Nancy Martin's Blog, page 22

Summer Fun Tips from The Mancini Family

Summer Fun Tips from the Mancini Family

By Me, Margie

As usual, when something gets jinky around here, guess who has to fix it? ME, Margie.  So like the blog schedule got messed, and I get a post-it note saying "we need a blog for Sunday and don't leave early on Friday until you do one".   As if I didn't have an appointment for a mani-pedi this morning before my trip to California.  My cousin Rita started a very wonderful public service program called "Thank a SEAL" and she is taking a contingent of Mancini cousins out to Coronado (funded in part by the virgin plane people - thanks Virgins!).  Rocco is probably more excited than anyone, what with he calls the 'go ahead and tell me' policy finally adopted by the U.S. Military.

Our cugina Rosie is confused because Rita and Rocco keep using terms like diving and free-style and deep-end submersion and because Rita was on the swim team in high school before she entered the convent, she thought they meant, y'know, actual swimming.  I'm making her sit with Rita on the plane. 

So here are some quick Summer Fun Tips for all of you from all of us.  There are seven because seven is a lucky number and we hope you all get lucky too:

1. Big White Sunglasses: Out.  Thick Black Sunglasses (think Will Smith in Men in Black, now filming in New York and did you see that trailer of his?!): In.

2. Tanning Beds: BAD, BAD, BAD.  Beyond out.  Stupid and guess what?  You may look good now, but take a look at some of your older friends - they look like leather and not the fun kind.  Spray Tans: In.  But only if you have someone who is good with the airbrush and doesn't spray it on too thick.  Otherwise, you look like a leopard, and not in the fun way.

3. Waxing: in.  Those screwball at-home sugar and bogus laser treatments for hair removal: OUT. Leave it to the professionals, bellas.  Unless you think the splotch and blotch look is good for you.  And if you do, call Rocco, but not for the next two weeks.  He will be doing important social and human services work.

4. In Colors: all kinds of purple!  We love purple - it's the color of royalty.  Also blues and mango.  Out: those pukey greens and pucey yellows.  We never liked them.  They looked like phlegm. 

5.  In: Netflix.  Out: replacing your DVDs with Blu-rays.  Don't be dumb, like our cousin Rome, who is still trying to hold on to his beta-max tapes because he is convinced they are now retro and cool. Turns out they are also really easy to splice.  Our cousin Romulus says he can't wait until Rome pulls out the old tape of the Bing Crosby Christmas Special again this year.  He says it gives a whole new meaning to der bingler.

6. In: actually talking to other humans to their face.  Out: texting other people when you are having dinner with a fabulous person.  Not that this has ever happened to Me, Margie, but our cousin Rena reports that more than one phone has ended up in the fountain in the Trevi Room at the Sons of Italy Banquet Hall, Lounge and Gaming Center.  She didn't even have to do it.  Just remember - we always have another  cousin on staff somewhere and sometimes they are young, fast, and bussing tables anyway and oops, shit happens.  Unless you are texting Benny the Jewel to find out why the jewelry for your date didn't arrive on time, don't even think about it. 

7. Red, White and Blue: In, in and IN! (Rocco wrote that.  If he doesn't calm down before we get on the plane, I'm slipping an Atavan in his Bloody Mary.  I carry lots of medications because I help people and I usually know what's best for them even if they do not.  I probably should have been a doctor but it takes way too long and besides when you are a natural healer like me all you really need is a Gray's Anatomy coloring book, which I got when I was 7, and a key to the back door of a neighborhood pharmacy from an old boyfriend named Steve, which I got when I was 17.) Red white and blue are great colors and get this, you the people, anyone can be a true patriot even if they don't drink the same hot beverage as you.

Now, I MUST go finish packing. The weather in San Diego is not the same as New York.  I know this because last week I had a lovely date with Stefano, the Meateorologist.  The man is gifted.  He seems to know what is going to happen right before it does...especially the thunder and lightening.

Have any summer fun tips to share? 

 

The Last Cookie Dance

The Last Cookie Dance

By Brunonia Barry

 

A few weeks ago, we hosted a sweet sixteen party for our Golden Retriever, Byzantium. The cake was made of hamburger and Charlie Bears (tiny dog biscuits), and the guests included his first girlfriend, a Portuguese Water Dog named Roberta, who looks incredibly youthful for her thirteen years, though we suspect she may have had a bit of work done.

Byzy, of course, has never had any plastic surgery whatsoever and doesn't look a day over ten. The last time we took him in for a checkup, our regular vet was on vacation, and we saw someone new. At the end of the examination, the new vet declared Byzy "quite a specimen."

In addition to being a specimen, our dog is a local celebrity. Byzy was the inspiration for the dog of the same name in The Lace Reader, a canine who hails from a line of feral Golden Retriever cave-dwelling warriors that protect the inhabitants of Yellow Dog Island. The idea of Golden Retrievers as warriors seems to greatly amuse most of my readers who always ask about the real Byzy. When I tell them he's sixteen, they look amazed. Their next question is usually "What do you feed him?" 

"Far too much," I answer. But hey, our puppy loves food. And he is sixteen, for God's sake, and still here, so keep your judgments to yourselves. I don't say that last part aloud, of course. I love my readers too much to be so rude.

Byzy has had only one severe health problem in his long life. One morning a few years back, he was acting lethargic and dazed. Since we were scheduled to leave for Italy on a book tour three days later, we took him to the vet to have him checked, something we might not have done so quickly if we hadn't been leaving town. It was a good thing we did. He had a tumor in his spleen that required immediate surgery. While we sat in the waiting room stunned and worried, Byzy had his spleen removed. Two days later, he was dancing for cookies. 

Byzy's cookie dance is a carefully choreographed little number that begins with a bouncy hop as both of his front feet leave the ground. That step is followed by rapid head shaking, some additional hopping, and a bit of subtle growling. The end of his routine is punctuated by one sharp, quick bark followed by thirty seconds of quiet but intense staring. If, after thirty seconds, a cookie has not been proffered, the dance routine is repeated until the desired results are achieved.  

Though we know we spoil him, we can't help it. We love the cookie dance. It is hilarious. And so, two weeks ago, when it suddenly stopped, we were concerned. He didn't get up with us that morning. When we were in the kitchen making breakfast, he didn't join us.

