Tag: novels

Happiness…

If you like short stories, before I changed my sidebar links to various merchants, Houston-based and otherwise, I always had a link to Jeffrey Ricker’s website. ← If you visit that link and sign up for his newsletter (trust me, you won’t be inundated with e-mail from him, and what you do get will be informative, thoughtful, and often humorous, because that’s basically the man I know), you’ll get the opportunity to download a pdf file with five of his short stories.

There’s a reason why Timothy and I included Jeffrey in the anthologies we edited, and why I’ll always read him, even when he writes outside the genres I usually read. Good writing is good writing.

Yesterday, brace yourself, I didn’t watch any RomComs or any movie at all. I did other things, mainly working on my manuscript. Slowly, but progress is progress. I also took a break to glance through the pages of Keri Smith’s Wreck This Journal. I followed the direction on a double page to create a nonstop line. Then I realized it looked like “The Long and Winding Road,” so I paged through my sticker books and sheets and turned it into a journey with roadsigns (the “roadsigns” come from Adam J. Kurtz’s sticker book).


Today, along with mending Eva’s favorite dog bed, I watched one romantic comedy, my beloved Notting Hill from 1999 (twenty-five years old, geez). I was reminded again of one of my favorite lines, when Anna and William discuss Russian-French artist Marc Chagall’s painting La Mariée:

“Happiness isn’t happiness without a violin-playing goat,” Anna Scott, Notting Hill.


Damn right.

Speaking of violinists, in the Neverending Saga chapter in progress, I reference a character who plays violin. Seems like a nudge to get back to my manuscript. Maybe before bedtime, I’ll watch 1989’s Cousins with Ted Danson, Isabella Rossellini, Sean Young, and William Petersen.

Oh, yeah, bonus: In Notting Hill, Hugh Grant’s character owns a bookstore.

I passed my driving test ;)

I think I’ve driven twice since June, both times with Tom in the car as my passenger. Other than that, he’s been doing all the driving. As a result of following some of my doctor’s instructions for self-care to work on the medical issue that’s kept me off the road (a self-imposed decision), today I took a very short drive, all by myself, to pick up a couple of prescriptions and a few random other things. The whole errand took me less than thirty minutes, and I was able to drive there and back without an issue (other than feeling tense because it’s been a while). It reminded me of getting to use a parent’s car solo for the first time after I got my license at sixteen.

Baby steps. Speaking of babies…


Worked on the Neverending Saga a little today, but I also enjoyed a couple of movie rewatches. Always loved 1987’s Baby Boom with Diane Keaton and Sam Shepard. I don’t know if I thought of Sam Shepard’s small-town veterinarian (Dr. Cooper) when I wrote Dr. Boone in A Coventry Christmas, but I definitely thought of Dr. Boone when I watched the movie today.


Tonight, Tom and I watched 1978’s Foul Play with Goldie Hawn, Chevy Chase, and Burgess Meredith (and Esme the snake, played by Shirley Python!) during and after dinner. Tom had forgotten a lot of it, while I sat in giddy anticipation of all the different scenes that make me laugh. I think it may have one of the highest rates for movie cops destroying cars when trying to catch the bad guys of all the films I’ve ever seen.

Earlier Than Usual

Kicked off this Wednesday morning by doing an early lab run, where I told the lab tech I feel like we’re friends now because I’ve seen her several times in the last week or so. In truth, I’d like being friends with her, because we talk about stuff, always calming when someone’s sticking needles in you.

I woke up earlier than I needed to, but there was a character tapping on my brain, and since it’s the character whose section I’d been working on most recently, that’s a good sign. Fingers crossed I get a bit of writing done today.

Last night at dinner, Tom and I got on the topic of Steve Martin (we were talking about one of his movies we watched with a random assortment of friends that didn’t really catch anyone’s interest). I feel like I grew up with Steve Martin because of television, most notably his early work on “The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour” and “The Sonny & Cher Comedy Hour.” Of movies he’s been in, I said I probably liked him in Parenthood best, probably because I really liked the movie and its cast, but I also liked him in Father of the Bride and Dirty Rotten Scoundrels. I mentioned that in the romantic comedy vein, 1984’s All Of Me with Lily Tomlin is a favorite. Then I checked, and yes, I do own it, so it was last night’s movie rewatch.

Not sure what films are on the agenda for today. I may try to find one that will somehow play into the character I hope to get back to writing. She’s a true cinephile. Maybe I can find a movie that would make her laugh and believe in a hopeful ending, two things in short supply during this time of her life.

