Lorna Landvik's Blog, page 2
June 4, 2012
Thrillers
I don’t often read thrillers, but when I do, it’s a binge fest. Last year a friend gave me a book by Lee Child and within weeks, I’d read a half dozen Jack Reacher books. And of course once I read, THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATOO, I had to see what that crazy Lisbeth Salander was up to next. Whew.
On my bed stand now is NEMESIS by the Norwegian writer, Jo Nesbo. In my office is REDBREAST, by the same author. Last weekend I saw THE HEADHUNTER, the hilarious/scary/wild movie about a corporate headhunter/art thief based on a novel by . . . Jo Nesbo.
If he were a carny, he’d be operating the twistiest-turniest-plungiest roller-coaster, and cackling like crazy as riders screamed to please, please let them off.
I have no idea how good thriller writers write good thrillers. How do they keep everything straight? How do they know about CIA operatives and police procedure and computer algorithms and mercenaries and corrupt militaries and African diamond mines and buried war records and ey yi yi . . .
Who knows, some day I might write a book about a Minnesotan lunch lady who after serving chow mein hotdish to mouthy seventh graders, escapes to her basement Dell where she hacks into the records of delinquent Nordstrom customers, causing credit havoc while charging shoes to Ron Paul’s Super-Pac.
On my bed stand now is NEMESIS by the Norwegian writer, Jo Nesbo. In my office is REDBREAST, by the same author. Last weekend I saw THE HEADHUNTER, the hilarious/scary/wild movie about a corporate headhunter/art thief based on a novel by . . . Jo Nesbo.
If he were a carny, he’d be operating the twistiest-turniest-plungiest roller-coaster, and cackling like crazy as riders screamed to please, please let them off.
I have no idea how good thriller writers write good thrillers. How do they keep everything straight? How do they know about CIA operatives and police procedure and computer algorithms and mercenaries and corrupt militaries and African diamond mines and buried war records and ey yi yi . . .
Who knows, some day I might write a book about a Minnesotan lunch lady who after serving chow mein hotdish to mouthy seventh graders, escapes to her basement Dell where she hacks into the records of delinquent Nordstrom customers, causing credit havoc while charging shoes to Ron Paul’s Super-Pac.
May 25, 2012
News
My work on books (yes, plural!) has kept me from posting (better to be a poster than an imposter) as regularly as I’d planned. My computer has been smoking with activity, my printed out pages red-lined and doodled upon – I am having a grand old time.
I have two exciting announcements and one I’ll share with you now: I’m pregnant! . . . with high spirits and enthusiasm, that is (the days of bearing fruit for this crabapple tree having long passed) because I’ve been working on getting up a website. Please check it out in a week or so, and yes, I will accept housewarming gifts.
The second announcement will be revealed shortly. Just look to the skies, MacIntyre.
I have two exciting announcements and one I’ll share with you now: I’m pregnant! . . . with high spirits and enthusiasm, that is (the days of bearing fruit for this crabapple tree having long passed) because I’ve been working on getting up a website. Please check it out in a week or so, and yes, I will accept housewarming gifts.
The second announcement will be revealed shortly. Just look to the skies, MacIntyre.
April 30, 2012
A List
10 Small Things I am Happy About:
I am not allergic to perfume.
Dogs generally like me.
I understand the intricacies of allspice and cumin.
The Riverview Theater.
I can roll up my tongue and whistle through it.
Chocolate and red wine have proven health benefits.
Road trips with stops at diners that have swivel counter stools
and plastic-coasted menus.
They make library cards that fit on your key chain.
I can stand on my head.
I am not allergic to perfume.
Dogs generally like me.
I understand the intricacies of allspice and cumin.
The Riverview Theater.
I can roll up my tongue and whistle through it.
Chocolate and red wine have proven health benefits.
Road trips with stops at diners that have swivel counter stools
and plastic-coasted menus.
They make library cards that fit on your key chain.
I can stand on my head.
April 23, 2012
Church Memories
I spoke at my childhood church the other day, the Lutheran church at which my mother played the piano for Sunday school and later, for her circle (Ruth? Naomi? Deborah?).
I have memories of sitting in the pew, spitting on a handkerchief and polishing her fingernails during sermons not meant to hold a little girl’s attention. Once in front of us sat a silver-haired lady who wore a fur stole of dead animals draped over one another, their beady little eyes staring out, pleading ‘help me.’ When I reached out to pet this strange blend of taxidermy and apparel, my mother’s hand intercepted my own, saving the silver-haired woman the fright of unsolicited outwear fondling.
My dad would often usher, and if I caught his eye when he was at our row, he might interrupt his solemn retrieval of the collection plate to give me a covert little wink, and my heart would swell with all the emotions that fill the expression, ‘that’s my dad!’
