Ovations

Still Live With Lovers

2012-01-31T12:03:00.000-08:00

Several years ago I wrote a short story for one of the writing contests run by the online writer's group, Backspace. That story, "Still Life With Lovers," tied for first place along with a story by my friend, author A.S. King. The story has sat on my hard drive for several years now, whispering for an audience, but I've been so focused on writing and revising my current novel in progress, that I never submitted it to literature journals.

Click here to buy "Still Life With Lovers" for Nook.

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During my writer's residency at Weymouth last week, I was encouraged by the success of authors Billie Hinton and Dawn DeAnna Wilson, who have published several brilliant and thought-provoking novels through Amazon (please click on their name links above to see what they've done). I'm not quite ready to go that direction with my full length fiction, but thought it would be fun to try this route with a short story. When I began thinking about which short to submit, "Still Live With Lovers" whispered again. More than a whisper, it was a shout.

I don't really know where this story came from. Many of my stories are born from ideas that have gestated in my head for years before they're birthed. These characters, two French couples a hundred years apart, spoke themselves into existence as I wrote, while one of my favorite painters came to life beside them. If character's lives could be channeled from the creative zone through an author, then that is what happened with "Still Life With Lovers."

If you buy and read the story, please let me know what you think--good or bad--I'd love to hear from you.

Keyboard Creativity at Weymouth

2012-01-26T11:05:00.000-08:00

Camellia garden at Weymouth.

Everything worth value takes time. Time to write, compose, paint, design, prepare, study. Practice. I left my home on Monday morning to join a group of three other authors for a writer's residency at the Weymouth Center for the Arts and Humanities in Southern Pines, North Carolina. I brought my work in progress, The Sword Swallower's Daughter, with intentions to find out why agents are turning down the manuscript. Some of the agents have written me notes saying how much they enjoyed my writing, that the premise intrigued them, the characters were endearing, but ultimately, they were unable to connect with the story in the 30 pages they read. As much as I've clung to the original opening, I realized that opening was blocking delivery, and I needed to cut deep in order to birth this book.

Monday night the group let me go first in our reading. After explaining the feedback I was getting from agents, I asked them to listen as I read the opening and then give me suggestions on how I could heighten the urgency and sharpen the stakes for my lead character, Sheila. As Billie, Dawn and Lela shared their impressions, lights went on in my head, confirming what I had already been suspecting about when to open the main storyline. Just before going to bed that night, I opened my email to find a letter from my friend Brian, who is now reading the manuscript. So close to what the other three writers said, his comments became a stamp of validation.

My sunny writing nook at Weymouth.

The next morning I awoke early and found a position in a sunny nook just under a window overlooking the camellias blooming in the gardens here at Weymouth. I opened the manuscript file and got to work moving sections, deleting whole paragraphs, and inserting new insights gleaned from the previous night. Sometime in the morning I became aware of vigorous classical piano music flowing down the hall of the old stately mansion. Thinking one of the other writers was playing something from their room, I swelled at what a wonderful group I'd been invited to join. Billie came down the hall a few minutes later and gestured toward the sound and told me the music was coming live from the Yamaha concert grand downstairs.

Live piano music is comfort food to my soul. My mother played piano while I was growing up and my daughter took piano lessons and studied for competitions and recitals all the way through elementary and into her senior year in high school. Her scales and repeats and fingering exercises filled the background of my writing. Now that she's moved on to her own life, I still beg her to play piano for me when she visits. You see, I was surrounded by piano, but never learned to play. As a child we were too poor for lessons and my mother was never able to defeat the demons of her past enough to teach us herself. I took lessons when my kids were young from my friend Barbara, but found the discipline of practice too demanding while trying to keep my toddler and preschooler clean, fed and intellectually stimulated.

Concert pianist Lynn Fonseca practicing for recital on the

Yamaha concert grand piano in the great room at Weymouth.

It's Thursday and I've had three productive days of writing. Each morning the pianist has been downstairs playing the Yamaha concert grand. Today I ventured downstairs to tell her how much I appreciated her playing. I snuck into the beautiful grand room of Weymouth and melted into a chair in the corner. When she lifted her hands from the last piece, I told her how much I enjoyed her music. She welcomed me over to her side at the piano and I couldn't resist donning my journalist's cap to ask questions. I learned her name is Lynn Fonseca and she is practicing for a recital she'll give at a luncheon here at Weymouth next Tuesday. She told me she's concerned, apprehensive even, because she hasn't played publicly for several years.

I thought, how like me. She's downstairs perfecting her music for a recital, while I'm upstairs perfecting my writing to get published. We're both using keyboards, each of us working to improve what we already know to do. She's full of music, yet must draw on the skill of reading music and expressing it through her fingers. I'm full of stories, but must apply the techniques of novel writing to bring the stories alive. Music must be heard to appreciate; novels must be read to be enjoyed.

I hope she comes again tomorrow. Even if she doesn't I'll be up here, plunking away at my keyboard, practicing my craft and piecing together the life of Sheila, the sword swallower's daughter.

Night Swim, Don't Miss It

2012-01-10T06:00:00.000-08:00

Today, January 10, is a day I've long waited for. One of my good friends will have her first book published. I've read excerpts of this book as short stories and I've read many other pieces by this brilliant author, but this book, this lovely book, is now available to purchase. I just ordered my copy of Night Swim and I encourage you to do so also. Here's why.

Nuance in fiction is one of the most difficult storytelling techniques to master. Rather than telegraph the direction of the story, a nuanced story uses subtle hints and finely crafted metaphors and similes to build tension, express character motivation, and evoke emotion. Nuanced fiction is often called, “quiet,” “wondrous,” “thoughtful” and always referred to with reverence.

Night Swim (Fiction Studio Books) by Jessica Keener is an artfully nuanced novel with broad appeal. Every sentence of Night Swim sings with lyrical eloquence, while delivering a fully-realized story that will haunt you long after you’ve turned the last page.

With grace and compassion, Keener takes us back to Boston during the early 1970s. When maternal love is silenced at the untimely death of her mother, 16-year-old Sarah Kunitz finds her own voice through choices both sweet and sorrowful. Keener’s lyrical prose sweeps you into the story and onto a stage where Sarah’s here and now meet her yesterday for a flawless finish.

You can catch Jessica discussing Night Swim and the luminous art of nuanced fiction in #litchat on Friday, January 13, 2012.

Go to your favorite bookstore today or order Night Swim online from one of the purchase links on Jessica's website.

Here's to 2012

2012-01-01T08:21:00.000-08:00

Here's a glimpse of New Year's Eve 1968 through the eyes of my young protagonist, Sheila Pace, in this excerpt from my novel, THE SWORD SWALLOWER'S DAUGHTER. Enjoy!

January 1968

I was reading in the bedroom on New Year’s Eve when Holly burst into the room with Tommie.

“Look what Tommie got for Christmas!” said Holly, carrying a portable record player.

“Neato!” I closed the book and tossed it onto the bed.

Tommie followed Holly inside, her arms stacked with record albums and forty-fives.

“This is so boss,” said Holly, “She got a record player and the Sgt Pepper’s album.”

Holly set the record player on the floor and plugged it in, then began flipping through a stack of forty-fives. She pulled out a Monkees single, saying she had to listen to “Daydream Believer” before anything else. Tommie fitted a round gadget into the big hole in the middle of a forty-five, put the record on the spindle and drew the arm across and down onto the disc. The room filled with tinny strums and the unmistakable voice of Davy Jones.

Even though I had a TV crush on Davy Jones from The Monkees, it wasn’t a serious crush like I had for Paul McCartney. The Monkees made soda pop music, but the Beatles made rock and roll. KHJ played several cuts from Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, but I’d never heard the whole album at once.

I made the mistake of thinking myself part of the party when I asked Holly if we could stop playing

“Daydream Believer” over and over and listen to Sgt Pepper’s. Tommie nodded in agreement, which was okay because she was the owner of the records and record player.

Holly turned to me and clinched her face into a haughty scowl. “Sgt Pepper’s isn’t for little kids. Beat it.”

“But, I’ve heard almost every song already!”

“Only the ones they play on the radio,” Holly’s voice was so snotty it smeared in my ears. “Beat it.”

Tommie looked between us like a dog torn between two masters. I grabbed my book with a huff and left. Holly’s laughter followed me down the stairs like a hyena barking over a kill.

Downstairs, everyone was gathered around the red Formica table playing Yahtzee. Everyone except Ernest and Candy, who sat doubled up and leading the conversation, while Grandma, Aunt Cissy, and Mama rolled and scored. I moped over to the table, where Grandma pulled me to her side and told me I could roll for her as long as she could give the cup its orders.

The grown-ups were drinking something orange in a fancy pedestal glass. When I asked what it was,

Grandma said it was hellfire and did I want a sip?

“Eww!” I told her no.

“That’s what you said about coffee and you liked it.”

Mama cocked her head to Grandma. “You gave her coffee?”

“Why not? I gave it to you at her age.”

Mama nodded. “Yeah, and look how good I turned out.” Mama took a swig of her hellfire and waved the glass. “Here’s to apricot brandy and Yahtzee.” She put the glass down with a thump, swiped the dice from the table and threw them into the cup.

“Whoa there, Edie,” said Grandma. “You’re not used to that stuff.”

“Then I should get more used to it.” She took another gulp and laughed like I’d never heard before.

I liked this happy New Year’s Eve Mama. She smiled like one of her soap opera heroines and even sparkled when we turned out the lights for the ten second countdown to the new year. When Grandma switched on the lights at midnight, Mama was gazing at Ernest like I’d seen Daddy look at Marnie. He was looking back at her with the same starry eyes. I glanced over to see if Aunt Cissy noticed, but she was refilling Candy’s 7-up glass.

Grandma picked up her hellfire, held it aloft, and said, “Here’s to the new year and new lives.” The grownups clinked their hellfire, Candy and I clicked our 7-up and then Mama grabbed Ernest and planted a long one on his lips. My heart dropped to my gut. Ernest was Aunt Cissy’s boyfriend. Or so we thought.

The Patron Saint of Flexibility

2011-12-26T06:59:00.000-08:00

My daughter knows me so well. My Christmas gift from her this year was a page from an 1883 dictionary with a transparent image of Gumby and Pokey printed across the center of the page. Gumby has long led my cartoon cadre of patron saints, reminding me to be flexible in all things. In addition to Gumby, in my studio I keep a figure of Felix the Cat, who reminds me to be resourceful, and Rafiki who reminds me to be wise. I've been looking for a Mighty Mouse action figure to remind me that small people can do mighty things, and Sponge Bob Square Pants, to remind me to be childlike.

Happy Holidays 2011: Joy to the World

2011-12-22T14:10:00.000-08:00

How to Cook a Turkey ~ Happy Thanksgiving

2011-11-24T10:04:00.000-08:00

For your Thanksgiving enjoyment, I'm posting here a section of my novel THE SWORD SWALLOWER'S DAUGHER that has been cut from the final version. Here you'll meet my 9-year-old protagonist Sheila as she learns how to cook a turkey from her wizened old Grandma. This Grandma is so much like my own, I could name her Elsie.

~ Grandma Preps Matilda for the Thanksgiving Feast ~

Before my parents split we’d always spent Thanksgivings and holidays with my cousins at their house in the new part of town. Grandma would come with the turkey and dressing, while Mama and Aunt Terry made mashed potatoes and gravy, jello salad, green beans, sweet potatoes with miniature marshmallows browned and bubbled on top, and pies. We didn’t have just pumpkin; we had pecan and mincemeat too. Grandma made the mincemeat pie with real meat, not just fruit and nuts. Uncle Teddy and Daddy could polish off a whole mincemeat pie after eating three rounds of the Thanksgiving feast.

The Noble House Restaurant where Grandma worked as a cook was closed on Thanksgiving and Christmas. I’d never been around Grandma when she was cooking and the morning of Thanksgiving I got up early to find her wrapped in an apron with a cigarette burning in the ashtray next to a steaming cup of coffee. She turned to greet me with a kiss and then asked if I wanted a crusted crispy and some coffee.

“Eww, coffee?” I felt my face scrunch into yuckiness.

“My grandma gave me coffee. I couldn’t have been much older than you.”

“But Aunt Terry says it will put hair on my chest.”

Grandma unbuttoned the top two buttons of her housedress and pulled it open. “Do you see any hair on my chest?”

I saw the big white straps and cups of her brassiere, but no hair. I shook my head.

“Well then, how about a cup?

“If you say so.”

Grandma reached to the back of a cabinet and pulled out a tiny china cup with a matching saucer. I felt my eyes grow wide with the beauty of that little cup. It was nearly transparent, white, with pink rosebuds entwined around a pale blue ribbon. The rim was streaked with gold.

“Here’s the cup my grandma gave me. It’s a demitasse she brought with her from Ireland. I know you’ll be very careful with it.” Grandma rinsed it out, dried it and filled it half full with coffee. Then she added two spoons of sugar, stirred it with a tiny spoon dug from the back of the silverware drawer, and then topped it with cream. Grandma used real cream that the milkman left by our door every Monday.

I sat down at her red Formica table and stirred my coffee with the little spoon. My legs dangled from the chair in unison to the rhythm of my stirring. Grandma turned back to the sink, but I could tell she was watching me from the corner of her eye.

My fingers fit through the tiny handle with ease and I lifted the cup to my face. I looked into the circle of creamy brown and saw myself looking back. I smiled at myself and tipped the cup to my lips. The coffee tasted divine, almost as good as the ears of a chocolate Easter bunny. Grandma invested me in the family ritual that morning, the coffee ritual I would see enacted around the red Formica table for twenty years in real life and forever in my memory.

After my third cup of coffee, Grandma suggested I consider some orange juice because it being Thanksgiving and all, I’d need plenty of vitamin C to get me through the day. She slapped down a jelly glass with orange juice and disappeared out to the pantry room and returned with a huge white parcel.

“What’s that?” I pointed to the package.

“It’s the bird.”

I screwed up my face in a question mark. “Huh?”

Grandma unwrapped the huge white thing, then held it up by the wings and made it jiggle. “Ever seen a turkey dance?”

I laughed and giggled while Grandma returned the turkey to the sink.

“Want to give it a name?” Grandma said.

“Okay. But is it a boy or a girl?”

Grandma looked over the bird with a grin. “It’s not either one, if you ask me. So you choose.”

Then how about Matilda?”

Matilda she is. Watch this.” Grandma’s reached into Matilda’s rump, her arm disappeared nearly to her elbow and then pulled out a sack of bloody looking stuff.

“Yuck!” I jumped back as if the bloody stuff were alive.

“What do you mean, ‘yuck.’ This is the best part. It’s the giblets. The liver, heart, and gizzard.

I wrinkled my nose. “Double yuck.”

“Then I suppose you don’t want to do the neck?”

“There’s no neck on that bird.”

“It’s tucked away. Wanna dig for it?”

“Where?”

Grandma pointed to the caved-in area where the neck should’ve been and then pulled up a flap of pimply skin. “Just reach in here.”

I had to stand on my tip-toes to get to the bird. I ran my hand around the rim of the neck-hole to make sure it was safe, as if the bird’s gaping hollow had teeth. Easing my hand into the cold, slimy hollow, my hand caught on something soft and hard. Sliding my hand up and down the object, I encircled my fingers around the thing and pulled. The thing came free and I dropped it into the sink like it was a poisonous snake.

“There, that wasn’t so yucky was it?

“No, it was icky and yucky.” I stuck out my tongue and gagged. “So what’re you going to do with this stuff?”

Grandma pulled out a saucepan, tossed in the giblets and neck, filled it with water and set it burning on the stove. “I boil them down for the broth and then cut up the giblets and pull the meat from the neck bones for the dressing.”

“Sounds so icky, but it tastes so good.”

Grandma moved back to the bird lying naked in the sink. You want to pop some feather buds?

“Huh?”

“Huh? Is that all you can answer when you don’t know something? I sure would like it if you said, ‘What, Grandma?’”

My friend Jenny back in Santa Ana had to say “sir” and “mam” to grown-ups because her daddy was a Marine and had been in Viet Nam. I guessed that I’d been corrected kind of like Jenny was, but Grandma’s voice was a lot nicer about it than Jenny’s dad had been.

“What, Grandma?”

“That’s better. That’s how a girl drinking from a china cup would answer.”

More than anything at that moment I wanted to be that girl. I wanted to say, ‘Yes, Grandma, I’d like some coffee this morning,’ every day of my life.

Grandma pulled me up a stool and together we popped the feather buds. This was the funnest part of turkey making. The turkey skin was slick, not slimy, with pock holes where feathers had been. The feather buds were easy to find because they were swollen up kind of like a pimple and had a hard, white thing in them. Some of the feather buds actually had the tiniest spray of white blooming from the end of the shaft. Grandma showed me how to use my thumbs to pop out the feather buds, saying I’d probably use the same technique to pop blackheads on my face in a couple of years.

We finished popping the feather buds while my mind imagined huge swellings on my face with black buds sticking out, rather than the white ones on the turkey.

Grandma washed off the bird and patted it dry, then lifted it from the sink and set in inside an enormous blue and white speckled roasting pan.

“Now we have to season old Matilda. This is what turns a plain, old turkey into a well dressed bird.” Grandma chopped up a handful of garlic cloves and cooked them in a square of butter. Then she poured the garlic butter over Matilda and rubbed it all over her wings and legs and chest. Next she sprinkled salt straight from the pour spout of the carton, her wrist moving so fast the salt flung high into the air and settled on the bird. Next she grabbed her long wooden pepper grinder and dusted the bird with black speckles. She pulled bottles of spices from the cabinet and lined them on the counter and then took one at a time and sprinkled them in succession, saying their names as she went.

“Sage. A good sprinkling of sage; it’s the number one poultry seasoning. Now for some thyme.”

“How long do we cook it?”

"Not t-i-m-e, as with a clock, but t-h-y-m-e, an herb.”

“Ah ha. T-H-Y-M-E.” Delighted at the lesson, spelling was one of my academic achievements.

“Then you’re going to toss on some marjoram, some finely ground rosemary—not the leafy kind—if you can’t find the powdered kind, you’ll have to grind it up in one of these. Grandma pulled out a small jar with a stick in it. “This is my mortar and pestle. I look kind of like a witch using this, don’t I?”

Really she did. Her long gray-streaked hair that was usually wound in a sleeping snake on her head now crawled down her back in a huge braid. Her apron had crept above the hump of her big tummy and hung loose in the back. I’d seldom seen her without make-up and her wrinkly skin was dotted with brown spots. That she was fixing up a huge bird the size of a small child did little to wipe away the image.

“Finally, add a light dusting of nutmeg. Not a lot; just enough for a bit of sweetness to the skin.”

Grandma stood back and swept her arm across the bird. “Sheila, meet Matilda; our Thanksgiving feast.” Grandma put a cover over Matilda and shoved her in the oven.

“Let’s take a bit of a break, shall we?” Grandma poured herself a fresh cup of coffee and looked at me with narrowed eyes. “Do you feel like jumping out of your skin?”

My eyes flew open. “Huh? I mean, what, Grandma?”

“How about one more cup of coffee, Sheila?” Grandma made me a fresh cup of coffee, plopped herself into a chair and lit a cigarette.

My eyes followed the cigarette to her mouth.

“No cigarettes, Sheila. Coffee’s okay. It’s good. But don’t ever do this to yourself.”

“Then how come you do?”

“Honey, if I could stop, I would. These things have me by the throat. Don’t ever let anything—or anyone—own you like these cigarettes own me.

A gray spiral of smoke climbed through the air as Grandma drew the cigarette to her lips. She drew in a huge puff, waited a moment and then exhaled the gray plume above her head.

“How about a quick game of Yahtzee before everyone wakes up? We’ll use my quiet cup.”

Seemed Grandma had a cup for everything.

.

RIP Steve Jobs

2011-10-05T17:03:00.000-07:00

On the Apple.com website October 5, 2011.

Contentment in the Woods

2011-08-15T08:15:00.000-07:00

While lying in the sand and staring at the waves yesterday from the shore of North Carolina's Atlantic Beach, I was swept with nostalgia for my old oceanfront digs in California's Newport and Laguna; even our high-rise apartment in Japan had an ocean view.

Then I moved here, to the middle of a woods, three hours from the coast. After the beach bliss of yesterday, contentment settled on me when I looked out at my trees and flowers this morning. I no longer have dolphins in my view, but deer; no more seagulls, but cardinals and woodpeckers; instead of feral cats, I have squirrels. Life is good here in the North of Carolina.

Rocking on the Fourth

2011-07-04T06:26:00.000-07:00

Just as televised news brought the Vietnam War into the living rooms of America, social media has brought the struggle of the world's freedom fighters before my eyes and into my heart. I ache for my global village neighbors whose voice is censored, whose worship is dictated, whose children die in the streets for the type of freedom Americans take for granted.

On this 235th anniversary of the day America declared its independence, I'm grateful for the First Amendment, which guarantees me and all of the people (note in text below, the choice of the word "people" rather than "citizens") the freedom to publish this blog, to worship (or not) the God of my choice, to reach out to my governmental leaders with my concerns.

We've come so far since this was written, and we have far yet to go, but this First Amendment to our Bill of Rights gives us the freedom to seek the changes we believe are important to a strong and compassionate co-existence.

"Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances."

Saying Goodbye Isn't Forever

2010-11-19T15:03:00.000-08:00

One hundred years ago it would have been a final goodbye, crossing the continent to a new home three thousand miles away. I've left the land of my birth, the houses where I grew up and raised my children, the streets on which I cruised and crashed and went from here to there, the graves in which my mother and sister lay side by side, even the ocean across which I flung the ashes of my father. Though he lives, I've left my son in a place of his own I've yet to see.

Today BassMan and I embarked on a new journey. We're headed to North Carolina, to a new home yet unchosen, just the two of us. With two dogs in the car, we're driving very far (nod to Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young with that reappropriated line.) We did this kind of journey shortly after our marriage 24 years ago, but we knew our stay in Japan would be temporary--a three-year stretch for his military career. I was pregnant with my first child when we stepped off the plane in Osaka and took the bullet train down to the little Japanese hamlet where I'd give birth seven weeks later. We blinked a few times and baby number two made his appearance. Another blink and the duty in Japan was over and we were back home in California.

