Reading, Writing and Musings

A Downward Spiral into a Blinding Sun

2011-01-05T17:29:00.001-08:00

If anyone still bothers to read this blog you will note I have not posted in a very long time. In fact, the last time I possessed the courage to blog I had fewer lines engraved on my face and was a few pounds heavier.

I believe 2010 (the last half, at least) was a toxic time. I was a stranger in a strange land, alternately peering into a fishbowl at the rest of the world or peering out of it, my mermaid tail banging helplessly against the algae-covered glass. "Look at me," I pleaded. "Save me."

I am not the only one. I watched my friends face financial ruin, suffer broken hearts, and meet mortality face-to-face. Meanwhile we all went out to dinner, drank more wine, spent money on things we didn't want anyway. I spent my time being a social butterfly, a mediocre writer, a diffident lover, trying (and sometimes failing) to be a good friend. My writing partner patiently ripped chapters out of me while I kicked and screamed. I tentatively wrote embarrassingly bad articles and rejected creative opportunities because I had no faith in me.

My artist's well has been dry for much of the year. The well was poisoned, the water turned dark and stagnant, and eventually nothing was left but bone dry dust settling over my eyes, my ears, my heart.

There is something magical about the dawn of a new year. A rebirth, it gives hope, a second chance, a sense of unlimited opportunity. I pray this year will be kind to me, and to you as well.

What I Learned at Sleuthfest 2010

2010-03-02T06:34:00.000-08:00

My good friend Jamie Morris from Woodstream Writers told me I "must" attend Sleuthfest 2010. We were sitting over a cup of coffee in Borders six months ago discussing my writing genre. At the time I knew what I wanted to write but had no idea what genre it fit into. I also had no idea what Sleuthfest was or why I "must" attend it.

Jamie sent me the link to Mystery Writers of America and after reading their website I knew Jamie was right; I "must" attend Sleuthfest 2010! I immediately began saving my pennies and reading books by the two keynote speakers, David Morrell and Stephen J. Cannell. After months of anticipation and preparation the day finally arrived. I packed my bags, loaded the van, and set out for Deerfield Beach.

Money is always an issue for me so I elected to stay in a nearby La Quinta on the first night. Thank God I had booked the Hilton for Friday and Saturday nights because I was not sure I would survive the night in the Bates Motel -- oh, excuse me, I meant La Quinta. The very first lesson I learned from Sleuthfest is do not pack a 900-pound suitcase if you're going to have to lug it up three flights of stairs. The second thing I learned is do not pack six pair of three-inch heels when you're going to be walking up and down an interminably long shiny marble hallway for three days.

Accomodations and apparel aside, here are a few (not all) of the valuable lessons I learned from Sleuthfest:

CONTACTS I met so many authors and agents who all had a story to tell, and I gratefully listened to all of them. The friends I made the first night stuck with me throughout the weekend, and hopefully at least some of us will keep in touch. From mere conversation I learned valuable information about marketing, pitching to an agent, what's happening in the publishing industry, and about other events for mystery writers.
PANELS If you're a writer like me who has attended writing workshops and devoured every book and blog on writing that's out there you may not get a whole lot out of structure and style panels. I found many of the panelists used the opportunity to pitch their own books rather than share their knowledge on writing. I veered from course after the third such panel and attended Point/Counterpoint with Paul Levine (author) and Paul Levine (agent). I learned how to get a previously self-published booked picked up by a publisher, how to buy and sell movie and television rights, and how to retain your rights if your work goes out of print. The next panel I attended was a CSI panel about recovering displaced caskets after Hurricane Katrina. I found the PowerPoint presentation fascinating and I now have three pages of notes about decomposing bodies.
MARKETING A common myth is if you get a publisher to pick up your book your work is done. You can sit back, rake in the dough, and watch your book climb the ranks of the New York Times bestseller list. Unless you are James Patterson or Stephen King that is simply not going to happen. You have to think of yourself as a business: You have to market yourself if you want to sell your book. Every author should have a website, blog, and Facebook and Twitter accounts. You must take every opportunity to sell your product, which is you. A publisher is not going to do it for you. Ever.

Finally, the most valuable gem I learned at Sleuthfest 2010. It is deceptively simple but the most important thing you need to know. Write the book.

Inspiration Ink

2010-02-09T15:43:00.000-08:00

I complained to my author friend that I have writer's block. He lives in Japan and we communicate primarily via email. We're writing a 100-chapter novel together and so far we have eight hilarious chapters. I have no problem meeting my weekly deadline for the collaboration project but the novel in my heart is sitting on my desktop staring at me. Every day the characters ask me questions to try and get the ball rolling. I hear their voices. Taylor: "What's my dog's name?" Phillip: "How many people am I supposed to kill?" Angie: "What do I look like?"

My friend responded to my complaint with a quote from Robert Parker: "Writer's block is just another name for laziness." I fired back an indignant reply: I am not lazy; I sit on my fat ass in this chair all day long and proofread hundreds of pages, pore through reference books and obscure websites doing exhaustive research, and at the end of the day my brain is sad and it just wants a break. The last thing I feel like doing is staying another hour or two in front of the computer trying to peck out a scene through bleary eyes.

His reply: I never said you were lazy.

I thought about it. I get my best ideas during my nightly soak in the bathtub but I can't very well take pen and paper into steamy suds. I thought about it some more. I wrote another chapter for our book while eating lunch at my desk; no problem, done, spell check, save, send.

