Encouraging Words

For the first time in years, I missed the SCBWI Midsouth Fall Conference. I missed making new friends and catching up with old ones, talking on and on about everything. I missed the entertaining and inspiring keynote speakers, the sessions full of up to date information and trends in writing and publishing, the editors, agents, and authors I’ve been wanting to meet. But maybe most of all I missed the encouraging words from friends, strangers, presenters, everybody there.

 An SCBWI Conference is like a magic elixir, good for whatever ails a writer.

Writer’s block?  Gone. Ideas come pouring in.
Discouraged?  No more. You know where to start and how to go.
Down in the dumps?  No more. You’re on top of the world.
Lack of confidence?  Gone. You’re the best writer since Moses.
Dried up and weary?  Rejuvenated. You can’t wait to get back to your desk.

 How can one little old SCBWI Conference do all that? With encouraging words, smiles, things to learn and things to try, and the greatest people in the world—ones involved in writing and publishing books for young people.

 Since I didn’t get to the Midsouth Fall Conference this year, I’ve been wondering how I could receive and share the kind of lift the conference gives.

 Then it hit me. Encouraging words. That could be the answer. I’d give everybody I meet a smile and a few encouraging words. The grocery checker, the trash collector, friends, strangers. Smiles have power and they’re contagious. So are encouraging words.

 Here’s how it went. I was walking in the park, as usual thinking about how to solve a problem in my novel when an attractive young woman smiled at me. I smiled back and slowed my pace a little as I went by.

 “Wait!” she called. So I stopped and she said, “You look great! How old are you?”

 Whoa! What a question to ask a person as old as Methuselah! But since she asked, I answered.

 “Wow!” she said, and her whole face beamed. “You got it. You go, girl!”

 What a boost! I really had it! With the biggest smiley face you’ve ever seen, I went, bouncing down the trail like a ten year old.

 That’s what a few encouraging words from a stranger can do.

              Anxiety in a man’s heart weighs him down, but a good word makes him glad.
                                                                                                Proverbs 12:25

At Last!

I am so excited. I’ve finally decided on a major cut to my newest manuscript. Though this blog is supposed to be a writer’s journal, I haven’t mentioned very much lately about the writing process, or anything else for that matter. That’s because I’ve been so busy writing, totally involved with my novel, Hairt Before Dawn, writing and revising again and again.

The first draft was entirely too long, more than 107,000 words, and it is a YA. I learned from my book club that few adults, much less young adults want to read a book that long. So I’ve been slicing and dicing away at my precious words, precious to me anyway. Writers are told to take a good look at their “darlings”, those favorite passages, and kill them. I’ve been doing that and have reduced the length of Hairt to about 96,000 words by leaving out what I thought were gripping scenes important to the development of the protagonist. Still not enough.

I have been carefully studying my main plot and the subplots that support it, pondering over what and where to cut next. I’m well aware that anything that doesn’t advance the major plot needs to get the ax, but I couldn’t see anything not vital to the story. It finally hit me. Last night, in my twilight zone, not awake and not asleep, it came to me. A minor character had insinuated herself into too much of the novel, taking way more print that she deserved at the cost of detouring from the main plot.

Now I cannot wait to get back to the story, and put that aggressive character in her place, the background. It will take a lot of cutting and rewriting, but if it leads to a better novel, I’m ready. I’ll just save the cuts in a file ready to use in a future story, if needed.

Wish me luck!

Vampire Musings

The other night I finally watched the movie, Twilight. I never planned to watch it at all because I didn’t like the book, had to make myself finish it. I know that’s un-American, judgmental, prejudiced, and all the other tags you can think of to describe a person who admits a dislike for an extremely popular phenomenon. I tried hard to suspend disbelief and get into the story, but the basic premise of it, finding vampires irresistible, got in the way, though irresistibility is part of a vampire’s character.

Through the years, I’ve read vampire books, Bram Stoker’s Dracula, Anne Rice’s Interview with the Vampire, and others, but the whole vampire concept is repulsive to me. I only read the books to see why they are so attractive to so many readers, and that’s why I watched the Twilight movie. Stoker’s and Rice’s books made me a horrified spectator with never a touch of sympathy for the vampires and their sordid, nasty worlds. I had to admire the writing especially that of Anne Rice who made the vampire’s life so real.

Stephanie Meyer in Twilight attempted to make the Cullen vampires more acceptable by having them satisfy their blood lusts with animal blood, but they remained vampires, cold and unfeeling except for their beloveds. In most vampire stories the prey of a vampire is an innocent, unwilling victim. Not so in Twilight. Bella was attracted to Edward from first glance and desired him while Edward, though obsessed with her, controlled his lust for her blood to protect her humanness. Not typical vampire behavior.

In all the vampire stories I’ve read, vampires are magnets, sensual, attractive beyond resistance to their mesmerized victims. In one scene Meyer’s writing far surpassed the movie in showing this. That was the scene in the sunlight when Edward revealed himself in all his vampire glory. That was the only time in the book that I could understand why Bella was so attracted to Edward’s pale, cold vampire self. I was disappointed in the same movie scene and thought I should have experienced a feast for the senses in music, color, movement that made me feel a little of Bella’s fascination with the vampire.

