Tag: authors

Mindful Monday

I’d saved that a while back, but over the last few days, it really hit home for me as I read the three Martin Walker ebooks that had been waiting on my iPad for a while. I’ve already posted about the other two; this was the third I finished Saturday night:

There’s another in the series coming out in the fall. I’m really looking forward to it.

In the last two novels, Walker scattered a lot of global topics among the mysteries, the denizens of St. Denis, and the food (always the food!). I found these new storylines riveting (and not cumbersome): election interference, countries on the edge of war, the manipulation of public opinion via social media and disinformation, global politics, the rise of tech billionaires, the historical and cultural significance of migration from centuries past. There are many cozy things about the Bruno books, but the books themselves are not cozies. They fall into the same smart writing as Donna Leon and Louise Penny, two others among my favorite writers (with series set in Venice and Quebec, respectively), in which family, friends, and fellowship are always part of the theme but aren’t the full stories of their characters’ lives.

In Walker’s series, Bruno himself seems to be changing, but in all the ways that matter, he’s still the good human he’s always been.

Wikipedia background on Martin Walker: Born in Scotland…Martin Walker was educated at Harrow County School for Boys and Balliol College, Oxford. He lives in the Périgord/Dordogne in Southern France with his wife with whom he has two daughters.

Walker was on the staff of The Guardian from around 1971, working in a variety of positions, including bureau chief in Moscow and the United States, European editor, and assistant editor. Walker resigned in 1999 after 28 years with the newspaper.

Walker joined United Press International (UPI) in 2000. While at UPI he was also an international correspondent. He is now editor-in-chief emeritus of UPI. He also holds a variety of other positions, including senior scholar at the Woodrow Wilson International Center for Scholars in Washington, D.C.; senior fellow of the World Policy Institute at The New School in New York; member of the board of directors of the Global Panel Foundation (Berlin, Copenhagen, Prague, Sydney and Toronto). He is also a contributing editor of the Los Angeles Times’s Opinion section and of Europe magazine. Walker also is a regular commentator on CNN, Inside Washington, and NPR.

June Is Bustin’ Out All Over

The title of this post is taken from a Rodgers & Hammerstein song from the musical Carousel, a production of which I saw at a dinner theater with my mother, nephew Daniel, and Daniel’s mother Terri in 1986. At that time, I believed (right or wrong) the musical was a favorite of Lynne’s, and since I wasn’t familiar with it, I looked forward to seeing it. Had I known some of the plot, theme, and sorrow of it, I might have realized I was seeing it at the wrong time considering my reality during 1985/86, but…as Jim likes to say, “It is what it is.” It was a night out in company I enjoyed, and I remember that part of it with affection.

One of the advantages (for me) of getting older and a little wiser is that during particularly difficult times (however that difficulty manifests), history reminds me that everything is not all bad and forever and never has been all bad and forever. Though June this year has been challenging and expensive, it’s just… June. Just right now.

Yesterday, when the dogs and I had to be out of the house from early morning to well after dinnertime, we were in a quiet, cool place together. Meanwhile, Tom was overseeing and doing lots of things at Houndstooth Hall that will be beneficial in the long run, and I got to read two of three books by a favorite author, Martin Walker, that I’d downloaded via Kobo to my iPad quite a while back (meaning I still have another ebook to look forward to from him!):

I can never regret a day spent reading this ongoing series set in France, full of people, places, dogs, horses, and gastronomical feasts (without consequences like calories and hangovers!). I read all of the short stories yesterday, and finished the novel today. It was a joy once again to be in the company of Benoît Courrèges, aka Bruno, Chief of Police, in the fictional town of St. Denis.

I’m so grateful for writers.

Thinking and waiting and waiting…

These are things that might have been posted on Saturday, May 18 through Monday, May 20.

Here are some of the good things that happened after the storm and tornado on Thursday night. The skies cleared as if nothing had ever happened, and it was still quite a while until sunset. The streets drained. We did what our neighbors did; we went outside to check on each other and know we were all okay. We started clearing tree debris and branches from our yards and the yards of others. We talked and laughed and wondered when we’d get our electricity back.


I realized the beautiful flowers and blossoms from our magnolia tree were strewn up and down the street and into our neighbors’ yards. On one side of Houndstooth, where lives Carl the dog, the wind had blown little branches from our driveway tree and lots and lots of magnolia flowers into their yard. I wasn’t sure if Carl and family were home (I did hear their generator the second night, so they were home at some point), but that first night I moved the mess our trees had made in their yard to the curb. Then Tom and I began picking up the mess in our yard, and he helped neighbors coming from the side streets deal with some of the larger limbs and tree debris in the yards on our street. In this way, we learned we were one of at least three houses with power lines down in our back yards. We figured eventually, we’d be keeping a utility crew very busy.