Worried, we went to the front hallway where he always sleeps. He stood up to greet us and promptly fell down. We helped him up. He fell again. We weren't too concerned at first because Byzy has a bit of hip dysplasia which is common to aging Golden Retrievers, and he sometimes has difficulty getting up in the morning. When things didn't improve as the day went on, we scheduled an appointment with the vet. Byzy's back legs didn't seem to be working. We lifted him with a towel-sling and carried him to the car. By the time we arrived at the vet's office, both Byzy and I were shaking.

The vet stood him up, then curled Byzy's back paws under, one at a time, watching to see how long it took for him to straighten them. He passed the test easily with his left hind foot, giving the vet a haughty WTF look, but when his right paw was curled under, Byzy just stood there. He didn't seem to know that there was anything wrong until he lost his balance and began to collapse. The vet eased him down to the floor.

The diagnosis was neurological. Byzy's brain was no longer sending signals to his right hind leg. He wasn't in pain, he was simply surprised every time he fell.

"What can we do?" We asked.

"There isn't much you can do. He's comfortable, he's happy, . . . and he's a fighter," the vet told us. "Enjoy your time with him."

Determined to do just that, we took him home.

The next day, we discovered Handicapped Pets in Nashua, New Hampshire. What a great company! We bought Byzy a "wheelchair" that supports his back legs while at the same time keeping them moving.

The brochure said that it was possible for the chair to have a restorative power and that it could help improve the functioning of injured legs. My husband read that part aloud and looked at me hopefully. "Maybe it's just an injury," he said. "Maybe he will spontaneously heal."

"Maybe he will," I said, but my voice lacked conviction.

Whether restorative or not, the wheelchair has worked wonders. It took a few days of adjustment, both for Byzy and for us (you try lifting a 90 lb. dog and holding him up while struggling to adjust a web of snaps and clips). Once we got the routine down (it required cookies) and installed a ramp, Byzy began bombing around our back yard, tearing through flower beds, shredding tulips and peonies and anything else in his path. We were delighted.

We have now established a new ritual: Byzy rolls through the house, down the ramp, and into the back yard. When we come back inside, we disconnect him from the wheelchair. He stands for a few minutes, then collapses. He sleeps for most of the day, which is nothing new. Byzy's favorite activity has always been sleeping, unless there was something more interesting to do like walking, swimming, or eating. Eating beats sleeping every time.  

It was eating that inspired what I am now referring to as the Memorial Day Miracle. Byzy was sleeping in the front hall. We were grilling steaks. All of a sudden, Byzy, sans wheelchair, came jogging though the doorway and onto the porch as if nothing had ever been wrong with him. He demanded our steaks. He had attitude. He did his cookie dance.

A minute later, he collapsed. We cut up some steak and hand fed it to him. I cried with joy to have shared that inspirational "last dance." It's imprinted on my heart.

We knew it couldn't last, and it didn't. But it was great!

We understand that this neurological damage will progress in the same way that these things invariably do. But for now, we are taking our vet's advice. We are enjoying our sweet sixteen year old for a while longer. Our fighter. Our specimen. Who dances for cookies…and steaks.

Do you have a beloved pet who inspires you?

 

 

 

Blogpostos Refritos: Kill Your Squirrels

By Cornelia Read

Okay, I am going to be a giant bucket of lameness this week and repost an older post from another blog. I hope you will excuse me... my fourth novel, the deadlines of which I have been blowing steadily amidst divorce, moving cross-country, family tragedies, and, um, family tragedies, is now really, really really, really due Monday.

I have already driven 853 miles this week, picked my mother up at Kennedy Airport, spent two days on Long Island with Cousin Herbie, acted as a taxi service for a friend in NYC (this started out as a breakfast date, but my mother has a fondness for directing me to drive along ridiculous back-country roads with inordinate amounts of traffic on them, so by the time we got to the city I had had to call twice to say we were going to be late, and then a third time to say, "um, would you just like a ride to Penn Station and can we use your bathroom?"), and then a night with Mom's college roommate in Connecticut, and oh by the way my daughter is graduating from boarding school here in New Hampshire Sunday morning and other family-type persons are flying/driving in from Virginia, Massachusetts, Vermont, and other parts to converge for the ceremony, and lunch afterward, and the apartment is kind of a shithole from hell at the moment... and, and, and... and meanwhile I am trying to figure out what the FUCK I am doing with the final pieces of the plot of this novel that make no sense to me quite yet. SO..... please bear with me.

In the meantime, I have ended up sending out a link to this blog post to several friends this week, in odd synchronicity, because they have been struggling with writing their first novels (three of them) and their third screenplay (one of them), and they seemed to find it helpful.

Oh, and also now my mother would like to read it because her Wildflowers of Centre Island project has become quite a slog. So, I don't know, maybe my own writing craziness (and Very High Mental Illness Number, a concept stolen from our own Joshilyn Jackson's Faster Than Kudzu blog, long hence) is somehow illuminating for others in the same trenches of struggle? Hard to say.

Of course, had I been able to take this advice MYSELF, I would not have blown so many deadlines on this poor benighted little novel I was supposed to have finished myself a long, long time ago. On the bright side, the first draft made my writing group cry. Twice. In a good way. So maybe there's some juice to it? Oh, please, writing gods, may that be so...

HEMINGWAY, as my sister Freya always says instead of "anyway," here goes.

I think the advice might work for other things outside of writing, but as I have been an abject failure at every other profession I have ever tried (chamber maid at The Tickle Pink Hotel, waitress, stable-hand, book catalog editor, journalist, pornographer, and housewife) I wouldn't have the slightest fragrance of a mere hint of a clue about that. But please let me know if it works, okay?

(and, this is a post I originally wrote to cheer myself up/give self a pep talk FOR THIS SAME BOOK in October of 2009, your mileage may vary. IT seems like mine certainly did....)

Ahem:

KILL YOUR SQUIRRELS

Writing scares me. Getting my ass in the chair and the Work-In-Progress Word file open is a goddamn struggle, every single time.

It's like my head is filled with a bunch of really mean, sarcastic squirrels who don't like me very much,

and I have to get each one of them to shut up even though they're wearing body armor and keep ducking down behind these fat flood-watch sandbags of inertia and angst.

Oh, and they're probably French.

