Lyn Cash has a very funny hardware store joke on her blog. Scroll down a bit to read it. (If you can make it past the picture of the guys washing the car...)
But it reminded me of a real joke the people in my agency played on one of the models. The model was from Germany and very, very uptight. She was always complaining about the French obsession with sex. For her, everyone was obsessed with sex. It made the Swedish girls roll their eyes, and the people at the agency tried to explain that in France things were a little more relaxed, that was all. But she was always complaining. When she went for a job she complained about the changing rooms, and when she was on location, she complained about changing in the street (if you've ever been on location you know what I mean - you usually have to get dressed behind sheets held up by a grinning photographer's assistant, and a scowling stylist.)
Anyway - One day she came in complaining that the toilet in her studio was all stuck and she needed a plunger. Only she didn't know the word for plunger in French. Could someone help her?
The two booking agents who were there that day looked at each other, and then one smiled and said, "Of course. The word is godmichet. You pronounce it 'god-mishay'. Got it?"
The girl then asked where the nearest hardware shop was, and they sent her off with an address.
She went into the shop and asked for a godmichet. The clerk looked blank and shook his head.
"You know," she said, miming plunging a toilet. "A godmichet!" She mimed some more, as the clerk went from pink to scarlet then purple. Finally he gave her the address of another shop, and fuming, she left, thinking that the clerk in the hardware store was a idiot.
She arrived at the address the clerk had given her and frowned. The sign on the door said, 'S*xy Shop!' Frowning even more, she pushed the door open and asked if they had a godmichet there.
The clerk said, "Of Course!" and led her to a glassed counter, where he pointed to a whole range of dildos.
Back at the agency, everyone was howling imagining the girl standing in the sex shop. The girl came back howling - she was furious - which only made everyone laugh harder.
It wasn't easy being a model sometimes.
Once I did a shoot in an outdoor pool (unheated) in April for the July issue of 20 Ans. I was Freezing. The next day I came down with bronchitis and had to work all day with a fever of 101°.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Monday, October 02, 2006
backward or forward?
I don't know if I should start in the beginning or work my way backward from where I am now, about forty miles west of Paris.
It seems I've lived in so many places. I've been in this house since 2000, and that's a record for me. I'm getting antsy.
I guess I'll jump around.
April 1979 - I arrived in Paris in the middle of a huge thunderstorm. We caught a taxi from the airport and there was so much water on the road it flooded and everyone stopped. We had to wait for an hour until the rain stopped, the water subsided, and we could go on. By then it was dark, and my first glimpse of Paris was rain soaked streets, fog shrouded buildings, and the Eiffel tower wrapped in a cloak of thick mist.
The next day I had instructions how to get to the agency and off I went - after a typical French breakfast of strong tea, hot milk, and toast. The taxi driver asked me if it was my first time in France, and I said yes. He said he would give me a kiss for luck, and gave me a peck on both cheeks, French style. "There, now you are French," he proclaimed.
I was both enchanted and mortified. A stranger had kissed me, but I was French!
The enchantment lasted all day. I easily conquered the metro system and learned my first words (left and right) and talked to an old lady at the magazine stand. A book slid off the counter, fell on the sidewalk, and I used my vocabulary - "Tomber!" I cried, pointing at it.
"Well, don't just stand there. Pick it up," she said, in English. She gave me a post card with a picture in black and white of a little boy sitting at a schooldesk, staring hard at the ceiling. "Very famous french photographer," she said.
It was ROBERT DOISNEAU and I've loved his photos ever since.
I also loved the museums in¨Paris, and I think I went to all the shows in the 'Grand' and 'Petit' palace one year. I was at the opening of the new 'Jeu de Paume' and 'Orangerie' museums, and I spent hours wandering through the Louvre (getting lost in there is so much fun!)
My daughter went to the Louvre with her class (so did my sons - lucky French children, they get to go to the Louvre!) They start early, first in the Egyptian section, then going to the Greek part, then going to the paintings where they admire the Mona Lisa as she stares at them with her smug smile (she has the same smile as French waiters, come to think about it...)
I just read that a teacher in Texas was fired without tenure from her post for taking her kids to a museum where they saw *gasp* a naked body. Now, I don't want to sound smug (picture my Mona Lisa smile) but kids in France not only get to see naked people in paintings, but they get to see naked Greek statues and even a statue of a hermaphrodite, which they had to comment on in the paper they were writing on the visit. Most comments were "I didn't know the Greeks had such great mattresses." So you see, the French are not raising a bunch of sex offenders. I might add (again without the smug smile) that statisticlly, we have far fewer teen pregnancies and sex offences than in the puritan US, which might be an argument from taking kids to museums earlier and more often, so they can see what a naked body looks like and get used to it.)
Television shocked me (coming from puritan US) when I saw the naked women advertising shower soap (and whatever else a naked woman could advertise, it sometimes seems they get carried away, like the naked woman advertising a new telephone company...) but they give fair time to men, and there is a wonderful DIM commercial with a hunk in his birthday suit - and of course, my favorite rugby man calendar.
It seems I've lived in so many places. I've been in this house since 2000, and that's a record for me. I'm getting antsy.
I guess I'll jump around.
April 1979 - I arrived in Paris in the middle of a huge thunderstorm. We caught a taxi from the airport and there was so much water on the road it flooded and everyone stopped. We had to wait for an hour until the rain stopped, the water subsided, and we could go on. By then it was dark, and my first glimpse of Paris was rain soaked streets, fog shrouded buildings, and the Eiffel tower wrapped in a cloak of thick mist.
The next day I had instructions how to get to the agency and off I went - after a typical French breakfast of strong tea, hot milk, and toast. The taxi driver asked me if it was my first time in France, and I said yes. He said he would give me a kiss for luck, and gave me a peck on both cheeks, French style. "There, now you are French," he proclaimed.
I was both enchanted and mortified. A stranger had kissed me, but I was French!
The enchantment lasted all day. I easily conquered the metro system and learned my first words (left and right) and talked to an old lady at the magazine stand. A book slid off the counter, fell on the sidewalk, and I used my vocabulary - "Tomber!" I cried, pointing at it.
"Well, don't just stand there. Pick it up," she said, in English. She gave me a post card with a picture in black and white of a little boy sitting at a schooldesk, staring hard at the ceiling. "Very famous french photographer," she said.
It was ROBERT DOISNEAU and I've loved his photos ever since.
I also loved the museums in¨Paris, and I think I went to all the shows in the 'Grand' and 'Petit' palace one year. I was at the opening of the new 'Jeu de Paume' and 'Orangerie' museums, and I spent hours wandering through the Louvre (getting lost in there is so much fun!)
My daughter went to the Louvre with her class (so did my sons - lucky French children, they get to go to the Louvre!) They start early, first in the Egyptian section, then going to the Greek part, then going to the paintings where they admire the Mona Lisa as she stares at them with her smug smile (she has the same smile as French waiters, come to think about it...)
I just read that a teacher in Texas was fired without tenure from her post for taking her kids to a museum where they saw *gasp* a naked body. Now, I don't want to sound smug (picture my Mona Lisa smile) but kids in France not only get to see naked people in paintings, but they get to see naked Greek statues and even a statue of a hermaphrodite, which they had to comment on in the paper they were writing on the visit. Most comments were "I didn't know the Greeks had such great mattresses." So you see, the French are not raising a bunch of sex offenders. I might add (again without the smug smile) that statisticlly, we have far fewer teen pregnancies and sex offences than in the puritan US, which might be an argument from taking kids to museums earlier and more often, so they can see what a naked body looks like and get used to it.)
Television shocked me (coming from puritan US) when I saw the naked women advertising shower soap (and whatever else a naked woman could advertise, it sometimes seems they get carried away, like the naked woman advertising a new telephone company...) but they give fair time to men, and there is a wonderful DIM commercial with a hunk in his birthday suit - and of course, my favorite rugby man calendar.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Yesterday the electricity went out. Or rather, the workers shorted our line somehow. Only half of our house has electric lights now. Last night, we cooked and ate dinner by candlelight, and had candles in the bathroom and hallway.
We live in an old house - it was built in the early 19 hundreds on the foundations of a house built in the late middle ages, which was built on the foundations of an ancient church, which was built on the site of a pagan temple and so on and so forth back to about 100 AD, when this valley was settled by Romans. Romans being what they were, they built bridges, temples, and made the roads as straight as possible, which is how we know the Romans were here. Before the Romans were the Gauls, a tribe that did not believe in writing and who thought trees and running water were sacred. But they worked with 'sky metal' (iron) and left traces of their presence.
Before the Gauls were nomadic tribes, and even before them were the ancient ancestors who hunted giant deer and woolly rhinos. This is a place for flint, and there are many stone axes and arrowheads in the local museum. So everywhere I look, there is a trace of the past. We drive on roads that were simple paths centuries ago, and the other day we took a walk down an overgrown trail that used to be the main road between our town and its neighbor, Civry. The road led to the water mill deep in the hollow, but water mills became obsolete with the advent of electricity and the mill fell to ruin, the road gradually disappeared, and no one takes that path anymore unless they are just going for a walk.
On the other side of the village square lives an old woman. She's bed-ridden and mostly senile. She thinks that it's still world war two, and that there are Germans under her bed. I used her for one of my characters in a book I'm writing. She's otherwise very spry and the nurse who comes twice a day and looks after her, says she's in great health. The war really affected the people in Europe. My mother in law was a child, but she still recalls the rationing and then making a frantic dash with her family to go from Paris to shelter in Bordeaux. My father in law's horses were all taken by the army. It was a hard time and too many suffered and died. It still casts a pall over the country. The French wear their memories of war like chains, and sometimes I feel ridiculously light and untethered compared to them. There are war memorials in every village, and the ceremonies are well attended by the whole village - children and grandparents, making their twice yearly trip to the village square to hear the mayor's speech, then the national anthem, and then the trip to the cemetery.
There is much honor and tradition here. The village I live in is old and tied to tradition, but it happily embraces the new. The mayor came rushing up to me on the street when he heard that the internet was moving to high speed. He wanted to be the first to tell me. So high speed internet and ancient Roman ruins coexist peacefully in this tiny village, where the most excitement comes when the cows get out and block the road, or when the school bus gets stuck in the mud at the hairpin turn on the tiny road leading across the plain. I like it that way. I like knowing most everyone in town, and I like getting goose eggs from one neighbor, and advice about how to plant garlic from another. It's quiet here, but it's good to look out the window and see the forest on one side, and the plowed fields on the other. Maybe it would be nice to have a little more going on, but for that, I can go to Paris.
I used to live in Paris, Lyon, and Bordeaux - too - so I'll tell you what I loved about those cities soon!
We live in an old house - it was built in the early 19 hundreds on the foundations of a house built in the late middle ages, which was built on the foundations of an ancient church, which was built on the site of a pagan temple and so on and so forth back to about 100 AD, when this valley was settled by Romans. Romans being what they were, they built bridges, temples, and made the roads as straight as possible, which is how we know the Romans were here. Before the Romans were the Gauls, a tribe that did not believe in writing and who thought trees and running water were sacred. But they worked with 'sky metal' (iron) and left traces of their presence.
Before the Gauls were nomadic tribes, and even before them were the ancient ancestors who hunted giant deer and woolly rhinos. This is a place for flint, and there are many stone axes and arrowheads in the local museum. So everywhere I look, there is a trace of the past. We drive on roads that were simple paths centuries ago, and the other day we took a walk down an overgrown trail that used to be the main road between our town and its neighbor, Civry. The road led to the water mill deep in the hollow, but water mills became obsolete with the advent of electricity and the mill fell to ruin, the road gradually disappeared, and no one takes that path anymore unless they are just going for a walk.
On the other side of the village square lives an old woman. She's bed-ridden and mostly senile. She thinks that it's still world war two, and that there are Germans under her bed. I used her for one of my characters in a book I'm writing. She's otherwise very spry and the nurse who comes twice a day and looks after her, says she's in great health. The war really affected the people in Europe. My mother in law was a child, but she still recalls the rationing and then making a frantic dash with her family to go from Paris to shelter in Bordeaux. My father in law's horses were all taken by the army. It was a hard time and too many suffered and died. It still casts a pall over the country. The French wear their memories of war like chains, and sometimes I feel ridiculously light and untethered compared to them. There are war memorials in every village, and the ceremonies are well attended by the whole village - children and grandparents, making their twice yearly trip to the village square to hear the mayor's speech, then the national anthem, and then the trip to the cemetery.
There is much honor and tradition here. The village I live in is old and tied to tradition, but it happily embraces the new. The mayor came rushing up to me on the street when he heard that the internet was moving to high speed. He wanted to be the first to tell me. So high speed internet and ancient Roman ruins coexist peacefully in this tiny village, where the most excitement comes when the cows get out and block the road, or when the school bus gets stuck in the mud at the hairpin turn on the tiny road leading across the plain. I like it that way. I like knowing most everyone in town, and I like getting goose eggs from one neighbor, and advice about how to plant garlic from another. It's quiet here, but it's good to look out the window and see the forest on one side, and the plowed fields on the other. Maybe it would be nice to have a little more going on, but for that, I can go to Paris.
I used to live in Paris, Lyon, and Bordeaux - too - so I'll tell you what I loved about those cities soon!
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Life in France part 3
Things that drive me crazy:
There are no sidewalks here. Well, in the big cities and towns, of course. But in my town, in most of the country towns, there are no sidewalks.
For a country so in love with the bicycle - they are woefully behind in bike paths. There are no bike paths, and even in Paris, there are only a few. For bike paths, one must go to the public gardens or parks - and even then it's not sure they have them.
The drivers are mad.
The waiters are mostly obnoxious (except in the restaurant across the street from me.)
Anyone who works in the 'function publique' is obnoxious. They can't be fired, so they pretty much do as they like, which does not include work. They never work alone - always in pairs. And they do as little as possible. It is Extremely frustrating. They Never answer the phone.
The internet is still slower here than anywhere else.
French movies, books, and music is awful. There is a sort of law that says anything the French like, no one else will like, and huge best sellers in the US, for example, flop miserably here. I've only seen a couple French films I like, and only one or two musicians rock my boat (Francis Cabrel is one of them.)
Tomorrow - things I love!
There are no sidewalks here. Well, in the big cities and towns, of course. But in my town, in most of the country towns, there are no sidewalks.
For a country so in love with the bicycle - they are woefully behind in bike paths. There are no bike paths, and even in Paris, there are only a few. For bike paths, one must go to the public gardens or parks - and even then it's not sure they have them.
The drivers are mad.
The waiters are mostly obnoxious (except in the restaurant across the street from me.)
Anyone who works in the 'function publique' is obnoxious. They can't be fired, so they pretty much do as they like, which does not include work. They never work alone - always in pairs. And they do as little as possible. It is Extremely frustrating. They Never answer the phone.
The internet is still slower here than anywhere else.
French movies, books, and music is awful. There is a sort of law that says anything the French like, no one else will like, and huge best sellers in the US, for example, flop miserably here. I've only seen a couple French films I like, and only one or two musicians rock my boat (Francis Cabrel is one of them.)
Tomorrow - things I love!
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Life in France part 2
When I moved here, I was 17 and just out of highschool. I'd taken one year of French in seventh grade, and knew about three words:
Bonjour
Merde
Tomber
(hello, shit, and fall down)
It wasn't enough. Taxi drivers and French waiters took advantage of me, and I would walk down the streets in my bubble, not understanding when people spoke to me (unless it included hello, shit, or fall down...) and since the dogs in France are free to poop wherever they like and 'merde' is also used as 'Good Luck' I heard that word a lot.
The first words I learned were 'Right, left, and straight ahead'. I had a map, addresses, and I had to go from one end of Paris to the other every day on my endless round of 'Go-Sees' which is what a model does - go see the clients, the photographers, the art directors. So off I went, map in hand, and a vague notion of 'right, left, and straight ahead'.
Luckily the metro system in Paris is idiot-proof. It is Really easy to use. And it goes all over the city. I got to where I had to go with no trouble. (not too much trouble)
My big break came when I started dating a Frenchman. His English was limited, but his cousin had studied in England, and she came on most of our dates and translated. Learning the language of love while in love is perfect - and having a private tutor is even better. Things that helped the most:
Reading comic books (the French Love their comic books, and every house has a pile of 'Asterix', 'Tin-Tin', and 'Gaston LaGaffe'. )
Playing scrabble. (dictionary in hand, I beat the old ladies in the scrabble club. They let me cheat and use the dictionary. They served me tea and little lemon biscuits, and corrected my terrible grammar. Joining a scrabble club, reading comics, and dating a French man made learning French a lot of fun.
(they should think about that in school...)
Bonjour
Merde
Tomber
(hello, shit, and fall down)
It wasn't enough. Taxi drivers and French waiters took advantage of me, and I would walk down the streets in my bubble, not understanding when people spoke to me (unless it included hello, shit, or fall down...) and since the dogs in France are free to poop wherever they like and 'merde' is also used as 'Good Luck' I heard that word a lot.
The first words I learned were 'Right, left, and straight ahead'. I had a map, addresses, and I had to go from one end of Paris to the other every day on my endless round of 'Go-Sees' which is what a model does - go see the clients, the photographers, the art directors. So off I went, map in hand, and a vague notion of 'right, left, and straight ahead'.
