y-write

The Brown Egg

2012-01-30T10:26:00.007-06:00

I'm taking an artist's day today, and it's actually Monday. I'm taking a day to write, wander about with my camera, and of course, eat. To that last end, this morning I wound up on the corner of Kimbrough and Madison, at The Brown Egg.

I have to say I love restaurants. I love independently owned eateries because it seems to me that you find the best food in those places and, beyond that, you find character.

The Brown Egg is such a place.

Tucked into the corner of a strip mall, at first you might pass by it unless you're looking for it, which I was. I read about it in the paper recently and I've heard word of mouth that it's a good place to eat.

I mentioned character. This place has it. Dark wooden square tables, bookcases overflowing with all kinds of books, globes, musical instruments, other artifacts. The vibe is comfortable. The food is very good (I had biscuits and gravy) and of course, I have to mention the coffee. I had a medium roast breakfast blend this morning, which made me feel just a little bit pampered and special.

The bakery case is full of beautifully dressed cupcakes. The lunch special will be white bean chili (I see it written on a black chalkboard above the counter).

I liked that I saw a pair of elderly men dressed in heavy wool sweaters sitting at one table, while a younger college-age couple wearing their blackframed glasses and beanie caps sat at another and, a pair of Springfield Police Officers sat not too far from me. It was an electic mix of folks; good, I thought.

I left satisfied and happy. Bravo, Brown Egg! I'll be back.

January

2012-01-22T14:27:00.011-06:00

Here we are, smack in the middle/end of January. January, the first month of the new year. The month of bone-chilling winds, hot tea in pretty china cups, hearty casseroles steaming in bakeware and fur-lined snowboots, splotched from tramping through snow. January. The month of new resolves, goal making, organization and list upon list upon list of things to accomplish here in this new year. Lists of things we will DO this year, things to accomplish, goals.

We're goal orientated anyway, aren't we? But. Do we need to be?

Well, as far as I am concerned, about organizing your closets, which seems to be what January is about, you can do that any time. January just seems a good month to toss out old and not usable, and to put everything you wish to keep in order, from tupperware to sweaters.

But as writers, well, we work all year long. We organize, search through, find new, find old, we put things in boxes all year long. Writers have an interminable attic containing every thought, every character, every scene we can ever think of, in boxes in our eternal attic, to be pulled out when needed.

We have memories, we have photos, we have trunks and trunks of fabrics, and notecards of handwritten recipes and weather forecasts and Bibles complete with family trees. We have baby bibs and quilts and land owner records. Some of us may be lucky enough to have diaries, personal, hand written thoughts, impressions, real life happenings.

Allow yourself to revel in these things, allow yourself to think about what went before you. Relax. And then, allow yourself to reflect.

When you are ready, climb the stairs to your attic. Take a long look at that dress dummy in the corner. What is that dress dummy wearing? Sniff, smell, touch, see. Open the trunk you've always wanted to look into. Pull out the old letters (is there a hint of perfume lingering there?), the photos (who are all those people), the fabrics (how sensual), entrench yourself in the history entombed there.

Inhale the history, claim it. Aborb it.

And then sit down and write it all out. Come back and tell me what you found. Is it more than what you expected? I suspect so.

Adverbs

2012-01-13T18:42:00.010-06:00

Are adverbs our friends?

Do you ever run crazily or scream loudly or maybe even climb mightily? Now, when I run, I just run. It may be crazy at the time to be doing it but, I run just the same. I seldom scream but if I do scream, take it for granted, it's loud. My climbing, which these days is limited to small ladders at my law office, trying to reach a file from the top shelf, is simply that. I climb up the ladder, retrieve the file, and I climb down. There's nothing mighty about it.

What do adverbs do to our writing? I believe, adverbs weaken our writing. The real action, the real strength, is in the verb.

Are you ever insanely crazy? I heard that one not too long ago. Okay, that's an obvious one. Let's move on.

Sometimes I think writers, and I'm talking to myself here too, simply like to hear the sound of their own voices. We love words. Spinning a weave of words is what we do, right? Well, sure. But what we really do is spin an idea. We sow an idea in the reader's head, a grain of a seed that blossoms into a plant and bears fruit and is the story we are writing.

Adverbs are pretty, sort of like a false promise is pretty. When you get below the surface though, it's all show and no substance.

I attended a writing workshop last weekend and part of the program included a critique session. I sat in and, it being my first time at this workshop, I tried to stay quiet and listen. We had a lovely lady bring her work; she read 19 pages aloud and although it was an intriguing and well thought-out story line, her work was filled with adverbs and trite cliches. I ended up writing her a note and I simply asked her to read through her manuscript and cut the adverbs out. She was confused and asked the question of the critique group, "Are adverbs bad?" Apparently, an editor somewhere told her to use them all the time, as much as possible. I don't think that is the trend but if it is, heaven help us. At any rate, I don't think she was satisfied with the answer she got (not from me) that, yes, adverbs are bad. They do not help your writing in any way.

If you have not read it, find horror writer, Stephen King's, book called On Writing. Mr. King addresses the subject of adverbs very well and listen, that guy, he's sold a bijillion books. He must know something.

The Magic of Words

2012-01-05T18:48:00.006-06:00

It's amazing to me sometimes, how I will be thinking of a particular topic and I will go online to other writers' websites (one in particular, dear Barb), and I will read my exact thoughts!

I have characters walking around in my brain and have had for several years, not all connected to the same story, but they're all having a cocktail party in my brain at the same time. I only hope they all like one another. I have images burning, I hear songs playing but not all of it is cohesive to one story. There are always more stories, more exploration to take place.

It's a demanding job, being a writer, seriously, it is. It's not about blithely weaving about with a crown of flowers on your head, wearing white guaze, dancing in a flowered meadow to Bob Dylan. Wouldn't that be nice? No. It's work. It's psychology and it's history and it's layers and layers and layers of being human and loving and losing and being debased to the lowest level and being the phoenix rising from the ashes, and becoming stronger only to be combatted against again and over. It's failure and redemption and finding love or some other positive trait, after having lost so much.

I am working on but having serious trouble, with JANO, the January sister of NaNoWriMo. I feel as if I am spinning out of control and this story line or that will dictate what I write next and I can't tell what it will be.

Maybe I shouldn't worry about it, just let it be (Beatles)...maybe that would be best. What about you?

Don't fear the Brussel

2012-01-01T14:52:00.008-06:00

It's been another kitchen day for moi, the eternal cook. And I do love the brussel sprouts, those cute mini-cabbages...so green, so lovely. Oh my. What to do with them???

This is what I did with them. First of all, I have a pound of brussels, so. They were all about the same size, so I cut them all in half. I chopped a half onion, threw a quarter cup unsalted butter in a pan, and let the butter and onion get all happy together, threw in some salt, some pepper, some red pepper flakes. Let it go, The onions need to tenderize, the brussels, well, they need to carmelize. Let them get tender. And then.

Take the pan away from the heat for a second and pour in maybe two tablespoons white wine (dry or semi-sweet). Just enough to deglaze the pan. Once that is finished, I pour in a carton of chicken stock, a little half and half, and some salt, pepper, thyme and red pepper. Some corn starch, stir, bring to a boil, let it thicken, drop a quarter cup or so of parmesan cheese over...let it alone.

Very, very nice.....

What Do You Think About at the End of the Year?

2011-12-18T08:12:00.005-06:00

The end of 2011 is approaching, and as usual this time of year, I find myself reflecting on the good and bad (or as my friend, Kris, says, "the challenges and the changes"), and I am already planning on starting off the new year on a new note.

I had my good this year. I made some new writer friends, I was elected President of my writers' group, and I've been able to do some much needed home improvements. I even stepped out of my comfort zone and learned belly dancing!

The challenges came too, as you know, if you know me or follow my blog. My mother passed away in February and I passed through my first Mother's Day, her birthday, my birthday, Thanksgiving and now Christmas without her wildly cheerful inviting presence.

Hmmm...what will the new year bring? Or rather, what will I take to it?

Next year, I want to be more involved in charity work. I want to write more. I want to worry less. I want to appreciate my blessings more.

What about you? What are your year-end thoughts?

Why Keep a Journal

2011-11-19T10:56:00.004-06:00

Do you keep a journal? As a writer, do you believe it is important to do so?

I have kept a journal since I was a teenager. Of course, in the teenage years my ramblings were more of a "Does that boy in English class like me" type of thing, but the point is, I was memorializing my instant thoughts and experiences. That is important for a writer to do.

There will never be another moment of clarity like the moment right now. Memories grow dim, circumstances become enmeshed with other circumstances, we forget half of what we mean to keep and so on. You get the picture.

One reason I started a serious journal several years ago was to leave my sons some idea of the people they come from. So much of my family's history, particularly on my father's side, has been lost to anquity. I can't do much about that now but I can leave them with what I know. It is important that they know their heritage.

As time goes by, I find I journal about practically everything in my life. Why and who cares? Well, I do. I suppose many people step away from journaling for fear that something they've written will be read by someone who might judge them, and that could happen, of course. But don't discard journaling due to the fear of someone else perceiving you as human. I think you might be a most unsuccessful writer if you did that!

Journaling releases tension. I no longer have to carry the turmoil of the day or the situation or the heartache with me. Once I commit it to paper, it is outside of me, sort of like a good belly-aching cry. I can then move on to more positive things.

Journaling also builds writing skills and don't think it doesn't. The more you engage in it, the higher your writing skills become. What better place to work than in your journal where you can write about anything at any time, raw, uncensored, no reservations. You can even write about writing. Journaling builds discipline, and writers need to be disciplined about the craft.

Also, within journaling, you may discover a germ of an idea, something that has legs and can breathe and explode into a successful story. There is no doubt in my mind that this is entirely possible.

These are just a few reasons why keeping a journal is important. What are the reasons you keep one?

A Sweet Melody Lingers

2011-11-06T07:18:00.012-06:00

My mother gave me a piano years ago, before son #1 was born. The piano is a beautiful antique, heavy wooden carving, real ivory keys, brass foot pedals. Once it belonged to her aunt, and my mother bought it for $50 dollars after I was born and kept it all those years.

And then she gave it to me.

My mother was a musician first, above every other role she took on during her lifetime. I can't tell you how many nights I fell asleep to her accordion or organ music swelling the house. She was part of every choir in any church she went to or belonged to. When she and her brothers were young, they formed a guitar-playing singing trio and they traveled to county fairs around Wisconsin singing gospel songs. She was an avid pianist and violinist, and played the ukulele.

She required my sister and I to take piano lessons and one other musical instrument as well. My other instrument was the flute.

Back in the day, we, as a family, mother, father, sister and brother, formed a singing group and we also did a little bit of "touring." Mostly to neighboring churches and the occasional family reunion. Nothing big, but she would have liked it to be.

I remember, after her first stroke, how she struggled to relearn the piano skills she once had, and she eventually regained every bit of skill she had always had and played her piano up until the second stroke that ultimately took her life.

About six months before she passed, she asked me, "do you play that piano anymore?"

I shamefully said, "no, I haven't played in years."

Yesterday, I saw the sheet music she liked to play ("Sonatina No. 2") still sat in the same spot, the spot where she left it last Thanksgiving when she came to my house for dinner and played her old piano. I raised the lid, and sat down to the keys and began to play for the first time in way too many years. Haltingly at first, slowly, but with a little more skill when I closed the lid again than when I started.

Sweet memories, sweet melody. Bone of my bone, heart of my heart.

My mother left me with a sweet melody, one that I will always treasure.

What are your treasured memories?

The Importance of Social Networking

2011-10-18T18:29:00.006-05:00

Sometimes, I feel behooved to stop and prop up a small building, in my spare time of course. Just kidding.

I've been back from the Ozarks Creative Writers' Conference in Eureka Springs, Arkansas now for ten days. So, I've had ten days to let it all gel, absorb it all, reflect. Eureka Springs in October is gorgeous. The view from my hotel room was of the woods, autumn leaves hanging heavy on the trees, dappled sunlight spotting the woods in the morning. I had a wonderful time, met amazing people. Ate far too much. But.

Conferences are social networking at the very least. They are a book contract and representation at the very most. Why is social networking important? Why pursue it?

Here is my take on the importance of social networking for the writer. As writers, we spend a lot of time in solitude. We spend a terrific amount of time in our own brains, moving all the boxes around. To stay on the cutting edge, to keep up on the industry, you simply must network. The best place to do that is not on Facebook. Facebook can help on a minor level but what I am talking about is the face to face, eye to eye, contact, the stimulation of a conference. It's the year after year recognition of "hey, it's you, how're you doing, what have you written since we last met?" I saw plenty of that at OCW. I should explain this was my first year there so nobody said that to me, but maybe next year.

You know, hunting enthusiasts hang out with other hunters. Surfers hang out with other surfers. Writers hang out with other writers. Isn't that a revelation? It's not weird. It's not ego-mania. It's simply making a connection that a writer won't make anywhere else. You will find it refreshes you, enthuses you, puts a new fire in your pen or your keyboard.

There is typically something for everyone at a writers' conference. Whether you are traditionally published (or wish to be), or self-published, into e-books, or some other publishing medium, there will be something for you to learn and absorb. You will learn invaluable information from your peers at these gatherings. And, you'll make some truly amazing friends. The downside? Well, eventually, you have to leave and go home.

Check into a writers' conference for 2012. Go, and come back refreshed and enthused about your craft.

Blessings!

Yesteryear

2011-10-12T07:28:00.007-05:00

My dad tells me of a time when, if you had something to discuss with someone, you simply got up on the tractor, or the horse, or got into the car if you were lucky enough to have one, and you traveled to that person and discussed your business over coffee at the kitchen table or sitting on the porch. How many deals were made under an oak tree, I wonder? How much family news was delivered at a formica table in a sunny-yellow kitchen, red-checked curtains waving in the breeze? You looked your friend in the eye in those days.

With the advent of the telephone, there was no longer any need to meet face to face. It was easy, convenient; just dial him up, have your conversation, hang up. How simple is that. It was no longer necessary to have that personal touch, to look your fellow man in the eye.

I remember reed-thin letters in envelopes with postage stamps, a voice in handwriting. Back when I could leave an unstamped envelope and eleven cents in the mailbox and the postman would affix a stamp to my missive and send it out, and then some weeks later, much to my delight, a letter would come to me from my cousin or my grandmother. Oh, those days. Yesteryear. Oh, how I miss that.

Yes, I confess. Sometimes, I long for yesteryear.

I am not a texter. I don't carry a cell phone. I would say it has been probably twenty-five years since I've recieved a handwritten letter from anyone or written one for that matter.

Aren't we missing something personal these days? Aren't we missing that special touch of humanity? Do you miss it?

What Would You Do?

2011-10-12T06:29:00.005-05:00

Sometimes I think of the damndest things.

Monday morning, I was sitting at a stoplight, on my way to work, and an image of a suitcase came into my mind. The suitcase was one of those old, battered, brown cases with the straps and locks, cast away or maybe just lost, lying on the side of the road.

Curious.

I my mind's eye, I'm stretching out a finger to touch the lock, to caress the old leather. Ah...it's unlocked! I could open it right now, see what's inside, feel its history. My pulse skips a little bit.

Would I? Should I? What would you do?

How do you relate this to your writing? What treasures are we missing because we don't open the trove lying at the side of the road?

Come, Let's Go on Journey

2011-09-30T19:05:00.004-05:00

Come on a journey with me. You, yes you, follow my beckoning fingers. Let's part the tree boughs to reveal the road beyond..close your eyes....come on with me....let's explore.

You as a writer know that writing is all about mental visualization, if such a term exists. You know that scenes and dialogues and plots are created in your head and once it all stirs around in there enough, the happenings find their way to the paper. The tree limbs fall away, and look, the babbling brook, or the peach-tinted sunset, is revealed. It is a thing of beauty, an entrancing story. Don't you think so?

So, as we explore this path, tell me, how do you think about your plot? How do you visualize your characters? Who do you love? Who, not so much? Why?

Why?

Well, that's why I asked you to come on this road with me in the first place. I want you, the writer, to dig deeper, go farther, push the envelope, really feel those characters, the ones you love, the ones you don't love so much. Know them. See if you can pick them out at a restaurant, at the grocery store, at a car garage, at your job. Listen, watch, absorb.

Have you ever read a story that had no dimension? I guarantee you, the characters were flat. They had no personality. There was no tension, no story arc introduced to challenge those characters, and therefore, they lay flat on the page, dull, uninspiring, not memorable. Sorta like cold steak, congealed gravy. Hunh.

Think about this the next time you sit down to write. What are these people who live in your head all about anyway? Who are they?

Wander down the road, let them meet you, really meet you. Come back and tell me what you learned.

Autumn Equinox

2011-09-24T19:10:00.003-05:00

And so Autumn flung her doors open and cried, "Welcome!"

I am going in. How about you?

Traveling the Road of Inspiration

2011-09-11T09:45:00.010-05:00

Inspiration. The act of moving someone intellectually or emotionally. The spirit of influence on someone else's movements.

In speaking about writing, is inspiration important? Is it necessary? Well, in my mind, a writer wouldn't be writing had they not been moved intellectually or emotionally in the first place. There would be no pounding on the keyboard til the wee hours, had there been no acceptance of inspiration on the part of the scribe. So yes, I believe the answer to the question is, yes, definitely. Inspiration nourishes you as a writer, it propels you forward. Let me share with you the wise words of Therese Walsh, co-founder of Writer Unboxed magazine, who so graciously gave me permission to quote her, when she says in a recent post:

"Some inspirations nourish more than the writer; they feed a work-in-progress by becoming a part of the story in some way, helping it to grow from germ-of-an idea to scene, from scene to chapter, from chapter to finished manuscript. They lend a book texture and authenticity." Texture and authencity. Isn't that good? Isn't that what we strive for in our writing? Ideas, growing from a germ to a finished manuscript, layer upon layer upon layer. I find inspiration just by reading that.

But what about this rush of words, the fire in the belly, the coursing through the veins, until the writer is spent and finished? Isn't that inspiration? Well, not really, while it is definitely a by-product of inspiration.

Inspiration tends to come out of the gate just a bit quieter, under the radar, behind the scenes. Think about what Therese says here:

"It's been my experience that down-to-the-bone inspirations sometimes take a while to affect a story. They sit inside of you as possibilities, and when and if the time comes to weave them into the fabric of a tale, they rise to the surface and remind you they exist. This may or may not even be conscious."

