Stuart R. West's Blog, page 63
February 1, 2014
Breakfast With The Girls: Part #3 of Post-Op Adventures With Mom
Mom doesn't like going down to the eating arena at the rehabilitation joint (again, do NOT call it a "nursing home"). I suspect part of it is she doesn't want to admit she's like "the other ones." No one wants to face their advancing years. One of the reasons why she likes me to come to breakfast every day--she can eat and hide in her room with someone accompanying her. Avoiding the inevitable.
Imagine my surprise when, yesterday, I found her sitting at a table-full of other residents.
I have to admit I was out of my comfort zone. There aren't a lot of things in common I have with rehabilitating elderly folk. But I bit the bullet and sat down.
Immediately the table order fell into place. Just like prison, I imagine. Joan was the ring-leader. I liked Joan right away. Small, yet an intimidating presence, she brayed out for coffee. Her demands were instantly met.
My mom asked Joan how she got such fast service. She replied, "I'm Royalty, here." Again...a prison reply. But it was enough for me. I bowed down to her, believing in her Queenly status. Hell, I'd vote for her if Queen's were popularly elected. This woman kept her tiny chin up, encouraging others.
Then, I was introduced to Carol. Carol said nothing but offered me a nice smile. I assumed she couldn't hear, but I make stupid assumptions from time to time.
No one knew the last woman's name at the table. Fresh meat at the Big House. I stupidly introduced myself only to discover she was asleep. Couldn't tell at first, really. She sat rigid, just thought she had a stony demeanor. We'll call her "The Sleeping Gal."
Breakfast was delivered. Huzzah. Joan dug in, pronounced the "farmer's mix" as good. Mom did her best at a poached egg, cottage cheese and toast. Carol smiled. I think she liked her meal. The Sleeping Gal slept.
At a table behind us, a voice arose. "Why can't anyone bring me a Goddamn glass of water? Something? Anything? Where is everyone? It's a helluva' place no-one can bother to bring coffee..." It went on. Already uncomfortable, I was ready to rush to her rescue, but...
I didn't.
Joan intervened and said, "She's as mean as a junk-yard dog."
Carol finally piped up. "Therapy's good here."
But, aside from "Greek Chorus Carol's" comment, I was still hung up on the "Junk-Yard Dog." Neglected or not, "Dog" has a right to be heard. To have her needs met. Part of me wanted to help her, part of me was terrified of her. Thought she might bite me. Had no idea what to do. My wheel-house broke down.
Finally, the flamboyant male aid (who my mom has a very conservatively wary eye on) came to her rescue. Thank God.
That's when I heard some of the staff chatting about "Dog." A mere ten feet away. One of the nurses flagrantly called her a "pain-in-the-ass." Derisive laughter was bandied about. They made fun of her. My new breakfast pals appeared uncomfortable, obviously having heard the insults. They said nothing, even Queen Joan. But I know they heard it. Grace under fire, they sat in silence.
They handled it better than I did.
I couldn't believe it. I know negative shop-talk is natural within any business. It's part of life. But for a professional nurse to toss insults within hearing range--I'm supposing, under the presumption all old people can't hear--disgusted me. Saddened me.
These people are supposed to be professional caregivers. Instead, they showed a complete lack of disrespect, treating these people like infants. Contempt,almost.
The elderly can't help it. And this nurse is going to be old some day. Who'll be laughing then, Nurse Eat-It?
We, as a collective whole, could take a cue from certain Asian cultures who respect the elderly. "Nursing homes" are considered an affront . These countries embrace the elderly, appreciate their wisdom and years of life, take care of them. With respect.
Gah.
When my mom rolled off to rehab, I bid my adieus to my new breakfast buddies. Goodbye, Queen Joan, may you reign long and kick ass. So long, Greek Chorus Carol, I hope you continue to love therapy and chime in when absolutely necessary, you woman of few words. Good night, Sleeping Gal, I hope you sleep well and wake healed. And, most of all, I hope you receive that cup of coffee, Junk-Yard Dog.
I tossed off a "nice to meet you ladies, I'm sure I'll see you around."
Queen Joan regally responded, "We'll be here."
And I'll see them tomorrow. Oddly enough, I think I'm looking forward to it.
Imagine my surprise when, yesterday, I found her sitting at a table-full of other residents.
I have to admit I was out of my comfort zone. There aren't a lot of things in common I have with rehabilitating elderly folk. But I bit the bullet and sat down.
Immediately the table order fell into place. Just like prison, I imagine. Joan was the ring-leader. I liked Joan right away. Small, yet an intimidating presence, she brayed out for coffee. Her demands were instantly met.
My mom asked Joan how she got such fast service. She replied, "I'm Royalty, here." Again...a prison reply. But it was enough for me. I bowed down to her, believing in her Queenly status. Hell, I'd vote for her if Queen's were popularly elected. This woman kept her tiny chin up, encouraging others.
Then, I was introduced to Carol. Carol said nothing but offered me a nice smile. I assumed she couldn't hear, but I make stupid assumptions from time to time.
No one knew the last woman's name at the table. Fresh meat at the Big House. I stupidly introduced myself only to discover she was asleep. Couldn't tell at first, really. She sat rigid, just thought she had a stony demeanor. We'll call her "The Sleeping Gal."
Breakfast was delivered. Huzzah. Joan dug in, pronounced the "farmer's mix" as good. Mom did her best at a poached egg, cottage cheese and toast. Carol smiled. I think she liked her meal. The Sleeping Gal slept.
At a table behind us, a voice arose. "Why can't anyone bring me a Goddamn glass of water? Something? Anything? Where is everyone? It's a helluva' place no-one can bother to bring coffee..." It went on. Already uncomfortable, I was ready to rush to her rescue, but...
I didn't.
Joan intervened and said, "She's as mean as a junk-yard dog."
Carol finally piped up. "Therapy's good here."
But, aside from "Greek Chorus Carol's" comment, I was still hung up on the "Junk-Yard Dog." Neglected or not, "Dog" has a right to be heard. To have her needs met. Part of me wanted to help her, part of me was terrified of her. Thought she might bite me. Had no idea what to do. My wheel-house broke down.
Finally, the flamboyant male aid (who my mom has a very conservatively wary eye on) came to her rescue. Thank God.
That's when I heard some of the staff chatting about "Dog." A mere ten feet away. One of the nurses flagrantly called her a "pain-in-the-ass." Derisive laughter was bandied about. They made fun of her. My new breakfast pals appeared uncomfortable, obviously having heard the insults. They said nothing, even Queen Joan. But I know they heard it. Grace under fire, they sat in silence.
They handled it better than I did.
I couldn't believe it. I know negative shop-talk is natural within any business. It's part of life. But for a professional nurse to toss insults within hearing range--I'm supposing, under the presumption all old people can't hear--disgusted me. Saddened me.
These people are supposed to be professional caregivers. Instead, they showed a complete lack of disrespect, treating these people like infants. Contempt,almost.
The elderly can't help it. And this nurse is going to be old some day. Who'll be laughing then, Nurse Eat-It?
We, as a collective whole, could take a cue from certain Asian cultures who respect the elderly. "Nursing homes" are considered an affront . These countries embrace the elderly, appreciate their wisdom and years of life, take care of them. With respect.
Gah.
When my mom rolled off to rehab, I bid my adieus to my new breakfast buddies. Goodbye, Queen Joan, may you reign long and kick ass. So long, Greek Chorus Carol, I hope you continue to love therapy and chime in when absolutely necessary, you woman of few words. Good night, Sleeping Gal, I hope you sleep well and wake healed. And, most of all, I hope you receive that cup of coffee, Junk-Yard Dog.
I tossed off a "nice to meet you ladies, I'm sure I'll see you around."
Queen Joan regally responded, "We'll be here."
And I'll see them tomorrow. Oddly enough, I think I'm looking forward to it.
January 24, 2014
Recovery Road: Part #2 of Post-Op Adventures With Mom
Well, my mom's recovery after open-heart surgery has been a rocky road, filled with pot-holes. Of course, most of those pot-holes have been chunked out by my mother's own shovel-full of negativity. But she's had a road-crew along the way.
Several days after my mom's operation, the hospital wanted her gone. Job done, pay the bill, thanks, don't look back. I know that's how hospitals operate these days. But she wasn't ready. The nurse seemed to take it personally. Imagine "Jane Hathaway" from The Beverly Hillbillies, dressed in scrubs, hollering at you, "she needs to go and she needs to go now!"
