Chele Pedersen Smith's Blog, page 3
September 13, 2019
Lessons on Life and Literature from "The King of Horror."
Happy Friday the 13th! If you've ever wanted to get inside a writer's mind and find out what he was thinking when he wrote Carrie or Misery, (and a few others), you'll love Stephen King's anecdotal glimpse into his world in On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft. I found his frank language entertaining and if you're a writer to boot, his brilliant "straight shooting" writing tips are "aha" worthy!
Even more than the writing lessons, he includes a little of everything; the early life, the later life and a gold mine of his humble beginnings. All the crazy jobs he had to support his clever storytelling because let's face it, writers are starving artists until--or if--they make it. I'm still floundering with climbing the "latter."
He reveals his number one test reader for all his stories. This is the person he places validity on, the one he aims to impress and hopes gets all his jokes and gore. This is who provides loving support as well as brutal honesty. How lucky he is to have that springboard, even if it's painful at times.
And speaking of pain, he sheds light on that too, especially the accident that urged him to finish this book. I enjoyed the whole package Stephen King wrapped between the pages. I especially love finding out where authors get their story ideas-- I include covert information in all of my books-- and King's did not disappoint. In fact, it was my favorite part! I wish he spilled secrets on them all.
His homemade approach to early creativity was hilarious and relatable, namely making a neighborhood newspaper with his brother. My middle bro used to draw comic books, and embarrassingly enough, I used to draw greeting cards on manila paper and once tried peddling my crude wares to local businesses. (insert cringe here!) I also still have most of my primitive, handwritten and illustrated teen mystery booklets, which I treasure.
I'm in awe of Stephen King's "never give up" attitude, even as a kid when he first started submitting stories to sci-fi and spec fiction magazines. He was only a preteen at the time! Imagine finding positive gleams in rejection letters, especially at that impressionable age! He kept them all, but it's an accolade to his talent having finagled a single typed line of advice from hardcore editors, and whether or not a form letter contained it, he always took them in stride. Really, it's the only way to improve and it's a crucial part of the journey.
Coming away from this book, it's like visiting with a friend you've admired for a long time. Sort of like authors of a kindred spirit both living in New England, although Maine may not be considered part of it, it is to me.
I've seen a few of his movies and a mini series or two, and even though my husband has read many of his books, I never have--gasp!-- but after this memoir, his writing style has me hankering for more. I may sink my teeth into some--if I dare.
Might be perfect timing, too; Halloween season is a' howling.
Even more than the writing lessons, he includes a little of everything; the early life, the later life and a gold mine of his humble beginnings. All the crazy jobs he had to support his clever storytelling because let's face it, writers are starving artists until--or if--they make it. I'm still floundering with climbing the "latter."
He reveals his number one test reader for all his stories. This is the person he places validity on, the one he aims to impress and hopes gets all his jokes and gore. This is who provides loving support as well as brutal honesty. How lucky he is to have that springboard, even if it's painful at times.
And speaking of pain, he sheds light on that too, especially the accident that urged him to finish this book. I enjoyed the whole package Stephen King wrapped between the pages. I especially love finding out where authors get their story ideas-- I include covert information in all of my books-- and King's did not disappoint. In fact, it was my favorite part! I wish he spilled secrets on them all.
His homemade approach to early creativity was hilarious and relatable, namely making a neighborhood newspaper with his brother. My middle bro used to draw comic books, and embarrassingly enough, I used to draw greeting cards on manila paper and once tried peddling my crude wares to local businesses. (insert cringe here!) I also still have most of my primitive, handwritten and illustrated teen mystery booklets, which I treasure.
I'm in awe of Stephen King's "never give up" attitude, even as a kid when he first started submitting stories to sci-fi and spec fiction magazines. He was only a preteen at the time! Imagine finding positive gleams in rejection letters, especially at that impressionable age! He kept them all, but it's an accolade to his talent having finagled a single typed line of advice from hardcore editors, and whether or not a form letter contained it, he always took them in stride. Really, it's the only way to improve and it's a crucial part of the journey.
Coming away from this book, it's like visiting with a friend you've admired for a long time. Sort of like authors of a kindred spirit both living in New England, although Maine may not be considered part of it, it is to me.
I've seen a few of his movies and a mini series or two, and even though my husband has read many of his books, I never have--gasp!-- but after this memoir, his writing style has me hankering for more. I may sink my teeth into some--if I dare.
Might be perfect timing, too; Halloween season is a' howling.
April 29, 2019
Rebel Writer
I don’t outline. There! I said it. In fact, I usually write off the cuff and rearrange later. Ever since 8th grade English class when the teacher taught (more like forced ) us to outline with Roman numerals no less, I felt boxed in. It clipped the wings on my pen.
Flash 35 years into the future as an ahem mature college student, and the professors still want us to outline our essays. In English 101 that first summer, I froze.
“I can’t write that way,” I told her.
Luckily in college, they are more laid back so I did my usual brain dump then cut and pasted later. It just works for me.
The same thing happens with too many writing rules. As I write this now, I have a big research paper in the works. It’s the “endgame” you might say, the last hurrah before graduating with a liberal arts degree in professional writing!
To help us with our paper, Professor V just threw some arsenals at us: Helpful gems as they were, these heavy armored definitions of paragraphs, construction tips, and other articles feel like a paperweight. True, I am a somewhat advanced writer in our class of “young' ens” and while I love learning new tips and take any refreshers I can get, I feel trapped—sluggishly ensnared in a net spiked with limits.
So all I can do is digest enough to whet my appetite and bite through the crosshatched prison.
I don’t even employ much structure to my book writing, I’m usually typing as I go, not sure where the adventure —or muse— will take me. But that's not what “real writers” do, right?
I signed up for a creative writing class in 2016 so I could learn the “proper” way to do things. This is it, I thought. I will finally learn how to outline. But our class was more about being free—even aghast—breaking the rules! It took a bit to undo the glue of Grammar in me. Not abandon it completely, just relax the stiff pants of its starchy cousin. I enjoyed the freedom and unleashing my inner word nerd was liberating. I reclaimed who I used to be. So maybe not every writer needs an organized regime after all.
(If you're a writer who does and outlines work for you, awesome! You probably are a much faster writer than me, and I'm a jealous.)
But feeling giddy, I prefer the crime of tossing outline bullets out the window. My crazy path of writing like Mr. Toad's Wild Ride is how I’m wired. I don’t even judge successful writing days by word counts either! ( I know, what an outlaw!)
So off into my rebel writing world I go. But every once in a while I do know a direction I want to take or ideas I don’t want to forget so I’ll jot them down for later.
Sometimes I'll plot out place markers so I’ll remember when I go back in and I even know how two works-in-progress will end! That's remarkable for me.
So, no, I don’t outline. It doesn’t work for me. Then again, maybe in some ways it does.
Flash 35 years into the future as an ahem mature college student, and the professors still want us to outline our essays. In English 101 that first summer, I froze.
“I can’t write that way,” I told her.
Luckily in college, they are more laid back so I did my usual brain dump then cut and pasted later. It just works for me.
The same thing happens with too many writing rules. As I write this now, I have a big research paper in the works. It’s the “endgame” you might say, the last hurrah before graduating with a liberal arts degree in professional writing!
To help us with our paper, Professor V just threw some arsenals at us: Helpful gems as they were, these heavy armored definitions of paragraphs, construction tips, and other articles feel like a paperweight. True, I am a somewhat advanced writer in our class of “young' ens” and while I love learning new tips and take any refreshers I can get, I feel trapped—sluggishly ensnared in a net spiked with limits.
So all I can do is digest enough to whet my appetite and bite through the crosshatched prison.
I don’t even employ much structure to my book writing, I’m usually typing as I go, not sure where the adventure —or muse— will take me. But that's not what “real writers” do, right?
I signed up for a creative writing class in 2016 so I could learn the “proper” way to do things. This is it, I thought. I will finally learn how to outline. But our class was more about being free—even aghast—breaking the rules! It took a bit to undo the glue of Grammar in me. Not abandon it completely, just relax the stiff pants of its starchy cousin. I enjoyed the freedom and unleashing my inner word nerd was liberating. I reclaimed who I used to be. So maybe not every writer needs an organized regime after all.
