Sharon E. Anderson's Blog, page 5

On Collecting

Recently a fellow author asked if I collected anything. That question got me thinking—and looking around my house. The first thing I saw was a collection of sand dollars on the mantel. My daughter and I had picked up on the beach last summer. We chose those specimens which were already dried up and dead.

Then my gaze traveled to the collection of Raku pots my father-in-law had crafted, some of which contain sea shells populated with barnacles, scallop shells, clam shells…across the room, a display containing more sea shells under glass. I’m fascinated by the sea and all of its creatures. It wasn’t such a revelation.

 

I think sometimes things happen like that—passions sneak upon us and wrap their certainty around us. Sometimes this happens by accident. (How did I end up with SO many copies of Real Simple? And what do I do with them now?—Let’s not even mention ALL the National Geographic Magazines on the shelf… Can I get an Amen?)

 

 

 

This got me thinking about the other things we collect, the things unseen, but felt:

Resentments

Grudges

Fears

These things can wrap around us and accumulate just as easily as magazine subscriptions. But how do we unload them?

Sometimes we just need to let them go. Set them free. Let the tide take them from us.

Medusa the daughter of ancient gods, Phorkys and Keto (children of Gaea and Oceanus), had cause to harbor resentment. She was beautiful once, until Poseidon raped her and turned her into what most of us recognize, the many snake-headed Gorgon, slayed by Perseus.

Part architrave with a frieze with mythical Gorgon Medusa head in ancient Temple of Apollo in Didim, Turkey

In my short-short On Medusa, I’m working on the technical aspect of Flashback contained within a scene. I hope you enjoy! (**If you’d like to find out how Cassandra deals with her angst over being dumped by Howard, download your copy of Curse of the Seven 70s today! It’s available for Kindle and Nook.**)

 

On Medusa  

You think taking my head will be an easy task. One swipe and you’re through. Did you not notice my skin is iridescent with scale, beautifully armored against such assault? And what then, dear Perseus, will you do – once you have succeeded in rending my body in twine? Had Hermes not helped you, had Athena remained silent, you would not have your treasure. But be certain on one thing, dear boy, I was not always as you see me here.

I was beautiful once. Lovely beyond reason when Poseidon turned his head in my direction. He stank of washed up carcasses of creatures you have never laid your eyes on to offer me his godliness, as if I would be impressed with cockles and kelp. My father grew from much deeper things. But Poseidon and his brothers did not take no easily. Instead of leaving me, he molested me. Instead of honoring me, he put his seed in me. Even now, as you saw your way through my flesh, I feel them stirring within.

Did no one warn you, taking a head is a dreadful thing?

He sets his jaw in a determined line and draws his blade across the back of my neck. Rough, my scales dull the edge. I do not pull back, do not flinch. With a great howl the lifts his blade and hacks it down upon my neck. Again and again, he screams and forges into the dense flesh there. My father lifts me in his arms and cradles me to sleep. The blade hits bone and splinters.

Perseus, where is your mother? What would she say, I wonder, if she could see you now… Take care of my children.

What’s so funny about a breakup?

Cassandra is in no shape to meet anyone. She’s just been dumped by her long time boyfriend for a woman with more silicone than brains. If this is what men want, no wonder he left.

But breakups are hard on a girl.

She feels betrayed.

And alone…

AS FAR AS Cassandra was concerned, if she never saw Howard again it would be too soon. How could she love him and hate him, want him back and wish they had never met, all at the same time? Multi-tasking had always been her strong suit at the university library—she handled antiquities, flustered students, and angry professors with ease—but this…this was emotional contortionism at its finest. She deserved a medal. The one-hour commute from the university to her new home on the edge of the known universe had turned into a three hour bumper-to-bumper detour through pounding rain—plenty of time to rehash their parting conversation.

Her lower lip trembled as the last words they had exchanged played again in her mind.

“The University doesn’t get the significance of my research, Cass, but they will. I only need you to store my stuff until I get a little further along.” Howard’s caramel-colored eyes bore into hers.

Cassandra was a sucker for those eyes; they had gotten her into trouble more times than she cared to admit. What was worse, they seemed to have the power to turn her legs to jelly. Attempting to shake it off, she looked at her feet.

“C’mon, Cass. Do it for me. For old times’ sake,” he whispered.

“Why don’t you store them? Why do I have to?” She kicked the stack of boxes on the curb. “This can’t all be research.”

“Taffy doesn’t like clutter. I gotta make a clean start.”