 

That they are also zombies and radioactive no doubt goes without saying.

So, yeah, a head full of Kevlar-encased carnivorous undead glow-in-the-dark scathingly articulate plutonium-oozing Catherine-Deneuve squirrels who know me down to the last molecule of unworthy marrow: Fabulous.

I may be more squirrel-infested than you are, or less. I think we all have to play at least a little mental whack-a-mole in order to get down to work.

My squirrels remind me that I don't have a backup job or health insurance, and that if my fourth book sucks butt--which it inevitably will, if I even manage to finish it--I will be unable to learn how to operate an espresso machine at Starbucks, and that I will therefore be doomed to labor on well into my toothless nineties wearing support hose and a McDonalds uniform.

Probably in Antartica.

(Yes, I am aware that there are no Eskimos in Antartica. This just means that my job at McDonalds will be more lonely.)

I am not alone in this, I know. Gene Fowler once said, "Writing is easy. You simply stare at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead."

(I first heard that from Douglas Adams in a speech he gave at an ABA breakfast in Anaheim, about seventeen years ago. And he didn't credit Gene Fowler.)

The basic gist here is that in order to write, I have to keep reminding myself to kill my squirrels. Here are ten tips for squirrel maintenance that have served me well in this regard, even though I don't always remember them.

 

Number One: They're Only Squirrels.

Really. Not to mention imaginary.

It's a negative soundtrack of your own devising. It's not the voice of The New York Review of Books, Your Mother, or Fate. Anne Lamott called it Radio KFKD, and rightly pointed out that it's bullshit.

Don't let it stop you from getting your ass in the chair and opening the Word file. You are allowed to write crap. You are allowed to write a shitty first draft, and a shitty second draft, and as many steenking-piece-of-crap drafts as it takes.

The best novel you can ever write will be the result of small, sustained efforts, repeated over and over.

It will not be the product of continuous days of brilliance, with The Choir Eternal singing praise in your ears throughout. It will be built in layers. Many, many, many layers.

These efforts will at times feel infinitisemal, as though you are trying to unearth Pompeii with a bent spork and broken fingernails.

Some of these infinitisemal efforts will suck. That is inevitable, and it is okay. You will fix them. You do not have to turn straw into gold by lunchtime, or dinner, or even breakfast tomorrow.

Gandhi said, "Whatever you do will be insignificant, but it is very important that you do it." That's your daily mantra.

Guy de Maupassant is credited with saying "Get black on white," meaning just spill some ink on the paper.

Start. Pick a word and go.

I just re-read Stephen King's On Writing. He relates an anecdote about a friend asking James Joyce what he'd managed to write that day.

"Seven words," said Joyce.

"Well, James, that's pretty good for you."

Joyce shook his head. "But I don't know which order they go in."

What they say in AA is if you don't know what to do, Do The Next Right Thing. It might be tiny, you might not know what comes next. Just do the next. right. thing.

We're all digging with Sporks. Embrace the Spork. The Spork is Life.

 

 

Number Two: Writing is Like Working Out

If you've blown off exercising for a while, getting started up again sucks. The first day you feel like an idiot--you're sweaty and ungainly and everyone else in the room is faster/stronger/better than you are.

The second day is worse because now you're sore from the first day, and besides which the instructor lady is obviously a bulimic Nazi bitch who hates you.

But the third day... well, maybe the Stairmonster didn't make you feel like barfing after only five minutes this time, or you actually finished the full sequence of leg-lift inner-thigh-torture things without collapsing to the floor like a lukewarm pool of spilled Hollandaise.

Writing is like that, too. Day one is a root canal, day two is a root canal with back spasms... but day three you might think up something funny, or have a few good lines of dialogue, or really nail the way newly delivered palm trees with their fronds tied up in the air:

kind of look like Pebbles Flintstone:

Whatever... day three you'll have a little something to let you know you're getting your mojo back, I promise.

[UPDATE: One new saying I have picked up since October of 2009: "If you neglect your art for one day, it will neglect you for two." The fact that I found this on my very favorite free tarot-card-reading website does not make it any less true.]

 

Number Three: Watch Some Stupid TV.  After You've Written.

For the past two nights, I have been watching the CMT series about tryouts for the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders. This has helped my mental state immensely. I'm serious.

Here's why: 99.9% of the chicks trying out for the squad are are nubile, gorgeous, great dancers, and have these huge smiles like they've got Vaseline on their teeth (they probably do have Vaseline on their teeth, if my Miss America trivia is at all trustworthy.)

600 of them showed up for the initial tryouts. Circa 150 got picked for a second round. Maybe 30 of those got to go to cheerleading camp, and another 15 of those got cut over the course of the next eight weeks of grueling workouts and vicious dance hazing.

Those final 15 who got cut? Mostly it was because they were nervous.

They didn't throw caution to the wind and go for it, didn't have fun, didn't get outrageous and over-the-top with the whole thing.

The ones who made it were the ones who just shut up and did it--said to themselves, "Holy crap, I'm at fucking DALLAS COWBOYS CHEERLEADERS CAMP! What a trip! BE HERE NOW!"

The ones who thought about it too much froze, and missed out on the experience. And went home.

The ones who just went for it? They took criticism, and asked for help when they were called into the office. They said "yes ma'am" a lot and got better. And better. Bit by bit, rehearsal by rehearsal.

And they never stopped smiling.

Also, it reminded me that as hard as writing can be for me, it sure beats having to be a professional cheerleader.

If I had to smile that hard, my lips would fall off.

Seriously, aren't you glad we don't have to look this enthusiastic throughout Bouchercon?

Plus I can't dance for shit. Not even with a bottle of tequila in hand and a gun to my head.

 

Number Four: Read a Really Crappy Book

If you're struggling with your writerly self-esteem, read the crappiest book you can lay your hands on. I'm talking vampire e-porn, or the ugliest paperback in the drugstore rack.

Something with a bad ersatz Fabio on the cover and a lot of overly-serifed swirly fonts in gold is good.

Something where every woman's hair is "a deep auburn," and they talk about "his manhood" a lot.

Better yet, open up an Ayn Rand novel and read the dialogue aloud to yourself, preferably in a Sesame-Street Swedish Chef accent.

You can do better than that. You WILL do better than that. You already *ARE* DOING WAAAAAY BETTER THAN THAT.

