Memories of Home

Well, I decided to publish Memories of Home a day ahead of schedule; how many times will I get the chance to release a book on Leap Day?

Not too many, I imagine.  I can't begin to tell you how good it feels, letting a book go live.  Especially this novel, which wrapped up my first (unintentional) series.  Then led to three more manuscripts, which will be published starting in summer.

But for now, here's the continuing story of Alvin, Jenny, Sam, Tommie and the rest.  BIG BIG thanks to Julie K. Rose for expert editorial assistance, my future son-in-law Brian for the cover, and Bob for putting up with me over the last few days while formatting (not to mention the last years of all the writing).  Especially my husband, kids and extended family and friends; this novel is dedicated to them, for the tremendous love that inspired the Smiths, Cassels, Baxters and Harrises.  I cannot fully express my gratitude except to say I would not be doing this if their faithful support and steadfast love wasn't so deeply ingrained within my heart.  And as always, thanks to everyone at NaNoWriMo for putting me on this fictional course.  And to God, to whom all I am is shown every day, for better or worse.  Sometimes it's not so pretty, but today, on this rainy and wonderful extra day of 2012, here's a novel I wrote in appreciation of blessings and life.  And lastly to all you readers; enjoy!

Updated: R.I.P. Davy Jones 1945-2012

Do I believe in censorship?

Boy, that's a mouthful.  The reason for this post is that over the last few days, a brou-ha-ha has been spinning at Smashwords; PayPal has told them to boot all for sale (but not free) erotica that handle three specific issues; rape, bestiality and incest.  The nitty gritty is that PayPal doesn't want to facilitate monies that are garnered through the sales of erotic titles focusing on the above subjects.  Smashwords isn't the first site they have approached with this new policy; Bookstrand and All Romance Ebooks have received the same order, as well as independent writers using PayPal on their websites.  Now immediately this smacks of censorship; PayPal shouldn't have any right to say what gets published, even if what they don't like is also in my personal opinion icky and repulsive.

This is a hard post to write, such a slippery slope.  That's the crux of Mark Coker's argument, of others too.  That to discount this section of erotica leads to other forms of suppression, and then we're looking at book burning.  Well, not quite, but one form of restriction leads to another, and while I might find the above issues repugnant, others don't.  My angsty dramas aren't everyone's cuppa, we all have our likes and dislikes.  That PayPal is citing certain genres of erotica on their bully pulpit is disgusting, but to be honest, I'm having a hard time feeling tons of sympathy for those who choose to employ such plot devices.  Yes I write about sex, between consenting adults.  I've not written an actual rape scene, but I've explored the effects of sexual abuse and Coker notes PayPal's actions only reflect upon erotica, not when used in general fiction.  Smashwords is a great tool, I can't imagine my indie career without it.  However much of their business is in erotic fiction.  And some of that fiction is pretty darn pornographic.  If you check their homepage, initially all titles that have been marked as those for over eighteen years of age won't appear unless you tick the adult filter off box.  I do tick that box, but also choose for covers to be removed, because some are, in my opinion, very explicit.  And that is what freedom of expression is all about, right?  The ability to publish whatever one wants to.  No actual sex acts are allowed on Smashwords covers (although IMHO some are darn close, why I finally just removed all covers), and if PayPal gets their way, no erotic books with bestiality, rape or incest between those covers will be for sale.

Do I like this?  Ebooks author Jonathan Bloom states it best: "I feel like someone trying to sell a homemade quilt on the street next to a line of high-end hookers."  That sums up many of my feelings using Smashwords.  But they distribute to so many online retailers and I am very appreciative and can't fathom using any other service.  There aren't any other ebook distributors like Smashwords, who will take a properly formatted Word document and turn it into several different ebook formats, then send those novels to Barnes & Noble, Apple, Sony, Kobo, and Diesel.  I don't want my books to lose that pipeline, nor do I want someone telling me I can't write this or that.  And I do write about sex; The War On Emily Dickinson is very explicit in places, but how to write a novel about AIDS in the 1980s without, at times, just spelling it out?  Is that porn?  Is it even erotica?  It is a healthy dose of one of the most basic forms of human expression amidst a dramatic story line.  Yet, if the story line is only about sex...  Then it depends on the type of sex.  And that's the gray area.  No one wants to raise their hand and say, "Well yes I'm all for rape, bestiality and incest."  But America is a (mostly) free society and we have a constitution that allows for freedom of expression.  It's an encompassing liberty, reaching from the end of one spectrum to another.  I'm a self-confessed bleeding heart liberal, but even I have a difficult time raising the flag supporting such topics.  Yet...

Oh man!  Okay, yes, PayPal is being a bully.  Mark Coker has done the best he can by capitulating.  Erotic authors can scream to the high heavens that they are being repressed; well, don't charge for these titles.  PayPal is only excising ebooks that are for sale.  If someone really feels called to write these sorts of stories, then drop the demand for payment.  At this point, Smashwords is too entwined with PayPal to simply pull the plug and find a new method of financial transactions.  Does this let PayPal off the hook?  No, because here I am castigating them and others are too.  What PayPal is doing stinks, even if I find the material smelly as well.

Do I believe in censorship?  No.  Do I believe people should be free to write explicitly about bestiality, rape and incest and make money off of it?  I nod my head with an underlying notion of disdain.  Do I want freedom of expression?  Absolutely.  Dude, it's a slippery slope indeed...

the last days

Right before I publish a novel, the last flurry of edits occurs, which is no more than one final read-through, which leads to formatting.  Then uploading and voila!  A new novel is released, out of my hands.

That sounds quick and easy, but of course, as any writer knows, there is no quick and easy when it comes to noveling, whether it's indie or traditional.  So much work, but eventually, it all comes down to these last days, like of pregnancy; very soon it's all going to change.