(If you're a writer who does and outlines work for you, awesome! You probably are a much faster writer than me, and I'm a jealous.)
But feeling giddy, I prefer the crime of tossing outline bullets out the window. My crazy path of writing like Mr. Toad's Wild Ride is how I’m wired. I don’t even judge successful writing days by word counts either! ( I know, what an outlaw!)
So off into my rebel writing world I go. But every once in a while I do know a direction I want to take or ideas I don’t want to forget so I’ll jot them down for later.
Sometimes I'll plot out place markers so I’ll remember when I go back in and I even know how two works-in-progress will end! That's remarkable for me.
So, no, I don’t outline. It doesn’t work for me. Then again, maybe in some ways it does.
January 7, 2019
Are Ostriches Ostracized?
Want a happy new year? Here's a secret... and a confession. I'm an ostrich. Are you one too? Don't worry; it's not a bad thing.
Staying true to my story "Pitch a Peace Tent." in The Pearly Gates Phone Company, I admit I live in my own peace bubble. It's not perfect. Bad stuff filters in every now and then thanks to Facebook and dog neglect commercials, but I hurry past as fast as I can. For the most part, my peace plan is pretty sound proof.
I've always been picky about books and movies with disturbing topics. When my folks watched the news, I tuned out, going to my room to draw, read innocent YA or write my own teen mysteries. But then adulting happened.
The grown-up thing to do was watch the news, read the newspaper and try to follow politics, right? Well, it really wasn't my thing. I've always had political amnesia and still don't remember what the Clinton Whitewater thing was about, no matter how many times my husband explained it.
The shunning began slowly. I'd only tune in for storm advisories. It took a while to get the timing down without accidentally catching horrific glimpses of child abuse trials, abductions, trees felling drivers, even a fire killing children at a sleepover. My motherly worry-wart syndrome hadn't even conjured up that last possibility! Now I had a new suspect in my anxiety lineup.
The final irritating grain was a sinkhole swallowing a houseful of occupants! It was bad enough fearing fresh air felonies. Now we weren't guaranteed safety in our own homes.
This is when I face-planted sand deep.
But I felt guilty. I was a terrible citizen, an uninformed wussy adult. By becoming an ostrich, was I ostracizing myself?
I reasoned if anything truly urgent went down I'd hear about it. My husband still listened to the news somewhat, especially during his commute. If it didn't reach my ears, then it wasn't important enough to fester my feebling glee.
Then a funny thing happened. Recently, my husband began pushing news away too. And here I was thinking I was a chicken and poor example. We learned better timing for catching storm forecasts, mostly by jumping on a website. And because we weren't bombarded daily by the Negativity News Nellies, I could handle a few trickles bookending TV weather reports. Of course, they come with their own doom of gloom. Too many tornadoes, hurricanes, devastation, but we focused on our local conditions whenever possible.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not cold and heartless. I feel for the victims, believe me, I really do. Caring too much is why it bothers me so much. The surmountable sorrow of all the sad stories, book themes, heart-wrenching charities accumulated, weakening my emotional immunity.
While discussing this with a therapist, I learned I wasn't a being a baby after all. It's a strength to know how to protect our mental health. What good reason is there to endure such pessimism? Zilch, Nada, Not a one. It seeps into our cranial crevices, pushing us down 'til we feel six feet deep.
And now a few years later, I'm seeing memes about doing the same thing so my psyche was on the right track all along.
Ironically, I had to take two journalism classes last year as part of my writing program. I know, right? I do like the writing aspect and idea of the field and luckily we didn't dwell much on hard news, so I survived just fine. And I emerged armed with media knowledge. So here's what I got out of it:
If you must drink the broadcasting Kool-aid, only take small sips.
This means learning how to spot real news sources. Today's constant news can be slanted depending on the network. The trick of clipping quotes out of context spins up hate like bitter cotton candy, and it's tough to know what is true anymore.
The shroud of social media wrapping us in fake news, hacks, and scams 24/7 makes it a hazy maze to navigate.
So let's be part of the solution!
1. Don't send chain messages. Besides spreading viruses, you're annoying your friends and family. You won't get a million dollars and God will bring blessings even more if you don't share.
2. Be careful taking those quizzes you're giving access to. You just opened the door to your internet home. Yeah, we can't have fun anymore. Killjoys.
3. Don't just click share -- skim through articles first!
4. Check the date: A lot of old junk is circulating out there.
5. Look for updates: "Found" or "Found Safe" is often embedded on top of articles on lost pets and kids.
6. Consider the source. Does it lean too far left or right? Does it present both sides? Does it mimic a real source but seems slightly off? And sometimes it's just a satire piece, like The Onion, stirring up animosity instead of the laugh it intended. If it sounds ridiculous, it probably is.
7. Become an investigator Be a skeptic and scrutinize for shams.
Padding our peace tent is more important than ever! Adding knowledge will fortify our forts. And if you've been feeling overwhelmed and blue from the pressure of internet depression, take a break. Take a deep breath and surround yourself in serenity. Lockout negativity and let in only the things that matter most. If you're looking to escape the heat, it's cooler under the sand.
Staying true to my story "Pitch a Peace Tent." in The Pearly Gates Phone Company, I admit I live in my own peace bubble. It's not perfect. Bad stuff filters in every now and then thanks to Facebook and dog neglect commercials, but I hurry past as fast as I can. For the most part, my peace plan is pretty sound proof.
I've always been picky about books and movies with disturbing topics. When my folks watched the news, I tuned out, going to my room to draw, read innocent YA or write my own teen mysteries. But then adulting happened.
The grown-up thing to do was watch the news, read the newspaper and try to follow politics, right? Well, it really wasn't my thing. I've always had political amnesia and still don't remember what the Clinton Whitewater thing was about, no matter how many times my husband explained it.
The shunning began slowly. I'd only tune in for storm advisories. It took a while to get the timing down without accidentally catching horrific glimpses of child abuse trials, abductions, trees felling drivers, even a fire killing children at a sleepover. My motherly worry-wart syndrome hadn't even conjured up that last possibility! Now I had a new suspect in my anxiety lineup.
The final irritating grain was a sinkhole swallowing a houseful of occupants! It was bad enough fearing fresh air felonies. Now we weren't guaranteed safety in our own homes.
This is when I face-planted sand deep.
But I felt guilty. I was a terrible citizen, an uninformed wussy adult. By becoming an ostrich, was I ostracizing myself?
I reasoned if anything truly urgent went down I'd hear about it. My husband still listened to the news somewhat, especially during his commute. If it didn't reach my ears, then it wasn't important enough to fester my feebling glee.
Then a funny thing happened. Recently, my husband began pushing news away too. And here I was thinking I was a chicken and poor example. We learned better timing for catching storm forecasts, mostly by jumping on a website. And because we weren't bombarded daily by the Negativity News Nellies, I could handle a few trickles bookending TV weather reports. Of course, they come with their own doom of gloom. Too many tornadoes, hurricanes, devastation, but we focused on our local conditions whenever possible.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not cold and heartless. I feel for the victims, believe me, I really do. Caring too much is why it bothers me so much. The surmountable sorrow of all the sad stories, book themes, heart-wrenching charities accumulated, weakening my emotional immunity.
While discussing this with a therapist, I learned I wasn't a being a baby after all. It's a strength to know how to protect our mental health. What good reason is there to endure such pessimism? Zilch, Nada, Not a one. It seeps into our cranial crevices, pushing us down 'til we feel six feet deep.
And now a few years later, I'm seeing memes about doing the same thing so my psyche was on the right track all along.
Ironically, I had to take two journalism classes last year as part of my writing program. I know, right? I do like the writing aspect and idea of the field and luckily we didn't dwell much on hard news, so I survived just fine. And I emerged armed with media knowledge. So here's what I got out of it:
If you must drink the broadcasting Kool-aid, only take small sips.
This means learning how to spot real news sources. Today's constant news can be slanted depending on the network. The trick of clipping quotes out of context spins up hate like bitter cotton candy, and it's tough to know what is true anymore.
The shroud of social media wrapping us in fake news, hacks, and scams 24/7 makes it a hazy maze to navigate.
So let's be part of the solution!
