Mari Collier's Blog, page 11
January 4, 2013
Writing and Editing
Writer’s block is a disease I’ve avoided. Stories are always in my mind to be written. Sometimes they are started and don’t proceed correctly and they are put aside until later. Another story takes its place and my files fill to bulging. It’s enjoyable as I have left this world and am in the one I’m writing. Then reality hits and the story must be gone over to insure that there are no errors. Editing became my bane. Now things have changed.
Who knew doing edits could be exhilarating? In any of the interviews I have done when asked what was my least favorite part of writing, I have always responded: Editing.
This will probably remain true when doing my own self-editing. It is tedious! I know what I have written and what the words convey. It’s a conceit that is probably shared by many writers. Your eyes tend see what you think you have written, even while reading aloud. Writers are readers and that means they read rapidly. Our mind tells us what the correct phrase should be and our eyes can “read” right over a missing word. Spell Check at least puts a red line underneath a misspelled word. Of course, if it is the wrong homonym and spelled correctly Spell Check and often the Grammar Check will miss it.
I had carefully combed over Earthbound four times and kept finding small errors. The words were embedded. Memory was taking over recognition of errors. It was time to admit failure. I gave up and did hire an editor.
That was an interesting experience. The editing process was fairly rapid, her price was decent and within a manageable level. Thanks, Jan, for your work and support. With her help I felt Earthbound was ready to submit.
This time I took the advice in one of the writer’s magazines and sent it to a small press publishing company. To my surprise, dMon Publishing accepted it. Now the real editing began. This was crunch time.
It’s an entirely new world. I look forward to each chapter or chapters as it depends on how many are sent back to me. It is as if I am back in MacDonald’s and Anna’s world and it is clear how everything should be written. Editing has become exciting, exhausting, yes, sometimes frustrating, but always a pleasure to feel that the chapter is complete and their story is being told properly.
Who knew doing edits could be exhilarating? In any of the interviews I have done when asked what was my least favorite part of writing, I have always responded: Editing.
This will probably remain true when doing my own self-editing. It is tedious! I know what I have written and what the words convey. It’s a conceit that is probably shared by many writers. Your eyes tend see what you think you have written, even while reading aloud. Writers are readers and that means they read rapidly. Our mind tells us what the correct phrase should be and our eyes can “read” right over a missing word. Spell Check at least puts a red line underneath a misspelled word. Of course, if it is the wrong homonym and spelled correctly Spell Check and often the Grammar Check will miss it.
I had carefully combed over Earthbound four times and kept finding small errors. The words were embedded. Memory was taking over recognition of errors. It was time to admit failure. I gave up and did hire an editor.
That was an interesting experience. The editing process was fairly rapid, her price was decent and within a manageable level. Thanks, Jan, for your work and support. With her help I felt Earthbound was ready to submit.
This time I took the advice in one of the writer’s magazines and sent it to a small press publishing company. To my surprise, dMon Publishing accepted it. Now the real editing began. This was crunch time.
It’s an entirely new world. I look forward to each chapter or chapters as it depends on how many are sent back to me. It is as if I am back in MacDonald’s and Anna’s world and it is clear how everything should be written. Editing has become exciting, exhausting, yes, sometimes frustrating, but always a pleasure to feel that the chapter is complete and their story is being told properly.
December 29, 2012
Family Traditions
One post from a fellow writer inspired me to write about my own traditions when she asked, "What are your family Christmas traditions?" Most of us have them, not only Christmas, but others.
One week before Christmas we would set up our tree by a cold north window. We lived in Iowa, and that helped to insure that the tree would retain its needles. The house had no electricity. For bulbs we substituted candles. These would only be lit on Christmas Eve after returning from church. Yes, that was one of the traditions: Christmas Eve was at church. When we returned, Papa would stir up the fire in the dining room potbelly stove and the fancy cast iron coal burning stove in the living room. Mama would light the candles and then we would hold our own service. Mother had practiced the Christmas hymn on the piano all week and we would harmonize. She sang the high soprano and I sang second soprano or alto. Papa had a fine tenor voice. We read the gospel from Luke (Chapter 2) and closed with the Lord's Prayer. Everyone took turns opening their presents. We weren't rich so there was rarely more than four for any of us, but each one was treasured--except the play china I kept receiving. I did not play with "girl" things.
These weren't our only traditions. One involved the dark walnut desk my maternal grandfather had crafted as a wedding gift. It had the drop-down door which created a writing surface. The top section was filled with drawers and slots for bills, checkbooks, envelopes, a place for important correspondence, and a cubicle for the pinochle cards. Children were not permitted to touch these. There were small drawers. Hidden behind one of the drawers was a secret or hidden box. Underneath the drop-down leaf were two drawers filled with writing paper, pens, crayolas, chalk, and pencils. There were two doors on the bottoms section that held puzzles, coloring books, board games, and toys for children. The toys would vary as to the age of the children. When grandchildren were older and visited, toys were added for their age.
That concept stayed with me. The huge gun cabinet my husband received from his father, had four doors on the bottom. One section held our adult board and card games, the shelves behind one door was reserved for the children and their board games.
When we retired, our home had a built in corner cabinet in the hall. We promptly filled it with crayolas, art pencils of different hues, construction paper, Lego blocks, stuffed animals, pull toys, and playing cards. Our grandchildren would (like all grandchildren) pull everything out before selecting something that they wanted to play with that day.
Both grandchildren that live in this area are now teenagers and haven't looked in there for a couple of years. Today, Grandma's cabinet was cleared out. Now I have to find a place to donate some almost new used crayolas and one coloring book that was not used. Sad in a way. Perhaps some day there will be great-grandchildren and grandma's cabinet will be filled with important items again.