Luckily the metro system in Paris is idiot-proof. It is Really easy to use. And it goes all over the city. I got to where I had to go with no trouble. (not too much trouble)
My big break came when I started dating a Frenchman. His English was limited, but his cousin had studied in England, and she came on most of our dates and translated. Learning the language of love while in love is perfect - and having a private tutor is even better. Things that helped the most:
Reading comic books (the French Love their comic books, and every house has a pile of 'Asterix', 'Tin-Tin', and 'Gaston LaGaffe'. )
Playing scrabble. (dictionary in hand, I beat the old ladies in the scrabble club. They let me cheat and use the dictionary. They served me tea and little lemon biscuits, and corrected my terrible grammar. Joining a scrabble club, reading comics, and dating a French man made learning French a lot of fun.
(they should think about that in school...)
Monday, September 25, 2006
Something New
I thought I'd try something new. A lot of people ask me (when I go back to the states) How I like living in France. So I will try to paint a picture of life in France for an American.
It might be fun to do it on a 'Good Things' 'Bad Things' scale.
Today I'll just tell you what struck me the most, and what was the hardest to get used to.
In France, politeness is an art form. When you walk into the post office, or into the bakery, everyone in line turns around and either smiles or says 'Bonjour Madame' (Madame because I am a Madame. If it were a guy, they'd be going 'Bonjour Monsieur'. ) And you are expected to smile and say 'Bonjour' back.
When you pay for your baguette, the boulangère (baker) will say "Merci, et bon journée!" And you are expected to say, "Merci, et bonne journée à vous!" (to which she will reply 'Merci' and this can go on for a while if you're not careful.)
When I used to live in Lyon (the capitol of Politeness in France) my neighbor would say 'Bonjour Madame' even if I had seen her already twice that day, had dined with her and her husband last evening at their apartment, and I'd just stepped into the elevator.
Bonjour Madame is infinitely more polite than just a simple 'bonjour'.
When you enter a house in France, everyone, including the children, come to the door to greet you. The children are all models of 'politess' and hold out their cheeks for kisses after saying 'bonjour'. When you go to a dinner party, you greet everyone with two kisses, (one on each cheek - but sometimes there are 4 kisses, and I never know when that applies, except some of my neighbors here are into 4 kisses and supposedly that is a country bumkin thing, and no Parisian would be caught dead kissing 4 times.
But you never kiss when you meet for the very first time, and you don't kiss the baker, no matter how many times a week you see him.
You shake hands the first time you meet. Then, as you are leaving the party, you kiss, because you have already met and shaken hands. Kissing is done without fuss - two little smacking noises in the air as you lightly press your cheeks togather. Glasses must be removed if both are wearing them. Usually the man will remove his, or if it is two women, kissing is done carefully and at a slight distance.
Men never kiss each other, but they do if they are father and son in some families, or closely related. Usually men shake hands or and pat each other on the shoulder if they are good buddies.
Men hold doors for women, pull their seats out, pour the wine (never pour your own wine at the table if you are a woman) and serve the women first. Women are pretty spoiled here. However, French women are expected to be able to cook well (my friends all cook like French chefs, which is REALLY annoying to me, lol. But I love getting invited to dinner) and they are expected to keep house perfectly (a slovenly French women is rare) and they are expected to look good at all times. (another frustrating thing - they all look like they just got out of the hairdressers, and their clothes are all ironed an and matched. They tend to wear skirts more than jeans, and have nice shoes. They tell me they can spot an American because of the frumpy shoes we wear. Huh. I am not giving up my sneakers - sorry.)
So living in France has its ups and downs, but at all times there is a polite smile (although the French waiter's will certainly be slightly supercilious)
and a cheeful 'Bonjour!' wherever you go.
It might be fun to do it on a 'Good Things' 'Bad Things' scale.
Today I'll just tell you what struck me the most, and what was the hardest to get used to.
In France, politeness is an art form. When you walk into the post office, or into the bakery, everyone in line turns around and either smiles or says 'Bonjour Madame' (Madame because I am a Madame. If it were a guy, they'd be going 'Bonjour Monsieur'. ) And you are expected to smile and say 'Bonjour' back.
When you pay for your baguette, the boulangère (baker) will say "Merci, et bon journée!" And you are expected to say, "Merci, et bonne journée à vous!" (to which she will reply 'Merci' and this can go on for a while if you're not careful.)
When I used to live in Lyon (the capitol of Politeness in France) my neighbor would say 'Bonjour Madame' even if I had seen her already twice that day, had dined with her and her husband last evening at their apartment, and I'd just stepped into the elevator.
Bonjour Madame is infinitely more polite than just a simple 'bonjour'.
When you enter a house in France, everyone, including the children, come to the door to greet you. The children are all models of 'politess' and hold out their cheeks for kisses after saying 'bonjour'. When you go to a dinner party, you greet everyone with two kisses, (one on each cheek - but sometimes there are 4 kisses, and I never know when that applies, except some of my neighbors here are into 4 kisses and supposedly that is a country bumkin thing, and no Parisian would be caught dead kissing 4 times.
But you never kiss when you meet for the very first time, and you don't kiss the baker, no matter how many times a week you see him.
You shake hands the first time you meet. Then, as you are leaving the party, you kiss, because you have already met and shaken hands. Kissing is done without fuss - two little smacking noises in the air as you lightly press your cheeks togather. Glasses must be removed if both are wearing them. Usually the man will remove his, or if it is two women, kissing is done carefully and at a slight distance.
Men never kiss each other, but they do if they are father and son in some families, or closely related. Usually men shake hands or and pat each other on the shoulder if they are good buddies.
Men hold doors for women, pull their seats out, pour the wine (never pour your own wine at the table if you are a woman) and serve the women first. Women are pretty spoiled here. However, French women are expected to be able to cook well (my friends all cook like French chefs, which is REALLY annoying to me, lol. But I love getting invited to dinner) and they are expected to keep house perfectly (a slovenly French women is rare) and they are expected to look good at all times. (another frustrating thing - they all look like they just got out of the hairdressers, and their clothes are all ironed an and matched. They tend to wear skirts more than jeans, and have nice shoes. They tell me they can spot an American because of the frumpy shoes we wear. Huh. I am not giving up my sneakers - sorry.)
So living in France has its ups and downs, but at all times there is a polite smile (although the French waiter's will certainly be slightly supercilious)
and a cheeful 'Bonjour!' wherever you go.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
I won't charge 95$
I was surprised to see one of my books is selling on Amazon for 95$!
http://www.amazon.com/Heroes-Dust-Book-2-Iskander/dp/1741001307/sr=1-3/qid=1159099306/ref=sr_1_3/103-4150552-5029415?ie=UTF8&s=books
OK - if anyone has read book one, and wants book 2 or 3, just e-mail me. I know Jacobyte books went out of business and the books are out of print - but I have doc. files that I will sell for 5$. Let me know if you want to finish the series. I won't charge 95$!
: -)
http://www.amazon.com/Heroes-Dust-Book-2-Iskander/dp/1741001307/sr=1-3/qid=1159099306/ref=sr_1_3/103-4150552-5029415?ie=UTF8&s=books
OK - if anyone has read book one, and wants book 2 or 3, just e-mail me. I know Jacobyte books went out of business and the books are out of print - but I have doc. files that I will sell for 5$. Let me know if you want to finish the series. I won't charge 95$!
: -)
updates on the schedule
Scedule. Skedool? Skeddual?
Argh. I hate that word.
It's not the first time I've lived by such a strict schedule. When my twins came home from the hospital, they weighed 4 lbs each, and had to eat every three house around the clock. (8 bottles a day X 2 = some very frazzled parents, lol.) And my daughter is on a schedule - she was born on a schedule, I don't know where it comes from, but she's very methodical and careful with time. She loves her new watch and is never late for school. (I can remember galloping out of the house with one shoe on and the other held under my arm, my bookbag flapping, my hairbrush in hand, rubber band in my mouth, trying to catch the school bus...)
So time and I have never really gotten along.
But now that I have this brand new super-organized schedule, I have become a different person. (not really, lol.) But I am amazed that I have not yet forgotten a class, (well, yesterday, but it was because I thought it was Sunday already) and I haven't yet lost my mind. (trying to be very Zen about all this. Living by a watch is stressing me out, lol.)
And for a whole different subject -
Congratulations Beth and Bobby for your wedding, I heard it was sumptious and I wish I'd been there!
((((((((((((((((((((((((HUGS))))))))))))))))))))) from your Cuzzin!
Argh. I hate that word.
It's not the first time I've lived by such a strict schedule. When my twins came home from the hospital, they weighed 4 lbs each, and had to eat every three house around the clock. (8 bottles a day X 2 = some very frazzled parents, lol.) And my daughter is on a schedule - she was born on a schedule, I don't know where it comes from, but she's very methodical and careful with time. She loves her new watch and is never late for school. (I can remember galloping out of the house with one shoe on and the other held under my arm, my bookbag flapping, my hairbrush in hand, rubber band in my mouth, trying to catch the school bus...)
So time and I have never really gotten along.
But now that I have this brand new super-organized schedule, I have become a different person. (not really, lol.) But I am amazed that I have not yet forgotten a class, (well, yesterday, but it was because I thought it was Sunday already) and I haven't yet lost my mind. (trying to be very Zen about all this. Living by a watch is stressing me out, lol.)
And for a whole different subject -
Congratulations Beth and Bobby for your wedding, I heard it was sumptious and I wish I'd been there!
((((((((((((((((((((((((HUGS))))))))))))))))))))) from your Cuzzin!
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
New photo blog
I love taking pictures, so I started a new photoblog - There will be lots of photos from the countryside around here!
Bookmark if you like,
Thanks!
http://sams-shots.blogspot.com/
Bookmark if you like,
Thanks!
http://sams-shots.blogspot.com/
Monday, September 18, 2006
Plotzing right along
I guess when you're riding a horse you're trotting right along, and when your running you're jogging right along...and when you're writing you're plotzing right along, right?
My WIP is going very well. Merlin is now off to find someone to make him an antidote to the love potion that silly pest Kyla made him drink. Honestly - fairies have no sense of decorum. Merlin is an elf, Kyla is a fairy, and together they make sparks.
There is more to the story than that, of course, but it gets complicated, lol. Thus the plotzing along.
On the home front my fireman son Sebi has been admitted into his college of choice - the psychology school in Paris. Lucky sod. Now he has to find a place to live there. Argh. Not easy. He'll most likely become a commuter and learn the joys of public transportation - prices in the city are outrageous. We're way in the country, so it's an hour drive to his college. Well - we'll think of something.
The Other twin is in the US getting ready to go to a wedding this weekend then fly straight off to Ohio to start his 2nd year in college. *sniff* I miss him a lot.
Daughter has not given up ideas on 'How to Get a Horse'. She is driving me crazy but I must commend her persistence. Most kids would have given up by now. Three years' worth of "No absolutely Not" have not made a dent. I bet she becomes a writer. Rejection rolls off her like water off a duck's back. Quack. (or neigh, as the case may be)
No news from any proposals yet, which is just as well because I really want to finish Merlin's Song.
Anyone read Llewellyn's Song? Like? Dislike? Hmmm? JERR gave it Four Stars, yay! and a lovely review. Mommy is happy. (Yes, dammit, our books are like our babies, lol.) So it's nice when the baby gets up, toddles out the door, and is well recieved in the wide world.
LOL!
My WIP is going very well. Merlin is now off to find someone to make him an antidote to the love potion that silly pest Kyla made him drink. Honestly - fairies have no sense of decorum. Merlin is an elf, Kyla is a fairy, and together they make sparks.
There is more to the story than that, of course, but it gets complicated, lol. Thus the plotzing along.
On the home front my fireman son Sebi has been admitted into his college of choice - the psychology school in Paris. Lucky sod. Now he has to find a place to live there. Argh. Not easy. He'll most likely become a commuter and learn the joys of public transportation - prices in the city are outrageous. We're way in the country, so it's an hour drive to his college. Well - we'll think of something.
The Other twin is in the US getting ready to go to a wedding this weekend then fly straight off to Ohio to start his 2nd year in college. *sniff* I miss him a lot.
Daughter has not given up ideas on 'How to Get a Horse'. She is driving me crazy but I must commend her persistence. Most kids would have given up by now. Three years' worth of "No absolutely Not" have not made a dent. I bet she becomes a writer. Rejection rolls off her like water off a duck's back. Quack. (or neigh, as the case may be)
No news from any proposals yet, which is just as well because I really want to finish Merlin's Song.
Anyone read Llewellyn's Song? Like? Dislike? Hmmm? JERR gave it Four Stars, yay! and a lovely review. Mommy is happy. (Yes, dammit, our books are like our babies, lol.) So it's nice when the baby gets up, toddles out the door, and is well recieved in the wide world.
LOL!
Sunday, September 17, 2006
Happy Sunday
On Sunday there is the traditional day of rest. It's a perfect day for long lunches and lazy conversations, and dogs sprawled comfortably on their beds.
Happy Sunday!
Saturday, September 16, 2006
Changing Places & Covers
Kate pointed out that there is a book with my name where her name should be, lol.
Yes, sometimes people make mistakes. You should never believe all you read.
Here is the book I'm in, and here is the one where Kate is listed correctly. (She moonlights as Summer Devon)
I can't wait to see the covers! How can they post books for sale without the covers?
Everyone knows that you judge a book by its cover, right?
Well, check out my new cover for 'A Grand Passion'
Yes, sometimes people make mistakes. You should never believe all you read.
Here is the book I'm in, and here is the one where Kate is listed correctly. (She moonlights as Summer Devon)
I can't wait to see the covers! How can they post books for sale without the covers?
Everyone knows that you judge a book by its cover, right?
Well, check out my new cover for 'A Grand Passion'
Compared to my old cover.
That was an EC surprise for me.
They've already changed one other cover - my 'Argentine Lover' cover.
I figure as long as they're at it, they should change my Diamina cover.
What do you think?
Look at this page and tell me which covers you think EC ought to change.
I vote for:
Diamina
Gladys Hawke
Storm Warnings
Any other votes?
Thursday, September 14, 2006
too much cccooooffffeeee
Yes, too much coffee this morning - or I made it really strong, lol. I can hardly sit still. Luckily there is gym class this morning so I will soon be reduced to a wet puddle on the floor, lol. Our gym teacher is terrific, but she has decided to start this year off with Energy!
I also take yoga class. I love my yoga class. I've been taking it now for three years, and I really look forward to it. It gets the kinks out of my back and leaves my body feeling relaxed and supple (and I am NOT supple, believe me. I stare at my toes and wonder if I'll ever be able to touch them, lol) But yoga and gym are a nice balance.
Someone was blogging about balance today - how to balance writing and family - health and work - yin and yang...and I have to admit I don't really think about it. Like most people, I guess I just tackle each day as it comes and try to do my best with it. But looking closer, I discovered that I have been creating a sort of balance in my life. My schedule is pretty full (and I just got another student for Wednesdays) but I have spaced it out so there is enough free time in between so I can write. And my gym class balances my sedentary life as a writer, and my yoga class balances my sore gym muscles and soothes me.
And coffee wakes me up!!
It's time for gym!
Hurrah for coffee!!!
I also take yoga class. I love my yoga class. I've been taking it now for three years, and I really look forward to it. It gets the kinks out of my back and leaves my body feeling relaxed and supple (and I am NOT supple, believe me. I stare at my toes and wonder if I'll ever be able to touch them, lol) But yoga and gym are a nice balance.
Someone was blogging about balance today - how to balance writing and family - health and work - yin and yang...and I have to admit I don't really think about it. Like most people, I guess I just tackle each day as it comes and try to do my best with it. But looking closer, I discovered that I have been creating a sort of balance in my life. My schedule is pretty full (and I just got another student for Wednesdays) but I have spaced it out so there is enough free time in between so I can write. And my gym class balances my sedentary life as a writer, and my yoga class balances my sore gym muscles and soothes me.
And coffee wakes me up!!
It's time for gym!
Hurrah for coffee!!!
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Monday, September 11, 2006
Rummage Sale
OK, I'm wiped out, lol. I was up yesterday at 5:45 when I heard Andrea come in the front gate and start getting our stand ready (where does she get that energy???) So I staggered down to help, broke a glass, and sent myself inside to make coffee (much more productive than trying to help Andrea who has everything under control - and can somehow see in the dark!) At 6 a.m. there were already people walking around with flashlights buying stuff. One stole Andrea's fax machine. Argh. It was dark, and the fax machine was in a black bag. Oh well. By 7 we were all set and drinking coffee and nibbling brioche. The sun was coming up, and everything was bustling as the last vendors arrived and set up their stands.
(Here is a picture of me (green) Andrea, and Lynne early in the morning - it was still chilly.)
The kids got up around 9 and set up their stand in my front garden. They organized themselves - there were five girls selling, so one would go out on the street and hold a sign pointing to our house, where another sign said "Everything for Sale!" I got several offers for the house.
(here is a view from the house looking out past the kids' stands to the street)
By 11 we decided it was time for a little apperatif, so I got some pinot (sweet wine, sort of like port, from the Charente region of France) from a stand and we had a glass of that. Then I went around the stands and bought:
Bread
Cheese
Smoked ham
Tomatos
Plums
(The bread and brioche stand right next to ours)
and made lunch for everyone. Andrea bought some chilled rosé wine to go with that. Then it was more sales until 4, and we needed more coffee.
At 5 we decided pinot was more fun than coffee.
At 6 we were getting ready to pack everything up and clean up the mess.
It was fun.
I counted the kids and adults we had at the house yesterday and came up with 10 kids and 6 adults. Plus two dogs. Can't wait for next year! (and I even have some pinot left over!)