ETA:

Today, for me, a fun rewatch of 1983’s Trading Places. I read that Dan Aykroyd’s been working on putting together a sequel to take advantage of Eddie Murphy’s success in making sequels to some of his other films. Of course, the Duke brothers, as played by Don Ameche and Ralph Bellamy, are no longer with us, but just as much as they’d be missed would be the late Denholm Elliott as Coleman the butler. But if Ackroyd, Murphy, and Jamie Lee Curtis reprise their roles, I’d watch it.


And for the little magpie who’s part of the Neverending Saga, I watched 1995’s French Kiss with Meg Ryan, Kevin Kline, and Timothy Hutton. Though my character’s living in 1975 in my plot, twenty years later, I’m sure she’ll be utterly charmed by this romantic comedy. I even got some editing and writing done on her behalf today.

Thursday Thoughts

I did watch my Fried Green Tomatoes DVD yesterday evening, realizing that I’d never watched this extended version before. Then, before bed, I watched the extras including at least one filmed-but-unused scene (I loved it, and it was similar to a scene in the book which I’d found particularly moving), the director’s commentary, and interviews and thoughts of many of the actors. It triggered such a yearning for me to teach this novel along with the film, and all the ways I could encourage students to analyze and break down storytelling devices and choices. As a result of that yearning, I tormented Tom for at least an hour-long discussion of it after he finished work today (just one of who knows how many reasons our friends call him “poor Tom”).

There was also an interview with Fannie Flagg, and she spoke of the years a writer spends alone in a room with all those characters. You never actually feel alone; they are your people, your friends, always there with you, their level of enthusiasm at your same level. It’s why you feel protective of them when other people ignore, misjudge, and criticize them.

Then I went back to something I started last night and finished tonight. I thought of the kitchens in Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe (novel and movie). I thought of the kitchens of so many women from my life… Mother, Aunt Lola, Aunt Drexel, Terri, Debby, Mary, Pollye, Granny H, Gran, Elnora, Lynne, Liz, Amanda, Lil, Audrey, Debbie, Juanita, Carreme, Helen B, Kathy, Helen L, Chris, Geraldine, Amy, Pat, Lindsey, Rhonda… There are, of course, also men like Daddy, Jerry, David, Timothy, Jim, Steve, Jeff, James, John, Craig, and Tom. I know I’m leaving out names (a couple even deliberately–they won’t know or wouldn’t care). These kitchens are where we cooked, baked, ate, shared stories, sat around the table, played games and cards, shared confidences, laughed–OH, the laughing–and even shared our tears and troubles now and then. I thought of the kitchens of my characters, who are carrying on that tradition, as I try to carry on the tradition of storytelling through them.

An homage to the kitchens that nourish our lives in far more ways than only the food they offer us.

As I colored, I imagined stories attached to items on that cabinet and realized I could write a novella using those.

Sunday Sundries

Posting this kind of late on Sunday night. Tom and I spent most of yesterday at the ER because I’ve been having some issues with diagnoses and treatments for a couple of things, and yesterday I’d had enough, was tired of feeling bad, and hoped for some answers. I got a few, and hopefully other things will resolve over the next eight days.

Today I was very tired and drained and mostly stayed in bed and rested or did things that wouldn’t be mentally, physically, or emotionally taxing. I really hope I feel better soon, because it’s been…a summer.

In July, I shared this lovely deck, The Spirit Animal Oracle. I said that if there were any animals you wanted to see, I’d be happy to share them. BlueSkyBoy named a few and also suggested I include some favorite animals of our friends from the old LiveJournal days. The deck didn’t deliver all of them, but did offer up these beautiful eleven. I have a character, Melissa–I’d like to say “in my drafts,” but I think drafts of started/unfinished projects died with some computers. Melissa comes from a family who over generations has been endowed with various “gifts.” It turns out hers is being able to see animals who “aren’t there.” At least not to anyone else’s eyes, but she sees them clearly and tries to intuit the reason they’ve come to see her. When I get decks that are focused on animals, I always think of her.


Cat Spirit: Claim your independence.
Dog Spirit: Be loyal to what you love.
Dove Spirit: Be peace.
Cow Spirit: The miracles are endless.
Coyote Spirit: Trust in divine detours.
Fox Spirit: Think on your feet.
Hummingbird Spirit: Be here now.
Mouse Spirit: Tend to the small things.
Rabbit Spirit: Now is a lucky time.
Seahorse Spirit: Watch and wait.
White Raven Spirit: Trust in the magic.

Origins

By the time I finish writing this post, I hope I’ll have adequately edited it into some kind of readable narrative. One thing this site provider does with entries is let me know how many revisions I’ve made before (and frequently, after) I hit “publish.” You might be surprised by the number of edits even short posts accumulate. I’ll be eliminating names/sources; something said to me years ago might no longer apply to a speaker’s current thoughts and beliefs, and they might not recognize their words from old conversations.

