Alexandra Bogdanovic's Blog: That's life..., page 10

Regrets... I have had a few

With apologies to Mr. Sinatra, I have had a few regrets and some of them are real doozies.
One mistake, in particular, haunts me as I continue the seemingly endless process of home renovations, redecorating and downsizing. To this day, I still can't believe I allowed my mom to sell all of my old Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew books.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not harboring any ideas that they'd be worth a small fortune. It's the sentimental value that makes them priceless. After all, I read my first Hardy Boys mystery when I was in third grade and I still remember the first word that gave me trouble. What on earth is a ho-ax? I remember thinking as I "sounded out" the word.
Undaunted, I amassed quite a collection of the blue and yellow hard-cover books over the next few years.
Eventually, as Mom recalls, we put them in boxes and took them to sell at a church-sponsored tag sale. A little boy ended up buying them, much to my mother's disgust.
He really wanted the books, but he was thoroughly objectionable, Mom recalled. I didn't want him to have the books because I didn't like him. But I finally sold them to him at the end of the day. So I regret selling your Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew books, too.
Until next time, "That's life..."

There's no such thing as too many books... or is there?

It happened on an ordinary weekday not too long ago.
A couple of professional painters and their boss created considerable havoc, not to mention undue stress in my life by announcing I had to move some stuff so they could finish what they'd started.
Being a generally helpful and cooperative person, I spent the better part of that evening moving the "stuff," which, in all honesty turned out to be a bunch of books. Lots of books.
By the time I was finished, stacks of books littered the living room and bedroom floors. There were stacks of hardcover books, stacks of paperback books, stacks of old books and stacks of new books. Fiction, non-fiction, you name it, we've got it, and I moved it.
Looking at the maze I'd created I felt so fed up with the whole entire situation that I sent an email to my mother, who was vacationing in Australia. In that email, I said something I still regret.
We have way too many books, I said. Getting rid of a good 60 percent of them has to be a priority when you get back.
Think about it. It's the 21st century. We have modern technology. We can actually buy and read books on our tablets -- over and over again. Sure, storing them takes up some coveted memory in our precious devices. But the rest of our lives can remain blissfully uncluttered...
Then again, there's nothing like the curling up with a good book, especially on a cold winter's day or a hot summer afternoon, for that matter. Let's face it, beach blanket reading just isn't the same on a tablet or e-reader. And as Mom pointed out, books and bookshelves make a great statement when it comes to home decor. Especially in an old house.
So I guess the bottom line is that you really can't have enough books.
Until next time, "That's life..."

Let me be the judge

I don't know about you, but when it comes to books, hype means nothing to me. In fact, the more buzz a book gets, the less likely I am to read it.
Take The Book Thief by Markus Zusak, for instance. According to the blurb on the back cover, it was "the most talked-about book of 2006." The critics loved it and the book won a bunch of awards. As we all know, it even became a movie.
But as I said, none of that really matters to me. So truthfully, I didn't have much interest in reading the book when my mom found a paperback edition in the free book swap at our local dump last year. I tossed it into a cardboard box with the rest of the books I planned on getting around to reading sooner or later -- and kept shuffling it to the bottom of the pile -- until recently.
As of now, I'm on page 223, and I'll probably read some more before bed. The story is phenomenal. The writing is brilliant. Death as the narrator? Genius.
In other words,The Book Thief definitely earned its hype.
But as for the rest -- let me be the judge.
Until next time, "That's life..."

Sometimes, truth is stranger than fiction

To paraphrase a famous comedian, this was the kind of day that makes you say hmmm...
First, I finally finished reading London Bridges by James Patterson. It was typical Patterson fare pitting the good guy -- FBI Agent Alex Cross -- against a particularly vicious villain called the Wolf. In this particular story, the Wolf and his crew are causing worldwide mayhem by blowing things up.
I know, I know. What's so strange about that? Well, give me a second and I'll put it in context for you so it makes sense. I just happened to finish reading the damned book the day after a lethal explosion leveled an apartment building (or two) in New York City. Without giving too much away, the Big Apple was one of the cities the Wolf targeted in Patterson's book.
To top things off, I decided that the perfect way to decompress after handling a month's worth of home renovations on my own was to go and see Non-Stop, the (relatively) new Liam Neeson action flick. I'm sure by now most of you have seen the trailer, even if you haven't seen the movie. I won't include any spoilers in case anyone still wants to see it. Let's just say there's some drama on a trans-Atlantic flight.
In my humble opinion, the movie was formulaic but entertaining. Even so, I couldn't really concentrate on the action unfolding on the screen. I was too busy thinking about the real life mystery and drama surrounding the Malaysian airliner that recently vanished into thin air.
When you think about it, there are times when truth definitely is stranger than fiction.
Until next time, "That's life..."