With one day left to find a "rehab facilitation," my brother--firebrand, that he is--yelled at people. Sometimes this method nets results; other times it fosters a combative attitude and negligence on the staff's behalf. But there are times when yelling must be done. We won the remaining day, lost the war. The nursing staff pretty much forgot about her after the battle. Nurse Hathaway held a toothy grudge.
My brother was successful at securing a "next-step" facility. The next morning, as I rolled Mom out of the hospital, the overseeing nurse dropped a bombshell. "We lost a nurse yesterday to the flu." Yow. Now...when she said "lost," I automatically assumed she meant a nurse died. Maybe, maybe not. But it certainly didn't inspire us to hang out. Time to leave, no need for Big Business to give us a boot.
A "rehab center (and for God's sake, don't you dare call it a "nursing home!")" wasn't our first choice. Between my brother, myself and our wives, we had intended to take shifts, caring for Mom at home. But I missed the fireworks. The surgeon told my brother we were out of our minds.
So, we checked her into "Pleasant Dreams (not the real name, but close enough)." Papers were signed, rules were laid down, funny odors were inhaled. An endless parade of people entered our lives, never to be seen again. Still, the place had a great reputation, particularly for physical therapy.
My mom refused to work with "Mr. Fun." "Mr. Fun" is a plastic contraption she's supposed to breathe into every hour. It helps expand her lung (which they collapsed during the procedure). I don't know what it's really called, hence, the nickname, "Mr. Fun." It stuck. Mom hates "Mr. Fun." Thinks it doesn't work. It does, but there's no convincing her while she's hurtling down that highway to depression. Soon enough, she became breathless and they had to reapply oxygen.
The next day she developed a blood clot in her leg due to inactivity. "A major set-back," she called it. She was convinced her newly implanted cow aorta had blown, pretty much resigning herself to inevitable heart failure.
But the cow's organ is still pumping. (Thank you, by the way, valiant cow! I do hope someone ate the remainder of you, spreading goodwill everywhere. Regardless, Bessie, I gong a cow-bell in your memory.)
For two days, my mom lay in her bed, no one looking in on her. A much bally-hewed ultra-sound on her clotted leg never materialized. Time to call in the big guns. My brother yelled. Results! Finally, the sonogram happened, confirming the blood-clot results. Wasn't peachy, though. The technician ran to the bathroom every five minutes to blow his nose. He sniffled, coughed and hacked during the rest of the procedure. Huh.
Then it was time for daily meds. The kindly nurse warned my mom the shot-glass full of glop tasted terrible. But chock-full of protein. Mom knocked it back the first time. She steadfastly refused to take it again. I pleaded with her, then resorted to chastising her.
Funny how things turn around sometimes. Seems like not too long ago my mom forced me to eat liver, saying how good it was for me (of course we know what they say about liver these days, right? It's the bottom-feeder of organs, the strainer of toxins. Why would anyone want to eat that?). But she wouldn't take her own damn medicine. Each pill given to her, she examined carefully. If she didn't recognize the color, she refused to take it.
Sigh.
It's funny how time changes everything. I never imagined I'd be dressing my mom. Or lecturing her about taking her medicine. Or feeding her meals.
It's exhausting. But I'm doing it. In for the long haul.
She's Mom. And I love her.
Several days after my mom's operation, the hospital wanted her gone. Job done, pay the bill, thanks, don't look back. I know that's how hospitals operate these days. But she wasn't ready. The nurse seemed to take it personally. Imagine "Jane Hathaway" from The Beverly Hillbillies, dressed in scrubs, hollering at you, "she needs to go and she needs to go now!"
With one day left to find a "rehab facilitation," my brother--firebrand, that he is--yelled at people. Sometimes this method nets results; other times it fosters a combative attitude and negligence on the staff's behalf. But there are times when yelling must be done. We won the remaining day, lost the war. The nursing staff pretty much forgot about her after the battle. Nurse Hathaway held a toothy grudge.
My brother was successful at securing a "next-step" facility. The next morning, as I rolled Mom out of the hospital, the overseeing nurse dropped a bombshell. "We lost a nurse yesterday to the flu." Yow. Now...when she said "lost," I automatically assumed she meant a nurse died. Maybe, maybe not. But it certainly didn't inspire us to hang out. Time to leave, no need for Big Business to give us a boot.
A "rehab center (and for God's sake, don't you dare call it a "nursing home!")" wasn't our first choice. Between my brother, myself and our wives, we had intended to take shifts, caring for Mom at home. But I missed the fireworks. The surgeon told my brother we were out of our minds.
So, we checked her into "Pleasant Dreams (not the real name, but close enough)." Papers were signed, rules were laid down, funny odors were inhaled. An endless parade of people entered our lives, never to be seen again. Still, the place had a great reputation, particularly for physical therapy.
My mom refused to work with "Mr. Fun." "Mr. Fun" is a plastic contraption she's supposed to breathe into every hour. It helps expand her lung (which they collapsed during the procedure). I don't know what it's really called, hence, the nickname, "Mr. Fun." It stuck. Mom hates "Mr. Fun." Thinks it doesn't work. It does, but there's no convincing her while she's hurtling down that highway to depression. Soon enough, she became breathless and they had to reapply oxygen.
The next day she developed a blood clot in her leg due to inactivity. "A major set-back," she called it. She was convinced her newly implanted cow aorta had blown, pretty much resigning herself to inevitable heart failure.
But the cow's organ is still pumping. (Thank you, by the way, valiant cow! I do hope someone ate the remainder of you, spreading goodwill everywhere. Regardless, Bessie, I gong a cow-bell in your memory.)
For two days, my mom lay in her bed, no one looking in on her. A much bally-hewed ultra-sound on her clotted leg never materialized. Time to call in the big guns. My brother yelled. Results! Finally, the sonogram happened, confirming the blood-clot results. Wasn't peachy, though. The technician ran to the bathroom every five minutes to blow his nose. He sniffled, coughed and hacked during the rest of the procedure. Huh.
Then it was time for daily meds. The kindly nurse warned my mom the shot-glass full of glop tasted terrible. But chock-full of protein. Mom knocked it back the first time. She steadfastly refused to take it again. I pleaded with her, then resorted to chastising her.
Funny how things turn around sometimes. Seems like not too long ago my mom forced me to eat liver, saying how good it was for me (of course we know what they say about liver these days, right? It's the bottom-feeder of organs, the strainer of toxins. Why would anyone want to eat that?). But she wouldn't take her own damn medicine. Each pill given to her, she examined carefully. If she didn't recognize the color, she refused to take it.
Sigh.
It's funny how time changes everything. I never imagined I'd be dressing my mom. Or lecturing her about taking her medicine. Or feeding her meals.
It's exhausting. But I'm doing it. In for the long haul.
She's Mom. And I love her.
January 19, 2014
Worst Father-Daughter Outing Ever
There comes a time when every father must accept his daughter's adulthood. Mine came several days ago. Hit me like a hurricane.
On the way to see my mother in the hospital, my twenty-one year old daughter asked if we could make a stop. She needed to buy her friend a wedding gift. I thought, "okay, cheap dinnerware set at Walmart."
Well.
She wanted to stop at "Cirilla's" for a gag gift. Let me 'splain about "Cirilla's." It's a chain-store that's trying to legitimize porn. Yep. It ain't like the old days when as a hormonally challenged teen, curious and naive, I snuck into cheezy stores downtown where men stumbled out, heads down, dressed in raincoats. No, "Cirilla's" advertises their stores as a "couples store." Romantic night out.
So I pulled into the parking lot. The windows were clouded over. Who knew what illicit debaucheries lurked within. My daughter hopped out after pleading with me not to go in with her. She didn't have to plead too hard.
She came out with a grin and a plastic bag in hand. Then tucked the bag into her ginormous purse.
Curiosity overcame me. I wanted to respect her privacy, but...but.... An ongoing internal battle. What was in the bag? Did I want to know? Or was I better off never knowing.
My biggest fear was that her purse would spill open at the hospital, displaying all for my heart-patient mother to see. At least she was in the right ward. Scoot over, Mom.