The funniest part, which I did not at all anticipate, was how each book that I had plotted, researched, and outlined, drafted, edited and revised, formatted, read-through, then uploaded, suddenly stopped being mine.  My name adorns the cover, sits within the text, but I assumed they would remain mine forever.  Such a fallacy, at least for me.  Maybe it's from having published more than a few in a short space of time, or just the inevitable notion that Jack and Meg White so eloquently expressed when they split up a year ago; their music was now for the fans.  My books are for the readers.  I'll not be touching them again.

I could, so easy to smooth out bumps and bruises; just upload a new version on Smashwords, or issue a new edition on Lulu.  But I am of the firm conviction a novel is how it is, like a painting; to revise once it's been released is like tampering with nature.  I know artists redo songs, maybe they are immune from this, because every time a singer performs live, the song is altered, changed, but with books and paintings and sculptures, what has been set down is final, permanent, forever.  And no longer belonging to the artist.  It's for all who see it, read it, take whatever they need from it.  No longer is it from who originally created it.

I felt that by going indie, my novels would remain MINE.  No editor or publisher could twist and poke; crit partners have that right, but ultimately manuscripts stayed under my control.  Which is true, until I publish them.  Then suddenly shackles fall, all I gripped and groaned over, all I sweated and toiled for is out of my hands in a peculiar but liberating manner.  It's taken a few novels to accept this, but as Memories Of Home, the third Alvin's Farm book, is about ready to hit the web, I smile when I think of my initial naive notions.  I was an independent novelist, I owned my tales, blah blah blah; hah!  The books live in the internet, in eReaders, in people's hearts.  How do I assume to wrench back that sort of possession?

No possible way; The White Stripes knew exactly what they were on about.  Their tunes swirl in my soul, so many favorites that they set to vinyl, performed on stages, but as soon as they worked out the lyrics and chords, melodies and beats, who really owned those tunes?  Books are the same; I've been blessed to form the plots, write the words, conclude the message.  Then off each goes, landing in various venues, in all manner of devices and hands.  All I can do is be as honest as I'm able, tell each story with compassion, humor, truth.  Truth is a biggie for me, and one of the most striking is that for all my indie aspirations, once a book is published, it's gone.  I don't rework it, I don't cling to it.  I can't, for my sanity and because more plots clamor for attention.  So, as I set to begin the last check of Memories Of Home, I say a little prayer, thankful for this opportunity, and for endings.  Which always lead to something new...

method writing

Bob and I have seen some fine films lately; On The Waterfront and The Train spring to mind, the classic movie channels full of Oscar nominated and winning films.  Reading about those movies, I'm returned to method acting, taught by Lee Strasberg, Stella Adler and others, typified by Marlon Brando, James Dean, Joanne Woodward, Paul Newman, Al Pacino, Julie Harris, Robert DeNiro, Anne Bancroft, and countless others.  The essence of method acting is to combine the character's motives with the actor's own, drawing on personal experiences to identify with the role.  Instead of using makeup and facial expressions, method acting asks the pupil to create within themselves the thoughts and feelings of their characters.  Method acting doesn't demand an actor to live in their character 24/7, although some actors employ this notion of staying in character.  Watching these fantastic older films always trips my heart; they don't make movies they way they used to.

But this entry isn't about film; a friend of mine has asked more than once how I write characters that often make her cry, make her dream of them.  I will admit to a perverse pleasure when I know my writing offers such effects; I don't set out to wring tears, but I do want to tell an honest tale.  I want to make my characters as real as possible, and I spend an inordinate amount of time mumbling through potential storylines and dialogue to get the feel for my cast, banter that occurs when I'm driving alone, in the shower, anywhere vaguely private so no one will think I'm simply talking to myself.  Which is exactly what I'm doing, but all for art's sake.  Actors can get away with that sort of posturing, but the average person on the street would be looked at with trepidation in such instances.  But how else can I make sure these people are who they are?  Talking out various scenes that usually have little play in the actual novel; sometimes I mumble things I think are really great, fully aware I wouldn't be able to recreate those lines if my life depended on it!  But it gets me into character, many of them.  Maybe I'm a little crazy.  Maybe not so little.

I've been doing it this way for a long time, maybe since the very beginning.  Once I have a feel for a character, no matter how large or small, then I can write that person's voice.  Why reading Elliot Rose's quote was so altering; I have most of The Hounds Of War And Love set, but the center of a book is the most tricky; over the initial hump, leading to the big finish, the middle has to hold, needs to matter.  Jillian Scotland is a big part of the story, her role set in that precarious halfway place, but I'd forgotten about her amidst the bigger players.  Henry's an impenetrable jerk, Rebecca's cloistered and pensive.  Clyde is a mess, Helen's resigned, Ellis is shut away, Mark is watchful and Jillian...  Jillian was a big fat blank until I read Elliot's idea on peace; just a lot of hopes put together.  All of Jillian's family teeters on that pinnacle, one seemingly as impossible as world peace itself.  But truths do come from the mouths of babes, from those least expected.  Alvin Harris is a great example, oh he was so wonderful to write!  And now that the center of Hounds has been established, the rest will slowly fall into place.  Jillian's eternal optimism will draw out her recalcitrant mother, her wayward father, her lost grandfather.  Others too, some who won't even meet her, but that's true in life.  I might never meet Miss Elliot Rose, but Hounds will be dedicated to her.