Or I was. BassMan's home wasn't California. He returned there because of me. Because we thought we would be taking custody of my departed sister's son. Much to our disappointment, Jacob wound up with his dad and we began a 20-year residency in the land of my birth. BassMan endured it for me, while all the while his heart was in Carolina.

The state of California's economic woes precipitated our move east. When BassMan's job was eliminated by the city for which he worked, he sought employment near and far, but far won out. In these days of bankruptcy, foreclosures, long-term unemployment, we were grateful he was offered a position with a company within a month of his layoff. He was even offered a choice of six locations. None of them nearby. One of them, however, was somewhat near his aging parents and my remaining sister. The choice was easy, but enacting the choice was hard.

Our house sold in three days to the first couple who viewed it. We packed up and pulled out of the driveway barely a month after the house went on the market. With no house to go to, we'll stay with my sister until we find a new place to call home. Writing this reminds me of a needlework plaque we got for a wedding present from one of BassMan's relatives: "No matter what, no matter where, it's always home, when love is there." I know we have the love to make a new home anywhere the road takes us.

I'm already missing my son. He's fully grown, a man in his own right, and yet this kind of missing is so different than what I feel for our daughter who moved away to attend grad school in Washington, DC. She went on her own, for reasons of adventure and learning and cultural enrichment. There is a part of me that feels we've pushed him from the nest with this move and there's a good bit of (s)mothering wonder about whether he was ready. Like any good purpose, we'll have to wait and see.

Still, it's not like it was a hundred years ago when trains took weeks to go from east to west and cost prohibitive amounts of money. Saying goodbye isn't forever any more.

A Father's Day Retrospective

2010-06-22T10:52:00.000-07:00

Two days past Father's Day and I'm now ready to write about it. My parents divorced when I was seven and my father lapsed back into the scalawag life he'd known before marrying my mother. She was supposed to be his savior, the one who'd keep him on the straight and narrow while he morphed into a husband and father. It worked for a few years, but his wandering eye caught another and he slipped back into his old ways.

Did I mention that among his many talents--and yes, he was quite talented--he could swallow swords and other long, sharp objects. After my mom packed up her two daughters, my dad hitched up with a circus in Hawaii and left us with my uncle and aunt. When the circus tent folded, he came home, begged my mom back and my younger sister Angela resulted.

My novel in progress, The Sword Swallower's Daughter, began as a love story about a daughter lamenting the loss of a father who bailed out of her life when she was seven. Sound familiar? The first version received adulation from agents who praised my writing, but wouldn't make an offer of representation. The story was just too soft for the edgy title. I let the novel sit for a year, then picked it up again last January and hacked out the gooey sections. In their place are new scenes, a protagonist who grows through the story with flashbacks that reveal a horrifying secret she's kept to herself for 30 years. The original version contained a lot of both my dad and myself in the characters. The new version is still much of him, but nothing of me. The protagonist in this story is scarred from something far worse than her father's disappearance from her life.

Here is the intro to the first chapter of the original version. It's still there, but it's no longer the opening paragraph. I love this section for how it truly describes the daddy I once had.

Other fathers looked like Ward Cleaver in suits with white shirts and skinny ties and drove huge cars with bulging bumpers to work in offices or stores. They took their wives out for dinner on Saturday nights and left the kids home with babysitters to watch TV and eat pizza. My father was Italian and had an eagle tattooed across his chest and a pierced ear. He drove a 650 cc Triumph Bonneville motorcycle to work at an Esso service station and went out nearly every night without my mom. Some kids went to the Colorado River and water-skied on weekends; my sisters and I hung out at the beach where Daddy entertained beach-goers with his sword swallowing act. When I think of my daddy, I remember him like this.

You can read a bit more of that opening on my author's website at www.carolynburnsbass.com/fiction.

So anyway. Father's day 2010 is behind us. It lingers in my heart always. What about you?

Travel With Me On A Mother's Day Blog Tour

2010-05-04T05:45:00.000-07:00

Welcome to the Twitter Chats Blog Tour, organized by Mariana N. Blaser at mariblaser’s randomities and Anne Tyler Lord at Don’t Fence Me In. Today's theme is Mother's Day.

You will be directed to your next stop at the end of this post. Please feel welcome here, and have a happy Mother's Day!

~~~~~~~

I’m sitting on an airplane enroute to Lisbon as I write about my mother. She’s been gone nearly seven years and I can still remember her face when she stepped from the jetway in Tokyo the year she came to visit me. She had never been out of the country and her excitement overwhelmed the jetlag from the 14-hour flight from Los Angeles.

My mother loved to travel. Did we go places much when I was growing up? Not really. We took one vacation during my childhood years, a road trip to Texas to visit the family of my new stepfather. Travel was something other people did, something she longed to do, but never had the funds or the freedom to enjoy. As the daughter of a railroad man, she’d hung out at train depots growing up and rode the rails from her home in Iowa to California when she was a young girl. She fell in love with California on that trip and decided she’d live there one day.

Coming of age in the post-WWII era, my mother was a victim of choices—her own and those thrust upon her from parental expectations. In her churchy Midwestern world, after high school the rich girls went to Europe, the smart girls went to college and the good girls got married. My mother was neither rich nor scholastically inclined, so she graduated high school and got married. She scandalized the town two years later when she filed for divorce, packed up her few belongings and headed to California.

Ten years later she was in a disastrous marriage to my father with three young girls and a piano. Three things got her through those years, that piano, her singing and her love of travel. Music took her places where planes, trains and automobiles couldn’t go. I remember her playing and singing pop songs that are now standards like, “Fly Me to the Moon,” “How Are Things in Glocca Morra,” “I Left My Heart in San Francisco,” and “Somewhere My Love.” Music was the vehicle that transported her beyond the overdue rent, broken down car, and holey underwear.

I’ve drawn much from my mother and father in The Sword Swallower's Daughter, the novel I’m currently revising. Here’s an excerpt that captures the transformation that occurred within my mother when she sat down at the piano:

”We returned from school that day to the sound of her pounding out “Clar de Lune” on the piano. Mama’s piano playing was a barometer to her moods. When she played and sang sad love songs, she was irritable. When she played upbeat show tunes, we pretended we were the Lennon Sisters and joined in fun rounds of musical togetherness. Sometimes she played hymns, especially for wicked Uncle Teddy, who insisted she sing “How Great Thou Art” every time he saw her. But when she played from her big, brown classical music book, she channeled the tension of her life into the music, because when she closed the piano lid and stepped away, her face was smooth and her voice as soft as a soap opera star.”

Had my mother been raised in a family that dared to dream, she might have considered a career in music. Had she believed in herself, she might have listened to those in California who suggested she sing jingles for commercials, background vocals in Hollywood studios, even piano bar at one of the posh nightclubs of the day. As talented as she was, as much as she loved to sing, she simply had no confidence in herself. She didn’t dream of being famous, of stepping in and out of limos in exotic locations, her dreams were simple exhaustion borne of just getting by.

You’d think that this musical legacy may have led me into music. Sadly, we had no money for music lessons, or even renting a cheap student instrument during elementary school years. My mother, so broken from her past, didn’t have the confidence to teach any of her three daughters to play piano. I taught myself to read a melody line with my right hand and chord with my left hand. Sing? That gift skipped a generation, landing squarely in the voices of my two children. Elisabeth, who has perfect pitch and reveled in her piano lessons until 12^th grade, has no time for the gift right now while she works through grad school as an English major. Jonathan, who was born with a song in his heart, delights me with spontaneous songs emanating from the shower, across the house, from the stage of his college choir. But travel? They’ve got that bug, and good. But what do you expect from children born in a foreign country, whose passports were issued before birth certificates?

In 1989 my mother took her only trip out of the country to be with me for the birth of my son in Tokyo. As a teenager during WWII, she’d struggled with prejudices against the fearsome Japanese she heard about in newsreels and newspapers. Upon his return from the war in Japan her brother gave her a tiny gold ring he’d removed from the finger of a dead Japanese solder. I’d always felt that ring had bad juju and when we began planning her trip, I suggested she bring the ring back with her and we’d present it to the Japanese military commander on the base nearby. She agreed and we were both thrilled with this restorative action. Bad juju passed into other hands though, as her jewelry box with that ring and other family treasures were stolen during a home robbery only weeks before she was to leave on her trip.

I’ve often said that a visit to Hiroshima’s Peace Park and the A-Bomb Museum there should be a pilgrimage of every human being sometime in their life time (along with Auschwitz). We took my mother to Peace Park, where she was both horrified and healed. The destruction and human drama that was Hiroshima seared her mind like the images the nuclear blast put on the walls of the city. Yet her interaction with the friendly, helpful, humble Japanese people healed the prejudice she’d long harbored.

When she got sick from the cancer that claimed her life, she and I had been dreaming up a trip to England. She wasn’t able to take it, but I did it for her. I wrote about that trip in Ghosts of the Windswept Moors.

And so it is that she loved to travel. I always take a part of her when I go.

~~~~~~~

Thanks for stopping by! Your next stop for the Mother's Day Twitter Chats Blog Tour is Marisa Birns of Out Of Order Alice: http://www.marisabirns.com/2010/05/mothers-day-twitter-chats-blog-tour.html -- @marisabirns

The complete list of participants can be found at the host's blogs: Mariana N. Blaser and Anne Tyler Lord.

Life is a Novel You Write One Breath at a Time

2010-01-02T09:20:00.000-08:00

Life is a novel you write one breath at a time. Although you don't choose each breath as intentionally as an author selects words to progress a character's story, each breath completes a moment that propels you toward the plot of your life.

Your life's plot is the purpose and intentions that carry you through each day. Here are some common genres found in literature that may help you determine the plot of your life:

Mystery: What clues have you uncovered that hints at your life's purpose?
Adventure: Do you have a map and compass for future exploration, or do you draw only from adventures in the past?
Romance: Romantics live for expressions of love and see beauty in common things and events.
Thriller: Do you live on the edge, surrounded by intrigue, dark forces and spine-tingling suspense?
Paranormal: Shades of things that go bump in the night, of fangs, and shadows, and eerie echoes from the otherworld are normal in your world.
Comedy: The difference between your life and a tragedy is your point of view. Do you hide behind humor or just can't help laughing through adversity.
Science Fiction: You know you were born in the wrong century and are still hoping jet-packs replace motorcycles and cancer is a thing of the past.
Fantasy: The realm of magic with wizards, dragons, fairies, elves, unicorns and other mystical creatures of classical or contemporary design fills your imagination.
Bestseller: You've taken elements from all the above and with smart choices, resourcefulness and perseverance, your life is exciting and you can't wait to breathe through another chapter.

Imagine your life as a novel. In what genre(s) do you live?

Happy New Year: 2010

2010-01-02T09:05:00.000-08:00

New Year's Day places a date on the calendar when we can turn the page on the past and write the first letter of the future. (Thought of the Season)

Question of the Week: Who is YOUR worst enemy?

2009-10-26T07:17:00.000-07:00

A wise possum once said, "We have met the enemy and he is us." (Pogo, by Walt Kelly, 1970)

What do doors have to do with enemies? Do they protect? They can be locked, they can be propped open, they can swing back and forth with no recoil. Are they barriers? Often. From what? Ourselves.

I'm talking again about the metaphorical door. In this case, the gateway or barrier to your dreams, to my dreams. Some may recall this post from October 16, where I copied a Facebook exchange opening with this question:

Carolyn Burns Bass Now that I have a door on my studio, dare I close it?

October 13 at 10:39am

Here’s what one friend replied:

Sharon Kae Reamer

Are you asking for permission? The answer is YES.

This is what my sister replied:

Robin Richardson

I double-dog-dare YOU!!!

My door is closed as I write this post. With a busy day ahead, I knew I needed the solitude from my DH in order to accomplish my goals. Before I closed the door, I let him know he was loved, that he could interrupt if necessary, and that he’d see me again today. (One of his fears is that I will disappear behind the closed door.)

A cup of coffee sits next to my computer, my dogs are curled in their places (Tank, always near my feet; Buck curled on the sofa). The window blinds are open, giving me a peek at the street outside. We had Santa Ana winds yesterday and the lawn is scattered with the debris from other people’s lives.

The debris of other people’s lives. Even as I typed that line, I realized this is what we writers crave. It’s the stuff of story. Sometimes fictionists base their tales on the debris of real people’s lives, but most of the time we draw from our imagination. Something we see takes root in our mind, it takes root and grows, and if tended, flourishes on a written page.

My mind is an unkempt garden of untended stories. That’s the truth. Story ideas have blown into my mind, rooted and dried up for lack of care. Left behind is a wretched tangle of aging stumps and shrubs choked by brittle vines. I let this happen by neglect.

Neglect happens in a writer’s life when they allow things to get in the way of their success. Every writer dreams of being published, of having his/her stories read and appreciated by the public. Success seems so far off—a place outside the door that they can glimpse out the window. Success, I’ve learned, isn’t an ultimate goal, but a process in achieving a dream. A dream must be broken down into goals. Achievable, realistic goals. For the beginning writer, or like me, the jaded writer, success is finishing something you’ve started.

In his book The War of Art, Steven Pressfield talks about the enemy of creativity. He calls it Resistance with a capital R. Resistance is a shapeshifter. It morphs into that thing that is most likely to detour your journey. Some of the most pernicious shapes of Resistance I’ve encountered include the following:

FAMILY. I allowed my children’s lives to distract me from finishing many writing ideas that rooted in my mind. I was a doting mom, but not a smothering one. I read to my kids, wrote stories about them in scrapbooks, went to concerts and sporting events, piano lessons, orthodontist appointments, all things I used to keep me from making a ritual for my own self-improvement through creative expression.

INSPIRATION may be the most fickle of the Resistances. Writing happens by sitting down and doing it, not by waiting for some metaphysical feeling to overwhelm and channel golden words through your fingers. I’ve experienced the discovery, the thrill, the passion that occurs when I’m in a productive writing zone and for years I thought it came before I sat down to write, as if the feeling of the zone was inspiration itself. Many wasted years later I realized the feeling of the zone comes from doing it. It’s like a surfer waiting for the sensation of the ride to happen while they sit on the sand watching the waves.

MONEY. Lack of it or excess of it. Lack of it often forces one into professions that suck out the creativity, while excess of it can numb the imagination. I’ve been hungry enough to hustle words for pay, but not so hungry that I’ve tended the most nutritious ideas that rooted in my brain. One of my friends has three autistic daughters and still manages to write an impressive blog and website for Autism, in addition to a memoir and a novel. (Kudos to Kim Stagliano.)

ROOM. Not having a place to write is another shape of Resistance. Virginia Woolf in her essay, “A Room of One’s Own,” claimed it took a room of one’s own (and money) to write fiction seriously. I had a room, but no door on my room, thereby giving me another excuse for Resistance to defeat me. See this post from October 15.

WORK. Professions other than fulltime writer are another face of Resistance. When one is busy making bread for the family, it’s hard to tend the garden of creativity. Although my DH provides well for our family, my workaholic nature has drawn me into a business that is enjoyable enough that I’m not pining to quit, yet demanding enough time that I can’t devote myself to fulltime writing.

The list goes on. Sharon’s response to my query about closing my door pushed a button that revealed the Generalissimo of Resistance in my life: Permission. All of the excuses named above are minor troops in the war against my art. I can give my excuses names, like those listed above, but it all boils down to this: I am my own worst enemy. The writers I know who have been published, who continue to be published, don’t let the above list of enemies trample through their creative garden. Like Pressfield says in The War of Art, the professional sits down to write. Every day. It’s a ritual. It’s a practice. It’s becomes a way of life.

Reflecting back on the words of Pogo the wise, I’ve met the enemy, and she is me. I could go on about reasons why I don’t give myself permission to succeed. I have enough self-sludge to fill a tanker. I took Robin’s dare; gave myself permission to close the door. I wrote this. Now I’m moving on to another writing project near to the center of my purpose. More about that another time.

Who is YOUR worst enemy?

Question of the Week: What doors have opened or closed in your life?

2009-10-19T11:12:00.000-07:00

Drawing from the Facebook Exchange in last week's post:

Carolyn Burns BassNow that I have a door on my studio, dare I close it?

October 13 at 10:39am

If you’re on the outside of the door, does that make you an outsider? I’ve learned through the years that most people feel like an outsider at some time in his or her life. It begins early, this feeling of alienation. It’s rare that a person can point to a single incident that closed the door to a place of desire or belonging. Some people block—whether practiced or unconsciously—disturbing or hurtful experiences. Not me. Although I have difficulty remembering what happened yesterday, I can remember events from the past with vivid detail.

I’m standing in a circle of girls. Denise Messenger (not her real name) is holding court during lunch break at De Anza Junior High. Denise is tall and shapely, with none of the awkward angles and stuttered gestures so prevalent among girls of this age. She has long, straight hair; smooth, creamy skin, and perfect teeth. Beside me is Rena Floyd, my best friend and savior from obscurity. Even though Rena is one of the most popular girls of the seventh grade, we wouldn’t be standing in this circle of perfection if she were not going out with Denise’s brother, Dickie.

The conversation is about clothes and what looks good on whom. Typical feline gossip. These were the early 1970s, when girls were required to wear dresses to school. Those who remember the 1970s will also recall the era of the micro-mini skirt. Even though we were required to wear dresses or skirts, there was no skirt length measurement in the policy.

Rena’s wearing one of the adorable dresses she made herself. Her mother works in the fabric department at White Front department store and gets cut-rate prices on all of the hip patterns and cool fabrics. She has a terrific eye for color and texture harmony and her creations could pass for designer knock-offs. Her peasant dress with its cinched waist and blousy top accentuates her budding figure in all the right places.

Denise is wearing a body-hugging knit top that enhances her shapely bosom, along with a hip-hugging mini-skirt cut half-way between her knee and hip. Both Rena and Denise, in fact all of the other girls in the circle, are wearing panty hose in the color “cinnamon,” and nearly identical Thom McAnn shoes with high, flared heels.

Everyone except for me. I am a 4'9" gnome next to willowy Denise Messenger. I’m wearing one of my sister’s old hand-me-downs, which was a hand-me-down from my cousin Pam. It’s been washed so many times the color resembles nothing red, run with everything gray. I call the color “dreg.” It hangs just over my knee in what my stepfather calls a “respectable” length. My shoes are black, low-heeled slip-ons from the children’s department at Kmart, not Thom McAnn at the Montclair Plaza. Even though I could wear a size four in women’s, my mother wouldn’t buy me higher heels because she said I was too small for them. And in these shoes are not legs frosted with cinnamon pantyhose, but cable knit knee-high socks. My mother’s rule was no pantyhose until the age of 14.

Back to the circle of girls. Denise is pontificating about what she calls “feminine” and points to Rena as an example of seventh grade fashion divinity. “Like her.” Then her eyes narrow on me. “Not her.” My cheeks begin burning and I drop my gaze to the ground. “Where did you get those glasses, anyway?” she asks, pointing to my cat’s eye glasses that went out of style about five years ago.

A door closed, but another door began to open that day. Denise was right in the exterior assessment of my physical appearance. I was bumbley, bland and blind. The heels wouldn’t have anointed me with grace, the cinnamon pantyhose wouldn’t have spiced up my personality, and a sparkling pair of wire-framed glasses wouldn’t have improved my vision. The door that began creaking open that day took several years to widen enough for me to walk through.

The first thing I glimpsed in the crack of that door was freedom to develop my own style despite the trends and fads. In high school I was making some babysitting money and could buy my own clothes. I sewed dozens of cute little tops and wore them with Levi 501s, flip-flops, moccasins, or “earth shoes.” By college, I was back into dresses, mostly sundresses I made with bright, light-weight fabrics and platform sandals. Career days found me back in high heels, stilettos paired with skirts and blazers. Eventually I understood and was able to share with my daughter that it’s not what you wear that defines you, it’s what you project from the inside. I tried to teach my daughter to stand up to queen bees like Denise, and applauded when she did. These days I lounge around in my PJs while I write each morning, then transition into comfy clothes that serve the task at hand.

It wasn’t until I’d walked completely through that door and looked back that I realized the most important truth from that day. No one is dealt a perfect hand in the game of life. Not Denise Messenger, not Rena Floyd. Some people may begin with better hands leading to more choices, while others begin with a great hand and make disastrous choices. I was dealt a crappy hand, but I had all five cards and the freedom to play them well. I’ve won a few and lost a few, but it’s my game. I have no idea how Denise Messenger played her cards, but I know Rena Floyd Hutchins has a lively hand. She’s still stitching lovely designs in her own embroidery business, has been married for 29 years to the same man, has four grown and married (or nearly so) kids and several grandchildren.

A final glimpse back to that awkward moment in junior high shows me how some people become who they are because of where they’ve been, while others, like me, become who they are in spite of where they’ve been.

What events or experiences have opened or closed doors in your life and how did they contribute to who you are today?

A Short Exchange About Doors

2009-10-16T08:21:00.000-07:00

Facebook may be passé in ten years (maybe less), but for now it's a virtual pub for the global village. While contemplating my recent fixation on doors, I posted a question in my Facebook status and received this lively exchange:

Carolyn Burns Bass Now that I have a door on my studio, do I dare close it?

Tue at 10:39am

Catherine DiCairano

And lock it!

Tue at 10:51am

Ej Knapp

Better not, you might get trapped in there.

Tue at 11:04am

Sharon Kae Reamer

Are you asking for permission? The answer is YES.

Tue at 11:17am

Audrey Cole

I have found that a bad attitude works just as well as a closed door. :-)

Tue at 11:31am ·

Paula Hughes

that depends on whether you're on the inside or the outside.

Tue at 11:59am ·

Robin Richardson

I double-dog-dare YOU!!!

Tue at 12:02pm

Carolyn Burns Bass

I'm working on a blog post about my door. You know Virginia Woolf's famous essay, A Room of One's Own? I've had the room, but it didn't have a door. It was a thoroughfare from one side of the house to the other. The door is so tempting.

Tue at 12:16pm

Mary Compo Cabral

Close it now! Close if fast before you lose your resolve.

Tue at 5:37pm

Pamela Marshall

But is it really about closing it or having the choice to .... if you so chose?

Tue at 9:00pm

Richard Cooper

Don't open it until you've had a satisfactory number of words produced each day.

Tue at 10:02pm

Each person contributed a valid point to this little exchange about doors. We'll explore these points and others here in Ovations over the next few weeks.

