This article, lifted from the Guardian UK, is about women's romance novels. What follows is a for and against argument. Personally, I have no problem sitting on the fence with this one. In my opinion, both women make valid points. I do give more points to Julie Bindel, only because I'm a firm feminist myself. And although in a couple of my books, the hero was an alpha male, most feature men-types I consider more acceptable for our society and times.
"Mills & Boon: 100 years of heaven or hell?
Mills & Boon enjoys a huge readership, but has attracted furious critics during its 10 decades in business. Daisy Cummins explains why she is proud to write for the company, while Julie Bindel just wishes the books would go away.
Daisy Cummins and Julie Bindel
Wednesday December 5, 2007The Guardian
Love and hate: Modern Mills & Boon books.
A fine romance
Mills & Boon books have long been an easy flogging horse. Many assume they are only read by the hopelessly unfashionable and out of touch, desperate for tales of helpless heroines swept off their feet by dashing, mildly brutish heroes.
In fact, though, the person reading an M&B is far more likely to be a successful, highly intelligent woman in her 20s or 30s. And neither these women nor the heroines they love are waiting for a man to come and rescue them. M&B has moved on and sexed up.
Next year sees the firm celebrate its centenary and high sales figures continue to speak for its success. Two hundred million books sold worldwide per annum; 13m shifted each year in the UK.
As the daughter of a single-parent feminist, I was hard-wired from an early age to balk at the merest whiff of sexism. Yet, after finding a M&B in my Irish Catholic grandmother's room one summer, I was hooked. I had discovered an exciting world of feisty heroines and hard-muscled heroes. Sexual tension simmered and exploded. And there was always a happy ending. The hero and heroine were equal partners and every conflict was happily resolved, not necessarily in a marriage but with a firm commitment for the future. For me, the child of a revolutionary and somewhat bohemian background, it was a welcome - albeit, at first, slightly guilt-inducing - contrast to the anger at men I had witnessed growing up.
My mother knew I read them and said nothing, giving her tacit permission. She understood the need to balance things out. I now write for M&B myself, and am supremely proud to do so. My last book, The Kouros Marriage Revenge, was about a devastatingly gorgeous Greek. I write under the name Abby Green purely for the thrill of having a pseudonym.
Let's start with the first old chestnut that's used against these books: that they are pulp fiction written in purple prose. Well, they have never been presented as contenders for literary prizes and therefore need not offend anyone who would denigrate them on this basis. These books started out as serials, novellas written to appeal to women who would pick them up for an exotic, escapist treat. And, as with any successful business venture, the original formula has stayed largely the same. Man meets woman, they fall in love, there is a conflict and, ultimately, a happy ending. It is the paradigm behind every great literary romantic work.
Detractors believe that these books perpetuate the stereotype of the doormat woman, taken by a boorish hero, crushed in his arms and transformed into a newer, different type of doormat. They suggest that this fiction encourages women to subscribe to a mythical fairytale, in which men are always the saviour. What drivel. The women who populate these books come from as disparate and wide-ranging economic situations as the women who read them. To say they are all mindless romantic illiterates yearning to be saved is lazy ignorance.
I consider myself a feminist. Not perhaps in the sense that my mother would have called herself a feminist. That fight was fought, and necessarily. For me, feminism means being economically independent; able to pursue the career of my choice without being thwarted; free to make decisions concerning my body, or my vote. I have never struggled with sexual discrimination.
Lovers of romantic fiction, of M&B, know our own minds, we know our own expectations of love and romance. We can separate fantasy and reality. We are not stupid. So go forth in public, ladies - and gents, if you like - take your copy of Bought for the Frenchman's Pleasure or The Italian's Captive Virgin and read it with a smile on your face, cover held high, proud in the knowledge that you are sticking two fingers up to the begrudgers of romance.
* Daisy Cummins
Detestable trash
Fifteen years ago, I read 20 Mills & Boon novels as research for a dissertation on "romantic fiction and the rape myth". It was the easiest piece of research I have ever done. In every book, there was a scene where the heroine is "broken in", both emotionally and physically, by the hero. Having fallen for this tall, brooding figure of masculinity, the heroine becomes consumed with capturing him. The hero is behaving in a way that, in real life, causes many women to develop low self-esteem, depression and self-harming behaviour - blowing hot and cold, and treating her like dirt. But all comes right in the end. After the heroine displays extraordinary vulnerability during a crisis, Mr Macho saves the day and shows her he cares.
By this time (you know how uppity women can be), our heroine is so fed up that she does not comply when he grabs her inevitably small frame in his huge arms, and attempts to take her to bed. And so begins the "gender dance" - man chases woman, woman resists, and, finally, woman submits in a blaze of passion.
My loathing of M&B novels has nothing to do with snobbery. I could not care less if the books are trashy, formulaic or pulp fiction - Martina Cole novels, which I love, are also formulaic. But I do care about the type of propaganda perpetuated by M&B. I would go so far as to say it is misogynistic hate speech.
Why do I care so much about books that few take seriously? Are there not more important battles to fight? Challenging the low conviction rate for rape certainly seems more urgent than trashing novels that perpetuate gender stereotypes, but there is no doubt that such novels feed directly into some women's sense of themselves as lesser beings, as creatures desperate to be dominated.
One argument from M&B apologists is that the heroine has moved with the times. True, she is now more physically active and sexually imaginative. The modern-day character often dares to have sex before marriage, knows what she wants in terms of her career and personal life, and even has a sense of humour.
As a result of the changing heroine, the hero has been required to catch up. But rather than becoming a "new man", it seems he has become even more masculine and domineering in order to keep the heroine in line. This is how the rape fantasies so integral to the plot have been able to persist.
Take this description of a recent M&B novel, The Desert Sheikh's Captive Wife: "Tilda was regretting her short-lived romance with Rashad, the Crown Prince of Bakhar. Now, with her impoverished family indebted to him, Rashad was blackmailing her by insisting she pay up ... as his concubine! Soon Tilda was the arrogant Sheikh's captive, ready to be ravished in his far-away desert kingdom."
Or Bought: One Island, One Bride: "Self-made billionaire Alexander Kosta has come to the island of Lefkis for revenge ... He doesn't count on feisty pint-sized beauty Ellie Mendoras to be the thorn in his side! ... There's a dangerous smile on Alexander's lips ... As far as he's concerned Ellie's a little firecracker who needs to be tamed. He'll seduce her into compliance, then buy her body and soul!!"
Or Virgin Slave, Barbarian King: "Julia Livia Rufa is horrified when barbarians invade Rome and steal everything in sight. But she doesn't expect to be among the taken! As Wulfric's woman, she's ordered to keep house for the uncivilised marauders. Soon, though, Julia realises that she's more free as a slave than she ever was as a sheltered Roman virgin."
The first two were published this year, the third comes out in January.
In 1970, one of M&B's regular writers, Violet Winspear, claimed that her heroes had to be "capable of rape". Another, Hilary Wilde, said in 1966, "The odd thing is that if I met one of my heroes, I would probably bash him over the head with an empty whisky bottle. It is a type I loathe and detest. I imagine in all women, deep down inside us, is a primitive desire to be arrogantly bullied." These comments may have been made some time ago, but the tradition seems to continue in the many M&B novels that depict female submission to dominant heroes.
My horror at the genre is not directed towards either the women who write or, indeed, read them. I do not believe in blaming women for our own oppression. Women are the only oppressed group required not only to submit to our oppressors, but to love and sexually desire them at the same time. This is what heterosexual romantic fiction promotes - the sexual submission of women to men. M&B novels are full of patriarchal propaganda.
I can say it no better than the late, great Andrea Dworkin. This classic depiction of romance is simply "rape embellished with meaningful looks".
*Julie Bindel "
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
I forgot what I was going to say
Don't you hate that?
I was lying in bed last night, and I was thinking of blogging subjects (I rarely do this, so you'd think I'd remember what I was thinking about) and I thought of something interesting...and I forgot what it was about.
As my husband would say "It must not have been that interesting." Which he always says when I tell him I've forgotten what I was about to say.
My train of thought is easily derailed.
I'm in deadline Hell, so forgive me if I don't blog hop as much as I'd like to.
And I'll try to remember what it was I was about to say.
:-)
I was lying in bed last night, and I was thinking of blogging subjects (I rarely do this, so you'd think I'd remember what I was thinking about) and I thought of something interesting...and I forgot what it was about.
As my husband would say "It must not have been that interesting." Which he always says when I tell him I've forgotten what I was about to say.
My train of thought is easily derailed.
I'm in deadline Hell, so forgive me if I don't blog hop as much as I'd like to.
And I'll try to remember what it was I was about to say.
:-)
Sunday, December 02, 2007
rainy day ramblings
It's rainy and warm today - and another wind storm is on its way. Batten down the hatches and close the shutters time.
Yesterday I kicked some elf butt with my barbarians. Yes, I got an early Christmas present from my son. We're Heroes of Might and Magic players (well, I am. My sons play everything). And I got the last game in the series - the barbarian hordes. Lots of fun. I built up a mighty army and stomped all over those pretty elf warriors.
In game one, (if you've played Heroes you'll know what I mean) the action was very stilted. Sort of like the ancient pakman games. Or Mario Brothers one! I remember the day my husband Finally saved the princess. He'd been playing for weeks (months!) and he finally got to the end! (I still hadn't quite managed to perfect the 'B' jump). Then Mario morphed and became more complex. I still held onto game one, along with the old Nintendo unit until it finally blew a fuse and died. Well, Heroes evolved the same way. From two dimensional clonking figures to amazing three dimensional life-like artforms. Gorgeous backgrounds. Amazing effects.
And I was thinking - During my lifetime we went from table-tennis games (the famous ping-pong TV game set in a huge table) to packman, to space invadors (You remember them?) to more complex games that were total busts (We had the first Star Trek game. My kids would make Captain Kurt shoot at Spock, and Spock would say, "Jim! Point that gun somewhere else!")
And then the games evolved and got even more amazing (Rama). And then we discovered Mario, Heroes, and the rest is...progress.
So that was the progress in my life. And telephones too. That's what I remember most about the progress made during my life so far. Communication and video games.
My great-grandmother was born in the late 1800's - she remembers the advent of electricity, cars, and space travel.
Now, who has more impressive memories? Is it just me, or is mankind getting bogged down in the gaming thing?
Yesterday I kicked some elf butt with my barbarians. Yes, I got an early Christmas present from my son. We're Heroes of Might and Magic players (well, I am. My sons play everything). And I got the last game in the series - the barbarian hordes. Lots of fun. I built up a mighty army and stomped all over those pretty elf warriors.
In game one, (if you've played Heroes you'll know what I mean) the action was very stilted. Sort of like the ancient pakman games. Or Mario Brothers one! I remember the day my husband Finally saved the princess. He'd been playing for weeks (months!) and he finally got to the end! (I still hadn't quite managed to perfect the 'B' jump). Then Mario morphed and became more complex. I still held onto game one, along with the old Nintendo unit until it finally blew a fuse and died. Well, Heroes evolved the same way. From two dimensional clonking figures to amazing three dimensional life-like artforms. Gorgeous backgrounds. Amazing effects.
And I was thinking - During my lifetime we went from table-tennis games (the famous ping-pong TV game set in a huge table) to packman, to space invadors (You remember them?) to more complex games that were total busts (We had the first Star Trek game. My kids would make Captain Kurt shoot at Spock, and Spock would say, "Jim! Point that gun somewhere else!")
And then the games evolved and got even more amazing (Rama). And then we discovered Mario, Heroes, and the rest is...progress.
So that was the progress in my life. And telephones too. That's what I remember most about the progress made during my life so far. Communication and video games.
My great-grandmother was born in the late 1800's - she remembers the advent of electricity, cars, and space travel.
Now, who has more impressive memories? Is it just me, or is mankind getting bogged down in the gaming thing?
Saturday, December 01, 2007
Teddy bear's name
December 1st is AIDS Day.Be careful what you name your teddy bear. An elementary school teacher in Sudan let her pupils name a teddy bear Muhammad and she was arrested. The Sudanese government stepped in and sentenced her to prison. Thousands of Sudanese marched in a protest - not to protest against her prison sentence, but to ask for her death. Death - for letting children name a teddy bear Muhammad.
So, if you were thinking about naming your teddy Muhammad, think again.
In other news, Timothy Garton Ash writes a thought-provoking article and calls for comments at the end. Most people just like to comment and I wonder how many actually Read the article.
And there is a hysterically funny article here. But again, the comment section almost makes me laugh harder as Most people have not read carefully and have taken it at face value.
Oh, and if you really want to read funny, you have to see this. It is Hysterical. Unless, of course, you're a Republican. Then, well, you may be gnashing your teeth a bit.
As you can see, I've been reading the news this morning.
I'll try to think of something more blog worthy this afternoon. Until then, spread the news!
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Glue gun!
My halo is shining brightly, according to my neighbor Lynn. I went with her on Tusday to help the school Christmas market committee build wreaths to sell for their market. My daughter used to go to that elementary school, so I was glad to help out and see some of the women I'd lost sight of when my daughter graduated to middle school.
We worked with glue guns - the first time I'd ever used one, and of course I burned myself. My thumb is sporting a nice blister, and my nail got scorched. That glue is boiling hot! (well, d'uh!)
Today I'm off to help another friend with another Christmas market - I'm doing greeting cards with small groups of students. We're having a great time glueing glitter and buttons on colored paper - (no glue guns here!)
The schools usually sign up for the various Christmas markets in the villages (usually held in the town community center) in order to raise some money for the classes. The elementary school raises money for their annual trip to Finland, and the other school is raising money this year for an association, giving the whole amount to a charity that helps handicapped children.
So I'm quite happy to go help out at both places. It gives me a chance to 'play' with glitter, sparkles, beads, buttons, and tinsel - it's like Ali Baba's cave in the workshop!
But I won't be working the glue gun anymore.
ouch.
We worked with glue guns - the first time I'd ever used one, and of course I burned myself. My thumb is sporting a nice blister, and my nail got scorched. That glue is boiling hot! (well, d'uh!)
Today I'm off to help another friend with another Christmas market - I'm doing greeting cards with small groups of students. We're having a great time glueing glitter and buttons on colored paper - (no glue guns here!)
The schools usually sign up for the various Christmas markets in the villages (usually held in the town community center) in order to raise some money for the classes. The elementary school raises money for their annual trip to Finland, and the other school is raising money this year for an association, giving the whole amount to a charity that helps handicapped children.
So I'm quite happy to go help out at both places. It gives me a chance to 'play' with glitter, sparkles, beads, buttons, and tinsel - it's like Ali Baba's cave in the workshop!
But I won't be working the glue gun anymore.
ouch.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Love me, love my favorite book
Young, single friend: (sobbing) "My new boyfriend doesn't like my favorite book in the whole world! I don't think our relationship can work"
Me: "What book is this?"
Her: "(title removed - just think of your favorite book in the Whole world)"
Me: "That's not really a 'guy' book. Does he read other books? He's not totally illiterate, is he?" (An honest question - her last boyfriend was, I think, the missing link.)
Her "No, he's well read. But he likes political books and murder mysteries."
Me: "Well, my husband hasn't read any of my books (except some excerpts - ahem) and I don't care. His taste in reading is execrable. I finally had to buy him books myself. But I bought books in the genre he likes."
Her: "But I think it's so important that he at least tries to read my favorite book. But he won't! He says it's not important."
Me: "I don't think it's really important either."
Her: (glaring) "If I'm going to spend the rest of my life with someone, he has to have read my favorite book. Period."
Me: "You don't think you can be flexible about this?"
Her: "No."
Me: "You know, he's still calling you up and taking you out to great places. I'd reconsider. After all, there are a lot of guys out there who would run the other way if you bugged them about reading a book."
Her: "When I showed it to him, he said the cover was lamatable."
Me: "At least he uses four syllable words. I'm impressed. Come on! Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. You know, if it were one of my books he was refusing to read, I'd say dump the jerk. But seriously. Having a favorite book in common is not a prerequisite for a happy marriage. Honest."
Her: "I'm going to give him one more try. If he doesn't read it, it's all over between us."
(She gets her coat and leaves)
I run to the internet and send an e-mail:
"Hey, I just saw your girlfriend. A word of advice. Look up (title) on the internet and find a good synopsis. Tell her you read the book!"
I get a message back:
"I'm sorry - I've decided to break up with her. She told me her favorite album was by James Blunt."
