Free Ice Cream

Written in White

2011-03-07T09:54:00.000-08:00

A pear tree drapes herself in white lace,
Blushing behind clouds as she slips on her garter,
Preparing to renew vows to Spring.

A hard mint winter is finished
She trembling in breeze, gown billowing,
Cloud curtain parting, morning sizzling.

Colored birds fire up their instruments,
Singing fluted emotional melodies,
Let the bride be the envy of nature
Let the bride dance and be desired.

And she waltzes in wind, scattering fragrance and lace,
Luring all to her fiesta,
Earth sighing, breathing and remembering,
The yearly celebration.

And Spring, giddy as ever, sprinkles guests with flower cake
And rich vanilla ice cream promises,
Of more to come.

But he saves the best for her,
Ringing lavender tulips beneath her skirt
A wedding band of promise,
Which melts cold winter limbs,
Now written in white.

Words On Fire

2010-11-04T13:01:00.000-07:00

A good fire is stunning. I’ve been known to burn leaves just to see flames lick the sky. In my opinion, there's nothing finer than sitting around a campfire on a crisp evening, hearing conversations and laughter of family and friends. Or inside, when windows are iced, fireplace roaring, wood snapping and crackling. It warms bones and hearts chilled by a sometimes cold world.

Words to me are like fire. Pick the right ones, and our stories flame and mesmerize. They can illuminate a black night, or crack out the sun on an overcast day. We don’t need fancy selections. Put too many snooty words in, and all we've got is one stuck-up story. But I still believe a story told with added flare warms us.

We could say, “ As I was driving, leaves blew from the trees.” Or we could say, “As I was driving, wind high, every tree seemed to shiver, their raggedy foliage blowing away, leaving them naked in fields.” Can you picture that? It was my visual today.

Not every sentence in a story needs to be that descriptive, but throw one in occasionally and it’s like tossing a handful of dry pine needles into a dead fire.

Whoosh!

Flash!

If we extend our vocabulary, choosing words that breathe, we can make a story live. And still grasp our hearts when, we, the reader, are long finished.

Once, I walked past a campsite at dusk and spotted a man, stretched back in his recliner. I loved the visual so much I used it in Jack Rabbit Moon. Here’s what I came up with. “Under a shady oak tree, a man sat in a green recliner. I thought he was the epitome of intelligence, bringing his chair like that. Without moving, he could have the moon for dinner and stars for dessert.”

That chair, and a man I didn't know from Adam, will long live in my memory. In my opinion, he was one smart dude.

Words are everywhere. To write well, we only need to pick them up, over and over, and spin them into flame. Besides reading many fine books, by some outstanding authors, I sometimes study the Dictionary and Thesaurus. I’m not lame or boring, just a woman who has a thing for words. And a hot fire.

Happy writing!

Rose and Blackbird

2010-10-25T13:18:00.001-07:00

When winter laughs at her icy secrets,
and blows her ragged skirt,
Rose, once adorned in red velvet,
whispers, “I was a queen.”

Winter howls and her branches droop.
But blackbird arrives, festive as ever,
his shiny black cloak,
smoldering up her cold limbs.

He sings of spring; spicy orchards bursting into bloom,
and bees murmuring while sipping nectar.
He plays his flute like a gentleman.
“I know you, Rose,” he trills.
“You are lovely and delicate.
Ignore crackly old winter.”

Rose weeps at blackbirds melody,
there through sunlight and shadow,
in velvet and rags,
he adoring them equally.

As he plays for her, snow tiptoes down,
coloring him white.

A Garden in the Wild

2010-10-15T16:10:00.000-07:00

I’ve never met a garden I didn’t like, although some I’ve taken to more than others. Growing up, we always had a huge vegetable patch, which we had to toil in, so on hot, sweaty days I didn’t favor that kind.

There is another variety, though, I’ve never minded working; the flowery, delicate garden. Even better are those brazen sweeps of color erupting in lonely fields, nothing but Mother Nature cradling and kissing them. They are wild and raw and turn your head affairs. If your car windows are down, you can sometimes detect the smell of cherry licorice or cloves, the air thick with scent. They shock and awe us. Rattle us awake. Like a little kid they shout, “Look at me! I made this just for you.” And we are left gaping.

I’m never more alive when I discover a field bursting with Indian paintbrush, like millions of ragged orange tubes of lipstick smearing the landscape. Or purple Popsicle bluebonnets, tinged with vanilla on top. And a dirt floor of Queen Anne’s lace, winter white fancy skirts on long, scrawny legs, dancing real slow as far as the eye can see.

Recently, in Vermont, I happened upon these amazing trees, decorating old cemeteries, limbs screaming with creamy white and pink buds. They look like lilacs, but not quite. Maybe someone will recognize this lovely thing by the picture I took.

Today I discovered a wild patch of black-eyed Susan’s, mingled with cedar, along a busy roadside, putting on a lavish butter yellow show. Tall and regal, they exploded in the sun. These tickets were all free. Joy comes in all kinds of packages, but I prefer my gifts from a Garden in the Wild.

The Write Window

2010-09-29T14:06:00.000-07:00

Ruts in the writing life happen. We grasp our way through a story, do the research, and realize it’s not the one we’re supposed to tell. At least not yet. We bump along in that rut for awhile until a new path appears, scattered with red and orange leaves, shining glass-like in the sunshine. If we’re really lucky, we figure this out before page ten, which was the case with my recent novel. The only problem was, I didn’t have another start from scratch story.

Or so I thought.

It does a writer good to peer through a new window. Visit places we’ve never been. Meet people we’ve never met. If we can’t do that, we can always explore areas in our own neck of the woods that we’ve neglected. Anything to show us the mysterious, quirky and fresh side of life.

On a recent trip to Vermont, a place I’d never visited, a shiny new story snuck in. I was sitting on the steps of our cabin at sunset, wind bristling in trees, leaves like candy wrappers, colliding with each other, swirling, twirling, and dancing, air fragrant with roots and conifers. Straight ahead an abandoned dirt road, a rusted model T Ford off to one side. To my right a red barn, skirted next to an 1800’s colonial farmhouse. Just as I looked, a woman’s black silhouette appeared and paused in the window. I could feel something beginning. It slid through the wind and landed, smiling on my lap.

Sometimes a clear moment is all it takes: a sunny day flecked with the unusual, or dusk in Vermont. The writer in us is always drawn to what’s behind the mountain and down the lonely dirt road. We excavate stones from these places and arrange them in a circle. These stones represent life: the sensual, brutal, wonder, abandonment, love, honor, awe, failure, and death of our existence. We arrange stones we collect along the way into stories that help us make sense of our world. Sometimes we, as much as our readers, just need to be entertained. And there’s the rub-a good novel can and does do both.

I fancy this ancient Chinese proverb: A bird does not sing because it has an answer-it sings because it has a song.

Dear writer,if you're struggling,look through a new window and your song will find you.

Soul Jewels

2010-08-27T08:25:00.000-07:00

Stars like jewels seed the sky
Blooming flowers drenching the black bed of night,
Shining above creeks and rivers and dreamers
Resurrected until the sun turns them transparent.

But you can drink them while they’re fresh
On a blanket tossed on the ground,
They pour into your mouth and eyes
Universal juice to the soul.

Night after night after night…

Classic Vinyl

2010-08-16T19:53:00.000-07:00

“Are you telling me those albums I sold for practically nothing at a garage sale several years back are now worth something? Dang, I knew I should have hung onto those.” This was a recent conversation I had with a dear friend.

Now I’m remembering everything I let go. Let’s see, I had the Doors. Remember the line from Break on Through? "I found an island in your arms, a country in your eyes." Words stuffed like emotional crème puffs.

There was also Journey, and Pink Floyd, The Who, Stones, Eagles, Moody Blues and Led Zeppelin. Yes, I sold them all. I even threw in comedian Steve Martin’s album, Comedy is not Pretty. Someone pried that one out my hands. I shared the laughs. And the weird thing is, Steve still looks almost exactly the same as when I saw him on stage all those years ago…ha!

These days I’m feeling a little like classic Vinyl myself. Can anyone relate? The kids are growing up and out, yet another daughter recently spread her wings and flew on over to California, and one a couple of weeks before that to Missouri. For the first time in twenty-three years, quiet time has erupted in my world like a volcano.

I’ve had five full days to myself, and after initially feeling like crap on a cracker, I decided to soak the tiredness out of my feet after two decades of running. For the past few days, I've slept in, and when I wake swing around in my chair, drinking coffee and watching cardinals at the bird feeder. I’ve scrubbed floors and dusted and put the house in order and it hasn’t moved! One day I rented fantastic chick flicks and watched them in mid-afternoon, while eating extravagant Chinese takeout. In the evenings I’ve written and began to understand how one can get lost in silence, the delicious rhythm and rhyme of it. By day three, quiet slipped on me like a new dress.

Now I’m ready for noise again: family, friends, a little dirt, clutter, the messy business of life.

I miss my children like crazy, but knew full well they would grow up one day. I’m excited for their new adventures and excited for mine, too. I'm happy to still have a sweet, colorful bird in the nest for the time being.

Life is a continuous journey of change. We must learn to connect new dots, to reinvent ourselves.

Classics are superb at this!

Memory Collector

2010-07-19T08:26:00.000-07:00

Many people collect things, from paintings, to baseball cards, right down to magnets.

I collect memories. Maybe you do too.

We don’t have to shell out much money for those, although some have cost more than others. The limit is the moon. I’ve been chasing down memories for years, and they are now sitting on porches,watching the sun rise. And I’m thrilled they are remembering, lest I forget.

I’ve laid my hands on black tie memories, champagne corks popping all over pages. There are also those that creak and wail under the weight of sorrow and loss. Life drags us down rutty dirt roads as well as slick glossy highways, and a diary travels them all. Capturing our feelings and writing them down; that’s why we write, to peel back layers of life and hold them up to the light.

Above is a picture of my latest diary, fancier than most, but Audrey Hepburn just spoke to me, so I couldn’t resist.

My first diary was started back in 1995, which puts me at fifteen years worth, and eighteen diaries, minus one year, 1999. That particular diary was lost six months after moving to Texas from Missouri. I’d put it on the back of my car to check the mail before heading to school to wait in the carpool line, where I sometimes made diary entries. Running behind, I jumped in the car, not remembering the diary until a mile or so down the road. We searched high and low, to no avail. Either it had fallen into a muddy ditch, or had landed in someone’s hot little hands. Girlfriends were calling every day to see if I’d found it yet, intrigued with the idea that a man might have discovered the diary and was reading about my life.

I cried.

Ye gad! Every little “for my eyes only" entry waltzed in my memory, some taking a bow, some tripping in front of me, making me cringe. But after the initial shock died down, I had the plot for my novel, The Passion Diary. What would it feel like to have your uncensored thoughts read by a man you’d never met? What would happen if he fell in love with you by your words alone? Not that anyone would after reading mine, but heck, I decided to run with it anyway. How would that woman feel if this man wooed her, keeping her diary a secret, winning her trust and love, and then the secret was exposed by someone else who made it their business to know? The diary is the frame the story hangs on.

Even after losing one, I still keep diaries. My youngest daughter is the only one intrigued by them. For awhile, she bugged me to read entries, but of course I wouldn’t. She said, “You might as well let me read them now. When you’re gone, I’ll get my hands on them!” I told her we might need to have a ceremonial burning at my passing.

But maybe not.

One day, when I’m raisin-faced, and my eyes cloudy with years, I might take those diaries out and read every young memory, the lovely, ugly , and funny, those thoughts dashing in and out of time tunnels, reminding me how much I lived, loved, lost and gained. The far will be near again, the near, nearer.

And, ahem…if someone out there did happen to find my diary, all those years ago, please just stick it in my mailbox, no questions asked.

What about you, do you keep diaries?

The Chocolate Train

2010-06-23T15:14:00.000-07:00

Trains have always fascinated many. Runaway cabooses, passenger cars filled with drowsy diners, or boxcars brimming with wild hobos, transporting all far off to fragrant destinations. Yes, there’s something mysterious about a good train ride.

A few years ago, we took the famous Colorado Narrow Gauge Railroad excursion from Durango to Silverton-fifty-two miles of the San Juan scenic byway. The choices varied on how classed up you wanted to ride, but being the hillbillies we are, we chose the cheapest way, standard class, open air gondola seating. We didn’t want to miss an ounce of scenery and certainly weren’t disappointed with that choice. I can’t say I’ve ever seen such excitement in the eyes of my children. It seems everyone relishes a good train ride.

We hung our faces out open air windows and drank in wind and wild. The train whistle would bellow, black smoke blow, and the tracks twist and turn around yet another mountain, where aspen trees shimmered and rusty colored beavers flapped and swam under leafy forests without footprints of modern life. That day we walked away with soot on our faces but pure nature tattooed on our hearts.

To remember this trip,I bought a splendid watercolor of Durango Station, Engine 473, painted in watercolor by Russell Steel. Appropriate name, don’t you think? I had it framed and it now sits on the mantel, a memory of us, once upon a time, on a Colorado train. If you’re ever in that area, please don’t miss this exquisite experience.

Recently, I saw a program discussing The Chocolate Train. Please get me on that train! My mouth perked at the mention of chocolate, so I had to watch. Would you like a little chocolate with your train?

Switzerland is well loved for its scenery and chocolate. Throw in a train and you’ve got a first class experience called the Swiss Chocolate Train, which operates from June to October out of Montreux.

Running on the Montreux-Oberland-Bernois Railway, this train takes you on breathtaking views of the Swiss countryside, rolling through the medieval town of Gruyeres, also known for their fabulous cheese making.

In Gruyeres, the train stops for an excursion by bus to a local castle. Sound good so far? You’ll also get to experience a cheese factory. On board the train once again, you’ll head to Broc. The Nestle Chocolate factory is there. You can watch the production of chocolate and sample the goodies. Then buy all you want.

Nine hours later you arrive in Montreux, a sleepy resort town on Lac Leman and home to the Castle of Chillon.

Now how’s that for a train ride, eh? Let’s go, shall we? All aboard!

Distinctly Southern

2010-06-08T12:53:00.000-07:00

Before I begin, let me say I’ve missed you guys! Wait, I’ve missed y’all. That sounds right.

Now that summer is here, I hope you’re able to kick back,splash in a river, listen to some music, or just read a good book.

Speaking of books, I did manage to finish that second novel, The Passion Diary. Whoopa! See, I really was working. Finishing the book hadn’t really sunk in until yesterday, when I began constructing that query letter to send out to agents. It has to be wild, short and attractive. Sounds a bit like an old boyfriend, but all kidding aside, it’s daunting trying to sell yourself and your book in a couple of paragraphs. Lady luck-please wish me that.