The movie captured Bella’s fear of, Edward’s rival, the vampire villain with all the lust, instinct, and ruthlessness of the typical vampire we love to hate. The appropriately scary sights and sounds of the movie kept me glued to my seat at times, but other scenes like the ones of Edward zipping about with Bella clinging to his back made me want to laugh.

I will say about Twilight, both movie and book, I’m glad I saw and read them but won’t do it again. That’s what I said about the acclaimed book and movie, Sons and Lovers by D. H. Lawrence. So what do I know?

Back in the Here and Now

I have been lost in my novel for many, many months, neglecting family, friends, life in general, and especially this blog to spend my time with fantasy people in their world. Real time and place were almost dreams to me, and the people I know and care for were characters in those dreams. My life was in the words that poured out creating the story of love, struggle, perseverance, and hope that filled the pages of my manuscript while I secluded myself, allowing no distractions to entice me from my work.

Now, after the story is done, mundane words replaced with vivid words full of emotion, plot refined and honed to epitomize the theme, characters and setting grown familiar yet unknown, I step out of that world back into the real one that competes with my imagination. I left my desk this afternoon to drive through golden ginkgoes, maples of red, orange and yellow, multicolored trees wearing their autumn dresses. Glad to be alive here and now, I entered the recording booth of the radio station at the library to read a Christmas short story by Charles Dickens.

Everyone knows the Dickens story of A Christmas Carol with Scrooge and the ghosts, but his other Christmas stories were a revelation to me. Today I read What Christmas Is As We Grow Older, a very short one that took only fourteen minutes to read. I had read the story before and didn’t think much of it when I read it silently. It seemed to be merely a collection of the author’s memories. But when I read it aloud into the microphone, it came to life. I had never thought I’d like to read aloud the convoluted, multi-clause sentences of Charles Dickens, but I did. The music of the language and the richness of the words made those memories of Dickens come alive for me.

I can only hope my writing may some day enthrall a reader as much as I was captivated by the world and the writing of Charles Dickens. That would be more than full payment for the months and years I’ve spent closeted with my research, my creative muse, and my computer. Not that I regret any minute of the process. Nothing is more satisfying to me than creating another world peopled with characters who are part of me and everybody I know, people who meet the challenges of their world with hope.

Yann Martel

Yesterday I met Yann Martel. In a dimly lit studio at Radio WYPL 89.3, Stephen Usery interviewed Yann Martel as I sat there avidly taking in every word. I’ve been a fan of Martel since I read his Life of Pi a few years ago. The topic of the interview was his new novel, Beatrice and Virgil which somehow combines the story of Beatrice the donkey and Virgil the howler monkey in Okapi Taxidermy with the Holocaust.

I have not read the book but now have it and cannot wait to delve into it. As a writer, I was fascinated with what Yann Martel had to say. For one thing, he said he was a slow reader, reading a word at a time to get all the author put into a book. According to him, every book a person reads should give the reader a new or more complete understanding of life and the world and leave him or her thinking about it. Martel writes to give his readers the kind of experience he wants from any book he reads.

Before writing Beatrice and Virgil, he read about eighty new books and spent a tremendous amount of time in learning experiences and research as he planned, plotted, and lived the story. That’s why some people may have thought he suffered from writers' block; he said that was not the case. He had no problem writing when the book was ready to be written.

As a fan, I was glad to know Martel is a warm, friendly person. He appreciates all of his readers, especially women and their book clubs. Though he classified himself as a middle-aged man, he admitted that most middle-aged men do not read.

A silent listener to the interview, I think I learned more than I have in several day-long writers’ workshops I've attended. So many writers seem to whip out the books one after another that I had wondered why I was so slow. Now I’m glad to know that all my time spent in research and planning, several years of it for my current novel, would not be at all unusual for Yann Martel.

A Taste of Guernsey

THE GUERNSEY LITERARY AND POTATO PEEL SOCIETY. What a name for a novel about the German occupation of Guernsey during World War II! I have to admit it. I was intrigued by that title, but when I opened the book and found it was written as a series of letters, I might have returned it to the shelf if my book club had not chosen it to read this month. I have never before found a book of anybody’s correspondence or personal diary fascinating enough for me to enjoy reading it.

Thanks to Sunday Readers Book Club and author Mary Ann Shaffer, I can lay that prejudice aside. From the first page I was hooked by the characters and the experience of living in post World War II London and learning what happened in Guernsey, one of the Channel Islands. Each character with his or her own nature and personality became real, struggling to live through the occupation of Guernsey or to write the story of the islanders’ survival. There are several villains, more than one love story, an orphan, history, and plenty of humor in the novel, as well as shock and horror.

Since I hosted the book club yesterday to discuss the book, it was my privilege to provide snacks. Naturally, my first thought was potato peel pie, created in the book by Will Thisbee who said he wouldn’t attend any meeting unless there was something to eat. After checking the Internet, I found that potato peel pie existed only in the pages of THE GUERNSEY LITERARY AND POTATO PEEL SOCIETY and the minds of a few creative cooks who, with varying degrees of success, had tried to recreate Will’s pie. In the novel the potato peel pie was Will’s only culinary contribution that other members of the Society actually liked. I set out using Will’s ingredients to duplicate his success and produce an acceptable potato peel pie based on a recipe from Trish of Empire Bay, Australia. Thank you, Trish!