Then I decided to take a walk. Miraculously we were blessed with one good day of mild temperatures and sunshine. I put on my new space man shoes that are supposed to firm my butt, found my favorite Pandora station on my iPod, and set out into unfamiliar sunlight. After I convinced myself it would not be cool to bust out into random dance moves to Michael Jackson I found my stride and let the music take the back seat. I walked up a very steep hill to the lighthouse, huffing and puffing, thinking I never want to walk again and a split second later thinking I should walk more often. On more even terrain, I took a trail to the back of the neighborhood and walked along the edge of the orange grove, stopping to pet every dog that passed my way.

I saw the ghost of my husband's grandmother sitting in her rocking chair on a patio, her arthritic back hunched over the afghan she was crocheting. In another house someone was baking, the warm smell of cinnamon made me want to knock on their door and become their new best friend. An old man was mowing his lawn but the dead grass didn't have that wonderful fresh rain scent. Approaching the lake I saw the sun was just beginning to think about sinking into the water. I walked out onto the dock and gratefully sat down. I removed the little ear buds from my ears and the first sound I heard was the water making that gentle lapping sound beneath the boards. The birds were talking quietly like they gathered in this place every day to witness the sunset. The air smelled clean with the faintest undertone fish.

I sat there until the blue gave way to pink and reluctantly stuck the ear buds back in my ears -- Michael gave way to Barry White -- and I headed back to the trail. On either side of the trail sat moss-covered limerocks that resembled giant misshapen skulls. Trudging uphill again, the trail led me to the back of the clubhouse. Despite the cool temperatures there were several residents in the pool. I wondered if the Yankees thought when you move to Florida there's some kind of rule that says you have to be in a bathing suit every day.

Rounding the clubhouse I stopped to give love to a few more dogs, then turned in the general direction of home. I passed a house where someone had their fireplace going; the wood smoke evoked childhood memories of camping in the forest. I walked over the little footbridge and along the smaller lake. Like most evenings, a man was sitting on the back of his golf cart with a line in the water.

The sky was really glowing now and the temperature was dropping. Barry White had given way to Marvin Gaye and I made myself not sing along as I passed an elderly lady wearing bright turquoise pants and an orange shirt that said Nehi Cola. I wondered if she's been hit in the past by one of the drunken golf cart drivers.

Home. Finally. A jealous dog sniffed every inch of me and my husband asked if I was ready for dinner. Not quite yet, I told him, and I grabbed a pen and notebook and went out onto my back porch to write in the day's dying light.

New Year's Resolutions

2010-01-02T07:14:00.000-08:00

I did not want to make New Year's resolutions this year. Why bother? Last year my resolutions were to lose weight, save money, blah blah blah. All the usual. Here I am without a pot to piss in and ten pounds heavier than I was this time last year. On the first day of the new year, putting away Christmas decorations, cleaning out a closet, and yes, even working, I thought long and hard about what I want to change about myself. I came up with one solid answer: Attitude. I can lose weight, get a second job, make new fascinating friends, and still be miserably unhappy. I have decided (and hereby declare!) that 2010 will be the year of ME.

This will be the year of Lisa. This is the year I will write, submit, and be published, the year I will believe I am worthy of being published. This is the year I will get into shape; physically and mentally. This is the year I will shed the sloth and allow a confident beautiful interesting woman to emerge. This is the year I will let my inner child come out and play - a lot. This is the year my stomach will be flat, my arms will be tone, my butt will be firm. This is the year I will slowly shed bad habits and slowly develop good ones (baby steps!). This is the year I will stop wasting precious life energy pining for love and attention; if I give myself love and attention it will follow from others. This is the year I stop worrying about things I have no control over. This is the year I will take long walks for the joy of it. This is the year I will have fewer headaches and less pain. This is the year of living simply because I want to rather than out of necessity.

This is the year of the blue moon, the year of the mermaid, the year of magic, the year of believing, the year of me.

I Won NaNoWriMo!

2009-11-28T08:56:00.000-08:00

For those of you are wondering why I have not posted on my blog in over a month, the answer is NaNoWriMo. November is National Novel Writing Month, a/k/a NaNoWriMo. Most of you have probably never heard of it, some of you are intimately and painfully familiar with it. In 1999 some crazy writer challenged twenty friends to write a 50,000-word novel in the month of November. Ten years and thousands of novels later there are over 100,000 participants in NaNoWriMo from all over the world. Last year over 20,000 writers made the deadline and gave birth to the first draft of a novel. Maybe a bad novel, but still a novel.

2009 was my first year as a participant, and I am proud to say I crawled over the finish line this morning with 51,459 words. Now I am feeling a little lost and disoriented, like a bear emerging from the cave after a long winter hibernation. I am still stunned in disbelief that I actually did it. I actually wrote a first draft of a novel! I will let it lie for a few weeks, then see if it's worth dusting off for a rewrite.

I may cringe in horror at the garbage I wrote and hit delete faster than you can blink. Or there may be some good bones that I can salvage and fashion into another, better novel after several rewrites. It doesn't really matter how good or bad it is. What matters are the valuable lessons I learned from the process of writing it.

I learned that I don't really need to see friends or family or even talk to them for an entire month. I learned that I can eat pizza with one hand while hunting and pecking with the other. I learned that I don't really need to shower every single day - there's a water shortage, people! I learned that my dog can hold it for much longer than I ever thought possible. I learned that sleep is overrated. I learned that it's okay to describe what every single guest at a dinner party is wearing. I learned that it makes perfect sense for a sleuthing couple to crash a wedding reception and do the chicken dance.

