeside hotel and a blond, Canadian husband, and I knew I would have to be very fluent in English for that.

The language became my obsession, the gate to the life I wanted.

So from only speaking English with my parents I started reading English books, listened to AFN (the US Forces radio station) and corresponding with a lady in Toronto.

She was the sister of one of my teachers, and he gave me her address.

After finishing high school, she invited me over for a visit with her family.

For six months, I was immersed in Canadian culture and the language I had come to love.

When I got back home, my course was set: I was going to study English, be a journalist, live in Toronto, and be happy.

I did study English, and American Literature, but I never got to move to Toronto because before that I met my husband, fell in love, got married and consequently was stuck in Germany.

My husband, after he finished university, took up a job with a computer company based in Minneapolis, so we got to travel to the US, and the language stayed alive for me.

I started on my novel only three years ago, out of sheer boredom while supervising the detention room at the school where I was also teaching the Theater course, and it was not even a decision I had to make: it had to be done in English.

I’ve always seen myself as writing in English.

I knew my settings would not be in Germany, never.

Germany is a small country, and I wanted space in my book.

You might say the settings are the reason why I chose English over German. I wanted my characters to be international, world-wise people, not restricted to one place, and definitely not Germany.

My story plays in many places: Geneva, a small fishing village on the Norwegian coast, London, Toronto, New York and Los Angeles. I’ve taken care to pick locations I have actually visited, with the exception of L.A., but I have many friends there and had them check my details, and I will soon be going there to verify what I’ve described myself.

Choosing English over German is a gut decision.

It is, for me, the more poetic language. It flows differently, the music in it speaks to me.

More than anything else, the rhythm and tune make me want to hum along.

My characters speak to me in English. There’s not a German word lost among them, even though my female protagonist at one point reveals that she is indeed quite fluent in German. But she is special, and very well educated. And Canadian.

I find declarations of love in German embarrassing and cumbersome. In English, they are a song.

And, from a purely commercial point of view, the chances of my book being picked up for a Hollywood movie are far better if it is written in English from the start, because it will be published in the US and not in obscure Germany.

I know this sounds preposterous, but who knows. After all, I found a publisher in the US. I’ve made it this far, why not go further.

But wherever I go from here, it will be in English.

Versatile Blogger Award

2011-05-10T09:13:00.000-07:00

Just when I thought I had done my blogging duty for this week (or month) here comes my lovely Ange Barton and drops this amazing award in my lap. Thank you, dear, for the great honor! You are a wonderful poet and I adore you.

So I'm supposed to tell you seven things about myself you do not know.

1. I really like reading scifi. Among my favorite authors are Peter F. Hamilton, Eric van Lustbader and China Mieville.

2. During my time at university I worked at a travel agency that specialized in bus tours to European capitals for US soldiers stationed in Germany. I worked as a tour guide, so on weekends I would go off to Paris, Amsterdam or Copenhagen, even Rome, with a busload of GIs. I was twenty.

3. I don't like chocolate. Give me cake with frosting any time.

4. When I was twenty-one I had a hot love affair during a stay in Toronto. He was twice my age and a CBC speaker. Sexy voice, killer charm, a wife and three kids.

5. My all-time favorite food is home-made chicken soup.

6. When I'm grown up I want to drive a Porsche.

7. I can't walk in high heels.

My job now is to pass this award on to seven other bloggers.

Here are my nominations:

http://www.southboundcats.blogspot.com/

http://www.beingpeachy.com/

http://thecrookedstamper.blogspot.com/

http://marousia.wordpress.com/

http://ruffhaven.blogspot.com/

http://creativityhaus.blogspot.com/p/rooms.html

http://dereksvandalblog.blogspot.com/

It's now your duty to pass on this award to blogs you value, my friends.

Sometimes I Feel...

2011-05-10T02:23:00.000-07:00

Update on the weird things that happen to you when you become that strange thing, a "signed author". Don't take this too seriously, but it tickled me so much I want to share it.

The hubby and I, we are many things, but certainly not wealthy. I mean, he's a high school teacher. I'm nothing. So come on. But you all know I'll be going to the States (AND Canada. I KNOW, Sue! ) this summer, and hubby and some US friends said going without a credit card is not a good idea. I would have, mind you. Just stashed some cash in my stocking and gone. There isn't a lot to spend anyway, so what's the big deal. Thought I. Until the Bunny said, "But what if there's an emergency. You need plastic." And hubby nodded and said he would take me to the bank to get me a card. I broke out in sweat. The bank is one of my least favorite places on Earth. I would rather get on an airplane than go to the bank, and that's saying something. The bank is no fun when there's no dough in the account.