I hope this answers my friend's query, how I write characters.  Method writing isn't at all as famous as method acting, but for me, it's the only way...

butt-kicking quote

So after Bob and I returned from SoCal, I spent much of Friday in a snotty fog.  I had hoped to start some revisions, whether for imminent publication or just one of my novels from the vaults.  Lately it's been Alvin's Farm all over the place, more Alvin, Jenny and Sam than my brain can tackle!  The break from work was so necessary, not so much the head cold that dogged my heels.  But all things happen for one reason or another; as I sat at my usual spot last Friday, struggling to keep my thoughts straight, I perused beloved blogs.  As I clicked, I found the most beautiful words, which led to my spending much of last weekend reworking the playlist for The Hounds Of War And Love.  That idea had been all I could ponder for much of last autumn, then was lost in the shuffle of the Smiths, Cassels and Alvin Harris.  I'm about to release the third novel in that series, which will then go on hiatus until late summer, when the last three books will be published.  I need a break from Alvin, Jenny and  Sam, bless their hearts.  And one small quote from a four-year-old was just what I required.

Real peace is just a lot of hopes put together.

Miss Elliot Rose receives the grandest of props for that insightful and blessed notion; from the mouths of babes of course.  When I read that quote, I was stunned, then made giddy for the simplicity and foresight.  Then a brick landed upside my head, and I scrambled to put on The Hounds Of War And Love playlist.  Teeming with '70s tunes, I added more, deleted some, then spent much time listening to Neil Young, Linda Ronstadt, Cheap Trick, The Electric Light Orchestra, Aerosmith and Olivia Newton-John.  Songs were shuffled in my ear buds or piped through my small PC speakers.  Fortunately Bob can stomach most of those artists, although he did question all the ONJ; only four songs, but he's not big on somewhat sappy seventies singers.  I am, in moderation, especially when balanced by plenty of Cheap Trick and Aerosmith.  By Sunday evening I had a fairly firm list of thirty-five tunes, grouped four to six at a time, corresponding to the wide-ranging tale this novel will tell.  Set from the mid-1960s to around 2015, Hounds entwines the Scotlands, Nesmiths and Leahys amidst the Vietnam and second Iraq conflicts.  I'm looking at either a late summer or November writing schedule, still much to research on those wars, plenty of plotting to accomplish.  But the story had languished, overwhelmed by the residents of Arkendale, Oregon and various other clans until I read Elliot's quote.

Suddenly I had the voice for Jillian Scotland, daughter of '70s soft rock singer Rebecca Scotland.  Funny how one small-ish piece slips into place and the rest chugs right along.  By the end of the weekend Bob was up to the gills with Linda Ronstadt and Olivia N-J, probably had heard his fill of Neil Young, Cheap Trick, ELO and Aerosmith too.  Before it's all over, those artists will be floating through the house, racking up plays on Last.fm; Cheap Trick moved into my top twenty with all that investigation.  But what else could I do?  Here was Jillian handed to me in Elliot's beautiful, innocent words, aspirations we all carry, but as adults our views are tainted.  World peace; isn't that the impossible dream?  Two reporters were killed in Homs, Syria; journalist Marie Colvin and photographer Remi Ochlik.  While last year's Arab Spring has brought freedom to many, repression continues.  It's a circle, maybe never to close.  But humans still seek the better angels of our natures, what Abraham Lincoln said during the American Civil War.  The better angels somehow survive, regardless of how hopeless it seems.

If we can put enough of those hopes together, peace will endure.  Just ask Elliot.  She's only four, but knows exactly what she's on about.

back in the saddle, sniffle

When I'm unwell, I am rubbish for proper work.  No writing, no editing, but of course the minds spins; plots emerged over the weekend, as well as big inspiration for The Hounds Of War And Love, which has sat quietly since I poured copious energy into it last autumn.  I've been feeling a tad guilty over that novel, one that captured so much of my attention after last year's trip to The National Mall.  Since then it's been editing this novel for release, tidying that manuscript for publication, some scattered writing interspersed.  But a few days back I read a quote that kicked my butt.  As soon as I seek permission to reprint it, I will share that amazing sentence.

One collection of thought spurred me to reorganize the playlist for Hounds; music is the initial creative kernel for most of my books, songs in correct order.  I even started another playlist (Where am I supposed to get the TIME to write all these ideas, huh?) with a title in hand, no real plot until I saw this article in today's LA Times.  Between that and recently viewing On The Waterfront and The Train, I've had the itch to write something meaningful, or at least more than just the usual angsty drama.  Many of my novels have some, dare I say it, message among the prose.  But viewing those films really touched me, the way they were shot as well as the story.  If you've not seen them, please do!

So it's Monday and I'm feeling fair.  Not great, but well enough to start a round of Gentle Morning Edits on an old novel, The Road Home.  I wrote it in 2008 for NaNo, the sequel to Detours, which was penned in April of that year.  Why am I sorting the sequel first?  Because Detours needs more work than Gentle Morning Edits can provide, especially with me still battling this head cold.  The last thing I need is Rigorous Morning Overhauls, which is what Detours requires, mostly at the beginning.  The Road Home is in much better shape; funny how just a few months makes a difference in the writing!  I've revised those novels many times since 2008, but as I've found, the eyes constantly improve, finding better ways of getting across one's point.  Those books had a subtle nudge to marital equality, which in 2008 California was a big deal.  Four years later it's still in the news, not sure which way Proposition 8 will go, to the Supreme Court perhaps?  The Hounds Of War And Love will touch on the Vietnam and Iraq conflicts, September Story deals with racism, The War On Emily Dickinson is about AIDS.  A Slider, Tumbling denotes alcoholism amidst baseball, and I'm thinking about releasing a novel this summer comparing varying methods of torture, thanks to Herman Cain and Michele Bachman's unfathomable statements from last fall's political fury.  Yes, I can get on a bit of a soapbox, but as Alta McIntyre tells her granddaughter Jo Adams in September Story, one has to be careful; no fun falling off a high horse.

Yet, as a news hound of an author, I can't ignore what swirls around me, be it talking heads or folks with Uzi's strapped across their backs.  I am in no way within the league of Elia Kazan or John Frankenheimer, but I aspire to tell such wrenching tales.  Why?  Well, because I can't look askance at what sits around me.  I might live in Silicon Valley, but techie sorts aren't the only residents.  Injustice pervades every spot on the planet, drama too.  Blending those isn't easy, but it's what I do.  One of my favorite writer's quotes is that of Stephen King when asked why he writes such terrifying tales.  His response: What makes you think I have a choice?

