Judy Alter's Blog, page 333

Writerly matters

 A cookie for writers! Patti from Baked Ideas made this amazing edible gingerbread typewriter for benefit of City Harvest, and it is displayed at NYC's Parker Meridien Hotel. From Shelf Awareness this morning.
And did you know that today is St. Lucia's day--the patron saint of writers? Celebrate by writing an extra 500 words, with Saint Lucia guiding your fingers over the keyboard.
I've been pondering series in the mystery genre. I'm reading number twenty-something in a highly successful series, but I find it's not as compelling as the earlier books were. I don't know if that's me or if the heroine had run her course about five books back. I do know of several series that are up in the twenties now. Some that I still follow ardently--Deborah's Crombie's Duncan Kincaid/Gemma James series and Julia Spencer-Fleming's Rev. Claire Ferguson and Russ Van Alstyne series--have ten or less, but there are several others I quit reading. I now have three books written in my Kelly O'Connell mystery series--number two is due out in April and number three in August--and I'm pondering the future. Both my beta reader (I've finally learned to use that term instead of mentor) and publisher both say I'm not through with Kelly and I do have ideas for number four which means I'll have to do number five, because I have that Oriental thing against even numbers.
But I also have a first in another series, and I'd like to see if it would fly. My publisher suggests interspersing the first of the Blue Plate series with the Kelly O'Connell books, and I'm liking that idea. How about you? Do you like to read series? Write them? When is enoiugh enough?
My beta reader sent his notes on the third Kelly mystery today. He pointed out I had a man and a dog both named Gus--I was aware of it but Gus the dog was in previous books, and Gus seemed to fit the new character. But Fred said he had quite a turn when Kelly hugged Gus after a particularly traumatic scene--I meant the dog, of course. So Gus the man is now Otto. I remember once writing three books in a y/a series; in the first two, the young boy's name was Davey; in the third book, for some inexplicable reason, I called him Josh. The editor wrote to ask, "Who's Josh?"

One author's success story

Today's mail brought me an advance reading copy of Roll On, a novel by Fred Afflerbach. Fred is a former independent truck drive who left the road--something not all drivers can do with grace--and graduated from college at fifty and went on to become an award-winning journalist. His novel reflects his belief that American literature has overloked an important twentieth century figure, the long-haul truck driver who is, Afflerbach says, the descendent of sailors, explorers, mountain men and cowboys. Fred's novel gives you a chance to ride shotgun with one of these fiercely independent road warriors--and this author know of what he writes when he describes one trucker's battle against a changing world. Technology, business and family areall pushing truckers off the road.
Just before I retired from TCU Press, I was working with Fred on his novel. With a reader's appraisal in hand, I had suggested rewrites which he successfully made. My successor decided not to move forward with the project, so Fred and I corresponded, and I tried to encourage him, counseling persistence in trying other publishers. Fred and his wife came by the house and had a glass of wine when they were in Fort Worth.  Academy Chicago Publishers accepted the manuscript and are touting it as a unique portrait of an American individual. It will be available in ebook and trade paper later this month.
If Ubi Sunt (the trucker of the novel--the name is a long story, well explained in the book) is an American individual, Fred Afflerbach is the eitome of many of today's authors. Believing in himself and receiving encouragment, from his wife, from me and others, he persevered and his dream of being a published author is coming true. I hope he has other books in his mind or head or whatever.
Look for Roll On in your local bookstore or online and give it a try. It's very authenticity will make you glad you read it.

