Ute Carbone's Blog, page 6

A is for Airplane #AZChallenge

A is for Airplanes, the small variety, that make for a funny scene in my romantic comedy, Afterglow (which also, coincidentally starts with A. 
India, the heroine of the story, is trying hard to get her mojo back after her 30 year marriage ends. Her best friend Eva, suggests India try new things, and arranges a flying lesson with a guy named Red. Things go a little sideways after that. Here's some of  the story:


If the flying lesson or, more to the point, the flight instructor,was supposed to help my self-esteem, it didn’t work. I was afraid of small planes. I’d told Eva as much, to which she’d said that I’d told
 her I always wanted to fly.
To Paris, I told her. In a jet plane. First Class with those little wine bottles. Eva can be pretty convincing, though, and a few Saturdays after school let out for the summer, I found myself in a hangar at the Tamsett Municipal Airport with Red Lansing.
Red looked like an older version of Alfred E Neuman. He had bright red hair speckled with gray and tonsured along the top of his head, a spate of freckles that would have made him cute if he were ten, and ears that probably could have flown the plane. He had a broad Texas accent and he called me little lady. He also informed me, straight away, that he’d already had four wives and wasn’t planning on a fifth. “Just for the record,” he said.
“Well, little lady, you ever been on a small craft before?”
We were standing next to Red’s Cessna. It could have fit in my garage. “No,” I said, both an answer to his question and also, no, I didn’t particularly want to hop into a small craft with Red or anyone else.
“Well, little lady, climb on in and we’ll show you how it’s done.”
He stroked the wheel as though it were an aphrodisiac. And I gathered from the way he explained all of the other doohickeys that he did have a strong affinity, an attraction, to the Cessna. They were
all just doohickeys to me. I told Red as much.
Red chuckled and ran his fingers over what I think was the altimeter. “Don’t you worry, little lady, you’re in good hands,” he said.
Soon we were soaring through clouds stacked like houses of cards, darting in between the layers. I could get used to this, I thought. Maybe there is something to this flying stuff after all. Maybe I’d even ask Red if I could take the wheel, or whatever the steering thingy was called. Maybe…Then the plane stalled.
The engine went dead. My thoughts dropped from high cloud fluttering to thudding doom. We were plunging through the air like a wet rock. I have never been fond of plunging. My stomach did a tango with my toes.
The engine hummed again and we began climbing. “Got to learn how to stall, little lady,” Red shouted over the blessed loud din.
“You did that on purpose?” I asked. I was just a tad hysterical, but Red didn’t seem to notice. He looked downright pleased with himself.
We swooped over the Tamsett River. Red dipped the plane sideways, making me grateful for the window glass because it was the only thing between me and oblivion. There were two men fishing
in a row boat. We dipped close enough for me to read the Orvis brand name on the boat’s side.
Red whooped. “How you like it so far?” he shouted.
The Cheerios I’d had for breakfast were sloshing around with the coffee I’d drunk to chase them down. It must have been terror that kept it all in check, because as soon as we hit the tarmac, I
felt the gorge start to rise. I made a bee-line for the hangar bathroom.
I’d like to say that I made it to the hangar bathroom. But the truth is another matter entirely. Not only did I not make it to the hole-in-the-wall that passed as a bathroom at the back of the hangar, in my haste I also managed to slip on some oil near the bathroom door. I landed on my right arm. A terrible shock of pain went through me and my already compromised stomach gave itself up all over the front of my crisp white blouse. I sat in the grease stain. My ruined clothes seemed beside the point. I wanted to board a real plane to Paris and start life anew on the Left Bank. I didn’t want Red Lansing to saunter over and wrinkle his freckled nose at me.
Red handed me a dirty rag and pointed the way to the bathroom as though I hadn’t understood that it was right behind me. I got up, my wrist throbbing, and hobbled through the threshold. I did
the best I could to clean off my blouse left-handed, using borax and rust-colored water. Then I threw up in the sink for good measure.
Red stood at the door. “Little lady?” I was busy examining my wrist, which had turned an interesting shade of purple.
“I think I might need to go to the hospital.”
Red eyed my arm from the door. “Hospital?” he asked as though he’d never heard of such a thing. He shook his head. “I can’t leave. I got another lesson coming in.” I looked at my arm, and then
at Red. My horror must have shown, because he flushed the color of his thinning hair. “I’ll call you,” he said. “Make sure you're okay. It’s probably nothing. Just a ding. A little ding.”
I walked out of the hangar without saying goodbye

Thanks so much for stopping by on day one of my intrepid journey through the alphabet. 