Now for the most important thing I learned:
There is a common and recurring theme in every book on writing, every author interview, and every article on how to become a writer. "Just write." They all say it. Just write and the plot will unfold on its own; just write and characters will come alive and begin making their own decisions. Even though I've read "just write" over and over again I never really understood the purity of those words. I could never "just write," I don't have time, I have a job. I don't know what my story is about. I don't know how to describe a sunset. I don't know how to convey that my character is heartbroken. What NaNoWriMo taught me is how to just write. The goal is to achieve quantity, not quality. Let go of trying to write well and simply free your fingers to fly over the keyboard. The words will appear on the page in a long string of phrases, sentences, paragraphs, and chapters. It doesn't matter now if it's good. No first draft is good, unless maybe you're Stephen King. You're going to rewrite it. You're going to embellish, add details; you're going to delete big chunks; you're going to change names, locations, maybe even hairstyles. It truly doesn't matter. Don't worry about it. No one's going to see your first naked, cringing draft except you. No one, not even your dog.

Bottom line, you can't rewrite a blank page.

Thank you, NaNoWriMo, for teaching me to "just write."

"CARE FOR A SCARE?"

2009-10-16T06:03:00.000-07:00

I was fortunate enough to be chosen to read my Halloween story at the Writers of One Flight Up Flights of Fantasy event in Mount Dora. Being a fledgeling writer, it was a nerve-wracking experience. Once I sat in the chair and faced the microphone, all worries faded away and I simply began to read. I am lost to the magic of writing and am looking forward with great excitement to the next contest, the next reading, the next short story, the first, second and third novels. My heartfelt thanks to the Writers at One Flight Up. Here is my story:

CARE FOR A SCARE?

LISA RAST

I sat on the front porch with my arms wrapped around a big orange bowl filled with candy. It was that magical time between day and night when the sun and moon waved howdy to each other as one checked out and one checked in. October is my favorite time of year and I live for Halloween. The days may still be warm but the mugginess is creeping away, no more mold or mildew or pesky insects. The front walk all the way up to the porch glowed from the tea lights flickering inside orange paper sacks. I admired them warily – they were lovely and dangerous. Next to me a big ole jack-o-lantern rested on the worn wooden planks of the porch floor, watching the world with a crooked smile.

I stared at the walk, waiting for the first of the trick-or-treaters to come, begging for candy, or perhaps those awful teenagers who threw eggs at me last year. They had gotten egg on my favorite flannel shirt, a faint orange-yellow stain still apparent if you knew where to look for it. A very large lizard perched on the arm of the rocking chair next to mine and munched one-half of a love bug. The other half scurried in circles looking for its mate, or perhaps waiting its turn to be eaten.

“Mighty fine night,” I said to the lizard.

The lizard said nothing, just cocked its head at me as it continued to chew. The corner of a tiny black wing protruded from its mouth.

I checked the sidewalk again; I thought I could hear the distant laughter of children. Somewhere nearby a dog barked. The night grew darker; the lights along the walkway grew brighter. The gloaming was giving way to night. The darkness brought the promise of enchantment.

“Here come the bloody brats,” said the lizard. He had finished course one of his supper. He snatched the other half of the love bug and scampered up the wall, out of reach of juvenile hands.

Oh, she was adorable! The first trick-or-treater climbed the porch steps and gingerly lowered a tiny hand into my bowl. “Twickertweet,” she said softly. Wide blue eyes peered at me from behind a ladybug mask. She was dressed in red and black and when she turned to run down the steps her wings flew out behind her.

Ladybug was followed by a parade of ghosts, goblins, princesses, pirates, superheroes, and witches. Parents pulled very little ones in Radio Flyer wagons. One fat little dinosaur, heavy with candy, wobbled and nearly toppled over. A little Elvis hopped onto the porch and began twirling in circles, chopping his little hands and yelling “I know karate!” Elvis spotted Lizard and made a valiant effort to claim his tail. Lizard cursed and disappeared through a crack in the porch floor.

The moon climbed higher and the steady stream of children grew thinner and finally dried out altogether. It was very dark now, and most of the candles in their paper sacks had burned down to their wicks and perished in a tiny puff of smoke. The moon was very high. A harvest moon, the color of the egg stain on my shirt.

The jack-o-lantern that glowed brightly all evening suddenly dimmed. “Look out,” said Jack-O-Lantern, “here come those egg-throwin’ hoodlums.” Jack-O-Lantern’s light blew out with a whoosh.

I braced myself. Four teenagers in dark clothes laughed softly and inched up the walkway. They hadn’t bothered to wear costumes – what a disgrace! I sat very still in the dark and waited.

“If there’s any candy left let’s just take the whole bowl.” I heard one of them say. Another said something that I couldn’t make out and they all laughed. One by one they ascended the steps and gathered at the end of the porch. Now silent, they came closer.

“AAAAHHHHHH!” I jumped up and threw the bowl at them, waving my arms in what I hoped was a menacing way. Pieces of candy and bits of straw flew through the air. Those troublemakers screamed and bolted, the four of them merging into one dark lump of frightened teenager.

“Good job, Scarecrow,” said Lizard, now back on the arm of the chair. “Look what you did!” I glanced at

Jack-O-Lantern, who had laughed so hard he’d fallen over and split clean down the middle.

I was thankful Jack-O-Lantern’s candle had gone out, the last thing I needed was to catch fire. My stuffing was very dry and my clothes were very old. I sat back down in my chair and once again felt the joy of this time of year. I couldn’t stop grinning if I wanted to. Tomorrow I would be sent back to the attic to await another year, but tonight I had Halloween.

* * * * *

Being Blocked

2009-08-31T03:45:00.000-07:00

Artists and writers use the term "blocked" when they hit a brick wall with their creativity. And hitting a brick wall is exactly what it feels like; you might be merrily writing away, your characters coming to life, the plot thickening, and boom! For no apparent reason everything stops dead in its tracks.