Me: "What book is this?"
Her: "(title removed - just think of your favorite book in the Whole world)"
Me: "That's not really a 'guy' book. Does he read other books? He's not totally illiterate, is he?" (An honest question - her last boyfriend was, I think, the missing link.)
Her "No, he's well read. But he likes political books and murder mysteries."
Me: "Well, my husband hasn't read any of my books (except some excerpts - ahem) and I don't care. His taste in reading is execrable. I finally had to buy him books myself. But I bought books in the genre he likes."
Her: "But I think it's so important that he at least tries to read my favorite book. But he won't! He says it's not important."
Me: "I don't think it's really important either."
Her: (glaring) "If I'm going to spend the rest of my life with someone, he has to have read my favorite book. Period."
Me: "You don't think you can be flexible about this?"
Her: "No."
Me: "You know, he's still calling you up and taking you out to great places. I'd reconsider. After all, there are a lot of guys out there who would run the other way if you bugged them about reading a book."
Her: "When I showed it to him, he said the cover was lamatable."
Me: "At least he uses four syllable words. I'm impressed. Come on! Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. You know, if it were one of my books he was refusing to read, I'd say dump the jerk. But seriously. Having a favorite book in common is not a prerequisite for a happy marriage. Honest."
Her: "I'm going to give him one more try. If he doesn't read it, it's all over between us."
(She gets her coat and leaves)
I run to the internet and send an e-mail:
"Hey, I just saw your girlfriend. A word of advice. Look up (title) on the internet and find a good synopsis. Tell her you read the book!"
I get a message back:
"I'm sorry - I've decided to break up with her. She told me her favorite album was by James Blunt."
Friday, November 23, 2007
A new store
Yesterday I found a new store. It's a 'bio' store - everything is biological (green labels everywhere) and it's set up like a big warehouse.
Everything is a lot more expensive than what you find in the supermarket. The veggies, the shampoos and hair dyes - to give an example - a box of hair dye costs 7 euros in the store, and 11 euros in the 'bio' shop. The veggies were more expensive too, but I bought a bag of onions, some celery (wonderful celery, by the way) and some soap. I also tried the bio hair dye. I've been looking for something less harsh and chemical, and this worked nicely. OK, it didn't cover all the gray, but it did cover Most of it, and it looks pretty natural. And there is no (whatever they say) harsh chemicals. (It didn't seem to make my hair as dry as regular hair dyes.)
But it was depressing to see all these interesting products at prices that put them out of my reach. (And apparently out of most people's reaches.) It doesn't seem fair that one has to be wealthy to help save the planet. There are 'green label' bio products slowly making a timid appearance in my grocery store. I buy 'green' 100% biodegradeable washing powder and detergant. But there is nothing, for example, for the dishes. I bought some 'bio' sponges to clean with, and I don't buy window cleaner (haven't for years) but instead use a mix of white vinegar and water. I'd love to be able to buy all my veggies and home cleaning products at the 'bio' store, as well as the clothes they have. But the price is prohibitive.
I'd also love to have a 'green' car, but I noticed that those too were far more expensive than normal cars. Shouldn't they be government subsidized, I wondered? Shouldn't efforts to save our planet be rewarded?
Here is a little snippet that may make you rethink your view on things made of paper. It's from a journalist remarking on the deforestation of Tazmania, and is pretty depressing.
(Exerpt from the online Guardian News):
"Trees are bulldozed or blown apart with explosives and the ground cleared by fires, started by napalm dropped from helicopters. Any native wildlife that survives is culled by sodium fluoroacetate poison, allowing regimented new saplings to grow - monoculture on an industrial scale...Turned into woodchip and then exported as chlorine-bleached pulp, much of what remains of Tasmania's native forests may end up as cheap paper for the hungry markets... "
So thank you, e-book readers. Each time you buy an e-book, you can pat yourself on the back. You saved native wildlife, and that's no mean feat.
Everything is a lot more expensive than what you find in the supermarket. The veggies, the shampoos and hair dyes - to give an example - a box of hair dye costs 7 euros in the store, and 11 euros in the 'bio' shop. The veggies were more expensive too, but I bought a bag of onions, some celery (wonderful celery, by the way) and some soap. I also tried the bio hair dye. I've been looking for something less harsh and chemical, and this worked nicely. OK, it didn't cover all the gray, but it did cover Most of it, and it looks pretty natural. And there is no (whatever they say) harsh chemicals. (It didn't seem to make my hair as dry as regular hair dyes.)
But it was depressing to see all these interesting products at prices that put them out of my reach. (And apparently out of most people's reaches.) It doesn't seem fair that one has to be wealthy to help save the planet. There are 'green label' bio products slowly making a timid appearance in my grocery store. I buy 'green' 100% biodegradeable washing powder and detergant. But there is nothing, for example, for the dishes. I bought some 'bio' sponges to clean with, and I don't buy window cleaner (haven't for years) but instead use a mix of white vinegar and water. I'd love to be able to buy all my veggies and home cleaning products at the 'bio' store, as well as the clothes they have. But the price is prohibitive.
I'd also love to have a 'green' car, but I noticed that those too were far more expensive than normal cars. Shouldn't they be government subsidized, I wondered? Shouldn't efforts to save our planet be rewarded?
Here is a little snippet that may make you rethink your view on things made of paper. It's from a journalist remarking on the deforestation of Tazmania, and is pretty depressing.
(Exerpt from the online Guardian News):
"Trees are bulldozed or blown apart with explosives and the ground cleared by fires, started by napalm dropped from helicopters. Any native wildlife that survives is culled by sodium fluoroacetate poison, allowing regimented new saplings to grow - monoculture on an industrial scale...Turned into woodchip and then exported as chlorine-bleached pulp, much of what remains of Tasmania's native forests may end up as cheap paper for the hungry markets... "
So thank you, e-book readers. Each time you buy an e-book, you can pat yourself on the back. You saved native wildlife, and that's no mean feat.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Happy Thanksgiving!
Thursday Thanksgiving Thirteen
I am thankful for:
1: My friends and family.
2: To live in such a nice village, so near a golf course.
3: My readers.
4: My gym class
5: My English students
6: My dogs, for being such great doggies.
7: My husband counts as family, but I'm putting and extra thanks in here for him!
8: My health
9: My Thrift Shop wardrobe. My daughter and I were laughing about it last night. We love buying bags of clothes at the thrift. She says it's the only place she feels good about buying lots of stuff.
10: The internet, and all my internet friends.
11: My ancient laptop is still working!
12: My even older car is still working!
13: Calderwood Books
I wish everyone a Wonderful Thanksgiving - no matter where you are. A day of thanks is a nice way (for us Pollyanna types) to count our blessings!
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
The Dream Book
When I was in Argentina, I'd usually get to the kitchen early and have breakfast with the staff at the house where we were staying. I really loved sitting at the huge table with the family's three young daughters, the nanny, the cook, and the maids. The nanny was Irish, and we could speak English together. In the entire household, she was the only other native English speaker, so that's one reason I liked to hang out there for breakfast.
Also, I was a bit shy. My brand new husband (this was on our honeymoon trip to Argentina - 3 months while he bought horses) was usually gone at the crack of dawn or earlier, and I was too timid to go into the huge dining room for the formal breakfast.
My Spanish was spotty, but every morning, the cook and maids would pounce on me as I came in, because they'd discovered I remembered my dreams.
They would hustle over to the table when I arrived, a book in hand, and several sheest of lottery paper. Then, they would grill me about my dreams.
I had to concentrate, and tell them everything that happened.
They'd check the book.
You rode in a car? A new car or an old car? A new car? That's number 47.
The number 47 was ticked off on the lottery ticket.
And so on, until they'd filled in the whole ticket.
There is a book in Argentina called the Lottery Dream Book.
Each object in your dream (or happening, like a trip or a fall) has a corresponding number. So the cook and maids, being avid lottery players, would fill out an entire ticket from my dreams.
And no, they never won the jackpot, as far as I know.
Out of curiosity, I tried to find the book online. I found a whole page of books dedicated to finding lottery numbers with dreams.
Good Luck - and if you win, you have to give me a 10% finder's fee!
;-D
Also, I was a bit shy. My brand new husband (this was on our honeymoon trip to Argentina - 3 months while he bought horses) was usually gone at the crack of dawn or earlier, and I was too timid to go into the huge dining room for the formal breakfast.
My Spanish was spotty, but every morning, the cook and maids would pounce on me as I came in, because they'd discovered I remembered my dreams.
They would hustle over to the table when I arrived, a book in hand, and several sheest of lottery paper. Then, they would grill me about my dreams.
I had to concentrate, and tell them everything that happened.
They'd check the book.
You rode in a car? A new car or an old car? A new car? That's number 47.
The number 47 was ticked off on the lottery ticket.
And so on, until they'd filled in the whole ticket.
There is a book in Argentina called the Lottery Dream Book.
Each object in your dream (or happening, like a trip or a fall) has a corresponding number. So the cook and maids, being avid lottery players, would fill out an entire ticket from my dreams.
And no, they never won the jackpot, as far as I know.
Out of curiosity, I tried to find the book online. I found a whole page of books dedicated to finding lottery numbers with dreams.
Good Luck - and if you win, you have to give me a 10% finder's fee!
;-D
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
A strange dream
I'm with my family, and with my brother and his family. We're playing frisbee golf. At first, it seems to be a normal golf course - a summertime park with some tee-off areas and metal chain baskets hanging on poles in guise of holes. We throw our first frisbees and everything is fine. My throw is pretty straight. We head towards our frisbees.
And things get strange.
As we walk into the forest, the trees get bigger. They lean over us like buildings. Instead of a grove of trees on my left, there seems to be a high, cement wall with birch trees painted on it.
I throw my second shot and it bounces off a tree trunk and lands right back in my hand. Laughing, I throw again. A good shot, it slides under a huge fallen tree to land near the first basket.
We all get within putting distance.
As soon as we start to putt, our frisbees change. Mine changes into a plastic coffee cup lid. My brother's changes into a sweatshirt. Someone else's changes into a pie tin, another into a belt, and still another becomes an empty soda can. Then the frisbee golf basket changes into a gate, so we walk through it.
We look around, and we're standing in a graveyard. It's old, overgrown, and run down. A small apple tree is growing near a crypt. The apples on it are huge and so dark red they look almost black. I pick one and eat it. Inside, the flesh is purple, and the seeds are huge. (In dreams, I can't really taste anything, but I imagined it as being too sweet - almost cloying.) It's getting dark, and we don't like the place, so we leave the graveyard and find ourselves in a forest clearing. There is an abandoned, ruined house nearby, and dead leaves crackle underfoot. The trees are bare, and a cold wind makes us shiver.
Someone comes through the trees, pushing a wheelbarrow. It's a gardener. He gives us each something from the wheelbarrow. We each get a small plant. There are eggplants, vines, tomato plants, and I get a small flowering plant with orange berries. Then the gardener tells us to hurry up, the next train is about to leave. When I look around, I notice we're now at a train station. I hurry into the train - everyone is waiting for me. The train pulls out of the station and I see the gardener, waving. Behind him, in the ruined house, a door opens and an old woman walks out and waves too.
It's getting darker and the wind outside is whipping the trees into a frenzy. The train is old and noisy, and we're looking around for tea cups when the whistle starts to blow.
It's the telephone.
I wake up with a start.
My friend Andrea is calling early to ask if I'm coming to the school this morning to help with the decorations.
Yes, I'm on my way. But first I want to write down this very strange dream!
And things get strange.
As we walk into the forest, the trees get bigger. They lean over us like buildings. Instead of a grove of trees on my left, there seems to be a high, cement wall with birch trees painted on it.
I throw my second shot and it bounces off a tree trunk and lands right back in my hand. Laughing, I throw again. A good shot, it slides under a huge fallen tree to land near the first basket.
We all get within putting distance.
As soon as we start to putt, our frisbees change. Mine changes into a plastic coffee cup lid. My brother's changes into a sweatshirt. Someone else's changes into a pie tin, another into a belt, and still another becomes an empty soda can. Then the frisbee golf basket changes into a gate, so we walk through it.
We look around, and we're standing in a graveyard. It's old, overgrown, and run down. A small apple tree is growing near a crypt. The apples on it are huge and so dark red they look almost black. I pick one and eat it. Inside, the flesh is purple, and the seeds are huge. (In dreams, I can't really taste anything, but I imagined it as being too sweet - almost cloying.) It's getting dark, and we don't like the place, so we leave the graveyard and find ourselves in a forest clearing. There is an abandoned, ruined house nearby, and dead leaves crackle underfoot. The trees are bare, and a cold wind makes us shiver.
Someone comes through the trees, pushing a wheelbarrow. It's a gardener. He gives us each something from the wheelbarrow. We each get a small plant. There are eggplants, vines, tomato plants, and I get a small flowering plant with orange berries. Then the gardener tells us to hurry up, the next train is about to leave. When I look around, I notice we're now at a train station. I hurry into the train - everyone is waiting for me. The train pulls out of the station and I see the gardener, waving. Behind him, in the ruined house, a door opens and an old woman walks out and waves too.
It's getting darker and the wind outside is whipping the trees into a frenzy. The train is old and noisy, and we're looking around for tea cups when the whistle starts to blow.
It's the telephone.
I wake up with a start.
My friend Andrea is calling early to ask if I'm coming to the school this morning to help with the decorations.
Yes, I'm on my way. But first I want to write down this very strange dream!
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Zombie Jack, Jack Frost, and Heroes in the Dust!
Heroes in the Dust is now available at Calderwood Books!Sequel to TIME FOR ALEXANDER and 2nd in the Iskander series. Alexander the Great's campaign against the mountain tribes is given a new kind of life, told from the viewpoint of a time traveling reporter who is married to Alexander. The innate humor of the author is rounded out with the personal triumphs and tragedies of the loving, appealing, sensual Ashley, who has made herself a new life and close friends 3,000 years in her past. Click on the cover to buy!
(thank you!)
The first hard frost of the season has arrived. I just barely saved my son's bonsai tree, which was outside in the garden getting some fresh air. The temperature plunged, and my daughter's horse show today was cancelled because the ground is frozen.I love it when everything is silvery and white - and since it's sunny this morning, the world just glitters.
Yesterday I got a review for Zombie Jack!
“…The story is really enjoyable as Ms Winston deliciously brings on the zany dark humor in a manner that really appeals to the fan of the macabre in me. The humor is not too overpowering or too farcical - just enough to keep me laughing. There is already a beautiful kind of poetry in the premise, what with a hero who lacks a heart, but is in love, and who is supposed to be dead but ends up a hero instead. The story doesn't disappoint in delivering a fun Tim Burton kind of romantic adventure where I am concerned.
...Zombie Jack is a most enjoyable read and it will be a waste, I feel, if the author doesn't revisit her world at least one more time. I'm pretty desensitized when it comes to all those vampires and werewolves in the market so it says a lot about how excited I am about this one. Zombie Jack is too much fun and the party seems to be only beginning by the last page, so do give me more.”
~Mrs. Giggles
http://www.mrsgiggles.com/ebooks/winston_zombie.html
Today we're going to hike over to the next village and try to find some mistletoe in an old apple orchard. (There is a lot of it, and the owner has given us permission to take some for decoration!) Someone gave me an old book on herbs and spells, and there are quite a few one can do with misteltoe. I think today I'll put on my witch's hat and cast some spells...
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Thirteen things better than the Tropics
I was sitting here, a blanket wrapped around my shoulders, the curtains drawn, while frozen rain pattered on the windows thinking to myself, 'Why did I ever leave the tropics?'
When I lived in the tropics, I didn't even own a sweater. Even the rainy season was hot. I never had to turn the heat on (we didn't have heat anyway in the house) and once we lived in a house with a fireplace, and we never lit it; it held a huge potted fern.
Now I live in an old house with such drafts in front of the doors and windows that the curtains move as if in a breeze. Sleet is the most common form of precipitation. What can be better about France than the tropics?
1) I don't have to shake my shoes out every morning. It used to be a habit. I don't do it anymore. It was to dislodge the scorpions that liked to take up residence there. I shook my shoes for about ten years after leaving the islands. It's a hard habit to - er, shake.
2) I can open the cereal and pour myself a bowl, then add milk and eat it without first examining it for sugar ants. Sugar ants are tiny, almost invisible ants that get into Everything. To check for sugar ants you:
pour the cereal in a bowl. Hold it very still while peering at it closely. If the cereal starts to move, you toss everything in the garbage.