(Here is a picture of me (green) Andrea, and Lynne early in the morning - it was still chilly.)The kids got up around 9 and set up their stand in my front garden. They organized themselves - there were five girls selling, so one would go out on the street and hold a sign pointing to our house, where another sign said "Everything for Sale!" I got several offers for the house.
(here is a view from the house looking out past the kids' stands to the street)By 11 we decided it was time for a little apperatif, so I got some pinot (sweet wine, sort of like port, from the Charente region of France) from a stand and we had a glass of that. Then I went around the stands and bought:
Bread
Cheese
Smoked ham
Tomatos
Plums
(The bread and brioche stand right next to ours)and made lunch for everyone. Andrea bought some chilled rosé wine to go with that. Then it was more sales until 4, and we needed more coffee.
At 5 we decided pinot was more fun than coffee.
At 6 we were getting ready to pack everything up and clean up the mess.
It was fun.
I counted the kids and adults we had at the house yesterday and came up with 10 kids and 6 adults. Plus two dogs. Can't wait for next year! (and I even have some pinot left over!)
Saturday, September 09, 2006
The village rummage sale
We're having the village rummage sale on Sunday - from 6 a.m. to 6 p.m. the entire village is closed off for traffic and there are stands everywhere selling junk, antiques, and more junk, lol. It's a mad house - my house is right on the village square. I reserved 6 meters in front of my house - so I invited lots of friends and their kids, I'm leaving the house open, and we'll sit, hopefully sell some things, drink wine, and keep dogs and children from running out the front gate, lol.
PRAY that the weather is nice!
PRAY that the weather is nice!
Friday, September 08, 2006
Advice and Such
I was cruising around the web (I know, you're supposed to say surfing) and I came across some advice on how to write a novel. It amazed me. Here were well-known published authors giving away wonderful advice. Actually, as Jay Lake said so well, it's not advice, it's experience. And I thought it was interesting to read the different takes on writing novels. Justine Larbalestier has her advice here, and Elizabeth Bear (how cool can you get?) has advice here.
Apparently, it all boils down to coffee, determination to see it through, and a system for organizing plots and thoughts. The coffee and determination are the same, give or take a little milk & sugar, but the systems for organizing plots and thoughts differ widely. One writer's outline is another writer's poison. (or writer's block, as the case may be!) So what does that say about your own writing?
Mine varies; I use outlines or not (right now I'm working on three books. One from an outline, one from a detailed synopsis, and one from a one sentence blurb.) I have never used charts or cards, if I have an outline I never use it as a rigid structure, but rather as a suggestion of how the book should flow, and if I work from a detailed synopsis, you can be sure the whole thing will change until the finished work has little to do with the synopsis at the beginning, lol.
What helps me most is a time frame (I think it's because of my dyslexia) and a map is always a plus; I love devising a map for my books. But time sometimes gets loopy and I have to be careful not to have overlapping actions. Character descriptions don't worry me. I picture the hero and heroine so clearly it's like their photos are in front of me. But I will write Dave in one page and Don on the next, so I'm always checking to make sure Dave doesn't become Don. (right now I have a Kyla, and I have to make sure She doesn't become a He.
I'd like to say that I write fast, but I don't. I have revision-itis. I have to go back and re-read everything and revise what I've written before plowing on, so I do a lot of reading. On the plus side, I figure if I don't get bored reading the darn thing over and over, hopefully my readers will stay enthralled, lol.
One way to make a book go faster is to cure yourself of revision-itis and just leap into writing. I do that once a year in November when I join the NanoWrimo, a really fun way to write a novel in a month! (or at least 50,000 words)
How do you get motivated and what systems help you the most??
Apparently, it all boils down to coffee, determination to see it through, and a system for organizing plots and thoughts. The coffee and determination are the same, give or take a little milk & sugar, but the systems for organizing plots and thoughts differ widely. One writer's outline is another writer's poison. (or writer's block, as the case may be!) So what does that say about your own writing?
Mine varies; I use outlines or not (right now I'm working on three books. One from an outline, one from a detailed synopsis, and one from a one sentence blurb.) I have never used charts or cards, if I have an outline I never use it as a rigid structure, but rather as a suggestion of how the book should flow, and if I work from a detailed synopsis, you can be sure the whole thing will change until the finished work has little to do with the synopsis at the beginning, lol.
What helps me most is a time frame (I think it's because of my dyslexia) and a map is always a plus; I love devising a map for my books. But time sometimes gets loopy and I have to be careful not to have overlapping actions. Character descriptions don't worry me. I picture the hero and heroine so clearly it's like their photos are in front of me. But I will write Dave in one page and Don on the next, so I'm always checking to make sure Dave doesn't become Don. (right now I have a Kyla, and I have to make sure She doesn't become a He.
I'd like to say that I write fast, but I don't. I have revision-itis. I have to go back and re-read everything and revise what I've written before plowing on, so I do a lot of reading. On the plus side, I figure if I don't get bored reading the darn thing over and over, hopefully my readers will stay enthralled, lol.
One way to make a book go faster is to cure yourself of revision-itis and just leap into writing. I do that once a year in November when I join the NanoWrimo, a really fun way to write a novel in a month! (or at least 50,000 words)
How do you get motivated and what systems help you the most??
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
I have a schedule (gasp!)
I'm working two part time jobs this year - and no, two part times don't make a whole, lol, and it only adds up to about twelve hours a week of real work. The rest of the time I get to write, which is lucky as I have three dealines for this month, and a translating job sitting on my desk that I stare at every once and a while and sort of shudder. Well, not shudder exactly, but I think I'll take a couple aspirin before I start - there are a lot of technical and colloquial phrases in it.
SO, I printed up some handy-dandy schedule sheets, another two calendars (remember how obsessed I am with calendats, lol) and I have made myself a schedule.
It might not seem like such a big deal to you, but I have dyslexia, and time, numbers, right, and left have no meaning to me. Left on my own, I probably would not eat and sleep but rather just keep going until I keeled over.
Last year, the village put in a clock on the church tower and now the bells ring the hour - and that's incredibly helpful. So I am finding ways of scheduling my days, and my life is now regimented like a soldier's. Hup-two! Wake up at 7, jogging at 8, shower at 9, work until 12, lunch and housework until 2, work until 4:30, part time job until 6:30, then dinner, kids, and more work on deadlines until 11p.m.
On Wednesdays and Saturdays that all changes, my other part-time job kicks in, and on Tuesdays and Thurdays the jogging is replaced by gym.
Phew.
On Sunday she rested and didn't get out of bed.
SO, I printed up some handy-dandy schedule sheets, another two calendars (remember how obsessed I am with calendats, lol) and I have made myself a schedule.
It might not seem like such a big deal to you, but I have dyslexia, and time, numbers, right, and left have no meaning to me. Left on my own, I probably would not eat and sleep but rather just keep going until I keeled over.
Last year, the village put in a clock on the church tower and now the bells ring the hour - and that's incredibly helpful. So I am finding ways of scheduling my days, and my life is now regimented like a soldier's. Hup-two! Wake up at 7, jogging at 8, shower at 9, work until 12, lunch and housework until 2, work until 4:30, part time job until 6:30, then dinner, kids, and more work on deadlines until 11p.m.
On Wednesdays and Saturdays that all changes, my other part-time job kicks in, and on Tuesdays and Thurdays the jogging is replaced by gym.
Phew.
On Sunday she rested and didn't get out of bed.
Monday, September 04, 2006
Snarked!
OK, I admit. I sent a query and first page to Miss Snark for her Crapometer.
I wasn't sure how it worked, never having participated in a crapometer before, but let me tell you - I got GREAT feedback.
She doesn't pull her punches, but she gave me some excellent advice.
And so I'd like to say THANK YOU MISS SNARK for giving so much of your time and energy in helping us struggling writers. Because it's ture - no matter how many books you publish it's always a struggle to write. It's a struggle to start a new book, to outline (what I'm thrashing through right now - two outlines for my agent) & wrap everything up in a satisfying ending.
It's very hard to craft a first page that will hook the reader and make him want to keep reading.
Miss Snark might be snarky, she's also terrific. And if I knew who she was, I'd send her a pail of gin.
:-)
Now I don't know the politics of a crapometer, so I'm not telling which number my entry was, lol. Can you guess?
I wasn't sure how it worked, never having participated in a crapometer before, but let me tell you - I got GREAT feedback.
She doesn't pull her punches, but she gave me some excellent advice.
And so I'd like to say THANK YOU MISS SNARK for giving so much of your time and energy in helping us struggling writers. Because it's ture - no matter how many books you publish it's always a struggle to write. It's a struggle to start a new book, to outline (what I'm thrashing through right now - two outlines for my agent) & wrap everything up in a satisfying ending.
It's very hard to craft a first page that will hook the reader and make him want to keep reading.
Miss Snark might be snarky, she's also terrific. And if I knew who she was, I'd send her a pail of gin.
:-)
Now I don't know the politics of a crapometer, so I'm not telling which number my entry was, lol. Can you guess?
Sunday, September 03, 2006
My bright and shiny new blog!
I love my new blog look - thank you Daisy Mae for fixing this up for me!!!
(if you want a bright and shiny new blog look, click on Daisy's link on the side bar - she's got some great designs!)
It's early Sunday morning. Today I'm heading into Paris to meet some friends. I'm going to spend the day there and then we'll all meet my husband for dinner somewhere. My friends have mostly come in for the 'pret a porter' show here in Paris - two of my friends are buyers and one has a stand, so I'm going to go check it out.
I'm not a fashion victim - like I said before, I buy most of my clothes from Ye Olde Thrifte Shoppe - but my friends don't get to Paris often and I want to see them!!!
Maybe I'll even see some clothes I like, lol.
My husband said to my daughter the other day "Your mom doesn't care what she puts on in the morning."
I overheard that and wasn't sure if he was vexed about having a wife who jumped out of bed and grabbed whatever was on top of the laundry pile, or if he liked having a wife that didn't spend an hour every morning trying to decide what to wear.
I went to Catholic school and wore a uniform - and I loved not having to think about what to wear. I believe I grew out of being fashion-conscious in school. Never having to worry about what I was wearing or what anyone else wore was very liberating for a teen, honest.
My daughter announced her school was going to make the students wear a uniform - and she was thrilled. She agrees with me about the advantages of a uniform (she's not a teen yet - of course she agrees with me) but I was happy to hear that. Too many girls in my daughter's class dress like - well - provocative doesn't begine to describe it. I'm sure you've seen the sexy barbie look - well, it scares me. I don't know what the mothers are thinking.
I think the uniform will be more along the lines of a suggestion here - like navy blue pants, white shirts, and navy pullovers, for example. I'll be interested to see.
What do you think about uniforms for school?
(if you want a bright and shiny new blog look, click on Daisy's link on the side bar - she's got some great designs!)
It's early Sunday morning. Today I'm heading into Paris to meet some friends. I'm going to spend the day there and then we'll all meet my husband for dinner somewhere. My friends have mostly come in for the 'pret a porter' show here in Paris - two of my friends are buyers and one has a stand, so I'm going to go check it out.
I'm not a fashion victim - like I said before, I buy most of my clothes from Ye Olde Thrifte Shoppe - but my friends don't get to Paris often and I want to see them!!!
Maybe I'll even see some clothes I like, lol.
My husband said to my daughter the other day "Your mom doesn't care what she puts on in the morning."
I overheard that and wasn't sure if he was vexed about having a wife who jumped out of bed and grabbed whatever was on top of the laundry pile, or if he liked having a wife that didn't spend an hour every morning trying to decide what to wear.
I went to Catholic school and wore a uniform - and I loved not having to think about what to wear. I believe I grew out of being fashion-conscious in school. Never having to worry about what I was wearing or what anyone else wore was very liberating for a teen, honest.
My daughter announced her school was going to make the students wear a uniform - and she was thrilled. She agrees with me about the advantages of a uniform (she's not a teen yet - of course she agrees with me) but I was happy to hear that. Too many girls in my daughter's class dress like - well - provocative doesn't begine to describe it. I'm sure you've seen the sexy barbie look - well, it scares me. I don't know what the mothers are thinking.
I think the uniform will be more along the lines of a suggestion here - like navy blue pants, white shirts, and navy pullovers, for example. I'll be interested to see.
What do you think about uniforms for school?
Saturday, September 02, 2006
The Bhopal Disaster
The person I detest the most today:
Warren Anderson ( http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bhopal_Disaster )
I saw a documentary about Bhopal and was horrified. How can anything so dreadful happen and a company like Union Carbide be left to continue blithely on its way? I have to find out what Union Carbide manufactures so I can completely boycott it. I will not be affiliated with such horror.
And the worst is going to the Union Carbide site where it tries to explain the horror by claiming it was sabotage, and that the Indian authorities are well aware of the identity of the employee and the nature of the evidence against him; in essense, saying the Indian government is protecting one person responsible for the deaths of over 10,000! Does that make sense? No. And the truth is that a faulty, untested joint had been sent to the factory for the workers to use, and that joint was the cause of the disaster.
"Twenty years after the Bhopal tragedy, Dow Chemical continues to deny responsibility and is still producing some of the world's most deadly chemicals. Today, we are supporting the call for Dow to be held accountable for the devastation that the Bhopal disaster inflicted," says Corporate Accountability International Campaigns Director Patti Lynn.
For more information: http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=2727721747210557799&q=Union+Carbide+Bhopal&hl=en
Warren Anderson ( http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bhopal_Disaster )
I saw a documentary about Bhopal and was horrified. How can anything so dreadful happen and a company like Union Carbide be left to continue blithely on its way? I have to find out what Union Carbide manufactures so I can completely boycott it. I will not be affiliated with such horror.
And the worst is going to the Union Carbide site where it tries to explain the horror by claiming it was sabotage, and that the Indian authorities are well aware of the identity of the employee and the nature of the evidence against him; in essense, saying the Indian government is protecting one person responsible for the deaths of over 10,000! Does that make sense? No. And the truth is that a faulty, untested joint had been sent to the factory for the workers to use, and that joint was the cause of the disaster.
"Twenty years after the Bhopal tragedy, Dow Chemical continues to deny responsibility and is still producing some of the world's most deadly chemicals. Today, we are supporting the call for Dow to be held accountable for the devastation that the Bhopal disaster inflicted," says Corporate Accountability International Campaigns Director Patti Lynn.
For more information: http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=2727721747210557799&q=Union+Carbide+Bhopal&hl=en
Friday, September 01, 2006
New Year
It's September!
Yes, and vacation is over. Quite honestly, this is one summer I'm glad to put behind me. I'm starting a new year.
I have always used September as a starting point in the year. Some people use Jan. 1st (for some strange reason) and even others keep the 'olde' ways and start the year off in April, while a good many people in China have their new year February. But for some reason it seemed right to me to start the year in September.
When I was little, that was the month I began a new school year and had crisp new notebooks, sharp yellow pencils that hadn't faded to stubs, pens with ink in them, and even new shoes and clothes. September I walked down the driveway to catch the bus and my bookbag (smelling of new plastic) full of notebooks with nothing doodled on their virgin pages, my new shoes a little stiff, my new sweater a little scratchy, and my new haircut a disaster as usual. My lunchbox was even shiny and new, with no scratches, and my thermos still intact. (The thermos never lasted long.)
I'd walk up our long drive, past the fields where the corn was harvested and only tattered stalks remained, past the barn where potatoes were being sorted and sacked, and past the migrant workers sheds. I'd pass the white trailer where the farmer's son and his new wife lived.
At the bus stop there would be a crowd of kids in September. The migrant workers hadn't moved on yet, so their kids started school with us. I'd know them, having played with them all summer, and we'd compare new lunchboxes and shoes, and stand in a wiggley line as the bus drove up, lights flashing.
The air was dusty and smelled like newly dug potatoes and goldenrod, and the first fall leaves would crackle underfoot. We'd hurry to board the bus, our hearts pounding, wondering who our new teacher would be, and if our best friend would be in our class. The driver would hollar for us to sit down and be quiet, and I'd press my forehead against the window and hope this new school year would be wonderful.
Most people see autumn as the end of the year. But I always thought of it as a new beginning.
What is the beginning to your year?
Yes, and vacation is over. Quite honestly, this is one summer I'm glad to put behind me. I'm starting a new year.
I have always used September as a starting point in the year. Some people use Jan. 1st (for some strange reason) and even others keep the 'olde' ways and start the year off in April, while a good many people in China have their new year February. But for some reason it seemed right to me to start the year in September.
When I was little, that was the month I began a new school year and had crisp new notebooks, sharp yellow pencils that hadn't faded to stubs, pens with ink in them, and even new shoes and clothes. September I walked down the driveway to catch the bus and my bookbag (smelling of new plastic) full of notebooks with nothing doodled on their virgin pages, my new shoes a little stiff, my new sweater a little scratchy, and my new haircut a disaster as usual. My lunchbox was even shiny and new, with no scratches, and my thermos still intact. (The thermos never lasted long.)
I'd walk up our long drive, past the fields where the corn was harvested and only tattered stalks remained, past the barn where potatoes were being sorted and sacked, and past the migrant workers sheds. I'd pass the white trailer where the farmer's son and his new wife lived.
At the bus stop there would be a crowd of kids in September. The migrant workers hadn't moved on yet, so their kids started school with us. I'd know them, having played with them all summer, and we'd compare new lunchboxes and shoes, and stand in a wiggley line as the bus drove up, lights flashing.