Potato Peel Pie

2 cu. grated raw potato peels with eighth inch potato left on, packed
1 small to medium onion, finely chopped
1 large egg, well beaten
2 tbsp. self-rising flour
2 tbsp. vegetable oil. I used extra virgin olive oil.
Mashed potatoes made from peeled potatoes
2-3 small beets, cooked and mashed
½ cup sour cream
¼ tsp. pepper
¼ tsp. thyme
½ tsp. salt
4 tbsp butter
Oil pie pan. Heat oven to 400F. Mix grated potato peels, 3/4 of onion, egg, flour, and oil. Press into pie pan with spoon to form crust. Bake crust 20 minutes or more until brown.
Cook potatoes until soft. Place potatoes and all other ingredients including remaining onion browned in some of the butter. I wanted to add bacon, but they had eaten all the pig. In food processor, blend until smooth. Pour into crust and bake in 350 F oven for 15 minutes.

The pie smelled wonderful, looked like raspberry, and according to the book club was very good. Someone said it seemed like a dish for company dinner.

I also served a traditional Guernsey apple dessert, Gache Melee, pronounced Gosh Mel-are which got rave reviews. For those who asked, here’s the recipe.

Gache Melee

2 cu. plain flour
¼ lb. Guernsey butter
3 cu. peeled, cored, and chopped apples
1½ cu. brown sugar
¼ tsp. nutmeg
¼ tsp. cinnamon
¼ tsp. mixed spice
½ cu. water.
½ tsp. salt
1 egg

Cut butter into flour and other dry ingredients until like breadcrumbs. Add apple and mix.
Add egg and water, and mix well. Place in 7 inch square pan. Bake in slow (300 F) oven. Serve warm or cold. You can add a dollop of cream or ice cream. Yummy!

After all the food and a great discussion, the book club left just before Frank and I discovered that our AC had also left. Temps in the 90s are not much fun without AC, even with ceiling fans. After a sweltering night and a desperate call to the AC maintenance company this morning, we now have a new hero wearing a toolbelt and cool air again. Whew!

Funny or NOT

Since the evening after Christmas, I’ve been a little concerned about the next generation, the one that follows mine. That evening my sisters, cousins, and I presented “A Musical History of the Bolly Girls” a true farce about our childhood and teen years.

The five of us had worked for about three months preparing a singing/dancing event to entertain our daughters and granddaughters at our annual Bolly girls party. None of us carry the name of our grandfather, John Bolly, but we’ve always been proud to call ourselves Bolly girls. We thought the younger ones should know all about being a Bolly girl, so we wrote and presented what we thought was a musical comedy of our life on the hill in old South Memphis.

To the tune of “The Crawdad Song,” We sang about Grandma and our mothers, and then about us.
Five in all, we had a ball, Honey, baby mine.

Grandpa brought home from the cemetery, Honey,
Loads of ribbons in colors bright, Babe.
We sewed those ribbons and made some skirts,
Worn with pride. We were a sight! Honey, baby, mine

Our audience sat silently watching as we sang about Doris’s pet duck that was eaten by Mrs. Stackhouse and about our friends and the spanks we got. I never heard a snicker, and we thought we were doing funny stuff. Couldn‘t figure out why they weren’t laughing, or groaning, or something.

Orma’s dream was to dance on stage,
But a concussion stopped that at an early age,

We wore our daddy’s shirts; we wore our daddy’s ties.

Then she held a baton up high,
Leading on the marching band,

For pots and pans and dirty dishes,
And for your hands and for your face.

When we sang, “Grandma’s Lye Soap” in the most off-key, raucous voices we could muster, no response. But by then the youngest granddaughters were getting into the spirit and wore big smiles as they stared at us.

By the time we got to “Jesus Loves Me,” I was seeing more smiles. Almost everybody sang with us on that one.

Then:
Sunday morning in an old paneled truck, Honey,
We’d head to church, holding our noses, Babe.
During the week Grandpa used the truck
Hauling chicken manure to make his compost hot,
Honey, baby mine.

A few smiles, but mostly silence brought us to the finale.

We leave you now with a taste of just
The way we were. You’ll remember I trust,
Honey, baby mine.

While quickly transforming ourselves from 1950s teens into current dancing queens, we heard from the other room the uproarious laughter we had hoped for. They must have been entertaining each other.

You can dance, you can jive
Having the time of your life

Thanks to ABBA we ended on a high note with most of the granddaughters singing with us.

We bowed and it was all over. Not one wave of applause in the silence that followed. Nobody said much about our great performance. What a disappointment! We had so hoped they would love the show. What I heard was, “I was amazed you could remember all that and had the stamina to do it."

Finally, a week later, my daughter said they all really enjoyed our performance, but didn’t know if they should laugh or clap or what. They didn’t want to hurt our feelings. I would have thought seeing five grandmotherly women cavorting about, singing the hilarious lyrics I wrote . . .