3) I can go to the bathroom at night without turning the light on.
In St. Thomas, the bathroom was the nighttime gathering place for the tarantula. They would go to the bathroom to drink from the shower, and you did not want to surprise one - they move incredibly fast and in the opposite direction of where you think they're pointing.
Usually they try for high ground when they're terrified. Your legs look like tree trunks to them.
Terror spreads from the spider to you as it sprints up your leg. Some nights, no one gets any sleep.
4) When it rains here, it's a pretty regular rain. In St. Thomas, we got hurricanes. Three times, when I lived there, the island was declared a national disaster area. Our road was washed out, the school was washed out, the house was full of mud, and that's if the house managed to keep its roof.
5) I can get fresh vegetables and fruit. No, there are no fresh veggies on St. Thomas - or very few. Everything is shipped in. There are home-grown mangoes and g'nips, tamarands and some coconuts. Everything else comes from 'the mainland'. Here in France, the market is full of fresh veggies and fruit. I love it.
6) Cuts don't go sceptic in two seconds flat. (that sort of speaks for itself. In the tropics, cuts and scratches got infected. Period.)
7) I can control the ticks and fleas here. In St. Thomas, it's very hard to keep your dogs and cats tick and flea free. I'm allergic to fleas. They give me huge red welts. Guess who had huge red welts all over her legs and arms for the senior prom?
8) You don't feel caged in. I used to look out to sea. Endless ocean on all sides. (We lived on a mountaintop - the view was spectacular) and I'd think...'I'm trapped.' Now I can get in my car and drive. I can take a train. I can walk. I can 'get away from it all'.
9) There are no people who have come here to 'get away from it all'. In St. Thomas, most of the people who arrived to live there wanted to 'get away from it all'. They usually lasted about 6 months. Then they either packed up and left (usually owing 6 months rent) or they landed in the local loony bin and had a nice rest for a while, before leaving for good.
When I lived in the tropics, I didn't even own a sweater. Even the rainy season was hot. I never had to turn the heat on (we didn't have heat anyway in the house) and once we lived in a house with a fireplace, and we never lit it; it held a huge potted fern.
Now I live in an old house with such drafts in front of the doors and windows that the curtains move as if in a breeze. Sleet is the most common form of precipitation. What can be better about France than the tropics?
1) I don't have to shake my shoes out every morning. It used to be a habit. I don't do it anymore. It was to dislodge the scorpions that liked to take up residence there. I shook my shoes for about ten years after leaving the islands. It's a hard habit to - er, shake.
2) I can open the cereal and pour myself a bowl, then add milk and eat it without first examining it for sugar ants. Sugar ants are tiny, almost invisible ants that get into Everything. To check for sugar ants you:
pour the cereal in a bowl. Hold it very still while peering at it closely. If the cereal starts to move, you toss everything in the garbage.
3) I can go to the bathroom at night without turning the light on.
In St. Thomas, the bathroom was the nighttime gathering place for the tarantula. They would go to the bathroom to drink from the shower, and you did not want to surprise one - they move incredibly fast and in the opposite direction of where you think they're pointing.
Usually they try for high ground when they're terrified. Your legs look like tree trunks to them.
Terror spreads from the spider to you as it sprints up your leg. Some nights, no one gets any sleep.
4) When it rains here, it's a pretty regular rain. In St. Thomas, we got hurricanes. Three times, when I lived there, the island was declared a national disaster area. Our road was washed out, the school was washed out, the house was full of mud, and that's if the house managed to keep its roof.
5) I can get fresh vegetables and fruit. No, there are no fresh veggies on St. Thomas - or very few. Everything is shipped in. There are home-grown mangoes and g'nips, tamarands and some coconuts. Everything else comes from 'the mainland'. Here in France, the market is full of fresh veggies and fruit. I love it.
6) Cuts don't go sceptic in two seconds flat. (that sort of speaks for itself. In the tropics, cuts and scratches got infected. Period.)
7) I can control the ticks and fleas here. In St. Thomas, it's very hard to keep your dogs and cats tick and flea free. I'm allergic to fleas. They give me huge red welts. Guess who had huge red welts all over her legs and arms for the senior prom?
8) You don't feel caged in. I used to look out to sea. Endless ocean on all sides. (We lived on a mountaintop - the view was spectacular) and I'd think...'I'm trapped.' Now I can get in my car and drive. I can take a train. I can walk. I can 'get away from it all'.
9) There are no people who have come here to 'get away from it all'. In St. Thomas, most of the people who arrived to live there wanted to 'get away from it all'. They usually lasted about 6 months. Then they either packed up and left (usually owing 6 months rent) or they landed in the local loony bin and had a nice rest for a while, before leaving for good.
10) There are four seasons here, and I love summer and fall. In the tropics there is hurricane season and the rest of the time.
11) Huge, fifteen inch centipedes. Need I say more?
12) A huge, and I mean huge, difference in class and race - the rich and the poor in the extremes. It's depressing any way you look at it, and from any angle. I rarely saw such poverty as in the tropics.
13) The crime rate is staggeringly high - drugs, murder and mayhem. True, the mafia did move in and clean things up a bit - but overall, the crime there is scary. Here, I don't have dogs for protection.
And next Thursday - what I miss. (you can resume dreaming of clear, turquoise water and warm beaches now...)
Monday, November 12, 2007
Zombies and Such
I had to post this, because a reviewer just contacted me to talk about Jack. She said she had No idea what to expect when she picked up my book, and it surprised her. (Good surprise, not bad, lol!)
But it got me thinking. When I started writing Zombie Jack, I wanted to jettison all my preconcieved ideas about zombies. After all...preconcieved ideas are made to be junked, right?
There was Vlad the Impaller, who became, through literary manipulation, the sexy vampire hero we know today. A hundred years ago, no one would have thought there was a chance in a billion a vampire would be a romance hero.Then there was the werewolf. In legends, there is nothing appealing about the werewolf. Doomed to change into a bloodthirsty beast on the full moon, he's evolved into the thinking wolf - dangerous, yes - but sexy.So - what's a zombie? Well, let's let Dr. Ling-Li, necromancer and zombie expert, tell us:
(Excerpt from Zombie Jack by yours truly!)
How to Make a Zombie in Three Hundred Easy Steps
Mr. Ling-Li paused and cupped his hands beneath his chin. He looked infinitely old, wise, and sorrowful. He caught Brianna’s glance and smiled.
“Necromancy is one of the oldest arts. It was present in ancient Egypt, where the most extensive writings about it exist. But, it was also present in Ur and Sumeria, and in Africa and China, where it was practiced by priests and witch doctors, scholars and laymen alike. You know it best by its connection to voodoo, which is the African branch of this art. I come from China, where my family practiced necromancy for fifty generations. Since we all live more than five hundred years, you can see that it is very much part of my existence, present in the very matrix of my being.
“A necromancer, in the simplest form, is simply a mortician. Someone who prepares the dead for the funeral, makes the dead look presentable, and changes the body using chemicals or herbs. But that is not what I am, although traditionally we work as morticians.
“In a more complex form, a necromancer is a like a priest. One who accompanies the dead to the underworld and shows their souls the way. The ancient Egyptians preserved the mummies. That also is a form of necromancy. And much of necromancy involves herbs and poisons.”
“Is that how to make zombies? With herbs?”
“Oh, much more than just herbs. In the beginning, someone lost a beloved and wanted to bring them back to life. The Greeks have a legend about Orpheus. He went to the underworld to beg Hades for his wife’s soul. Hades gave it to him, but Orpheus looked back, his beloved wife faded back into the underworld, and Orpheus went mad with grief. The longing to bring back someone from the dead is an old one, certainly far older than the legend of Orpheus, but the story illustrates both the longing and the dangers of such a dream.”
Brianna curled her hands around her hot teacup. “I thought that it was just a voodoo thing,” she admitted.
“Oh, no, zombies have different names in different places. Zombi is also the name of the voodoo snake god of Niger-Congo origin; it is akin to the Bantu word nzambi, which means god. But the word ‘god’ here is closer to ‘spirit,’ or one who talks to spirits, than your definition. And to tell you the truth, what you call zombies have nothing to do with Jack or May.”
May again. Brianna pasted a bright smile on her face and said, “Mostly we think of zombies as being mindless slaves in decaying bodies.”
“That’s because there are many different ways to make a zombie, and the easiest way is for a bokor, or zombie maker, to poison his victim, steal his soul, put it in a clay pot, and use the zombie’s body as his slave. Some people claim zombies are caused by a virus, and again, it’s true up to a point. There have been zombies made after contracting a certain virus, but they are not the same as what I do. You see, a bokor, or someone who makes zombies like the Heart Taker has, is not a necromancer. No, that involves something completely different.
“Some believe that necromancy is the most powerful of all magic, because it defeats even death itself. Jack is technically what you call an undead, but still has his soul. And for that, he is different from the other undead, such as vampires or bokor-made zombies.”
SO.........
What do you think about Zombies? Are you willing to suspend your disbelief for a while and meet a sexy zombie - Jack the Stripper?
But it got me thinking. When I started writing Zombie Jack, I wanted to jettison all my preconcieved ideas about zombies. After all...preconcieved ideas are made to be junked, right?
There was Vlad the Impaller, who became, through literary manipulation, the sexy vampire hero we know today. A hundred years ago, no one would have thought there was a chance in a billion a vampire would be a romance hero.Then there was the werewolf. In legends, there is nothing appealing about the werewolf. Doomed to change into a bloodthirsty beast on the full moon, he's evolved into the thinking wolf - dangerous, yes - but sexy.So - what's a zombie? Well, let's let Dr. Ling-Li, necromancer and zombie expert, tell us:
(Excerpt from Zombie Jack by yours truly!)
How to Make a Zombie in Three Hundred Easy Steps
Mr. Ling-Li paused and cupped his hands beneath his chin. He looked infinitely old, wise, and sorrowful. He caught Brianna’s glance and smiled.
“Necromancy is one of the oldest arts. It was present in ancient Egypt, where the most extensive writings about it exist. But, it was also present in Ur and Sumeria, and in Africa and China, where it was practiced by priests and witch doctors, scholars and laymen alike. You know it best by its connection to voodoo, which is the African branch of this art. I come from China, where my family practiced necromancy for fifty generations. Since we all live more than five hundred years, you can see that it is very much part of my existence, present in the very matrix of my being.
“A necromancer, in the simplest form, is simply a mortician. Someone who prepares the dead for the funeral, makes the dead look presentable, and changes the body using chemicals or herbs. But that is not what I am, although traditionally we work as morticians.
“In a more complex form, a necromancer is a like a priest. One who accompanies the dead to the underworld and shows their souls the way. The ancient Egyptians preserved the mummies. That also is a form of necromancy. And much of necromancy involves herbs and poisons.”
“Is that how to make zombies? With herbs?”
“Oh, much more than just herbs. In the beginning, someone lost a beloved and wanted to bring them back to life. The Greeks have a legend about Orpheus. He went to the underworld to beg Hades for his wife’s soul. Hades gave it to him, but Orpheus looked back, his beloved wife faded back into the underworld, and Orpheus went mad with grief. The longing to bring back someone from the dead is an old one, certainly far older than the legend of Orpheus, but the story illustrates both the longing and the dangers of such a dream.”
Brianna curled her hands around her hot teacup. “I thought that it was just a voodoo thing,” she admitted.
“Oh, no, zombies have different names in different places. Zombi is also the name of the voodoo snake god of Niger-Congo origin; it is akin to the Bantu word nzambi, which means god. But the word ‘god’ here is closer to ‘spirit,’ or one who talks to spirits, than your definition. And to tell you the truth, what you call zombies have nothing to do with Jack or May.”
May again. Brianna pasted a bright smile on her face and said, “Mostly we think of zombies as being mindless slaves in decaying bodies.”
“That’s because there are many different ways to make a zombie, and the easiest way is for a bokor, or zombie maker, to poison his victim, steal his soul, put it in a clay pot, and use the zombie’s body as his slave. Some people claim zombies are caused by a virus, and again, it’s true up to a point. There have been zombies made after contracting a certain virus, but they are not the same as what I do. You see, a bokor, or someone who makes zombies like the Heart Taker has, is not a necromancer. No, that involves something completely different.
“Some believe that necromancy is the most powerful of all magic, because it defeats even death itself. Jack is technically what you call an undead, but still has his soul. And for that, he is different from the other undead, such as vampires or bokor-made zombies.”
SO.........
What do you think about Zombies? Are you willing to suspend your disbelief for a while and meet a sexy zombie - Jack the Stripper?
Friday, November 09, 2007
absent minded...
At the golf club, there was a sign posted on the bulletin board:
Lost Keys!
I lost my keys between the parking lot, the retaurant, and the pro shop. I may have put them in someone else's bag by accident.
If you find them, please drop them off at the pro shop.
I'll buy the finder lunch or dinner at the restaurant!
I loved the part about him maybe putting the keys in someone else's bag.
I don't feel quite so absent-minded now.
:-)
Lost Keys!
I lost my keys between the parking lot, the retaurant, and the pro shop. I may have put them in someone else's bag by accident.
If you find them, please drop them off at the pro shop.
I'll buy the finder lunch or dinner at the restaurant!
I loved the part about him maybe putting the keys in someone else's bag.
I don't feel quite so absent-minded now.
:-)
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
Oracle Day
Wynn Bexton has posted an excerpt featuring an oracle. I have always been fascinated by them. The Delphic oracle, Cassandra, Macbeth's three witches...and they continue to fascinate as millions of people consult their astrologists, read advice columns, and scan their palms and tarot cards for answers.
In this excerpt, Ashley, a modern woman trapped in the past with Alexander the Great, is fed up with the soldiers infatuation with sooth-saying. The soldiers think she's an oracle, being a goddess (she's mistaken for Persephone) and keep asking her to tell their fortunes. When she hears about a real oracle in a nearby village, she decides to go along and stop the fortune-telling nonsense in its tracks.
"Lysimachus, I don't tell fortunes. You can't look into the future. There's no such thing as fate!" I tried to talk common sense to him, but it was hopeless.
"Please, we'll pay you! Look, my friends and I have sixteen oboles, and we'll throw in a white chicken. You can sacrifice the chicken and tell us our fortunes with the entrails. Please?"
"Aren't you afraid of what I might say?"
"Of course, who wouldn't be? We know you're a real oracle. Please? The one in the village is so old, we can't understand a thing she says."
I pursed my lips. This oracle business was starting to get on my nerves, yet it intrigued me at the same time. "On one condition."
"What's that?"
"First, you take me to see the oracle in the village." I wanted to see the old lady and find out what all the fuss was about.
Barsine insisted on coming with us. Even she believed in oracles. Alexander was in Persepolis with Nearchus. Otherwise, I don't know what he would have thought about this outing. Plexis joined our troop. He said he wouldn't miss it for the world. Usse watched us leave with a faint line of worry between his brows.
I rode my white donkey, but everyone else walked. We sang and joked as we went toward the town. For me, the whole thing was a lark; a sightseeing trip for a tourist from the future. I didn't believe in gods, oracles or fortune-tellers, but for the people walking along beside me, the gods were real. For the Greeks, the only difference between the gods and men, was that the gods were immortal and could change form. The gods had the same emotions and frailties as men, and loved to meddle in human affairs – they would often come to earth from their home on Mount Olympus and walk among the unsuspecting humans.
The oracle, or pythia as she was sometimes called, was an old woman living on the outskirts of the village. Her cottage was surrounded by a hedge of fragrant thyme and lavender. Several white goats and chickens were in a small paddock in the back.
Her house was actually a temple. It had an open courtyard with a large stone altar under an olive tree. When we arrived, the old woman was outside sitting in the sun, her face hidden in the shadow of a large-brimmed straw hat. She wore a white robe, Greek style. When she stood to greet us, I saw she was almost as tall as I.
She might have looked old but her voice was authoritative. "Bring the donkey to the altar," she ordered.
"Why?" I asked, getting off White Beauty's back and patting her affectionately.
"For the sacrifice. You've brought her for the oracle, have you not? Do you want to consult Apollo? Have you the pelanos?" This was the fee paid to the oracle.
"The donkey is mine," I cried. "She's not to be killed!" I got back on, intending to ride away.
One of the soldiers caught her bridle. "The oracle has spoken," he said. "The donkey will be sacrificed."