One week before Christmas we would set up our tree by a cold north window. We lived in Iowa, and that helped to insure that the tree would retain its needles. The house had no electricity. For bulbs we substituted candles. These would only be lit on Christmas Eve after returning from church. Yes, that was one of the traditions: Christmas Eve was at church. When we returned, Papa would stir up the fire in the dining room potbelly stove and the fancy cast iron coal burning stove in the living room. Mama would light the candles and then we would hold our own service. Mother had practiced the Christmas hymn on the piano all week and we would harmonize. She sang the high soprano and I sang second soprano or alto. Papa had a fine tenor voice. We read the gospel from Luke (Chapter 2) and closed with the Lord's Prayer. Everyone took turns opening their presents. We weren't rich so there was rarely more than four for any of us, but each one was treasured--except the play china I kept receiving. I did not play with "girl" things.
These weren't our only traditions. One involved the dark walnut desk my maternal grandfather had crafted as a wedding gift. It had the drop-down door which created a writing surface. The top section was filled with drawers and slots for bills, checkbooks, envelopes, a place for important correspondence, and a cubicle for the pinochle cards. Children were not permitted to touch these. There were small drawers. Hidden behind one of the drawers was a secret or hidden box. Underneath the drop-down leaf were two drawers filled with writing paper, pens, crayolas, chalk, and pencils. There were two doors on the bottoms section that held puzzles, coloring books, board games, and toys for children. The toys would vary as to the age of the children. When grandchildren were older and visited, toys were added for their age.
That concept stayed with me. The huge gun cabinet my husband received from his father, had four doors on the bottom. One section held our adult board and card games, the shelves behind one door was reserved for the children and their board games.
When we retired, our home had a built in corner cabinet in the hall. We promptly filled it with crayolas, art pencils of different hues, construction paper, Lego blocks, stuffed animals, pull toys, and playing cards. Our grandchildren would (like all grandchildren) pull everything out before selecting something that they wanted to play with that day.
Both grandchildren that live in this area are now teenagers and haven't looked in there for a couple of years. Today, Grandma's cabinet was cleared out. Now I have to find a place to donate some almost new used crayolas and one coloring book that was not used. Sad in a way. Perhaps some day there will be great-grandchildren and grandma's cabinet will be filled with important items again.
December 16, 2012
Christmas
There have been more activities interrupting my writing and blogging than I anticipated. It's one of the reasons I never make resolutions: no worry about breaking them.
To make up for my lack of putting up a new blog, I have decided to use one that I wrote for our Talent Night at my church. It's a memory from my childhood in Iowa.
The Christmas Eve of 1949 was memorable for several reasons, but mainly because I learned about the forgiveness promised by our Lord and the effect it will have on a family.
My brother, Norman, had returned home from the University of Iowa after an absence of two years. He is the brilliant one of the family with his near genius IQ and the ability to hold two jobs while completing full course loads on four hours of sleep per night. How he did this is still beyond my comprehension.
Like many intelligent, young adults, he had embraced the socialistic and atheistic leanings of his instructors and sharp words over both subjects had been exchanged with our parents. They were heart-broken, but still loved him. Mother’s dreams of him becoming a Lutheran pastor were sadly laid aside.
We picked him up at the Greyhound station in Audubon, Iowa on Christmas Eve day. After chores we dressed and drove to church. To everyone’s surprise, Norman went with us.
As we stepped out of the car, we were awe-struck. Overhead the sky was inky black, but from the outer edges of the blackness, moon and stars provided exquisite night lighting. Down from above floated the largest snowflakes we had ever seen. Some were as large as my father’s massive hands and you could see the crystalline, lacy outlines of each one.
I was twelve. My beautiful, royal blue taffeta was hidden underneath the heavy grey woolen coat. Heavy, hunter green snow pants were firmly tucked into galoshes. I tried to catch the flakes on my gloved hand for closer inspection, but they melted immediately.
My younger brother had on a heavy jacket, a hat with ear flaps, and overshoes. He wasn't worried about anyone watching him and he stuck his tongue out to catch the flakes.
My home-from-college brother wore a woolen knit cap, a heavy, long overcoat, overshoes, and had his hands stuck in his coat pockets as my thrifty father would not pay for college, and Norman couldn't or wouldn't spend money for gloves.
My father had a heavy coat over his suit and stocky body, a cap with ear-flaps and overshoes. My mother, the more exotic one of us, wore a black coat over her red dress, galoshes, gloves, and on her head perched some type of black hat with veiling coming down over her eyes.
Finally, with the cold seeping into our bones, we and the other congregants walked across the road. The parking lot, parsonage, and unused parochial school were on the south side of the unpaved country road. The church, outhouses, the picnic grounds, and church cemetery were on the other side. Real facilities would be added to an enlarged basement the next summer.
In the vestibule, we stripped off our winter wraps. Temperatures outside had hovered at zero since November, but with little snow. The vestibule was warmer than outside, but with the door opening and closing, it was difficult to tell. The smaller children were in the kitchen (off to the right) putting on their shepherd and angel outfits.
I thought the inside of our church typical with its stained glass windows, wooden floors, golden oak pews, and a pipe organ in the balcony. The balcony pews weren't really reserved, but somehow it was the teenagers (if confirmed) and the unmarried young males and females that sat there. What made the church different was the elaborately carved altar. Above the altar, Christ, in white robe, crimson cloth cascading downward from his shoulder, welcomed us with open arms. Below the altar was an inset box where a smaller statue of the Lamb of God was holding a short pole with a floating banner in its mouth. All this was contained in a huge piece shaped like a white Gothic church with spires and gold trim. It sat slightly away from the back wall. The small children with their Sunday School teachers would be stationed back there before emerging to speak their memorized verses.