A kindred spirit a world away

So this may well be a first.
In all of the time I've been blogging here on goodreads.com, I've never done a post specifically pertaining to other authors or their work.
Yet as I read "A Lumious Future" by Teodor Flonta, I can't help but reflect on the life experiences he documents and my own. You see, we grew up in different countries at different times. But we also have something significant in common, and that's our eastern European heritage.
My blood boils as I read about the hardships young Teodor and his family endured. I cry when I think about the injustices perpetrated on Teodor and his family by the Communist regime in the guise of creating a "luminous future."
But it doesn't surprise me. As a little girl growing up in the United States, I learned all about Communism. I learned about it from my dad, a staunch anti-Communist who fled the former Yugoslavia as a political refugee. I also learned to appreciate being born in a free country. I learned to take nothing for granted. I never will.
Until next time, "That's life..."

Demolition and restoration

As I write this, the TV is providing the background noise I need in order to be productive. Aside from that, the house is quiet, so if I hit the "mute" button, I could literally hear myself think.
After 10 days of upheaval verging on chaos, that's a welcome relief. Finally, there's no banging, no scraping, no roar of an industrial-strength vacuum. There's just peace and quiet and time to think.
And as I pause to reflect on recent events, I can't help but think of the similarities between renovating this old house and writing/publishing my memoir.
Both activities are labors of love. Both projects have been put on hold from time to time. My memoir, "Truth Be Told: Adam Becomes Audrey," took years to complete. The house is still a work in progress.
Both projects have tested my patience, caused some frustration and more than a little stress. Both involve making decisions with lasting ramifications - so both have resulted in a bit of second guessing.
Both have involved peeling back damaged layers and smoothing rough patches. Ultimately, renovating the house is about restoring it to its former glory. Writing my memoir was about restoring my spirit.
Until next time, "That's life..."

The big four-oh

For some authors, blogging is a marketing tool. For others, it's a writing exercise. For me, it began as both, and as such often felt like a bit of a chore. But now it's just plain fun.
It is in that spirit that I am penning this, my 40th blog, and as always, I'm thrilled to have you along for the ride.
First and foremost, I'd like to extend my heartfelt thanks to each and every one of you for taking the time to read my weekly posts. With so many authors and bloggers vying for readers' attention, I am honored that you have chosen to join me on what's been an incredible journey.
Looking back, it's clear to see the steep learning curve I went through as I tried to find my "voice" or craft my identity as a blogger. From my first, introductory post in May to my initial posts about writing and related issues, I endeavored to find the style and topics that would resonate with readers.
And in hindsight, it's easy to spot the posts which have done just that. Reflections on the loss of a pet; a birthday celebration; advice on how to handle mainstream media interviews...
In the end, whether it's in print or in person, I'll always be the same snarffy, sarcastic, irreverent, outspoken, brash, sensitive, compassionate woman you've come to know... and possibly even love.
Until next time, "That's life..."