As we all talked and cleaned up what we could, neighbors often brought tools to help saw off hanging limbs. We know our neighbor on our other side (not Carl’s), though she doesn’t live in the house now, one of her family members does. We got to meet her and apologize for our little dogs trying to fence fight her big dog and her big dog’s friend who sometimes visits. She apologized for the frenzy her dogs cause by barking at ours. We realized that we both felt to blame for dogs just being dogs, as dogs will. Now we can feel better in the future that we all get it and aren’t upset with each other about it.

Neighbors across the street, who had a lot of tree damage, including a big limb on their roof, were out in force cleaning up their yard and helping others. A couple of doors down, they found two fledgling blue jays in a nest in a huge fallen limb. By keeping close watch, they finally spotted the mama, who seemed to be injured but really wanted us all to stay away from her babies. Over the following days, we could see that she was able to fly again and was taking care of her family. A couple of days later, I would spot a bird (to me, it looked like a corvid, but Tom said it wasn’t) that hadn’t made it through the storm. Tom wrapped him up and made his goodbye gentler than his death.

Because of no AC, we kept our windows open at night. The storm left behind one gift: cooler weather. It was pleasant to sleep with those breezes flowing through the house. Once it got dark, there really was no reason not to go to bed early. We split up, Tom in the master bedroom, and me in the office, to give the dogs choices so no bed would have six of us in it at a time. Staying cool and comfortable enough to sleep was the goal. (In a future post, I’ll explain changes we made in the office/craft room in the two or three days before the storm surprised us.)

We had to figure out creative ways to get our devices recharged. We didn’t waste battery power or try to get enough signal to find out what else was going on in the city or the country or the world. As we’ve learned from past weather events, our families and friends who don’t live here know more from their news than we do about what’s going on in Houston. We find out from them when we start getting worried texts, calls, and emails. We’re fine. The dogs are fine. The house is all good. We just want these power lines removed from our back yard so the dogs have freedom to burn off energy.

I would wake up in the mornings before dawn, a dog or two sleeping next to me, appreciating the cool air and listening with happiness to the mourning doves. As the sky lightened, the other birds joined the choir.

In the day, with our windows open, mostly what we heard were tree crews and their chainsaws dealing with all the fallen trees and tree limbs, and the noise of people’s generators. And always, always, we listened for the sounds of utility trucks and the voices of workers who would make life normal by restoring our electricity.

When there was only silence were the hardest times. We marked the twenty-four hours without power with an acknowledgment that everything in the refrigerator was garbage. Maybe tomorrow the crew would arrive and prevent the same fate for the freezer’s contents. Businesses were closed. Some stations had ice but no gasoline. We ended up buying two bags of ice a day, but the time came when we accepted that the freezer contents were garbage, too.

We bagged it and Tom made a trip to RubinSmo Manor, home of The Brides, who heard the storm that night (terrifying to poor Pepper), but didn’t get its full impact and kept power. They offered us whatever we needed: beds, bathrooms, power for phones, washer/dryer, anything. We have a history of opening our homes to one another during these kinds of events, but this time, other than just knowing they were there, we only wanted to put the trash from three kitchens (we weren’t sure if our garbage day would be on time) in the dumpster used by their condo.

I missed my characters and writing. I missed keeping up with family and friends on social media. I colored because that is my calming, good thinking time, always. I think I did two pages on Friday. This one:

From this book.

And this one:

From this book.

On Saturday:

From this book:

Sunday became a hard day. We’d received a message that our power should be restored by end of day. It didn’t happen.

Because Anime always lifts my spirits, I colored this dog who looks a little like her.

From this book.

I started another coloring page on Monday that I’ll share in a different post. My mood was the flattest it had been since the tornado/storm. There was still no power. I used the daylight to read the two Michael Thomas Ford novels (one a re-read; the other its sequel) that I had mentioned in this post. It was a very good sequel, and because of the number of years between Ford’s writing of the books, he was able to make his characters more current and therefore more relevant, even though only a few days had passed in the novels’ timeline. I have never once been disappointed in anything written by him, and having had the chance to get to know him through the years, he’s one of my favorite humans. Can definitely give all the stars to Every Star That Falls.

Hump Day Vexation

Had I known, when this day began, that it would be a lot of “hurry up and wait,” a lot of “herding cats,” and a lot of other things that seemed particularly designed to vex a person who was trying to get through an eighteen-hour day on five hours of sleep, I’d have taken this book with me.

I read Michael Thomas Ford’s novel Suicide Notes in the spring of 2019, but I want to read it again for a great reason (other than that it was a very good novel in the first place). MTF has written the sequel, which I’ve eagerly anticipated. Before I read it, I want to refresh my memory with a visit back to that world and its inhabitants.