There were two other girls in my confirmation class and we were to be the chorus of Angels singing after the smaller children’s parts. Our pew was pushed against the north window closest to the pulpit. The air seeping through the window seem to grow colder and colder as the evening progressed. We three were sitting quite close to each other for warmth. The boys, the rest of the angel’s choir, in the confirmation class were across the room with their pew pushed against the first south window. The separation, of course, was by Pastor Kaning’s decree.
The pulpit was to the right of the altar and higher than floor level. Pastor Kaning would enter from the back. It took something like four to six steps from the floor to reach the door into his preaching station. This too was in white and trimmed with gold.
All progressed well until it came to our first song. We were miserably cold in our taffeta dresses but we managed to sing our song without wandering off key. With a sigh of relief we hurriedly sank back down to huddle together again. By this time the wood was cold on top and warmer on the bottom from the heat coming up from the register. A resounding crack filled the church as we sat and the congregation gasped and laughed. All I remember about the rest of the service is Pastor’s ice blue eyes glaring at us. Fortunately, by the end of the service when the sacks filled with candy, nuts, and fruit were passed around he was in a jovial mood again and we were his favorite students.
Aunts, Uncles, cousins, and friends all wished Norman welcome home with hugs and handshakes.
It was a five mile drive to our home. The snow wasn't that deep, but it remained bitterly cold. Once home the lamps were lit and the fire in the dinning room potbelly stove and the oil heater in the living room were stirred up. It didn't matter that we had just attended a Christmas service. Tradition meant we held a family worship service before lighting the Christmas tree candles and opening presents. The service consisted of the Lord’s Prayer, reading of the Christmas gospel, one song, and a prayer thanking God for his Son.
This year my returning-from-college brother requested to read a psalm instead of the usual passages. Mother and Father stuttered a bit, and then acquiesced. He surprised us by reading Psalm 51. Even at the age of twelve, I knew it was David’s paean to God asking for forgiveness for his sins. Mother sat with tears running down her face and Father’s face reddened and his blue eyes beamed. I knew whatever gifts were underneath the tree would not compare to this one.
If you wish to see the church you can find it at this site. Farm families have shrunk and the church moved. The video of the move is on Youtube.
http://www.davidkusel.com/manning1/tr...
If I don't return to do another blog for awhile, Merry Christmas to all.
To make up for my lack of putting up a new blog, I have decided to use one that I wrote for our Talent Night at my church. It's a memory from my childhood in Iowa.
The Christmas Eve of 1949 was memorable for several reasons, but mainly because I learned about the forgiveness promised by our Lord and the effect it will have on a family.
My brother, Norman, had returned home from the University of Iowa after an absence of two years. He is the brilliant one of the family with his near genius IQ and the ability to hold two jobs while completing full course loads on four hours of sleep per night. How he did this is still beyond my comprehension.
Like many intelligent, young adults, he had embraced the socialistic and atheistic leanings of his instructors and sharp words over both subjects had been exchanged with our parents. They were heart-broken, but still loved him. Mother’s dreams of him becoming a Lutheran pastor were sadly laid aside.
We picked him up at the Greyhound station in Audubon, Iowa on Christmas Eve day. After chores we dressed and drove to church. To everyone’s surprise, Norman went with us.
As we stepped out of the car, we were awe-struck. Overhead the sky was inky black, but from the outer edges of the blackness, moon and stars provided exquisite night lighting. Down from above floated the largest snowflakes we had ever seen. Some were as large as my father’s massive hands and you could see the crystalline, lacy outlines of each one.
I was twelve. My beautiful, royal blue taffeta was hidden underneath the heavy grey woolen coat. Heavy, hunter green snow pants were firmly tucked into galoshes. I tried to catch the flakes on my gloved hand for closer inspection, but they melted immediately.
My younger brother had on a heavy jacket, a hat with ear flaps, and overshoes. He wasn't worried about anyone watching him and he stuck his tongue out to catch the flakes.
My home-from-college brother wore a woolen knit cap, a heavy, long overcoat, overshoes, and had his hands stuck in his coat pockets as my thrifty father would not pay for college, and Norman couldn't or wouldn't spend money for gloves.
My father had a heavy coat over his suit and stocky body, a cap with ear-flaps and overshoes. My mother, the more exotic one of us, wore a black coat over her red dress, galoshes, gloves, and on her head perched some type of black hat with veiling coming down over her eyes.
Finally, with the cold seeping into our bones, we and the other congregants walked across the road. The parking lot, parsonage, and unused parochial school were on the south side of the unpaved country road. The church, outhouses, the picnic grounds, and church cemetery were on the other side. Real facilities would be added to an enlarged basement the next summer.
In the vestibule, we stripped off our winter wraps. Temperatures outside had hovered at zero since November, but with little snow. The vestibule was warmer than outside, but with the door opening and closing, it was difficult to tell. The smaller children were in the kitchen (off to the right) putting on their shepherd and angel outfits.
I thought the inside of our church typical with its stained glass windows, wooden floors, golden oak pews, and a pipe organ in the balcony. The balcony pews weren't really reserved, but somehow it was the teenagers (if confirmed) and the unmarried young males and females that sat there. What made the church different was the elaborately carved altar. Above the altar, Christ, in white robe, crimson cloth cascading downward from his shoulder, welcomed us with open arms. Below the altar was an inset box where a smaller statue of the Lamb of God was holding a short pole with a floating banner in its mouth. All this was contained in a huge piece shaped like a white Gothic church with spires and gold trim. It sat slightly away from the back wall. The small children with their Sunday School teachers would be stationed back there before emerging to speak their memorized verses.
There were two other girls in my confirmation class and we were to be the chorus of Angels singing after the smaller children’s parts. Our pew was pushed against the north window closest to the pulpit. The air seeping through the window seem to grow colder and colder as the evening progressed. We three were sitting quite close to each other for warmth. The boys, the rest of the angel’s choir, in the confirmation class were across the room with their pew pushed against the first south window. The separation, of course, was by Pastor Kaning’s decree.
