CAFE: A gathering place. A place of refreshment.
Friday, November 30, 2007
I'm privileged to be part of this talented group. My contribution, "A Nod in the Right Direction," depicts my ambivalence in moving from our family farm into the heart of the city. In Tulsa, I found a warm welcome, not only from the wildlife in my own backyard, but also an offer of friendship from a neighbor, who has become a wonderful friend.
A group booksigning by many of the anthology authors will be this Sunday, Dec. 2, from 2 - 4 pm at Steve's Sundry: Books and Magazines. 2612 South Harvard. Tulsa. I'll be there and would love for you to come by if you are in the area. The book would be a "cool" Christmas gift for someone you know who loves Tulsa.
Now, what color ink should I use to sign my name?
Here are the top twenty-five books that got people hooked on reading, according to the FirstBook.org poll. It sort of takes you back, doesn't it?
- Nancy Drew by Carolyn Keene
- Green Eggs and Ham by Dr. Seuss
- Little House on the Prairie by Laura Ingalls Wilder
- Little Women by Louisa May Alcott
- The Cat in the Hat by Dr. Seuss
- The Boxcar Children by Gertrude Chandler Warner
- Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak
- The Poky Little Puppy by Janette Sebring Lowrey
- Go, Dog, Go! by P. D. Eastman
- Are You My Mother? by P. D. Eastman
- Curious George by Margret and H. A. Rey
- Black Beauty by Anna Sewell
- The Little Engine that Could by Watty Piper and Loren Long
- Goodnight Moon by Margaret Wise Brown
- Dick and Jane by William H. Elson
- Ramona Quimby, Age 8 by Beverly Cleary
- The Bobbsey Twins by Laura Lee Hope
- To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee
- Where the Red Fern Grows by Wilson Rawls
- The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein
- The Black Stallion by Walter Farley
- The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett
- Heidi by Johanna Spyri
- The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams
- A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L'Engle
You can see the entire list of the Top 50 books here. For me, Dick and Jane started it all, quickly progressing to the Bobbsey Twins (at the Seashore--remember that one?). By 5th grade, I was devouring Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys. I still love a great mystery! How about you? Which book (s) got you hooked on reading?
Thursday, November 29, 2007
I don’t know about you, but at my house, this constitutes a domestic emergency. I know the earth’s rotation does not hinge on whether or not Carla has had her coffee. It’s close, though. Immediate action was called for. Braced with the ONE measly cup of coffee in my stomach, I scanned the newspaper for holiday bargains and shuffled through my coupons. I grabbed my keys and went shopping.
Nothing fancy. No bean grinders or espresso-making features to confuse me (or set me back an extra hundred bucks). I did want to upgrade from the cheap coffee makers we’d had the last few times (you get what you pay for). Here’s what I found:
I LOVE my new coffee pot. The taste quality equals that of the famous coffee shop on the corner. The spout pours without a single drip. The brewing sound is a soft gurgle that lures me instead of setting my teeth on edge. It’s a match made in heaven.
If you’re in the neighborhood, come on over. Fresh coffee is waiting.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
THEY WERE DEAD WRONG.
Newspaperman Hudson Ambrose discovers a murdered homeless man with a bankbook in his pocket showing a balance of almost one million dollars.
Isn’t that a great premise? I was hooked right off.
Hudson makes an impulse decision that sends him on a frantic search for answers, not only about the dead man, but about the lost soul lurking within himself.
Most of the action takes place in Las Vegas, a city of contrasts. Rich, poor. Glitz, grime. The godless, the redeemed. A power hungry televangelist, a dirty cop. The author writes about the gospel unashamedly, the ills in some of our churches with refreshing honesty, and offers a challenge to believers to take a good look at what being the hands and feet of Jesus really means. While Hudson Ambrose searches for the truth about what happened that night on the streets of Las Vegas, he comes face to face with his own mortality and the emptiness of his own soul.
A little mystery. A heaping dose of suspense. A redemptive God. Creston Mapes has come up with a winner in NOBODY.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
A special announcement from Sherrie Ashcraft and Christina Berry:
We cowrite books about relationships. We are a relationship. We want to dominate the relationship brand. And we want to have at least 500 subscribers to the Ashberry Lane Newsletter by the first of the year. Should we expect you to sign up and work hard at strong-arming your friends to sign up while you get nothing out of the deal? No way!
