I never want to live without stories

Despite the difficulties in my life right now, I keep on reading and want to share a few good books with you. I've put these reviews on Goodreads where I go by Patricia J. O'Brien.

And I've added a great quote about reading and writing at the bottom of this post. Makes me want to shout, YES!

I'd never want to live without stories and storytellers. I can't imagine a life without imagination and wonder and contemplation and adventure and knowledge and the deliciousness of what if.
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BLOOD RED ROAD by Moira Young

Oh. My. I started reading this advance copy weeks ago and put it aside because I had trouble adjusting to the narrative style. I'm so glad I picked it up again and soon found myself completely at ease with the language. I wouldn't want this marvelous story written any other way. I haven't seen a female protagonist this flawed and tough and compelling since Katniss.
It's dystopian in a Mad Max kind of world, and the narrator, Saba, doesn't read or write. Words come out as they sound, and there aren't quotation marks. Still, it's not hard once you get into the cadence. Here's a sample:
Yer young, she says, an strong. A natural-born fighter from the look of it. I knew it right off. You'll be perfect.
Perfect fer what? I says.
She straightens up. Looks at me with her small dark eyes, cold as stones.
Perfect, she says, fer cage fightin.
The little hairs on my arms stand on end. I shiver.
That's right girlie, she says. You better be afeared. Cage fightin's mean. Nasty. An it's big business in Hopetown. You'll do well fer us.
I ain't doing nuthin fer you, I says.
You ain't gotta choice, she says.
You cain't make me do nuthin, I says.
Oh you'll do ezzackly what I tell you, she says

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THE LIAR SOCIETY by Lisa & Laura Roecker

Sassy, fun and mysterious. For anyone who's read Lisa and Laura Roecker's blog you know they can be hilarious. Their debut YA has a taste of Veronica Mars to it with a smart, gutsy protagonist, Kate, who won't let herself be intimidated in her quest to find out why her best friend died in a suspicious fire. A list of suspects grows as she discovers that many students and faculty of her private school hide secrets.
Kate is urged on by emails from her dead friend, which make the reader wonder if the story is paranormal or if Kate is being led on by someone. I hate spoilers so I'm not going to sketch out the plot, but I liked the way Laura and Lisa kept adding new suspects and clues. Kate's sidekicks--a nerdy neighbor with a crush on her and a hot bad boy, who may or may not be a suspect--are nicely drawn and, eventually, endearing.

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THE MAGICIANS by Lev Grossman

I've heard some people call The Magicians a Harry Potter for adults, but that doesn't begin to describe this coming-of-age tale, written in a great voice of a nineteen-year-old guy who finds out he's got a talent for magic. Lev Grossman spins a fine fantasy but does it with literary style and a complex company of characters who are smart, sly and flawed. Quentin and his friends at a secret school of magic have extraordinary power, but they're teenagers, complete with insecurities, hormones, jealousy and rash decisions. When they step in it, some really bad things happen. My heart broke near the end of the book, but the actual end returns to a satisfying bit of hope and humor and a measured appreciation of the world and its mysteries.
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I stumbled across this great quote by Michelle Obama when she talked to some school girls in England. Full article.
"So I would encourage you all to read, read, read. Just keep reading. And writing is another skill. It's practice. It's practice. The more you write, the better you get. Drafts--our kids are learning the first draft means nothing. You're going to do seven, 10 drafts. That's writing, it's not failure, it's not the teacher not liking you because it's all marked up in red. When you get to be a good writer, you mark your own stuff in red, and you rewrite, and you rewrite, and you rewrite. That's what writing is."

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I've got my red pen (actually purple) and I'm going to revise two chapters of my dark fairy tale today. How about you?

Voices lifted to the night sky

By the waters


the waters of Babylon

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We lay down and wept

and wept for thee Zion

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We remember thee remember

thee remember thee Zion

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Two family friends, sisters Montserrat and Maximilian, led a small group in singing "Babylon" at sunset. We were a dozen or so family/friends remaining at my father-in-law's house in Venice Beach and we'd walked out to do one of his favorite things--watch the sunset. (It was a gray sunset, not this one that I'd shot another day. I wasn't taking pictures during the wake.)

We learned the three verses and sang in rounds. I couldn't have asked for a more perfect way to end an incredible day. My heart swelled and soared. I think from the expressions around me that the singing did the same for everyone else. Thank you so much, ladies, for pulling us into that circle.