"No!" I kicked at him with my foot, trying to wrench the donkey's head away. But she was too docile and just stood calmly while the soldiers pulled me off the poor creature and led her to the altar. I screamed, "Barsine! Plexis! Lysimachus! Do something!"
But Barsine wore an expression of pity and disgust, as if I were committing a heinous crime.
Plexis grabbed my arm and squeezed it so hard he bruised it. "Don't say another word!" he hissed. "What do you think you're doing? It's an honor for your donkey."
"You're just mad because I named her Penelope," I sobbed. "Lysimachus, don't let her do that!"
Lysimachus's face was twisted with pity, and he tried to calm me with gentle words. "Why do you protest? You wanted to see the oracle. Don't worry, we'll let you go first, and Apollo will speak directly to you."
While he spoke, the old woman took off her hat and washed her hands in a small spring next to the altar. Then she reached up into the branches of the olive tree and took down a sharp knife. White Beauty didn't even blink when the woman seized her under the chin and lifted her head up. With a deft movement, she cut the donkey's throat. I saw a red line bloom in her snowy coat, and then I fainted.
Barsine shook me awake. She was holding me up, and my head lolled against her arm. "Wake up! Wake up! It's done."
I opened my eyes and saw the old woman take a pitcher and fill it in the spring. Then she dashed cold water onto the body of my poor donkey, whose nerves were still twitching, making her look as if she were trying to get up. I gave a sharp cry, and then my nose bled all over Barsine and my tunic.
Blood splattered everywhere. The soldiers were most impressed. They leapt backwards and stared at me and at the dead donkey. The old woman had disemboweled the carcass and was busy spreading the intestines and liver onto the altar. She looked up and saw me, and her eyes widened.
"A good omen!" she cried, pointing at me with the bloody knife. "A good omen indeed!"
The soldiers cheered and Barsine beamed, and then Plexis took off his skirt and held it to my nose, begging me in a low voice to control myself, or I'd ruin everything.
I was not used to having a naked stranger standing so close to me, especially one as good looking as Plexis. His thighs brushed against mine and I could feel the heat of his body. My nose bled even more. I closed my eyes and said in a strangled voice, "Plexis, will you please get away from me? And put some clothes on, you're making it worse!" He stopped touching me and jumped back as if he'd been scalded. "I don't believe this," I said, my eyes still closed. I sat down and used my tunic to staunch the blood.
The old woman's yard looked like a battlefield. Most of us were covered with blood, either White Beauty's or mine. The intestines and liver were examined and pronounced "most auspicious". Apparently, all our dreams would come true. I kept my eyes closed as much as possible. For me this day was rapidly turning into a nightmare.
It wasn't over. The woman washed in the spring and bade us wash too. Then she led us into the temple where a fire smoldered in a bronze brazier. She threw handfuls of leaves and herbs on the fire, and stinging smoke filled the room. I choked and my eyes started watering. Strangely enough, no one else seemed affected. The woman sat with her head right in the smoke for a while, and then she disappeared down a staircase that led to a cellar. We followed her, and found ourselves in a small square room hewn out of the bedrock. The room was lit by a single torch, and there were benches all around the walls.
Everyone sat as if they were in a doctor's waiting room. Barsine pulled me down beside her and held my hand. I was still crying. Plexis wouldn't look at me, Lysimachus looked apprehensive, and the soldiers all seemed in high spirits.
The woman went into another room and drew a heavy curtain behind her. After a few moments she called out in a strange voice muffled by the curtain, "Who asks Apollo first?"
Barsine dug her elbow into my ribs, but I shook my head. "You go first," I sobbed.
She stood up and with a shy smile asked, "Will I have Iskander's son, oh Mighty One?"
The old woman answered, still in her weird voice, "Yes. You will have a son in nine moons' time."
Barsine gave me a radiant smile and sat down.
After looking at me for a minute, Lysimachus stood up. "Is my fortune to be made?" he asked.
"Your fortune will be made at the end of the king's reign. But beware, in the end a new acquaintance will be stronger than you." The voice was sly.
Plexis was next. He cleared his throat. "Will I find the answers I seek?"
The woman cackled. "Most handsome one, listen well. You shall go east and east again. You will see the twelve pillars and the sacred river. However, the answers you look for will only be revealed on your deathbed. Don't seek them too soon."
Plexis turned white and sat down rather suddenly.
The three soldiers looked at me uncertainly; then they stood up and asked their questions, one after another. The voice told them they would go further than they'd ever dreamed, and that they would all found large, prosperous families. This seemed to satisfy them. They sat down, and then everyone looked at me. I didn't move, tears running down my face. For this nonsense, my beloved donkey had been killed?
"I see a stranger in our midst," the voice came from behind the curtain. "Stand! So that I may see you."
Barsine pushed me roughly to my feet.
"Will you not ask a question of me?" asked the mocking voice.
"No. I don't believe in you."
There was a collective gasp from my companions, and Plexis drew in his breath with a hiss.
"To believe or not to believe, that is not the question." The voice was sly again, and teasing. "You have come from farther than anyone here can imagine, and you will have the chance to return. However, to return you must sacrifice a human life: one living man. A donkey is just an animal with no soul, but you must kill a man with a soul. I see past the ice in your heart. Didn't you know?" There was a dry chuckle. "Here is a riddle for the Ice Queen. The king is dead, long live the king." A silence greeted these words. We all looked at each other, perplexed.
"I don't like riddles," I snapped, more angry and miserable than confused.
"I'd love to stay and chat," said the voice, with something very like regret in it. "I too have questions to ask that only you may answer. Grant me one, just one, and I will tell you about your son."
The blood drained from my face and my heart thumped painfully. "What do you want to know?"
"Will my name be remembered? Is my name still on people's lips?"
"What do you mean?" I was confused. What was the old woman's name anyway? "What name?"
"Apollo. I am here, and I want to know. Answer me, child of the future. Answer me now, for soon I will vanish and the centuries will bury me in their dust."
At first I thought the woman was talking about herself, but a shiver run down my spine. My head tingled. "It can't be..."
"There are things you will never be able to explain. Just answer me, if you will. Do you know the name Apollo? Have you heard of me once before, perhaps as a whisper? Perhaps in some long, lost song? Do they still sing about me? Answer me... please."
The voice was plaintive, and for some reason I saw Darius's tragic face in my mind. The deposed king, a fallen angel. I thought of the Apollo space program. Tears pricked my eyes. "Yes," I whispered. "Your name is spoken all the way to the moon, but it has nothing to do with you any more."
There was a deep silence while my words were considered, and then the voice came again, calm and oddly quiet. "Well. I suppose I had to ask. Do you see how similar we are? The gods and men."
"My baby," I breathed. "You promised."
"You shall find him in the Sacred Valley. Guard him well. He will find the lost soul."
After that, there was no more sound, except for harsh breathing coming from behind the curtain. I was shaking uncontrollably, but no one would look at me or touch me.
"Apollo asked you a question!" Lysimachus shook his head in awe.
"Don't ever speak to me about it again," I said fiercely.
"Lysimachus, I don't tell fortunes. You can't look into the future. There's no such thing as fate!" I tried to talk common sense to him, but it was hopeless.
"Please, we'll pay you! Look, my friends and I have sixteen oboles, and we'll throw in a white chicken. You can sacrifice the chicken and tell us our fortunes with the entrails. Please?"
"Aren't you afraid of what I might say?"
"Of course, who wouldn't be? We know you're a real oracle. Please? The one in the village is so old, we can't understand a thing she says."
I pursed my lips. This oracle business was starting to get on my nerves, yet it intrigued me at the same time. "On one condition."
"What's that?"
"First, you take me to see the oracle in the village." I wanted to see the old lady and find out what all the fuss was about.
Barsine insisted on coming with us. Even she believed in oracles. Alexander was in Persepolis with Nearchus. Otherwise, I don't know what he would have thought about this outing. Plexis joined our troop. He said he wouldn't miss it for the world. Usse watched us leave with a faint line of worry between his brows.
I rode my white donkey, but everyone else walked. We sang and joked as we went toward the town. For me, the whole thing was a lark; a sightseeing trip for a tourist from the future. I didn't believe in gods, oracles or fortune-tellers, but for the people walking along beside me, the gods were real. For the Greeks, the only difference between the gods and men, was that the gods were immortal and could change form. The gods had the same emotions and frailties as men, and loved to meddle in human affairs – they would often come to earth from their home on Mount Olympus and walk among the unsuspecting humans.
The oracle, or pythia as she was sometimes called, was an old woman living on the outskirts of the village. Her cottage was surrounded by a hedge of fragrant thyme and lavender. Several white goats and chickens were in a small paddock in the back.
Her house was actually a temple. It had an open courtyard with a large stone altar under an olive tree. When we arrived, the old woman was outside sitting in the sun, her face hidden in the shadow of a large-brimmed straw hat. She wore a white robe, Greek style. When she stood to greet us, I saw she was almost as tall as I.
She might have looked old but her voice was authoritative. "Bring the donkey to the altar," she ordered.
"Why?" I asked, getting off White Beauty's back and patting her affectionately.
"For the sacrifice. You've brought her for the oracle, have you not? Do you want to consult Apollo? Have you the pelanos?" This was the fee paid to the oracle.
"The donkey is mine," I cried. "She's not to be killed!" I got back on, intending to ride away.
One of the soldiers caught her bridle. "The oracle has spoken," he said. "The donkey will be sacrificed."
"No!" I kicked at him with my foot, trying to wrench the donkey's head away. But she was too docile and just stood calmly while the soldiers pulled me off the poor creature and led her to the altar. I screamed, "Barsine! Plexis! Lysimachus! Do something!"
But Barsine wore an expression of pity and disgust, as if I were committing a heinous crime.
Plexis grabbed my arm and squeezed it so hard he bruised it. "Don't say another word!" he hissed. "What do you think you're doing? It's an honor for your donkey."
"You're just mad because I named her Penelope," I sobbed. "Lysimachus, don't let her do that!"
Lysimachus's face was twisted with pity, and he tried to calm me with gentle words. "Why do you protest? You wanted to see the oracle. Don't worry, we'll let you go first, and Apollo will speak directly to you."
While he spoke, the old woman took off her hat and washed her hands in a small spring next to the altar. Then she reached up into the branches of the olive tree and took down a sharp knife. White Beauty didn't even blink when the woman seized her under the chin and lifted her head up. With a deft movement, she cut the donkey's throat. I saw a red line bloom in her snowy coat, and then I fainted.
Barsine shook me awake. She was holding me up, and my head lolled against her arm. "Wake up! Wake up! It's done."
I opened my eyes and saw the old woman take a pitcher and fill it in the spring. Then she dashed cold water onto the body of my poor donkey, whose nerves were still twitching, making her look as if she were trying to get up. I gave a sharp cry, and then my nose bled all over Barsine and my tunic.
Blood splattered everywhere. The soldiers were most impressed. They leapt backwards and stared at me and at the dead donkey. The old woman had disemboweled the carcass and was busy spreading the intestines and liver onto the altar. She looked up and saw me, and her eyes widened.
"A good omen!" she cried, pointing at me with the bloody knife. "A good omen indeed!"
The soldiers cheered and Barsine beamed, and then Plexis took off his skirt and held it to my nose, begging me in a low voice to control myself, or I'd ruin everything.
I was not used to having a naked stranger standing so close to me, especially one as good looking as Plexis. His thighs brushed against mine and I could feel the heat of his body. My nose bled even more. I closed my eyes and said in a strangled voice, "Plexis, will you please get away from me? And put some clothes on, you're making it worse!" He stopped touching me and jumped back as if he'd been scalded. "I don't believe this," I said, my eyes still closed. I sat down and used my tunic to staunch the blood.
The old woman's yard looked like a battlefield. Most of us were covered with blood, either White Beauty's or mine. The intestines and liver were examined and pronounced "most auspicious". Apparently, all our dreams would come true. I kept my eyes closed as much as possible. For me this day was rapidly turning into a nightmare.
It wasn't over. The woman washed in the spring and bade us wash too. Then she led us into the temple where a fire smoldered in a bronze brazier. She threw handfuls of leaves and herbs on the fire, and stinging smoke filled the room. I choked and my eyes started watering. Strangely enough, no one else seemed affected. The woman sat with her head right in the smoke for a while, and then she disappeared down a staircase that led to a cellar. We followed her, and found ourselves in a small square room hewn out of the bedrock. The room was lit by a single torch, and there were benches all around the walls.
Everyone sat as if they were in a doctor's waiting room. Barsine pulled me down beside her and held my hand. I was still crying. Plexis wouldn't look at me, Lysimachus looked apprehensive, and the soldiers all seemed in high spirits.
The woman went into another room and drew a heavy curtain behind her. After a few moments she called out in a strange voice muffled by the curtain, "Who asks Apollo first?"
Barsine dug her elbow into my ribs, but I shook my head. "You go first," I sobbed.
She stood up and with a shy smile asked, "Will I have Iskander's son, oh Mighty One?"
The old woman answered, still in her weird voice, "Yes. You will have a son in nine moons' time."
Barsine gave me a radiant smile and sat down.
After looking at me for a minute, Lysimachus stood up. "Is my fortune to be made?" he asked.
"Your fortune will be made at the end of the king's reign. But beware, in the end a new acquaintance will be stronger than you." The voice was sly.
Plexis was next. He cleared his throat. "Will I find the answers I seek?"
The woman cackled. "Most handsome one, listen well. You shall go east and east again. You will see the twelve pillars and the sacred river. However, the answers you look for will only be revealed on your deathbed. Don't seek them too soon."
Plexis turned white and sat down rather suddenly.
The three soldiers looked at me uncertainly; then they stood up and asked their questions, one after another. The voice told them they would go further than they'd ever dreamed, and that they would all found large, prosperous families. This seemed to satisfy them. They sat down, and then everyone looked at me. I didn't move, tears running down my face. For this nonsense, my beloved donkey had been killed?
"I see a stranger in our midst," the voice came from behind the curtain. "Stand! So that I may see you."
Barsine pushed me roughly to my feet.
"Will you not ask a question of me?" asked the mocking voice.
"No. I don't believe in you."
There was a collective gasp from my companions, and Plexis drew in his breath with a hiss.
"To believe or not to believe, that is not the question." The voice was sly again, and teasing. "You have come from farther than anyone here can imagine, and you will have the chance to return. However, to return you must sacrifice a human life: one living man. A donkey is just an animal with no soul, but you must kill a man with a soul. I see past the ice in your heart. Didn't you know?" There was a dry chuckle. "Here is a riddle for the Ice Queen. The king is dead, long live the king." A silence greeted these words. We all looked at each other, perplexed.
"I don't like riddles," I snapped, more angry and miserable than confused.
"I'd love to stay and chat," said the voice, with something very like regret in it. "I too have questions to ask that only you may answer. Grant me one, just one, and I will tell you about your son."
The blood drained from my face and my heart thumped painfully. "What do you want to know?"
"Will my name be remembered? Is my name still on people's lips?"
"What do you mean?" I was confused. What was the old woman's name anyway? "What name?"
"Apollo. I am here, and I want to know. Answer me, child of the future. Answer me now, for soon I will vanish and the centuries will bury me in their dust."
At first I thought the woman was talking about herself, but a shiver run down my spine. My head tingled. "It can't be..."
"There are things you will never be able to explain. Just answer me, if you will. Do you know the name Apollo? Have you heard of me once before, perhaps as a whisper? Perhaps in some long, lost song? Do they still sing about me? Answer me... please."
The voice was plaintive, and for some reason I saw Darius's tragic face in my mind. The deposed king, a fallen angel. I thought of the Apollo space program. Tears pricked my eyes. "Yes," I whispered. "Your name is spoken all the way to the moon, but it has nothing to do with you any more."
There was a deep silence while my words were considered, and then the voice came again, calm and oddly quiet. "Well. I suppose I had to ask. Do you see how similar we are? The gods and men."
"My baby," I breathed. "You promised."
"You shall find him in the Sacred Valley. Guard him well. He will find the lost soul."
After that, there was no more sound, except for harsh breathing coming from behind the curtain. I was shaking uncontrollably, but no one would look at me or touch me.
"Apollo asked you a question!" Lysimachus shook his head in awe.
"Don't ever speak to me about it again," I said fiercely.
Monday, November 05, 2007
golfing at the end of the world
While the world goes to hell in a handbasket (where did that expression come from?) with war looming, the price of oil sky-rocketing, the markets collapsing, extremists from all religions suddenly getting shriller and louder, and global warming causing storms and flooding...