Sometimes choices are very difficult; Elia Kazan is a perfect example.  If someone ever questions my views, all I could say is if I erred, it was on the side of love.  Other than that, I want to tell a good story.  Now that the tea and painkiller have taken effect, best to get back to work.  That horse isn't too high, but he's chomping at the bit, raring to go!

back home, cough cough

The house is rockin'...  Cheap Trick is blasting quietly as Bob and Bud are sleeping, but I'm awake, showered and dressed and Grape-Nutted.  Tea is in my mug, and as the rock and roll eases into my veins alongside the caffeine, the tissues are flying.

Yes, I have a cold.  (Long post as I tend to ramble when unwell...)

It was a great trip, so much to say, to sniffle, to put into a blog post.  For one, Thea really does live in Southern California.  It's not a myth or legend; my NorCal born daughter, raised in Yorkshire, England, now truly resides in SoCal.  All a geographic perspective, as she's the same lovely Thea who treks north as often as she and Brian can arrange, but yes, she really lives down there.  Bob used to, a long time ago, but that's the only family I have who has sailed that far south.  Yet Thea has her life established, school and her routine in place.  My little girl isn't really a little girl, she's getting married for goodness sake!  This trip was in part to get away with Bob, also to share in Thea's SoCal living.  On those fronts, it was a complete success!

Overall it was a fab trip, all but coming home with Bob's cold, and being flustered by allergies to Thea's cat.  Her roomies' cat, named Cat, is a gorgeous creature with the most stunning amber eyes, but so perilous to my nose, and that was before the cold hit.  We trekked around Los Angeles on Wednesday, mostly for one specific purpose, Jenette Bras.  I don't often go to LA, but when I do, I shop at Jenette Bras.  (Think Dos Equis beer pitchman with that sentence for full effect.)

Jenette Bras on Melrose; Bob snapped this while Thea and I enjoyed ourselves.  Plenty of parking just around the corner on N. Berendo Street.

Now, this is a blog about writing, it's also about my life.  When we helped move Thea south last summer, Bob and I made a stop at Ms. Goldstein's Melrose location, her only shop at the time.  Since December, a Pasadena branch has opened, but I love the downtown feel of Melrose and Heliotrope in East Hollywood.  If you are, as Jenette puts it, one of the overdeveloped and underserved, and if LA or Pasadena, California are in your sights, please please please do yourself a tremendous favor and visit Ms. Goldstein and her fantastic staff.  Needless to say, but I'll say it anyways, I left there a very satisfied woman and Thea did too.  And Bob?  Let's just say he sat in the waiting area, happy to let us have that mother-daughter moment.  Later he was quite pleased with all I purchased.

Okay, so back to the trip.  It rains in Southern California; it rained on us all day trekking to Jenette's, then around Southern California.  But traffic wasn't bad, and precipitation left the skies clean and bright for Thursday.  Bob and I had many good meals, of which some were shared with Thea; lots of Italian and I even splurged on a root beer float.  Southern California has different flora than up north; we have palm trees too, but down there they look natural, they look...  Like Los Angeles, like all my notions of SoCal living.  California should be two states, at least, because our half is nothing like that half, especially after the whole SOPA thing; entertainment rules the southern counties while tech roars up here.  Now, that doesn't include the REAL NorCal, which rests above the state capital of Sacramento, so maybe three states should be this enormous stretch along the Pacific.  But that's for others to debate; all I know is last night when we flew away, bright lights shining in the darkness, I thought of my daughter down there somewhere.  Thea lives in SoCal, she really does.

Southern California...

I however live here, which is so much for the best.  (All the money I'd spend at Jenette's for instance, would make Bob's bank balance ill, although he wouldn't mind personally.)  Even in the morass of Silicon Valley, life is so much simpler; fewer freeways, less palm trees, more weather (relatively), smaller population.  WAY smaller population; LA is America's second largest city, San Diego just to the south is the eighth.  Around here San Jose just tops one million folks, San Francisco hovering around 800K, Oakland at 450,000.  Our entire Bay Area hits 7 million, which includes all the east bay cities, peninsula and north bay locales. The Los Angeles-Long Beach-Santa Ana metropolitan area boasts twelve million, kicking our butts, and that doesn't includes San Diego, Riverside, San Clemente, San Bernardino, and Oceanside, which I as a NorCal girl add, probably making LA-types roll their eyes.  SoCal is SoCal is SoCal, and the best parts are my daughter and Jenette's.

So...  Now I'm home, and all that seems very far away, even if a plane trip is just an hour.  I'm glad to be home, easier to blow my nose loudly here.  But it was great to get away, see Thea, think about things other than writing, editing, and plots.  I thought about my family, those close, then Bud watching the house and Jay as our airport ride.  My kids aren't small, not like the toddler dancing in the back of Jenette's as her mum tried on bras.  I thought; Thea was just that age, really she was!  Now she's twenty-three, nuptials on the horizon, living in an enormous spread of lights that never dim.  The shine of that entire area knocked my socks off as our departing plane settled along the coast, miles and miles of twinkling buildings, inhabitants as far as I could see.  Then the sparkles lessened as central California emerged, darkness interrupted by a few random bursts of light.  Bob and I had the exit row with no window seat; in the usual middle spot, my view was unimpeded, and I gaped as if flying for the first time.  Honestly, I haven't flown to SoCal since I was a kid, going to Disneyland, less than ten years old.  Those lights were probably smaller back then, but not by a discernible amount.  Southern California has always been vast; nearly three million people back in 1970, almost four million forty years later.  Acres and acres of sprawl, such a strange place.  Yes I live in a fairly large community now, but Yorkshire wasn't like NorCal or SoCal, and my hometown's but a speck on the proverbial landscape.  Yet, here I am, living in the big city, but not as big as where Thea dwells.