The pulpit was to the right of the altar and higher than floor level. Pastor Kaning would enter from the back. It took something like four to six steps from the floor to reach the door into his preaching station. This too was in white and trimmed with gold.
All progressed well until it came to our first song. We were miserably cold in our taffeta dresses but we managed to sing our song without wandering off key. With a sigh of relief we hurriedly sank back down to huddle together again. By this time the wood was cold on top and warmer on the bottom from the heat coming up from the register. A resounding crack filled the church as we sat and the congregation gasped and laughed. All I remember about the rest of the service is Pastor’s ice blue eyes glaring at us. Fortunately, by the end of the service when the sacks filled with candy, nuts, and fruit were passed around he was in a jovial mood again and we were his favorite students.
Aunts, Uncles, cousins, and friends all wished Norman welcome home with hugs and handshakes.
It was a five mile drive to our home. The snow wasn't that deep, but it remained bitterly cold. Once home the lamps were lit and the fire in the dinning room potbelly stove and the oil heater in the living room were stirred up. It didn't matter that we had just attended a Christmas service. Tradition meant we held a family worship service before lighting the Christmas tree candles and opening presents. The service consisted of the Lord’s Prayer, reading of the Christmas gospel, one song, and a prayer thanking God for his Son.
This year my returning-from-college brother requested to read a psalm instead of the usual passages. Mother and Father stuttered a bit, and then acquiesced. He surprised us by reading Psalm 51. Even at the age of twelve, I knew it was David’s paean to God asking for forgiveness for his sins. Mother sat with tears running down her face and Father’s face reddened and his blue eyes beamed. I knew whatever gifts were underneath the tree would not compare to this one.
If you wish to see the church you can find it at this site. Farm families have shrunk and the church moved. The video of the move is on Youtube.
http://www.davidkusel.com/manning1/tr...
If I don't return to do another blog for awhile, Merry Christmas to all.
December 5, 2012
My Parents Ongoing Battle
I’m still digging through all the folders and envelopes that were moved during the disaster in my work area. This time I was searching for address labels. It seems I’m out of those. That means another trip to Office Supply Plus sometime this week. I did, however, find other items I thought lost.
The discovery of long, vanished manuscripts continues. Since everyone liked my tales of rural Iowa during the 1940's and 1950’s, I’ll share another one about my parents. Keep in mind, Iowa can be dreadful hot and humid.
My father favored railroad caps for summer protection against the sun. All the other farmers wore straw hats with wide brims. Not Papa. Each summer he would buy a dozen blue and white striped railroad caps, and my parents would go through their routine.
Mama would eye the box of caps warily. Her dark eyes took on a strange glistening effect as she announced, “This summer you’d better let me wash them when they are dirty.”
“Washing wears them out and ruins the shape.” He’d snap the brim to show its sturdiness. The ritual battle was on.
Every morning, while the supply lasted, Papa would put on a clean cap and shove it to a jaunty angle. Every evening he would fling it merrily into some corner anywhere from the enclosed back porch to the dining room. Often they would disappear for days as evening shadows can’t be penetrated by lamplight. During her chores of gardening, cooking three meals a day for four people, washing, ironing, and canning, Mama would be much too busy for proper cleaning. When the last cap from the box had been worn, general confusion reigned until mother would retrieve a cap from under the desk or the daybed, or some corner of the back porch.
It was Monday mornings that Mama relished. This was her wash day. The huge ten gallon boiler would be filled and the fire started in the washhouse stove. While the water heated, she would sit and cut her bar of Fels Naptha or Blue Barrel and mutter to herself about the natural dirtiness of men in general. Somehow my father would have managed to make every cap disappear. My youngest brother would add to the confusion by forgetting to change his socks, or else he was hiding them.
After the first wash was started, Mama would go in search of my brother, drag him back into the house, and insist he change socks right then. His protests of being busy were ignored.
She would set me to cleaning in hopes that I would turn up at least one or two of the missing caps. I usually managed to find about six before it was time for them to go into the machine.
By fall the caps would be in various stages of disreputable shape and their battle over them would wane. Cold weather dictated a more appropriate headgear.
Mama always insisted that Papa deliberately hid the caps to antagonize her. The twinkle in his blue eyes and the tugging at the corner of his mouth meant she was right.
The discovery of long, vanished manuscripts continues. Since everyone liked my tales of rural Iowa during the 1940's and 1950’s, I’ll share another one about my parents. Keep in mind, Iowa can be dreadful hot and humid.
My father favored railroad caps for summer protection against the sun. All the other farmers wore straw hats with wide brims. Not Papa. Each summer he would buy a dozen blue and white striped railroad caps, and my parents would go through their routine.
Mama would eye the box of caps warily. Her dark eyes took on a strange glistening effect as she announced, “This summer you’d better let me wash them when they are dirty.”
“Washing wears them out and ruins the shape.” He’d snap the brim to show its sturdiness. The ritual battle was on.
Every morning, while the supply lasted, Papa would put on a clean cap and shove it to a jaunty angle. Every evening he would fling it merrily into some corner anywhere from the enclosed back porch to the dining room. Often they would disappear for days as evening shadows can’t be penetrated by lamplight. During her chores of gardening, cooking three meals a day for four people, washing, ironing, and canning, Mama would be much too busy for proper cleaning. When the last cap from the box had been worn, general confusion reigned until mother would retrieve a cap from under the desk or the daybed, or some corner of the back porch.
It was Monday mornings that Mama relished. This was her wash day. The huge ten gallon boiler would be filled and the fire started in the washhouse stove. While the water heated, she would sit and cut her bar of Fels Naptha or Blue Barrel and mutter to herself about the natural dirtiness of men in general. Somehow my father would have managed to make every cap disappear. My youngest brother would add to the confusion by forgetting to change his socks, or else he was hiding them.