I’d have loved to have either of the novels with me today, and by the time things settled down, my brain was too exhausted to read anything. Certainly something to look forward to, along with more serene days ahead.

Mindful Monday

“Be free.
Do stupid things.
Make ridiculous mistakes.
Mortifying yourself gives others the encouragement to do the same.
Remember, poor choices often make the best stories.”

Coloring page and quote from Jenny Lawson,
You Are Here: An Owner’s Manual for Dangerous Minds

Oh, the things I thought about as I colored this page. I remember how I used to declare, “No regrets. My bad decisions and wrong directions got me to where I am.” Now I can acknowledge that I have some regrets. It’s okay. They show I lived. Would I change things? I might change how I reacted to some things. Mostly, though, I’d change the ways I punish myself, castigate myself, for simply being human.

Saturday with thoughts


Rewriting a good chapter that needs to be better. Thinking in between revising. Coloring when I think. Coloring something that has nothing to do with these characters. I’ve had fun coloring these simple pieces because of that publication on the bottom right.
Li
In
Th
Wi
Is it a tourist guide? A novel? Self-help? I kept trying to complete the title, and here are a few I came up with:

Lions In The Wild
Lice Infesting The Wicked
Lie In The Wisteria
Life In The Winnebago
Limeade In The Wineglass
Living In The Wind

All very fine, but not my winning title, which is Liars In Thorp, Wisconsin.

Wikipedia tells me: Thorp is a city in Clark County in the U.S. state of Wisconsin. The population was 1,621 at the 2010 census. Thorp is located partially within the Town of Thorp and partially within the Town of Withee. It is located between Eau Claire and Wausau. Thorp is known for some of its popular attractions, which include: Marieke Gouda Holland’s Family Cheese, Thorp Aquatic Center, and Thorp Area Historical Society & Telephone Museum.

If that isn’t the perfect location–a town formed of two towns?–for a cozy mystery involving the murder of a newcomer running for town council, I don’t know what is. Feel free to steal the idea and write a book. Don’t forget to stock up on things that can distract you.


The coloring page came from this, another of my favorite coloring books. I used colored pencils and various kinds of gel pens and markers.

J’aime la France


Oh, a hundred years ago, or thirty-something, I created a character and made him French. I think because I wanted to use the surname of my college French teacher who’d taught me a few years before. Her class was when I got those two books. (There’s a third book, but I must have stuck it somewhere else.)

This is my experience with other languages.

I had six weeks of German in tenth grade before I was moved to another school, where German wasn’t taught. It didn’t matter. I was born in Germany, but my only real interest in taking the class was because Lynne and other friends did, and I wanted to take classes with my friends. Didn’t we all?

I’m not sure which year of high school, junior or senior, I took at least one semester of Spanish. It was, as I recall, the only option for a foreign language in that school. In hindsight, learning Spanish would have been a great choice, and I did very much like the teacher, but here’s my problem with language classes. I was never one of the students who volunteered answers in ANY class. I never asked questions. I couldn’t stand to draw attention to myself. Giving any kind of oral report (even book reports, though I always read and loved reading) or reading anything out loud: absolute torture for me. Being called on for an answer? I usually pretended I didn’t know so the focus would quickly shift elsewhere.

So speaking aloud in a class using a language I was trying to learn? You might as well have escorted me to the guillotine.

ETA: Look! When I went to return the other two books to my reference shelves, I found this very thin volume (24 pages, which means a mere 12 pieces of paper) tucked among some other books. I took pronunciation seriously! Now, I can hear native French speakers teach me pronunciations online. Students these days have no idea…

Over the years, I’ve taught junior high and college students. I’ve read out loud to students. I’ve presented work-related seminars in several companies where I was employed. I’ve given talks at retreats, moderated discussions among small groups of people on various topics, and led guided meditations. I’ve spoken at book signings where my novels were being sold. I’ve done all that, but inside, I’m still the girl who didn’t want all eyes on her. And I STILL will almost never speak any of the phrases/words I know in any foreign language because I’m so uncomfortable about possibly bungling pronunciations.

And yet I love the country and the language. I don’t know a lot of French history, but I’ve done research on specific topics because… I still have that same character taking up real estate in my brain, and he, and France as a setting, play larger roles than they once did in his initial appearance in my fictitious world.

I have friends who speak French. Friends who love France. One acquaintance who is French, French-born, probably living in France again. I know when the time comes, there are people who can beta check what I’ve written, and who can make sure the online translator I’ve used when my characters (infrequently) speak French has done right by me.