More about the A-Z Challenge More about Afterglow

Now I've really done it.

I did it. I signed up for the April A-Z blogging challenge. I've been remiss about blogging to say the least, and I figure this high-octane push into the blogosphere will help me develop some better blogging habits or make me question my sanity. Maybe both. 
The challenge is simple. There are 30 days in April. If you take out Sundays, that leaves 26. There are 26 letters in the alphabet. For the challenge, each of the days, excluding Sunday, is assigned a letter. On each day you are to write a blog post whose theme has something to do with something starting with that letter.  
For ten years, bloggers have been taking on the challenge. A few years ago, I joined in by posting a poem each day of April (which also happens to be National Poetry Month). This time around, in hopes of keeping with the books and writing theme of my blog, I'll be posting book excerpts from my novels and stories. I hope you'll stop by now and again during the month.  I'm going to need all the support I can get  to meet the challenge!   

The good, the bad, and the fictional

This months IWSG question, whether I'd rather write heroes or villains, raised some interesting thoughts in my writerly head. 
My first response was neither. I tend to like books where the hard and fast lines between good and bad are blurred.  Those are the kind of stories I strive to write. But that answer is a little disingenuous. Of course, stories need good and bad. Of course, the two play against each other.  That's how a good story is created.  And I've written my share of heroes and villains,  The worst of them held a knife to my heroine's throat. The best of them saved a man from being buried in an avalanche, risking her own life to do it.  Certainly, these fit the good/bad pattern of behavior. 
The best characters I've created, though, carry both good and bad to some degree. And I think the secret  (which isn't really a secret) to writing any character is to make sure they aren't cardboard cutouts, that they are characters not caricatures.  The best are like the people you and I know, folks who sometimes make bad decisions even though they are good people. Or do good even if they would never consider themselves heroic. Kind of like us, only more so--with a bigger push towards good or evil.
I'm thinking, now, of a character in my novel The Tender Bonds. Jack is the estranged father of the protagonist, Patty.   The story is about her reconnecting with him and with her family roots. But Jack isn't the wonderful man she remembers from early childhood. He's in prison for vehicular manslaughter--driving drunk he killed a woman and three children.  He's not done well by his daughter, making little attempt to stay in her life. And yet.  He isn't a monster.  He, in fact, loves his daughter.  How do you reconcile the two?   In the end, I figured out that it wasn't Jack's "badness" that made him so flawed, it was his weakness. He's an alcoholic who could not or would not deal with his drinking problem. He's a father who feels that he can't raise his daughter and feels she'd be better off without him. He's a husband who could not keep his marriage together. And he's a  man who's carelessness  causes a ton of collateral damage--including a daughter who feels she isn't worthy of love.  I like Jack as a character. I like the complexity I was able to create with him. It's more difficult, I think, to try and make characters that are complex, that mix good with evil to varying degrees. But it is also more rewarding.

Thanks for reading.  Click the button for more on this and other insecure writer's musings Insecure Writer's Support Group