Oh, that’s it! What a blow to the ego! I’m not a funny writer. And we had thought seeing old ladies in ribbon skirts, galloping through the house on beanpole horses would have been so funny nobody could keep from laughing.

The real concern is that our kids have forgotten how to play and have fun. I wonder if they ever get so tickled they just can’t stop laughing. I know our mothers did. And we did too, again and again, when we practiced that farce. Maybe funny these days is different. It might have to be on a screen of some kind or be accompanied by a laugh track to let people know it’s funny.

My assignment for the new year is to find out what’s funny.

Dancing in the Morning

Glorious, breathtaking, awe inspiring! The splendor of the sun-kissed scene that greeted me this morning was indescribable. Overnight, after days of damp gray dullness, golden leaves from the willow oak across the street adorned the ground, sprinkled the street, and sparkled in the shrubs like sequins on a denim jacket. The yellow gingko glistened in the light. I wanted to dance and twirl with leaves borne by the warm wind that lifted my hair and filled me with joy.

The world was blessed with a luminescence that sent me into the house for my camera. I didn’t snatch the camera and run out into that magnificent day as I wanted to. No, I began my yoga stretches, gazing out the window at the reds and golds of Japanese maples and crepe myrtles against the background of Foster hollies with their red berries shining in glossy green leaves. As I stretched, grayness returned and hid the glory of the sun. The trees no longer shone with jewel rich colors. In a matter of minutes, the unexpected marvel of the morning was gone, and I had missed the chance to capture it on film.

During the high that possessed me while the sun did its magic, I thought I wanted those bright, effervescent colors all over my house. Paint the walls with the reds, oranges, golds of exuberance. Then I remembered a previous fall season that seemed to last forever before the autumn colors faded and disappeared. I had loved the glowing colors that delighted my eyes and filled my heart, but after several weeks of such mind-boggling vivid colors, I found myself longing for the serenity of the more common blues and greens of the landscape.

That must be why God in his infinite wisdom gives us glorious mountain peak experiences for only a short while. We just can’t handle more. After the grayness took over this morning and the rain poured down, I was content to sit here in my chair at the computer and write. I’d never get anything done if I were out dancing with the leaves all day.

The Original Seven

I thoroughly enjoyed the SCBWI Midsouth Fall Conference in Nashville and was so pumped up afterwards that I could hardly wait to get back home to my computer. That’s why I’ve had to neglect this blog. I was up to my ears in revision of my novel that Kaylan Adair of Candlewick Press critiqued for me. Her interest in my story inspired me to revise it once again. I say once again because the manuscript would not be recognizable now to anybody who read the first lackluster draft. It has changed quite a bit since my critique group saw it.

One of the best things about the conference was being with my group again. Only two of the seven members had met before we were assigned as a critique group at the conference last year. Amazingly, we fit together like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Because we live miles apart in three different states, we have been critiquing by email for the past year.

Why does the Original Seven, as we call our group, work so well? All of the members are good writers and respect each other’s writing. They have the basic skills, knowledge, and an unselfish willingness that makes them good critique partners. They carefully go over a manuscript and make suggestions to improve it in a way that makes the writer want to consider using their suggestions whether it is to improve the flow, correct grammar mistakes, eliminate erroneous information, or spark up the story. Plus, they accept criticism and consider every suggestion from the others without becoming defensive or antagonistic. We all know suggestions or corrections in this critique group are given to help the writer improve the manuscript.

Members of the Original Seven are similar in our love for writing and the desire to write novels for young people, but we are all individuals with different backgrounds, writing styles, and genre preferences. We know the others are always there, as close as our keyboards, and we know they will answer our calls for assistance whether it’s a question about writing, editors, agents, or research. We trust each other, and I love being a part of the Original Seven.

Who are these critique paragons? In the photo at the top, they are: Ruta Sepetys, Grace E. Howell, Christi Atherton, David Jarvis, Beth Dotson Brown, Maria Hurt, and Joyce Lansky.

Sliding Along

This morning I woke with a word in my mouth. I love words, take them to heart, adopt them, work with them–but this one woke me from a sound sleep. It lay there on my tongue as I tried to decide whether to spit it out, swallow it, or digest it. I was still half asleep when the word spread its invasive tentacles through my mind. I could think of nothing else.

Slide. That’s the word, a simple five letter one that comes with a hiss, fills your mouth, and ends like the closing of a door. What does it mean? Is it the gradual downward trend of company profits, the sudden out-of-control slipping of an auto on an icy street, or the rush of a runner on the ground speeding into second base?

Some people slide through life on an even keel at a steady pace with little effort, excitement, or tension. They take what they get and are happy to be where they are. Others don’t slide at all. They seize control, have goals and refuse to let anything change their courses or thwart their plans. Sadly, these power-driven controllers may miss the joy of unexpected blessings passed up or ignored along the way.

Then there are others like me who have goals and look to the future, but are firmly anchored in the present. I'm thankful for every day as a time to enjoy being alive in the beautiful world we live in. I appreciate my ever-active, creative mind that makes me curious and eager to know everybody and everything. I love my writing time when I’m alone with thoughts pouring out, but I also crave the company of others and want to share their lives.