The air was dusty and smelled like newly dug potatoes and goldenrod, and the first fall leaves would crackle underfoot. We'd hurry to board the bus, our hearts pounding, wondering who our new teacher would be, and if our best friend would be in our class. The driver would hollar for us to sit down and be quiet, and I'd press my forehead against the window and hope this new school year would be wonderful.
Most people see autumn as the end of the year. But I always thought of it as a new beginning.
What is the beginning to your year?
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
My once in a blue moon Promotion Pitch!
I have a new book coming out tomorrow!
Llewellyn's Song
It's an erotic fantasy set in the magical world of Hivernia.
Llewellyn goes to the far north, seeking Frostbone, the ice-demon king in order to save his people. But on the way he finds a wounded Dark T'uath, one of the women warriors of the hidden valley. Proud, untamed, these women have no use for men...but Tamara finds herself falling in love with the tall, one-eyed elf who resued her.
Tamara and Llewellyn have to learn acceptance of each others' beliefs in order to join forces and warn Hivernia of impending war. Acceptance soon turns to love, and love to searing passion. But separation looms for the lovers as both accept the responsibilities thrust upon them by their leaders.
Llewellyn's Song
from Ellora's Cave
www.ellorascave.com
Excerpt:
Agony unlike anything he’d ever felt tore through his body. Everything shook—his hands, his legs, and even his teeth chattered uncontrollably. Darkness crushed him like a physical thing and he tried to push it away, but it pressed down, harder and harder. Confusion followed the shock and pain, and then little bits of memory trickled back. Visions flashed across his mind, bringing with them more terror and pain.
Dragons with dull, iron-gray scales and rusty armor stalking next to hordes of enemy soldiers. The Mouse King, a shape-shifter with a talent for controlling dragons, riding the mightiest dragon, his scepter held aloft. Prince Branagh, in a last, desperate try to stop him, knocking him off the dragon and fighting him in vicious hand-to-hand combat. And he and his brother facing the enraged dragon on their own.
They’d succeeded, killing it when all hope seemed to have fled. But the beast had lashed out one last time, catching his brother across the chest and belly with its razor-sharp claws. Elloran had died in his arms, his pain first washing over Llewellyn then slowly ebbing into cold and darkness.
“No!” An agonized scream echoed in his ears and Llewellyn shot up in his bed, arms outstretched as if to ward off blows. His breathing whistled in his throat as he fought to control his racing heart. Icy sweat trickled down his back and chest. No dragons faced him, no screams assailed his ears, only the silence of the night and his heart pounding in his ears. Slowly he pulled the covers up over his shoulder with hands that still shook from the nightmare.
He wanted to die, for surely death would take away the anguish. He wanted to die, because each day he lived, each minute, every hour, his brother’s last minutes came to him as a torture. He rubbed his forehead and a sigh shuddered from him. Elloran had been his twin, and everything he’d felt, Llewellyn had felt, from joy to love…to excruciating death. Sometimes he feared to open his one good eye after the nightmare, sure to find his sheets drenched with blood. His other eye was nothing but a memory, and an ache sometimes when the weather turned. One battle had cost him an eye and his twin. Some days are better not lived.
Llewellyn's Song
It's an erotic fantasy set in the magical world of Hivernia.
Llewellyn goes to the far north, seeking Frostbone, the ice-demon king in order to save his people. But on the way he finds a wounded Dark T'uath, one of the women warriors of the hidden valley. Proud, untamed, these women have no use for men...but Tamara finds herself falling in love with the tall, one-eyed elf who resued her.
Tamara and Llewellyn have to learn acceptance of each others' beliefs in order to join forces and warn Hivernia of impending war. Acceptance soon turns to love, and love to searing passion. But separation looms for the lovers as both accept the responsibilities thrust upon them by their leaders.
Llewellyn's Song
from Ellora's Cave
www.ellorascave.com
Excerpt:
Agony unlike anything he’d ever felt tore through his body. Everything shook—his hands, his legs, and even his teeth chattered uncontrollably. Darkness crushed him like a physical thing and he tried to push it away, but it pressed down, harder and harder. Confusion followed the shock and pain, and then little bits of memory trickled back. Visions flashed across his mind, bringing with them more terror and pain.
Dragons with dull, iron-gray scales and rusty armor stalking next to hordes of enemy soldiers. The Mouse King, a shape-shifter with a talent for controlling dragons, riding the mightiest dragon, his scepter held aloft. Prince Branagh, in a last, desperate try to stop him, knocking him off the dragon and fighting him in vicious hand-to-hand combat. And he and his brother facing the enraged dragon on their own.
They’d succeeded, killing it when all hope seemed to have fled. But the beast had lashed out one last time, catching his brother across the chest and belly with its razor-sharp claws. Elloran had died in his arms, his pain first washing over Llewellyn then slowly ebbing into cold and darkness.
“No!” An agonized scream echoed in his ears and Llewellyn shot up in his bed, arms outstretched as if to ward off blows. His breathing whistled in his throat as he fought to control his racing heart. Icy sweat trickled down his back and chest. No dragons faced him, no screams assailed his ears, only the silence of the night and his heart pounding in his ears. Slowly he pulled the covers up over his shoulder with hands that still shook from the nightmare.
He wanted to die, for surely death would take away the anguish. He wanted to die, because each day he lived, each minute, every hour, his brother’s last minutes came to him as a torture. He rubbed his forehead and a sigh shuddered from him. Elloran had been his twin, and everything he’d felt, Llewellyn had felt, from joy to love…to excruciating death. Sometimes he feared to open his one good eye after the nightmare, sure to find his sheets drenched with blood. His other eye was nothing but a memory, and an ache sometimes when the weather turned. One battle had cost him an eye and his twin. Some days are better not lived.
Monday, August 28, 2006
The French National Anthem
The other day it was the anniversary of the liberation of Lisieux by the allied forces. In commemoration, a ceremony is held each year in the park in the center of town. This year, I was at my friend Marielle's house when she said to me, "I have to go sing the Marseillaise in town, do you and Julia want to go with me?"
I didn't know the words to the song (I vaguely knew them) but my daughter had sung for the WWII and WWI ceremonies in our town and wasn't shy, so we said yes. (And I figured I'd just move my lips, lol)
We got to the park and I realized this was an official ceremony, and I was given a paper with the words to the song, and everyone made a nice fuss about how great it was that an American was there, and I had to shake everyone's hand and meet the mayor.
Marielle was a member of the chorus, and so we stood in the front facing the guests of honor and the crowd. Everybody who was anybody was there that day - including five 'ancient combatants' which is what the French call the soldiers. The men were from England and Scotland and the mayor gave a speech in English that left them mostly perplexed - (I could see their faces as we were behind the mayor in nice rows, being the chorus.)
Then the mayor finished massacring the English speech and switched to French, and then he nodded to us to sing.
We all took a deep breath, and the choral leader sang the first note - and it was WAY up in the stratosphere - she was a soprano - and we all sounded like a chorus of mice. (Luckily I'm a soprano so even if I didn't know the words I could match her note for note, lol.)
Afterward we were invited to the town hall for traditional speeches, champagne, and little cakes. Yum.
Anyhow, it has often occurred to me that any country thinking about invading another country should study the French national anthem. Take a good look at the words and you will see why.
"La Marseillaise" was written and composed by Claude-Joseph Rouget de Lisle, captain in the Engineering corps garrisoned in Strasbourg during the night of 24 to 25 April 1792.
The lyrics, speaking of bloody battles and a call for citizens to take up arms, have been debated endlessly whether to alter the words to suit the more peaceful times that France currently enjoys, but the original words, capturing the spirit of the French revolution, remain. This is probably due to the fact that "La Marseillaise" is now inexorably linked to France in the mind of the world.
1. Allons enfants de la Patrie,
Le jour de gloire est arrivé !
Contre nous de la tyrannie,
L'étendard sanglant est levé !
L'étendard sanglant est levé !
Entendez-vous dans les campagnes
Mugir ces féroces soldats ?
Ils viennent jusque dans nos bras
Egorger nos fils et nos compagnes !
CHORUS:
Aux armes, citoyens !
Formez vos bataillons !
Marchons ! marchons !
Qu'un sang impur
Abreuve nos sillons !
ENGLISH TRANSLATION
1. Arise children of the fatherland
The day of glory has arrived
Against us tyranny's
Bloody flag is raised
The bloody flag is raised,
Listen to the sound in the fields
The howling of these ferocious soldiers
They are coming right into our midst
To cut the throats of your sons and consorts
To arms citizens
Form you battalions
March, march
Let impure blood
Water our furrows!
Yes, when you see the words you realize that any man will defend his country against invaders, even, as in this case, when they are in a civil war. (So imagine how they feel when another country invades...)
Something to ponder upon.
I didn't know the words to the song (I vaguely knew them) but my daughter had sung for the WWII and WWI ceremonies in our town and wasn't shy, so we said yes. (And I figured I'd just move my lips, lol)
We got to the park and I realized this was an official ceremony, and I was given a paper with the words to the song, and everyone made a nice fuss about how great it was that an American was there, and I had to shake everyone's hand and meet the mayor.
Marielle was a member of the chorus, and so we stood in the front facing the guests of honor and the crowd. Everybody who was anybody was there that day - including five 'ancient combatants' which is what the French call the soldiers. The men were from England and Scotland and the mayor gave a speech in English that left them mostly perplexed - (I could see their faces as we were behind the mayor in nice rows, being the chorus.)
Then the mayor finished massacring the English speech and switched to French, and then he nodded to us to sing.
We all took a deep breath, and the choral leader sang the first note - and it was WAY up in the stratosphere - she was a soprano - and we all sounded like a chorus of mice. (Luckily I'm a soprano so even if I didn't know the words I could match her note for note, lol.)
Afterward we were invited to the town hall for traditional speeches, champagne, and little cakes. Yum.
Anyhow, it has often occurred to me that any country thinking about invading another country should study the French national anthem. Take a good look at the words and you will see why.
"La Marseillaise" was written and composed by Claude-Joseph Rouget de Lisle, captain in the Engineering corps garrisoned in Strasbourg during the night of 24 to 25 April 1792.
The lyrics, speaking of bloody battles and a call for citizens to take up arms, have been debated endlessly whether to alter the words to suit the more peaceful times that France currently enjoys, but the original words, capturing the spirit of the French revolution, remain. This is probably due to the fact that "La Marseillaise" is now inexorably linked to France in the mind of the world.
1. Allons enfants de la Patrie,
Le jour de gloire est arrivé !
Contre nous de la tyrannie,
L'étendard sanglant est levé !
L'étendard sanglant est levé !
Entendez-vous dans les campagnes
Mugir ces féroces soldats ?
Ils viennent jusque dans nos bras
Egorger nos fils et nos compagnes !
CHORUS:
Aux armes, citoyens !
Formez vos bataillons !
Marchons ! marchons !
Qu'un sang impur
Abreuve nos sillons !
ENGLISH TRANSLATION
1. Arise children of the fatherland
The day of glory has arrived
Against us tyranny's
Bloody flag is raised
The bloody flag is raised,
Listen to the sound in the fields
The howling of these ferocious soldiers
They are coming right into our midst
To cut the throats of your sons and consorts
To arms citizens
Form you battalions
March, march
Let impure blood
Water our furrows!
Yes, when you see the words you realize that any man will defend his country against invaders, even, as in this case, when they are in a civil war. (So imagine how they feel when another country invades...)
Something to ponder upon.
Friday, August 25, 2006
What we did in the Rain
The house stands on the high point of a vast prairie. To the south, the land slopes down steeply and the roof of a ruined cider house can just be seen. An apple orchard stretches to the south - it is long past its prime and the trees are stunted with age and bent by the incessant wind.
Two new buildings are nearby on the plain: a round tent with an exercise machine in it for horses, and a brand new aluminum barn with over forty boxes for thoroughbreds. A new track has been laid just west of the house, the orange sand like a raw wound in the deep green grass. Every morning the young horses are cantered along the track, their heads tossing, their tails whipping, their riders dressed in windbreakers and scarves.
The house was chilly and damp, so we loaded the car with firewood one rainy morning and piled it in the entranceway. From then on there was always a fire in the dining room chimney. I set up my computer next to it, we sat around it, and we grilled our dinners there: hamburgers, steaks, and one night we splurged and had salmon.
We went to the Basilica of St. Therese of Lisieux - just beautiful. And we visited a cheese factory in Livarot. It was really fun to see how the cheese was made and the best part of tasting it, of course. And we went to a zoo run by a conservation group called Cerza - and saw four white tigers - two of which were baby cubs. We saw lots of other animals, but these were so lovely we just stood and stared. A white tiger with blue eyes! The zookeeper told us that all white tigers are descended from a single white tiger born in captivity in 1952, and are all fragile because of their consanguinity.
It rained every day. The polo games were cancelled because the grounds were water-logged and sodden. Clouds as black as soot lumbered over the plain, and the wind whistled in the chimney like a locomotive. The twins took my old VCR camera and made a ghost movie using Julia as actress and victim, lol. They also played cards endlessly, as there was no TV or anything else.
We had dinner with friends, and on the next to last day, my daughter and I were invited to sing the Marsaillaise with the Lisieux choral group for the official ceremony of the liberation of Lisieux by the allied forces.
Tomorrow I'll blog about that!
Two new buildings are nearby on the plain: a round tent with an exercise machine in it for horses, and a brand new aluminum barn with over forty boxes for thoroughbreds. A new track has been laid just west of the house, the orange sand like a raw wound in the deep green grass. Every morning the young horses are cantered along the track, their heads tossing, their tails whipping, their riders dressed in windbreakers and scarves.
The house was chilly and damp, so we loaded the car with firewood one rainy morning and piled it in the entranceway. From then on there was always a fire in the dining room chimney. I set up my computer next to it, we sat around it, and we grilled our dinners there: hamburgers, steaks, and one night we splurged and had salmon.
We went to the Basilica of St. Therese of Lisieux - just beautiful. And we visited a cheese factory in Livarot. It was really fun to see how the cheese was made and the best part of tasting it, of course. And we went to a zoo run by a conservation group called Cerza - and saw four white tigers - two of which were baby cubs. We saw lots of other animals, but these were so lovely we just stood and stared. A white tiger with blue eyes! The zookeeper told us that all white tigers are descended from a single white tiger born in captivity in 1952, and are all fragile because of their consanguinity.
It rained every day. The polo games were cancelled because the grounds were water-logged and sodden. Clouds as black as soot lumbered over the plain, and the wind whistled in the chimney like a locomotive. The twins took my old VCR camera and made a ghost movie using Julia as actress and victim, lol. They also played cards endlessly, as there was no TV or anything else.
We had dinner with friends, and on the next to last day, my daughter and I were invited to sing the Marsaillaise with the Lisieux choral group for the official ceremony of the liberation of Lisieux by the allied forces.
Tomorrow I'll blog about that!
Saturday, August 19, 2006
A haunted house, an ancient treasure...
This weekend I'm leaving for Normandy. We're going to spend a week in an old house on a windy, treeless plateau. The house hasn't been finished yet - friends of our bought it and plan on renting it out, so there isn't any furniture except for beds, one table, and two benches. There are fireplaces in every room, the floors are wooden and creak upstairs and heavy terracotta farm tiles downstairs. The kitchen is pretty much finished, so I can cook, (and since I just broke my stove, this will even be a move UP from where I am now, lol)
We stayed at the house last week for a night, and my daughter had a terrible nightmare. She dreamed there were two jealous children in the house who wanted parents like she had, so they were going to kill her and take her place. Needless to say she woke up in a state of terror and spent the night curled up next to me. And after she told me her dream, I didn't get much sleep either! I heard creaking floorboards, knocking, and the sound of whispers. So I think the house is haunted. Probably by two children. Creepy, no?
I can't wait to stay there and take notes. Authors are definitely a crazy bunch, I'm already plotting a story about the house.
And speaking of plotting, I'm working on the proposal. I sent the rough draft off and my agent loved it. We are now fleshing it out - and I'm keeping the setting (France) and I'm adding the backstory - the Protestant's treasure which was hidden at the end of the 14th century during the war between the Catholics and the Protestants. It happened here, or very close to my village, and people still seek the treasure, sure that it is buried somewhere nearby. There are caves and passages in the limestone hills beneath our village, and the town hall has an old map or two of these passages - and one lies just beneath my house and goes to the church.
What do you think about books set in other places besides America? My agent says it will be harder to sell, but she said to go ahead anyway, because she loved the premise. Are you open to books set in other countries?
Let me know!
We stayed at the house last week for a night, and my daughter had a terrible nightmare. She dreamed there were two jealous children in the house who wanted parents like she had, so they were going to kill her and take her place. Needless to say she woke up in a state of terror and spent the night curled up next to me. And after she told me her dream, I didn't get much sleep either! I heard creaking floorboards, knocking, and the sound of whispers. So I think the house is haunted. Probably by two children. Creepy, no?
I can't wait to stay there and take notes. Authors are definitely a crazy bunch, I'm already plotting a story about the house.
And speaking of plotting, I'm working on the proposal. I sent the rough draft off and my agent loved it. We are now fleshing it out - and I'm keeping the setting (France) and I'm adding the backstory - the Protestant's treasure which was hidden at the end of the 14th century during the war between the Catholics and the Protestants. It happened here, or very close to my village, and people still seek the treasure, sure that it is buried somewhere nearby. There are caves and passages in the limestone hills beneath our village, and the town hall has an old map or two of these passages - and one lies just beneath my house and goes to the church.
What do you think about books set in other places besides America? My agent says it will be harder to sell, but she said to go ahead anyway, because she loved the premise. Are you open to books set in other countries?
