Absorb!

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

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....

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

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

“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

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

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.