Now DorothyL posters have put on the boxing gloves to debate the MWA (Mystery Writer's of America) approved publishers debate. It started on the Sisters In Crime Internet Chapter and has segued to DorothyL, a mystery readers, fans (and writers) list serve.
In a nutshell, MWA decided to "vet" various mystery publishers, in terms of advance paid, length of time in publishing, number of copies printed. This was done to separate the sheep from the goats, but screams of "elitist" rent the air and writers who were not on the approved list (the have-nots) beat their breasts and accused MWA of arbitrary decisions regarding publishers, and pointed out, fairly I think, that some dreadful books are published by major publishing houses and some good books are either self-published or published by very small presses that do not meet MWA's criteria. The small (now defunct) e-publisher that first published The Shadow Warriors would no longer pass muster.
This is a debate that goes round and round and like many things in life there is no good answer. I was thirty-seven when I learned that, a bolt of lightning to be sure in my still young lfe. A right way and a wrong way and eeek, no good way at all. What a revelation! There is no good answer. Some people never learn that, so I consider myself fortunate. Consider: "what do we do about Iraq" as an example. No good answer.
I sit on the sidelines of the MWA/vs. small press debate, and only hope they don't change the rules to boot me. Grandfathered in is not a comfy place. Sort of like being a legacy at an Ivy League school. No, even worse.
Suck it up, the only alternative. Whatchagonnado?
Grapeshot
Friday, August 31, 2007
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Bad Blogger!
Arrrgh! Got the counter back and a technorati thing loaded, the wrong one actually. Can't load portrait photos without distortion. The man has gained a lot of weight. Known bug. Tried to get around this by making a white frame for the photo and blogger turned the colors from orange to blue. So I need a landscape photo. Not the man. Not my book cover. Now I'm going to suck it up and leave work undone and maybe watch a movie.
Onward.
Grapeshot
Onward.
Grapeshot
Blog has new look and feel
I'm tweaking this blog to post favorite links and all that stuff. In the meantime, I lost my counter and link to technorati. Bummer. As a former geek, I have to confess to being obsessed with numbers. So now to get down and dirty in the bits and bytes. Be still my heart.
Another confession: some of the happiest years were spent in a small cubicle writing code. And what code! I could put that big blue mainframe through its paces. Glory days, long gone.
Grapeshot
Another confession: some of the happiest years were spent in a small cubicle writing code. And what code! I could put that big blue mainframe through its paces. Glory days, long gone.
Grapeshot
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
A Woman Walks Into a Bar
This evening I was in Kendall Square, where I worked for 12 years, my old stomping grounds as it were. Of course everything changes. The firehouse is now a boutique hotel. There are fancy bus stop shelters, and a new Au Bon Pain. But other things look like they always did, at after the subway stop and the hotel were completed and the holes in the ground were gone.
Legal Seafood is still there, but the fish counter is long departed, and even the restaurant has been totally remodeled. I didn't see the take-out window, but maybe it's there. Legal Seafood was the first place ever where I felt comfortable sitting at the bar as a woman alone. I worked upstairs in an office and it was the kind of job where you put in a lot of hours after working hours, so I would bop down to Legal, have a glass of wine and an appetizer at the bar, and go back to work.
In the old days, I had a small mussels au gratin. The cheese and the garlic and the buttered crumbs offset the wine to a wonderful degree. At one point they changed the recipe--and the butter and the cheese were greatly reduced and it never tasted right after that.
I switched to stuffed clams which were ultra-delicious and arrived on a bed of salt and then they disappeared from the menu, too. Like I was the appetizer kiss of death. Who knew?
The last item I settled on was the shrimp wontons, fried of course. Always delicous. They too disappeared for a short time but are back again with a small seaweed salad. Yum! Just right for a small repast with a glass of crisp white wine and one of the delicious hard rolls with melty butter. It can't get much better than that.
The couple next to me had some kind of fish cake concoction, seaweed salad and brown rice. It looked like health food, and they weren't drinking, either. Rather pasty looking pair. Well, what can you expect? Naturally they hadn't touched their butter.
If you think I make snap value judgements, you're right. I do.
The couple on the other side, yowza! She had bluefish with mashed potatoes and onion rings, the best of both worlds. He had lobster bisque and a humongous salad with frisee, pears, walnuts, blue cheese, pancetta, maybe. It looked so good. They were obviously not health food freaks, and they looked like more fun, too.
The event I went down for offered a small meal, it turned out. Wraps and water. I hate wraps! All that doughy tasteless mess. Yuck! Wraps and cheap greasy pizza should be barred from--well, from anyplace I have to eat.
The event was boring and I sneaked out early. Just in time to write my blog.
So the man will burn again on Saturday. The moon is so full and it would be wonderful to be on the playa tonight, listening to the techno beat and drinking and talking and making the scene. I've been reading a little Kerouac in prep. for the big anniversary on Wednesday. You are celebrating aren't you?
We're trekking to Lowell, MA to see the infamous scroll and to hear part of the reading of On the Road. Remember. The road is life.
When I lived in Houston and drove to Galveston on the Gulf-Tex Freeway, I felt one with the car, and the car was one with the road which was one with the earth which was one with the universe and there was this great interconnectedness, and then I would get to sleazy old Galveston and drive on the beach and eat flounder stuffed with shrimp and cruise by the bishop's palace and gape at the oleanders and the funky parts of town and before you left you always had to put a quarter in the little carwashes to get the salt off the car and sometimes the gulf was warm enough for swimming in March.
Grapeshot
Legal Seafood is still there, but the fish counter is long departed, and even the restaurant has been totally remodeled. I didn't see the take-out window, but maybe it's there. Legal Seafood was the first place ever where I felt comfortable sitting at the bar as a woman alone. I worked upstairs in an office and it was the kind of job where you put in a lot of hours after working hours, so I would bop down to Legal, have a glass of wine and an appetizer at the bar, and go back to work.
In the old days, I had a small mussels au gratin. The cheese and the garlic and the buttered crumbs offset the wine to a wonderful degree. At one point they changed the recipe--and the butter and the cheese were greatly reduced and it never tasted right after that.
I switched to stuffed clams which were ultra-delicious and arrived on a bed of salt and then they disappeared from the menu, too. Like I was the appetizer kiss of death. Who knew?
The last item I settled on was the shrimp wontons, fried of course. Always delicous. They too disappeared for a short time but are back again with a small seaweed salad. Yum! Just right for a small repast with a glass of crisp white wine and one of the delicious hard rolls with melty butter. It can't get much better than that.
The couple next to me had some kind of fish cake concoction, seaweed salad and brown rice. It looked like health food, and they weren't drinking, either. Rather pasty looking pair. Well, what can you expect? Naturally they hadn't touched their butter.
If you think I make snap value judgements, you're right. I do.
The couple on the other side, yowza! She had bluefish with mashed potatoes and onion rings, the best of both worlds. He had lobster bisque and a humongous salad with frisee, pears, walnuts, blue cheese, pancetta, maybe. It looked so good. They were obviously not health food freaks, and they looked like more fun, too.
The event I went down for offered a small meal, it turned out. Wraps and water. I hate wraps! All that doughy tasteless mess. Yuck! Wraps and cheap greasy pizza should be barred from--well, from anyplace I have to eat.
The event was boring and I sneaked out early. Just in time to write my blog.
So the man will burn again on Saturday. The moon is so full and it would be wonderful to be on the playa tonight, listening to the techno beat and drinking and talking and making the scene. I've been reading a little Kerouac in prep. for the big anniversary on Wednesday. You are celebrating aren't you?
We're trekking to Lowell, MA to see the infamous scroll and to hear part of the reading of On the Road. Remember. The road is life.
When I lived in Houston and drove to Galveston on the Gulf-Tex Freeway, I felt one with the car, and the car was one with the road which was one with the earth which was one with the universe and there was this great interconnectedness, and then I would get to sleazy old Galveston and drive on the beach and eat flounder stuffed with shrimp and cruise by the bishop's palace and gape at the oleanders and the funky parts of town and before you left you always had to put a quarter in the little carwashes to get the salt off the car and sometimes the gulf was warm enough for swimming in March.
Grapeshot
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Afterburn wrapup
Here's the last Man Burned Too Soon blog I'll post unless something totally interesting and unexpected happens.
http://valleywag.com/tech/burning-man/
http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2007/08/28/BA2ARQRFI.DTL
The alleged culprit has been identified. Wonder what made him think he had a good idea?
Grapeshot
http://valleywag.com/tech/burning-man/
http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2007/08/28/BA2ARQRFI.DTL
The alleged culprit has been identified. Wonder what made him think he had a good idea?
Grapeshot
Burning Man Burns Prematurely
Here is all the news. With Google and the Blogosphere, it is easy to stay informed. The man will rise from the ashes like the phoenix rises from the flames. One blogger suggested the fire was a Good Thing, and will bring burners together to salvage the man.
http://laughingsquid.com/burning-man-set-on-fire-early-arson-is-to-blame/
http://www.mercurynews.com/ci_6740354?source=rss
http://planet.northernvoice.ca/node/20036
http://laughingsquid.com/burning-man-set-on-fire-early-arson-is-to-blame/
http://www.mercurynews.com/ci_6740354?source=rss
http://planet.northernvoice.ca/node/20036
Burning Man Lunar Eclipse and Burning Man Literally
The first report from a blogger on site: with photos
http://ideas.4brad.com/news-burning-man-burns-monday
http://ideas.4brad.com/news-burning-man-burns-monday
Holy Shit! Festival Madness!
This is a photo of Burning Man circa 2004.
Last night, part of the man burned during the lunar eclipse, an unplanned event and likely (my speculation) arson.
I guess Burning Man has become so popular, so 'in,' that the lowlifes have taken residence . A forecast of this unfortunate situation has been evident with the stealing of art work, sabotague of the toilets and blatant theft of bicycles. The few bad apples always have to ruin it.
http://www.burningman.com/. For the latest news, the web site is the place to go.
This really sucks, and holds a mirror up to our culture, or whatever passes for culture these flawed-celebrity days. Be prepared for another griefathon (Tina Brown's word) on the anniversary date of Diana's death. My disgust is total. But the festival will go on, and I hope the man will burn again on Saturday at the proper time with all the proper celebration and respect. Amid drums and fire dancers and the hoopla that we know and love. With Festival Madness, the good kind.
Grapeshot
Sunday, August 26, 2007
St. Anthony in the North End
St. Anthony looks so young and innocent. He is holding a child in his arms. Why is the size of the child always off in relationship to the adult? There is a statue in the cemetery in Stoughton with the same issue. Child is too small. Well, saintliness overcomes rules of proportion, and one doesn't want to quibble with the fantastic feast the North End puts on for the saint and the faithful and even the tourist trade. The whole freshman class of Stonehill College seemed to be in attendance. They must think they've come to a really cool part of the country. They have.
Grapeshot
To Italy and Back In A Day
Today is St. Anthony's Festival in Boston's North End, with bands, street food, parades, the effigy of the saint laden with lucre and spectators galore.
Hot day, but cloudy with a breeze blowing through the North End. Plenty of Italian Ices, Gelati, beer and beverages to slake the thirst.