Lather, rinse, repeat as needed.

 

 

Number Five: Do Something Mindless But Slightly Engaging for a While

I've heard it said that when super-computer designer Robert Cray got stuck, he'd dig tunnels in his back yard. Serious tunnels. Great Escape tunnels--with wooden struts and stuff.

There's something to be said for doing some mindless shitwork that engages your front brain but leaves your messy subconscious bits free to play around on their own. Some of the best ideas I've ever had came while I was driving my kids back and forth to school for three months in a car with a broken radio.

The driving was just the right amount of engagement for my internal editor/critic to be absorbed by, but the rest of me was bored enough to start free-associating in kind of wild ways. Worked like a charm.

Raking leaves might work. Walking on a treadmill with no music could, too. I hear that some people swear by long showers for inspiration.

You want something that takes just a little concentration--probably with a slight amount of sensory deprivation and some sort of physical engagement. Distraction, basically, but not all-engrossing. The idea is to free yourself up to fly a little.

Think Steve McQueen stuck in The Cooler with his baseball and his mitt.

Number Six: Play "The Galaxy Song" a Couple of Times

 

 

 

 

Number Seven: Dude, Count Your Blessings Already.

First of all, you are not a little kid in Guernica when the Germans are testing out how well bombing civilians works for invoking general terror.

Neither are you getting strafed by Jap Zeros in a rice paddy in 1939 Nanking, with nothing to protect you but a straw hat.

Yea verily, I doubt that you are starving in Armenia,

Or chained in the bowels of a boat on your way to a torturous life of horrid indentured servitude,

Or being pillaged by rampaging Vikings at this very moment.

Additionally, there is probably NOT an IED strapped under your desk.

You just have imaginary squirrels in your head.

Remember: It's only writing--not famine or pestilence or doom.

In all the times throughout history that you could have been born, this one is pretty damn good.  There are antibiotics, for instance, and if you get sick, it's a good bet no one will try bleeding you to release the bad humors.

Plus, if you're reading this, you not only know how to read, you have access to a computer. The universe has indeed smiled upon you.

Be grateful.

Be happy.

Type something.

 

Number Eight: You Can Make it if You Try-igh-igh

As God is my witness, you can finish a book (or books)!

You may have to write it seven words at a time. You may not know what order they go in, at least right away. But if you get your ass in the chair and open the file every day, it will happen.

I don't care if it's for fifteen minutes at a stretch... you need to assume the position for inspiration to find you. You need to be typing.

I also don't care if you start out typing "all work and no play..." etc. over and over again, until you figure out something better (though I recommend staying away from axes and creepy empty hotels, generally.)

 

Number Nine: Cornelia Says Relax

So does Ginger Rogers.

 

 

 

 

Number Ten: Fill in the Blanks

As Max Ehrman wrote,

You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

O, my sweetlings, what works for you, when your squirrels are restless and your hypos have the upper hand?

Inquiring minds want to know...

 

Long ago and far away…

Joshilyn is lost in the woods (not really, but her internet signal is) and our William is stepping into the breach.

Long ago and far away (wow, almost twenty years ago!), I was determined to be a screenwriter for television and movies.  Came close a couple of times, but never really broke through.  I was determined, though, and, uh, well, maybe a tiny bit stubborn.  (cough, cough)

 I wrote and submitted a spec script for a network series that I personally really liked quite a bit.  The characters were complicated and layered, there wasn't always a happy ending, and the show tackled some serious issues before anyone else.  While a lot of it was exaggerated and 'Hollywooded' up, it was a more than pleasant way to kill an hour once a week.  (I am deliberately not naming the series for several reasons not worth going into.)  I had landed an agent at the time, things were going nicely, when the show was abruptly yanked off the air with no explanation.  To this day, I don't know what happened, why it was cancelled, or just what went down.

Okay, this happens.  Things like this happen a lot more than most people realize.  The fact anything gets filmed, anything gets released, or a series actually makes it on the air is such an incredible long shot.  To be a success, well, someone just won the lottery and got struck by lightning simultaneously.

Anyway, I really liked the script, and it eventually dawned on me it could easily become a novel, hopefully the start of a series.  Of course, I couldn't use the original series premise, so I started from scratch with a former police detective turned best-selling mystery novelist.  (This was 1991, so any comparisons to a current TV series featuring a best-selling mystery writer who 'really IS Ruggedly Handsome' don't count.)  I wrote it the way I now saw it, and was quite pleased with how it turned out.

I sent it out to anyone and everyone I could think of.  Got some terrific rejections along the lines of "I really loved this, but my partner/associate felt it lacked a certain 'something' that prevents us from extending an offer at this time."  Some editors responded with similar thoughts, others a form rejection.  Eventually, I slapped it on a diskette (remember those?) and filed it because writers never throw anything out.

Time passed.  The Y2K shenanigans came and went, the horrendous events of September 11, 2001 happened.  Technology moved forward at an alarming pace, the world changed, and then something came along I couldn't believe:  the Kindle.

I'll be the first to eat some crow on this.  I didn't believe the Kindle would work, I didn't agree with the concept at all of eBooks.  I want a BOOK book, not an electronic pad that I flick a finger on.  I want to turn a page, I want the smell of a new book, I want the feel of it in my hands.  Then I bought an iPad, and my world view shifted.  Dramatically.

Some friends of mine tried publishing their work as an eBook.  Some of them had terrific success, others sold slow and steady; kind of like Real Life Publishing.  After thinking and cogitating and mulling, I decided 'what the heck', dug out the diskette (with WordStar documents, if you remember that one), and decided to pull the trigger… so to speak!

For better or for worse, damn the torpedoes, full steam ahead, and a rousing cry of 'Excelsior!':

STREET HEAT for Kindle

STREET HEAT for Nook

Under the pseudonym 'Will Graham'.

 
 

We'll see what happens next….

Whatcha readin'?

Whatcha readin'?

By Nancy Pickard

 Last summer was one of the best reading summers of my life. 

The good books just seemed to pour out of publishing, and I thought they were so much fun to read.  My very favorite was Brady Udall's hilarious, tragic, kind, loving, angry, sexy, brave, non-judgmental novel, THE LONELY POLYGAMIST, that had me crying on one page and laughing on the next.  It's about a polygamist who has an affair! 