1. Don't send chain messages. Besides spreading viruses, you're annoying your friends and family. You won't get a million dollars and God will bring blessings even more if you don't share.
2. Be careful taking those quizzes you're giving access to. You just opened the door to your internet home. Yeah, we can't have fun anymore. Killjoys.
3. Don't just click share -- skim through articles first!
4. Check the date: A lot of old junk is circulating out there.
5. Look for updates: "Found" or "Found Safe" is often embedded on top of articles on lost pets and kids.
6. Consider the source. Does it lean too far left or right? Does it present both sides? Does it mimic a real source but seems slightly off? And sometimes it's just a satire piece, like The Onion, stirring up animosity instead of the laugh it intended. If it sounds ridiculous, it probably is.
7. Become an investigator Be a skeptic and scrutinize for shams.
Padding our peace tent is more important than ever! Adding knowledge will fortify our forts. And if you've been feeling overwhelmed and blue from the pressure of internet depression, take a break. Take a deep breath and surround yourself in serenity. Lockout negativity and let in only the things that matter most. If you're looking to escape the heat, it's cooler under the sand.
December 29, 2018
Hooray for Girls with Big Feet!
I was delighted to find a young adult book bringing back the nostalgia of Judy Blume's realistic fiction. The Law of Tall Girls by Joanne MacGregor is about fitting in and bonus if you find pretty shoes to boot! (with size 11's, my daughter and I can relate!)
Peyton Lane is over six feet tall, has heard all the jokes, and is a wannabe shrinking violet. She's secretly on the lookout for even taller guys to match her airspace. The dating pool is already bleak enough and made worse by boys breaking one of her imaginary Laws of Tall girls--throwing the universe off-kilter by dating teeny tiny gals.
Her boy hunt is not her only secret. While Peyton is a pro at hiding her home life and a dating bet with mean girl Tori at work, her height looms large. As if puberty isn't awkward enough, she feels like a circus freak. Peyton can only find men's clothing to fill her long frame. Not exactly flattering, but comfortable at least. And it's better than squeezing into too-short women's sizes that leave her looking like a Britney Spears video shoot.
Struggling to get through senior year with giant steps and a hefty bet she can't afford-- snag three dates and prom with a boy over six-feet-two --and log them in with the bet maker meanie at Jumping Jim's diner for proof!! No problem, right? So Peyton enlists stoner Tim's surveillance report on all six-foot-three and over prospects. With not much choice to go on, she wonders if she can get through the scant list of four without any of them being the wiser.
Until one name glows neon, making her heart flutter and cheeks flush. She met him briefly and fell for him at the end of summer but he was from out-of-town visiting his cousin. He's back, and the only one she really wants. Too bad he's in direct violation of code with a short, snarky girl dangling from his wrist. Can Peyton get him to unbreak the law--and handcuffs-- to reap the reward and guy for herself?
I enjoyed the book so much. It's full of laughs--family bingo is a riot and never misses a beat! A witty modern-day spin on a Shakespeare play called Romero and Juliet is a hilarious monstrosity. Throughout the book, Peyton's best friend Chloe has the best lines and the best-flavored tea concoctions to soothe whatever ails ya. But the tea isn't the only thing steeping. There's just enough innocent lovers' steam to make us envious. Tension tightly holds the seams of a long-ago family tragedy in place--until Peyton pulls the band-aid, for better or for worse. The characters are all entertaining and add dimension, making this a well-rounded story of emotions.
The ending is a bit of a surprise but holds a healthy message. Stand tall. Embrace yourself, flaws and all. But they're not mistakes. It's the bling that makes us all unique. I highly recommend this book.
Peyton Lane is over six feet tall, has heard all the jokes, and is a wannabe shrinking violet. She's secretly on the lookout for even taller guys to match her airspace. The dating pool is already bleak enough and made worse by boys breaking one of her imaginary Laws of Tall girls--throwing the universe off-kilter by dating teeny tiny gals.
Her boy hunt is not her only secret. While Peyton is a pro at hiding her home life and a dating bet with mean girl Tori at work, her height looms large. As if puberty isn't awkward enough, she feels like a circus freak. Peyton can only find men's clothing to fill her long frame. Not exactly flattering, but comfortable at least. And it's better than squeezing into too-short women's sizes that leave her looking like a Britney Spears video shoot.
Struggling to get through senior year with giant steps and a hefty bet she can't afford-- snag three dates and prom with a boy over six-feet-two --and log them in with the bet maker meanie at Jumping Jim's diner for proof!! No problem, right? So Peyton enlists stoner Tim's surveillance report on all six-foot-three and over prospects. With not much choice to go on, she wonders if she can get through the scant list of four without any of them being the wiser.
Until one name glows neon, making her heart flutter and cheeks flush. She met him briefly and fell for him at the end of summer but he was from out-of-town visiting his cousin. He's back, and the only one she really wants. Too bad he's in direct violation of code with a short, snarky girl dangling from his wrist. Can Peyton get him to unbreak the law--and handcuffs-- to reap the reward and guy for herself?
I enjoyed the book so much. It's full of laughs--family bingo is a riot and never misses a beat! A witty modern-day spin on a Shakespeare play called Romero and Juliet is a hilarious monstrosity. Throughout the book, Peyton's best friend Chloe has the best lines and the best-flavored tea concoctions to soothe whatever ails ya. But the tea isn't the only thing steeping. There's just enough innocent lovers' steam to make us envious. Tension tightly holds the seams of a long-ago family tragedy in place--until Peyton pulls the band-aid, for better or for worse. The characters are all entertaining and add dimension, making this a well-rounded story of emotions.
The ending is a bit of a surprise but holds a healthy message. Stand tall. Embrace yourself, flaws and all. But they're not mistakes. It's the bling that makes us all unique. I highly recommend this book.
November 16, 2018
The Odyssey of an Epochracy
A crevice in the chronological clock is ticking. Millions of modes and molecules await. What would be your device of choice? Or your time-travel destination?
If you can't decide, you're in luck. My newest book, The Epochracy Files contains eight tales of time-twisting realms. They differ in length as much as they vary in eras and quirky characters. And since I love interpersonal relationships, they're not too sci-fiction-ey either.
So what does epochracy actually mean?
To the best of my knowledge and Google searches, I made it up. Since epoch is a period of time, I created the word as a mashup of time and bureaucracy-- the tangle of protocol and principles of time travel.
I originally paired the concept as a subtitle with the story Time Hop, because the fine line of right and wrong and the red tape of the government play into the plot.
After I realized I had other time travel/speculative fiction stories to compile together, I used the title as a collective.
So, shall we do a little spying?
In Time Hop, we meet Rooney McCallahan, a bellhop at the 1930s Plaza Hotel, heading home into the depths of the subway one November night. He's grateful to have a job in these barely scrapping by times but like most of us, he gets weary and weighed down, especially lugging bags around for people capable of carrying their own totes. He's dragged by fatigue night after night...until he spies a peculiar case out of place on the subway platform, its tag dangling an invitation: "Do you accept this mission?"
Rooney ponders the possibilities. If he opens it, would his life suddenly change? Or is it just an advertising gimmick? The sound of his train swooshing in puts pressure on his overthinking. It's now or never...and the result is surprising.
In rad 80s Ohio of Parlor Game, T.V. repairman, Edison Jones,' imagination runs wild immersed in his fantasy world. Too bad he has to hide his hobby from his corporate wife. Roxie finds out anyway, and Ed is forced to prove he can keep his nose out of novels for one day. Easy, right? Not so much. Especially when he tags along to a company picnic he'd rather not attend. He knows he'll be out of place when they start talking stocks. The closest he's ever come to trading commodities is playing Pit with his cousins. Sure enough, his boredom prediction comes true and he wishes he'd smuggled out a book... until the newest craze in party games lures him in. Suddenly he's up to his neck in wizards and dragon's breath.
It's not his fault everything goes awry...or is it?
Have you ever wondered what the future holds? Then zip off into the novella, Chronicle of the Century in 2078 as a time capsule cracks open, revealing trinkets from one-hundred years ago! Filled with treasures of time, two besties-- sensible Lyrehc (Ly-wreck) and the more brazen purple-star braids of Inot (I-not) -- discover a diary and the mystery it beholds. For some reason they feel destined to solve it.