The first band we encountered played the theme from the Godfather, although that's probably not the name of the song, and I will find out for you. We came to the square where the saint, a nice looking young man holding a child was being carried about, weighted down with green bills, with more to come. A true spectacle, and with the hordes of people, many speaking Italian, the heat, the noise, the smells of peppers and sausages you might have imagined you were in Boston, no I meant Italy.
After viewing the festivities, we stopped into a nice little family run trattoria and had a good lunch, modest but very tasty.
When did a decent lunch skyrocket to $65.00? Wine, salad, entree and coffee. How did this happen? For two, of course. We beat it back to the subway, and came on home, sated with sounds, smells, sights and a full belly. Poor, but happy.
Buon Giorno,
Grapeshot
Hot day, but cloudy with a breeze blowing through the North End. Plenty of Italian Ices, Gelati, beer and beverages to slake the thirst.
The first band we encountered played the theme from the Godfather, although that's probably not the name of the song, and I will find out for you. We came to the square where the saint, a nice looking young man holding a child was being carried about, weighted down with green bills, with more to come. A true spectacle, and with the hordes of people, many speaking Italian, the heat, the noise, the smells of peppers and sausages you might have imagined you were in Boston, no I meant Italy.
After viewing the festivities, we stopped into a nice little family run trattoria and had a good lunch, modest but very tasty.
When did a decent lunch skyrocket to $65.00? Wine, salad, entree and coffee. How did this happen? For two, of course. We beat it back to the subway, and came on home, sated with sounds, smells, sights and a full belly. Poor, but happy.
Buon Giorno,
Grapeshot
Saturday, August 25, 2007
I went to a really weird party
Ooops, forgot that Friday (yesterday) was Cat Blog Day. This morning Thisbe told me that a good nap trumps everything except eating and that cleanliness is better than godliness. Feline wisdom from Friday.
Yesterday I pulled a party out of my memory, triggered by a commercial, the rum commercial--looks like South Beach-- where the bartender is making mojitos and pounding the mint and lime into the glass and the dancers are swinging their butts. He stops. They stop. He starts mulling the lime and the mint again. They dance again. I mentioned to S.O. that the first time I had seen sexy dancing like that had been at a beach party down in Ft. Lauderdale and we speculated whether the sinuous swing-your-butt and other parts dancing had come up from South Beach by way of some tropical island.
Thought processes wandered to Boston parties, esp. Boston business parties. I have yet to be present when the ladies didn't all get up to dance, usually to the Electric Slide.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Electric_Slide
When we first moved here from Chicago I found this odd party custom outre, but now I get up and dance with the girls. Sometimes.
There are a few songs I can't sit still to, YMCA being one, and remembering how I drove to college everyday thru the worst Chicago winter ever jiving to the Village People.
That memory, of the women dancing together triggered a more distant one, of the night the men got up and danced but not together. I won't even say how long ago it was, but I was in college for the first time, home for the summer in Denver, working for my Dad, bored out of my mind and looking for adventure which I never found but came close a couple times.
I had a friend who had dropped out of college. We share the same first name and were both sort of blond and didn't have much in common except that we liked boys and also the business about being bored and wanting adventure. All that jazz. So, we hung out, and doubled dated sometimes, a quaint custom from the Dark Ages of dating.
I can't remember how we met the people where the party was. Obviously her connection, not mine. The host was a neer-do-well salesman who received stolen goods on the side (found that out later) and the hostess, his wife, was 18 and had just had her 4th child. Having so many kids so young and so close together and done a number on her reproductive system and she had also had a hysterectomy at 18. I don't think I had a date. We were just hanging out. The only other guy I actually remember was a big man, looked kind of like John Goodman and he sold shoes at the shopping center down the down from where my folks lived.
The college I was attending at the time, known sometimes as the Harvard of the Southwest, was an intellectual place--I was ready Ulysses that summer--and obviously I knew I was slumming, but yanno, adventure and boredom and all that.
So about 8 people were sitting at the end of the evening in an 8 x 8 living room--(8 is a lucky number in Chinese cultures but don't think it applies here). There wasn't room enough for everyone to sit, but my friend and I, being the ladies present, sat on the sofa. The host's wife had been dancing by herself to Honeybee (?). Think that was the name of the song. Anyway, all the guys agreed to get up and dance, one at a time, quite a novelty. There was a dim floor lamp and an even dimmer overhead light, and a record player, or maybe a radio, and each guy danced to a song. The one I remember was the shoe salesman, such a large guy and so light on his feet and with a serious look of concentration--not quite a frown on his face--and there was something moving about him and his concentration and his dancing and even his pride, such that I remember it to this day, the man sliding and gliding over the small middle of the living room floor. An epiphany.
I don't think I ever saw these people again, except once I went into a shoe store and saw the salesman/dancer and did an about face. My friend had a shotgun marriage the following summer to an extremely unsuitable man, had three boys, got divorced, married another man in Montana, who "showered her with diamonds" as my mother never tired of telling me. I graduated.
What could be crazier than life?
Grapeshot
Yesterday I pulled a party out of my memory, triggered by a commercial, the rum commercial--looks like South Beach-- where the bartender is making mojitos and pounding the mint and lime into the glass and the dancers are swinging their butts. He stops. They stop. He starts mulling the lime and the mint again. They dance again. I mentioned to S.O. that the first time I had seen sexy dancing like that had been at a beach party down in Ft. Lauderdale and we speculated whether the sinuous swing-your-butt and other parts dancing had come up from South Beach by way of some tropical island.
Thought processes wandered to Boston parties, esp. Boston business parties. I have yet to be present when the ladies didn't all get up to dance, usually to the Electric Slide.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Electric_Slide
When we first moved here from Chicago I found this odd party custom outre, but now I get up and dance with the girls. Sometimes.
There are a few songs I can't sit still to, YMCA being one, and remembering how I drove to college everyday thru the worst Chicago winter ever jiving to the Village People.
That memory, of the women dancing together triggered a more distant one, of the night the men got up and danced but not together. I won't even say how long ago it was, but I was in college for the first time, home for the summer in Denver, working for my Dad, bored out of my mind and looking for adventure which I never found but came close a couple times.
I had a friend who had dropped out of college. We share the same first name and were both sort of blond and didn't have much in common except that we liked boys and also the business about being bored and wanting adventure. All that jazz. So, we hung out, and doubled dated sometimes, a quaint custom from the Dark Ages of dating.
I can't remember how we met the people where the party was. Obviously her connection, not mine. The host was a neer-do-well salesman who received stolen goods on the side (found that out later) and the hostess, his wife, was 18 and had just had her 4th child. Having so many kids so young and so close together and done a number on her reproductive system and she had also had a hysterectomy at 18. I don't think I had a date. We were just hanging out. The only other guy I actually remember was a big man, looked kind of like John Goodman and he sold shoes at the shopping center down the down from where my folks lived.
The college I was attending at the time, known sometimes as the Harvard of the Southwest, was an intellectual place--I was ready Ulysses that summer--and obviously I knew I was slumming, but yanno, adventure and boredom and all that.
So about 8 people were sitting at the end of the evening in an 8 x 8 living room--(8 is a lucky number in Chinese cultures but don't think it applies here). There wasn't room enough for everyone to sit, but my friend and I, being the ladies present, sat on the sofa. The host's wife had been dancing by herself to Honeybee (?). Think that was the name of the song. Anyway, all the guys agreed to get up and dance, one at a time, quite a novelty. There was a dim floor lamp and an even dimmer overhead light, and a record player, or maybe a radio, and each guy danced to a song. The one I remember was the shoe salesman, such a large guy and so light on his feet and with a serious look of concentration--not quite a frown on his face--and there was something moving about him and his concentration and his dancing and even his pride, such that I remember it to this day, the man sliding and gliding over the small middle of the living room floor. An epiphany.
I don't think I ever saw these people again, except once I went into a shoe store and saw the salesman/dancer and did an about face. My friend had a shotgun marriage the following summer to an extremely unsuitable man, had three boys, got divorced, married another man in Montana, who "showered her with diamonds" as my mother never tired of telling me. I graduated.
What could be crazier than life?
Grapeshot
Friday, August 24, 2007
African Violets
Dunno what it is, but I am the kiss of death to African violets. Most anything else grows and even thrives in my care. The garden is luxuious, the tomatoes awesome, the basil toothsome, everything lush and abloom. Except the African violets. I swear to you I didn't water them from the top or plop them down in direct light. I used the proper fertilizer, didn't over water. What then? The only blame I can lay out is the diligent waterer who took care of things when we were in Alaska. He may have over-watered, but plant #2 wasn't exactly thriving then. Hadn't bloomed for a while. Looked, shall we say, dispirited. Plant #1 had succumbed months ago. Sigh.
Now I am finally getting back to serious agent querying. Read a blog today from someone newly published who mentioned querying 125 agents. Ambition has to be made of very stern stuff. Yikes. I'm trying to personalize the queries, even if it's just where I found the agent. Finally relented and subscribed to an online service that lets you research the agents in a scientific way, not thru other blogs that may be all right, but who knows how current.
Yesterday we stopped at a Farmer's Market and they had Italian Prune Plums! Yippee! These small plums used to be in every grocery and then a few years ago they became scarcer than hen's teeth, and you know how scare those are. I had a German recipe for an open face plum tart that is to die for, but you really need prune plums. Of course the market wasn't giving them away, and my two pounds cost $5.00. That was significant enough that I decided I better make the crust from scratch, which I did, and it wanted to crumble, so I pressed it into the tart pan, which I providentially found and now the whole beautiful business sit on the kitchen counter waiting to be eaten. Thought about sharing with the neighbors, then thought again.
I am feeling deserving because we had a meatless peasant dish, pasta and cauliflower the past two nights. It's actually very tasty, due to olive oil, red pepper, lots of garlic, parsley and seasonings. Easy to make . We like peasant food a lot and it is usually cheap and filling and not too full of BAD THINGS. Not dietetic, however, as peasants need calories to work hard, not sit on their puts at the keyboard all day. Tomorrow I am making mostly Mexican, due to the nice avocado and cilantro still in the fridge. A jalapeno or two. Yum!
My new reading is The Poisonwood Bible. I've loved everything I read by Kingsolver, and this promises to be a good, if long, book.
The Fifth Draft of Festival Madness is ready for editing. Wonder how many there will be. More Burning Man stuff in the Globe today. Signed on to Southwest and tried to decide if I could go. Lots of stuff on the calendar. Lots of money. No costumes or presents or even good desert duds. Would have to be crazy, but the idea is still in my head. www.burningman.com. The playa calls. Alas.
Onward,
Grapeshot
Now I am finally getting back to serious agent querying. Read a blog today from someone newly published who mentioned querying 125 agents. Ambition has to be made of very stern stuff. Yikes. I'm trying to personalize the queries, even if it's just where I found the agent. Finally relented and subscribed to an online service that lets you research the agents in a scientific way, not thru other blogs that may be all right, but who knows how current.
Yesterday we stopped at a Farmer's Market and they had Italian Prune Plums! Yippee! These small plums used to be in every grocery and then a few years ago they became scarcer than hen's teeth, and you know how scare those are. I had a German recipe for an open face plum tart that is to die for, but you really need prune plums. Of course the market wasn't giving them away, and my two pounds cost $5.00. That was significant enough that I decided I better make the crust from scratch, which I did, and it wanted to crumble, so I pressed it into the tart pan, which I providentially found and now the whole beautiful business sit on the kitchen counter waiting to be eaten. Thought about sharing with the neighbors, then thought again.