Sometimes it's so deep that you have to be reminded about why you're writing that story to begin with. Dig deep. And then dig deeper. Don't be afraid to trudge through the layers of your subconscious until your fingers light on that gem, that germ of an idea, the reason you are inspired to write.

Take some time today and give this some serious thought. What is inspiration to you? Why is it important? How does it help you develope your talent?

All quotes courtesy of Therese Walsh, co-founder and contributing writer to Writer Unboxed.

Photo courtesty of Roxanne Schuster, photographer, Mountain Grove, Missouri.

The Weave

2011-09-05T16:00:00.008-05:00

Taking a moment to lay the foundation for this post, I digress to my childhood, growing up in southwestern Pennsylvania, and then on to southwestern Minnesota, living as the daughter of an impoverished (meaning without financial means only) pastor, living always in homes not our own, drafty, old, creeky homes, a structure bequeathed to us as our status as the Pastor's Family. We made do, and I can attest to those days as being some of the most interesting and treasured days of my life.

My mother was an excellent seamstress, and I remember all through my childhood and adolescent years, all the way up to the time I got a job and made my own money, how she would take my sister and me to the fabric store in town, and there we would choose what fabric we would wear in her next homemade creation for us.

I remember the papery smell of fabric, I remember how the clerk used to roll it out on the cutting table, all ripples and bounce, and the crisp smack-smack of her scissors as she cut the required yardage. As my mother stood waiting for her goods to be packaged, I would rummage through the Butterick and McCalls books, gazing at this fashion interpretation or that one. I didn't like to sew so much, but I loved the process of the looking, the choosing, the experiencing the dusty, textile smell of the fabric bolts, burying my face in one or two, feeling the rub on my cheeks, inhaling deeply, gazing at the weave, wondering just where this fabric really came from and who made it possible for it to come there to that store, just for us.

There is a weave in writing. Yes, there is a weave in writing.

I write fiction. You may write non-fiction, or you may be a technical writer, or a journalist. I don't think there is that much difference between us. I take my characters, you take your subject if you are not a fiction writer, and you begin working it back and forth, connecting it to this, connecting it to that, back again, and forward. Again, and again, and again. Weaving, sliding between, adjusting the threads, pulling it tight, letting it wander for a minute and then pulling it again.

Think of your mind as a great, giant loom.You are the weaver. The loom, it is sitting there, in the shadows, waiting for your hand to come and work it, to turn the cogs, to adjust the speed, to bring your thoughts, your aspirations, with layers and depth, and precision.

Go now. Pull back that curtain, put your hands on the loom, and just weave.

An Experiment That Turned Out to be a Success

2011-09-04T18:09:00.004-05:00

I'm sort of excited about this.

This afternoon, some kind of hunger for fettucine al fredo came over me. Now, I love pasta, and I love sauce. Al fredo? Not so much. However, and who knows why, but I wanted fettucine al fredo this afternoon.

I had no idea how to prepare it. And thus, the experiment was born.

Okay.

I chopped half an onion and two cloves of garlic. I threw 1/4 cup of butter into a sauce pan and let it melt, afterwich I threw in the onions and garlic and let it saute until glistening and limp.

In the meantime, I salted a pot of water and brought it to a boil and dropped my fettucine into that.

Once the onions and garlic were ready, I threw in 1/4 cup of flour and let it cook down.

After this, I pour in about a 1/4 c. white wine into the onions and garlic to deglaze the pan. Now, here is a note to remember if you cook with wine. I recommend using a sturdy pinot grigio for cooking. I generally say, cook with a wine you would drink. BUT. A lot of people that I know drink moscato or reislings or chardonnay. Do not cook with any of those. Reason being, they are sweet wines, more inclined for an evening on the porch watching the sun go down, than for sturdy cooking. Certainly do not use a sweet wine for this type of dish. If you don't drink, feel free to use more chicken stock, and that is fine too.

Well, tonight, I dropped the wine in, let it deglaze and then I poured in maybe another 1/4 cup of chicken stock and then a small carton of half and half. All the while, I am seasoning and reseasoning with salt, pepper, red pepper, and just a little thyme. How much of these seasons you use depends on your palate. I say that all the time but it's true.

So, now the sauce is beginning to take shape. By now the pasta should be boiling away nicely at a slightly lower temperature than full bore. It's going to take about ten minutes for the fettucine to cook.

I now pour some olive oil into a separate pan and once it is hot, I drop in boneless chicken breasts which have been seasoned with salt and pepper only. That's it. That's all. Let these chicken breasts brown and crisp up in the olive oil.

Pour, I would say, 1/2 cup shaved parmesan cheese into the sauce. Let it melt. Reseason to taste, with cheese or salt, pepper, whatever makes you happy. Drain the pasta, allow just a little bit, maybe 1/4 cup of the boiling water to remain. Here is the reason why. You're going to pour your sauce onto the pasta and mix it together. The pasta will absorb so much moisture that you need a bit more moisture to balance it out. Reseason with salt, pepper, and red pepper, maybe even a touch of nutmeg.

Pull it out onto heated plates and serve with hot bread, a good salad, and yes, if you wish, a good pinot grigio.

Mange, mange! Blessings to you!!

Bring Your Passion, Bring Your Soul

2011-09-03T19:44:00.002-05:00

I'm doing a call-out to all writers tonight, any writer within the sound of my voice as it were, all writers who need to know, who need to believe in their voice, to all writers who need to connect with the soul of writing.

Here is what I want you to do:

Go into your private place, the place where you write. Never mind what it is; it can be a handwritten tablet on the couch in front of the tv, or your typewriter set up on the dining room table, or whether you have an actual room, complete with a door, and computer keyboard. Point is, just go. Go to that place.

Sit down, get comfortable. No phones now. No tv. Absolutely no internet now. No distractions. Ask your husband/wife to get the kids a snack. Close the door now, if you're lucky enough to have a door. Tune into yourself. Turn on whatever music you need to begin the process. I've been told that Stephen King writes to hard rock, I've also been told that Mozart stimulates the creative side of the brain; no matter, turn on whatever brings you inspiration, whatever wakes your writing side up. If you prefer silence, fine. Just bring yourself into that place where you can write.

Now, write or type the first thing, the first thought that comes to your mind. Write it down, don't worry about it being physically perfect, just get it out of your brain. Let it go now, let it breath, let it take on a life of its own.

Don't think about it, don't analyze it, simply let the process begin within you. You're giving birth now. Isn't that a gas?

Write another sentence, and another and another, and allow yourself to enter into that place where you begin to flow...let go...let go...it's not scary. You can do it.

For a first time experiment, I'd say give it twenty or so minutes, although I will not tell you to watch the clock. Your internal clock will dictate. However, if you quit sooner, or if you sit all day writing, don't worry about it. Point is, get the thoughts out of your brain/heart and onto the page. See where it goes...just follow along. Don't worry about formatting. Don't worry about anything proper. Simply get those words out, drop them out of the bucket in your soul and get them on the page.

Come back and tell me what you wrote and what your experience was.

Passing It On

2011-08-25T18:59:00.005-05:00

Thursdays are pear sandwich for lunch day in my life, at my favorite deli and pasta house, Nearly Famous, here in Springfield, MO. Today, being Thursday, I ventured over to my spot d'amour, settled in at the bar (no seats in the house, of course, standing room only), and proceeded to revel in my lunch.

As I left the restaurant, one happy camper, I noticed a book lying on a ledge in the entrance way to the restaurant and at first, I thought, well, someone's left their book here by accident, how sad. However, at closer inspection I found a tag on the book, an intriguing, mysterious, inviting tag. The book had been left there on purpose today, just minutes before I exited the building. The note told the finder to go online and let the "leaver" know that the book had been rescued, read the book, leave it elsewhere for someone else to find. What fun!!! Sort of like a treasure hunt, yes?

Pick Me Up, the note says. Report me to http://www.bookcrossing.com/.

I open up the front flap, ever so carefully, reverently even, and I find some sort of registration card taped to the inside cover. How interesting. As the rescuer of the book, I am to read and then release it back into the wild for someone else to find and enjoy.

I'm sold. It's an easy reading murder mystery, a nice light summer read I think.

Pick Me Up. Okay, I will. And I will let the rest of you know how it turns out. I'll be passing it on for sure.

Has this ever happened to you? Isn't it fun? So unexpected, yes? A nice diversion, yes.

Sadness

2011-08-12T19:58:00.007-05:00

A terrible thing happened in my neighborhood this week. It was an awful, heinous, despicable happening and I am very, very sad as I write this.

A woman was murdered this past Monday, murdered in her own car, as she drove someone (we now know who) to a missed location. It may have been a lapse in judgment, or maybe a forced happening, we'll never know for certain. What we do know is that, Kristi Kimes dropped her children off at her ex-husband's home early this past Monday and one can only assume that she was going to go to work afterwards, but something awful happened, and her ex-husband, who she had a restraining order against, somehow got in the car and left with her on the last journey of her breathing life. She was found later, in the driveway of the Taco Bell on West Chestnut Expressway, throat slashed, slumped over the steering wheel. Dead. Witnesses say they saw the car swerve, heard the horn honk and then saw it pull into the Taco Bell parking lot. Was she trying to save herself or trying to make sure someone saw what had happened to her?

Witnesses say that someone got out of the passenger's side of the vehicle and walked away.

Surveillance footage later showed someone hiding in the bushes, someone hiding, watching, as the police were called. A bloody knife was found at the site. As part of the whole investigation, the ex-husband may have ingested anti-freeze prior to the incident and even told his oldest daughter to make out his will on that very morning the girls were dropped off at his house. Bloody clothing was found in his house later on.

The details are hard to take.

The fact is, a woman died in my direct focus, in my neighborhood, in my area, this week, and I am sick about it. She was 47 years old, younger than me, but what does that matter? Two daughters left behind, and now that the ex-husband has been arrested and charged with her murder, two children have now lost both parents.

Our society is simply in a mess. Plain and simple. And this writer doesn't know the answer to any of it. I wish I did and I wish I could have learned it in time that Kristi Kimes could have been spared.

Perserverance Counts

2011-07-31T15:10:00.005-05:00

This week my colleague and friend, Julie Kibler, recieved The Call. You know, The Call, The Call we all want, The Call that will transform our lives, The Call that gives us validity, The Call that says, yes, you are a writer and you are recognized. This week Julie recieved the call from an agent, indicating interest in representing her. Not just any agent, but Elizabeth Weed.

I "met" Julie years ago, in an online writing class conducted by Barb Samuel and back then I was struck by the honesty of her writing, the depth, the beauty, the intelligence, the knowing. Have to say a little envious too. Julie's work is like a rich tapestry, bold beautiful colors embedded in silken threads. She is also one of the founders of "What Women Write," which I follow and you should too.

If anyone deserves to be recognized as a writer, it is she. Julie, to my knowledge, has had Elizabeth Weed in her sights for as long as I have known her. Julie's worked hard, she's perservered, she's risen to the call.

Congratulations, my friend. Bravo!!!

My Love of Books

2011-06-26T09:42:00.006-05:00

One of my fondest memories from my childhood was the summer Dad packed us all up in the car, us being my mother, sister and brother, and drove us to Alexandria, Minnesota to a cabin on the lake. We lived in Worthington then. A retired couple from his church invited us for a weekend and so, Dad bundled us into the stationwagon and we journeyed to Alexandria to spend a weekend fishing, building campfires, singing "kum by ya" and relaxing, generally.

It was a beautiful setting. The lake was so clear I could see to the bottom of it as Dad rowed the boat around the lake, picking out colored rocks, watching the little fish scurry about. The weather was fine, the sky was a pristine blue. We caught plenty of fish and fried them over an open fire with potatoes and onions every night. The summer cabin was a square white structure with big multipaned windows (complete with window seats, I might add), a multipaned door that stepped out onto a plank walk that led down to the slip. It was a perfect summer spot.

But, about the books.

I no longer have a clear memory of the husband of the retired couple who invited us. His wife, however, I will never forget and it may be her in part who fostered my love of books and maybe a few of my eccentricities too.

It could have been her hair, the wild orange curls that flew about her head as she marched around. Her glasses, the way they were always hanging at the end of her freckled nose. Maybe it was the blue and black paisley caftan and sandals she wore for most of the weekend, or the bangles that went nearly to her elbows. Perhaps it was the idea that she had better things to do than clean house. Or maybe, it was the piles and stacks of books, magazines, newspapers, periodicals of every kind, that took up every square inch of space in that vacation home. I mean it when I say walking room only. The place was a paradise. How lucky was I to have been dropped into a virtual literary treasure trove.

The only thing she said to me about books was, "Read. Read everything." But that was enough. The image of that little white cabin, filled to the rafters with reading material, will never dim.

What brought you and books together?

It's Beautiful, This Summer Solstice

2011-06-22T20:03:00.007-05:00

I don't have a photo yet but plan to get one soon.

I grew up in a quiet God-fearing farming background. My people were agricultural, people who loved and respected and used the land for the community's good. I came from farmers. Pure and simple. And I love that, for so many reasons; maybe the first of that is because I believe in real and I believe in hard work and I do believe in America, still, even though we have our problems and challenges. I believe in working with one's hands, producing good, and I believe in sweat equity. I believe in those things.

Pure and simple is good, quiet, unchallenging, traditonal....peaceful...Okay. Get up.

Think about tables stretching long, laden with bowls of glistening orange cantelope slices, mounds of green-husked corn on the cob, perky red strawberries, crisp roast potatoes, mounds of some meat smoked and grilled...think about that.

Well, I thought about that, and I came up with the following recipe. I came up with it simply because I remember sitting with my grandmother in the summertime as she taught me how to shell peas and break green beans. I remember, when our grandfather could no longer eat corn off the cob, how Grandma Davis tenderly sliced the corn from the cob onto Grandfather's plate. What love that was, yes?

And so, here is the recipe for my corn-tomato bake, a certain summertime treat.

3-4 slices bacon, sliced and fried until crisp.
1/2 C. onion
1 bag frozen corn, a large bag.
1/4 c. butter
basil to taste
Thyme to taste
salt and pepper
2 roma tomatoes, sliced and diced

Okay, cut up the bacon into bite-sized pieces, and brown.
In another skillet, melt the butter, drop the onions in for about five minutes, and then add the frozen corn. Drop in the basil and thyme to taste (you know what you like). Let this simmer for 5-6 minutes. Spray some non-stick coating into a small casserole dish and preheat oven to 350°.

By now you should be able to mix the bacon into the corn mixture. Pour this into your casserole dish and then throw the tomatoes in and scramble it about a bit just to make sure the tomatoes are seriously represented. And then, bake at 350 for 30 Minutes and all should be well.

On the Journey and Along the Way

2011-06-11T13:48:00.005-05:00

I feel fortunate on this writing journey that I've made some friends in the writing world along the way, and I'm talking real friends, not facebook acquaintances.

What I want to share with you today are some thoughts on an article my friend, Barb Samuel, posted to Writer Unboxed. If you, as a writer, are not connected to that magazine, you really should be. I find it invaluable. The title of Barb's article is, "So you want to be a professional writer, " and it was posted on May 25, 2011 if you'd like to find it for yourself.

The dream is to be published, but what does that dream look like? How do you visualize yourself in that life? Barb asks these questions to make us think, really think about what that dream is versus what we imagine it to be. Next, she clues us in on qualities that we will need to fall back on as professional writers.

1.Flexibility - you have to be able to shift with the times and the market. If you only write one thing (and a lot of us do), there will be dry spells. As writers, we need to hone our voice and skill to flow with the changing tides.

2. Positive thinking - Barb says the writer who persists and succeeds knows that good things might happen tomorrow.

3. A hide like a rhinoceros - well, let's face it and it's true. Not everyone is going to like your work and some are going to be quite vocal about it. Sometimes their reasoning for hating it have nothing to do with your work at all. But, like #2, good things might happen tomorrow. Don't let it break you down.

4. Animal cleverness and devotion - well, Barb says professional writers are like cats, independent and clever, making quick leaps. Professional writers are also like dogs, hungry for attention. As Barb says, why would anyone sit for hours in a room, tapping away on a keyboard if they didn't want someone to pay attention to them?

And finally, Barb states that there is a "deep bone of satisfaction" in seeing that row of books against the wall, work that would never have existed at all unless you stuck to it.

So, as writers, we need to link arms, support one another on the journey, make friends along the way, and persist. I want to feel that "deep bone of satisfaction" as I gaze across a row of books, my books. How about you?

Let's Eat

2011-06-04T18:44:00.004-05:00

So, here we are, standing on the brink of summertime. Yes, summertime, that glorious, sundrenched, never-ending golden carefree time...summer...ahhhh, yes.

It makes me think of summertime food. Delicious, carefree, summertime food. Pork and peaches. That's what I thought about this morning. That's summertime food, no? Yes!!!

So, in keeping with my summertime thoughts, I dropped two pork loins, sufficiently rubbed with the following in the crockpot:

1/4 cup chili powder
1 TBSP cumin
1 teas. ground cloves
1/4 teas. cayenne
1/2 teas. cinnamon
1/2 teas. garlic powder
1/2 teas. onion powder
1 TBSP salt
1 teas. oregano

and, I also poured about 3/4 c. water and dropped two beef bouillon cubes into the mixture, let it go on low for about ten hours.

Well, after all that time, I was able to pull the pork loins out, shred them, and put it all in a bowl for others to come and dump on a toasted bun with bbq sauce, cole slaw or whatever else they pleasure in a pulled pork sandwich.

So, that was the pork. Let's get on with the peaches.

Peaches, is there no more a sweet summertime fix than those pretty, blushing pink peaches??

I don't think so.

I had a bag of peaches in my freezer from last year at farmers' market, no kidding. Not sure whether it was a quart or not, but probably pretty close, and a quart is a pretty good measurement for this recipe. At any rate, take those frozen peaches, and drop into a bowl. Let thaw. Pour about 3/4 c. sugar over, squirt out the juice from half a lemon and 5 TBSP flour. Now, dump your peach mixture into a casserole dish and cut up about two TBSP unsalted butter, drop over. Pour into your casserole dish, cover tightly with foil. Make sure oven is preheated to 400°. Bake at 400 ° for about 45 minutes. Take dish out.

Now. Gather one egg, 1/4 c. milk, 1 1/3 c. buttermilk baking mix, such as Bisquick, and take the other half of that lemon and squirt over all. Mix until smooth. Dump in spoonfulls all over the peach mixture, put back in oven for about 15 more minutes. Take out, serve warm with ice cream.