Most of all, I want to be what I was made to be and to accomplish all I am meant to do. At times I feel I’m sliding along, not moving fast enough toward completion, like the pineapple pie that my family loves. I make that pie from ingredients waiting in the kitchen or on a pantry shelf. When the pie’s ready, I slide it into the oven. After what seems a long time, its mouth-watering aroma tells me it’s done. The filling is slightly tinged with brown, just solid enough not to jiggle, and surrounded with a lovely brown crust. A pie sure to please my family as much as it does me.

My life seems to be at the sloshy stage of the pie when the ingredients are all in place but they just haven’t jelled yet. My goal is to reach the point of doneness where I am all my maker planned for me to be.

Follow the Leader

Sunday, Frank and I spent a while in the twilight zone, driving up and down one of the busiest roads in Mississippi looking for the turn-off that led to my cousin Erie’s house. You’d think that in a city next door to Memphis you’d see street signs pointing the way to anywhere you wanted to go. There were posts, white concrete posts standing guard at corners, pure white sentinels unblemished by the slightest hint of black or any other color. Could the street names have been washed away by the torrential rains we’ve had for days? To make matters worse, a few naked metal posts meant to bear a street name at the top had lost their identities.

After turning down every road on the south side several times and finding no trace of the house we knew had to be there, Frank finally pulled out his trusty cell phone and announced to our daughter, “We’re lost.” That was a historic first. We’d driven all over the country and he’d never before admitted we were lost. And we were practically in our own backyard. I’d been kicking myself in the head for not bringing Erie’s phone number, and Frank was bemoaning the fact that he didn’t have his maps in the car. I wonder when we’ll get a GPS so we won’t have to worry about getting lost.

When we finally reached our destination, we were hustled to the table where we enjoyed a delicious meal and a delightful conversation about wasp stings and other fascinating topics. Erie’s hand was swollen to twice its size due to an encounter with a yellow jacket.

Meanwhile through the window, a fowl sight met our eyes. Perched on the porch railing, the pickup truck, and the mailbox were a boldly colored rooster and his harem of ladies all attired in various styles and colors of chicken fashion. Chosen for their variety and unique appearance, the chickens were all young, hatched in April. They had joined the family for two reasons, to adorn the landscape and to provide eggs for the family.

After lunch, we toured the backyard, admiring the latest in chicken housing and amenities. Darrell, the Golden Crested Polish rooster, resplendent in his red, black, dark blue plumage gleaming with a touch of gold and a mop a rock star would admire adorning his head, presented his harem for review.

First came the plump, brownish Ameraucanas with their eyes peering over muffs and beards around their faces. Then the Buttercups with their golden necks held high strutted by. A little Japanese Phoenix, her striking silver head and neck feathers contrasting with a black body and tail, seemed to be a loner as did the pretty little Rhode Island Red pecking at the ground here and there to find the perfect tidbit. Cochin puffballs covered with feathers, even their legs, were as sweet and docile as they looked. The most noticeable of the flock and the most active were the White Leghorns with their dazzling white feathers, slim necks and bare yellow legs.

The flock certainly was an entertaining sight. All those of various breeds and temperaments were living together in harmony, guarded and protected by Darrell the magnificent. When he called, the hens came running whether it was to escape a hawk or to feast on a treat of cracked corn. His ladies trust Darrell, rely on his protection, and follow his commands.

If only people, as different as Darrell’s hens are, would trust and look to their Leader and Protector for guidance, perhaps we too could live in harmony as those chickens do and not worry about getting lost.

The photo at the top is Erie with Darrell

Sneak Attack

Yesterday, I did it again, walked outside on a lovely summer afternoon, unprotected. I didn’t forget my sunscreen, and it wasn’t a guy in a black mask who attacked me or a couple of pit bulls. I was assaulted by villains made bold in their invisibility.

I had strolled into my own backyard to check on a newly planted fig tree. I stopped to admire my latest horticultural interest, a group of sedums in my grandmother’s antique urns. Then I continued on around the garden, pulling a weed or two and dreaming of changing the once sunny garden into a shady one, a necessary project caused by tremendous growth of neighbors’ trees surrounding my little green space and blocking the sun.

A stabbing pain hit my ankle, and I hurried inside, knowing I had been discovered and was considered fair game. Before I could collapse into my recliner, I realized I’d been ravished by unseen carnivorous creatures lurking in secret, primed to attack any warm-blooded being in the vicinity.

I thought I’d escaped with a single bite, but before I could douse it with alcohol, a burning sting erupted up and down both arms around my ankles and my feet. I’d stupidly worn flip-flops and a short sleeve shirt. It was all my fault. I broke my number one personal rule. Never go outside in the summer without spraying or rubbing on insect repellent. Not for a second.

As I sat there watching welts the size of nickels pop up on my arms, I scratched like crazy and wondered why life is so unfair. Some people, my husband Frank for example, are not bothered by mosquitoes. Then I thought how fortunate I am to live now with DEET repellents available and mosquito controls in effect. Not that they always work, and who wants to constantly contaminate our air and water with chemicals to kill mosquitoes?

In the 1800s Memphis was nearly wiped out by Yellow Fever spread by mosquitoes. So few people were left that they had to give up the city charter. Recently we had a scare of West Nile Virus carried by mosquitoes. The vile creatures can carry any number of diseases, but I have to think the ones who bit me are innocent, just hungry.