I am feeling deserving because we had a meatless peasant dish, pasta and cauliflower the past two nights. It's actually very tasty, due to olive oil, red pepper, lots of garlic, parsley and seasonings. Easy to make . We like peasant food a lot and it is usually cheap and filling and not too full of BAD THINGS. Not dietetic, however, as peasants need calories to work hard, not sit on their puts at the keyboard all day. Tomorrow I am making mostly Mexican, due to the nice avocado and cilantro still in the fridge. A jalapeno or two. Yum!
My new reading is The Poisonwood Bible. I've loved everything I read by Kingsolver, and this promises to be a good, if long, book.
The Fifth Draft of Festival Madness is ready for editing. Wonder how many there will be. More Burning Man stuff in the Globe today. Signed on to Southwest and tried to decide if I could go. Lots of stuff on the calendar. Lots of money. No costumes or presents or even good desert duds. Would have to be crazy, but the idea is still in my head. www.burningman.com. The playa calls. Alas.
Onward,
Grapeshot
Thursday, August 23, 2007
The Warlord's Son
For months I have been savoring, a few pages at a time, the novel, The Warlord's Son, by Dan Fesperman. At some point, I had a feeling that maybe things weren't going to end all that well for some of the characters, and so I peeked into the last part of the book which I never, ever do but I did with this one. There were the 3 main characters, hale and hearty having escaped from the wild lands beyond the Khyber Pass.
So I read on, confident that things would work out well, although the author, now that I think about it, was signalling wildly that everything would NOT work out well. So you believe what you want to believe. Yesterday, on the train, I read and read and finally took the book up to bed last night to finish it.
Yikes, did I get a surprise. There was another twist at the ending a things did not work out, as signalled. It bothered me all night. "It's a book!" I told myself this morning. Why was I so upset? Maybe that one of the protagonists had been betrayed by his countrymen. It seemed like such a likely scenario, and he walked into it so blindly, desperate to put the pieces together of the wonderful story he was going to write. I guess it sounded true. And lately, true has not been good. Not at all. So it was just a book, but it also held up a mirror to our time, and of course I didn't like the image in the mirror. Nobody would.
On the listserve DorothyL, the question was asked about East German mysteries, and I had to pipe up that agents didn't want to touch them, which is true in my case. I always wonder a bit ruefully if I had a bunch of neo-Nazis and low lifes would the agents have been keener on the book. Never mind the Stasi, and the KGB and the Russian navy and even the dog that formerly patrolled the border, an ex-wall dog. Never mind the Vietnamese almost-slave labor. Where the hell are the neo-Nazis? Okay, maybe the story just stinks. But it doesn't. It's pretty cool actually, with a really neat ending with twists and turns.
One can read Proust before bedtime with the assurance that none of the main characters will die a violent death, although right now I am reading the part that introduced Albertine. Whenever I read about her, the image of the face of one of my high school friends inserts itself. She just looks like Albertine.
Some of the Burning Man honchos had dinner at our little place in Nevada this week. But I wasn't there to hostess, alas. Thinking of desperate ways to get to the Man this year. It's like a religion. I see myself on a run up to Lowell to the store that sells whorish dresses to find a costume. And maybe a run by St. Vincent DePaul for some outre duds. I see my credit card bill next month. Gaaaaa!
Onward,
Grapeshot
So I read on, confident that things would work out well, although the author, now that I think about it, was signalling wildly that everything would NOT work out well. So you believe what you want to believe. Yesterday, on the train, I read and read and finally took the book up to bed last night to finish it.
Yikes, did I get a surprise. There was another twist at the ending a things did not work out, as signalled. It bothered me all night. "It's a book!" I told myself this morning. Why was I so upset? Maybe that one of the protagonists had been betrayed by his countrymen. It seemed like such a likely scenario, and he walked into it so blindly, desperate to put the pieces together of the wonderful story he was going to write. I guess it sounded true. And lately, true has not been good. Not at all. So it was just a book, but it also held up a mirror to our time, and of course I didn't like the image in the mirror. Nobody would.
On the listserve DorothyL, the question was asked about East German mysteries, and I had to pipe up that agents didn't want to touch them, which is true in my case. I always wonder a bit ruefully if I had a bunch of neo-Nazis and low lifes would the agents have been keener on the book. Never mind the Stasi, and the KGB and the Russian navy and even the dog that formerly patrolled the border, an ex-wall dog. Never mind the Vietnamese almost-slave labor. Where the hell are the neo-Nazis? Okay, maybe the story just stinks. But it doesn't. It's pretty cool actually, with a really neat ending with twists and turns.
One can read Proust before bedtime with the assurance that none of the main characters will die a violent death, although right now I am reading the part that introduced Albertine. Whenever I read about her, the image of the face of one of my high school friends inserts itself. She just looks like Albertine.
Some of the Burning Man honchos had dinner at our little place in Nevada this week. But I wasn't there to hostess, alas. Thinking of desperate ways to get to the Man this year. It's like a religion. I see myself on a run up to Lowell to the store that sells whorish dresses to find a costume. And maybe a run by St. Vincent DePaul for some outre duds. I see my credit card bill next month. Gaaaaa!
Onward,
Grapeshot
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
A Style Mis-Statement
At the Pawsox game on Saturday, a young man with his shirt on wrong side out. Very obviously wrong side out. What was he thinking?
For the national anthem, the announcer told the men to take their hats off. This used to be an automatic thing.
Four guys going down the row four different times, each carrying two beers. Discovered they were giving half the beer to their girlfriends, so they drank 4 and not 8. Awful in the stands when adults get sloshed and misbehave around kids. This was a well-behaved Sunday crowd, and of course, no one gets dressed up for a baseball game, in fact I always feel sorry for the guys who come straight from work still wearing suits.
I took the train into town today, and almost missed my stops because I had my nose in a book, as my mom used to say. The Warlord's Son, by Dan Fesperman, very exciting.
I noticed he used half the book to set things up, normally a no-no, but it does build tension and it seemed to work. Always looking to improve my craft. Fesperman has obviously been in the area he writes about (Pakistan and Afghanistan) and the descriptions of the smells and sights really take you there. Always a good thing, taking the reader there.
The tomatoes are really coming in now. If you have this delightful "problem," I recommend tomato-bread salad. Delicious. How about some home made tomato soup? Also wonderful with decent bread and read butter. Cherry tomatoes provencal are always good and anything that uses all the fresh herbs from the garden and the tomatoes is a good thing.
Tomorrow we are having a cauliflower-pasta entree. I know it sounds weird, but it was really a nice vegetarian dish. Lots of parmesan and olive oil. Parsley gives it some color. The Globe this morning had a blueberry pie recipe. Wards Berry Farm has ripe blueberries now, and I'm really tempted. Need to make a from-scratch pie once a season or 4 times a year.
I rewrote (again, yet) the first chapter of Festival Madness, and it's getting there. Starting draft five after the edits for draft four are done. By this weekend, I hope.
Never a dull moment in the writing life, except of course, having to suck it up all the time which is maybe not so much dull as depressing. La-di-dah.
Grapeshot
For the national anthem, the announcer told the men to take their hats off. This used to be an automatic thing.
Four guys going down the row four different times, each carrying two beers. Discovered they were giving half the beer to their girlfriends, so they drank 4 and not 8. Awful in the stands when adults get sloshed and misbehave around kids. This was a well-behaved Sunday crowd, and of course, no one gets dressed up for a baseball game, in fact I always feel sorry for the guys who come straight from work still wearing suits.
I took the train into town today, and almost missed my stops because I had my nose in a book, as my mom used to say. The Warlord's Son, by Dan Fesperman, very exciting.
I noticed he used half the book to set things up, normally a no-no, but it does build tension and it seemed to work. Always looking to improve my craft. Fesperman has obviously been in the area he writes about (Pakistan and Afghanistan) and the descriptions of the smells and sights really take you there. Always a good thing, taking the reader there.
The tomatoes are really coming in now. If you have this delightful "problem," I recommend tomato-bread salad. Delicious. How about some home made tomato soup? Also wonderful with decent bread and read butter. Cherry tomatoes provencal are always good and anything that uses all the fresh herbs from the garden and the tomatoes is a good thing.
Tomorrow we are having a cauliflower-pasta entree. I know it sounds weird, but it was really a nice vegetarian dish. Lots of parmesan and olive oil. Parsley gives it some color. The Globe this morning had a blueberry pie recipe. Wards Berry Farm has ripe blueberries now, and I'm really tempted. Need to make a from-scratch pie once a season or 4 times a year.
I rewrote (again, yet) the first chapter of Festival Madness, and it's getting there. Starting draft five after the edits for draft four are done. By this weekend, I hope.
Never a dull moment in the writing life, except of course, having to suck it up all the time which is maybe not so much dull as depressing. La-di-dah.
Grapeshot
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
The Inciting Incident
Beginning a novel is the pits. Where to start? Start too early and the story bogs down. Start too late and you end up with a skid load of flash backs. The current wisdom is to start at the "inciting incident." At least for us mystery-writing folks.
You can describe the incident, but you have to get in a little (not too much) about the main character, and whet the reader's appetite, and appeal to the senses, and have a nice little hook. And don't start with the weather. And prologues are passe. Cripes the rules start to get a little intimidating, and then every other book one picks up breaks them, and rather elegantly, too.
This writing business is hard, I tell you. But you knew that.
In 14 minutes I'm going to watch Glen Close and company in Damages. It's the one thing I've been watching consistently since the Sopranos, but I think Big Love is pretty good, too. And yeah, I watch the Red Sox. And the food channel when I'm ironing or want to chill or maybe even take a nap.
Now it's 10 minutes. Up the stairs I go.
Grapeshot
You can describe the incident, but you have to get in a little (not too much) about the main character, and whet the reader's appetite, and appeal to the senses, and have a nice little hook. And don't start with the weather. And prologues are passe. Cripes the rules start to get a little intimidating, and then every other book one picks up breaks them, and rather elegantly, too.
This writing business is hard, I tell you. But you knew that.
In 14 minutes I'm going to watch Glen Close and company in Damages. It's the one thing I've been watching consistently since the Sopranos, but I think Big Love is pretty good, too. And yeah, I watch the Red Sox. And the food channel when I'm ironing or want to chill or maybe even take a nap.
Now it's 10 minutes. Up the stairs I go.
Grapeshot
Monday, August 20, 2007
James Joyce
Here is a link to an essay about Joyce's Ulysses which is so readable and lucid that I have to share--a bit about Rushdie too, but mostly Joyce.
http://greatliteraryworks.blogspot.com/2007/08/crucial-book-of-salman-rushdie.html
We watched last night, via On Demand, The Good German. The better parts of the movie were "real" scenes of postwar Berlin from old documentaries. The story was cliched to the max, but George Clooney is always easy to look at (ask Ms Snark), even when he's been beaten up beaucoup times. I won a tee shirt in a short, short story I made up about the movie poster. Actually, my story was better. No humblesness this morning. But: what the hell does one do with a tee shirt that reads "The Good German"? I have to confess I gave it to the VietNam Vets. It was also kind of small. The stupid-ass decisions we have to make every day.