It was nice being back in the basement of that church, where there are still people who remember my parents and can comment on my mother’s lovely singing voice or how handsome my dad looked in a suit.
I have memories of sitting in the pew, spitting on a handkerchief and polishing her fingernails during sermons not meant to hold a little girl’s attention. Once in front of us sat a silver-haired lady who wore a fur stole of dead animals draped over one another, their beady little eyes staring out, pleading ‘help me.’ When I reached out to pet this strange blend of taxidermy and apparel, my mother’s hand intercepted my own, saving the silver-haired woman the fright of unsolicited outwear fondling.
My dad would often usher, and if I caught his eye when he was at our row, he might interrupt his solemn retrieval of the collection plate to give me a covert little wink, and my heart would swell with all the emotions that fill the expression, ‘that’s my dad!’
It was nice being back in the basement of that church, where there are still people who remember my parents and can comment on my mother’s lovely singing voice or how handsome my dad looked in a suit.
April 12, 2012
Bird Chatter
Chirps. Cheeps. Tweets. Trills. Hoots. Twitters. Warbles. In the school of Bird Song Recognition, I am a first grader, my hand shooting up only to identify the easy ones: an owl, a goose, a duck, crow, pigeon, cardinal.
The dog park was a regular Fowl UN today, which made me wonder about inter-species communication. Does a wren share nesting tips with a robin; does a sparrow implore a cawing raven to ‘stop nagging!’
When a funny-looking beagle/lab mix tottled by on the path, it made me wonder why birds always breed within their own tribe. Or at least I think they do: I’ve never heard of a robwren, or ravarrow, never mind a chickapecker or a humminghawk. I guess they intrinsically grasp the concept of aerodynamics and body mass and wing spans, understanding the impossible folly of an eagle breeding with a finch. Or a vulture courting a parakeet.
Birdsong is species-specific because it has to be; opening up language – from its threats to its poetry – opens up too many possibilities for bird brains. (Pun sort of intended.) But I'm convinced they are curious creatures who want to understand each other; that's while perched on a branch, they cock their heads so much, in a gesture asking, "What'd you say?"
The dog park was a regular Fowl UN today, which made me wonder about inter-species communication. Does a wren share nesting tips with a robin; does a sparrow implore a cawing raven to ‘stop nagging!’
When a funny-looking beagle/lab mix tottled by on the path, it made me wonder why birds always breed within their own tribe. Or at least I think they do: I’ve never heard of a robwren, or ravarrow, never mind a chickapecker or a humminghawk. I guess they intrinsically grasp the concept of aerodynamics and body mass and wing spans, understanding the impossible folly of an eagle breeding with a finch. Or a vulture courting a parakeet.
Birdsong is species-specific because it has to be; opening up language – from its threats to its poetry – opens up too many possibilities for bird brains. (Pun sort of intended.) But I'm convinced they are curious creatures who want to understand each other; that's while perched on a branch, they cock their heads so much, in a gesture asking, "What'd you say?"
March 27, 2012
Winter?
It’s been the barest shiver of a winter here and I don’t like it one bit. Minnesota winters are supposed to be long and hard and cold; a time when thermal long-johns dominate the underwear drawer and snow shovels lean against the side of the house, ready and waiting for the predicted three-to-five inches. I hunker down in front of the fireplace with the intention of either reading a good book or writing one, content and cozy as the north wind rattles the neighbor’s flagpole and the view from the picture window is one of swirling, twirling flurries.
Spring has sprung way too early this year and I worry about the premature budding trees and greenery rising in the garden; I worry about temperatures being twenty or thirty degrees above normal. It’s weird, in the middle of March, to be warmer in Minneapolis than Los Angeles! Give me back my wind chill factor, my snow-laden skies, my reason to preheat the oven and bake banana bread!
Spring has sprung way too early this year and I worry about the premature budding trees and greenery rising in the garden; I worry about temperatures being twenty or thirty degrees above normal. It’s weird, in the middle of March, to be warmer in Minneapolis than Los Angeles! Give me back my wind chill factor, my snow-laden skies, my reason to preheat the oven and bake banana bread!
March 12, 2012
Shhhh!
Is there any music that greases my writing wheels, making them slide more easily over the rocky terrain of plot, character development, the precise turn of phrase?
As is for most people, my musical tastes are eclectic – I listen to blue grass (my all-time favorites – the Stanley Brothers), to live Met opera broadcasts, to Beethoven and Bach to show tunes to the Rolling Stones, the Beatles, the Kinks and The Clash. I’ll crank up The Who’s ‘Quadrophenia,’ as well as Les Paul and Mary Ford’s Greatest Hits. I love loading up the CD player with favorites – Mary Gauthier, Brian Eno, Nico -- as well as the random surprise of the radio.