When did my daughter turn into a worldly woman? I wanna' go back to the days when the biggest issue in my daughter's life was a fear of cooties. Highly contagious, I know, but still...
On the way to see my mother in the hospital, my twenty-one year old daughter asked if we could make a stop. She needed to buy her friend a wedding gift. I thought, "okay, cheap dinnerware set at Walmart."
Well.
She wanted to stop at "Cirilla's" for a gag gift. Let me 'splain about "Cirilla's." It's a chain-store that's trying to legitimize porn. Yep. It ain't like the old days when as a hormonally challenged teen, curious and naive, I snuck into cheezy stores downtown where men stumbled out, heads down, dressed in raincoats. No, "Cirilla's" advertises their stores as a "couples store." Romantic night out.
So I pulled into the parking lot. The windows were clouded over. Who knew what illicit debaucheries lurked within. My daughter hopped out after pleading with me not to go in with her. She didn't have to plead too hard.
She came out with a grin and a plastic bag in hand. Then tucked the bag into her ginormous purse.
Curiosity overcame me. I wanted to respect her privacy, but...but.... An ongoing internal battle. What was in the bag? Did I want to know? Or was I better off never knowing.
My biggest fear was that her purse would spill open at the hospital, displaying all for my heart-patient mother to see. At least she was in the right ward. Scoot over, Mom.
When did my daughter turn into a worldly woman? I wanna' go back to the days when the biggest issue in my daughter's life was a fear of cooties. Highly contagious, I know, but still...
January 11, 2014
Mothers and Mortality
My mom just had open-heart surgery. I'm sure she was more terrified than I was. But I felt like I was on that operating table alongside her.
Months before, my mom waffled about having the operation. Went back and forth. Her aorta was closing. Fast. Had to happen. But she said, "Maybe it's best to leave it in God's hands and let me live the rest of my life as is."
I'm not shameless to say I pulled the "grandkid card."
"Your grandchildren are counting on you," I told her. Yeah, I went there.
Something worked. Mom decided to have the procedure. I told my beloved winter-bound Florida "snow-bird" she needed to get her dancing heels ready 'cause it'll go great.
Yesterday the family gathered. Three sons and family. Cold, sterile waiting room. Bad coffee. Lots and lots of reminisces. Embarrassing ones. And more bad coffee. Then searching for solitary bathrooms after too much bad coffee. Doesn't matter.
The operation went well. So well the surgeon pronounced the procedure as "boring." "Boring's" good in this case.
Hours after the operation, my wife and I visited Mom in Intensive Care.
And I totally lost it.
I wasn't prepared.
My mother, dear blessed mother. I didn't recognize her.
She uttered disembodied, agonized "oh's" every few seconds. Rhythmic, sad and far away. I wanted to hold her, afraid I'd break her. She looked like she'd lost twenty pounds in ten hours. I couldn't kiss her because of the mask.
There was no way of letting her know how much I loved her.
This morning I visited again.
I couldn't believe the difference. She sat up in a chair, welcomed me upon arrival. I gladly helped feed her breakfast, administer her medicine, scratch her neck. When she started griping about things, I thought (wanted to vocalize actually, but thought it might be crass), "Yes! My warrior mother's back!"
All past grievances, annoyances, racial and political differences jettisoned the hell out of the room.
My Mom. The angel who raised me, formed me, talked me through things. Protected me from monsters under the bed and monsters in the White House (an early fear I'd be drafted to fight in a war I didn't understand).
I cradled her head as gently as I could, said, "Mom, I love you. I'll do anything I ever can for you."
Months before, my mom waffled about having the operation. Went back and forth. Her aorta was closing. Fast. Had to happen. But she said, "Maybe it's best to leave it in God's hands and let me live the rest of my life as is."
I'm not shameless to say I pulled the "grandkid card."
"Your grandchildren are counting on you," I told her. Yeah, I went there.
Something worked. Mom decided to have the procedure. I told my beloved winter-bound Florida "snow-bird" she needed to get her dancing heels ready 'cause it'll go great.
Yesterday the family gathered. Three sons and family. Cold, sterile waiting room. Bad coffee. Lots and lots of reminisces. Embarrassing ones. And more bad coffee. Then searching for solitary bathrooms after too much bad coffee. Doesn't matter.
The operation went well. So well the surgeon pronounced the procedure as "boring." "Boring's" good in this case.
Hours after the operation, my wife and I visited Mom in Intensive Care.
And I totally lost it.
I wasn't prepared.
My mother, dear blessed mother. I didn't recognize her.
She uttered disembodied, agonized "oh's" every few seconds. Rhythmic, sad and far away. I wanted to hold her, afraid I'd break her. She looked like she'd lost twenty pounds in ten hours. I couldn't kiss her because of the mask.
There was no way of letting her know how much I loved her.
This morning I visited again.
I couldn't believe the difference. She sat up in a chair, welcomed me upon arrival. I gladly helped feed her breakfast, administer her medicine, scratch her neck. When she started griping about things, I thought (wanted to vocalize actually, but thought it might be crass), "Yes! My warrior mother's back!"
All past grievances, annoyances, racial and political differences jettisoned the hell out of the room.
My Mom. The angel who raised me, formed me, talked me through things. Protected me from monsters under the bed and monsters in the White House (an early fear I'd be drafted to fight in a war I didn't understand).
I cradled her head as gently as I could, said, "Mom, I love you. I'll do anything I ever can for you."
January 5, 2014
Ahoy! Shivering Me Timbers With Beverly Stowe McClure
Today I’m hosting my pal, Beverly Stowe McClure, who has written a paranormal book for middle-graders, A Pirate, a Blockade Runner, and a Cat. Okay, let me preface this interview by saying I’m not the target market reading audience for such a venture. But, I gotta tell you, Ms. McClure’s book charmed (you hear me, I say, CHARMED) me. And I don’t toss that word around often. Why, if my friends heard me using it, they’d revoke my Man Card privileges. Or something. But enough about me. Let’s meet Beverly.
*Hi Beverly! Okay, first of all, what in the world inspired you to write such a book?
Charmed are you? Haha! I won’t tell. My inspiration for A Pirate, a Blockade Runner, and a Cat occurred one morning while visiting my son and daughter-in-law in South Carolina. We went to Folly Beach to watch the sun rise over the water. The Morris Island Lighthouse stands across the inlet. Boy, did images appear to me that morning. A lighthouse must have a ghost, right? Who was he? Why was he a ghost? And who did that ghost ship with the pirate flag that I imagined cruising in the water belong to? Ah-ha! My story was born.
*I really enjoyed the characters of Star and Stormy, the strange twins our protagonist, Eric, hangs out with. Now, I’m sure you didn’t set out to write them this way, but I got sort of a creepy vibe—a “Village Of The Damned” sorta’ thing—from these kids. Care to elaborate?
All I can say about the twins is that they created themselves, like they had always existed, only I didn‘t know it. The only power Star has is her amazing ability to read other folks’ minds. She tries not to be nosey, but what’s a girl to do when the cute new kid has interesting thoughts about her? And Stormy is part genius, part boy, but good at heart. Perhaps the adults should “Beware the Children” as the movie suggests.
*Your middle-grade kids are playful, yet realistic; poised on the cusp of teenaged trauma years. You know them well and capture a distinctive voice. Are they based on anyone you know?
No, they just introduced themselves to me, and Star said she could read my mind dreams. Erik is going through what
many children experience, a split family, and doesn’t know how to deal with it, so he might loosely be based on kids I know. You see a lot of those when you‘re a teacher and also in your own family sometimes.
*(Um, Beverly, your characters seem to talk to you a lot. I think there's medicine for that.) I hope I’m not giving away any spoilers here, but Blackbeard’s ghost (a spooky sequence, by the way) shows up as well as another of my favorite characters, Bonnet. We know Blackbeard was real. How about Bonnet?
Major Stede Bonnet was a real pirate. They called him the “Gentleman” pirate, because he was a wealthy land owner in Barbados, had four children, and, for reasons no one knows, decided to leave home and become a pirate. He made a terrible pirate. He bought his ship, where most pirates stole theirs. He also had no knowledge of sailing or pirating. He got seasick, the story goes. He met Blackbeard who took charge of his ship. Finally Bonnet was hanged, like many of the pirates, and buried at White Points Garden, in Charleston.