Something that amuses me: I borrowed my character’s first name from a novel set in France that I read decades ago. (I liked him so much that I’d have fallen in love with him, too, just as the female character did, yet my character who bears the name isn’t a romantic lead in my series.) People I know who are familiar with the Spanish version of his name have questioned me, but I’m correctly using the French spelling. His name is the only thing I borrowed from that novel.

In addition, for the past few years, I’ve read a mystery series set in France, and I’ve tried very hard to use NOTHING from those books. (I recently realized that although I’ve bought and downloaded them, I’m two novels and one short-story-collection behind in this series. I need to spend more time reading.) I’ve met the author at book-signings and seen his online discussions of book releases during lockdown, and somewhere along the way, I was lucky enough to glean one bit of true information from him on international relations that vastly helped my plot. But other than that, my France and my French characters are all mine (with help from Google and Wikipedia), and all inaccuracies or unlikelihoods rest squarely on my shoulders (let the researcher beware…).

Though my writing brain right now is firmly in the U.S. because of the section I’m laboring over in the Neverending Saga, France is never far… And I’ve already chosen my next coloring page when the right character returns to getting page time.


Vive la République!

Revisiting a teller of stories

When we were flooded in 2017, I lost a lot of material I’d saved from my college years, including paperwork for courses, class notes, and references I’d continued to use for many years. I decided to look at it as nature’s way of making me purge things that became less relevant as the years went by.


I think I had this particular book for a college correspondence or short-term course I took during the interim between spring and summer semesters of one of my last two years as an undergraduate, but I have no clear memory about that. Mostly I don’t remember sitting in class and hearing anyone teach the course. I suppose it’s not really relevant. In some of my other classes, I often struggled when reading a couple of Southern novelists, so I probably sought a broader sense of the literature of my region from shorter works or excerpts, and this book covered (at the time of this edition) Southern lit from 1815 to around 1968. Though I remember my favorite story from this book, I can’t really remember what other works were part of the class or what papers I wrote about them.

After graduating from college and before I went back to graduate school a few years later, I read voraciously, trying to fill in gaps in my studies. I believe that might have been the reason I bought this beat-up paperback from a used bookstore for fifty cents. Had I read short stories by Welty in survey classes like the Southern lit class? Or did I just know she was highly recommended? I don’t remember. I did read it, and it didn’t really resonate with my reading interests of that time. In hindsight, I realize I undervalued it.


In time, I did respect people who read a lot of Welty and talked about her work to me, and when this 1988 limited edition came into the Houston bookstore where I worked several years later, and I spotted it on the shelf, I immediately purchased it.

It’s an oversized volume tucked into a sturdy cover; here’s the title page.

More to the point, in the back you can see why it’s a real jewel: It’s limited edition, numbered, and signed by Eudora Welty and the book’s illustrator.


Then, in 1993, Geoff, a fellow Southerner who I knew through our mutual friend Steve R, gave me this for my birthday. So I had Eudora Welty material, but I still hadn’t read most of it.

In copies of papers given to me by one of my mother’s nephews relating to his father (a writer, and one of the first who told me I could be a writer), there were a couple of copies of letters my uncle wrote to my mother. In a way that I understand all too well, he specifically mentioned Welty’s novel Losing Battles as a work that made him despair of ever being as good a writer. This so piqued my interest that I downloaded the book (this was last December), and I finally got around to reading it in April. Very long, lots of characters, and lots of stories within the narrative framework of a novel. It wasn’t an easy or fast read, but it kept me engaged.


When I mentioned the book to a friend, she decided to read her first Welty, and she chose Delta Wedding. I downloaded it, too. Also long, but not quite as long, also full of stories within the novel’s framework, and not as challenging for me to read because I’d started adjusting to this particular style of Welty’s. And as I told my friend, and also my cousin, one joy of reading Welty now is realizing that though I am by no means comparing myself to this highly acclaimed writer, I better understand my particular style that emerged in the process of working on the Neverending Saga. I was able to take some validation from the idea that I’m being true to myself and also honoring the way many Southerners have adapted the South’s oral traditions to their writing.

All that being said, I then reread The Optimist’s Daughter, had a whole new perspective and appreciation of it, and was reminded once more why I decided to take on my current works in progress in 2019. I’ve changed so much since I first began writing these characters as a teenager, then as a young woman, then as I neared middle age. This time around, I wanted to address topics which I’d simply ignored in the past because I felt inadequate to write about them; to use narrative skills I’d grown more comfortable with from 1998 on; to recognize how age had changed what I found interesting or romantic or sexy or culturally relevant; and to write in a voice that’s more true to who I am.

We’re never too old to learn and appreciate new things about art, culture, ourselves, and our creativity.

To end on a lighter note, I saw this online and thought, “Yep. That’s Tom and me.”