Writing group meets tonight. Still need to get those agent letters for Promiscuous Mode out. The agents ain't gonna line up on my doorstep without communicatio, without queries, without synopses, without killer first chapters.
Festival Madness is almost ready, still lacking the killer first paragraph with a 'Hook.' The book one is writing is always the best one.
I'm having serious doubts about the marketability of the YA we are planning. The current wisdom is to write the book you love, the book you must write, but that wisdom hasn't produced anything but (at least) two unpublishable books. So I dunno.
Now for breakfast: Cheerios with vanilla yogurt, 2% milk, and half a banana. Good! Good for you! Some nutritional nazi will come out of the woodwork saying drink skim, not 2%. To them my cat's middle paw. Ooops! Friday is cat blog day.
Alors!
Grapeshot
http://greatliteraryworks.blogspot.com/2007/08/crucial-book-of-salman-rushdie.html
We watched last night, via On Demand, The Good German. The better parts of the movie were "real" scenes of postwar Berlin from old documentaries. The story was cliched to the max, but George Clooney is always easy to look at (ask Ms Snark), even when he's been beaten up beaucoup times. I won a tee shirt in a short, short story I made up about the movie poster. Actually, my story was better. No humblesness this morning. But: what the hell does one do with a tee shirt that reads "The Good German"? I have to confess I gave it to the VietNam Vets. It was also kind of small. The stupid-ass decisions we have to make every day.
Writing group meets tonight. Still need to get those agent letters for Promiscuous Mode out. The agents ain't gonna line up on my doorstep without communicatio, without queries, without synopses, without killer first chapters.
Festival Madness is almost ready, still lacking the killer first paragraph with a 'Hook.' The book one is writing is always the best one.
I'm having serious doubts about the marketability of the YA we are planning. The current wisdom is to write the book you love, the book you must write, but that wisdom hasn't produced anything but (at least) two unpublishable books. So I dunno.
Now for breakfast: Cheerios with vanilla yogurt, 2% milk, and half a banana. Good! Good for you! Some nutritional nazi will come out of the woodwork saying drink skim, not 2%. To them my cat's middle paw. Ooops! Friday is cat blog day.
Alors!
Grapeshot
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Sunday, Kerouac, The Pawsox, Infowar and Burning Man
Trying to find a cheap Sunday activity. Options were to visit Kerouac's scroll in Lowell, go to the races at Suffolk downs or take in a Pawsox game in Pawtucket. We picked the latter, and spent $32.00 which wasn't bad. Big crowd with the nice Sunday weather and also a day game. I wore my 2004 World Series Championship shirt, old jeans, and a baseball cap. White sneakers. I mean, where else can one wear white sneakers? The home team won. We had never actually been in Pawtucket before. Sort of New England working class with lots of two-deckers. Reminded me of Lowell and Kerouac.
Next weekend we may visit the scroll, which is the first draft of On the Road. The Times gave it a good review. I can't find any of my Kerouac books. Probably gave them to a child in the throes of adolescence. I do feel the urge to re-read On the Road, esp. as S.O. and I have begun taking road trips again. Of course, we are not racing through the great American night like I used to do, but checking into motel rooms before dark. But the undercurrent of the road trip is there. The road is life.
Jim Melnick, who has been flying under my radar, had an interesting article in the Boston Globe today, about computers and terrorism. Cyberwar. This is a topic near and dear to my heart since my novel, The Shadow Warriors, (not to be confused with Clancy's book) deals deepy with this topic and I began writing it about 14 years ago, but the germ came 15 years ago. Lots of water under the damn. I felt like a voice crying in the wilderness, and there have always been a few of us, sounding the alarm.
Last but not least, The Style Section of the Sunday Times, has a review of Burning Book, which is, you guessed it, a book about Burning Man, a topic I've been blogging about off and on since I began blogging. My latest literary effort, which is in its next to last draft, has many scenes set at Burning Man, and not to boast, but (WTF, yes to boast) I really do take the reader to the Man. If this novel is like the last two, finding a publisher will be hell on wheels. I haven't made my usual mistakes, but that doesn't mean anything, does it? I noted in the Times today that reviewers were carping about novels being slow to get going, and I thought, cripes, at least somebody liked it enough to publish it, no matter how the beginning creaked and shuffled along like an old man with a walker. At least I drop a body on page one.
Let's see. Friday is cat blog day, so I won't mention the felines. Yesterday's eggplant salad tasted good, but it also looked spectacular. The purple of the eggplant (skin) along with yellow and orange peppers and red tomatoes and green mint and white cheese created a beautiful dish that you just wanted to stick your fork into.
At the ballpark, I had a hot dog and Crackerjacks, a glass of decent wine (times they are a changin') and bottled water from home, a no-no. I probably haven't had Crackerjacks for 20 years. Still tasted good, but could have used a few more peanuts.
Now I need to write to a few agents pushing Promiscuous Mode.
Grapeshot
Next weekend we may visit the scroll, which is the first draft of On the Road. The Times gave it a good review. I can't find any of my Kerouac books. Probably gave them to a child in the throes of adolescence. I do feel the urge to re-read On the Road, esp. as S.O. and I have begun taking road trips again. Of course, we are not racing through the great American night like I used to do, but checking into motel rooms before dark. But the undercurrent of the road trip is there. The road is life.
Jim Melnick, who has been flying under my radar, had an interesting article in the Boston Globe today, about computers and terrorism. Cyberwar. This is a topic near and dear to my heart since my novel, The Shadow Warriors, (not to be confused with Clancy's book) deals deepy with this topic and I began writing it about 14 years ago, but the germ came 15 years ago. Lots of water under the damn. I felt like a voice crying in the wilderness, and there have always been a few of us, sounding the alarm.
Last but not least, The Style Section of the Sunday Times, has a review of Burning Book, which is, you guessed it, a book about Burning Man, a topic I've been blogging about off and on since I began blogging. My latest literary effort, which is in its next to last draft, has many scenes set at Burning Man, and not to boast, but (WTF, yes to boast) I really do take the reader to the Man. If this novel is like the last two, finding a publisher will be hell on wheels. I haven't made my usual mistakes, but that doesn't mean anything, does it? I noted in the Times today that reviewers were carping about novels being slow to get going, and I thought, cripes, at least somebody liked it enough to publish it, no matter how the beginning creaked and shuffled along like an old man with a walker. At least I drop a body on page one.
Let's see. Friday is cat blog day, so I won't mention the felines. Yesterday's eggplant salad tasted good, but it also looked spectacular. The purple of the eggplant (skin) along with yellow and orange peppers and red tomatoes and green mint and white cheese created a beautiful dish that you just wanted to stick your fork into.
At the ballpark, I had a hot dog and Crackerjacks, a glass of decent wine (times they are a changin') and bottled water from home, a no-no. I probably haven't had Crackerjacks for 20 years. Still tasted good, but could have used a few more peanuts.
Now I need to write to a few agents pushing Promiscuous Mode.
Grapeshot
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Mrs. Astor
Back in the day, when one actually dressed nicely for air travel, I arrived in at the Denver airport for a Christmas visit in a black wool coat newly purchased on Fifth Avenue in New York. I wore long black gloves, black heels, sported a black handbag, and a red (I think) hat. I was a new bride of a few months and my mother, seeing me, exclaimed, "You look just like Mrs. Astor!" It was my mother's high compliment regarding dress. For years whenever I would dress up (and back then dressing up was done a lot more than nowadays), Significant Other would remark, "You look just like Mrs. Astor."
She was buried yesterday, wearing we don't know what, but I'm sure it was elegant. Elegant funeral. Elegant lady, a class act. The telling detail about the affair, which the New York Times did not fail to report, was that although the church was open to the public, it was only half full, the reason being that New York society is no longer made up of people who would sacrifice a Friday afternoon in August to pay their respects or to quote the Times, "Asking people to spend a late summer Friday afternoon in town would be demanding a true quality-of-life sacrifice--or at least some heavy rescheduling. . . " Goes on to say Mrs. Astor was the kind of woman who sacrificed time and money readily. We won't see her like again.
I wondered idly, while I was ironing, if anyone from the antique boat cruise had interrupted the cruise for the funeral. Couldn't decide. Swells sailing through swells. Were you astounded to read that I was ironing? Lots of people (all women of course) say, "I don't iron." Does that mean that a) they're comfortable with wrinkles, or b) they have a polyester wardrobe or c) everything goes to the cleaners? Dunno.
Women, again, also announce, "I don't cook." Well, duh, you eat don't you? Have you noticed men never make themselves look like idiots by making I-dont-iron-I-dont-cook remarks. I never know what "I don't cook" means. Does it mean only instant oatmeal and mashed potatoes, or does it mean fast food and takeout and the salad bar at the supermarket? Does it mean not from scratch? Inquiring minds want to know. "I don't cook." What b.s.
Grapeshot, on the other hand, worries about dying before she can try all the outstanding recipes she has filed away. Today we are doing something new from the Times this week, an eggplant salad. Sounded so yummy, with grilled chicken breasts. The rest of the breasts will go into an Mexican (Yucatan) soup of orzo, chicken broth, jalapenos and lime juice. The problem with recipes is that there are old favorites, new favorites and the yet-to-be-tried. I cook.
Last night I didn't cook, actually. We had insalata Caprese, salami, rye bread, cheddar cheese, olives, pickles and potato chips. So filling we saved the dessert for tonight.
Insalata Caprese: Only make this when high qualitiy tomatoes are available. Slice a tomato or two thin and cut slices in half. Slice fresh (the balls that come in water) mozzarella thinly and put on top of the tomato slices. Hie yourself to the garden and pick some fresh basil. Chop up the basil leaves and sprinkle on the tomato-mozzarella mixture. Drizzle EVOO over the top. Season with salt and pepper. Notice no cooking was involved. Slicing and chopping and drizzling require minimal skills.
So good, esp. with the tomato from the garden not an hour before eating, and likewise the basil. We have regular and lemon basil this year. The old-favorite chicken pesto will be showing up on the table some night.
I cook. I even make my own garam marsala for Pete's sake.
Off to the kitchen,
Grapeshot
She was buried yesterday, wearing we don't know what, but I'm sure it was elegant. Elegant funeral. Elegant lady, a class act. The telling detail about the affair, which the New York Times did not fail to report, was that although the church was open to the public, it was only half full, the reason being that New York society is no longer made up of people who would sacrifice a Friday afternoon in August to pay their respects or to quote the Times, "Asking people to spend a late summer Friday afternoon in town would be demanding a true quality-of-life sacrifice--or at least some heavy rescheduling. . . " Goes on to say Mrs. Astor was the kind of woman who sacrificed time and money readily. We won't see her like again.
I wondered idly, while I was ironing, if anyone from the antique boat cruise had interrupted the cruise for the funeral. Couldn't decide. Swells sailing through swells. Were you astounded to read that I was ironing? Lots of people (all women of course) say, "I don't iron." Does that mean that a) they're comfortable with wrinkles, or b) they have a polyester wardrobe or c) everything goes to the cleaners? Dunno.