*Along these lines, how much research did you do into pirate lore? The pirate dialect seems genuine. Did you drive your family crazy while writing this by walking around saying things like, “Arrr, me maties, dinner be ready once the wind blows fair?”
The Internet makes research very easy. Pirates are a popular subject and there is a lot of information online. I also borrowed books from the library and bought a couple too. I didn’t go around using pirate talk though. Oh, maybe an occasional “Ahoy there, cats.”
*After a project I’m working on now, I think I’m going to keep all of my books in the here and now. Research can be very tiring! I loved the setting (of course I do! Living in Kansas doesn’t give me much ocean-side time). Did (or do) you live there? You paint a very vivid portrait.
The part of Texas where I live barely has any lakes, much less the ocean, sort of like Kansas. My oldest son and his wife live in Charleston, SC. The ocean. Palm trees. Lots of history. I love visiting with them. They take me to all the beautiful spots. This is the second ghost story I’ve set in that area, cause they have lots of ghosts.
*This is not intended as an insult, but in many ways the book brought me back to many years ago when I read Hardy Boys mysteries and the like. Your book almost seemed like a nostalgic throwback to innocent years spent reading such books. But with one huge difference…these kids face modern problems. All three of the tween leads come from broken families. I betcha’ Mr. and Mrs. Hardy are STILL together. Anyway, I thought it was a great combination of themes and style. Intentional? Or am I reading too much into it?
Gracious. I’d have to say it’s an accident. I never thought about the Hardy Boys or books like that. Just lucked out, I guess. Thanks for telling me. The kids let me follow along in their adventures.
*Okay, the major ghost story? Um…seems like it’s sorta’ not quite resolved. Belated Spoiler Alert! Does this mean a sequel is in the works?
I’m not sure. Originally I hadn’t planned to write a sequel, but lately some thoughts have been bouncing around in my head. So I’ll say “maybe” but not positively.
*Anything else in your head or on your computer?
Well, my computer has a lot of information on it, my head not so much. I am on the last reading of a contemporary ya novel. Hope to submit it early next year. A notebook contains several possible stories. Another mg story is due out in January, just waiting for art work. (It doesn’t have ghosts.) And a mg historical fiction story will come out sometimes next year.
*Finally, I found it painfully honest and refreshing you’ve stated how you hated reading and writing until recently. None of that bogus writerly full-of-oneself crap from Beverly! Yay! Please explain…
I’m really not sure why I didn’t enjoy reading as a child. I
don’t recall books in our home, but my younger sister brought tons of books home from the school library. I wasn’t interested. I loved music and played clarinet in the junior high and senior high bands, along with being a majorette. Maybe I couldn’t sit still long enough to read. I don’t know. In eighth grade, my teacher sent my poem “Stars” to a high school anthology and it was published in Young America Sings. I only wrote the thing to keep from failing the class. Book reports were a nightmare. Thank heavens for the jacket flap info., as if the teachers couldn’t tell. In spite of my rocky relationship with books I graduated from high school and ten years later attended the university and became … yep … a teacher. What was I thinking? Reading Newbery winners with my students and my sons helped me discover what I’d been missing. Now, I have I think 39 books in the closet waiting to be read. This isn’t counting the ones on my iPad.
*Beverly, I can’t imagine any young boy (or girl, for that matter) not enjoying your book. What with ghosts (even a cat ghost), pirates, problems kids can relate to, a psychic love interest, and all sorts of other stuff going on, I imagine kids will eat it up.
Thank you, Stuart. I hope you’re right. Yes, I had to include the cat. My pets insisted. Thanks for letting me share my story and life with you and your fans today.
You guys go and get Beverly’s book. It’s a winner. Just a few finger clicks away…
MuseItUp: http://bit.ly/13kSy3h
Amazon: http://amzn.to/WWZTAH
Smashwords: www.smashwords.com/books/view/277526
Kobo: http://store.kobobooks.com/en-US/ebook/a-pirate-a-blockade-runner-and-a-cat
Barnes & Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/a-pir...
*Hi Beverly! Okay, first of all, what in the world inspired you to write such a book?
Charmed are you? Haha! I won’t tell. My inspiration for A Pirate, a Blockade Runner, and a Cat occurred one morning while visiting my son and daughter-in-law in South Carolina. We went to Folly Beach to watch the sun rise over the water. The Morris Island Lighthouse stands across the inlet. Boy, did images appear to me that morning. A lighthouse must have a ghost, right? Who was he? Why was he a ghost? And who did that ghost ship with the pirate flag that I imagined cruising in the water belong to? Ah-ha! My story was born.
*I really enjoyed the characters of Star and Stormy, the strange twins our protagonist, Eric, hangs out with. Now, I’m sure you didn’t set out to write them this way, but I got sort of a creepy vibe—a “Village Of The Damned” sorta’ thing—from these kids. Care to elaborate?
All I can say about the twins is that they created themselves, like they had always existed, only I didn‘t know it. The only power Star has is her amazing ability to read other folks’ minds. She tries not to be nosey, but what’s a girl to do when the cute new kid has interesting thoughts about her? And Stormy is part genius, part boy, but good at heart. Perhaps the adults should “Beware the Children” as the movie suggests.
*Your middle-grade kids are playful, yet realistic; poised on the cusp of teenaged trauma years. You know them well and capture a distinctive voice. Are they based on anyone you know?
No, they just introduced themselves to me, and Star said she could read my mind dreams. Erik is going through what
many children experience, a split family, and doesn’t know how to deal with it, so he might loosely be based on kids I know. You see a lot of those when you‘re a teacher and also in your own family sometimes.*(Um, Beverly, your characters seem to talk to you a lot. I think there's medicine for that.) I hope I’m not giving away any spoilers here, but Blackbeard’s ghost (a spooky sequence, by the way) shows up as well as another of my favorite characters, Bonnet. We know Blackbeard was real. How about Bonnet?
Major Stede Bonnet was a real pirate. They called him the “Gentleman” pirate, because he was a wealthy land owner in Barbados, had four children, and, for reasons no one knows, decided to leave home and become a pirate. He made a terrible pirate. He bought his ship, where most pirates stole theirs. He also had no knowledge of sailing or pirating. He got seasick, the story goes. He met Blackbeard who took charge of his ship. Finally Bonnet was hanged, like many of the pirates, and buried at White Points Garden, in Charleston.
*Along these lines, how much research did you do into pirate lore? The pirate dialect seems genuine. Did you drive your family crazy while writing this by walking around saying things like, “Arrr, me maties, dinner be ready once the wind blows fair?”
The Internet makes research very easy. Pirates are a popular subject and there is a lot of information online. I also borrowed books from the library and bought a couple too. I didn’t go around using pirate talk though. Oh, maybe an occasional “Ahoy there, cats.”
*After a project I’m working on now, I think I’m going to keep all of my books in the here and now. Research can be very tiring! I loved the setting (of course I do! Living in Kansas doesn’t give me much ocean-side time). Did (or do) you live there? You paint a very vivid portrait.
The part of Texas where I live barely has any lakes, much less the ocean, sort of like Kansas. My oldest son and his wife live in Charleston, SC. The ocean. Palm trees. Lots of history. I love visiting with them. They take me to all the beautiful spots. This is the second ghost story I’ve set in that area, cause they have lots of ghosts.
*This is not intended as an insult, but in many ways the book brought me back to many years ago when I read Hardy Boys mysteries and the like. Your book almost seemed like a nostalgic throwback to innocent years spent reading such books. But with one huge difference…these kids face modern problems. All three of the tween leads come from broken families. I betcha’ Mr. and Mrs. Hardy are STILL together. Anyway, I thought it was a great combination of themes and style. Intentional? Or am I reading too much into it?
Gracious. I’d have to say it’s an accident. I never thought about the Hardy Boys or books like that. Just lucked out, I guess. Thanks for telling me. The kids let me follow along in their adventures.
*Okay, the major ghost story? Um…seems like it’s sorta’ not quite resolved. Belated Spoiler Alert! Does this mean a sequel is in the works?
I’m not sure. Originally I hadn’t planned to write a sequel, but lately some thoughts have been bouncing around in my head. So I’ll say “maybe” but not positively.
*Anything else in your head or on your computer?