Let me know!
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Paranormal Books we probably won't see
Sleeping with my Dog
Glenda put up with Ron turning into a wolf and mauling her every full moon, until the night he ate her precious poodle. Then she packed up and left. But how can she escape a man with a nose like a bloodhound? Especially since she can't seem to give up her exclusive perfume...
My Ex Vampire
Sharon broke up with Dexter, but now she fears for her life. She bought a sun lamp and sleeps with it on all night long. Her worse fear? Lighting storms will knock out the electricity - and Dexter will come and get her.
The Ghost who Stalked Me
Sally Mae can't get rid of the feeling someone is watching her - all the time. In the office, at the club, in her house. Day and night. And then she meets Fred. He's dead. But he's decided to stay in with her to watch her every move. Forever and ever.
Bringing Back Baby
Zelda loved George so much that when he died she begged a bokor to bring him to life. He agreed, in exchange for a lock of Zelda's hair. And now George is back - but he's different somehow. And Zelda is terrified of her zombie husband. Something is not right. And what is that smell?
Look Who's Coming to Dinner
Trish just met Henry, and she wants to introduce him to her parents. But he's a werewolf, and they're both weresheep. She's afraid Henry will cease to love her if he knows she's a weresheep too. Is there a future for a weresheep and a werewolf? And what will their children be? WereWeeps?
A Vampire's Book of Southern Style Living
Mary, a 600 year old vampire, is bored, so she gets a group of southern vampire women get together on the porch every night and they talk about life and love and trade recipes. Blood pudding, blood sausage, bloody Marys and such. A cute book about friendship in the afterlife and recipes galore for the picky vampire.
Glenda put up with Ron turning into a wolf and mauling her every full moon, until the night he ate her precious poodle. Then she packed up and left. But how can she escape a man with a nose like a bloodhound? Especially since she can't seem to give up her exclusive perfume...
My Ex Vampire
Sharon broke up with Dexter, but now she fears for her life. She bought a sun lamp and sleeps with it on all night long. Her worse fear? Lighting storms will knock out the electricity - and Dexter will come and get her.
The Ghost who Stalked Me
Sally Mae can't get rid of the feeling someone is watching her - all the time. In the office, at the club, in her house. Day and night. And then she meets Fred. He's dead. But he's decided to stay in with her to watch her every move. Forever and ever.
Bringing Back Baby
Zelda loved George so much that when he died she begged a bokor to bring him to life. He agreed, in exchange for a lock of Zelda's hair. And now George is back - but he's different somehow. And Zelda is terrified of her zombie husband. Something is not right. And what is that smell?
Look Who's Coming to Dinner
Trish just met Henry, and she wants to introduce him to her parents. But he's a werewolf, and they're both weresheep. She's afraid Henry will cease to love her if he knows she's a weresheep too. Is there a future for a weresheep and a werewolf? And what will their children be? WereWeeps?
A Vampire's Book of Southern Style Living
Mary, a 600 year old vampire, is bored, so she gets a group of southern vampire women get together on the porch every night and they talk about life and love and trade recipes. Blood pudding, blood sausage, bloody Marys and such. A cute book about friendship in the afterlife and recipes galore for the picky vampire.
The August issue of the Sirens newsletter is now online!
The August issue of the Sirens newsletter is now online!
Beat the heat with cool Margaritas from our recipe section while you
enjoy the heat of a different kind with our smokin' excerpts.
We've got lots of news about your favorite authors, too.
http://www.sensualromances.com/NewsletterAug06.html
Beat the heat with cool Margaritas from our recipe section while you
enjoy the heat of a different kind with our smokin' excerpts.
We've got lots of news about your favorite authors, too.
http://www.sensualromances.com/NewsletterAug06.html
Sunday, August 13, 2006
Writing a proposition
I've sold a few books on proposition, and I remember when I first heard about that I was amazed. You always hear the advice "finish the book before you start to shop it around." But sometimes the idea is so original you're not quite sure if it will interest anyone, and in that case it might be better to approach a publisher with the idea to see if there is any interest. Another reason could be just the opposite -you have a great idea you know will be a hit, and you want to get to work on it as soon as possible, so you shop it around first.
Another reason for writing a propostion can come from an agent, an editor, or a publisher. I had my editor suggest a book, we wrote up a proposition, and it was contracted before it was written by EC. Changeling Press were launching their line and wanted something original, so I proposed an m/m sci-fi romance, and they contracted the series on proposal. Right now my agent has an idea she thinks would be right for me, and she wants me to write a proposal for it.
What is a proposal?
It's a synopsis and about three chapters. It can include a full outline (or not). Some authors are pantsers and couldn't outline to save their lives - but no problem, most publishers and editors have worked with authors of All types and don't ask for outlines very often.
So what am I doing now? Well, I finished the synopsis and I'm writing the first three chapters of the book. I'm writing a rough draft - no worries about making it perfect yet - what my agent is looking for is character developement and mood.
I'm also doing it in first person POV, which is actually my favorite POV to work in, and I'm hoping it will work for this story. I have a little research to do right now - I'm setting the story in an actual town, and I need to get the street names right. Luckily it's a place I've been to many times, so I know more or less how it looks and what the surroundings are like, but I am a perfectionist...and besides, research is another name for procrastination, and we all know that I am the Queen of Procrastination!!
LOL
Another reason for writing a propostion can come from an agent, an editor, or a publisher. I had my editor suggest a book, we wrote up a proposition, and it was contracted before it was written by EC. Changeling Press were launching their line and wanted something original, so I proposed an m/m sci-fi romance, and they contracted the series on proposal. Right now my agent has an idea she thinks would be right for me, and she wants me to write a proposal for it.
What is a proposal?
It's a synopsis and about three chapters. It can include a full outline (or not). Some authors are pantsers and couldn't outline to save their lives - but no problem, most publishers and editors have worked with authors of All types and don't ask for outlines very often.
So what am I doing now? Well, I finished the synopsis and I'm writing the first three chapters of the book. I'm writing a rough draft - no worries about making it perfect yet - what my agent is looking for is character developement and mood.
I'm also doing it in first person POV, which is actually my favorite POV to work in, and I'm hoping it will work for this story. I have a little research to do right now - I'm setting the story in an actual town, and I need to get the street names right. Luckily it's a place I've been to many times, so I know more or less how it looks and what the surroundings are like, but I am a perfectionist...and besides, research is another name for procrastination, and we all know that I am the Queen of Procrastination!!
LOL
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Plot plot, fizz fizz....
I'm plotting another book. Having fun too. It's nice to invent a whole new cast of characters and set them loose in a whacky world of my invention.
There has to be a heroine and a hero - and there has to be a bad guy (or gal) and a Plot Arc, and all that fun stuff.
And I don't know how other authors plot and plan, but I know I nearly always start with the Heorine.
Is that usual?
I have my new heroine - and then I try to imagine the perfect hero for her. Her soul-mate - her 'one and only'. And then I invent the meanie(s) and all the trials and tribulations and subplots and secondary characters and...
Oh my. I feel a head-ache coming on. I think I need an Alka Seltzer.
I have to leave now - my dog just rolled in something AWFUL and he smells DISGUSTING!
I am off to give Auguste a Big Bath.
LOL!!!
There has to be a heroine and a hero - and there has to be a bad guy (or gal) and a Plot Arc, and all that fun stuff.
And I don't know how other authors plot and plan, but I know I nearly always start with the Heorine.
Is that usual?
I have my new heroine - and then I try to imagine the perfect hero for her. Her soul-mate - her 'one and only'. And then I invent the meanie(s) and all the trials and tribulations and subplots and secondary characters and...
Oh my. I feel a head-ache coming on. I think I need an Alka Seltzer.
I have to leave now - my dog just rolled in something AWFUL and he smells DISGUSTING!
I am off to give Auguste a Big Bath.
LOL!!!
Saturday, August 05, 2006
Igor the Giant Suitcase
This is a silly post, I warn you ahead of time. Fact is, I do most of my shopping at the Thrift store in the US. (I didn't get to go this year so I didn't get to change my entire wardrobe and will have to continue wearing my last-year's Thrift offering...luckily it includes a soft gray sweater that goes with anything.)
Last year I went several times to the Thrift and bought far more than one suitcase could hold. So, I went back to the Thrift and found another suitcase. Choices at the Thrift, as you know, are limited. There were two - one was a very small toilet bag and the other was a HUGE suitcase on wheels. It was the size of an oil barrel, square, and was made of a sort of 'faux taspestry' material in green, magenta, and black. Hideous is the word that comes to mind, but at the time I was only thinking 'Lots of Space' and plunked down seven dollars for the suitcase. I wheeled it outside to the car and got my first shock. It BARELY fit into the trunk. I looked closer at the monster. It was a lot bigger than I'd thought. I got in the car, and my mother and daughter looked at me and said, "Why did you get such a huge suitcase? It's monstrous!"
I leaned back in my seat and shrugged. "I'll call it Igor," I said.
"Igor?" My daughter giggled, but the name stuck.
We drove around to the grocery store and bought our groceries - and we couldn't put them in the trunk because of Igor. We put them in the backseat - and I started to have doubts about Igor. I imagined myself pulling him through the airport - he was nearly as tall as my ten year old daughter. He would weight three tons. He had wheels, but they were wobbly. And once full of clothes - he would weigh...three tons. Three tons. The words were a death knell for Igor. I turned to my mother and said, "We have to take Igor back to the store. He's too big."
My mother bit her lip then said, "you mean, he doesn't fit in with the family?"
My daughter howled with laughter at that one.
"No, he just doesn't fit in." I was giggling too at this point. "But I'll miss him."
"We will all miss Igor," my daughter said.
"Actually, he's hard to miss," my mother said.
Visions of me dragging the monster along the hallway, crowding people to the side, squashing anyone in their way assailed me. Yes, Igor had to go.
We dropped him off at the Thrift. They gave me a gift certificate for seven dollars. We went to another store and bought a normal-sized red duffle bag with two small wheels at one end and a big 'W' on the side.
We called this one Mr. Wilson. On his first trip he got a rip in the wheelie end and now sports a large patch of silver duct tape.
He's still with us. It makes people turn and stare at the baggage claim when he pops out of the chute and my daughter yells "There goes Mr. Wilson with the tape on his butt! Get him quick!"
But we still think of Igor now and then...
Last year I went several times to the Thrift and bought far more than one suitcase could hold. So, I went back to the Thrift and found another suitcase. Choices at the Thrift, as you know, are limited. There were two - one was a very small toilet bag and the other was a HUGE suitcase on wheels. It was the size of an oil barrel, square, and was made of a sort of 'faux taspestry' material in green, magenta, and black. Hideous is the word that comes to mind, but at the time I was only thinking 'Lots of Space' and plunked down seven dollars for the suitcase. I wheeled it outside to the car and got my first shock. It BARELY fit into the trunk. I looked closer at the monster. It was a lot bigger than I'd thought. I got in the car, and my mother and daughter looked at me and said, "Why did you get such a huge suitcase? It's monstrous!"
I leaned back in my seat and shrugged. "I'll call it Igor," I said.
"Igor?" My daughter giggled, but the name stuck.
We drove around to the grocery store and bought our groceries - and we couldn't put them in the trunk because of Igor. We put them in the backseat - and I started to have doubts about Igor. I imagined myself pulling him through the airport - he was nearly as tall as my ten year old daughter. He would weight three tons. He had wheels, but they were wobbly. And once full of clothes - he would weigh...three tons. Three tons. The words were a death knell for Igor. I turned to my mother and said, "We have to take Igor back to the store. He's too big."
My mother bit her lip then said, "you mean, he doesn't fit in with the family?"
My daughter howled with laughter at that one.
"No, he just doesn't fit in." I was giggling too at this point. "But I'll miss him."
"We will all miss Igor," my daughter said.
"Actually, he's hard to miss," my mother said.
Visions of me dragging the monster along the hallway, crowding people to the side, squashing anyone in their way assailed me. Yes, Igor had to go.
We dropped him off at the Thrift. They gave me a gift certificate for seven dollars. We went to another store and bought a normal-sized red duffle bag with two small wheels at one end and a big 'W' on the side.
We called this one Mr. Wilson. On his first trip he got a rip in the wheelie end and now sports a large patch of silver duct tape.
He's still with us. It makes people turn and stare at the baggage claim when he pops out of the chute and my daughter yells "There goes Mr. Wilson with the tape on his butt! Get him quick!"
But we still think of Igor now and then...
Monday, July 31, 2006
Lunch with my Agent
For those who have always wondered what happens when you lunch with your agent - this post is for you.
And for all you who wonder what it's like to say "I'm having lunch with my agent", know that my head will Never be the same size.
So anyway, I called Caren and told her I was in NY (this is the day I arrived and I am still jet-lagged but in the good way - when you come over from Europe you are all full of energy from 4 am until 4 pm and then suddenly you keel over.) Anyhow, I was still awake so I called Caren and she said "Great - let's meet at this restaurant in Union Square. I'll call and make reservations for two!"
and I said, "Well, I think I'll be bringing my daughter." and when I said this, my mom made all kinds of waving motions that meant 'me too, me too!' so I said, "and my mom will be there too."
"And Sam!" my mom said loudly.
Caren said "What?"
And I said, "My mom wants to come. And Sam will be there too. He's my step brother. Sort of. Well, you'll see."
But she was cool and said, "Great - see you tomorrow!"
And the next day we got up before the sunrise (jetlag the right way, remember) and caught the train to the city. We did the NY Times crossword going down - my mom is a whizz at that - and my daughter looked at the Hudson river and asked "are we there yet?" a hundred times. And then we Were there, in the city - and we took the subway to Union Square because the subway is the only way to get around in the city. (when you're on a budget.) But it was Hot that day - hot and humid. There was the Gay Pride parade on 5th ave. so we stopped and watched for a while. We got to the restaurant (a Cuban place on 17th street) and we met Caren and she had brought her boyfriend. He was raelly cute, and he was from Westerville, of all places. You find out how small the world really is when you find out your agent's boyfriend is from the town your sister lives in now. Weird.
And the conversation went like this:
Me: How do you like being an agent?
Caren: I...
My Mother: So, when are you going to sell Jenny's books?
Caren: Well, I sent them to some editors and...
My Mother: And did you read her Iskander series yet? And the Promise? You have to read the Promise, my kids love it.
Caren: Your kids?
My Mother : I teach English in a maximum security prison and I use Jenny's books for my classes. So, when are Jenny's books going to sell?
But like I said, Caren was cool, and she just laughed and didn't grip her knife tighter or anything, and she told my mother where she'd sent my books and which editors were reading them.
Of course that's when I knock over my black bean soup and I don't get to hear the last part because the waiter is looking Daggers at me, and my daughter is laughing like a loon because she heard the waiter say 'Oh Great'. I try to mop up the mess and make it worse, and then Sam comes in and takes over the conversation, thank goodness, because I'm really shy and shyness makes me nervous and when I get nervous I get clumsy, & I'm just sure my mom is going to make my agent wish she'd never signed me on. (Just kidding. Honest mom.)
Sam tells us about his brother's Tony awards (yes, awardS with an S - Jason won Two!) We're all impressed. Sam calls Jason and tells him how impressed we are. VERY. I wonder briefly where Caren sent my books. Figure mom will tell me later. (she forgot - thought I was taking notes.) Ha.
Anyway.
After lunch we all walked down to SOHO, Little Italy (for some ice-cream, of course) and then to Chinatown just for fun. (It's like going to a foreign country - so amazing - they sell these huge frogs in a bucket and there were kids reaching in to grab them with tongs!) And then we took the subway back to Penn Station - it was almost 5 pm and I had keeled over mentally about an hour back. (Sorry Caren, anything I said after 4 pm made no sense at all, but my brain was fried) My daughter was asleep on her feet. Mom adored Caren from the minute she saw her and she kept saying "Your agent is so nice!" she also thought she was awfully young. LOL. That part is true - she is young. Thank goodness. Sam made sure we got our train (he is so sweet!!) and we went back to Hudson - my daughter and I fell asleep on the train - jet lag is such a pain.
And for all you who wonder what it's like to say "I'm having lunch with my agent", know that my head will Never be the same size.
So anyway, I called Caren and told her I was in NY (this is the day I arrived and I am still jet-lagged but in the good way - when you come over from Europe you are all full of energy from 4 am until 4 pm and then suddenly you keel over.) Anyhow, I was still awake so I called Caren and she said "Great - let's meet at this restaurant in Union Square. I'll call and make reservations for two!"
and I said, "Well, I think I'll be bringing my daughter." and when I said this, my mom made all kinds of waving motions that meant 'me too, me too!' so I said, "and my mom will be there too."
"And Sam!" my mom said loudly.
Caren said "What?"
And I said, "My mom wants to come. And Sam will be there too. He's my step brother. Sort of. Well, you'll see."
But she was cool and said, "Great - see you tomorrow!"
And the next day we got up before the sunrise (jetlag the right way, remember) and caught the train to the city. We did the NY Times crossword going down - my mom is a whizz at that - and my daughter looked at the Hudson river and asked "are we there yet?" a hundred times. And then we Were there, in the city - and we took the subway to Union Square because the subway is the only way to get around in the city. (when you're on a budget.) But it was Hot that day - hot and humid. There was the Gay Pride parade on 5th ave. so we stopped and watched for a while. We got to the restaurant (a Cuban place on 17th street) and we met Caren and she had brought her boyfriend. He was raelly cute, and he was from Westerville, of all places. You find out how small the world really is when you find out your agent's boyfriend is from the town your sister lives in now. Weird.