A Door of My Own

2009-10-15T09:57:00.000-07:00

I’ve observed a fly trapped inside the open-slat mini-blinds of my window now for hours. It flies up and down, walks across, buzzes crazily, flies forward and smacks into a blind, returns to the window pane. How like us, trapped between two worlds, not perceiving the doors open to us. The world outside the glass, the world on the other side of the door. We see out the glass to another world, yet the world to which we have access is a route to the other world. We must go through the route available to get to the place we see outside the window. The world is there. It’s available for us to enjoy. Getting there is the adventure.

Doors have been on my mind for the last few months. It began when my firstborn and only daughter accepted an offer to attend a five-year Master’s to PhD program at George Washington University. Elisabeth lived on campus during the four years of her undergrad studies at a university only a half-hour from our home. We saw her frequently and she slept in the bedroom she’d decorated and redecorated since she was six years old. When she packed up her belongings for the move to D.C., she pulled every poster, photo, sticker and cartoon from the walls and stripped the shelves of books, knickknacks, and picture frames. What she didn’t want to take to her new life, she donated to a local thrift shop. The only things she left in the room were bare furniture and a few stains on the carpet.

My preoccupation with doors actually began in 1993 when we moved into this house. We fell in love with the huge room addition that the original owners used as a family room and a game room, plus the house had a bonus room that had been a third-car garage option. My studio would be in the bonus room, a spacious retreat with a large picture window facing the street. The room had a lovely, natural wood, French-paned door.

Many people have real estate horror stories and here’s ours. During the time we made the offer on the house to when the escrow closed for final sale, the original owners took weekends away at the Colorado River and left their male Rottweiler closed in the bonus room with water and food. It doesn’t take a lot to imagine what a Rottweiler trapped in a room for two days can do to the walls and carpet. The stench was unbelievable. After dragging out the carpet, we bleached and deodorized the cement slab. The cedar wainscoting, stained and reeking from the male dog leg-lift, came down to reveal even the drywall had seeped up the stinking slime and had to be replaced. The room would simply not be ready for human occupancy by the time we moved in. Hence, my studio—computer, drafting table, bookshelves and cabinets—was set-up in the game room that faced the family room.

This turned out to be the ideal setting for a work at home mom. With a four-year-old boy and six-year-old girl that needed watched and guided, I found the situation contributed to my productivity and kept them occupied. They had their play area and craft table just over the oak railing from my studio, and the TV was right there. That’s right. The TV. The one-eyed babysitter and great distractor of multiple generations.

In all fairness, my studio really did have doors. A set of French doors separated it from the dining room. It was a large area where the original owners had a pool table and juke box. Yet, my studio was separated from the family room by a low, oak railing. A sliding glass door led to the backyard from the family room and a door on the opposite wall of the family room led to the garage. Even if I closed the French doors, someone would inevitably need something from the family room or access to the garage. My studio was open to a thoroughfare from one side of the house to the other.

In those days BassMan had regular work hours. He left the house at 6:30 a.m., returned around 5 p.m. When both of the children were in school fulltime, I worked without interruption most of the day. Summers were a bit of a challenge, but we set schedules around my work and the kids’ activities and playtime. I had several graphic design clients during this time, one of which drew me into the travel industry. Most of my writing then was for regional publications; food and family topics generated from my center of purpose. I had started and stopped several novels during this time, allowing the busyness of the house around me to distract from my concentration.

BassMan’s schedule changed in 2000. He moved to the evening crime-time shift: 6 p.m. to 2 a.m. I no longer had the seclusion of time during the day. My adaptation came by putting the kids on the school bus at 7:15 a.m., then writing like a woman afraid she’d run out of words until BassMan awoke around 9:30. Two hours of silence every morning were enough for me to write my first novel in nine months.

Now that Elisabeth has her own apartment across the continent, we’ve shuffled rooms. The object was to put me and all of my mess in the bonus room as originally planned. After it was thoroughly cleansed, BassMan had set-up camp in the bonus room. He refreshed Elisabeth’s former bedroom and moved over his desk and Marine Corps memorabilia. I began a renovation of the bonus room that was only supposed to be a coat of paint, but you know how redecorating often turns into a story of its own. Last weekend I moved into my studio and for a day it was spotless. The desk and credenza gleamed, the bookshelves didn’t sag. Life comes with stuff. Stuff needs a place. Places fill up with the stuff of life. It’s already happening in my new studio.

So you see, I really have nothing to complain about. I’ve had the room which Virginia Woolf said was so necessary for a woman who wanted to write fiction. BassMan pulls in a good salary and my side work has evolved into a profitable meeting and travel consultancy. What I’ve craved is a door to close for creative privacy. As I write this, it occurs to me: What purpose will the door serve? To shield me from household distractions, or a barrier that traps me inside?

Remembering the Fallen: 9/11

2009-09-11T08:26:00.000-07:00

Literary Digs in South Beach at The Betsy

2009-05-24T04:59:00.000-07:00

I just spent two wonderful days at the Betsy Hotel in South Beach. The Betsy sits on Ocean Drive across from Lummus Park in the Art Deco district. Recently renovated from the ground up, the Betsy is a historic property listed in the Florida’s State Registry of Historic Places. The pure white colonial facade of the Betsy shimmers among the crowd of art deco designs along Ocean Drive. Awnings and sidewalk umbrellas shade the street-side dining of celebrity chef Laurent Tourondel’s BLT Steak, where locals and guests dine on Angus beef and other culinary confections.

Ordinarily, I wouldn't gush about a hotel in this blog, I'd save it for my travel blog. But the Betsy is more than a hotel. It's a community in the making.

My room wasn't quite ready when I checked-in early at the Betsy. While I waited, account manager Livingston Alexander took me around the hotel and shared a bit about the philosophy of the hotel. The Betsy hopes to be more than just another place on the strip with rooms, beds and showers. Drawing from the legacy of historic hospitality, the Betsy aims to be a true public house, where locals mingle with guests for conversation, celebration, and cultural exchange.

This philosophy shows in the art that lines the interior walls. Currently on exhibit are photographs by renowned photographers Bobby Sager, Richard Bluestein, and a collection of prints from the Rockarchive. Large and luminous, the photos reflect the commitment the Betsy has with arts and literature. The Betsy welcomes non-guests to stroll through the hotel’s public areas to view the photographs.

Livingston walked me to my room on the second floor and showed me around. Most hotels of this class come with a mini-bar stocked with beverages and priced for profit. But how many hotels stock the bookshelves in the guest rooms with first-edition bestsellers? I went ga-ga when I saw this. He hinted at a writer in residence program under development.

Tingling with the thrill of a writer in residence program at this beautiful place, the next day I met with Deborah Briggs, whose title of VP Marketing and Philanthropy says it all. The EdD at the end of her signature reveals even more about her and alludes to the amazing legacy taking root in South Beach. Deborah is the daughter of the late Hyam Plutzik, a poet nominated for the Pulitzer shortly before his untimely death in 1962. She is a diva of ideas and is as passionate about education as she is about the arts and sees the Betsy as a place where ideas prosper with practice, life embraces art, and hospitality extends beyond the check-out date.

Deborah and I dined on Lincoln Avenue, at Da Leo Trattoria, the oldest Italian Restaurant in South Beach, where we talked about writing, art, music, our families, and our dogs. In between these topics, Deborah shared more about the philanthropic plans for the Betsy, which include the creation of a writer’s room at the Betsy and a writer in residence program to help writers birth literary projects. To commemorate Veteran's Day in November, the Betsy is bringing the Lennon Bus to South Beach for a school and community-wide tribute and educational outreach.

I promised to keep in touch with Deborah and herald news of the Betsy’s innovative ideas and philanthropic endeavors. The writer in residence program may not be fully operational as yet, but that didn’t keep me from writing while residing at the Betsy.

Clar de Lune, Susan Boyle and My Mother

2009-05-10T06:57:00.000-07:00

My novel, THE SWORD SWALLOWER'S DAUGHTER, yes, the one I'm still revising, draws much from my childhood. My father really was a sword swallower and my mother was a closet chanteuse who played piano and sang with a voice that rivaled the divas of her day. In fact, when I hear Susan Boyle, I think of my mother. She had that kind of voice, but zero confidence.

The photo at right is my mother playing and singing with my younger sister, Angie, who inherited Mom's voice and musical abilities. Sadly, Angie passed away from melanoma in 1990 at the age of 29. My mother has been gone since 2003.

Some of my fondest memories of my mother are when she played piano and sang. My Mother's Day tribute this year is a short excerpt from THE SWORD SWALLOWER'S DAUGHTER, all of which is true to the point of memoir, rather than fiction.

Enjoy.

We returned from school that day to the sound of Mama pounding out “Clar de
Lune” on the piano. Mama’s piano playing was a barometer to her moods. When she
played and sang sad love songs, she was irritable. When she played upbeat show
tunes, we pretended we were the Lennon Sisters and joined in for fun rounds of
musical togetherness. Sometimes she played hymns, especially for Uncle Teddy,
who insisted she sing “How Great Thou Art” every time he saw her. But when she
played from her big, brown classical music book, she channeled the tension of
her life into the music, because when she closed the piano lid and stepped away,
her face was always relaxed and her voice as soft as a kitten.

After dinner that night, Aunt Cissy’s boyfriend, Ernest, pointed to the piano in the parlor adjacent to the living room. “Anyone play piano?”

My little sister jumped up, ran to the piano and began plunking out the right hand side of “Heart and Soul.” She turned and asked me to play the two-handed left side. I was not about to play this kiddy song in front of Ernest, so I declined, saying I couldn’t sit on the piano bench with a broken leg.

Aunt Cissy stuck her head into the room and said, “Ask Edie. She plays and sings just like Rosemary Clooney.”

Mama rolled her eyes, but I could tell she liked the remark. She had a repertoire of songs she would sing and play in the evenings when Daddy was gone out to wherever it was that he liked more than home.

“Really?” said Ernest, looking to Mama with more than a little interest. “Oh, please play something.”

“Play ‘Moon River,’” said Aunt Cissy. “That’s one of my favorites.”

Mama groaned and then opened up the piano bench and dug through a bunch of sheet music. With an “ah ha,” she pulled out a warn folio and spread it across the piano.

I loved it when Mama played and sang. When she put her hands to the piano keys her face changed. The harsh lines around her eyes softened and her shoulders relaxed enough to let her arms flow up and down the keyboard.

She could imitate the sound of just about any singer I’d ever heard. Sometimes Daddy would hang around after supper and ask her to sing for him. Her music soothed whatever it was that drove him away.

“Play Unforgettable,’” he’d say, standing behind her, close enough to touch, but never touching.

Other times Daddy would recline in his chair and smoke, blowing smoke rings inside smoke rings while we ran around trying to catch them. Mama would play through her repertoire of pop songs while Daddy let us crawl over him. Those were memories I cherished. That was the Daddy I remembered, the Mama I wanted.

Seeing Mama unwind at the piano now lit a flicker of something I couldn’t wrap my heart and mind across.

From THE SWORD SWALLOWER'S DAUGHTER, copyright 2009 by Carolyn Burns Bass

In honor of National Poetry Month: A Poem

2009-04-11T18:27:00.001-07:00

I was silenced too long by the sound of my own
heartbeat.
Joy in living and grief in the passing of love.
I always knew I would write stories,
but I dwelt
in the glow of a thirty-year literary pregnancy.
Labor came on without warning.
The stories I stored through a thirty year gestation
now speak through the silence, that heartbeat
of fear, of failure, of success.
I wish sometimes for the old stillness,
but labor,
once started must finish.

--started 9/22/06, finished (for now) 4/11/09

Everyone Has a Story to Tell

2009-03-03T08:10:00.000-08:00

Several years ago I wrote and self-published a guidebook to help ordinary people write their lifestories. I used this guidebook, WRITE FROM THE HEART, in the classes I taught in memoir writing through our city adult education program. For the last month I've used my morning writing time to revise that guidebook and am publishing it once again.

WRITE FROM THE HEART is not a book on how to write a bestselling memoir, it’s not intended for people who want to be the next Augusten Burroughs or David Sedaris. It’s for people like my mother, comfortable with words and writing, but unsure of where to begin, how to organize, and how far to go. My mother loved telling family stories and when she died, those stories went with her. This book is for people like her.

I have another plan for this book. For several years I’ve wanted to help seniors connect through the global village, which means putting them behind web-connected computers. My master plan begins here. I’m working on a plan to teach computer skills to seniors and then move them into writing their lifestories.

I’ll be talking a bit more about WRITE FROM THE HEART and my master plan to connect seniors to the world wide web next Monday on Black Authors Network (BAN) blogtalk radio, hosted by Ella Curry.

Your next thought if you know me is, but Carolyn is not black. True. I have no African heritage, but I have connections to the African-American community. Even if I didn’t, the message of WRITE FROM THE HEART is colorblind. There is no racial twist, no gender or sexuality preference, and no religious slant. It's all about storytelling and the self-discovery that happens when a person sits down to compose one's thoughts in writing.

If you’d like to stop by and listen in, here’s when and where to go:

http://www.blogtalkradio.com/Black-Author-Network
Show time: promptly at 7pm-9pm EST

On childhood faith: Remembering Ash Wednesday

2009-02-24T10:19:00.000-08:00

It’s Fat Tuesday. A day of worldwide gluttony and pursuit of pleasure before Ash Wednesday and the season of lent. Growing up in a very diverse neighborhood in SoCal, many of my friends at school were of Mexican heritage, which also meant Catholic. They went to catechism. They came to school every year on Ash Wednesday with a smudge on their forehead, a secret symbol for an exclusive club. Until my mother went through her revival of religion when I was in high school, my family worshipped the TV and observed nothing but commercialism at Christmas and Easter.

In those days we were simply protestant. Shortly after my parents split up, my mother dragged us to a church within walking distance of our apartment in Pomona. A small, A-shaped sanctuary housed the Gospel Tabernacle. I didn’t know it at the time, but it was a Pentecostal church of roof-raising proportions. Prior to attending the Gospel Tabernacle, I’d only been to church once. I was about five and all I remember was a man standing in front talking, talking, talking, my mother trying to listen, my two sisters and I fidgeting on the hard wooden pews. My Daddy picked us up afterward and I asked him why he didn’t come with us. He said, “Oh, I don’t believe in that Mickey Mouse stuff.”

That church certainly wasn’t Disneyland, not that I’d ever been, even though we could see the Disneyland fireworks every summer night from the front yard of our house in Santa Ana. Still, I wondered what Mickey Mouse had to do with church. So when the music and the singing began at the Gospel Tabernacle, the voices would cry out across the room like animated voices from a Saturday afternoon cartoon. Rounds of “hal=le-luuuuuuuu-jahs” lifted over the singing, while “Praise you, Jeeeee-sus” filled the space in between songs. Gospel Tabernacle wasn’t a placid Mickey Mouse church like the one in Santa Ana, it was a wild ride through the jungles of joy where Tarzan was expected to show at any time.

Yes. Tarzan. I really didn’t know what Tarzan had to do with church, but surely as my name was Carolyn, I heard it loud and clear over the top of the praise fest, “The king is coming! Tar-zaaaaaan is coming!” I looked around, expecting to see a wild man in a leopard loincloth swing before the faces of the faithful. When Tarzan never appeared, I chalked it up to another cartoon fantasy, as if the lady who called out for Tarzan preferred a wild human god to a talking mouse.

Years later, at a roof-rocking church in Laguna Beach, I heard about the swinging king coming again. It wasn’t Tarzan. It was Hosanna: “Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.”

So anyway. We stopped going to the Gospel Tabernacle after only a few weeks and didn’t go to church again for years afterwards. I listened to my Catholic friends talk about catechism as if it were a secret club and I wished for an invitation that never came. They bragged about the fancy white dresses they wore for their first communion and primped up the fanciness when they made their confirmation. On Fat Tuesday they feasted on ham sandwiches and Hostess chocolate cupcakes, because they knew there’d be no meat for 40 days and they were giving up chocolate for lent. They would go to mass on Wednesday morning before school to receive the secret mark of the sacred.

When I was nine, I asked my mom if we could go to mass in the morning before school to get ashed. Her eyes shot forth in horror like I’d just asked if I could go to school naked.

“We are not Catholic,” she said. “That’s all hocus pocus stuff.”

I took my faith into my own hands that year, showing up in Mrs. Vargas’s fourth grade class with a great big smudge across my forehead. Several of my friends remarked that they didn’t know I was Catholic and they didn’t see me at mass that morning. I told them I went to a different parish with my dad—a boldfaced lie. In truth, I had my own private mass on the way to school. I reached into the barbeque grill beside our front door for a fingertip of ash and smeared it on my forehead.

I spent the day feeling like an insider, one of the Smudged for Jesus crowd. Knowing I couldn’t give up chocolate, I gave up TV for lent and expected to observe it. As the day wore on, I became oblivious to the smudge on my forehead. Upon returning home, my mom looked at me with wary eyes and asked what was on my face.

“Oh this?” I said, running my finger across the smudge on my forehead. “It’s my ashes.”

My mom's face went hard. “I told you we are not Catholic. Where did you get that?”

“Not in church. It’s from the barbeque. I put it on myself.”

My mom threw her pointing finger toward the bathroom. “Get in there and wash your face this minute.”

I slumped off to the bathroom and stared at myself, just as I had in the bathroom mirror at school. I licked my finger and wiped the smudge around until it faded into my skin. It was no longer visible, but I knew it was still there. My ash Wednesday was a rebellious act of faith and it was mine alone.

Okay then, the 25 random things

2009-02-06T10:01:00.000-08:00

Back in early January, the "25 Random Things About Me" was "16 Random Things." Like a game of virtual telephone tag, the list grew from 16 to 25. I've been tagged a few more times since the meme morphed to 25, so rather than rehash more random things, I will add 9 more to my previous list of 16.

Nine new random things:

1. I am an expert secret keeper. For some reason people confide things in me; things I would rather not know, but often it's just because they need to talk about it. Athough I am not always the best listener--I frequently interrupt with questions and comments--I never let it past my lips again.

2. In stressful settings, I tend to blurt out my opinions with emphatic pitch that is often misconstrued as harsh. If I've done this to you, it's not about you. It's about me and a fault I'm working to overcome.

3. We have a pet cemetary in the wayback of our property. Graves include one bunny, three dogs, three cats, a rooster, a hen, and a lizard. I love animals and would have a pet rescue if I could afford it.

4. In third grade I swiped some matches from our babysitter and took off with my best friend Stewart Crump to see if it fires were really *that* easy to start. We holed up in the babysitter's garage and flicked match after match, but couldn't get the place to burn. I got called home and dang, wouldn't you know that while I was home, Stewart got the garage to burn.

5. More about fire. When I was young we were so poor we used to drive up to the baseline of the mountains to watch the annual forest fires in the nearby mountains. Cheap entertainment.

6. More cheap entertainment. Back in the days when we were poor, gas was cheap. When there was nothing else to do we would hop in the car and go for a ride. Oh yeah. Loved it when we parked in a motel parking lot outside Disneyland to watch the fireworks.

7. I am fiercely protective of my mornings. I get up early to write for the first three hours. This is typically my fiction writing time and my family knows to give me a wide berth. I love them for it. After writing time is over, I'll all about my work in the travel and motivation business.

8. My father died in 1989, my mother died in 2003, my younger sister died in 1990. I miss each one of them more than ever. Time changes grief, but it never goes away.

9. I love people. As a journalist and travel consultant, I meet amazing people all over the world. I am tagging a zillion people in this note from other countries. We are a global village.

The original list of 16 Random Things

1. I was born in East LA and have lived within a 50 mile radius of my birthplace for all but three years of my life, when I lived in Iwakuni, Japan during 1987-1990.

2. I ate my first oyster from a half-shell only a month ago, at a restaurant in Ventura, California called The Watermark.

3. My first grade teacher tied me to my chair because I wiggled, squirmed, and "visited with my neighbor" too much. I think I had A.D.D. before it was an official disorder. Despite this awkward incident, she was my favorite teacher for many years.

4. I hated math growing up because of the repetition. I mean, I got it the first time (1+1=2, 2+2=4), so why did we have to do pages and pages of silly math problems? I eventually turned off my brain when the teach said to pull out the math books.

5. I wanted to marry a Beatle when I was a little girl--Paul, the cute one, of course. I still get tingly when I see pictures of him with his peg-legged pants and that funny shaped guitar he used to play. Now that I'm older, I get tingly when I listen to John's lyrics.

6. I fell in love with Shakespeare because my English teacher, Mr. Mann, taught the bard with literary romance and passion. I can hear him introduce our first play, "MacBeth," saying how he envied us that we would be hearing Shakespeare for the first time.

7. I wanted to be a stewardess back in the day when it was still a politically correct term. Back in that day, however, there were height requirements. I was too short.

8. Also back in the day, I was editor of my HS yearbook. My travel careers advisor read a poem I'd written and told me, "Why do you want to be a stewardess? You should be a writer." Wish I could find him and say thank you.

9. Pertinent to numbers 7 and 8, I did become a writer and now travel the world writing about beautiful places, friendly faces, and lasting traces.

10. The pinnacle of my life was the birth of my first child. Then the birth of my second. My children are now old enough to teach me things.

11. I've loved every era of my kids' lives, from breastfeeding to packing them up and dropping them off at university.

12. My daughty is scary smart, headed for a PhD in English Lit, and my son has a photographic memory and is looking to be a Naval officer.

13. Both of my kids friended me on Facebook of their own choice. Many of their friends have as well. This pleases me.

14. I wrote my first novel when I was 43. It's still not published and I hit the mid-century mark last year with a second yet-unpublished novel behind me.

15. My husby helps with housework, thinks I'm a great cook, keeps my car washed, and generally indulges my whims. He looks really good in a flight suit, too. I think I'll keep him.

16. Did I say I love animals? In addition to my two doglets, Tank (a Jack Russell) and Buck (a beagador), I have a pet chicken named Rosie who roams my backyard and pecks on the backdoor windows, plus three more hens in a coop in the wayback of our property.

Here's to a Fine 2009

2009-01-02T10:26:00.000-08:00

I don’t make New Year’s resolutions. Even as a young girl I remember thinking that New Year’s resolutions were silly, that if there was something you wanted or needed to do, why wait for the new year to make it happen.

So this year I will continue doing what I’ve been doing pretty much all of my life: Getting up in the morning and going to bed at night.