After the first wash was started, Mama would go in search of my brother, drag him back into the house, and insist he change socks right then. His protests of being busy were ignored.
She would set me to cleaning in hopes that I would turn up at least one or two of the missing caps. I usually managed to find about six before it was time for them to go into the machine.
By fall the caps would be in various stages of disreputable shape and their battle over them would wane. Cold weather dictated a more appropriate headgear.
Mama always insisted that Papa deliberately hid the caps to antagonize her. The twinkle in his blue eyes and the tugging at the corner of his mouth meant she was right.
November 30, 2012
Books
All my life I have loved the stories told in books. My first book was A Child’s Garden of Verses by Robert Louis Stevenson. It was a typical children’s book out of the 1930’s according to the illustrations I remember. I kept that book until the mold in Washington got to it. My one older brother would read the Winnie the Pooh stories to me and I would bang my heel into the chair in rhythm to his voice. Later at the one room country school, I would read the book delivered every month. By the time I was in the fourth grade I would start with the eighth grade novels and work my way down. I read everything including the one or two intended for any kindergarten children. Then I would read the encyclopedias and the dictionary. My love affair with the written word continues. I have three walls filled with books from my childhood and those purchased when I was an adult.
The newspaper once was a handy guide to books as the reviews would pique my interest. Notice the word once? I have last Sunday’s LA Times book section in front of me. There are reviews on new books, none of which I have any desire to read.
Two are graphic novels. I’m sorry, the last time I read those I was a teenager and the less said about those the better. One is a review of the best comics of 2012 and the explanation of how and why they are such hits. I don’t read comics to have them explained. I read them to laugh. Another is a young adult novel that the review does nothing to inspire me to read it. Another is a “literary” spy novel, a genre that I really don’t appreciate. Another is an autobiographer about the life of someone I do not care about nor the field that defines her tastes. The last is a biography of a famous Renaissance painter. At first I thought it held promise, as two of my bookshelves are filled with biographies. The reviewer, however, pans the book. Without being able to pick the book up and reading a few pages there is no way I am going to spend forty dollars for a book.
The start of a new book can be such an intimate occasion; the heft of it, the smell, the opening of the cover, all promising a new world within its pages. Over the last few years with the exception of the Harry Potter series, most have been a disappointment. I can think of three that were not: The Help, 1639, and Cloud Atlas. Not surprisingly, the last two are science-fiction. That was a pleasant surprise as many of the science fiction books and stories I’ve read during the last ten years have been a disappointment.
What about you? Do you have difficulty finding a book to suit your reading needs are do you stick with one genre and ignore the rest?
The newspaper once was a handy guide to books as the reviews would pique my interest. Notice the word once? I have last Sunday’s LA Times book section in front of me. There are reviews on new books, none of which I have any desire to read.
Two are graphic novels. I’m sorry, the last time I read those I was a teenager and the less said about those the better. One is a review of the best comics of 2012 and the explanation of how and why they are such hits. I don’t read comics to have them explained. I read them to laugh. Another is a young adult novel that the review does nothing to inspire me to read it. Another is a “literary” spy novel, a genre that I really don’t appreciate. Another is an autobiographer about the life of someone I do not care about nor the field that defines her tastes. The last is a biography of a famous Renaissance painter. At first I thought it held promise, as two of my bookshelves are filled with biographies. The reviewer, however, pans the book. Without being able to pick the book up and reading a few pages there is no way I am going to spend forty dollars for a book.
The start of a new book can be such an intimate occasion; the heft of it, the smell, the opening of the cover, all promising a new world within its pages. Over the last few years with the exception of the Harry Potter series, most have been a disappointment. I can think of three that were not: The Help, 1639, and Cloud Atlas. Not surprisingly, the last two are science-fiction. That was a pleasant surprise as many of the science fiction books and stories I’ve read during the last ten years have been a disappointment.
What about you? Do you have difficulty finding a book to suit your reading needs are do you stick with one genre and ignore the rest?
November 20, 2012
One Favorite Cookie Recipe
It's difficult to keep my mind on writing and blogging when there are preparations to do for Thanksgiving Day. To make it more difficult, I had a decision to make about a novel that had been accepted by a Small Press publisher, DMon Publishing. To help my mind work through the details, I made my favorite cookies instead of doing the cleaning. Baking is my why of letting my subconscious come to the necessary decision.
If you find yourself in such a bind, here is a treat to be enjoyed by all.
One 11.5 ounce package semi-sweet or milk chocolate morsels divided (I use semi-sweet chocolate), 1/2 cup brown sugar, 1/4 cup butter (use butter not fake stuff), 2 eggs, 1 tsp. vanilla extract (1/2 when using the real stuff), 3/4 cup flour, 1/4 tsp. baking powder, 6 ounces cherry flavored dried cranberries, 1/2 to 1 cup of pecans or walnuts (I use pecans). Lightly grease two cookie sheets, heat oven to 350 degrees. Pour 3/4 cup morsels into large bowl and set the rest to the side. Microwave morsels for 2 minutes on high. Stir until chocolate is smooth. Stir in butter, eggs, vanilla, and brown sugar, then add flour and baking powder. Mix until thoroughly combined and stir in the rest of the morsels and pecans. Drop by tablespoons (I use a metal measuring spoon) onto cookie sheets. Bake for 12 minutes or until cookies are puffed and set to the touch. For a firmer cookie, bake for 14. I prefer the 12 minute ones. Cool on cookie sheet for two minutes and transfer to racks. Makes about two dozen cookies (more or less depending on your idea of a tablespoon).
