The Last Innocent Hour is part of WLC's Year of the Indie Event!

The Last Innocent Hour, originally published in trade paper is now available for e-readers. It tells the story of Beth Cunningham who at eighteen was forced to leave the Texas farm where she was raised in order to escape her stepfather’s unwanted attention. She marries, but seven years later when her husband Charlie’s freewheeling gambling lifestyle jeopardizes their daughter Chrissy’s wellbeing, Beth sees no alternative other than to bring her family back to Texas. Beth’s mama has promised Beth’s stepfather is gone; Beth believes the nightmare that drove her from home—the one Charlie knows nothing about—is over. She believes her family will be safe. But within a matter of hours after their arrival, short innocent hours, a fresh storm, brutal and fearsome in its intensity, breaks. Charlie vanishes. Beth witnesses a murder, and with Chrissy in her arms, she’s running again. Running for her life. Too late, a voice whispers in her brain. Bang, bang you're next, taunts the voice behind her. And still she runs. Runs until she is falling. Runs until all reason is lost.

[caption id="attachment_598" align="alignright" width="300" caption="The "Big House" in winter - Beautiful!"][/caption]

The house Beth flees, the one that’s pictured on the front cover of The Last Innocent Hour, was built by my great grandfather Horace Rogers for his wife, my beautiful great grandmother, Stella Williams Rogers, in the town of Fort Smith, Arkansas. My grandmother and her two brothers were raised in the house. Family legend has it that Stella chose the site, that her heart was set on it, but the parcel of land belonged to the estate of a deceased Arkansas governor and my great grandfather had a time talking his way into the purchase of it. The house is beautifully situated on a gentle rise with grounds that drop away like a full lowering skirt. It unfortunately has passed from the family years ago and the way that it did is a story all in itself.

The seed for The Last Innocent Hour was planted when I was attending college in Fort Smith one semester and my mother arranged with the (then) owner of the house for us to come and have a tour. I was in awe from the moment I walked onto the veranda. The front door opens into an elegant foyer, tiled in yards of marble. Doorways open from the foyer into a variety of rooms, music room, parlor, a library. The kitchen and a glass conservatory are at the back of the house, behind the stairs. But what drew my eye that day was the staircase. It was so wide and sweeping, with beautifully carved newel posts, and led up to a generously proportioned second floor landing, where a tall beveled and stained glass window rose from the floor like a crown. Light spilled through it silvering the air. The effect was magical. I guess that’s why out of all the other beautiful details there were to see that day, it is the window over the stairway landing that I remember most vividly. I describe it in the novel, how it frames the glare of lightening, how the rain runs like tears down the glass.

I think my sister Susan and I are the only great grandchildren to see the interior of that house. My one regret is that due to an illness in the owner’s family, my mom and I could not tour the third floor ballroom or go out on the widow’s walk. Someday I would like to go back there. Last I knew “the big house”, as it is affectionately referred to in the family, was a bed and breakfast. I’ve mentioned to my siblings and cousins that we should hold a reunion there, walk the halls and rooms of our ancestors. Maybe one day we’ll do that!

Year of the Indie Event!

This week, December 24^th through December 31^st, The Last Innocent Hour, among many other great e-books, is being featured in The Women’s Literary Café’s Year of the Indie Event.

About the WoMen’s Literary Café

The WoMen’s Literary Café (welcoming both men and women) is an extension of The Women’s Nest. This Internet hub bridges the gap between writers and readers with the sole mission of promoting great literature. The WLC provides free marketing services allowing authors to connect with readers, reviewers, and the media, through numerous promotions and a launch platform for new books. The WoMen’s Literary Café is ‘Where readers and authors unite!’  I encourage you to visit Women's Literary Cafe to learn more.

Melissa Foster, the founder of WLC, and also of The Women’s Nest, an online community for women, which connects women across the world, is also a very fine author. I don't know how she manages everything that she does, but I'm glad for her support and the support of the writing communities she has worked so tirelessly to create. For more about Melissa, visit her website at www.MelissaFoster.com

BUY THIS BOOK: Coping With Transition: Men, Motherhood, Money and Magic

Transitions. Everyone goes through them, but even when they lead to something wonderful like marriage to the one you love or the welcomed birth of a child, they can be unsettling. Coping With Transition, Men, Motherhood, Money and Magic, edited by Susan Briggs Wright, is a memorable collection of memoirs from women who were born between 1935 and 1960. It was a pivotal era for women, a time when transitions, especially difficult ones, were seldom discussed. Women’s lives, family life, life in general was supposed to resemble the images Norman Rockwell captured on the pretty and serene covers he did for the Saturday Evening Post. The reality was often far different. Messier. Confusing.

Rules were numerous. Young women were cautioned to adhere to certain standards. “My father was strict about who I could go out with,” relates Suzanne Kerr in her memoir titled, Waiting For Marriage, Sex, and My Mother’s Life (In That Order). Suzanne’s dad went on to tell her as she was leaving the nest for college in September of 1962, that if he ever heard of her going to a boy’s apartment, he’d jerk her out of school. (Can you imagine handing down such a mandate to your daughter today?!) Her mother said she should marry a professional man, and oh yes, she should certainly be a virgin. Suzanne chronicles what becomes a long and circuitous path to the altar in a voice that mixes elements of wry humor and rueful irony.  And honesty. It’s the honesty and trueness of each voice in the collection that makes it such a compelling read.

Why do I not remember days, only moments? How do I start … with the end of my life? So begins Sue Jacobson’s haunting memoir, Why Have I Survived You? in which she tells of the loss of a beloved daughter. Donna Siegel begins her memoir, Crossing the Rubicon, with this notable line: Growing into who you are genetically destined to be can cause a lot of problems. Donna was married at 19 and divorced after a lifetime. Somewhere she found the courage to reenter school, to earn her master’s degree, but even better, she lives comfortably now with life’s questions, its mystery. In A Closet: Memories, Meaning, and Sometimes Magic, Mel Gallagher, confides that her closet (of all curious and imaginative places!) and all that it contains has given her insights into her life. Leslie McManis begins her short essay, Growing Up Outside, with this intriguing line: My mother was a forties beauty queen, and then renders the poignant details of an injured childhood, but the accent is on survivorship, not victimhood. What touches a chord throughout this collection is the amount of courage and resilience that was and is still demonstrated by this remarkable group of women. The collection is diverse, covering topics from a husband’s impending retirement to the pursuit of international adoption—at the age of forty-nine, no less. Talk about courage. And there’s long, intimate and wise talk about seizing love and the moment—at sixty-eight from Mary Margaret Hansen. No, she isn’t thirty-five, but she’s still very full of life with so much to do, to share and contribute as you will find out when you read her witty and smart memoir Seven Scenes From Shared Space.

Coping With Transition, Men, Motherhood, Money and Magic is truly a book for women of all ages, and the men who want to understand them—who dare to try! Reading it is like sitting down to have an intimate chat with dear friends and the conversation is one that leaves you feeling satisfied and hopeful. It’s life affirming. It would be great to see this collection digitized for e-readers. It’s perfect for reading on the go. A perfect delight all the way around.

 

Should we kill a killer if he wants to die?

 

[caption id="attachment_485" align="alignright" width="300" caption="Click the image to hear a judge explain the legal logic for granting Haugen's wish"][/caption]

Last month, Oregon Governor, John Kitzhaber, imposed a moratorium on the death penalty for the remainder of his term, saying he's morally opposed to capital punishment and has long regrettedallowing two men to be executed in the 1990s. Oregon is the fifth state since 2007 to halt the execution process. One of the biggest motivating factors behind this decision is the fear of killing the wrong person. It happens and often the tragedy isn’t uncovered until after the fact. After lives and families are destroyed.

But what about the inmates who ask to die? The death row volunteers who are guilty by their own admission. So guilty there is not so much as the sliver of a shadow of doubt. That’s the case with twice-convicted murderer Gary Haugen. After serving thirty years in prison, the last several on Oregon’s death row, Haugen asked the same legal system that handed down his death sentence to carry it out. A judge agreed, and Haugen’s execution date was scheduled for December 6th.