And speaking of luck, my dear friend and Author, Jeff Yeager, dubbed The Ultimate Cheapskate by Matt Lauer on The Today Show, has created his own luck with hard work and a creative streak that sizzles. His second book, The Cheapskate Next Door debuts today. www.ultimatecheapskate.com

Yeah, he’s no southerner, but I’ll make an exception in his case and here’s why: I believe he could kick tail in a seed spitting contest, and flat do a jig if he wanted, and that’s good enough for me. I do hope you’ll check out Jeff's lively work for yourself.

Now back to southerners. We know summer has set in here, due to brutally hot weather. When you walk outside before noon and feel as though you’ve been shoved into a sizzling sauna, you know you’ve landed in south Texas. On days I’m not fortunate enough to be in and around the water, I crank down the air-conditioner, pour some iced tea, and listen to Willie Nelson tunes. This original outlaw never fails to satisfy my musical hankering. To this Texan, his voice is velvety as melted chocolate. And I’ve always loved his braids. And chocolate.

Born and raised in Abbott Texas, Willie’s grandparents gave him mail order music lessons at age six. He wrote his first song at age seven and was playing in a local band at age nine. I finally got to see him in concert last year, and I danced around for days, so excited. He didn’t disappoint, his voice as pure and rawboned now as it ever was. Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain is one favorite, along with Whiskey River and Always on my Mind.

I thought of Willie Nelson the other day when I watched my older girls drag in from Summer Fest. They had sat in blistering Texas sun to catch these bands: The Flaming Lips, Girl Talk and Kid Sister. At 11:00 p.m., they got back, worn but happy, saggy pants and sunburned faces, and bandanna’s wound around their sweaty heads.

Of course Willie wears a bandanna. Stay cool!

No Whining

2010-04-19T16:40:00.000-07:00

I'm not one to whine, but I'll miss my peeps! I'll be out for a few weeks, my focus on finishing this second novel.

Behave or not, but either way, I'll be popping by your blogs from time to time to check up on you. See, I'd miss you all too much otherwise. Whine, whine, whine. Okay, I'll stop. Stay cool. Be sweet. Keep writing! Muah... xoxo

Mr. and Mrs. Taste E. Buds

2010-04-12T07:40:00.000-07:00

The Buds, yeah,I know um. You do, too. We live with them, those sweet and sour trips on the tongue. Masterpiece’s in the mouth. They are sometimes ever so sour, sour. Salty, ooh, yes that, too, and spicy. But they can be bitter. I hate it when they get like that; drives me nuts. We foodies can spin them right around, though, with crunchy sweet apples and salty pretzels. Or Peanut Butter Captain Crunch, which snaps open the ears and floods the buds with peanut-y plunge. Happy are they with combinations: sweet, salty, crunchy, munchy. “Hallelujah, brother,” they shout. “Get it, sister!”

Mine like stepping off a sidewalk occasionally into an exotic forest of knee deep pink roses, some plucked and transformed into fragrant jelly. Now that bullets the Buds back in a time machine and they tumble out, blinking into a cozy kitchen, a mom in a white apron, her soft brown hands making that wild rose jelly. And homemade wheat bread, too, slathered with salty white butter and eaten freshly popped from the oven, mouths exploding, igniting and delighting.

When Mr. and Ms. Taste E. Buds get bored they really yawn for herbs and spices like basil, dill, cumin, cilantro, sage, saffron, bay leaf, garlic, vanilla, nutmeg, cloves, ginger, rosemary. Did someone say Rosemary? Now she’s an edgy girl. I pair her up with a pork loin from time to time and she forces it to tango.

Think velvety sauces stung with white pepper. And glistening milk gravy flavored with sausage then poured over hot biscuits and fried potatoes. Have you ever had chocolate gravy? Well, I never! But the Bud’s have, courtesy of long lost Arkansas cousins.

But now we’re screaming the Buds language. And they really are easy to delight. Variety, baby, give them variety and they’ll dance a jig for you, or belt out that Marshall Tucker classic tune: "Can’t you see, can’t you see, what that woman, she’s been doin’ to me." Yeah, that one.

I’ll tell you what, though. If we deprive them of sweets for too long, we’d best throw them a key lime pie made from scratch to appease them. And by all means jack up the crust with Ritz crackers to tease them. The salty switch up will beam them to a star and back. They will wail uncle. If that doesn’t work, give them death by chocolate. Notice how the food choices have gotten progressively worse? Can I get a woot, woot?

Actually,I do eat healthy. My thoughts are these: eating right is doable as long as we throw in those occasional, well loved treats.

Hey now,foodies, what makes your Taste Buds tingle?

Well, peeps, my job here is done. This finishes out my five senses series. Hopefully, you smell better, not you personally, although that’s a plus. And dream of touch and hear and see things you might have missed, and taste it all. If you’re begging for food after reading this post, please don’t blame me. I’m just the lowly writer, clasping my occasional bowl of Captain Crunch.

Please stay tuned for a hair raising sixth sense post, coming up.

Happy Thoughts

2010-04-05T13:57:00.000-07:00

We’ve heard it said that happiness is a state of mind and I believe that. Just don’t ask me on a crappy day. All kidding aside, even on those days, when it feels like we are the thistle, standing in a bed of poppies, we can still feel rained on by happiness. I’d like to thank two dear friends Deanna Schrayer at The Other Side of Deanna and Elizabeth Etheridge Ramblings for reminding me of this and for the splendid Happy 101 Award. They are velvet roses in my friendship garden. Thank you so much!

Now I'd be delighted to share ten happy thoughts with you. And if I've passed on the award to you, please share it with five others who make you happy and let us all know what keeps you smiling while you're at it. Thanks and congrats to all!

Ten happy thoughts:

1. Of course faith. Without that, I'd be lost. My sense of direction is terrible but I know which way is up and which way is down. Up, please!

2. Family: They are my treasure, my soft place.

3. Friends: the virtual ones and those within touching distance are my sugar and spice. When I’m having a horrible day, an email or phone call is all I need to remember to smile. I couldn’t be more thankful for my friends if I tried. I’m blessed in this department.

4. Writing: I forget the world when I’m knee deep in a story. There’s nothing better in my mind than turning out something from the heart and sharing it with others. If I’ve made one person smile, think, laugh out loud, weep or otherwise carry on, I’m all the happier.

5. Pets: Our two little dogs, lying around like kings, eating, drinking and wagging tails, make me grin. They know instinctively if a family member is sick or having a bad day. When that happens, they take their spot next to the afflicted like sentinels. They’ll do this for days if necessary. They are tremendous teachers in the unconditional love department. We also have a chubby grand cat who has managed, with her charms, to reduce me to mush when she sits on my lap and kisses my nose.

6. Giving to others: sending cards, gifts from the heart, emails, phone calls, taking someone to lunch, listening when someone needs a sympathetic ear, not judging but loving.

7. Birds at my feeder, flinging seeds.

8. Working hard in my garden and seeing instant results. When my hands are plunged in the dirt and I’m out there, making things happen, I can’t help but smile. Later, when my back aches, I try to remember that.

9. Fresh, clean laundry. I know this sounds trivial, but I learned to appreciate creature comforts after being without them for an entire week. A hurricane will do that for you.

10. Nature: in all forms. The view from my back window,lanky pines, swaying in the breeze. A hike in the woods clears me out like a good rubdown.

Those are just a few. I’m really quite simplistic when it comes to happiness. Just do what I love and give what I can when I can and appreciate tiny things, which are really huge things. That’s it.

Okay, now I’m getting out my happiness wand and sprinkling a little joyful magic dust over five beautiful blogger friends who make me smile. Thanks for the sunshine, dear ones. I’m happy to know each of you and I'm blessed by your words.

Tina Lonergan The Clean White Page

Stacy Post A Writer's Point of View

Jitu Rajgor Thinker's Page

Duta Places with Character

Anita Beyond Diapers and Spills

Hearing History

2010-03-22T05:34:00.000-07:00

Testing, testing, can you guys hear me? I couldn’t think of a snappier way to present sound than a recent trip to southern Louisiana.

In New Orleans the decibel levels flew off charts, right along with history, dog ugly and gorgeous as any I’ve ever heard. Even so, I relished the whole Who Dat and Zydeco music and the waitress named Nicole but pronounced Ne-cole. Her inflection piped out like a shot of New York swirled with Louisiana Creole. I kept asking her questions, well, because I’m irritating that way, and because I adored her voice.

“Why y’all don’t vee zeet more?” she finally said, grinning.

Ne-cole, Ne-cole, Ne-cole. A charming sport if I ever met one.

The sounds of New Orleans were spicy crazy indeed. In the streets were drummers, harmonica players and clacky washboard renditions. People were chattering like squirrels, their shoes popping on sidewalks.

In Café Du Monde, we finally plopped down, legs worn and feet aching from traipsing every inch of the French Quarter and miles beyond. I figured I’d earned myself a beignet, snowed under with powdered sugar and washed down with a café-au lait. Spoons were clinking against glass coffee cups while sugar buzzy conversations exploded, and underneath that, the sigh of our pooped waitress, trying to keep up. A fat tip was in order, which made her smile.

So, two days later, I listened to Creedence Clearwater Revival in the car as we headed to St. Francisville, because it would have been a sin not to hear Born on a Bayou if one is going to hang out with gators and Cajuns. And because I’m a Creedence groupie.

Visiting here is like stepping on ancient, exotic soil. Did you know even history has sound? It wails and screams and laughs here in the wind, the birds and bayous.

Three times now I’ve come to this place, trying to grasp a tragic and mysterious chunk of history. Bits and pieces the land has absorbed and yet shouts through the live oak trees. But none makes sense, nor do I condone it. Meanwhile I fancy the people and appreciate the beauty of place. And I remember those without voices and try to honor them with my presence. My heartfelt interest.

The following poem is based on a cemetery we visited while staying on plantation grounds. It was only one visible record, but there are still many loud secrets. Listen for sound in silence.

Fallen Stars

They have gone silent and cold
yet I heard a woman’s voice
in a crows cackle
calling
suppertime…suppertime…suppertime

But that can’t be
sixteen souls long hushed
resting like whispers in black dirt beds
on loud property
they didn’t have time to praise

Days booming with tears and laughter have passed
no more spring afternoons, summer days
snappy fall breezes
or horizons
blazed with red

They lie silent atop a hill now
ringed by a stone wall
gray and chipped
shaggy cedar to ward off sun
and pine silt carpet for decoration

I traced their names with fingertips
when the sun was blooming
and remembered those I never knew
Marguret, Thomas, Mary, Edward, Sarah, Percival
and the others

Then when night turned to coffee
we walked through crispy grass
flashlights beaming
sky flushed with hot stars
now fallen icy atop the hill.

Bonjour Mes Amis- Good day, my friends. Listen well.

Lipstick Kiss

2010-03-08T08:09:00.000-08:00

When my middle child-a mama’s girl- started kindergarten, she clung to my waist like lichen on stone. The separation for us was painful, me leaving her, crocodile tears in her eyes, a little waif dressed in tiny jeans and a yellow shirt sprinkled with daisies. I’d done my best to prepare her. She’d been to Pre-K and had play dates. But this little sensitive, towheaded girl still resisted leaving her mama. Out of desperation, before we left the house, I put on red lipstick and kissed her soft, dimpled hand, leaving my lip-print like a colored picture.

"There," I said. “When you feel sad or scared, look at your hand and mama will be there.”

I still remember how delighted she was, as though I’d plucked a secret star fresh from the sky and placed it hot in her hand. To her, it was the most famous kiss in the world. For a month after she never left for school without that lipstick kiss. Yes, her eyes still filled with glassy tears but then she’d stare at her hand, unscrew her grip, squeeze me tight and bravely walk into her classroom, carrying her Pink Flintstones lunch box.

Ironically, this mama’s girl has gone off to college twelve hours away and although I miss everything about her, the way she kissed my cheek before leaving for her daily adventures is what I miss most.

We crave touch. Some need more than others but our skin is hard wired for it. Have you ever had a hot stone massage? If not, get yourself over there as quick as possible! I’ve had one but want more. Let me describe.

Flat, slick rocks are heated, while you lay like a bird without plumage between cashmere soft white sheets, woodwinds in the air, the scent of lavender or patchouli piped in. The world drips away. The hot rocks are then placed down your spine, which further melts you like butta. Drenched with warm oil,they are then whirled, looped and kneaded with delicate intuition over every inch of skin you own and in the end you’re left on the table like a lump of sensual bread-dough, covered up and left to rise again into something gorgeous.

Warning:

You won’t be worth a flip the rest of the day. I lay about like the Queen of Sheba, pink skinned, drinking Bud Light, okay wine, and eating butter-cream chocolates and watching sappy movies, thanking the universe, my family, the masseuse, everyone and his brother. Ahhh……. We can all take a day off from the world occasionally. And should.

Me being rather curious and chatty- even during a massage, but not all of it, I swear- I asked my masseuse about her profession. Did she enjoy this, did she feel it was her calling and was it hard for certain people to relax and allow a stranger to touch them?

She told me she could feel, by touch alone, a person’s essence. She knew whether they were joyful, depressed, or in pain, emotionally or physically. “The elderly bring me the most sorrow and joy,” she went on. “Some have not been touched in so long and are in so much pain it brings them to relieved tears. What a powerful, magical gift, given and received.

Touch your stories. Touch people’s lives. Leave your lipstick kiss upon the world

Seeing is Believing

2010-03-01T12:25:00.000-08:00

Last night the full moon appeared like a flamboyant floodlight. It seemed to echo, “Is anyone alive down there…down there…down there? It is I, floodlight moon.” It appeared close but was actually 238,857 miles away! Our eyes do play tricks on us.

Even so, they are rich visual collectors. Two blue, brown, hazel or green mini artists, taking in life portraits, freeze framing them into memory the way paint adheres to canvas. A scoop of bangs across a forehead, inky black like a raven’s wing, dead leaves twirling on bare sun drenched branches or snow swelled on the ground like thick, whirled whipped cream.

I remember seeing my newborn daughter’s eyes for the first time. Like soul windows, new, but ancient and full of penetrating light. When they lay each in my arms, of course in different years, their haunting eyes explored mine, speaking without sound. Why hello dear mama, they seemed to say. I’ve felt your heartbeat and heard your cries and laughter a thousand times. Here you are now. I see you. They knew me and I them. Any mother can tell you how poignant this is. It is something we never forget, this lavish visual communication without words. I promise not to mention babies anymore, but I do love them.