It's simple, it's doable, it's not a big chore.

And it's really nice and delicious.

Happy summertime, everyone!

Lovely Food, lovely food, and yes, we have peas in it

2011-05-21T18:51:00.003-05:00

This is easy-peasy chicken tretrazinni. Easy-peasy, those are the by-words to this whole operation.

Okay, here is what I did. You can do it too.

A deli-rotisserie chicken.

2 slices bacon, browned and diced.

1/2 a medium size onion.

1/2 cup mushrooms, diced, more or less. If you like mushrooms, add more.

6 TBSP butter.

1/2 cup flour.

1 c. Chicken stock.

3/4 c.White wine (pinot grigio, probably)

3 c. milk

parmeson cheese

16 oz. linguine, broken in half

1 bag frozen peas

Thyme

Salt

Pepper

Cook the linguine for about 7 minutes, drain.

Preheat oven to 400°. Slice and brown your bacon, drain, set your bacon on a plate. Melt your butter in a large fry pan. Throw down the onions, and mushrooms. Let that go for about five minutes, until the onions begin to become transulcent. And then, down with the flour. Slowly, pour in your milk, wine and chicken stock. Begin to season with a little thyme, salt and pepper. Burner goes to high, let it bubble, and thicken, turn your burner down, stirring constantly. Once the mixture starts to thicken, throw in about 2 cups parmesan cheese. Start trimming the chicken from the bone, throw that in as well, with the browned bacon. If your linguine is done, throw that in. Season and reseason depending on your palate. In with the peas. Dump it all into a casserole dish. Top with more parmesan cheese. Bake at 400° for 30 minutes, or until the top is browned.

Accompany with good bread, one with a crusty top and meaty insides, a salad, and a glass of wine. Enjoy!

Patterns

2011-05-20T21:08:00.005-05:00

My mother passed away this year, on February 22, 2011.

That statement, in and of itself, that my mother, the backbone of my existence, had passed away, still kicks me in the head, leaving me breathless, still on this 20th day of May, 2011.

Funny thing, something I have observed throughout the years. Even numbered years, those years are hard years for me; I don't know why, neccessarily. I lost a job in an even-numbered year; normally I make less money in even-numbered years; I get my heart broken a lot more in even-numbered years...it sounds silly, but, seriously, even-numbered years typically speaking are not stellar years for me.

Well then. 2011 should have been a good year, right? I mean, it's an odd-numbered year, right? It started out good, yes? Things, all things, should proceed according to the abundance plan of action, yes?

Uh yeah. Hunh.

Of course, yes. Well, then, my mother died, and all things changed, moving in accordance to another plan, a plan not my own, not of my making, not of my wishes. Out of my control. I didn't ask for it, wouldn't wish it, but it came anyway, that being the loss. In an odd-numbered year.

Next year, being an even-numbered year, well, it has me wondering what will befall me then. Am I borrowing trouble to wonder? I don't know...

What do you observe about your life, what do you see as patterns in your life?

Tribute to the Sunny Girl

2011-05-15T14:04:00.005-05:00

This morning I was astonished to realize that my precious Sunny- girl could no longer jump up on the bed to herald me to awakeness. Instead, she remained on the floor, peering up over the top of the bed, whining to be let out for her early morning pee, rather than jumping up and leveling my belly with her two front paws as she once did, every single Saturday and Sunday morning for years and years and years.

This new occurence tells me that I don't have too many more Mays with her, not too many springs and summers, falls and winters. She will turn 12 on July 29th, after all. That may not seem old to other dog owners but, for Sunny, I see the turning of the leaves, the orange fur turning white, the once golden snout becoming more grey, those once bright eyes becoming darker and more autumn-like as the days fly by.

I told a friend before my mother passed, that I believed my losses would go this way: my wonderful mother first, my beloved dog second, and my dear father last. I see now that, since my mother is gone (this past February), that it is now my dog, and my precious father remaining but that Sunny is no longer able or interested in defending my property against intruders. It is harder and harder for her to mount the back steps, she prefers sleeping at my feet above nearly all...she contends with Ella but she'd rather not and her protests about same amount to merely a whine sometimes.

Sunny has been my constant companion for nearly twelve years, the keeper of my secrets, the bearer of all that is me, the only being in my world who hasn't judged me for any of it. I find myself more often than not, lying down with her, spooning as it were, with my faithful friend. Even now, as Ella barks out the front window at some non-existent threat (a bird hopping about in the front yeard, maybe or just the wind blowing a branch past the front window), Sunny remains sleepy, posed on the brink of reality, tired and quiet.

When the day comes that she is no longer trotting happily by my side, when I can no longer stroke that blessed velvet head, I will be truly (again) berefit.

Have you had a pet that meant everything to you? If so, tell me about it.

Words, Images, Ideas, Inspiration

2011-05-06T19:22:00.004-05:00

If I, as a writer, a fellow in this writing community, could inspire one thing of my fellow writers, it would be that I would say to you, the writer that you are, love words. Love imagery, love ideas, explore your senses, find inspiration in those elements. Search it out when you are taking a walk, talking on the phone to your child, eating your breakfast, drinking your coffee, listening to the car radio on your way to work. Think about words and what meaning words bring to you when you see a brilliant sunset, when you hear your baby or grandbaby cry for the first time, when you finger a delicate lace, when you smell leaves burning.

Never censor yourself. This is paramount. It's important for me to tell you this, those of us who live in the "Bible Belt" where there is a church on every corner and everyone you know goes to church and considers themselves "good," better than the next guy anyway. No, never censor yourself. If your character says, "shit" (example) then you tell the world he says "shit." Have you ever, in all your life, hammered your own thumb and said, "oh my, look at this, I hammered my own thumb." Good grief, give me a break. It's all about being real, after all. We as writers must be real above all. Above all.

Give yourself freedom. Enjoy yourself in your writing. I am never going to scream at you about formatting or using the word"was" because that word is used all the time and it is published by well published authors exactly that way. "Had been" I might shriek about, simply because it doesn't resonate well in a reader's mind, but I will not tell you to not use "was." Sometimes that is the only word you can use.

Do not feel pressure to "format." No, this is a really easy deal, if you are computer savvy at all. Simply set your margins, set your paragraph spacing, choose your font, at the beginning. There is no reason to "format as you go" unless you do not understand word processing. Don't stress about it in any case. Just get the words out of your gut and onto the page, computer or long-hand. You can revise later but it is so important to just get the words out of your head/heart/gut and get them onto a paper of some sort.

Now people, fellow writers, just know that it is the story that is important. If you have a story to tell, simply tell it. Tell it from your heart or your gut. Easy enough, right? Just let it flow and let it go.

Seriously.

What say ye?

A Beautiful Fairy Tale

2011-05-01T14:59:00.006-05:00

What a week. So many things to write about, so little space...

The Royal Wedding. Okay, so some may scoff and I also tend to make fun of it (no, I'm making fun of myself more than it), but here in the US we got a little break from the mundane, the every day grind, the fact that nobody in America is royalty, and the closest family we ever had to royalty, well, they tend to die young and tragically and leave a mess in their wake.

So.

Let's celebrate young love and hope and promise and let's just have fun with it, shall we?

I began on facebook and I said something about how I couldn't find my "good tiara," and how my butler, Jeeves, had already left me to fend for myself in searching for the wretched tiara. Not the camo one, I said, the good one. Where did the fictional Jeeves go anyway? Probably out drinking a pint at the local pub, oblivious and uncaring to my very important distress. After searching ALONE for some time, I located a tiara made from newspaper, which I decided would have to do for the royal nuptials. Well. I then planned to move forward with my diatribe about how, when Jeeves finally returned, how he had no idea how to navigate the minivan (seriously, I don't own one of these) across the Atlantic (is he not FROM there???), and how we got stranded in Ireland and although the grass was plenty green there, I was not pleased and demanded a ferry to jolly old England. The planned ending to the whole thing was that Jeeves and I arrived, albiet very, very late and no one was at the cathedral when we arrived, my newspaper tiara was in ragged wet tatters, and so.

I missed the whole damned thing. In my make believe diatribe, that was.

Well, in reality, I watched it all. Sucked it up, every single moment of it. How beautiful Catherine was, how handsome William was...the ceremony, the pomp, the tradition...the fairy tale. How, when she got into the carriage, she was so sweet to everyone around her, those arranging her train, William holding her flowers, all those wanting to make sure the new Princess was comfortable. Oh my.

What were your reactions to the Royal Wedding?

Pasta and Peas

2011-04-17T19:07:00.002-05:00

I wish I had a photo for this wonderful dish, but I don't, reason being my wonderful son ate the whole thing and I didn't get a photo. However, here is my rendition of pasta and peas: Pasta and Peas: 8 oz. of whole grain pasta, such as a fusilli frozen peas (you determine the amount but I really like peas, so...) 1 teas. extra virgin olive oil 3-4 slices bacon, chopped and browned 2 cloves garlic, minced 1 c. mushrooms, whatever you like, cremini, shantrelle, whatever, just make sure they are chopped. 1TBSP flour 2 TBSP white wine, such as a pinot grigio 1 cup. chicken broth 1/4 c. whipping cream lots of freshly ground pepper Parmeson cheese Well, cook the pasta in boiling salted water for however long the package tells you to. Drop the olive oil into the skillet, and throw down your bacon. Let it cook til nearly brown, stir in the garlic, throw down the mushrooms and let them cook til the moisture is absorbed and they let out their fragrance. Okay, now drop the flour, coat the mushroom mixture. Now for the wine, drop that in. Let your mixture begin to thicken, pour in the chicken broth and peas. If it just won't thicken, use some corn starch to get it going. Remove from heat, stir in cream and pepper, toss with pasta. Top with shaved parmesan. Whoe baby, we got a party starting. Nice.

Quiche Sunday

2011-04-17T18:36:00.003-05:00

Yummy, yummy, yummy.

I've learned to make a quiche. Oh boy. This has been sort of an ongoing effort of mine, such as meat loaf, which I finally mastered after twenty or so years of experimenting with it. I was a miserable meatloaf master at one point. Finally got it down after probably 150 tries in however many years.

Okay. So, here we go with the quiche.

You can make a pie crust but that's not essential. I bought Pillsbury already made pie crust and arranged it nicely in my quiche pan.

Well, then.

4 eggs, beaten

1/2 c. onion, chopped

1/2 cup sour cream

1/2 milk

3 or 4 slices bacon, diced and browned

broccoli or spinach, whichever you prefer (today I used broccoli, but if you use spinach, be sure you thaw it properly and squeeze the moisture out)

Shredded cheddar cheese

A sprinkling of thyme

A pinch of cayenne pepper

salt

pepper

parmesan cheese

Preheat oven to 400°. Okay, chop your onion and lay it in the pie crust. Beat your eggs, sour cream, milk, salt and pepper, thyme and cayenne together. Again, I do not measure, this is all up to individual taste. Throw the browned bacon into the pie shell with the onion. Pour your egg mixture over. Throw the broccoli or spinach on top. If you use spinach, the frozen kind, be sure you drain and squeeze all the moisture out of it before hand or you will have a real mess on your hands. Throw down your cheddar cheese. Sprinkle some parmesan over top. Bake at 400° for about 45 minutes or until your wonderful quiche is brown and a fork slips through easily.

Serve with blueberry muffins, another one of my personal favorites.

Coming next is my recipe for pasta and peas, which I am certain my dear friend, Leigh, would appreciate, and which I will forward to her. I have no picture, as my son ate the whole thing before I could photograph it. Sorry. Oh.

Searching for Inspiration

2011-04-10T08:39:00.003-05:00

No doubt about it, writing is tough work. It is taxing, mentally and emotionally, and there are times when it is just easier to get up and walk away from it. And sometimes we should. It's not easy to stay inspired. However, here are a few tips for those times when you would rather do your taxes or go to the dentist than write anything at all, when the well's run dry, when you are just so tired of words you could burn every Thesaurus in the country. 1. Read. Read, read, read. Soak up other writers' words for awhile, follow their thought process. 2. Redfine your goals. What made you start this process in the first place? How did you feel at the beginning? What does it mean for you to be successful? Are you willing to change your goals? Remember, changing your goals does not mean that you've failed. 3. Reignite. How did you feel about your story a year ago? How have you improved your writing? Which character do you love the most? How do you want the story arc to fall? 4. Rejuvenate. Seriously. Go for a walk with your dog. Visit an art museum or a garden. Eat healthy food. Watch the sun come up or go down, or both. Allow yourself to slow down and be inspired by the little things, such as a cake display in a bakery window, or a pretty toddler in a pink dress, or seashells in a jar. Take care of your mind and spirit by thinking positive thoughts. Think the best of yourself. Don't put yourself down. Play with your writing. Make it fun again. Remember always, if you don't write your stories, who is going to?

The Balancing Act

2011-01-16T07:52:00.007-06:00

Writing is a solitary business. As writers, we spend a lot of time in our own heads, away from the real world.

Sometimes we write to process the things that happen in our real worlds. Often it's a pause behind a door, a process of digesting painful truths. Sometimes it's a distillation period, a conduit for someone else to say, "yes, I felt that too." Sometime's it's solace. Sometime's it's celebration.

How do we balance our solitude, time spent with only the words in our heads, and our real lives?

It is said that writing is examining a life worth living. Let me ask this question: can you spend your time only writing?

It's a delicate balance. How do you do it?

Where Comfort Lies...

2010-12-05T13:10:00.007-06:00

It's cold and windy here today, and I feel a bit in need of some comfort food. So, I have been busy in the kitchen today.

My first project was marbled brownies, which made the entire house smell of warm chocolate and vanilla.

On to the second project, which you see pictured here. Shepherd's Pie. The complete recipe is on my blog, some pages back, October 3rd, actually. Now, traditionally, one is to use lamb to make the pie, but Springfield seems a bit short on lamb chunks and so I tend to go for ground chuck. Whole different animal, I know, but it works. Who can't resist hot mashed potatoes? Not to mention tender vegetables and seasonings encased in a meaty filling?

So, now I'm pleasantly fed and plan to lounge by the fire with a book. No further action required on my part until tomorrow...

What comfort foods do you seek out on a cold, windy day?

Women's Fiction - Women's Work?

2010-11-07T11:30:00.008-06:00

I just finished the attached article, written by one of my favorite writers and teacher, Barb Samuel. As I often do after reading one of Barb's articles, I leaned back in my chair to give some thought to it, and today, I thought about my love of cooking, where it came from, how it started, and why food (good food) is so important to me today.

I didn't always cook. In fact, when I was young I found it to be an awful chore and a bore besides that. No, I was perfectly content to leave that task my mother, only interested in consuming the meal, not interested in being an active participant in its creation. Washing the dishes afterward with my sister was enough women's work for me.

If I had any shadows when I began cooking (as Barb describes her ex-husband), it would have to be my mother and her mother, both strong farmhouse cooks. Three big meals a day for the men working in the field, complete with fresh yeast rolls, chunky preserves, and a pie from scratch for desert. They used pound after pound of lard, gallons of fresh cream, and raw milk, all the ingredients we're warned not to use today. There were strawberries from my grandparents' never-ending garden, corn, tomatoes, green beans, fresh peas. Their eggs came from their own chickens. My love for the farmer's market must have been planted years ago, at my grandparents' farm in Wisconsin.

At our home, my mother gave us a dinner of roast on Sunday, nearly every Sunday, after the handshaking and post-sermon chit-chat was finished at church. The table was spread with her nicest tablecloth, and covered with steaming dishes of roast acorn squash, baked potatoes, sugared carrots. Thinking about this, I plan to incorporate more food memories into my writing in the future. Barb describes it as "Easy. Invisible. Holding up the pillars of the world." How true.

And so, women's fiction, like women's work, is important. When people ask me what I write and I respond with, "I write women's fiction," the reaction sometimes is, "Oh ho! Women's fiction! I bet you give a lot of thought to THAT!"

No, it's not particulary literary, or historical, or heavy in nature. Like women's work, it seems invisible. Invisible it is not. It's earthy, it is sensual, it can be healing, often it provides a bonding agent, like food. If my writing can give a harried, or sad, or tired woman a brief respite from the rhythym of her day, then I have done what I came to do.

Yes, if that is the case, I have done what I came to do.

y (Why) write

2010-10-23T18:36:00.010-05:00

Lately, I've been bothered about my lack of regular posting, and being rather ashamed about it, I sat down this evening and asked myself a question. How do you write? Why do you write?

Now, as you probably know if you follow me at all, I am part of a writers' group here in Springfield. If you know me even better, you will recognize that there is an awful lot of noise in my head. It's sometimes very loud and chaotic. I see you looking at me askance. The noise in my head, what is that. Well, it's ideas and supposings and I-wonder-how-that-works drama, and what if this happened or that happened, and what would be the outcome, who would be affected, AND if I were the heroine of that scenario, how would I react, what would I do, what would I say? And if I'm NOT the heroine of that scenario, how would the main character deal with all that and how is it right in the end?

As writers, we spend a lot of time in our own heads. There's a lot going on in there. In fact, at times it gets damned crowded. Our characters can be quite demanding.

So, how I do write. Well, I happen to be somewhat musically oriented. I was a pastor's daughter, after all, required to learn how to play piano, and my mother wanted her daughters to be good prospects for marriage in a Victorian sense, and therefore, I was required to learn another instrument,which turned out to be the flute. But, at some point in my young years, I discovered a reel to reel recording that my father made of a radio station somewhere in Wisconsin, and on that tape were songs I'd never heard before. Rock songs, love songs, sensual, pretty songs. And I loved every second of it. My love of music was born at the discovery of that scratch reel to reel tape. And so, from that point on, I wanted to hear something besides church hymns. Whenever I could, I filled my mind with music. Music is a fantastic catalyst for writing, mind you. Music can produce mood, can produce dialogue, can produce voice or setting, can push a story along. Music is a provacative force,which I use often; it can push, it can pull, it can expand but it never stands still.

On another note, sometimes the best ideas I ever get are when I am out walking my dog. Yes, how simple is that. It is simple, yes, but sometimes, walking, clearing my mind of clutter, is the best way to produce new ideas. Breathing in fresh air, pumping the lungs, moving the feet, it's so organic, all good.