I have been struggling, trying to wrench from my creativity a novel. I began with a short story that really needed to expand and grow. I was so excited in the beginning, setting scenes and getting to know my characters. Then one day I didn't know what the next scene was. My characters stood frozen in place, exceedingly patient, waiting for me to breathe life into them. I grew panicked, tried to write, struck too many false notes, and decided to set the work aside.

Since then I have been paralyzed with fear. From time to time I will click over to my "writing" file and read what I have already written, half hoping the characters woke up and went on without me. I have avoided reading my beloved Writer Magazine. The Bookbuilders meetings, which are the highlight of my month, have left me feeling fraudulent and way out of my league. I feel like a scrawny green worm, desperately clinging to the underside of a half-eaten leaf surrounded by luxuriantly furred caterpillars, too afraid to move lest I be trampled, knowing in my heart I will never become a butterfly. I alternately wish for the beak of a bird to end my misery and the translucent wings of a dragonfly to carry me to the wonderland Imagination.

I believe being blocked applies to life as well as art. I don't know if I'm stagnating, marinating, or just lying low waiting for joy to walk by so I can jump out and pounce on it. I want the world to stop so I can get off but I also want it to go faster, me clinging to it, squealing with delight with my hair flying in the wind. I do not wish to settle for mediocrity, what-ifs, procrastinating my life away. I do not want to hear "I'm too old," "I'm not smart enough," "I'm too busy," "If only I had more money," blah blah blah. I want to live, I want to write, I want to feel.

I had a conversation with my good friend Cheryl the other day about baby steps. We were talking about struggles with weight loss and I told her not to overwhelm herself by taking on a big plan she probably won't stick to. I told her every choice she makes is a baby step, either toward her goal or away from it. It's just as easy to step in the right direction as it is to walk backward. Easier, even. Making the choice to skip the french fries, making the choice to enjoy a sunset by taking an early evening walk, making the choice to drink an extra glass of water every day. All of those baby steps will eventually show results.

I am attempting to take baby steps in my life, in my writing, to try to "unblock" myself. Yesterday I wrote a paragraph in my story. Only a paragraph, but that baby step gave me the courage to open an unread two-month-old Writer Magazine. I sat on my back porch and read wonderful articles that gave me insight and made me laugh. I ended the day with a little bit of hope, feeling like I accomplished something, even if it was only a very tiny step. I will try to take at least one baby step every day and I will note it, make a big deal out of it, if only to myself. My baby step today is writing this blog. I think I will reward myself with a cup of coffee and a big smile.

The Before Picture

2009-08-03T07:48:00.000-07:00

Being a middle-aged woman sucks. I am inundated with beautiful people on television and magazines who mock my fat thighs and poochy belly. Every ad seems to be for an expensive face cream guaranteed to make wrinkles disappear or a medieval torture device that claims to give me a "ripped" body in six weeks. (What they don't tell you is you actually have to use the machine to get results - hanging clothes on it doesn't count.) My Facebook friends happily post they're off to yoga, or off to spinning, or off to play tennis. Personally, I think they're off their rocker. I have friends who are getting "weight loss" shots from doctors, going to boot camp at the ungodly hour of 5 a.m., or twisting themselves into Pilates pretzels twice a day. They've given up alcohol, chocolate, and coffee. What is WRONG with these people?! Are they truly happy wasting hours a day sweating from physical exertion just to have a firmer butt? Do they really enjoy eating salad for dinner, dressing on the side? Is it worth it to drop a few hundred bucks at the cosmetic counter for a miracle eye cream, or better yet, bimonthly Botox injections?

I will confess I am not exactly thrilled with my flabby upper arms or frighteningly large behind. I am careful to draw attention away from my back fat and chubby knees when I dress. However, I greatly enjoy sipping wine and eating gourmet meals over witty conversation with good friends; I live for my coffee in the morning and often eat cookies for breakfast; I feel beautiful and sexy lounging in the bathtub, reading a book and nibbling decadent dark chocolate. I think the tiny lines around my eyes give me character. I miss the body I had in my twenties, but I don't miss the life I had. I choose to be very happy with my imperfect body and be secure in the knowledge that the people who love me do so because they are smitten with my heart and my mind, not with the way I look. To me, an "After Picture" is not a picture of a skinny person, but of a happy person.

Illegal Immigration

2009-06-08T07:18:00.000-07:00

I recently read a deposition of an illegal alien from Mexico. While working as a laborer here he met a teenage girl, the daughter of another illegal alien, and got her pregnant. The teenager received her prenatal care from a government health clinic, paid for by the taxpayers. She complained of pain toward the end of her pregnancy and the clinic sent her to a hospital by ambulance. There were complications and she died during childbirth. The baby survived but with severe mental and physical deficiencies. The child cannot walk or speak and is fed through a feeding tube. The illegal alien who is the father of the baby and the illegal alien who is the mother of the teenager sued the hospital and received a six figure sum in settlement. The two illegal aliens are now suing the United States of America because they feel the teenage girl did not receive adequate prenatal care from the government health clinic. Every day a nurse and an occupational therapist paid for by our tax dollars visit the home to care for the child. When asked in the deposition what happened to the settlement money from the hospital, the illegal alien replied through the interpreter that he sent it to Mexico.

I immediately had two questions: Why haven't these people been deported and why wasn't the laborer charged with statutory rape? Do the laws of the United States that govern its citizens not apply to illegal aliens? It's hard to blame them for coming here to live and work; they receive free health care, make money to send back to Mexico, and they don't pay taxes. They even use our justice system to sue the very taxpayers who are supporting them. It is astounding to me that the American taxpayers aren't outraged over the illegal immigration problem.

