Seven (7) Suspenseful Sentence Sunday - May 29

The narrator, Emma, is having an uncomfortable lunch in Frankfurt, Germany with an old friend. 

             "Think of this little favor as a reward for my never having blabbed about you and that lifeguard." She looked squarely into my eyes, and I blushed protesting, "But that was when we were in high school!"

            "We haven't changed much, have we?"

            The waiter presented our entrees. The sight and aroma of the food beckoned, for the Bordeaux had condensed my appetite to a burning hunger. In wine-drenched sentimentality, we clinked glasses to the strong, binding old ties and memories. Then we dug into the meal like the Kansas farm girls we used to be.

From The Shadow Warriors.  The novel has scenes set in Singapore, Hong Kong, Cambridge, MA, Frankfurt, Baden-Baden, Brussels and Göttingen, Germany where most of the action occurs at the University.   

Visit all the 7 Suspenseful Sentence Sunday authors at:  7 Suspenseful Sentence Sunday   

Looking for a cool Kindle read?   The Shadow Warriors, a novel of international intrigue with technology run amok.  Here is the link: The Shadow Warriors on Amazon, Kindle and Trade Paperback
 

Tornadoes and Home Canning

In central Kansas where my mother grew up, tornadoes were a fact of life.  My grandfather believed in a state of readiness. The basement of the two-story farmhouse had a room within a room, built of cement blocks.  It was the "storm cellar,"  and it contained an ax and a kerosene lantern as well as a couple flashlights.

This was also the room where my grandma kept her home-canned goodies.  Now we think of summer as a  time to relax and enjoy life.  Consider making your own ketchup (she spelled it catsup) piccalilli, and jams of every flavor.  She also put up  peaches, pears,  and apricots.    And tomatoes from the big garden.  Quarts and quarts of tomatoes.  Grandma did all of this on an electric stove that we would sneer at, in a  galley style un-airconditioned kitchen. 

Whenever a thunderstorm blew up, my grandpa went outside to assess the situation.  If he didn't like the look of the clouds, we were be trundled out of bed and sent traipsing down to the storm cellar.  The storms always seemed to come at 2;00 a.m. when one was snug in bed.  Didn't matter.  There were benches to sit on, and we sat.  And waited.  When the wind died down, grandpa would go upstairs and take another look at the sky.  Either we went back to bed or we  stayed put.  His word was law. 

Years later, when I was grown up and living in Massachusetts a tornado did hit the town.  In an old box of black and white photos there's a picture of a twister.  Scary to the max.  I feel so sorry for the folks whose homes and lives were ripped up by the funnel clouds.  Makes me thankful for grandpa and his cellar.  The memory of grandma's homemade strawberry jam makes be salivate for a spoonful.  What's priceless are the memories.

The house looks much smaller than I remembered, and there were tricycles and toys outside last time I drove by.  The storm cellar is undoubtedly still there.  I doubt if it's full of home-canned pints and quarts.  I hope the  people living there now use it when the sky blackens and the winds howl.

7 Suspenseful Sentence Sunday - May 22

The opportunistic Bulgarian, Georgi Balakov, one of the bad guys in The Shadow Warriors, has seated himself with Emma, our narrator at a cafe in an outdoor garden.  This is part of his soliloquy about life in West Berlin from an Eastern European point of view. 

The tranquil garden, with orange nasturtiums cascading along the fence, and subdued classical music soothing the diners, emphasized the unreality of this encounter. 

Balakov, sitting as impenetrable and in-your-face as the Wall dividing Germany, continued to talk. "When I first traveled to the West, my earliest business took me to Berlin. It was February, so cold and dismal, and yet, I wondered if I had arrived in a time machine with everyone, men and women walked about wrapped in leather or fur. What a wonderful Stone Age tribe—so elegant, so brisk. I was eager and raw then, an underdog hungering for the opulent capitalist bone, so meaty and full of fat. There would, I hoped, be no more gristle to chew. 

Visit all the 7 Suspenseful Sentence Sunday authors at:  7 Suspenseful Sentence Sunday   

Looking for a cool Kindle read?   The Shadow Warriors, a novel of international intrigue with technology run amok.  Here is the link: The Shadow Warriors on Amazon, Kindle and Trade Paperback  

Flown the Coop!