Global warming is causing sunny days here, so I went off to play golf.
November 5th, and I played 18 holes with just a cotton turtleneck and a light sleeveless sweater. (Oh, and jeans, yes, and shoes and socks, if you really want to know.)
And the sun shined. The trees were gold, scarlet, peach colored, and the grass was green and soft, and the ground was dry (we've had a drought, and it's far too hot, but who's complaining? The golf was terrific.)
My elbow is not hurting thanks to the wonders of modern medicine - but after next week's golf tournament (the last of the year for me) I'm putting it in a sling and stopping the pills. The wonder pills, as I call them now, are so amazing that ALL aches and pains vanish, but it's a fake relief, becuase as the medicine wears off, the aches and pains return threefold to remind you (me) that you (I) are (am) a simply feeble human & the best medicine is complete rest.
Sooooooo...
Today was a gorgeous fall day. I made wild duck for dinner. The leaves on the wild cherry trees look like orange silk.
The world is going to hell in a handbasket (I really have to stop reading the news.) Or at least only read the weather report...it's sunny and warm, and will be sunny and warm all winter, as far as I can see.
Global warming is great for my golf game, so I'll keep playing. Besides, our house is heated with natural gas. The price of bread has gone up, the price of eggs, milk, and butter has jumped, and let's not even talk about the cost of filling my gas tank - Oh, what the hell, it's 50$.
But at least we have socialized medicine, and my daughter's braces are not costing me a cent, my elbow is treated for less than five bucks, and the flu shot will set me back another five. So that way, I won't get sick and I'll be able to play golf (probably at Christmas wearing just a teeshirt and shorts...)
As long as the price of a golf game doesn't go through the roof - I'm happy.
Global warming is causing sunny days here, so I went off to play golf.
November 5th, and I played 18 holes with just a cotton turtleneck and a light sleeveless sweater. (Oh, and jeans, yes, and shoes and socks, if you really want to know.)
And the sun shined. The trees were gold, scarlet, peach colored, and the grass was green and soft, and the ground was dry (we've had a drought, and it's far too hot, but who's complaining? The golf was terrific.)
My elbow is not hurting thanks to the wonders of modern medicine - but after next week's golf tournament (the last of the year for me) I'm putting it in a sling and stopping the pills. The wonder pills, as I call them now, are so amazing that ALL aches and pains vanish, but it's a fake relief, becuase as the medicine wears off, the aches and pains return threefold to remind you (me) that you (I) are (am) a simply feeble human & the best medicine is complete rest.
Sooooooo...
Today was a gorgeous fall day. I made wild duck for dinner. The leaves on the wild cherry trees look like orange silk.
The world is going to hell in a handbasket (I really have to stop reading the news.) Or at least only read the weather report...it's sunny and warm, and will be sunny and warm all winter, as far as I can see.
Global warming is great for my golf game, so I'll keep playing. Besides, our house is heated with natural gas. The price of bread has gone up, the price of eggs, milk, and butter has jumped, and let's not even talk about the cost of filling my gas tank - Oh, what the hell, it's 50$.
But at least we have socialized medicine, and my daughter's braces are not costing me a cent, my elbow is treated for less than five bucks, and the flu shot will set me back another five. So that way, I won't get sick and I'll be able to play golf (probably at Christmas wearing just a teeshirt and shorts...)
As long as the price of a golf game doesn't go through the roof - I'm happy.
Sunday, November 04, 2007
Baby Talk
Baby Talk
You'd think that an author, someone who uses words to work with, would take care that her children spoke perfectly. The truth is, I believe words are for communication, and that can take many forms. One thing that bothers me about the system of teaching kids a foreign language is the sheer lack of fun in it. It's boring, exacting, and forgettable - whereas language should be fun, forgiving, and most of all - for communicating.
So, my kids learned to talk, but when they made mistakes - if they were cute and made me laugh - I didn't correct them. They'd learn soon enough a grasshopper wasn't really called a Hopper Grass.
Here are some of their best words:
Blankety. (Blanket. But blankety is more fun, has more syllables, and can go on like blankety-blankety-blank.)
Splastic. (Who can resist this word? It's far better than plastic. So we had splastic bags for ages.)
Hopper Grass. (When they found out it was grasshopper, I tried to tell them no, it was really hopper grass. But real words will prevail.)
Tuc-Tuc-peller. (Propeller. The hovercraft we took to go to England and back every summer had huge propellers on the back. They started up with a loud 'Tuc-tuc-tuc!' The boys called propellers tuc-tuc-pellers for ages. Well, I never wanted to correct them! lol)
N'guh-guh - this African sounding word was my daughter's word for 'bread', and she would only use it, completely ignoring any attempts to get her to say 'bread'. Bread was 'N'guh-guh.'
Ada and Ada - my daughter's names for her twin brothers. She called them Ada and Ada. The neighbor boy, Arnaud, was 'Arnaud', painstakingly sounded out, and she would call Carol 'Carol', and Marielle was 'Marielle', so she knew people had names. But for a long time, the twins were Ada and Ada.
You'd think that an author, someone who uses words to work with, would take care that her children spoke perfectly. The truth is, I believe words are for communication, and that can take many forms. One thing that bothers me about the system of teaching kids a foreign language is the sheer lack of fun in it. It's boring, exacting, and forgettable - whereas language should be fun, forgiving, and most of all - for communicating.
So, my kids learned to talk, but when they made mistakes - if they were cute and made me laugh - I didn't correct them. They'd learn soon enough a grasshopper wasn't really called a Hopper Grass.
Here are some of their best words:
Blankety. (Blanket. But blankety is more fun, has more syllables, and can go on like blankety-blankety-blank.)
Splastic. (Who can resist this word? It's far better than plastic. So we had splastic bags for ages.)
Hopper Grass. (When they found out it was grasshopper, I tried to tell them no, it was really hopper grass. But real words will prevail.)
Tuc-Tuc-peller. (Propeller. The hovercraft we took to go to England and back every summer had huge propellers on the back. They started up with a loud 'Tuc-tuc-tuc!' The boys called propellers tuc-tuc-pellers for ages. Well, I never wanted to correct them! lol)
N'guh-guh - this African sounding word was my daughter's word for 'bread', and she would only use it, completely ignoring any attempts to get her to say 'bread'. Bread was 'N'guh-guh.'
Ada and Ada - my daughter's names for her twin brothers. She called them Ada and Ada. The neighbor boy, Arnaud, was 'Arnaud', painstakingly sounded out, and she would call Carol 'Carol', and Marielle was 'Marielle', so she knew people had names. But for a long time, the twins were Ada and Ada.
Friday, November 02, 2007
Kate's Contest
Kate's having a Writing Contest!
So go HERE
and have FUN! (the point is to have fun, yanno.)
And enter the contest.
You can win some cool PRIZES.
And check out Kate's Books (Or Summer Devon's)
'Cause they Rock.
So go HERE
and have FUN! (the point is to have fun, yanno.)
And enter the contest.
You can win some cool PRIZES.
And check out Kate's Books (Or Summer Devon's)
'Cause they Rock.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Happy Halloween!
As usual, Halloween is not happening here.
My sons took care of it one year, and it never came back. Like a beaten monster, it slunk into the woods and melted away. (Much to the villagers' relief).
What happened was this.
Television and magazinzes suddenly started a 'Halloween' campagne, to encourage the French to get out, get disguised, and get candy (and pumpkins while they were at it...) and get Halloween.
In the face of mostly massive indifference, the commercial gods of the holidays tried to wedge Halloween into the French psyche.
"Halloween is not an American holiday!" the newscasters intoned. "It originated with the Celtes, who were, as everyone knows, French. So, Q.E.D. Halloween is French."
No one believed that, but the French, willing to be modern and forward thinking, not to mention commercially inclined, decided to give it a try. Mayors and village fête commitees got together and drafted notes to the villagers (that were stuck in mailboxes all over town).
"Dear French Villager,
This is your chance to celebrate Halloween! Tonight, at 7 pm, children are invited to present themselves at the village square. Wear disguises! Carry bags for candy! After a parade around the square, the children will go around the village for trick or treating! Villagers - stock up on candy and be prepared to open your doors and give out candy!
Thank you,
The village fête commitee."
This is what my sons understood:
Dear French Halloween neophyte - while you gather in a huge group at the village square and troop around in a crowd - (Impossible to trick or treat in these conditions...the kids in the back won't get anything!) We'll be charging around the village - cleaning up the loot before you.
This is what my sons did. They galloped through the village dressed like terrorists, shooting plastic bee-bees at the villagers who wouldn't play along with Halloween. "What? You don't open your door? You have no candy? Take that!" And the next day, there were bright yellow bee bees scattered in the gutter, and the villagers, bemused and perplexed, explained that they gave all their candy to the first group of trick or treaters...(My sons had bags of candy, the beasts.) My daughter, who had gone with the crowd, had three or founr leftover pieces of candy in the bottom of her bag.
More notes followed. My sons were grounded. The mayor decided, after fielding complaints left and right, that Halloween was more trouble than it was worth.
The next year, no notes. No Halloween.
My sons dressed up in suits and ties and ridiculous hats, grabbed my daughter (where was I? I think I was at a parent /teacher meeting...) and dressed her as a little witch, and marched her through town, trick or treating as if nothing had happened. And came home with LOOT.
The next year (I'm probably skipping years here, but that's getting old - your memory fails you.) My daughter went out with Auguste, having first disguised the dog as a centapede. She got so much for her efforts she's decided to go out again this year.
The villagers make an effort to please her. Last year, they gave her candy, bottles of water, nuts, cookies, apples, and oranges. Because she's half American, they are indulgant.
Because they are French, and don't understand Halloween, they don't just give one or two candies, but the whole box. That's why my kids love Halloween here in the village.
Monday, October 29, 2007
Winter Soup
Today, while the rain fell in sheets outdoors, I made winter soup.
2 cups chopped onions
1 large winter squash - peeled, seeded, cut in cubes
2 apples, peeled, cored, chopped
4 cups chicken broth
3 tablespoons sweet curry
3 tablespoons butter
Melt butter in soup pot, add onions and curry, stir, cook over low heat until soft (about 20 min.)
Add the stock, squash, & apples bring to a boil then lower heat and simmer until squash is cooked (mine was very tough - took about 2 hours. Acorn squash will take about 30 min. & is good to use.)
Add cream to taste (I used Madras curry, which smells divine but it very hot. I turned the heat down with a big dollop of 'creme fraiche' - you can use sour cream or plain yoghurt.
Serve with grated apple sprinkled over top.
Tonight, we're having winter soup with fresh bread, salad, and cold chicken.
Bon appetit!
2 cups chopped onions
1 large winter squash - peeled, seeded, cut in cubes
2 apples, peeled, cored, chopped
4 cups chicken broth
3 tablespoons sweet curry
3 tablespoons butter
Melt butter in soup pot, add onions and curry, stir, cook over low heat until soft (about 20 min.)
Add the stock, squash, & apples bring to a boil then lower heat and simmer until squash is cooked (mine was very tough - took about 2 hours. Acorn squash will take about 30 min. & is good to use.)
Add cream to taste (I used Madras curry, which smells divine but it very hot. I turned the heat down with a big dollop of 'creme fraiche' - you can use sour cream or plain yoghurt.
Serve with grated apple sprinkled over top.
Tonight, we're having winter soup with fresh bread, salad, and cold chicken.
Bon appetit!
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Vacation!
Yes, it's Vacation! The kids are home from school, and it's gray and rainy out.
College boy #1 is on vacation, but he's a fireman, so he's spending most of his time at the firehouse. In France, the volontary firemen are paid for taking 12 hour shifts, so my son, in order to pay for his miniscule studio in Paris, comes home on weekends to stay at the firehouse. Now that it's vacation, he'll probably be there a lot.
College boy #2 is in the states - in SUNY Potsdam - and I suppose he's getting ready to take his mid-term exams. Vacation will be at Thanksgiving for him.
Daughter in middle school is thrilled that it's vacation, and has already lined up a job at the pony club sorting out a new pony. She will be paid in hours riding, and believe me, she's more than happy! The new pony is a Dartmoor, very cute, but tends to run away with the younger riders.
Right now she's watching an animated film by Hayao Miyazaki (our favorite film-maker). If you don't know his work, or the studio Ghibli films, you're missing out on something wonderful.
I have lots of tutoring jobs lined up. First report cards have arrived, and parents don't want their kids to get left behind, so English, French, and math tutors usually get lots of work during vacation. :-) I'm not complaining - I want to buy new chairs for my dining room!
I'm starting a new project - one my cousin Tony suggested (and even outlined for me!) It's going to take a LOT of work, but it's quite fun. I may need help though. We'll see.
My stupid elbow (can elbows be stupid?) still hurts, and I stopped the medicine, (or wedicin, as my daughter used to say when she was little) because I didn't tolerate it very well. It gave me an upset stomach - ugh!
That's the news for now. It's pretty quiet here. Fall is just starting, and the leaves haven't really turned color yet. I'm waiting until they do to go out for a hike and take photos. I'll post some when I do!
College boy #1 is on vacation, but he's a fireman, so he's spending most of his time at the firehouse. In France, the volontary firemen are paid for taking 12 hour shifts, so my son, in order to pay for his miniscule studio in Paris, comes home on weekends to stay at the firehouse. Now that it's vacation, he'll probably be there a lot.
College boy #2 is in the states - in SUNY Potsdam - and I suppose he's getting ready to take his mid-term exams. Vacation will be at Thanksgiving for him.
Daughter in middle school is thrilled that it's vacation, and has already lined up a job at the pony club sorting out a new pony. She will be paid in hours riding, and believe me, she's more than happy! The new pony is a Dartmoor, very cute, but tends to run away with the younger riders.
Right now she's watching an animated film by Hayao Miyazaki (our favorite film-maker). If you don't know his work, or the studio Ghibli films, you're missing out on something wonderful.
I have lots of tutoring jobs lined up. First report cards have arrived, and parents don't want their kids to get left behind, so English, French, and math tutors usually get lots of work during vacation. :-) I'm not complaining - I want to buy new chairs for my dining room!
I'm starting a new project - one my cousin Tony suggested (and even outlined for me!) It's going to take a LOT of work, but it's quite fun. I may need help though. We'll see.
My stupid elbow (can elbows be stupid?) still hurts, and I stopped the medicine, (or wedicin, as my daughter used to say when she was little) because I didn't tolerate it very well. It gave me an upset stomach - ugh!
That's the news for now. It's pretty quiet here. Fall is just starting, and the leaves haven't really turned color yet. I'm waiting until they do to go out for a hike and take photos. I'll post some when I do!
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Thursday THIRTEEN
THIRTEEN THINGS AN AUTHOR IS MOST AFRAID OF
1) Rejection letters from agents.
Even if the note is just a simple "No thank you," we see this:
"Dear Author,
Please stop sending me your hackneyed prose. Your stories suck. I hope you have another job, because writing just ain't it. If I sold writing like yours, I'd be the laughing stock of my profession. Please, for my sake and yours, stop querying me. "
2) Rejection letters from publishers.
Again, our imagination tends to see things in a darker light...
"Dear Author,
Just because we publish several of your online writing buddies, and just because your favorite author in the whole world is in our stable of authors, that doesn't mean you are welcome. As a matter of fact, if it were Christmas eve and ours was the only stables in town, and you were pregnant and riding on a donkey - we still wouldn't take you. Do us and the publishing world a big favor - take up bird watching."
3) Typos in submission letters.
Dear Agnet,
Dare Agent,
Dear Ms. Snork,
I'd like to submit my story, "Angles on Crusade..."
I'd like to sumbit by story,
Sincely yours,
Sincerey yours,
Jenfiner
Jennifre
4) Typos in our finished and FINALLY published books:
Page 34: Instead of the Gulf of Mexico, it reads the Golf of Mexico...
5) Readers picking up on our little typos.
"Dear ex-favorite author. I read your latest story. Where the f%*@! is the Golf of Mexico? Do you mean the one in Tijuana, the Golf del Sur? Or did you mean the one in Cancun - the Country club and Golf Verdez? In any case, it makes no sense. I'm through reading your books. An ex-fan.
6) Having nobody read our books.
"Dear Author - here is your royalty statement for the year 2006 / 2007:
You sold 0 copies
Your royalties are 0.00$
7) The Advance that Just Won't Go Away.