So yesterday, my palms sweating, hubby grinning (HE is not afraid of the bank. He says we are customers and they always treat him like one when he goes there. I mostly hide under the bed in the meantime.), we went to the bank.

Here is what happened.

Guy at the bank: "Oh, you want a credit card?"

Me: "Uhm... I don't wanna, but I'm told I have to. I'm going to the US next month..."

Guy: "Then you need one. Oh, you don't have your own account."

Me: "I don't have an income. I don't need an account. The hubby has one." Sweat spreads from palms to... up higher.

Guy: "We need someone else to talk to. Wait a moment." Sweat on the scalp.

He brings in Nice Lady. Nice Lady takes us to a secluded cubicle with a DOOR, and sweat prickles between shoulder blades. Door remains open, though.

Nice Lady: "So you're going to the US? You need a credit card. No one uses cash there."

Aha. This is normally the point when I start babbling, and so I do. Tell her yes, I'm going to the US, and on a pre-launch book reading tour since I had just signed a boo deal with a US publisher, and...

Nice Lady ( a bright smile on her face): "Then we'll open an account for you now and give you a credit card." Typing on the computer ensues. After a moment of consideration, "You had better take a gold card."

Lady, I have NO MONEY. Who would give ME a gold anything? She does not even look at me, and so she can't see the sweat running down my face. Figuratively, of course. The place has A/C.

Nice Lady, after some more typing: "A gold card it is. Which company would you like? AmEx? No, better take Master. They are accepted more widely."

Again: NO MONEY!

Guy from before comes and sits down with us, also smiling brightly. I feel trapped, hubby is all relaxed. They push about a gazillion (I know; not a word. But totally apt, trust me.) papers to sign at me, and I sign, the hubby signs, they are put in a glossy folder. And,

"Oh," says Nice Lady, "Wait a moment. I'll get you the application form for the priority lounges at the airports. It comes with the card. You'll be able to travel so much more comfortably with that. No hanging out in public spaces while you wait for your connections, and I guess you'll be traveling a lot in the future."

That's a nice thought, but hey, SO far in the future...

Nice Lady: "Now you're all set. We give you xxx credit, and if you need more... Your card will come by mail within the next few days."

Sweat everywhere. Hubby is pleased.

Relaxed, seated guy, chimes in, "And when your royalties begin to come in we can always have a talk about a business account, and you'll need help with the taxes, we are at your service. Please do not hesitate to call or ask."

Folks... I've only just signed. Aren't you a bit over-optimistic? Hubby thinks not. I think yes. Getting that call from the publisher saying they wanted to sign me was surreal. THIS here is like a nightmare turned into benevolent torture.

I have my folder, we shake hands, and Nice Lady takes a deep breath.

"I've been writing myself," she says, "Nothing much, just the story of my family, but my friends tell me it is really good and I should try to publish it. Is it hard to find a publisher? How did you do it?"

Well...

"Would you mind if I asked you for advice? Would you look at my manuscript? Could I give you a call?"

Lady, ME??? I don't know ANYTHING. Right now, I can hardly remember my freaking name. But sure, if that's what I have to do to get a gold card... call me. Just don't tell me you work at a bank, ok? No I didn't say that. That would have been way too clever for me. I just nodded and said, of course, anytime, and the best advice I can give you is, don't give up. Keep it up, write, write, write. And write a really good query letter (Insert: hysterical laughter, because I never did that. Write a query letter.).

They escort us to the door (the outside door) another handshake, another offer to call anytime... do they think the big $$$ will be rolling in some time soon? Folks, no one can promise that. Out on the street, I'm still dazed. Hubby shrugs and says, "I told you, no big deal. We are customers. Want a coffee?"

I'm still me. Yes, I wrote a book and sold it, and I'm working on the next one. But I'm still me. I'm not a big-shot bestselling author or anything. I have the spooky feeling one of these days I'll wake up and find myself in my old reality where gold credit cards, book deals and airport lounges are a pleasant dream and my next task will be to tame a roaring 6th grade class at school. The puzzle pieces are not fitting together yet. The old life and the new have not merged. It scares the sh*t out of me. I feel like the greatest fraud on Earth, first for bamboozling a publisher into accepting my novel, now for dazzling Nice Lady and Guy. Hubby is all cool about it. He says it was due to happen some day, and to stop fussing. I don't know that I will. It's all too good to be true.