Compassionate as we are, we've worked up a HUGE new incentive. How better to promote our relational fiction than featuring other fiction that focuses on different types of relationship? Why don't we give our supporters a chance to win EIGHT autographed books? What a great Christmas present that would be! Or what a lot of Christmas shopping done for you!
Without further ado, we present, with a booming voice,
For the Friend Relationship: Roxanne Henke's After Anne
One of our absolute favorite books. As you watch Olivia and Anne struggle through a difficult challenge, you'll want to be a better friend.
How many of us have walked away from what our father wanted for us? Or away from our Father? This story will remind you that the you can go home again.
In the first of this frontier series, Ruby must deal with her new "inheritance" while protecting her sister from its influences.
A heart-rending story of a man trying to keep his family together.
Don't let the title of this book scare you away. There is no glorification of the demonic, but an enlightened fresh look at what History means.
A truly terrifying story of woman who married Prince Charming and discovered he wasn't.
You'll laugh. You'll relate. You'll be impressed with this debut novel from up-and-coming author Camy Tang.
Current subscriber and previous referrals are already in the hat. Any new subscriber or referral will gain another entry.
Publicize this to your homeys through newsletters: one entry.
Blog about the contest: one entry. (Email us if you need what to post.)
Include it in your Christmas cards: two entries.
Tuck it in the gift bag with the fruitcake you'll be leaving on random doorsteps: five entries.
Subscribe! Spread the word! Flood the blogosphere! Take over the world!
Monday, November 19, 2007
In my flurry of life, that’s all I need to know—God is. He sent his son. Our lives are in His eternal hands.
I am blessed by so many things, but today I’m especially thankful to be sharing my earthly journey with a man who knows the Father, who is thankful for the Son.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
There are two lines of thought here. One is that it’s payback time for your kids for all the years you sifted through their things and picked up after them. The other is that you don’t want anyone to know what a packrat you were. The lazy side of me tends to like the first choice. Out of sight, out of mind—closet shelves that sag with the weight of my stash of goods.
There’s something in me, though, that feels I should get more organized. Heaven knows, a lot of my stuff still has a little life in it and could be put to good use. Clothes that aren’t totally out of date, sewing supplies that a crafter would like, old luggage that a thrift shop client might take a shine to.
Today, I tackled the closet in the spare room. Three piles: trash, give away, keep. I’m not through yet, but I am glad to say that the first two piles were bigger than what went back into the closet.
I think I may start on my spiritual closet next. What junk am I hanging onto in there? Grudges? Pride in my own accomplishments? Selfishness? What could I be giving away? My time? A donation to a food pantry? Support for a mission project? A kind word to the overworked checker at the grocery store? Off the top of my head, I’d say I have plenty of work to do.
How about you? Got junk? Tell me your closet cleaning secrets.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
I want my next novel to be done with more foresight and planning so that I don’t beat my head against a brick wall trying to figure out how to get my characters interlaced with the plot. Not that I don’t enjoy the process, but there has to be a better way.
This is why I’ve resolved to study more books on craft and work smarter, not harder. I am really liking the Plot and Structure book by James Scott Bell, who obviously knows a thing or two about plotting (see yesterday’s post for his latest thriller).
The book has great chapters on the three act structure, crafting scenes, developing characters, and how to get plot ideas. It all pivots on two essentials: the LOCK system and Back Cover Copy. Once these are in place, the real work can begin.
LOCK stands for Lead, Objective, Confrontation, and Knockout. In other words, a compelling LEAD character has an OBJECTIVE (a want or desire). While racing toward the objective, CONFRONTATION (opposition) from characters and outside forces occurs making it seem impossible that the lead will meet his goal. In a final battle, a KNOCKOUT ending leaves the reader satisfied. The LOCK system. Essential to every good story.
Back Cover Copy (BCC) is a 250 to 500 word summary of what the book is about. The lead character and what he or she wants. The confrontation. What is at stake. It draws the reader in so that he will buy the book and gives a “feel” for the story (light, brooding, thriller, romantic). An exercise and worksheet are presented in Plot and Structure for doing this. I highly recommend this to help you write your BCC.