Well, my computer has a lot of information on it, my head not so much. I am on the last reading of a contemporary ya novel. Hope to submit it early next year. A notebook contains several possible stories. Another mg story is due out in January, just waiting for art work. (It doesn’t have ghosts.) And a mg historical fiction story will come out sometimes next year.
*Finally, I found it painfully honest and refreshing you’ve stated how you hated reading and writing until recently. None of that bogus writerly full-of-oneself crap from Beverly! Yay! Please explain…
I’m really not sure why I didn’t enjoy reading as a child. I
don’t recall books in our home, but my younger sister brought tons of books home from the school library. I wasn’t interested. I loved music and played clarinet in the junior high and senior high bands, along with being a majorette. Maybe I couldn’t sit still long enough to read. I don’t know. In eighth grade, my teacher sent my poem “Stars” to a high school anthology and it was published in Young America Sings. I only wrote the thing to keep from failing the class. Book reports were a nightmare. Thank heavens for the jacket flap info., as if the teachers couldn’t tell. In spite of my rocky relationship with books I graduated from high school and ten years later attended the university and became … yep … a teacher. What was I thinking? Reading Newbery winners with my students and my sons helped me discover what I’d been missing. Now, I have I think 39 books in the closet waiting to be read. This isn’t counting the ones on my iPad.*Beverly, I can’t imagine any young boy (or girl, for that matter) not enjoying your book. What with ghosts (even a cat ghost), pirates, problems kids can relate to, a psychic love interest, and all sorts of other stuff going on, I imagine kids will eat it up.
Thank you, Stuart. I hope you’re right. Yes, I had to include the cat. My pets insisted. Thanks for letting me share my story and life with you and your fans today.
You guys go and get Beverly’s book. It’s a winner. Just a few finger clicks away…
MuseItUp: http://bit.ly/13kSy3h
Amazon: http://amzn.to/WWZTAH
Smashwords: www.smashwords.com/books/view/277526
Kobo: http://store.kobobooks.com/en-US/ebook/a-pirate-a-blockade-runner-and-a-cat
Barnes & Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/a-pir...
December 29, 2013
It's the Most Stressful Time of the Yearrrrrrrr!
Sing with me, everyone! Huzzah! The holidays are nearly over!
No more fruitcakes (no, no, not the food...that ONE uncle. Yeah, you know which one I'm talking about). Say goodbye to the wrasslin' wranglers of the store aisles, the ones who give soccer players a run for their money. So long to false smiles when you open a box of tighty-whities (I killed the snickers when I threatened to model them). And no more uncomfortable hugs. Especially uncomfortable hugs.
I think I'm the only one who has a problem knowing when to hug. Hugging protocol isn't in my armory. In my family, if you accidentally touch someone, the knee-jerk reaction is to jump like an Olympic kangaroo. Yet, there's my wife's family, the huggin'-est family around. No problem with that, as I love 'em all, truly I do. I think it's nice, actually. So I studied and watched them. Maybe it's an Oklahoma thing, I naively thought. When the Fed Ex man rang the doorbell, I put what I'd learned into play, welcoming him with a big ol' bear hug.
Well, turns out I still have a bit more to learn.
Anyway, Christmas time. I used to look forward to the holiday. Not so much anymore. Call me a curmudgeon or a realist, I'm okay with both.
Yet this Christmas was different in many ways. For instance, I only heard the cloying "Santa Baby" song whenever we went shopping. Usually it's a mainstay that digs into your head like a dentist's drill. But on Christmas day, the song of choice seemed to be "Let It Snow," a song I loath because the sentiment is treasured only by children and drunk television weathermen. Obviously the singer lives in Florida.
This particular holiday was filled with more than its fair share of excitement, not the particularly good, cozy gather-around-the-fireplace type, either.
A niece I adore decided to get married on December 21st in Midwest Kansas, home of winter blizzards. So, that Saturday morning at 6:30 a.m. (my wife's a hard-charger), we set off for Hays, attempting to stay one step ahead of "Storm (I think they named it) Dumbledore." You know, the storm that blew the socks off everyone in the States (Canada, I'm looking at you!).
We got there okay, albeit bleary-eyed, delirious, and pumped up on caffeine and sugar. My daughter woke up in the back seat, yawned, and with a happily contented tone said, "Wow, that trip wasn't so bad." Even though she's 21, I grounded her for life.
BOOM! Flat tire after lunch. 22 degrees outside. (Merry Christmas, everybody!) Freezing, yet determined to show my masculine side, I changed the tire in, say, fifty-five minutes. Much cursing ensued. Icing on the cake? My wife ("accidentally," she says) kicked me in the nose. Grease-stained, sniffing, and broken-nosed, we're just in time for wedding pictures.
It was a nice and festive wedding. "The Washing of the Feet Ceremony" was interesting. Word of advice to anyone who plans on doing this in the future...wear loose socks.
The next morning (6:30 a.m. again) I'm dreary and suffering a bad back from the lousy hotel bed. And the ice machine, birthing baby cubes right outside our door, kept us up all night. (Happy Horror-days!) But I pulled up my big-boy britches 'cause it was time to go to Oklahoma to celebrate Christmas with my wife's family. At one stretch, the highway was covered with huge chunks and stalactites of snow. It felt like we were four-wheeling (it's a Midwest thing, folks, don't worry about it). And we nearly got stuck in the parking lot of a "Pilot" store getting gas.
And these stores...you know, I never knew there was such a variety of "quick in and out stores." I think we visited them all across the Midwest. There was the aforementioned "Pilot," the downtrodden "Stop-Shop (home of the world's filthiest bathrooms)," numerous "Kum-n-Go's (tee-hee)," and, of course, my personal new favorite discovery, "The Wood Shed." I'm telling you, "The Wood Shed" is Nirvana. It's what the Stuckey's of my childhood used to be. Their logo is great, a Beaver or something glaring at you with googly eyes. When you open the door--just like a carnival funhouse--a ginormous fan blasts you with a ghostly groan and a seriously threatening whirlwind of heat. (While I was waiting for my wife, I amused myself by watching newcomers freak out when they crossed the Barrier of the Damned.) After you survive tornado alley, a giant blow-up snowman with an evil grin looms over you! Fantastic! And the bathrooms...the glorious, wondrous, old-fashioned, smelly bathrooms with antiquated machines boasting of mysterious treasures such as "Big Wally" and other enticing sundries. Plus there was a plethora of crap for tourists to get suckered into. Gave me Christmas chills.
Then the trip turned nightmarish. My wife ran over a red squirrel in the highway. His eyes still haunt me. Took me seconds to shake it...
Had a great time with my wife's family. But I was sleep-deprived and loopy the whole time (kinda' like how I was during college). I found myself drifting off on many occasions--taking a Scrooge-like trippy side-trip--looking down on the proceedings as if I'd died or something. Maybe I did for a minute. With a turkey leg in my mouth.
The undisputed highlight was my mother-in-law's riveting rum-cake performance. She taunted us with a rum-cake she'd discovered in the freezer after a year. Then she decided to taste it - the plan was that we'd all get some if it hadn't gone bad. She sat down at the table with much deliberation, fork dangling over the tantalizing, yet ultimately terrifying, chocolocity (new word!). We sat on the edge of our seats, awaiting the final verdict. But my mother-in-law has nothing on Hitchcock. Ever the master of suspense, she'd lift a forkful up, then drop it back on the plate to recite another amusing anecdote. Many, many times. Finally! We had lift-off! And it was good. And tasty.
It's over!
Merry Christmas everyone and God help us one and all!
No more fruitcakes (no, no, not the food...that ONE uncle. Yeah, you know which one I'm talking about). Say goodbye to the wrasslin' wranglers of the store aisles, the ones who give soccer players a run for their money. So long to false smiles when you open a box of tighty-whities (I killed the snickers when I threatened to model them). And no more uncomfortable hugs. Especially uncomfortable hugs.
I think I'm the only one who has a problem knowing when to hug. Hugging protocol isn't in my armory. In my family, if you accidentally touch someone, the knee-jerk reaction is to jump like an Olympic kangaroo. Yet, there's my wife's family, the huggin'-est family around. No problem with that, as I love 'em all, truly I do. I think it's nice, actually. So I studied and watched them. Maybe it's an Oklahoma thing, I naively thought. When the Fed Ex man rang the doorbell, I put what I'd learned into play, welcoming him with a big ol' bear hug.
Well, turns out I still have a bit more to learn.