But it didn’t happen because Oregon’s governor suffered a moral crisis over the issue and shut down the death machine. Until his term is over, he says. Then the next governor can sort out the legislative mess.

Some objectors say volunteering is a way for inmates to control the system. Some say it’s state-assisted suicide. Some would take every death row inmate, including Haugen, “out back” and shoot them. Others think sitting out your days in a prison cell is a worse penalty, a living hell as opposed to the eternal one that may wait after death. But however you look at it, volunteers are in a different category. They aren’t straining the already burdened courts with yet one more appeal beyond asking to die. Now. They aren’t looking for a loophole or pleading they’ve been saved by Jesus Christ, although professionals in the field say, as in the case of Haugen, such petitions are often meant to draw attention to the flaws in the justice system. But even if legal reform were to occur as a result of their actions, volunteers must know they won’t be alive to see it.

So, what’s the real point? In research for my novel, The Volunteer, I read a lot of interviews of these inmates, and while many had strong opinions about the whole emotionally-charged, Gordian Knot that surrounds the death penalty, at their core, what some of them seemed to feel was the need to take responsibility. Short of returning to life those who were dead by their hands, it was all they could do. End the suffering of their victim’s families, and in some cases, of their own families. And isn’t this, at least in part, the logic that underlies the death penalty? That the suffering should come to an end?

So while I can admire Kitzhaber for his courage in standing up for his convictions, and for doing so under a barrage of public criticism, while I even share in his moral confusion about the matter, I think an exception should be made for Haugen, and in the case of all volunteers like him. Let the ones who choose to shoulder the terrible burden of their crimes go. Let it be over. Let Haugen fulfill his court-ordered obligation, the one a judge and jury, showing no less courage than Kitzhaber in making their decision to send Haugen to his death, says he deserves. And let those who are left behind find peace . . . if they can.

Organic Farms: What's a goddess got to do with it?

 

First: The farm and the magical trip that made up the best Thanksgiving Day ever.... 

On Thanksgiving Day I rode with my son, David, and his girlfriend, Christy, to the Hill Country. It was the most special occasion because it was my first visit to land they purchased near Smithwick where in a few short months they will open an aquaponics farm. In case you don’t know, Aquaponics is the cultivation of fish and plants that are linked via a re-circulating ecosystem utilizing natural bacterial processes to convert fish wastes to plant nutrients. It is an environmentally-friendly, organic method of growing food (you harvest both fish and produce) that harnesses the best attributes of aquaculture and hydroponics without the need to discard any water or filtrate or add chemical fertilizers. And unlike crops raised by hydroponics alone, the fruits and veggies grown this way taste wonderful!

[caption id="attachment_500" align="alignright" width="2554" caption="The view from my front yard"][/caption]

I’m excited about this venture and thrilled to be part of it. One of the reasons we went there was so that I could choose a home site. I’m thinking a Texas Tiny Houses type home. I took my camera (my home site picture here doesn’t do it justice) and a small iron bird, a garden ornament, to leave there as a promise, and I brought back a soil sample and rocks with actual crystals in them from what will one day be the garden outside my front door. It was a beautiful day to be outside, to walk the land that had lived in our hearts for so many years like a dream. The air in the hill country has an effervescence, like champagne, and it’s permeated with the fresh scent of cedar. There were butterflies everywhere, the music of birds (the property backs up to a section of the Balcones Canyonlands National Wildlife Reservation) and the hush of the wind through the trees. Not silence, and yet it was silence at some level so deep, a level that waits in each of us, I think, to be recognized, to be nourished. We had lunch. Christy and David had packed my favorite Thanksgiving feast: turkey sandwiches on homemade bread with homemade cranberry sauce and butter. Evening came and we sat in the grass watching the last of the day’s light glaze the hills across the highway. “It’s hard to leave,” I whispered, and it was.

Now for the goddess part....

But on the way home, we had an interesting conversation. Christy is training to run in the MetroPCS Dallas White Rock 26.2 mile marathon going off this weekend. She’s been training for weeks and it’s amazing to me; her persistence has been dogged in the extreme. Grueling. I’d never do it and I'm so proud of her because she is! She has said all along, though, that she isn’t doing it to win and I understand her completely. The very fact that she set the goal, that she adhered to a training schedule, that she hasn’t once given up on her commitment has given her a sense of accomplishment. It has raised her level of self-confidence. And that’s enough. She’ll be happy, she says, if she can finish. But David said if he had put in all the sweat equity she has, he’d be set on winning. In fact, he said he wouldn’t take on the challenge of a marathon or anything like that unless he believed to his core he could win. Their discussion seemed to represent one of the classic male/female divides and led me to remember a remarkable book I read quite some time ago, The Alphabet Versus the Goddess, The Conflict Between Word and Image by Leonard Shlain. I mentioned the book to them, and reflecting on it, said I thought the difference in their approach to a challenge was rooted in ancient history when men were the hunters in charge of bringing food back to their tribe and women were the gatherers, the nurturers, charged with the safety and wellbeing of the children, the progeny that ensured the continuance of the race. That is a less well-defined goal, one that spans a much longer time of execution than the one of rustling up the family’s next meal. A guy had to be focused; he had to win and more than that, he had to be passionate about winning. He had to be in a kind of “take no prisoner’s” mode, because it wasn’t as if he could purchase dinner at the local grocery store if he failed! His need to succeed was immediate, the consequences if he didn’t were just as immediate … starvation and death. And while the woman’s role was as crucial to the tribe’s survival, there wasn’t the daily pressure of the hunt with its clearly defined objective. The hunter had to win, every day provide a physical trophy; the goddess didn’t. She provided things, but they were less tangible, nothing to dance in the end zone over! At least that’s my take on it for what it’s worth. Y’all weigh in, if you want to.

And for readers who might be interested

From the Amazon Review: "Literacy has promoted the subjugation of women by men throughout all but the very recent history of the West," writes Leonard Shlain. "Misogyny and patriarchy rise and fall with the fortunes of the alphabetic written word." That's a pretty audacious claim, one that The Alphabet Versus the Goddess provides extensive historical and cultural correlations to support. Shlain's thesis takes readers from the evolutionary steps that distinguish the human brain from that of the primates to the development of the Internet. The very act of learning written language, he argues, exercises the human brain's left hemisphere--the half that handles linear, abstract thought--and enforces its dominance over the right hemisphere, which thinks holistically and visually. If you accept the idea that linear abstraction is a masculine trait, and that holistic visualization is feminine, the rest of the theory falls into place. The flip side is that as visual orientation returns to prominence within society through film, television, and cyberspace, the status of women increases, soon to return to the equilibrium of the earliest human cultures. Shlain wisely presents this view of history as plausible rather than definite, but whether you agree with his wide-ranging speculations or not, he provides readers eager to "understand it all" with much to consider. --Ron Hogan

It took me awhile to get through it, but it was well worth the read, for what I carried away from it was a clearer understanding of human nature and a greater hope for our future.

Publishing in the New Wild, Wild West: A Conversation with Editor, Corinna Barsan

I have had the privilege of becoming acquainted with Corinna Barsan, a senior editor at Other Press, through our correspondence regarding a handful of wonderful books published by the house. The first was The Quickening by Michelle Hoover. An Accidental Light by Elizabeth Diamond and Lamb by Bonnie Nadzam are two others. Judging from what her authors have to say about her, Corinna is a truly remarkable, hands-on, nurturing midwife to the books she works on. I think it must be lovely as a writer to have her guidance. I know I have very much enjoyed our email conversation. So when out of the blue, I decided to try indie publishing, I thought of Corinna and wondered what she would think. What would her opinion, even her advice be, to an author heading into this new territory? I kept wondering for so long, I finally decided to ask her and she has graciously consented to share her answers to a few of my questions. Corinna, welcome to the blog. Thank you very much for taking the time to drop by.