Mr. Bell explores several methods of plotting (or not plotting), but one stood out to me—the Index Card system. I’ve heard this discussed many times, but something about it “clicked” with me this time. It’s a no pressure system of writing down any and every scene that comes to mind, no matter what its importance might be or the place it will come in the story. Instructions are given for arranging the scenes so that plot points (James Scott Bell calls them doorways) are critically placed, the tension mounts steadily throughout the book, ending in a climactic scene. Every scene does not have to be in place to start writing. An empty card with a reminder of what might go “here” can be used. Once you are happy with the result, the cards are numbered in pencil, then shuffled. Yes. Mixed up completely and rearranged to rethink more connections or different outcomes. It sounds intriguing.
I can do this. I have my cards and have started jotting scene ideas on them. Mr. Bell recommends letting this process have its due course. Don’t rush. Well, that fits me—I like to let things brew for awhile.
The remainder of the book has suggestions for writing chapter summaries, fixing plot holes, writing the first draft, polishing, rewriting, and general tips. I’ve not quite finished the book, but I’m jazzed about getting started on my own story. Will I be a die-hard plotter after this? Only time will tell.
In the meantime, what are you? A plotter? Seat of the pants writer? What plotting secrets can you share? I’d love to hear from you.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Here is what happened. There is a stretch of a couple of miles in the small farm town where the speed limit is 55 before increasing to 65. Max was chatting with the boys and kicked up his speed a half mile or so before it was “legal” and you guessed it. He got caught. The officer did a license check, chatted with Max, and told him to watch his speed. No warning. No ticket.
Here is what our five year old grandson told his parents that evening: “Papa Max got stopped for going 60 in a 40. The cops chased us all the way out of town from McDonald’s and wrote him a ticket!”
He made it sound like a high speed chase and that bringing out the guns might have been next. Papa Max has been practically elevated to outlaw status in the eyes of a certain five year old. The moral of this is you never know who’s watching what you do and how it might be construed. Hmmm.
As a writer, I like to “make up” my own scenarios when I see unusual events. I’m thinking this five year old might make a great writer. All I really know is that being with the grandsons made my weekend worth the trip, and traveling the road with an outlaw was pretty fun, too.
Friday, November 9, 2007
- The sound of the car door as you slam it for the last time and mentally tick off all the things you were supposed to bring: clothes, suitcases, vitamins, make-up, the dog, doggie treats . . . Satisfied you’ve got it all, you pull out of the drive. The first thing I do is heave a sigh and relax. Nothing to do now but enjoy the ride.
- Conversation. Max and I have traveled a lot of miles together, and one of the things I enjoy most is uninterrupted conversation. Something about being captive in an automobile seems to unleash a never-ending series of subjects to talk about. Past trips we’ve taken and people we’ve known, the present joys and trials going on in our lives, and nearly always, our dreams for the future. And when lapses comes, it’s all right. We’ve been together long enough, we can read other’s minds anyway.
- Music. It used to be favorite CD’s, but Max’s new SUV came with a Sirius radio, so now we can tune to All Sinatra, All the Time or the Oldies channel. There’s even a channel that plays ancient radio serials like Fibber McGee and Molly and The Shadow. We’ll bring the music CD’s along for good measure, though.
- Pit stops and snacks. We both like to make frequent stops for coffee or potty breaks. And certain snacks are reserved only for road trips. Did anyone say Gardetto’s? Just one rule. You both have to eat them or the garlic can be a wee bit annoying for the non-partaker. The only time I eat sunflower seeds is on trips, while Max goes for the honey-roasted cashews.
- New vistas. Even though we may be traveling a familiar road, there are always changes to comment on or memories associated with certain features along the way. Going new places is even better with sights to drink in and wondering what’s beyond the next bend.
- Coming home. After a quick weekend or a two-week vacation, there’s just nothing like seeing the lights of the city come into view and knowing that you’re almost there. Home again, safe at last. That was one of my kid’s favorite last lines in a Berenstain Bears book, and it’s still true. Back in our own bed. Safe. A few new memories to file away. Fresh perspective as we begin a new week, a new project, or just come back to an unfinished project rejuvenated, ready to tackle it again.
Today, we’ve got sunny skies and fall weather so perfect it nearly brings tears to your eyes. It’s going to be a good trip. How about you? Been on any good trips lately? I would love to hear about them.
Monday, November 5, 2007
I live in an established, middle of town subdivision. Nicely manicured lawns. Mature trees. Friendly folks—a few young families, but mostly middle-aged and retired people. Sedate. Not boring, just settled, okay? Until a couple of weeks ago, that is.