Note: of course there will be money in my account when I'm traveling, the hubby will see to that. So don't worry. :)

I Know Where I Have Been.

2011-04-30T12:10:00.000-07:00

My friend Bunny just set this off.

I told her it was really high time for me to go to New York to do some research for my new book, titled (if the publisher does not object) "White House, Red Carpet". It is mainly set in Brooklyn and the theater district of Manhattan, and while I have been in Manhattan my knowledge of Brooklyn is sketchy.

As most of my blog readers know, a big part of my first book, "TheDistant Shore" (soon to be published by Buddhapuss Ink. LLC) plays in a small coast town in Norway. Bunny just asked me if I've been there, and I told her, yes, I've been.

I remember when I got out of the car there, after driving all day long down from Alesund in the North. It was the middle of May, and quite cold, and when we got there it was raining and getting dark, quite early in the day too. I remember the hotel, just like on this picture, the parking lot not paved, and only this little cobbled street with the three stores on it leading up the hill. There were some small ships in the harbor, the water of the bay was calm and leaden in the steady drizzle, the sky low and grey, like a drawn curtain. And it was so quiet.

I stood there while my friend complained about the weather, and just like that the place connected to me. It felt as if it had been waiting for me, as if we were drawing this breath of release together. My soul flowed away from me, flowed to mingle with the wind and the rain and the cry of the seagulls and the beacon of the lighthouse far out where the bay met the ocean. I looked out over the water and wanted to be a tree, dig my toes into the soil and take root, dissolve into my surroundings.

We had booked rooms in the only hotel, the yellow building directly on the edge of the water.

We went inside to register, and while the blond girl at the counter got our room keys I looked around. It was not a spectacular hotel lobby, but it had a charm all of its own in its simple elegance. As we went to the lifts I had this sudden vision.

Yes, I know it sounds trite, but that is how it was. I saw this one scene which now is a centerpiece in my novel, the moment when the long-lost lovers meet again after so many years, when Naomi steps out of that same lift, sees Jon and drops the tray with the plates.

For ever and ever this was the only instant of the story I carried around with me, this one look, this meeting. When I started writing down the whole story I never thought beyond this point, this was what I wanted to describe, explore the emotions and reactions, and I had no idea how it would go on from there. Thankfully, my characters knew quite well where they were headed and the novel wrote itself, just like the second is writing itself.

There is another scene in my story, where Jon remarks on something he witnesses and can't explain to himself. Naomi solves the mystery for him, and it is quite mundane, but I did not make it up.

Before my friend and I went down for dinner I spent quite some time staring out of the window in my room. Across a small arm of the bay was a sort of quay, a depot or factory building on it, and for the longest time cars drove up, stood there for a few minutes, their motors running, and left again. There were quite a number of them too. I never figured out what their reason was, but it fascinated me enough to pick it up again for my book.

I'm not going to tell you which explanation Naomi comes up with. If you want to solve the riddle of the cars on the dock you'll have to read my book.

I write about places I know. Places I've been. Most of the time, at least. I've not been to Malibu yet, but so far no one has complained about my depictions.

The main point though is, if you've been to a place you choose as a setting you can describe how it feels, smells, tastes. There will be a connection. Granted, Floro was a lucky find. But still. I like to write about places I've been. So NYC, here I come. Again.

The Morning After

2011-04-23T05:00:00.000-07:00

You want to know how it feels when you've just signed a book contract?

Harebrained.

Like one of those crazy rabbits running from one corner of the cage to the other, holding their heads and going, "Oh my God, oh my God, what to do now?"

Oh wait there's something wrong with this image... nevermind. It's how it feels. I needed a drink. A four-finger drink, straight up. And I needed to TELL! The news sat in my chest like a huge big shining bubble, ready to burst if I did not let it out. Trust me, if this happens to you, you want to SHOUT it to the world. It is the proverbial dream coming true. The one you have lived through, as a writer, on many nights lying awake in your bed. The scene you play out in your mind, the one moment you long for, more than anything else.

Only when it happens, it is WAY different from what you thought it would be.