"Dear Author. Your advance was 1000$. You sold 0.00$ this year. You still owe us 1000$ on your advance against royalties. It will be a cold day in Hell before we sign another contract with you.
8) A Negative Review
(I can dig up a real one for this, but I'm having too much fun...)
"The Tell Tale Tart by Samantha Winston - ZERO STARS
Where to begin? Well, it was hard enough to begin when I started reading, and I barely got to the end - I only threw the book against the wall 86 times, and it's a novella, folks. The Tell Tale Tart starts off with a whimper and ends with a whine. The heroine, Janice, makes having PMS and the stomach flu, along with a raging fever seem fun, and the hero, Mike, really should be locked up somewhere in a maximum security prison for eternity. The good news is, it's practically a short story. The bad news is it cost me 4.95$ as a used book on Amazon. This was the worst piece of trash I've ever read. Don't even bother taking it out of the library.
Nancy the usually really Nice reviewer for Rarin' to Read Reviews"
9) Trying to find a quote to use from a negative review.
"The Tell Tale Tart...The heroine Janice...fun...the hero Mike...eternity. Good News."
10) Plagiarism
Finding out that witty expression your hero spouts throughout your book came from somewhere else. Your subconscious has betrayed you!
"The force be with you," said Mike.
Janice giggled and batted her eyelashes. "You're such a character, Mike."
11) Plagiarism 2
Finding out someone has plagiarised your book - taken your characters and given them slightly different names but kept the plot!
"Keep the force," said Mark.
Jane laughed hysterically and waved her eyelashes in the air. "You're my romance hero, Mark!"
12) Finding out the 'OTHER' book gets a five star review and lands on the NYT best seller list.
"...I can't say enough good things about Ms. Desforges new book. Her fresh new writing makes the wonderful characters come to life. I want to spend my entire life reading more books about Mark and Jane. Fabulous. Highly recommended.
Nancy the really Nice reviewer for Rarin' to Read Reviews"
13) Success.
Because then you have to write another book just as good.
Um....14) Finding out that it's Wednesday.
Just ignore this post until Tomorrow folks.
:-)
1) Rejection letters from agents.
Even if the note is just a simple "No thank you," we see this:
"Dear Author,
Please stop sending me your hackneyed prose. Your stories suck. I hope you have another job, because writing just ain't it. If I sold writing like yours, I'd be the laughing stock of my profession. Please, for my sake and yours, stop querying me. "
2) Rejection letters from publishers.
Again, our imagination tends to see things in a darker light...
"Dear Author,
Just because we publish several of your online writing buddies, and just because your favorite author in the whole world is in our stable of authors, that doesn't mean you are welcome. As a matter of fact, if it were Christmas eve and ours was the only stables in town, and you were pregnant and riding on a donkey - we still wouldn't take you. Do us and the publishing world a big favor - take up bird watching."
3) Typos in submission letters.
Dear Agnet,
Dare Agent,
Dear Ms. Snork,
I'd like to submit my story, "Angles on Crusade..."
I'd like to sumbit by story,
Sincely yours,
Sincerey yours,
Jenfiner
Jennifre
4) Typos in our finished and FINALLY published books:
Page 34: Instead of the Gulf of Mexico, it reads the Golf of Mexico...
5) Readers picking up on our little typos.
"Dear ex-favorite author. I read your latest story. Where the f%*@! is the Golf of Mexico? Do you mean the one in Tijuana, the Golf del Sur? Or did you mean the one in Cancun - the Country club and Golf Verdez? In any case, it makes no sense. I'm through reading your books. An ex-fan.
6) Having nobody read our books.
"Dear Author - here is your royalty statement for the year 2006 / 2007:
You sold 0 copies
Your royalties are 0.00$
7) The Advance that Just Won't Go Away.
"Dear Author. Your advance was 1000$. You sold 0.00$ this year. You still owe us 1000$ on your advance against royalties. It will be a cold day in Hell before we sign another contract with you.
8) A Negative Review
(I can dig up a real one for this, but I'm having too much fun...)
"The Tell Tale Tart by Samantha Winston - ZERO STARS
Where to begin? Well, it was hard enough to begin when I started reading, and I barely got to the end - I only threw the book against the wall 86 times, and it's a novella, folks. The Tell Tale Tart starts off with a whimper and ends with a whine. The heroine, Janice, makes having PMS and the stomach flu, along with a raging fever seem fun, and the hero, Mike, really should be locked up somewhere in a maximum security prison for eternity. The good news is, it's practically a short story. The bad news is it cost me 4.95$ as a used book on Amazon. This was the worst piece of trash I've ever read. Don't even bother taking it out of the library.
Nancy the usually really Nice reviewer for Rarin' to Read Reviews"
9) Trying to find a quote to use from a negative review.
"The Tell Tale Tart...The heroine Janice...fun...the hero Mike...eternity. Good News."
10) Plagiarism
Finding out that witty expression your hero spouts throughout your book came from somewhere else. Your subconscious has betrayed you!
"The force be with you," said Mike.
Janice giggled and batted her eyelashes. "You're such a character, Mike."
11) Plagiarism 2
Finding out someone has plagiarised your book - taken your characters and given them slightly different names but kept the plot!
"Keep the force," said Mark.
Jane laughed hysterically and waved her eyelashes in the air. "You're my romance hero, Mark!"
12) Finding out the 'OTHER' book gets a five star review and lands on the NYT best seller list.
"...I can't say enough good things about Ms. Desforges new book. Her fresh new writing makes the wonderful characters come to life. I want to spend my entire life reading more books about Mark and Jane. Fabulous. Highly recommended.
Nancy the really Nice reviewer for Rarin' to Read Reviews"
13) Success.
Because then you have to write another book just as good.
Um....14) Finding out that it's Wednesday.
Just ignore this post until Tomorrow folks.
:-)
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Sunny Sunday
Zombie Jack is due out Tuesday!
“Ladies and gentlemen and creatures of the night, welcome to my Halloween show!” Applause. Dee waited until it died down. “Tonight we have a special show for you. Without further ado -- Jack the Stripper!”
The music started, the curtains parted, and Dee stepped off the stage, moving to the side of the dance floor to watch the show. Brianna saw him sandwiched between a wood sprite wearing a leafy, green minidress and a crown of ivy, and a woman wearing what looked like an antique wedding dress of ivory silk and a top hat.
All of Brianna’s attention suddenly became fixed on Jack as he appeared onstage. He wore a pumpkin mask, and his tattered monster outfit drew a collective gasp from the audience. He started to dance. Whipping off the mask, he stood for a minute, gazing out over the audience. His eyes were supernaturally bright, his hair tousled, his skin glowing. He looked like a movie star, and the women went wild.
Brianna could hardly breathe. Jack was more than hot. He was scorching. The women were crazy about him; they screamed his name and applauded madly. Jack strutted to the center of the stage in time to the music and bared his chest. The scar drew shrill screams and more applause. When Jack danced, Brianna could swear she heard women swooning all around him. A woman dressed as a vampire stood next to her table. She sank down into the chair by Brianna and gave a low moan.
“He is sooooo amazing,” she breathed. “I want him.”
Brianna was torn between pride, jealousy, and worry. Would his arm stay put? Had he taken the aspirin? Would he be all right? “Careful, Jack,” she muttered.
Jack’s shirt came off, and his arm stayed on. Brianna sagged in relief. More screams and swoons. He danced, and even the men stopped playing billiards and came to watch, cue sticks in hands. Jack’s pants slithered down his hips. He lowered his chin and stared at the audience. They stared back, mouths open, eyes wide, pupils dilated. He stepped out of his pants, and the music stopped. The lights were killed, and the curtain fell.
The crowd went crazy. The applause nearly cracked the plaster on the ceiling. Brianna could feel the floor shaking beneath her feet. Whoa. She turned to the vampire lady sitting next to her. “How’d you like that?”
She looked at Brianna. “Please tell me he’s coming back,” vampire lady whimpered.
“If not, I’ll go drag him back myself,” said another spectator standing nearby, her hands on her throat.
The music started again, the lights dimmed, and a spotlight appeared as the curtain lifted again. Jack stood in the middle of the spotlight, dressed in his second outfit.
The music, “Superstition,” pounded through the speakers. Jack opened his vampire cape and swirled it around. Grinning at the audience, he bared fake fangs. More screams and applause from the women. He tossed the cloak to the ground and took off his shirt.
“Slower, Jack, slow down,” murmured Brianna.
Jack looked like he was enjoying himself immensely. He danced, he peeled off his clothes, and strutted about in his G-string as the women shrieked and squealed and tossed money onto the stage.
Teasingly, Jack slowly took off his G-string. Brianna groaned and tried not to stare. A flood of heat dampened her panties. She hated that everyone else was staring at Jack. The women uttered a collective gasp of appreciation, ending in a thunder of applause, whistles, and more screams. The music stopped, but Marty was on the ball and put on another song. “Black Velvet” started, and Jack began to dance slowly. A flurry of applause and high-pitched sighs and cries sounded from the audience.
Jack seemed to have no qualms at all about exhibiting his body -- and why should he? From his well-shaped head down to his perfect Greek-statue feet, he was gorgeous. Brianna felt a pang of jealousy. She watched Jack’s show with growing dismay and had to bite her tongue to keep from screaming, “He’s mine!” It was ridiculous, but that’s what she wanted to do. He was incredible. Every woman in the place was mesmerized. Jack’s muscles looked sculpted beneath his smooth, white skin. Except for the scar, he was flawless. And his eyes. No one should have such electric blue eyes. But there was something odd about those eyes.
Brianna froze. Something very odd.
Jack came to the front of the stage and winked at a woman sitting in the front row. She gazed up at him, entranced.
Jack leaned over and said in a husky voice, “Can I dangle my dingle in your daiquiri?”
“What?” the woman squawked.
“I said, can I dangle my dingle in your daiquiri, darling?” Jack swayed his hips forward suggestively.
Brianna cringed. This could not be in the script. She turned to look at Mémé Hoya. She had her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide. “What is he doing?” Brianna hissed.
“He took an aspirin.” Mémé Hoya shook her head, her expression tragic.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Painting
I've been Painting.
Not art - my walls.
They needed freshening up. They were off white, but getting dirty and old. So I grabbed some gray and some pale yellow and painted!
Then I looked in the attic and fuond some old curtains that I'd put away a few years ago and hung them.
Here's the new color scheme!
Friday, October 19, 2007
Critiques
I read 'The Lottery' the other day, and I really loved it. One thing Pat Wood did that rang true for me was to describe how devestating the effects of criticism were on her hero, Perry. The effects of harsh criticism on a child are devestating. And the opposite it true also - praise and encouragement bring out the best in them. (In everyone.)
Writing is the same.
I was a member of several critique groups, and the advice was 'No negative feedback - only constructive feedback!' That is essential. Not negative - constructive.
I know that many writers hesitate to send their work out because they are afraid of rejection. But that's only part of it. They're also afraid of criticism. Don't be afraid. The only way to learn is to send your work out and have it looked at by people who have no emotional connection to you or your work. An honest critique group can be amazingly helpful. If you're a new writer who is afraid to join a critique group, remember this. We all started this way: palms sweaty, heart pounding, brand new manuscript clutched in our hands - terrified that the book will be ripped apart. A good critique group will not rip anything. If it's a good group, the criticsm will be contructive and help you learn. Your writing will get stronger, and you will feel more secure about it.
But a bad group can do harm. If you feel your group is too harsh, don't hesitate to change.
So if you are a member of a critique group, remember to temper your criticism. Try to find out if the person you're critiquing has a lot of experience or not. New writers are more sensitive. (Believe me, the first time I was critiqued, it nearly destroyed me. I felt flayed. Horrified. It HURT! ) Imagine telling the mother of a new baby that her baby is ugly. Well, that's how it is at first.
After a while, the skin gets thicker, and it's easier to deal with citiques. But in the beginning, remember how much it hurts, and critique accordingly.
Writing is the same.
I was a member of several critique groups, and the advice was 'No negative feedback - only constructive feedback!' That is essential. Not negative - constructive.
I know that many writers hesitate to send their work out because they are afraid of rejection. But that's only part of it. They're also afraid of criticism. Don't be afraid. The only way to learn is to send your work out and have it looked at by people who have no emotional connection to you or your work. An honest critique group can be amazingly helpful. If you're a new writer who is afraid to join a critique group, remember this. We all started this way: palms sweaty, heart pounding, brand new manuscript clutched in our hands - terrified that the book will be ripped apart. A good critique group will not rip anything. If it's a good group, the criticsm will be contructive and help you learn. Your writing will get stronger, and you will feel more secure about it.
But a bad group can do harm. If you feel your group is too harsh, don't hesitate to change.
So if you are a member of a critique group, remember to temper your criticism. Try to find out if the person you're critiquing has a lot of experience or not. New writers are more sensitive. (Believe me, the first time I was critiqued, it nearly destroyed me. I felt flayed. Horrified. It HURT! ) Imagine telling the mother of a new baby that her baby is ugly. Well, that's how it is at first.
After a while, the skin gets thicker, and it's easier to deal with citiques. But in the beginning, remember how much it hurts, and critique accordingly.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Plagiarism and tendonitis
Tendonitis sucks.
I have it in my right elbow. And I was doing so well in golf, lol.
Well, a few weeks rest and it should be fine. (And pills and an elbow sleeve...)
What does that have to do with plagiarism? (Well - it sucks...)
When I was at my doctor's office, he said, "You write, don't you?"
I said I did; He said, "I have another patient who is a writer - Regine Desforges."
I may have to change doctors.
You have no idea how livid I was when I read one of that woman's books. She copied the first 70 pages of Gone with the Wind nearly workd for word, substituting her own characters' names and transposing the action to WWII. The estate for Margaret Mitchell sued - and lost the case. Now, how in the HELL could they lose that case? Well, after the first 70 pages the book takes a slightly different turn and becomes a sprawling, uncorodinated saga about as interesting as watching slime grow. So the argument went that although Ms. Desforges did use Gone with the Wind as her inspiration - the fact that she changed the story after the first 70 pages made her Not a plagiarist.
I can just see someone writing a story about a young boy who lives under the stairs in a closet, who finds out his parents were killed by he who shall not be named, and who turns out to be a wizard and goes off to a special school - Oh, but then the story changes so that the young boy and his two friends (a red haired boy and a girl with brains) do something different than Harry Potter (Well, who did you think I was talking about?) Only he's called Jeffrey Nobbs and he lives in some Other magic world and...
I think if that happened Ms. Rowlings lawyers would have that author strung up by his typewriter ribbon.
Unfortunately (or fortunately) Ms. Mitchell wasn't around to go balistic and have Ms. Desforges
drawn and quartered by her literary lawyers.
But I honestly can't stand the woman.
She lives nearby me. (Well, a few villages away)
The movie they made out of her book was a flop. (OK, that makes me happy, I'll admit.)
But she is what I consider a plagiarist, and I think I'm going to have to change doctors.
As it is, I simply looked blank when he mentioned her name.
"Never heard of her," I said. Huh. Don't I wish.
I have it in my right elbow. And I was doing so well in golf, lol.
Well, a few weeks rest and it should be fine. (And pills and an elbow sleeve...)
What does that have to do with plagiarism? (Well - it sucks...)
When I was at my doctor's office, he said, "You write, don't you?"
I said I did; He said, "I have another patient who is a writer - Regine Desforges."
I may have to change doctors.
You have no idea how livid I was when I read one of that woman's books. She copied the first 70 pages of Gone with the Wind nearly workd for word, substituting her own characters' names and transposing the action to WWII. The estate for Margaret Mitchell sued - and lost the case. Now, how in the HELL could they lose that case? Well, after the first 70 pages the book takes a slightly different turn and becomes a sprawling, uncorodinated saga about as interesting as watching slime grow. So the argument went that although Ms. Desforges did use Gone with the Wind as her inspiration - the fact that she changed the story after the first 70 pages made her Not a plagiarist.
I can just see someone writing a story about a young boy who lives under the stairs in a closet, who finds out his parents were killed by he who shall not be named, and who turns out to be a wizard and goes off to a special school - Oh, but then the story changes so that the young boy and his two friends (a red haired boy and a girl with brains) do something different than Harry Potter (Well, who did you think I was talking about?) Only he's called Jeffrey Nobbs and he lives in some Other magic world and...
I think if that happened Ms. Rowlings lawyers would have that author strung up by his typewriter ribbon.