I have a writing friend who endorses "Artist's Dates." By this, she means taking in something new, off the beaten path, taking time off to watch a movie, go to an art museum, try a new restaurant, take a class on whatever you want, watch the sun set (or rise, whichever). Go outside your comfort zone. Go outside your comfort zone. Very important. You never know what you can do until you stretch yourself to what to think you could never do. Seriously.

Now, why do I write. I write because I cannot imagine not writing. I cannot imagine a world without stories, without written accounts factual or not, of a happening, of love or redemption or victory, of surviving the odds, or eternal sadness. I just can't. It would be such a sad world without stories.

I hope you feel the same. In fact, tell me, how do you write and why?

Springfield Has a Castle?

2010-10-10T15:18:00.008-05:00

Who knew? Apparently, not me. Having lived here since 1995, I must have been walking around with my eyes shut, not that I spend a lot of time thinking about the possibilities of castles existing in Springfield, Missouri, but anyway.

But yes, having said that, Springfield is home to a castle.

Looming large from a grassy knoll on 2.66 acres in northeast Springfield, Pythian Castle, once known as The Pythian Home of Missouri, sits quietly, the total monarch of all that surrounds it.

The place was built in 1913 out of huge Carthage stone blocks, and was part of a 53-acre tract, which was whittled away bit by bit until only 2.66 acres remains. Built by a mysterious secret order, the Knights of Pythia, it was intended to be an orphanage and retirement home for children who were direct descendants of the Pythians, and older relatives of the same. However, in 1942 it was acquired by the Army, and became a branch of the O'Reilly General Hospital, treating over 44,000 wounded. From that time forward, the land was sold off, once for a college to be built, some land was sold to contribute to other city needs, and then in 2003, it was purchased privately and the owner now lives in what was once the girls' dormitory wing.

Well, it being a castle, there are going to be stories. October seems to be a good month for stories, doesn't it.

Rumour has it, the place is inhabited by others.

I mentioned it was an orphanage. Well, not the kind of orphanage where kids are adopted out to loving families. Oh no, these children were placed in the home due to the Great Depression and their parents' inability to care for or support them. If and when the parents were once again able to care for their familes, the children were reunited with their parents. If not, I don't know what became of the children. Chances are, once they reached some level of adulthood, they were turned out to make room for other children and were forced to eek out an existence alone. As far as it being a retirement home, there were many elderly people living there, often suffering from dementia, or some other form of mental illness. There were two suicides, both of which were elderly people. One man shot himself due to the ravages and intense pain of cancer. The other slit his own throat in the showers and no one knows why. There are also records of the castle keeping prisoners of war from World War II. Italians, Germans and Japanese men were kept in the basement, in cells.

What I am told today about all of this is that children have been heard laughing, crying, or otherwise talking in the rooms. Boxes and crates are heard being shoved around on a regular basis. Supposedly, there is a presence in the tunnel that once connected the castle from its boiler room housed some distance away, and this presence doesn't want to be annoyed. On ocassion, someone calls, "yoo hoo!" and no one is there. Objects are arranged and rearranged. A presence routinely walks through the front door into the foyer calling, "hello! Hello!"

So, I took a tour. Beforehand, I felt some trepidation, not sure what I was in for. But once the tour started, I became completely relaxed. I did hear something like a heavy crate being shoved about in the boys' dormitory hall. I did feel a cold burst of air rush between me and another person while standing in the foyer. Other than that, nothing. Nobody "yoo hooed" at me, no one called, "hello!" There were no messages from beyond.

Whether the place is haunted or not, it's a beautiful building, full of lovely architectural details. I'm absolutely enthralled by it.

Will I go back again? You betcha.

Do you know of a haunted place? It's October, after all. Tell me about it.

Easy Shepherd's Pie

2010-10-03T16:13:00.005-05:00

This is a chill-chaser for those nights when you'd really like a fire to warm your feet and maybe your heart too.

Here are the ingredients and following, is what you do:

To begin:

1 onion, diced

3 carrots, diced

1 large clove of garlic, chopped

Kosher salt

Pepper

Red pepper flakes

Extra virgin olive oil

Drop about 2 generous tablespoons olive oil into a large, nonstick skillet. Throw in the diced onions, carrots, sprinkle generously with salt and pepper, drop in a few red pepper flakes. Once the onions and carrots start to carmelize, drop in the chopped garlic. Allow this to carmelize for about five minutes on medium heat.

Okay.

1 red pepper, diced

paprika

1 TBSP Worceshershire sauce

2 lbs. ground chuck

Peas

Cream of celery soup

About 8 medium sized yukon gold potatoes

milk

Peel potatoes, cube and drop into boiling salted water. Allow them to cook for about 16 minutes. Drain them when finished. Have a large bowl with 4 TBSP unsalted butter, seasoned with salt and pepper ready. Once the potatoes are drained, drop them into the bowl with the butter, salt and pepper. Use a potato masher or a hand mixer to mash up the potatoes, adding milk as necessary.

Preheat oven to 350°.

In the meantime, drop your ground chuck into the pan with the onions and carrots. Reseason with salt and pepper. Throw the red pepper in, mix it all up. Once the meat is brown, drain off the grease and drop some paprika, and the Worcestershire sauce. Mix one can cream of celery soup to a half can of milk, mix together in a separate bowl, throw into the beef mixture.

Once your beef mixture is finished, grease a large casserole dish. Maybe a 2-quart, maybe a 9 x 11, depending on what kind of bakeware you own. Drop the beef mixture in, smooth it out, and drop the mashed potatoes atop, sprinkle with nutmeg. Bake for about 25 minutes.

Serve with a hot loaf of crusty sourdough bread and a nice green salad.

Enjoy!

September Passing

2010-09-19T16:42:00.015-05:00

Took a long walk with my beloved dog this morning. Watched the dew evaporate from the grass. Came back home and started a pot of broccoli cheese soup. Thought about September passing, thought about putting summer away and walking towards fall, which is right around the provibial corner. Wondered what kind of winter we might have this year and prayed the power would stay on all winter, no disastrous ice storms, no darkness, no fear, no dismal, dark, unrelenting cold.

I love fall, but I don't love winter, not here in the Ozarks. I don't love brown, molded trees and lawns, don't love unforgiving, mocking ice. I don't love getting up in the dark, driving to work in the dark, driving back back home in the dark. Having said that, I love the mystery of it all, the quiet, the lack of summer riotness that is fall and winter here where I make my home now.

Here is what I look forward to, in this autumnal spirit; I am looking forward to full-bodied casseroles, hearty soups, candlelight, big flavored bread, red wine, quiet laughter with friends, red maples, golden maples, leaves strewn about on sidewalks, pumpkins carved or not on porches, random dashes through corn mazes. I am looking forward to fleece, pretty sweaters, black tights, heavy earrings. I am looking forward to the first snow, which may not happen until January but regardless, I'll be ready with a pot of herbal tea to salut it's arrival.

Where are you and what are your fall rituals?

Location

2010-08-29T13:50:00.005-05:00

Location, location, location.

Yesterday, at Springfield Writers' Guild, one of our members brought in some work, and asked for a critique. Her story line was good, her writing was pretty strong, she had created a character I could care about but, I had to ask myself where was the story happening? What was the location?

It wasn't enough to know that her main character was a Mexican woman with smooth skin, or that she was recently divorced, or that a kind stranger had given her a job as a waitress in his truckstop. I wanted to know, where in the sam hill we were in her world. Later, I think it was said the story was taking place in southern California, which is a great location, completely appealing.

Your readers want to know about location. They're interested. This is where our writer fell down a bit. Had she given us a little Spanish here and there, described a cactus or a plant that grows in southern California, we would have known where we were, and quite honestly, felt a little more secure in the story. Not knowing your location is sort of like taking a trainride to nowhere in the fog. There's something swarming all around you, but you can't really grasp it or see through it, and after awhile, you feel chilled, and maybe you want a blanket.

Location. Look around the world of your characters. Is there dialect, speech patterns, learned mispronounciations? Physically, is it desert, tropical, cityscape? What nuances of the location mesh up with your characters?

There's also a "why;" why is this location important? Is it generational? Had they always been there? Is someone starting over, making a new start, as in the main character of our writer's story? Why is it important?

So, think about location as you create your stories. Clue your reader in. It'll give your story more depth and hold your reader's attention for a longer period of time.

Point of View

2010-08-01T13:56:00.020-05:00

Several years ago I was so, so fortunate to be able to attend the Pikes Peak Writers Conference, held annually in Colorado Springs. I can't remember now how many years ago this was; I remember I had a different employer at that time, and how I thought I was the next Nicholas Sparks, whose writing I now don't admire very much, point being, what a greenhorn I was.

I arrived at the convention, starry-eyed, stomach fluttering, convinced that I held the next Great American Novel in my hands, and (ta-da!) I got a pitch with Jessica Faust, and then one with Lily Ghahremani, and both of them told me I was toast. "What is your point of view," Lily wanted to know. "I just don't get it."

What??? I'd written the next greatest American Novel Ever. Point of View? Seriously?

Yup. You see, I had confused them both, and therefore, they declined representation of my manuscript.

Point of View determines how your story is going to be told; therefore, it's important to know what point of view to choose. Below is a brief synopsis of point of view.

First Person - this is the most intimate point of view because you see the story through this person's eyes. This point of view uses the "I" stance. It can be limiting as you will only see the story from one point of view; thus, other characters' thoughts, feelings and ambitions won't be seen.

Second Person - told from the standpoint of "You." Not used in fiction writing much; this is for more instructional work.

Omniscient - this point of view knows all. This is sort of a nineteenth century tool, and not used a lot these days either.

Third Person - sort of a compromise between first person and omniscient, and is used the most today by fiction writers. With this point of view, you can move back and forth between characters and the unique way each of them act and react. As you are head-hopping with this point of view, the main thing is, don't make it confusing for your readers as to whose head you're in now. If you suddenly switch midstream, your reader will be confused, and likely, put the book down.

So, how do you choose a point of view? I've been told to choose the character who has the most to lose, but no matter what your story is about, the point of view you choose will determine how the story is written.

I Love Summer

2010-07-31T18:50:00.005-05:00

Or, maybe I'm just a humidity-craving, sweating, in denial, nutball. Always a possibility, of course.

So, I went to the farmers market this morning, of course. This is, after all, my Saturday routine. And, while immersed in my Saturday routine, I spied peaches.

Peaches. Luscious, fat, juicy, sweet, seductive, beautiful as a sunrise, peaches.

I was a goner. Toast.

So, below, find two recipes for what you can do with peaches if you really want to do anything with them besides just eating out of hand.

Peach Pie:

6-8 good sized peaches, blanched and cut up. [If you don't know what blanching is, it is plunging your peaches into boiling water for about 15 seconds and then, plunging them into ice-cubed water before peeling.]

Okay, blend your cut up peaches with: 3/4 c. brown sugar, a splash of nutmeg, a splash of white sugar, a splash of kosher salt, 2 TBSP butter cut up, about 1/4 c. flour and a splash of brandy.

Splash, splash, just do it.

Dump your peaches into your crust, moisten the edges of your crust with warm water, drop another crust atop, seal. With a knife, make some vents in the top, sprinkle white sugar over the top, and bake at 350° for one hour.

Here's the other idea (and possibly my favorite):

Peach Preserves:

This is so sweet and luscious and makes a great gift.

12 medium-sized peaches or 18 large peaches

5 c. sugar

1/2 c. lemon juice

1 teas. salt

Okay, so in a big dutch oven, bring your water to boil and drop a few peaches in at a time, allow them to cook for 15 seconds, transfer to a deep bowl, filled with cold water and ice cubes [Blanch, remember?]. Do this until all the peaches have been in the boiling water and now all are in the cold water. Drain.

Now, wash and dry your dutch oven, and drop in the sugar, lemon juice and salt. Peel peaches, cut into bite-size chunks. Drop peaches into sugar mixture. Over high heat, bring peaches to boiling, stirring, turn heat to low and allow to cook for an hour and 30 minutes, or until the fruit is translucent and it seems syrupy, slightly thickened. With metal spoon, skim off foam and discard that. Meanwhile, prepare your jars and lids for processing the preserves. Bring water to a boil in the canner.

When peach mixture seems thick, ladle into drained hot jars to within 1/4 inch of top of jar. Seal jars. Process in simmering bath for 10 minutes; remove. Allow to cool.

Depending on your generosity, this recipe should yield about eight 1/2 pint jars.

Hello, from the great computer-world beyond

2010-07-30T20:38:00.009-05:00

Oh jeepers. I don't mean to whine, but it's been a horrible summer between me and my computer. Bad, like you don't want to know how bad it's really been. It's been bad, and I don't really want to talk about it. I haven't been able to post, haven't been able to do much of anything of value, and I've really missed it, the posting to my blog, that is.

So, I'm trying to come back and regain whatever credibility I had. I promise to post more in the future.

Please hold steady with me while I get all this ironed out.

Thanks!

The Russo Factor

2010-06-26T18:05:00.012-05:00

First of all, do I like this photo? No. But, it's all I could find that wasn't a generation old. So, sorry universe, and sorry Richard, you're just such a recluse, and I wish you'd get another picture taken.

Anyway.

I love Richard Russo. Been a fan for years now. I have friends who claim they'd rather walk through their skin backward than read anything he writes but I have to differ. I just simply have to stand up for this guy. Besides that, the man won a Pulitzer Prize for crying out loud. He can't really stink, can he? I don't see how.

The thing I like about Russo is how he sees the underbelly; how he shows you, the reader, what's so freaking awful about the situation without actually SAYING it. He sees what the character doesn't want to see, what the character doesn't want to admit to himself or anybody else, he sees what the character sees without seeing it.

Does he cook? No. And you know me well enough by now to know that I do appreciate a good recipe snuck into a good read. But, Richard doesn't cook, so none of that.

So, I'm going to share the Richard Russo books I've read and maybe you will read them too. "Empire Falls" - loved it. "Nobody's Fool" - this may be my favorite. "Straight Man?" I may have read this ten times. And then, there was "Bridge of Sighs."

Quite honestly, there were passages in "Bridge of Sighs" that I had to just turn the pages until certain things came to a close. "Bridge of Sighs" is a great read but, if you love animals, if you love dogs in particular, you aren't going to be able to stand some of the text in that book. Aside from the purposeful cruelty to animals, I loved the book and, I do understand that a writer writes and writes what is given to him to write. I'm not at all condemning Richard for certain passages in that book, just saying I could not read those particular passages in that book. Now, having said that, I also understand that humanity as a whole is so flawed that, if you're going to write and going to be an honest writer, you have to be able to write it all, whatever that may be, and I give Richard credit for doing that and doing it very well. That's really what it's all about for you, for me, for any writer. Tell the truth. It's going to make you throw up sometimes but, if it's truth, tell it. Don't be nambsy-pamsby about it. Tell the truth.

So, on to the latest book from him, "That Old Cape Magic."

I loved this book. I see somewhat a departure here from the older Russo works. "Cape" seems more introspective, particularly into the world of married people, sadder, more honest maybe; it seems to grasp how frail we all are and how fragile relationships really are whether we want to think so or not. Again, Russo grasps our humaness and runs with it and makes a really good showing.

The thing about Russo is that he tells the truth. If you are a fiction writer, you must tell the truth. You absolutely must, whatever that truth is. If you don't tell the truth, don't expect to be found credible. So, write what is yours to write today and tell the truth. Always.

Oi. And Vey.

2010-06-20T17:23:00.021-05:00

I'm not Jewish. Sorry about that.

Also, I meant to publish something about food, but, well, that didn't happen, quite. It may yet but, not quite right now.

I am not sure where to put this post on my blog. While I'd like to say, and started out to say, it's all about the food, really, it's not so much that, it's really all about me. It's all about me on a personal level. I've become retrospective now. I'd like to combine food with this post but, really, in all actuality, not sure I'm going to be able to do that. Not that I've stopped cooking, oh no, I think it's just that this year, I'm really, REALLY seeing my life in compartments and trying to be honest about this phase or that one, and where I am now and where I'd like to be.

Very strange thing for me this year, not to mention, uncomfortable.

Okay, let's bring in the proverbial cat ( a big fat orange one because I like those) and let's let it out of the bag, as it were.

Drum roll, please, if I can get one...I may really prefer trumpets if there are any out there.

In just a few weeks, I am going to reach the half-century mark in my life.

Fifty years on this earth. Fifty. Does that sound old to you because it sure does to me. And I hate to say it but, I'm scared. I'm scared because it sounds like I have not accomplished the things I wanted to do in my life and now, here I am, fifty years old, and still haven't moved heaven and earth like I envisioned I would at some point, and well, what then??

Seriously, what then?

Well, there's this.

I hope I've been good to people. I hope I've helped someone in need. I hope I can leave this earth one day, it being a better place then when I was here, but, can I be assured of that, really?

Maybe it doesn't matter because the whole issue of control won't be mine anyway, at that point.

I just know I love being alive and I love living and I appreciate the opportunity to be here.

So, I was going to publish a post having to do with food and bounty and summer and somehow, I've morphed into this soul-searching issue about turning fifty this year. I know I'm not the only one who's gone on this journey; however, at this point, it's my journey to take.

Come over. Let's talk later, over a chilled bottle of wine, about your journey and mine.

Calm Down, calm down

2010-06-14T18:46:00.007-05:00

My mind has been a jumble lately. I went on a much needed short vacation with a dear, wonderful friend recently. I came back from vacation, went back to work and have been working with a vengeance ever since. My desk looks as if a paper mill regurgitated without apology all over it.

Well, I've tried to resume my life since I came back from vacation. I've tried to keep up. I've resumed my quest for the perfect summer fruits and vegetables. Been running my younger son back and forth to work. Been paying bills, worrying about the economy, worrying about my aging parents, worrying about my oldest son, going to visit an injured friend, trying to keep up with every day life while I find myself slipping away. Again. Like before vacation.

I need to let my mind rest. The quiet place I am looking for, the quiet place I need, is somewhat elusive right now, being buried between mounds of production documents and personal issues. Can I take another vacation?

Well, probably not.

So, I have to remind myself, and probably you do too: do what is yours to do today. Show up. And do it. This is not my personal sage wisdom - it's Barb's and I take no credit for it, except to say that I need to follow it.

I say that because I have spent considerable time sitting in front of my monitor, staring at my manuscript like a blind woman. Where are the words? What am I supposed to write next? For a writer, a spiller of words, this is important. I'm trying not to worry about it but, I am worried.