My almost-always annual no-tree tree trimming party

Tonight was my tree trimming party, a party I've been giving in one form or another since 1965. I do it because I always thought trimming the tree should be festive and fun, and it wasn't when I was a kid. Nowdays I don't have a tree--never home at Christmas, etc., though I sometimes think I'll get a small table tree and a couple of years I've had really small trees that fit on the coffee table. I've been giving this party since 1965--sometimes a Sunday night, one year desserts only, sometimes at 8:00, tonight at 5:30 so people who had other plans could move on. I like the way that worked and may do it again.
Every fall, about October, I debate whethr or not to have the party, and a howl goes up from some of my friends because that's the only time they see each other. I always end  up having fun at my own party, getting lots of hugs. Many of these people are ones I don't see often, others are part of my daily life. These days, there's a big contingent of family--some direct relations, some by marriage--and there are lots of kids. My brother brings his side of the family which has grown larger than mine, since most of my kids are not close enough to come for an evening. Jordan is a whiz at planning the kids part of the party--pigs in a blanket, pretzels, chips, ranch dip, carrots, and Christmas trees to color. I don't know if any kids ever did color them tonight, but they all seemed to have a good time. The kids were all my grandnieces and grandnephews, one grandson, and two distantly related  by marriaige.
For the adults I served my traditional cheeseball, the one my mom made, liver pate, a caviar spread, cheese with curry that you top with chutney, a cheese ring topped with strawberry jam, veggies and a Caesar dip, persimmon bread, a reuben dip (always disappears).
After the food was put up and the dishes done--I hired a "party angel," a lovely woman who did a great job--I got to thinking about the business of giving a party. It's an expense for my limited budget, no doubt about it, and it's a lot of work, because there's the house to decorate, even with no tree, and I make all the dips and spreads myself and serve wine and soft drinks--no mixed drinks, no beer. Tonight folks drank a case of white wine and almost a case of red. But to me, in some strange convoluted thinking, giving this party is part of staying  young and not growing old, not saying "I can't do the party this year. I'm too old and don't have the energy." That day may come, but I hope not soon.  As I say every year, in the afterglow of the paty, I'm doing this next year and I begin planning. There just so many people I wish I could invite and don't have room  for because of all those regulars. Hmmmm--next year, caviar dip, liver pate, cheeseball, and some surprises. And Jordan wants those meatballs that are really sausage, cheese, and Bisquick. Okay, not gourmet but good.                                                     

My own joy of cooking

Nice, lazy evening tonight browsing through the new issue of Food & Wine, a magazine that's often a bit esoteric for me. But tonight, because I didn't feel my usual sense of rushing, I lingered over travel articles and other pieces. Found in one a description of a tart made of fresh (just from the earth) lettuce, herbs and oil topped with anchovies and baked--sounds heavenly. The writer wasn't sure how she'd feel about cooked lettuce but praised it. Here are the recipes I cut out to cook: trout schnitzel with lemon-chile butter; crispy potato galette with smoked fish and dill creme; open-face sardine sandwiches with tangy aioli; pork-and-cheese arepas with tangy cabbage slaw. I may have to find adventurous eaters to share these meals with me--I can't see Jordan and Christian waxing enthusiastic about open-faced sardine sandwiches. Jeannie? Jay? Rodger?
I didn't know what an arepa is, so I went to my trusted Food Lover's Companion--only to be disappointed. Found the following on Wikipedia: An  arepa  is a dish made of ground corn dough or cooked flour, popular in Colombia, Venezuela and other Spanish-speaking countries. It is similar in shape to the Salvadoran  pupusa . Arepas can also be found in Panama, Puerto Rico and the Canary Islands. My daughter says she doesn't need the Food Lovers Companion because she has a computer, and I told her she was wrong. Maybe I'm wrong..
I've been cooking today. I"m having a group in for cocktails (read wine) and snacks tomorrow, and on the menu, among other things, is a liver pate that a friend told me about. She swears even non-liver eaters will go back time and again for this.  So I think I'll keep count of how many non-liver eaters will overcome their prejudice and try Sally's recipe which has madeira, allspice, thyme, and too much butter. It needs to sit overnight, but I tasted it--rich but oh so delicious.
I'm also making the caviar dish that Jamie loves--caviar on a base of cream cheese seasoned with onion, mayonnaise, and lemon. Jordan is upset that I didn't make the sausage balls that you make with Bisquick. You can't please all of the people all of the time.
I'm watching an episode of Guy Fieri's "Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives"--much of that food is way too far into the category of "fat food" for me, but it sure looks good. Right now, it's fried chicken. Fieri doesn't feature the food I cook, but I do like that show. There's been a flurry on Facebook because Fieri's show has been filming in the area--but not in Fort Worth, in spite of the fact that we all have suggestions for him.
I love writing, reading, especially mysteries, but cooking holds a special place in my soul. When I get to heaven, I'm asking for an apron.
Sophie just drew blood again--she paws at my arm for attention, and we're fighting the"Off!" battle. I say "Off" in my sternest tone and turn my back on her--she refuses to accept that command, and a few minutes later a sneak attack I'm not expecting bloodies my arm.. As a consequence lots of my T-shirts are blood-stained--on the left sleeve. She's also alienated at least one person who was prepared to adore her--8-year-old Edie, a real softie for animals, was so excited about seeing her again (she was with me the day I got her) but lost interest because Sophie jumps so much. Jacob roughhouses and wrestles with her and never seems bothered by her wildness--six months ago he was afraid of dogs. Now, he comes in after school and wants to play with the dogs right away. He sits on the roof of the porch to the doghouse and sometimes hoists Sophie up there with him.
Right now, Sophie has gotten the message, belatedly, and is sleeping at my feet. Puppy, puppy, puppy.