Women, again, also announce, "I don't cook." Well, duh, you eat don't you? Have you noticed men never make themselves look like idiots by making I-dont-iron-I-dont-cook remarks. I never know what "I don't cook" means. Does it mean only instant oatmeal and mashed potatoes, or does it mean fast food and takeout and the salad bar at the supermarket? Does it mean not from scratch? Inquiring minds want to know. "I don't cook." What b.s.
Grapeshot, on the other hand, worries about dying before she can try all the outstanding recipes she has filed away. Today we are doing something new from the Times this week, an eggplant salad. Sounded so yummy, with grilled chicken breasts. The rest of the breasts will go into an Mexican (Yucatan) soup of orzo, chicken broth, jalapenos and lime juice. The problem with recipes is that there are old favorites, new favorites and the yet-to-be-tried. I cook.
Last night I didn't cook, actually. We had insalata Caprese, salami, rye bread, cheddar cheese, olives, pickles and potato chips. So filling we saved the dessert for tonight.
Insalata Caprese: Only make this when high qualitiy tomatoes are available. Slice a tomato or two thin and cut slices in half. Slice fresh (the balls that come in water) mozzarella thinly and put on top of the tomato slices. Hie yourself to the garden and pick some fresh basil. Chop up the basil leaves and sprinkle on the tomato-mozzarella mixture. Drizzle EVOO over the top. Season with salt and pepper. Notice no cooking was involved. Slicing and chopping and drizzling require minimal skills.
So good, esp. with the tomato from the garden not an hour before eating, and likewise the basil. We have regular and lemon basil this year. The old-favorite chicken pesto will be showing up on the table some night.
I cook. I even make my own garam marsala for Pete's sake.
Off to the kitchen,
Grapeshot
Friday, August 17, 2007
Cat BLog Day
Running errands in Wellesley today. At Roche Bros. supermarket, I was behind a woman who spent $495.00 on groceries. She mentioned having company and grandkids. Gosh, I hope they eat all those red peppers she bought. That's even more than we spent at Raley's Supermarket in Reno before a trip to Burning Man. This week, all the movers and shakers are at the gun show in Reno. Stuff happens in the damnest places. www.burningman.com
I know one retired dot.com millioniare who travels across the country in a motor home with 4 cats. The mind boggles. I would be so paranoid that the cats would escape (freedom now!) that--well, I don't know what. The mind just boggles. Thisbe heard the dog next door bark on the deck and retreated inside. I'm not sure she knows what a dog is. Annie has been under the weather and hurled on the coffee table. A bulemic cat is a troublesome cat, but we love her. Life without cats is lonely.
The beautiful skinny woman was at Roche Bros again today. Must have traded her Mercedes in for an SUV. Of course, it might have been a Mercedes SUV or a Cadillic or whatever. I noticed the umpteen plastic bags (bad!) going into the trunk. Today she wore a long-sleeved shirt and slacks which made the stringiness less noticeable. Why isn't she on the Cape or the Islands? Inquiring mind want to know.
Significant Other remarked that the Wellesley store has a "better class of women" than some of the far flung less upscale suburbs. Of course he was speaking strictly of their physical appearance, not their kindliness or characters.
I posted a book review on Amazon of the latest Furst novel, The Foreign Correspondent. Yesterday I found a review of The Shadow Warriors which was pretty bad, but the reviewer sounded like she was having a bad time. Talk about generalities. She said good stuff too, but although I wrote the book, I still had no idea what she was talking about. Not a clue. So the criticism was not helpful.
Another rejection today for World of Mirrors. Since this was a non-MWA approved publisher, I didn't cry any rivers. We went for a long walk and I puttered around in the garden. We get a nice big tomato every day, and what could be better than that?
Insalata Capreses again tonight. The basil is stupendous.
Onward,
Grapeshot
I know one retired dot.com millioniare who travels across the country in a motor home with 4 cats. The mind boggles. I would be so paranoid that the cats would escape (freedom now!) that--well, I don't know what. The mind just boggles. Thisbe heard the dog next door bark on the deck and retreated inside. I'm not sure she knows what a dog is. Annie has been under the weather and hurled on the coffee table. A bulemic cat is a troublesome cat, but we love her. Life without cats is lonely.
The beautiful skinny woman was at Roche Bros again today. Must have traded her Mercedes in for an SUV. Of course, it might have been a Mercedes SUV or a Cadillic or whatever. I noticed the umpteen plastic bags (bad!) going into the trunk. Today she wore a long-sleeved shirt and slacks which made the stringiness less noticeable. Why isn't she on the Cape or the Islands? Inquiring mind want to know.
Significant Other remarked that the Wellesley store has a "better class of women" than some of the far flung less upscale suburbs. Of course he was speaking strictly of their physical appearance, not their kindliness or characters.
I posted a book review on Amazon of the latest Furst novel, The Foreign Correspondent. Yesterday I found a review of The Shadow Warriors which was pretty bad, but the reviewer sounded like she was having a bad time. Talk about generalities. She said good stuff too, but although I wrote the book, I still had no idea what she was talking about. Not a clue. So the criticism was not helpful.
Another rejection today for World of Mirrors. Since this was a non-MWA approved publisher, I didn't cry any rivers. We went for a long walk and I puttered around in the garden. We get a nice big tomato every day, and what could be better than that?
Insalata Capreses again tonight. The basil is stupendous.
Onward,
Grapeshot
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Burning Man Revisited
2003 Burn. Zowie!
http://www.burningman.com/on_the_playa/bbrc03/entries/00000014.html
Grapeshot aka Dust Bunny (a Burning Man name)
http://www.burningman.com/on_the_playa/bbrc03/entries/00000014.html
Grapeshot aka Dust Bunny (a Burning Man name)
Grave Yard Stew
I'm always intrigued by our American English language and its colorful idioms. When I was a child, and my mother was sick, she would always prepare something my dad referred to as "graveyard stew." It was a piece of toast with a pat of butter, over which she poured hot milk, and she ate that. I always found it disgusting, as I found most food as a child. The only thing worse was when a poached egg was laid atop the toast.
I found the term Graveyard Stew in a listing of hobo slang, and wondered if my dad had ever consorted with hoboes. This is not as weird as it sounds. During the Great Depression, many men, including two of my uncles rode the rails. "On the bum," my uncle called it. He became a successful businessman and made a lot of money, so the years or months of riding the rails didn't shame him, for he often mentioned it. Apparently graveyard stew was frequently eaten by the toothless.
When was the last time you saw someone with no teeth? My grandpa could eat apples and corn on the cob without any teeth, but at my grandmother's insistence, he always put them the false teeth in his pocket when he went to Minnesota (from Kansas) to fish. Aren't old family stories fun?
We should all take pride in the fortitude, rectitude and endurance of our ancestors. People like that will not come this way again, alas.
I would have had an agent except that she was already repping someone who had a cybersleuth series. Can you believe it? Onward, onward. The first chapter of Festival Madness is with an editor to help with the first paragraph. I want to get it out to all the California agencies before thoughts of the man go away. By the way, the Man Burns, i.e. Burning Man on September 1st and the temple will burn a day later. Alas, again, would that I were there. Maybe next year. Burning Man is one of the festivals, the main one. Now, again, onward.
If you are a new reader of this blog, go to www.burningman.com. You'll have the time of your life, and that's just the website!
Grapeshot
I found the term Graveyard Stew in a listing of hobo slang, and wondered if my dad had ever consorted with hoboes. This is not as weird as it sounds. During the Great Depression, many men, including two of my uncles rode the rails. "On the bum," my uncle called it. He became a successful businessman and made a lot of money, so the years or months of riding the rails didn't shame him, for he often mentioned it. Apparently graveyard stew was frequently eaten by the toothless.
When was the last time you saw someone with no teeth? My grandpa could eat apples and corn on the cob without any teeth, but at my grandmother's insistence, he always put them the false teeth in his pocket when he went to Minnesota (from Kansas) to fish. Aren't old family stories fun?
We should all take pride in the fortitude, rectitude and endurance of our ancestors. People like that will not come this way again, alas.
I would have had an agent except that she was already repping someone who had a cybersleuth series. Can you believe it? Onward, onward. The first chapter of Festival Madness is with an editor to help with the first paragraph. I want to get it out to all the California agencies before thoughts of the man go away. By the way, the Man Burns, i.e. Burning Man on September 1st and the temple will burn a day later. Alas, again, would that I were there. Maybe next year. Burning Man is one of the festivals, the main one. Now, again, onward.
If you are a new reader of this blog, go to www.burningman.com. You'll have the time of your life, and that's just the website!
Grapeshot
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Buffalo Burgers, Not Wings
New York Times today had an article in the food section about buffalo meat. The Pepper Pod, in Hudson, Colorado outside Denver served buffalo to locals and travellers. We used to eat both chili and burgers there, and it was delicious. They had a small herd of the beasts outside.
http://www.thepepperpod.com/index.htm
Alas and alack, the menu on the website has no mention of buffalo or even beefalo. Gone are the days. It's still a cozy place, but the Pepper Pod with no buffalo? Boston without beans? Buffalo without wings? Philly without cheese steak? Kansas City without BBQ?
I don't know what things are coming to.
Grapeshot
http://www.thepepperpod.com/index.htm
Alas and alack, the menu on the website has no mention of buffalo or even beefalo. Gone are the days. It's still a cozy place, but the Pepper Pod with no buffalo? Boston without beans? Buffalo without wings? Philly without cheese steak? Kansas City without BBQ?
I don't know what things are coming to.
Grapeshot
You Can't Go Home Again
This is a draft of a speech I am giving tomorrow. I have left out specific names and incidents that could identify individuals.
You Can’t Go Home Again - - Or Can You? ©
Early this month I attended a high school reunion in a little town in Northeastern Colorado. Eighty miles northeast of Denver. There are no mountains, not even any scenery to speak of. It’s high plains country, with an elevation of 4500 ft. There’s irrigated farming and feed lots to fatten cattle for market.
The high school is gone; the grade school is boarded up. The Presbyterian Church is sandblasted and the stained glass windows gleam. It looks better than ever, and somehow smaller than I remember. The town had made an addition to the wonderful Carnegie Library, a place where I must have read half the books. The old library is now a meeting area. Perfectly preserved.
The swimming pool still offers respite from the high altitude heat, but McLagen’s Dairy is gone. The race track that has seen many a rodeo, quarter horse race and Friday night football game still stands. The cafe has bad food, just like always. The lemon pie had a topping of marshmallow cream, not meringue. My friend S. lives in the house she was born in. Another friend just participated in selling her parent’s house, a place that was home to the family for 81 years. The people who live there now and have always lived there wouldn’t have mixed feelings if you asked them about going home. They know where home is. They never left.
Home! What a loaded word! So many connotations. So much baggage.
Where is home? What is home? It means something different to each of us.
Is it where I was born?
Where I grew up?
Where I came of age?
Where my children were born?
Where I hang my hat at night?
We hear the cliché’s all the time:
Home is where the heart is. (attributed to Pliny) over 2000 years ago.
Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home. (from the song Home Sweet Home.
East and west, home is best. The old folks at home.
Robert Frost said: Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in. Robert Frost didn’t deal in clichés.