Eyes alone speak of innocence, pain, sadness, joy, confusion, wildness and sometimes evil, all without saying a word.

If we have been blessed with our vision intact, our brain does the work of preserving previous sights into memory. I can still see the metallic shimmer of dollar sunfish, greasing through an Arkansas River, sun catching the star-burst of yellow bellies. And creamy vanilla colored jack-in-the-pulpits, glazing up an Illinois spring forest we wandered through as children. And red-winged black bird eggs, pale blue-green and freckled, cuddled tight in marshy nests.

It’s exciting to use this visionary sense in our writing. Here’s an example from my WIP, The Passion Diary.

Driving through Millview, men with wilted faces sat outside Hunters Gas Mart. On splintered wooden benches some whispered and whittled while others stood, eclipsed by smoke clouds wafting from lit points of cigarettes. The locals referred to the spot as Limber Dick Corner. God help me, I didn’t want to grow old.

Turning down Main Street, earth rose behind ancient buildings, disguised in fresh paint. Brambly blackberry vines clamored up a long row of fence, berries dangling and not yet flushed purple. Trees, heavy with green foliage, clung to hillsides and I wondered what was blending and dashing through not visible to the naked eye.

This is pure visual description and why I wanted to use it as an example. I could go back and add smell-the soil, cigarette smoke, etc... I could also throw in taste-of the eventual ripened berries, but for these paragraphs I probably won’t.

Hopefully, if I’ve done my job well, visual description alone tells you this is a small town with old secrets.

So, my writing buddies, please enjoy every visual treat this week. Remember, seeing is believing…sometimes.

Come to your Senses

2010-02-24T06:04:00.000-08:00

To me, being in a wild world with so many sights, sounds, odors, tastes and textures is a little like walking down dusty paths of a renaissance festival and being bombarded with the scent of apple dumplings and roasted turkey legs while my ears buzz with pan flutes and tambourines, all as I’m touching velvety lamb’s ears and then hard, exotic handcrafted jewelry. But there is more. Yes, taste, we must include that. How about fresh corn crepes smothered in cream and then chocolate doused strawberries for dessert?

Oh, enough, enough! I’m ready for a festival, how about you? Yeah, I know. It’s still too cold. Until then, I’ll attempt to warm up our rich creamy layers of writing. Each post will focus on a different sense and I might even bring in that rowdy SIXTH SENSE to round everything up. Okay lords and ladies, let’s begin with scent, shall we?

What is that smell?

What springs to mind here are Sunday suppers, pork loin dotted with rosemary, the scent of raisins and stuffing and spice exploding each time the oven door opens.

Aroma’s, rather delightful or not, invoke memories.

If you have a keen sniffer, you might also be able to detect a storm before it arrives. The earth is different then, soil sighing and humidity yelling. Did you know moisture heightens our sense of smell? It does. And were you aware women have a keener sense of smell? They do. As we age, our sense of smell weakens, though. Middle age is peek smelling season. I vote we all stay middle aged. Oh, wait, too late for me.

Did you ever notice that houses have layers of odors? I remember an old farmhouse we lived in, which smelled of plants, laundry detergent, and an undercurrent of all previous owners combined. It’s as though scent embeds itself into walls and floors.

In developing characters and their environments, we can see how smell could be a vivid way to make a story breathe. If we are writing about a house full of men, scents will be different. I’m telling you,I know these things. I have brothers. The masculinity, shall we say, does shout smoke, spice and sweat.

On the other side of the road, where mostly females reside, you’ll find the staggering scents of cinnamon, lavender oil, powder, perfume and candles. Of course there will be fruity odors mixed in and funky, too, depending on whether they keep a clean house and if they cook.

So, if we want our characters to live and remember that they have lived, scent is one worthy tool. It is exactly why, when I smell baby powder, I can be yanked back to a morning, fifteen years ago, baby on my lap. She has just finished her oatmeal and given me an open-mouthed kiss on the cheek, leaving a smear. There is sticky oatmeal in my hair, too, left from chubby fingers grabbing to draw me close. I can still hear her coo at the birds, so early my eyes are barely slit open, but yet I’m chattering to her and overwhelmed with tenderness. Yes, baby powder can snap me back that fast.

Our world is one big, smelly memory.

This week I’m taking my basket of scent and sprinkling it throughout my work. How about you? What particular scent fires up your memory?

Yo Sugar Dolls

2010-02-18T06:01:00.000-08:00

This week I received some extra sparkle when Elizabeth from Ramblings offered me a Sugar Doll Award. Thank you for making me smile. I’ve never been referred to as a sugar doll but it does sound quite southern.

I’d like to offer this award up to fellow blogger, Yvette Ward-Horner at Essential Fiction. She adds a colorful punch to the writing and blogging world with her imaginative stories and those of fellow writers. You can find their blog links on my sidebar.

This sweet award has one condition. To accept, I must reveal ten things about muah that you may not know. Now I feel a bit shy. Okay, the wildflower is wandering away from the punchbowl. Oh, here she comes. Please bare with me.

Really, since I’m giving you ten, might you give me one? Just one lovely little thing about yourself in the comments. That’s fair, don’t you think? I’d really love to know more about each of you.

Okay then. Ten things:

1. I have eight brothers and sisters and loved growing up in a boisterous family.

2. Munich, Germany was my birthplace. I’m an army brat.

3. When I was eight, I almost drowned in a creek.

4. People who litter really tick me off. It is a HUGE pet peeve of mine. That and those who think they’re more important than others because of a certain title. Everyone is unique and special.

5. I was trained to fight forest fires and use a chainsaw. I loved both. Buzzzz…

6. Quantum physics intrigues me to no end.

7. Ants and Sea Monkeys- as a kid, I was fascinated with both. This was back when Sea Monkeys actually looked like crazy minuscule monkeys and not amoebas. Can you say nerd?

8. My dream is to have a cabin in a minty forest. A horse to ride. Chickens, yes. A garden to tend. Not a store or mall in sight for miles. As you know, I’m already pretty well stocked up on shoes!

9. I’m a trained ballroom dancer. I went to an open audition and much to my surprise was one of four selected out of sixty. Many years ago I could dance a rumba, ChaCha, waltz, tango, foxtrot, etc… around the best of them. I taught couples, which meant I had to know both parts and switch them up lightening fast. I’m still not sure how I managed that. Please don’t ask me to do it now.

10. For many years now I’ve cut my own hair. I’m pretty sure I’ve saved enough money by now to take a sweet Caribbean cruise. I’m picturing myself on the open water with a chocolate martini in hand and wind in my hair. Bring it on.

Now to you, Sugar Dolls!

Alice in Bloggerland

2010-02-11T09:59:00.000-08:00

Since I’ve been in bloggerland, I’ve felt a little like Alice, falling down the rabbit hole and discovering Wonderland, although I might well be the Caterpillar. Oh, wait, the caterpillar was a male, who sat on his mushroom and liked to tell Alice how to grow and shrink. Remember his phrase: Whooo…are…you? Well, I do know who some of you are and I’m sure to meet many more delightful characters along the way. One never knows if they’ll discover the real Alice, the Mad Hatter, Queen of Hearts, Tweedledee, the Cheshire Cat, March Hare or the true Caterpillar. Wait, I think I already know who he is but I ain't sayin'. I might have already found them all.

Thank you to all my lovely blogger friends, old, new, and yet to be discovered. Your friendships and expressive posts have kept me well informed and delighted. The tea parties around here are just fantastic!

Please allow me to thank some extra special friends for all the kindness and goodwill shown me regarding book reviews, author interviews, encouragement and fine friendships. You have kept my little world afloat and for that I thank you. I appreciate all of you so very much.

Let’s start with the Wonderland Queen herself, Ms. Ronda from Ronda's Wonderland.

Yes, there is such a mystical place in bloggerland! You never know what you’ll find over there but you can bet it will always be magical. I get curiouser and curiouser every time I visit. She is a delightful hostess who can spin words like silk. You might find her in a field of talking flowers, so you can't miss her.

Moving on down the rabbit hole we discover an Ultimate Cheapskate! Hey, what the heck is he doing down here? Well, he is quite a colorful character and we bloggers like to save money, don’t we? Jeff Yeager excels at this and can help you as well with his rich, humorous tips. You’ll laugh all the way to the bank. Please do yourself a favor and check out his website and book The Ultimate Cheapskate's Road Map To True Riches.

Oh, look who else I’ve discovered. Stacy Post from A Writer's Point of View at www.stacypost.blogspot.com. For some reason, her link would not post here. I'm sorry, sista Stacy. You know I did try. Anyhoo, she's got it going on. Her outlook on life is sweet, sometimes spicy and she's always cooking over there. She can flood your senses with descriptions of everyday smells, sights and sounds. Don’t miss the chance to be part of her sensational entourage. She's worth the Google. Or just look to the right on my sidebar. She's right there.

Here is another character I’ve been blessed to discover. Georganna Hancock at A Writer's Edge at www.writers-edge.info/Blog.html There you'll find a treasure trove of wit and wisdom. She has more than enough to share with all. Geo is a true blue professional on all matters of publishing and writing. You won’t want to miss her posts, bursting with knowledge learned from years on the front lines. She has been an inspiration to myself and many, many others.

Now who is that wee lassie flinging out glorious posts as fast as one can shuffle a deck of playing cards? Oh, it’s Elizabeth, from Ramblings at www.elizabethre.wordpress.com .

You can bet she’ll keep you entertained and well informed with her unique spin on the world. There is always a burst of activity over there, fit for a queen or king. You will want to stop in for her fresh views on life and the way she weaves it.

We are now coming to the end of our journey and who should I meet but possibly Alice herself, all drenched with southern hospitality. In Deanna Schrayer's world, there is much to discover.

Over at The Life of a Working Writer Mommy at writingwonder.wordpress.com

She’ll not only keep you laughing and crying with her interesting appraisals of the world but also well fed with her mouth watering recipes, which usually have family stories attached. You can find the link to Deanna's Happy Accidents on her blog.

Meanwhile, long live bloggerland!

Thank you, Stacy, for the award! You made my day.

Spring Frills

2010-02-01T15:10:00.000-08:00

Something thrilling will happen soon and it has to do with nature intoxicating us once again with her charms. Right now old man winter has his white woolly blanket thrown over landscape's bed but hang on tight and a fresh morning will soon arrive.

Covers will be flung back, the bed sun-warmed. And then, popping through a steamy mattress of soil will be vibrant pink and yellow ruffled tulips and perfumed roses and multi-colored fields shrieking with evening primrose and baby blue-eyes. Our gardens will yawn first, and then shout with bullet shaped blue bonnets and crimson clover, like bright red tubes of lipstick. The days will lengthen; night caught short, the pungent smell of roots, new leaves and lavender exploding in air.

Prepare to feast your eyes on purple fhlox and red frilly poppies and lavender colored larkspur tightly packed around stems. And those mischievous robins will be back, too, excavating backyard worms in the midst of Indian paintbrush and rain lilies which open slowly at dusk to appear in full flower the next morning. Oh, and butter yellow corn flowers, we can’t forget those loud ones, butterflies swooping around them like in air ballerinas’.

We will emerge,too, from dark winter houses, blinking and rubbing our eyes in sheer wonder at the rich, staggering beauty, scent and color surrounding us.

Here in Texas we also have many trees which riot with color and scent. Mountain Laurel, whose grape fragrance could rejuvenate a zombie and creamy tulip magnolia’s, which remind me of generous scoops of vanilla ice cream. Lest we forget ornamental pear, exotic in lace, their lusty scent driving bees and butterflies wild.

Yes, spring will arrive. Sooner in south Texas, but even in colder climates it will come. Release your grip on the white quilt and keep an eye out. You can’t miss the lacy bows and hot pink tights.

Speaking of hot pink tights, my colorful blogger friend, Ronda at rondaswonderland mentioned the 5th Annual Cyberspace Poetry Slam on her latest blog entry. She has a hothouse of ideas over there, so please pop in and say hello if you have a chance. I hope some poetry finds you as well. Here’s a wee one of mine to share.

Flower Pageant

There is a garden I know
Where opulent flowers grow
And birds rally there, lizards, too,
Perch on hems of daisy’s, that’s what they do.

They laud flowers modeling exquisite dresses,
Roses in hot pink, passion flowers red tresses,
But when it’s time to choose a winner,
Birds fly home for dinner.

The lizards with bubblegum pouches,
Linger on verbena couches,
Puzzled at what to do,
Knowing they must say who.

Flower girls hold heads tall,
Daisy, Rose and Poppy, all dolls,
In closing throw a celebration ball,
For a flower pageant has no stiff laws.

Sweetie Pie Baking Company

2010-01-25T06:50:00.000-08:00

When I’m older, I might open a bakery. But for now cooking is just another one of those passions of mine. For all I know, it may be the only reason I have friends. I give them stuff, see. They want my lemon custard pies and raisin cookies and cinnamon rolls. I have a particular friend I call, Chick-a-pee, who is quite enamored with my skills. We don’t exchange birthday presents per se, but every year for her celebration, I make and deliver a mound of cinnamon rolls to her doorstep. She has hung around me for awhile now.

The kick is all mine. Really. The whole process of creating and giving away feels oddly magical. The dough kneading, pounding, lacing of cinnamon and sugar and rolling up, the rising and baking, cinnamon saturated air, sugar, sugar baby. If I’ve had a crappy week, making rolls rejuvenates me. Let me explain. I pound that dough.

Did you just sass me, young lady? Pound. What? I can’t believe so and so did that. Pound. Ug, this weekend I just feel like lying in bed, wailing and eating. Pound. And my personal favorite line, when something has really floored me- what the heck? Pound. Pound. Pound. By the time I’ve finished, my arms ache like a mother but I’m back to my happy self. Yes, making cinnamon rolls does that for me. However, my hips and thighs are not fond of them…ba ba boom! Good thing I like to exercise. And great thing I don’t make them often.

Making pies is different. When I stand in bare feet, stirring custard, I feel like an exotic Italian woman in a Tuscany tiled kitchen with huge windows, watching skiffs on a glassy Mediterranean Sea.

What the heck?

Just stay with me. I’m not done yet.

Steam is rising from glossy, watery custard, hot lemon and chocolate lava, bubbling, Olive trees shining. Wait… no olive trees. But pies, yes, we have silky pies. Look, I’ve created smiles.

Now to the meringue. Whipping egg whites to resemble perky mountain peaks makes me downright giddy. And that chocolate pie next door is glammed to the hilt with whipping cream spun up like shiny cotton candy, Mexican vanilla whirled in and curly cues, tiny and chocolate glittering on top.