Thanks for inviting me, and congratulations on the publication of your new book, The Volunteer. You’re now an indie publishing veteran! You’ll have to share your experiences . . . but we’ll save that for future blog posts.

First, do you own a reading device? Do you take it along when you travel? Are you reading something on it now? Do you find it is a different experience? 

I’m a bit of a walking book-lover cliché. When I’m reading for pleasure, it’s always a printed book. I’m an underliner. I like to fill the pages with dots and lines and markings as trails leading back to my impressions. But for work purposes, I mostly read submissions on a device—as most editors and publishing folks do. In the old days (just five or six years ago), you could spot an editor on the street by the heavy load of manuscripts tucked in a tote and their tilted posture. Electronic devices have saved our backs and spared some trees from copy machines. (Although I have to admit that I still print out submissions when I'm starting to fall for a book because I tend to absorb more of the story that way.) While these devices are convenient in so many ways, one thing that irks me is that the outside world can't distinguish that the reading I'm doing is work-related and that I'm not a total e-reader convert—I still support the printed book. I wish someone would manufacture a sticker that says something like: On duty. I prefer paperbacks. I would slap that on the back of my device!

In a recent conversation I had with a literary agent, she tagged the publishing climate today as the “Wild Wild West”. Do you agree? And if so, do you think the current shaking of the old foundation will settle, and while the landscape around it might be new, do you feel the base it sits on will eventually be stable and accepted as part of the publishing mainstream?

That's a great image. In many ways it is like the “Wild Wild West” in that we're traveling across unchartered terrain and there are no rules ("laws") to guide us—it's a bit of a land grab right now as we feel our way through these changes. In many ways it’s exciting because new opportunities for publishing have opened up and there's room to break out of previous molds to experiment with format. Some books—such as very hot, time-sensitive nonfiction—can benefit from being published as quickly as possible into an e-book so as not to miss out on public interest. We can do that these days. While we're still exploring and experimenting, it all looks like a mad dash of chaos but the possibilities are manifesting and things will eventually calm down a bit when the novelty wears off.

In the past, an author who published his or her own work was often dismissed out of hand. From your viewpoint as an editor, has that perception changed with the advent of e-books and readers? Would you, or have you ever considered the work of an indie author? Is there an indie book out there that you wish you had acquired?

There have been some great examples of writers self-publishing, finding success, and then going on to have a more traditional experience with an established publisher. One title that springs to mind is Anthology of an American Girl by Hilary Thayer Hamann, which was self-published and then re-published by Spiegel and Grau. It’s difficult to ignore a book that has taken flight through word-of-mouth and I would certainly consider a title that has galvanized readers. This all goes back to increased opportunity in this “Wild Wild West” landscape. The arrival of e-books has given self-published authors an advantage in that their work is more accessible; though I think an author needs to be a good self-promoter or have a platform to make inroads.

A lot of rhetoric surrounds the price of indie e-books. Readers argue that traditional publishers price them too high. Some readers even boycott books priced above $2.99. What is your feeling about this? Do you foresee traditional publishers lowering the prices for e-books in the future?

There's great danger in pricing e-books too low because the message that is being delivered is that it's okay to devalue a work of literature. Format doesn't necessarily equate the need for dirt cheap pricing. What you're buying is art. It shouldn't be reduced to the price of a Starbucks coffee because people are out for a bargain. Once you start lowering prices to that extent, it’s much harder to raise it again to a more respectable price since you’ve set an expectation in the consumer’s mind. E-book pricing is still in flux and eventually we’ll settle on a model—hopefully a respectable one.

Corinna Barsan is a senior editor at Other Press, where she edits literary fiction and nonfiction from around the world. She joined the company in 2006 after beginning her publishing career at Farrar, Straus and Giroux. Prior to her editorial work, she was a photo editor for book and magazine projects. Born and raised in New York City, she holds a bachelor’s degree in journalism from New York University and an MFA in fiction from Hunter College. And she writes a wonderful blog, Shiny White Page.

Buy This book: Life Without Summer by Lynne Griffin

 

 

I had ideas about the story when I picked up Life Without Summer, Lynne Griffin’s fiction debut, but I was wrong. I thought I knew what was meant by Summer, but I didn’t. I imagine, too, that I’m not the only reader who was hesitant when on reading the jacket copy, I learned the story concerned the loss of a little girl, adorable four-year-old Abby. But there was something so compelling in Griffin’s writing from the very first page: Fall, it begins, day 18 without Abby. This from Abby’s mom, Tessa, who is foundering in a nightmare of grief after a hit and run driver ran Abby down in front of her pre-school. Other seasons of grief follow, winter and spring, while Tessa grapples with the nightmare of horrendous loss and what she deems the near-criminally inept handling of the investigation by the detective who is assigned to Abby’s case. But in a way it’s Tessa’s anger at this man, and her frustration that sustains her. It’s her single-minded focus on bringing the driver to justice that creates the shape of her days.

Ethan, Abby’s daddy, who is struggling in his own way, asks Tessa to see a therapist and she complies although in the beginning she questions what sort of help she can get from Celia who, while she is compassionate in her attention to Tessa, keeps her professional distance. Celia has her own story, one that unfolds alongside Tessa’s and it is in this way that the real complexities of this plot begin to be revealed. Celia’s life too has been filled with tragedy. There’s a half-grown son and his secrets, an ex-husband and his alcoholism. There are other things, hinted at, whispering between the lines. There’s all this nice stuff about a new husband and a new life for Celia and her son. But something feels off about it. This is what is so well done throughout this novel, the feeling it gives of having its own secret. It will be summer before the pages give it up, the answer to the mystery. By then hearts will be broken all over again and then entwined in ways you can’t imagine. For more visit Lynne's website. 

A cultural leap: an American goes east

I read an article on my homepage and I'm compelled to share. I grew up studying ballet, dancing and dreaming of being a principal, and also composing in the language of the ballet. Called choreography, the language of dance is beautiful in itself and through a crafted series of characters, reveals a story. As a student, I recognized that Russia produced the best dancers; they were known for it. The finest training I ever received was given me by Frank and Irina Pal, two fabulous and passionate dancers from Czechoslovakia who were trained in the grand classical Russian style. I had the good fortune to study with them at their school in Wichita Falls, Texas. The Pals escaped Leipzig after the second world war on the last American truck out of city just as the Russian troops were entering from the other direction. Eventually they wound up in Wichita Falls, bringing their art and passion to a north Texas city where the cultural climate had been described to them as a wasteland, but they were determined, romantic, and devoted to their students, and they had their own share of "Texas/Czech" grit. I have vivid and (almost) fond memories of Frank shouting at me in Russian! In addition to the studio, they also formed a semi-professional ballet company that toured and they, along with their students, performed regularly for many years.

The Pals escaped to America; Rudolf Nureyev and Mikhail Baryshnikov defected. In the history of ballet, it is always the east coming west to find artistic freedom. But now, it is the other way. Now something remarkable is happening and a guy, a kid from North Dakota, David Hallberg of Grand Rapids, South Dakota, has been invited to dance as a principal with The Bolshoi Ballet in Moscow, the first American, the first foreigner ever! His story is remarkable, his courage and perseverance are incredible. And if this photograph is any indication, in movement he captures the essence of something so beautiful and filled with light, I had goosebumps just looking at it. What evidence this gives of how the world has changed, of how it has become smaller and more willing to share. Nothing matters here of cultural differences or ethnic biases. Only beauty matters, a universal language. Bravo, David. I wish I could be there.