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The lyrics are based on a Psalm. Besides use by Jewish and Christian religious groups, many composers and poets have borrowed from or referenced these powerful words. Among them, Giuseppe Verdi, Stephen Schwartz, Don McLean, T.S. Eliot, Stephen Vincent Benet, Paulo Coelho.

That long link to culture would have pleased Ken. He and his wife, Fern, surrounded themselves with friends who were writers, artists and musicians.

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In the house, we put dozens of his photographic prints around and a slide show of his pictures. At least fifty people came, bearing love.
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I'm still in an emotional--highly-charged but also very drained--state. I'm going to be making a move back to Venice and trying not to lose the momentum on my dark fairy tale, which is two-thirds complete. So my blogging may be sporadic during the next couple of months. I will visit you all when I can. As always, I thank you so much for visiting me. Peace.

Farewell to a man who changed my life

Walking on Venice beach, I saw lots of snowy egrets in the last few days. I'm used to seeing them along lakes and wetlands but not so much where waves meet sand. This shot reflects they way I feel right now--deeply reflective.

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My father-in-law died Saturday. Ken was a quiet man, a private man, quite the opposite personality of my mother-in-law, Fern. But between them they exposed me to a world of wonder. They changed my life, showing me the richness of experiences available if we open ourselves up, reach out.

They always traveled, often spending months abroad, staying with people they'd met or with friends of friends all around the globe.

Life was meant to be explored, to be tasted and contemplated and shared. She did it through words. He did it through pictures, capturing extraordinary moments in his portraits and landscapes. When people visited, they begged for him to do a slide show of his images, many of which made it into galleries and on Corbis. I think this link to Ocean View, an exhibit at the UCR/California Museum of Photography is still viable.

(The link takes you to the main page. You must click on artists and Ken O'Brien to see his work, I discovered when checking the link.)

Ken gave me my first SLR camera and taught me how to compose photos and how to develop them in his darkroom. He showed me by example that capturing good images means getting out and about, being on the lookout and then being patient, waiting for the right light, finding the best composition.

In no way am I offering these shots on this post as examples. They are just what I found while walking and contemplating his long, well-lived life. And I shot them on the fly with a phone camera--something that would have shocked his meticulous nature.

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He was a man who'd always kept himself trim and active, but his health declined and turned him into a shell of who he was. His passing was expected. His friends and family knew it was time for him to bid adieu to this world with all its wonder and pain.

The Easter egg party I wrote about recently was an incredible send-off. So many people were there who had known him for years and spent happy days at his home. Normally, he napped a lot in his final days but he sat in his wheelchair for the whole party. I like to think he absorbed all the love that filled that house.

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Anyway, that's why I've been absent from the blog world and will be sporadic in the days ahead as I have many family issues to deal with. I will visit you all when I can. Thank you to the new followers and all who comment. It always means a lot to me.

Sweet mystery

What is more mysterious than life, than the intricacies of nature? This fern captivated me from the moment I noticed it in the garden of my late mother-in-law. Her name, too, was Fern.

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The writer in me sees: A fairy's chariot. A creature from a distant planet. A deep sea being, like an octopus, curling into itself when flung upon land. A mystery waiting to unfold.

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I love that my eyes, my mind, take these leaps. And I know that helps my writing.

I'm currently two-thirds done with my fairy tale WIP and ready to take the giant leap into the climax and resolution, where all the complex, mysterious threads come together. I've been hearing the characters' dialogue for weeks. I haven't written down these confrontations, because I see them, I know them. They are developing, waiting to unfold and will be there when I need them.

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Here is another view of a fern frond unfolding. This one looks like an upside down seahorse, doesn't it?

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Fern loved the sea, lived by it most of her life. She also loved literature but rarely let anyone see her writings, her words scribbled on backs of envelopes, scraps of lined paper or sometimes typed.

After she died, my daughter found a folder of her writings with a note (on an envelope) to me. It read, "Did I ever show you, I think not, these poor, few travesties of lyric songs. You may see them, dear."

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A moment, please. My eyes tear, my heart aches. I do miss her.

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Since April is National Poetry month, I'll share one of Fern's poems, hoping that I found the most finished draft she wrote.

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She called it No Myth.

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Forewarned, Psyche dared not find

the face of Love in light,

nor flare of discontent which might

unseat that lord; no sight

reveal if he be radiant or foul.

And yet he knows her contour,

slant and color of the eye,

her soul, computerized,

conditioned, tidied, tamed,

claimed, tuned to die,

he shoots the shaft, reversed, towards home.