For me, it was a short email asking for a skype chat. Uhu. I hate webcams. They make me look even fatter and dowdier than I already am. I'm shy, and I did not want my family to be present for this "talk" (I had no idea what was coming!!!) and hid in my kid's room with my laptop.

So on comes this nice lady in a slightly messy office, and she tells me THESE THINGS! Tells me she loves my book and really believes in it, and what a joy it is to work with me, and yes, they really do want to sign me (Insert here: Mariam goes to pieces). There was some more business talk, of course, but the bottom line is: Yes, I have my book deal. And I got it sitting on my kid's unmade bed, the mess on the floor thankfully not visible over the webcam. I must have come across like a total imbecile, but whatever. Nothing was said that I couldn't just nod to and say, "Uhu,uhu, right, sure." Business cards? Sure. Book tour? Hell, yes!!!

While this went down, my family was grumbling about lunch - which was ready and heartily ignored by me - and ate without me.

And folks, I'm SO glad that camera catches only your face or my brand-new publisher would have seen I was not even wearing a bra... now is THIS how you picture your moment of glory? Certainly not, right? Well, it was mine.

So today I woke up and wondered... is my life different now?

And the answer is, yes. It is different. It is VERY different. Not outwardly, mind. I still need to clean the bathroom before our friends come over later to drink the bubbly with us and celebrate. And the cat still barfed on the carpet. Nothing different there. But on the inside, everything has changed. It's the day of justification, the moment I worked for so long. Now I can look at my dusty shelves and the grimy stove and say to them, "See? You had to suffer, but it was worth it!" And my dear, poor hubby, who did most of the housework so I could write, and edit, and rewrite, and edit... now I can say, "Thank you, sweetheart, and look, it was good for something."

I know they say you should write for yourself and not think about publication. That's just whistling in the dark. If you are serious about it, you DO write to get published. Well, I did. Do. I need this vindication. I need it to return it to my family and friends. They deserve it, for all their support and patience and love during the past three years.

And hey, I rather like it, too. I liked walking through our book store today and thinking, "Soon, soon!" I like the feeling of being on the other side of the wall, I'm not going to lie. And yes, I do want the commercial success, both for myself and for the publisher who put their trust and money in me. There will be a lot of work before I can admire my novel in the shop windows and displays, but it will be there. If I have to stack it there myself it will be there. My publisher, MaryChris, will not be sorry for her decision to take me on.

My novel, "The Distant Shore", is a Contemporary Romance set in Norway, London, L.A., NYC and the outskirts of Toronto, and it tells a nearly impossible love story. I have the hope it will be published late this year, but that depends on me, and how fast I get the final edits done. So stick around, and watch this space for updates.

I think this will be a wild, wonderful ride.

Dark Chocolate, Every Day

2011-04-03T08:35:00.000-07:00

Has anything ever happened to you that changed your view of the world within a few minutes? Yes, I know, it does not happen all that often.

For me, that moment came yesterday when I was staring at twitter slipping by and one tweet caught my attention and led me to Sara Stein's blog. Now you surely remember my "Born To Be Fat" rant from not so long ago. So reading thing, and consequently getting talking to Sara, has both made me cry and cheer up a whole lot. I want to share this post from her blog with all my readers and friends who are struggling with their bodies the way I do. Take heart. We are not alone. Someone out there loves us and cares for us.

Thank you, Sara, for permitting me to post your "Open Letter To Oprah". Here it is:

NOOOOOO!!! That eardrum shattering scream you just heard was mine after I listened to Oprah Winfrey (I adore her) talk about her very public weight gain with emotional eating maven Geneen Roth. (Oprah on a Time She Forgot Her Loveliness, 5-11-2010)

I hear the thundering herd of hoof beats running for a book THAT IS NOT MEANT FOR OBESITY. And I hear the collective thud a month or two from now, of millions of copies tossed into the failed diet books collection. (Yes, we have those).

Don’t get me wrong – Geneen’s elegantly worded conversation on emotional eating is entirely appropriate for someone with 30 pounds to lose, or binge eating, or anorexia-bulimia. She even says that. Yet the audience was stocked full of morbidly obese people. Like me. And Oprah, God love her.

Certainly obese people have emotional eating that needs to be worked through for successful weight loss. But it is NOT the predominant driving force behind sustained obesity.

“I shamed my fat self”, Oprah said, “when I put myself on the cover of O and said how did I let this happen again”.