Anyway, Christmas time. I used to look forward to the holiday. Not so much anymore. Call me a curmudgeon or a realist, I'm okay with both.Yet this Christmas was different in many ways. For instance, I only heard the cloying "Santa Baby" song whenever we went shopping. Usually it's a mainstay that digs into your head like a dentist's drill. But on Christmas day, the song of choice seemed to be "Let It Snow," a song I loath because the sentiment is treasured only by children and drunk television weathermen. Obviously the singer lives in Florida.
This particular holiday was filled with more than its fair share of excitement, not the particularly good, cozy gather-around-the-fireplace type, either.
A niece I adore decided to get married on December 21st in Midwest Kansas, home of winter blizzards. So, that Saturday morning at 6:30 a.m. (my wife's a hard-charger), we set off for Hays, attempting to stay one step ahead of "Storm (I think they named it) Dumbledore." You know, the storm that blew the socks off everyone in the States (Canada, I'm looking at you!).
We got there okay, albeit bleary-eyed, delirious, and pumped up on caffeine and sugar. My daughter woke up in the back seat, yawned, and with a happily contented tone said, "Wow, that trip wasn't so bad." Even though she's 21, I grounded her for life.
BOOM! Flat tire after lunch. 22 degrees outside. (Merry Christmas, everybody!) Freezing, yet determined to show my masculine side, I changed the tire in, say, fifty-five minutes. Much cursing ensued. Icing on the cake? My wife ("accidentally," she says) kicked me in the nose. Grease-stained, sniffing, and broken-nosed, we're just in time for wedding pictures.
It was a nice and festive wedding. "The Washing of the Feet Ceremony" was interesting. Word of advice to anyone who plans on doing this in the future...wear loose socks.
The next morning (6:30 a.m. again) I'm dreary and suffering a bad back from the lousy hotel bed. And the ice machine, birthing baby cubes right outside our door, kept us up all night. (Happy Horror-days!) But I pulled up my big-boy britches 'cause it was time to go to Oklahoma to celebrate Christmas with my wife's family. At one stretch, the highway was covered with huge chunks and stalactites of snow. It felt like we were four-wheeling (it's a Midwest thing, folks, don't worry about it). And we nearly got stuck in the parking lot of a "Pilot" store getting gas.
And these stores...you know, I never knew there was such a variety of "quick in and out stores." I think we visited them all across the Midwest. There was the aforementioned "Pilot," the downtrodden "Stop-Shop (home of the world's filthiest bathrooms)," numerous "Kum-n-Go's (tee-hee)," and, of course, my personal new favorite discovery, "The Wood Shed." I'm telling you, "The Wood Shed" is Nirvana. It's what the Stuckey's of my childhood used to be. Their logo is great, a Beaver or something glaring at you with googly eyes. When you open the door--just like a carnival funhouse--a ginormous fan blasts you with a ghostly groan and a seriously threatening whirlwind of heat. (While I was waiting for my wife, I amused myself by watching newcomers freak out when they crossed the Barrier of the Damned.) After you survive tornado alley, a giant blow-up snowman with an evil grin looms over you! Fantastic! And the bathrooms...the glorious, wondrous, old-fashioned, smelly bathrooms with antiquated machines boasting of mysterious treasures such as "Big Wally" and other enticing sundries. Plus there was a plethora of crap for tourists to get suckered into. Gave me Christmas chills.
Then the trip turned nightmarish. My wife ran over a red squirrel in the highway. His eyes still haunt me. Took me seconds to shake it...
Had a great time with my wife's family. But I was sleep-deprived and loopy the whole time (kinda' like how I was during college). I found myself drifting off on many occasions--taking a Scrooge-like trippy side-trip--looking down on the proceedings as if I'd died or something. Maybe I did for a minute. With a turkey leg in my mouth.
The undisputed highlight was my mother-in-law's riveting rum-cake performance. She taunted us with a rum-cake she'd discovered in the freezer after a year. Then she decided to taste it - the plan was that we'd all get some if it hadn't gone bad. She sat down at the table with much deliberation, fork dangling over the tantalizing, yet ultimately terrifying, chocolocity (new word!). We sat on the edge of our seats, awaiting the final verdict. But my mother-in-law has nothing on Hitchcock. Ever the master of suspense, she'd lift a forkful up, then drop it back on the plate to recite another amusing anecdote. Many, many times. Finally! We had lift-off! And it was good. And tasty.
It's over!
Merry Christmas everyone and God help us one and all!
December 15, 2013
Tex and the God Squad is here! Before the New Year! Get used to it!
So I paraphrased a gay rallying battle-cry but it seems somewhat appropriate considering the content of the newest Tex, the Witch Boy book, the final one in the trilogy.
The first two books in the series have been leading up to this one. Everything's about to explode. I tried (don't know if I succeeded; you guys be the judge) to make it bigger, badder, more expansive in action, setting, and, especially, relevant themes. Plus, all of the characters' storylines are resolved. For better or for worse. And if you've read the first two books, you KNOW everyone's expendable. I'm a sadist. But as a writer, finishing the series felt sad, yet somewhat satisfying. However, it's time to put the kids to bed.
Tex and the God Squad tackles teen suicide, gay and lesbian issues, religion, bad food, tornadoes, competitive witches, a hooded murderer, satanic cats, a runaway car, a deadly paintball competition, and questions about what to do with one's life post high school. Sounds as traumatic as a Swedish art film, doesn't it? But, not to worry, there's plenty of humor and romance to smooth over the rough parts. Plus, Elspeth's back (if you don't know who she is, go read Tex and the Gangs of Suburbia).
Then there's the villain of the tale...an evil religious sect called "The Clarendon Baptist Church." Well. I live in Kansas. Part of Kansas's sad burden to bear is they host the heinous Westboro Baptist Church. Sorry, sorry, sorry...on behalf of all Kansans, I apologize.
You know, I don't understand how any church--sect, cult, call them what you want--proclaims to spread the word of God when their message is full of hatred, intolerance and ugliness. My understanding of Jesus (and I'm no expert; smoke coils off me whenever I enter a church) is that he was open to everyone regardless of beliefs, sexual orientation, or you know, anything. Kinda' like how my niece described Martin Luther King, "Just an all-around good guy."
I don't know much about religion, but I certainly understand bullying. And the WBC is one of the biggest bullies around.
Read the book and watch Tex take 'em down.
http://www.amazon.com/Tex-God-Squad-Witch-Boy-ebook/dp/B00H9HPIA4/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1386949387&sr=1-1&keywords=tex+and+the+God+Squad
(Psst. Keep this on the down-low, but Elspeth returns in her own book next Summer).
The first two books in the series have been leading up to this one. Everything's about to explode. I tried (don't know if I succeeded; you guys be the judge) to make it bigger, badder, more expansive in action, setting, and, especially, relevant themes. Plus, all of the characters' storylines are resolved. For better or for worse. And if you've read the first two books, you KNOW everyone's expendable. I'm a sadist. But as a writer, finishing the series felt sad, yet somewhat satisfying. However, it's time to put the kids to bed.
Tex and the God Squad tackles teen suicide, gay and lesbian issues, religion, bad food, tornadoes, competitive witches, a hooded murderer, satanic cats, a runaway car, a deadly paintball competition, and questions about what to do with one's life post high school. Sounds as traumatic as a Swedish art film, doesn't it? But, not to worry, there's plenty of humor and romance to smooth over the rough parts. Plus, Elspeth's back (if you don't know who she is, go read Tex and the Gangs of Suburbia).Then there's the villain of the tale...an evil religious sect called "The Clarendon Baptist Church." Well. I live in Kansas. Part of Kansas's sad burden to bear is they host the heinous Westboro Baptist Church. Sorry, sorry, sorry...on behalf of all Kansans, I apologize.
You know, I don't understand how any church--sect, cult, call them what you want--proclaims to spread the word of God when their message is full of hatred, intolerance and ugliness. My understanding of Jesus (and I'm no expert; smoke coils off me whenever I enter a church) is that he was open to everyone regardless of beliefs, sexual orientation, or you know, anything. Kinda' like how my niece described Martin Luther King, "Just an all-around good guy."
I don't know much about religion, but I certainly understand bullying. And the WBC is one of the biggest bullies around.