Who Me? #InsecureWriter's Blog

I have a critic who lives in my head.  I call her Zelda. On a side note, if you have a critic living in your head, I suggest you name her or him or it and treat them like another person.  It seems to help. Anyway, Zelda can, occasionally, be helpful. But mostly, she is not. 
Case in point, exhibit A if you will, is a mentor program offered up by my Women's Fiction group. The group decided to start a mentor/mentee program. The pilot program would last for three months, during which the mentor would answer questions, do a little hand holding, and maybe critique a few pages of work by the mentee.  It was a fabulous idea. But I decided to sit it out. I've been at this writing thing for 20 years now, and I felt a mentor wasn't exactly what I needed. And as far as being a mentor? Well, that's where Zelda comes in. She told me I wasn't qualified. I knew she'd continue to nag at me, and I didn't need the aggravation.
Then I got a message from the Women's Fiction group in my e-mail box. The mentor program had oodles of writers signing up to be mentored but not enough to do the mentoring. The people putting together the program were sending out another call and hoped more mentors would step up and volunteer. So I thought about it again, thought about all the various experiences I'd had over  the years of my writing journey, and decided to offer up my services.
As expected, Zelda had a little something to say about this.  Actually, she had a lot to say about this. 
We had a heated conversation about it.
"What makes you think you can be a mentor?" Zelda asked. She looked at me kindly, letting me know she was again trying to save me from myself.
I considered my answer. "Well, I have been writing for over 20 years."
"Honey, there are writers who began as children, scribbling three word stories in crayon. Writing a long time does not make you an expert."
She was already beginning to get to me. "Okay, I ran a writing workshop for twelve years."
Zelda swooshed a hand through the air like batting away a fly. "That little thing? You never had more than a dozen students at time. It was purely local-yokel."
"It was designed to limit to a few students," I was not about to let her belittle twelve years of my life. "And so what if it was local?"
"All right fine. It was a wonderful little program. But all you did was encourage first drafts. You didn't get into the meat and potatoes of critique, did you?"
It was true, the program I ran was to encourage first drafts. Critique wasn't part of it. "I've worked with critique partners. I've worked with editors. Last I looked..." I stopped to make a count in my head "I have 9 novels, 4 novellas, and a bunch of short stories in my publishing credits."
"Published by teeny tiny  publishers." She made a small space with her thumb and forefinger to illustrate. 
"They were published by publishers."
"If only there were sales involved. If you write a book that has no sales, have you really written a book?"
She knew this would be a stinging blow. And it was. Every time lack of sales come up, I feel like a total incompetent. But I wasn't ready to give in yet. "I've gotten great reviews."
This made her role her eyes. "Please tell me you're not going to say my friends like my books. You might as well say your mother liked them."
"Come on. That's not fair. I've gotten actual reviews from people I don't know. I've won awards."
"What? The teeny tiny publisher  awarded your novel book of the year?"
"Not just my publisher. I've won an EPIC. "
She looked at me and shook her head. "Hardly a Pulitzer, is it?"
She'd done it again. Totally dejected, near tears, I told her she'd won. "You're right. I'm an abject failure. I don't know why I'd think I have anything to offer anybody."
Zelda gave me a hard stare. "No one likes a whiner. Cut it out and stop feeling  sorry for yourself."


Thanks for reading this month's therapy session. For more writer insecurities, check out the Insecure Writer's Blog hop by clicking on the link below.
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Insecure Writer's Support Group

Meet Annie Hoff

I'll let you in on a secret. I have an alter-ego. Well, not exactly an alter-ego. An!nie is a lot like me only funnier. She's the new pen name for my romantic comedies.  So, from here on in, all those light as air frothy, delicious-as-apple-pie funny books will be under a  her name. 
Annie has a new book called Georgette Alden Starts Over coming out with Desilisle Publishing in December of this year.  She also has her own website!
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Annie Hoff

#Poem #Prisoners

With the recent humanitarian crisis at the southern borders of the US, I began thinking about fences and walls. It occurred to me that we build them to keep things (and people) out, but we often don't consider what we are locking ourselves away from.   Prisoners
He promised you a wall.
There it stands, big and wide, covering the distance between earth and sky, turning the sun into an obsidian reflection.
It keeps the other side from closing in on you. Keeps the vermin from invading your house, Keeps the thieves from taking what is yours. And the murderers with their sharp machetes no longer threaten you.
Beyond the tall panels planted in the hard scrabble, is a tree filled with fragrant hibiscus. You used to watch it bloom. There a grandmother makes mole in a warm kitchen while humming to herself. The smell of heated onions wafts on the breeze and makes your mouth water.
On a hillside of the walled off land, a million butterflies float a bouquet of orange wings, iridescent in the morning sun. A sight so beautiful   it would fill your eyes with hope. If only you could witness their flight.
​And there, just beyond the parapet where the guard watches down, the barrel of his gun gleaming in sunlight, is a woman with a child in her arms.
A child that would save you if only you could let them in.

Poems and Pictures: Luck

Luck
 
There are days when the stars align into a pattern
you can follow down to a place by the river.
A place where all that matters is blue stirred water
the pungent sweetness of earth and pine
the birds calling and calling .
On a lazy Saturday afternoon you walked the embankment,
a pair of black winged moths chased through the bracken
and you thought, beautiful, beautiful.  
So much is written into the margins of your life,
so much of the star’s alignment is determined
by the wings of a black moth,
by the silver flame of river,
by the wind turning the pines.
 