Did she risk an open query,

haggle over price to pay,

trade, while tugging at Love's sleeve,

deceit for immortality?

Or make that godly, girlish move

aware, sure, pure in sin,

knowing lone Beauty, Love

needs not consort with Truth to win.

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Thank you, Fern, for opening my eyes to so much, to the magic and the truth all around us.

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(once again, I cross my fingers that Blogger won't make too much mess of the paragraph spacing)

Earth Day: This, Not That

THIS.

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For a better Earth.

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NOT THAT.

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THIS.

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NOT THAT.

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April 22, Earth Day, 2011. We can all do something. Clean up a park or beach. Plant a tree. Join an ecological organization.

The Canopy Project.

Tree People.

Sierra Club.

Audubon Society.

Ocean Conservancy.

Natural Resources Defense Council.

There's a lot to be said for tradition, as I was reminded at an annual gathering to make Ukrainian Easter eggs or pysanky.

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About fifty people, who are so ingrained in the fabric of my life that they are all family, came to my father-in-law's home in Venice for a day of egg dying, feasting and beach time.

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None of us is Ukrainian, as far as I know. We started doing this years ago when my mother-in-law, who loved art, literature and all things cultural, decided to take a class in the craft, bought the necessary tools and set her vast numbers of friends and family on this annual journey.

She's been gone awhile now, but she would have loved seeing her house filled to the brim with loved ones, having a fantastic time--children skittering around, eyes sparkling, laughing and then settling down to try their small hands at the task.

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Some make the intricate, traditional designs that incorporate geometric patterns and symbolic figures. The symbolism dates from pagan fertility celebrations and later Christian beliefs.

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Many of our group do free-hand design of anything from abstract to pop. One year, Max, who is an artist, made an egg that looked like ancient Greek pottery.

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There's something meditative about the process, which is much more complex than ordinary egg dying. For one thing, the eggs are raw! Yes, that means sometimes there is breakage and tears.

* The dying is batik-method, using non-edible dyes. With a stylus, the person scoops up a tiny bit of beeswax, melts it over an alcohol lamp and draws thin lines of wax to hold color. So if the design calls for white, the first lines are done before any dying. Then the eggs are dipped in each dye (from light to dark colors) for each part of the design to be waxed in that color.

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The person in this photo is locking in yellow with the wax.

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* When the egg is done, it is soaked in solvent to remove the wax. Dona, the Wonder Woman, who has brought all the equipment for the party for decades, takes home the finished eggs, blows the insides out and varnishes them to bring back the next year. She does this for students in classes at her pottery studio, as well.

* If that's not enough, Dona also makes enchiladas for the annual event. John makes chili. I make deviled eggs (for 50 people that's a lot of peeling!). Other people brought pulled pork, salads, tamales, dips, cakes. We ate well. We created well. We loved each other anew.

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Fern, we did you proud.

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I read somewhere that pysanky derives from a word meaning to write. So you write on the eggs. I think a bit of the person's spirit, what makes them unique, extends to their eggs.

* I had a contemplative, sensory-filled, fun and satisfying weekend. Hope you did, too.

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(PS. Still have trouble with Blogger's paragraph spacing, as I know others are, too. So if this is wonky, that's why)

Pitch Perfect

Writing a killer pitch is one of the most important things a writer can do besides writing the best book possible. Those few lines may be with your book for its entire life, luring an agent to represent you, snagging a publisher to print your book and enticing readers to choose it.

Today I sat in on a sort of pitch session with an agent. I didn't have to leave my home office to do it.
WriteOnCon, the fabulous free online summer conference, offers chats and events with agents and editors all year. This time Natalie Fischer read through a ton of queries that had been sent in previously.

Her instant reactions are priceless as far as I'm concerned. Any writer, even an agented and published one, can learn by watching an agent tear through submissions. This is reality. There's not a lot of time, there are tons of people jostling to sell a book, and the agent has pretty much seen it all and has personal preferences.

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I applaud writers for putting their queries up for scrutiny in public. I did it last summer during the conference and learned quite a bit from the process. Many queries are quite good, and the stories sound interesting, but they get shot down because they sound too much like all the other books. This is something we all need to consider in a very competitive market. What makes your story truly unusual?

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If you missed today's live event, you can read the transcript. The any-time availability is one of the things I love about WriteOnCon. So what are you waiting for? Go read what Natalie had to say, and, while you're over there, check out this chat with Michael Bourret and Jim McCarthy. It rocked.