OPRAH! YOU DIDN’T LET IT HAPPEN! Anymore than you LET your bladder fill or LET your body go to sleep. This is your brain and body we’re talking about, not your soul.

Yo-yo dieting and weight regain are NOT the result of weak wills. THEY ARE THE RESULT OF AILING BODIES. And frantic brains trying to heal them.

Obesity is NOT a state of feeling badly about oneself – it is a MEDICAL CONDITION…with:

1) Chronic Inflammation, Pain and Exhaustion – Addicted to sugar and caffeine? Maybe you’re an ENERGY addict! It takes additional energy in the form of calories to move your extra-large aching, swollen, inflammed self down the hall. The worse your end-stage illnesses of obesity are (such as sleep apnea, diabetes, arthritis, fibromyalgia, hypothyroid), the longer that hallway becomes. Even if the end-stage illnesses have not yet manifested, the inflammation of obesity is simmering inside you, and exhausting you.

2) Altered Metabolic Pathways – abnormal insulin, leptin, cortisol metabolism (and others) cause the obese person to hold on to weight, be hungry all the time, have higher blood sugar and insane food cravings. Your continuously elevated stress hormones have convinced your trillions of cells to HANG ON TO EVERY BIT OF FAT BECAUSE WE”RE IN A FAMINE!! Don’t you wish you could explain grocery stores to them?

3) Altered Brain Chemistry – Depressed and anxious brains screaming for serotonin and GABA and dopamine driving you possessed toward the chocolate counter. Searching for oxytocin love in all that comfort ice cream and macaroni and cheese. Driven by sleep deprivation, changes in genetic expression and medication effects. Responding to toxic food injury from junk food as addicting as crack cocaine in your brain. This is not emotional eating; this is your brain directing your chemistry ingredients.

4) Severe Vitamin and Mineral Deficiencies – such as (but not limited to) D, B12, A, iodine, fatty acids:

Vitamin D from the sun – a prehormone – manufactured by the cholesterol in your skin when exposed to that beautiful yellow orb in the sky. Vitamin D that gives us energy and happiness and relaxation and protects us from diabetes and heart disease and cancer and obesity. You don’t get credit if you stay indoors and look out the window, or if you live in Cleveland like I do and there isn’t any sun half the year, or if you’re African American and your skin acts like sunscreen. And you’re never going to be able to lose weight with Vitamin D deficiency until it is corrected.

Vitamin B12 from animal proteins (not vegan diets). Blocked from absorbing by all those prescription reflux medications. Vitamin B12 that gives us energy, memory, concentration, happy moods, relaxation.

Vitamin A from fruits and vegetables for our skin and eyes – night blindness, psoriasis, eczema – the 5th leading cause of blindness in the world – not found in junk food, you can be sure, but a good carrot or sweet potato might help.

Mineral and element deficiencies like Iodine – Iodine that keeps your thyroid running and your breast tissues healthy, essential for the production of every hormone. Added to salt in the early 1900’s so you wouldn’t get a thyroid goiter, but now you eat fancy non-iodized kosher salt and sea salt or no salt at all. Iodine that used to be in flour until the 1970’s when it was replaced by bromine (the stuff they gave soldiers in World War II to kill their sex drives!) Makes you tired, in pain, obese, dull.

Essential fatty acid deficiency – I know you’re eating fish 3 times a day, right? Essential means brain function – attention deficit disorder, memory, mood. Essential means skin – eczema, rash, dryness. Essential means inflammation and immune function – cancer, heart disease, arthritis, dementia. My grandmother frying those smelts every week – she knew something!

5) Food sensitivities like 1) gluten from all that fake wheat processed stuff used to thicken, texturize and cheapen your food, 2) corn from the high fructose corn syrup that makes you gain MORE weight than the same caloric amount of sugar; 3) processed soy that slows your thyroid down because it’s no longer recognizable to your immune system. 60% of people with obesity have food sensitivities, aka allergies.

Now…does that sound like ‘”only eat when you’re hungry in a quiet room focused on food” is really going to make a difference?? Treating morbid obesity with emotional eating techniques is the same as treating cirrhosis of the liver with 12-step programs. The proverbial peeing in the ocean.

Here are some suggestions if you are obese.