Are you hungry, sweetie pies? Well, I’m sorry. This story is virtual. But if you ever do see a Sweetie Pie Bakery Company, do pop back to the kitchen and say hello. It’s possible I’ll be there, barefoot, whipping cream stuck in my hair. And if you mention olive trees, I’ll toss in a free pie.

Shoe Stories

2010-01-17T17:01:00.000-08:00

I am in love. With shoes. My closet is chock full of pumps, boots, and shiny flats. Every time I see a shoe store I get the urge to yank my car over and partake in the rapture of finding that new pair. Maybe I need a twelve STEP program. It’s about the only materialistic thing I have a problem with and I rationalize this because, by gosh, these shoes DO take me places.

Obviously I’m not alone with this addiction. Go to any shoe store and you’ll catch mysterious women, buzzing around footwear blooming from boxes like sun lit peonies’, then flung and scattered, scattered and flung in a frenzied picking. I once tried on a pair of red heels at Target and a woman next to me oohed and awed until discovering they were the last pair in her size eight. Her creamy complexion then flamed and her eyes turned flinty. For fear of being maimed, I sheepishly handed the pumps over. I mean, if I get thrown in the slammer for brawling over shoes, it’ll be a pair of Jimmy Choo’s.

So, I’ve tried on glossy black pumps and envisioned myself in that silky blue dress, sauntering down New York’s Saks Fifth Avenue, cell phone humming and shopping bags winking and swinging in the sun. A green pair of flats have easily transported me to a pub in Ireland, having a loud conversation with a bloke about the virtues of Irish whiskey. Well, maybe not that. Quite possibly I’d be corralling sheep in a field that I’d inadvertently let out to picnic underneath a birch tree.

Recently I was clearing out my closet (finally) and had every pair of shoes I owned scattered like chunky confetti on the bathroom floor. One of my daughters peeked in.

Daughter said, “Gosh, mom, you have a ton of shoes.”

My tone was defensive. “Say what?”

She added, “Nothing.” Her eyes gleamed, sudden like. “Oh, can I borrow those black flats?”

“Mm hmm.”

With three girls who also adore shoes, I've learned to be quite thrifty. None have cost me much over twenty dollars and most, much less. Did I mention I had a shoe addiction?

CLASSIC BLACK PUMPS: This pair has taken me to weddings, where chocolate fountains drip like silky rain. And tiered raspberry filled vanilla cake can never have too much butter cream icing.

WET TURQUIOSE FLATS: I’ve walked down dirt roads of Louisiana history in these; explored plantations along the Cane River and those outside of New Orleans, Baton Rough, and St. Francisville. I also went deep into the swamps and held a baby gator and stroked a river rats head while wearing these. Yes, I did. Laissez les bon temps rouler!

PLAID BOOTS: Plenty of Texas two-stepping in this pair, music loud, dance floor slick with sawdust. I’ve danced in these at the Garner State Park pavilion, too, under a full moon bright as a lit cigarette end,jukebox blaring Ring Of Fire by good ole Johnny Cash. As you can see, they are well loved.

BLUE COMFY FLATS: These are taking care of business shoes-volunteer work, grocery shopping, doctor visits, running kiddo around kind of stuff.

LUCKY SLIPPERS: Got these for Christmas and I anticipate they’ll take me down many hills and valleys of inspiration in the story telling arena. Comfy is the name when I’m at home with my mind on writing. Writers can stay in PJ’s and slippers if we choose and barring a knock at the door and the occasional raised eyebrow of the UPS man, nobody need know we’ve been creating little worlds of our own. Don’t you adore that?

Yes, I have a compulsion for shoes. I admit it. How about you?

The Unsinkable Molly Brown's

2010-01-11T05:32:00.000-08:00

Gutsy and kind-the world would have us believe this is a rare combination, that these people aren’t completely trustworthy. I ask you, who is? Show me a perfect person and I’ll kiss a gecko! I don’t expect I’ll ever have to do this. I’m terrified of them. And I’ve yet to see perfection, not in life, people or love. But despite this, we can accomplish more than we realize.

Case in point: Molly Brown. Born Margaret Tobin in Hannibal Missouri in 1867, she was taught progressive views by her parents. At age 13 she worked in a factory and volunteered in soup kitchens encountering head on struggles of the working class. Later, employed at a hotel, she met Samuel Clemens (Mark Twain) who mentioned there were riches to be found in Colorado, where she later moved.

After meeting her future husband J.J. Brown, poor like herself, she said this. “I wanted a rich man but I loved Jim Brown.” A few years later, J.J. did strike it wealthy when his engineering skills landed an ore mine for Ibex Mining. Although they lived lavishly, her giving nature didn’t wane. Poor times, wealthy times, it didn’t matter. She gave from her heart, like she always had. One doesn’t need money to have a philanthropic influence.

She is best known for being a survivor on the Titanic but what some might not know is how she rallied the first class passengers into giving money to help the less fortunate survivors, those who had lost everything. Before the rescue ship Carpathia had reached New York, she had raised 10,000 dollars! Did she accomplish this by being too kind? Or being too gutsy? Of course! This woman knew it took both to make a fire.

When the Carpathia arrived in New York, 30,000 people were waiting. Her deeds had already preceded her. When asked by reporters how she survived, she said, “Typical Brown Luck. We’re unsinkable.”

There are many men and women who quietly light up the world for others. It could be they’ve baked something for a sick neighbor. Or taken time for a sad friend. Maybe they’ve tried to understand someone instead of judging them. I’m honored to know many of these genuine people. They know who they are.

Close your eyes and keep your mind wide open. Things are not always as they seem. See the blinking fireflies? A lit candle? A black, dead night crackles and sparks with one. Add a strand and we’ve lit up a dark corner of the world. We are among stars. I’m lucky enough to call some friends. Perhaps you are an unsinkable Molly Brown. I try to be but some days are better than others. Such is life.

The Jazz Kitchen

2010-01-04T08:11:00.000-08:00

Oil pop, pop, popping, mushrooms, carrots, snap peas, shrimp big as butterflies, spicy chicken, red chilies’ flung in a huge steel pan, dancing together like a hot cha, cha, cha. That symphony of image and scent, going down on a Saturday Texas night. Like jazz with maracas thrown in. No, not a concert, but sitting ringside at a Japanese eatery, savoring the show. We only got the seats because tables were full. Just what I wanted but didn’t know it. Life is providential that way. Even in little things.

As I watched those chefs like players in a boisterous garage band, spicing, tossing, clattering and fine tuning, each part of the whole, producing with little effort, I thought of muses. Great kitchen muses up and pinching them with music, and plumes of aroma’s, they in the vortex. When smoking dishes were finally placed under our noses, the food almost felt anointed. And I’m not kidding. I ate slow and appreciated every decadent bite. If only I could remember to savor the everyday when I rise, shower, love, write, cook, clean, and read. To feel and see and hear subtle notes unfolding to a sticky, sweet, spicy crescendo. I will try to remember.

But now to the fortune cookie.

To find the hidden message the sugary golden cookie must be snapped open. I’m as anxious to do this as an enthralled little kid, digging in a Lucky Charm box and pulling up pots of gold, or four leaf clovers, or a wee rainbow. I was that kid. Still am some days. And, ahem… surely some will remember the surprises in the Cracker Jack boxes, back when our spin on the world was fresh as a bright blue lyric.

Here’s the reveal in that crisp cookie:GREAT ACTS OF KINDNESS WILL BEFALL YOU IN THE COMING MONTHS. Yeah, I know it’s cheesy, but this one made my heart leap. Don’t we all need this message? Without this our notes would flat line, both on the giving and receiving end. Anyway, I saved it. Put it in my tiny box with the others. I will pull those out from time to time, when notes go flat and I remember the unseen on a level close to song.

Snow Stars

2009-12-28T18:36:00.000-08:00

Now that Christmas is a memory and a new year is sneaking in, I wanted to say hello to my favorite internet friends and wish you only the best for 2010. Dream big and don’t let the world snatch them. Like snowflakes in south Texas, your dreams and wishes are rare and beautiful, something to be honored and cherished. Whatever they are, hang onto them no matter the odds. We’ve heard about the stinking odds, a million times over. But I’ve never been one to listen and I hope you don’t either. I’m rooting for each and every one of you this year. Hang on tight to your dreams. It’s going to be a lush ride!

Speaking of snowflakes, we recently had some in south Texas, which made many smiles appear. My daughter Grace and I ran outside and twirled in the stuff like crazy white women. When we ran out of breath we pulled chairs together and let the snow powder our hair white. I’ve lived in Texas for twenty-two years and have only seen this amazing sight twice before. In honor of that special day, and our dreams, I wanted to share a poem I wrote.

Snow Stars

One day in south Texas snow came
Like silvery white stars, aching to fall,
On conifer branches and girls twirling,
Dark hair frosted white, the aroma of wintergreen,
Down from heavenly places

Slipped quietly through the sky,
Flakes bursting and descending,
Shimmering on rooftops, glittery, glittery snow,
Like silvery white stars.

Pack Rats

2009-12-11T05:42:00.000-08:00

Has anyone seen the new show HORDERS? At the suggestion of a friend, I watched it for the first time last Monday evening on A&E. Frankly, it made me cry. And made me a bit queasy. The crying part because it was hard to believe people actually lived this way and queasy because it takes a stiff stomach to see the filth these families live in. I thought of all the children who grew up and are still growing up with a parent or parents with obsessive cravings to collect and horde junk, to the point of floors and ceilings sagging with mountains of trash. Families literally backed into corners with bottles, papers, clothes and junk. Stuff, mind you. These children don’t have friends over for sleepovers. They grow up not knowing where anything is.

Mom is not in the kitchen baking cookies because if she could still find the oven she wouldn’t be able to locate the ingredients. Did you know three million people live this way? Like pack rats on steroids. The people depicted on the show are at a turning point, a divorce, no contact with family members, being evicted, etc. In some cases their homes must be condemned.

Like those with addictions, a horders drug of choice is possessions. They put things before anything else, including those they love. Not only is it a harsh way to live but it’s costly too, in money and relationships. Because they can’t find what they’ve previously purchased, they buy the same things over and over and over again.

You know what I did after watching that show? I cleaned like a scrappy mad woman. I thought of garage sales and simplicity. I like things as well as the next person but my rule of thumb is this: if I see something I want for the house, if I can’t mentally place it, on a shelf, the wall, a nightstand, I don’t buy it. The only exception would be books. Don’t get me started there.

Ma Ingalls from Little House on the Prairie comes to mind; her simplistic cabin in the woods, smoke twirling from the chimney and the little curio on her mantle. The cheese-ball in me loved Ma. Oh I know she was fictional, but a solid, homemade character. I have to wonder if the good ole days were healthier for people. There was no extra money for hording.

Now I love Christmas as much as the next gal but I really can’t think of one thing I need after watching that show. Okay, maybe a bottle of cologne. My Chanel No. 5 is running on E. Oh, and a pair of multi-colored toe socks. Yep, those would be charming. Meanwhile I’m going through what extra stuff I have and giving it away. Anyone need a dried sunflower arrangement?

Ring Tone Winners

2009-12-04T14:44:00.000-08:00

And we have some winners! First, thanks to EVERYONE for stopping by and guessing my new ring tone, which is, drum roll please....Ba, ba, boom- BABY IT'S COLD OUTSIDE!

Now I thought this might be a little tricky, but my fellow beautiful bloggers, Ronda, at Ronda's Wonderland and Elizabeth, at Ramblings On Life, have walked away easy and breezy with it. If you haven't checked out their delightful blogs, please do yourself a favor and stop in. I did try to add links here, but for some reason my links are not cooperating. Darn links! Maybe it's just me. Any advice here would be appreciated.

I also have another winner, G-Girl. You can find her in the new Writer's Digest Community, along with many other fab writers. If you haven't checked it out yet, stop in and sign up. It's a fun, informative place to be.

I enjoy and appreciate y'all so much. What a blessing it is that you take time out of your busy day to stop in and not only read but comment. You guys are the best!

Congratulations, winners! Please shoot me an email with your address to: ddauthor@aol.com. and I'll get a little Christmas holly jolly in the mail.

Ring-A-Ling

2009-11-30T13:27:00.000-08:00

Tis the season for the tinkle tinkle of bells. And ringing cell phones. Regarding cell phones, I resisted having one, fought it nail and tooth, but finally caved in a few years back when the kids got so busy with activities I couldn’t keep track of them anymore. It did make my life easier, although I once called my oldest daughter when I woke on a Sunday morning, sleepy-eyed at 3:00 a.m. and didn’t see her car out front. She picked up and in a gravelly voice said, “What?”

“Where are you? It’s three a.m.”

“I’m upstairs in bed, mom. Why the heck are you calling me?”

She was mad.

“Sorry.” I hung up before she could sting me with her sleepy words. I then peered out the front window again and spotted her car, winking in the moonlight. The bushes had obstructed the view. My eyes had been a bit blurry when I’d checked.

Okay, so first you go through the baby stage, waking at all hours to rock and feed the soft sweeties warm bottles. Then the toddler stage, when they are out of the crib and sometimes wander about the house at odd hours. I once found my front door open in the middle of the night, my OLDEST (once again)across the street in the neighbor’s bushes, sitting and staring at the stars. She was a sleepwalker.

After years of sleep deprivation, parents get a slight break, a reprieve to rest back up for those teenage years. As those of you with kids who drive know, you get very little shut eye until you’re sure they are safe at home in warm beds. Even when they do text or call, a mother still sleeps with one eye open until they’re home. Now the two oldest are out the door, living their own lives, and I don’t worry what time they get in, because if I did, I’d be a walking zombie. But our youngest will get her drivers license soon, and the hoopla will begin all over again.

Joy to the world.

But really, thank God for cell phones. They’ve saved me time and worry, but certainly not money. Really though, can you put a price tag on piece of mind? Just ask a mother.

Here’s another thing I like about cell phones: the ring tones. You can pick something totally original and annoying. My first ring tone was Michael Jackson’s, Thriller, which inspired me to break out in the moonwalk whenever someone called me. I did that once and got it out of my system. Because I like dancing way too much, I changed it. Let’s see, I’ve had Kiss From A Rose, by Seal, Don’t Stop Believing, by Journey and Clocks, by Coldplay.

I’ve recently come up with something new, mainly to entertain myself. If you can guess what it is, I’ll send you a little gift from Texas. No armadillo’s, I swear.