The Luna Moth came again last night to beat against the window

The big green Luna moth woke up from her all-day slumber on the window sill and beat against the window last night, but with much less energy than  before.  What is the most aggravating, galling saga of life on the slough is the fact that the birds are gone, well, not all of them, because there is a pair of hawks patrolling the woods and they've scared the bejesus out of my birdies.   Everyone is in hiding or even left the neighborhood and I worry about the deserted nests. Haven't seen my cardinal pair, or the catbird.  Goldfinches scarce, even the woodpeckers have left the suet for the big thieving raccoon who raids it every night.  Where are my titmice, chickadees and nuthatches?  Whither the mourning doves?  There's not even an English sparrow on the front feeder, much less the cute little pair of marsh sparrows.  Everyone mated up and then vamoosed.

The hawk swoops through the woods at least daily.  Haven't seen the hummer either, but I did scour the feeder and change the water yesterday.  One dove appeared in the bushes next to the front porch where I put out seed for the baby chipmunks.

In the middle of town last week, I saw a Kildeer far from any water.   And we have young geese (watch out for the hawks!) and  wild turkeys about.  And mosquitoes big time with all the #**! rain.  And sometime is eating all the oak leaves AND the newly set out petunias.  Sometimes being a gardener is for the birds.  Ooops!  They have all disappeared.  

I have been getting a manuscript ready to send to a publisher who may or may not like it.  Yesterday I did the dedication, acknowledgements, a one page bibliography of sources that "informed" the writing, and brief write-ups of the history and technology at the time of the novel.  These days, you can't assume anyone know jackshit.  Sorry, but it's true.

Can't wait to see the new Woody Allen movie, which doesn't explain all.  You have to know who Tom, Ernie, Gertrude and Scott are.  Do YOU? 

Grapeshot, in a somewhat bad mood which will soon pass.

Last night's green guest

Luna Moth resting on Window Sill

We're in the living room watching the Cubs/Red Sox game and I hear a noise against the window.  "Eeek!"  I say , "the hummingbird is trying to get inside."  Nope, it's not my little birdie, but what is it?  Significant Other thinks it's might be a small bat.  Finally, we realize the critter is a bigass moth, a huge green moth, bigger than any I've ever seen.  I pull the shade so the poor creature won't beat herself to death against the window.

This morning she's resting on the next window's sill,  very still.  Is she alive?  We still don't know.  Do not disturb is the watchword.  When I googled "big green moth" her image popped up.  Isn't the web grand?  We don't have an insect book.  You can read about her on Wikipedia at Luna Moth

The amazing thing is that just an hour before our green guest appeared, I was reading an article in the National Wildlife Magazine about keeping a "yard journal" with jottings, sketches and photos of all the wild life that appears in one's yard.  And we have it in spades!  What a great idea.  And I can start with Ms. Moth.   See the next post for more on our wildlife situation.

7 Suspenseful Sunday - May 15

These sentences are from my stand-alone suspense novel in the final throes of polishing.  The protag, Maxine is between a rock and a hard place.

Maxine peered around--no trees, not even a tumbleweed. If she got the children away from the tracks and lying down, maybe he would drive by.  She unzipped the pocket and felt the nubby handle of the Smith & Wesson. This time she must screw up her courage. She tried to visualize the scene: the pickup, the dust, El Tigre climbing out, tramping toward them. His ferocious face, his incredible bulk, his horrific intention. She would hold the gun. . . aim at his body, right at the heart--shoot to kill.

Visit all the 7 Suspenseful Sentence Sunday authors at:  7 Suspenseful Sentence Sunday   

Looking for a cool Kindle read?   The Shadow Warriors, a novel of international intrigue with technology run amok.  Here is the link: The Shadow Warriors on Amazon, Kindle and Trade Paperback  

Down and Out in NYC: Sucking It Up More Than Usual

A couple weeks ago I went to Manhattan for a literary networking even which shall be nameless.   The idea was for writers to schmooze with editors and agents to whom they were introduced by "facilitators."  I had a new novel to pitch, and I even wrote down the pitch and rehearsed it.

  We got back to my friend's apartment late due to getting lost between the Cloisters and the subway.  Very lost, but that it another story.   The party was at 5:30, but my experience with this event was that at 5:30 there were only writers talking to other writers and for this I don't need to go to New York. I quickly changed into decent big city clothes including high heels and hied myself across the street too the 5th Avenue bus stop.  Missed two M1 busses waiting for the crossing light but a few minutes later the M4 appeared.  It was  5:40.

Lots of traffic and the bus wasn't making much if any progress until whoppee!  The driver announced that Obama was in town and we were being diverted to Lexington Avenue. I wasn't too worried because my event was closer to Lex anyhow.  Except the traffic didn't move on Lexington, either, and by now I am casting nervous glances at my watch because it is after 6:00.  Then the bus turns back to 5th and I think now we are going somewhere, but where we are going is ACROSS THE PARK to the WEST SIDE!!!