Boring, huh?

It’s the in between things that define the quality of a person’s life. He’s a glimpse at what I do in between the rising and setting of my days.

I wake early without an alarm clock—thanks to all of the years I had to get up at 6 to get my kids ready for the school bus by 7. My husby works nights and sleeps until about 10 am, my daughty is away at university and my son exercises his post-high-school-afternoon-college habit to sleep until noon. This gives me blissful silence every morning to court the muse.

Make coffee—I used to prep it to automatically brew so it was ready when I got up, but I found the new coffeemakers hold too much moisture in the system and it gives the coffee a musky flavor. Fresh brewed is best.

Yoga, or not—I do yoga to the rhythm of the coffee brewing. I usually have two dogs vying for my attention while I’m reaching and stretching.

Lie on the sofa with laptop and dogs—I’ve written both of my novels in jammies, laying on my sofa with dogs curled at my feet and laptop where it belongs: in my lap. Just like now.

Morning pages—My friend MJ Chapman gave me a copy of THE ARTIST’S WAY last year for Christmas and one of the practices is called “Morning Pages.” I left behind hardbound journals a long time ago, so my morning writing is in a Word doc, formatted into a table with date and comment fields. I don’t journal my feelings/emotions and such, but list things I have to accomplish that day. This helps me clear the clutter from my mind so that I can move on to my next morning activity.

Personal writing—This is my favorite time of day. Personal writing is whatever I’m working on that doesn’t yet have a paycheck or deadline attached. If I’m writing an article for the newspaper or a magazine, that’s not personal writing and I do it during my working hours. My blog and fiction fall into this writing cycle.

Socialize—I absolutely love working from home, but it can be very lonely for a chatterbox like me. Facebook and my online writer’s groups are like watering holes that offer camaraderie and comedy. After I’ve finished my personal writing, I open Facebook and email and the work day begins.

Get dressed—Sometime after I’ve yakked at my virtual watering holes and am on my third cup of coffee, I meander back to the bedroom where BassMan has finally awaken. He’s often grumbly in the morning, so I slink around him without my usual prattle. My career attire begins with jeans and a sweater in the winter and a skort and t-shirt in the spring, summer and fall.

Commute to the desktop—I love my work. My commute is from my bedroom to my office. I have one main client that keeps me busy with interesting projects, professional education opportunities, events to coordinate, correspondence with uber-professional people, and opportunities to visit beautiful places. I keep my virtual watering holes open most of the day when I’m working, unless I’m utterly slammed with a deadline.

Travel—Last year I stayed in 29 hotels for a total of 64 nights, 11 of those hotels were in Mexico. My favorite? Hacienda Puerta Campeche, a blissfully beautiful boutique hotel in the colonial city of Campeche on the Gulf of Mexico. If I’m not traveling or writing about travel, I am planning my next trip. Next Monday I’m off to Palm Springs to review the recently reopened and restored legend, The Riviera Hotel and Spa.

Eat, pray, love and read—All things in moderation. Favorite food continues to be pizza in various mutations of the traditional stuff. I pray for peace, for safety to my friends and loved ones, for understanding, and I am not afraid to pray for patience. My husby, kids and dogs are the center of my love life, yet I love my virtual friends as much as my in-the-skin friends. Read? I love books as much as I love food. My favorite book this year wasn’t Ann Patchett’s RUN (as much as I had hoped), but a quiet book SALVATION by Lucia Nevai, published by Tin House Books, a terrific indie press.

After all the other stuff-I take my dogs Tank and Buck to the off-leash park where they frisk and frolic with their buddies when they’re not chasing balls or Frisbees. Then I cook dinner, read, maybe watch some TV, and I'm in bed by 10.

Reading all of this makes me tired. Maybe I’ll add a nap to the routine.

So anyway. Do you make New Year’s resolutions? Do you keep them? What are the highlights of your days?

Distasters Happen

2008-12-27T12:16:00.001-08:00

There is never a good time for disaster. Put a disaster during the holidays and it seems worse for some reason. Maybe I'll rattle on about the philosophical, cultural, or emotional reasons for why disaster during the holidays is so awful, but for now, I just want to share a need with you.

One of my author friends, Linnea Heinrichs, lost her home to a fire last Sunday. She and her husband purchased the 50-year-old farmhouse in northern British Columbia several years ago to restore and run a small farm. She's blogged her small-farming efforts here. I'm unclear on the details of the fire, but Linnea said all was lost. Her son managed to save the computer tower and her laptop, but all of her research for her books, as well as all other household effects, were lost.

Several of us at the Backspace writing community are rallying around Linnea to help rebuild her life. Kim Stagliano suggested that anyone interested in donating to Linnea and her family consider sending Amazon.com gift cards, which can be used to purchase anything for sale on the world wide web.

Another thing you can do is buy Linnea's historial YA novel, THE FIRST VIAL:

Set against the backdrop of the inescapable horror of the fourteenth-century plague and medieval heroism and chivalry, The First Vial details the morbid reality of a time when the Black Death forced people to take the law into their own hands to survive the wave of chaos that was ushered in.
Katherine, Lady of Crenfeld Castle, pits her wits against the enemies trying to take over her castle. After surviving two attempts on her life by a land-hungry priest, she is forced to leave her castle just as the plague engulfs her village. The villainous priest seizes her lands, convicts the innocent, and burns them at the stake. As the plague rages on, the tension intensifies. Balanced with intrigue and action, The First Vial builds to a feverish pitch as death saturates the country and Katherine must battle not only for her lands and castle but for her life.

Heinrichs's categorical research into medieval town life, castles, and the Black Death, make the this novel a noteworthy companion to Connie Willis' Hugo-winning Doomsday Book and clearly mark Heinrichs as a new talent in this genre.

You can send Linnea Amazon Gift Card to her at this email address: linneaheinrichs@gmail.com.

You can buy Linnea's book, THE FIRST VIAL at any of these online bookstores:

As an aside... my stepdad's business burned down a week ago. It's a copier and printer repair shop located behind his home--the house I grew up in. The heat burst the windows on the house, but thankfully, it didn't catch fire. We went over the morning after the fire and helped him sort through the ashes. There was nothing salvagable. All his tools from 40 years of business, his customer's machines, and all his records, completely lost.

Jungle Journeys 101

2008-10-13T14:44:00.000-07:00

Alternate title: What NOT to Wear in the Jungle

I joined a group of travel journalists on an adventure tour of the Riviera Maya coastline south of Cancun in September. The tour itinerary gave instructions like, "wear comfortable shoes." As far as I'm concerned, Teva flip-flops are the most comfortable shoes in the world. So I wore them during each of my adventure outings.

Here is my foot in the jungle of Punta Venado on the first day of the jungle journey:

Here was my foot after I got home:

Here is what I learned in between:

The Mayan Riviera is known for its gorgeous white sand beaches and private, all-inclusive resorts that offer so much on site that visitors never have to leave the property. The only view of Mexico that tourists see is from the airport, down the main highway, and through the guarded gates. I call this insular tourism.

There is so much more to Mexico than beaches, margartitas and tacos. Underground rivers flow through pavilion-like caverns. Freshwater pools, cenotes, fed by the underground rivers rise up and spread across the jungle. Mangrove forests cut with channels of freshwater currents lead to savannahs of grasses higher than your head. And the jungle. That verdant shag that covers the vast reaches of the Yucatan Penninsula is rife with wildlife, flora and mystic Mayan surprises.

I'll be spinning more Mexico stories more in the future, but one last word about The Toe. When I told everyone about my broken toe, they offered the prevailing myth that you can't do anything for broken toes, that all you need to do is tape it to its neighbor. Not so, according to my podiatrist, Dr. Roger Tsutsumi. The break was in the joint of the bone that connects to the foot. He advised surgery to pin the bones together. I now have a pierced toe. I'd post a photo, but Dr. T scared the toejam out of me with stories of infections in the bone, so I dare not unwrap it.

Jungle Adventure Tip: Always wear the kind of sensible shoes your mother would.

Promise in YOU.

2008-09-01T08:24:00.000-07:00

This month in LitPark, Susan Henderson asked about Promise: "Tell me a story about someone seeing promise in you. What did they see, and how did this affect you?" Here is my reply:

My first grade teacher--the one who tied me to my chair because I wiggled and giggled too much in class--asked me to stay after school one day. I was terrified that I'd really done something bad. When all of the kids had left the room, she pulled out a paint-by-number set and told me that she was giving this to me because I loved to paint. She told me it had been her son's. Earlier in the year we'd learned that her son had been killed in a place with a weird name: Viet Nam.

While growing up I told everyone I wanted to be an artist, a painter. I wanted to pay back the promise Mrs. Jenkins saw in me. To do it though, I had to change the medium from paint, brushes and canvas, to letters, words and paper. Mrs. Jenkins will always hold a special place in my heart.

Go ahead and tell us a story about someone seeing promise in you, then skip on over to LitPark and share it there.

Hollywood, Here I Come

2008-08-26T23:07:00.000-07:00

My son and I are taking a Hollywood getaway before his new college term begins. We're staying at the Hilton Universal in Universal City, right there near the Universal City Walk.

After a quick lunch at Puccino Pizzaria, we headed over to the live taping of America's Got Talent to see my friend sword swallower extraordinaire Dan Meyer, aka Captain Cutlass, who was one of the wild card picks. We watched all of the finalists, including our favorite singer, Jessica Price, but alas, Dan didn't make the pick into the finals.

We went out with Dan and some friends from the show (pictured here is Dan, along with Miss Pussycat and me) to the Saddleback Chophouse at Universal Citywalk, where the burgers are huge, the fries hot and salty, and you can ride a mechanical bull until it throws you off. And it will. Eventually.

Tomorrow we're going to Universal Studios and then out to see the Broadway production of Wicked at the Pantages Theatre.

I love NY

2008-08-17T07:34:00.000-07:00

This post first appeared in my Press-Enterprise travel blog, INLAND TRAVLER.

New York is a city of wonders. As many times as I've visited, I never seem to see enough. I've just attended the annual Backspace Writer's Conference, where I spoke in a non-fiction writing panel called, "Real Places, Real Faces, Real Stories."

I stayed at the Radisson Martinique Hotel on 32nd and Broadway, in an area called Korea Town and not far from Times Square. My daughter, E, came along to check out grad programs at Columbia and NYU while I was conferencing.

When you're in town for a conference, you don't ususally get out and about the city. Wednesday night we stopped in for pre-conference cocktails at the Algonquin Hotel, the legendary watering hole of NY luminaries of theater and literature.

Friday night we did the town with some author friends, beginning at a book launch party for FALLING UNDER author Danielle Younge-Ullman at the V-bar in the West Village. We walked over to the Peculiar Pub with a few other friends, where we ate french fries and drank Stellas. The walls of the of Peculiar Pub were lined with lined with brewing paraphenalia, bottle tops and all kinds of kitchy stuff.

We crunched six into a taxi for a ride over to Hudson Bar & Books, a classy cigar and wine bar lined with bookshelves and full of literature and encyclopedias. James Bond films played soundlessly on video screens, while the waitresses served up cocktails and wine in red-satin dresses. Our friend Ron Hogan enjoyed a cigar and the rest of us sipped a lovely Pinot Noir.

Saturday morning found us West Coasters finally adjusting to the three-hour time difference. E and I slept in, then rushed off for a NY deli breakfast with Jackie Kessler and Heather Brewer. Jackie, a native NYer, called my bagel of scrambled egg, bacon and cheddar cheese a "heart attack bagel." Glad I don't eat like that all the time.

E and I took the subway to Central Park for an afternoon walk before hitting the train for our ride down to Harrisburg, Penn., the next stop in our summer vacation. I could spend days and days exploring Central Park and some day I hope to. There is a lovely bridge that holds a special memory for me there. Not romantic, just motherly. The first time D and I took our kids to NYC, our son J, was about seven. The only thing he wanted to see in the park was the bridge where "A Troll in Central Park" was set. I revisited the bridge and remembered the seven-year-old boy, but not the film.

Are you a serious writer?

2008-08-10T09:51:00.000-07:00

Two days in New York can really change a person. Especially if you’re a writer attending the Backspace Writer’s Conference.

The Backspace Conference is for serious writers. I don’t mean writers who write only serious material, but writers who are serious about writing. Serious about getting published. Serious about a career writing and publishing. Serious about finding and keeping readers. Serious about helping other writers achieve their goals in a relay of success.

I attended the first Backspace Conference in 2005. Built around an online writing community, the first conference was attended by many of the friends I’d made through my participation in the forums. Dozens of the people I met at that first Backspace Conference have gone on to publish in a variety of genres. I want to talk here about three of them.

Jackie Kessler. Full of sparkle, humor and quick wit, Jackie had written several novels and had not been able to get an agent. She loves urban fantasy, but at the time was writing a chick lit set in a sexy lingerie store. Jackie was already an accomplished storyteller and writer, but talking with other writers and listening to the success stories of published authors gave her a jolt of inspiration. When she got home from the conference, she laid aside that project and went full bore on an idea that gelled her love for urban fantasy with a sexy theme. Within months she’d written HELL’S BELLES, had five agent offers and a three-book deal with Kensington.

Jon Clinch. Imagine writing five novels and never landing an agent. When I met Jon Clinch at the first Backspace Conference I found it inconceivable that this brilliant, literate, intense person had not been published. He writes literary historical fiction and two agents he spoke with at the conference told him that men don’t read historicals and literary historicals don’t sell anyway. Jon went home from the conference and put his marketing hat over his literary mind. He began imagining the story of a figure almost historical, a character seen only in sketches through the eyes of an American literary icon so familiar he feels like a real person. I’m talking here about Huck Finn. Jon wrote FINN in a matter of months, got an agent from the strength of the first chapter, the book sold at auction and he announced at this year’s conference the sale of the film rights.

Karen Dionne. Tireless co-founder with Chris Graham of the Backspace writer’s site and community forums. Author with one book that didn’t sell. Along with running a household and family business, Karen took her time writing her second novel, FREEZING POINT. Her agent put it on submission and they waited through several rounds of rejections. Undaunted, Karen continued to believe in the strength of the manuscript and the experience of her agent. Karen has whooped with dozens of other authors when their YES came along, but when it did for her, you could hear her whoop all around the globe.

Success doesn’t just happen. It doesn’t land on you like a rare butterfly. You must go after it. Success comes from listening to the stories of those who have gone before you. It comes from applying what you hear in those stories. Jackie learned that you must write about what you love and she went home and did it. Jon learned how to position historical literature with commercial appeal and he went home and did it. Karen learned that no matter how many no*s come around, it only takes one yes.

Each of these three authors were at this year's Backspace Writer's Conference to share, advise and encourage. If you're a serious writer, next year consider spending a two days in New York City at the Backspace Writer's Conference. It's worth it every minute.

You can see more pictures of authors at the Backspace Conference here.
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Casa Bass: Sofabed and Breakfast in So Cool SoCal

2008-07-31T08:26:00.000-07:00

Casa Bass is located in a countrified SoCal township only an hour's drive from the beach, the mountains, the desert, Hollywood, and only 30 minutes from Disneyland.

Guests at Casa Bass enjoy views of Mt. Baldy over the housetops across the street, while planes descending into nearby Ontario Airport glide overhead.

In addition to the private sofabedroom without ensuite facilities, guests have full access to the refrigerator that is always stocked with foodstuffs of dubious expiration dates.

Happy hour is served each evening beside the pool, with complimentary pomegranite/cranberry martinis and salt-rimmed, lemoned-up beers a house favorite.

A gourmet dinner prepared by our celebrity chef in residence may include such gastronomic delights as salmon florentine with garlic-empowered couscous; beer-can chicken with lemon peppering and garlic-smashed potatoes; shrimp amedea with olive-garlic sauteed vegetables over radiatorre pasta over-dente.

Stimulating conversation is guaranteed from Casa Bass locals. Patriarch of the casa is BassMan, a former Marine officer with a shrine of artifacts brought back from his visit to the private island of Iwo Jima. Carolyn holds the distinctions of writer in residence, celebrity chef, clutter-keeper and chauffeur. UCR student Ellebelle (21), when not chasing or being chased by her boyfriend, provides musical entertainment on the piano and is conversant in English, Spanish and Farsi. Jondude (19) will keep you in stitches with his Stephen Colbert opinions, while also recruiting you to join his Wii Rock Band, Sun Fun Warriors.

Snuggle up in the evening before the big-screen TV with house canines Tank, an Irish Jack Russell who barks in a brogue, and Buck, a velvet-faced beagador who snores. Both dogs are available to guests for snuggling, ball-chasing, and toe-licking.

Summer is nearly over, so book your stay at Casa Bass today.

Five annoying things about me

2008-07-07T09:50:00.001-07:00

This week in LitPark, Susan Henderson asked a simple question: What are your five most annoying habits. This caused me to sit back for at least ten seconds to consider mine. Here is what I posted at LitPark:

I am a clutter magnet. I have a beautiful, roomy office with several storage cabinets and cubbies, but my desk always looks like someone dumped a box of assorted business materials, files, pens, and other unusual items all over it. As I gaze over at it, I can see the following:

. A small can of Play-Doh (orange).
. Broken things: two digital cameras, a cell phone, a watch, and a light bulb.
. A flying fish car intenna flag from Catalina Island
. My cartoon mentors: Gumby (flexibility); Felix-the-cat (resourcefulness) Rafiki (wisdom), and Sponge Bob (humor).

I am a compulsive reader, especially when dining alone. I will read anything within eyesight and will get fidgety if there is nothing to read. When I am reading a novel, I slip out of this world and into the author's world so completely I lose interest in my own world--even my own writing, which is why I seldom allow myself to read novels when I am working on my own.

I am a crackberry addict, who has been known to check email in business meetings, read blogs while dining alone (see number 2, re: compulsive reader) or write notes about the coming week during church.

I am a computer geek to the detriment of my physical wellbeing. I would rather play at my computer than go to the gym with my husby. Because I also love to eat, this annoying habit is very noticeable to everyone who sees the extra fluff around my face and body.

I accelerate fast, stop fast, and generally push my car and myself to the limit whether or not it's a hop across town or a long road trip. If you read between the lines, this is also a metaphor of my life.

What are your five most annoying habits? Tell us here and then swing over to LitPark and share them with the gang at the park.

Mexico City Surprise

2008-07-02T23:00:00.000-07:00

Could this grand old city be the Mexican version of Seattle? After my first genuine red eye from California to Mexico, I woke up to find my plane descending into clouds. These weren’t fluffy cotton candy clouds, but thick marshmallow clouds that looked like they were held over the campfire too long.

I never saw outside the airport until my driver pulled out of the parking garage and headed onto the highway choked with morning traffic. A light drizzle fell over Mexico City, laying a slick shine that filmmakers like when they shoot roads.

Checking into the lovely Hotel Nikko, I headed up to my 18th floor room and swept open the curtains to survey the view. The city was enshrouded with mist, clouds hovered over the hills in the distance, while huge skyscrapers jutted up from above the cloud’s horizon. A zig-zag of lightning zipped across the sky at eye-level. A moment later thunder roared across the sky and rattled the plate glass window in front of me.

I spoke with a friend who lives here and she assured me this is typical weather for July and the city is known for its stormy weather. This was not the Mexico City I was expecting and I’m looking forward to seeing more of Mexico’s capital city.

It's all good

2008-06-25T11:57:00.000-07:00

I love first drafts. The excitement of the story unfolding at your fingertips, the flurry of what-if and when-do, and the passion of new love. First drafts are like courtship. Revisions are like marriage. Still, it's all good when your heart's in it.

I just posted this on my friend Allison's Facebook page, a congratulatory note to her for finishing the first draft of her new novel.

Af for me, I'm back in revisions with THE SWORD SWALLOWER'S DAUGHTER, but like I wrote to Allison, it's all good.

The day that almost wasn't my son's birthday

2008-06-07T09:23:00.000-07:00

Today is my son Jonathan's birthday. He was born three days after the June 4th massacre at Tiananmen Square in Beijing. I remember this well, because the hospital in which I was set to give birth was the closest American airbase hospital to China and it was placed on alert to accept casualties.

BassMan was currently stationed southwest of Tokyo, at MCAS Iwakuni. Our little base didn't have maternity facilities in its clinic, so they routinely booked all pregnant women on a Medevac flight to Yokosuka Airbase, where they checked into a holding zone called "The Stork's Nest" and awaited the onset of labor. Jonathan was a big baby, and I'd had a C-section with my first child, so my doctor scheduled me for another. My surgery date was set for June 7th.

[Photo caption: My mother, Elnora, with newborn baby Jonathan. June 7, 1989.]

A week before the surgery, BassMan, our almost two-year-old daughter Elisabeth, and I Medevac'd to Yokosuka, checked into the temporary housing on base, then took the train into Tokyo to pick up my mom who'd flown in from California to be with us. We had a grand time visiting Tokyo, me with my giant baby bump, my mom warming to the Japan she'd only read about during WWII propaganda, BassMan pushing Elisabeth in the stroller and trying to keep under the radar of the Japanese people who wanted to reach out and touch her blonde hair.

The day before my scheduled surgery, the hospital called to tell me that because of it's proximity to Beijing and the instability of the region, the hospital was placed on alert. All elective surgeries were put on hold and I would just have to wait to see what happened next.

I was disappointed. Jonathan, snug inside me, had no idea his scheduled birthdate was on hold and showed no inclination to exit on his own. Yokosuka had a Mexican restaurant on base, so to commiserate we went out for tacos and enchiladas.

The hospital called me about 10 p.m. on the night of the 6th and said they got clearance for my C-sec first thing in the morning and could I get to the hospital and check in right away? BassMan and I packed up my things, kissed my mom and Elisabeth goodbye and taxied to the hospital.

Six a.m. the nurse woke me up, scrubbed me down, numbed me up and wheeled me into surgery. BassMan stood next to my head and held my hand as the doctor sliced me open. I felt a stinging burn along the way, but the doc assured me it would be over in just a few minutes. And it was. The doc pulled out Jonathan, exclaimed at his size, then sent him over to be cleaned and weighed.

Jonathan weighed in at a hefty 9lbs 15oz. The nurses nicknamed him Konishiki after the American-born Sumo champion famous at the time. He was the only boy in a nursery of about a dozen baby girls.

Happy birthday, Jonathan.