Walking on the sky

I went for a walk in a cloudburst of hail and rain and found--a portal.
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What land is this where the sky is torn and lies beneath my feet?
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I have walked this path a hundred times and never seen this place.
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Between dimensions.
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A pause.

No smack talking in La-La Land

I heart you, Oxford English Dictionary,
my new BFF,
for keeping up-to-date
on pap and Wags and TMI

OMG, I can’t believe you
validated our texting world
of abbreviated speak.
No smack talk. No.
I raise a glass of flat white to you
and munch a doughnut hole.

And I won’t show off my muffin top, LOL
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The Oxford English Dictionary announced its newest words selected for publication (some used above in my silly poem) and a bunch were text-talk.

FYI, the dictionary carries the modest subtitle: The definitive record of the English language. It dates back 150 years and includes the history and meaning of 600,000 words. The photo is early editor James Murray in the Scriptorium.

It’s published by Oxford University, which dates from the 11th century and is the oldest university in the English-speaking world. Among a long list of writers associated with Oxford: Lewis Carroll, Oscar Wilde, C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien, Graham Greene, William Golding, V.S. Naipaul, Phillip Pullman, John Donne, T.S. Elliot.

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Don’t you feel erudite, now? Here are a few of my favorites from the new list: couch surfer
fabless
dot-bomb
rotoscoped
tinfoil hat
ick factor
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* la-la-la-la-la. I'm singing like the la-la land girl I am. *grins*
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PS: I'm having a world of trouble with keeping paragraph spaces in my Blogger posts. This is about the sixth try. So please forgive any weirdness.

Why I Love Diana Wynne Jones

I remember the first time I read HOWL'S MOVING CASTLE. I was looking for something fresh. The book's protagonist, Sophie, immediately became one of my all-time favorite heroines. Based on the wit, imagination and sheer fun of that book, I purchased many more books by Diana Wynne Jones and filled a bookshelf with them.

You've probably heard that this talented, prolific children's author died last week. Beautiful homage was paid her by Neil Gaiman and Maggie Stiefvater.

I want to talk about the joy she brought me through her books. The dedication for HOWL'S is revealing in itself: "The idea for this book was suggested by a boy in a school I was visiting, who asked me to write a book called The Moving Castle. I wrote down his name, and put it in such a safe place that I have been unable to find it ever since. I would like to thank him very much."

Since I love good opening lines, here is this one:

In the land of Ingary, where such things as seven-league boots and cloaks of invisibility really exist, it is quite a misfortune to be born the eldest of three. Everyone knows you are the one who will fail first, and worst, if the three of you set out to seek your fortunes.

So poor Sophie is pretty much cursed since birth. She's so lonely she talks to the hats she makes for the family business. She's dutiful and resigned to her fate until a witch turns her into something unthinkable--an elderly woman. What Sophie does from then on and her interactions with the vain Wizard Howl are hilarious. Both characters develop in fabulous ways.

Here's a sample, just a little treat, of when Sophie accepts she's now an old woman instead of a girl and sets out to find a new life. But first, she badly needs a walking stick:

Evidently her eyes were not as good as they had been. She thought she saw a stick, a mile or so on, but when she hauled on it, it proved to be the bottom end of an old scarecrow someone had thrown into the hedge. Sophie heaved the thing upright. It had a withered turnip for a face. Sophie found she had some fellow feeling for it. Instead of pulling it to pieces and taking the stick, she stuck it between two branches of the hedge, so that it stood looming rakishly above the may, with the tattered sleeves on its stick arms fluttering over the hedge.

"There," she said, and her cracked old voice surprised her into giving a cracked old cackle of laughter. "Neither of us are up to much, are we, my friend? Maybe you'll get back to your field if I leave you where people can see you." She set off up the land again, but a thought struck her and she turned back. "Now if I wasn't doomed to failure because of my position in my family," she told the scarecrow, "you could come to life and offer me help in making my fortune. But I wish you luck anyway."

She cackled again and walked on. Perhaps she was a little mad, but then old women often were.

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If you've seen Hayao Miyazaki's anime version but not read the book, do yourself a favor and read it. The two are not remotely similar.

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Diana Wynne Jones surprised me again and again with many other stories, such as the Chrestomanci, Derkholm and Dalemark books. Her stories are creative and courageous with undertones of deeper meaning. For example, Witch Week shows kids overcoming prejudice, but the story is told with Jones's wit and satire.