Big city in SoCal...

So LA, bras, California population counts, my cold; what am I missing?  Bob feels better, realizing that was probably the last occasion he would spend a significant amount of time with his girl before she marries Brian.  As the MOB (mother of the bride), I have plenty of opportunities ahead, but not Bob.  They walked together, talking math/physics, hurling witticisms left and right.  She is so much her daddy, maybe even more now with their shared Southern California link.  He grew up there from the age of eleven, a Midwestern boy thrown in the maelstrom of the West Coast; dude!  Thea's introduction wasn't quite as jarring, but still an experience.  My small sojourn reminded how happy I am in my little life; I missed work, but was glad to get away from it for a bit.  Publishing is an ongoing process, so is the getting used to publishing.  For four years all I did was write and edit, a smattering of querying thrown in for good measure.  Now it's all changed, like going from NorCal to SoCal, which is actually very apropos, when I think about it.

I went from north to south in my writing, a HUGE transition.  Thea has done well subtly altering her way of life, but she's young.  I'm creeping toward forty-six, and let's face it, I'm pretty set in my ways.  However, change is beneficial; I'm wearing the correctly-sized bra after all these years and am lovin' it!  Publishing my novels even in my small, quiet manner is a massive undertaking, but there's no map for indie novelists other than just taking the steps, seeing where we land.  I've incorporated a few modifications, probably more to come as the years pass.  I'm in this for the long haul, unlike Thea and Bob's tenures in Southern California.  Those were for set periods of time, but the writing and publishing are now organically entwined, nothing separating them.  As long as Thea lives in SoCal, a part of me dwells there too, nothing I can do about that either.

Taken by Thea on Thursday afternoon...

Well, Thea and Jenette.  If Ms. Goldstein ever opens a San Francisco or San Jose store, oh goodness...  I might start charging for ebooks just to keep myself in pretty undergarments!  And if that's TMI, well, I do apologize.  

love is in the air

Valentine's Day tomorrow; Bob and I will be off for a few days R&R.  The middle of February wasn't exactly the warmest time of year to get married; we celebrated in Wales one year, probably the coldest anniversary I will ever spend!  But I will never forget driving up a forested hill, a winding, picturesque creek to our right, then topping that bend, finding black slate all along the other side.  Northern Wales is known for that rock, and somewhere around here I have a coaster to prove it.

This year we're travelling to SoCal to see Thea, maybe hit the beach.  Not quite frigid Welsh temps, but still winter (it's actually raining right now, dude!).  But when young and in love, Valentine nuptials seem a most apropos occasion.  I was twenty-one and deeply aware I'd met my one and only.  If it was a little blowy and brisk out, so what?

Fresh, as they say in Yorkshire, and yes, that day was rather fresh, sunny, perfect.  Marrying that man was truly perfect, perhaps why I'm so enthralled in assisting with Thea and Brian's plans, maybe why all my novels are love stories at heart.  For nearly a quarter century, I've been blessed with the most generous, adoring spouse; he makes my heart sing, he answers all my questions.  He's Graeme Liddle if a Yorkshireman, Kell Vander Kellen at his most faithful, Gray Burnett as my defender.  He's Dan Bailey in concern, Alvin Harris in understanding me, Sam Cassel in perseverance.  He's Bill Dillion looking out for my well-being and Cade Walton coming through time and space.  Bob came north from SoCal, which is like travelling through universes.  He found me, then married me, completed me.  What more needs to be said?

On that note, I wish you all a fantastic week.  If you get bored with the above links, check out these performances by the incomparable Whitney Houston.  I'm not a Whitney fan per se, but as a sometimes singer, as a mother, and as a music lover, her voice was stunning, her life bittersweet.  (I used Whitney's version of "I Will Always Love You" alongside the original by Dolly Parton in one of my early novels)  Again proof that life is short, gifts are precious.  Bob is one of my biggest, so off I go to celebrate the most incredible joy of my corporeal existence.  Happy Valentine's Day to everyone!

old lists, wedding errands, and a dedication

A wedding dress sits in Bob's man cave.  That's a one-sentence description of the last couple of days, but sums up well the state of life about now.  Wedding wedding wedding, in a way; Thea and Brian's in a few months, another many years back, before that girl was more than a speck.  Bob and I celebrate our anniversary next week, and Thea followed a timely nine months and one week later.  Now she's looking at nuptials, and believe me, with that dress in the extra bedroom (also now Bob's adopted hideaway), not to mention toasting flutes that arrived in the post while I was gone, well, tinkling church bells are a soundtrack to my life.  Not in an oppressive way, just new.  I've not been intimately involved in planning a wedding since my own twenty-four years ago.

(Heads-up; long-ish weekend post...)

That was a very small affair, on the front lawn of my childhood home on a sunny, windswept February afternoon.  Bob and I are heading to see Thea next week, visiting with her as well as celebrating another year together, also more wedding bits in the mix.  Yesterday I spent the day with that girl, Brian too, checking out the wedding and reception venues.  Thea and I picked up the dress, where she modeled it at the shop, again feeling that wave of giddiness and small incredulity; is this real?  Now that we have the gown, yeah, I think it is.

Waiting for everyone to arrive, but actually Bob was one of the last, offering a dramatic flair, bless his heart!  February 1988.