Mexico City Surprise

2008-06-02T12:41:00.000-07:00

Memorial Day is for Remembering

2008-05-16T11:19:00.000-07:00

Some people actually go away for Memorial Day weekend. Traditionally, my family has stayed home to attend picnics and the annual Memorial Day commemorative service held at Bellevue Cemetary in Ontario. Several of my family members are buried at that lovely old cemetary and my stepfather plays in the Chaffey Community Show Band during the services.

One of the things BassMan brought into my life when we married was a greater appreciation for this annual three-day weekend in May. He was an Air Force brat who became a Marine. He'd lost a couple of Marine buddies in aircraft mishaps through the years and so Memorial Day became more meaningful.

We have attended the Bellevue Memorial Day service every year since 1993, that's 15 years now. After the service BassMan walks around the veteran's section of the cemetary and salutes the graves of the Marines. Jonathan was only three the first year we attended and he'd follow along after his daddy saluting the graves.

Memorial Day is a wonderful weekend to usher in the summer. I hope that in your family celebrations you'll offer a moment of remembrance to the men and women who have given their lives in service to our country.

The above is a page from my family photo album. Do you have any photos of memories about Memorial Day that you'd like to share? Post them here.

A Quiet Mother's Day Morning to Write

2008-05-11T06:40:00.000-07:00

My kids know I love to write early in the morning before anyone else awakens. So my daughter, who lives away at university, decided to give me a great Mother's Day present. An early morning writing session. Really early. It began like this:

I'm sleeping so peacefully I don't even remember my dream, when the phone rings on my side of the bed at 4:35 a.m. and my husby doesn't stir. I'm instantly awake at the sound of my daughter's voice. After the initial panic, I listen to what she's saying.

"Mom, can you come take the chain off the front door so I can come in."

I rush to the front door, remove the chain and deadlock, and there she is.

"Happy Mother's Day."

So we hug and she explains how she wanted to surprise me for Mother's Day. Then she goes to bed (mind you, her uni is only a half-hour from our home, so don't imagine she drove all night to get here, and having once been a college student in similar manner, I don't let my mind wonder what she's been doing all night, only that she's safe and sound). And I'm wide awake.

Three chapters later in my WIP revision, it's still only 6:30 a.m. in CA.

So what did I get for Mother's Day?

A quiet morning to write.

My New Bio

2008-04-20T09:01:00.000-07:00

Contrary to common mythology, Carolyn doesn't burn bass. She is an experimental and proficient cook who has won numerous "Yummy" awards from the discretionary critics of La Famiglia di Bass.

Carolyn loves speed and drives like a demon. She has never won a NASCAR race, in fact, she has never even watched one. Still, when she buckles herself behind the wheel of her Camry SE, she's racing whatever is on the horizon. If she's the only car on the road--which is uncommon because she lives and drives in Southern California--she's racing the time from her last trip.

As the daughter of a sword swallower and a midwest fundamentalist soprano, is it any wonder she became a writer? Read all about her travels at Inland Traveler and check out her imaginary worlds at Carolyn Burns Bass.

Having recently met Carolyn in person for the first time, celebrity copyeditor Clive Verdant* remarked, "She looks taller in words."

*Mr. Winky to Backspace members.

Another Blog is Born

2008-04-01T14:15:00.000-07:00

My long-awaited travel blog is now up at the Riverside Press-Enterprise. It's called INLAND TRAVELER. Go ahead and visit. Travel with me often. The coffee's always hot in the thermos and the shotgun seat is always available.

Wine Flights Served Daily

2008-03-14T15:27:00.000-07:00

This may not be news to many of you, but it was to me. Wine flights. These are not airliners serving wine while in flight, but a specialized grouping of complimentary wines offered in wine bars and fine dining establishments. BassMan and I were introduced to wine flight service recently during a superb lunch at the Catalina Country Club in Avalon.

Yes, that Avalon. The Avalon of song and legend. Avalon was once the brightest light on the Southern California holiday horizon and its star is ascending once again. As the Catalina reaches out to a new generation, it's bringing back top acts to the world renown Casino Ballroom, offering fine dining at several locations around town, running a host of adventure tours and activities that can take you nose to zoom-lens with a buffalo, snorkeling through a kelp forest, or hiking across a mountain ridge with Pacific Ocean vistas on each side.

So back to wine flights. We saw these listed in the wine list while lunching at the Catalina Country Club and had to give them a try. A trio of wines, such as a 2-oz tasting of three different cabernets, or three different wines paired to compliment your meal. I chose the California Selection, which included a sauvignon blanc, a chardonnay, and a merlot. Perfect compliment to my lunch plate of ham and brie sandwich with french-fried sweet potatoes.

The Catalina Country Club, which is open to the public, offers lunch and dinner year around in the very building that once hosted the Chicago Cubs when the team spent its spring training on the island from 1921 to 1952. While it may not have the view offered by some Avalon restaurants, its history and exquisite menu are worth making a trip to the island.

Now, if they would only begin wine flights on the cruise over on the Catalina Express.

Write here, travel there

2008-02-29T11:31:00.000-08:00

I've probably said this here before, but I believe life is a synthesis of work and play. Through the years I've honed a score of skills that have moved me from place to place with greater personal satisfaction. Writing is one of my favorite pastimes and is taking over my work life to the point that I could be a poster child for the old adage that goes something like this, "Find a job you love and you'll never work a day in your life."

This Sunday the Riverside Press-Enterprise will run my first travel feature as the centerpiece of their redesigned travel section. I'll be writing a travel feature each week, so if you're among the 187,000 households within the circulation area of the PE, be sure to open up to the travel section to see what we cover next. If you're from out of town, here's a link to the online site: Whale Watching in California.

Then, later this month the Press-Enterprise's electronic edition will launch my new travel blog Inland Traveler. I'll post the blog link here once it goes live.

So anyway. My first travel feature for the PE covers the whale watching excursion BassMan and I took aboard the 139-foot racing schooner America in the ocean off San Diego. The America is an exact reproduction of the ship for which the America's Cup yacht race is named. It's now moored in San Diego Harbor and is available for whale watching excursions through mid March as well as other weekend sailings and private charters throughout the year.

Liar's Diary Update: Our Donation to ACS

2008-02-15T06:00:00.000-08:00

My Valentine's Day challenge is over now and I'm thrilled to announce that eight of my readers bought THE LIAR'S DIARY by Patry Francis, which means I'll be donating $80 to the American Cancer Society in honor of Patry.

During the Patry Francis blog day on on January 29th, Patry's book hit the top of Amazon's mystery and suspense rankings, in addition to the top 300 in overall book sales. These were Amazon sales only, which doesn't include the sales direct from the publisher and other outlets like Barnes & Noble, Powells, and all of the wonderful indies.

The best news of all is that Patry is feeling better and has been busy working on her new novel. You can drop in Patry's blog, Simply Wait, to offer greetings and support.

Onto the Query-Go-Round

2008-02-11T18:43:00.000-08:00

This morning I finished the revision to THE SWORD SWALLOWER'S DAUGHTER. I am now stepping onto the ride the publishing world calls the Query-Go-Round.

This is when you take your baby novel, wrap it up in a two page synopsis, tie it with a ribbon that says something like: Life is anything but a carnival when your father's a sword swallower, your mother's an Avon lady and their divorce sends you searching out family secrets. Once you have your baby wrapped up pretty, you then toss it out to literary agents and hope it doesn't get bucked off and sent back onto the next query-go-round.

I shall not speak again of this ride until I'm re-agented and ready for the next ride--the submission express. So say a prayer, light a candle, hum to the universe, cross your fingers, or think happy thoughts for me. If you'd like a peek at my query letter, you will get the gist of it here: http://www.publishersmarketplace.com/members/CABass/.

Loves Speed; Drives Like a Demon

2008-02-04T08:17:00.001-08:00

I love driving fast. In fact, I love doing most everything fast. My mind is like an indy car fueled with ideas. I type faster than I can write, so I type everything. My handwriting, once studied to cursive perfection, now scrawls across the page in my drive to get it--whatever it is--out.

Maybe it's because I'm turning 50 this year, but I've noticed my foot pressing harder on the accelerator of my life. It's not that I'm in a hurry to get there--wherever there is--but there is so much I want to see, do, hear, tell before the years of my life are over.

This week LitPark is featuring Larry Smith and Rachel Fershleiser, editors of Smith magazine, whose book NOT QUITE WHAT I WAS PLANNING releases today. Subtitled as Six Word Memoirs by Writers Famous and Obscure, the book is the result submissions to Smith magazine for, you guessed it, six-word memoirs.

NOT QUITE WHAT I WAS PLANNING borrows from the legend of Ernest Hemingway's challenge to write a complete story in six words. His result was brilliant.

For sale: baby shoes, never worn.

Check out the video trailer for NOT QUITE WHAT I WAS PLANNING, then try your hand at your own six-word memoir. Post your memoir here and then hop over to LitPark and copy it there, too.

More Bliss

2008-01-30T12:47:00.000-08:00

Update to THE LIAR'S DIARY/American Cancer Society challenge: If you are new to this thread, read the post below, A Double Shot of Patry and A Hit of Bliss.

As of this moment, THE LIAR'S DIARY is the #350 in overall sales at Amazon.com--that's all books: non-fiction, children's books, genre fiction, the whole rainforest of books. In the Mystery & Thriller/Psychological & Suspence category, it is NUMBER ONE.

Six of my blog readers bought the book, or are intending to buy the book, which brings my donation to the American Cancer Society to $60.

The challenge runs through Valentine's Day.

A Double Shot of Patry and a Hit of Bliss

2008-01-29T00:01:00.000-08:00

Patry Francis woke me up last November with her blog post called Two Ounces of Bliss. In her quiet and gracious way, Patry revealed that she has an aggressive form of cancer and is undergoing treatment. I admit, the last thing I thought of was bliss.

Cancer stole my sister at the age of 29 and defeated a team of doctors treating my mother four years ago. I've lost several other family members and friends to this ancient enemy and the news that Patry was suffering put another shadow on the horizon. Cancer is a biological terrorist that plays no favorites, makes no promises, and can't be trusted.

I met Patry through Backspace, an online writer's community and followed her journey from waitress to published novelist. I met Patry in person at last year’s Backspace convention in New York, then later in the summer I wrote a short review of her novel THE LIAR’S DIARY in my post, “Books I Read On Vacation.” It was a small review, but the book and its author left a deep impression. Let me tell you why Patry is so special to me.

We are both former waitresses. I moved away from my parent’s home and to the beach one month before my 19th birthday and supported myself waitressing at a coffee shop called Jojo’s. I dropped in and out of college during my waitressing years, always searching for some way to party and study, work and play, live and exist. I met the most wonderful people working at restaurants, including Candy, my former roommate and lifelong friend. Candy met her husband, Howie in a restaurant, and like Patry and her husband Ted, has been married for more than 25 years.

There were times, though, when I thought I’d never get free of waitressing. I struggled to stay in college while supporting myself. I knew I wanted to be a writer and always felt I had stories inside me. People confided in me while I waited on them. A man and a woman who were married to other people always asked for my station because they knew I was discreet. I was the messenger of a marriage proposal on the patio of Orange Hill Restaurant, the most romantic overlook in all of Orange County. A Hindu Indian family always asked for me because I gave them cheerful service although they always ordered cheese enchiladas, the cheapest thing on the menu and the only vegetarian entrée.

I took a job as an intern for a magazine called CCM and left waitressing behind forever. But like they say about the Marines, I found it to be “Once a waitress, always a waitress.” I connected with Patry about waitressing and found amusement and inspiration in her blog Simply Wait.

The paperback release of THE LIAR’S DIARY, comes out today. Books don't sell themselves. Most authors do a tremendous amount of travel, book readings and signings, and just about any kind of promotion to help readers find their books. While Patry is recouperating and healing, a group of more than 300 writers and bloggers are joining together to promote on her behalf.

We want Patry’s book to fly off the brick and mortar shelves, we want Amazon, Powells, and the online sites to run through their stock. We want a second and third print run. We want today to be Patry Francis day. But most of all, we want Patry to be well.

If you'd like to see a complete list of blogs posting for Patry today, visit LitPark. You can hear an audio clip of THE LIAR'S DIARY courtesy of Brilliance audio, and a smart video trailer of the book.

I began this post with a diatribe against cancer. Now I’ll end it with a challenge: I will donate $10 to the American Cancer Society in Patry’s honor for every one of my regular readers who buys THE LIAR’S DIARY. To participate, leave a comment here with your intention, then email me a copy of your sales receipt. The challenge will continue through Valentine’s Day, when I will post the amount we’ve collected in the Ovations fight against cancer.

Update: Penguin Group, publisher of THE LIAR'S DIARY is offering a 15% discount if you order direct from them. To receive the discount, type PATRY in the code field. Here's the link.

Now for those two ounces of bliss.

Water For Elephants, Hay For Horses

2008-01-25T10:46:00.000-08:00

If you've been reading Ovations for any length of time, you know I am an animal lover. I live in an area of Southern California known as Horsetown USA. My next door neighbor has horses who I visit every day. I would have a horse, except for the maintence it takes to care for them well. Some people have this gift. My gorgeous neighbor across the street looks like she could live on Wisteria Lane, but she'd rather be scraping her horse's hooves than cohorting with desperate housewives.

Recently two horse rescue organizations have come to my attention that have gripped my heart. My friend Carol sent me an email from a horse rescue organization in Maryland called HorseNet Horse Rescue that is in dire need of ongoing funding. On the same day a writer friend of mine, Sara Gruen, author of the bestselling WATER FOR ELEPHANTS and two other novels with equestrian themes, posted a note in our writer's group about the plight of horses in the drought-stricken South.

This is what Sara posted at our writer's group:

The Southern states suffered a drought this year that devastated pasture and created a severe hay shortage. Horses are starving--even people who can afford the vastly increased cost of hay ($2.50/bale, now up to $12/bale) are having trouble finding it.
Emaciated horses are being set loose on backroads, in National parks, and even left abandoned in trailers in parking lots. The horse rescues that are taking them in are suffering from the same lack of hay and are desperate to feed these animals. I and two other horsey/writerly types (another novelist and a screenwriter), and a really wonderful vet have created a hay fund. We personally financed the first load, and a big rig with 945 bales of compressed hay is on its way to Tennessee at this very moment and will arrive on Saturday. A high school class has volunteered to unload for us at the other end.
We're trying desperately to put together another couple of loads to send to other states as soon as possible. Come spring, if we get rain, some of the
pasture will come back, but right now, in wintertime, there is absolutely
nothing for these horses to eat. If you can help, please do! We are four people
working with laptops and telephones, so every cent you donate will go to hay and transport. We have no overhead (other than the fee that PayPal and the credit card companies charge). We are a 501c3, so all donations are tax deductible.

I believe we have a human obligation to care for animals--particularly those that depend on humans to live. If you agree, will you consider donating to these two wonderful organizations.

For emergency feed to starving horses in the South: The Hay Fund operated by Fairfield Equine, and spearheaded by Sara Gruen; Beth Helms, author of the soon-to-be released novel DERVISHES, and screenwriter, Dana Katselas.

To setup an automated monthly pledge or give a one-time-donation: HorseNet Horse Rescue of Maryland.

Your heart will thank you.

What do you notice?

2008-01-23T16:31:00.000-08:00

LitPark has an interview with Dan Passamaneck about observation. I found his remarks so true to the core that you'll just have to read them at LitPark.

After you've read Dan's Five five reasons why it's important to notice what's going on around you, leave a list of five things you noticed today (or yesterday) and then come back here and copy your list.

Faces of Beauty: Women in Art

2008-01-13T08:58:00.000-08:00

This is one of the most brilliant digital compositions I've yet to behold. It was created by a digital artist who calls himself eggman913. After checking deeper into his YouTube profile, I discovered he has quite an impressive digital portfolio there. If you don't see the video box below, just wait for a moment; it should load momentarily.

Thanks to my friend Shari, who first posted this in Facebook, I've crawled out of my blogging cave to share it with you. Enjoy!

2007-12-21T14:07:00.000-08:00

I have been buried with work the last few weeks and haven't had a moment to spare. Here's wishing all of you a happy, healthy, holiday and a great two-thousand and eight.

RIP: Princess Jasmine 1995-2007

2007-11-25T19:43:00.000-08:00

Had our neighbors been peeking into our yard tonight they may have thought BassMan and I were up to no good.

Earlier in the day BassMan dug a hole. A large one.

This morning, Princess Jasmine Amedea Leroyce Bass, our 12-year-old collie, who's been ailing for several days, let us know today would be her last. We made her comfortable on her sleeping pad, massaged and petted her, nestled and nurtured her. She drifted to sleep and by nightfall she was gone.

So there we were, patio torch blazing over the hole dug and ready, laying deep our Princess in the waning moon. Should the sheriff come a'knocking we'll have a story to tell. It begins here.

Princess was the most gentle of dogs, as smart as Lassie, and loyal to the end. We got Princess from a man whose aging breeding pair of collies produced a surprise litter of two pups. The first pup died, but Princess survived. Her mother wasn't able to produce milk, so the owner bottle-fed Princess. The owner was getting on in years himself and didn't have the energy to keep a collie puppy around, but he didn't want to see Princess on the dog market. When Princess was four-months-old, he advertized for a special family to adopt her, listing criteria that would have made the Ellen DeGeneres rescue center proud. We passed the test and this generous man gave Princess to us. His only charge: that we love and care for her.

Several things come to mind when I remember Princess. It was tradition for our kids to name the pets. On the way to our interview with Princess's breeding owner, we discussed what we would name her. Elisabeth (then eight) and Jonathan (then six) were unanimous that she should be called Princess. In tribute to one of their favorite Disney princesses, they insisted she be Princess Jasmine. On top of that, they insisted on each of their middle names tagged on. She would be Princess Jasmine Amedea Leroyce Bass. Divine synchronicity would have it that ever since the day she was born her owner had been calling her Princess.

We live in a region I call "wind alley." When Santa Ana winds blow in from the high desert we are usually hit with a double blast. Several times through the years the wind would pick up while we were gone and I'd drive up to find the gate blown wide open. The first time this happened, I panicked at the thought of Princess running away in the wind. I jumped from the van and ran through the backyard calling for her. She was nowhere. I rushed back to the front and began looking up and down the street. Elisabeth and Jonathan called me from the front porch. My heart broke wide open to see Princess laying unruffled on our front doorstep awaiting our return.

This year we sent our youngest child to college 1,500 miles away. Our oldest is planning for grad school in NY and London. We did this only a few months ago and here we are at the pet cemetary again. Life changes, we change, but love grows.

BassMan and I are going to plant an avocado tree over Princess.

In the Tent of Revision

2007-11-14T11:07:00.001-08:00

It's November. National Novel Writing Month. If you've been reading Ovations for more than a year, then you'll remember that I wrote the first 50k of THE SWORD SWALLOWER'S DAUGHTER last year during NaNoWriMo. Several well-wishing friends have emailed recently asking me about the status of last year's NaNoWriMo novel.

I finished the SFD (Shi**y First Draft) last May, set it aside for a month, then went back in to close holes, flesh-out characters, and clean up sentences. A couple of very trusted readers have given me some fabulous insights that I'm now working into the manuscript.

I'm not playing NaNoWriMo this year. Instead, I've dedicated the month of November to finishing the revision and getting this baby ready for the big top.

Oh yeah, the graphic at right is a mock-up I created last year using a photo of my dad (who really was a sword swallower) and a photo of me with my mom and sisters. Of course, I must finish and get the book published first, but should the book be made into film (most every novelist's dream) I'd love Johnny Depp to play the father. What do you think?

Meet Buck

2007-11-07T19:07:00.000-08:00

It's official. We have a new dog. We weren't looking for a new dog, nor an old one. It turns out our new dog isn't exactly new. He's been used. Used badly. Someone abused him.

I met Buck at my neighborhood Bark Park, where I take Tank to play almost every day. I arrived to see what looked like a yellow labrador puppy cowering outside the park gates. No collar. He scooted off when we approached. Once inside the park, I asked several of the people inside if they knew anything about the dog. Everyone was concerned about him.

Once Tank was happily chasing someone else's tennis ball, I approached the dog. He skittered away, his tail between his legs. Upon closer view, I could tell he wasn't a puppy, but an adult male, probably a beagle and lab mix. He wouldn't come to me, which is rare, because I can usually get the most timid of dogs (and cats) to trust me. Back inside the park, all of us dog companions discussed what to do. No one wanted to leave him at the park, as temperatures were expected to drop overnight. I decided to take him home and see if we could find his owners.

BassMan came out to the park with his truck and with much wooing with food and a steady hand, was able to load him into the cab. We put Buck in our backyard and brought our 12-year-old collie, Princess, inside along with Tank. Once we had him at home, it became clear to me by his behavior that he'd been abused. A sudden move would send him cowering away, hiding under the patio table or the BBQ grill. I gave him a jerky treat that he looked at like it was poison. As soon as I stepped back into the house, he devoured the jerky treat. We fed him. He ate. By the end of the night he was letting me pet him, looking up at me with sad brown eyes that broke my heart. He slept in the doghouse that Tank never uses and the next morning met me at the door with his tail wagging.

I called the shelter to report him, then put signs up at the two local pet stores, the vet offices in the area, and around the bark park. Two people called me, but their descriptions didn't match Buck. By the third day BassMan and I were in love with the little guy. We knew we couldn't take him to the shelter if no one called for him, and began hoping no one would.

By the second week, he'd come out of his timidness, but still lurches if someone moves too suddenly around him. I kicked the tennis ball one day when he was nearby and he ran with his tail cowed so fast, you would have thought I'd kicked him. These are sure signs he'd been abused.

When no one claimed him by the second week, we took him to our vet and had him scanned for a microchip. Nothing. That's when we decided to make a claim on him. We had him immunized, given a physical, chipped, and... neutered. He's all ours now. Buck is already house-trained, sleeps on a pillow on my side of the bed, and snores. Have you ever heard a dog snore?

Report from the California Firelines

2007-10-30T14:06:00.000-07:00

Like much of the nation my eyes and heart have been following the story of the California wildfires. My home is not in a high-risk fire zone, but as a lifelong Californian, I know many whose homes were. I know several firefighters as well and have tried to keep in touch with them and their families during this time.