The driver lets some of us out on 5th Avenue and 72nd street and I head across town back to Lexington and start to walk.  Fast.  In high heels.  Pretty soon I have a good pace set that coincides mostly with the Walk Lights, and I make it to 59th and my event.  Out of breath, hair destroyed, sweating slightly, feet hurting, and I am wondering why the hell I am doing this because as a shy person these events are torture, and no one is going to give a rat's ass about the book anyhow.

It's worse than that!  Writer's are still talking to writers, and the agents, most of whom look to be twenty-years-old are talking to other agents and the "facilitators" are talking to each other and that's the way of the literary world.  I didn't know anyone which is unusual.
Got wine, made up on the hors d'oeuvres for missing lunch, talked to somebody I didn't know, finally found someone I did who said the agents had left early.  Merde.

Decided to take the subway back to Murray Hill.   Earlier in the day we had received two free subway passes, but they needed to be exchanged for "real" ticket, and there was no human employee at 59th and Lexington.  I bought a ticket from the machine and swiped it through the slot and the turnstile did not open.  Swiped the ticket again and got a "ticket no good" message.  Merde again.

Bought another ticket and this one actually worked. Rode uptown and walked crosstown to 5th avenue, having made the great circle route and spent one bus and two subway fares for. . . well, for some hors d'oeuvres and a free glass of red. Maybe not such a bad dea.

This was not so much humiliating but a waste of time and effort and energy.  I told myself at least I got a good workout.  In high heels.  You never want to get a workout in high heels.  Feet are unforgiving.  Every literary disaster whacks nails in my ego and at this point, self-publishing some of these books--by now there are three of them and soon to be four, is beginning to look like a no-brainer.

Sucking it up more than usual,

Grapeshot

A Non-Traditional Mothers Day

Appalled that I haven't posted for a week.  In New York for a writing event.  Back home to get ready for the Toastmasters District Conference.  Lots of last minute changes that kept me glued to email and spread sheets.  Conference was Saturday with inspiring speakers, including one, Rory Vaden, who talked about procrastination, a topic all of us, including moi, need to take to heart.   A fun meal at Acquitaine after the conference, to celebrate Mother's Day Saturday instead of Sunday with crowds, bad service, screaming kids and well, yanno, not exactly a relaxing experience.

A friend came to visit and we took a hike through the woods and had a pleasant Sunday.  I made spaghetti and meatballs, not exactly a traditional Mother's Day entree, but somehow right.  Accepted phone calls, flowers, etc.  Very satisfying.  The meat balls are from the New York Times International Cookbook of yore.  Sicilian meat balls, the best I've ever eaten and I never make anything else.  Good garlic bread and a decent salad.  We were too full for dessert which would have been some homemade rhubarb bread.
  Rhubarb Bread  

My "to do" list is absolutely frightening.  Well, one task at a time.  Today is catch up day.  We fed the Scottish Highland Cattle.  Iris and Maggie are old and rambunctious and calfless.  They treat the bull badly and try to hog all the food.  Both bullies.

The little hummingbird is back.  I wonder  if he had to fly through the terrible storms.  It's always such a marvelous relief when they return.  I keep fresh sugar water out at all times, replentished weekly.  The beautiful paper white narcissus I planted last year are now blooming, and the red azalea burst into bloom yesterday in time for Mother's Day.  Sometimes the gifts are spontaneous and just right.

Agatha Award Winners 2011

These awards are presented annually at the Malice Domestic convention.  "Malice" is slanted to the traditional mystery as opposed to the suspense and thriller genres.  A special shout out to Sarah Smith of our local MWA chapter whose  YA book, The Other Side of Dark won.

Best Novel:
Bury Your Dead by Louise Penny

Best First Novel:
The Long Quiche Goodbye by Avery Aames

Best Non-fiction:
Agatha Christie's Secret Notebooks: 50 Years of Mysteries in the Making by John Curran

Best Short Story:
"So Much in Common" by Mary Jane Maffini, Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine - Sept./Oct. 2010

Best Children's/Young Adult:
The Other Side of Dark by Sarah Smith

The Fox Family at Rest and At Play

About at cute as it gets.  Is that Dad in the foreground?

Play is serious business and prepping for Life!

My "source" has sent these fox photos from New York.  He tells me the the mother fox communicates with him as she did with me, and that RESPECT is a big part of the conversation.

Grapeshot