I'm going to continue to show up and do what I have to do that day. The words will come.

So, please, whoever you are, show up. Do what is yours to do today. Don't worry about the rest of it. Just how up. And do what is yours to do today.

I'll do the same.

Let's meet back here and talk about it.

Stuffed Green Peppers

2010-05-30T15:11:00.004-05:00

I love green peppers! And stuffing them is the ultimate peasant comfort food.

Here's how I do it.

6-8 good sized green peppers

1/2 c. onion, chopped

2 cloves chopped garlic

salt

pepper

1 - 1 1/2 lb. ground chuck

1 can stewed tomatoes

1 c. cooked rice

8 oz. tomato sauce

Oregano

Cumin

Sugar

1 c. corn

Velveeta cheese

Carefully cut the tops from your peppers and immerse them in boiling water for 6-8 minutes. Drain, allow them to cool for just a bit.

In the meantime, throw a little olive oil around your skillet and drop your chopped onions in. Salt, pepper. Let them sizzle for a few minutes before dropping the garlic in (garlic burns easily). Drop in the ground chuck, a little more salt and pepper, season with oregano and cumin. Drain grease from meat. Pour in about half of your tomato sauce, throw a little sugar down to cut the tomato, drain your stewed tomatoes and pour in. Stir in the cooked rice corn. Season again, using salt, pepper, oregano and cumin to taste.

Preheat your oven to 350°.

Now, slice up four or five pieces of the Velveeta, yes, Velveeta. I know it's processed cheese but, it melts well. For six peppers, you'll need twelve squares of velveeta. Place one square in the bottom of each pepper. Spoon the meat mixture into the pepper, packing down slightly. Once all your peppers are filled, drizzle the rest of the tomato sauce on top of each pepper, lay another chunk of cheese on top. Cover tightly and bake for 45 minutes. Take the top off, bake another 15 or so minutes.

Yum!

Sum, sum, sum, sum, sum, sum, summertime!

2010-05-25T18:48:00.007-05:00

Ah, roasted tomato caprese salad, that's what I'm talking about.

Might seem a bit elementary to bigger cooks than me, however. Gotta say it. Knowing it's not really tomato season yet, I'm thinking I'm pretty smart right now. Thinking that roasting these pre-season tomatoes is a darn fine idea.

Roasting your tomatoes (or any vegetable, for that matter) will bring out the natural sweetness, and in this case, tomatoes aren't really in season yet, so they need a little help in bringing out all their natural goodness. So, I vote roasting. I've never seen it fail, with any vegetable.

Here's what I do:

10-12 roma or plum tomatoes - halve these babies. Lay them out, cut side up, on a baking sheet.

Preheat your oven to 275°. Drizzle with about a quarter cup extra virgin olive oil. Drizzle again with 1 1/2 tablespoons blasamic vinegar. Combine 2 large garlic cloves (minced), with 2 or 3 teaspoons of sugar, some kosher salt and some pepper. Sprinkle liberally over tomatoes. Roast the tomatoes for 2 or so hours, or until slightly carmalized. Let them cool.

Bring out a very nice serving dish. Come on now. Summertime!

Here's something about mozzarella, and I'm talking about fresh mozzarella, not the shredded variety - freeze your cheese for about 15 minutes before you plan to slice it. There is something just really gross about trying to slice room-temperature mozzarella cheese. It's seriously icky. All that sliding and buckling under the knife, no way. So, freeze your mozzarella, allow it to get slightly hard before you slice it. Slice your mozarella into thin strips, layer your dish, alternating your cheese with your tomato halves. Julienne about 10 good size basil leaves. Now, don't cheat and sprinkle the dried version here. Just don't do that. Seriously, roll up your basil leaves and slice them. Scatter the basil atop your tomatoes and mozzarella, sprinkle some more salt and pepper, drizzle lightly with olive oil.

Serve. Eat. Enjoy.

Absorb!

2010-05-18T18:57:00.014-05:00

Wow, those women over at "What Women Write" are kicking some serious writing butt and, taking no prisoners I might add. I'm not saying that just because Julie Kibler is one of the most unique, talented women writers I know, I'm saying that because ALL of them are unique, talented writers. See for yourself at: http://www.whatwomenwritetx.blogspot.com/. And, p.s. I love Julie. Go girl!

Now, here's something else, something close to my heart, something we've talked about before. New York agent Nathan Bransford wrote a great article recently on voice: http://blog.nathanbransford.com/2010/05/how-to-craft-great-voice.html. You guys know how I feel about voice. I can erect my own soapbox and jump on it anytime but, listen, if you've been told that you, the writer, have no voice, only your characters have voice, skip on over and read what Nathan has to say about that particular subject. Great article.

Okay, so, I am not going to get in your face tonight about reading. You've heard enough of that to kill an elephant, say, so I'll skip that and just say, cultivate your resources. Tap into other writers, their blogs, their websites, their writings, all of it. Find a hobby, whether it be photography, painting, music, whatever. Absorb, absorb, absorb, all that surrounds you, for good or for naught. Absorb. Breathe in the moment, deeply. When the well is full, put pen to paper, fingertips to keypad, and dump it all out. Empty your soul. Write it all down, no hesitation.

Other than that, I have no more to say but to apologize for the date on the photo. I have FINALLY learned how to take the date-stamp off my photos and I am sorry this one has a date but, I sort of liked it anyway. I hope you'll bear with me regarding my various faux pas.

So, anyway, write on, read on, study on, absorb, absorb, absorb! What would the world be without your stories, seriously?

Talking About Meatballs

2010-05-15T18:47:00.010-05:00

Spaghetti and meatballs.

Wow.

Not talking about spaghetti and meat sauce, here. Talking Meat. Balls. In Red Tomato Sauce. That's what I'm talking about. That's what makes me one happy girl.

Spaghetti and meatballs is such a fun food. Seriously. It's just fun. Everybody likes it. Kids love it. Adults find comfort in it. I can't even tell you how many times I've found comfort at the bottom of a steaming bowl of pasta, sauce and meatballs atop. Who doesn't love curling tomato-laden garlic infused linguine around a fork into a lump so big you can't even get it into your mouth without being sort of crude, and the happy sigh that follows the successful shove into the mouth; can't beat that with a stick.

Not sure why anyone would want to beat a meatball with a stick anyway.

Well, my main point with this whole diatribe is the meatball. The Meat. Ball. Yes, indeed. The ball of meat. That beautiful meaty roundness squatting atop a huge mound of pasta and beautiful marinara or, whatever you like, sauce. I'm not picky. I want you to be happy.

Oh boy. Let's make some meatballs. So, grab your apron and a knife and let's get down to it.

My first move is to chop about a half cup of onion and slap that down into some olive oil, salt and pepper and let my onions sweat and get all kinds of tender and pretty in the saute pan.

In the meantime, I get one egg from the refrigerator, I pull out my oregano, nutmeg, bread crumbs, grated parmesan cheese, my ground chuck, and my ground italian sausage. I like to use about a pound and a half ground chuck to a half pound ground italian sausage. Dump my meats in a bowl and then I start dropping the rest of my ingredients in. I don't measure anything, sorry, don't count on me for that because I don't do it, so, just watch what you're doing and if your meat mixture starts looking dry, keep in mind, we're going to add some warm water in a minute.

You might wonder about the nutmeg. Well, I used to wonder about that too, until a friend of mine said, just use it. It's the mystery ingredient that will keep people guessing. So, being sort of structured, more or less able to follow command at times (foodie stuff may be the time), I tried it and well, nutmeg seems to add a little question to the palette wherever it's used so, I like to throw it in there just so people will taste it and wonder, what's that edge? What is that anyway? It makes them curious and when they get curious, they tend to taste more, all the while trying to figure out what are we eating here anyway?

So, work all that above-mentioned mixture together with your fingers, adding salt and pepper, and more or less 1/4 cup warm water. It really doesn't matter how much liquid you use as long as your meatballs are moist but firm when you start rolling them up. So, when you're satisifed the increments are right, dump in your sauteed onions as well and then begin rolling up your meat balls. I always make them too big. I know I do this and I can't seem to stop it so, my family has become used to mega-meatballs.

Drop your meatballs into some sizzling olive oil, saute, turn, and once you are satisfied they are browned enough, drop them into your sauce, whether homemade or bottled, and let it go about 20 more minutes on a low simmer. Not a lot more than that because tomato-based sauces tend to become bitter if they're cooked too long or too hard so, in that same vein, don't turn your temperature way up for same reason. Just let it simmer. Throw some linguine, or the pasta of your choice, into a pot of boiling water, cook for 8-9 minutes, drain, coat with sauce and meatballs, grab a big loaf of crusty bread and enjoy!

Reading is Good....

2010-05-09T17:19:00.006-05:00

I guess I've said this about 19 times now; however, I feel I must say it again.

Reading is paramount to writing. If you fancy yourself a writer, well, then, read. I'm not meaning to be harsh here. I'm just saying, if you want to write, if you are serious about the craft, you must, you MUST, read. Absolutely. The two cannot be separated.

Besides that, isn't it nice to lay back in your easy chair or your lawn chair and just retreat from everything you have to deal with in your real life? Come on.

Well, listen. You may think of me as a fiction writer, albiet the womens' fiction writer, the light stuff, the fluff, the happy ending stuff. Okay, yes, I do that. I do it with wild abandon. There is something about the idea of finding love, love working out, love being the catalyst for a happy and productive life, that I really like. Yes. I'll stand on my soapbox about that always. But.

Lately, I've been venturing out of my shell. Maybe you've noticed with the post on "Winter's Bone" and a few other works that aren't necessarily in my proclaimed genre. Can I tell you I have a couple of writings, out of my usual realm, for you to consider?

You didn't respond in the affirmative but, nonetheless. I am going to deliver here.

I borrowed a book from a friend recently, "Lucky Jim," written by Kingsley Amis. You know, I don't usually go for so much prose but, in this book, it's well done. The hapless James Dixon, the non-tenured professor, the lovable loser, eternal prankster, well, he's just a great character. The women in his life, his boss, his adversaries, it's all totally hilarious. At first, I thought about putting the book down because, as I said, I don't go for a lot of flowery prose but, out of respect for my friend, I thought I needed to give this book a go and I'm glad I did. It's a great read.

The other book I want to mention is "Little Bee" by Chris Cleave. This story haunted me for days after I put it down. A young woman, a teenager actually, left in a country not her own, with nothing? Nothing but a phone number and a driver's license of someone who may have helped her once but, who bears so much guilt about earlier circumstances that he takes his own life when she shows up at his home out of the blue. Wow. It's a really good book. I highly recommend it.

So, once again, I am imploring you to read. It's been said it's fundamental. I agree. It's fundamental but, if you want to write, please, please read.

That's all folks.

Mom

2010-05-09T16:38:00.007-05:00

And so, today is Mother's Day.

So, let's talk.

My mother has been such an extraordinary force throughout my life, and I wish I could give her tribute without sounding cliched or slightly moronic. I fear I can do neither and, so I sit here today saying this: My mother has been the push on my back, the voice in my ear, the conscience speaking, the summons issued, the solid rock I've run to during various times in my life.

I remember this: my mother was way before her time in so many ways. When I was a teenager, or maybe even a pre-teenager, when we lived in southwestern Minnesota, my mother used to talk about things that should be invented and patented; things that would make life easier for all. I can't now remember specifically what she was talking about; however, in later years when things came out that had been patented and were known throughout the world, I do remember thinking that my mother had, at some point, thought about that already. She knew. She just somehow knew. So smart. So right on, she was.

Here is another thing. As an adult, I am not a church-going person; however, my mother has seldom missed a day of church in her life. While I don't follow that particular habit, I respect it. She has an anchor that I don't necessarily see as an anchor, but it's valuable to her. She has a bedrock that I respect, even if I don't quite agree with it.

My mother sees worth in people according to their work ethic, something I hope I am carrying on according to her standards. She was born in 1934; she lived through a truly miserable time in our country and, as a result, she places great value on hard work and persistence and perserverance. She did it. She has no patience for those who expect it all to be done for them. I hope I make her proud in this respect.

Onto something lighter, and I so wish I had a photograph to prove it but, my mother, well, she liked her fashions and hairdos and the like. If I find a photo (I think my sister may have them all), I'll share it but, at present, I don't. Sorry. At any rate, my mother put a lot of store in how one presents. There is a lesson to be learned there, in this age of pants on the ground, for God's sake.

And so, I hope my mother has had the most wonderful of Mother's Days and I hope she knows that her influence is paramount to me and that it is valued.

Thanks, Mom.

Great Opening Lines

2010-04-25T10:45:00.006-05:00

“She was trying to tell the joke right, but it was his joke and she had to keep checking with him.”

This is a great opening line by an unknown student, provided by a recent speaker at SWG. It is not my line, but I wish it was.

This particular line reminds me of John Updike, the master of middle-aged, middle-class pornography, and also one of my favorite writers. My mind sees a couple, married or not, but having been together a long time, and they are at a bar or a party, someplace where alcohol is being served. They are among friends, other married or nots. He is remote, distant; he’s lost interest in the relationship. He may have kindled an interest in someone else. Maybe she knows it, maybe she only suspects. I see him sort of slumped on a stool, hands hanging in his lap. I see her standing. She is desperate and loud. She wants his attention, she wants him to like her again, but she’s trying too hard. She attempts to tell a joke, but she can’t pull it off without his help and he shrugs and turns away. The joke isn’t humorous any more. Their friends catch a vibe from the couple, and they begin to make excuses to go home early. Later, at their own home, she is in tears. She becomes clutching. He pulls away, tells her she drank too much and he falls asleep.

She had to keep checking with him on the telling of the joke. Wow. What does that tell you? A relationship in turmoil, an end, what? How do you feel about it?

What are other great opening lines that you know?

Winter's Bone - Supporting Local Writers

2010-04-05T18:25:00.009-05:00

I hope you will forgive the bone-chilling photograph. I did it on purpose, yes. Quite honestly, I thought to make a statement.
Daniel Woodrell, author of "Winter's Bone" was asked to explain his latest title. Simple, he replied. The winter part is obvious. The "bone" is slang. Sort of like, "hey give him a break (a bone)." Somehow, in this story, winter gave its heroine, Ree Dolly a bone, a gift, a break.

"Winter's Bone" is a stunningly austere portrait of life in the hard-scrabble Ozarks. It is a hauntingly original tale of stubborness and survival against odds so bleak, so nakedly bare in a winter storm, that the very idea of a break, a bone, a gift, seems completely out of the question.

Ree Dolly is sixteen years old as the story begins. She does not go to school; rather, is kept at home to care for her medically managed mother and her two little brothers. She is part of a huge clan living throughout the Ozarks, a clan of many names but tied together in blood. Her father, Jessup, a notorious "crank cook," disappears into the night and doesn't return. When Ree learns that Jessup not only skipped his court appearance but put the entire family farm up as bond, she goes in search of him. He must come back and fix this fiasco. It is only the grit and grace deep within Ree that keeps her alive as she searches through the Ozarks netherworlds for her missing father.

This is a serious page-turner, folks. It's rich. It's real, sometimes so profoundly real that it will cause you to shudder. It is not a long book by any means but it is a very, very good one. I will tell you, the conclusion is as satisfying as hot bread dripping with real butter.

Now, the photograph is cold, I will be the first to admit it. As I said before, I did it on purpose. Partly because Ree's story takes place in the winter, a particulary unforgiving season in the Ozarks. I also thought about, coming here so many years ago, I thought about the steeliness of the Ozark people, the strength of the clans, the steely cords holding them all together. That is what I was thinking of: steel. Silvery, grey, hard steel.

Ree is made of steel. You will not forget her easily.

Daniel Woodrell lives south of me, somewhere around West Plains, is what I am told. I have yet to find this elusive author who has treated me to such a profound vision of life in the rural Ozarks. However, I said all that to say this: support your local writers. Support them because, one day that could be you striving to push your laurels out there. Support them because, when you support your local writers, you are keeping your own dream alive. Quite frankly, why couldn't the next one out there be you? Think about it.

Good Reads

2010-03-23T19:35:00.018-05:00

I have to say, I had not heard of Chris Bohjalian before now. And what is even more bizarre, I picked one of his books up off the "editors' remnants" tables at Barnes and Noble and walked away with it on a whim. I had no idea what I was in for.

"The Double Bind." What a mesmerizing tale. I don't know why I found this book or why this book found me. Maybe because I have always felt the plight of the homeless, felt the derision of the mentally ill, wondered where that man walking with a backpack was going to sleep at night, wondered who he once had been and what brought him to the point of grimy hopelessness, the depths of total despair.

The double bind, what does that term mean, exactly? After reading this book and researching it a bit, I believe it means, "being taught to believe in one thing by a superior while the superior behaves in a completely opposite fashion." Just my interpretation, but you understand. According to the experts, this double standard of expected behavior can cause schizophrenia.

Here's the book.

A brutal attack on a young woman in Vermont. She is left alone to die, to bleed to death, along the woods, on a country road. She blocks out the savagery of the attack, believing for years that she escaped with nothing more than a broken collarbone and broken finger. Throwing herself into her job at a homeless shelter, she believes she is putting the whole episode behind her.

A box of old photos, crisp and peeling at the edges, left behind by a mentally ill homeless man, a talented photographer, someone our heroine, survivor of the brutal attack, identifies with and wants to know intimately. Who was Bobbie Crocker? What do these photos mean?

The heroine's quest to first validate Bobbie Crocker and then herself, spirals her into the netherworlds of the mentally ill. This book will entice you, will bring you to the edge of your seat. When you think you know what is happening, trust me, you don't.

Chris Bohjalian writes seamlessly, flawlessly, in this novel. His construction of this entire story (complete with photos), is nothing less than fabulous.

"The Double Bind" is a psychological thriller you need to pick up. I can't wait to read another one of Chris Bohjalian's books.

Switching gears completely now. For some southern sweetness, let's travel to Mullaby, North Carolina, for Sarah Addison Allen's new book, "The Girl Who Chased the Moon." Seventeen-year old Emily's mother passes away and there is no one left to take her in. As a result, she comes to Mullaby to live with her grandfather, an eight-foot giant, in a house where the wallpaper changes with the mood. She soon learns that Mullaby, for all it's sleepy sweetness, is not the town she expected. Secrets, old recriminations, old tragedies whisper through the trees. Her deceased mother's name is a bad word in that town, but why? Mysterious lights appear in her grandfather's back yard. Emily makes a new friend, Julia, who is working through her own secret pain by baking cakes, beautiful, sugary, rich cakes. Julia believes she is calling someone back home with the smell of her baking, but who? The long-buried dream Julia carries- will it come true? Wyn Morgan is the nicest boy in town but carries a peculiar affliction. Will he and Emily be able to be together in the face of his family's strong disapproval?