Howard stood, hands on hips and chest puffed out, in a perfect super-hero pose. But he had fallen for the wrong leading lady.

That pretty much summed Howard up: Great eyes. Great body. And absolutely no clue when to shut the hell up.

 

Get your copy of Curse of the Seven 70s today!

Sometimes You Can Tell a Princess, but You Can Always Tell a Queen…

Last year when we were vacationing at the ocean, all of the cousins got together and bought hermit crabs for their children. My daughter wanted a hermit crab, but none of the leftover ones at the store looked healthy. In fact, they looked like they might just die on the way home.

We knew nothing about hermit crabs, what they ate, how big they grew… if they were truly hermits and needed to be alone most of the time, or if they were really social butterflies. What if they lived 150 years—or longer? Who would take care of the hermit crab when our daughter goes to college? Or when we go into a nursing home?? Were we ready to saddle our grandchildren with the care and keeping of the thing? We had questions. We needed answers!

We decided to wait until we got home, then visit the pet store down the street.

The young man at the store shook his head emphatically when we told him what we wanted. “No,” he said. “Hermit crabs are a bad idea. Here, take this guinea pig instead.” He handed us a little ball of fur that started purring and chirping as soon as my daughter held it. How could we say no? She was so cute and fluffy. I loved the way she snuggled close to my daughter – it almost made me cry – it was so beautiful! That day we brought home Princess Cocobean.

Little did we know then that the pop-corning move that this little cutie was doing was just the beginning of something darker, more mischievous, some part of a master plan that we would discover as she grew.

Now Cocobean has graduated to Queen Cocobean and is three times the size that she was when we first laid eyes on her. She jumps around and chirps when my daughter plays with her…and studiously ignores me except to take a bite out of my flesh whenever she can. She squeals when my husband walks in the room, screams like a little girl at a One D concert. My husband, of course, thinks this charming, the little furry creature craves his attention. He laughs, scratches the top of her proffered head, he picks her up and holds her close as we watch the latest episode of The Blacklist. Then slowly, when no one is watching, she approaches…it is with great anxiety I see she is at my elbow.

We exchange looks, and then, as if it were written in a B movie script somewhere, the little darling takes a bite out of me!

Now, I’m a nice person, I give her apple slices and carrots. I deliver parsley to her and insist my daughter escorts the little royal outside when the sun is high, but does she care? I am just a chew toy to this creature, a thing meant only for ripping and shredding… And I thought she was cute.

 

Birds and Books

There are many birds I feel drawn to. During my sojourn in San Francisco I haunted La Ville du Soleil on Grant Ave. Beautiful, eclectic shop filled yard sale items from the French countryside. I remember a marionette bridal party, eight pieces, gorgeously turned out in tuxedos and gowns, the entire bridal party had heads of different species of barnyard fowl.

One room was full of fine linens and tableware, beautiful ceramic mixing bowls and measuring cups, aprons and dishtowels. Another room contained costumes from the opera, chic, cool items I could never afford to add to my wardrobe. Further along, I found a wicker suitcases full of some forgotten family’s silver. The store had everything, and each room I investigated had its own music playing in the background – opera, 20s jazz, French mavens drawing out their love and loss.

It was heaven on earth to me. Along with the French charm, interspersed throughout the store, on the floor, on a table, were old-stylized cages of little finches chirping merrily along with the music. I fell in love with finches then…

 

But I also love peacocks – the very idea of them inspires me. People used to keep peacocks for their horrible calls when visitors would arrive. The birds served as watchdogs, alerting the family of any approach. I often wonder what my neighbors would think if I started in raising peacocks… I can see them gracefully nesting on top of my trellis, screaming “Help!” to all who pass by.

Of course, here I must admit, I really only want the peacocks for their feathers. I know it’s somewhat Edwardian, keeping peacocks just for their feathers, but I can’t seem to help myself. I am mesmerized by the bird, their feathers in particular. Recently I visited an antique store across the river from where I live. Imagine my delight when I went up the rickety staircase, turned the corner and discovered a large urn filled with peacock feathers! At only a dollar a feather, this might go a long way in keeping the peace in my neighborhood… 

And of course, I adore pelicans! I even gave one a role in my first novel, Curse of the Seven 70s. This pelican acts as eyes and ears to my protagonist, Varo, when he is otherwise indisposed. I find it rather hilarious to pair a sexy male lead with a comical bird, don’t you?