Random assortment of thoughts:

    • Someone told me once that the stories I write (or fiction writers in general tell) are accessed psychically from the stories and lives of real people covering the range of human existence. There are a lot of names out there to describe this as a creative source or force (e.g., collective consciousness, collective unconsciousness, reincarnation, déjà vu, psychic intuition, dream states).
    • My paternal grandfather died in the mid-1960s when I was a little girl. I have vivid memories of him, including taking walks with him or watching from the porch as he walked the circular driveway in front of their house. One of my nephews was born in 1973. After he started walking and was no longer a toddler, I used to watch him explore my parents’ yard. His manner of walking, from how he carried his body to what he did with his head, arms, and hands, mimicked my grandfather so exactly that my parents and and I all recognized and commented on it.
    • Storytelling is a strong trait in both sides of my family. At any gathering, stories would be told. Within my family of five, I was perhaps the only one who wasn’t comfortable speaking stories aloud. I used to think I was an introvert, but I no longer think so. I think I was shy, and as the youngest, I also deferred to my brother and sister, who have a gift for storytelling in the oral tradition. Now that I’m older, I’m probably too comfortable speaking aloud. I have become that old lady who rambles. All five of us, including my parents, also felt driven to write stories, whether fictional or autobiographical. Part of this may be because we were all passionate readers.
    • I resist family stories that are heavily embellished. I think I’ve shared on here before the cousin who spoke at great length about my father’s war experiences, making him the hero of more missions than any one soldier could likely experience. There are many reasons I think of my father as a hero. None of them require cinematic feats on a battlefield. The truth is enough.
    • In the book I read recently, The Great Witch of Brittany, Usurle, as an old woman, reconnects with her family. She hears the stories they tell about her and some of her experiences. These stories borrow from myth, and she corrects them and removes some of the “magical” elements they’ve added. Later, in stories recounted by her descendants, the magic is back. It reminds me of how we cling to things we think make someone “special,” when in fact, exactly who a person is and what s/he’s done are magical and special enough.
    • Written history tends to tell the stories of the rich, the powerful, the monsters, the heroes. They are also biased by the tellers. We cling to the versions we like or that make us comfortable. We do that with the living and the dead.
    • I think often about people who don’t know much about their ancestry. Their origins. Their biological families. I think it’s why people take DNA tests or pursue genealogy (as my mother did) with passion. In the South, especially, when I grew up at least, a very common question when you met someone was, “Who are your people?”
    • In the time before my mother died, I began having one-sided mental conversations with her mother, who died long before I was born. My mother had told me a very specific version of what she thought she’d see after she died. I don’t question these things. I’ve been present at the bedside of five people as they died. Each was a profound honor to attend; each heartbreaking mostly for those left behind. I believe until you’ve died, you don’t know answers about death, regardless of what your doctrine or belief system or mystic or song or poem or book or philosopher or psychic or intuition has told you. Most of those conversations I had with my deceased grandmother were appeals that she come get her daughter, that she be there, when Mother, her youngest of fourteen children, made that transition.

I think the discoveries we’ve made about DNA and genetics in the past few decades are astonishing. They focus on the physiological traits we inherit (e.g., diseases and resistance to them in particular) and some mental illnesses. I say we’ve barely scratched the surface of what’s packed inside our DNA. Do you ever wonder if your DNA also carries characteristics that affected your ancestors’ emotions, beliefs, joys, sorrows, and actions?

No answers here, but my characters wonder about these things, too. Some of them are proud of their ancestors. Some are ashamed. Some have little to no knowledge about their origins.

These are things it took me a lot longer to write here than they take to race through my brain. Maybe some of them were in my head months ago when I found this oracle deck on a store’s shelf.


The deck offers a way of exploring what wisdom might feel available to you from those who came before you. Though I enjoy thinking and talking about ghosts and would like to write a good ghost story one day, I’ve never been a big Ouija board or seance kind of person. (Full disclosure: the concept of exploring past lives holds a strong appeal for me.) I haven’t worked with this oracle deck since I got it, yet it continues to intrigue me.


In the group shot at the top of this photo, that’s my mother on the back row, far right, with all her brothers and sisters (two of her thirteen siblings were either stillborn or died in infancy). I enjoyed knowing my aunts and uncles, and if they ever showed up as my “beloved dead” in a reading with this deck, I’d be glad to hear from them. Same with any of my relatives, whether or not I ever got to meet them.

From The Beloved Dead deck, the four cards across the bottom are Backstory, Creativity, Explorer, and Home. Drawing them in a card spread would be perfect for a writer like me.