Read the full article here and visit David's website here

Life with a side dish of lemons: the remedy

 

So, on Sunday, ten days into my Mac experience, I got the message in fourteen languages to shut down. In IBM speak, it’s like the dreaded blue screen. Had all gone as expected, I would have rebooted and the Mac would have cleared up the issue and zoomed into life, but all did not go as expected. Turns out there’s something haywire with the RAM. I took it for repairs yesterday and on the way home stopped in at the drugstore, came out and the car wouldn’t start. Now it’s in the shop, too. Lemons. Life is handing me lemons. The nerve! I love my Mac; we had bonded, and I love my car; it’s paid for. All that love . . . squeezed now into lemons. Squeezing my dollars! Sitting on the curb, waiting for the mechanic, I wished for a diversion. Something to take my mind off its tendency to worry. I tried calling both sons, but they were each one traveling in separate parts of the country and without cell service. I sat some more and wished for my Kindle.

Reading, it’s the best diversion

No matter what is happening in my life, from a one-lemon tiny trouble to a five-lemon, full-blown disaster, I have always sought refuge in reading. I can read anytime, anyplace, almost anything--the side of a cereal box, a clothing label, a recipe--and, even if it’s only for a moment, I’m transported. My brain and heart rest in the words, the story. Reading is restorative. Words have the power to create imagery, a pseudo-reality that is different from the one you’re standing in and that interlude, however brief, takes you out of yourself, providing a respite. Joan Reeves blogged recently about this, not reading so much, but about Happiness Amidst Life’s Lemons. In fact, I read her post yesterday, after the mechanic jumped my car, followed me to the garage, and then brought me home. (I wish it were just the battery.) But before that, sitting on the curb waiting for rescue, I wished for my Kindle. If I could have read something, it would have stopped my mind from chewing over the lemon rind so to speak, until I had scared myself with every possible scenario up to and including, or nearly, becoming homeless as the result of being served so many lemons. Where will it end? I asked myself. Why me? I said. What next? Can it get worse? (That’s a bad one to ask!)

If only I'd had my Kindle. . . .

I could have been reading, Jane I’m Still Single Jones, by Joan Reeves, say, a recent download (A romantic dream of a high school class reunion story that zipped along like a fun evening spent with a group of wry and entertaining characters, and cleverly spiced with little nuggets of wisdom that gave me pause. I love Joan’s voice!) Had I been reading that, I might have been smiling.   I know I would have been engaged. Or I could have been reading Innocent Deceptions, a historical novel by Gwyneth Atlee aka ColleenThompson, another recent Kindle download. Reading that would have transported me back to the Civil War era and a story of love and betrayal. (Watch for more of her historical and romantic suspense releases in the near future. Her latest release, Phantom of the French Quarter, is an eerie and atmospheric tale of love and murder). Or I could have taken another look, at Crazy For Trying, by Joni Rodgers. I read that on my Kindle not long ago, loved it and reviewed it here. (Look for her latest release: The Hurricane Lover, a stunner of a literary thriller coming to Kindle this month.)



Instead. . . .

I chewed my virtual nails, pondered all sorts of even graver consequences, indulged in brief acts of self pity, and tried calling my kids so I could serve them a few of my lemons, all of which only increased the sour taste. When I could have been reading. I’m not sure what the lesson is, but I think it goes something like this . . .  don’t leave home without your Kindle (or e-reader of choice) and don’t share your lemons. As Joan suggests, make lemonade. Maybe she’ll even share the recipe she mentions in her post. Oh, and I wouldn’t mind at all if, as a diversion, you were to read my books on your Kindle, too. The Volunteer and The Ninth Step aren’t exactly a laugh a minute, but the stories, the suspense just might hook you in. At the least, you’ll be transported to another world where the lemons aren’t your own.

If this post looks wonky, blame it on the old PC.....

 

The Volunteer: It's not about what you might think

 

It’s about time

Really. Time is what started the whole story. I read about a man in the newspaper who was sentenced to death and called off his appeals. The court obliged him and set the date of his execution. I tried to imagine it, what it must be like for him to know the date of his own death. Would he mark the day on the calendar with a red X? Would he X off each day before that one? What would his thoughts be, his emotions? It was hard to imagine his fear and yet I was drawn to it. To explore it. Time running out, ticking down to zero. By law, he could reinstate his appeals if he chose to, or his devastated family could talk him out of it. So, as the day draws closer, will he buckle? Some might say, Who cares? Obviously if the guy’s on death row, a convicted murderer, he’s no asset to society. 

The choice

Still, given that the self-preservation instinct is purportedly the strongest natural instinct a human being has, how desperate does a man have to be to ask to die? Or how remorseful? Or sickened by himself and his acts? According to one source I read, nationally, as many as one in six who are facing execution ask to die. The first was murderer Gary Gilmore, who was put to death via firing squad in Utah in 1977. More recently, the Oklahoma City bomber Tim McVeigh was a volunteer and serial killer Ted Bundy reportedly told police that he purposely committed murders in Florida because the state had the death penalty. Obviously there are few who mourn the passing of these men. Their families perhaps.

 

The fallout

And what about the family? Suppose you’re related to someone on death row who’s made such a decision? That big red X marks your calendar too. What if you’re his kid or his wife? Or his mother? The questions seemed enormous to me. Research for The Volunteer led me in several directions. There’s the ongoing argument that surrounds the death penalty in general, but more specific with regard to volunteers, there is the issue of whether the inmate is using the system to commit suicide versus the other cold-reality contention that calling an early end to the often years-long appeals process saves money. Statistics I read indicate that confining an inmate to death row is a great deal more expensive because of the heavy cost of the appeals. But appeals aside, according to sources I found, it costs Texas an average of $16,000 to house one inmate for one year. In California, the cost rises to a whopping $90,000 per year per inmate.

The more intimate focus

The story The Volunteer tells, though, is one of family. As parents, in general, we raise our children to be good people. We want them to be happy, but then they grow up, become adults. Whatever authority or control or means we had to keep them safe ultimately slips from our hands. In the blink of an eye, a choice is made, and they are plunged into circumstances that are not just life altering but life threatening.  Hearts are broken; freedom is lost. How much of this is the fault of parenting? Of mothering? In this case an inmate might well be put to death for his mistake, but what sentence does a mother receive?

The Volunteer tells a story about mothers and their children, guilty and innocent. It tells of the crimes that go unpunished. It tells how a terrible act done in one generation might not bear its evil fruit for several. It’s about collateral damage and extenuating circumstances. And it’s about the resilience of life and the human spirit. I think about that a lot, life’s resilience… every time I see a flower sprouting through cracked pavement, it reminds me how tenaciously life holds to itself.

 

 

I'm getting a new computer so I cleaned out the garage

 

Trust me, I can explain. . . .

Bear with me; I’ll get to that logic in a minute. But first, the new computer . . . I’m really excited about it, don’t get me wrong, but it strikes me that it’s almost as bad and as good as if I were moving, or maybe I should say as dislocating and cleansing as only a full-house move can be. There are so many files, music and pictures, and lists of favorite locations stored on my old computer. All this “virtual” stuff, collected through the years like junk in a drawer, and now I have to go through it and decide what to keep. I mean if I really want to be organized about it and I would like to be.

Two Men and a Truck?!

So I have to look at each file, photo, and location, etc., and determine whether it’s worthy of being moved. And it’s not as if I can get the whole box thing going either. That system HGTV recommends where you label three cartons, Keep, Toss and Give Away, and divide items accordingly. What’s on my computer doesn’t even have any weight. It’s not as if I have to hire Two Men and a Truck to transport it and yet it’s still a painstaking chore. I’m nervous, too. This isn’t just any move. I’m making the switch from an IBM compatible PC to an Mac. There’s going to be a real learning curve, the same as if I were relocating to another town, where I have to learn a new route to the grocery store and how to find the post office and the bank. I know I’ll get lost a few times before I figure it out. Mostly, though, I’m relieved. The machine I have is seven years old and so is the software. It’s slow and cranky. It has these little maddening idiosyncrasies and there’s no way around them. We’ve rubbed along together well enough, but it’s time for something new. Time to come into the twenty-first century, so to speak.