Here are two little clues in the song: COLD and STAY. Good luck!

Btw…what’s your ring tone?

A Sweet Season

2009-11-14T09:34:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving will be here soon and Christmas won’t lag far behind. It’s the hap, happiest season of all. That is, if you’re not half-dead from shopping, decorating, entertaining, Christmas card writing and baking by the time it arrives. Oh, never mind. It’s the happiest time of the year, dang it! I’ve learned to trim and not stress. Get an early start.

Yes, I say this every year, but this time I really mean it. The older I get, the more sense this makes. They didn’t call the wise men wise for nothing. I’m actually very thankful I can shop and bake and share. So many this year will need all the extra everything we can give due to the economy.

Here’s something cheap and lovely. Ribbon candy. Not only is it yummy, but I love its jazzy looks. I’ve been known to dangle the candy on our tree branches, which mysteriously disappears, one piece at a time. It’s also dazzling in a glass bowl. If you don’t snatch it early, you’re not likely to have it, though. Hint: you can find it at Wally World, that colorful, shiny candy in pretty little boxes.

Now, I don’t make the stuff. It looks like a job for Martha S. She could not only whip that candy up, but sell the heck out of it, too. Thankfully, people expect a lot less from me, and I’m quite charmed with that. Christmas cookies are easy.

These pumpkin cookies with ginger cream cheese frosting are one of my Christmas favorites. I make them every year, giving them to neighbors, friends, the mail man, and on and on. One year the waste management guys even left me a new trash can lid the day I left the cookies out for them. It might sound stupid, but I was so excited to get that lid. I really needed one. Anyway, the cookies look right special wrapped in clear cellophane and dolled up with curly ribbon.

Homemade gifts are the best kind. Please raise your hand if you’d prefer a lovely package of homemade goodies over something you don’t need or want, let alone remember what you received a month later? Me, me, over here!

Okay, then. Tis the season to share.

This recipe calls for raisins and just in case you don’t know how to plump them, it’s easy. They do add pizazz. Here’s how: Boil two cups of water and add however many raisins you want to add to your recipe. Boil for about three minutes then drain with cold water. The raisins will be so soft they’ll melt on your tongue. Promise.

Now to the cookies.

Pumpkin Cookies with Ginger Cream Cheese Frosting

This recipe makes 4 dozen cookies.

2 ½ cups flour, ½ tsp. baking soda, ¼ tsp. salt, 2 tsp. pumpkin pie spice 1 cup dark brown sugar, firmly packed, ½ cup granulated sugar, ¾ cup butter, softened, 1 large egg, 1 cup canned pumpkin, 1 tsp. vanilla and 1 cup raisins

In medium bowl, combine first 4 ingredients. In mixer bowl, combine and mix sugars, then add butter and beat well. Scrape down sides of bowl and mix again. Add egg, pumpkin and vanilla. Mix until light and fluffy. At low speed, blend in the flour mixture. Add raisins, mixing only until well blended. Drop by tablespoonfuls onto ungreased cookie sheet, about 2 inches apart. Bake at 350 degrees for 20 minutes, or until cookies test done when touched in center. Cool before frosting.

Ginger Cream Cheese Frosting

3 ounces cream cheese, at room temp 4 tablespoons butter, room temp 1/8 tsp. ground ginger 2 to 2 ½ cups powdered sugar 2 tablespoons- or more- milk

Beat cream cheese, butter and ginger together until light and fluffy. Add the powdered sugar and thin with milk to proper spreading consistency. Spread on cookies and eat!

Long-Haired Freaky People

2009-11-06T07:09:00.000-08:00

And the sign said long-haired freaky people need not apply, so I tucked my hair up under my hat and went in to ask him why. He said you look like fine, upstanding young man, I think you’ll do. So I took off my hat and said imagine that, ha, me working for you. Sign, sign everywhere a sign, blocking up the scenery, breaking my mind, do this, don’t do that, can’t you read the sign?

Remember this song? Just in case you’ve forgotten, I’ll jolt your memory. Signs, by the Five Man Electrical Band.

This is the time of year when we get pinched with nostalgia, or NOS-TA-LODGE-Ah, as my daughter used to pronounce it. Old pictures are good for that, and so are the holidays. Oh, the luck, or not, to have stumbled upon these pictures right now, tucked in a dusty book put together by my mom long ago.

My daughters said I looked like a hippie. Yeah, I see it. Slap a ring of daises round my head and deck me out in bell-bottoms and you could have tossed me smack into Woodstock. My name might have been Milky Way or Sunshine Rose. I still can’t believe I missed that. Man, I shoulda been there. Cool bands. Flower power. A bad moon rising. The whole she-bang.

I would have been a fab hippie. Peace out.

No psychedelic drugs for me. I’m partial to natural highs. It’s cool, man, it’s all cool. Most likely I would have been the hippie making sure all other hippies were well fed and didn’t wander off looking for Alice in Wonderland. “Nice fro, dude, nice fro. Now get the heck back over here, you’re missing Purple Haze.” I would have said something like that.

Okay, so I was too young to go. And my parents certainly didn’t drag us there. I really do love them for that. I hated getting dirty even at a young age. Woodstock rain and mud would have given me fits. My white vinyl Go-Go Boots would have never survived it. I shined those suckers every night and propped them next to my bed, sparkle, sparkle, pretty.

So,the other picture with the shorter hair. That was a year later, and, yes,I cut my own hair! Something about my shirt screams nerd bomber. And the Monkees when they sang, Daydream Believer. Didn’t they wear tan shirts with that type of collar? Never mind, it's not important. Even though I wouldn’t have won any beauty contests, it’s fun going back in time, yes? Somewhere in the closet, or under the bed is your own box or book of memories. Maybe it’s time to blow the dust off and tip-toe back.

Meanwhile I've got to go get my membership card to get inside..Hu!

Jonny Quest Moments

2009-11-01T09:37:00.000-08:00

An adventure filled life. Don’t we all want that? I don’t know about you, but when growing up Jonny Quest was high on my Saturday morning agenda. I’d sit glassy-eyed in front of the TV watching the Quest team explore the globe, using Dr. Quest’s particular brand of scientific genius to flush out Monsters and madmen. Remember Dr. Benton Quest, ten-year-old Jonny, Race Bannon, mystical Hodji, and the extraordinary adorable Bandit? Maybe, uh hem…if you are old enough, we shared those same lazy Saturday mornings.

This cartoon never played down to children. You could sit cross-legged in heart or bunny pajamas, climbing up sharp mountains of political intrigue in places you only drooled about in history books.

Now I’m not saying you must be a globe-trotting world explorer to snag adventures. My thoughts on this are as ordinary as a summer’s day, which isn’t ordinary at all when you really experience it. Every day is a adventure as long as you’re alive.

Sigh… now isn’t that great news?

Now if you do happen to be a writer like me, who has yet to visit most of the intriguing places the Quest team frequented, the news is not horrible. We have harnessed something that doesn’t require the almighty dollar or the tick of time to claim. As kids we already figured this out. Writer or not, if your imagination is keen you still travel right alongside Jonny, holding your breath when Bandit barks at shadows. You are right down the Nile River, fighting off unseen watery forces. A blooming imagination can and does take you places. And don’t look now, but one day, when you have college tuition payed off, and if you’re lucky enough to still see, hear and walk, you might visit those places yet.

What I’m really getting at here is we make our own adventures. When we’re knee deep in dishes and laundry, kids rampaging through the house, or sassy pants teenagers claiming we know zero about life, all while spending our last dollar for clothes, flat irons, etc… it’s hard to yank up those adventures. But I swear, if you examine things closely enough, you’ll find them right smack in the swirl of activity.

A Shot of Inspiration

2009-10-27T07:28:00.000-07:00

As writers we take our shots where and when we can get them. A recent adventure to the Austin Film Festival proved to be just the inspiration I needed. If you are an aspiring screenwriter, or writer in general, this was the place to be. First I must mention one of the classes I took was called A Shot of Inspiration, and as the class was in session, Daniel Petrie, Jr. writer of Beverly Hills Cop, The Big Easy, and Shoot to Kill, passed around shots of whiskey. Liquid inspiration, he called it. Of course we had our own cups. No swigging from the bottle. I’m notorious for giving myself away with facial expression alone, and I must have made an eye pop, combined with gape-jawed surprise, because the next day a fellow writer found me and said my expression at the mention of free whiskey was priceless. I really don't drink much. And just so you know, that whiskey scorched all the way down.

Seriously though, the four day event was nothing short of amazing. Not only did I meet other splendid writers, but plenty of directors, producers, etc. Here’s a few I got to take panels with and also meet: Marcia Nasatir, Tom Skerritt, Herchel Weingrod, Pat Hazell, Cheryl Hines, Gayla Nethercott and Peter Hodges, author of What’s Eating Gilbert Grape, a personal favorite. Like I said, these were just a few.

Ron Howard was there, and I especially enjoyed his tennis shoe style. He is the original nice guy who just happens to be extremely talented and well known. Watching Apollo Thirteen, the movie he directed, with him and astronaut Jim Lovell in the audience was a real treat as well.

Classes, or panels ran from 9:00 a.m. to 4:30 p.m. and then there were plenty of independent movie screenings to watch. And if you were still fired up, parties to attend. We saw Serious Moonlight, directed by Cheryl Hines, Precious, Apollo Thirteen and several others.

The best part for me though was spending time with my oldest daughter, a screenwriter, and watching her get such a kick out of the events and movies. If you haven’t attended this event, please put it on your must do list.

Ride This Train

2009-10-20T15:36:00.001-07:00

As writers we ride many trains over the course of careers. As Deanna, from across the holler at The Life of a Working Writer Mommy can attest, sometimes we just need to switch it up and try something fresh. She never believed she was suited for fiction, but here she is, writing great fiction. Go, Deanna! We never know exactly what we can do or what we'll enjoy until we give it a shot. In writing there are so many different trains yet many times we end up taking the same one over and over, not knowing which might serve us better. And lets face it, learning something new can be exciting.

So...tomorrow I'm getting off the fictional novel train for four days and hopping on the screenwriting train. My oldest daughter, Candice, who writes screenplays, talked me into going to the Austin Film Festival where we'll be learning much about screenwriting during the adventure. At night we'll be screening some pretty cool independent films, starting off with Serious Moonlight, Cowtown Ballroom, Precious, The Ugly American and The Donner Party. Now I might skip the last one depending on what kind of mood I'm in.

Award winning filmmaker Ron Howard will be speaking about The art of Storytelling. Okay, I won't lie, I'm pumped about that. From what I understand he is a great guy, and certainly a talented producer. And who could forget him as the charming little Opie Taylor on the Andy Griffith Show? And then on to Richie Cunningham in the TV series Happy Days.

I'll be back around next week to share the adventure, but meanwhile, by all means, go take yourself a train ride!

Your Imagination

2009-10-15T06:48:00.000-07:00

Ohhh...that was my reaction when I saw this picture. What came to mind was romance. I mean, they are rose petals. Thousands of them. But then I thought of ideas, strewn like petals down the long pathway of life. Also, soft kindnesses which have been sprinkled by friends as we go.

I'm interested in your ideas. Your creativity. What comes to your mind when you see this picture?

Fall In Bloom

2009-10-03T19:32:00.000-07:00

A backyard fire pit, snappy sparks, red lit, flying. Moonlight whispering through trees, grass, skin, eyes, oh the eyes we love, sending silent messages bigger than a Texas sky. Leaves turned cinnamon and amber, quivering and curling on limbs like tiny, arthritic hands. More eyes, laser sharp, peering through woods, raccoons or possums or skunks, perhaps, noses rising in tribute to lowly hot-dogs, sizzling and blistering on sticks. And a Cherokee fiddle. Might be all that’s missing, but no, night composes its own music.

Fall nights like these are a dozen a dime, but won’t last forever. Here in Texas we’ve only recently stepped out from hot summer shells. Four long months of broiling and we’re cooked. Ready for frosting, the frost on the pumpkin, fall frost. Time to snap out blankets, throw them on the ground, lie on backs, and wonder with dreamy eyes at the heavens, spitting out stars, swirling planets, strobe-like, suspended. I count each twinkle, never knowing how many, many, many stars, knowing never. Nights like these are a dozen a dime, but won’t last forever.

This time of year brings me back to long ago hay rides, fuzzy sweaters, snuggling, cutting through a black Mark Twain National Forest, dirt from roads settling in our hair, our smiles, carrying us right through the hard flinty winter when reflection sets in corners like mute guests.

Camp-outs too, dancing under a moon stuffed with promise, breeze in hair. And strolling beside a tinseled river with the girls, making up crap that scares them silly. And then pulled from the tent later, dead asleep, they say, “Come on, mom, come and tell stories. Our friends haven’t heard them. Oh please! We want to hear them again.”

So I do. Spin tale after tale, sleepy-eyed yet happy that ears listen.

I remember barn dances, doing the two-step, feet moving like hot grease on the griddle of floor. Pumpkin carving too, cinnamon sprinkled under the lids, spicing up night. The kids and friends jammed into our house, costumed to high heaven, watching Charlie Brown, a blanket of candy on the floor, and still trick-or-treaters banging down the door. Wanting more. And, yes, this yet goes on.

Fall in bloom.

What are your fall favorites?

Top Secret

2009-09-24T20:09:00.000-07:00

Top secret- these words alone can perk up eyebrows. They conjure up all things unseen and unheard. Loosen the grasp on your chair because there shall be no secrets unearthed here. And if I gave you one, I swear you’d hit the snooze button on the ole alarm clock and get back to me. No doubt, though, everyone, including me, has at least one family or personal secret that’s a tad spicy or horrifying, or just plain odd. Odd, I say. But whatever they are, secrets have power over people who keep them. Decisions and behaviors tiptoe around them. They are weeds in the hearts soil.

No eyebrow hiking, please. Even though I thought of a juicy one, I’m still not sharing. Oh, you have Starbucks Breakfast Blend? Gosh, that’s my favorite. But no, I can’t, shouldn't. Okay then, let’s chat… wink, wink.

Now, unless you live in a cave, which some people do- I saw one for sale on the Internet, but it far exceeded my price range- then you can’t miss what happens on the news. Secrets are shared on a daily basis, some exposed, others revealed. Heck, if we’ve lived long enough, we’ve heard our share from friends and kin, which revealed just how boring we really are. Ah, what a blessing it is to be dull.

As such, let’s relate them to fictional novels we writers tell and hope to sell. Yes, we are back to fiction now, which is sometimes less weird than real life.