Yes, the ploy worked. I emailed the publisher after indulging in a cookie. I'm truly excited about this novel. It is titled Earthbound and tells the tale of MacDonald being stranded on Earth and his and Anna's courtship and early life together. Of course, it has Comanche raids, the rebels raiding a German settlement during the Civil War, a Kiowa raid on MacDonald and Rolfe, plus the struggle of people surviving in an alien, violent land.
Have a wonderful Thanksgiving Day and I'll see you next week.
If you find yourself in such a bind, here is a treat to be enjoyed by all.
One 11.5 ounce package semi-sweet or milk chocolate morsels divided (I use semi-sweet chocolate), 1/2 cup brown sugar, 1/4 cup butter (use butter not fake stuff), 2 eggs, 1 tsp. vanilla extract (1/2 when using the real stuff), 3/4 cup flour, 1/4 tsp. baking powder, 6 ounces cherry flavored dried cranberries, 1/2 to 1 cup of pecans or walnuts (I use pecans). Lightly grease two cookie sheets, heat oven to 350 degrees. Pour 3/4 cup morsels into large bowl and set the rest to the side. Microwave morsels for 2 minutes on high. Stir until chocolate is smooth. Stir in butter, eggs, vanilla, and brown sugar, then add flour and baking powder. Mix until thoroughly combined and stir in the rest of the morsels and pecans. Drop by tablespoons (I use a metal measuring spoon) onto cookie sheets. Bake for 12 minutes or until cookies are puffed and set to the touch. For a firmer cookie, bake for 14. I prefer the 12 minute ones. Cool on cookie sheet for two minutes and transfer to racks. Makes about two dozen cookies (more or less depending on your idea of a tablespoon).
Yes, the ploy worked. I emailed the publisher after indulging in a cookie. I'm truly excited about this novel. It is titled Earthbound and tells the tale of MacDonald being stranded on Earth and his and Anna's courtship and early life together. Of course, it has Comanche raids, the rebels raiding a German settlement during the Civil War, a Kiowa raid on MacDonald and Rolfe, plus the struggle of people surviving in an alien, violent land.
Have a wonderful Thanksgiving Day and I'll see you next week.
November 9, 2012
To View Events
I've always looked at the world with a slightly skewed angle. This can result in laughing when no one else does. This trait, I'm sure can be blamed on my father.
One of his favorite radio shows was Can You Top This? It featured Morey Amsterdam and a list of top comedians from the 1930's, 40's, and 50's. Please remember that he and my mother grew up in an era without widespread media communications. Their entertainment was jovial bickering. The radio allowed them to listen to comedy and remember the jokes. If they could apply it to real life, it was like scoring. Below is one such incident. You'll notice, I'm the only family member that laughed.
BUM ENCOUNTER
December in Phoenix can be downright chilly to a desert dweller. While not as cold as my native state of Iowa, it was still chilly; the temperature was in the lower 40’s. A stiff desert wind was whipping through the concrete streets. We, my older, college educated brother, younger, brother, my father, and I all were clad in winter coats as we window shopped the store fronts while we waited for my mother to end her shift at the one and only cafeteria in town.
I was sixteen that winter and in my sophomore year of high school. Mother would bring me to Phoenix for the winters as Iowa proved deadly to my health. My father and brothers had joined us for the Christmas season.
Daylight was rapidly disappearing and the streets lacked the usual number of shoppers. Phoenix was smaller then and many stores closed by 4:30 or 5:00 p.m. The restaurants and theatres would remain open, but shoppers and workers hurried home for their evening meal.
One person across the street caught our interest. His coat wasn’t the heaviest and you could see two different sweater patterns protruding from the bottom edge of his coat. He was as hat less as my thirty something visiting California educator brother and younger brother. I had seen the man previously at the city bus stop where I caught the bus home after high school. The man was trying to cage dimes or quarters from people waiting for the bus or walking by. I couldn’t resist sharing my knowledge.
“That man bums from people. I hope he stays on the other side.”
As if on cue, the man looked up, saw us, and jaywalked across the street. My older brother must have looked prosperous in his woolen overcoat, woolen muffler, and James Dean profile. As the man approached us, he had his hand out asking for a quarter to help buy his meal.
My father, Iowa farmer that he was and remained until his death, was clad in a mackinaw, plaid hat with flaps that came down over the ears and his overshoes. He was walking in front of us by a couple of paces. He looked up long enough to deliver this edict.
“Get back to your own side of the street. This is my side.”
To say my brothers were taken aback states it mildly. Older brother Norman became slack jawed, the younger, Gordon flushed a fiery red, and I was biting my tongue to keep from laughing.
“Oh, sorry,” said the man and obligingly crossed back to his side of the street. When the man had crossed back over, I could release my smile and low laughter.
One of his favorite radio shows was Can You Top This? It featured Morey Amsterdam and a list of top comedians from the 1930's, 40's, and 50's. Please remember that he and my mother grew up in an era without widespread media communications. Their entertainment was jovial bickering. The radio allowed them to listen to comedy and remember the jokes. If they could apply it to real life, it was like scoring. Below is one such incident. You'll notice, I'm the only family member that laughed.
BUM ENCOUNTER
December in Phoenix can be downright chilly to a desert dweller. While not as cold as my native state of Iowa, it was still chilly; the temperature was in the lower 40’s. A stiff desert wind was whipping through the concrete streets. We, my older, college educated brother, younger, brother, my father, and I all were clad in winter coats as we window shopped the store fronts while we waited for my mother to end her shift at the one and only cafeteria in town.
I was sixteen that winter and in my sophomore year of high school. Mother would bring me to Phoenix for the winters as Iowa proved deadly to my health. My father and brothers had joined us for the Christmas season.
Daylight was rapidly disappearing and the streets lacked the usual number of shoppers. Phoenix was smaller then and many stores closed by 4:30 or 5:00 p.m. The restaurants and theatres would remain open, but shoppers and workers hurried home for their evening meal.