One man’s treasure

So what’s cleaning out the garage got to do with it? I had two reasons for doing that, one’s pretty silly. I had this idea that I’d set up the old computer on my work table. That way if I got into trouble on the new machine, I could just run out to the garage and fire up the old one. Idiosyncrasies aside, I know how to work the old machine. Of course, it didn’t occur to me until after I’d cleared space on and around the table that was strewn with a number of half-finished projects that the old machine is so old it doesn’t have a way to go wireless and the hoops I’d have to jump through to get it up to speed just aren’t worth it. The second reason I cleared space for it, though, has to do with its ultimate disposal. I mean it just seems wrong to toss it into the trash and it’s not environmentally responsible anyway, if you can keep from it. So my son David has a friend who does tramp art. He lusts after all things machine, metal and electronic. Dinged, battered, not working, it’s his treasure. Some of his art is displayed roadside on occasion, huge pieces. Imagine driving along and there is your monitor posing as some robot’s head atop your computer case or whatever. Maybe there’s a recycled metal cylinder arm and hand upraised in a big-Texas salute, and looped around the wrist joint there’s a cable with your mouse dangling like a charm. I like the idea of that. My old electronic junk repurposed. I like that something that in its time provided me with many hours of service will now give an artist means to create something whacky and unique that makes people smile. My new computer arrives on Wednesday and I’ll be dismantling this one then and taking it out to the worktable in the garage where it will stay until David can pick it up and transport it to its new life as art.

Note: If this post looks odd, it's because I can't get Wordpress to format properly! And if the website looks in disarray, it’s because it’s undergoing a little growth and renovation to accommodate my latest novel. The Volunteer will be available for downloading later on today, October 17. It is the story of psychologist Sophia Wilmot who through a haunting sequence of events finds herself reluctantly holding the power to save death row inmate Jarrett Capshaw from execution, but when details of an old crime from her past resurface, she discovers it’s not only Jarrett’s life that is at stake, but her own. I’ll post again as soon as the book goes live and maybe by then, I'll have these formatting bugs sorted out!

I’m getting a new computer so I cleaned out the garage

 

Trust me, I can explain. . . .

Bear with me; I’ll explain the logic in a minute. But first, getting the new computer . . . I’m really excited about it, don’t get me wrong, but it strikes me that it’s almost as bad and as good as if I were moving, or maybe I should say as dislocating and cleansing as only a full-house move can be. There are so many files, music and pictures, and lists of favorite locations stored on my old computer. All this “virtual” stuff, collected through the years like junk in a drawer, and now I have to go through it and decide what to keep. I mean if I really want to be organized about it and I would like to be. So I have to look at each file, photo, and location, etc., and determine whether it’s worthy of being moved. And it’s not as if I can get the whole box thing going either. That system HGTV recommends where you label three cartons, Keep, Toss and Give Away, and divide items accordingly. What’s on my computer doesn’t even have any weight. It’s not as if I have to hire Two Men and a Truck to transport it and yet it’s still a painstaking chore. I’m nervous, too. This isn’t just any move. I’m making the switch from an IBM compatible PC to an Mac. There’s going to be a real learning curve, the same as if I were relocating to another town, where I have to learn a new route to the grocery store and how to find the post office and the bank. I know I’ll get lost a few times before I figure it out. Mostly, though, I’m relieved. The machine I have is seven years old and so is the software. It’s slow and cranky. It has these little maddening idiosyncrasies and there’s no way around them. We’ve rubbed along together well enough, but it’s time for something new. Time to come into the twenty-first century, so to speak.
One man’s treasure

[caption id="attachment_258" align="alignleft" width="300" caption="A rendering of Texas in castoff metal"][/caption]

So what’s cleaning out the garage got to do with it? I had two reasons for doing that, one’s pretty silly. I had this idea that I’d set up the old computer on my work table. That way if I got into trouble on the new machine, I could just run out to the garage and fire up the old one. Idiosyncrasies aside, I know how to work the old machine. Of course, it didn’t occur to me until after I’d cleared space on and around the table that was strewn with a number of half-finished projects that the old machine is so old it doesn’t have a way to go wireless and the hoops I’d have to jump through to get it up to speed just aren’t worth it. The second reason I cleared space for it, though, has to do with its ultimate disposal. I mean it just seems wrong to toss it into the trash and it’s not environmentally responsible anyway, if you can keep from it. So my son David has a friend who does tramp art. He lusts after all things machine, metal and electronic. Dinged, battered, not working, it’s his treasure. Some of his art is displayed roadside on occasion, huge pieces. Imagine driving along and there is your monitor posing as some robot’s head atop your CPU or whatever. Maybe there’s a metal cylinder arm and hand upraised in a big-Texas salute, and looped around the wrist joint there’s a cable with your mouse dangling like a charm. I like the idea of that. My old electronic junk repurposed. I like that something that in its time provided me with many hours of service will now give an artist means to create something whacky and unique that makes people smile. My new computer arrives on Wednesday and I’ll be dismantling this one then and taking it out to the worktable in the garage where it will stay until David can pick it up and transport it to its new life as art.

Note: If the website looks in disarray, it’s because it’s undergoing a little growth and renovation to accommodate my latest novel. The Volunteer will be available for downloading later on today, October 17. It is the story of psychologist Sophia Wilmot who through a haunting sequence of events finds herself reluctantly holding the power to save death row inmate Jarrett Capshaw from execution, but when details of an old crime from her past resurface, she discovers it’s not only Jarrett’s life that is at stake, but her own. I’ll post again as soon as the book goes live.

Test

Mary had a little lamb.

Intuition, that mysterious knowing

Resistance, the art and the ugly

I admit it, I was a book snob, one of those people who said they would never own a Kindle, never read from a device rather than a book. As an author, when it came to publishing? No way was I going any route but the traditional one. Even when it didn’t happen, I didn’t relent. I resisted the whole notion of indie publishing. I mean, I truly resisted. There was no maybe about it. But then something came, in a matter of hours as day followed night, my attitude changed, or perhaps it evolved. My resistance crumbled. Something--what always feels to me like delight--said go for it, and I resisted that, too. I argued, but it just waited, for lack of a better word. The best way I can describe “it” is that it feels like a fist pushing against my back. And I know from all the other times in my life when I have felt this sensation, there’s no point in arguing further. Whatever that fist is pressing me toward, that’s where I’m going. It’s nearly a relief to give in. There is always a sensation of (usually inexplicable) joy alongside whatever other emotions are present when I finally yield, and it wasn’t different in this case. I walked into my office on that particular morning, the one I’d left only the evening before with my determination to be traditionally published intact, sat down, and began researching the whole indie publishing world as if I had always believed indie was the way to go. I’ve launched one novel since and will shortly come out with another, plus a digital version of my first novel, published traditionally, in 2001.

Learning to listen

I’m familiar with this way of knowing. Comfortable with it despite my resistance. I know the voice of my delight is my intuition whispering to me, that it comes from my muse, my daemon, if you will, and when it plants its fist in my back, it means business. But what never fails to amaze me, to thrill me, is how much is provided to me when I don’t resist, when I follow it. This time, among many other gifts I was given just as the need arose, I was led to a book: The Art of Intuition, Cultivating Your Inner Wisdom, by Sophy Burnham. I had never read anything by Sophy before and didn’t know what to expect, but what I found was another gift. Sophy’s book does not preach some woo-woo, new-agey theory that can’t be quantified. No. It’s as practical and full of hard science as it is wise and illuminating.  She quotes Jane Austen, a person whom most everyone would surely agree was well-acquainted with her muse, as saying: We all have a better guide in ourselves, if we would attend to it, than any other person can be.  Many of the scientific experiments described in Sophy’s book suggest a connectivity among all living things that occurs through “other” dimensions. Sophy herself describes it as “. . . fragile, easily ignored, [and] often overruled by critical doubt.” She says, “You have to listen for the tuning fork of insight.” Even as I write this I am thinking of my own process of creativity, how I work mostly by feel. And yet I will just as often sit cowed by the shadow of the dreaded “critical doubt” rather than walk into the light that is freely given if only I would throw off my resistance and step into it. Step into it and listen. It isn’t a listening with ears, I don’t think. But deeper than that.