While flames threatened his own neighborhood, my friend Monte Umsted spent nearly a week on the firelines in San Diego. After he returned, Monte, an engineer for Poway Fire Department, sent me the following letter and pictures. I asked him for permission to post it here for my friends around the world to see. Click on any of the photos to enlarge the shot.

~*~

I arrived home today after spending a week assigned to the "Harris" fire, which was the first one to start. That fire was about a forty-five minute drive just to get to the area, so suffice to say it got a good head start.

To all of you who either called or e-mailed us, a big thanks for thinking of us during this rather interesting week. For those who inquired about [my wife] and the kids, while they were a bit concerned about the possible need to evacuate, fortunately they were able to stay put. Their experience wasn't all that different than the Cedar Fire that went through the southeast part of town four years ago. This time, they were better prepared to "pull the hook" in case things went sour.

The "Witch" fire (labeled after the Witch Creek area east of here where it started) made its way through north Poway, which is considered the "high rent" district, but still resulted in the loss of nearly one hundred homes. After it tore through Poway, it proceeded towards the north San Diego sub-community of Rancho Bernardo, where at least three hundred homes were lost, including the home of [my daughter's] soccer coach (and a La Mesa firefighter).

It was a bit troublesome for me, being that I was well involved on my fire, not knowing what was happening back at home, or even if I was going to have one left. In all, there were eight fires burning at one time or another in San Diego County alone.

There were a few scary moments during the first day [at the "Harris" fire], including hearing the cries for help from the fire crew that was overrun by fire, sending all four to the burn unit. My moments came when we were overrun by fire trying to keep it from jumping the road (suuuure... stop 50 mile per hour flames from jumping across a one-lane road. During the Cedar fire, a ten lane freeway wasn't even enough!); the other moment came while we were defending a house and the wind shifted 90-degrees, hammering me and my engine with fire... melted a few things, but we survived it okay.

The thing that started to really concern us had to do with the size and scope of the number of fires in the area. Every time requests for resources were made, they were siphoned off for other incidents. This not only involved the re-direction of fire engines, air tankers, helicopters, etc. but vital essentials such as food and water, too.

The morning of the third day was kind of a "okay, time out here" mentality, for we had gotten to the point where we were dividing up our remaining bottles of water, and whatever food we could scrounge between everyone's "out of county" bags. Fortunately, our strike team leader went to a small country store to get us food and water, not an easy tasks with all that was going on. That, and having only a couple of hours sleep here and there didn't help much, either.

After the first few days, things started to simmer down some, but still had flare-ups here and there. Friday night was interesting, seeing where additional help was coming from: Seattle, Washington.... New Mexico... Sedona, Arizona.... Reno, Nevada... Idaho... even a contingent of Bomberos from Tijuana! Loooong drive for some. Come to find out, my neighbor across the street was involved in coordinating helicopter operations on one part of the fire (heard ya on the radio the other day, Matt!).

But today was the best day, for it was determined that our strike team wasn't needed anymore, so we were processed out. After taking a quick lap with my crew through north Poway and spending a couple of hours cleaning the fire engine, I showered up and came home to a family that was happy to see me, some homemade cards from two little girls for their Daddy, a boy who was eager to see some of the pictures I was able to take and a wife who was glad that she could pawn off the kids to someone else! :-)

Attached are some pictures I managed to take during my "trip". One of them shows that you just never know you you might meet out on the fireline!

How about sending Monte and the firefighters of California a note of encouragement or thanks. Simply click the COMMENTS link below.

Breath & Shadow Update

2007-10-29T10:44:00.000-07:00

Remember this post from last May? Thanks to many of you who sponsored me in the Breath & Shadow write-a-thon, you can take an advance peek at my novel in progress in this month's edition of Breath & Shadow.

The write-a-thon was a great success for Breath & Shadow, bringing in much-needed funds to operate this monthly literary website. Breath & Shadow is the only literary magazine written, edited, and published by people with disabilities.

Descent into Mordor?

2007-10-25T17:02:00.000-07:00

Yesterday as my daughter and I drove westbound on I-10 through the Banning Pass, I snapped this camera phone picture of the smoke from the many fires burning through California. My daughter's comment: "It looks like we're descending into Mordor."

What do you think?

Oh yeah, those are windmills. But not the Don Quixote kind.

Maid of the Year

2007-09-27T14:18:00.000-07:00

Irony is this. I attended the Motivation Show in Chicago and stayed at the the City Centre Hotel. I didn't want to carry around a large wad of cash and the hotel didn't have a room safe. I decided the cash was safer on my person than left in my room. I pulled the cash from my purse and rushed out to catch the shuttle bus to the convention center.

At the end of a tiring day, I took a taxi back to the hotel and went to pay the driver, only to discover my wad was missing. I had just enough cash to pay and tip the driver, then fled to my room, my mind running every scenario I could think of for where I may have lost--or had stolen--the cash. By the time I reached the 19th floor, I realized I couldn't remember where I'd placed the cash to begin with. Dread hit me as I rushed to my room, fearing the cash I'd taken out of my purse--which I clearly remember--would be gone with the Chicago wind.

I looked on the ironing board, not there. I checked the desk, nope. I sat on the bed to look around the room, wondering where I might have laid the bills when I looked down and saw lying right below the pillow, blending into the green coverlet, the stack of twenties. I counted them out: $260 just as I remembered.

I don't think you need me to spell out the irony. I called housekeeping to find out who'd taken care of my room that day and connected with Sylvia the housekeeping manager. She was eager to help and before I could complete the thank you letter I was writing to the maid, Sylvia knocked on my door with sweet Herminia. Herminia blushed when she read the note and saw the tip I'd stuck in the envelope. She blushed again when I asked if I could take her picture for my blog. If there were a Hotel Maid of the Year contest, I would nominate Herminia.

Fluffing Up the Empty Nest

2007-09-11T11:03:00.000-07:00

Two weeks ago we drove our youngest child, Jonathan, to college in Kansas. Our oldest, Elisabeth, returned to her campus last week. We are now, officially, empty nesters.

The week Elisabeth returned to school, my friend Amy had a baby. In a congratulatory email I wrote her this:

I want one. Well... maybe not. I had one once, no, I had two. They never last. You get all used to them snuggly and cuddly and everything about them is wonderful. They have a terrible habit of growing, though. When they grow they change, and every stage is as fun and fabulous as the one before. They never stop the growing part. The body stops growing so fast, but their insides get bigger and bigger until their eyes can’t contain it all. Before long your house isn’t big enough for them and their gigantic world view. They leave the nest and take all the love you gave them in their memory. They return, but they’re not yours anymore. That’s when you realize they were never yours to begin with.

Amy's journey as a mother is just beginning, while mine is taking a new path. Mothers and fathers never stop being parents, but the new path marks changes in the parent/child relationship. I noticed the first time my daughter came home from college for the summer that she was so much more independent, confident, self-motivated. Our relationship changed. She is still my daughter, but she's also my friend.

Jonathan went to college much further away than his sister did. I keep up with him through phone calls and emails. I can already sense the maturity coming upon him. He won't be home until Christmas and I'm already counting the days. But until then, I'm enjoying the peace and quiet of my empty nest.

Books I Read on Vacation

2007-08-18T10:10:00.000-07:00

I’ve been composing this post in my head since returning from vacation to a billion business emails, a SITE-SoCal meeting, and getting my son ready for his send-off to college on Monday. This year’s vacation awarded me ample time for reading and here’s a peek at what I enjoyed most:

EVERY CROOKED POT, by Renee Rosen. Most people have scars from childhood and adolescence, but hide them inside the people they grow up to be. Renee Rosen’s character, Nina, takes us on a wacky, witty, and wonderful ride through the 1960s and 1970s in search of a fix for a disfiguring birthmark over her eye. Nina is sympathetic without being maudlin and humorous without being absurd. A colorful cast of characters, led by her clarinet-playing, carpet-baron Daddy, make EVERY CROOKED POT one of my favorite books of the year.

HARRY POTTER AND THE DEATHLY HALLOWS, by J.K. Rowling. I spent a full day immersed in the magical world of J.K. Rowling, devouring this final tome in the Harry Potter series. The series ended without any big surprises, revealing the true natures of several key characters. Most rewarding was seeing the awkward orphan of book one become what Professor Dumbledore calls, “...you wonderful boy. You brave, brave man.”

THE LIAR’S DIARY, by Patry Francis. Patry weaves a stunning tale of loyalty and betrayal, confidence and deceit, love and murder. The story grabbed me early on, but the vivid, haunting characters jumped from the pages into the community around me. THE LIAR’S DIARY kept me guessing with sadness through every chapter, then concluded with a twist I never saw coming.

POSSIBLE SIDE EFFECTS, by Augusten Burroughs. Anyone who enjoyed Augusten’s memoir, RUNNING WITH SCISSORS, will get a kick out of this new collection of essays. Augusten writes about his quirks, oddities, and sensibilities with swashes of brilliant color and blinding insight. I am compelled to call his writing “Van Gogh with words.” Augusten’s brother, John Elder Robison (LOOK ME IN THE EYE), gave me this book at BEA and signed it, “the big brother.”

ALEX AND THE IRONIC GENTLEMAN, by Adrienne Kress. I confess, I probably wouldn’t have read this middle-grade adventure tale if not written by my Backspace friend, Adrienne. What I found between the charming cover and the final page is an adorable heroine, Alex , tomboy with a love for adventure. Throw in a nutty crew of adversaries and compatriots, a quest for pirate’s treasure, and you have a terrific children’s story. Adrienne’s writing style is particularly keen for reading aloud.

PROMISE NOT TO TELL, by Jennifer McMahon. Imagine growing up in a commune in Vermont during the 1970s. That is a story in itself, no? Jennifer deftly reflects between her character’s unconventional upbringing and the person she became after she moved away. The night Kate Cypher returns to the commune to make arrangements for the care of her mother diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, a young girl is ritualistically murdered in the same manner as the unsolved murder of Kate’s best friend thirty years earlier. PROMISE NOT TO TELL is a spooky tale of avenging spirits and redemptive love.

What good books have you read this summer? Click the blue comments link below.

Chesapeake Bay: July 2007

2007-08-01T20:04:00.000-07:00

I didn’t think it was possible to be so blissed-out that I couldn’t write. Chesapeake Bay did that to me.

Three years ago we stayed at the Chesapeake Beach Resort & Spa and fell in love with Chesapeake Bay. When BassMan’s parents requested only a low-key family gathering for their 50th anniversary, both BassMan and I thought of taking them to Chesapeake Bay. I searched the internet for the perfect location and found a gorgeous weekly rental house on a private beach in Port Republic, Maryland. This glorious bayfront house owned by Greg and Alicia Yowell was like a private Ritz-Carlton villa in a secluded section of paradise. I rose every morning to watch the sunrise over the bay.

My first morning, however, was framed by the release of the final book in the Harry Potter series. Having been a fan of the Boy-Who-Lived since his first adventure in HARRY POTTER AND THE SORCERER’S STONE, I had already done my internet research to find the nearest store where I could buy HARRY POTTER AND THE DEATHLY HALLOWS. I spent my first full day in Chesapeake lying on the sofa in the sunroom, a bayside breeze catching the pages as I turned them with record speed.

I took breaks to visit with BassMan’s parents, his sister, her husband, and their two young children. BassMan grilled delicious beer-can chicken, Elisabeth and Jonathan played with their little cousins in the bay, the senior Basses sat on the deck watching the kids play, and I read until midnight. Rising with the sun again the next day, I finished the final tome by eight, just about the time the rest of the house began to stir.

Port Republic, Maryland is only about an hour east of Washington, DC, but it might as well be on the other side of the world when considering its seclusion. I could fill several blog pages about our stay in Chesapeake Bay, but I don't want to be one of those boring neighbors telling vacation stories. Here are just a few of the highest highlights:

Viewing bald eagles soaring over Chesapeake Bay, swooping down to catch a fish and carry it wiggling in its claws all the way back to its nest in the cliffside trees.
Finding three giant Chesapecten jeffersonius scallop fossils during my daily shore walks.
Watching two elegant cownose rays gliding through the clear morning water as gracefully as the eagles soaring above.
Enjoying crabcakes and other seafood delights at local eateries.
Discovering what it is about the ocean that I love so much. That will require a blog post of its own. Maybe later.

Click here to view my Chesapeake Bay photo gallery.

Experienced Only Need Apply

2007-07-19T11:09:00.000-07:00

My first published short story is up at The Rose & Thorn e-zine. Check it out here: Experienced Only Need Apply and let me know what you think.

Five Days in Orlando

2007-07-18T11:58:00.000-07:00

There’s heat and then there’s Florida heat. Hailing from the West Coast, where I’ve sweated out triple digits at Anaheim’s Disneyland, I thought I could handle Orlando’s theme parks in the summer. After all, I’d lived in Japan and toured Tokyo’s Magic Kingdom in horribly humid July. Boy was I wrong. California’s heat is like a dry rock sauna, but Florida’s heat is like a steam sauna.

We arrived at the Doubletree Castle in Orlando, where we enjoyed a roomy junior suite. The hotel’s location on International Drive made it easy for BassMan to hop on the shuttle to the Convention Center where he was attending the Airborne Law Enforcement Association Conference and Expo. That location also allowed easy transport via the hotel shuttle to the Disney parks and Universal.

Before I yak about our theme park adventures, I have to shout out congratulations to my son, Jonathan. The ALEA gives out a handful of scholarships annually and Jonathan won a $1500 award sponsored by MD Helicopters. ALEA presented Jonathan the scholarship at the organization’s annual membership meeting. Pictured here is Dale Christman, Law Enforcement Sales Manager at MD Helicopters, presenting the scholarship to Jonathan. Special thanks for the photo to Jack Sykes, Art Director/Chief Photographer for Professional Pilot Magazine.

Disney’s Magic Kingdom was our first stop. This is where I learned how much I’d forgotten about heated humidity. Halfway through the day I was ready to score some magic to disappear from the Magic Kingdom. Highlight of our visit was the spectacular thunder and lightning storm that passed directly overhead while we were about to ride Splash Mountain. Thunder exploded overhead, echoing through the labyrinthine ride queues and shaking the fiberglass mountain like an earthquake. The light and sound show was more exciting than the ride. Can you tell it’s been way too long since we Californians had seen a storm like this?

Epcot was interesting, but now that I’ve been there, I can’t say it was worth the exhorbitant entry fees. One thing Disney got right at Epcot was putting the attraction lines inside huge biospheric buildings with air conditioning.

Jonathan was sick the day Elisabeth and I went to Universal’s Islands of Adventure. This meant I had to go the next day with him. The last time I’d ridden a roller coaster with Jonathan was when he was eight, barely tall enough to have snuck past the height line at the Desperado coaster at Buffalo Bill’s Casino near the stateline at Primm, Nevada. BassMan held on so tightly to Jonathan on Desperado, we had to pry his fingers off Jonathan’s arm when the ride was done.

Eighteen-year-old Jonathan is old enough to have gone to Universal and conquered any ride by himself, but how fun is that? When you’re a tourist in a town 3,000 miles from home, trekking around a theme park with your mom is better than going by yourself. I guess. I rode all the big coasters and other amusements all over again with Jonathan. Surprisingly, this Mama’s still got the curve when it comes to coasters.

Our Pet Cemetery Grows By One

2007-07-07T10:19:00.000-07:00

In the wayback of our half-acre yard we have a substantial pet cemetery. The ground was consecrated only a few weeks after we moved in when our fluffy white rabbit, Snowball, didn’t make the transition from his comfy cage inside the air conditioned house to his custom-built hutch on the side of our yard. In the years since, we’ve buried Lady, a four-month-old German shepherd mix who drowned in a freak accident in our spa (and I mean freak accident); an amazing alligator lizard with a tail 12-inches long who couldn’t adapt to life in a reptile habitat inside the house (the only thing my kids learned from this was that outside critters live best outside); my gorgeous rooster who strutted and crowed like a prizefighter; two sister cats we’d had since they were kittens (Funny Face and Mariah); and my beloved Bichon Frise, Handsome, a rescue dog who became my shadow and dearest companion.

Yesterday we had to put down our beloved, 18-year-old cat, Neesa, mother of Funny Face and Mariah. Anyone who has loved a pet can understand the waves of grief and sadness we felt yesterday and will continue to feel in the days ahead.

Neesa has been a part of our family since we lived in Orange County immediately after returning from our years in Japan. Like the best cats, Neesa, adopted us. She came to us in a family way and gave birth to six kittens in the attic of our house. Only days after her litter was born, good mother Neesa, found an opportunity to move her litter to upscale digs inside the house. Here’s what happened.

My daughter, Elisabeth, only three years old at the time, had a cradle full of stuffed animals on the floor of her room. The two kids and I had just returned from a large grocery shopping trip and I’d parked my van inside the garage and left the door into the kitchen wide open while I shuffled bags of groceries from the van inside the house. The phone rang, so I paused my unloading, leaving the door open. A moment later I saw Neesa run through the kitchen and disappear into the back of the house. Back in 1991 I didn’t have a cordless phone, so I stayed yakking into my wired handset in the kitchen. A moment later Neesa ran back into the garage and I didn’t give it another thought until I saw her run back in. This time I noticed a tiny black kitten hanging by the nape of the neck from Neesa’s mouth. I put the phone down and followed her.

Neesa, in her motherly way, had taken the open door opportunity to move her kittens, one at a time, from the attic space to a comfy spot inside the house. She dropped the little black darling right into Elisabeth’s stuffed animal sanctuary where the little mewers blended right in.

Smitten with this little example of animal instinct, the kids and I watched as Neesa moved all of her kittens into Elisabeth’s room and nestled in among the stuffed animals to nurse. I moved some of Elisabeth’s special stuffies from the new kitty nursery and we let Neesa and her litter stay there until it was time to find homes for the kitties.

Elisabeth gave Funny Face her name because she had a black dot next to her nose that made her look, well, funny. The three all-black male kittens we gave away to friends. My sister, Robin, took Mariah for her daughter Darah. After Robin found she was deathly allergic to cats, we took Mariah back and kept her until her death about a year ago at age 16. Funny Face preceded Mariah, passing peacefully at the age of 13.

We weren’t exactly sure how old Neesa was, as she was fully grown when she adopted us. When we had her spayed right after she weaned her litter, the vet said she was young, probably about a year old. This makes her about the same age as my son, Jonathan.

Neesa has been a part of our family for so long that Elisabeth and Jonathan don’t remember life without her. She’s buried now in the pet cemetery where her two daughters lay.

The photo above shows (l-r) Neesa and Mariah posing on their thones in front of our house in early 2005. RIP: Neesa, Funny Face, and Mariah.

If you've ever lost a beloved pet, feel free to share a memory here. Simply click the blue COMMENTS link below.

Celebrate Freedom

2007-07-04T08:13:00.000-07:00

The USA is mired in some sticky gunk right now, but it's my home. What a better way to say Happy Birthday America than with fireworks over Disneyland. Disneyland fireworks shoot in the distance in my novel, THE SWORD SWALLOWER'S DAUGHTER, also.

I took this shot at Disneyland's 50th Anniversary Happiest Homecoming on Earth celebration on May 5, 2005. If you're a Disney fan, you can read my post about the occasion in the May 2005 Archives.

More Synchronicity

2007-06-23T08:58:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago I wrote here about writers needing a platform. Last week I attended a SITE-SoCal meeting at the Four Seasons Resort Aviara and heard a talk from branding specialist and author Sandra Sellani. Sandra gave an hour packed punch from her brand new book, What's your BQ.

BQ: Branding Quotient. Anyone with any marketing experience knows that branding is the lifeblood of selling a product. Think Kleenex, Band-Aid, Clorox, Evian. Branding is creating a proprietary, visual, emotional, rational, and cultural image of your product. Buyers don't perceive the above five elements of branding when they reach for a bottle of Evian water, yet the subconcious effect has grabbed them.

Sandra said anyone who sells commodities must have a strategy to survive in this cluttered marketplace. My mind engaged to her talk on two levels: 1) as a business person with a company of my own, and 2) as an author competing for dwindling publishing slots in a market glutted with submissions.

When we hear commodity, most people think of a tangible product, like widgets, flankels, and jigs. Sandra pointed to the crowd and said, "You are a commodity." It's true. We may sell a product or service, but in terms of personal branding, we are the product. Successful salespeople understand they are not only promoting their product or service, they are selling themselves.

Authors hear about platform in all of the publishing circles. I wrote about platform here. As Sandra spoke about branding, it clicked. Branding in the marketing world is the same as platform in the publishing world. Authors are a commodity; not just their books, stories, or articles. Authors who understand this early in their career: Stephen King, Nora Roberts, Tom Clancy, JK Rowling, become name brands, household words, the icon to which all their competition seeks to compare.

So we know that we are commodities. What then is our strategy for success? Here are a few of the notes I took away from Sandra's talk, peppered with my own insights:

Create competitive differentiation. Prove why you are different.
Go for the gut. Target the emotions and go for the gut reactions. Emotions connect.
Be a Vulcan. Statistics impress. Look for logical points for those who identify with a purely rational approach.
Gossip, heresay, and reputation. What do people say about you when you're not around.
The eye of the beholder: You are what the consumer thinks you are.

Sandra gave us a peek at the VRIO model she covers in her book:

V--Valuable. Are you valuable to your clients, readers, employers?
R--Rare. Worker bees and hacks are a dime a dozen (so are cliches--but it works so well here). Be the diamond in a field of rhinestones.
I--Imitate. Identify the best in your field and do what they do better.
O--Organizational leverage. Make sure everyone in your company/team/agency understands your model and builds their strategy around it.

The Four Seasons Resort Aviara was the perfect setting for a talk about branding. This chain of luxury hotels and resorts has positioned itself at the top of its market. Four Seasons has city hotels all over the world, but this brand understands what travelers want in a resort away from the buzz and bang of a big city. Aviara is north of San Diego, set in a wetlands and wildlife conclave with spectacular views of the hills and lagoons. My room was spacious and overlooked the gorgeous Aviara gardens with a balcony and outdoor sitting area. I switched on the Bose wave radio, nibbled the chocolate-dipped strawberries delivered complimentary to my room, and worked in perfect serenity on my first draft revisions to THE SWORD SWALLOWER'S DAUGHTER. Chris DeVito and the staff at Aviara have a high Brand Quotient in my book.