On Thursday afternoon, I picked Thea up at the San Francisco airport; she was coming north to spend the weekend with her betrothed, as it was their two-year anniversary, maybe it's that time of year, Valentine's Day some magnet.  That her plane arrived at 5 p.m. led to sitting in loads of traffic as we meandered through San Francisco, plodded across the Bay Bridge, then waded through the throngs trying to do the same as us; get out of the Bay Area during rush hour.  It gave us plenty of time to chat, then we arrived several hours later at Brian's apartment, where flowers and chocolates awaited my tired but pleased girl, also warm kolacky cookies Brian had made (oh were they good!).  We chatted briefly, but I was toast, and fell on the sofa with an exhausted plop, sent to dreamland by the rhythmic clacks made by a sucker fish belonging to one of Brian's roommates.  It sounded like the ticks of a clock, and I crashed to that soothing sound.

But as I'm wont, 3 a.m. hit and I was awake.  The fish was quiet, at least he had enough sense to sleep.  I scrolled through old iPod notes, deleting a good number, but keeping notes I made about Sis' twins;  T2 had eyelashes, T1 battled noisy hiccups, both girls rested against their mum for an hour and a half.  Other notes remained; books I wanted to publish (which of course has been revised about a dozen times since), the entire cast for South Downs, all the venues for Hand In Hand.  I use that note function far more than I realized, although I don't think any wedding details live in my iPod.  Thea has most of that in hand, I'm the sounding board.

Preparing to say our vows, a day I'll not forget!

The dress runner and centerpiece advisor and various other roles, but no wedding notes that I could find.  Book ideas, twin revelations, and as of yesterday morning at 5.11 a.m., the dedication for September Story.  As the fish snoozed, only a faint train rumble in the pre-dawn darkness, I thought about that novel, written in September 2008; Bob asked if I had ever come up with a more descriptive title, and no, I never have.  It's named for the month of its origin, the month when main characters Jo and Jeremy meet.  It also carries deep personal significance.  As I wrote that novel, more layers were tucked into it than iPod notes, and only over time and revisions have I plumbed those levels.  I'm planning to publish it in April, which might seem strange, why not in fall?  Well, in fall the rest of the Alvin's Farm series will be in full swing.  Instead September Story is slated for spring, which is when it was visible in the ABNA contest three years ago.

And that dedication?  I plunked it out while lying on a sofa that went from Britain to California to Thea's beloved.  That couch was from our shipment, found its way to where our kids all landed for college, now graces Brian's living room; he and Thea will take it when they move to Southern California after the wedding.  I lay there, hoping I might fall back asleep, listening for a sucker fish, only hearing a train rolling along the tracks.  Then I wrote out the dedication, thinking if I didn't, I'd lose that exact wording.  I've learned to follow the muse, whether it's 2 or 5 in the morning or whenever.  Novel revisions are one thing, but divine inspiration is another.  Now, the wording may change between now and April, but if nothing else, thoughts were captured after a long drive through a crowded city, then along dark, quiet freeways, also reaching over the last three years since I wrote this book, looking ahead to weddings and future days.

We wrote our vows, that paper now tucked away with our toasting glasses and various wedding day bits.


In autumn of 2008, Thea and Brian hadn't yet met, her second year of college, his first.  I had no plans to go indie, was barely getting my head around noveling at all.  But time doesn't stop; layers increase, imperceptibly and irrevocably.  What we choose to do with those moments and minutes, whether it's wedding dresses or plot points, makes all we are.  My favorite part of being a writer is twisting all my life (or what I still recall in this packed and aging gray matter) into some fictional hoo haa.  I try to pass along my core beliefs, that for all the crap we endure, good awaits.  Also that there is more to life than death and taxes; some deep beauty underlines all that emerges, whether it's sitting in motionless traffic while happily chatting with my eldest, sleeping on a sofa but lulled to slumber by a sucker fish, or consciousness at 5 in the morning, but coming up with what is a fairly firm novel dedication, then bringing home a wedding dress to boot!  Bob's man cave will just have to deal with it.  I'm sure by summer, that hideaway will hold more than Thea's gown and toasting glasses...

September Story dedication... For Mum, Lynn, Patrick, Sis and my husband.  For Joe, who didn't make it out of the Rover.  Especially for Dad, who did.

becoming a pedometrist

I am sort of addicted to keeping track.  I note the daily word count for every novel, also the decreasing chapter word counts as I edit.  Then there is Last.fm, where all my tunes are scrobbled if they are a digital file.  Right after the first of the year, Bob got me a pedometer through his work.  So for nearly a month, I've been carrying a small round disc in my pocket, keeping track of all my steps.

(When I remember to put it in my pocket...)

Now, with the butt in chair, I don't gather as many as I'd like.  An average day sees me between 3-4K.  A good day is over 7,000, and I've even hit 12K!  (I was wiped out the day after and just for reference, on days when Bob goes to the top of the mountain, he earns over 23K.)  But the last few days I've been forgetting to slip that little device in my pocket, yesterday realizing at ten a.m. that I was walking around, not getting credit for those steps!  I'm good today, already counting, well, I'm sitting right now, but I've nearly finished my Grape Nuts, and will be getting up for tea momentarily.  Even with yesterday's belated start, I still hit over 3,000 steps; I met Jay at the bridal shop to order her shoes for the wedding.  Then we went to lunch, well, she ate, I sat and chatted, having already chomped on my bagel at home.  To my surprise, I reached 3,400 steps by the end of the night, maybe it was shopping with Bob, pickings up his thyroid medicine, the mundane little errands that really add up when one doesn't peek.  And I admit, sometimes I do.

Like writing, tedious at times, when the story is stuck and a million other things are more interesting.  But little by little, paragraphs emerge, leading to scenes, leading to chapters.  Then suddenly a novel is formed, as if by magic.  I just went for tea; nine steps between the teapot and my chair, which is eighteen round trip, done at least, well, several times a day.  Our house is small, but after so many cups of tea, the loo calls, or the laundry or checking the mail or making the bed (which occurs mid-day usually); innocuous moments on my feet that by the end of the day round out to three or four thousand steps.  Now, if I walk, that's nearly 5K right there, but I've been lazy.  When spring hits (real Californian spring, not this faux winter but it feels like spring weather) I'll be hopefully back on the walking track.  Then those numbers will increase.