I raced through Suzanne Collins' fabulous HUNGER GAMES triology like a virgin who has just discovered she loves sex.  More, more, more!  It's labeled "Young Adult," but since I'm basically still a 14-year-old girl at heart, that works for me.  And besides, the best YA is beloved by grown-ups, just as the best of grown-up fiction is adored by Youth.  And p.s., I'm delighted with the casting for the movie, are you?  And here she is, the wonderful actress from "Winter's Bone," Jennifer Lawrence, as "Katniss."

Then there was Justin Cronin's novel, THE PASSAGE, which I can only describe as literary meets vampire.  I can't wait for the next book in this new series.  One little caveat:  I am one of many readers for whom the book seemed "cold" until about a quarter of the way in, and then it became movingly human.

I reread my favorite novel of all time, John Gardner's GRENDEL, and it thrilled and awed me all over again.  Great and original writing touches something really deep in people, and this one does it for me.  You remember it--it's BEOWULF as told from the monster's point of view. Was that a great idea, or what?

 

I reread another of my top five of all time, Marilynne Robinson's GILEAD.  It's the most gentle, genuine novel about decent people trying their damndest to  *be* decent that I've ever read, and it makes me weep just for that, alone. Seriously, every time I read it I get just a few pages into it and I start welling up and have to lay it down and just feel what I feel, which is that human beings are sometimes exceedingly nice creatures.  (The other three in my all-time top five are, by the way:  THE GREAT GATSBY, THE ONCE AND FUTURE KING, and FRANNY AND ZOOEY. 

I also reread three of Edna Ferber's novels and still love GIANT the best.  And no! James Dean has nothing to do with it, why do you ask?

But that's last year.  Will this summer be as exciting for reading?

I don't even know what's coming out, do you?  Is there a book you are really looking forward to reading? 

And what about right now?  I have not mentioned any of the wonderful books by my blog sisters, because it's hard to do everybody justice, but I do want to say that this very week I'm reading Brunonia's THE MAP OF TRUE PLACES, and it's absolutely lovely.  My mother loves it, too, and says she'll recommend it to her book clubs.  This seems a very mature work to me, with lovingly and fully developed characters living fictional lives that are as complicated and deep and real as any reader could wish.  Write faster, B. B. , 'k?  Or, rather, write however long it takes to produce books this good, please.

As for non-fiction, this spring I'm on a Carl Jung kick, one of many during my lifetime. This time around,  I'm reading lectures and books by "Jungians" such as Marie-Louise von Franz, Barbara Hannah, James Hillman, and Robert Johnson.  One of the most fascinating is a book whose title is a simply a number:  137.   It's about the very cool friendship and analytical relationship between Jung and the Nobel Laureate, physicist Wolfgang Pauli.  I can barely multiple five times seven--it's 64, right?--but that doesn't keep me from loving to read about quantum physics.  This book combines that cool stuff with my other non-fiction obsession, Jungian psychology.  Hog heaven, baby.

Then there's the poet I've discovered in my own back yard!  I feel like an idiot!  Right here in River City. . .or, well, Wichita. . .there is a poet, Albert Goldbarth, who has twice. . .TWICE. . .won the Book Critics Circle Award for poetry.  Nobody else has accomplished that.  He has taught at Wichta State University for 17 years.  Seventeen years, and I first heard of him this month!  ::Stares in disbelief at self and exclaims, "Where have you BEEN, child?"  Some say it's odious to compare, but I say. . .he's a little bit Billy Collins-ish, albeit with longer poems.  I think you'll like him.

Oh, and I just read PORTNOY'S COMPLAINT for the first time, can you believe it? It was "funny," reading it this late in life. . .I know people who read it when they were young and remember it as hilarious.   I might have thought so too, years ago.  But reading it now, I didn't laugh. Well, once, out loud. What it did make me do was to feel and think and also to admire its author very much.  What a brave book.  And you'll never guess who recommended it to me and virtually demanded I read it:  my own unconscious!  In a dream, the cover of the book suddenly whooshed up to fill my whole visual field.  White book jacket, big black words:  Portnoy's Complaint.  I can take a hint, and no, it wasn't the hint you may be thinking it was, you little scamp.  I bought the book that same day.

 So what are you reading that you're loving and you want the rest of us to know about so we can love it, too?

 

 

Arnold Must Die

Arnold Must Die

by Nancy Martin     

A few years back, a writer acquaintance of mine was revealed to have plaguarized her books.  Actually, her secretary--whom the writer had hired to write the books so that she could go around promoting all the time--took large chunks of novels written by very famous authors with huuuuge fan followings and inserted passages into her boss's outlines.  It was the fans who pointed out the plaguarism, and my acquaintance was humiliiated.  So humiliated, in fact, that she did the only thing she really good could in this situation.

She died.

Lately, we here at the offices of TLC have not bothered to blog about one of the big stories in the news these days--Arnold and his impregnation of a household staffer and subsequent support of the resulting child without his wife getting wind of it.  (When I last checked, Maria had hired a PI to investigate further, and there are rumors of at least one more illegitimate child floating around, but because many of us are mothers with kids to protect we won't go there today.)  Normally when an event like this explodes across the media, and the Tarts are all over it.  But the reason we haven't blogged about this subject is because--well, the only conclusion we can really draw is this: 

He's an asshole.  Case closed.

That's a short subject, so what's the point in blogging about it? (If you think you can defend Arnold's behavior, pleasepleaseplease do so in our comments section.  I would love to see our backbloggers take you down.)

But what's been noodling around in my head lately is the possibility that Arnold is going to re-invent himself after this asshole-ish behavior. After treating his wife so cheaply. After behaving like a Neanderthal in his own home.  There's a good chance he's going to come out of this mess smelling like a--well, okay, maybe not smelling wonderful, but certainly with his income stream preserved.  There were a few weeks when even Bill Clinton's most diehard supporters surely figured that cigar + stained blue dress + end of career.  But no, Bill has bounced back.  Flourished, even. While leading the charge to  impeach the provocative  president, Newt Gingrinch was cheating on his wife with a woman on his staff.  And now Newt's running for president himself. Eliot Spitzer has his own TV show.  And, gee, a certain person accused of misbehavior might still be on the Supreme Court. You can flesh out my list pretty easily, because there are so many examples of powerful men who feel they can do whatever they want just because.