And it is a problem. I have heard that it's not worth deporting illegal immigrants because they will just come back anyway. I have heard that we need them to do the jobs that Americans won't do. I have a solution. Create a privatized employment agency that will keep track of the Mexicans that come here to work. They will have work visas and they must pay taxes on their earnings. Another solution would be to implement the Fair Tax (see Neal Boortz' book, "The Fair Tax"). Through consumption of goods and services in this country the illegal immigrants would be paying taxes. If you are not a US citizen you should not have the right to file suit in this country, pure and simple. Finally, if you are an illegal alien and commit a crime, you should be immediately deported. I would much rather spend my tax dollars on the cost of deporting criminals than housing them at our cost in our country.

And by the way, illegal aliens are criminals! If you cross the border illegally you are breaking the laws of this country. It's time American citizens get their heads out of the sand and start paying attention to where their money is going.

One With Nature

2009-06-02T08:42:00.000-07:00

I am not an outdoorsy person. I haven't been for many years. My idea of a hike is lugging my bags from the parking lot to a hotel lobby. This weekend I did something totally out of character and took a friend kayaking for her fiftieth birthday. A wonderful thing happened. Journeying through the Dora Canal I found myself relaxing more and more with every stroke of the paddle. The great blue herons standing among the cypress trees, the alligators gliding through the water, the fecund smell of marsh, the long beards of moss reaching down to touch the water, all brought a flood of childhood memories rushing back to me.

When I was a little girl almost every weekend my family would load up the camper and head into the nearby Ocala National Forest for a weekend of "roughing it." Back then I loved exploring the many hunting trails in the forest and was never once frightened of being alone or getting lost in the vast forest. I came across a bobcat once and fancied petting it but it ran off into the trees. At night we would cut palmettos and strip the leaves from the sharp branches to make a perfect marshmallow spear. I remember watching my marshmallow turn black and begin to slide off the stick before I would jerk it out of the fire and plop it piping hot into my mouth. The wood smoke from the fire smelled wonderful. I loved watching the sparks dance in the air. Early morning the sounds of nature would awaken me: Birds twittering, squirrels chattering, the soft splash of a jumping fish in the lake. I could barely get my swimsuit on fast enough before I was barreling full speed down the sandy beach to the clear spring-fed lake. My brother and I would sit on the sandy bottom near the shoreline, trying to be as still as statues while we watched the minnows nibble our toes.

As an adult I still lived near enough that old campground to visit it on sweltering summer afternoons. I drove straight from work armed with a floating raft and my swimsuit. Parking near the lake I once again raced down the sandy slope to plunge into the cool green water. On those lazy afternoons sometimes the only living creatures I saw were the peacocks that roamed the shoreline and an alligator sunning itself on the beach. I floated in the middle of the lake, all alone, a tiny speck in the universe, emptying my mind of clutter and filling it with peace and light.

I still live pretty close to the Ocala National Forest but I am an infrequent visitor. Adult life has intruded on my chances for an occasional solitude in nature; work has to be done, bills have to be paid, meetings have to be attended. I am a very busy person. The Dora Canal is less than ten minutes from my home, and the whole kayaking adventure took less than half a day. Surely I can make time to let that little girl who loves the water and the trees go out and play every once in a while. It would probably be good for grown-up me, as well.

I will be kayaking again next weekend. Perhaps I will see you there. Maybe you will glimpse an adventurous child having the time of her life.

Gamble Rogers

2009-05-29T05:06:00.000-07:00

On my recent trip to St. Augustine I attended the 13th Annual Gamble Rogers Festival at the St. Johns County Fairgrounds. Gamble Rogers was a legendary singer/songwriter/storyteller who inspired folk singers and storytellers across the country. In 1991 he died a tragic death attempting to rescue a drowning man in the surf. Many mourned his passing, and every year his followers and devotees gather to honor his memory.

I could not think of any place on earth I'd rather be than the fairgrounds on a gorgeous Sunday morning. I arrived early; the grass was still wet with dew. Pickers and storytellers were drinking their morning coffee, vendors were setting up tents to sell handmade jewelry and musical instruments, and the smell of funnel cakes mixed with the sweet aroma of freshly cut grass. Folding chairs were set up to face the stage in the Baby Grand Theater, a nod to one of the fictional locales in Rogers' Oklawaha County. (The Baby Grand Theater was a cracked concrete slab in a large metal building rapidly heating up under the Florida sun.) Pickers were everywhere plucking away at their instruments; on the folding chairs, leaning against the cinder block building that housed the showers, and sitting on the grass under the oak tree outside. I could feel the excitement growing in the air. One by one, musicians, storytellers and spectators filled the metal chairs. I could hear snatches of conversation; folks talking about when they knew Gamble, anecdotes and whale tales. Sadness and joy abounded equally.

I never met Gamble but I was beginning to feel caught up in the emotion that permeated the Baby Grand. One by one songwriters and storytellers took the stage to talk about Gamble and the influence he had on their lives. Songs were sung for Gamble, and one in particular written from Gamble's point of view had me sobbing. I was not alone. Then storyteller Willy Claflin took the stage. He told a story within a story. Like me, Willy had never met Gamble. He recounted the time when he first heard Gamble's voice on an audio recording and was instantly mesmerized. Then he told the story he heard on that recording, a hilarious tale about the inhabitants of Oklawaha County. The sweltering Baby Grand Theater dissolved around us; the hard metal folding chairs became a magic carpet that transported the entire audience to Willy's office in California, then swiftly to Oklawaha County. Every person was riveted, no one blinked, the only sounds were Willy's voice and soft laughter. When the story ended we were jolted back to the cracked concrete slab in the middle of a grassy field. I felt like I had been holding my breath for a long time, and with my first intake of air the sounds and smells of the fairgrounds returned, along with the oppressive heat.