"Dream of your own beauty.”

So says a bit of wall graffiti found on a building in London. But how many of us do? We talk a lot about love, but how many of us begin with ourselves? And why, in the face of so much evidence of intuition’s often stunning show of reliability, do we refuse to accept its advice? The skeptics call such evidence pseudoscience, but as Sophy points out, “. . .the skeptics have their own row to hoe.” Anyone who practices art of any kind will usually admit, however grudgingly, to having a muse, (although they might not describe it in such terms) and what is a muse if not the voice of one’s intuition? Who hasn’t heard the phone ring and known who was calling before checking the caller ID? Who hasn’t thought of someone and then run into them in the next day or two? Or lost a thing and suddenly known exactly where? Or wrestled with a problem only to dream the answer? I know of at least one occasion when intuition saved my life--literally. I didn’t question the instruction I was given at the time. I simply followed it and lived to tell. Sophy suggests the gift isn’t acquired but innate. We’re born with it, but we can ignore it, or refuse it until it becomes latent. Most of us were more intuitive as children. That doesn’t surprise me. Little children dream of their own beauty every waking moment. They are skilled creators of beauty; they are not afraid to be curious, to question and explore. But then life intervenes. Imagination isn’t so prized a tool anymore. We’re encouraged to develop our intellect, our ability to rationalize. We’re told--conditioned, really--to believe that provable facts make a more reliable guide.

Between fact and faith

I shall not commit the fashionable stupidity of regarding everything I cannot explain as a fraud. This from C.G. Jung. I can’t dismiss what I don’t understand as fraud either having had too many encounters with . . . well, something. And while I have no idea how my indie venture will turn out, I do have a hunch (another one!) that it is no accident. I’ve launched this journey by design. Perhaps it is the result of the entangled particles, Sophy references when she delves into what quantum physics has to say so far about the mystery of intuition. But truly, I’ve always been aware of it, this internal sensibility and its influence in my life. It’s been with me as long as I can remember, put away at times, even shunted off into a corner of my brain like an unwelcome and embarrassing affliction. But lately I’m less inclined to ignore it, and Sophy’s book only served to underscore my resolve, my belief that this voice, or presence, or whatever--this instinct if you will, is, as Sophy suggests, inborn; it is woven into the very fiber of our brain. I know that is how I advise my children, that their intuition, their instinct, is to be trusted, relied on and used. I think, in part, I am more confident of this now because the science is pointing there. It’s as if permission is being granted to give credence to the possibility of a kind of hyper-intelligence that I have always inherently understood was real and true.

Enhancing your own inner wisdom

Sophy Burnham’s book, The Art of Intuition, is a pleasure to read on so many levels. In many ways it is like a collection of fascinating short stories, generously seeded with anecdotes and spiced with plain facts from the black and white world of concrete data that has been gathered under scientific conditions by all manner of accepted authorities. But even the science is made understandable and compelling through writing that is as luminous as it is engaging. In addition, Sophy chronicles the history of spiritualism and examines such practices as divination, dousing, and magic. She discusses the various kinds of perceptions from clairvoyance to premonition and describes methods from guided daydreaming to something she calls deep listening to assist readers who have an interest in developing their own intuition. Believer or skeptic, The Art of Intuition offers a rich source of nourishment for your brain, your dreams, your imagination. Trust me in this, I have a strong feeling you’ll love it!

Intuition, that mysterious knowing

Intuition: That Mysterious Knowing

 

Resistance, the art and the ugly

I admit it, I was a book snob, one of those people who said they would never own a Kindle, never read from a device rather than a book. As an author, when it came to publishing? No way was I going any route but the traditional one. Even when it didn’t happen, I didn’t relent. I resisted the whole notion of indie publishing. I mean, I truly resisted. There was no maybe about it. But then something came, in a matter of hours as day followed night, my attitude changed, or perhaps it evolved. My resistance crumbled. Something--what always feels to me like delight--said go for it, and I resisted that, too. I argued, but it just waited, for lack of a better word. The best way I can describe “it” is that it feels like a fist pushing against my back. And I know from all the other times in my life when I have felt this sensation, there’s no point in arguing further. Whatever that fist is pressing me toward, that’s where I’m going. It’s nearly a relief to give in. There is always a sensation of (usually inexplicable) joy alongside whatever other emotions are present when I finally yield, and it wasn’t different in this case. I walked into my office on that particular morning, the one I’d left only the evening before with my determination to be traditionally published intact, sat down, and began researching the whole indie publishing world as if I had always believed indie was the way to go. I’ve launched one novel since and will shortly come out with another, plus a digital version of my first novel, published traditionally, in 2001.

 Learning to listen

I’m familiar with this way of knowing. Comfortable with it despite my resistance. I know the voice of my delight is my intuition whispering to me, that it comes from my muse, my daemon, if you will, and when it plants its fist in my back, it means business. But what never fails to amaze me, to thrill me, is how much is provided to me when I don’t resist, when I follow it. This time, among many other gifts I was given just as the need arose, I was led to a book: The Art of Intuition, Cultivating Your Inner Wisdom, by Sophy Burnham. I had never read anything by Sophy before and didn’t know what to expect, but what I found was another gift. Sophy’s book does not preach some woo-woo, new-agey theory that can’t be quantified. No. It’s as practical and full of hard science as it is wise and illuminating.  She quotes Jane Austen, a person whom most everyone would surely agree was well-acquainted with her muse, as saying: We all have a better guide in ourselves, if we would attend to it, than any other person can be.  Many of the scientific experiments described in Sophy’s book suggest a connectivity among all living things that occurs through “other” dimensions. Sophy herself describes it as “. . . fragile, easily ignored, [and] often overruled by critical doubt.” She says, “You have to listen for the tuning fork of insight.” Even as I write this I am thinking of my own process of creativity, how I work mostly by feel. And yet I will just as often sit cowed by the shadow of the dreaded “critical doubt” rather than walk into the light that is freely given if only I would throw off my resistance and step into it. Step into it and listen. It isn’t a listening with ears, I don’t think. But deeper than that.

 “Dream of your own beauty.”

So says a bit of wall graffiti found on a building in London. But how many of us do? We talk a lot about love, but how many of us begin with ourselves? And why, in the face of so much evidence of intuition’s often stunning show of reliability, do we refuse to accept its advice? The skeptics call such evidence pseudoscience, but as Sophy points out, “. . .the skeptics have their own row to hoe.” Anyone who practices art of any kind will usually admit, however grudgingly, to having a muse, (although they might not describe it in such terms) and what is a muse if not the voice of one’s intuition? Who hasn’t heard the phone ring and known who was calling before checking the caller ID? Who hasn’t thought of someone and then run into them in the next day or two? Or lost a thing and suddenly known exactly where? Or wrestled with a problem only to dream the answer? I know of at least one occasion when intuition saved my life--literally. I didn’t question the instruction I was given at the time. I simply followed it and lived to tell. Sophy suggests the gift isn’t acquired but innate. We’re born with it, but we can ignore it, or refuse it until it becomes latent. Most of us were more intuitive as children. That doesn’t surprise me. Little children dream of their own beauty every waking moment. They are skilled creators of beauty; they are not afraid to be curious, to question and explore. But then life intervenes. Imagination isn’t so prized a tool anymore. We’re encouraged to develop our intellect, our ability to rationalize. We’re told--conditioned, really--to believe that provable facts make a more reliable guide.