And the conversation went like this:
Me: How do you like being an agent?
Caren: I...
My Mother: So, when are you going to sell Jenny's books?
Caren: Well, I sent them to some editors and...
My Mother: And did you read her Iskander series yet? And the Promise? You have to read the Promise, my kids love it.
Caren: Your kids?
My Mother : I teach English in a maximum security prison and I use Jenny's books for my classes. So, when are Jenny's books going to sell?
But like I said, Caren was cool, and she just laughed and didn't grip her knife tighter or anything, and she told my mother where she'd sent my books and which editors were reading them.
Of course that's when I knock over my black bean soup and I don't get to hear the last part because the waiter is looking Daggers at me, and my daughter is laughing like a loon because she heard the waiter say 'Oh Great'. I try to mop up the mess and make it worse, and then Sam comes in and takes over the conversation, thank goodness, because I'm really shy and shyness makes me nervous and when I get nervous I get clumsy, & I'm just sure my mom is going to make my agent wish she'd never signed me on. (Just kidding. Honest mom.)
Sam tells us about his brother's Tony awards (yes, awardS with an S - Jason won Two!) We're all impressed. Sam calls Jason and tells him how impressed we are. VERY. I wonder briefly where Caren sent my books. Figure mom will tell me later. (she forgot - thought I was taking notes.) Ha.
Anyway.
After lunch we all walked down to SOHO, Little Italy (for some ice-cream, of course) and then to Chinatown just for fun. (It's like going to a foreign country - so amazing - they sell these huge frogs in a bucket and there were kids reaching in to grab them with tongs!) And then we took the subway back to Penn Station - it was almost 5 pm and I had keeled over mentally about an hour back. (Sorry Caren, anything I said after 4 pm made no sense at all, but my brain was fried) My daughter was asleep on her feet. Mom adored Caren from the minute she saw her and she kept saying "Your agent is so nice!" she also thought she was awfully young. LOL. That part is true - she is young. Thank goodness. Sam made sure we got our train (he is so sweet!!) and we went back to Hudson - my daughter and I fell asleep on the train - jet lag is such a pain.
Tagged
Patrice Michelle tagged me, so here is the result:
When did you start blogging and why? I started about two years ago because I've always had a diary and this just seemed a logical extension of that. I stopped writing on paper and transposed onto the net.
What don't you talk about? Oh, lots of things. I think everyone is entitled to their beliefs and opnions - but you don't have to wave them around, jump up and down, and express yourself constantly. I try to keep my blog more about my life than about my opinions.
Are you and your blogging persona the same person? I think so - I don't really think about it to tell the truth. I'm just writing a diary here...
How do you use blogging to build friendships? Definetely - I have 'met' many wonderful people online that I could not have 'met' anywhere or anyhow else and I'm grateful. (and hope someday to meet everyone in person!)
How would you describe your writing style? Relaxed, I suppose. It's not particularly snarky or clever, although I do admire cleverly written blogs, and snarky blogs often have me laughing outloud. But I'm just writing my diary, so somedays it's boring and somedays it's not...Like my life, I suppose!
When did you start blogging and why? I started about two years ago because I've always had a diary and this just seemed a logical extension of that. I stopped writing on paper and transposed onto the net.
What don't you talk about? Oh, lots of things. I think everyone is entitled to their beliefs and opnions - but you don't have to wave them around, jump up and down, and express yourself constantly. I try to keep my blog more about my life than about my opinions.
Are you and your blogging persona the same person? I think so - I don't really think about it to tell the truth. I'm just writing a diary here...
How do you use blogging to build friendships? Definetely - I have 'met' many wonderful people online that I could not have 'met' anywhere or anyhow else and I'm grateful. (and hope someday to meet everyone in person!)
How would you describe your writing style? Relaxed, I suppose. It's not particularly snarky or clever, although I do admire cleverly written blogs, and snarky blogs often have me laughing outloud. But I'm just writing my diary, so somedays it's boring and somedays it's not...Like my life, I suppose!
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Sam the camera nut
Here is a picture of me taken by my sister two weeks ago. We were at my uncle's camp where we wre' having a family picnic. The sun was shining. We'd left all our worries about my dad at home (we agreed on that when we went out that day) and we were just having a nice time. As you can see, I have a camera in my hands. (photo to be added later when Blogger stops acting up)
I almost always have a camera in my hand or in my purse. My dad, who was an avid photographer, bought me my first camera when I was 6 years old, (a little brownie camera) and when my first roll of film was developed we discovered a whole tribe of headless monsters. I'd cut the head off every person I'd taken pictures of. So my father didn't develop another roll of film for a while, but had me 'practice' with my empty camera trying to frame my shots better. When I said I was ready, he gave me another roll of film (this was back in the 60's and film and developing pictures was pretty expensive.)
I loved experimenting with my camera, and took pictures of everything. Once, wanting to be a playboy photographer, I asked my sister (then about 7) to pose in the nude holding only a big flower to cover herself modestly. The picture was so cute my mom showed it to everyone, which infuriated my sister and she tore the photo to shreds.
I graduated to a polaroid camera, and then, when I graduated highschool, my father bought me my first real camera, a wonderful Canon. I loved that camera and took it all over the world with me, taking photos of camels in Morrocco, the coast in Israel, and beaches in the Bahamas and the Canary Islands. Most of my pictures I sent back to my dad. But then his house burned down, and all his photos burned too. It was a tragedy for my father. He had been taking pictures since he was a kid too - and I think he was far more upset about his photo collection than about his house.
Over the years, I've taken thousands of photos, and I have two bookcases full of photo albums, and a 'treasure box' of an odd assortment of pictures that my kids love to dig through.
Do you like taking pictures too?
Monday, July 24, 2006
French Fireman
My son Sebi is almost done with his training. I love his uniform - all that's missing is the helmet (shiny and gold here). He posed for me so I thought I'd post his photo here. If you come to France and see this uniform, you will know it's a fireman!
Sunday, July 23, 2006
Hot weather
It's far hotter than usual here in France. The grass, despite the frequent thunderstorms, is bleached nearly white and the air is heavy and still. I bought two fans at the hardware store - they were the two last fans in the store! I rather like them; they're retro style, silver, like something you'd see in the office of a private eye in an old detective movie. When I see them I feel like leaning back in my chair and putting my feet up on my desk.
I have been trying to catch up on blogs and such, but haven't had much time. I was gone for over a month, and my son and husband were here by themselves...and neither is 'into' housework. So I've been busy scrubbing and cleaning. In the heat it takes longer.
I've also been reading a lot. My mom gave me a stack of books when I was in NY (my suitcases were Heavy!) and I read Mo Hayder's 'The Devil of Nanking' with my skin just crawing in horror. What a cool book. I'm also reading 'Flyboys', a terrific book about Io and Imo Jima in the Pacific. Absolutely fascinating. And sad too. The Human race is SO fucked up. The word is strong, but you have to read the book to understand why I use it.
Anyhow, for summer reading I would reccommend 'Flyboys' and 'The' Devil of Nanking' and for something light and fun, 'Eleven on Top' by Janet Evanovich. (recommended by my aunt)
What are you reading this summer?
I have been trying to catch up on blogs and such, but haven't had much time. I was gone for over a month, and my son and husband were here by themselves...and neither is 'into' housework. So I've been busy scrubbing and cleaning. In the heat it takes longer.
I've also been reading a lot. My mom gave me a stack of books when I was in NY (my suitcases were Heavy!) and I read Mo Hayder's 'The Devil of Nanking' with my skin just crawing in horror. What a cool book. I'm also reading 'Flyboys', a terrific book about Io and Imo Jima in the Pacific. Absolutely fascinating. And sad too. The Human race is SO fucked up. The word is strong, but you have to read the book to understand why I use it.
Anyhow, for summer reading I would reccommend 'Flyboys' and 'The' Devil of Nanking' and for something light and fun, 'Eleven on Top' by Janet Evanovich. (recommended by my aunt)
What are you reading this summer?
Saturday, July 22, 2006
Been gone
I've been remiss about writing in my blog, but I've had a very sad summer so far. In the space of a month, my father fell ill and died, and I will miss him dreadfully.
Now I am trying to think of other things and find joys in small things; thankfully that has always been easy for me. A butterfly, a summer storm, a book someone sent me, a bracelet from Lourdes, and a note written on rice paper...Every day brings small pleasures and my heart grows lighter. Today, I decided that my blog looked sad and empty and I found I wanted to change that.
I went back and found something I'd written about him a while ago and wanted to post it, so here it is:
I thought I knew my dad - well, I mean, I do know him. He's the best dad I could ever wish for. He built us a tree fort, he loved to do things with us, and he's always loved to take us places. He was never too busy for us. My sisters and brothers all agree - he is a terrific dad. Anyway, My uncle came to visit the other week. He came on an army plane, so he flew for free. He was in the army for ages, and he fought in Vietnam and in the first Gulf War. He's NRA all the way, and a right wing conservative. I, (being a bleeding heart liberal,) get along really well with him, lol. Actually, we get along great. We both love to talk, and we both love to discuss matters. Well, we were discussing the war (both of us firmly on our sides, neither giving an inch, but having a good time.) and he said, "well, your dad would agree (I forgot what we were arguing about) because he fought in the Korean war."
I knew that. But you know what? It didn't mean anything to me. I never learned about the Korean war. I imagined him on a boat somewhere (marine = boat) And then my uncle said, "Yeah, he was in the battle of the Chosin Resevoire" in a tone of voice that could only be described as awe. I had no idea what that was. And so, to educate me, my uncle sent me a book to read. It was pretty amazing. I thought I knew everything about my dad, and here I discover he was in the marines, in the Fox company, fighting an amazing battle in the Chosin resevoire. (He just says, 'yeah, I fought against the Chinese and crossed the frozen Chosin.') Well, the book is the story told by different soldiers - it's called 'The Korean War, From Pusan to Chosin', and it's compiled by Donald Knox. It is just an amazing book. My son is reading it now, and he won't put it down. I thought I knew my history, but I didn't. And I missed something important about my dad too.
It puts another facet on the diamond that's my dad. He shines even brighter now.
I wrote that a while ago, and I wish I'd had more time to talk to him - but I suppose we always think that when someone we love passes away.
Mostly, I like to look at the photos I have of him and remember the things he did or said - he had a wonderful sense of humor and was always telling a funny story or a joke.
Here is a photo of my father when he was 18 and had just joined the marines.
Dad, I'm going to miss you.
Now I am trying to think of other things and find joys in small things; thankfully that has always been easy for me. A butterfly, a summer storm, a book someone sent me, a bracelet from Lourdes, and a note written on rice paper...Every day brings small pleasures and my heart grows lighter. Today, I decided that my blog looked sad and empty and I found I wanted to change that.
I went back and found something I'd written about him a while ago and wanted to post it, so here it is:
I thought I knew my dad - well, I mean, I do know him. He's the best dad I could ever wish for. He built us a tree fort, he loved to do things with us, and he's always loved to take us places. He was never too busy for us. My sisters and brothers all agree - he is a terrific dad. Anyway, My uncle came to visit the other week. He came on an army plane, so he flew for free. He was in the army for ages, and he fought in Vietnam and in the first Gulf War. He's NRA all the way, and a right wing conservative. I, (being a bleeding heart liberal,) get along really well with him, lol. Actually, we get along great. We both love to talk, and we both love to discuss matters. Well, we were discussing the war (both of us firmly on our sides, neither giving an inch, but having a good time.) and he said, "well, your dad would agree (I forgot what we were arguing about) because he fought in the Korean war."
I knew that. But you know what? It didn't mean anything to me. I never learned about the Korean war. I imagined him on a boat somewhere (marine = boat) And then my uncle said, "Yeah, he was in the battle of the Chosin Resevoire" in a tone of voice that could only be described as awe. I had no idea what that was. And so, to educate me, my uncle sent me a book to read. It was pretty amazing. I thought I knew everything about my dad, and here I discover he was in the marines, in the Fox company, fighting an amazing battle in the Chosin resevoire. (He just says, 'yeah, I fought against the Chinese and crossed the frozen Chosin.') Well, the book is the story told by different soldiers - it's called 'The Korean War, From Pusan to Chosin', and it's compiled by Donald Knox. It is just an amazing book. My son is reading it now, and he won't put it down. I thought I knew my history, but I didn't. And I missed something important about my dad too.
It puts another facet on the diamond that's my dad. He shines even brighter now.
I wrote that a while ago, and I wish I'd had more time to talk to him - but I suppose we always think that when someone we love passes away.
Mostly, I like to look at the photos I have of him and remember the things he did or said - he had a wonderful sense of humor and was always telling a funny story or a joke.
Here is a photo of my father when he was 18 and had just joined the marines.
Dad, I'm going to miss you.
Sunday, July 09, 2006
been away a while
My trip to NY has not gone as planned - my dad was very ill and I spent lots of time in the hospital with him. I am in Ohio now, visiting with my sister (who drove to NY to see my dad too - we drove back to her house together)
I keep trying to get computer time but it's not easy, nor have I been trying very hard - summer is kid and family time, so forgive me if I don't post often!
I did go to NYC and met my agent, caren. It was a lot of fun. I brought my mom, daughter, and Sam, my step-brother. LOL! Caren brought her boyfriend, who, it turns out, is from my sister's town here in Ohio! We had a great lunch in a Cuban restaurant - and then we strolled through China town and Soho. Lots of fun. I can't wait to go to NYC again - hopefully for longer than just an afternoon this time. I didn't have time to plan anything - it was in between hospital visits, but hopefully things will quiet down and I'll be back in NYC again soon!
I keep trying to get computer time but it's not easy, nor have I been trying very hard - summer is kid and family time, so forgive me if I don't post often!
I did go to NYC and met my agent, caren. It was a lot of fun. I brought my mom, daughter, and Sam, my step-brother. LOL! Caren brought her boyfriend, who, it turns out, is from my sister's town here in Ohio! We had a great lunch in a Cuban restaurant - and then we strolled through China town and Soho. Lots of fun. I can't wait to go to NYC again - hopefully for longer than just an afternoon this time. I didn't have time to plan anything - it was in between hospital visits, but hopefully things will quiet down and I'll be back in NYC again soon!
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Knights in Shining armor
I went to a medieval fête this weekend and it was terrific. Lots of jousting, Crusaders, costumed revellers, stands, games, and a food tent where they served grilled chicken and cabbage salad (medieval fare, doncha know, lol!)
I took some pictures for inspiration to write a book - don't the characters just come to life?
Monday, June 19, 2006
In the eye of the beholder
And yes, I'm talking about art - and especially cover art. I remember being really turned off by poser cover art when I first started reading e-books. The covers were (to my eyes) really awful. But that didn't stop me from buying the books (I have to admit, I never judge a book by its cover art - I read the blurb...I don't even pay attention to reviews.) I got over it - the really awful poser cover art that used to bother me doesn't seem so awful anymore. I didn't mind when my first book (A Grand Passion) came out with a poser figure holding a soccer ball. I know that covers do sell, and I understand some authors who complain bitterly about covers, but I won't be one of them. Why? Because art and cover art is subjective and beauty is in the eye of the beholder. (Lots of clichés here, lol) But it's true - one person's disaster is another person's poster. I hate one of my covers (I won't tell you which one - it really doesn't matter) but one day a woman said to me, "I bought 'X' because of the cover. I just loved it." Lesson learned.
Sunday, June 18, 2006
Enthusiasm
I'm interested in just about everything and try to keep my enthusiasm for life.
I remember meeting an old man one day and we started to chat; he was so spy and fun that I just had to ask, "what's your secret? How do you stay so young?"
He looked at me and said, "I keep my enthusiasm for everything I do."
I've tried to live by that rule.
And I think that's why I get peeved when I hear writers saying, "I hate when people ask me how to write and how to get published." They roll their eyes and complain.
Didn't these writers ever have enthusiasm for what they did? Didn't they ever ask questions? How could they every forget being unpublished? Didn't they ever seek guidance?
I hope that whenever someone asks me how they can get published I'll have enough enthusiasm to answer joyfully and not with a sigh of annoyance. Even if I'm not a best selling author, if someone needs my help I will always try to be available.
I'm about to start a mentoring program and I sincerely hope that one thing I'll be able to transmit is the satisfaction I get from writing something - be it short story, novel, a letter, or even a blog entry. Communication by writing, imagining the story, choosing the words, and then putting it down for others to share...I'm enthusiastic about what I do and hope I can share that.
So all you published authors out there who cringe when someone asks you how to write a book or how to get published, I hope you'll get down off your high horse and realize anyone can be a writer - you might be talking to the next Nora Roberts or Diana Gabaldon...wouldn't that be exciting to be a part of their future success?
Lots of people helped me - I wouldn't be published if I didn't ask questions and struggle forward, (and a big thanks to everyone who helped me!) Enthusiasm - that's the key!
I remember meeting an old man one day and we started to chat; he was so spy and fun that I just had to ask, "what's your secret? How do you stay so young?"
He looked at me and said, "I keep my enthusiasm for everything I do."
I've tried to live by that rule.
And I think that's why I get peeved when I hear writers saying, "I hate when people ask me how to write and how to get published." They roll their eyes and complain.
Didn't these writers ever have enthusiasm for what they did? Didn't they ever ask questions? How could they every forget being unpublished? Didn't they ever seek guidance?
I hope that whenever someone asks me how they can get published I'll have enough enthusiasm to answer joyfully and not with a sigh of annoyance. Even if I'm not a best selling author, if someone needs my help I will always try to be available.