Soon the girls are obsessed with a world they never knew existed--the groovy 70s.
Connecting to the writer of the teen angst entries, the girls chagrin over her idiotic infatuation, witness historical events, sympathize with her family's scandal, and marvel at a time when one could prank pizzas before caller ID blew your cover.
But before they can solve the mystery, there's obstacles on their sleuthing path. Outwitting a mean clique, Inot's scoffing brother, a nosy janitor, school principals and their folks, the girls miraculously muster courage to complete their quest for answers.
And as right as the rain that never falls, Lyr is sure the answer to their millennial universe is pried between the pages of the leafy leather-bound. Good thing her friend is clever at picking locks.
When I wrote this story at age 13, it was right smack in the middle of 1978. I don't remember why it was set one hundred years into the future. The quest then was just a fun little mystery and a quick plot, but since revising it this summer, it was adorned with a bigger title, deeper meaning and more characters, from from the fashion clique to the journal owner's love interests. I expanded the items in the time capsule, which was a trip in itself forty years later. I also sprinkled in a few laughs. Hint: except for the names, most of the silly diary entries are real and come from my teen geekdom.
If the names look weird, don't worry. There's a little pronunciation key in the beginning of the chapter.
In between these tales are much shorter realms where you can eavesdrop on Amelia to discover a shocking secret in the Roaring Twenties, get an unusual Ear Worm stuck in your head, heed the Tales from the Hive, visit The Museum of Lost Hearts*by Michael R. Young, and catch faint wisps of Phantom Promises echoing down an adjoining hall.
Are you ready to book your trip? Sit cozy in your PJ's and let your imagination take off. But don't forget to fasten your seat belt.
The Epochracy Files
If you can't decide, you're in luck. My newest book, The Epochracy Files contains eight tales of time-twisting realms. They differ in length as much as they vary in eras and quirky characters. And since I love interpersonal relationships, they're not too sci-fiction-ey either.
So what does epochracy actually mean?
To the best of my knowledge and Google searches, I made it up. Since epoch is a period of time, I created the word as a mashup of time and bureaucracy-- the tangle of protocol and principles of time travel.
I originally paired the concept as a subtitle with the story Time Hop, because the fine line of right and wrong and the red tape of the government play into the plot.
After I realized I had other time travel/speculative fiction stories to compile together, I used the title as a collective.
So, shall we do a little spying?
In Time Hop, we meet Rooney McCallahan, a bellhop at the 1930s Plaza Hotel, heading home into the depths of the subway one November night. He's grateful to have a job in these barely scrapping by times but like most of us, he gets weary and weighed down, especially lugging bags around for people capable of carrying their own totes. He's dragged by fatigue night after night...until he spies a peculiar case out of place on the subway platform, its tag dangling an invitation: "Do you accept this mission?"
Rooney ponders the possibilities. If he opens it, would his life suddenly change? Or is it just an advertising gimmick? The sound of his train swooshing in puts pressure on his overthinking. It's now or never...and the result is surprising.
In rad 80s Ohio of Parlor Game, T.V. repairman, Edison Jones,' imagination runs wild immersed in his fantasy world. Too bad he has to hide his hobby from his corporate wife. Roxie finds out anyway, and Ed is forced to prove he can keep his nose out of novels for one day. Easy, right? Not so much. Especially when he tags along to a company picnic he'd rather not attend. He knows he'll be out of place when they start talking stocks. The closest he's ever come to trading commodities is playing Pit with his cousins. Sure enough, his boredom prediction comes true and he wishes he'd smuggled out a book... until the newest craze in party games lures him in. Suddenly he's up to his neck in wizards and dragon's breath.
It's not his fault everything goes awry...or is it?
Have you ever wondered what the future holds? Then zip off into the novella, Chronicle of the Century in 2078 as a time capsule cracks open, revealing trinkets from one-hundred years ago! Filled with treasures of time, two besties-- sensible Lyrehc (Ly-wreck) and the more brazen purple-star braids of Inot (I-not) -- discover a diary and the mystery it beholds. For some reason they feel destined to solve it.
Soon the girls are obsessed with a world they never knew existed--the groovy 70s.
Connecting to the writer of the teen angst entries, the girls chagrin over her idiotic infatuation, witness historical events, sympathize with her family's scandal, and marvel at a time when one could prank pizzas before caller ID blew your cover.
But before they can solve the mystery, there's obstacles on their sleuthing path. Outwitting a mean clique, Inot's scoffing brother, a nosy janitor, school principals and their folks, the girls miraculously muster courage to complete their quest for answers.
And as right as the rain that never falls, Lyr is sure the answer to their millennial universe is pried between the pages of the leafy leather-bound. Good thing her friend is clever at picking locks.
When I wrote this story at age 13, it was right smack in the middle of 1978. I don't remember why it was set one hundred years into the future. The quest then was just a fun little mystery and a quick plot, but since revising it this summer, it was adorned with a bigger title, deeper meaning and more characters, from from the fashion clique to the journal owner's love interests. I expanded the items in the time capsule, which was a trip in itself forty years later. I also sprinkled in a few laughs. Hint: except for the names, most of the silly diary entries are real and come from my teen geekdom.
If the names look weird, don't worry. There's a little pronunciation key in the beginning of the chapter.
In between these tales are much shorter realms where you can eavesdrop on Amelia to discover a shocking secret in the Roaring Twenties, get an unusual Ear Worm stuck in your head, heed the Tales from the Hive, visit The Museum of Lost Hearts*by Michael R. Young, and catch faint wisps of Phantom Promises echoing down an adjoining hall.
Are you ready to book your trip? Sit cozy in your PJ's and let your imagination take off. But don't forget to fasten your seat belt.
The Epochracy Files
October 16, 2018
Has the Memo Haunted You Yet?
It first arrived at a place I least expected, having the gall to pin itself on me as I sat unsuspecting in the exam room. And then it had the audacity to follow me out of the doctor’s office to my car, where it plastered its pink self on my windshield, like a glaring ticket.
All the way home I kept swiping with my wipers but it wouldn’t go away. When I parked in my driveway, I plucked the annoying announcement off my glass and crumbled it into the outside trash.
But…it seemed to be alive. To my horror, I watched as it crawled over the sides of the rubbish receptacle and inch its way through the door ahead of me. When it crossed the threshold into the kitchen, I stomped on it. There, take that you pest.
I sprayed it with Raid for good measure, then carefully scooped up the carcass with a dustpan and slammed a lid on it.
Sighing relief, I went to relax in the bathroom. Washing my face, I was glad my routine check-up was off my back for another year. But when I looked up and saw my reflection, I screamed. The memo was back, tacked to the mirror.
Congratulations! You’re old.
“Stop it! I’m only 37.”
Mulling over my doctor's casual words, I couldn’t believe my ears. Had she really said I could start having mammograms?
She’s crazy, I brushed off. Everyone knows the guidelines say forty. Luckily, it was just a suggestion, not an urgent referral. I didn’t have a family history, lump detection or immediate need. Still, the revelation bumped me up an age bracket I wasn’t ready for.
I decided to ignore the taunting Pepto Bismol dismal shade it was throwing and the reminder finally slunk away. Good riddance. I had two kids to feed and one needed help with homework. I nestled into the knowledge that I was still in my thirties.
A few days later on the way to work, a health commercial for mammograms blared from the radio. Apparently, financial stress, divorce, and grief could contribute to cancer. Yikes! What with juggling the mortgage, my recent divorce and the fresh loss of my dad, I hit the trifecta. I did a quick look-see. Was that creepy paper trailing me again? The coast was clear but so was the message.
You might think I gave in. But no, I ran in, scrambled to my desk and made the appointment.
I was nervous on the scheduled day, but all went well despite the humorous yet horrifying legend my female boss divulged. The squashing wasn’t too bad either, sort of like an awkward game of topless twister. And contrary to my boss’ story, the power did not go out and leave my girls dented like permanent pancakes.
I'm pretty sure hospital generators remedy that, anyway.
Whew, I survived my first rite of medical passage! And the result came back normal, too. Easing into my new era was easier than I thought. Plus I still had a few years until I turned 40.