I’m making an attempt at this because in the years when I last saw my aunts and uncles, they were much older than this. Back row, left to right: Grover, Winnie, Verble, Bernell, Flora, Arliss, Dorothy. Front row, left to right: Buster, Lamar, Boots, John, and Gerald. Any siblings or cousins are welcome to correct me.

Tiny Tuesday!


Doing research for the Saga yesterday and needed to find inspiration circa 1975. That’s how I came across copies of “The Game of Jaws.” I read about it and don’t remember what ages the game was marketed toward, but it probably included children who were too young to have seen that movie.

I did a deep dive into the film because even though it forever changed my relationship with water (and not just salt water, any water that wasn’t safely contained in cement), I was crazy about both the novel and the film Jaws. My research opened up an unplanned and light way to start the new section of the novel.

The summer of ’75 was a bit chaotic for me, and as is usual, the only person who was damaged in the long run was…me. One of my favorite lines from the remake of Freaky Friday is the mom (Jamie Lee Curtis) calling out to her daughter (Lindsay Lohan) as she drops her at school, “Make good choices!”

I made bad choices that summer. But I still remember it with great affection because of the big version of this wee shark taking a bite out of a coloring book, instead of me. It’s the way I prefer my sharks’ diets.

What? Me Worry?

If you are of a certain age or have ever been a fan of Mad magazine, you probably recognize my title as the motto of Alfred E. Neuman, the magazine’s mascot so far back even I wasn’t born yet. =)

Last weekend, Tom and I ran a few errands because the weather was clear, and I needed to drive. It had been a while since I’d driven because of health issues, and I’m not quite ready NOT to drive. All went well, and one of our stops was to Body Mind and Soul. Among gift items we picked up, I chose a tumbled black tourmaline for myself, and Tom found this chakra worry stone for me.

The indentation provides a nicely smooth surface for a thumb to rub away worry and stress.

Here’s the rounded side of the worry stone next to that black tourmaline. Black tourmaline provides protection and assists with anxiety.

After doctor visits this past week, I’m feeling better. Probably one of the best things affecting my mood is that I’m finally near the end of the Book 7 section of the Neverending Saga that I’ve been grappling with for months. It’s even possible I’ll finish the section today (fingers crossed!) and be able to get it to my two reader-advisors this weekend. I’m looking forward to writing the next section, and after that, the rest of the book may be a little less taxing.

Every day, I’m grateful for the friends and family who uplift me in a variety of ways. The calls, unexpected texts, emails, messages through social media, and the rare but meaningful visits–each one of them matters. Never doubt it.

Complete! and sort of Circular


As noted previously, during the Beryl power outage, I began rereading romantic suspense novels by Mary Stewart that I’ve been reading since the dawn of time when I was a teenager. After I finished the lot of them, I wondered how many I might be missing, so I looked up her complete list of works. There are the King Arthur books I’ve never read, and some children’s books, but turns out I actually own all of her romantic suspense novels. I shared photos of all the covers in previous posts, up to these two. Even though I’d reread both since 2020, I read them again.


They have two of my favorite male characters, and many of their qualities inspired male characters I’ve written (humor, sensitivity, kindness, strength, intelligence).

I did find in my search a novella and a short story that were published under the guidance of Mary Stewart’s niece, Jennifer Ogden. I’d read neither of these and ordered this edition immediately, which I’ve finished reading today (after an eye exam and a long nap so my eyes could return to their undilated state).

The Wind Off the Small Isles and “The Lost One.” In The Wind Off the Small Isles, Stewart included an Easter egg via a reference to a character in her novel This Rough Magic, an actor named Sir Julian Gale. There’s also an excerpt from that novel at the end of the collection.

This Rough Magic ranks in my top-favorite Stewart novels because it draws from Shakespeare’s The Tempest in its plot. Thanks to the play and Stewart’s novel, my interest was piqued by the 1982 film Tempest. Like Mary Stewart’s novel, the film borrows a lot from Shakespeare’s play. The film is unseen by most people I know–unless I’ve made them watch it with me. (Of course, I own the DVD–do you know me?) Tim and Jim still quote from it.

Tempest was directed by Paul Mazursky and stars the late John Cassavetes (who has long served as a physical model, along with a few of his qualities as a film director/producer of independent films, for one of my secondary characters in the Neverending Saga); Cassavetes’s wife Gena Rowlands; and introducing the young Sam Robards (son of Jason Robards and Lauren Bacall) and future brat-packer Molly Ringwald. This was also the film in which I was introduced to the brilliant actor Raul Julia.

My Muses and inspirations can be found among many people, novels, films, music, and art.

ETA: Beautiful Gena Rowlands died on August 14, age 94. I will think of her reunited with her husband, the two of them making beautifully crafted films together for always. Thank you, John and Gena, for being muses to me.