Home. . I carry the concept of home around like a turtle has her shell. Home is always with me.
And yet. We hear it repeatedly. You Can’t Go Home Again. What does that mean?
Of course it means you can’t recover the past. You Can’t Go Home Again is the title of a novel by the twentieth-century American author Thomas Wolfe. When a successful novelist is ostracized by the family and friends of his hometown, he embarks on a worldwide search for his own identity and personal renewal. (Wikipedia)
Your can’t go home again. You can’t recapture the past.
Anton Dvorak's most famous passage in his New World Symphony, the Largo, is known, after the fact, as “Going Home.” He wrote the music far from home in n New York City. He was trying to capture the feeling of some of the American music he had heard. Some would say he was homesick.
I can write about my town without resorting to research. Like the small Kansas town my grandparent’s lived in, it’s always in my head--a part of me. But I recognize how dramatically it’s changed. Colorado has changed, and I’ve changed. Your homes, whether few or many become a part of you.
Tennyson’s Ulysses stated, “I am a part of all that I have met.” How true those words. I lived in Colorado from the age of six to eighteen. The formative years... When I go back to Colorado for these reunions, I go home again and yet. . . I can’t.
Still, I am so glad that I went back for the reunion. At different ages, you look at life with new eyes.
Why Should We Try To Go Home Again?
Reconnect with friends: when we get together everyone regresses to the age of sixteen. You have a deep bond with the people you grew up. Nourish it. Everyone has traveled, had adventures Swap stories, pictures, eat, drink, laugh, cry. Reconnect with friends.
Reconnect with places. Downtown used to bustle on Saturdays when the farmers came to town. Now, it’s deserted. Where were the people? At Walmart.
Thirty-five coal trains from Gillette, Wyoming travel through the middle of town every day, bound for Denver and points west and south. That’s a lot of crossing gates down. Lots of waiting. Time to think.
There are many Mexican restaurants – Hispanics, a group that used to be down is up. The town has a big Cinco de Mayo celebration and there is Latino pride. Some changes are for the better, and not just a decent enchilada.
Visit your old haunts, look around. Do buildings look smaller? Have distances shrunk? Does everything look the same but different? That’s how you are, too. Except you probably haven’t shrunk. Reconnect with landscapes.
Reconnect with yourself – the person you were and the person you are. The older you are, the more amazed you will be. I never realized this was a poor community until I went back. An outsider noted, “There are a lot of very small houses in this town.” As a child, you accept the status quo. I remembered something I loved about every house I lived in, even if it was only a good climbing tree. Especially if it was a good climbing tree. Everything has changed, and so have you. Reconnect.
Reconnect with Life - - Leave your copy of Chicken Soup for the Soul at home. You won't need it here .Some classmates have thrived against overwhelming odds; others have been beaten down by life and not recovered. Not all the stories you hear will be happy ones. Examples.
You can go home again, but don’t expect it to be the same. Pack an open mind with your toothbrush. Be prepared for the flood of old memories, some good, and some bad.
Our class motto was: With the Ropes of the Past, We Ring the Bells of the Future. Corny then, corny now, but as with all corn, there’s the kernel of truth.
Perhaps a visit “home” will inspire you to pursue some of those old impossible dreams and a your long ago discarded goals. Proust remembered the past through many volumes of his novel. You can capture the past, cherish the memories, release the fears, dispel the awkwardness. Reconnect with friends, landscapes, yourself, life.
Go home again. ©
Grapeshot
You Can’t Go Home Again - - Or Can You? ©
Early this month I attended a high school reunion in a little town in Northeastern Colorado. Eighty miles northeast of Denver. There are no mountains, not even any scenery to speak of. It’s high plains country, with an elevation of 4500 ft. There’s irrigated farming and feed lots to fatten cattle for market.
The high school is gone; the grade school is boarded up. The Presbyterian Church is sandblasted and the stained glass windows gleam. It looks better than ever, and somehow smaller than I remember. The town had made an addition to the wonderful Carnegie Library, a place where I must have read half the books. The old library is now a meeting area. Perfectly preserved.
The swimming pool still offers respite from the high altitude heat, but McLagen’s Dairy is gone. The race track that has seen many a rodeo, quarter horse race and Friday night football game still stands. The cafe has bad food, just like always. The lemon pie had a topping of marshmallow cream, not meringue. My friend S. lives in the house she was born in. Another friend just participated in selling her parent’s house, a place that was home to the family for 81 years. The people who live there now and have always lived there wouldn’t have mixed feelings if you asked them about going home. They know where home is. They never left.
Home! What a loaded word! So many connotations. So much baggage.
Where is home? What is home? It means something different to each of us.
Is it where I was born?
Where I grew up?
Where I came of age?
Where my children were born?
Where I hang my hat at night?
We hear the cliché’s all the time:
Home is where the heart is. (attributed to Pliny) over 2000 years ago.
Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home. (from the song Home Sweet Home.
East and west, home is best. The old folks at home.
Robert Frost said: Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in. Robert Frost didn’t deal in clichés.
Home. . I carry the concept of home around like a turtle has her shell. Home is always with me.
And yet. We hear it repeatedly. You Can’t Go Home Again. What does that mean?
Of course it means you can’t recover the past. You Can’t Go Home Again is the title of a novel by the twentieth-century American author Thomas Wolfe. When a successful novelist is ostracized by the family and friends of his hometown, he embarks on a worldwide search for his own identity and personal renewal. (Wikipedia)
Your can’t go home again. You can’t recapture the past.
Anton Dvorak's most famous passage in his New World Symphony, the Largo, is known, after the fact, as “Going Home.” He wrote the music far from home in n New York City. He was trying to capture the feeling of some of the American music he had heard. Some would say he was homesick.
I can write about my town without resorting to research. Like the small Kansas town my grandparent’s lived in, it’s always in my head--a part of me. But I recognize how dramatically it’s changed. Colorado has changed, and I’ve changed. Your homes, whether few or many become a part of you.
Tennyson’s Ulysses stated, “I am a part of all that I have met.” How true those words. I lived in Colorado from the age of six to eighteen. The formative years... When I go back to Colorado for these reunions, I go home again and yet. . . I can’t.
Still, I am so glad that I went back for the reunion. At different ages, you look at life with new eyes.
Why Should We Try To Go Home Again?
Reconnect with friends: when we get together everyone regresses to the age of sixteen. You have a deep bond with the people you grew up. Nourish it. Everyone has traveled, had adventures Swap stories, pictures, eat, drink, laugh, cry. Reconnect with friends.
Reconnect with places. Downtown used to bustle on Saturdays when the farmers came to town. Now, it’s deserted. Where were the people? At Walmart.
Thirty-five coal trains from Gillette, Wyoming travel through the middle of town every day, bound for Denver and points west and south. That’s a lot of crossing gates down. Lots of waiting. Time to think.
There are many Mexican restaurants – Hispanics, a group that used to be down is up. The town has a big Cinco de Mayo celebration and there is Latino pride. Some changes are for the better, and not just a decent enchilada.
Visit your old haunts, look around. Do buildings look smaller? Have distances shrunk? Does everything look the same but different? That’s how you are, too. Except you probably haven’t shrunk. Reconnect with landscapes.
Reconnect with yourself – the person you were and the person you are. The older you are, the more amazed you will be. I never realized this was a poor community until I went back. An outsider noted, “There are a lot of very small houses in this town.” As a child, you accept the status quo. I remembered something I loved about every house I lived in, even if it was only a good climbing tree. Especially if it was a good climbing tree. Everything has changed, and so have you. Reconnect.
Reconnect with Life - - Leave your copy of Chicken Soup for the Soul at home. You won't need it here .Some classmates have thrived against overwhelming odds; others have been beaten down by life and not recovered. Not all the stories you hear will be happy ones. Examples.
You can go home again, but don’t expect it to be the same. Pack an open mind with your toothbrush. Be prepared for the flood of old memories, some good, and some bad.
Our class motto was: With the Ropes of the Past, We Ring the Bells of the Future. Corny then, corny now, but as with all corn, there’s the kernel of truth.
Perhaps a visit “home” will inspire you to pursue some of those old impossible dreams and a your long ago discarded goals. Proust remembered the past through many volumes of his novel. You can capture the past, cherish the memories, release the fears, dispel the awkwardness. Reconnect with friends, landscapes, yourself, life.
Go home again. ©
Grapeshot
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Boston Blogging
Today's Boston Globe had an article that Boston is the Bloggingest Town in the country. How about that? Actually, I am the only person I know that blogs alone. Hmmm. That sounds odd. Blogs independently? The others I know who blog have a group blog about writing. Try as I may, I can't stick to any one subject.
For example, tonight we're having ribs. And baked beans. And salad, of course, as a sop to the veggies. I always put onion and tomato (fresh) atop the baked beans. Have some really tasty slab bacon to really nail the beans! I used the BRITU (best ribs in the universe--google it) rub for the ribs that I made up last time. Can't decide between the smoker or the grill or maybe just smoking on the grill. With the hickory chips. Yeah!
Hope the rain stays away. This area gets plenty of early evening showers, always about the time you want to start up the grill. Grrrrr.
So Bostonians, Blog On!!!
Grapeshot
For example, tonight we're having ribs. And baked beans. And salad, of course, as a sop to the veggies. I always put onion and tomato (fresh) atop the baked beans. Have some really tasty slab bacon to really nail the beans! I used the BRITU (best ribs in the universe--google it) rub for the ribs that I made up last time. Can't decide between the smoker or the grill or maybe just smoking on the grill. With the hickory chips. Yeah!
Hope the rain stays away. This area gets plenty of early evening showers, always about the time you want to start up the grill. Grrrrr.
So Bostonians, Blog On!!!
Grapeshot
Monday, August 13, 2007
Pleasingly Plump
Everyone hates the new first paragraph of Festival Madness, so guess I have to punt that. I always have big problems with the first part of the first chapter, then it falls into place. In the meantime, I write 10 or 15 beginnings. Makes me crazy.
Speaking of crazy, I have a friend who divides the world into fat and skinny and fat is bad and skinny is good. Never mind if you have a skinny butt or no breasts and your face is hanging down around your neck, skinny is still good. My friend is a New York City liberal but she likes Huckabee of Arkansas because he lost a lot of weight and kept it off. I don't know when she became so monomanical about a little extra weight. Old women look like hell when they lose weight. I am speaking not of 100's of pounds but maybe 30 or 40. Actually, have you noticed in all the weight loss ads, the people losing weight are always young. That's because the manufacturer wouldn't want to show the before and after of weight loss among the elderly. I mean they would look like , well, icky. This is something no one ever mentions, just like no one ever mentions the reason so many people are fat is that they stopped smoking.
Sometimes truth doesn't want to be told. Sometimes the truth is bad and isn't going to get any better. Sometimes there are only painful choices when a decision is to be made. Nobody ever talks about these things. Maybe writers that aren't being "inspirational." Chicken shit for the soul. I like that. It's probably not original. Don't think I'll Google it. You may have guessed I'm in a bad mood because everyone hates my new beginning. Maybe sometime I'll write a literary book and make it as weird and obscure as I please.