My friend the humiliated romance writer did not feel she could do much of anything after her character was called into question, but that's a certain kind of woman for you, right? There are certainly babes running around making idiots of themselves with no guilt whatsoever.

Will Arnold go back to playing robots in the movies? (Insert soulless joke here.) Or maybe run the International Monetary Fund?  I hear there's an opening.

I'm finishing my book today---yes, TODAY is my deadline--but I'll check back.  Meanwhile, here's a quote:

"Why a man, because he has millions, should assume that they confer omniscience in all branches of knowledge is something which may be left to the psychologist to answer, but most people thrown much in contact with millionaires will agree that an attitude of infallibity is typical of a fair majority."

Emily Post, From Etiquette, 1945, Funk & Wagnalls Company.

And, okay, just for fun because it's Wednesday and neither one of these character is married, so just enjoy. A girl on deadline needs her Clooney fix:

 

WTF or "Who is running that show?!"

 WTF or "Who is running that show?!"

By Kathy Reschini Sweeney, who would like five minutes alone with whomever it is

Have you ever seen or heard something and thought to yourself: "WTF?!  Who decided THAT was a good idea?" In my family, our expression for it is "Who is running that show?!". We accept this alternative because no one says the F word, in any form, in front of my Mom. Okay, there were some times in the '90s, but that was different.

Earlier today, I asked my FFFs (Fabulous Facebook Friends) for ideas on a blog, because I cannot blog about the stuff that is filling my head (The Royal Wedding, various stress-inducing events, how I hate certain people with a fire that rivals the sun, why I despise litigation, why we should each be allowed one murder, no questions asked, etc.).  They came up with some wonderful ideas and after I read about them, I was left with this theme.  (Note to Tom, Brenda, Nell, Heidi, Mike, Laura and Barb- watch this space for future blogs.  Note to other TLC bloggers: no filching.)

Face it, my friends, there is a ton of screwed-up shit going on around us.  Someone is at the bottom of this shit, and someone (maybe the same someone) is coming up with enough cash to spread the shit.  Apologies to actual animal shit, which makes great fertilizer as well as a reason to keep the windows closed on large sections of the Pennsylvania Turnpike.  The only thing this other shit helps grow is morons.

I give you, for example, talking heads on radio and TV.  We've discussed this before.  For every loon you hear ranting, there are at least two other ones aiding and abetting: the network and the marketing people.  You can't just pull a public-access cable caper, like Wayne and Garth, and get massive media play.  Someone at a network level has to authorize the program, and someone has to be willing and able to buy and sell advertising space.

Which brings me to certain product ads.  Ladies and gentlemen: pajama jeans.  Thanks to our own Ramona, I was reminded of a product that left my family gaping at the TV.  They're pajamas!  They're jeans!  They cost $40.00.  WHUH?!  Forty bucks for pajama bottoms?  That look like jeans?  Do you have any idea the micro-percentage of people on the planet who would actually look decent in these things?  Hint: if your age starts with a number higher than 2, you don't make the list.  If you are going for comfort, you can get pajamas for much less, and since it has now become acceptable to wear pajamas in public (another WTF and thanks Josh) I just don't get it.

This leads directly to another WTF moment - one day I saw a rack of jeggings (an ill-conceived combination of jeans and leggings) on a rack that said "One Size Fits All".  Guess what kids?  That is a bold-faced lie.  One size may fit you and I guarantee another size at another store will fit me, but not since the dawn of motorized travel and processed foods has one size fit all.

Why - other than genetics?  One word: food.  Glorious, wonderful, mood-enhancing food.  My deepest condolences to those of you who do not love food.   You are undoubtedly much healthier, assuming you force nutrition into your pie hole. But you will never know the ecstasy of the first bite of a Kara's S'mores Cupcake (thanks Lynn).  Or the simple magic of warm chocolate chip cookies and cold milk (thanks Mom).  Or the mind-numbing delight of a salad with crab, avocado and mango (thanks, Rev Susan).  

I mean, even mac and cheese can go from the basic familiarity of the blue box to a dairy-filled delicious dish (thanks Janee).  And a salad can be anything from a wedge cut out of a head of iceberg lettuce to the best Caesar on the planet (thanks Robin).

Another FFF (Marianne and I grew up on the same street and I used to 'run away' to her house) noted that some families (like hers and mine) make food part of our traditional gatherings and celebrations.  Many ethnicities share this practice.  As I've said before, a Passover Cedar is damn near exactly like an Italian Christmas eve.  Tons of food, tons of drink, and everybody talking at once.  Heaven.

There is a little box at the bottom of this screen that tells me I just hit 700 words - normally I pay no attention, but at this point I decided to go back and read what I just wrote.  

And here it is in much fewer (but less fun) words:

1.  Life is filled with idiots, the things they do and the things they make.

2.  Food is good.  One magnificent cupcake can change a life.

3.  No matter what happens, your friends are always there to help.

Your turn - share a WTF or a great food, or how a great friend helped you.  

 

 

A Memorable Memorial

[image error]

HANK: Happy Memorial Day, dear Tarts! And we hope you are celebrating in the way you love best. For me, Memorial Day has always been about two special sounds.

 One, Taps on a bugle, of course. Those haunting notes that can leave a huge crowd in utter silence. My father--who is healthy and happy with a wonderful wife and I can't even count how many grandchildren--was taken prisoner in the Battle of the Bulge. My little cute Dad! Who loves music and philosphy and dance and good food, and who carried a book of poetry with him in the war "to remind me there is beauty in the world." Yay, Dad. And thank you.

The other sound--the roar of 33 engines of the cars in the Indy 500. I grew up in Indianapolis, and not a person in the city didn't stop and listen the race. For years, it was only on the radio,and we'd sit in the back yard, all of us five kids and my mom and step-dad, and imagine how it looked. Even now, as a (?) grown up, I have to watch the race. I have no idea about auto racing, but you know, that's just what ya do on Memorial Day if you're a Hoosier.[image error]

 So here we are--a geographical triangle on Memorial Day--Harley in CA, Heather in FL, and Hank in MA.   And hurray, we get to share it with you!

Favorite Memorial Day tradition?

 HANK: Vroom vroom. VROOM. Press accelerator, keep turning left. And then have a cookout.