Sarah Addison Allen is a rich voice, an enchanting beckoning voice. This story, as with all of her stories, will bring you in and hold you in a starry, gossamer, magic world long after you put the book down.

"The Girl Who Chased the Moon" is a beautiful book, full of magic, romance and carrying a strong hint of food. As with all of Sarah Addison Allen's other books, the cover itself is amazing. Just wait until you enter the world of Mullaby. You'll be enchanted, I promise.

Giving Your Characters Dimension

2010-03-20T18:11:00.015-05:00

Stories are about people. Stories tell us what they do or what happens to them, how they react, how they resolve the conflict in the end. Without people, there would be no stories.

In talking about this world we carry around in our heads, We must see our characters as real people. This is something I am passionate about in writing and I've said it before, but I believe it bears repeating. You must develop your characters. Without that breathe of life, they will lie there on the table, flat, lifeless, boring.

So, in developing your character, let's think about a couple of things. Your character has a past. You may want to call this "backstory." With that, let's talk about your backstory for a minute. You came from somewhere, right? Were your parents immigrants, bringing customs and traditions from another country? Were there language barriers to overcome? Was there suspicion and prejudice against your family because of your unfamiliar heritage? Listen, there are so many possibilities. Explore them all.

Here is an example of one dimensional characters, and realizing that all of America will stand up in protest, I still must call them out. Ward and June Cleaver, step forward, please.

Have you ever seen such a perfect couple? Here they are, perfectly manicured, well dressed, perfect mirror images of each other. They don't quarrel (not really), they have no differing opinions (about anything of substance anyway); it's Ward and June Cleaver, and they could be clones of each other. They have no hobbies. They seem to have no interests. They seem to have no conflicts, confusions, goals, hopes for the future, nothing. They dispense advice to their goober sons, and then June cooks a pot roast while Ward settles serenely into the couch and reads the paper. They smile benignly at one another as the picture fades. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow it will be the same.

I have no idea where they come from, who their people are, what life experiences led them to the point of the tv show. I read somewhere that June had a college education. If so, why is she picking out aprons to match her dress and planning menus everyday? Seriously. Well. Hate to say it folks, but Ward and June, well, they're boring. They are one dimensional characters, the type you want to avoid whenever possible, or just always.

What would happen if...What would happen if, one day, June snuck a cigarette into the house while Ward was at work, and smoked it? What if Ward is secretly harboring a real hatred for his job (whatever that was), played hookie all day long and went to the horse races and then, just forgot to come home for about five years? What if June took up guitar lessons and moved to Nashville to become a country singer? What if, one evening as Ward read the paper, June threw a china plate at his head because she was tired of him sitting on the couch, reading the paper every evening?

Well, we don't know and we'll never know because Ward and June amble on, eating pot roast on nice plates, and reading the paper on the couch forevermore in celluloid land.

I don't have anything against Ward and June. There is a certain coziness in predictability but, I believe you want to up the ante a bit.

Therefore, the preceding is just an example of what you don't want to do. What you do want to do is create characters that readers will bond with. The emotional attachment is the most powerful tool you have. If your readers can't or don't connect, chances are an editor or agent won't either. So, explore your brain. Go back in the murky darkness and pull out a jewel in the rough. Pour it all out on paper and see where your story goes.

Cutting the Chaff

2010-03-14T16:33:00.007-05:00

Ann Aguirre wrote a great post on "Writer Unboxed" this week titled, "Six Impossible Things Before Breakfast."(//http://writerunboxed.com/2010/03/10/six-impossible-things-before-breakfast) You should check it out. By the way, WU is a fantastic magazine for those of us who write genre fiction. I've found it to be a wealth of insight and experience for me and I think you will find it will greatly enrich your writing.

After reading, make your list. It might go something like this:

1. Finish, actually finish, the manuscript I am working on. This includes first draft, second draft, edits, polishing.

2. Research the market (very important) for agents who might be interested and send query letter.

3. Eat chocolate, bite nails, check the mail eagerly every day for the next however many months, buy more chocolate, invest in a manicure.

4. Start the next manuscript.

5. Stay in motion. This means, I will keep writing, reading about writing, reaching out to other writers whether published or unpublished.

6. Jump up and down when I get a positive response from an agent.

My list may seem a little shortsighted but, for the moment, I have no plans to travel to Europe, buy a mansion or any of the other gigantic endeavors I've seen on other lists. My desire is to be published. And then published again. Maybe after that, you'll hear from me in Europe or come to my mansion for dinner!

The Big Girl

2010-03-07T16:01:00.006-06:00

The thing I love about dogs is their unreserved, unrestrained, unconditional love for their humans.

Having said that, what a week it has been.

My beloved lab-charpai mix, Sunny, has been sick. Last Sunday I took her to the Springfield Emergency Veterinary Hospital thinking she may be dying. Doctor there thought she had a urinary tract infection and an eye infection and prescribed antibiotics and eye drops.

She improved some for a few days and then she fell downhill really, really fast.

Both of us, the ER vet and me, had overlooked one simple, obvious fact. She's never been spayed. She's ten years old. I can't blame him any more than I blame myself for overlooking that fact.

So, when I called my regular vet, Dr. Molly, yesterday and told her that Sunny's not eating, she's drinking copious amounts of water, she's peeing like a racehorse, I was told to get her in and get her in now, which of course, I did. Dr. Molly did some testing and came back and said, it could be polymetra or, it could be kidney failure. Polymetra presents certain problems in a dog this age; surgery could be dangerous. Should the uterus be punctured during surgery, all that bacteria could spill into the abdominal cavity and she could die on the table. Kidney failure, not a whole lot going on there that's positive. Let me test some more. Of course, yes, yes. As I sat in the exam room, I felt as if the world was falling apart around me. My dearest and best friend of ten years is stuck in a cage somewhere behind closed doors and this day, the 6th day of March may be the last day I ever know her. Would I even see her again?

I wanted to be brave. I wanted to think that should she leave me, I could say she lived a good and full life and be happy for that. I wanted to be noble. I wanted to be unselfish.

But I really wasn't brave or noble or unselfish in the end. I sat in the exam room, arms tightly wrapped around me, and cried. I grieved for the noble dog, the dog in the next room, who so patiently and lovingly has stood by me these past ten years, never asking for one thing but that I love her. Never judging me for all my indescretions and stupidity, just happy to be with me. Regardless.

Dr. Molly came back and told me the good news is, her kidneys are fine. Bad news is, she must have surgery to get that uterus out and she must have it now. She said, "I could prop her up for a couple more days on antibiotics but quite frankly, after that, there is not much more I can do." So, the decision was made. Wonderful Dr. Molly, who was supposed to have yesterday afternoon off, stayed and operated on my dog.

It is a funny thing, sort of, to think of how I was raised and the whole thought process about animals. Realizing my father equated everything, great and small, with its relation to eternity; in his mind animals were not something to be valued or respected much. He has never believed animals have souls and if they don't have souls, their only value is whatever role they play on earth and that would be the extent of it. I tend to believe that dogs and man were meant to walk together in this life and in the next one and if that is true for dogs, well...has the idea of a soul been wrongly defined? How can a dog give unconditional love and not be next to God? Is there a parallel there?

I wonder...

In the meantime, the Big Girl, as I call her often, is snoozing beside my chair as I type this, having had a dose of pain meds. I am so thankful she is still here.

Do you love a dog? What is your story?

Reading and Writing

2010-02-28T11:54:00.009-06:00

You know, it seems to me that suddenly, everybody wants to write a book. I hear it a lot these days. Someone will say, "If I had the time..." or, "I'm going to write a book when my kids are grown" or, "I could write that book better than that guy."

Well, then I ask, what do you read? Who do you read? At that point, it seems the would-be world famous novelist doesn't read. Doesn't have time or, just isn't much of a reader.

Sorry, that is not the way it works.

There are two requirements to being a writer. One is to write. A lot. Write a lot, at regular intervals, with no distractions.

The other requirement is to read. A lot. Regular intervals, no distractions.

The two requirements cannot be separated.

Every book, every author, brings a learning curve to your work. I like to read, simply because I like to read. I enjoy it. I make time for it. Granted, I could be "doing" something else but I choose to read. It's about the craft, sure, but it's also because I like it.

As a writer, reading should be paramount to your craft. Reading teaches such things as character development, plot structure, narration, the telling of a good story. Without reading, how would you know good versus bad, interesting versus dull, pace versus stagnant? Reading shows you elements of your own work; what needs to be developed, what is needful and necessary and, on the other hand, what is not. Your work is in a constant state of refinement. Without reaching into other worlds, without that stretch, you could never know that.

What to read? It doesn't matter what you read so long as you do it. You may not like fiction as I do. Okay, then. Read non-fiction. Make time. Take a book to your next doctor appointment. Slow the pace down for one hour and read in the morning or in the evening. Read while you're sitting in the car line at school. I've even taken a paperback to a restaurant (I was eating alone) and read while waiting for my meal. Go to your library, make friends of the librarian. Check the Sunday paper best-seller list. Buy second hand books. Here's a thought - watch less television. Read instead. Do what you must but, do read.

You will truly, truly find reading will enrich your writing. It can't help itself.

Now, challenge yourself to read every day. Every day. Monitor yourself and, in a month or two months or six months, compare what you wrote today to what you will be writing that day. On that day, your mind will be so much more open and fresh. Your characters will be more full-bodied, as opposed to one-dimensional. You will understand more about plot and pace.

I guarantee it.

Roast Chicken and Vegetables

2010-02-27T18:58:00.011-06:00

Roast chicken and vegetables. Who doesn't like this? First of all, I started feeling a little silly as I typed this last night and now that I am reviewing and revising, I realize I should take a lot of my silliness out but quite honestly, cooking should be fun. I decided not to tinker with it too much.

So easy-peasy, this one. Not to mention, delicious.

Okay, pick up a whole chicken from your local grocer; I prefer five pounds or so. Pick up fresh carrots, leeks, fennel, onions, red potatoes, garlic, fresh rosemary and thyme, extra virgin olive oil. Quantity is subjective; depends on how many people you are feeding. I have several and so, I tend to use large quantities.

Rush on home, as I did today, and set all of your components on the counter. Pull out a baking sheet, a really large baking sheet. Pour a little olive oil over it. Survey your domain before continuing. If all is well, continue on to the next step.

Cut one onion into slices and arrange in the center of your baking sheet. Same with the leek. Just set your leek slices on top of your onion slices. Peel carrots and cut them up however you like them, cut potatoes into quarters, chop garlic (3 cloves), chop fennel, throw all of this into a big bowl (not a problem for me, as you may well know by now as I love bowls and own a shameful amount of those). Okay, vegetables in bowl, now what. Pour a generous amount of olive oil over, sprinkle salt and pepper to taste. Throw some thyme and sage over, and then just mix it up a bunch and when you're finished, throw it out on the baking sheet arranging it around the onions and leeks, which are hopefully, already on the baking sheet.

Okay so now, you have monsieur chicken, rinsed, patted dry and ready to go. Tell him he's going to a party. He'll love it.

I like to put onions, apples or lemons in my chicken to keep it moist. I had a lemon so I used that this time but you could use any of what I mentioned or a combination of two of them. Cut one lemon in quarters, shove inside mr. chicken, along with some fresh rosemary and thyme, salt and pepper. Go ahead, oil mr. chicken all over, salt and pepper. Be generous with the oil to make a crispy skin. Place mr. chicken on top of the onion/leek/fennel mixture. Tie his little legs up.

Place mr. chicken and his backup, aka vegetables, in preheated 450° degree oven, roast for one hour, check. If vegetables are not done, roast for 15 more minutes. Remove from oven, cover with aluminum foil and let sit for 15 minutes, carve and serve.

Enjoy!

I Guess I Have a Little Fetish...

2010-02-14T11:05:00.010-06:00

I've been working really hard lately. Working really hard at my day job at the law office (big Federal trial coming up at the end of the month), and working hard on the MIP. I already put down 1000 words this morning, which is really good these days as I have been coming home in the evenings, throwing a less-than-stellar meal on the table, and heading off to bed at 8:00 pm.

Exhaustion, plain and simple. I have been too tired to blog, too tired to take photographs, too tired to do much but the essentials.

In any case, when my friend, Lorie, called and wanted to go shopping yesterday, I was estatic. I love shopping with Lorie because, for one thing, we seem to spend quite a bit of time laughing and, because we seem to see things the other one would like. Great time. Off we went, Target, Pier 1, Marshalls, TJ Maxx....well, it was at Pier 1 that she informed me that I seem to have a little problem.

Bowls. I love bowls. Can't get enough bowls. I wonder how many bowls Lorie's seen me buy over the years, since she quite calmly informed me, "you're a bowl whore." She said it with affection, I know because should the truth be told, she is one too but, we weren't talking about her at that point. I didn't find a bowl I really wanted at Pier 1. It was later, at Marshall's, as I pondered my intrigue with the ribbing on the inside of that bowl and the low rim of that other bowl, that I realized...this might be out of control. And, quite frankly, it's not like I have room in my cabinets for another bowl. The bowl with ribbing on the inside (bottom corner of the photo) won that battle, by the way.

Bowls signify generosity and abundance to me. I don't believe you can have one without the other, can you? And since I enjoy being and having both, well, let's get a bowl and think about it. Bowls are beautiful in their simple roundedness, heavy, capable clay porcelain. Maybe they are like hearts, they can hold a lot of joy or pain. Maybe I love bowls because I have seen so many wonderful things come out of them all these years; thinking of my mother many, many years ago with a bowl on her hip, one hand holding it tight, the other hand stirring with a big wooden spoon. Maybe it is the memory of her setting a steaming bowl of oatmeal sprinkled with brown sugar and cinnamon down in front of me because she knew the walk to the bus stop was going to be cold. A bowl full of something nourishing symbolizes a warmth not found so easily anymore. Maybe that is why I like them so much.

Bowls give me joy.

What gives you joy?

Waiting for Spring (Impatiently)

2010-02-07T15:07:00.006-06:00

Can you tell I am ready for spring? I wrote this some time ago but, as we anticipate another winter storm tonight, I pulled it out and re-read it. Yes, I will be happy to see spring arrive.

The gentle ripple of the water breaks as our canoe passes through and I am soothed. Sunshine dances in patches on the water. My mind is often torn in two parts - the person I am and the person I want to be. When I am on the river, the two parts make peace. It is idyllic. There is no conflict.

Birds chatter in the trees and I wonder what they are saying. Are they exchanging gossip? Are they calling their children home for supper? I've seen eagles here, just every once in awhile. None today though.

We pass by ancient trees; thick green-leaved groves of them. White dogwoods and purple redbuds peek out from behind gnarled lichened trunks. Sometimes, I see the brown hump of a turtle's back and he swims hither and yon. He senses our approach and scurries for shore. The sun warms my legs as we slither through a spot where the trees are not so dense. Gentle warmth is moving up the front of me, over my neck and onto my face. I turn to it. Back in the shadows now but it is not cold. I like to watch the rocks slide by. Some brown, some grey, some lichen spotted.

It is easy to imagine the Native Americans traveling down river and I wonder, who came here before me? Who knew this place before I came here? Did they cherish it as I do?

Oh, quick, look! A deer, coming down to drink the water. He hastily backs up, nostrils flaring, smelling human.

It is quiet here. The rocking of the canoe must be similar to the rocking in the womb. I don't like to talk much when I am on the river as there is no need. Soon enough, I will be back in my office in Springfield, sitting at my desk surrounded by files and email messages, but for now, I have twenty-two miles of water to rock on through. I am content.

The Power of Sisters

2010-01-24T09:48:00.005-06:00

I just finished Kristin Hannah's new book, True Colors, which, by the way, made the New York Times best seller list about a week ago.

This is a pretty emotional book and if you have a sister, you know what I mean. I don't know of any sisterhood that hasn't involved competition, rivalry, envy on some level, but also, steely cords of unwavering love interwoven throughout.

True Colors is the story of the Grey sisters, Winona, Aurora and Vivi Ann. The Greys are long-time residents of Oyster Shores, Washington. Winona is the smart, successful lawyer but still single and childless after so many years. Aurora, the middle sister, identifies with celebrities to hide the pain of a dying marriage. Vivi Ann, the youngest, beautiful and blond and wanted by all, seems blessed with fairy dust. When Winona's best friend from high school, Luke Connelly, returns to Oyster Bay and promptly falls in love with Vivi Ann, Winona's secret love for him pits her against Vivi Ann. Why does everything come so easily for Vivi Ann? Not so fast, Winona, Vivi Ann may have gotten engaged to Luke but it is not Luke she wants. A mysterious stranger has arrived in Oyster Bay, planting himself firmly in front of Vivi Ann and she can't back away or get around him and she finds she doesn't want to in the first place.

Dallas Raintree isn't just any stranger; he is a man with a past and a way with horses and like it or not, Vivi Ann finds herself under his spell. When a sad, lonely woman is murdered and town prejudices surface, Vivi Ann's fairy-tale life begins to fall apart. The one person who could help her, Winona, lets her down. The abyss between Winona and Vivi Ann widens as sister Aurora tries to mend the breach. As the years pass, there seems no hope of redemption, until one small secret is revealed, and truth explodes like popping corn.

In this book, loyalties are pried apart, hearts are broken, but love remains. Sister love.

Good story.

Let Your Voice Fly

2010-01-15T20:44:00.017-06:00

Seems like I've been seeing more articles on voice lately. It's all over the place. But, what is voice, really?

Well, I invite you to a cup of tea and let's sit down and talk about that, that fleeting, misunderstood thing, that being voice.

Voice.

It was a mystery to me up until a couple years ago; what is voice, how can I achieve voice, what is my voice and is it point of view, and what else could I possibly tie to voice to make it so irritatingly difficult to understand?

It made me crazy, voice did. I read and read and took a class and I wore myself out with it.

What I found is, voice is not that hard, but it is specific.

First of all, voice is not point of view. Point of view is an entirely different subject and it is not a part of this particular discussion, at this point. Do not worry about point of view right now, today.