What's ironic is that for all my editing, I watch the numbers go DOWN.  I'm tightening a manuscript, why I like noting each day's work, visible proof of alterations.  Or maybe I'm just sort of crazy, keeping count of steps and words and songs.  We were scrobbling tunes before I found NaNoWriMo, maybe that's from where it sprung.  All I know is that I feel lousy when I plug in the iPod and tunes aren't accounted, or at eight in the morning, I note my left pocket has no pedometer in it!

As for counting words, so far I've not missed that, either in the addition or subtraction.  Songs and steps might be lost, but language is never missed.

a competition, footie, and a wedding

First I want to thank all who cast a vote for this blog on the eCollege Finder Writing Blog Award.  I wasn't a winner, but it was fun to participate. Final results when I get them!

Next, The Super Bowl, which Bob and I watched with great enthusiasm and as little hype as possible.  We waited to turn on the TV just until the actual game started, saw the coin toss, then sat down for an afternoon of our favorite sport.  Our teams may be different, but it's safe to say that both Bob and I LOVE American football. No other sport comes close.

Last year with his Packers involved it was nerve-wracking, hard to enjoy.  This year with the New England Patriots playing it wasn't quite that bad, but neither of us can stomach that team.  Ours may have been beaten by the New York Giants to get to the big dance, but that didn't stop us from rooting for them full out.  As Bob noted, if they won, we could say we lost to the Super Bowl winners, which isn't quite a salve, but certainly better than saying we lost to the guys who lost to the Patriots.

Football is a funny sport; physical, also needing finesse.  Crazy plays lead to defying athletic feats which make the footie-loving heart soar.  Mario Manningham's stunning 38-yard sideline catch kept the Giants alive and will be remembered far and wide, while Ahmad Bradshaw's near toppling into the end zone raises a smile.  The Pats let him score and he tried to stay out, so wanting to let that last minute tick down right there on the Pat's goal line.  Still, stumblin' bumblin' and rumblin' (hats off to Chris Berman) is how football is played.  That last hail Mary pass by Patriots' quarterback Tom Brady hit the ground as those precious seconds slipped from the scoreboard, and for the second time in four years, the New York Giants had won the Vince Lombardi Trophy at the expense of one particular team, a team that seems to have lost that Midas touch.

In Britain, the Super Bowl ran in the dark of night, sort of like how I find myself starting the day.  In America, the game spans the afternoon/evening, depending on your time zone, and as I watched, messaging with Thea about wedding details (centerpieces), I was fully caught up in a game turned national holiday.  Now, Bob and I mute the commercials, which might sound like blasphemy to many.  For many, that's the best part, like my eldest, who was watching those spots, trying to ignore my gentle prodding (centerpieces, champagne flutes, cake slicers).  Thea couldn't give two figs about football, also wasn't too intrigued by monogrammed cake knives.  As her mum, I throw these out, seeing what sticks.  She liked the idea of engraved toasting glasses, but sniffed at the idea of a cake knife just for the day.  I don't care, it's her wedding.  I'm the sounding board, making sure as many P's and Q's are noted (centerpieces).  As we messaged, Bob fired up the barbecue, Bud formed hamburger patties, then I took a break to slice onions and cheese.  Then back to my laptop (centerpieces); but I kidded my daughter that I was feeling a novel form in our innocuous online chatter, then considered what that might be like, a novel written in the form of online messaging.  If done well...

(centerpieces)

She gave several smiley faces, a ninja or two, as I again prodded (centerpieces).  Actually, she has an idea, has been considering it since we started all this banter; she wants books.  Yes, books, three or four stacked, tied in ribbon.  But getting her to make a decision is like watching football, wishing for the best outcome, unsure if it will occur.  Bob and I were dying for New York to win, but it took all sixty minutes of regulation time for that to occur.  As for Thea's wedding...

(centerpieces)

(ninja pokes head up, slips away, peers out again)

Well, there's going to be something on those tables besides white cloths.  Probably not San Francisco 49ers helmets, nor Green Bay Packers paraphernalia.  But maybe books, perhaps our own or those we find for cheap that if guests wish to take home, all they have to do is untie the ribbon, carry off a novel.  Thea is a huge reader of actual paperback (and the occasional hardcover) books, not to mention how she twisted my arm to land here on this blog.  It's just making her decide, making her choose.  She chose lovely flutes which will carry her and Brian's names, she eschewed monogrammed cake slicers.  And of course we have the dress, will pick that up later this week.  But other niggles remain, maybe how the Patriots felt when Bradshaw stumbled, bumbled, and rumbled into the end zone with fifty-seven seconds left on the clock.  New England had three ticks less than a minute and one time out to go the length of the field for a touchdown, but alas, it wasn't meant to be.

At least with Thea's wedding, ordinary cake knives won't make or break the day.

(Ahem, centerpieces...)

bright blue sky

Bright sky blue.  Streaked orange-blushed peach across the low horizon.  It's seven a.m.  I'm going to Capitola in a bit, once traffic has calmed, the blog attended, tea imbibed.  Right now all I can do is look eastward.

Some mornings are magical, hummingbirds flitting, the atmosphere like Rembrandt was asked to decorate the sky.  Maybe that's what the artists do, stand in a queue of sorts, waving brushes like wands, Van Gogh and Renoir and Mary Cassatt, Monet and Picasso and endless dreamers and troubadours, all waiting their turn.  Like us down here, scribbling and praying, waiting for our moment in the sun.