I'm about to start a mentoring program and I sincerely hope that one thing I'll be able to transmit is the satisfaction I get from writing something - be it short story, novel, a letter, or even a blog entry. Communication by writing, imagining the story, choosing the words, and then putting it down for others to share...I'm enthusiastic about what I do and hope I can share that.
So all you published authors out there who cringe when someone asks you how to write a book or how to get published, I hope you'll get down off your high horse and realize anyone can be a writer - you might be talking to the next Nora Roberts or Diana Gabaldon...wouldn't that be exciting to be a part of their future success?
Lots of people helped me - I wouldn't be published if I didn't ask questions and struggle forward, (and a big thanks to everyone who helped me!) Enthusiasm - that's the key!
Saturday, June 17, 2006
Gardens
I went to Versailles to visit the gardens on Friday, and yesterday I went to Giverny to visit Monet's garden. Two different looks, lol.
Here is Versailles (one of the many gardens there)
And here is Monet's garden - a blowsy, wild, mix of color.
Guess which effect I'm aiming for in my garden? LOL! Here is my front garden:
Here is Versailles (one of the many gardens there)
And here is Monet's garden - a blowsy, wild, mix of color.
Guess which effect I'm aiming for in my garden? LOL! Here is my front garden:
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Thursday Thirteen!!!!!
Thirteen things I learned from my dogs
1. Dead things really, really smell bad. Especially if they've been dead for over a week, and it's hot out, and your dog rolls in it and then lies down on the sofa.
2. Sofas never really let go of bad odors.
3. Rugs look strange when the fringe gets chewed off.
4. Leashes and collars should be made from chains, otherwise they can be bitten through in about two minutes flat.
5. Three a.m. is a bad time to wake up the neighbors with hysterical barking. They are sure to mention it next time you meet.
6. Small holes near the fence should be filled in right away, or else dogs can dig their way out and find their way to the neighbor's house and remind him why he never got a dog.
7. Toilet training takes longer than you think. Dog piss does wash out of socks and slippers, but it's best not to step in it in the first place...
8. Barbie dolls look terrible with chewed up heads.
9. Leaving something on the floor is only an option if you want to find only half of it the next day.
10. A determined dog can dig up a tiled floor. (this one didn't happen to me, but I saw the result. Oh boy.)
11. A Labrador retriever can chew up and swallow an entire large size tupperware bowl and its lid, but some pieces can get stuck in the digestive system resulting in a vet bill that would have paid a month's rent.
12. A large dog, tied to a cement block, is a bad idea on a brand new lawn.
13. No matter how mad you are and how angry you get, your dog always forgives you.
1. Dead things really, really smell bad. Especially if they've been dead for over a week, and it's hot out, and your dog rolls in it and then lies down on the sofa.
2. Sofas never really let go of bad odors.
3. Rugs look strange when the fringe gets chewed off.
4. Leashes and collars should be made from chains, otherwise they can be bitten through in about two minutes flat.
5. Three a.m. is a bad time to wake up the neighbors with hysterical barking. They are sure to mention it next time you meet.
6. Small holes near the fence should be filled in right away, or else dogs can dig their way out and find their way to the neighbor's house and remind him why he never got a dog.
7. Toilet training takes longer than you think. Dog piss does wash out of socks and slippers, but it's best not to step in it in the first place...
8. Barbie dolls look terrible with chewed up heads.
9. Leaving something on the floor is only an option if you want to find only half of it the next day.
10. A determined dog can dig up a tiled floor. (this one didn't happen to me, but I saw the result. Oh boy.)
11. A Labrador retriever can chew up and swallow an entire large size tupperware bowl and its lid, but some pieces can get stuck in the digestive system resulting in a vet bill that would have paid a month's rent.
12. A large dog, tied to a cement block, is a bad idea on a brand new lawn.
13. No matter how mad you are and how angry you get, your dog always forgives you.
Musings
I've been busy playing tour guide and having fun with my sister, who is a terrific person. She wants to do volunteer work and join the Peace Corps, go to Africa, and work with underprivileged children. It got me thinking that my family is pretty special. My mom and dad both worked with underprivileged children. We almost always had a 'fresh-air' child come up and spend summers with us. My mother worked with the 'head start' program in New York with her father, and now works in a federal prison as a teacher. My father helped set up the food stamp program in NY and is now retired, but still does his 'meals on wheels' and teaches English to immigrants in a new language program in NY. My other sister always wanted to help others, and is now working as a job councelor in Ohio for the handicapped. So when my youngest sister told me she wanted a job helping others, I could understand. I've always felt that we were put on this earth to help others, and I feel best when I am being helpful. I think about 80% of my family are teachers! That's a pretty big percentage. Most of them are working in special education programs, and some of them are college professors - but all of them love what they do.
I was just wondering if traits like teaching and helping others were family traits, and if so, I was sitting here being thankful I had such a wonderful family.
I was just wondering if traits like teaching and helping others were family traits, and if so, I was sitting here being thankful I had such a wonderful family.
Saturday, June 10, 2006
Sorry!!!
I know I haven't been blogging very much lately - but the sun is shining, the weather is splendid, and my sister is here on a visit from NY!
I'll be back soon!
Thursday, June 08, 2006
Silk Stockings
I got married in silk stockings. It was sort of a fantasy for me - my fiancé and I had been living together for four years and I wanted to do something a little exotic and different - so I bought a real lace garter belt and silk stockings to clip on. I bought two pairs of stockings (luckily as it turned out) from Dior. The wedding day dawned, we got married at the town hall first by the mayor, then had lunch in the tent with the best man and maid of honor, and then I went to get dressed for the wedding in the church.
I took the stockings out of the box and held them up. "Horrors!" the first pair had a huge run down the leg. I was stunned. I'd been so careful, hadn't caught them on anything...they were defective! I opened the second box, and they were fine. I slid them on, clipped them, and admired myself in the mirror (meanwhile my poor fiancé was taking aspirin after aspirin trying to get rid of a major migraine headache...)
The wedding was a lot of fun. But afterward I wanted to exchange the stockings or at least get my money back. I'd bought them at the Dior stand at a big department store. I went there, with my reciept and the stockings...and the woman told me that she would not give me my money back because the box had been opened and obviously I'd torn them myself. I tried to argue, but to no avail. The woman remained adament. And I got mad. I took the stocking and held it up. Every time someone came to buy something at the stand, I showed them the stocking, said it was a scandal, and told them not to buy anything there. After I'd made at least five people walk away from the stand, the woman (who had been huffing and puffing in fury) ran off to get her manager.
I explained to the manager that I would continue to show people the stocking and tell them what happened. There was nothing he could do about it. He was smart. He gave me my money back.
I took the stockings out of the box and held them up. "Horrors!" the first pair had a huge run down the leg. I was stunned. I'd been so careful, hadn't caught them on anything...they were defective! I opened the second box, and they were fine. I slid them on, clipped them, and admired myself in the mirror (meanwhile my poor fiancé was taking aspirin after aspirin trying to get rid of a major migraine headache...)
The wedding was a lot of fun. But afterward I wanted to exchange the stockings or at least get my money back. I'd bought them at the Dior stand at a big department store. I went there, with my reciept and the stockings...and the woman told me that she would not give me my money back because the box had been opened and obviously I'd torn them myself. I tried to argue, but to no avail. The woman remained adament. And I got mad. I took the stocking and held it up. Every time someone came to buy something at the stand, I showed them the stocking, said it was a scandal, and told them not to buy anything there. After I'd made at least five people walk away from the stand, the woman (who had been huffing and puffing in fury) ran off to get her manager.
I explained to the manager that I would continue to show people the stocking and tell them what happened. There was nothing he could do about it. He was smart. He gave me my money back.
Monday, June 05, 2006
House-cleaning
Yes, I know it's an exciting blog topic - and I'd get a lot more people dropping in if I'd called it 'sexy cleaning,' or 'Fuck house Cleaning' which uis closer to what I feel right this minute...But I digress.
My sister is coming to stay for the summer, to travel a bit and see Europe, and I have to clean my sons' room so she can stay in it. I can't remember which labor of Hercules involved cleaning a stable that hadn't been cleaned in years...Well, that's about what I feel like. Armed with garbage bage, disinfectant, mop, broom, and sponge...I felt just like Hercules must have before his job.
And I'm not done yet.
I thought I'd take a coffee break and blog about something interesting, but it seems I have a small brain only capable of holding one thing at a time...so today it's house cleaning.
A few house-cleaning tips:
white vinegar makes a great cleaning solution. Mix with some water and a few drops of dish washing liquid, and put in a spray bottle. I use it for everything and it gets rid of odors! Hurrah!
A tennis game in the background means you don't get too bored; ditto for some loud music. (Roland Garros is on right now, so I'm watching that between coffee, blogging, and cleaning.)
And now, back to the stables...I mean, the boys' room.
My sister is coming to stay for the summer, to travel a bit and see Europe, and I have to clean my sons' room so she can stay in it. I can't remember which labor of Hercules involved cleaning a stable that hadn't been cleaned in years...Well, that's about what I feel like. Armed with garbage bage, disinfectant, mop, broom, and sponge...I felt just like Hercules must have before his job.
And I'm not done yet.
I thought I'd take a coffee break and blog about something interesting, but it seems I have a small brain only capable of holding one thing at a time...so today it's house cleaning.
A few house-cleaning tips:
white vinegar makes a great cleaning solution. Mix with some water and a few drops of dish washing liquid, and put in a spray bottle. I use it for everything and it gets rid of odors! Hurrah!
A tennis game in the background means you don't get too bored; ditto for some loud music. (Roland Garros is on right now, so I'm watching that between coffee, blogging, and cleaning.)
And now, back to the stables...I mean, the boys' room.
Sunday, June 04, 2006
6 Strange Things
More than you wanted to know…
Thanks to Jona, who tagged me, I’m getting to do a meme on six strange facts about me.
1. I dream every night, and sometimes the dreams are so real I get confused when I wake up - am I awake? Is this still the dream? Sometimes I dream about things that happen, and that makes it even more surreal.
2. My great-grandmother claimed to be a witch. She said she put a curse on the reservoir that covered her town with water. (Everyone had been bought out and forced to move) A few years later, the reservoir dried up. My great-grandmother was rather proud, I think, of being a witch.
3. I knew I was going to have twins before I got pregnant. (Actually, someone I barely knew told me he thought I'd have twins, and I believed him enough that when I got pregnant, I was sure it was twins...and it was.)
4. I'm pretty normal - so this is getting hard now, lol. Um...4. Well, I can draw Anything at all, once I've seen it. (I have a really good visual memory)
5. At the same time, I forget everything else, and my kids call me "Dorie" (from "Finding Nemo") because I forget to pick them up at school, or forget meetings (I just forgot one this week - and the guy called me up and asked if everything was all right - poor chap thought I might have been in an accident. Truth was, I completely forgot I was supposed to meet him.) or forget lunch dates...
6. I'm a geek. I don't care about fashion, shoes, movie stars, or gossip magazines. I have no idea why. My best friend is a shoe designer, I was good friends with Andie MacDowell when we were modeling, and most of the polo players show up in the gossip magazines - so you'd think I'd take the slightest interest...but I really don't. Sorry. I'd rather rant about saving the planet, pollution, politics, or education, so I really think I'm a geek. (does that count for a strange thing?)
I tag:
Wyn, Daisy, Chey, and Ann...
Thanks to Jona, who tagged me, I’m getting to do a meme on six strange facts about me.
1. I dream every night, and sometimes the dreams are so real I get confused when I wake up - am I awake? Is this still the dream? Sometimes I dream about things that happen, and that makes it even more surreal.
2. My great-grandmother claimed to be a witch. She said she put a curse on the reservoir that covered her town with water. (Everyone had been bought out and forced to move) A few years later, the reservoir dried up. My great-grandmother was rather proud, I think, of being a witch.
3. I knew I was going to have twins before I got pregnant. (Actually, someone I barely knew told me he thought I'd have twins, and I believed him enough that when I got pregnant, I was sure it was twins...and it was.)
4. I'm pretty normal - so this is getting hard now, lol. Um...4. Well, I can draw Anything at all, once I've seen it. (I have a really good visual memory)
5. At the same time, I forget everything else, and my kids call me "Dorie" (from "Finding Nemo") because I forget to pick them up at school, or forget meetings (I just forgot one this week - and the guy called me up and asked if everything was all right - poor chap thought I might have been in an accident. Truth was, I completely forgot I was supposed to meet him.) or forget lunch dates...
6. I'm a geek. I don't care about fashion, shoes, movie stars, or gossip magazines. I have no idea why. My best friend is a shoe designer, I was good friends with Andie MacDowell when we were modeling, and most of the polo players show up in the gossip magazines - so you'd think I'd take the slightest interest...but I really don't. Sorry. I'd rather rant about saving the planet, pollution, politics, or education, so I really think I'm a geek. (does that count for a strange thing?)
I tag:
Wyn, Daisy, Chey, and Ann...
Saturday, June 03, 2006
Kelsey's Secret (part 2)
"The mirror," said the nurse. "Show her the mirror, it will all come back." Those were her first words. I didn’t like her voice. It was hard and grated in my head.
Silver flashed as the doctor picked up a hand mirror from the table next to him and held it up in front of my face.
Dark blue eyes stared back at me. Dark blue eyes in a heart-shaped, pale face. A white bandage hid the hair. But whosoever hair it hid it wasn’t mine. The eyes were not mine, nor was the face. "I don’t understand," I said weakly. "Who is that?"
"Don’t you recognize your face Kelsey?" asked the doctor. His voice held the slightest trace of worry.
I started to shake. It was uncontrollable. My body was seized with an argue that blurred my vision and clattered my teeth together. "I’m n-not K-Kelsey," I managed to stutter. "Please, w-what’s hap-pening?"
The slender woman started to speak, but the doctor put his hand on her arm. "Leave me alone with your daughter," he said.
The nurse took the woman from the room and shut the door. The doctor waited a few minutes. We stared at each other in silence. Questions tumbled and jostled in my head, tangling up and making coherent speech impossible. The doctor seemed to understand this. He pulled up a chair and sat by my bed.
"Do you know what year we are?" he asked gently.
I did, and I told him so.
"And the month? The date?"
I frowned. That was tricky. If I had a brain tumor perhaps I’d been unconscious for a few days. Why wasn’t my family here with me though? I grew distressed. "It’s January still, isn’t it? The fifteenth?" I tried to remember when I’d left the house.
The doctor bit his lip. It was the first time I’d seen him look worried. He took my hand. His hands were so large, I thought. Mine was tiny and fragile in his. "It’s May," he said. The tenth of May."
My first reaction was relief. I hadn’t missed my husband’s birthday. It sounds ridiculous, I know, but that was my first thought. Then the gravity of the situation became clear. "I’ve been in a coma for five months?" I asked.
"Nearly five months, yes."
"Am I cured now? Can I go home?"
"In a few weeks, I think."
"But, but why isn’t my husband here?"
The doctors hands tightened around mine, hurting me.
"What is going on?" I asked.
"Do you remember your name?" He asked cautiously.
"Vivian Georgette Marina Lanonne. I’m thirty-seven years old. I have three children. My husband’s name is Etienne, and we live just outside Paris in a lovely stone house with a large garden." I smiled, well content with myself and my memory, which was seeping back with the irresistible flow of the tide. "I want to see my children, they must be absolutely crazy worrying about me. And Etienne, poor Etienne. Can I see him now? Is he waiting outside? I know you wanted to protect me from shock, I suppose after being in a coma for five months you were worried about me, but I can remember everything now, at least, most everything." I smiled engagingly. "Please, can I see Etienne?" Tears started to burn my eyes and they trickled, hot, down my cheeks.
The doctor stopped smiling though. All the muscles in his face were drawn tight around the bones and his eyes burned into mine. "You can never see them again," he said. "You must forget that you ever knew them."
"Forget? What? Are they dead?" My voice rose to a shriek. My heart was hammering so hard in my chest it was shaking me.
"No, no. But, oh damn, I’m doing this so badly. You’re the first. The first person to ever undergo this surgery. How could I know? Kelsey, Kelsey! Answer me! Are you there?" He leaned over me, seized my arms and stared into my eyes. "Kelsey! Answer me!"
"I’m not Kelsey", I whimpered. "Please, what is going on? Where’s Etienne? I want Etienne!"
The doctor sank back onto the chair and wiped his hand over his sweaty face. He sat in silence, collecting his thoughts, then he picked up the mirror again and showed it to me. "Your name is Kelsey Verdant. You are eleven years old. You had a brain tumor. Normally this sort of tumor is fatal. There is nothing we can do. But a few years ago doctors began to experiment with a sort of brain transplant. It seemed to work well with monkeys, and so we wanted to try it on a human. This type of tumor strikes very young children. It seemed a crime not to try and save you. You were doomed. When we finally got a donor you were already practically a vegetable and in terrible pain.
“We called your parents and they brought you in. It was in January, five months ago. We had a donor. A woman had been in a terrible car crash. Her brain was intact, but she was bleeding to death. Her spine was broken. We could not save her. Her husband agreed to donate her organs. We took part of her brain. We operated on you that very night. Thirteen hours. In the morning you were still alive.
“You have been in a coma for five months. We maintained you in a coma so that the brain’s activity was at it’s lowest, and so there would be a minimum of swelling and damage. When your brain waves started to show normal activity we woke you up.