 Between fact and faith   

 I shall not commit the fashionable stupidity of regarding everything I cannot explain as a fraud. This from C.G. Jung. I can’t dismiss what I don’t understand as fraud either having had too many encounters with . . . well, something. And while I have no idea how my indie venture will turn out, I do have a hunch (another one!) that it is no accident. I’ve launched this journey by design. Perhaps it is the result of the entangled particles, Sophy references when she delves into what quantum physics has to say so far about the mystery of intuition. But truly, I’ve always been aware of it, this internal sensibility and its influence in my life. It’s been with me as long as I can remember, put away at times, even shunted off into a corner of my brain like an unwelcome and embarrassing affliction. But lately I’m less inclined to ignore it, and Sophy’s book only served to underscore my resolve, my belief that this voice, or presence, or whatever--this instinct if you will, is, as Sophy suggests, inborn; it is woven into the very fiber of our brain. I know that is how I advise my children, that their intuition, their instinct, is to be trusted, relied on and used. I think, in part, I am more confident of this now because the science is pointing there. It’s as if permission is being granted to give credence to the possibility of a kind of hyper-intelligence that I have always inherently understood was real and true.

Enhancing your own inner wisdom

Sophy Burnham’s book, The Art of Intuition, is a pleasure to read on so many levels. In many ways it is like a collection of fascinating short stories, generously seeded with anecdotes and spiced with plain facts from the black and white world of concrete data that has been gathered under scientific conditions by all manner of accepted authorities. But even the science is made understandable and compelling through writing that is as luminous as it is engaging. In addition, Sophy chronicles the history of spiritualism and examines such practices as divination, dousing, and magic. She discusses the various kinds of perceptions from clairvoyance to premonition and describes methods from guided daydreaming to something she calls deep listening to assist readers who have an interest in developing their own intuition. Believer or skeptic, The Art of Intuition offers a rich source of nourishment for your brain, your dreams, your imagination. Trust me in this, I have a strong feeling you’ll love it!

Buy This Book: Crazy For Trying by Joni Rodgers

In Crazy For Trying, Joni Rodgers, delivers a story that is as big and wide and gorgeous as its Big Sky country setting. It is a punch to the solar plexus, unflinching on so many levels. Troubled and witty, and sometimes irreverent, it is the truly courageous exploration of one young woman’s journey through heartbreaking circumstances of loss and abandonment, of vulnerability and self doubt, to full-blown, joyous self-discovery.

Tulsa Bitters, the daughter of a famous, recently-deceased feminist, arrives in Helena, Montana with a dented heart, twenty bucks and a couple of guitars. She wants to hide and life gives her a plan, a way to do it in plain sight as “VA Lones”, Helena’s first female deejay. It’s the job she was born for, one she loves. Soon she meets Mac, a guy twice her age, and she loves him, too. As Tulsa, or Tuppy-my-guppy, as her famous mother affectionately called her, she might have lacked the confidence to take on such a job and the lover, but as VA, she can be bold--sort of. The relationship between Mac and Tulsa is no typical May-December affair. It’s a coming of age, a coming to terms for them both. It’s tender and tough; it takes side roads that twist off the heart’s ledge. A way is lost and then found only to drop into the dark night. A small town watches, or at times what is a full and colorful cast of players mixes in. As the reader, you become entangled, engrossed.

Rodger’s voice is unique, a wry and beautiful gift, that breathes life into characters and a plot that is as vividly drawn and compelling as it is passionate. The ending is up for grabs. You might be surprised; you just might find yourself laughing through your tears. For more about this wonderful author, visit her website here and her blog, Boxing the Octopus here.

The Language of Forgiveness

 

A lesson in courage

[caption id="attachment_536" align="alignleft" width="245" caption="In the language of flowers, raspberries signify remorse"][/caption]

I have been fortunate in my life to attend as a support person a handful of 12-step meetings. I say fortunate because of the courage and humility I witnessed at these gatherings. It was a lesson to me. In the pursuit of feeding their addiction, the people in the room had wreaked havoc in their lives and in the lives of people they loved; they were stripped of everything and yet somehow found the courage to face the nightmare that drove them. They found a way  back. In my lifetime I don’t imagine I will ever feel so much bravery again. Each meeting I attended, I was in awe.

Hitting the wall

For some the journey to recovery took years. They lost the love of their spouses, parents, friends, and children. They lost jobs and fortunes. One man told how he’d gone broke as the result of his habit; he had nothing, a room in a rundown motel, a junker of a car. So one day, what turned out to be the turning point day, he forced another car off the road, dragged out the driver and knocking him down on his knees, jammed a gun to his head and demanded all his money. He wanted, needed, craved . . . name a substance, an activity. He said something woke up inside him, an awareness that seemed separate from his body and for a crucial moment, he was a horrified bystander, a witness to the realization that this guy--himself--was now ready to kill to get what he wanted. He backed off before the driver could fumble his wallet from his pocket, and apologizing profusely, dove into his car and drove away with tears blurring his vision. He was remorseful, so filled with shame that for days he couldn’t eat or sleep. He could barely breathe.

Atonement

Finally, he found a meeting. He reached the place where he was ready to atone for his errors. He was desperate for any means to make it up to those whom he had harmed. But the people who most needed to believe in him were too angry, or heartbroken, or worse, they were indifferent. They had given up on him along a road that was tarred over with his broken promises and they refused his apologies. He didn’t blame them and he didn’t quit. The night I heard him speak, fifteen years had passed since he’d pulled the gun on that driver.

 

[caption id="attachment_537" align="alignright" width="300" caption="A gift of blue scilla suggests we forgive and forget."][/caption]

First do no harm

I had a partner once who could apologize with such ease and grace, it would leave me stammering. I so admired that and tried to learn from it. But it was attending the 12-step meetings that really made me think about the whole issue of forgiveness, in particular it was the ninth step that caught my attention: Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others. I had never thought in terms of an apology causing harm before, but it makes sense. Somebody you love lies to you, betrays you, steals from you time and again until finally you’ve had enough and you leave. You build a new life. Years go by. You don’t think about it anymore; those dark memories no longer trouble your sleep. But then the person reappears, reformed now, or so they claim, asking for forgiveness, opening the door to the past you have worked hard to forget.

Do they have the right?

That’s the question. Should a person offer to make amends if it only serves to reopen old wounds? I heard arguments for both sides at the meetings, but what I mostly heard was how difficult it was to even get to this place. It was hard for these folks to look at themselves and what they’d done much less face the people they may have harmed. A lot of them said the ninth step was the most difficult, the one they had to bypass and come back to again and again. I was intrigued by these stories; the seeds for a novel about the whole subject began to grow, and as I wrote The Ninth Step, it seemed to me that the step is universal in its spirit, in what it attempts to convey: that true forgiveness is offered without expectation of absolution and that even the decision of whether to offer it or not is based on the effect it will have on the person to whom it is being offered.

I’m sorry. Who knew two simple words could be packed with the power to wound as well as to heal? For a very interesting look at how the concept of forgiveness has evolved through the ages, in particular from the view from the world’s religions, check out this Wikipedia entry.

 

Lamb by Bonnie Nadzam, A Review

Bonnie Nadzam in her debut novel, Lamb, has created a complex and disturbing story. David Lamb is a fifty-something-year-old man whose life is falling apart. His father has died and his wife has left him. With nothing solid to anchor himself to, Lamb is cruising, mentally, emotionally, physically. One day, cruising on an unfamiliar street, he’s approached by an eleven-year-old girl, Tommie. A couple of her “friends” have dared her to ask him for a cigarette. Lamb realizes the situation immediately. That it’s a dare and it raises something inside him. He’s incensed that Tommie is being used in this way. She begins to look like a cause to him, like a project that maybe he can fix up since he can’t fix anything in his own life, in his own head. As the reader you want this child to be all right. You really hope Lamb is going to be the good influence he’s striving toward, that he’s going to improve this child’s circumstances. Tommie wants this too; she’s yearning for it, for something, anything. But that’s what adolescence is, an ache, a gigantic, exquisitely painful, joyful hole inside that demands to be filled.