Happy Father's Day - 2007

2007-06-17T07:19:00.000-07:00

Proud Moments in Parenting

2007-06-15T08:20:00.000-07:00

The jolly green graduate is my son Jonathan. He turned his tassel from high school on June 14th. He's headed to college in Kansas, taking a music and merit scholarship into a pre-law major.

Grinning appropriately for this occasion are husby Dave (aka, Bassman), daughter Elisabeth (aka, Elle), the grad himself (aka, Jonny) and moi.

Jonathan made us proud with a couple of other accomplishments. He won two Bank of America Achievement Awards: English and Drama, as well as the school's Religious Studies achievement award.

Applause for These Special Athletes

2007-06-12T13:30:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I attended a leg of the Law Enforcement Torch Run for the Special Olympics Southern California and met three amazing young athletes. Heather Dannielle Gossett, Michael Evans, and Austin Frederick are members of the Special Olympics Southern California team, representing the Pomona Valley Chapter.

My husband, Bassman, and a team from Pomona Police Department, ran the Special Olympics Flame of Hope through the city of Pomona. The leg opened on the grounds of the Lanterman State Hospital and Development Center, passed through the streets of Pomona, and was handed off to a team from Montclair Police Department.

Heather, Michael, and Austin ran alongside the PPD team on-and-off through the eight-mile segment. (Pictured above is Austin, Heather, and Michael.)

Heather, a 23-year-old, 11-year veteran of the Special Olympics, opened the segment as torch-bearer. Teammate, Michael Evans, is a 22-year-old runner and shot-put athlete who has participated in the Special Olympics for 12 years. At 14 years old, Austin Frederick, was the youngest member of the Pomona torch relay team, but is a 5-year participant in the Special Olympics. Austin ran the torch in the final yards.

The Special Olympics Southern California Summer Games open Friday night at Cal State Long Beach, with game and events opening Saturday and closing on Sunday.

Please post your comments and congrats to Heather, Michael, and Austin. I'll make sure they see your good wishes.

Booking It In New York City

2007-06-05T10:09:00.000-07:00

Writers often have parallel lives. Occasionally, a bridge connects those two lives, allowing a synchronistic exchange between worlds. My business life is among highly successful people in the travel and hospitality industry. To the greatest degree, my writing life is solitary. My online writer’s group, Backspace, provides a virtual water cooler where I exchange ideas, swap material for critique, and decompress from the stress of my business life. A bridge formed last week when I was able to attend the Incentive Brand Show at the Sheraton New York Towers on Day 1. Days 2 and 3 were spent at the Backspace conference at a legendary mid-town hotel that shall not be named, and Day 4 concluded in a whirlwind blow through Book Expo America (BEA), the annual mardi-gras of the American publishing industry.

Click here to see my NYC photo album.

The Backspace Conference

I’ve attended several writer’s conferences, but Backspace is by far the best. It’s expensive. Registration for two days of workshops and pitches, and a seated dinner, hit $405. Add accommodations in NYC, taxi fares, meals, and if you’re not within driving or train commute, airfare. This two-day conference could easily cross the $1500 mark. Is it worth it?

Depends on how serious you are about getting published. You won’t get better face time at any other conference I know of. Published authors freely mix with the unpublished, forging relationships that can be crucial in this extremely competitive industry. You’ll find top agents and editors hanging around to hear the sessions. Authors with critically acclaimed books appear on the panels side by side with debut novelists. Discussions in the panels range from technique to marketing, from writing successful query letters, to spit polishing a final edit. There are topics for the branded author and the breakout author.

Keynote speaker, Michael Cader, founder of PublishersMarketplace, woke up the crowd with a sobering look at the publishing industry. He gave startling statistics on book sales and gave enough number crunching elements to make a less-dedicated writer despair. Agent Kristin Nelson, who attended Cader’s session, blogged about it here. If someone can take one idea away from an event like Backspace and succeed with it in life, then the event was worth it. Cader’s insistence that an author must embrace pop culture and technology with blogging, YouTube, animated book trailers, and broadcast face time both inspired and annoyed attendees. He said that in order to succeed, authors must market themselves as if they were self-published, because publishers no longer roll out the marketing dough for anyone expect top list authors. It all comes down to branding. Create yourself as a brand to build a solid reader base.

BEA – Book Expo America

BEA is Disneyland for book lovers. Puff the Magic Dragon was there in the person of Peter Yarrow signing his lovely new children’s book of the same name. I wanted a signed copy and went around to the line, which I thought was only about 30 people deep. The man I stepped behind politely informed me that where I stepped in was only the aisle break to a line that stretched about 300 people down the center aisle of the main floor. Never mind. I snapped a picture of Peter signing. Peter charmed his guests when he paused to speak to each person as if they were the only one in line.

Next, my author pals Jenny Gardiner (SLEEPING WITH WARD CLEVER, Dorchester, Winter 2008), Kim Stagliano and I met with John Robison, author of the memoir LOOK ME IN THE EYE (Crown, September 2007). John is a remarkable man whose life story would make a novelist wonder where to begin. Born with Asperger Syndrome, a form of autism often linked to savant-like genius and anti-social behavior, John grew up misunderstood, abused, bullied, and outcast. His memoir covers his life from childhood, thorough his years designing smoking guitars and special effects for KISS, to engineering electronic games like Simon for Milton Bradley, and finally to his own entrepreneurial success as a service technician and restorer of Land Rovers, Rolls Royces, and other luxury automobiles. John’s memoir stands on its own merit, but I can’t hide the fact that John is also the brother of Augusten Burroughs, author of RUNNING WITH SCISSORS.

In a carnival atmosphere like Backspace and BEA, I find people seldom listen to others. There are crowds of people, background noise, crazy distractions, and personal agendas. John, however, drew me aside, where we sat and talked about his book, his plans, and how I recognized Asberger in someone dear to me. Then he asked me about my book, THE SWORD SWALLOWER’S DAUGHTER. He listened. He showed interest in my book. Then he said, “I’d like to introduce you to the marketing director of St. Martin's; they publish my brother’s books.”

So away we went, little me and big John—he must be in the neighborhood of six-foot, four-inches—winding through the crowd, first to Picador, where he got us copies of his brother’s new book, POSSIBLE SIDE EFFECTS, and then introduced me to the publisher of Picador. Then on to St. Martin’s. The marketing director was not there at the time, but the sales executive gave me the name of the editor and told me to have my agent send the manuscript to her when it was ready for submission. John is an author with an amazing story, but moreso he’s an amazing gentleman with a heart of gold.

Cover to cover from NY to CA, I read John’s book. LOOK ME IN THE EYE is startling. The more you see into the character of an Aspergian person, the more you may recognize it in people you have known through life. Remember that awkward kid with the wacky glasses? The one who trudged across campus like a robot, a slide rule in his pocket, muttering the periodic table of elements during lunch? I learned in John’s book that Asperger Syndrome was not classified until 1984. The kid I knew in high school was probably Aspergian. I wish I would have been nicer to him.

Summer hasn't yet begun and yet my reading list is full. I picked up several books to give aways throughout the summer. Watch in the coming weeks for contests and you could win.

Sword Swallower's Daughter is Finished

2007-05-26T08:55:00.000-07:00

Last night at 1 a.m. I typed THE END to my first draft version of THE SWORD SWALLOWER'S DAUGHTER. What a fabulous feeling.

Writers and Websites

2007-05-25T08:57:00.000-07:00

The following is the text to a talk I'm giving tomorrow to the California Writers' Club, Inland Empire Chapter.

Do I Need a Website?

Back when I was young and flippant, I informed my dental hygienist that I brushed twice a day and asked if it was really that important to floss my teeth also.

“Only if you want to keep them,” she replied without a missing a beat.

So it is with writers and websites. If you’re serious about writing for publication, it’s time for you to look into creating a presence on the internet.

I Googled Myself

In today’s marketplace smart people seeking information on a subject or person turn to the web. I just typed my byline Carolyn Burns Bass into Google and came back with hits filling the first four pages. Some of those hits are directly culled from my websites, but many of them links to book reviews I’ve published and responses that I’ve made on other people’s blogs and MySpace pages.

If an editor wanted to look deeper into my publishing history, it would not be hard to find more than enough information to prove that I am a serious writer, serious about being published.

You and Your Platform

Agents and editors banter around the word “platform.” In today’s publishing world, authors are packaged as commodities. It’s beyond genre, category, or voice. It’s about how the publisher can market the author along with the book.

A platform to the publisher/editor is a way to sell books. A platform to the author is a way to sell ideas.

A platform is not just the stage on which you stand to pitch your product, it’s the product itself. In the case of authors it’s more than just the book, but what drove the author to write it. It’s the backstory of the book, the story before the story and after the story ends. The author’s beliefs and passions are the foundation of his or her platform; what he or she would write about if they weren’t writers.

Martha O’Connor, author of the novel THE BITCH POSSE, uses her platform to raise public awareness about diabetes; her young son was diagnosed with type 1, juvenile diabetes while she was writing the novel.
Barry Eisler, author of the John Rain series of thrillers, has a CIA background and writes political views in his blog.
Tish Cohen, a self-described agoraphobic in the making, is author of the recently released TOWN HOUSE, a novel about an agoraphobic man’s struggle to live with is phobias. Tish has a “What’s Your Phobia” section on her website.
Good Girls Kill For Money Club is a blog written by a group of female mystery authors, reveal the mystery behind other authors with insightful questions and commentary.
LitPark, operated by Susan Henderson, former editor of Night Train magazine, and author of the upcoming, TAP ROOT, uses the metaphor of a playground for writers to answer questions of the week, read about upcoming new books and authors, and share personal anecdotes.
Ovations, my primary blog, espouses my platform in this log line: An ovation is rousing, prolonged applause. It's a display of public homage or welcome. More than enthusiastic hand-clapping, it's a way of rewarding hard work, showing gratitude, or offering praise. Ovations celebrates the unfinished script of life, where the earth is the stage and people are the stars.

Not only do these blogs promote the author’s platform and books, they can help other authors create an online presence and begin the foundation of their own platform. They invite you to join the conversation by leaving a comment. Your comments are forever logged to the world wide web and searchable to anyone around the globe.

Three Easy Ways to Build Your Platform

Read blogs and comment frequently on your favorites.
Begin your own blog or MySpace.MySpace is the easiest “website/blog in a package.”
When you have something ready to sell, be it a novel, non-fiction proposal or finished manuscript, think about opening a website.

How to, Where to Blog

There are dozens of free blog hosts. If you want to add bells and whistles, such as running polls or surveys, you can pay some blog hosts for upgraded accounts. I host my primary blog at Bloggger, yet I also have a LiveJournal account that is cross linked to my Blogger account. I cross link, so that if I comment on a LiveJournal blog (my agent has a Live Journal blog), it includes my picture and a link back to me.

MySpace is not just for teenagers. It has the biggest tent of talent in the world wide circ us. Here you’ll find pages and pages of authors, news about their books, tours, special offers, and often a blog. I have a MySpace page filled with a wondrous variety of authors, artists, acrobats, and all kinds of people from around the world. These people, some who contacted me and other who’ve sounded interesting enough to me to contact them, are my “friends.” I have 493 friends.

Rather than list the plethora of free source websites and blogs, visit this site and then surf until you catch a site that looks easy or interesting to you.

http://www.thefreecountry.com/webhosting/freeblogging.shtml

If you don’t see anything that appeals to you there, just type in your search browser: blog hosts. You’ll get pages and pages of blog sites and offers.

Other Important or Helpful Sites for Writers

I have long been a supporter of Writer’s Digest’s annual survey and publication of its 101 Best Websites for Writers. Surf these links and enjoy the ride.

http://www.writersdigest.com/101sites/2006_index.asp

If you attend my talk, I'd love to hear your comments here. If you're a regular reader of Ovations, you're already blog saavy, but I'd still enjoy hearing from you.

I'm in a write-a-thon

2007-05-17T08:30:00.000-07:00

I’ve been asked to participate in a write-a-thon sponsored by Breath & Shadow, an online journal of literature by people with disabilities. The staff has invited their — and the readers’ — favorite writers to write a piece to be published in an upcoming issue of the journal. I’m very excited about this opportunity to write for Breath & Shadow and honored to have been selected to participate. The write-a-thon, as its name suggests, is a fundraiser.

What you may not know about me is that I have a hearing impairment. My hearing loss is the result of nerve damage caused by chronic ear infections as a child and sustained exposure to loud sound (live music, I’m afraid to say). Although I get by just fine with my hearing loss, there is much of the hearing world that I miss. I don’t hear crickets chirp anymore. I can’t hear the buzzer of my coffee pot, my kitchen timer, or many alarm clocks. I set my cellphone to vibrate and wear it on my body.

You know how with walk-a-thons you pledge a certain dollar amount per mile or kilometer? This write-a-thon works the same way. I will be writing a short story of no more than 500 words. If I get at least five people to support me with a pledge, Breath & Shadow will publish my write-a-thon piece. The pledge amount is variable and won’t be collected until after my work is published in the fall. A standard pledge is 2 cents or 5 cents per word for a 500-word piece — which comes out to a $10 or $25 donation. Of course, you can always pledge less (one cent per word) or for more (a dime or a quarter per word). Any amount of support is welcome. Remember, I have a word limit of 500 words.

Breath Shadow is a nonprofit publication; subscriptions are free. It’s the only magazine that prints the writing of people with all kinds of disabilities and is edited and written only by people with disabilities. It’s made a real difference in the life of disabled people to have their work about disability taken seriously and published in a quality journal. The journal is a project of ROSC, a tax-exempt charity. They will be happy to send you a receipt for your donation, if you like.

If you would like to sponsor me, please email me at Carolyn [at] wordartsolutions.com and tell me how much you’re pledging. Also, when my work is published, Breath & Shadow will post the names of the people who sponsored me, so please let me know if it’s okay to post your name or if you’d like to be listed as “anonymous."

A quiet Mother's Day morning

2007-05-13T07:34:00.000-07:00

Awake again in the quiet of this Mother's Day morning. I've had the breakfasts in bed, muffins, eggs, sprigs of flowers in tiny vases, but this morning's peacefulness is the best gift of all. Tank, my canine son, is curled around my legs, while my human son sleeps. Husby worked until two a.m. and will sleep until about nine. My daughter's probably hugging her pillow in her dorm room across the valley and will greet us in church this morning. Life is profoundly good.

If you've read Ovations for a while (at least a year) you may recall this plaque that I created the year after my mother passed away. I run it each Mother's Day. It says everything I feel about Mother's Day. If you can't read the verse, click on the picture and it will open to a larger size.

Tish Cohen at Book Soup

2007-05-09T11:37:00.000-07:00

Congratulations to Tish Cohen, seen here signing my copy of her debut novel, TOWN HOUSE. Book Soup, the famous independent bookstore of the stars on Sunset Boulevard in West Hollywood hosted Tish's book launch last night. Rex Pickett, author of SIDEWAYS, introduced Tish and gave a glowing endorsement.

Before signing, Tish read chapter two of TOWN HOUSE, offering a peek into her hilarious dysfunctional character Jack Madigan, the reclusive son of a famous, dead shock-rock star.

Film rights to TOWN HOUSE have already been sold.

Finally a quiet moment... and some squees

2007-04-25T19:08:00.000-07:00

I’ve put on my favorite iTunes playlist, my cat and dog are sleeping on each side of me, the husby and son are out, and the sun is setting. This is my favorite time of day.

The last couple of weeks my husby and I have done some travel driving. Two weeks ago we drove to Scottsdale and last weekend we drove to Las Vegas. I often listen to audio books while I’m driving, so I thought it would be fun to load up my iPod with something that we both would like. I enjoy literary and up-market commercial fiction, Bassman likes thrillers, espionage, crime noir and police procedurals. After several hours of sampling through Audible.com, I downloaded Carl Hiaasen’s SKINNY DIP.

Part noir, part thriller, all humor, Bassman and I laughed our way across two deserts while listening to SKINNY DIP. I’d heard Hiaasen’s name praised among writer friends, but had never explored his catalog of work. This summer we’re flying to Orlando, renting a car and driving up to Chesapeake Bay, then driving back to down to North Carolina and flying home from Raleigh/Durham. You can be sure we’ll dish up some Carl Hiaasen on the road.

It’s been a while since I gave some squees...

For my husby, Bassman: At 48 he’s still got it. Last weekend was the annual Baker to Vegas Challenge Cup Relay, an annual footrace made of law enforcement teams from all over the country. He really didn’t want to run a leg of the 120-mile relay through the desert, but his team had someone drop out and they begged him to run. He had less than a week to train for the 6.5 mile section of the relay, but he keeps himself in great shape. It wasn’t a cakewalk, for sure, but he did pass six other team runners and helped his team look good. Bravo, Bassman.

For my friend, Susan Henderson: Susan sold her first novel TAP ROOT a few weeks ago—without an agent. I have followed her writing progress on this novel for several months through her blog, LitPark, and empathized her pangs of writing, revising, finishing, submitting. Hearing of its quick sale is like being a bridesmaid at a friend’s wedding. TAP ROOT is a coming-of-age novel set in the 1970s, about a girl who believes her mother has gone missing. After finding her mother living in a secret room in the basement, the nine-year-old girl must come to terms with their irrevocably changed relationship. Now that’s intense. I can’t wait to read it.

For my son, Jonathan: He’s not off to see the wizard, he IS the wizard. Jonathan’s in the final weeks of practice for his high school musical production of THE WIZARD OF OZ. Tomorrow we’re going out costume shopping and I’m going to have fun making his turban for the scene when he’s Professor Marvel.

For Southern California Book Lovers: This weekend is the LA Times Festival of Books. I’ll be working a shift on Saturday at the California Writers Club booth (12-2) and then enjoying myself for the rest of the day. This is an amazing two days of author signings, lectures, readings, panels, and exhibits. If you’re there, stop by the CWC and say hello.

When words fail: Virginia Tech 2007

2007-04-18T08:18:00.000-07:00

Click on the image above to view a memorial slideshow.

Do you love what you do?

2007-04-11T17:43:00.000-07:00

I’m sitting on the most comfortable hotel chair in the world. At least it feels that way to me. Traveling and staying in nice hotels is one of the best perks in my life. I say life, rather than job, because I love what I do.

The shingle above my business website says I do travel marketing, meeting planning, and business communications. My author's website says I’m a fiction writer. This blog is my attempt to synthesize both of these vocations into meaningful praise for the amazing people, places, and things that make this a wonderous world.

Last week I was looking out at the Pacific Ocean from Huntington Beach, California and today I’m watching the shadows fall across the rugged desert peaks surrounding Scottsdale, Arizona. We just checked into an amazing property—Hotel Valley Ho, a Scottsdale landmark and hip urban oasis since the late 1950s. This is our room.

Yes, that is an oversized bathtub in the middle of the room. When I said it was romantic; my husby didn’t argue. Ever pragmatic, he did voice a concern that I might get up in the middle of the night and fall into it. Our room has a separate glass-door shower and lush, Red Flower spa amenities for bathing.

Look closely at the shot to the right. See the 32-inch flat screen TV aimed at the bathtub? That’s a long, wall-length counter of luxury accessories like crystal wine glasses, a martini shaker and glasses, a magnifying make-up mirror. See the black bullet thing? It’s a pod expresso maker. Inside those cabinets are a fully-stocked mini-bar and quirky selection of gourmet snacks like Lucy’s “Predic-a-Mints,” Cracker Jacks, and chips and salsa.

You can’t see it in the picture, but I’m using it now: complimentary wireless internet in every room. Throughout the hotel, in fact. I can sit in a cabana next to the pool and work on THE SWORD SWALLOWER’S DAUGHTER.

Hotel Valley Ho is the kind of place this sword swallower’s daughter never would have stayed in as a child. She’s pinching herself right now, making sure she’s really here. I write about travel, beautiful places, and gracious people. I believe much of my travel writing is to a create permanent record of where I’ve been—not in a look-at-me-living-it-up way, but in gratitude--a reflection of how far I’ve come.

Now if they only sold this chair.

Do you love what you do? Click the COMMENT link below and tell us why or why not.

* * *

Special thanks to Jesse Thompson and Hotel Valley Ho for donating a stay at their fabu property to the SITE-SoCal Holiday Charity Auction. I bought the package and happy I did.

Between business and pleasure

2007-04-04T08:19:00.000-07:00

I’m writing this morning from the glorious Hilton Waterfront Beach Resort in Huntington Beach, California. Although this hotel is only about an hour from my home, I’ve come to love this property for a number of reasons. The smartest reason is that the Waterfront has discovered that perfect blend between business and pleasure. I am here for business, but pleasure is what I’m getting right now as I sit in my room watching the famous Surf City waves peak and crest in the early morning ocean mist.

I arrived last night just after sunset and stepped out of my car to the scent of wood smoke, savory hotdogs, and crusty marshmallows rising from the firepits lining the beach. I couldn’t really distinguish the hot dogs and marshmallows, but having sat around those fire pits many times through the years, my memory filled in the details.

Poised on Pacific Coast Highway, along the Orange County Riviera, The Waterfront offers views of the wide sand and rolling waves from almost every room in the house. The first thing I do when checking into a hotel room is open the curtains (okay, this after tipping the bellboy). The lights along the famous Huntington Beach Pier had just lit, reflecting in the teal-blue ocean below.

This pier is one of my favorite childhood memories. My mother once dreamed she was standing on that pier watching me struggling in the water below, sucked under and swept out before her eyes. I don’t think I ever told her how that dream haunted me for years. Looking back, I think the dream was symbolic. She watched me go through some pretty rough times, unable to reach me from her motherly perch. The ocean of life threw me back, coughing and sputtering on the sandy shores of adulthood.

I want to thank J.D. Shafer and the fabulous Hilton Waterfront staff for making my stay in their house so fabulous. After my SITE-SoCal meeting today I’ll drive north on PCH a few miles to Seal Beach, where I spent many wild and carefree days as a child, and where my character Sheila’s daddy lives in my novel, THE SWORD SWALLOWER’S DAUGHTER.

Where did you spend your summers or your wild and carefree days of youth? Click the comments link below.

Advice from and for writers

2007-03-28T09:55:00.000-07:00

At a meeting of the California Writer’s Club last Saturday I heard Susan Straight speak and read from her latest novel, A MILLION NIGHTENGALES. Susan has long been one of my favorite authors, whose authentic life in Riverside, California makes her writing sing like a New York diva.