“Vivian Lanonne has been dead and buried for five months. Your family has mourned you. Would you go back to them as you are now? You are an eleven-year-old girl, two years older than your eldest son is. How could you go back? But there is a family here who needs you. You were their only daughter. Your mother has been sitting at your bedside everyday for five months. Your father comes each evening and holds your hand and tells you stories. You can make them very happy. You can have a whole new life. Or you can destroy two families as well as yourself. You can try and be Vivian Lanonne. Eleven years old. Married with three children. Or you can be Kelsey Verdant. Adored daughter of Lucille and Paul. Please consider the two cases most carefully."
I closed my eyes. The images were too painful. "Why?"
(to be continued on http://www.jennifermacaire.com - on the front page is a link to the rest of the story if you would like to finish it!)
Silver flashed as the doctor picked up a hand mirror from the table next to him and held it up in front of my face.
Dark blue eyes stared back at me. Dark blue eyes in a heart-shaped, pale face. A white bandage hid the hair. But whosoever hair it hid it wasn’t mine. The eyes were not mine, nor was the face. "I don’t understand," I said weakly. "Who is that?"
"Don’t you recognize your face Kelsey?" asked the doctor. His voice held the slightest trace of worry.
I started to shake. It was uncontrollable. My body was seized with an argue that blurred my vision and clattered my teeth together. "I’m n-not K-Kelsey," I managed to stutter. "Please, w-what’s hap-pening?"
The slender woman started to speak, but the doctor put his hand on her arm. "Leave me alone with your daughter," he said.
The nurse took the woman from the room and shut the door. The doctor waited a few minutes. We stared at each other in silence. Questions tumbled and jostled in my head, tangling up and making coherent speech impossible. The doctor seemed to understand this. He pulled up a chair and sat by my bed.
"Do you know what year we are?" he asked gently.
I did, and I told him so.
"And the month? The date?"
I frowned. That was tricky. If I had a brain tumor perhaps I’d been unconscious for a few days. Why wasn’t my family here with me though? I grew distressed. "It’s January still, isn’t it? The fifteenth?" I tried to remember when I’d left the house.
The doctor bit his lip. It was the first time I’d seen him look worried. He took my hand. His hands were so large, I thought. Mine was tiny and fragile in his. "It’s May," he said. The tenth of May."
My first reaction was relief. I hadn’t missed my husband’s birthday. It sounds ridiculous, I know, but that was my first thought. Then the gravity of the situation became clear. "I’ve been in a coma for five months?" I asked.
"Nearly five months, yes."
"Am I cured now? Can I go home?"
"In a few weeks, I think."
"But, but why isn’t my husband here?"
The doctors hands tightened around mine, hurting me.
"What is going on?" I asked.
"Do you remember your name?" He asked cautiously.
"Vivian Georgette Marina Lanonne. I’m thirty-seven years old. I have three children. My husband’s name is Etienne, and we live just outside Paris in a lovely stone house with a large garden." I smiled, well content with myself and my memory, which was seeping back with the irresistible flow of the tide. "I want to see my children, they must be absolutely crazy worrying about me. And Etienne, poor Etienne. Can I see him now? Is he waiting outside? I know you wanted to protect me from shock, I suppose after being in a coma for five months you were worried about me, but I can remember everything now, at least, most everything." I smiled engagingly. "Please, can I see Etienne?" Tears started to burn my eyes and they trickled, hot, down my cheeks.
The doctor stopped smiling though. All the muscles in his face were drawn tight around the bones and his eyes burned into mine. "You can never see them again," he said. "You must forget that you ever knew them."
"Forget? What? Are they dead?" My voice rose to a shriek. My heart was hammering so hard in my chest it was shaking me.
"No, no. But, oh damn, I’m doing this so badly. You’re the first. The first person to ever undergo this surgery. How could I know? Kelsey, Kelsey! Answer me! Are you there?" He leaned over me, seized my arms and stared into my eyes. "Kelsey! Answer me!"
"I’m not Kelsey", I whimpered. "Please, what is going on? Where’s Etienne? I want Etienne!"
The doctor sank back onto the chair and wiped his hand over his sweaty face. He sat in silence, collecting his thoughts, then he picked up the mirror again and showed it to me. "Your name is Kelsey Verdant. You are eleven years old. You had a brain tumor. Normally this sort of tumor is fatal. There is nothing we can do. But a few years ago doctors began to experiment with a sort of brain transplant. It seemed to work well with monkeys, and so we wanted to try it on a human. This type of tumor strikes very young children. It seemed a crime not to try and save you. You were doomed. When we finally got a donor you were already practically a vegetable and in terrible pain.
“We called your parents and they brought you in. It was in January, five months ago. We had a donor. A woman had been in a terrible car crash. Her brain was intact, but she was bleeding to death. Her spine was broken. We could not save her. Her husband agreed to donate her organs. We took part of her brain. We operated on you that very night. Thirteen hours. In the morning you were still alive.
“You have been in a coma for five months. We maintained you in a coma so that the brain’s activity was at it’s lowest, and so there would be a minimum of swelling and damage. When your brain waves started to show normal activity we woke you up.
“Vivian Lanonne has been dead and buried for five months. Your family has mourned you. Would you go back to them as you are now? You are an eleven-year-old girl, two years older than your eldest son is. How could you go back? But there is a family here who needs you. You were their only daughter. Your mother has been sitting at your bedside everyday for five months. Your father comes each evening and holds your hand and tells you stories. You can make them very happy. You can have a whole new life. Or you can destroy two families as well as yourself. You can try and be Vivian Lanonne. Eleven years old. Married with three children. Or you can be Kelsey Verdant. Adored daughter of Lucille and Paul. Please consider the two cases most carefully."
I closed my eyes. The images were too painful. "Why?"
(to be continued on http://www.jennifermacaire.com - on the front page is a link to the rest of the story if you would like to finish it!)
Friday, June 02, 2006
Kelsey's Secret (part 1)
Mistaken identity
The headline in the Guardian UK reads: One was killed, the other injured. Then their identities were tragically confused
And the story goes on to explain that when the accident happened the police took the surviving victim but with wrong identification because the two girls were so similar. The survivor was in a coma for weeks while people who believed to be her family watched over her. When she woke up, the confusion was immediately straightened out. The part about the girl waking up and being with the wrogn family and called the wrong name caught my attention because I wrote a short science-fiction novella a few years ago about a woman who was killed in a car accident and her brain transplanted into the body of a young girl. When she woke up, the family bending over her was not her own, and they were calling her by a different name.
The news story has a happy / sad ending. The young woman's real family is with her and have explained why they were absent when she woke up, and she is recovering rapidly. The family who cared for her is devestated by their loss, discovering that their daughter is in fact, dead. So there is both joy and sorrow in the tale. A tragedy, a dilemma, a resolution, and an ending that is both happy and sad. Those are the kind of books I love best. And you?
KELSEY’S SECRET
I have no recollection of the accident. Not even one of those fragmented pieces of memory that surges suddenly out of a half-sleep. No bits or glimpses of the tumbling sky or the shiny asphalt.
My three children were at home with their baby sitter and I was on my way to the city to see a play. I was going to meet my husband at his office. All that I can remember clearly. Then, mysteriously, darkness falls over my mind and the next thing I know I’m staring at an open window.
My first reaction is annoyance. It’s January and the window shouldn’t be open. Who left it open? I want to tell somebody to shut it, not to waste heat, but I am incapable of speech.
Then I realize that sun is pouring into the room and everything is bathed in its milky light. The breeze accompanying it is balmy and scented with spring. Confused, I look around. A slender woman is sitting in a chair next to the window, reading a red book. She’s dressed in navy blue, and is about thirty I’d say. Younger than I. Her hair is scraped back in a tight bun. It’s a soft yellow. She dabs at her red-rimmed eyes, and her hands on the book tremble slightly as she turns the pages. Otherwise she’s perfectly still.
My eyes are the only things that work. I try to open my mouth to speak, I cannot. My fingers don’t even wiggle. It’s as if I’m not part of this body lying so lightly on the neat bed. And yet I can feel the slight weight of the sheet against my legs and the pink woolen blanket is itchy under my fingers. I can feel myself breathing.
There are no machines around me to suggest I’m in a hospital, but I know that’s where I am. The white walls, stark and bare, are proof enough. There’s a television set in the corner of the room, and the woman is sitting on a folding metal chair. She turns another page and dabs at her eyes with the tips of her fingers.
Who is she? I make a huge effort to raise my hand, and a sharp pain, like a tiny needle, chases itself around my skull. It’s no use. I can’t move. Something is holding me pressed to the pillow. By shifting my eyes I can just barely make out the arm of some huge, steel contraption hovering over my head. It seems to be behind the bed. Suddenly I’m terribly frightened. I don’t remember the accident, but I remember my husband and my children. Someone must tell them not to wait for me. I picture my husband pacing in his office, and the children looking anxiously at the clock.
My panic grows, my heart starts to race and I’m drenched in cold sweat. Blood is pounding in my ears. The room darkens, tips, and I slide into unconsciousness once again.
This time my dreams are troubled. Voices I don’t recognize are all around me. Someone keeps repeating "Kelsey! Kelsey!".
Who’s Kelsey? In my dream I’m sitting in a pink room. It looks like a little girl’s room. There are posters of ballet dancers on the wall and stuffed animals on the bed. A bowl of goldfish is perched on a white dresser. I can walk around, and I slowly drift from one thing to another, touching the stuffed animals, peering at the goldfish. I even dip my finger in the water, it’s tepid. I examine the posters on the wall. I pick up a doll and smooth her hair. I remember my daughter, only three, and I hug the doll tightly and feel tears sliding down my cheeks. My chest tightens. The room starts to vanish, but just before the scene fades completely away I see a little girl sitting on the bed. Had she been there all along? I didn’t notice her before. She looks at me. Her face is heart-shaped and grave. Blond hair falls straight to her shoulders. She’s terribly thin and pale. Her eyes, a deep, steely blue, hold mine. Then she slowly raises her finger to her lips. "Shhh," she says. "Keep the secret."
"Kelsey! Kelsey!"
I opened my eyes.
I did it consciously. My eyes opened, and I saw a doctor bending over me. He was neither young nor old. He was Asian, and had gold-rimmed glasses. Behind him stood a rather stout nurse. And right behind her was the woman I saw reading. She’s the one calling Kelsey. She was looking straight at me and her hands flew up to her mouth.
"Kelsey! Kelsey, can you hear me?"
I don’t know who Kelsey is. My name is Vivian. But I heard her. "Yes," I whispered.
The doctor smiled. The nurse took a startled step backwards. The woman gave a joyful cry and swooped down upon me. I realized that there was nothing pinning me to the pillow anymore. I was free. Only a whisper of pain remained. Tentatively I reached my hand up to my head. A bandage swathed it.
"Please," I said. "What happened? Where am I?" My voice was raw and broken. Forcing it out of my throat hurt.
"Kelsey..." For some reason the doctor was calling me Kelsey too. "You’re in the hospital St. Anne in Nanterre. The operation was a success. We’ve managed to take out the part of your brain that was sick and replace it with a well part. Can you understand what I’m saying? Your cancer has been cured my dear."
I nodded. The words were clear enough, but the meaning was obscure. "I had a brain tumor?" I asked weakly.
The doctor beamed and nodded. The slender woman was still holding my hand and smiling broadly. The nurse watched me strangely. Like a cat watches a viper I remember thinking.
"Kelsey darling, you’re going to get better now. Soon we’ll take you home." The woman leaned over and kissed me. I was perplexed.
"Who is Kelsey?" I asked.
The woman gasped and jerked backwards. She looked at the doctor, her mouth opened soundlessly.
"You are," he said gently.
"No I’m not," I said firmly. "There must be a mistake."
(To be continued...)
The headline in the Guardian UK reads: One was killed, the other injured. Then their identities were tragically confused
And the story goes on to explain that when the accident happened the police took the surviving victim but with wrong identification because the two girls were so similar. The survivor was in a coma for weeks while people who believed to be her family watched over her. When she woke up, the confusion was immediately straightened out. The part about the girl waking up and being with the wrogn family and called the wrong name caught my attention because I wrote a short science-fiction novella a few years ago about a woman who was killed in a car accident and her brain transplanted into the body of a young girl. When she woke up, the family bending over her was not her own, and they were calling her by a different name.
The news story has a happy / sad ending. The young woman's real family is with her and have explained why they were absent when she woke up, and she is recovering rapidly. The family who cared for her is devestated by their loss, discovering that their daughter is in fact, dead. So there is both joy and sorrow in the tale. A tragedy, a dilemma, a resolution, and an ending that is both happy and sad. Those are the kind of books I love best. And you?
KELSEY’S SECRET
I have no recollection of the accident. Not even one of those fragmented pieces of memory that surges suddenly out of a half-sleep. No bits or glimpses of the tumbling sky or the shiny asphalt.
My three children were at home with their baby sitter and I was on my way to the city to see a play. I was going to meet my husband at his office. All that I can remember clearly. Then, mysteriously, darkness falls over my mind and the next thing I know I’m staring at an open window.
My first reaction is annoyance. It’s January and the window shouldn’t be open. Who left it open? I want to tell somebody to shut it, not to waste heat, but I am incapable of speech.
Then I realize that sun is pouring into the room and everything is bathed in its milky light. The breeze accompanying it is balmy and scented with spring. Confused, I look around. A slender woman is sitting in a chair next to the window, reading a red book. She’s dressed in navy blue, and is about thirty I’d say. Younger than I. Her hair is scraped back in a tight bun. It’s a soft yellow. She dabs at her red-rimmed eyes, and her hands on the book tremble slightly as she turns the pages. Otherwise she’s perfectly still.
My eyes are the only things that work. I try to open my mouth to speak, I cannot. My fingers don’t even wiggle. It’s as if I’m not part of this body lying so lightly on the neat bed. And yet I can feel the slight weight of the sheet against my legs and the pink woolen blanket is itchy under my fingers. I can feel myself breathing.
There are no machines around me to suggest I’m in a hospital, but I know that’s where I am. The white walls, stark and bare, are proof enough. There’s a television set in the corner of the room, and the woman is sitting on a folding metal chair. She turns another page and dabs at her eyes with the tips of her fingers.
Who is she? I make a huge effort to raise my hand, and a sharp pain, like a tiny needle, chases itself around my skull. It’s no use. I can’t move. Something is holding me pressed to the pillow. By shifting my eyes I can just barely make out the arm of some huge, steel contraption hovering over my head. It seems to be behind the bed. Suddenly I’m terribly frightened. I don’t remember the accident, but I remember my husband and my children. Someone must tell them not to wait for me. I picture my husband pacing in his office, and the children looking anxiously at the clock.
My panic grows, my heart starts to race and I’m drenched in cold sweat. Blood is pounding in my ears. The room darkens, tips, and I slide into unconsciousness once again.
This time my dreams are troubled. Voices I don’t recognize are all around me. Someone keeps repeating "Kelsey! Kelsey!".
Who’s Kelsey? In my dream I’m sitting in a pink room. It looks like a little girl’s room. There are posters of ballet dancers on the wall and stuffed animals on the bed. A bowl of goldfish is perched on a white dresser. I can walk around, and I slowly drift from one thing to another, touching the stuffed animals, peering at the goldfish. I even dip my finger in the water, it’s tepid. I examine the posters on the wall. I pick up a doll and smooth her hair. I remember my daughter, only three, and I hug the doll tightly and feel tears sliding down my cheeks. My chest tightens. The room starts to vanish, but just before the scene fades completely away I see a little girl sitting on the bed. Had she been there all along? I didn’t notice her before. She looks at me. Her face is heart-shaped and grave. Blond hair falls straight to her shoulders. She’s terribly thin and pale. Her eyes, a deep, steely blue, hold mine. Then she slowly raises her finger to her lips. "Shhh," she says. "Keep the secret."
"Kelsey! Kelsey!"
I opened my eyes.
I did it consciously. My eyes opened, and I saw a doctor bending over me. He was neither young nor old. He was Asian, and had gold-rimmed glasses. Behind him stood a rather stout nurse. And right behind her was the woman I saw reading. She’s the one calling Kelsey. She was looking straight at me and her hands flew up to her mouth.
"Kelsey! Kelsey, can you hear me?"
I don’t know who Kelsey is. My name is Vivian. But I heard her. "Yes," I whispered.
The doctor smiled. The nurse took a startled step backwards. The woman gave a joyful cry and swooped down upon me. I realized that there was nothing pinning me to the pillow anymore. I was free. Only a whisper of pain remained. Tentatively I reached my hand up to my head. A bandage swathed it.
"Please," I said. "What happened? Where am I?" My voice was raw and broken. Forcing it out of my throat hurt.
"Kelsey..." For some reason the doctor was calling me Kelsey too. "You’re in the hospital St. Anne in Nanterre. The operation was a success. We’ve managed to take out the part of your brain that was sick and replace it with a well part. Can you understand what I’m saying? Your cancer has been cured my dear."
I nodded. The words were clear enough, but the meaning was obscure. "I had a brain tumor?" I asked weakly.
The doctor beamed and nodded. The slender woman was still holding my hand and smiling broadly. The nurse watched me strangely. Like a cat watches a viper I remember thinking.
"Kelsey darling, you’re going to get better now. Soon we’ll take you home." The woman leaned over and kissed me. I was perplexed.
"Who is Kelsey?" I asked.
The woman gasped and jerked backwards. She looked at the doctor, her mouth opened soundlessly.
"You are," he said gently.
"No I’m not," I said firmly. "There must be a mistake."
(To be continued...)
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