Special delivery

I got a nice surprise last week. It came from my accountant's office and arrived via certified mail.
There was no letter, just a small envelope containing 23 photographs documenting the first two decades of my life.
Now those of you who haven't read my memoir are probably wondering why on earth my accountant would have any photos of me at all. So to clarify, my accountant is also my former brother-in-law. And since his parents have both passed away, I can only guess that he found the photos while going through their old belongings. I sincerely doubt that Adam would have held on to them for any reason.
At any rate, going through the photos was... I don't know... interesting? Fun in some ways, sad in others. Some made me smile, some made me laugh. Some made me wish things had been different. Some made me realize that things will never be the same.
There I am at just three months old. All decked out in a pretty white dress and totally enthralled by a pink stuffed elephant. And there I am again at 18 months. From what Mom says, I'm sitting against a stone pillar at the Cloisters... but she can't explain why I look so serious.
Other photos are clearly labeled. One is marked May 27, 1978... so I would have been nine. I'm with my Uncle David at the Rockefeller Observatory, but I can't honestly say I remember the outing.
More photos, different glimpses of my childhood. At the beach, with everything buried in sand except my head; looking at seashell; perched atop a rock wall; wrapped in a beach towel with long hair parted in the middle and loosely brushed into ponytails. Holding Panda, my neighbor's tiny black and white puppy and no doubt wishing I could have a dog. A tomboy in a tree.
Fast forward to my teens. Arms raised in triumph after a high school soccer tournament. With Dad at Christmas and Easter. My senior yearbook picture capturing a smart, pretty girl with a brilliant future, but no confidence.
College graduation four years later. Me still in my black gown with my friend Tula, brimming with happiness and anxious to take on the world.
Ice hockey and training camp. Following my passion and living my dreams. There's me with Mick Vukota, Jamie McLennan and Dan Plante. Now those were the days...
Until next time, "That's life..."

The good, the bad and the ugly

Since crafting last week's blog reduced me to tears I've decided to turn to a safer topic. So this week's post is devoted to what I know best -- writing.
Specifically, I've been thinking about how much cops and writers have in common. Basically we are all students of human behavior. The only difference is that while the police use their powers of observation to fight crime, authors use ours to craft the plot, characters and all of the other elements that make for good stories.
At the risk of sounding immodest, I've always been pretty observant and a fairly good judge of character (at least until I met my ex-husband.) But truth be told, I learned more about human nature than I ever dreamed possible while working as a journalist covering law enforcement.
I learned how to read people. I learned what drives the good guys and what makes bad guys tick. I learned that good people sometimes do bad things, that the strongest people sometimes have the greatest weaknesses, and that predators don't thrive without prey.
Covering my share of murder and mayhem also provided me with plenty of fodder for true crime stories and enough inspiration for at least a dozen novels. In fact, I've probably documented more courtroom drama than most people will see in 10,000 episodes of Law and Order.
But yesterday, I found another source of inspiration as I watched a seemingly far less sinister scene unfold right outside my door.
A hooded man was extricating his van from a snow and ice-packed parking space on a snow emergency route. As he did, heaping shovelfuls of debris landed in the road, creating hazardous conditions and causing traffic to veer into the wrong lane.
There's never a cop around when you need one, I thought as I considered dialing my local police department's non-emergency number to report the activity. Oh, screw it. They've got better things to do. I'll just put this guy in a book some day... or at least I'll put him in my blog.
Until next time, "That's life..."

Tears are falling...

For those of you who have read my book or know me personally, what I'm about to say won't come as a huge surprise.
Behind this gruff, snarly, outspoken, irreverent exterior, there actually beats a heart of gold. And as I write this, that heart aches for a man I've never met, for his family... and for his dog.
I came across his story while surfing the Internet this morning. It is a tale that will resonate with anyone who has ever had a pet, and with those of us who have had to make the terrible, heart-breaking decision about when and how to let our companion go.
Massachusetts State Trooper Christopher Coscia recently penned a moving tribute to his late K9 partner, Dante, that has garnered national media attention. As Coscia tells it, he and Dante worked side by side for 70 hours per week for nine years. Together they fought crime, caught their share of bad guys and formed a bond that few can understand.
But in the end, it wasn't a criminal, but a cruel and unexpected illness that ended Dante's career, and left his human partner with no choice but to end his suffering.
In need of comfort as I finished reading, I immediately turned to my best friend, who was curled up on my bed in the next room. Leaning over, I buried my head in his fur and listened to the reassuring thrum of his purr. I am sure Eli had no idea what made me so upset, or why his coat was getting soaked with tears. But he made no move to get away; a flick of his tail was the only sign he was perturbed.
It it is not the first time I have cried on his shoulder and I'm sure it won't be the last. But inevitably there will come a time when my 14-pound "pit bull in a cat costume" will no longer be here to provide such comfort. There will come a time where he will no longer climb on to my desk to "edit" my stories, or play with his blue ribbon. There will come a time when I will look under the Christmas tree and see the place where he once loved to sleep.
That is the time I dread. These are the times I cherish.
Tears are falling on my keyboard.
Until next time, "That's life..."