But lately the soundtrack to my writing is silence. In this hurly-burly/cell-phone chattering/TV-in-airport-terminals/Muzak in elevators world we live in, quiet is the new gold, precious but hard to find. I’ve even unplugged on my dog walks down at the river; where I once liked to listen to books on tape as Julio chased squirrels, I now prefer listening to nattering woodpeckers and nagging crows, to woofs and yaps and the shrill pierce of a dog owner’s whistle. I like listening to my own thoughts. Sometimes they’re mundane inventories of errands to be run (‘stop at post-office, return library books, pick up quart of milk, head of lettuce, kilo of chocolate’); other times they’re ruminations on the state of the world at large as well as my own little one. Sometimes I’ll get an insight into a character I’m writing about. Often I sing. Today it was the song ‘Surry with the Fringe on Top’ which I sang loudly, until I saw someone come onto the path. Respecting his right to silence, I shut my mouth.
My fellow traveler felt no such urge.
“And then,” he squawked into his cell phone, not even looking at me as we passed, “and then they say it’s gall stones!”
As is for most people, my musical tastes are eclectic – I listen to blue grass (my all-time favorites – the Stanley Brothers), to live Met opera broadcasts, to Beethoven and Bach to show tunes to the Rolling Stones, the Beatles, the Kinks and The Clash. I’ll crank up The Who’s ‘Quadrophenia,’ as well as Les Paul and Mary Ford’s Greatest Hits. I love loading up the CD player with favorites – Mary Gauthier, Brian Eno, Nico -- as well as the random surprise of the radio.
But lately the soundtrack to my writing is silence. In this hurly-burly/cell-phone chattering/TV-in-airport-terminals/Muzak in elevators world we live in, quiet is the new gold, precious but hard to find. I’ve even unplugged on my dog walks down at the river; where I once liked to listen to books on tape as Julio chased squirrels, I now prefer listening to nattering woodpeckers and nagging crows, to woofs and yaps and the shrill pierce of a dog owner’s whistle. I like listening to my own thoughts. Sometimes they’re mundane inventories of errands to be run (‘stop at post-office, return library books, pick up quart of milk, head of lettuce, kilo of chocolate’); other times they’re ruminations on the state of the world at large as well as my own little one. Sometimes I’ll get an insight into a character I’m writing about. Often I sing. Today it was the song ‘Surry with the Fringe on Top’ which I sang loudly, until I saw someone come onto the path. Respecting his right to silence, I shut my mouth.
My fellow traveler felt no such urge.
“And then,” he squawked into his cell phone, not even looking at me as we passed, “and then they say it’s gall stones!”
March 2, 2012
Bookmobiles
Do bookmobiles still exist? Our elementary school had a fully stocked library, so I don’t know why we were given this bonus round in book selection. Seeing the green Bookmobile pull up curbside, I’d feel the same excitement I did when the ice cream truck rolled around the corner, but instead of malted milk cups and Refreshos, the treat was books and they were free.
I can’t remember how our teachers managed crowd control – did we line up and climb the folding steps in timed increments to avoid jamming the center aisle as we perused shelves of books in their cellophane dust jackets? It never felt crowded inside -- except when someone reached for the exact same book you were ready to pick.
The driver/librarian always seemed happy to be there; but who wouldn’t be, tooling around the city in a magical mystery bus, bringing tales of adventure and cowboys and pioneer girls; guides to craft-making and star-gazing; joke books and Peanuts compilations; biographies of presidents and anything by Beverly Cleary to hundreds of eager readers.
If smiles were currency, the driver/librarian collected a fortune at one single stop.
I can’t remember how our teachers managed crowd control – did we line up and climb the folding steps in timed increments to avoid jamming the center aisle as we perused shelves of books in their cellophane dust jackets? It never felt crowded inside -- except when someone reached for the exact same book you were ready to pick.
The driver/librarian always seemed happy to be there; but who wouldn’t be, tooling around the city in a magical mystery bus, bringing tales of adventure and cowboys and pioneer girls; guides to craft-making and star-gazing; joke books and Peanuts compilations; biographies of presidents and anything by Beverly Cleary to hundreds of eager readers.
If smiles were currency, the driver/librarian collected a fortune at one single stop.
February 23, 2012
Writing
Work habits . . . I wish I had some. I know writers who set their automatic coffee makers so that the scent of fresh brewed coffee nudges them into consciousness. As the sun yawns over the eastern hemisphere, they pour themselves a cuppa joe, open their computers and get to work. Me . . . I’m still snoozing.
I like to stay up late. Not table-top dancing or knocking down Boilermakers in a bar whose regulars wear more tattoos than clothes…no, I’m up late reading novels or watching old movies on TCM (or at least I was, until Comcast dropped the channel from my line-up #*@&*!@&!!).