The puppy chronicles continue

 Jacob in the doghouse.
Sophie in a quiet moment--don't be misled!This week I applied the word "fractious" to Sophie. I think the cold weather makes her frisky, but she's ended up spending way too much time inside to work off her energy and probably too much of it in her crate, especially yeserday when the plumber was installing a new hot water heater. But it began the night before--I came home late from a book club meeting, tried to take her out, and she balked, didn't want to go. So I thought she didn't need to go and left her in the study, while I brushed my teeth and got ready for bed. She peed and pooped. Next morning, I put her out for a good bit, she came in and peed and pooped.  She was out of control when one of the men went out to wrap the outdoor faucet in the back yard and he, usually a gentle soul, lost patience with her. In the afternoon I knew I was going out for supper, so I fed both dogs early--Scooby outside and Sophie in the study, our usual pattern. Instead of eating her supper, she ate a basket I had put on the floor. I thought with company coming this weekend it would be neat to collect all her toys in the basket. Yes, she'd scatter them but I could just throw them back in half a second. I scolded, put her out and cleaned up the mess. When I came home I put her out and she tore all the rags off the faucet that Jim had carefully wrapped in the morning. I put her in the study and cleaned up the rags. Fed her (she hadn't eaten earlier) and thought I had her settled when I looked down and she was chewing a book--one that I'd written, no less. Scolded, re-shelved the book, and she got a picture of one set of my grandchildren down.  She's spirited, delightful, and sweet--but I sure will be glad when she grows up. She's seven months now. Today she seems much better and now is playing contentedly with her toys--I know by saying that I'll jinx it.
Christmas dinners with two different sets of friends the last two nights--I'm feeling like an overfed social butterfly. Last night Kathie, Carol and I went to Winslow's, where Carol and I had roasted chicken with sage gravy, scalloped potatoes with gruyere, and a mix of spinach, asparagus and cherry tomatoes. Absolutely wonderful Tonight Betty, Jeannie and I went to Lightcatcher Winery and Bistro in Lakeside, about 30 minutes from here.It's a working winery and we dined surrounded by oak barrels with other winery equipment all around. They have an excellent chef--we began with lobster ravioli with a rich, creamy wine sauce; each of us ordered Celtic Lamb Shepherd's Pie, which was wonderful, and we shared a chocolate tart with red wine/raspberry sorbet and red wine ganache. All delicious. Lightcatcher serves only their own wines, and we ordered a bottle of chardonnay but uniformly agreed it was too sweet. Still, we soldiered on and drank it--well, most of it. The gift shop is intrigiuing, with many items related to wine, some not, and of course the ubiquitous T-shirt.
I spent two mornings doing grocery shopping and guess where I'm going tomorrow--the grocery. Forgot the extra cup of sharp cheese I need and parsley to put around a cheese ring. It's that time of year!

Vacation is here

I'm on vacation--well, sort of. I finished editing, rewriting the third manuscript in the Kelly O'Connell series tonight. I'd procrastinated about this, thinking I couldn't bear to read it one more time. But when I finally made myself do it, I enjoyed the process, enjoyed plugging the holes where something didn't work, fleshing out a scene that I'd cut too short, correcting the inevitable typos--I'm sure there are more. That's always beta reader Fred's criticism to me: stop rushing through the story. Fred is reading it--I gave it to him last week--and I will of course wait for his comments and go through it one more time. I think those times of procrastination or staying away from it are good--they give new perspective. When I went back to this one it seemed better to me; in fact, I was quite pleased with it. Oops, pride goeth before a fall. Tentative title is Wild Things in Kelly's Neighborhood. I would surely appreciate comments on that title. But having done what I've done in the last few days, I feel like I'm on Christmas vacation. I plan to read a lot of mysteries. And maybe cook a lot.
Today started out cold and rainy. The rain stopped, but the cold has intensified, and we're due a hard freeze tonight. My cactus plants are inside, and everything outside will either die to be discarded and replaced next year or survive--some of my herbs survive bitter weather and strong heat. Amazing  plants. It was a split pea soup kind of day, but when Jeannie and I got to Carshon's we decided to share a reuben sandwich. It was also a hot cocoa day, and I fixed that for Jacob after school--he was delighted. We did his homework and he fell asleep in front of the TV. Dry weather tomorrow, but very cold.