Our main character/character’s should have secrets. At least one. And you’re going to love this because you get to know what they are! As a matter of fact, you’d better know. Sometimes their secrets are at the heart of the story and other times they serve as a guideline to understand why your characters act the kooky ways they do. Readers don’t necessarily have to know, but we might want to clue them in if it serves the story and explains their odd or crazy behavior.

Is there a reason our protagonist hates being alone? Does he/she avoid certain family members at all costs? Why, why, why? Do they steal, cheat or lie? When each day begins do they pop pills or swig scotch on the rocks? Does your character have premonitions about future events but is too afraid to own up to her gift? Are they plucked away nightly and whisked off to Mars?

Wow, please bring them to my next party!

Seriously though, don’t hold your characters at arms length. Let them come into the light. See them for who they are. Ask the questions, welcome the answers and, wha-la, a secret or two will appear. They just might be the treasure in your story.

Now back to that party.

Let's Get Fresh

2009-09-18T07:44:00.000-07:00

I’m talking about writing here, so don’t get your panties in a wad. Sorry, I do enjoy that phrase. It’s a throwback to my younger years and those memories of mouth cleanings with Dove soap.

Now, the fresh fruit was posted because I needed a picture. If it makes you hungry, I apologize, which I do frequently. Go on to the grocery store. I’m not a fruit stand.

Okay, back to fresh writing. Have you ever read a book so dinged with cliches you wanted to drown yourself in your dog’s water bowl? Are we guilty of using them in our work? You bet your bottom dollar. If you can’t beat them, join them. Or as George Carlin would say, “If you can’t beat them, arrange to have them beaten.”

At least he spiked it.

Allow me to share the meaning of cliche, even though we know them better than our own children: A saying, expression, idea or element of an artistic work which has been overused to the point of losing its original meaning or effect, rendering it a stereotype, especially when at some point it was considered meaningful or novel.

Although cliches can sometimes be used in fiction for comedic effect, we should remember a key word here. SOMETIMES. And it had better be funny. A no go and your readers might be swell enough to flip the page, but if you try again and fail, they could storm over to the fireplace, book or short story in hand, and snap a match. At least their wee bones would be warmed on a cold and stormy night.

Really, if we can, and we can, don’t socialize with cliches. They talk behind our backs, and give our readers wrinkles. Now there are loopholes, well, maybe one loophole. If a cliche can be spun around to make it zing-which, ahem..I’m guilty of- then do. But not too often.

Cliches aside, fresh prose should always be the standard. Think beyond the box. Give people thoughts for their pennies. We can always notch up our words, allowing them to sing opera, or belt out the Stones, Van Halen, Pink Floyd or Led Zeppelin. The key is throwing open the door and making an entrance. Dress up those words in black leather pants and let them knock back a good stiff whiskey, then strut them around like a freakin’ peacock!

Bad peacock, but you get the point. Don’t be afraid to let your words glitter and leave your characters room to open wide and speak their truth. So what if your crazy Aunt Polly, who holds tea parties for her cats, stands gape-jawed at something you’ve written? All the better. Maybe you’ve awakened something dormant in her. Maybe she’ll slap on some make-up, down a margarita, and go out dancing with her husband Carl.

Or maybe she won’t like you. Gasp!

If pleasing the world is our writing goal, we’d best hang our letters this instant and go open a bakery. Cupcakes anyone? People will always love sugar. So Sugars, if we’re going to write, please let characters breathe without the Aunt Polly’s of the world peering over our shoulders. Do send them out for cheesecake at a bakery in Bora Bora. And remember to pluck and add fresh stuff and not the wilted crap.

For fun, here’s a bowl full of stale cliches.

My favorite, colored up by George W. Bush: You can fool some of the people all of the time, and those are the ones you want to concentrate on.

So true ye fiction writers!

Here’s more.

Breaking the bank

When all is said and done

Bored stiff

All hell broke lose

A wolf in sheep’s clothing

Don’t put all your eggs in one basket

Rome was not built in a day

Please feel free to add your own favorites. Maybe if we can secretly corral enough of them and drown them in the Hudson River, we can make the world a better place.

Catching Dreams

2009-09-09T07:39:00.001-07:00

I wanted to post a picture of our little group at the Hawaii Writer’s Retreat, but for some reason I couldn't upload the pictures. Blasted technology! You can see it on my author website at:www.dorrainedarden.com

Dreams are powerful. We all have them, but catching them is another thing entirely. I’ve always felt you must first know what you want to have it. Writing our goals down is a great place to start. The Hawaii Writer’s Retreat has been on my list for seven years, and, sigh… I finally made it there.

There are many awesome writer’s retreats, but in my mind this was the mother of them all. And what a great mother she was. Seasoned authors attend here, still learning and growing. If you’re coming here to loll about the island, you’d best come a few days early. Once you start the six day retreat, or writing intensive, you’ll be drenched in classes. Classes before classes. Classes after classes. So many great author/speakers you won’t want to miss. Your day starts at 9:00 a.m. and ends, minus homework, at 4:30 p.m.

First let me mention our amazing author and instructor, Anne LeClaire. She had the patience of a monk and the grit of a soldier. Talented to the max, she left no rock unturned when it came to our manuscripts. This is no place for sissies. Or the ego. We were here to learn and learn we did. Anne had this uncanny ability to see exactly what was needed to turn our manuscripts into gold. She taught us how to flip our stories. She taught us to be better liars and that’s the truth! It's all in the details.

In regards to your story, ask yourself, what would happen if? Here’s an example from my latest: The Passion Diary. A pastor accidentally ends up with a woman’s diary, which changes their lives forever. Now: What if that same pastor takes a woman’s diary? Immediately the story has more flavor. Why would a man, let alone a pastor take a woman’s diary and read it? What happens now that he’s fallen in love with her? Don’t you want to know?

I do.

Oh, right. Guess I now have to figure that out. I also discovered this novel I’ve worked on off and on for four years needs to be told in first person rather than third. Holy crap. I now have to rewrite the whole ding dang thing. But you know what? I’m thankful because I just might have something in the end that will attract an agent. We like attracting agents, don’t we? And by the way, your first page should sing like Beyonce. Most agents will not turn to page two, so you must capture them on page one.

The women I worked with in class were not only talented but witty and humorous. It was a joy getting to know them and I hope to have them in my life for along time to come.

Do you know what separates the real writers from the rest? Yes, you need talent, but the key ingredient is perseverance. Some of you knew this already. Those, like myself, who have been slogging quietly along for years, believing when nobody else did. Belief in your abilities must start from the inside out.

It’s nice too, when people come along who see that you’re not just some fly by night, hokey poky, I’ll write when I want to kind of chick. I hope you are blessed beyond measure that way. I have been so grateful for those who’ve gotten aboard my dingy. We get nowhere in life without the support from others, which means we need to Pay it Forward also, which by the way, is a great movie.

In the coming days I’ll be sharing more tricks I learned to make your writing sing, so stayed tuned and keep catching those dreams.
Filed in Writing | Edit | No Comments

Kreative Blogger Awards

2009-09-07T10:27:00.000-07:00

While writing in Hawaii, a delightful surprise was left on my blog: The Kreative Blogger Award.

I’m honored and thankful that Jon Strother, fellow writer and creator of Mad Utopia, chose little ole mine. Thank you, Jon. By the way, if you haven’t checked out Jon’s blog, do yourself a favor and stop in. He is the creator of #fridayflash, a venue for writers to post short stories. And post they do. You might want to share your own or just be awed at the imaginative pieces. Either way you can’t go wrong.

There are two parts to this award.

First: I must select seven blog's I feel deserve the award. Choosing favorites makes me nervous, but I must. These imaginative seven deserve nothing less. But please see my blog roll for all the creative, wonderful blog's I follow.

Second: I will be sharing seven of my favorite fiction authors. The suggestion was mystery, but since I don’t read mystery, I figured I could break the rules. Most writers break rules, don’t they, Jon?

Drum roll please……

Rhonda Laveen’s Wonderland-exploring life, love and interconnectedness
I recently discovered this blog gem and adore Rhonda’s fresh take on life. She’s not only original, but charming, taking on life one word at a time. You bet I’ll come back for more and have no doubt you will too.

Author Jai Joshi’s Tulsi Tree
A splendid storyteller, Jai weaves in fascinating details about her rich culture as well as writing experiences. Like turning a fast corner, you never know what you’ll find here. Her entries sparkle with wit, wisdom and humor.

Georganna Hancock-A Writer’s Edge
If you want the latest on the writing and publishing industry, Georganna has the edge. She’s in the thick of things and wants us there too. Her clever, informative style offers everything from author interviews to editorial services. Lucky her. Lucky us.

Deanna Schrayer-Deanna’s Blog, The life of a working writer mommy
How can you not love this from the title alone? Women know what a challenge it is to write and raise kids. When reading Deanna’s blog entries, it’s like pulling up a chair and sitting down to fried chicken and homemade gravy with our favorite people. Her style is friendly and warm, her stories original.

Cindy Tierney Adams- Gooblink.com, Obstreperous Heart
A boisterous, comical blog with serious undertones, Cindy captures us with her short stories, musings and writing experiences. An example title: After the kids, come the granny pants. Now you know you want to read her!

Angie Ledbetter-Gumbo Writer
Straight from the Louisiana Bayou this blog is flavored like a fantastic gumbo rue. Each post thrown in the pot is hot, hot, hot. You can’t stop eating, I mean reading.

Jenn Lidster-
When you visit her blog the visual alone will draw you in. The tree, stars and clouds suggest something magical, and Jenn doesn’t disappoint. This blog is stuffed with everything writing related, including author interviews.

You can find these fine word slinger's on my blog roll. Congratulations to all!

Second: Seven favorite fiction authors:

Barbara Kingsolver

Anne LeClaire

John Steinbeck

Alice Hoffman

Truman Capote

Paulette Jiles

Ray Bradbury

Hawaii Writer's Retreat

2009-08-26T15:56:00.000-07:00

I'm wishing everyone a productive writing, photography, cooking, whatever makes you happy kind of week ahead. If it involves passion then you're on the right track.

I'll be back, blogging again in around seven days. Meanwhile I'll be in Hawaii, at a six day writing retreat, learning, growing, and relaxing on the beach with hibiscus in my hair. Oh, and hopefully I'll work in a hula or two since it is the official Hawaiian dance.

There will be plenty to share and I'll bring as much information back as I can. Meanwhile take care of yourself and your writing!

Cats, Dogs, and Kids

2009-08-19T12:18:00.000-07:00

Neffie and Annie

It’s usually crazy in the summer months with all three girls home, and their friends in tow, but this summer it got a little crazier. We added a new member to the family. Her name is Annie. No, I didn’t have another baby. That would have needed to be an immaculate conception!

A new puppy came to live here. She is a mix of Schnauzer, Chihuahua and Chinese Crested. She needed a home and I’m the sucker who had one. Need I say more?

Annie zings circles around our nine-year-old dog, Lucky. He didn’t know what hit him, and for two days flashed green-eyed monster stares and skulked around like the good life had just ended. “When the heck is she leaving?” he seemed to say. “And why am I sharing my people and food with this thing?”

By day three, he was charmed.

He now runs and plays, trying to keep up with her. The old guy wears down quicker than she does, but I have a feeling she just tagged a few extra happy years to his life. They now snuggle together, and when he’s had enough of her antics, he’ll let out a low growl and she gives him space. They have reached an understanding.

My oldest daughter also added a new kitten, Neffie. She shares it with her college roommate, but this week guess where she is? Yes, here. It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas or the zoo.

Neffie is a sphinx. Remember the cat in Austin Powers? She is a smaller version of that naked thing with crinkles of skin. Think of a soft warm peach. Her skin feels like that. She does get cold, and tube socks cut to fit her work wonders, still leaving her the freedom to get into things. Last night, while we were out, she got in the fireplace, which instantly transformed her from a pinkish tan color to black.

We couldn’t help but laugh. Her personality is more like a dog than a cat. She greets you at the door, and likes to snuggle with you. She’s also very playful and mischievous. I’m already quite fond of Mr. Bigglesworth…gulp, Neffie.

Neffie will go home on Sunday and all things will go back to normal, if there is such a thing. School is starting for our youngest next week, the other two back at college. A part of me will be glad to be back in the routine, but the other half will miss the extra laughter from kids- our own and others-gathered round the table, telling stories and eating us out of house and home.

Well, we’ve still got the dogs.

You Can Do It

2009-08-13T11:07:00.000-07:00

It’s always amazing to me what people can do when they set their minds and hearts to it. I’m reminded of the movie As Good As It Gets probably because Jack Nicholson, an eccentric writer, had the courage and determination to overcome his obstacles, which in this case was his own OCD. Ultimately his life was so much better because he was determined to make it so. This movie is a favorite of mine.

Whenever I believe a challenge is too tough, or the writing too slow, I remind myself, that yes, I am capable. Whatever we don’t know, we can learn. This is good to keep in mind with any occupation, but writing especially. There are so many opportunities, challenges and disappointments which come with this gig. We win some. We lose some. And thankfully people do come along to help us out sometimes. Those who specialize in areas we have no knowledge of. We would be lost otherwise.

Recently my daughter and I created a book trailer for Jack Rabbit Moon, and I couldn’t be happier with the results. For those who already have a book in print and for those who are hoping and planning to soon, I’ll share what I’ve learned along the way.

If you plan on doing this yourself, set aside around twenty hours or more to search for images, music and wording for your story. Keep the video short, under two minutes,if you can. The advice was it’s more effective this way. The book trailer cost me $38.00 dollars to do, and this was what I paid for royalty free music. Musicloops.com was where I found mine. Not too bad all things considered.

You can certainly pay to have it done if this works better for you. Apexreviews.net charges $80.00 dollars for a book trailer and review. Circle of Seven productions produces classy ones also, but I’m not sure regarding price.

Images can be found free at www.freefoto.com, www.freeimages.com and www.imagefree.org. There are many others. You can find a virtual wonderland of information on the topic of book trailers on line.

Once the Book Trailer is done, you can post it everywhere. Here are just a few: Utube, Link on AuthorsDen.com, Link on Amazon Associates author page, Goodreads author page, My Space Tv, Yahoo Video, and posted as an announcement on LinkiIn.com.

As Bruce Springsteen says in his song, Dancing in the Dark, “You can’t start a fire without a spark.” Keep those writing sparks flying and your fires burning. Best of luck!

To view the Official Book Trailer for novel, Jack Rabbit Moon, look in the upper right hand corner of this page!