News flash! Frank just informed me that my bites probably didn’t come from mosquitoes, but from no-see-ums, the tiny, almost invisible flies that set a person or an animal on fire with their bites. I guess I’m luckier than many. My itchy bumps were completely gone in about thirty minutes. Whew! What a relief!

Oh, well, I guess mosquitoes have to eat, and no-see-ums too.

Wow, Anzac Biscuits!

Yesterday, People of the Book by Pulitzer prize winning Geraldine Brooks was my book club’s book of the month. In the novel, an Australian rare book restorer becomes fascinated with the Sarajevo Haggadah as she begins working with it. Crumbs of evidence in it lead her to trace the book’s history back from its rescue in war-torn Sarajevo to its beginning in 1480 Seville.

Everybody in the book club found something in the book that spoke especially to her. One liked the dramatic stories of the people who created the Haggadah and risked their lives to keep it safe. Another liked the way the author wove the restorer’s emotion-filled personal life into tracing the book’s history. Someone else was impressed with the knowledge she gained from reading People of the Book, experiencing events and the feel of times in the story while unconsciously absorbing such information as the origin of the word vermillion. I was taken by the voice of Brooks and the way she wove the story into an easy, fun-to-read adventure novel. We all agreed the book was a great selection for our group.

I was the hostess and had decided to serve Australian and Mediterranean snacks, such as grapes, hummus with olives and rosemary, and stuffed dates. Since I didn’t know anything about Aussie food, I went to the Net and found that next to beer the most popular diet item was something called Anzac biscuits. The recipe looked easy so I whipped up a batch that turned out to be a kind of coconut oatmeal cookie. The book club ladies raved about the Anzac biscuits and begged for the recipe. So I obliged, and it’s below for you adventurous bakers.

Ever curious, I later did some research and learned that the biscuits are also called “soldiers’ biscuits” and go back to the Gallipoli Campaign of World War I. The name, Anzac, stands for the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps. The biscuits were adapted from an old Scottish recipe by mothers, wives and sweethearts in Australia who were afraid that their loved soldiers were not getting nutritious food to eat. The biscuits had to be edible after two months travel time to the battlefields, and they were. Anzac biscuits are still used by backpackers and campers for this reason. The rest of us just love the taste of them.


Anzac Biscuits

1 stick of butter
1 overflowing tbsp. molasses
3/4 cu. sugar
1 tsp. baking soda
2 tbsp. boiling water
3/4 cu. flaked coconut
1 cu. quick oats
3/4 cu. flour

Dissolve baking soda in boiling water. In a saucepan melt butter, molasses, and sugar, mixing together. Stir in soda and water. Remove from heat. Add coconut, oats, and flour. Mix well. Drop by large teaspoons onto a greased baking sheet. Bake in 350 degree oven for about 6-8 minutes, until slightly brown around the edges.

The Dawn Will Come

What a shock! Two days ago, when I went to my website at www.graceehowell.com, it was gone. In its place was a black and white amateurish mish-mash. I could not believe it! My precious website had vanished, lost in the darkness of cyberspace.

Here's what happened. When True Friends was published in 2005, my publisher wanted me to have a website, and they set one up for me. Less than a year later, at my request, they handed the website at Netfirms over to me. My grandson Dave became my webmaster, and I paid Netfirms for hosting. I asked the publisher about paying for the domain, and was told not to worry about it that I'd receive a notice before payment was due. I never received a notice.

Only after someone else was using my domain, did I learn from Netfirms that they did not provide the domain. That's when I heard about Godaddy and Sunil Nandal, who now holds my domain. I don't know who was paying Godaddy for the domain these last four years, and I guess now it doesn't really matter.

The hard lesson I've learned is: Be sure you know who holds your domain, when payment is due, and who will pay. Now I have a new domain that I registered and will continue to pay for.

My old website is actually safe at Netfirms, but it is too hard for me to handle without a lot of help. So for my new domain, I'm planning a totally new website, one I can manage on my own and change without help. Now I'm cramming like a college student before exams trying to learn enough to create a website. Hopefully, before the next century, I'll learn enough to put a simple website on line. Until then I'll see you here at my blog.

A Visit with Eudora Welty

Books on the piano, books on chairs and sofas, books on the dining room table, every shelf overflowing with books. A myriad of them greets visitors to the home of Eudora Welty, the Pulitzer prize winner who came home to write. Her house and garden were her sanctuary, her refuge where she always returned after a bustling trip to meet people, accept awards, or charm another audience.

Yesterday I returned to Eudora Welty’s Tudor style home on a shaded street of vintage houses in Jackson, Mississippi. When I was there five years ago with Kathy James and Rebecca Godwin, plans were underway to open the house to the public, but the yard and the garden were all we could enter.

Since then the house next door has been purchased and turned into the Eudora Welty welcome and visitors’ center with an introductory film and displays of her many awards, keepsakes, correspondence with friends, and lots of pictures. Both Lorna Schmidt and I could have spent ages taking in everything in the visitors’ center, but we were politely informed that it was time for our tour of the house. We had to go back later to see all the fascinating material in the center.