Get your vitamin and mineral levels checked. Be careful of those who tell you what you should be eating. Pay attention to when you feel sick, what did you eat in the last 24 hours? The hell trinity of obesity is gluten, dairy and sugar. Purify your food and water sources. If you can’t pronounce it or picture it, don’t eat it. It’s making you fat, and that INCLUDES artificial sweeteners. Forget gourmet, aim for plain. Like grandma used to make. Whatever you’re doing now…do the opposite. Get out of the chair. Sleep more. Eat grapes. Watch less TV. Spend more quiet time. Work less. Work out less. Play more. Do nothing that causes physical or emotional pain. Take baths. Dance in a chair. And if you cannot do anything at all, at least get a little sun.

Try 70% dark chocolate EVERYDAY to fool your body about that famine delusion. The heavenly trinity that treats depression…exercise, Vitamin D and dark chocolate. Can you add one in?

There is hope and healing from obesity. One medical condition at a time. Give your emotional soul a rest.

Sara L. Stein, M.D., is a bariatric and integrative psychiatrist who runs Obesity Clinic at Kaiser Permanente in Cleveland, and is the author of Obese From The Heart: A Fat Psychiatrist Discloses (2009). Learn more at http://obesefromtheheart.com

If You Could Read My Mind

2011-03-08T09:34:00.000-08:00

Today, I'm grieving because a wonderful, wonderful time of my life is ending.

This was my job for the past five years. I taught Musical and Theater at a high school in our neighborhood. The pic was taken just before last year's show, and you can see we are all happy about what we achieved in a year of hard rehearsing. The kids are proud of themselves, and rightly so. Nearly all of them are from migrant or socially challenged homes and learned, in this class, for the first time how great they are and what they really can achieve if they just believe in themselves. I invested many hours, many weekends, many extra hours in this project.

And it was MY project, right from the start. I brought it to this school, first as a volunteer, then paid a pittance (200$ for 16 hours a month, when I really worked at least triple that time). I didn't mind because I loved it.

We all loved it. And we worked hard.

Here is my son Mario, singing Neil Diamond's "I'm A Believer".

He is not a student at that school but a young medical doctor, but he enjoyed working with us so much he just took to the stage after helping us set up the light and sound for the show.

And here's my other kid, playing his role as announcer, with Bryan.

I'm not free to say why I had to quit the job, of course. There is a confidentiality agreement in my contract that makes me feel like I used to work for Stargate Command. That's ok. Let me just say, working with that school administration has become impossible due to mutual distrust, and too much anger on my side. I threw the job in their faces. At some point you've just taken enough, and then it is time to let go.

I will let go of my worries and watch them sail away like ships in the night. They will simply leave, and I will not even listen to their horns calling out in the darkness.

It was a great time. The kids taught me much, and I hope I helped them find joy in an otherwise often dreary life. and now it is over.

Born To Be Fat

2011-03-07T09:59:00.000-08:00

I'm fat. There is no other way to call it. I've been fat since I was six years old and my parents and I returned home after two years in Brazil where I had been ill most of the time. Seriously ill. We came back, and wham, within half a year I was no longer the thin, fragile little girl but a roly-poly maggot. No one bothered about it. I was healthy again, and that was all my family cared for. Then my little sister was born and attention drifted from me to the baby.

When I was nineteen I starved myself into a moderately thin figure, but it did not last. I just could not keep the weight no matter how hard I tried. And NO I was no couch potato. I cycled, did sports, went dancing. And still I was fat.

I tried to hide it as well as I could. Wide clothes, practical clothes, flat shoes and a spike of guilt every time I put something in my mouth. And I only went to a doctor when I could not crawl anymore, afraid they would tell me I was too fat and needed to lose weight, when I never wanted anything more than that.

I wanted to wear something like this.

Be able to walk in these.

And I wanted to be an eye-catcher, but not because I had the widest butt on the street.

I'm a very sensible eater. I used to walk stairs whenever possible, rode the bike even during my pregnancies until I was nearly due. Granted, sports are not my favorite pastime, except throwing an American football or playing Badminton.

And yet. There are MASSES of people out there who eat way less healthy than I do, a lot more, too, and don't work out and still are slim.

Two years ago I got sick and was diagnosed with a couple of auto-immune diseases, and the unthinkable happened: suddenly I was firmly in the clutches of doctors and hospitals. And while still no one was very interested in why I was fat, once they had started on their gazillion exams and test and found out everything about me there was to find out I thought, "What the heck, I might as well ask them why I am obese!"