Old friends

Make new friends, but keep the old;
Those are silver, these are gold.
I know, I've recently done a post using that quote but a call from Santa Fe today made my day and emphasized again the value of old friends. My longtime friend (I started to say old, but she might take that personally) Nancy Olson called to say she was loving Skeleton in a Dead Space. Of course she would--she recognizes many of the players. In fact, she says it's like I was personally taking her by the hand and leading her along. Nancy and I have been friends for forty-six years, a long time in anyone's book. We don't talk often these days and she's not real good about emailing, but I discovered today she's on Facebook, so maybe we'll be in touch more. But today, we laughed about old and good times, talked about cooking and books. For me, it was great to hear her voice and her distinctive, happy laugh. It really did give me a happy glow the rest of the day.
Facebook has already connected me to another old friend--Sally Jackson, who was my neighbor in Park Hill, took her life in a new direction about the same time I did, and moved away from the neighborhood. Now on Facebook we trade recipes, news of our kids, and bits of political wisdom. I'm so enjoying having her back in my life.
So make new friends but keep the old--they are, indeed, gold.

Thoughts on dogs and rain, supper, and the search for birthparents

I think anyone reading this knows how much I love my old dog, Scooby, and my puppy, Sophie, but this has not been a good day to own dogs. Rain all day, sometimes heavy, and the backyard is a sea of mud. The path from the back door to the kitchen is lined with old rugs, and I am finally getting Sophie to the point where I can dry her feet and legs without a ferocious battle. But I think she decided this morning to be fractious today: the first thing she did, as I stood right there with the door open for her to go out, was to go to her favorite spot in the playroom and pee. I caught her mid-act and practically threw her oiutside. Then all day, if she's out, she wants to be in; if she's in, she paws at me desperately until I put her out. And of course every re-entry from the outside means all that toweling. I really need to wash their towels and rugs, but when's the chance? I have to leave them down.
Scooby has never let me touch his hind legs, though he'll suffer me drying his front paws. I usually get a treat and make him dance back and forth on those rugs until he doesn't leave footprints. Hmm, maybe if I turn that big rug over I can start fresh. This afternoon I put him in his bed while I napped, and since then every time I inquire politely if he'd like to go out and eat his dinner, he gives me a baleful look. I know when eventualy I put him out he'll dump the dinner all over and it will turn into a soggy mess.
I ate leftovers for lunch and told myself I could have salmon cakes, deviled egg, and pea salad for supper--some of my favorite foods. The eggs didn't come out of the shell easily and were hard to stuff; the salmon cakes never got brown--okay, Mom, I ignored your dictum about soda crackers and used panko, not the same; and I gave up on pea salad and had the broccoli that was in the fridge. None of it tasted quite like I imagined it would. I guess I'll have to eat chocolate.
I'm reading, for review on the Story Circle Network, The Night Sky about about the daughter of two Dachau prisoners, . Her parents were sent to forced labor on a German farm. Though they worked hard and had slight acommodations, they fared much better than most Dachau prisoners. Raised by her mother and stepfather in the U.S., Maria Sutton spent almost forty years searching for her father, in spite of red flag warning that he was not the dashing, courageous, brave and generous Polish military officer she imagined. I suppose such a fantasy is hard to let go of, but as the adoptive parent of four, I wonder about that desperate search for a birth parent. My four seem, as far as I know, to be content with me as their parent, and they are--watch me boast--happy, productive people who are wonderful parents and seem quite well adjusted, always have, to the fact of adoption. I'm not sure how I'd feel if they suddenly, now most in their forties, had to search. I think I would be afraid it was symptomatic of some deeper crisis in their lives. But maybe I'm judging without walking a mile in the other person's moccasins.