In 1999, she won a Mythopoeic Award for DARK LORD OF DERKHOLM, an amazing story that shows the devastating effect of exploitation. The magical creatures and folks of this realm are forced each year to put on a war of good versus evil for tourists who come from another world, presumably like ours. The wizard chosen to portray the Dark Lord in this story is injured and his children--both griffins and humans--must find a way to organize the tour and try to stay alive.

In accepting the award, Wynne Jones said she believed children's books should be first about enjoyment and then should encourage children to think for themselves.

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And because she was known to poke fun at her own genre, and because it's the first of April, after all, I'll leave you with the first and last A to Z entries in her tongue-in-cheek THE TOUGH GUIDE TO FANTASYLAND, which Terry Pratchett called "an indispensable guide for anyone stuck in the realms of fantasy without a magic sword to call their own."

ADEPT. One who has taken what amounts to the Post-graduate Course in Magic. If a Magic User is given this title, you can be sure she/he is fairly hot stuff. However, the title is neutral and does not imply that the Adept is either Good or Evil. Examine carefully each Adept you encounter and be cautious, even if she/he seems friendly.

ZOMBIES. These are just the Undead, except nastier, more pitiable, and generally easier to kill. When you slash your Sword across their stomachs--which you will inevitably do--they watch their impossibly decayed intestines pour out in a glob, and then look at you with an expression of ultimate pathos before crumbling at the knees. Naturally they Smell quite strongly.

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Thanks for all the delicious realms of fantasy you created, Diana Wynne Jones.

Been soaring

In my next life I may need to be a pelican. I've always loved to watch them dive like arrows into the sea or skim the edge of waves as if their wingtips could brush the surface without consequence.

On my vacation this week I discovered the Dana Point Headlands, which brought the pelicans up very close and personal.

The headlands is an enormous coastal cliff that towers above Dana Point Harbor to the south and Strand Beach to the north. I've often walked at its foot and have posted pictures of the rocky beach, but I never knew there was a trail on top.

From the top, which is an ecological preserve bursting with native plants, you can see 180 degrees of blue-slate ocean and horizon. It is one of few places where you see the slight curvature of the earth due to the unbroken expanse and the height of the promontory.

This time of year, gray whales are migrating back north after spending the winter in their nursery in Mexico.

I saw a mother and baby! Mostly, I saw a bit of their backs as they surfaced. In the three visits I made to the headlands, I saw whales each time, including a nice tail flip.

Whale watching boats linger below the cliff (you can see one in this picture) and then travel up the coast from the harbor. One of the boats was surrounded by dozens of porpoises, popping out of the water like flying fish.

This year, I remembered to bring my binoculars, which are necessary if you want to see much.

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The pelicans kept astounding me, too, appearing silently from below the cliff.

Not at all silent was a mockingbird who sang every song known to bird--chit-chit-chit, neider-neider, tweet, chirrup, chirrup, chip, twee-twee, wrrrrrr, cherree, pip, pip, pip. Or some such language. I was there for hours, and he rarely stopped.

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The bush sunflowers were all in bloom, and the air was filled with the sharp tangy scent coming from a bluish bush and the sweet butterscotch aroma given off by California everlasting.

Between the fresh sea breeze and the heady aroma from the plants, I couldn't get enough deep breaths. It was intoxicating.

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There was the continuous rush and rumble of waves against cliffs, a far-off fog horn and the querulous bark of sea lions who sunned on a buoy. I felt transported to a simpler time and place.

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Later, I was back in San Clemente for sunset.

The wind was cold and howling across the sea, causing a string of little girls holding hands to skitter down the wood-plank pier shrieking.

I walked to the end where the water spreads out for unfathomable distance, and all the world is reduced to sea and sky. (And, of course, other people taking pictures who I included, because everyone knows that shots are better with people in them.)

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I leave you with an ocean enameled by sunset and a few hardy surfers waiting to catch the last wave of the day.

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I did work some on my fairy tale, mostly brainstorming ideas and came up with some I'm excited about. Two crit groups this week. Can't wait.

Anatomy of a good read

MR. MURDER took me where I thought I’d never go.

Dean Koontz’s novel pits a mystery writer with a successful career and happy family life against a professional assassin who is also a madman.

After I finished this book recently, I posted on Goodreads: “Wow. I had to make myself read this after a friend suggested I might find it interesting to study the way Dean Koontz alternated POVs, including the antagonist's viewpoint. Usually, I don't read psychological thrillers, because I'm a wimp and get too scared. This book captivated me with riveting story, clean prose and wonderful characterizations. It also surprised me a number of times. Excellent storytelling, and I'm so glad I got over my scaredy-catness and read it. And I have to agree that he handled POV switches masterfully and to great effect.”