The Secret Ingredient

2009-08-06T22:33:00.000-07:00

At times our words flow like glossy honey. Other times they are dry as stale cupcakes. When going well, writing is similar to baking, everything turning up cherry turnovers and lemon crepes that melt on the tongue. We are in the zone, cooking up sentences that zing. Look what we’ve created! Do taste. Eat. Here, you want more? We’ve got plenty. Boy, do we. We’re turning out stuff left and right. Take them off our hands, please!

Wouldn’t it be nice if fresh words were always on our fingertips? Like flour and raw sugar. To be honest I’m a little salty right now. Ingredients aren’t quite as exotic as I’d like. I’ve thrown in comma’s, period’s, apostrophe’s, colon’s, semi-colon’s, etc… but the main constituent, the prose, has gone missing from my pantry. Why, those dang kids have gone and moved my prose. Isn’t it just like a mother to blame the children? Well, maybe my husband hid those spicy words somewhere. Then I turn to the dog and he looks so innocent lying on blankie, fluttering his eyelids and waiting for nothing but love. No not the dog. He didn’t do anything.

Has your prose ever gone missing? Ever forgotten where you put the secret ingredient?

What to do. When I’m going through a rough patch in my writing I often think of how long it took me to learn the trick of making melt in your mouth biscuits. Even when they looked like flying disks, which was usually, I still served them for breakfast and called them scones. Everyone ate them, snarky comments included. I’d smile and say, “Yeah, I meant them to look that way.” Buckling down, I’d make them again and again, until finally I had the fluffy fanciful biscuit I remembered my Mom making. This did take awhile. Okay, a year. But even now, with all that practice, they are sometimes yet flat. I chalk it up to humidity and know if I persevere those biscuits will rise once again.

And so it goes with words. They are never really missing, but waiting to be coaxed, kneaded, risen, sugared.

What do you do when your words won’t rise?

Miss Myrtle

2009-07-31T07:52:00.001-07:00

Outside my living room window something is distracting me. Miss Myrtle, who only comes round in summer, is dancing in flouncy papery skirts to a windy rendition of natural, smoky tunes.

Miss Myrtle in hot pink ruffles and green leggings seems to shout, Peek-a-boo! Yoo hoo, over here. I’m blooming now, popped like fuchsia colored popcorn. Am I not gorgeous? The least you can do is notice.

I always notice.

There are two Miss Myrtle’s in our backyard, one fuchsia, the other a tender pink. With blossoms top heavy yet papery I think of gigantic lollypops on a stick. Or ice cream. Maybe cotton candy. No matter how you look at them, the eyes get drenched. With pale thin limbs which peel and shed, they are frumpy looking most of the year. But in summer, when those pellet sized buds explode, it’s as though a million tiny butterflies have gathered for a lace profusion convention.

The given name of this tree is crepe Myrtle, which is sometimes spelled crape, which to me sounds like crap. So I’ll continue to call them plain ole Miss Myrtle’s although they are none too plain at all.

Natures Recipe

2009-07-27T11:39:00.001-07:00

A little flower. Some river water. Add a few shivering leaves. Lacy ferns. Herbs are nice if you see them. Small mushrooms add zest, if not shriveled by sun. There should be no trouble finding fresh ingredients. And no cooking experience necessary. Leave your chef at home.

Oh, and it’s best not to include heat. No baking, please. High humidity causes this recipe to flop. If it’s done right, the sweetness factor pops a body awake. Clears the head. Makes words and dreams and memories rise.

Now put on sneakers. Stretch those crusty limbs. Dance first if you must.

Stir.

One can eat this treat to high heaven without gaining an ounce. As a matter of fact, it’s possible to get quite fit with this luscious recipe. It will also take you places. Allow your mind to wander. Refresh your soul.

It’s called a walk.

The Circus Tent

2009-07-19T13:37:00.001-07:00

Our family once had a tent that reminded me of those seen in a circus. My Dad found and claimed it at a flea market. We groaned when we saw it and asked, “What were you thinking?”

He grinned and said, “It was a great deal and we can invite the relatives!”

Invite them we did. Grandmothers. Aunts. Uncles. Cousins. If memory serves me correctly it could sleep forty. We might of had that many too, when you threw in our own family of eleven.

Dad sat that gaudy contraption up in a field and it bloomed alongside the creek like a rowdy flower. It seemed even the trees gasped.

By day we flipped and flapped in the creek, laughter peeling through trees. When tired of that, we’d slather our skin with a concoction of baby oil and iodine and lye on hot rocks to further brown our skin, which usually ended up blistered and angry red.

In the evening were icy Cokes, and sizzling burgers, smoke from the grill swirling, twirling and exposing our hidden oasis. We’d eat exhausted but joyful among a custard of whir and buzz, the high easy call of birds on the wind.

When sun and moon traded shifts, whippoorwills clicked on, spiking air with lonesome, haunting melodies. A bonfire sprung up, fire in the sky, everyone gathering round with twigs whittled on ends to accommodate fat marshmallows. And then, Mom, fretting at little bold ones, lighting theirs, red coal fire sticks, zipping and chasing, sparks flying. Meanwhile, the old folks sitting mesmerized in lawn chairs, cheeks infused with fresh color, eyes twinkling and full.

Later came the hair-raising ghost stories, fire popping and snapping, darkness so black and voices real or imagined whispering through trees. When kids were good and frightened it was time for bed.

Yeah, right.

The adults blinked right off, but a certain sister and I couldn’t. Like pushpins in sleeping bags, we didn’t budge. An owl hooted outside the tarp and we’d stiffen, our eyes round as coasters. A snap of twig, we’d shiver and cling. And then a brother or two slinking around outside, making bizzare noises as if we weren’t petrified already. Inside the tent were odd snores and aroma’s; a funky humanity mixture ripened by night, yet oddly comforting, new and old, different and the same all in one spot at one time in time.

That gaudy circus tent; another shiny bead added to the necklace of memory.

sug

Little House on the Prairie

2009-07-12T00:03:00.001-07:00

On a recent trip to Missouri, ten minutes from my old hometown, we stopped in the small city of Mansfield to tour the home of Laura Ingalls Wilder. What I’d forgotten were how beautiful swaths of summer wildflowers were along roadsides this time of year: Queen Anne’s lace, soft, swaying, elegant, and black-eyed Susan’s wobbling in breeze, their bright yellow skirts dabbed with winking black bows, and alongside those, purple cone flower patches, picnicking tall and stoic under blue skies. All this before we’d arrived at Laura and Almanzo’s home.

This historic place tucked in the Ozark hills is called Rocky Ridge Farm. She and husband Almanzo Wilder moved with daughter Rose to this lovely area in 1885 from Dakota territory. Almanzo built the home, and since they were small folks, she four- feet-eleven, and he, five-feet-four, everything was crafted to fit them, from low ceilings to short counter-tops. A tiny staircase led to upstairs rooms which we didn’t get to tour due to the historical society wanting to preserve original flooring. This year alone they’d already had forty-thousand visitors.

As we walked through, history whispered. I imagined Laura in the kitchen, kneading bread, she in her little bed, napping, but most of all, her at the small oak writing desk, recalling stories from her childhood. Those same books I snuggled under covers and read to my own little girls years and years later.

Characters popped alive again. Mean ole Nellie Olson, who did things we sometimes wanted to but couldn’t because we were too nice. Her ultra spoiled mama, Harriet. Pa at the honey tree. Ma doctoring skinned hearts and knees. Mary going blind. Mr. Edwards, the dear family friend who almost froze walking through a blizzard to bring his dear Ingall’s girls peppermint sticks and sweet potatoes for Christmas. And, Laura, pigtailed and shiny, the one who could make Pa's lip quiver and eyes brim with tears. This when he wasn't bent over laughing at her antics.

Did you know Laura didn’t start the “Little House” series until she was sixty-five? This inspired me. I thought of all the late bloomers, myself included, and hope welled.

Another thing I didn’t know. Her daughter Rose was a writer before Laura was. She was also a journalist who traveled the globe. In 1928, Rose, then grown, spent eleven-thousand dollars of her own money and ordered an English style rock house from Sears, built a mile away from her parents home. She presented the home, complete with electricity-which would explain the eleven-thousand-to Laura and Almanzo for Christmas, and they moved in shortly after. Rose moved into the Rocky Ridge home, supplied with electricity also. Imagine owning the only two homes in the area with electricity twenty years ahead of everyone else! Visitors would come just to gawk at the lights and Laura’s new closets, also a novelty.

The rock house is where Laura wrote the first four “Little House” books. A few years later, the Wilders moved back to their Rocky Ridge home, vowing they would never leave again. They never did.

In 1932 Laura published the first “Little House” books. All nine manuscripts were penned in these two homes. She died at age ninety, her beloved Almanzo preceding her by several years.

All this history tucked among sun and sky and wildflowers.

Lucky

2009-07-08T09:20:00.001-07:00

He is Lucky. This guy with peppery hair and eyes the color of liquid chocolate. On a good day he says I love you. A bad one, he still says it. Really, I swear, those are his only words. His love is pure sunshine. Such a smooth operator he is. And I’ve never seen such a fast runner. Dancing makes him happy, especially when food is involved. Living to please and pleased to live; his life in a sardine can. When the boy sees me he’s always thrilled. It matters little what mood I’m in. He could care less if I’m wearing make-up, or a pretty outfit, or if my hair looks crappy. He lets me talk myself silly, and tell stupid jokes, never noticing if the house is messy. Anything I feed him he appreciates. If he were a man, I’d marry him. No questions asked.

But he’s a dog.

Our dog, Lucky. By world standards he is considered a mutt, part German Terrier and Chihuahua, but by our standards he’s first class.

We rescued Lucky at an animal shelter seven years ago, and he says thank you every day in his own soft ways. If a family member is sick, he is there, snuggling, waiting, comforting, leaving only long enough to drink and do outside business. Animals love us through the best and worst of times, asking little in return, taking only what we offer. They lay their hearts on the table. We often need them rather we realize it or not. For those of you who have pets, you know the joy they bring. Around here we’ve had an iguana, cats, rats, hamsters and an albino porcupine. At the moment, a snake, who has yet to grow on me.

Some writers use their animals in author photos, on book jackets, etc… Now the photo for this article, Lucky in the jack rabbit ears I made, was for promotional purposes, but this is the first time I’ve posted it, and I do think he makes a sweet model.

There was a discussion recently on the Writer’s Digest Forum-a splendid site for writers, by the way- regarding the use of animals in author promotion as being cheesy and unprofessional. I happen to disagree. That’s what I love about the forum, we can agree to disagree. Animals connect us to others and I find it enduring to see an author posing with a family pet on a jacket cover if they so choose. I would enjoy hearing your thoughts on this.

Meanwhile I’ll consider myself lucky indeed.

Summer Car Trips

2009-06-25T10:58:00.000-07:00

Joy, it’s summertime. People are once again filling gas tanks and hitting the road. Despite high gas prices, one can still get from here to there without breaking the bank. And I do hope you take the back roads occasionally. The good stuff hides there. Little old people on porches, holding hands and watching the sun slide down, an unexpected parade, a wild patch of sunflowers, men in faded overalls, whittling sticks on a store front corner. Once our girls got older, we took back roads whenever possible.

I remember when they were young, traveling the twelve hours to Missouri every summer. We took the interstates then, our goal, to get there in record time. Ten miles down the road whining would commence. They were so good at it, I always suspected they’d rehearsed. Conversations went something like this.

“How much longer?” One would ask.

“Eleven hours and fifty minutes.”

Another chimed in, “I’ve gotta go to the bathroom.”

“For crying out loud, we just left the house. Can’t you hold it?”

“You want me to pee my pants? Pull over!”

“What a pain.”

“Why’d you have me then, huh?”

“I had no idea it was going to be you!”

Boy, did we have fun. Those early travel memories are sweet, magical moments in time. I can still see their sleepy eyes. How their heads would wobble and finally give out. The sun playing on their blond hair. I can hear the giggles, see the sparkly eyes when we’d stop and they’d get a treat. The squeals of anticipation when rolling down the window, sticking our arms out, and getting truckers to honk. They loved this and I did too. I also remember them laughing as I tumbled into the backseat to read them stories. The four of us, all cozy under a blanket in the middle of nowhere, happy as clams.

We’ve done road trips as far back as I can remember, the memories priceless. On the weekend we’ll be taking another. This is the first time two of the girls won’t be going. One is attending summer school, the other working. The trip will be strange without them, but our youngest daughter will keep us well entertained. I’m thankful to spend time with her while I can. She’s growing up too fast.

Enjoy your summer and keep making miles and miles of memories!

Writing Up a Storm

2009-06-20T20:20:00.000-07:00

For those who write novels, you know ideas, although plentiful, are not always zipping up and introducing themselves. We look for original, fresh material, yet knowing everything is old and wrinkled. Once we make peace with this, those worn out ideas can be whipped into something new; a magical concoction infused with our unique personalities and life experience.

Novel writing is brutal work. I’ve recently finished a second one, and for those who believe otherwise, go ahead and write one and then we’ll chat. Heck, I’ll even buy you lunch, although you will have earned a Caribbean cruise and more.

To complete a novel, you’ll need to spend at least a year or two, and sometimes ten, working alone. Characters will need created, as well as setting. You get to boss people around on the page, telling them how to act, what to say, how to dress, where to live, who to see, etc… For the slight control freak this is the ultimate rush.

Hmm… think I just made a confession.

Your imagination will also be on call twenty- four-seven, sometimes jarring you awake in the dead of night, and you, half blinking, fumbling for paper and pencil. Lights off, I write the idea down, although I’ll need a translator next morning to read it.

Even the most passionate writer wonders sometimes why they do this. You are basically entertaining yourself, hoping eventually to entertain others. Every day the white computer screen shows up, waiting for you to fill with black words straight from your red hot muse. This if you’re lucky. Some days words are dry and cracked and you wonder if the monsoon will ever come again.

But when the storm does arrive, and it usually does, we sing, off key, on key, any key as long as words flow. In the funnel of story, a writer could care less if non-writing neighbors and friends whisper under their breath, speculating about what we do all day. They spot us walking dogs, or eating the occasional lunch at Panera’s, or sneaking a Mocha Frap at Starbucks when we can dig up extra change, and think we’re goofing off. They don’t realize we might be doing a little PR, such as leaving book fliers on a bulletin board. Or viewing life in action, the wild material we need for writing up a good thunderstorm. Maybe we’re just getting out so we don’t go nuts. Those of us who are highly social (me) have to strike a balance here.

Have you ever heard these comments from friends or family?

“Oh, you work? Yea, the book thing.” Or “We thought of you for this project because you’re at home and have extra time.”