On a weekday morning, a woman traveling 85 mph on a 40 mph city street, crashed into a brick retaining wall, stopping short of the house on the other side. All this at 5:30 in the morning. Two blocks from my house. A lot of questions come to mind about that. Sadly, the woman perished in the crash, but I am curious about who she was and the why of it, you know.
The week of Halloween our neighborhood watch captain emailed everyone that there had been a confirmed sighting of a coyote in the neighborhood a few blocks north of mine. A coyote? In the city? We’ve had our share of possums, squirrels, and homeless cats, but that’s the first I’ve heard of a city-dwelling coyote around here.
All right, I’m still thinking about the coyote when Zelda, our little dachshund who is a self-appointed guard dog, does the usual yard patrol this past Saturday night. She zips over to the darkest corner of the yard, barking, barking, barking. Coyotes DO NOT jump eight-foot wood fences, so I’m thinking a rabbit or stray cat is the cause. She barks until she’s worn out, and I’m sick of it. We go to bed.
The next morning she beelines to the same corner and will not relent. I’m more curious now and decide to investigate. A crepe myrtle and cherry laurels anchor that corner of the yard with an open space in the corner for the gas meter. I peer through the branches and spot something behind the gas meter. A bag or something. I step closer. Not a bag. A garment of some kind. Leaning over I see that it is a brown plaid flannel something. Gag! Boxer shorts. How did those get there? They are soiled, and I’m pretty sure it’s not mud. Oil maybe? I’m hoping since the other alternative is way too gross to even contemplate.
Gingerly I pick them up in a clean spot and deposit them in the outdoor garbage can. Zelda is now happy. Nothing is invading our yard. All is well in her little doggy world. I scour my hands, of course, but I can’t get the absurdity of it out of my mind. Why did someone put their underwear in my backyard? Sick!
Today, I learn that a rash of car break-ins took place over the weekend. One occurred on the street behind me. During the night, my backyard neighbor heard someone talking on a cell phone outside her bedroom window. She got a description and reported the prowler. The next day she found two sets of car keys in her backyard--about ten or twelve feet from the spot where I found the suspicious flannel boxers. I don’t want to know the whole story. I want to feel safe in my little corner of my boring neighborhood where hardly anything ever happens. Besides, if I wrote about it, who would believe a tale about a bare-bottomed car thief being chased by a mangy coyote in the middle of the city? Get real.
Until next time, when I hope be just be noodling the newspaper for plot ideas.
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Now that I think about it, I know how true that is. I grew up in a rural area. The smell of new rain on parched ground is one of my favorite memory-bank aromas. Another is the smell of fresh turned garden soil. Not so favorite are the skunk smells that burn your throat and eyes, the ammonia-laced stench of sheep urine, and the acrid smell of singed chicken feathers. The smell of a dead mouse is enough to make me gag, but puppy breath brings a smile to my lips.
Many smells are universal: a pine-scented Christmas tree, the cozy smell of a log blazing in the fireplace, cinnamon-laced apple pie, fresh-brewed coffee, brownies fresh from the oven, the smell of a rose, a clump of lilac blossoms. Yet, how a reader interprets those images is uniquely his. How about colognes? Musk for men or fresh sea breeze shaving lotion. Old spice. Estee Lauder for women or just the clean, crisp smell of Ivory soap. The nose-pinching smell of a teenagers tennis shoes. Fingernail polish. Each is distinctive and capable of unearthing a range of emotions in your reader.
Smells also can give a strong sense of place, of setting. The stale, moth-ball odor of an attic is much different than the buttered popcorn smell of a movie theater. The spray of salt water with a hint of seaweed and fish is nothing like the dark, thick, earthy aromas of a swamp. Mention the bedpan smell of an old folks’ home, and your reader is instantly transported.
Do you use the sense of smell to your advantage when crafting scenes? A hint that yesterday’s speaker gave was to sit with your eyes closed, breathe deeply, and connect to the scents of life. Slow down. Let them drift in. Imagine you are in a bread factory, a favorite restaurant, a locker room. Inserting them in your writing allows the reader to use his/her own imagination, to be taken to the deep places of memory.
Give your readers the pleasure of being a part of the story. Engage their emotions through this sometimes forgotten sensory detail.
The caveats: Don’t overuse any sensory detail or you will annoy your reader. Maintain a balance of all the senses. Also, be sure that your sensory details are used in the proper context. JoAnn gave the example of a piece she edited where a first century Jewish man awoke to the smell of bacon cooking. Bacon in the first century? In a Jewish home? Be wise in your choices and sprinkle them in. Your readers will thank you.