I’m writing in alternating POVs in my WIP, a fractured fairy tale, switching at times to the antagonist. My villain is twisted and unpredictable, and I’m having a great time creating her, adding as much depth to her as to my protagonist.

Reading MR. MURDER now (published 18 years ago) is perfect timing for me. His antagonist is so twisted and frightening, but I grew to understand what made him tick through Koontz’s carefully-built character arc. This was the best part of reading this book for me as I study how Koontz made the story more chilling by letting us walk in the killer’s shoes and see through his eyes.

We learn just enough in the first scenes to be scared of this man who carries fake identification, a pistol with a silencer and admits to having holes in his memory. He dispassionately sizes up women he might have sex with and then kill, as long as he draws no attention to himself or messes up his scheduled assassinations. Everything he does is planned, calculated, and apparently orchestrated by some handler he can’t remember. He doesn’t know his real name or family.

He feels empty, as Koontz writes, “He feels as if he is a hollow man, made of the thinnest glass, fragile, only slightly more substantial than a ghost.”

All this before the reader is 30 pages in. Then the killer goes renegade, pulled by some destiny to find a life. “I need to be someone,” he says.

Because I don’t like to give spoilers, that’s all I’m going to say about a story that gallops headlong into terrifying territory. I strongly suggest reading the book if you haven’t and are interested in writing a great antagonist.

As for overall viewpoint, I’m one of those readers who must have clean POV changes or I’m booted out of story. I like the viewpoint switches to occur by chapter or by scenes separated by breaks and with action anchoring the reader in the new character’s perspective. There are very few authors skillful enough to do it within scenes, Neil Gaiman being one of them.

Koontz used multiple POVs in MR. MURDER. He did it with scene breaks, and the opening lines of each scene made it clear which person was thinking. I never questioned where I was or why I was there. That’s another key issue—the reason to switch heads is to convey information or perspective that can’t be gotten another way and is important to the story arc. It should add depth, not just words.

Dissecting Koontz’s viewpoint changes, the opening lines if each break include the following (this is not verbatim, just partial lines)
1(protagonist)—Martin Stillwater suddenly realized he was repeating the same two words in a dreamy whisper. . . “I need. . . I need. . .I need. . .”
2(antagonist)—The killer’s flight from Boston arrives on time. . .At the rental agency counter he discovers that his reservation has not been misplaced or misrecorded, as often happens. . .Everything seems to be going his way.
3(protagonist’s child)—Daddy wasn’t Daddy.
4(antagonist)—Like a shark cruising cold currents in a night sea, the killer drives. This is his first time in Kansas City, but he knows the streets.
5(protagonist)—While the girls were upstairs, brushing their teeth and preparing for bed, Marty methodically went from room to room on the first floor, making sure all the doors and windows were locked.

This book is too wickedly good to give away the plot, so I don’t want to go into who the killer really is or what happens to the family. But here is a snippet I loved as a writer:

He said, “You and I were passing the time with novels, so were some other people, not just to escape but because. . .because, at its best, fiction is medicine.”
“Medicine?”
“Life is so damned disorderly, things just happen, and there doesn’t seem any point to so much of what we go through. Sometimes it seems the world’s a madhouse. Storytelling condenses life, gives it order. Stories have beginnings, middles, ends. And when a story is over, it meant something, by God, maybe not something complex, maybe what it had to say was simple, even naïve, but there is meaning. And that gives us hope, it’s a medicine.”

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I hope this is useful to other writers, or readers. I was fascinated.

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I may or may not have Internet access this coming week, so if I don't respond to comments, that's why. Have a great week, everyone.

Taking a moment to celebrate

Happy St. Patrick's Day--before a chance to post my wishes for a safe and fun day slides away. I've been busy!
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I baked brown soda bread yesterday for family in Venice. Today, I baked another loaf to take to a friend's house for corned-beef dinner. Add a Guinness, and, well, yum sums it up.
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The best soda bread in my opinion is made with whole grains, oats, buttermilk, a dash of brown sugar and, of course, baking soda. There's no need to add anything (except a slab of butter) to this flavorful bread.
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My daughter is studying to become a Pilates instructor, so yesterday I also took a lesson with her that was truly amazing. She's going to be a great teacher, and I'm fast becoming a convert to this exercise program.
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Plus, I've written another chapter of my fairy tale, so I'm feeling energized and productive, even while my heart still grieves for the losses in my personal life and in the world right now.