Poems and Pictures

If my soul exists
I believe it sits in the warm hollow of my ear.
It sits and it listens
to the wind that rises and stirs the bough of white pine,
and to the rustle of the last leaves holding to the oak.
It listens to the morning dove calling her mate in cool grey light
and the clap of heron’s wing, loud as thunder, as he ascends to sky.
It listens to the fall of  snow, soft and deep, dancing along the field
and the wash of rain turning the pebbles along the river’s bank.
It sits in the warm hollow and makes me to listen
to the world’s message, a hushed whisper that sounds like love.
The world, as it bends to meet me again with arms wide open. 
 

Click to listen to an audio recording of the poem. 

Cover Reveal!

A republication deserves a pretty new cover. In the spirit of do-it-yourself and because I've been doing a lot of graphic and visual art design lately, I decided to have a go at cover making. I had help--big thanks to photographer Sherry Steffensmeier and editor Diane Breton for their input. 

An #excerpt from The Tender Bonds (and a picture just because)

I'm getting closer to the rerelease of Tender Bonds as an e-book. I'm excited, because I do love this book. written with love and care some time ago. And I'm nervous, too. Self pubbing seems a hard road to me and I haven't yet taken the plunge with anything more than some short pieces.  But I'm going to venture forth anyway. 
​Here's an excerpt from the book. Patty, the main character, has recently discovered that she has a step brother. They share a derelict father named Jack . I'll warn you ahead of time that her brother, Charlie, likes to use adult language. (Perhaps I should put an R rating on the excerpt?) 
​I took the photo at a pond near my house. There's a lake, a made-up place called Babylon Lake, that figures heavily in this book. I imagine it looks something like this in the fall.  (Charlie) swigged the last of his wine. “I’m going to open another bottle. You game?”
I was feeling the buzz of the first two glasses I’d consumed. It was not an entirely bad feeling. Maybe that’s what Jack went for, that little buzz that made all problems seem a little less problematic. Only in Jack’s case, it had backfired. “Sure. Why not.”
“Unfortunately, all I’ve got left is wine in a box.”
“Sounds interesting.”
“It’s not.” He went to the kitchen and came back with a carton. “But it is cheap.” He poured us each a glass. “So tell me about Jersey.”
“Tell me about Valerie.”
“I asked first. What are you running from?”
“Nothing.” I knew I sounded defensive. “I’m just trying to…” How could I put it? I didn’t know myself, really, what I was trying to do. Not in my frontal lobe anyway. Somewhere deep inside myself I understood. But how do you word that? “I’m trying to figure some things out,” was the best I could come up with. I lay my head back on the couch. My shoes were off. I had the thought that I felt about as much at home as I ever had anywhere. It must have been the wine.
“And hanging around here is going to help you figure things out?” Charlie wasn’t joking anymore.
“I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe if I can get to see Jack, I can fill in the missing pieces. I keep making wrong choices. Not wrong, maybe. More…it’s like I don’t make choices at all. Things just happen and I let them. Maybe it’s in the gene pool. Maybe if I meet Jack, I can fix it.”
“I’ve known Jack a long time, and I’m still fucking things up.” Charlie sat up in the recliner. I was staring at the ceiling. “Jack doesn’t have any answers. You can trust me on that.”
It was a tin ceiling. I remembered it as soon as I looked. It hadn’t changed in thirty-six years. “You think he’ll remember me?” My eyes filled, washing the tin plates. I took another swallow of wine.
“I have to tell you something. That first day, you showed up here with that stupid plant? I wanted to kick you out. I’ve hated you for most of my life.”
I sat up. “Why?”
“Because. Jack, he’d get drunk and talk about you. It was “my Patty” this and “my Patty” that. It hurt my mother. She never had kids with him, you know. Couldn’t, I guess. And he used you like a weapon. Did it to me too. “My Patty” was always better than me. He used to say “your sister Patty would never act like that,” whenever I messed up. And I’d think fuck you and fuck Patty too. She’s not my sister. Said it aloud once or twice. He beat the crap out of me when I did.”
His words stung more than I thought possible. “I’m going to go.” I stood up and swayed before regaining my balance. “I’m sorry you feel that way.”
“That your solution for everything? Say I’m sorry and run off?”
“You hate me. There’s no sense in my staying.”
“Thing is, Patty, I don’t hate you. I don’t know you well enough to hate you.”
He picked up the box of wine. “Have another drink. We’ll talk, get to know each other, then I can hate you.”
I handed him my empty glass. I wasn’t sure how I’d get back to the motel anyway, feeling as buzzed as I was. I could imagine getting stopped for DWI.
Like father, like daughter.
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