Susan voiced something I have internalized since I began writing fiction seriously, but have never heard from other writers: She says she's constantly working on her novel--even when she's not sitting in front of the work, she's ruminating over characters, setting, conflicts. Susan is one of the few authors I know who write complete novels longhand. Her method of choice are yellow legal pads, which she then transfers the work to her computer. Susan teaches creative writing at the university where my daughter is an English major, considering a minor in creative writing. If she takes one of Susan's classes, I'm going to crawl into her backpack and listen through the zipper.

Tonight I'm going to hear Anne Lamott speak and read from her new collection of essays, Grace (Eventually). I've heard Anne before and she speaks just like she writes--from the hip and heart. Stay tuned.

Before Susan's talk at the CWC meeting on Saturday, we were given an exercise to write advice to ourselves that we wish we would’ve received early in our writing career. Here’s what I wrote:
Read good books. Reading is the most important element of writing. Reading opens the door to worlds outside your own, will expose you to foreign cultures and diverse lifestyles, and will reveal the thread of humanity that we all share. Only through discovering the outer world can you hope to share your inner world.

Experience life. Plan for your future, but live in the moment. Observe people and places around you; participate in what is going on around you. Remember how you felt when you reached important milestones.

Discover what you like reading best. Read the kind of books you want to write. Study how they’re written: setting, characters, motivation, plot, conflict, story arc, pace, layers, subtext, theme.

Devote yourself to craft. Writing begins when you put one word in front of the other, but there’s more to writing than nouns, verbs, and adjectives. Study and practice the rudimentary elements of literature: theme, metaphor, exposition, dialog, narrative, and story. Remember that conflict is the heart of a story; without conflict there is no plot, and without plot there is no story.

Learn to edit yourself. Don’t fall in love with your words. Even the best writers have editors, but editing begins with the writer. Look at your words and imagine them written by someone else. Strike out the dead wood, kill your darlings. Stroke and polish. Send your baby out into the world dressed for success.

Accept criticism. Critics are everywhere. Learn to discern true criticism from the emotionally charged ranting of ignorant critics. True criticism offers suggestions for improvement or comments intended to encourage the author to strive for excellence. Accept good criticism; reject ignorant criticism and reviews.

Good things are happening

2007-03-21T17:57:00.000-07:00

It's true. I’m in the final act of the SWORD SWALLOWER’S DAUGHTER and excited about where we are now. Sheila’s Daddy just bought a sailboat to live aboard. Wouldn’t that be fun?

I got an email from an editor at a very nice print magazine, saying they loved my short story, STILL LIFE, the one that tied for first place in last month’s Backspace contest. She asked if she could use it in a future edition of the magazine. I’ll reveal more details when they’re available. But I’m happy to see this story placed in such a fine magazine.

In today’s LitPark, Susan Henderson, author and playground monitor extraordinaire, included a small memoir I wrote about my mom, and included a photo of her and me taken on my wedding day. Take a look here. (Can’t wait to announce your news, Susan!)

I finished reading Kristy Kiernan’s CATCHING GENIUS. This was one of those books that you can’t wait to find out what happens, but you’re sorry it’s over when you read the last page. The final chapter was a bittersweet finish on a glorious sonata. Here is the beautiful cover again.

Here’s something to give you a chuckle this week; this is from Bud Caddell, runner up to the Tech Brew/FeedBurner contest. Bud’s entry is a takeoff of the Bulwer-Lytton (Bad) Fiction contest.

From the moment she walked in the door and let down her hair, he was hooked, hooked on those warm blonde locks drenched in the sun filtering through the cheap plastic blinds, hooked on that shade of blonde that reminded him of the icons on the site he was feverishly posting and reposting his newest blog post, the one with the image of Britney Spears with the sign of the beast so artfully photoshopped on her bare skull, so hooked that he knew, from that moment, that she was the only real linkbait he’d ever known, and that he digged her.

The Reading List:

THE KOMMANDANT'S GIRL, Pam Jenoff
WHISTLING IN THE DARK, Lesley Kagen
PROMISE NOT TO TELL, Jennifer McMahon

Beyond the Chair

2007-03-14T19:03:00.001-07:00

This guy deserves an ovation: Drew Shelley, Beyond the Chair.

Note: The following bio is blantantly ripped from Drew's website. Talk about a hero, this man refuses to let his disability rob him of adventure, excitement, and lust for life. Bravo, Drew.

Andrew Shelley has a great life. By day he is an engineer, and by night loves to listen to music and DJ. He is also an avid weekend warrior, often exploring the remote hiking trails of Southern California and the sand dunes of the surrounding deserts. Andrew Shelley, Drew to his friends, is what most people would call a successful guy, with one unique trait; Andrew has muscular dystrophy, a disease that is characterized by the progressive weakening and degeneration of muscle. To keep with his lifestyle, Drew relies on a 260 lb power chair specially equipped for extreme off-road use.

Always up for a greater challenge, Drew will embark on a solo extreme world tour in March of 2007 that would make the most weathered of adventurers cringe. His journey will bring him to some of the most remote and almost completely unreachable corners of the globe. Drew will trek through the outback of Australia, cut through the jungles of Indonesia, and even navigate across the landscape of India. Each portion of his journey presents unique difficulties for Drew to overcome with both the use and transportation of his chair. Throughout this adventure, Andrew will rely on his sheer will, engineering background, and his extreme power chair to do what is difficult for some and impossible for most. His journey will be an inspiring adventure that will demonstrate the power of human potential to overcome all odds. It’s a journey he will face alone; a journey beyond the chair.

If you're on MySpace, you can friend him here: Beyond the Chair

I added a subscription widget in the upper left side of this page. If you'd like to subscribe to Ovations, click the widget and fill out the form. Subscription is free (of course) and it will keep you up to date with Ovations.

Having finished Super Mom Saves the World, by Melanie Lynn Hauser, I'm now into Kristy Kiernan's debut novel, Catching Genius, which, btw, is genius. And the cover is one of the most beautiful covers; don't you just want to crawl into the screen and sit in one of those chairs overlooking that endless ocean. I'm logging off to read. Check back later.

The Reading List:

THE TEAHOUSE FIRE, Ellis Avery
THE KOMMANDANT'S GIRL, Pam Jenoff
WHISTLING IN THE DARK, Lesley Kagen
PROMISE NOT TO TELL, Jennifer McMahon

More than a week

2007-03-07T09:18:00.000-08:00

It’s Wednesday and I’m writing my weekly Monday post. I’m my own publisher so I guess that means I’ll have to discipline myself. Maybe I’ll dock my pay. Wait. I don’t get paid for my blog. I’ll have to figure out something else, like depriving me of chocolate for a week.

I added 2,000 more words to THE SWORD SWALLOWER’S DAUGHTER and introduced my little Sheila to one of my favorite folk singers of all time, Joan Baez. By the way, on March 6th my daddy, who really was a sword swallower, would have been 77 years old. Sadly, he passed away in 1989 while I was living in Japan.

This month’s Backspace short story contest required a story about someone who came into a large amount of money, and the story has to have a river in it. This round may be tough competition because first prize is a signed copy of FINN by Jon Clinch. I have my own copy, of course, but if I win the contest and get this signed copy, I’ll run my own contest in Ovations to give away my first copy. (I won a signed copy of Sara Gruen’s WATER FOR ELEPHANTS in the last Backspace short story contest. I’ll have to think up a contest for next week to give away my original copy of Gruen’s wonderful book.)

So, after a week submerged in the brilliant darkness of Clinch’s FINN, I have returned to blue skies and heroes. Last week I called FINN extra-dark, Belgian chocolate. Having now finishing the book I’m suggesting it’s more like aged port wine. The prose is intoxicating and the story is addictive. The conclusion ferments the pith of Twain's river saga with Clinch's detached storytelling for velvet-rich satisfaction. Barnes & Noble's Online Book Club is discussing Twain's and Clinch's books side-by-side this month and Clinch has been logging in to talk with club members. He's a great guy, very approachable, and welcomes intelligent discourse.

And now I’m reading SUPER MOM SAVES THE WORLD, Melanie Lynn Hauser’s sequel to the acclaimed CONFESSIONS OF SUPER MOM. After a week on the dark Mississippi River of Pap Finn, the bright world of Hauser’s Birdie Lee is welcome contrast. Birdie Lee is the secret identity of Super Mom, who survived a Horrible Swiffer Accident that turned her into an apron wearing, mess-cleaning, crime-fighting super hero who wants to fly. Okay, so a Swiffer accident turns divorced mom into a super hero is kind of a literary stretch. But Hauser’s voice is so engaging, her perceptions of culture so astute, her bright voice never tries to convince you that stupidity is funny. Here is my favorite line in the book so far, when Birdie is fretting over her teenaged daughter’s new friend Vienna: “... if recent history has taught us anything, it’s that a girl named after a foreign city is going to be trouble.”

Still on my reading list:

CATCHING GENIUS, Kristy Kiernan
THE TEAHOUSE FIRE, Ellis Avery
THE KOMMANDANT'S GIRL, Pam Jenoff

On a reading binge

2007-02-26T17:35:00.000-08:00

This morning my word meter pushed past 60,000 words on THE SWORD SWALLOWER’S DAUGHTER. That I got any writing done this weekend is a big deal. Not that anything cool was going on, but my pre-orded copy of FINN by Jon Clinch arrived and I’ve been engrossed in reading it. FINN is the story of Huckleberry Finn’s father, the notorious Pap Finn who kidnaps, beats, and imprisons Huck in Mark Twain’s THE ADVENTURES OF HUCKLEBERRY FINN. Those familiar with Twain’s story know that Pap Finn dies and Huck finds it no loss. Jon Clinch doesn’t make old Pap a sympathetic soul, so knowing he’s bound to die doesn’t ruin the storyline.

FINN is like extra-dark, Belgian chocolate. The prose is so rich, the matter of the story so weighty, you can’t take too much in one setting. I find myself reading a paragraph several times just to savor the mastery of tongue. How can someone write so beautifully about such horrible themes as child abuse, slavery, alcoholism, rape, murder, poverty, deceit? Jon Clinch can and does. That’s all for now. I’m off to read.

Books on my bedside table:

SUPERMOM SAVES THE WORLD, Melanie Lynn Hauser
CATCHING GENIUS, Kristy Kiernan
THE TEAHOUSE FIRE, Ellis Avery
THE KOMMANDANT'S GIRL, Pam Jenoff

Squee with me

2007-02-19T10:38:00.000-08:00

In the two weeks since I posted my Duh Moment, I had a Squee Moment. Or two. Maybe more. Read on and squee with me.

First squee: Remember one of my new year’s resolutions was to submit my short stories this year? Since January 1st, I’ve sent out four stories.

Second squee: I received my acceptance on one of those four submissions. This is my first fiction credit and I squeed so loud my husby looked up from Law and Order to see what the ruckus was about. The Rose & Thorn, a distinguished online literary journal bought my story EXPERIENCED ONLY NEED APPLY for its Summer 2007 issue.

Third squee: My son received his first college admission letter last week. The following day he received a second letter from the college offering him an annual $5,500 scholarship. He’s also been invited to audition for a choir scholarship. This is the same college (a small, private college out of state) whose football coach had been calling on him. Jonathan decided to forego football in favor of music, but will be a pre-law major. Oh to be young.

Fourth squee: My short story STILL LIFE recently tied for first place in the Backspace contest that just ended. I’m sharing the spotlight with a fabulous author AS King, whose short story DOWN BOY is a kick. You’ll be seeing AS King on bookstore shelves one day soon, so drop by her site and get to know her now.

Fifth squee: I just finished reading a great business book. In my other life as a travel marketing consultant I am blessed to meet some of the most extraordinary people in all manners of life. John Klymshyn is one of those people. He is a motivational speaker who motivates from the heart, not just the mind. I’ve heard him speak on several occasions and each time I leave with new tools to strengthen and tune-up my business. Yet the spokes of his messages reach into other areas of my life—personal relationships, family activities, and yes, my personal writing. John’s recent book, THE ULTIMATE SALES MANAGER’S GUIDE contains some of the most practical, relevant, and doable tools for anyone leading teams of people, whether in sales, recreation, or life.

Sixth squee: Need to be pampered? I did. The night before last week’s SITE-SoCal/MPISCC event I spent a lovely night at the brand new Four Seasons Hotel Westlake Village. My room looked out on the hotel’s, oriental gardens, a lush carpet to the Santa Monica Mountains backdrop. Tucked away in a business enclave in The Valley, that legendary haven north of LA, the Four Seasons Hotel Westlake Village could become one of the most sought after conference and meeting properties in Southern California. Beyond business, though, the hotel houses the California WellBeing Institute which offers medical, dietary, lifestyle, and fitness services and activities. A colleague in my group suggested this jewel was poised to be the dream wedding location for every bride in The Valley. A second colleague seconded that by saying he was already considering it for his daughter’s bat mitzvah. Location-wise, it’s only a 40-minute drive up the 101 from LA, has easy access to Malibu beaches and fabulous golf, and is only a short hop to the Ronald Reagan Presidential Library and Museum.

Have you had a squee moment recently? Click the comments link below to share yours or to read about others. Now squee.

Flustration, Mind Muck, and the Duh Moment

2007-01-26T11:15:00.000-08:00

Have you ever been troubleshooting something and you get out the manual to read something like, “Confirm that the power cord is plugged into the source.” You say to yourself, “Duh.”

Yesterday I had what I call a Duh Moment. I’d left my house in plenty of time to make it into Santa Monica for a SITE-SoCal meeting where Brenda Anderson, author of PLAYING THE QUANTUM FIELD, was speaking. I’d helped plan this meeting and had Brenda’s books and the meeting materials in the trunk of my brand new, fun and flashy, Camry SE—a very dependable car.

I’m streaming down the fast lane of I-10 listening to Wally Lamb’s SHE’S COME UNDONE through the iPod connection in the car, when the traffic slows to a crawl. But that’s okay, because I factored the traffic into the morning commute. Then it stopped. So did I. Then it moved forward again. I pressed my accelerator and my car went whoosh like it was in neutral. I checked the gear shift and it was in the drive position, so I moved it to park and then back to drive and hit the accelerator again. Whoosh, not zoom.

I look in my rearview mirror and see a frustrated face glaring through the windshield of the car behind me. I turned off Wally Lamb. Flustered now, I turned off the engine and tried to restart it. No clicking, no whirring, no audio.

I put my hazard blinkers on and called Husby, who called the Toyota emergency roadside service. They promised a tow out to me within the hour. The cars behind me began moving into the emergency lane to pass on my left. Several minutes went by; cars passing one right after another in their own rush to wherever. One kind couple paused beside me and asked if they could do anything for me and I was happy to tell them help was on the way.

A charming CHP officer arrived a few minutes later and stopped traffic in all four lanes and then pushed me across the freeway to the shoulder. I assured him that help was on the way and he took off to help someone else. Help arrived about a half-hour later when a knight in a shining white truck pulled up behind me. It wasn’t the tow-truck. It was Husby in his Ford F-150. We shifted the meeting materials into his truck and he sent me on my way with a kiss and blessing for safety.

Back on the road again, Husby calls me and says he got tired of waiting for the tow-truck and decided to try the car. You know the rest. The car started for him. Then he asks, “When you tried to start it did you…” I cut him off. “Of course. I tried everything.” He drives it to the nearest Toyota dealer and leaves it for a physical.

I pulled my big white truck into the Fairmont Miramar valet right behind a gorgeous red Ferrari 612 Scaglietti. I was a half-hour late to the meeting, but I was there. My dear friends and colleagues Louise Lyon and Brigitte Lundrigan had stepped up to the registration table and had everything under control when I got there.

Brenda’s topic was synchronistic to my day. Using examples from her book, Brenda spoke about how we operate within a gradient between the fear zone and power zone. When we’re entrenched in the fear zone, we take head trips that loop through our mind, criticizing, regretting, or reliving all our mistakes. The fear zone zaps us of energy and produces confusion, poor judgment, frustration, and fluster. When my car first whooshed instead of zoomed I got flustered. The more aware of the cars piling up behind me, the more flustered I became. I call this “flustration.”

After the fabulous meeting I’m driving home in more traffic, head-tripping about my reaction to the morning’s flustration. I replayed Husby’s role, my response to his insulting question, “When you tried to start it did you…” and how I am the type that never gives up on a technological challenge. Then something Brenda said floated to the top of all what I call mind muck.

Brenda said, when you’re in a head trip pause. Stop thinking. Look at it from outside yourself. I paused, which wasn't hard because traffic was snarled. I wondered what Husby was going to ask in the question I cut from him. So I called him and apologized for cutting him off and asked what he was going to say.

He was going to ask if I had enacted the anti-theft device when I turned the ignition. That was the duh moment. No I hadn’t. In my flustration, I’d forgotten all about the anti-theft device.

Have you lived through a day like this? Need to purge the mind muck? Tell us about it. Just click the link below to leave a comment.

Ode to Joy and Failed Resolutions

2007-01-18T18:00:00.000-08:00

Well it’s three days past my first failed resolution. I did not finish the first draft of THE SWORD SWALLOWER'S DAUGHTER by the 15th. January has been a month of mixed projects, beginning with follow-up from the SITE-SoCal Holiday Event, to learning how to make animated banners for a client’s website design, to supporting my son in getting his stuff together for college applications, to getting myself back in the habit of gymercise, to nursing my 17-year-old cat, to just being me.

THE SWORD SWALLOWER’S DAUGHTER is five-thousand words richer than when I made the ambitious goal. Truth is, I lingered too long over a critical scene where Sheila is confronted with the ugliness of the world and chooses a new course for herself because of it. Some writers have a hard time at the beginning of a story; I have a hard time at the end. Maybe it’s because I’ve grown to love my characters so much I delay finishing their story.

Last week I got exciting news from my friend and fellow author, Karen Dionne, that her novel FREEZING POINT sold to Berkley. This news made my day and is still ringing into this week. I met Karen online about six years ago, commiserated with her when her first novel went the rounds in NYC. She buoyed me when my first novel met the same fate. Undaunted, Karen began writing a new novel and encouraged me to do the same. In the midst of writing FREEZING POINT, Karen co-founded Backspace, an online writer’s community that reflects her generous heart and her brilliant business sense. If you enjoy thrillers, watch out for FREEZING POINT.

It was on Backspace that I met Jackie Kessler, author of HELL’S BELLES. Like Karen, Jackie wrote a couple of novels that didn’t find a home. Until she got a hotter than Hades idea to write a novel about a succubus who’s kicked out of Hell and sent to earth to live as a mortal. Jackie wrote this novel in a matter of months and then polished it to perfection. I was thrilled to refer Jackie to my lit agent, Nephele Tempest at The Knight Agency. But by the time Nephele offered representation, Jackie had already signed with another agency. HELL’S BELLES was released by Kensington last week and I got my copy yesterday. Here’s to Jackie, who knows I’ll bring the chocolate to this summer’s Backspace conference.

New Year, New Goals for 2007

2006-12-31T06:58:00.000-08:00

Have you made your new year resolutions? I have. I've never been much on making New Year resolutions, but this year I decided to shout out my goals.

Finish first draft of THE SWORDSWALLOWER'S DAUGHTER by January 15th.
Revise and send second draft to beta readers by March 1.
Send polished ms to agent by April 1.
Submit at least one short story each month to lit pubs.
Read more good books
Balance my personal life, my business life, and my creative life.

Are you a resolutionist? Do you want a place to shout out your resolutions? Feel free to post them here. The blogosphere is listening.

Four Words in Four Colors

2006-12-21T18:15:00.000-08:00

Joy
Peace
Love
Hope

Four words in four colors
Wishes all
For now and for tomorrow.

Shout out for my daughter

2006-12-20T09:32:00.000-08:00

Today on LitPark Susan Henderson gave readers the opportunity to shout out something of themselves. I chose to shout out my 19-year-old daughter's blog Bella Voce. Elisabeth, or Elle-chan as we called her when she was born in Japan, delighted me last year when she exercised the freshman tradition and changed her major from political science to English. She hasn’t lost her political charge—as you will see when you read her review of Blood Diamond in her blog—but she has found her voice through writing. You may also remember my proud mama moment when I wrote of Elisabeth here back in September.

Give yourself a hug this holiday season.

Writers are more than the words they write

2006-12-07T11:39:00.000-08:00

We are so much more than the words we write, yet the words we write draw from everything we are.

Sometimes I'm amazed at what flows from my mind, through my fingers, and onto the computer screen. This morning I wrote the above quote in a welcome note to a new member of my Knight Agency group. After I typed it I paused and smiled.

NaNoWriMo Winner Here

2006-11-30T08:12:00.000-08:00

Today is the final day for NaNoWriMo participants to finish their 50,000 word novels. Everyone who submits a manuscript of 50,000 words or more is considered a winner. I finished mine yesterday. Well, sort of. I hit the 50,000 word finish line. By my estimate, I still have at least 25,000 words to go before the story is complete. One of the authors in my online writer's group asked NaNoWriMo participants what they learned from their experience in the month-long writing marathon. Here’s what I said:

"Winning" NaNoWriMo takes a far second to the joy I have about this novel. Had I not taken the challenge by Lori Weinrott to join, propped up by Brian Howe's enthusiasm, I don't think I would have started this novel--just yet. Each paragraph, page, and chapter convinced me that this is the book I should be writing right now. I'm setting aside WHISPERING NIGHTS while I finish TSSD.

I started out composing at a genteel pace, but as the days slipped by and I got behind, I began to feel crushed by the approaching deadline. I don't think there's a switch to turn off my inner editor. I don't like schlocky writing when I read it and I tolerate it less from myself. Nevertheless, it's still a shi**y first draft. It’s going to need some serious editing in the second round.

In the beginning I was excited by the new story and the words came easily as the characters revealed themselves. As my word count lagged behind the daily goal, however, I became hyper aware of every word I produced, clicking the word count meter every few pages. Toward the end I reverted back to my normal writing style, which is imagining and framing scenes for content and plot progression, rather than word count sessions. This put the joy back in the journey.

This is the first morning I haven’t plunged myself into TSSD. I’m taking a day off from the story to do some other writing tasks (like updating Ovations). Not to worry though, THE SWORD SWALLOWER’S DAUGHTER is even now sitting on her bed in the doll room, glaring at me to come up and play.