It's been sixteen years now and I'm a pro in the booby-smashers game. This month I have an appointment on Halloween. On my calendar, I wrote, "Boo-bies." Kind of fitting don't you think?
Is the mammo memo following you, too?
~~This excerpt of "The Memo" is a flash fiction story about a comical aging reminder as it haunts me on a few more milestone occasions. (it's a work in progress.)
Copyright © 2018 Chele Pedersen Smith
All the way home I kept swiping with my wipers but it wouldn’t go away. When I parked in my driveway, I plucked the annoying announcement off my glass and crumbled it into the outside trash.
But…it seemed to be alive. To my horror, I watched as it crawled over the sides of the rubbish receptacle and inch its way through the door ahead of me. When it crossed the threshold into the kitchen, I stomped on it. There, take that you pest.
I sprayed it with Raid for good measure, then carefully scooped up the carcass with a dustpan and slammed a lid on it.
Sighing relief, I went to relax in the bathroom. Washing my face, I was glad my routine check-up was off my back for another year. But when I looked up and saw my reflection, I screamed. The memo was back, tacked to the mirror.
Congratulations! You’re old.
“Stop it! I’m only 37.”
Mulling over my doctor's casual words, I couldn’t believe my ears. Had she really said I could start having mammograms?
She’s crazy, I brushed off. Everyone knows the guidelines say forty. Luckily, it was just a suggestion, not an urgent referral. I didn’t have a family history, lump detection or immediate need. Still, the revelation bumped me up an age bracket I wasn’t ready for.
I decided to ignore the taunting Pepto Bismol dismal shade it was throwing and the reminder finally slunk away. Good riddance. I had two kids to feed and one needed help with homework. I nestled into the knowledge that I was still in my thirties.
A few days later on the way to work, a health commercial for mammograms blared from the radio. Apparently, financial stress, divorce, and grief could contribute to cancer. Yikes! What with juggling the mortgage, my recent divorce and the fresh loss of my dad, I hit the trifecta. I did a quick look-see. Was that creepy paper trailing me again? The coast was clear but so was the message.
You might think I gave in. But no, I ran in, scrambled to my desk and made the appointment.
I was nervous on the scheduled day, but all went well despite the humorous yet horrifying legend my female boss divulged. The squashing wasn’t too bad either, sort of like an awkward game of topless twister. And contrary to my boss’ story, the power did not go out and leave my girls dented like permanent pancakes.
I'm pretty sure hospital generators remedy that, anyway.
Whew, I survived my first rite of medical passage! And the result came back normal, too. Easing into my new era was easier than I thought. Plus I still had a few years until I turned 40.
It's been sixteen years now and I'm a pro in the booby-smashers game. This month I have an appointment on Halloween. On my calendar, I wrote, "Boo-bies." Kind of fitting don't you think?
Is the mammo memo following you, too?
~~This excerpt of "The Memo" is a flash fiction story about a comical aging reminder as it haunts me on a few more milestone occasions. (it's a work in progress.)
Copyright © 2018 Chele Pedersen Smith
October 2, 2018
Chained to Chain Letters?
With all the stress on social media lately, I began to wonder: was life more peaceful before the bombation of notifications and our obsession to rack up as many friends, likes, and comments as possible?
Remember the mid-90s when email first popped into our new-fangled inboxes?
Mom and I were thrilled we could communicate for "free" rather than run up long-distance phone bills.
But of course, along with the ease came a new wave of paranoia! Viruses disguised as fairy tales, hoax and chain letters threatening bad luck, death or if we were lucky-- a million dollars unless we forwarded to everyone we knew.
Warnings and urban legends spawned like the plague scaring us half to death by every person who was new to email for the next ten years. Gas station creeps slipping into our unlocked doors, flashing headlights signaling gangs, paper perfume ploys by predators tricking us into sniffing ether-like drugs, and the list went on and on. We all took the bait. Better safe than sorry.
Now they circulate as Messenger marauders or video-clip vigilantes. We can't escape.
Before email, there was snail mail. Perhaps it was the originator of the chain letter, which was even scarier in person. Or did it begin with notes in high school lockers or cave drawings written in flint?
But not all chain letters were bad. In the 90s and maybe into the early 2000s, there was a fun kind known as "clubs." How did it go again? Send a dish towel to the person on the list ahead of you and send them two names? They had ones for recipes and stickers for kids too. It was a cute idea. I know I participated in the first few I received but I hardly accumulated any goods in return. Did you?
Remember the mid-90s when email first popped into our new-fangled inboxes?
Mom and I were thrilled we could communicate for "free" rather than run up long-distance phone bills.
But of course, along with the ease came a new wave of paranoia! Viruses disguised as fairy tales, hoax and chain letters threatening bad luck, death or if we were lucky-- a million dollars unless we forwarded to everyone we knew.
Warnings and urban legends spawned like the plague scaring us half to death by every person who was new to email for the next ten years. Gas station creeps slipping into our unlocked doors, flashing headlights signaling gangs, paper perfume ploys by predators tricking us into sniffing ether-like drugs, and the list went on and on. We all took the bait. Better safe than sorry.
Now they circulate as Messenger marauders or video-clip vigilantes. We can't escape.
Before email, there was snail mail. Perhaps it was the originator of the chain letter, which was even scarier in person. Or did it begin with notes in high school lockers or cave drawings written in flint?
But not all chain letters were bad. In the 90s and maybe into the early 2000s, there was a fun kind known as "clubs." How did it go again? Send a dish towel to the person on the list ahead of you and send them two names? They had ones for recipes and stickers for kids too. It was a cute idea. I know I participated in the first few I received but I hardly accumulated any goods in return. Did you?
September 30, 2018
Warning: Dough Nut Feed My Desire!
Since the arrival of fall, I've been obsessed with doughnuts.
From the get-go, the air was crisping with Halloween musings as autumn-toned leaves crunched beneath my feet.
The weather complemented coffee and the two connived to bait me in.
It was the perfect set up.
My taste buds taunted me, recalling hay rides and Jack-o-lantern farms. The mere memory of apple cider fritters and pumpkin spiced confections tickled my tongue vividly. And so I craved in...
The grocery store bakery had "buy a six-pack get one free", and so it began. When the dirty dozen was downed, we baked our own.
And then another shopping trip came 'round...
And here it is, eight days of daily downfalls later as I dunk yet another, the need remains.
Will it go away soon or will you have to roll me away come Thanksgiving like Roald Dahl's Violet blueberry blunder?
Ooh, blueberry...
From the get-go, the air was crisping with Halloween musings as autumn-toned leaves crunched beneath my feet.
The weather complemented coffee and the two connived to bait me in.
It was the perfect set up.
My taste buds taunted me, recalling hay rides and Jack-o-lantern farms. The mere memory of apple cider fritters and pumpkin spiced confections tickled my tongue vividly. And so I craved in...
The grocery store bakery had "buy a six-pack get one free", and so it began. When the dirty dozen was downed, we baked our own.
And then another shopping trip came 'round...
And here it is, eight days of daily downfalls later as I dunk yet another, the need remains.
Will it go away soon or will you have to roll me away come Thanksgiving like Roald Dahl's Violet blueberry blunder?
Ooh, blueberry...
August 7, 2018
In the Middle of Things: What ABC's Sitcom Taught Us About life
With summer setting on the horizon, our routines will return to normal--and that means our favorite television shows resume!
Well, some will. Unfortunately, one of my darlings has run its course after nine years--ABC's The Middle. Were you a fan too?
Something unusual happened as the seasons, uh, seasoned. The clever writing remained strong and the Heck family blossomed as the kids matured.
Ironically, when the show debuted, I panned it, misjudging it by the title and premise both appearing too much like Malcolm in the Middle.
Later upon syndication, I caught it on another channel. I thought, "What the heck , I'll give it a try." And I was hooked! I couldn't have been more wrong about the show's name or the humorous family intricacies centering in a fictitious Midwestern town of Orson, Indiana, smack dab in the middle of the map.
I love how stoic patriarch Mike (Neil Flynn) cares for his family. He's tight with his sporty son and although he doesn't immediately see it, he does find common ground with the youngest. After all, they are more alike than he realizes.