Looking back, I guess it could be said that adolescence is the yearning for experience, the longing to be master of one’s fate, but whatever it is, this is Nadzam’s forte, the way she makes you feel inside, like this eleven-year-old-lost child. You pray that Lamb is going to do the right thing by Tommie when he goes back into her neighborhood multiple times to feed her, to bring her gifts, to talk to her. But the whole time you know, you sense this relationship is not conventional. This man and this child have strayed into unknown territory and when Lamb takes Tommie, when he basically kidnaps her and drives her from Chicago west into the Rocky Mountains to some remote cabin ostensibly to teach her about the wilderness, to introduce her to a more organic connection to life, it is scary. It is a rude ride through a mountainous setting that is vividly beautiful and ruthlessly painted.

This novel reads like a rising heartbeat. It is a tale that knots your stomach. You want to put it down, to put it out of your mind, but the writing is so taut, so compelling and haunting that you can’t. At least I couldn’t. Nadzam is a master at point of view. At times, it’s hard to know from what position the story is being told. In a way you might be seduced into believing you are telling it to yourself, Nadzam takes you that far into Lamb’s mind. Not a comfortable place to be. And as intimately as you are there, you are also in Tommie’s mind and emotions, but this is no Lolita redux. There is nothing overtly sexual and yet . . . and yet. . . .

Readers and authors will often say that books should be entertaining, that people don’t want to be reminded of their very human condition, their frailties, vulnerabilities--weaknesses. They don’t want a story about which they have to think. But sometimes a book can do both. If you are drawn to gorgeous writing, disturbed characters, a plot that could stand alone as a taut thriller, Lamb does do both. In a manner that is reminiscent of Lionel Shriver’s, We Need To Talk About Kevin, Lamb is an unsettling journey as hard to put down as it is to forget.

For more about this wonderful author, visit her website.

Discipline, the four-letter word that isn't

 

Experienced sort of....

I’m new to the indie publishing venture and I don’t mind admitting I’m a little overwhelmed in combination with being excited to see what happens and enthusiastic to be part of something new and innovative. I love that I’m engaged at near the ground floor level in an endeavor that seems to square the playing field for all who care to enter the game. My author story isn’t different from dozens of others. I’ve written for a number of years and placed first in numerous contests. I’ve queried an inordinate number of agents and received increasingly complimentary and ever-more detailed--so-called positive rejections and invitations to rewrite and resubmit.

No walk down the aisle.

I once had an agent who, while she was new to the profession, was also wonderfully supportive and believed in my work. She actually sold a novel of mine only to have the deal fall through. A second novel she represented made it into committee at one of the big-six houses. That didn’t work out either, and, anyway, as the saying goes, close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. A rejection is a rejection regardless how glowing the terms and a bridesmaid is not the bride! So, what a joy to have this indie avenue open, to take into my own hands the fate of a novel I’ve authored. The only difficulty was (and remains) how ignorant I am of the process, how it works, the best way(s) to go about it.

My brain doesn't have an app for that!

 So I researched. I read everything I could find. It took me several weeks to feel confident enough to start. I garnered inspiration and encouragement, too, from Joan Reeves of Slingwords fame and successful indie author Karen McQuestion. Still, it required patience and diligence. I’m not the most computer literate person. Nor did I understand the intricacies of social networking, a purportedly major key to the marketing success of e-books. I’m still struggling to get the hang of it and determined to overcome my resistance, my heartfelt belief that my brain doesn’t have an app for that--the likes of Facebook and Twitter, I mean!

When The Ninth Step finally went live, I emailed my mentor, who is also a many-times successful author and creative writing professor and my first publisher. In the note I told her that as the result of my indie publishing experience, I had conceived a new respect for what she did for me and many other authors when she founded a small regional press and took us on, authors whom she believed in. She gave us our first opportunity, handling acquisition and editing responsibilities, as well as contracts, book cover design and hundreds of other details. In short she oversaw what I now know is a complicated process and she did it not just for one book but for many--by herself. This seems incredible to me now.

Dreams require devotion.

As with any new process, I’m sure this one, too, will get easier with practice. Right now, I’m struggling to find a balance--that social networking thing against the need, the desire, the resolve to write. I can see how the networking can become addictive especially if one is a bit obsessive. Which leads me to the point of this post, that being a writer requires a bit of obsession. Paraphrasing Goethe, building a foundation underneath a dream requires devotion. You have to be a little crazy, I think, a little single-minded. You have to be persistent, stubbornly persistent. And you have to be disciplined. The d word. Few like it. So few in fact, it ought to be shortened to four letters.

Help along the way.

 What got me thinking about this was a post last week from Joan Reeve’s blog, where she shares some advice that was given by well-known author Robert (Dick) Vaughn during a workshop she attended, that the bridge between talent and success isn’t networking (I’m paraphrasing again), it isn’t even talent. It’s work discipline. Discipline with a capital D. I was relieved when I read this . . . that it wasn’t social networking skills I needed but discipline. I might not like it, but discipline is something I understand, over which I have control. Imagine, the d word--something so simple can be so effective. For a really terrific kick in the discipline pants, I suggest reading a little book written by Steven Pressfield called Do The Work. He nails it. And for some great tools, check out this blog post at Boxing the Octopus from author Colleen Thompson. Getting the work done is sometimes really difficult. I'd love to know your thoughts, to hear whether you have any tricks that work for you. Who knows, maybe they'll help someone else too!

 

The Language of Flowers: It isn't all romance....

Sometimes called floriography, the language of flowers was a Victorian-era means of communication in which various flowers and floral arrangements were used to send coded messages often in the form of a small bouquet of blooms called a tussie-mussie. Being a lover of gardens as well as a lover of language, I found the idea of conveying meaning through flowers intriguing. At some point a while back my sister gifted me with a small book titled The Language of Flowers. Written in 1913, it was the golden anniversary gift of one husband to his wife. It lay about for years afterward and was finally unearthed from a drawer and reproduced in England with the family’s permission and it is an absolute treasure. The pages are sepia tinted just as the original book’s pages must be by now, and the names of the flowers are hand-scripted in ink the color of well-steeped tea in one column with the meanings painstakingly inscribed on the facing page. Many of the pages are awash in the delicate renderings of water-colored blooms and plants. What a lot of work this husband did to convey his love to his wife. And all we know of him are his initials and his affection. “To Mother,” he inscribed. “Wishing you many happy returns of the day - from Father,” and then he has written the date, August 8^th, 1913. And beneath that he wrote:

There is a language, “little known”,
Lovers claim it as their own.
Its symbols smile upon the land,
Wrought by nature’s wondrous hand;
And in their silent beauty speak,
Of life and joy, to those who seek
For love divine and sunny hours
In the language of the flowers.

His initials follow, F.W.L.

Who wouldn’t treasure such a gift? But lest you think the language of flowers is all about love and romance, look up the meaning of foxglove, one of my favorite flowers. When I first was working on The Ninth Step and realized Livie was fluent in the language of flowers, that she was receiving mysterious gifts of flowers, I wanted her to have a bouquet of foxgloves. Their tall stems are regal and elegantly lined with flowers shaped like small bells or fairy hats or one leg of the tiniest ruffle-edged pair of pantaloons. Their throats are speckled as daintily as a bird’s egg and their colors are a sweet range of the softest pastel shades. I was certain their meaning would be something wonderful, something suited to my purpose and Livie’s. But no. A gift of foxgloves is meant to convey insincerity. At least according to Mr. F.W.L. So Livie never got a single one. I thought of narcissus, too, but their meaning is egotism. And it’s funny because the close cousin to narcissus, a gift of daffodils, translates to regard. Doing a quick Google search, I could only find the book, authored by Margaret Pickston, on Amazon.com for a rather steep price--around what it costs to purchase a beautifully-done bouquet of roses, say--if it is purchased new. But a used copy can be had for one cent and the book is well-worth many times that. I truly treasure mine for all the many hours of pleasure it has given me, never mind what it provided in the way of research for my story. I have to thank Livie for the idea though. She’s the one who told me she knew the language, who helped me learn it too.