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The tide was super high in Venice today. I remember reading something about the full moon this weekend being closer than it's been in 18 years and, so, may affect the tides.

I took this photo on another day when the tide was low, and with a touch of pink to the clouds, instead of the lid of gray there was this morning.

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Here are some off-the-top-of-my-head haiku that floated from the sea breeze into my muddled brains.

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tide reaches so high,

water laps the lifeguard

tower called Driftwood.

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sandpipers huddle

in the weak dawn; a fishing trawler

sways on choppy seas.

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two monster-bright eyes

emerge from swirling mist; clawed

tractor sweeping sand.

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Cheers! Slainte!

Each voice, each life

Author Jo Knowles wrote an excellent post titled Write like there's no one in the room.

There's something that frees us to take risks, explore our boundaries, let our spirit rise when we are not concerned about eyes watching or critics judging. And each of us has something to say, in a way no one else will say it.

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Each voice. Each person. Each life. That's what's on my mind. The images coming from Japan bring me to my knees, cause such anguish and heartbreak.

I grieve for the country. I cry for each person whose voice is gone.

None of us know if we will live a century or be handed an abbreviated life as I wrote about in my last post.

We have no control over some things, but we can control how we spend our time, how we treat other people and what kind of legacy we leave. I am guilty of many mistakes in life and can only hope that each time I pick myself up and go on that I will do better.

Recent events hammer home to me how much each second matters, how my petty worries are insignificant within the bigger scope of life, how I have a responsibility to myself and others to let my light--whatever it is--shine and not shroud it in fear and self-doubt.

We live on a volatile planet in a volatile universe. I have loved this Earth, this tiny planet in the vastness of space, with the fierceness of a mother. I have feared her, too.

This Earth, in all its beauty and danger, is what we have. What we do is up to us.

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Photo of a supernova remnant, courtesy of NASA.

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(Important update: For those of you who know blogger Claire Dawn in Iwate, she has posted that she is safe. I am filled with such relief.)

The Day After

Irene. Krista. Judy. Kevin. Joanne. These are people I loved who died of cancer.

They had so much still to live, to give. And they died with too much pain.

The reason I'm writing about this today is this weekend I attended a memorial for Jo--a funny, vibrant, compassionate woman who loved her family and her animals fiercely. She did not want to give in to cancer. She fought hard.

One of her sons swallowed his grief to talk about her loving heart. Another son made a touching slide show of her life. As we watched, we saw the joy and love that had filled so many years. We laughed at the German Shepherd trying to curl into her lap. We cried at her last visits to the stables.

As painful as memorial services are they give us the chance to reflect on the lives of those we love, to remember how they touched us or made us better. That is an honor, not a burden.

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When my friend Kevin was struggling to stay alive, I was shocked to be diagnosed with the same cancer he had. Normally, I wouldn't share much about this on a blog about writers and stories, but what is dying but the final bookend of life and what is writing except about life?

I still remember his reaction when I told him I had been struck with the same cancer. He let loose an expletive of the strongest kind, and I actually liked that a friend would loudly voice that anger and not give me pity or platitudes. I am one of the lucky ones, having survived several surgeries and treatment. I'm still here after a dozen years. *knocks on wood*

Kevin was an artist, curator, writer, musician--a true creative soul. But he told me he had come to accept that his life might end long before he'd anticipated. I wrote this simple poem as I struggled in the early days of my own diagnosis. It's just a reminder to me to live each day as if it were the last, to be clear in my goals, compassionate in my interactions to the best of my ability.

"I’ve accepted an
abbreviated version
of my life,"
he said.

An elegant,
gritty turn of phrase.
Wish I’d imagined it,
not inherited it.

But it’s time
to edit,
condense,
clarify the essence.

And be prepared
for an abbreviated
version
of my life

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This morning I wandered the sea shore, thinking of Jo and her family. Some words came to me in haiku form, so I'll share them.

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sluggish clouds lift from

the green back of coastal hills.

sun melts the tightness

*
swarm of pelicans,

trailed by two stragglers, skims the

ruffled edge of waves.

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wailing, scolding gulls

circle, land; unquestioning

their role or place

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a surfer glistens

ocean-wet, grinning, teeth white

as the crashing waves.