Finally, I knew. I knew why storytellers and folk singers gather to reminisce and to pass stories and songs down through generations. I knew why Gamble Rogers was deserving of the adulation and respect he still receives, even from folks who never met him. I felt humbled and honored to be a part of the tribute to a great man, a kind man, and a legendary man.

If you'd like to know more about Gamble Rogers, visit www.gamblerogers.com.

American Apathy from a Peon POV

2009-05-23T06:37:00.000-07:00

I proofread legal transcripts for a living. I read depositions, trials, meetings, and presuit examinations. I freelance for 15 court reporters, the majority in the Central Florida area. The depositions often have an interpreter present, and the cases involve Haitians staging car accidents or illegal Mexicans who get injured on the job at Disney.

Before this job I never knew that people actually make a career out of suing people. The claimant who falls down in Publix often has previous suits under their belt: A fender-bender where they suffered whiplash, several workers' comp injuries, maybe an EEOC complaint for age/race/sex (pick one) discrimination. And then there are the second- and third-generation welfare queens who truly believe their Social Security disability, Section 8 housing, and food stamps are an entitlement. In one example a young mother of several children (all by different fathers) was asked if she received child support for any of her children. She answered yes. Upon further examination it came out that she received nothing from her babies' daddies, she received a welfare check from the government each month for each of her children. In her mind that was child support.

It's hard to blame the illegals, the welfare queens, and the career claimants. We, the people, make it so easy for them. An illegal can receive free health care, food stamps, and a place to live. I can't; I have to work to survive and pay taxes to support the above mentioned. The justice system is flawed. I believe anyone filing a suit should be prepared to pay the other side's legal fees in the event they lose. I believe any illegal trying to file suit should be immediately deported. I believe anyone caught defrauding an insurance company should go straight to jail. I believe if you want to file suit in the United States of America you must speak English.

I blame the lawyers and feel sorry for the judges. If the lawyers would stop taking on ridiculous lawsuits our court systems wouldn't be so clogged and lowlifes would stop filing frivolous suits. Judges are afraid to utilize their common sense and throw these cases out because they will likely be turned over on appeal.

I'm just one little person who reads an average of 500 pages of this stuff per day. I only see the tiniest tip of the iceberg. I am astounded at the corruption, criminal activity, and government waste going on in this country. The American people are apathetic and ignorant. They don't want to know where their tax dollars are going. They don't care that doctors are quitting because frivolous lawsuits have sent their medical malpractice premiums into the stratosphere. They don't want to know that the person mowing their lawn is in this country illegally and won't be paying taxes on the cash they give him. They seem ambivalent that the Social Security well has run dry because all the money is going to illegitimate children and people who can't work because they are overweight or have drug addictions.

Disclaimer: I know this will be an unpopular post and I may be called prejudiced or even heartless. I am not; I know there are legitimate reasons for lawsuits and I know there are people and children who really need help. (More coming on this in another post.) I know the only way to change the direction our country is heading is by educating ourselves on the issues. Pay attention to your local politicians and start there. Voting is the only power we have to save our country.

Happiness is Relative

2009-05-21T05:53:00.000-07:00

Last night I caught myself thinking I would be happy only if... What?! I've been a little blue lately. Worried about finances, feeling lonely, being blocked in my writing, and just overall feeling lethargic and useless. I had to marvel at the selfishness of that thought, I would be happy only if...

Not too many years ago I was sleeping on the floor in a rented room. I couldn't afford a bed; all I had was a car and two jobs. I remember being happy during that time. When we moved into our new house the dryer didn't work and the punch work wasn't finished; drywall dust coated the clothes that were hanging all over the house to dry. I was happy, ecstatic even, to be in this little house. My happiest childhood memory is of camping out in the forest and plunging into a cool green lake. Not the trips to Disney World; those memories don't even come close.

I decided to make a list of the things that make me happy now. The spectacular sunsets over Lake Harris that I can see right from my living room. Spending hours in a bubble bath reading a good book. When my husband calls me Angel. Comfortable conversation with friends. The sound of a child's laughter. Taking an afternoon nap with my dog, falling asleep to the sound of rain.

Pretty simple things. I believe how we react to whatever is going on around us determines whether we are happy or not. I have been feeling unhappy in part because of things that are beyond my control to change. I am going to work at letting those feelings go. Those things will either resolve themselves or they won't; I will not waste my energy on them. I will pay more attention to those things that do make me happy; I will accept them and treasure them and recognize them as gifts meant only for me.

We all have our troubles. I wouldn't trade mine for anyone else's, no matter how bad they sometimes seem. Would you?

Adventures in St. Augustine

2009-05-17T05:14:00.000-07:00

I recently visited the wonderful, historic city of St. Augustine, Florida and found myself with an entire day to myself. I was completely alone in a relatively unfamiliar place with no obligation to anyone or anything. Free day!

I began the day eating breakfast in the little courtyard of the bed and breakfast, watching the Spanish soldiers arrive for duty at the old Spanish Museum. They glided up the cobblestone street in their white period costumes and I wondered if they were the band of ghosts rumored to haunt the area.