Unfortunately (or fortunately) Ms. Mitchell wasn't around to go balistic and have Ms. Desforges
drawn and quartered by her literary lawyers.
But I honestly can't stand the woman.
She lives nearby me. (Well, a few villages away)
The movie they made out of her book was a flop. (OK, that makes me happy, I'll admit.)
But she is what I consider a plagiarist, and I think I'm going to have to change doctors.
As it is, I simply looked blank when he mentioned her name.
"Never heard of her," I said. Huh. Don't I wish.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Congratulations, Al Gore!
To the best president America never had - Congratulations.
You fought long and hard to bring global warming to the public attention.
You faced ridicule (didn't Bush the Lesser call you 'Ozone Man', in tones of ringing contempt?)
But you stuck to your convictions.
You want to leave your children a better world than the one you live in. That's laudible. Unlike the actual president, who seems bent on ruining the chances of America's children, you want to set them on a new path - one that will be kinder to our planet.
I can't help feeling deep frustration that you didn't become our president and led the country. You would have led it in a different direction. Under your care, I think I can be sure that there would be no made-up war today in order to fill the coffers of weapon and oil dealers. You would not have invented this ruinous war. Instead, you would have used the élan of compassion the world showed America after 9-11 in order to build a new world peace, instead of lashing out at an old enemy - whose oil deposits are now being plundered by an international cartel unimpeded by any laws. You would have signed the bill enabling thousands of American children to have access to good health care. Two little children would not have died last week because the needed dental care. You would not have made America a poorer nation.
Mr. Gore - I know it's too late. I voted for you. I would vote for you again. But I feel it's too late to repair the damage the right wing nuts have done to the US. But congratulations on winning the Nobel Peace prize. It's a wonderful recognization for all the work you've done, and all the good you've done. It's also proof that you don't have to be a president in order to make a difference.
Thank you, Al Gore.
You fought long and hard to bring global warming to the public attention.
You faced ridicule (didn't Bush the Lesser call you 'Ozone Man', in tones of ringing contempt?)
But you stuck to your convictions.
You want to leave your children a better world than the one you live in. That's laudible. Unlike the actual president, who seems bent on ruining the chances of America's children, you want to set them on a new path - one that will be kinder to our planet.
I can't help feeling deep frustration that you didn't become our president and led the country. You would have led it in a different direction. Under your care, I think I can be sure that there would be no made-up war today in order to fill the coffers of weapon and oil dealers. You would not have invented this ruinous war. Instead, you would have used the élan of compassion the world showed America after 9-11 in order to build a new world peace, instead of lashing out at an old enemy - whose oil deposits are now being plundered by an international cartel unimpeded by any laws. You would have signed the bill enabling thousands of American children to have access to good health care. Two little children would not have died last week because the needed dental care. You would not have made America a poorer nation.
Mr. Gore - I know it's too late. I voted for you. I would vote for you again. But I feel it's too late to repair the damage the right wing nuts have done to the US. But congratulations on winning the Nobel Peace prize. It's a wonderful recognization for all the work you've done, and all the good you've done. It's also proof that you don't have to be a president in order to make a difference.
Thank you, Al Gore.
Friday, October 12, 2007
print books
We're looking into getting the books at Calderwood in print. There is a program at Lulu that seems to be the best deal for small publishing houses like us.
So soon there will be print books (POD) available for some titles.
'Time for Alexander' and 'A Charm for a Unicorn' Are available in print as a trial run for the Lulu site. If you want a print book for one of these titles, you can go to http://stores.lulu.com/calderwoodbooks
The prices will probably go up by about a dollar when things are official, but for now, I'm cutting the profits so take advantage of the deal!
Other news - I played in a golf tournament yesterday just for fun (my licence hasn't been renewed yet, so I have to wait for that to get official results). The weather was nice but it was wet out, and my shoes are sitting on the radiator trying to get dry.
I haven't heard any news from the various publishers / agents I've sent books to. In some cases, it's been over 6 months, so I guess that's a no.
Zombie Jack is due out any day!!!
So soon there will be print books (POD) available for some titles.
'Time for Alexander' and 'A Charm for a Unicorn' Are available in print as a trial run for the Lulu site. If you want a print book for one of these titles, you can go to http://stores.lulu.com/calderwoodbooks
The prices will probably go up by about a dollar when things are official, but for now, I'm cutting the profits so take advantage of the deal!
Other news - I played in a golf tournament yesterday just for fun (my licence hasn't been renewed yet, so I have to wait for that to get official results). The weather was nice but it was wet out, and my shoes are sitting on the radiator trying to get dry.
I haven't heard any news from the various publishers / agents I've sent books to. In some cases, it's been over 6 months, so I guess that's a no.
Zombie Jack is due out any day!!!
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
A World of Immigrants
Yesterday, live on French radio, Fadela Amara, a minister in Sarkozy's new government, called the DNA tests (to verify that a family of immigrants demanding French citizenship are all one family) 'disgusting'. It's a strong word, not normally used in 'polite' circles. And of course it's started a 'polemique' here in France about what a minister should say, how to say it, and why it's disgusting (or why it's not...)
I looked up the project of the law and checked it against the other European countries that have adopted it. So far, only Britan can make immigrants to take the test. It's voluntary for all the other countries. However, in France, it will be obligatory for a trial period of about 18 months.
The cost will be picked up by the government. (About 500 euroes per test. It varies between 300 and 1500 - don't ask me why.)
My reaction is that it's discgusting too.
The other countries (Germany, Finland, Sweden, Denmark and Norway) will test either parent (Finland tests both, I read) and I prefer seeing the mother tested than the father. Think of the poor woman who was raped, for example, and can't admit it to her family. At least the DNA tested on the mother will prove it's her child and take the burden of proof of fatherhood away.
However, I think the French test will require both parents to take the DNA test.
Now, I'm an immigrant. I come from a family of immigrants. (Like most Americans.)
I think immigration is a big plus for a country. I think that all countries should have open borders, (and that the everyone in the World Bank should be lined up along a cement wall and shot).
Let's play pretend...
That the minimum daily wages around the planet were fixed at the same amount.
That the rich countries ceased to exploit the poorer nations.
That the sale of arms from one country to another be totally illegal.
That education was free.
That healthcare was free.
That alternate energy sources such as wind, solar, and ocean power were used to their utmost.
And while we're dreaming...
So I asked my husband what he thought, and he said I was crazy.
But in my next life, I want to live in a world where the borders are all open, and people aren't afraid of each other.
I looked up the project of the law and checked it against the other European countries that have adopted it. So far, only Britan can make immigrants to take the test. It's voluntary for all the other countries. However, in France, it will be obligatory for a trial period of about 18 months.
The cost will be picked up by the government. (About 500 euroes per test. It varies between 300 and 1500 - don't ask me why.)
My reaction is that it's discgusting too.
The other countries (Germany, Finland, Sweden, Denmark and Norway) will test either parent (Finland tests both, I read) and I prefer seeing the mother tested than the father. Think of the poor woman who was raped, for example, and can't admit it to her family. At least the DNA tested on the mother will prove it's her child and take the burden of proof of fatherhood away.
However, I think the French test will require both parents to take the DNA test.
Now, I'm an immigrant. I come from a family of immigrants. (Like most Americans.)
I think immigration is a big plus for a country. I think that all countries should have open borders, (and that the everyone in the World Bank should be lined up along a cement wall and shot).
Let's play pretend...
That the minimum daily wages around the planet were fixed at the same amount.
That the rich countries ceased to exploit the poorer nations.
That the sale of arms from one country to another be totally illegal.
That education was free.
That healthcare was free.
That alternate energy sources such as wind, solar, and ocean power were used to their utmost.
And while we're dreaming...
So I asked my husband what he thought, and he said I was crazy.
But in my next life, I want to live in a world where the borders are all open, and people aren't afraid of each other.
Monday, October 08, 2007
A Tale of Two Books
I was lucky and received two books last week.
One was 'Coven of One', a witch story by Kate Bousfield.
The other was 'The Lottery' by Patricia Wood.
Both books were wonderful.
I started reading 'Coven of One' in bed, and didn't get to sleep until the wee hours. It was a fun romp set in a world where witches were sort of like doctors, and were sent to different towns to ply their craft. In this world, the south had gone very religious and the poeple there persecuted the witches, so it was a shock when one of the best and brightest students was sent there.
The heroine, Dorcas, is a no-nonsense, easy to like character. She's not flighty, she's got loads of common sense, and that's a plus for me in the heroine department. She is up against huge evil, and yet she handles it with aplomb. The book could have done with a small bit of editing, but other than that, I enjoyed it - and like I said, I couldn't put it down. I learned a bit about witchraft. I'll be passing this book on, so anyone who wants it can write to me and I'll send it to them by post.
The Lottery was a wonderful book. I started reading it on the train, and was cross when my station came up. Then I kept thinking about it, and was in a hurry to get back to it. So I read it last night until my eyes were too tired to see straight, and then I finished it this morning while I had my coffee. (A great start to my day!)
I loved this book. The story is about a man with learning disabilities. He's not retarded, but he's slow. Sort of like Forest Gump. I LOVED Forest Gump, so this book was a pleasure for me to read. I laughed, cried, and thought the ending was perfect. I won't spoil it, but if you haven't read this book, you should definitely plan to. It's a gorgeous story - and makes you feel lucky.
(I know I'm lucky, lol!)
One was 'Coven of One', a witch story by Kate Bousfield.
The other was 'The Lottery' by Patricia Wood.
Both books were wonderful.
I started reading 'Coven of One' in bed, and didn't get to sleep until the wee hours. It was a fun romp set in a world where witches were sort of like doctors, and were sent to different towns to ply their craft. In this world, the south had gone very religious and the poeple there persecuted the witches, so it was a shock when one of the best and brightest students was sent there.
The heroine, Dorcas, is a no-nonsense, easy to like character. She's not flighty, she's got loads of common sense, and that's a plus for me in the heroine department. She is up against huge evil, and yet she handles it with aplomb. The book could have done with a small bit of editing, but other than that, I enjoyed it - and like I said, I couldn't put it down. I learned a bit about witchraft. I'll be passing this book on, so anyone who wants it can write to me and I'll send it to them by post.
The Lottery was a wonderful book. I started reading it on the train, and was cross when my station came up. Then I kept thinking about it, and was in a hurry to get back to it. So I read it last night until my eyes were too tired to see straight, and then I finished it this morning while I had my coffee. (A great start to my day!)
I loved this book. The story is about a man with learning disabilities. He's not retarded, but he's slow. Sort of like Forest Gump. I LOVED Forest Gump, so this book was a pleasure for me to read. I laughed, cried, and thought the ending was perfect. I won't spoil it, but if you haven't read this book, you should definitely plan to. It's a gorgeous story - and makes you feel lucky.
(I know I'm lucky, lol!)
Sunday, October 07, 2007
Yes, sword swallowing can be harmful to your health
Finally, the scientific evidence is in - sword swallowing can be harmful to your health.
The scientific evidence is real - but the Ig-Nobel spoof awards for the strangest research are, well, real too. Here is an article in the Guardian:
"For the world's sword swallowers, it must have been an important study: a medical analysis of the dangers and side-effects of their profession. Fortunately, doctors concluded that the most likely injury from inserting a long piece of sharp steel down your food pipe was just a humble sore throat.
As well as adding to crucial knowledge about work-related injuries, the unique study last night earned its author, radiologist Brian Witcombe at Gloucestershire Royal NHS foundation trust, this year's Ig Nobel prize for medicine. A spoof of the Nobel prizes, which will be announced next week, the Ig Nobels celebrate the quirkier side of science. In previous years the prizes have honoured a centrifugal-force birthing machine that spins pregnant women at high speed and Britain's official six-page specification for how to make a cup of tea...
...Ten winners received awards at last night's ceremony at Harvard University. The 2007 Ig Nobel for peace went to the Air Force Wright Laboratory in Dayton, Ohio. In 1994, researchers there submitted a three-page proposal to develop a chemical weapon that could make enemy soldiers sexually irresistible to each other. (I love this one!!)
Documents detailing the idea were unearthed through a freedom of information request by the Sunshine Project, a lobby group that opposes biological weapons.
"We don't know if this document was the start and end of it or whether, in fact, this project continued and perhaps continues to this day," said Marc Abrahams, editor of the Annals of Improbable Research and the man behind the Ig Nobel awards...
...Genuine Nobel laureates presented the prizes to winners. Rich Roberts (medicine 1993), William Lipscomb (chemistry 1976), Craig Mello (medicine 2005), Robert Laughlin (physics 1998), Roy Glauber (physics 2005), Dudley Herschbach (chemistry 1986) and Sheldon Glashow (physics 1979) handed over the gongs...
...Dr Abrahams said of this year's winners: "They make you laugh when you first hear about them. You almost have no choice, then you can't quite get them out of your head afterwards. It's slightly difficult to accept that these things are real - but they are."
The winners:
Medicine Brian Witcombe of Gloucester and Dan Meyer of Antioch, Tennessee, for their report in the British Medical Journal, Sword Swallowing and its Side-Effects
Physics L Mahadevan of Harvard and Enrique Cerda Villablanca of Santiago University, Chile, for studying how sheets become wrinkled
Biology Johanna van Bronswijk of Eindhoven University of Technology, Netherlands, for a census of the mites, insects, spiders, pseudoscorpions, crustaceans, bacteria, algae, ferns and fungi with whom we share our beds
Chemistry Mayu Yamamoto of the International Medical Centre of Japan, for developing a way to extract vanilla essence from cow dung
Linguistics Juant Manuel Toro, Josep Trobalon and Núria Sebastián-Gallés, of Barcelona University, for showing that rats cannot tell the difference between a person speaking Japanese backwards and a person speaking Dutch backwards
Literature Glenda Browne of Australia, for her study of the word "the" and the problems it causes when indexing
Peace The Air Force Wright Laboratory, Dayton, Ohio, for instigating research on a chemical weapon to make enemy soldiers sexually irresistible to each other
Nutrition Brian Wansink of Cornell University, for exploring the seemingly boundless appetites of human beings by feeding them with a self-refilling, bottomless bowl of soup
Economics Kuo Cheng Hsieh, of Taiwan, for patenting a device that catches bank robbers by dropping a net over them
Aviation Patricia V Agostino, Santiago A Plano and Diego A Golombek of Argentina, for the discovery that Viagra aids jetlag recovery in hamsters
(sound of applause!)
The scientific evidence is real - but the Ig-Nobel spoof awards for the strangest research are, well, real too. Here is an article in the Guardian:
"For the world's sword swallowers, it must have been an important study: a medical analysis of the dangers and side-effects of their profession. Fortunately, doctors concluded that the most likely injury from inserting a long piece of sharp steel down your food pipe was just a humble sore throat.
As well as adding to crucial knowledge about work-related injuries, the unique study last night earned its author, radiologist Brian Witcombe at Gloucestershire Royal NHS foundation trust, this year's Ig Nobel prize for medicine. A spoof of the Nobel prizes, which will be announced next week, the Ig Nobels celebrate the quirkier side of science. In previous years the prizes have honoured a centrifugal-force birthing machine that spins pregnant women at high speed and Britain's official six-page specification for how to make a cup of tea...
...Ten winners received awards at last night's ceremony at Harvard University. The 2007 Ig Nobel for peace went to the Air Force Wright Laboratory in Dayton, Ohio. In 1994, researchers there submitted a three-page proposal to develop a chemical weapon that could make enemy soldiers sexually irresistible to each other. (I love this one!!)
Documents detailing the idea were unearthed through a freedom of information request by the Sunshine Project, a lobby group that opposes biological weapons.
"We don't know if this document was the start and end of it or whether, in fact, this project continued and perhaps continues to this day," said Marc Abrahams, editor of the Annals of Improbable Research and the man behind the Ig Nobel awards...
...Genuine Nobel laureates presented the prizes to winners. Rich Roberts (medicine 1993), William Lipscomb (chemistry 1976), Craig Mello (medicine 2005), Robert Laughlin (physics 1998), Roy Glauber (physics 2005), Dudley Herschbach (chemistry 1986) and Sheldon Glashow (physics 1979) handed over the gongs...
...Dr Abrahams said of this year's winners: "They make you laugh when you first hear about them. You almost have no choice, then you can't quite get them out of your head afterwards. It's slightly difficult to accept that these things are real - but they are."