As a quarry manager, his exterior is as a tough as rocks, but he's really a softy on the inside, especially when it comes to his middle child and only daughter, Sue. (Eden Sher)
In one of the first episodes I saw, Mike was stuck driving Sue and her best friend Carly to a movie along with newcomer Shannon. Not keen on overhearing the gab fest in the backseat, he learns more than he wants to know, especially when he discovers there may be boys meeting them there. Once settled in the theater, the girls' notice (to their horror) Mike is a stow away a few rows back.
Shannon is catty and convinces Sue to fix her braces in the bathroom and once out of earshot, invites Carly to a sleepover but doesn't want naive and geeky Sue to attend. Mike catches wind of this conniving plan and silently gets caught up in the angst of girl world, which is funny since he played Cady Heron's dad in Mean Girls.
To make matters worse, Shannon has the nerve to ask to borrow Sue's sleeping bag! While Sue is unaware of the snub, Mike relays his flabbergasted concern to wife Frankie and she breaks the news to him. Yes, girls are awful and there isn't anything he can do about it. She also offers up the secret to womanhood. "Now you see why we eat so much chocolate?"
But Mike does find a solution-- on the night of the sleepover, he lets Sue pick out a video and he endures the vampire romance of Bella and Edward. Now that's a dad!!
In another touching episode, man-of-few-words Mike gives a great toast at his brother Rusty's wedding-- an impromptu shindig his shady sibling (Norm MacDonald) springs on them in their own backyard. It's a heartwarming speech even if the point he makes involves a span of time engraved on tombstones.
The Hecks' other children include Sue's snarky older brother Axl (Charlie McDermott) who is as cool as his name, plays high school football, is in a garage band, and accidentally text-asks a weird girl to the prom but one way or another, goes with her two years in a row. He forbids Sue from associating with him in High school but for all his teasing and calling her a dork, he comes through every now and then with a sentimental act.
And then there's youngest brother Brick (Atticus Shaffer), an endearing misfit, genius, font expert and quirky bookworm who's often overlooked and misunderstood. He belongs to a special needs social group to learn how to make friends but really, he is content alone with his books or conversing with grownups. For the most part, he really doesn't mind the solitude. He shares a room with Axl where he learns a lot about life via osmosis and Sue dotes on him the most but every once in a while he finds amusing ways to remind his family he's still there.
Frazzled Frankie makes all us moms look like superheroes in comparison. Patricia Heaton does a great job as the lazy, cool mom who rarely cooks, is late for carpools and pigs out at PTA meetings. Despite her breezy, "let the cards fall where they may" attitude, she tries to make everything perfect and it usually all falls apart.
Good thing there's perfect neighbor Nancy Donahue (Jen Wray) to pick up the pieces! And on the other side of the fence, neighborhood terrors Rita Glossner (Brooke Shields) and her boys knock it all down again,
I didn't care for bitchy Debra on Everybody Loves Raymond but I love Heaton as the down-to-earth mom struggling to make ends meet, who hoards more doughnuts at the dealership than she sells cars, shops dent sales at the Frugal Hoosier, is gifted a dryer from a tornado, nabs a solo in the Christmas Eve choir, and secretly keeps her role in the community play without hurting Sue's fired feelings.
When Frankie later loses her job, she dusts off the doughnut crumbs and reinvents herself--once her secret stash of canned frosting is depleted. She studies her way through dental assisting school, even if Axl scribbles the answers on her arm when she falls asleep and she has to face the wrath of a tough teacher, played by Jane Kazmarek, aka Lois from Malcolm in the Middle, funnily enough.
The show is very relatable. I am such a "Sue Heck." I'm not a middle child and I didn't make glittery binders with lists for everything, nor I did try out for every team or club like she did but I am a klutzy geek and when I did give it a go, I never made the plays, powder puff football team, or cheerleading squad either.
I felt invisible, my name was often misspelled and a picture I managed to get in for the yearbook landed in the creases. (Yay, Latin Club!) Sue loves her youth group just as much as I did and values her guitar-strumming youth pastor, Reverend Tim Tom. Our church in Waukegan had a cool guitar dude named Dave!
The first few seasons may seem a little loud and squabbling as it often is with a houseful of kids. But as they grew, got jobs, fell in love multiple times and went off to college, the writers kept the kids in the script authentically and the quieter, more complicated side of young adulthood made the stories even better.
I don't know about you, but the teen angst of Sue and neighbor Sean Donahue's hit and miss romance made my face breakout just watching. Whew.
In fact, all the secondary characters were fun and often made reoccurring appearances with Brick's childhood social group being the biggest surprise return as high schoolers. I especially loved the continuity of Weird Ashley. I was so sure she'd show up Sue's dorm-mate. Darn!
The sitcom is wholesome yet handles issues lightly and with grace. I'm sad the series ended and it will be missed but as I digest the finale, I realize The Middle taught us a few things.
1. Don't give up; do your best. And if you get a false phone call that you made Pom Pom squad, don't go quietly. Confront the head cheerleaders and negotiate. You might as well get something out of it for all your trouble.
2. There's always a second act. (Or a third..or fourth. There's no limit, really.)
3. Life is no-cut.
4. Your oven can double as quilt storage! but remember to remove them if you bake 5 pans of brownies in the shape of Indiana.
5. A good time can be had by reading a book.
6. If your first boyfriend turns out to be gay, he'll be the best friend you'll ever have!
7. Make the most of your life between the dashes. (you know, those dates on a headstone)
8. Always return your library books on time or you might get held back a grade. Or wind up arrested!
9. The love of your life just might live across the street.
10. Rock out in your car like nobody's watching. And if your wife and kids catch the show at a stoplight, just own it, Mike.
11. If you get kicked out of your fraternity house, you can live in a Winnebago. it's also a lucrative place to make some dough when you sell grilled cheese sandwiches on campus.
12. Stand up to your neighborhood bully and reclaim the street. Then get to know her. You might have more in common than you think.
13. Relax; everything will fall into place.
14. Once a week, meet your elderly father in-law 100 miles away at a Stuckey's. Odds are he has some valuable stories to tell!
15. When a show ends, there are always reruns. Also DVDs, fan fiction, and possible spin-offs.
Well, some will. Unfortunately, one of my darlings has run its course after nine years--ABC's The Middle. Were you a fan too?
Something unusual happened as the seasons, uh, seasoned. The clever writing remained strong and the Heck family blossomed as the kids matured.
Ironically, when the show debuted, I panned it, misjudging it by the title and premise both appearing too much like Malcolm in the Middle.
Later upon syndication, I caught it on another channel. I thought, "What the heck , I'll give it a try." And I was hooked! I couldn't have been more wrong about the show's name or the humorous family intricacies centering in a fictitious Midwestern town of Orson, Indiana, smack dab in the middle of the map.
I love how stoic patriarch Mike (Neil Flynn) cares for his family. He's tight with his sporty son and although he doesn't immediately see it, he does find common ground with the youngest. After all, they are more alike than he realizes.
As a quarry manager, his exterior is as a tough as rocks, but he's really a softy on the inside, especially when it comes to his middle child and only daughter, Sue. (Eden Sher)
In one of the first episodes I saw, Mike was stuck driving Sue and her best friend Carly to a movie along with newcomer Shannon. Not keen on overhearing the gab fest in the backseat, he learns more than he wants to know, especially when he discovers there may be boys meeting them there. Once settled in the theater, the girls' notice (to their horror) Mike is a stow away a few rows back.
Shannon is catty and convinces Sue to fix her braces in the bathroom and once out of earshot, invites Carly to a sleepover but doesn't want naive and geeky Sue to attend. Mike catches wind of this conniving plan and silently gets caught up in the angst of girl world, which is funny since he played Cady Heron's dad in Mean Girls.
To make matters worse, Shannon has the nerve to ask to borrow Sue's sleeping bag! While Sue is unaware of the snub, Mike relays his flabbergasted concern to wife Frankie and she breaks the news to him. Yes, girls are awful and there isn't anything he can do about it. She also offers up the secret to womanhood. "Now you see why we eat so much chocolate?"
But Mike does find a solution-- on the night of the sleepover, he lets Sue pick out a video and he endures the vampire romance of Bella and Edward. Now that's a dad!!