HARLEY: It used to be Topanga Days -- in my old 'hood, a 3-day Woodstock-like event with a lot of beer, banjoes, hippies, and heat stroke. But I was pretty much over it after the first two years, and now it's like penance. I'd rather go visit a cemetery.

 HEATHER: I think our Memorial Day tradition is a bit different. Both my dad and my stepdad (my mom was a widow who remarried a super-great guy at the tender age of 70) were in WWII, navy and air force, respectively. I never bring my dad's grave flowers--we all remember when he sick and someone brought him flowers and he said, "Hey, guys, come on, I'm not dead yet!" But I did share coffee with him constantly.

We'd go out mornings for coffee, and I guess that was when I really bonded with him. So, Bill (stepdad) was a great deal like him and a wonderful guy. We go, and think about the amazing things they said over the years about war--and pour coffee on the graves.

Since cooking out is so traditional: One Grilling secret.

HARLEY: Here's my secret. Have a barbecue and invite a friend who likes to grill, and hand them the utensils and show them where the grill is.

HANK: Yeah, that's mine, too. Get Jonathan to do it.

HEATHER: The meat--always have quality meat. Or, in Harley's case, the vegetables. The freshest, best veggies and meats available. And a touch of olive oil in a bit of a marinade. Yeah, throw in garlic, too. And supply mints.

 

For extra credit: Gas or Charcoal? Top on or top off? Lighter fluid or newspaper?

 HEATHER: Charcoal. Top off.

 HANK: Lighter fluid is the scariest thing. The whole deal is scary. I don't even know how people grill without going up in flames. Jonathan loves it. LOVES it. Fine. I hide.

 HARLEY: Do I look like someone who would know the answer to these questions?

Because Harley's twins turn nine today--Happy Happy Birthday Birthday--One Memorable childhood birthday.

 HARLEY: When I turned 10, my big sister made me a chocolate cake and then dropped it. But she "mended" it with a few hundred toothpicks and a lot of frosting, the Elmer's Glue of the baking world.

HEATHER: Oh, Harley and twins . . . happy birthday!

 HANK: I have absolutely no memory of any childhood birthday. So I thought, when I heard this question, maybe I'll call Mom and see if she remembers. Luckily, I stopped myself. Can you imagine THAT conversation? When I'm SURE she worked and worked to do wonderful things for little me...and I have NO memory of it at all. What can we learn from this?

 Memorial Day Mandates: what is a seasonal must-do this weekend?

HANK: I always say I'll do it later, but those winter clthes were taunting me. So I put them all on the third floor mothball room and brought down the summer stuff. And I am wearing FLIP FLOPS! And, we have switched to gin and tonics. Diet tonic, HIGHLY recomended.

 HARLEY: Survive it. And change the outfit on Bob, our dining room mannequin, from his winter tux to his swim trunks and tank top.

HEATHER: I think that has to do with the year--this year? MUST finish Civil War vampires. Yes, Civil War Vampires. Have to save DC from the scourge before Monday night.

HANK: Heather, you're too funny. Good luck with that.

[image error] 

Do you wear white shoes all year? How about white jackets?

HEATHER: I'm from Florida. I didn't know that you were supposed to change your sandal color by the season. I never wear white jackets. Black is my color--five kids, something spilled on you constantly . . . black just cleans the easiest, and thats the way it goes! Oh, I have one pair of black and red boots that I love. I'm not sure where the black shoes came in . . . I guess they just go with the other black.

HANK: No white shoes til Memorial Day. Do I even have any white shoes? I don't have any white shoes.  (Although I like those above..hmmm...)White jackets--always. White wool is a lot different than white linen.

 HARLEY: Nope. I'm a classicist. Summer only. Unless they're running shoes, of course.

 The real Memorial Day--who are you remembering today?

 HANK: My Dad. See above. Memorial Day really gets me. Boston Common is covered in American flags today. Twenty-thousand of them. All those sons and daughters.

 HARLEY: My dad. Rest in peace, Joe.

 HEATHER: I think about my family, of course. And I also think of friends gone, our soldiers out on the field now, and those who fought before. I'm amazed to think of the Revolution and the Civil War, and all those men who walked right into blazing cannons and bullets being fired directly at them. I know that I'm a terrible coward, and I'm incredibly grateful for those who fought for me. And I think about the founders of the country, too--men who signed the Declaration of Independence, knowing they'd fight a war against incredible odds, and be hanged if they were caught.

 And I think of my mom and her family, and how much it meant to them to move to this wonderful country. Yeah. We have our problems, but we get to voice our complaints out loud with no fear, vote and campaign for change, and talk about our leaders.

And we'll leave it to dear Heather to wrap up:

HEATHER: No one pretends that democracy is perfect or all-wise. Indeed, it has been said that democracy is the worst form of government except all those other forms that have been tried from time to time.Of course, that quote is from Sir Winston Churchill but it sums it up nicely. Memorial Day--Thank you to all the heroes and heroines who have fought for us.

 So--you don't have to answer them all--but hey, tell us about your Memorial Day!

Whirlwind Tour of St. Louis

By Elaine Viets

I grew up in Tornado Alley, so I learned to recognize twister weather. My hometown of St. Louis has been battered by vicious windstorms these last six months. They seem to attack on holidays.

New Year's Eve, a tornado struck the south part of the city. Poor Joplin was also hit.

Good Friday, another storm stomped the St. Louis airport and flattened homes in north county.

Now it was close to Memorial Day. I was back in St. Louis signing "Pumped for Murder" and my other mysteries at local bookstores.

When I came out of the Borders near the Galleria, more grim weather was on the way. The sun was gone. I felt a cold wind under the heat. The uneasy sky was churning with dark, brackish clouds. Worse, long strings trailed from those clouds.

Tornado!

I high-tailed it out of the parking lot. I was staying with my friend Karen in Olivette, a west suburb. By the time I pulled into her driveway at 4 o'clock, rain pelted my windshield. The radio blared warnings: tornados had been spotted in the south, west and eastern parts of the metro area.

The TV was even more frantic. The weather map was dotted with tiny red twisters, purple patches for hail and dark green for flash floods. Those cheery colors meant misery and destruction. Between the local weather warnings, TV viewers saw the heartbreaking tornado damage in Oklahoma and Joplin.