The winners:
Medicine Brian Witcombe of Gloucester and Dan Meyer of Antioch, Tennessee, for their report in the British Medical Journal, Sword Swallowing and its Side-Effects
Physics L Mahadevan of Harvard and Enrique Cerda Villablanca of Santiago University, Chile, for studying how sheets become wrinkled
Biology Johanna van Bronswijk of Eindhoven University of Technology, Netherlands, for a census of the mites, insects, spiders, pseudoscorpions, crustaceans, bacteria, algae, ferns and fungi with whom we share our beds
Chemistry Mayu Yamamoto of the International Medical Centre of Japan, for developing a way to extract vanilla essence from cow dung
Linguistics Juant Manuel Toro, Josep Trobalon and Núria Sebastián-Gallés, of Barcelona University, for showing that rats cannot tell the difference between a person speaking Japanese backwards and a person speaking Dutch backwards
Literature Glenda Browne of Australia, for her study of the word "the" and the problems it causes when indexing
Peace The Air Force Wright Laboratory, Dayton, Ohio, for instigating research on a chemical weapon to make enemy soldiers sexually irresistible to each other
Nutrition Brian Wansink of Cornell University, for exploring the seemingly boundless appetites of human beings by feeding them with a self-refilling, bottomless bowl of soup
Economics Kuo Cheng Hsieh, of Taiwan, for patenting a device that catches bank robbers by dropping a net over them
Aviation Patricia V Agostino, Santiago A Plano and Diego A Golombek of Argentina, for the discovery that Viagra aids jetlag recovery in hamsters
(sound of applause!)
Friday, October 05, 2007
Naughty Snippet day!
Gabriele has informed me that this week's snippets are to be naughty.
'R' rated, she specifies.
So, all underage readers please stop reading now.
Here is my naughty snippet from Time for Alexander (which I'm sure you all know is available for the modest sum of 5$ over at Calderwood Books...Enjoy!)
I laughed nervously. "No, you were right to let your mother go. She's just trying to help, I'm sure. From what I understand she went to see an oracle and this person put some wild ideas in her head. It's not your mother's fault."
"But Barsine! Why?"
"She's a woman, she wants a baby. It would make her happy." I shuddered, though. If the history books were correct, Olympias would kidnap one of Alexander's wives and her child. They would all be killed by Cassander. Was it Barsine? Stateira? I wished I could remember more details. What would happen if I told Alexander? If I warned him, what would happen then? I put my face in my hands. What could I do? When Alexander died I would be alone here, and I would have a hard enough time keeping out of the murderous fray that followed his death. If I had my own baby back, my Paul, I would have to find a way to care for him. I bit my fingernails, distressed. I couldn't risk being erased; no one would take care of Paul. Or would he disappear too? I got up and paced back and forth.
"What are you doing?" Alexander was staring at me.
"I'm thinking."
"I see that. If you're so upset about Barsine I can intercept her cortège and send her back."
"No, don't do that. I'd like to meet her. Really, I would," I insisted, seeing the doubt in his eyes.
"Why do you look so, so..."
"Upset?" I tried to smile, failed, and sat down again. "Oh Alex, it's nothing. You know how pregnant women get, all emotional and silly. I'm sure Aristotle must have said something about that."
"Some women, maybe, but not you. You don't ever let your emotions show. You keep everything hidden behind that icy gaze. Do you know what they say about you?"
"You mean besides saying I'm a goddess and an oracle?"
"They say you spent too much time in the kingdom of the dead, and that your heart is frozen."
I was startled. "But why?"
"When the wounded soldiers came in you would smile at them, as if you didn't care."
I gasped. "But I thought that it would comfort them! I didn't want them to see how worried I was!"
"But they knew how grievous their wounds were. My soldiers are all professionals. They don't need you to hide your feelings from them. They want honesty. It's a sign of respect in this world. To them you were making light of their wounds."
"Do you believe that?" I asked, hurt.
"No, of course not, nor does Usse. But you have to stop hiding your feelings and saying things with two meanings. Perhaps in the world of the gods it is different, although you claim to be a mortal. For a mortal you act remarkably like a god. We're used to their duplicity, but not yours."
I couldn't meet his eyes. He was too earnest and each word was painful. "I didn't realize that," I whispered.
"I think that if you cannot tell the truth, perhaps it would be better to say nothing." Alexander's voice was gentle, as if talking to a small child. I felt my cheeks get hot and I knew that my nose would start bleeding. I pinched the bridge of my nose hard to try and stop it, but it was too late. Blood spattered on my lap, staining my robe.
"Oh no," I moaned, grabbing a towel. I pressed it to my face and used it to hide my angry tears. Did he think it was easy for me? I lowered the towel and narrowed my eyes. No one understood me. I was stuck here. There was nowhere I could go. I could never return to my own time. I was pregnant, and the only man I'd ever loved was criticizing me – and his first wife was arriving in a matter of days. A shudder ran through me.
Alexander took the towel from my numb hands and gently wiped my face, pausing now and then to kiss me. I pushed him away, but he persisted. I turned my back to him, and he ran his hands down my spine, rubbing his thumbs into my muscles, kneading my back and ending up with his hands encircling my shoulders. Then he started to massage my neck, tickling my cheeks, and leaning down to nibble on my earlobe and lips.
I ended up kissing him back. I put my arms around his neck and pulled him down on the bed. When he was near me, touching me, his mouth on mine, his hands roaming over my body, I simply couldn't imagine life without him.
His eyes, so large, long, and fierce, saw right through me. His body was an electric charge. His personality was a drug. I was completely addicted to him. I fastened my mouth on his neck like a vampire, and gave him a love bite. He growled and bit my shoulder. Our lovemaking degenerated into a wrestling match. He was a pro at wrestling; I suppose he learned at school in Greece.
I had been on a wrestling team in my all-girls school. It was one way of getting our frustrations to a manageable level. I had some terrific memories of those games, legs sliding against legs, backs arching, bellies and hips touching. In a moment I would dissolve into a boneless shiver of desire. I threw myself sideways and then twisted around, straddling his back. I flung my arm around his neck in a half-nelson and tried to throw him. He just gave a deep chuckle and slid out from beneath me with a movement like silk. I gasped and then moaned as he pulled me to him from behind. I don't think I had ever been as excited.
However, I was strong and lithe, and he hadn't won quite yet. I scissored my legs and grabbed him around the torso. Using my body as a lever, I managed to throw him down. He was a bit hampered by his erection, but he easily avoided being pinned and slipped away again, his eyes dancing.
My breath was coming in short gasps, and I decided that the best way to finish this game would be to surrender. So I did by grabbing him around the neck and dragging him down on top of me. I arched my back and met him halfway.
In the end, I'm not sure who won. I woke up on the floor. Alexander's body seemed to be braided with mine and with all the covers on the bed that we'd dragged down on the floor with us. He had fallen soundly asleep, as he usually did after a bout of lovemaking. I had slept too. I wondered what had woken me and then I heard a small cough.
I turned my head, not an easy feat with all the covers and one of Alexander's arms around me, and looked.
Axiom was standing in the tent's entrance. He looked decidedly uncomfortable. I tried to help him. "Yes Axiom, what can I do for you?"
"It's just that someone has arrived, my Lady, someone for Iskander."
Alexander stirred and raised his head. His hair fell into his eyes, making him look like a dissolute lion. "What is it?" he groaned, getting to his knees and pushing his hair back.
"It's your first wife, sir. It's Barsine. She's come early."
'R' rated, she specifies.
So, all underage readers please stop reading now.
Here is my naughty snippet from Time for Alexander (which I'm sure you all know is available for the modest sum of 5$ over at Calderwood Books...Enjoy!)
****
Alexander paced aimlessly, picking things up and putting them down. He took his ceremonial helmet and looked at it, smoothing the tassels in the back. Then he unfolded his tunic and fingered the stiff pleats. He touched the blue glass lamp, making it swing. Finally he sat down next to me on the bed and said, "You know, I really should have had her killed."I laughed nervously. "No, you were right to let your mother go. She's just trying to help, I'm sure. From what I understand she went to see an oracle and this person put some wild ideas in her head. It's not your mother's fault."
"But Barsine! Why?"
"She's a woman, she wants a baby. It would make her happy." I shuddered, though. If the history books were correct, Olympias would kidnap one of Alexander's wives and her child. They would all be killed by Cassander. Was it Barsine? Stateira? I wished I could remember more details. What would happen if I told Alexander? If I warned him, what would happen then? I put my face in my hands. What could I do? When Alexander died I would be alone here, and I would have a hard enough time keeping out of the murderous fray that followed his death. If I had my own baby back, my Paul, I would have to find a way to care for him. I bit my fingernails, distressed. I couldn't risk being erased; no one would take care of Paul. Or would he disappear too? I got up and paced back and forth.
"What are you doing?" Alexander was staring at me.
"I'm thinking."
"I see that. If you're so upset about Barsine I can intercept her cortège and send her back."
"No, don't do that. I'd like to meet her. Really, I would," I insisted, seeing the doubt in his eyes.
"Why do you look so, so..."
"Upset?" I tried to smile, failed, and sat down again. "Oh Alex, it's nothing. You know how pregnant women get, all emotional and silly. I'm sure Aristotle must have said something about that."
"Some women, maybe, but not you. You don't ever let your emotions show. You keep everything hidden behind that icy gaze. Do you know what they say about you?"
"You mean besides saying I'm a goddess and an oracle?"
"They say you spent too much time in the kingdom of the dead, and that your heart is frozen."
I was startled. "But why?"
"When the wounded soldiers came in you would smile at them, as if you didn't care."
I gasped. "But I thought that it would comfort them! I didn't want them to see how worried I was!"
"But they knew how grievous their wounds were. My soldiers are all professionals. They don't need you to hide your feelings from them. They want honesty. It's a sign of respect in this world. To them you were making light of their wounds."
"Do you believe that?" I asked, hurt.
"No, of course not, nor does Usse. But you have to stop hiding your feelings and saying things with two meanings. Perhaps in the world of the gods it is different, although you claim to be a mortal. For a mortal you act remarkably like a god. We're used to their duplicity, but not yours."
I couldn't meet his eyes. He was too earnest and each word was painful. "I didn't realize that," I whispered.
"I think that if you cannot tell the truth, perhaps it would be better to say nothing." Alexander's voice was gentle, as if talking to a small child. I felt my cheeks get hot and I knew that my nose would start bleeding. I pinched the bridge of my nose hard to try and stop it, but it was too late. Blood spattered on my lap, staining my robe.
"Oh no," I moaned, grabbing a towel. I pressed it to my face and used it to hide my angry tears. Did he think it was easy for me? I lowered the towel and narrowed my eyes. No one understood me. I was stuck here. There was nowhere I could go. I could never return to my own time. I was pregnant, and the only man I'd ever loved was criticizing me – and his first wife was arriving in a matter of days. A shudder ran through me.
Alexander took the towel from my numb hands and gently wiped my face, pausing now and then to kiss me. I pushed him away, but he persisted. I turned my back to him, and he ran his hands down my spine, rubbing his thumbs into my muscles, kneading my back and ending up with his hands encircling my shoulders. Then he started to massage my neck, tickling my cheeks, and leaning down to nibble on my earlobe and lips.
I ended up kissing him back. I put my arms around his neck and pulled him down on the bed. When he was near me, touching me, his mouth on mine, his hands roaming over my body, I simply couldn't imagine life without him.
His eyes, so large, long, and fierce, saw right through me. His body was an electric charge. His personality was a drug. I was completely addicted to him. I fastened my mouth on his neck like a vampire, and gave him a love bite. He growled and bit my shoulder. Our lovemaking degenerated into a wrestling match. He was a pro at wrestling; I suppose he learned at school in Greece.
I had been on a wrestling team in my all-girls school. It was one way of getting our frustrations to a manageable level. I had some terrific memories of those games, legs sliding against legs, backs arching, bellies and hips touching. In a moment I would dissolve into a boneless shiver of desire. I threw myself sideways and then twisted around, straddling his back. I flung my arm around his neck in a half-nelson and tried to throw him. He just gave a deep chuckle and slid out from beneath me with a movement like silk. I gasped and then moaned as he pulled me to him from behind. I don't think I had ever been as excited.
However, I was strong and lithe, and he hadn't won quite yet. I scissored my legs and grabbed him around the torso. Using my body as a lever, I managed to throw him down. He was a bit hampered by his erection, but he easily avoided being pinned and slipped away again, his eyes dancing.
My breath was coming in short gasps, and I decided that the best way to finish this game would be to surrender. So I did by grabbing him around the neck and dragging him down on top of me. I arched my back and met him halfway.
In the end, I'm not sure who won. I woke up on the floor. Alexander's body seemed to be braided with mine and with all the covers on the bed that we'd dragged down on the floor with us. He had fallen soundly asleep, as he usually did after a bout of lovemaking. I had slept too. I wondered what had woken me and then I heard a small cough.
I turned my head, not an easy feat with all the covers and one of Alexander's arms around me, and looked.
Axiom was standing in the tent's entrance. He looked decidedly uncomfortable. I tried to help him. "Yes Axiom, what can I do for you?"
"It's just that someone has arrived, my Lady, someone for Iskander."
Alexander stirred and raised his head. His hair fell into his eyes, making him look like a dissolute lion. "What is it?" he groaned, getting to his knees and pushing his hair back.
"It's your first wife, sir. It's Barsine. She's come early."
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
Everything is soggy
It's been raining hard for days now. Mist rises off the ploughed fields like smoke, and the gutters chatter and slosh, water patters on the roof and pushes the leaves on the trees down, so that everything looks sullen.
The sky is only shades of gray. Pale gray where the rain slackens, then dark as pewter and trembling with thunder above the storm.
When the rain stops, deer come out of the thickets and stand in clearings, their coats dark and wet. In the field, cows lie low, hugging the ground, stubbornly keeping their patch of grass dry. Pheasants stand beneath the ferns, lifting one foot after another out of the puddles.
The road to Paris was flooded last night. My husband left for work and returned - turned back by the police.
Today I lined my English students up in front of the window and taught them to sing "Rain, rain, go away, come again another day!" They thought it was great incantations, and sang loudly as the rain poured down, nearly drowning out their frail voices.
The children were rewarded by a brief respite from the rain, and we rushed out to take the dogs for a walk around the village square, singing loudly all the time - "Rain, rain - Go away!"
I wonder what the neighbors thought?
The sky is only shades of gray. Pale gray where the rain slackens, then dark as pewter and trembling with thunder above the storm.
When the rain stops, deer come out of the thickets and stand in clearings, their coats dark and wet. In the field, cows lie low, hugging the ground, stubbornly keeping their patch of grass dry. Pheasants stand beneath the ferns, lifting one foot after another out of the puddles.
The road to Paris was flooded last night. My husband left for work and returned - turned back by the police.
Today I lined my English students up in front of the window and taught them to sing "Rain, rain, go away, come again another day!" They thought it was great incantations, and sang loudly as the rain poured down, nearly drowning out their frail voices.
The children were rewarded by a brief respite from the rain, and we rushed out to take the dogs for a walk around the village square, singing loudly all the time - "Rain, rain - Go away!"
I wonder what the neighbors thought?
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
Prudes?
I found an hysterically funny article in SLATE magazine.
It's all about our friend the vibrator.
From its invention to today the article, in the form of a slide show, gives some interesting information. Did you know that the vibrator was the fifth electrical appliance to be introduced into the American household - before the electric iron even?
"...Hamilton Beach of Racine, Wis., patented its first take-home vibrator in 1902, making the vibrator the fifth electrical appliance to be introduced into the home, after the sewing machine and long before the electric iron."
And this gem of information...
"By 1917, there were more vibrators than toasters in American homes."
Ahh - the good old days.
So I'm wondering - are we turning into prudes? Prudes who'd rather toast and iron than vibrate?
It's all about our friend the vibrator.
From its invention to today the article, in the form of a slide show, gives some interesting information. Did you know that the vibrator was the fifth electrical appliance to be introduced into the American household - before the electric iron even?
"...Hamilton Beach of Racine, Wis., patented its first take-home vibrator in 1902, making the vibrator the fifth electrical appliance to be introduced into the home, after the sewing machine and long before the electric iron."
And this gem of information...
"By 1917, there were more vibrators than toasters in American homes."
Ahh - the good old days.
So I'm wondering - are we turning into prudes? Prudes who'd rather toast and iron than vibrate?
Sunday, September 30, 2007
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