“Why thank you for your kind thoughts,” I say. “But, yes, I do work, and I’ll have to pass on that.”

Maybe you can relate to the “YES MAN” syndrome. If you can, I hope you’ve passed the torch like I have. Practice saying, “No thank you” in the mirror until your voice cracks. Yes now comes when I find something important and not the other way around. Writers must carve out time to work like everyone else.

These occasions are also opportunities to practice grinning skills. Once the work some forgot you were doing comes to fruition, you’ll be smiling until your face aches; at book signings, even if only one person shows up, workshops, neighbors and friends. Prior to publishing, you might also want to hang out with car salesmen.

Did I hear groaning?

Despite their reputations, they have pesky sales skills which will come in handy when attempting to chit-chat your way into people’s hearts and wallets.

The truth is, novel writing is hard work, and so is selling, but I wouldn’t trade either for the world. You know as well as I do, we writers sometimes, eh, often, work for years on a wing and prayer before anyone notices our writing bloom. We do this because writing has chosen us and not the other way around. And if lucky, we touch many with our words.

In the end, that’s why we show up day after day, and year after year, writing up a storm.

North Beach Diet

2009-06-17T20:21:00.000-07:00

Diets do not appeal to me. My thighs, however, love them. That said, my whole family has climbed aboard the South Beach Diet boat. I still don’t know how I coaxed them, but we’re paddling all the same. Yes, we’re arriving somewhat late, but better late than never. Or is it?

Since Sunday we’ve been swimming in eggs, salads, meat, and ricotta cheese. Waves will be high the first two weeks. The thunderstorm of eggs already has me shaky. If I even imagine an egg now, I cringe. This, and we’re only on day four. Good thing I have my V-8 juice. Great thing I like it. We’ve already consumed more spinach than Popeye, and I half expect to wake one morning and scare my own self to death with bulging muscles. Oh, did I mention we can’t eat fruit for two weeks? I now fantasize about apples and oranges. Sad, I know.

Last night we had a prolonged discussion on cheeseburgers and M&Ms. I finally put a stop to this. Food talk hour is now off limits, punishable by extra eggs. Pretty sure this will work.

Now back to the ricotta. With this diet I’m supposed to whip up dessert every night with this white pasty cheese. You add slivered almonds, almond extract, artificial sweetener, and serve it chilled. Yuma!

Just kidding.

It tasted a bit like gussied up glue. The expressions on family faces ranged from horrified to disgusted. A bit discouraged, the next night I added cocoa powder and baked it. Like a cheesecake, I thought. Oh, I love cheesecake. But I can’t talk about that. Anyway, it was better, but still far from cheesecake. Did someone say cheesecake?

Well, the good news is, weight is dropping. Three pounds down all around. If we can make friends with the egg we’ll have it in the bag. On the third week, we’ll see our precious fruit once again. Be introduced to a potato. If you don’t hear from me in the next ten days it means I’ve slipped into an egg induced coma. Someone please call a chicken. But really, this is a fine diet, as far as diets go.

If I could have it my way, though, I’d create the North Beach Diet. Only those who eat chocolate cake, cheeseburgers and French fries could participate. No bikinis on this beach. Skinny people are not allowed. Thighs flap here and have a grand time. Triple chins are all the rage. Sunsets would swirl with barbecue smoke. Eggs, ricotta cheese and salad would be curse words punishable by law.

But meanwhile I must go toss a salad.

The Gooseberry Family

2009-06-16T18:58:00.000-07:00

The Gooseberry Family

You might not know this family, but Mrs. Gooseberry can cook. Mr. Gooseberry builds fabulous birdhouses and bonfires. The boy tells grand stories. All three living among flame colored birds and a stream in back, brisk and swollen with fish. In spring mushrooms hide in their woods, shooting from warmed soil like fleshy bullets.

When seized by morning sunlight, the Gooseberry family rises to the tinkle tinkle of creek floating in through screened windows. All are open. Every one. Mrs. Gooseberry eats her eggs, then rolls Swedish meatballs for dinner. She stuffs them in the crock- pot, the smell eventually simmering in every nook and cranny. Nightfall finds the family sitting among stars and fire and tree frogs. A breeze blows. They are like eggs in a nest of land.

To find the Goosberry’s one would twist and turn down dirt roads, past fragrant honeysuckle, draping like spotty lemon-colored quilts above the road. Keep going past trees exploding with tiny orange persimmons, a fat hornets nest buzzing up one. Then cross a wooden bridge that goes click clack, click clack. A stand of cedar next, big, small and medium. Tucked beside green, their tiny cabin, glass panes gleaming like sunlit diamonds.

They do not own a TV, not and never have. Books and music are consumed daily. Woods are walked. Gardens tended. They have watched blossoms transform to apples, and bees disappear into flower cups; life up close and personal.

In summer the boy roams the woods, plucking blackberries and gooseberries. When he returns, bucket brimming, mother will make green gooseberry pie.

She would never tell someone new to gooseberries how tart they are, though. But she will watch you take that first sweet/tart bite and grin when you pucker like crazy. Yet she knows you will finish every last bite, curiously satisfied.

Mrs. Gooseberry likes this.

On sunny days, when work is done, Mr. Gooseberry hits plastic golf balls in back, which sometimes plop in the creek, floating downstream like bloated white fish. Other times he inadvertently aims at Mrs. Gooseberry, sitting quietly reading her book. She’s been popped on the noggin enough with golf balls to automatically flinch when he whacks them, yet still comes outside.

“EXCUSE ME!” she will shout when he accidentally hits her. And if she feels it’s intentional, she pulls out her wide vocabulary and uses it. Mr. Gooseberry then kisses her on the forehead, an easy apology.

Those wacky Gooseberry’s can be found down a country road.

Ode To The Back Porch

2009-06-11T16:56:00.000-07:00

Ode To The Back Porch

You know spring is here when winter slinks away, leaving a fresh scent clinging to your hair. People are grinning more, that old fire back in steps. The earth, hyper-charged once again. And the best perk is, you can sit outside without freezing your rear end off. That and step outside bare-footed.

On a recent trip to southern Louisiana, we stayed on the two hundred acre grounds of a plantation. The cottage digs weren’t fancy, one bathroom between three girls, but that ample back porch, complete with iron tables and soft sitting areas, was primo. Knew I’d gotten it right when a collective squeal went up.

The view from there was heavenly: two hundred year-old live oaks dripping with Spanish moss which resembled wiry hair. To the right, a pond, complete with ducks, quacking, flapping and gliding. And land to roam as far as your little eyes could devour.

The old Missouri farm girl in heaven.

Shoes popped off. Cards and books materialized. The good old days reincarnated. Maybe you had your own back porch growing up, or a grandparent did. Remember when people actually spent time outside, visiting with family, neighbors and friends, nothing more on the agenda than sipping tart lemonade and shooting the breeze? Call me old fashioned but this still appeals to me. Big time.

We wandered from the porch that day only to retrieve dinner and walk the grounds where we discovered an ancient family graveyard, complete with eerie stone wall and iron gate. Of course the girls wanted to visit at night, but the chicken in me squawked, No thanks, don’t want to. With flashlights wobbling, they took off, me sitting on the back porch clutching coffee, breeze in my hair, a sloppy grin on my face. “Have fun,” I yelled. “Say hi to the ghosts for me.”

Not two minutes later, lights flickered on and off. “Wait for me,” I whispered, lip quivering, but they were long gone. The next night they didn’t have to talk me into going. I was so there. I even took my cheesy camera, which turned up pictures that would make your hair stand on end. Stay tuned for that story in an upcoming series I’ll be weaving.

All the while the porch waited; for us to sit, savor, to make memories on. I do hope you’re out making your own memories. Life is short and that back porch is waiting!

On The Fly

2009-06-10T13:35:00.001-07:00

Yes, these are my children. An altered version of course, but there is something primitive here that captures their personalities. Now it may be fairly painful for me when they see this here.

I may have to relocate.

But as you might have already guessed, this post is about growing up and growing out. I’m actually going to use a bird illustration here, so picture them with wings. Is it working? Yeah, not for me either, although they are bird-like in the form of angels at times.

Don’t quote me on this as it depends on the day!

Last week I saw a flying lesson of the bird variety which reminded me how we all must begin as babes. Outside, a few feet from me, a wee cardinal flopped into a bush. Immediately Mom and Pop were there. They chirped and coaxed. Then flapped higher and came back. This was a team effort.

The wee one hopped up a notch, then another. Flopped down and tried again. Slowly she grew confident enough to flap to the next highest tree, where parents waited, twittering for her to come. When she reached that level they flew higher and the process repeated.

The sheer grit, faith and determination of that little bird reminded me of our own journeys, and those of our children. In nature you can clearly see how animals get nowhere without the help of others and without helping others.

This is true for us as well.

Now the story doesn’t end here. Just yesterday I was watering a potted plant, brimming with mint and rosemary. That same baby bird zipped right out, startling me so bad I fell backwards. On further examination, a small nest had been constructed on top of the soil, mint hiding the bird. Apparently she was the runt of the litter.

The underdog.

She is still there, the parents bringing food and encouragement. Don’t we all feel like that baby bird at times? There are days we don’t feel much like flying, let alone teaching our children how to soar. We want to stay in our cozy nests. Other times we are like eagles riding the sky in a downwind.

Rather young, old, animal or vegetable, we all need people watching our back. When ready, we’ll soar.

Wild Wind Chimes

2009-06-08T17:47:00.000-07:00

Wild Wind Chimes

There are two kinds of people in this world: those who like wind chimes and those who don’t.

I DO.

And apparently so do little old ladies and squirrels. Let me explain. My sister mentioned she once got behind a much older woman in a fast food drive thru line who had a wind chime suspended from the inside ceiling of her rusty Buick, visible from the back window. It was Spring, windows rolled down, wind chime swaying in the breeze.

They tinkled. And tinkled. A mini symphony before the main cheeseburger and french fry act. This I thought charming enough to use. I don’t waste much. In my newest novel is the sweet yet spicy Dottie Campbell, who happens to drive a car with wind chime in tow. Life is stranger than fiction as we well know.

Regarding wind chime loving squirrels: my birdseed was disappearing at alarming speed, and I caught a particular squirrel, lets call him Greedy Gus, using my chime as a springboard to the bird feeder. First he climbed up the kitchen window. It was like watching a big pinball, pinging from window, to chime, to feeder. Once there, he devoured seed as though he were a ravenous child attacking candy from a busted pinata.

The birds were glaring at me, so I moved the wind chime. That and I didn’t want to take on a part time job for seed money.

South Texas has a thing for wind chimes, too. When we first moved here, I did a double take when passing a cemetery on the way to the grocery store. Scratching my head, I mumbled, “What on earth is hanging from those trees?” On the way back, I did a triple gawk. Yep, wind chimes, just as I suspected. They were everywhere, dripping from trees.

Apparently being wild for wind chimes carries over to the hereafter.

Someone should tell the squirrel.

Lazy River

2009-06-07T17:10:00.000-07:00

Lazy River

A river is never lazy. It pretends. Meandering through, glassy water primps and prepares for summertime company. Underneath currents fish glide and wiggle and get fat. They make room for splashing. Rock bluffs like natural metallic skyscrapers blink in sunshine, echoing shrill laughter, accommodating sun, bursts of wind, clouds and birds, gliding, passing, chattering.

Icy coolers bursting with sandwiches and soda complete the outing, along with lawn chairs lacing river banks like colored presents. If you don’t have a grand time, blame yourself. This natural host has gone all out.

All year we wait for the river and the river waits for us.

Nothing cracks open my imagination more than floating down a crisp, lazy river. Here in Texas, specifically the Frio. On that slick, black inner-tube or puffy yellow raft, sitting under azure sky, I feel like the wealthiest woman on earth.

My happiest memories have sprung from water. Maybe yours too. As a child, Swan Creek, and Rome Creek and Rippie Creek, all complete with swinging ropes, crawdads, and family. When my dad asked mom if she wanted to go to Rome on certain weekends, she gave him a sloppy grin and said she’d love to. Then we’d pack up and head to Rome Creek.

Water is for the living, but I once saw an old man die in the Buffalo River. One minute sitting in his neon green lawn chair, dipping toes in water like chocolate to a strawberry, and the next, stiffening and face first in the water. The river seemed to shout, “Leaving so soon? Well, if you must, I’ll receive you like I always have.” I’d like to believe he died right where he’d lived the best.

Despite this, my best times have been lived in and around water. After a day spent there, thoughts are crisp, appetite ravenous, and sleep strong. The air smells fresher, life seems deeper. Sweeter. It’s as though these things have never been experienced properly before.

Summer is here. A lazy river awaits.

Light My Fire

2009-06-07T15:44:00.000-07:00

June 5th, 2009

Light My Fire

Happy for no reason; lighted candles dress up my mood this way. So does moonlight and starlight and turn your head smiles. Sorry if you thought this post was jogging a different direction. I’ll try not to steer you wrong. You see, I have this aversion to those who buy candles and never light them. When they leave the room I want to pop around. Fire them up.

Quick! Where’s the lighter? Matches?

Two vanilla tapers on the mantle. The flicker would be magnificent. Oh, and another two on twisted metal stands by the window, topped with cinnamon colored chunks. Perfectly formed, flame never touching wax. Imagine the whirl of white blue, soft, dreamy, reflective.

These are not my candles so I can’t light them. I shouldn’t. Couldn’t. Can’t. But sweetie I want to say, you don’t know what you’re missing. I want to say life is too fast not to light slow burning candles. Do it and I’ll buy you more. But I say nothing. The candles remain dusty, intact.

My aversion actually covers anything unused. Everything in my home can be touched, sat upon, walked over, enjoyed, worn. There are no mysterious sitting rooms too huffy for human consumption. If I had one, we’d be…hmm, sitting in it. Laughing in it.

When a dish or glass falls victim to my tile floor, I don’t flinch. The lesson came from a then four-year-old daughter’s eyes when she’d accidentally dropped an heirloom German mug brimming with lemonade. Yelling, I was upset. As I looked in those sky blue eyes blooming with tears, a revelation came. She and her sisters are and always will be my most precious walking, talking everyday heirlooms. From then on I was a changed woman. Not to say I never yell, just not about broken glass.

We have always stopped to smell the candles. Still do. And now that they are teenagers, I can leave candles burning without them playing with hot wax, or trying to start a bonfire. I have loaded up on them. Lit by day, night, anytime I’m feeling vulnerable or romantic or happy or sad. I even pack them in my suitcase when we travel. On and on and on.

Please excuse me now. I must go light my fire.