One person across the street caught our interest. His coat wasn’t the heaviest and you could see two different sweater patterns protruding from the bottom edge of his coat. He was as hat less as my thirty something visiting California educator brother and younger brother. I had seen the man previously at the city bus stop where I caught the bus home after high school. The man was trying to cage dimes or quarters from people waiting for the bus or walking by. I couldn’t resist sharing my knowledge.
“That man bums from people. I hope he stays on the other side.”
As if on cue, the man looked up, saw us, and jaywalked across the street. My older brother must have looked prosperous in his woolen overcoat, woolen muffler, and James Dean profile. As the man approached us, he had his hand out asking for a quarter to help buy his meal.
My father, Iowa farmer that he was and remained until his death, was clad in a mackinaw, plaid hat with flaps that came down over the ears and his overshoes. He was walking in front of us by a couple of paces. He looked up long enough to deliver this edict.
“Get back to your own side of the street. This is my side.”
To say my brothers were taken aback states it mildly. Older brother Norman became slack jawed, the younger, Gordon flushed a fiery red, and I was biting my tongue to keep from laughing.
“Oh, sorry,” said the man and obligingly crossed back to his side of the street. When the man had crossed back over, I could release my smile and low laughter.
November 2, 2012
More Opportunities
Last weeks blog was about opportunities for publishing in your own community. That was so popular, I thought that one more blog on the subject was necessary.
If you live in a community with a writers' critique group, join it. They are great places to hone your work and understand individual reactions to your writing. The one I joined is called The Desert Writers Guild of Twentynine Palms. One of our biggest assets is having a "reader." You know immediately how your story will sound to someone else.
This group was started almost thirty years ago by three local writers. It gave other writers a chance to meet and to have a way to say, "I'm published."
The Desert Writers Guild has a tradition of publishing an anthology each year. We try to have the book out in June. This year we weren't able to publish until August, but Critters & Other Desert Dwellers now joins a long list of others.
We have found two outlets in town to carry our anthologies. Our goal is to sell one hundred books each year. This allows us to have enough money to publish the next year. Since we are in the desert we try to keep to a desert locale.
Two years ago we published a book where each story had a related recipe. One year each story had a ghost tale or related a true incidence of a ghostly sighting. Not everything writing piece in our anthologies is a story. Some authors contribute poems and others will include a family tale when it is relevant.
We have also held readings at the local libraries. This year we have one scheduled at the Twentynine Palms, CA Library on December 8, 2012 at 1:30 p.m.
Our local museum, The Old Schoolhouse, also allows us to set up a table to attract new members and sell our books. We both benefit as we donate so much per book sold.
This year our editor is considering publishing it on Smashwords.com for a wider distribution. We haven't made a decision at this point.
If your community doesn't have a writers' group, I suggest you start one. You might be surprised at the talent and how you can reach a new audience for your tales.
If you live in a community with a writers' critique group, join it. They are great places to hone your work and understand individual reactions to your writing. The one I joined is called The Desert Writers Guild of Twentynine Palms. One of our biggest assets is having a "reader." You know immediately how your story will sound to someone else.
This group was started almost thirty years ago by three local writers. It gave other writers a chance to meet and to have a way to say, "I'm published."
The Desert Writers Guild has a tradition of publishing an anthology each year. We try to have the book out in June. This year we weren't able to publish until August, but Critters & Other Desert Dwellers now joins a long list of others.
We have found two outlets in town to carry our anthologies. Our goal is to sell one hundred books each year. This allows us to have enough money to publish the next year. Since we are in the desert we try to keep to a desert locale.
Two years ago we published a book where each story had a related recipe. One year each story had a ghost tale or related a true incidence of a ghostly sighting. Not everything writing piece in our anthologies is a story. Some authors contribute poems and others will include a family tale when it is relevant.
We have also held readings at the local libraries. This year we have one scheduled at the Twentynine Palms, CA Library on December 8, 2012 at 1:30 p.m.
Our local museum, The Old Schoolhouse, also allows us to set up a table to attract new members and sell our books. We both benefit as we donate so much per book sold.
This year our editor is considering publishing it on Smashwords.com for a wider distribution. We haven't made a decision at this point.
If your community doesn't have a writers' group, I suggest you start one. You might be surprised at the talent and how you can reach a new audience for your tales.
October 26, 2012
Opportunities for Publishing
New writers know the difficulty of being publish. Too often they neglect their own area.
I live in a small town. There are no agents or large publishing companies here, but there are opportunities. Our local historical society publishes a journal called The Old Schoolhouse Journal. I fell in love with the local museum and joined shortly after moving here. After three years, I submitted an article called Snapshots In Time. The editors loved it and asked me to do more. I'm still penning my Snapshots In Time. Members of the Twentynine Palms Historical Society have told me how much they enjoy it.
I knew there was a magazine called The Sun Runner that welcomed local authors, but never participated. The new owner after several years initiated a yearly Desert Writers issue. Several of my stories were published electronically.
The new age of Independent Authors has opened publishing doors for everyone. You'll find places online to post your stories, enter contests, or publish. Following their guidelines and instructions are a definite must.
To illustrate local opportunities for writers and artists, my grandson came home with a great story. He attends the local community college. His art instructor wanted to show the class how local artists and writers could create opportunities for both. She pulled up two short stories from smashwords.com to illustrate the artwork. My grandson yelled, "I did that."
"You did not," was the rejoinder.
"My grandmother gave me credit as the illustrator. Turn the page."
Of course he was there. You can go to my website, http://wwwmaricollier.com and go into Shorts to link to the two stories to see the illustrations.
Be sure to check out any newsletter, journal, newspaper, or magazine that might originate in your area.