By 4:30, the tornado sirens were wailing. Karen's lush green backyard still had smashed wrought-iron lawn furniture and two cords of wood from a tall tree toppled in the Good Friday storm. It was not reassuring. Neither was the sudden, deathly stillness. Now it was so dark, I switched on the lights. Karen's house has huge windows and no basement. I grabbed two blankets and the phone and shut myself in the guest bath, the only windowless room.

From there I called my husband Don in Fort Lauderdale. "There's a tornado coming," I said. "Talk to me."

"What do you want me to say?" he asked.

"Anything. I'm scared."

"I have good news," he said. "I don't have to work tomorrow night, but I don't think that helps you now. Is your signing tonight at the library still on?"

It didn't seem likely. Jagged baseball-sized hail was breaking windshields in south St. Louis. People would be too busy calling their insurance companies to see me at the library.

Don and I talked about our work until I finally let the poor guy hang up. I realized my call was selfish: Don's last memory of me could have been hearing me shriek as I was sucked out of Karen's house. I figured that was covered under the "for better or worse" clause in the marriage vows.

By 5:30, the driving rain had slowed. I was supposed to talk and sign at the St. Louis County Library in 90 minutes. I called the library and asked, "Are we on for tonight?"

"We're in the basement," a librarian said. "We had to evacuate the building when a funnel cloud was spotted overhead. You can talk to Mr. B. He's in charge." That was James Bogart, manager of the St. Louis County Library Foundation.

The rain was easing and the funnel cloud had moved on. Librarians and patrons left the basement shelter. I said I'd go the library in case some stragglers showed up, but I didn't expect anyone.

I was wrong. People started arriving at 6 o'clock. Old friends and new readers braved the flash floods and thunder – including Alan P, Queen Molly and Princesses Yael and Merav. (Alan took the photos. That's Yael in purple and pink and Merav in black.)

James Bogart and Holland, the bookseller from Pudd'nHead Books, carried in  extra chairs for the crowd. By 7 o'clock, about a hundred people packed the auditorium. Hail, tornados and flash floods don't stop St. Louisans. They laughed at my jokes and bought books. I hope the audience had as good a time as I did.

I left for Florida the next morning. I was in a hurry to get home to Fort Lauderdale.

Hurricane season starts Wednesday.

                                ***

Help our tornado victims. Donate to your favorite relief organization. Or send a check directly to the Polk County Emergency Management, PO Box 181, Bolivar, Mo. 65613. Mark it "Joplin."

 

Memorial Day

[Margaret Maron:   TLC welcomes back, Julia Spencer-Fleming, whose newest book, One Was a Soldier, is getting excellent reviews across the country. Her website is www.JuliaSpencerFleming.com] 

 

Lilacs,

False blue,

White

Purple,

Colour of lilac.

Heart-leaves of lilac all over New England,

Roots of lilac under all the soil of New England,

Lilacs in me because I am New England.   -Amy Lowell

 

They're everywhere in New England. You see them behind ancient stone fences running along backroads that were thoroughfares in the 18th century. They tower above white-painted barns; hard, twisted wood two hundred years old. They flank driveways running up to pre-fab houses; short, well-behaved cultivars bought from the nursery down the road. Get in your car and drive out of the city and the country roads will be a blur of tender green and lilac, lilac, lilac. Park the car and walk: the scent from the bushes growing singly, in pairs, in hedges will make you drunk on spring.

 

Still grows the vivacious lilac a generation after the door and lintel and the sill are gone, unfolding its sweet-scented flowers each spring…sole survivor of the family. -Henry David Thoreau

 

Lilacs smell like the past. They smell like your grandmother, like marble gravestones, like Transcendentalism. When you read Thoreau and Emerson and Whitman, their words smell like lilacs. They are sentimental, Victorian, like the violets spreading by the old carriage drive and the lily-of-the-valley tucked up against the cool granite foundation. They were planted a hundred years before you or I were born, and they will outlast us, as they have outlasted many others.

When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd,

And the great star early droop'd in the western sky in the night,

I mourn'd, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring. --Walt Whitman

 The lilac is the flower of Memorial Day. Decoration Day, as it used to be called by the ladies of the town, who, along with the Veterans of Foreign Wars and the Volunteer Fire Department would be out beforehand, neatening the graves of the honored dead, digging up weeds and planting annuals and slipping small American flags into aluminum holders that looked far too delicate for such an important job. Just as every New England town has its statue of a Union soldier eternally standing watch on the courthouse lawn or village square, so to does every cemetery have its Civil War dead, the first recipients of Decoration Day refurbishment. The first generation that mingled the scent of lilacs and memories and tears. The first, but not the last.

O death, I cover you over with roses and early lilies, 

mostly and now the lilac that blooms the first,

Copious I break, I break the sprigs from the bushes,

With loaded arms I come, pouring for you,

For you and the coffins all of you O death. - Walt Whitman

 

In my small town we cut the heavy blooms off their tough woody stems and carried them to the bridge over the Kill – the river. We brought them in armloads and in bike baskets and in Radio Flyer wagons. We marched behind the high school band and the Ambulance Company and the D.A.R. and Miss Washington County Dairy Queen sitting in a shiny Lincoln Town Car with the dealership name on the sides. When we reached the bridge, the music wheezed to a stop and there was a speech. Or perhaps a poem. In my memory, it is always They shall not grow old as we who are left grow old, but I may be inserting that for the fine effect it surely would have made. Then we throw them into the Kill. They fall thick into the dark clear water, so many that it seems you could walk over lilacs and never wet your feet. They slip and slide, pushed past turtled rocks, casting heart-shaped shadows over the pebbled streambed, breaking apart, floating out of sight.

                                

They only last a few weeks. Memorial Day comes and goes and with it the blossoms, leaving behind pleasant leafy screens that never trouble the mind. But if lilacs stir memories, memory breeds lilacs. You may carry them with you: the stone wall, the white-painted clapboard. The granite plinth and the small sturdy flag. And the lilacs, scratching your arms, their antique scent making you dizzy, as you march in the hot green afternoon to a stone bridge over a river.

I may finally find myself
somewhere beyond the treeline,
beyond loss.

For though I don't believe
in ghosts, I am haunted by lilacs. - Linda Pastan