Read the book and watch Tex take 'em down.
http://www.amazon.com/Tex-God-Squad-Witch-Boy-ebook/dp/B00H9HPIA4/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1386949387&sr=1-1&keywords=tex+and+the+God+Squad
(Psst. Keep this on the down-low, but Elspeth returns in her own book next Summer).
December 10, 2013
Unveiling The Wizard's Shroud with Eric Price
Please welcome Eric Price, author of the YA fantasy tale, Unveiling The Wizard's Shroud! Give it a read and here we go (it still boggles my mind that writers want to be grilled by me, but there's no accounting for taste).
Hey, you’re a fellow Midwestern writer! Tell us why Iowan’s make for good fantasy writers, Eric. I’m amazed at the number of writers from the Midwest I’ve met since signing my contract. I don’t know about Iowan’s specifically (I’ve only been one for 2 ½ years; I grew up eating breakfast, lunch, and supper—I incorporated second breakfast after reading Tolkien—but I’m still uncertain what dinner means), but I’m a firm believer in write what you know. I know sword fighting—I fenced in college—and I’ve read enough fantasy to know dragons and magic. All of my other published stories have been science fiction; my fantasy manuscripts kept getting rejected, so I was about to give up and call myself a science fiction writer before I signed the contract for Unveiling the Wizards’ Shroud.
*Wow, so you know you’re way around a sword. Cool, and I hope I don’t ever get on your bad side! Tell us about your book, Unveiling The Wizards’ Shroud. Owen is the only son of King Kendrick, which almost guarantees his birthright as heir to the throne, something he does not desire. Magic is the only thing he despises more than the idea of being king. When his father falls ill at Owen’s birthday celebration, he has to seek out an ingredient needed to save him, and the only way to succeed in his quest, is to team up with the very magician he holds responsible for the death of his mother.
*”Owen” seems to me a strange choice of name for a fantasy-based character. Are your Midwest origins showing? Owen means “young warrior.” When I write, I give all of my characters names based upon their personality. Many writers do this, but the first time I realized it was Heinlein’s ‘Stranger in a Strange Land.’ When I start writing, many characters end up getting new names. Cedric, Yara, and Hagen all started with different names. I intended to change Owen’s name. I wanted something more exotic sounding, but the longer I wrote, the more this young warrior became “Owen.”
Also, I’m a huge Star Wars fan. I won’t discount the possibility it’s a subconscious reference to Owen Lars that my mind refused to let go.
*Huh. Sorry to say I don’t know Owen Lars (yet, I’ve seen all the Star Wars flicks), but that’s awesome. I had no idea “Owen” means “young warrior.” You’ve obviously given a lot of thought to your tale. So, there’s a lot of prejudice against wizards in your tale, Eric. I’m detecting a sorta’ Professor X and Magneto vibe (yes, I’m letting my nerd flag fly) between Cedric and Argnam with Cedric promoting living in peace with mere mortals, and Argnam wanting to wipe humans out. Anyone who read the post I did for Kai Strand (you can read it here) knows I love myself some X-Men, especially the mid-nineties variety. I’ve always liked the sympathetic villain like Magneto (an extremely brief synopsis for anyone who doesn’t know—his family was killed in the concentration camps in the 1940s, so he has a hard time believing in a world where normal people will live in peace with mutants). I didn’t want a villain just pouring forth evil (not that I don’t like those villains, I just didn’t want Argnam to be one). *I like sympathetic villains, too, Eric. Some of my fave characters. Is the prejudice against wizards a metaphor for anything happening in the world today?
I think prejudice, fear, and hate will always surround the unknown or the different. I didn’t write Unveiling the Wizards’ Shroud with any particular metaphor in mind—and I certainly didn’t want to preach a message, but even if I did, I wouldn’t say my book means this, because to some people, it may mean that. Now I’ve taken away from the book for them, because I said what they thought meant that actually meant this. See how bad that, or this, could get? *Ai-yi-yi! Don’t make me think too much. Not a good thing. Yara’s a good, strong female character and Cedric’s a pretty interesting wizard as well. Good characterization, Eric! Are they based on anyone you know?
I don’t have a daughter, but if I did, I like to think she’d be like Yara in strength and attitude. For Cedric I combined three of my favorite wizards: Gandalf, Dumbledore, and Zeddicus “Zed” Zu'l Zorander. Then I made him much more flawed than these three. *I liked how you interwove various short stories depicting the past Wizard Rebellion throughout the epic quest, making for a richer tapestry. What were your influences?
I had to get the back story incorporated into the book. Had I just let Cedric tell Owen everything, I’d have lost 90% of my readers by the end of the third chapter. Stephen King’s “Wizard and Glass” (The Dark Tower IV) is almost entirely back-story, but it’s written like the events are currently happening. I tried mimicking his style, and I think it works in Unveiling the Wizards’ Shroud, and I’ve gotten a lot of positive feedback from readers about it. *There’re more beasties in this tale than a Ray Harryhausen film, the way I like my fantasy. So, tell me, did the shadow lizards originate from a dream? Or somewhere else?
I’m a recovering video game addict. I played a lot of The Legend of Zelda and Final Fantasy. If these games teach us anything, it’s that beasts are everywhere in fantasy. The whole cave scene is my homage to a Zelda game. I just didn’t include a map, compass, bats, or a master key. *Eric, there are support groups for recovering video game addicts.
Obviously, UnveilingThe Wizards’ Shroud is set up for a sequel. Are you currently at work on it? When can we expect it? Give us a few hints on what to expect. A sequel? Hmm, the idea never crossed my mind. Oh, who am I trying to fool? Well, I’m not actively working on it. My son asked me to write a baseball book for him, so that gets done first. But then I’ll be back to Wittatun. I actually have plans for a lot of stories in this world, but I don’t want to say this is part 1, this is part 2, etc. I do plan at least one direct sequel to Unveiling. I have two more quests to take care of (one for Yara, another for Owen). The two stories will take place simultaneously; I’m just not sure if it will fit in one book, or if I’ll need two.
*Can’t wait to read your baseball book. Sure it’ll be awesome. Finally—and for no reason, really, other than your last name is “Price”—what’s your favorite Vincent Price performance in a movie. Bonus points if you write the answer like Vincent Price would say it—over the top, hammy, and dripping with menace!
The ten thousand dollars offered by a millionaire to stay in a spooky house with him and his wife seems like easy money. But when the doors are locked, the screams are unleashed. This makes The House on Haunted Hill the best of them all.
By the way, I wanted to name either of my sons Vincent. My wife rejected it so hard, the word Vincent disappeared from our book of baby names. I still don’t see the big deal. We could have called him Vince.[image error] Give a big hand to Eric Price for being a good sport! And look for his YA fantasy epic, Unveiling The Wizards’ Shroud, available now. And Eric and I are in a particularly giving mood now, since the holidays are upon us, so…the first person who can do another stellar, hammy Vincent Price impression via words, gets a free copy of Eric’s book and my first tale, Tex, The Witch Boy.
Make it over-the-top and dripping with creepy. Go!
Purchase:
Muse It Up
Amazon
Barnes & Nobel
Where you can find me:
Website/Blog authorericprice.com I’m always running contests!
Twitter: @AuthorEricPrice
Facebook: Author Eric Price and Unveiling the Wizards’ Shroud
December 6, 2013
Bunny-Foo-Foo Is Dead
Apologies to everyone, but my dog ate Bunny Foo Foo.
It doesn't thrill me, but it's my job to report the facts.
Couple days ago, I kicked my Dog Of Destruction, Zak, outside. After that, the quiet, calm atmosphere that overlay the house was unsettling. No barking, tearing of furniture, dropping of dog-toys in my lap. It was quiet. TOO quiet. Just like the war films from the forties.
When I opened the back door, I saw something horrific, unsettling, something I'll never forget in my life.
Two grey, long legs drooped out of Zak's mouth like the world's worst walrus mustache. Blood splattered his jowls. Somehow his tongue worked its way around the (half) carcass to show just how tasty his impromptu yard meal was.
Yet he didn't look like a demonic hell-hound. His eyes were round and full of good-time fun, his demeanor one of "hey, look what I did!" His tail wagged more than a politician changing his mind. He was dang proud of his catch.
Panic set in. I didn't know what to do.
First thing? I called my wife, couldn't get ahold of her. Crap.