Okay, so.

Voice = everything that you have experienced, from birth up until this very moment. It is your parents' verbiage to you, it may even be your granparents' verbiage to you. It is your achievements and failures, it is your hopes and dreams, your belief system and your doubts, your political statement, it is simply you.

And then, you say but, who am I? What is my voice? Do I have a voice?

Yes, you have a voice and it is unique to you, whatever your story is, whereever you have been, whatever has been a part of your life. Yes, I promise you, you have a voice.

You are a product of your environment to a point. However, closer to the bone, voice is the culmination of all you have ever been, your particular view on the world, your gut.

Yes, your gut. That is where voice starts. That is where it dwells.

I have said things before about, hey, think about where you come from, you parents, their lifestyle, their point of view, so on and so forth, and now I'm ready to take it on home.

You do not have to be some great orator to have a voice. No, that is so not what it is all about.

You just have to be you. You have to recognize where you have been, where you come from, you have to analyze your own stance in the world and then, write from there. That's all that's required really.

Really.

It is safe. Go ahead and write. Send it out, your voice. I would love to hear it.

What I'm Reading This Week

2010-01-03T09:55:00.000-06:00

I like to call her my mentor, although I suspect she would hedge slightly at that acclimation; however, I believe I can call her my friend and teacher and not come off as taking something that may not belong to me.

Speaking of Barbara O'Neal, aka Barbara Samuel. Her newest novel, The Secret of Everything, came out last Tuesday and, well, naturally, I dialed up our local Barnes & Noble at 9:01 a.m., on that very day to ask whether they had that title in stock. They did and so, I happily asked to have it reserved for me and I would run by there on my noon hour and pick it up. Had to give it a little hug to my chest, yes, when I finally clutched it in my hand.

Just a little background here. The first Barbara Samuel novel I read happened to be The Goddesses of Kitchen Avenue. Not sure exactly when it came out, maybe five years ago; wait, let me check the copyright on my copy - yes, 2005, Ballentine Books. Now, I don't know about you but I do not rely on the New York Times Best Seller list to dictate what I am going to read; however, I do check it every Sunday, just because I suppose it is the literary thing to do. I would like to think I'm literary. Anyway, in buying books, I tend to purchase with instinct. That particular day, the day I purchased The Goddesses, I was wandering around Barnes & Noble, picking up this book ("nah"), picking up that one ("oh, I don't think this is the one"), carrying one around for awhile with every intention of buying it, however hesitant I felt and then, I stopped off at one of the tables in the middle aisle of the store and there was this book; this yellow covered, sort of intriguing book with a photo of four women around a checked tablecloth, elbows, rings, coffee cups, silver spoons, the book just sitting there (for me?) and I ran my finger over the cover and I thought, "yes, this is the one." I do that. It's a process, no matter how weird it may sound. I do it all the time.

Seriously, I never knew, prior to Barb, that the written word could mean something. Oh yes, I'd kept journals and diaries all my life and I've written several simple stories in my day but, before her, I did not realize that the written word could be so powerful and so enormous and so important. Or that anybody would want to read it.

Long story short, The Goddesses, was the book du jour on that particular day and therefore, I put everything else I had been carrying around down and took it home and spent probably one whole weekend devouring it. And I've read it four times since. I have wondered, could I write something like this? Could I do that?

That's what Barb does to me.

And she's done it again with The Secret of Everything. Granted, I'm only eleven chapters in but I am loving every footprint on every page.

I want to know what happens to Tessa Harlow. I want to see where she has been and why it's affected her so deeply, why the memories are so suppressed and what it will take to break them out. How will she handle that knowledge? Once she knows, there is no going back. It worries me. Is Vince the man for her? I like him (oh boy, I really like him!) but, is he The One? And the dog, what about that dog? I love dogs - you know, I did notice that Barb so subtley snuck her own Sasha into that book, very fitting since Sasha is not long for this world, from what I understand and I do understand loving a dog because I love mine. Who is the mysterious man, full of anger, who appears and disappears? Natalie? I like her. I want Natalie to be happy. Sam, lovable, beautiful, secretive Sam. What secret is he hiding? Annie, Rhiannon, on and on and on. Oh wait, there is Vita and her restaurant, 100 Breakfasts. I love restaurants. Not talking about Shoneys or Perkins; no, I'm talking about where real cooking lives, where pots and pans clatter and line cooks shout nonstop and places that reek of home. I love breakfast too so, there you go. This book was to be titled 100 Breakfasts for the longest time but changed late in the editing process, I think. Hope I'm not saying something that is not quite correct.

There are recipes, several of which I'm dying to try out. Carrot pineapple muffins, for one.

Scrumptious reading.

I read an article recently, written by some big deal New York authority, who seemed to turn her nose up at foodie novels and basically stated that it all was a passing trend and one that would be easily forgotten, blah blah blah.

Well, I beg to differ. I don't think the passion for food, for good food, will go away anytime soon. As the world becomes harder, bleaker, more dangerous, I think food will endure as the mainstay, the refuge, if you will, during dark times. It will bring people together, cement families, even make families. I believe that.

I will continue writing about food and I bet Barb will too.

So, go pick up The Secret of Everything and let yourself linger there. You're gonna like it.

Ciao!

Lentil and Sausage Soup with Butternut Squash

2010-01-02T18:03:00.007-06:00

Success!!! Yay!

I liked this. I really did. Not the best picture, not the one I would have liked to display but, okay, here goes. Oh by the way, don't be afraid of lentils. I know they sound weird but they are really quite delicious.

Brown Lentil and Sausage Soup with Butternut Squash

3 stalks of celery, chopped
1 large onion, diced
1 large butternut squash, peeled, seeded and diced into one-inch cubes
1 bag brown lentils
4 cups water
1 can vegetable broth or stock (I prefer stock)
1/2 teaspoon dried rosemary
Salt
Pepper
1 ounce parmesan or romano cheese, shaved
1/4 cup parsley
spicy sausage, such as andouille, or whatever you like

Combine all, except for the parmesan cheese, in a crockpot and leave on low setting for eight hours. To serve, top each bowl with shaved parmesan cheese and be sure to have a loaf of crusty bread and maybe a big salad and a nice pinot grigio to go alongside?

The butternut squash is really fine in this soup. It seems to bring a sweet balance to the rest of the ingredients and since I love butternut squash anyway, any recipe that calls for it is a good deal in my book.

Try it. Tell me if you like it.

Ah, the Reticent One

2010-01-01T08:14:00.006-06:00

Here I sit, staring at my computer screen, with my cup of coffee, on a bitterly cold morning in the Ozarks. The sun is just topping over my roof causing the field across the street to glisten. There is brown lentil and sausage soup in the crock pot (if the recipe is successful I'll share it with you) and I am struggling with the MIP. Well, rather, struggling with one of my characters in the MIP. I want to draw her out, coax her to join the party, but she is reticent. She just doesn't want to talk to me. Yet.

I envision her, leaning back in her big chair, in her tidy, sun-lit office, on some street in a quiet section of Philadelphia and she is tapping the end of her pen on her desk, procrastinating, not ready to face the stack of papers in front of her. Her hair is light blond, her features are patrician, she is neither tall nor short, heavy or thin, but somewhere in between. She is a successful woman, although not a glamorous one. Middle-aged. And she is thinking about how she would like to change her life and whether or not she has the guts to just let go and do it. She is thinking about what it might take and what she might have to give up and what she might have to reveal, if only to herself.

I know some things about her, such as, her father committed suicide when she was a teenager and her mother dealt with that reality with a bottle. I know she drove herself to excel all through college and graduated with honors. Her choice was success. Her drive caused her to remain alone.

She will join the party pretty soon, I am confident of that. Our characters cannot help themselves in the end, after all. They like being the center of attention. In the meantime, I need to go out to the store and pick up some items I forgot last night and while I am at it, I'll be searching faces for that set of eyes that could be hers or taking a second look at a house that could be the house she would live in. That's what writers do. We observe. We take it all in and then we strip the meat off the bone and put it into words.

Maybe when I return home, she will be ready to tell me all about it. I would just about bet she will.

I Thought You Would Write Nice Stories...

2009-12-27T18:47:00.012-06:00

Maybe I should have characterized this post as "Character Definition" or, more to the point, "Don't be Afraid of Your Characters." No matter. You will understand what I mean as you read this.

Here's the deal.

A few years ago, when I first revealed to my parents my intentions of becoming a published author, my mother said, "I thought you would write childrens' stories. I mean, I thought you were writing childrens' stories."

What? Had I ever given that impression?

I must have looked confused because, then she revised her theme to say, "I thought you were writing nice stories."

Nice stories?

I may have looked more confused at that point.

I asked her what she meant by nice stories. "Oh, you know, no cursing. No dirty stuff, nobody doing bad things, you know, nice stories. I like the movie, 'Sarah, Great and Tall,' you know, a story like that."

Uh hunh. Nice stories. I have never seen "Sarah, Great and Tall." Maybe I should. Maybe I would understand more if I did see it. But, I haven't and probably won't. Sounds a little, shall I say, pedestrian, to me? Well, you know, I understand my mother is 75 years old and so...gotta give a little leeway. HOWEVER.

Speaking about writing now. I said all that to say this. Don't be afraid of your characters.

Think about it. Your characters are as real as you are. You were born someplace. Your parents came from somewhere, whether it was from Europe or from across the road. Maybe you nearly died at birth. Maybe you were so huge at birth, your mother died. Maybe your parents were of a particular religion or creed with all its constraints and/or joys, and traditions. Maybe you went to parochial school and a nun didn't like you and showed it and it affected you later in some awful way. Maybe you went to public school, where you had your first crush. Think about this. Maybe your parents got a divorce. Why? Maybe your father was abusive. Maybe your mother was timid. Why was your father abusive? What made your mother timid? Were your parents uneducated? Is that why they talked like that or believed the things they believed? Why? Maybe you moved around a lot and never made a connection anywhere. Maybe you yearned for more out of life and never got it. Maybe you yearned for more and it was the catalyst to make you what you are today. One thing that has shown up in my stories time after time, is diversity. I grew up with color. I am acquainted with different types of sexual orientation. These things do not frighten me; they shouldn't frighten you in your writing either.

Pull it all in, folks. Life is about conflict. Without conflict you have no story. If all your characters are nice, if they only behave nicely, if only nice things come about, what is your story? Sorry but snoozeville here and probably everywhere else as well.

Let your characters be human; allow them that. They will get up and move and they won't always move the way you expect or plan or even want. They do have minds of their own, after all. They have backstory, they have had a life somewhere, one that you may not necessarily like or approve of, but one that adds to the layers of your story. Don't be afraid to go there and, take it all the way.

Cardinal rule right here. Be honest. Never, ever lie to your readers. This is paramount. Maybe this is why I have a problem with so-called "Christian Fiction." I know there is a big market for this genre right now and that is fine but, I just have to say my piece and let it go. Never, ever pretend that your characters are so noble that they can never say a bad word or behave in a less than noble way. Would not happen in real life, don't put your characters through it. Make them real. Make your people believable. If you can do that, you can produce a good story. A believable story.

And, seriously, that is what your readers want. They want something they can hold onto, something to identify with, to say, "yeah, I felt that way once," or, "that happened to me," or maybe to someone they knew but at any rate, they want to identify, to relate. They want to be able to absorb your writing, take it in by osmosis. Your readers want REAL.

Okay, go to the page and write. Tell the truth. Don't be afraid. Be real. Ready, get set, go!

It All Started So Well

2009-12-27T15:41:00.004-06:00

It did. It all started so well. Even with the rain. Even with the falling temperatures. Even with the dimming sunlight. My oldest son's girlfriend, Kelcey, was with us, all aglow at the idea of having a big family Christmas, bless her heart. It was supposed to be perfect. The gaily wrapped presents were packed. I had packed the cheesecake and raspberry topping, we were ready to rumble for the familial Christmas Eve at my parents' house.

To begin with, you may have seen my quasi-rant on http://www.facebook.com/ about my family's Christmas Eve misadventure. After I posted it, as common sense would have it, I thought better of having done so but it was too late. Out there, for all the world to see. And I really wished I had not done it. It just seemed like the wrong thing to do, at least on that medium, which is all about sound bites anyway and the whole story probably never gets told. So, I felt guilty afterward and wished I could retract the whole thing.

The story is: As with every Christmas Eve, we venture over the highway and through the burgs to my parents' house, which is probably 75 miles from my front door. Right about the time we hit Mansfield, Mo, approximately 20 miles from destination point zero, the oil light came on and approximately one second after that, the knocking started. What the crap? I have been a pretty attentive car owner, yes indeed. I check my oil. I perform routine maintenance, or at least my mechanic does; point is, I'm on it.

Well, so we're knocking to beat the band. We pull off the highway, drive the car up to Lazy Lee's convenience store, and I am thinking, well, my brother lives not far from here, maybe we can get that far and hitch a ride with him to our parents' house, the car wildly knocking the whole time. So, we limp the five or so blocks over there. Nobody home.

The rain keeps pouring, the temperatures keep slipping.

We limp my Xterra back to Lazy Lee's where I go in to find a phone. "Is there a phone here?" I ask the clerk. She's not in a very good mood, this being Christmas Eve and she has to work. I'm sure she has other obligations and other interests at that moment and she probably is not real thrilled about having to work when she has so much to do. "No," she says without looking at me. She's looking beyond me to the next person in line.

Christmas Eve. No room at the inn.

I say, "Look, my car just blew its motor, I'm from Springfield, I need to use a phone. Have you got a phone?"

She hands her blackberry over to me, and I find I can't read the numbers on it because they are so small and the flourescent lights are glaring on it, and my aging eyes can't see squat sometimes, so she ends up having to dial for me and I call my parents. "We'll be right there," my mother says. I ask the clerk what I owe her for using her personal phone and she shakes her head and says, "nothing." Merry Christmas to you, unknown clerk at Lazy Lee's in Mansfield, Mo. There are angels everywhere, you know it?

Some 25 minutes later, my 75-yr old father pulls up. The man who's been my hero since I was born, here yet again, to rescue his now middle-aged daughter from yet another fiasco. Oh, the stories we could tell. But won't.

Long story short now because it's probably boring at this point - my car was towed to Springfield by my sister's fiance. I'll get it repaired, I hope, this week. The verdict seems to be that I must have run over something that punctured my oil line because the car still starts right up, and there was really no reason for the oil light to come on and then all go to crap in one instant unless I had indeed hit something. So, Christmas Eve, sitting at Lazy Lee's in the dark, rain pelting, all of us in my car with the windows all fogged over and just sitting there wondering how it would all turn out, waiting on my father, I remember turning to Kelcey and saying, "Are you sure you want to take any more road trips with us?" to which she laughed and said all was fine. We had a wonderful Christmas Eve at my parents' house and all's well that ends well. And it has ended pretty well. We live to tell the story, right?

We do indeed, and, here's my dad.

See ya.

Listening to the wind blow...

2009-12-27T13:24:00.005-06:00

So, hey, it was a white Christmas in southwest Missouri this year. After returning from our disastrous journey to Mountain Grove on Christmas Eve, I dropped into bed and listened to the wind howl outside my window for hours before falling asleep. I remember hearing that sound every night of my life in Minnesota and I could imagine myself back there, huddled underneath heaps of quilts in my little blue bedroom with the two windows that faced north. Sitting here, right now, today at 1:26 p.m., Sunday, December 27th, I am listening to my wind chimes on the front porch, being bouyed and smashed together by the wind...It may be freezing out there but it is toasty in here.

This is what we have to chase the chill today.

Beef Stew

1 1/2 - 2 lbs. top round steak, cut into cubes

1 c. flour

2 teas. salt

1/4 teas. pepper

thyme, to taste

Combine the flour, salt, pepper and thyme in a gallon sealable plastic bag. Drop the meat cubes in and shake to coat. Heat a couple tablespoons olive oil in dutch oven or soup pot. Drop meat cubes in, reserving flour mixture, and brown well.

Beef stock

Carrots, chopped

Onions, quartered

Cabbage, quartered

Celery, chopped

1 Bay leaf

1 8 0z. can tomato sauce

Yukon gold potatoes, peeled and quartered

Salt and pepper

Pour 2 - 2 1/2 cups beef stock into the pot with the meat. Since you've seasoned your flour mixture and since beef stock will have salt in it, there is really no need to add more (I know, sounds like I'm violating my principal rule of seasoning the layers, but I'm really not, this time). Throw in a bay leaf, maybe a little more pepper and thyme. Let that cook while you are getting your vegetables ready - the amounts are subjective, whatever you like. Drop vegetables in, pour tomato sauce over and stir. Cover, bring to boil and then turn down to simmer for about 2 hours. Stir in reserved flour mixture until soup thickens. Season to taste.

Sometimes, I will pour maybe a quarter cup red wine in while everything is simmering but if you don't drink, you don't have to put it in. It just adds another depth of flavor, in my opinion. About the wine, just make sure it is a wine you would want to drink so don't dump one of the cheapos in. A burgundy or pinot noir generally works real well.

Also, I know you can buy beef stew meat pre-cubed but I had a bad experience with that once and have not bought it since. Besides, I find it too fatty and not as flavorful as I would like so I prefer top round to anything else.

Well, I plan on sitting here, next to the fire, with a steaming bowl of beef stew, listening to the wind blow for awhile. Have a wonderful Sunday and I will see you on Sunday Musings very soon!

And a Merry Christmas to All

2009-12-20T18:20:00.006-06:00

I hope you and yours have a very Merry, prosperous, healthy, and joyous Christmas!

Will post again after this wonderful and riotous Christmas season! Don't forget me and please come back.

Rituals, Respite, Refuge

2009-12-13T16:51:00.005-06:00

So, here we are, bounced once again into the holiday season. For me, this time of year becomes a time for introspection; a time to consider where I am at this moment and where I would like to be next year at this moment. After all the celebrating, the shopping, the eating, the giving, yes, I do like to take some time and just be silent for a little while. I have some rituals, which provide me respite and which I take refuge in.

Having said that, I did venture out today to do some holiday shopping. Springfield has become Wacko-City, which it generally does at this time of year. If you like stalled traffic, horns honking, pushing, shoving, anxious shoppers oblivious to anything but their own shopping angst, well, this city is for you right about now. Me, not so much. I keep telling myself, next month begins tax season and that aint so much fun so, enjoy the moment now.

And I do love Christmas.