Two well-informed and very enthusiastic docents led us through Eudora’s house, exactly as she left it with all her books, furniture, art, and papers intact. Her plain white walls and tall windows with shades and filmy curtains, her collection of paintings and mementoes from family and friends, her kitchen with not a modern convenience in sight told us that she was a woman who cherished simple things like a note from a friend.

On the dining room table were several typewritten pages edited in her handwriting with strikeouts and arrows, words written in. It was easy to see that she was a writer like the rest of us, changing a first draft again and again. A sample of her writing, with paragraphs cut apart, rearranged, and stapled together to improve the flow, was there to see. I remembered when I used the same old, cut-and-paste method before I became a strict computer writer.

When we visited the garden behind the house, I found that the far back had been cleared of brush and bamboo, and a replica of the playhouse Eudora’s brother built had been placed there where she enjoyed so many quiet times among the plants she tended and included in her stories.

The one thing I missed from my previous visit was a row of bright orange-red flowers beside the garden house. When I asked about them, I was told they’d been dug to separate and replant. Then, gardener that I am, I was delighted to receive a bag of montbretia corms from the garden of Eudora Welty to plant in my own garden.

Place of the Muses

I walked today at Gaisman for the first time in years, and memories of slender saplings, too young for shade, came pouring back. The little trees that saw my young cherubs run from slides to swings, where they squealed with delight as I pushed, now spread their leafy arms high overhead.

Dusty softball fields that heard the crack of the bat sending the ball into the outfield and the pop of another strike in the catcher’s mitt are covered with grass. The old bleachers where I sat cheering every strike that Joyce pitched are now grayed and crumbling. But Gaisman is still very much alive with walkers and runners scattered along the track like cars on a Sunday afternoon and families gathered at the new red and yellow jungle gym with its cushioned floor, no longer a place of skinned knees and elbows.

The sun was warm and a breeze lifted my damp hair as I rounded the old brick pavilion. I remembered True Friends (2005) and how the characters came to me while I walked there. That was where I knew Annie Lou Davis had a story to tell. I’ll never forget the day I swiped away a flood of tears, tears for a death that changed Annie’s life.

Another day under the trees at Gaisman, I met King and his owner. My work in progress, Stuck Together, had a pair of huskies in a major role, and I’d never met a Siberian husky. After getting to know King from his blue eyes to his tail curled over his back, I was pleased to see a real husky was exactly as I had written Taka and Yukon, even his behavior, according the man at the other end of his leash.

Today, following doctor’s orders to walk more each day while my back heals from surgery, I rediscovered the jewel in my neighborhood, Gaisman Park. Walking there is not only good for the body but the soul and mind as well. It opens the doors of my psyche, refreshes me and allows me to listen to the characters in my head and give them a story.

John Calipari goes, Josh Pastner comes

He abandoned her for one who moved with a more prestigious crowd, and Memphis mourned for John Calipari. She had pledged herself and remained devoted to him. She followed him and depended on him. Every word he said she took to heart. He was her one and only. Then, after he escorted her to the grand ball in March, after he defended her from those who ridiculed her circle of friends, Cal left.

Stunned at his desertion, Memphis sighed and cried. She ranted, raved, and accused him of infidelity. How could he do such a thing after nine years of success and happiness together? How could he leave without an explanation? It seems Kentucky was his first love, and he was flattered that she finally looked his way. Memphis held her head high. “I hope you’ll be very happy, Cal,” she said through her tears.

Determined not to sit and mope, Memphis polished her image and looked around for another shining star. Rejection after rejection ate away at her self esteem until her resilience was crushed. Nobody wanted her; everyone thought she was a has been or a never was. A shot of Calipari confidence was all she needed, but Cal had given that to Kentucky.

Wait, a glimmer of interest sparkled on the bench. Could it be? A replacement for the mercurial John Calipari so close at hand? The eager young face of Josh Pastner, obscured by Cal’s shadow, intrigued Memphis. A flirtation began. Josh was intelligent, likable, competent. Yes, he wanted Memphis, and she wanted him. Brushing aside her tears and hoping for a bright future with Josh Pastner, Memphis was bouncing back. She wondered what it will be like to waltz into next year’s ball, a confident winner, escorted by Josh Pastner.

New and Improved

In the last post, I talked about rousing this blog and bringing it new life. Since then I’ve been rousing myself, to create a new me. Not that there was anything drastically wrong with the old me, but I think it’s time for a new and improved model, sleeker, up-to-date, more effective.

All my life I’ve rushed from one thing to another with never a minute to catch my breath. So much to do and not enough time. That was my motto. I’ve finally realized that I don’t have to do everything. I can actually choose what to do and, more important, what not to do.

“Lucky, lucky, lucky me. I’m a lucky son of a gun. I work eight hours, and I sleep eight hours, and I have eight hours for fun.” Those words from an old song may tell how life’s supposed to be. But I seemed to be working all the time except the six, or at a stretch, seven hours I slept, a restless sleep that left me weary in the morning. If I stopped even a minute during the day, my eyes would go to half mast and my brain would follow. Then I’d race around trying to make up for lost time. Sleep deprived, that’s what they call it.