A riveting memoir--and the Bookish Frogs

Let me tell you about Gerald Duff. He's the author of fifteen books, with five coming out this year--poetry, novels, short stories. But I want to talk about his memoir, published (of course) by TCU Press. Home Truths is a memoir about growing up in Deep East Texas. Gerald spoke tonight to the Bookish Frogs, the friends group of the press, and it was one of the most enjoyable evenings I've had in a while.
Home Truths, when I first read it, was titled Home Lies, because much of it is about  the lies he had to tell--and tell himself--to cope with growing up in a land of narrow-minded, fierce opinions where tradition rules over intellect or common sense. It's both a humorous book and a bittersweet one. Tonight his talk had  listeners laughing out loud, but there was much serious truth to it. He talked about the therapy of writing a memoir--how it makes you examine your life and get to know yourself, although he admitted there are some things in his life he still won't talk about, won't deal with. He quoted Socrates: "The unexamined life is a life not worth living." And he talked about guilt, that emotion that few of us escape.
But he also told funny stories--he believed his mother lied when she said she played basketball with Babe Didrikson Zaharias, until years later he saw a picture of the high school team that included both young women; the time he finally relented and confessed his faith in the Southern Baptist Church--well, I mean his faith in Jesus Christ but the confession was a ritual of the church--and he didn't feel any different afterward; the wedding of a cousin where the groom had a cigarette behind his ear, ready to light at any minutes. He was honest and forthright about the things that made him uncomfortable, but he could joke about the time he didn't recognize his second wife. He wove in advice he gave to students as he told anecdotes and read from the book, and he said that when he writes fiction, he gets one or two sentences down and sees what develops. He writes not plots but characters and sees where they will take him. It's a maxim I've heard all my writing life: listen to your characters. Now retired as a university administrator, Gerald used to write from 5:30 to 9:00 a.m. when he was working, and he believes that it's perspiration not inspiration that gets books written. It's also discipline--he aims for two pages  a day but now, with more time, he sometimes writes six or seven if the words are flowing. So, this was part memoir, part lesson in writing, and a lot of humor--a delightful evening. And the book will provide you with the same wonderful mix. I heartily recommend it.
A postscript about Bookish Frogs: for those of you who live in Fort Worth, it's a group that meets about every two months for a potluck supper--the food is delicious!--and to hear an author. Once a year there's a dinner, where every member gets a free copy of the press' "big" book from the year before. Interested? Write me at j.alter@tcu.edu. We'll be sending our information shortly after the new year.

Thoughts on Facebook, exercise and dogs

Everyone talks, blogs, texts about how much time we waste on Facebook. I always thought it wasn't so much. I can whiz through postings. Emails too. Because I'm on several listservs, I get upwards of a hundred emails a day, but I can pretty much whiz through them too. But this week, with exercise on my mind, I realized what I was really doing. If I had an odd hour or so in the day--not long enough for serious writing or reading--I'd sit at my desk and think maybe emails and FB would keep me occupied for that period of time. Wrong! That's plenty of time to ride my stationary bike or do a good yoga workout. (Okay, spelling freaks--I know I spelled it stationery the other day, and I apologize for my great lapse!) So that's what I"ve been trying to do--exercise in that odd hour. Didn't do it today because I didn't have that odd hour in the day and I was busy every minute (except for my nap), much of it on my feet in the kitchen, the house, the grocery store, so I figure that counts toward something. I expect to have spaces of time in the next few days. And I will work out. Determind. So maybe it's not so much about Facebook as it is how we (at least, I) look at time.
Exercising Sophie doesn't get me much exercise, but it sure is funny. I throw the ball, she runs to get it, runs back close to me, and issues this funny low growl. For a small dog, she has a deep growl, even though her bark is yappy. Fortunately, she's not a bad barker. But she'll growl at me, I'll reach for the ball, and she'll take off to the far corner of the yard again. We do this many times over. Meantime, Scooby is practically in my lap, enjoying lots of love. He finally gets tired of her competing for my attention and really disciplines her--but she jumps and dodges and taunts him. You can see the border collie herding instincts at work in her.
A big lesson I'm trying to teach right now is "Off" which means "Don't jump on me." She's chosen this as her signal to let me know she wants to go out, so I never am sure if she wants out or attention. In the morning though, waiting for Jacob, I know she wants to go out on the porch and on cold mornings I won't go until it's time for him to be here. When she continues to jump, I tie her to one of the supports of the bookcase. She howls--a really funny sound--and then she gives her deep growls. Finally she realizes nothing is going to work, and settles down to watchful waiting. It's like having a two-year-old in the house, lots of fun but oh my the patience required.
Tonight was my memoir class Christmas party--fun way to start the season. Several people brought wine and appetizers. We had two propsective members, who really seemed to enjoy the evening, and we all sat around and talked. HIghlight of the evening was a Chinese auction--everyone brought a book they were through with. I ended up with a Jodi Picoult title, and since I have never read her I thought that was good. I made a really simple appetizer--pimiento cheese spread over a rectangle of crescent rolls, sliced and baked. Only I didn't re-read the recipe and put in twice the cream cheese and more than the cheddar called for. Thought that was really ample filling for the rectangle--no wonder! Result was oh so messy--but oh so good!