A far cry from that girl in the lovely gown, right?

So they drew blood, prodded, tested, scanned again and came up with - nothing.

Now I'm in a very lucky position. My son is a doctor, and so he knows my lifestyle and how and what I eat, and he agrees I really should be WAY thinner. He is, in fact, the one prodding my GP into doing all those tests.

Last Friday I had my latest appointment at my GP's. New results, and he tells me I'm perfectly healthy - except for those auto-immune diseases - and he really sees no way of helping me reduce my weight. I broke out in tears.

He looked me up and down and said, "You know, you should be glad your metabolism is so slow. If we had bad times now you'd survive and I would die of starvation." I nearly smacked his mouth. When he saw I was upset he patted my shoulder and told me he had heard it was quite normal for women of Arab descent to put on weight when they got older. AFTER, mind you, telling me what HE ate during a normal day. And here I am, living on tomatoes and cucumbers and lean chicken, just like a Supermodel, listening to my slim doctor listing his three sandwiches for breakfast, three plates of lunch and how hungry he is at night... yeah thank you. He really, really tried to comfort me. But in effect he told me I was born to be fat, and do myself a favor and accept it.

Well, I'm not. And I'm also not going to eat the lovely fresh bread hubby just brought home. So there. Tomatoes and cucumbers it is.

And yeah, why am I telling you all this? I'm telling you because I'm going to fly to the States this summer, and my biggest fear is they won't let me on a plane because I'm too fat.

Thank You, Please Carry On!

2011-03-06T07:56:00.000-08:00

I've just been awarded the "Stylish Blogger Award" by http://ange-aspiringnovelist.blogspot.com/ (and I hope the link works!). I've also been told I'm now supposed to tell you seven things about myself and then nominate a handful of other bloggers for this award. Seriously, Ange, you might want to reconsider after watching me mess this up.

1. Early spring, like now, makes me want to take off and be in new and strange places. There is is this wild yearning to be away, have adventures and meet people. Maybe I'm a secret hobbit. One of the daring tribe.

2. If I could I'd live in a house with a porch on the beach in Virginia. The porch would lead directly on the sand and there would be a big fridge with plenty of drinks for when all my friends come visiting. At day I'd sit on the porch and write novels and at night I'd sit on the porch and party with the Mimosas. Can you see how important the word "porch" is?

3. I don't like chocolate. No, really.

4. I'm fat, and I'm working so hard on slimming down, only my stupid chemo will not let me. I guess I'll never wear a strapless gown again.

5. On the upside, I've finished my first novel, edited and submitted it.

6. And started on a new one. Goal: finish the first draft before I go to the States in summer. I have 110 days to achieve that.

7. And now I'm going to go back to writing.

Here are my Stylish Blogger Award nominations:

http://www.understandblue.blogspot.com/

http://thecrookedstamper.blogspot.com/

http://steinwaystreetny.blogspot.com/2011/02/running-quick-errand.html

http://creativityhaus.blogspot.com/p/rooms.html

http://southboundcats.blogspot.com/

Thank you for this awesome nomination!

The Last Thing On My Mind

2011-02-12T05:10:00.000-08:00

This eBook hype, right? I'm way too busy finishing the edits on my own novel so I can send it back to the publisher, but this is getting to me enough right now so I have to write it off my chest.

Let's say printed books go out of fashion. Bookstores close down. There are no more printed books, or only in rarity shops or on your grandmother's shelves. Everyone reads their stuff on a Kindle or an iPad or something similar. Or listens to it on their smartphone or iPod. Probably self-publishing gets easier, anyone can put their story up there, right, and as a reader, you can browse and find whatever you want.

There are two things about this I find really disturbing, and I don't mean to hurt anyone's feelings, but...

Who will tell you what to edit? Who will say to you, "This is great, but you need to cut it down, change that part, consider that character again," and help you shape your novel into a sleek, elegant book? A paid editor? Someone who will put their stamp on your work instead of kicking you into doing it yourself? Or are you maybe one of those authors who think their story is perfect right from the start and no one has a right to meddle? Come off it, friend. No one is. Are you going to throw it at readers with all its repetitions, typos, superfluous people and lame side plots? Please don't tell me you're good enough to see all the faults yourself. No one is. That's what publishers are for. Really.

And then there's this.