With the new me, I now let my engine stop racing and do a little body work before I pull into the garage at night. I force myself away from the computer at least an hour before my sleep start-time. I think it’s working. My motor is not quite so sluggish in the mornings and I don’t get stalled during the day. Plus I’m actually getting more done.

In this self-directed decluttering of my life, I’m dividing everything into three piles, keep, give away, and throw away. Believe me this is harder than bringing order to a messy house. So far in the keep pile, I have my family, my writing, my gardening, and my church, not exactly in that order. Among the giveaways is my doing everything that somebody else doesn’t do. The throw-aways include living up to expectations of other people and being a perfectionist, both extremely hard to give up.

As I look back at the keeps, I see that I need to prune away my useless, time-consuming, mind cluttering practices and adopt more a more productive modus operandi with my family, my writing, my garden, and my church. Not to neglect any of these, but to bring my best work in each area to a higher level, making me happier and my life more enjoyable. Gardeners know that a little judicious pruning now and then allows much healthier, more fruitful growth.

Stay with me and see what happens.

Fulfilling a Dream

Scenes from HEIST AT HEAVENLY HOST


February 28, 2009


































You may be wondering why this blog seems to have died a natural death from pure neglect. I really don’t know, but it’s not because I have nothing to say. Today I am rousing Gracee’s Blog and giving it new life.

For the past four months I’ve been resurrecting a childhood dream, writing and directing a play. As a teacher, I’ve written many plays for children, but HEIST AT HEAVENLY HOST is my first attempt at drama for adults. I said drama, but it takes a real stretch of the imagination to call this two-act comedy with a bit of mystery a drama. Someone called my masterpiece a bit of fluff.

Writing HEIST was the easiest part of the process once I succumbed to a barrage of requests for a play to entertain generous donors while raising funds for The Memphis Church Health Center and Memphis Interdenominational Faith Association food bank.

With help from Marcia, one of the instigators of the play, I found a cast full of eager, energetic actors all ready to put their reputations on the line with mine and Marcia’s. At the first reading, we chose actors perfectly suited for each role. The chief criteria? Voice volume–the louder the voice the better the role. As a result, the audiences heard every word with no speech augmentation, which was good because we had none.

Previously, I had only worked with children so I was pleased to find that my cast of talented actors was exactly like a fifth grade class. At the first practice, I recognized our class clown and several quick learners as eager to please the director as second graders are to please their teacher. Some had done their homework and taken a glance at the script. One lady's main interest was conversation with her friends, and a young man marched to his own drummer. There were some who couldn’t remember a thing from one practice to the next. They were all perfect for the play.

The biggest problem was getting the twenty-one of them on a stage slightly bigger than a postage stamp. The dumb playwright, yours truly, should have known better than to have the whole cast in a single scene. A member of the troupe, not only a fine actor but a real handyman, came to the rescue and constructed an extension as big as the original stage. Then he risked life and limb, rigging up enough light to illumine the stage.

Everything finally came together at dress rehearsal the day of the first performance. The stage was perfect, the props were assembled, and the actors spouted their lines and acted up a storm. Literally. By the time dress rehearsal was over, snow was pouring down.

You have to know an inch of snow in Memphis brings the whole city and everything in it to a screeching halt. Snow kept coming until we had more than six inches all over the city. Who could have guessed our great performance would be cancelled by a blizzard?

In Memphis, snow often goes as fast as it comes, and the next day the roads were clear in time for our matinee and a second performance that evening. We reached our goals. The audiences were amused, laughing almost as hard as the cast, and ticket sales brought in enough for a sizeable donation to our chosen charities. HEIST AT HEAVENLY HOST was a success!

Thanks for the memories, CTK Players!

Grace

FOR SALE AT AUCTION

It’s me Grace E. Howell on the auction block for sale to the highest bidder! Yes, it’s true. And I have to confess that being on sale is stressful. What if nobody wants me? And nobody bids on me? Maybe I shouldn’t worry. Who wouldn’t want an 1918 style lunch with five friends and author Grace E. Howell? Plus everybody gets a treasure box full of what? Treasures, of course.

In the words of the Cowardly Lion–I do believe, I do believe, I do believe. Somebody out there is bound to be dying to have lunch with me and learn all my writing secrets. Now if I just had some secrets. Oh, well, I’ll think of some.

Meanwhile, I’ll just sit back and dream about that luscious lunch that CTK teacher, Mrs. Lorna Schmidt, is preparing and the treasures we are collecting for our lunch guests.

Take a look at the Auction Site online. It’s for a good cause–to support CTK School and help provide a superior education for K-8 students. Go to ctkschool.com, click on the auction link, and at the left, click on CTK Only. Then scroll down to see the TRUE FRIENDS book cover. Click there to see details about the sale of Grace E. Howell, well not actually the author but lunch with her.

If you can’t stand the thought of lunch with me, maybe you’ll find another item like a year’s supply of bathroom and facial tissue or a 26" LCD 728p HiDef Philips Television to bid on. However, I don’t think that tissue or TV will be nearly as hurt if nobody bids on them as I will if I go bidless.

My fingers and toes are crossed until I’ve been sold.