In another touching episode, man-of-few-words Mike gives a great toast at his brother Rusty's wedding-- an impromptu shindig his shady sibling (Norm MacDonald) springs on them in their own backyard. It's a heartwarming speech even if the point he makes involves a span of time engraved on tombstones.
The Hecks' other children include Sue's snarky older brother Axl (Charlie McDermott) who is as cool as his name, plays high school football, is in a garage band, and accidentally text-asks a weird girl to the prom but one way or another, goes with her two years in a row. He forbids Sue from associating with him in High school but for all his teasing and calling her a dork, he comes through every now and then with a sentimental act.
And then there's youngest brother Brick (Atticus Shaffer), an endearing misfit, genius, font expert and quirky bookworm who's often overlooked and misunderstood. He belongs to a special needs social group to learn how to make friends but really, he is content alone with his books or conversing with grownups. For the most part, he really doesn't mind the solitude. He shares a room with Axl where he learns a lot about life via osmosis and Sue dotes on him the most but every once in a while he finds amusing ways to remind his family he's still there.
Frazzled Frankie makes all us moms look like superheroes in comparison. Patricia Heaton does a great job as the lazy, cool mom who rarely cooks, is late for carpools and pigs out at PTA meetings. Despite her breezy, "let the cards fall where they may" attitude, she tries to make everything perfect and it usually all falls apart.
Good thing there's perfect neighbor Nancy Donahue (Jen Wray) to pick up the pieces! And on the other side of the fence, neighborhood terrors Rita Glossner (Brooke Shields) and her boys knock it all down again,
I didn't care for bitchy Debra on Everybody Loves Raymond but I love Heaton as the down-to-earth mom struggling to make ends meet, who hoards more doughnuts at the dealership than she sells cars, shops dent sales at the Frugal Hoosier, is gifted a dryer from a tornado, nabs a solo in the Christmas Eve choir, and secretly keeps her role in the community play without hurting Sue's fired feelings.
When Frankie later loses her job, she dusts off the doughnut crumbs and reinvents herself--once her secret stash of canned frosting is depleted. She studies her way through dental assisting school, even if Axl scribbles the answers on her arm when she falls asleep and she has to face the wrath of a tough teacher, played by Jane Kazmarek, aka Lois from Malcolm in the Middle, funnily enough.
The show is very relatable. I am such a "Sue Heck." I'm not a middle child and I didn't make glittery binders with lists for everything, nor I did try out for every team or club like she did but I am a klutzy geek and when I did give it a go, I never made the plays, powder puff football team, or cheerleading squad either.
I felt invisible, my name was often misspelled and a picture I managed to get in for the yearbook landed in the creases. (Yay, Latin Club!) Sue loves her youth group just as much as I did and values her guitar-strumming youth pastor, Reverend Tim Tom. Our church in Waukegan had a cool guitar dude named Dave!
The first few seasons may seem a little loud and squabbling as it often is with a houseful of kids. But as they grew, got jobs, fell in love multiple times and went off to college, the writers kept the kids in the script authentically and the quieter, more complicated side of young adulthood made the stories even better.
I don't know about you, but the teen angst of Sue and neighbor Sean Donahue's hit and miss romance made my face breakout just watching. Whew.
In fact, all the secondary characters were fun and often made reoccurring appearances with Brick's childhood social group being the biggest surprise return as high schoolers. I especially loved the continuity of Weird Ashley. I was so sure she'd show up Sue's dorm-mate. Darn!
The sitcom is wholesome yet handles issues lightly and with grace. I'm sad the series ended and it will be missed but as I digest the finale, I realize The Middle taught us a few things.
1. Don't give up; do your best. And if you get a false phone call that you made Pom Pom squad, don't go quietly. Confront the head cheerleaders and negotiate. You might as well get something out of it for all your trouble.
2. There's always a second act. (Or a third..or fourth. There's no limit, really.)
3. Life is no-cut.
4. Your oven can double as quilt storage! but remember to remove them if you bake 5 pans of brownies in the shape of Indiana.
5. A good time can be had by reading a book.
6. If your first boyfriend turns out to be gay, he'll be the best friend you'll ever have!
7. Make the most of your life between the dashes. (you know, those dates on a headstone)
8. Always return your library books on time or you might get held back a grade. Or wind up arrested!
9. The love of your life just might live across the street.
10. Rock out in your car like nobody's watching. And if your wife and kids catch the show at a stoplight, just own it, Mike.
11. If you get kicked out of your fraternity house, you can live in a Winnebago. it's also a lucrative place to make some dough when you sell grilled cheese sandwiches on campus.
12. Stand up to your neighborhood bully and reclaim the street. Then get to know her. You might have more in common than you think.
13. Relax; everything will fall into place.
14. Once a week, meet your elderly father in-law 100 miles away at a Stuckey's. Odds are he has some valuable stories to tell!
15. When a show ends, there are always reruns. Also DVDs, fan fiction, and possible spin-offs.
May 29, 2018
In the Summer, I "Y.A."
If the best face lift is a smile, then my anti-aging regime is working. Every summer I flip off my flip-flops, dip my toes into the pages of yesteryear, and belly flop into the fountain of youth. Diving into my favorite teen reads is rejuvenating.
It’s a blast barging in on old gems. I'm transported back to the safe realm where my only responsibilities were getting good grades, weaning on old wives' tales, dusting on Saturdays, trading off dish duty with my middle bro and powering up the built-in-babysitter switch for my youngest when the folks went to Bingo on Sunday nights. Young adult angst conjures up the rad days of MTV transforming those Sunday evenings into punk rock soirees and booking other sitter gigs, the buck an hour boosting my modest allowance.
In between being the good student and obedient daughter, I'd escape to read or write. Books were always in my comfort zone. In fact, when I first started high school, my Trixie Belden mysteries, like this first one, The Secret of the Mansion, were my buffer during those awkward moments waiting for class to start, free time and lunch. They were my best friends until a new girl turned around one day and started chatting.
Funny how some of the plots I devoured as a teen seem a bit underwhelming now as a middle-ager. Upon renewed scrutiny, I realize the kissing scenes that once melted my naivety were barely a smooch. This is especially true with Beverly Cleary’s fifth-decade fiction. Her heroines, such as Jean in Jean and Johnny, are boy-crazy but in a civilized innocence-intertwined-with-the-fifties fads sort of way. It's a preserved preciousness I still value, even though it was twenty years before my adolescence.
I just finished, The Princess Diaries (Volume 1) by Meg Cabot, which is new to me, except for the movies. Pretty funny stuff. The book is a bit different. She lives in Manhattan, NY, not San Fran and her Grand’Mere is mean. Also so far, her dad is alive. I will get the next one when I return to the library.
In the meantime, I'm in the middle of a current contemporary teenage paranormal called Dream Angel by Jane West. It's more mature than the younger YA books previously mentioned. It intriguingly pulls you in as Stevie Ray's past is unearthed and nothing is what it seems when she is dragged town to town by her mental case mother for the hundredth time. Stevie's sass makes for an entertaining read but for a vulnerable teen who would live on chocolate shakes and french fries if not for her kind voodoo-ish neighbor, it's her only survival skill. At least as far as she knows.. and besides the mysterious bane of her existence, the hunky but exasperating Aiden Bane who whooshes in out of thin air whenever she's in trouble. I can't wait to find out what happens next and what the heck is going on!
This whole summer quest for YA started when the movie “The Duff” came out in 2015. Bianca is on the school newspaper, which because of technology seems to be all online. It reminded me of my days on the high school paper and then I suddenly remembered a book series I read in the 80s about a girl reporter who had a crush on her editor, Chip. He forced her to write an advice column. Her witty answers were spot on, even if it did get her into trouble. Then in another adventure, she and Chip did some investigative reporting on the school cafeteria that got them into a scrape too.
When I got home, I Googled the books. I found out the scoop. Dear Lovey Hart, I Am Desperate and We Interrupt This Semester for an Important Bulletin were written by Ellen Conford. I remembered how much I loved her books. Seven Days to a Brand New Me was the first book I ever read of hers. As a gawky geeky teen, I always wished for a magical makeover so I could wow my class. I even daydreamed about kick-assing it up a notch like Sandy at the end of Grease! Now wouldn't that be something? But even if it was possible to sashay into school like that, I'm too shy to feel comfortable with that much attention. Besides, I'd have tripped in those heels and broken my ankles.