I live in a small town. There are no agents or large publishing companies here, but there are opportunities. Our local historical society publishes a journal called The Old Schoolhouse Journal. I fell in love with the local museum and joined shortly after moving here. After three years, I submitted an article called Snapshots In Time. The editors loved it and asked me to do more. I'm still penning my Snapshots In Time. Members of the Twentynine Palms Historical Society have told me how much they enjoy it.
I knew there was a magazine called The Sun Runner that welcomed local authors, but never participated. The new owner after several years initiated a yearly Desert Writers issue. Several of my stories were published electronically.
The new age of Independent Authors has opened publishing doors for everyone. You'll find places online to post your stories, enter contests, or publish. Following their guidelines and instructions are a definite must.
To illustrate local opportunities for writers and artists, my grandson came home with a great story. He attends the local community college. His art instructor wanted to show the class how local artists and writers could create opportunities for both. She pulled up two short stories from smashwords.com to illustrate the artwork. My grandson yelled, "I did that."
"You did not," was the rejoinder.
"My grandmother gave me credit as the illustrator. Turn the page."
Of course he was there. You can go to my website, http://wwwmaricollier.com and go into Shorts to link to the two stories to see the illustrations.
Be sure to check out any newsletter, journal, newspaper, or magazine that might originate in your area.
October 18, 2012
Why I Live Where I Do
Welcome to the ramblings of a slightly skewed brain. Perhaps this can be ascribed to the far different climates where I've lived. In one state it can dip to 30 degrees below zero. Two places where I have lived can register 118 degrees or higher. I'll take the latter anyday.
I was born in Lincoln Township, Audubon, Iowa. Yes, people still refer to the townships there. One of the neatest web sites is David Kusel. If you are curious about rural life in these United States, just type in his name. I recommend a look.
I started writing for the Audubon Advocate (Audubon, Iowa) when I was 13. The pay wasn't much for the work involved, but I loved it. My writing continued off and on for years. Children prompted me to invent a bedtime story as my father had done. That was sold to a children's magazine. Then I went to work and writing took a back burner until we moved from Arizona to Western Washington. Do you know that it can rain 133 1/3 inches in one year? Not only can it do that, it does.
When I returned to work in Washington, I found the greatest employer imaginable. Nintendo of America paid me to talk, read, write, and play games. It was intense at times, but truly enjoyable.
My husband and I returned to the desert in 2001 and I found myself at loose ends. Now I'm writing and involved with the finest little museum in the world. Take a look at www.29palmshistorical.com. How many museums would have a Weed Show? To top that, they have an Old Schoolhouse Journal for which I write two columns.
To ease the solitude of writing, I joined the Desert Writers Guild of Twentynine Palms. Our membership fluctuates between eight and twelve, but each year we publish an anthology of over 140 pages. Our latest one is entitled Critters & Other Desert Dwellers. If you've ever wondered about the people and fauna that live here, link to http://thebookspirit.com or use the Contact Me Link at http://www.maricollier.com.
Twentynine Palms is often referred to as the gateway to Joshua Tree National Park, but it is more; so very much more. The desert's beauty can often take one's breath away when spring flowers are painted against the mountainside, when sunrises and sunsets almost blind the eye with their brilliant colors, or when rocks seem to change into strange forms when shadows, sun, or night work their transforming magic.
The surrounding desert is filled with artists, writers, and musicians. If you want proof start counting the number of art galleries between Wonder Valley and Morongo Valley, the eastern and western settlements of the Morongo Basin. There are museums, theaters (two), and awesome night skies still filled with stars.
The Joshua Tree National Park tells its own story at their site. The rock formations are awesome. Hiking, camping, mountain climbing and amazing vista await your visit to experience the wonders.
I was born in Lincoln Township, Audubon, Iowa. Yes, people still refer to the townships there. One of the neatest web sites is David Kusel. If you are curious about rural life in these United States, just type in his name. I recommend a look.
I started writing for the Audubon Advocate (Audubon, Iowa) when I was 13. The pay wasn't much for the work involved, but I loved it. My writing continued off and on for years. Children prompted me to invent a bedtime story as my father had done. That was sold to a children's magazine. Then I went to work and writing took a back burner until we moved from Arizona to Western Washington. Do you know that it can rain 133 1/3 inches in one year? Not only can it do that, it does.
When I returned to work in Washington, I found the greatest employer imaginable. Nintendo of America paid me to talk, read, write, and play games. It was intense at times, but truly enjoyable.
My husband and I returned to the desert in 2001 and I found myself at loose ends. Now I'm writing and involved with the finest little museum in the world. Take a look at www.29palmshistorical.com. How many museums would have a Weed Show? To top that, they have an Old Schoolhouse Journal for which I write two columns.
To ease the solitude of writing, I joined the Desert Writers Guild of Twentynine Palms. Our membership fluctuates between eight and twelve, but each year we publish an anthology of over 140 pages. Our latest one is entitled Critters & Other Desert Dwellers. If you've ever wondered about the people and fauna that live here, link to http://thebookspirit.com or use the Contact Me Link at http://www.maricollier.com.
Twentynine Palms is often referred to as the gateway to Joshua Tree National Park, but it is more; so very much more. The desert's beauty can often take one's breath away when spring flowers are painted against the mountainside, when sunrises and sunsets almost blind the eye with their brilliant colors, or when rocks seem to change into strange forms when shadows, sun, or night work their transforming magic.
The surrounding desert is filled with artists, writers, and musicians. If you want proof start counting the number of art galleries between Wonder Valley and Morongo Valley, the eastern and western settlements of the Morongo Basin. There are museums, theaters (two), and awesome night skies still filled with stars.
The Joshua Tree National Park tells its own story at their site. The rock formations are awesome. Hiking, camping, mountain climbing and amazing vista await your visit to experience the wonders.