When I do wake up, rather than seize the day, I’d rather ease into it. I like to read the papers, do the crossword puzzles, answer e-mails, walk the dog. While my intentions to get to work in the a.m. are excellent, I am well aware that I'm paving a certain road to a certain place.
To write every day is a prescription for success and I try to follow doctor’s orders, even as one day I may write for five hours and the next day fifteen-minutes. Ideas are never a problem for me; it’s in executing those ideas into a coherent story that the hard work begins. You put on your hard hat and ride a creaky tram down the mine shaft; pull on the gloves and start digging the ditch; walk the plowed furrows, throwing seeds into the weedy, fallow soil.
And then, after you're dripping with sweat, chipping away at rocks, you suddenly see the glimmer of a diamond. Your shovel hits what could be a pirate’s treasure chest and a row of green shoots poke through the earth.
Ahhhhh.
I like to stay up late. Not table-top dancing or knocking down Boilermakers in a bar whose regulars wear more tattoos than clothes…no, I’m up late reading novels or watching old movies on TCM (or at least I was, until Comcast dropped the channel from my line-up #*@&*!@&!!).
When I do wake up, rather than seize the day, I’d rather ease into it. I like to read the papers, do the crossword puzzles, answer e-mails, walk the dog. While my intentions to get to work in the a.m. are excellent, I am well aware that I'm paving a certain road to a certain place.
To write every day is a prescription for success and I try to follow doctor’s orders, even as one day I may write for five hours and the next day fifteen-minutes. Ideas are never a problem for me; it’s in executing those ideas into a coherent story that the hard work begins. You put on your hard hat and ride a creaky tram down the mine shaft; pull on the gloves and start digging the ditch; walk the plowed furrows, throwing seeds into the weedy, fallow soil.
And then, after you're dripping with sweat, chipping away at rocks, you suddenly see the glimmer of a diamond. Your shovel hits what could be a pirate’s treasure chest and a row of green shoots poke through the earth.
Ahhhhh.
February 9, 2012
On Teachers
How can you compensate those who excite, inspire, build confidence and open doors you didn’t know existed? If it were up to me, the base salary of public school teachers would start at $100,000, with frequent opportunities for advancement. (And cappuccino machines in every teachers’ lounge, on-site masseuses . . . or at the very least a full stock of supplies they didn't have to pay for).
I have often spoken of Mr. Spaeth, my sixth grade teacher/renaissance man who taught us everything from fractions to presidential history to pirate songs (in a lovely tenor voice). At recess, he was not a teacher to stand back, but a full participant in our games of Bombardment and Kick Ball and catching one of his powerfully-thrown fly balls or tagging him out was a giddy triumph.
He read to us daily and his encouragement and belief in my own writing, made me believe in it. His inscription, ‘Best of luck for a fine literary career’ was not just written in my autograph book, but in my heart.
In his class, we listened to a radio program called, ‘Let’s Write’ to which teachers submitted their students’ work. Twice my poems were read over the air and hearing my words coming over the crackly P.A. system absolutely thrilled me (even as my built-in Norwegian-Lutheran modesty propelled me to lean over my desk, cradling my head in my arms).
Here’s the poem:
I love the feeling of icy snow,
The tingling coldness, the peppermint glow
The skies are dull with a hint of blue
Then down come the snowflakes crisp and new
They drift and float and come a’dancing
I almost hear Rudolph’s swift legs a’ prancing!
But the feel of the flakes is the best of all
Touch me, touch me, they seem to call.
I have often spoken of Mr. Spaeth, my sixth grade teacher/renaissance man who taught us everything from fractions to presidential history to pirate songs (in a lovely tenor voice). At recess, he was not a teacher to stand back, but a full participant in our games of Bombardment and Kick Ball and catching one of his powerfully-thrown fly balls or tagging him out was a giddy triumph.
He read to us daily and his encouragement and belief in my own writing, made me believe in it. His inscription, ‘Best of luck for a fine literary career’ was not just written in my autograph book, but in my heart.
In his class, we listened to a radio program called, ‘Let’s Write’ to which teachers submitted their students’ work. Twice my poems were read over the air and hearing my words coming over the crackly P.A. system absolutely thrilled me (even as my built-in Norwegian-Lutheran modesty propelled me to lean over my desk, cradling my head in my arms).
Here’s the poem:
I love the feeling of icy snow,
The tingling coldness, the peppermint glow
The skies are dull with a hint of blue
Then down come the snowflakes crisp and new
They drift and float and come a’dancing
I almost hear Rudolph’s swift legs a’ prancing!
But the feel of the flakes is the best of all
Touch me, touch me, they seem to call.