As light arises, clouds are less stark, turning from peach to cream.  The blue remains like a perfect crayon, sharp and eager, asking for a child to pick it up, turn the paper into sky.  Deep yellow lemons hang from a tree, wide oranges wait in the corner, while the crimson bottom of the feeder wafts straight out my view.  I'm a teller of tales, but a sucker for colours; I don't know if hummingbirds really are drawn to red, but striking hues stir my blood, music too.  Something about a vivid palate, whether it's in landscape, yarns, embroidery threads or even crayons; I had boxes of sixty-four dazzling shades as a kid, but when I sharpened those sticks, then broke open to all those shards, it was like opening a novel, words spilling, each meaning something.  Sentences connect, leading to paragraphs to chapters to an entire tale!  All those discarded wax slivers had been for a purpose, to brighten the paper, increase the velocity of eye to colour.  To share my vision with whomever took a look at it.

That's all I'm doing as an author, in my own little corner of a big, wide world, where artist-saints use their gifts to brighten my sky.  It's fleeting; right now the deep blue has faded, the clouds murky and dull.  But for those seconds fires blazed across the panorama.  Our words are like that every time someone reads them, whether published or simply shared.  This morning I'm just feeling grateful; maybe it's Friday, or that soon I'll be watching the waves.  Or perhaps it's just being glad to do what I love.  I always wanted to be a writer.  Today once again I am.

in love with books (and record albums too...)

Old-school, what will be on my tombstone, maybe a small carved novel and an album in the corners; no way to shake those items loose.  I release my tales as ebooks, listen to digital tunes more often than not.  But those relics still make me shiver, bringing pleasure that future generations won't comprehend.  During the day I've been reading books, actual paperback novels.  Evenings see me sitting on the sofa, music wafting from the turntable, thick heavy vinyl spinning at thirty-three revolutions per minutes; Kate Bush, Moby, Patsy Cline, J.J. Johnson and Kai Winding.  Kate sings "Misty" as I type, but it's from my machine, still lush and haunting, gorgeous and thrilling, but...

As Neil Young says, "So digitally clean..."  Never scratched, always perfect.  But not fat, real, true...  Or maybe I am a dinosaur.  Does it really matter between what the hands hold either in flipping pages or a large record sleeve?  Do the words change whether read from an ereader, are the notes altered within our ears?

On Saturday I received in the post two authentic, bound books; Oleanna by Julie K. Rose and The Soldier of Raetia by Heather Domin.  The box from Lulu was enormous for just two six by nine inch trade paperbacks, each wrapped in plastic against large cardboard, to assure no damage.  I was still working, so I didn't get to Domin's novel until later, then couldn't tear myself away.  Bob planted the peach tree we bought on Friday night, but the gladioli bulbs I was to stick into the ground waited.   And still are; I finished The Soldier of Raetia on Sunday as he pottered around, no football to watch.  Well, there was the Pro Bowl that afternoon, but that's about as interesting as watching a peach tree grow.  Instead I kept thinking about Dardanus and Valerian, about Rome, about the forests of Raetia, of a place so far in the past but brought to bright life by Domin's incredible prose, also how I've been lifted at night by those notes wafting from the speakers, small hints of dust on the record, the fat truth of my favorite music hitting my ears by a needle touching the album.  Words do that, stirring our brains into action, but are they better via paper or an electronic screen?

Ahem...  Don't tell anyone, but I think they're better from a real book.

Now, if Neil Young was here, would he slap my face?  I'm an author who releases nearly all my novels by digital file.  Yet, I can't lie; I enjoy reading print versions more.  How do I know this for sure?  Well, I read a sample of The Soldier of Raetia via Smashwords, and while I loved it, spurring me to buy the paperback, as I reread those initial chapters, I found details I'd missed, nuances undiscovered.  The same with Oleanna; Rose sent me a file, which I devoured.  But I'm rereading the actual paperback during lunchtime, and I just get more out of it.  The same with music; am I prejudiced?  Am I deliberately not paying enough attention when I read from a device or listen from one?

If I'm going to pay money for a novel, it's from our beloved Recycle Bookstore, or a similar fashion.  Yes Bob and I get books from Amazon; usually from used sellers, or new for the nieces and nephew.  Here's a plug for the young sport fan; Green Bay Packer Donald Driver has written children's books, beautiful hardcover tales with great illustrations.  We sent one each to Bea and C.J., probably irking my brother Patrick, a big Raiders fan.  (Sis and Tre didn't have any issues, bless them!)  This year I'm spending more time reading indie authors, but like myself, not many have print versions.  Which makes me itchy to put out another print novel, but it's so labor intensive compared to ebook formatting.

Anyways, as I held Heather and Julie's novels over the last few days, I was in love with the stories and their presentation, just like setting a flat, black disc on the turntable.  Real, meaningful, stunning; I can't say it any other way.  When Thea was little, she was leery of all our records.  But she loved The Go-Go's, and finally she gathered the courage to put one of their records on, letting the beauty of tunes fill the air.  My eldest recalls how music used to be enjoyed, and she's a voracious reader, but not of ebooks.  Maybe her generation will be the last to know that deep, lasting, hands-on connection to art.  As an artist (of sorts) I need to be aware of those manners of enjoyment; two nights ago I was taking one of the discs from the gatefold sleeve of Kate Bush's 50 Words For Snow, when out slipped a small white envelope; it was the compact disc of the same album!!

Bob and I had gone through the sleeves, admired the thick booklet included in the album, but missed this, a free CD of the very music in my hand.  Recent albums have provided a coupon for a free download, while Moby included the CD with his last release, 2011's Destroyed.  I had thought it odd Kate didn't do something similar, but Bob and I had just overlooked it.  That CD sits here on my desk, waiting to go to my car, where the Moby CD lives.  Maybe one of these days I'll make a print version for a novel or two; maybe when I'm full out of writing ideas, that's how I'll spend my retirement, formatting paperbacks while Bob plays Blast-Through, albums spinning in the background....