Kathleen Kaska, author of a series of mystery trivia companion books, Sydney Lockhart mysteries, and the nonfiction book, The Man Who Saved the Whooping Crane: The Robert Porter Allen Story, is an avid bird watcher. She recently interviewed me for her blog Birds and Books – please check it out! http://www.kathleenkaskawrites.blogspot.com/

 

Reviews!!

There are a couple of great reviews of Curse of the Seven 70s on Amazon! #soexcited!

Haunted People

Every time I watch a ghost program on television or talk to people about their hauntings, a little niggling pokes me in the back of my skull. There seems to be a basic misunderstandings in the community that hunts phantoms: Ghost will tell you the truth.

Let’s look at that a little closer. Just because someone is theoretically talking to you through the veil doesn’t mean they have a lie detector strapped to their chest. Where is it written that a spirit must tell you the truth? Why do we think that just because a person is dead, they enter into the realm of the honest do-gooder? This is flawed thinking. Some people seek out ghosts for one reason or the other and marvel that they actually make contact. I would argue that what you make contact with is very likely veiled. You may not be talking to your great aunt Adeline who knows where the family treasure is buried. You may, in fact, be talking to a malevolent spirit who intends to do you harm. In fact, my money is always on the later. Why? Because we’re too gullible. We’ve bought the horse before we’ve even ridden it. We’re too anxious to be certain there is an afterlife, that we’ll believe anything anyone tells us. That’s why. We make ourselves targets, sitting ducks for the supernatural when we delve into that world unprotected.

But wait, don’t I write about this stuff all the time?

You bet. It makes great stories, but no one should live it.

Do you want to guess how I know that?

Be careful out there. Who you think you’re talking to could wind up costing you more than the medium’s fee.

Starlight

I believe we are energy bound up in flesh and bone, energy which continues long after our flesh and bone give out. We leave an impact, a psychic footprint as it were, wherever we go. What draws energy to energy? What makes opposites attract? What keeps us here when our bodies are no longer alive? I read an article recently that claimed we are all stardust, our carbon cores mirror the carbon in the universe, the stuff that stars are made of (I’ve included an article about it).

This seems to be the season of loss – too much loss for my liking. And yet, I know my loved ones are still with me in some way, perhaps their energies join mine, or maybe it’s just their memories that lend strength. It’s heartbreaking, losing people you love is heartbreaking. Allowing those loses to swallow you whole is devastating.  Look up at the starry, starry night, my love and see the humanity shine down upon us.

http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/1999/06/990625080416.htm

Curse of the Seven 70s is ON Baby!

On this Friday the 13th I am pleased to announce the release of my dearest love – my book – Curse of the Seven 70s is available now at Amazon and Barnes & Noble ! It’s a boy meets girl, girl stabs boy, boy rises from the dead kind of story… You could say it’s a dark romantic comedy, and you’d be right!

Days Go By…

I have friends back East in New York, Michigan, Chicago who have been relaying their experiences with the weather this winter. I see the snow drifts covering downtown streets and sidewalks. I can imagine standing before my friend’s picture window, layered with a gossamer of white and try to be thankful for the weather in the Pacific Northwest – mainly Skagit Valley where I live. The skies here are an endless gray, matching the pavement, matching the sidewalks. It is bleak and weary, this day after day of sameness, an eternal mixture of white and black. There is nothing mysteriously beautiful about the Gray Havens… I live there, I’m telling you.

We haven’t yet had the snowfall we require in the mountains, which means water rationing this summer. Climate change? Maybe. Certainly. The thing I know is we haven’t had a winter in my remembering that has approached 60 degrees F. We might have to mow our lawns before March 1st!

But all the same, we are blessed to be alive, blessed we have company, friends, and stories to occupy our winter-sick minds. Something about this weather reminds me of my dad, who is gone now, hopefully to a place not so gray and dreary…

Here’s something I’ve been working on… I hope you enjoy it!

He stops just short of the veil, as if he’s not sure whether or not he wills to be seen. And me, the one who thinks I get all metaphysical ins and outs of it all, wait. The problem with ghosts is they cannot dry your tears, cannot save your soul, cannot sit down for a drink. The problem with ghosts is they appear at their own timing, wanting nothing to do with schedules we toss forth, as if the physical can impose curfew upon wind and time.

But embrace me he did, wrap his arms around me, allowed my maladaptive heart to sink back into his care. Oh, how I miss his arms’ firm circle. If there were yet a thousand years together, it would not be enough. I need my father—we all need him. Some souls are just like that: Brave. Kind. Inspiring. He was all that and when we were together, we were the lucky ones.