The cat tossed her cookies 3 times today. She has been having hair ball problems along with her tendency toward bulimia. The other cat is just fat and lazy. How did I get such strange cats? I know. I know. It's Monday and we all understand that FRIDAY is cat blog day.
What I really want to do is to attend a wonderful ENERGETIC celebration of Kerouac's On the Road 50th anniversary in September. Boston, Lowell, New York? Just gotta do it. The road is life. His energy was stupendous. Something I've noticed lately with 50's (not rock) music is that the beat is soooo slow. One wants to hurry the song up. I'm not talking about slow dance music, but sort of zippy songs. Except they don't sound zippy. Life has speeded up or didn't you notice?
Grapeshot
Speaking of crazy, I have a friend who divides the world into fat and skinny and fat is bad and skinny is good. Never mind if you have a skinny butt or no breasts and your face is hanging down around your neck, skinny is still good. My friend is a New York City liberal but she likes Huckabee of Arkansas because he lost a lot of weight and kept it off. I don't know when she became so monomanical about a little extra weight. Old women look like hell when they lose weight. I am speaking not of 100's of pounds but maybe 30 or 40. Actually, have you noticed in all the weight loss ads, the people losing weight are always young. That's because the manufacturer wouldn't want to show the before and after of weight loss among the elderly. I mean they would look like , well, icky. This is something no one ever mentions, just like no one ever mentions the reason so many people are fat is that they stopped smoking.
Sometimes truth doesn't want to be told. Sometimes the truth is bad and isn't going to get any better. Sometimes there are only painful choices when a decision is to be made. Nobody ever talks about these things. Maybe writers that aren't being "inspirational." Chicken shit for the soul. I like that. It's probably not original. Don't think I'll Google it. You may have guessed I'm in a bad mood because everyone hates my new beginning. Maybe sometime I'll write a literary book and make it as weird and obscure as I please.
The cat tossed her cookies 3 times today. She has been having hair ball problems along with her tendency toward bulimia. The other cat is just fat and lazy. How did I get such strange cats? I know. I know. It's Monday and we all understand that FRIDAY is cat blog day.
What I really want to do is to attend a wonderful ENERGETIC celebration of Kerouac's On the Road 50th anniversary in September. Boston, Lowell, New York? Just gotta do it. The road is life. His energy was stupendous. Something I've noticed lately with 50's (not rock) music is that the beat is soooo slow. One wants to hurry the song up. I'm not talking about slow dance music, but sort of zippy songs. Except they don't sound zippy. Life has speeded up or didn't you notice?
Grapeshot
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Living Well, and All That
Living Well IS the best revenge, although who or what one is taking revenge on (life?) has always been rather a mystery. Last night we grilled strip steaks (with plenty of mesquite wood on the fire), ate the rest of the ratatouille and green beans Italian style, which are green beans, cooked al dente, then sauteed in a mixture of butter and olive oil, garlic, parsley and garnished with a sprinkle of parmesan cheese and more parsley, seasoned with salt, pepper and a bit of nutmeg. They were good, I tell you.
Tonight the very absolute end of the ratatouille, insalata caprese with fresh garden tomatoes and home grown organic basil, grilled ham and cheese on English muffins, with one of my special tarts (see previous post) made of nectarines and dried cherries.
I've incorporated my friend's edits into Promiscuous Mode. Printed out the 4th draft of Festival Madness. Queried a small press about World of Mirrors and noticed they weren't on the MWA approved list. I'm writing a speech about my big class reunion. Looks like there will be time to start something new this week. Maybe the German book. We have character's names now, and the starting situation.
Martin Scorsese nailed it today in the New York Times when he wrote of Antonioni. All the words I wanted to say, and more. Zowie!
Best seller list maybe worse than usual in terms of literary merit. Whatcha gonna do? Guy sitting next to S.O. on plane from Denver drank 3 quick drinks and read Harry Potter. Didn't know what to make of that. Nervous flyer? Drunk? Bad day? All of the above? Isn't life interesting?
Grapeshot
Tonight the very absolute end of the ratatouille, insalata caprese with fresh garden tomatoes and home grown organic basil, grilled ham and cheese on English muffins, with one of my special tarts (see previous post) made of nectarines and dried cherries.
I've incorporated my friend's edits into Promiscuous Mode. Printed out the 4th draft of Festival Madness. Queried a small press about World of Mirrors and noticed they weren't on the MWA approved list. I'm writing a speech about my big class reunion. Looks like there will be time to start something new this week. Maybe the German book. We have character's names now, and the starting situation.
Martin Scorsese nailed it today in the New York Times when he wrote of Antonioni. All the words I wanted to say, and more. Zowie!
Best seller list maybe worse than usual in terms of literary merit. Whatcha gonna do? Guy sitting next to S.O. on plane from Denver drank 3 quick drinks and read Harry Potter. Didn't know what to make of that. Nervous flyer? Drunk? Bad day? All of the above? Isn't life interesting?
Grapeshot
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Writing Down the Moans
O.K., bad pun. There's been a dust-up, almost a brouhaha on one of the writing listserves I monitor. Seems Left Coast Crime and Murder in the Midlands, two mystery conferences, have decided that only MWA approved publishers can sell books at these conferences, leaving out scores of self-published and small independents who for whatever reason aren't on MWA's list of "real" publishers. Lots of bad feelings and name-calling. Seems a bit Draconian that, for example, the Hilliard & Harris authors can't sell books at these conferences, or the Oceanside, and a lot of other presses. MWA now says a "real" publisher must have a book run of 500 or more, which leaves out the POD presses. Bear in mind POD is a print technology that says nothing about the quality of the writing. And said publisher also has to pay at least $1000.00 advance. Well, one would hope.
I was grandfathered into MWA when the rules were loosey-goosey, not that I didn't have a "real" publisher who assigned editors and cover artists and all that stuff. No money upfront from the authors. Generous payments (not the right word) for each book sold. However, it was a no-advance, POD outfitt, long gone belly up. So I slink and skulk and realize that I am not one of the chosen, and that it was authors like me who they changed the rules to keep out. Not a happy thought. Just one more reason to suck it up of which there are always many. So I have a great deal of sympathy for the writers with their noses pressed against the fence.
Rumor has it that Sisters In Crime is going to the "not all writers are equal" stance in order to promote the more traditionally published , but that's just a rumor. Well, I've sat through a lot of meeting where I have to shut up. Builds character. The haves and have-nots are in a deadly embrace that nobody is gonna win anytime soon. Horse manure at five paces anyone? That is what Abraham Lincoln reputedly said when challenged to a duel. One of my favorite quotes.
I've finished the third draft of Festival Madness, and now it has to lie fallow for a spell. A good friend from college days has done a line edit of Promiscuous Mode, and I can't thank her enough. So need to revisit that book a bit. Haven't sent it out as often as I could. It's my writing group's favorite book and it had a rocky start with an agent requesting the full manuscript and never responding to email, mail, phone, or anything. Off on the wrong foot.
But it's a traditional mystery, not a cozy, not a thriller, and there aren't any crafts or really loveable old ladies. Medium boiled? One cat, two murders, a little adultery. Some food, some fishing, a sleazy casino. Works for me. So one more pass and out into the world it goes again. Another one of my babies.
Lots of plans underfoot. The Information Systems memoir, the 1928 California book, and now a young adult that takes place in Germany in the last months of the war. And a web site class that will be the kick in the pants I need to redo my long neglected site. So stuff is happening. Short stories. The Meth House explosion. (The book, not the real thing. ) Horrors!
Better get busy. What do you think?
Grapeshot
I was grandfathered into MWA when the rules were loosey-goosey, not that I didn't have a "real" publisher who assigned editors and cover artists and all that stuff. No money upfront from the authors. Generous payments (not the right word) for each book sold. However, it was a no-advance, POD outfitt, long gone belly up. So I slink and skulk and realize that I am not one of the chosen, and that it was authors like me who they changed the rules to keep out. Not a happy thought. Just one more reason to suck it up of which there are always many. So I have a great deal of sympathy for the writers with their noses pressed against the fence.
Rumor has it that Sisters In Crime is going to the "not all writers are equal" stance in order to promote the more traditionally published , but that's just a rumor. Well, I've sat through a lot of meeting where I have to shut up. Builds character. The haves and have-nots are in a deadly embrace that nobody is gonna win anytime soon. Horse manure at five paces anyone? That is what Abraham Lincoln reputedly said when challenged to a duel. One of my favorite quotes.
I've finished the third draft of Festival Madness, and now it has to lie fallow for a spell. A good friend from college days has done a line edit of Promiscuous Mode, and I can't thank her enough. So need to revisit that book a bit. Haven't sent it out as often as I could. It's my writing group's favorite book and it had a rocky start with an agent requesting the full manuscript and never responding to email, mail, phone, or anything. Off on the wrong foot.
But it's a traditional mystery, not a cozy, not a thriller, and there aren't any crafts or really loveable old ladies. Medium boiled? One cat, two murders, a little adultery. Some food, some fishing, a sleazy casino. Works for me. So one more pass and out into the world it goes again. Another one of my babies.
Lots of plans underfoot. The Information Systems memoir, the 1928 California book, and now a young adult that takes place in Germany in the last months of the war. And a web site class that will be the kick in the pants I need to redo my long neglected site. So stuff is happening. Short stories. The Meth House explosion. (The book, not the real thing. ) Horrors!
Better get busy. What do you think?
Grapeshot
Friday, August 10, 2007
Friday is Cat Blog Day. Pass It On!
Annie enjoying petting and adulation, to which a cat is innately entitled.
Our cats are very strange and don't eat "people food." You can leave shrimp, tuna, a whole fisherman's platter anyplace and they don't even sniff it. Thisbe, the younger more sentivie cat would eat table food as a kitten, but apparently Annie taught her that this simply wasn't done.
When I was a teenager, our neighbors had a cool Siamese that I let into the house sometimes. One day, I let the cat in and left again. Ye gods! The cat ate an entire leftover roast that my mom had out for out dinner. Cat and I both in the dog house big time.
We've been eating well this week: Sauteed chicken breast with a sauce of broth, lemon juice, capers and parsley for two days, and tonight a chicken salad with celery, Granny Smith apple, a few dried apricots and some walnuts. I made a dressing sour cream mayo, curry powder, ginger and just a wee sprinkle of cayenne. A tad of Equal, just a smidgeon. $6.00 worth of chicken breasts and 3 meals. Not bad, she said. I made a simple ratatouille which we eat as a salad or (tonight) appetizer. Tomorrow we'll have it with green beans and steak. Summer's fruits and veggies are rolling in. We have nectarines to eat. Do I make a nectarine fool or a pie?
May I share my quick dessert secret? A pillbury pie crust from the dairy case--comes 2 to a box. Unroll one on a rimmed cookie sheet. Use whatever fruit you want or a combination of fruits--berries are good. Peaches and berries--I've even used frozen cranberries and rhubarb. Combos are endless. So take the fruit and toss it with sugar to taste and a little cornstarch. You might want to add a bit of lemon, cinnamon or nutmeg depending on the fruit. A few nuts can be fun. Toss this altogether and put in the center of the crust, then turn up the crust, pinching together until you have a freeform tart, partially covered with crust, but with fruit exposed in the center. Bake in a 400 degree over until the crust turns brown, 35-40 minutes. Cool and serve with whipped or ice cream. Serves 4.