Well, once I shed light on the titles, I wanted to read them ASAP. I debated buying them from Amazon since I am known to crack open repeats. I decided going on a dig at the library would be fun, too. I always loved browsing the shelves.
Last year I did buy The Wednesday Witch when the movie "Hocus Pocus" tripped a memory switch about a tiny black cat drinking milk from a thimble and living in a girl’s dollhouse. I ordered the image of the same dark blue cover in the link above, just like the copy my grandmother had given me in 1977, most likely one of her thrift store finds. But alas, what arrived was the tan and red reprint. Drats! Still, it was a fun read even if it was more for elementary school kids; I liked the author's simplicity and descriptive style, which is why it strummed a pleasant chord in the first place.
Re-exploring the Ellen Conford books was enjoyable but again, the climaxes were a bit deflated from what I remembered. Still, they were worth the trek and I would read them again. And I found one I never perused before, The Alfred G. Graebner Memorial High School Handbook of Rules and Regulations, about a girl with activist parents and an integrity for writing. She kept trying to get her poems in the school’s literary magazine, but they were always ignored or rejected. (Ah, a publishing pain that felt all too familiar!)
Until one day the boy in charge loved what she submitted! She was ecstatic. Finally! Too bad in order to fit into their publication, she would have to change her style. She thought deeply about it. Should she cave or stay true to herself?
This resonated with my own rejection trajectory and strengthened my decision to self-publish, especially when it came to my second book, The Pearly Gates Phone Company
Just because the editors thought my stories were “not the droids they were looking for,” * did not mean they were scrap metal. I'm all for tweaking and taking suggestions, (the word "no" made them better!) but even after the rewrites, the process began to feel more like, "It's not you, it's me." and “I’m just not that into you."
I’m glad I finally moved past that one-sided relationship. it really took the edge off. I'm so thankful for the voice telling me to put the spiritual snippets together myself because amazingly, the anecdotal collection of mini-miracles has been enthusiastically received. After all the frustrations, it's a nice validation every time someone grabs the book or expresses interest.
If you feel like you're slamming into a hard-headed wall trying to catapult your dream, don't give up. Stay true to yourself and walk around it instead. There's always another path which usually turns out to be the right one.
Even as a grown-up, I'm still getting something out of these teenage page-turners. Self-worth, valuable lessons, and wholesome entertainment; you can’t wrong with that!
Hey, let's get a book fair going in the comments! What's your go-to nostalgic novel?
acknowledgement
(* quote from George Lucas' Star Wars Ep IV)
It’s a blast barging in on old gems. I'm transported back to the safe realm where my only responsibilities were getting good grades, weaning on old wives' tales, dusting on Saturdays, trading off dish duty with my middle bro and powering up the built-in-babysitter switch for my youngest when the folks went to Bingo on Sunday nights. Young adult angst conjures up the rad days of MTV transforming those Sunday evenings into punk rock soirees and booking other sitter gigs, the buck an hour boosting my modest allowance.
In between being the good student and obedient daughter, I'd escape to read or write. Books were always in my comfort zone. In fact, when I first started high school, my Trixie Belden mysteries, like this first one, The Secret of the Mansion, were my buffer during those awkward moments waiting for class to start, free time and lunch. They were my best friends until a new girl turned around one day and started chatting.
Funny how some of the plots I devoured as a teen seem a bit underwhelming now as a middle-ager. Upon renewed scrutiny, I realize the kissing scenes that once melted my naivety were barely a smooch. This is especially true with Beverly Cleary’s fifth-decade fiction. Her heroines, such as Jean in Jean and Johnny, are boy-crazy but in a civilized innocence-intertwined-with-the-fifties fads sort of way. It's a preserved preciousness I still value, even though it was twenty years before my adolescence.
I just finished, The Princess Diaries (Volume 1) by Meg Cabot, which is new to me, except for the movies. Pretty funny stuff. The book is a bit different. She lives in Manhattan, NY, not San Fran and her Grand’Mere is mean. Also so far, her dad is alive. I will get the next one when I return to the library.
In the meantime, I'm in the middle of a current contemporary teenage paranormal called Dream Angel by Jane West. It's more mature than the younger YA books previously mentioned. It intriguingly pulls you in as Stevie Ray's past is unearthed and nothing is what it seems when she is dragged town to town by her mental case mother for the hundredth time. Stevie's sass makes for an entertaining read but for a vulnerable teen who would live on chocolate shakes and french fries if not for her kind voodoo-ish neighbor, it's her only survival skill. At least as far as she knows.. and besides the mysterious bane of her existence, the hunky but exasperating Aiden Bane who whooshes in out of thin air whenever she's in trouble. I can't wait to find out what happens next and what the heck is going on!
This whole summer quest for YA started when the movie “The Duff” came out in 2015. Bianca is on the school newspaper, which because of technology seems to be all online. It reminded me of my days on the high school paper and then I suddenly remembered a book series I read in the 80s about a girl reporter who had a crush on her editor, Chip. He forced her to write an advice column. Her witty answers were spot on, even if it did get her into trouble. Then in another adventure, she and Chip did some investigative reporting on the school cafeteria that got them into a scrape too.
When I got home, I Googled the books. I found out the scoop. Dear Lovey Hart, I Am Desperate and We Interrupt This Semester for an Important Bulletin were written by Ellen Conford. I remembered how much I loved her books. Seven Days to a Brand New Me was the first book I ever read of hers. As a gawky geeky teen, I always wished for a magical makeover so I could wow my class. I even daydreamed about kick-assing it up a notch like Sandy at the end of Grease! Now wouldn't that be something? But even if it was possible to sashay into school like that, I'm too shy to feel comfortable with that much attention. Besides, I'd have tripped in those heels and broken my ankles.
Well, once I shed light on the titles, I wanted to read them ASAP. I debated buying them from Amazon since I am known to crack open repeats. I decided going on a dig at the library would be fun, too. I always loved browsing the shelves.
Last year I did buy The Wednesday Witch when the movie "Hocus Pocus" tripped a memory switch about a tiny black cat drinking milk from a thimble and living in a girl’s dollhouse. I ordered the image of the same dark blue cover in the link above, just like the copy my grandmother had given me in 1977, most likely one of her thrift store finds. But alas, what arrived was the tan and red reprint. Drats! Still, it was a fun read even if it was more for elementary school kids; I liked the author's simplicity and descriptive style, which is why it strummed a pleasant chord in the first place.
Re-exploring the Ellen Conford books was enjoyable but again, the climaxes were a bit deflated from what I remembered. Still, they were worth the trek and I would read them again. And I found one I never perused before, The Alfred G. Graebner Memorial High School Handbook of Rules and Regulations, about a girl with activist parents and an integrity for writing. She kept trying to get her poems in the school’s literary magazine, but they were always ignored or rejected. (Ah, a publishing pain that felt all too familiar!)
Until one day the boy in charge loved what she submitted! She was ecstatic. Finally! Too bad in order to fit into their publication, she would have to change her style. She thought deeply about it. Should she cave or stay true to herself?
This resonated with my own rejection trajectory and strengthened my decision to self-publish, especially when it came to my second book, The Pearly Gates Phone Company
Just because the editors thought my stories were “not the droids they were looking for,” * did not mean they were scrap metal. I'm all for tweaking and taking suggestions, (the word "no" made them better!) but even after the rewrites, the process began to feel more like, "It's not you, it's me." and “I’m just not that into you."
I’m glad I finally moved past that one-sided relationship. it really took the edge off. I'm so thankful for the voice telling me to put the spiritual snippets together myself because amazingly, the anecdotal collection of mini-miracles has been enthusiastically received. After all the frustrations, it's a nice validation every time someone grabs the book or expresses interest.
If you feel like you're slamming into a hard-headed wall trying to catapult your dream, don't give up. Stay true to yourself and walk around it instead. There's always another path which usually turns out to be the right one.
Even as a grown-up, I'm still getting something out of these teenage page-turners. Self-worth, valuable lessons, and wholesome entertainment; you can’t wrong with that!
Hey, let's get a book fair going in the comments! What's your go-to nostalgic novel?
acknowledgement
(* quote from George Lucas' Star Wars Ep IV)