In the early morning hours I had St. George Street mostly to myself. I decided to head for the Lightner Museum, a place I hadn't visited since grade school. I stopped to enjoy the solitude of the courtyard and to admire the gardenia tree (yes, a tree!) and the old coquina bridge over the koi pond. The museum was an adventure; I began at the third-floor ballroom and made my way back down. I enjoyed every part of the museum except for the Turkish baths. The feeling of foreboding I had there was enough to make me rush through the Tiffany glass exhibit and find my way back to the first floor. In the museum's gift shop I purchased a small journal and several reproduction salt cellars.

The Lightner Museum is housed in the Hotel Alcazar that Henry Flagler built in 1887. The hotel featured the world's largest swimming pool which now houses an antique mall and cafe'. I never eat alone but feeling daring I decided to have an early lunch in the Cafe' Alcazar and scribble in my new journal as I waited for my meal. It was a wonderful experience! Every bite of the pasta Giovanni was magnificent and the pinot grigio was a perfect complement. I ate slowly, savoring every bite as I scanned the walls of the old swimming pool and imagined people swimming there at the turn of the century.

After lunch I visited the antique shops (of course!) and then wandered down King Street. A wedding was either just beginning or ending at the Cathedral Basilica and swarthy men in dark suits leaned against limousines, talking in low voices and smoking cigarettes. The bridesmaids were lined up on the sidewalk wearing sparkly pink dresses and rather large hair. I pictured the cast of The Sopranos waiting inside. Hurrying past the goombahs I ducked into a gallery shop and the very first thing I laid my eyes on was a mermaid. A mermaid! (If you've read previous posts you know I want to be one.) She was a tiny thing on a delicate silver chain and I immediately purchased her and put the chain around my neck. She was a birthday present to myself and the very best gift I could have received. If I didn't know it before, now I was sure: This is a good day!

I spent an hour or two exploring galleries and either admiring artwork or wondering what the heck I was looking at. I eventually found myself at the corner of King and San Marcos at the A1A Brewery and Restaurant. A New Orleans-style two-story building, the upper story houses the restaurant and the first floor is home to shops and the brewery itself. I settled at the bar and arranged myself so I had a view of the sparkling blue Mantanzas Bay. I ordered a white Russian (I know it's a brewery but it was my day to do whatever I want and I wanted a white Russian, darn it!) and opened my journal. Before I began writing a nice-looking man approached me and asked if my name was Christine. I shook my head and asked "Blind date?" He said it was, apologized, and took a seat two barstools down from me. I was intrigued and determined not to leave until Christine showed up. I sipped my white Russian, wrote in my journal, and engaged in conversation with a couple of tourists about the caloric content of beer. (Who cares?) Christine finally showed up; a petite woman in a flowered dress who was perhaps in her late 40s, early 50s. She was attractive enough but when she spoke her voice sounded like fingernails on a blackboard. I wondered if the man was relieved or regretted that I wasn't Christine (naughty me!).

After hitting the St. George shops and buying myself a floppy hat I returned to the B&B to enjoy an afternoon soak in the jacuzzi, followed by a nap. I slept well, I had a good day. There was a time in my life I would not even go to a shopping mall by myself. The thought of eating in a restaurant alone terrifies me. I have come a long way in recent years, but I still never imagined I could be brave enough to explore a strange city on my own. It was interesting to see what I chose to spend my day doing. I could have spent the day curled up on the porch of the B&B reading a book (in a past life that's exactly what I would have done) or on a tour bus learning the history of St. Augustine. In fact I chose to relax and go wherever my body took me. I was never in any danger, I was never bored, I was never lonely. I am pleased to find myself to be quite good company.

Walls

2009-05-14T12:46:00.000-07:00

Sweeping my kitchen today I had another insight. (Maybe I don't need showers after all?) The outline of my book is not much different that hundreds of other books I've read. What can I do to make readers want to read the story; what can I do to make my characters human?

One of the things a would-be writer should do is read books in the genre they are attempting to write about. As I moved on to sweep the bathroom I thought about my favorite authors and the books I really love to read. Richard Laymon is a horror writer who crosses all boundaries and makes me cringe in fright. I often come away from his books feeling disgusted, but I can't wait to read the next one. Another favorite author is James Lee Burke; different genre but he is a genius with the English language. He plops me down in the swamps of Louisiana and takes me on a wild ride with characters I either love or hate. I often feel emotionally exhausted after reading one of Burke's novels.

It occurred to me that in order to write a successful novel in the genre I have chosen (or it has chosen me) I will have to write about greed, evil, love, hate, and secrets. I not only have to write them, I have to show them. What a scary thought! If you read my first post you will know I am very shy. I recently attempted to write a sex scene. I was very excited at the prospect. I created my characters, set the scene, and ran headlong into a brick wall. I was incapable of describing the sex act in words.

My conclusion is that it's time to tear down some of the walls that are of my making. I am a very old structure; many of my walls are crumbling and crawling with kudzu. Some of the more recent ones are steel with barbed wire around the perimeter. It's going to be quite a feat to begin the process, and I'm terrified that I will be unable to budge them. I'm terrified, as well, to see what lies behind them.

Doin' it in the Shower

2009-05-14T06:28:00.000-07:00

Water is my thing. I want to be a mermaid in my next life. I love to light a bunch of candles and relax in a bubblebath, reading a book and sipping wine. The other night I was so in to a book I soaked for three hours! I emerged wrinkled and pink but happily relaxed.

I never gave showers much credit till I realized I was getting inspiration for stories and plot ideas when standing under the waterfall in my shower. I have always "spaced out" when taking a shower, getting so lost in thought I would sometimes emerge without rinsing the conditioner from my hair or maybe shaving one leg and forgetting the other. Fairly often I find myself jumping back in to finish the job.