This is about as fast as you can hope to put a dessert together, and it always tastes first rate. You can brush the crust with beaten egg or not. Sometimes the fruit juices leak a bit, which is why you need a rimmed cookie sheet. A word to the wise. Really yummy. Idiot simple. What more do you want?
So I've shared my cat and my shabby little dessert secrets. Remember, today is Friday, so blog your cat.
Grapeshot
Thursday, August 09, 2007
Northern Exposure - Part III
A woo-woo moment: computer crashed last May and I lost my "favorites." Since then, I've been gradually building them up again. This morning, ye gods, my old favorites were back. And of course the new, somewhat better organized were gone. This is too weird.
Meanwhile, back in colorful Colorado: Look at the wild flowers! Apparently in the spring up north in the grasslands the wild flowers are tremendous. My garden is good now. Clemantis has been a little iffy this year, and the black-eyed susan vine needs way to much TLC to leave for even a long weekend, so scratch that for next year. The basil, which was so water-logged this spring is going crazy, as are the bedding plants. All the geraniums I carried over the winter are big healthy blooming specimens. Good dill for cucumber salad. Italian and curly parsley both surging. Moss rose and nasturtiums abloom like crazy. One cleome has shown up which reseeded itself from last year.
Birds have adjusted to the new thistle seed feeder. Baby sparrows and titmice are gobbling down the seed in the feeder at the front of the house. Doves, cardinals, squirrels and chipmunks feeding on what gets spilled which is plenty.
Cool this morning. We drove to the Cape (Woods Hole) last night for a seafood dinner which couldn't be beat. I had my annual swordfish, cajun style. So tasty. Perfectly cooked, perfectly seasoned.
More later.
Grapeshot
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
Northern Exposure Part II
A quiet Cafe- - cattle on the horizon, an old country church, and the road ahead. More images of northern Colorado--Weld and Morgan County, Highways 71, 14 and 52. Beautiful empty landscape that soothes one's soul.
Northern Exposure
Driving North on Colorado 71 out of Brush on Sunday morning with 2 hours to kill before driving to Denver International Airport. Lots of 90 degree turns in the road which caused grief for the country boys with a belly full of beer. We drove through Snyder where I did some serious drinking as an underage adolescent. Didn't see "Nick's." The whole town personified the words "God Awful." Sorry, Snyder, but you need a face lift. Almost a 3rd world scene. We continued North to the land beyond the boonies. A few ranches, some cattle, lots of doves. I looked for Meadowlarks but didn't see any. Lonesome windmills. We drive across Colorado 14 and then dropped South on Colorado 52 to Ft. Morgan. Stopped at a restaurant from the AAA Guide which was serving both a breakfast and a lunch buffet. All for $9.95. And not bad.
On to Denver across the Great Plains, and they are truly great. Pollution now such that the mountains can't always be seen even from Denver. One wants to weep. We didn't go as far as Pawnee Buttes, but that has to be worth a trip. Google it and look at the images. Big wind farm in the distance. More coal trains from Gillette, WY heading toward Denver.
I lived in this area for years and never ventured into the country. Few towns, few people, just cattle and ranches and doves. Bet there's dove season in the fall. Later posts will have more photos.
Grapeshot
Monday, August 06, 2007
Sometimes the Only Luck is Bad
http://www.calendarlive.com/printedition/calendar/cl-ca-lambert5aug05,0,4518861.story?coll=cl-calendar
Epilogue to the Noir Life of an L. A. Writer
An interesting article about a little known writer. Are there good books that are never published? Current wisdom thinks so.
I think I'll down a shot of whiskey.
Grapeshot
Epilogue to the Noir Life of an L. A. Writer
An interesting article about a little known writer. Are there good books that are never published? Current wisdom thinks so.
I think I'll down a shot of whiskey.
Grapeshot
You Can Go Home Again
But it won't be the same. Who the hell are all these old people? What happened? The years roll by. The odd thing is, you put this group back together and pretty soon they all revert to being sixteen again. Sixteen candles.
Denver Art Museum, esp. the new wing by Liebeskind did not disappoint. The locals seemed surprised that it had such a big play in the Eastern Press.
Good Mexican food in Colorado, from Magaritas to well, we never made it to the flan, the main course being so copious, but I know the flan was good.
Denver used to end on the north around Commerce City. Now there are various ugly, gawd, I can't tell you how ugly, subdivisions out in the middle of nowhere--major ticky-tacky. Sucking up all the farmers water. Major interesting sight: the coal trains from Gilette, Wyoming tooling along on the Burlington Northern/Santa Fe tracks heading west. Hugh trains with nothing but coal, 35 per day. Long trains. Get out of the house. Way out of the house. You will see amazing sights.
On the first leg of our flight there was an old man who had sort of lost it. Travelling with his wife who was not up to being his caretaker. After we reached our cruising altitude, as they say, he got up and tried to find the restroom. I kid you not, he was looking to open the aircraft door to go to the john. An alert passenger told the flight attendant. Later, I scrutinized the door and determined that he would not have been able to open, even if he had the strength, which is doubtful. Then he tried to claim S.O.'s suitcase in the aisle. I say when you can't recognize your own suitcase (not even black) maybe it's time to stay home. The Old Folks At Home. Where they belong.
So we saw unexpected sights and ate some amazing food, including lemon pie with (I am not making this up) marshmellow cream instead of meringue as a topping. Well, whatever floats your boat.
In the mail this morning was a "thanks but no thanks" letter from an agent I queried over a year ago. Somehow that "no" is never so painful. Already written off and do you really want an agent who takes a year to get back.
Big exciting idea for new book. I donated a copy of The Shadow Warriors to my old Carnegie Library, where I must have read half their books. Everything from Two Weeks to Guadalcanal Diary. An education to be sure.
I read Furst's The Foreign Correspondent while travelling. Very good. Interesting how he just used the threat of violence to create suspense. Not the usual gory mayhen that one finds in many thrillers.
More, much more, anon.
Grapeshot
Denver Art Museum, esp. the new wing by Liebeskind did not disappoint. The locals seemed surprised that it had such a big play in the Eastern Press.
Good Mexican food in Colorado, from Magaritas to well, we never made it to the flan, the main course being so copious, but I know the flan was good.
Denver used to end on the north around Commerce City. Now there are various ugly, gawd, I can't tell you how ugly, subdivisions out in the middle of nowhere--major ticky-tacky. Sucking up all the farmers water. Major interesting sight: the coal trains from Gilette, Wyoming tooling along on the Burlington Northern/Santa Fe tracks heading west. Hugh trains with nothing but coal, 35 per day. Long trains. Get out of the house. Way out of the house. You will see amazing sights.
On the first leg of our flight there was an old man who had sort of lost it. Travelling with his wife who was not up to being his caretaker. After we reached our cruising altitude, as they say, he got up and tried to find the restroom. I kid you not, he was looking to open the aircraft door to go to the john. An alert passenger told the flight attendant. Later, I scrutinized the door and determined that he would not have been able to open, even if he had the strength, which is doubtful. Then he tried to claim S.O.'s suitcase in the aisle. I say when you can't recognize your own suitcase (not even black) maybe it's time to stay home. The Old Folks At Home. Where they belong.
So we saw unexpected sights and ate some amazing food, including lemon pie with (I am not making this up) marshmellow cream instead of meringue as a topping. Well, whatever floats your boat.
In the mail this morning was a "thanks but no thanks" letter from an agent I queried over a year ago. Somehow that "no" is never so painful. Already written off and do you really want an agent who takes a year to get back.
Big exciting idea for new book. I donated a copy of The Shadow Warriors to my old Carnegie Library, where I must have read half their books. Everything from Two Weeks to Guadalcanal Diary. An education to be sure.
I read Furst's The Foreign Correspondent while travelling. Very good. Interesting how he just used the threat of violence to create suspense. Not the usual gory mayhen that one finds in many thrillers.
More, much more, anon.
Grapeshot
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
Blow Up
Bergman and Antonioni? Is there some cosmic irony at work here?
Who can ever forget L'Aventura? Or Blow-Up in swinging London? Or the 1975 Jack Nicholson movie. What was it? The Passenger? Zabriskie Point and all those windmills. The Red Desert. Think about the titles. Antonioni had a lot in common with Camus. Alienation, the 20th century disease. The 21st? Who knows? I think think we even have a culture anymore. Maybe the culture of celebrity. Comparisons to ancient Rome keep filtering up. Anyone for fiddling?
Now another task is on my list that stretches soooo far. Rent some of these films. Can the past be revisted? Step into the same river? Oh no, but still. Some of the emotional resonance is bound to return. Rent Persona, definitely. The Red Desert, too. Wild Strawberries. Maybe Blow-Up. And don't forget Hiroshima, Mon Amour, the great work by Renais. Just thinking of the titles of each of these movies brings a strong image to mind. Let's not forget Fellini and the statue of Jesus being carried over Rome by helicopter. Brilliant.
The great ones are falling.
Is anyone watching the new Glenn Close show on Fox Tuesdays at 10:00? Can't remember the name. Damages? Too many commercials, but definitely suspenseful and a little different. The beginning was a prologue that keeps driving the plot. I can't tear myself away.
Class reunion (never mind how many) coming up on Friday, and we leave for Denver tomorrow. I'm taking a Alan Furst novel and The Poisonwood Bible by Kingsolver. One of my totally reasonable fears is being stuck on a plane with nothing to read. Some people sit for hours just staring into space. One wonders. But one always wonders. At least I hope so.
Last post until Monday. Then I will have 20 years worth of news to report. Will it be fit to print?
Grapeshot
Who can ever forget L'Aventura? Or Blow-Up in swinging London? Or the 1975 Jack Nicholson movie. What was it? The Passenger? Zabriskie Point and all those windmills. The Red Desert. Think about the titles. Antonioni had a lot in common with Camus. Alienation, the 20th century disease. The 21st? Who knows? I think think we even have a culture anymore. Maybe the culture of celebrity. Comparisons to ancient Rome keep filtering up. Anyone for fiddling?
Now another task is on my list that stretches soooo far. Rent some of these films. Can the past be revisted? Step into the same river? Oh no, but still. Some of the emotional resonance is bound to return. Rent Persona, definitely. The Red Desert, too. Wild Strawberries. Maybe Blow-Up. And don't forget Hiroshima, Mon Amour, the great work by Renais. Just thinking of the titles of each of these movies brings a strong image to mind. Let's not forget Fellini and the statue of Jesus being carried over Rome by helicopter. Brilliant.
The great ones are falling.
Is anyone watching the new Glenn Close show on Fox Tuesdays at 10:00? Can't remember the name. Damages? Too many commercials, but definitely suspenseful and a little different. The beginning was a prologue that keeps driving the plot. I can't tear myself away.
Class reunion (never mind how many) coming up on Friday, and we leave for Denver tomorrow. I'm taking a Alan Furst novel and The Poisonwood Bible by Kingsolver. One of my totally reasonable fears is being stuck on a plane with nothing to read. Some people sit for hours just staring into space. One wonders. But one always wonders. At least I hope so.
Last post until Monday. Then I will have 20 years worth of news to report. Will it be fit to print?
Grapeshot
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