What smell arouses strong memories for you? Pleasant ones? Not-so pleasant? It’s your turn. Tell me what cooks your chicken. Gags you. Makes you giddy. Are you using those in your writing? Try it, and let me know how it goes.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
I used to make quilts. Baby quilts, lap quilts, king-sized ones, artsy wall hangings, color-coordinated-with-pillows-to-match ensembles. I loved choosing the patterns, the colors, the thrill of taking tiny pieces and crafting something new and beautiful.
Yesterday in my water aerobics class, it dawned on me that crafting a quilt is a lot like writing. Now I don’t know why this particular idea came to me just then, but it did.
What possible connection could quilting and writing have? Creativity? Producing something totally different than the raw materials you begin with? Both. But, aside from feeding my creative urges, I first had to have the desire, some itch that had to be scratched. I didn’t just one day sit at my sewing machine and decide to do patchwork. It came from somewhere. Perhaps my granny who made and gifted each of her granddaughters with Sunbonnet Sue quilts. I wasn’t a grandmother at the time I got the quilting bug—I was barely a mother, but maybe I could make a quilt. I let the idea bubble for a while. I went to the fabric store and ogled all the choices, flipped through instruction books, and wandered the aisle that had quilting tools—all manner of thimbles, threads, hoops, see-through gridded rulers, cutting tools with special mats to make precision shaped pieces that would fit together into a spectacular finished product. Yes, I can do this.
I bought fabric, a pattern book, and the supplies for a crib quilt—a kit if I remember correctly. As a novice, I needed to start small and learn the ropes before launching into a big project. The first quilt turned out pretty good, but before I had finished, I started having visions of the next quilt . . . and the next. Before long, I had become addicted to making great art. Okay, maybe not great, but decent, worthy of sharing with others. Warm, cuddly quilts that I was proud of.
I joined a quilt guild and attended religiously. At first, the more experienced members intimidated me with their parade of finished quilts. These lovely ladies, though, taught classes, shared new ideas, and best of all . . . the secrets of their success. We held a quilt show where judges came and awarded ribbons for various categories. We had monthly challenges, quilting retreats, and public service projects.
Does any of this sound a little like the world of writing? Wait. There’s more.
Quilts come in all genres I learned. The simple, yet bold Amish quilts where the art is in the stitches. Appliquéd quilts taken from the patterns of our forefathers. Crazy quilts with rich textures and flashes of gold feathery embroidery so beautiful to look at it hurt your eyes. All the patterns have names, too. Irish chain. Dresden plate. Wedding ring. Drunkard’s Path. Log Cabin. Texas Star. Mariner’s Compass. Imaginative. Descriptive. And every quilt tells its own story. Scraps from Easter dresses. Whole quilts made entirely of Grandpa’s neckties. Expressive art in its most humble and yet, magnificent form.
As I became immersed in the craft of quilting, I learned about contrasts, the dark and light of color, pitting them against each other, blending them to the focal point I wanted others to see. Color gives life to a quilt, just as characters dance off the written page. Lavender, like a wise mentor in a novel, gives depth to patchwork. A splash of yellow makes you smile the way a protagonist’s quirks tickle your funny bone. And like the clichés in our writing, a patch or two of brilliant orange goes a long way.
I must admit, not all my quilt projects made it. Some had corners that didn’t line up and had to be ripped apart for another go. Some were downright ugly and got pitched. Some seemed trite and no longer held my interest. They languish in the top of the guest room closet. Sadly, some of my writing fills the same closet, tucked in folders and boxes nearer the floor.
I didn’t start out writing a 900 page novel. I wrote short stories, vignettes, snippets. I studied the craft, hung out with other writers, and have been to some top-notch writing conferences. Along the way, a few editors have seen fit to publish my stories. I’m still learning, putting words on paper, and pursuing the elusive novel contract.
Three books on writing are at the top of my study list for November. Getting Into Character, Plot and Structure, and How to Write a Damn Good Mystery. I’m half through with the one on mystery writing, and already, my head dances with characters, situations, and dreams of piecing them together into a tapestry called a novel. A good one, I hope. I’m still in the brooding stage, choosing the right fabrics, playing with colors, envisioning the final product in a reader’s hands as she curls up on a favorite quilt and is swept away.
I’ll let you know how it goes.