Second thing? Told my daughter about it while she ate breakfast. Explained how she'd better watch out if Zak licked her (Essential step? Probably not, but I did derive a little sadistic satisfaction out of her reaction. Let's call it payback for all the sleepless nights she's caused me.).
Third step? I donned blue rubber gloves (the kind only TV show medical examiners and housewives in commercials wear), snapped 'em up past my wrists. Grabbed a shovel and a trash bag. Whipped on a painting mask like I was a rock star. Took it off again so I could moisturize, because my wife says I must, then put it back on. Slapped the shovel in my hand and said, "Let's do this" in a gravelly voice.
Zak decided it was a good time to play "keepaway." After futilely chasing him around the yard, I went inside, tried a different tactic. Enlisting my daughter in the war against grotesqueries, we concocted an elaborate plan to lure him inside while I bagged the gory Grail.
My bravado failed me once I approached the half-bunny. Hugest half-rabbit I'd ever seen in my life. I'd like to think Zak didn't gnaw off the top half.
But the other option was even more unsettling...Monsters. Under the deck.
It doesn't thrill me, but it's my job to report the facts.
Couple days ago, I kicked my Dog Of Destruction, Zak, outside. After that, the quiet, calm atmosphere that overlay the house was unsettling. No barking, tearing of furniture, dropping of dog-toys in my lap. It was quiet. TOO quiet. Just like the war films from the forties.
When I opened the back door, I saw something horrific, unsettling, something I'll never forget in my life.
Two grey, long legs drooped out of Zak's mouth like the world's worst walrus mustache. Blood splattered his jowls. Somehow his tongue worked its way around the (half) carcass to show just how tasty his impromptu yard meal was.
Yet he didn't look like a demonic hell-hound. His eyes were round and full of good-time fun, his demeanor one of "hey, look what I did!" His tail wagged more than a politician changing his mind. He was dang proud of his catch.
Panic set in. I didn't know what to do.
First thing? I called my wife, couldn't get ahold of her. Crap.
Second thing? Told my daughter about it while she ate breakfast. Explained how she'd better watch out if Zak licked her (Essential step? Probably not, but I did derive a little sadistic satisfaction out of her reaction. Let's call it payback for all the sleepless nights she's caused me.).
Third step? I donned blue rubber gloves (the kind only TV show medical examiners and housewives in commercials wear), snapped 'em up past my wrists. Grabbed a shovel and a trash bag. Whipped on a painting mask like I was a rock star. Took it off again so I could moisturize, because my wife says I must, then put it back on. Slapped the shovel in my hand and said, "Let's do this" in a gravelly voice.
Zak decided it was a good time to play "keepaway." After futilely chasing him around the yard, I went inside, tried a different tactic. Enlisting my daughter in the war against grotesqueries, we concocted an elaborate plan to lure him inside while I bagged the gory Grail.
My bravado failed me once I approached the half-bunny. Hugest half-rabbit I'd ever seen in my life. I'd like to think Zak didn't gnaw off the top half.
But the other option was even more unsettling...Monsters. Under the deck.
December 1, 2013
Movie-going adventures in 2013
Today, my friend and I went to see "Oldboy." Okay. First of all, when did Josh Brolin turn into Nick Nolte on a bender? Second? Movie-going has changed.
Bought the tickets, automated. A human (yay!) ticket tearer tore our tickets, asked how we were doing. At first my friend replied, "Just fine." But,since he's going through a divorce, he changed his answer. He came back with, "No, I lied. Nothing's fine. Everything's terrible." The ticket-tearer did her job, tore paper like the wind, stared at us dumb-facedly, ignored my friend's impassioned plea for humanity, and handed back our worthless half-tickets. But we were on target. Still plenty of time to urinate. Twice.
But then trouble hit. I couldn't, for the life of me, figure out how to put ice in a cup. Everything's automated now. No more pimply-faced staffers willing to help you out. You gotta' do it on your own. Overwhelming to a point, I felt like raising my fists to the Heavens and screaming, "How do you get frickin' ice?" I tried several different machines, none of them worked. Just push buttons. That's what I was supposed to do, still couldn't get ice. There was even a "wheel-chair button" on the automated soda machine and, desperately, I pushed that. Nothing happened. Why is there a "wheel-chair button" on the soda machine anyway? I mean, it's not like handicapped people can't push a button. But, apparently, you need to be a rocket scientist to figure out these damn things. Some guy next to me gave me an understanding "been there, haven't done that" nod. In times of movie-viewing crises, friendships are born.
At first my pal and I were ecstatic to have a private viewing, being the only ones in the theatre. He felt free to drop loud "eff-bombs." Liberating. Then another guy shuffled in, smelling like a bag of potatoes. Okay, the theatre's empty, did he have to sit DIRECTLY behind us? Apparently so. Felt his breath on the back of my neck through-out the movie.
Finally, two others entered the theatre. A big dad with a kid. Really. Even though the movie's known to be uber-violent, it's perfect for a nice father/son outing.
The movie's good, gripping, disturbing as all get out. But we ended up cracking up at one of the most outlandish plot twists. We really shouldn't have. But we did. If there were more people in attendance, I'm sure we would've been kicked out. The father in front of us actually moaned, tossed out a "Good Lord!" at the plot-twist while we giggled like sorority sisters. The serial killer behind us remained frighteningly quiet.
Well. A fun day for all (except for the other three film-goers who probably hated us). But it's like vomiting. If my friend cracks up, I do it, too.
We saw an awful trailer for "Grudge Match," some stupid boxing film with Sylvester Stallone and Robert DeNiro. Chock full of old people unfunny jokes; a youthful, vibrant, "hilarious," wise-cracking black sidekick; Alan Arkin standing in for the Burgess Meredeth role; and bombastic music. Comedy of the year, even if it's supposed to be a drama. Can't wait.
Bought the tickets, automated. A human (yay!) ticket tearer tore our tickets, asked how we were doing. At first my friend replied, "Just fine." But,since he's going through a divorce, he changed his answer. He came back with, "No, I lied. Nothing's fine. Everything's terrible." The ticket-tearer did her job, tore paper like the wind, stared at us dumb-facedly, ignored my friend's impassioned plea for humanity, and handed back our worthless half-tickets. But we were on target. Still plenty of time to urinate. Twice.
But then trouble hit. I couldn't, for the life of me, figure out how to put ice in a cup. Everything's automated now. No more pimply-faced staffers willing to help you out. You gotta' do it on your own. Overwhelming to a point, I felt like raising my fists to the Heavens and screaming, "How do you get frickin' ice?" I tried several different machines, none of them worked. Just push buttons. That's what I was supposed to do, still couldn't get ice. There was even a "wheel-chair button" on the automated soda machine and, desperately, I pushed that. Nothing happened. Why is there a "wheel-chair button" on the soda machine anyway? I mean, it's not like handicapped people can't push a button. But, apparently, you need to be a rocket scientist to figure out these damn things. Some guy next to me gave me an understanding "been there, haven't done that" nod. In times of movie-viewing crises, friendships are born.
At first my pal and I were ecstatic to have a private viewing, being the only ones in the theatre. He felt free to drop loud "eff-bombs." Liberating. Then another guy shuffled in, smelling like a bag of potatoes. Okay, the theatre's empty, did he have to sit DIRECTLY behind us? Apparently so. Felt his breath on the back of my neck through-out the movie.
Finally, two others entered the theatre. A big dad with a kid. Really. Even though the movie's known to be uber-violent, it's perfect for a nice father/son outing.
The movie's good, gripping, disturbing as all get out. But we ended up cracking up at one of the most outlandish plot twists. We really shouldn't have. But we did. If there were more people in attendance, I'm sure we would've been kicked out. The father in front of us actually moaned, tossed out a "Good Lord!" at the plot-twist while we giggled like sorority sisters. The serial killer behind us remained frighteningly quiet.
Well. A fun day for all (except for the other three film-goers who probably hated us). But it's like vomiting. If my friend cracks up, I do it, too.
We saw an awful trailer for "Grudge Match," some stupid boxing film with Sylvester Stallone and Robert DeNiro. Chock full of old people unfunny jokes; a youthful, vibrant, "hilarious," wise-cracking black sidekick; Alan Arkin standing in for the Burgess Meredeth role; and bombastic music. Comedy of the year, even if it's supposed to be a drama. Can't wait.