Since embarking on my journey as a writer I no longer dismiss shower time as lost time. I was washing my hair when the idea for my flash fiction story "Southern Holiday" came to me. Another day and another shower I was inspired with the rough plot for my novel that is my current work in progress. Yesterday I was struggling with a scene so I decided to take a shower. Voila'! Problem solved!

As long as I can manage my water bill I have discovered an eternal source of inspiration. I'm always shiny and clean, too.

Soul Mate

2009-05-13T06:43:00.001-07:00

Why is soul mate two words? Shouldn't it be one? I was flipping through my bible this morning -- "One Word, Two Words, Hyphenated?" -- and soul mate jumped out at me. I think I will make an executive decision and change it hereafter to one -- soulmate. Doesn't that look better?

Do you remember the mazes for little kids with more than one path that led to the same endpoint? I can't help but wonder if our lives are that way. I divorced my husband but then remarried him two years later; if we would have stayed married would I still be in this same house in this same town wearing these same fuzzy slippers right now? Or would I still be stuck in Orlando, miserable and lonely?

It's interesting to reflect back on your life and wonder if I had only followed that path, if I had only taken that job, if I had only gone back to school...would it even matter? Maybe we are predestined to arrive at certain key points in our lives no matter what path we choose to get there.

If this is true think of the possibilities. We can sit back and relax! Do our jobs, enjoy our families, explore the world, all the while knowing we're just along for the ride. Wherever we're going is destiny so just let it happen. Be at peace, and enjoy your life!

HOW DID WE GET HERE, ANYWAY? (My biography.)

2009-05-12T07:54:00.000-07:00

Do you ever stop and think how you wound up in the exact spot you're in right this second? I think about it often and marvel at how the choices we make in life steer us in directions we would never dream of. I wanted nothing more than to be a singer. I tried it and sang in a couple of bands but I had no confidence. My voice was passable enough but I was painfully shy. (Speculation as to why I'll save for another day.) Instead I hung around bands and musicians and worked jobs that started out as interesting but quickly grew boring.

The only thing I loved to do was read. Books were my escape from reality. I could be invisible when I was reading, no one could see me, no one could bother me, no one could make any demands of me. Then one day at one of the aforementioned boring jobs a fellow employee said "You know, you'd make a great court reporter." It piqued my interest and I decided to steer my life in yet another direction and go back to school. I loved school, excelled in my studies, and was very close to graduating when I decided to quit. Here's my deep, dark secret: I quit because I'm shy. I was also going through a divorce that played a factor in my decision to leave, but the real reason is I could not bear to think about going to a different lawyer's office or courtroom every day and sitting in front of strangers, furiously pecking away at my little machine. When called upon to read back in class I felt sick to my stomach and tried to hide under the table.

An unexpected door opened to me at that point in my life. After classes each day I worked at a court reporting office assembling court transcripts for delivery. When scanning pages I caught errors that I brought to the attention of the reporters. They asked me to proof their work for them and paid me a paltry sum to do it. I was thrilled; reading was the ultimate dream job for me! I soon learned that even though I adored the English language and possessed quite an extensive vocabulary, proofing legal transcripts was in a whole other realm. Besides knowing the basic rules of writing and punctuation you had to know a lot of medical and legal jargon. You had to know the statutes and formats for court transcripts. It took years to perfect my skill but I believe today I am one of the best proofreaders out there. (Or maybe not; it doesn't matter.)

After almost a dozen years of proofreading the most technical stuff imaginable (rocket scientists, neurosurgeons, bioengineers) as well as a daily dose of slip-and-falls and workers' comp, I felt myself beginning to get that burned-out feeling. I felt restless. I felt like my inner child was starving for creativity. Another strange twist of fate happened: At the local wine bar where I hang out I was approached by two young businessmen with an offer to write website content for several Internet sites. I was swimming in uncharted waters but thought, why not? The experience was difficult but rewarding. I will be forever grateful to them for planting the writing seed in me.

I began talking to my hairstylist about my interest in writing. Turns out she's an English major, blogger, and writer herself. She invited me to a Bookbuilders meeting where I met "real" writers, publishers, an indexer, and fellow proofreaders. One of the writers told me about a book that I believe anyone who wants to be a writer should read, "Stein on Writing." Another writer sent me valuable podcasts on writing style. I have to tell you, after attending my first Bookbuilders meeting I was flying high. I felt like I had come home.

"Karma" or instances of fate that assure me I'm going in the right direction: At same wine bar as mentioned above (I love that place!) I met a published author who was kind enough to read my very first foray into fiction. He gave me valuable advice and even let me proof the first chapter of his new novel. Most recently my long-lost best friend "found" me on Facebook and guess what? He too is a published author who generously took the time to give me his philosophy on writing. I am beyond thrilled to have reunited with him and I take it as another sign that fate is leading me in the right direction.

Recap: How I got here, where I am right this second, sitting in my shabby little office writing my very first blog. Being creative but too shy to unleash anything. Reading for escape and unknowingly further educating myself with every book I inhaled. Reading for money and educating myself on technical content and structure. Receiving the unexpected opportunity to write, and the world being illuminated in a whole new way.

Last thoughts: Never have any regrets. I could have traveled, singing with a band, or pursued a degree in music. I could have become a court reporter and made a lot more money than I make as a proofreader. Instead my shyness led me to books, which led me to proofreading, which led me to writing. Everything happens for a reason. Follow your dreams but don't be afraid if your dreams change. I believe in magic. I believe our inner child can make extraordinary things happen just by wanting.