So, back to rituals, respite and refuge.

Since I was a teenager, every Christmas season, I've endeavored to set aside time to just be quiet and read or re-read something I really love. Years ago, it was The Hobbit and the Fellowship of the Rings trilogy. Read that every December, tucked into my Minnesota bed at night with the wind roaring outside and loved it. Isn't it funny how you can pick up on things you didn't read the time before?

The last several years, however, I've read and re-read Rosamunde Pilcher's "Winter Solstice."

Ms. Pilcher is in high esteem in my book. Her writing is rich, sumptuous, human. Who can resist a troubled young teen, a woman lost in love for a man she cannot have, and most of all, who can resist a years old-love story? If you haven't read it, you really need to.

I am in the midst of re-reading "Winter Solstice." These days, instead of tucking myself into my Minnesota flannel-sheeted bed, listening to the wind howl outside my window, I tuck myself into my Missouri regular cotton sheets, and I revel (another "R" word) in Elfrida Phipps, Oscar Blundell, Lucy, Carrie and Sam. It's a good Christmas read and a good ritual, a fine place for respite and refuge. Before the tax man cometh.

What are your rituals? How do you keep your sanity during this topsy-turvy, riotous holiday season?

The Process, or Part of it Anyway

2009-12-12T14:32:00.004-06:00

I spent part of my day today with a dear friend, who lives in a different town. Her husband recently lost his job and mentioned to me today that since he is out of work and has time, he has given a lot of thought to writing a book. He really wants to write a book. He has all these thoughts in his head and wants to do something with them. Bravo! Seriously, I wish I could have stayed longer, drunk some wine, and shared some thoughts I have with him but, as I had obligations in Springfield, I journeyed back home, only being able to share this with him before I departed, "Get the words out of your head and on paper. Don't worry about anything else, just get the words out."

We probably have, at some point in our writing careers, had somebody come out and shake the red pen at us and cry, "format, format, format!" I even know of one person who claims to format as she goes.

Well and good, I suppose. Formatting has its place, do not get me wrong but a first draft is all about getting the words out of your head and on paper. Creativity does not breathe in a box. I notice that when I start becoming concerned about formatting as I am writing, the process shuts down. It becomes mechanical, dry, passionless.

I don't want to write that way. Do you?

Now having said that, I don't want anyone to perceive that I don't know there is discipline in writing because I know there is. You have to do it often, every day is best, you have to push through barriers and keep your thoughts and stories alive. The point is, do not worry about having perfect sentence structure or proper margins or starting every new chapter halfway down the page. Do open your mind and let what's in your mind flow out onto your medium, paper or computer screen, whatever you are using. Let it flow. When the appropriate time comes, you can and should and will go back and refine.

Get the words out of your head an on paper.

Just do that and in time, you will find your rhythym.

Make sense?

Back to Work

2009-12-04T21:57:00.009-06:00

I need to get back to work, the real work, the nourishing, cleansing work that has been so important to me the last four or five years. It's the nuts and bolts that I need now. I've languished too long, worrying about creativity, worrying about not having enough time, worrying about how to get it all done and just not starting it. I make a promise to myself to dive back into my passion with all my heart.

I haven't talked about the MIP much, which doesn't lend much credibility to me as a writer but a writer I am and not so much a teacher but, more of a cheerleader to you and other writers out there who need to hear the words, "you can write." So, before I go back to work on the MIP, let's link arms for a second and say, "we are writers. We write."

Layers. Let's talk about layers for a minute.

I can relate this idea back to cooking (of course). I know people who season in the beginning or who season at the very end of a dish but, neither approach is right. Season the layers. Think about those onions sauteing in butter. Go ahead, salt and pepper them. Throw a little garlic in, or thyme, or red pepper flakes, whatever gives you a kick, whatever moves the dish along. Maybe then, you drop in some flour, stir that around and then pour in your liquid. How about a little more salt, a little more pepper, a little more something-something to give it some jazz? You're stirring your sauce, it's thickened, it's almost finished. Pull out some nutmeg, maybe or a little more thyme, a little more red pepper flakes. Now you've got it.

It's the same sort of thing with our characters. We must give our characters life, we must give them energy (whether good or bad), we must provide them with depth. Where do they come from? What was their childhood like? Were they abandoned once? Did they witness a terrible act? What was their favorite vacation? What memories do they have of other places? Think about a joyful moment in their lives, something that will bear on the story you are telling. Describe it. Why does it matter so much?

So, when we're developing our characters, we pull from the pantry of our imagination the garlic, the cumin, the chives and we begin our layers, we give our characters depth of flavor. Let your characters speak to you, listen to their voices.

Does this make sense to you?

By the way, the photo above contains several books that I believe are useful to any writer. All of them can be found at Barnes & Noble. One is "Writing Down the Bones" by Natalie Goldberg. Donald Maass's "The Career Novelist" and "Writing the Breakout Novel" are also featured, as well as an edition of "Writers Digest" with one of my favorite authors on the front, Anne Tyler. The purple print-out contains an article I wrote for a dear friend and it is actually the program guide to the Indian celebration she allowed me to be a part of this past spring. Go to http://www.amykitchenerfdn.org/ for more details on the Trail of Tears and the Weeping Waters Cultural Heritage Award.

A Light to Come Home To

2009-11-22T14:40:00.006-06:00

The days have gone short; dusk comes early. I have to go out tonight and run a short errand and I feel an eagerness to keep a lamp lit for my return. I want to see its yellow warmth spilling through my window, welcoming me home.

It makes me feel warm. It makes me feel as if I've not left at all.

In these shortened days, when twilight deepens to midnight blue before supper, what small comforts do you take for yourself?

Chicken and dumplings but, more than that

2009-11-20T19:55:00.007-06:00

A good friend of mine recently sent out a notification, via facebook.com, that she is a miserable cook and cannot make chicken and dumplings, specifically, dumplings.

Oh haha, come on now. Of course she can. And, she is not a miserable cook. Just review the dang tricks.

Suppose you've already gotten your chicken mixture on the burner; no need for me to reitrerate that here because that's all yours, whatever you want.

Now, for the dumplings:

3/4 c. flour

1 teas. chopped fresh parsley

1 teas. baking powder

1/8 teas. salt

dash nutmeg, if desired and let me tell you, I desire a little nutmeg.

1/3 c. milk

1 TBSP oil

1 egg

Okay, so mix all this up and drop by tablespoons into your chicken mixture. Your chicken mixture should be at a boil at this time. Let it go for fifteen minutes turning down the temperature - DO NOT LIFT THE LID. DO NOT GO THERE, BABYCAKES. I know, everybody wants to but don't. Wait it out.

So, then, your chicken and dumplings mixture should be good. Eat, drink and be merry on me!

Oh, the other thing is, drink good wine with this, maybe a pinot grigio.

Just saying...

At this point, I don't have a photo to share, wish I did but I don't. That doesn't mean there won't be one later on so, please check back.

Let me know how it went for you.

Olive Kitteridge

2009-11-15T10:09:00.008-06:00

I finished "Olive Kitteridge" (Elizabeth Strout) this morning and as I set the book down on the coffee table, a lingering disappointment that I will not know what happens next in her life settled over me. I suspect I do know what happens next but, Olive will not be here to tell me whether I am right or not.

Set in little Crosby, Maine, where the natives don't waste a lot of words on newcomers, and marriages contain cracks and secrets are kept like glass jars of tomatoes in Grandma's cellar, "Olive Kitteridge" made me feel a part of the landscape for 270 pages. The writing is spartan, much like the speech patterns of said natives, but still exudes warmth and empathy. The book is actually a series of short stories about different townspeople, all woven together by one common element, that being Olive herself.

Olive Kitteridge is one of those people who are larger than life, bigger than the room, scary and overpowering but at the same time, suffering and sad. I was determined not to like her at first. Look at the way she treated her amiable husband, Henry, how she alienated their son, Christopher, the way she talked to everyone around her as if no one's feelings were of any consequence whatsoever.

But, Olive, she is a surprise. Olive is funny and perceptive. Her inner rantings and outer ravings are without a doubt, on the money. She can be suddenly kind, although I suspect she wouldn't want anyone to know that. Olive is deliciously enticing, like an exotic treat.

Here's the thing. What Olive doesn't know is that all those years she spent wishing for an end (a quick end) was wasted in that what she really wanted was a beginning.

I miss Olive, now that I have turned the last page and put the book down. I miss her a lot.

What books are you reading?

Pecan Bars

2009-11-15T09:57:00.004-06:00

Crust:

1 cup flour

1/4 cup softened butter

1/3 cup brown sugar

1/4 teas. baking powder

1/2 c. chopped pecans

Preheat oven to 350°. Mix the above ingredients together until a crumbly mixture forms. Press into an ungreased 11x9 pan and bake for 12 minutes.

Filling:

4 eggs, slightly beaten

1 3/4 cup corn syrup

1/2 cup brown sugar

2 tablespoons flour

1 teas. salt

2 teas. vanilla

1 1/2 cup chopped pecans

Mix at medium speed until well blended. Pour over crust, return pan to oven and bake for about 25 minutes. Store loosely covered.

2009-11-06T14:13:00.002-06:00

A year or so ago, I wrote a piece for our Springfield Writer's Guild monthly newsletter, the Free Lancer, on "Getting Your Joy Back." Encouragement is something a writer craves. We all want to be validated as writers, of course. Sadly, we also can become discouraged and empty. So, I was looking for my draft of this article the other day wanting to share it with you, and I finally found it. As I was working through it again, I realized it was getting longer and longer and longer and well, I hope you don't feel provoked to glance away every so often wondering, "when will this woman shut up?"

Here it is. For you, the one in need, I hope you it nourishes you.

You are a writer. You used to rush to your computer or your notebook with such joy, such anticipation, ready to write the words that would set the world on fire and now, you procrastinate, you pause. You’ll do it tomorrow. You’ll get back at it when this is done or that is finished or, when you get the time.

That zing! feeling is not there anymore. The words do not come easily or at all, and you would just rather go cut grass than sit down one more time and try to write something. You take a deep breath and consider that pile of laundry waiting for you and then, you go work on that instead of your writing.

You have lost your joy.

The diagnosis is easy but, what to do about it? You are still a writer and the dream is still there. The words remain huddled under sheets in the corners of your mind behind the grocery list and the “to-do” list. How to get them out? How to shake off that cloak, that suffocating wool blanket of burn-out and get the fountain flowing again?

The world pulls on us. It moves so quickly these days. We have the so much to do, so little time syndrome. We become exhausted; we may lose faith in ourselves, the business, our lives.

So, quiet yourself now and think back to that defining moment when you first knew you wanted to write. Remember how wildly exciting it was? What was happening? Where were you in your life? What did you imagine a writing career would be like?

Here’s the thing.

Your only job is to show up. Someone said once, “Do what is yours to do today.” Do not put yourself under the pressure to succeed, to be a “real writer;” just immerse yourself in the story and characters you are creating. Give them a voice and let them speak to you.

Do not judge what you write, just write it. Do not worry about “the rules.” That will come later. Do not show your baby too soon. Be a little protective at first. Your work is like a beautiful soufflé rising in the oven and then, one opens the over door a little too soon and it falls flat.

Be a mid-wife to your friends’ books. Cheer them on, read with them. Believe in your own brilliance.

But do the writing. Writing begets writing.

Here is something else to consider. What are the stories you tell yourself? What are the stumbling blocks you put in your road? Because, like it or not, that is what we do. You say, “I’d like to be a writer but …” What are your stumbling blocks? Once you identify those, you have taken the first step to getting back in the business of writing and you are also ready to think about discipline.

There is discipline in writing. I do not believe one can expect the Muse to show up and light the way to success if one is not willing to do the work. This statement is pragmatic at best, I suppose and maybe not all that profound but I believe it to be true. It may be helpful to schedule yourself writing increments. Maybe twenty minutes a day to begin before you pull up the internet, before your read your email, check your horoscope, or before you turn on the television. Write before the distractions start. You can increase the increment later on. Once you implement this strategy, I think you will find that the words flow much more easily, new ideas spring up (you will be surprised), and you’ll feel that blood pounding certainty once again that you were born to write.

You tell the stories you tell because you want to amuse people, entice people, create an escape or a sanctuary. I was asked recently, “Why do you write?” Now, I’m coming from the standpoint of writing fiction. You may write something else and so your response will undoubtedly be different. However, my response was that I want the busy, harried female executive who’s getting on a plane for a long business trip to be able to slow down for a little while by entering into the world of one of my stories. There is a young, suburban mother somewhere who wants a retreat for an hour or two while her baby sleeps. Whatever the greater power is, there is some greater power that’s instigated this drive to drop words out on paper and not because I think I’m all that and a bag of chips. I think of it as a gift to a disjointed world, which has been put into my hands to do.

Someone once told me: you do not have to be the judge to your work; you just have to be the conduit. What a wise woman! This is freeing in so many ways. It allows you to let go of the end result and concentrate on the immediate work. It allows you to make this page, or this chapter, or this paragraph the best it can be.

One last thing. What are your goals as a writer? Think about what they were at the beginning of your work and what they are now. Believe in great things for yourself. Others have done it, why not you? Perfect your craft, polish your work.

So, now you go and begin at the beginning. What was it like when you knew you wanted to be a writer? Identify your stumbling blocks then discard them. Permit, or order, yourself twenty minutes a day to write. Put the distractions out. Think about why you do what you do. Remember your goals. And then let go and allow the words to flow onto paper.

Let me know how it goes.

2009-11-04T07:42:00.000-06:00

New York Mega-Agent Donald Maass posted a blog on Writer Unboxed about an hour ago as I write this called "The Irresistible Novel." I invite you to read it and be inspired by it. You can find it here, on my blog page. You can also find Donald Maass at www.maassagency.com.

I met Donald Maass several years ago at the Pike's Peak Writers Conference. I was truly surprised by the man I met and I realize now that I was so completely awed by all the agents who attended that I had a vision of a much larger man, taller, broader, something. So, there he was, a slight man, not a lot taller than I am and I am not a tall woman but, oh, the energy! The light in his eyes! And the knowledge he has. I attended several of his lectures and every one of them was meaty and informative and just downright fun.

"The Irresistible Novel" tells me that I am just as entitled as anyone else to greatness and so are you. I can write better, not just better but gloriously. So can you.

So, go pour that cup of coffee and settle in, put your feet up and drink from the wealth of Donald Maass's cup. Enjoy!

A Work in Progress

2009-11-01T16:47:00.000-06:00

Here is a short bit from the MIP:

Jeanne’s discovery that spring left her feeling sad, futile. Why didn’t I see this before? She would come to ask herself the same question over and over again. Who is responsible?
For, just beyond the stone wall, the wall that divided her lawn from the woods beyond, Jeanne discovered a macabre and sad secret.
So tender it was and so unfortunate.
“Why would anyone leave it this way?” she wondered aloud.
In chasing after Jack, the new dog, having lost her old dog, Mallory, to some sort of cancer, Jeanne stumbled upon a tiny alcove of sorts just beyond the stone wall, built of stone, nearly the same stone as the wall itself and inside a tiny cavern, Jeanne discovered some sort of truth.
She drew her breath in sharply. “Jack! Jack!” she shouted. Finally, the black lab responded, only to nudge her arm with his nose. “Stay here,” she ordered, although she knew he didn’t understand and could care less. Such a free, uninhibited spirit. No, more like untrained dog. A brat dog. Jeanne shrugged and turned back to the stone shrine and looked again. Jack decided to lie down in the half-frozen grass beside her, panting, eyes fixated on her and what she might be doing. Would it prove interesting, that was all he cared about.
Jeanne drew the old, dead hay aside, the hay that covered the entrance to the hole in which lay a wrapping of some kind. She drew it forth and laid it in her lap. So small, so fragile, what could it be? She drew the cloth apart and shrieked. The contents fell from her lap to the ground.
“Oh my God!”

The Importance of Linking Up

2009-10-26T06:37:00.001-05:00

Saturday, I attended our Springfield Writers' Guild meeting. I'm the secretary of the Guild by the way; shameful plug coming. We meet the 4th Saturday of each month, beginning at 11:00 am, beginning with a Mentor Hour, break for lunch at noon and then come back at 1:00pm for a speaker and business meeting. We meet at the Heritage Cafeteria in Springfield and fellow writers, published or unpublished, are invited. Let me give you the website for your perusal: www.swgsite.org. Come by! We'd love to see you!

This past Saturday, our speaker at the guild meeting was author and professor, Barri Bumgarner. I've linked her to my blog so I can follow her and you can too. She is an amazingly talented writer and speaker. Buy her books, folks. She is wonderful.

Now, here are my thoughts on the importance of linking up. Being a writer is a lonely road to travel. It is a solitary journey, being in our own heads. Most people, the non-writing ones anyway, don't want to walk around in there. In fact, they get that deer in the headlight look when you so humbly confess, "I am a writer. I write." They look at us as if we've suddenly burst out singing a Japanese opera. Should they call for help or just laugh? You know the look. "Don't quit your day job." That look.

The thing is, we are not going to get support, real support from anyone but fellow writers. So, as writers, we have to depend on one another for encouragement, for support, or for that kick in the ass when we are not as motivated as we should be. This is important. We need to link up, support each other, interact with one another. Be inspired by one another. Barri inspired me to start this blog, actually. My hope is to link up with other writers, agents, or publishers. See? She inspired me! Who's inspiring you?

It is critical to have a network. Writing groups are essential. Entering contests is a good way to elevate your confidence as a writer, whether you win or not. Just allowing yourself to step out there and turn your work over to other people for their review brings about credibility as a writer. Blog with other writers. Visit websites, leave a comment.

Think about that. Until next time...write with all your heart. Don't hold back. Believe in yourself. Believe in what you do. Join a group. Reach out to other writers. Submit to a contest. Know that your words to the world are important. If you don't tell your story, it won't get told and we're all waiting to hear it.

Most important, don't give up.

Ciao!

Welcome!

2009-10-25T14:35:00.000-05:00

Welcome and come in!

As you can see, this blog is "Under Construction" and I have to say right off I know so little about what I'm doing that I'm scaring myself silly. If any of you more experienced bloggers out there have some tips, they are most welcome.

I am a writer and a talker and a cook and an eater and eventually, the Plan is to have photos, writings and all kinds of good things here. So, hang in with me. I've never done this before. Send me back your comments, please! I'm hoping to have fun with it.

Ciao!