A book reading. This here is the amazing Neil Gaiman, reading from Graveyard Book here in Hamburg last year, and I tell you, he is the best. Hearing him read his own words to you in person brings them to life like no other medium could. And standing in line to get him to put one of his lovely drawings and his signature in the book you hold in hand is an experience I would not want to miss, and with me, hundreds of other fans that day. Obvious question: How do you sign an eBook? How will you be able to stand in front of an admired author and tell him, "I love your graphic novels, but your others are not that hot." and have him smile at you and reply, "That's ok. I love the graphic novels too." Which he did, to me.

My big fear is that with this eBook thing authors will become a lot more anonymous, and I don't want that. I want to be able to go to book readings and I want to be able to GIVE book readings some day soon. I want to meet my readers, read to them, have them ask questions about my books, my writing and my publishing experiences, heck, about whatever they care to know about me. I want to be a person behind the stories. I want to hear that cute conversation Neil Gaiman had with his then-fiancée and now-wife while he signed for me, when she commented about how he would be spending hours with his fans and she would go shopping in the meanwhile and he smirked at her and asked if she maybe was jealous of his popularity. Which earned him a slap on the shoulder.

So many things are easier, better, faster and even nicer with the internet and the many things it offers. Books, I think, need paper. And a cover to make you want to read them. Don't you just love the smell of a new book? The excitement when you open the crackling pages for the first time? I do. And I don't want to miss it.

Super Bowl Memories

2011-02-05T11:58:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, through very little things, big memories are awakened, the kind of memories that you have carried in your heart for a long time, and then you share them, and in the other person they resonate like a wonderful, huge bell.

This happened to me today when my friend Ginny talked about the Super Bowl and its commercials, and I told her about the Cannes Commercials Prize in return. It was a typical, nonsensical facebook chat about nothing important, where everyone strives to be as funny and original as possible to amuse the others, and it really meant nothing.

But in Ginny in brought back a memory of another Super Bowl, and she wrote it down and sent it to me in a message, and it rang said bell in me. I asked Ginny if I could post it as a blog, which surprised her more than anything else, and she asked me why I wanted to do this. I can't rightly explain. It's just that this is the kind of story I would want to tell, a personal, touching story of a family and how their Super Bowl night will always be connected to that moment in their life.

Here is Ginny's story.

There was one ad in 2005, sponsored by Anheuser-Busch/Budweiser, that had me in tears. In November of 2004, Sarah told us she was going to Afghanistan for a year, leaving in Feb 2005. At Christmas, she told us (confirmed for me) that she is a lesbian. In January, she began her 6 weeks of pre-deployment training with the rest of the 249th General Hospital. (Keep in mind that even this early, there was lots of anti-war sentiment everywhere, even in the States, and DADT was very much in place).

Meanwhile, the Super Bowl went on as usual. We were in Salt Lake City and were invited to a 'party' at a more upscale sports bar. The party sponsors, Solar Turbines, had several tables. It was noisy, of course, but also sort of family oriented so there was a group of teenagers nearby who were extra noisy. We were actually having trouble hearing some of the commercials; but, hey - they're just commercials, right? Then comes a shot of the interior of an airport terminal - lots of people standing around - then a soldier, (at this point you can hear a pin drop in the restaurant) and another, then a whole unit. The crowd parts - and one after another they begin to applaud. At this point, I had tears rolling down my face and needed to blow my nose (thank goodness the napkins were paper). And then I had to explain... I think I only saw that ad one other time; I cried then, too.

I don't know if the ad had anything to do with this, but later that year, when Sarah came home on leave, she came to Phoenix through Dallas. There were several other soldiers coming through customs as well and they exited together. Outside customs, where they needed to separate and go to their connecting gates, there was a group of greeters waiting - they began applauding and handing out thank you gifts and snacks. Sarah said it was very warming and she was very grateful - especially so when she got on her next flight and the woman sitting next to her looked her up and down and said, "So! How does it feel to kill women and babies?" (Sarah was a combat medic; never left the hospital compound, never fired her weapon once in the entire year and, even if she had, it would have been at armed combatants, not women and babies.) The woman then stood at the rear of the aircraft talking to the flight attendants for the rest of the flight. Sarah is very forgiving. I'm still angry enough that I would like to find that woman and slap her silly.

But I still get a little teary when I think about that ad. (btw, as of Nov 21, 2010, Sarah has completed her duty to the army and is fully and honorably discharged.)

Thank you, Ginny, for letting me share this.