*

clear, salt breeze fills my

lungs, makes me part of the sea

and completely me

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Godspeed, Jo. And love always Irene, Krista, Kevin, Judy. And, belatedly, I add my dear Aunt Doris, who I just found out died of cancer, as well.

Take a look at a book

I was so lucky last night to have a young reader at my crit group and thrilled to see her happy faces drawn on my YA manuscript. If you write kidlit of any sort, you know that's an extra-special connection. So, thank you, Lucy.

And that brings me to another reading moment of joy. Read Across America is celebrating today with a slew of Dr. Seuss activities in schools, libraries, homes. Is there anyone who hasn't experienced the joy of Seuss rhymes and satisfaction of his stories?

Dr. Seuss, aka Theodor Geisel, wrote the iconic The Cat in the Hat, following a 1954 report that suggested children were having trouble reading because books were boring. He incorporated words his publisher thought would be important for children to learn. He made it fun. He made it meaningful. He left a legacy of 44 books. Soooo. . .

Read to the kids

Read to yourself

Take a book right

Off of the shelf!

Where my feet take me

Between rain and a threat of snow in low-lying Southern California, I walked up the little mountain in town to an old stone tower. It makes me feel I'm in another land, one I visit for escape, even the dark kind.

Lots on my mind--death of loved ones, uncertain future, fear that I will never get where I'd hoped to go. I spent considerable time on this walk intrigued with stone. Watching newly-released, underground springs glisten over granite boulders, finding soil and rock slides that will continue as long as the ground is saturated, marveling at the varied moods even stone can trigger.

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Is it inanimate? I think not.

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As I stood under a stone bridge, I noticed the picture-perfect scene of freshness it framed--lively, scudding clouds, tender new grass (this is February in SoCal, remember) and, again, the punctuation of jutting, sprawling rock.

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I once heard piles of weathered boulders described as woolsack, presumably for a resemblance to sacks of wool. I'm not a geologist, but they sometimes do look like a jumble of sacks.

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Stone gives the world texture, substance, history--forged in the beginnings of earth time, breaking down to allow new life.

There is so much going on when you look closely.

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Late in the day, I saw this

but took no photo:

white ghosts of mountains

flicker in and out of the

drifting cloud bank

and this:

bare branches, storm-stripped.

through the lattice of their limbs,

piles of dusty-pink clouds
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And, as it always does, Nature pulled me to my feet, gave me a staff and said get on with it.

Big names, big hearts

This week has been painful. I lost a dear family friend, Joanne, to cancer Wednesday. I will hold her always in my heart as the funny, bright, energetic woman she was. The same day, author L.K. Madigan died of that damned disease. May you both be at peace after the long suffering. May we find a cure someday.

No photos really work for this, so I chose a moment of peace in nature, which always calms my soul.

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The loss of my friend followed on the heels of the horrendous earthquake in Christchurch, New Zealand that has taken more than a 100 lives, with more than 200 people missing and possibly buried in the rubble of what was once a beautiful, thriving city.

How can we help, especially if we live half-way around the world? Let Neil Gaiman show us one way. Yes, that's a teaser. The answer lies ahead.

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While the search for the missing continues in the NZ's Canterbury region, people who survived are dealing with injuries, homelessness, loss of all they owned. The Red Cross is already stepping in to help the survivors, and two New Zealand speculative fiction writers have come up with an amazing way to assist that.

J.C. Hart and Anna Caro are compiling an anthology of short stories with themes of survival and hope. The funds are to be donated to the Red Cross Earthquake Appeal and other charities. They contacted numerous authors and have received promises of stories for the book from many established writers.

Among them, *drum roll* NEIL freakin' GAIMAN!

Mr. Gaiman, not only writes surprising, marvelous stories, he's proven time and again that he is a generous man, fully involved with life.

I'll be buying this anthology, for sure, when it's published. You can keep up on the progress at Tales for Canterbury.

Thank you in advance for lending support to this fantastic project.

Those in need

I've been gone for days and was going to post some pretty beach pictures and haiku or musings, but I've chosen just one sunset. I hope the defused, bronzed light and enameled surface of the sand will soothe me. And you, if you please.

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My thoughts are with the people of Christchurch, New Zealand, who've suffered another massive earthquake, but this time with numerous casualties.

For those who know my blogging/writing buddy, Wen Baragrey, she and her family survived but not without terrifying moments. Recently, she had a give-away contest to celebrate the homecoming of her grandson, Jayden, who has spent most of the first few months of life in hospital. He was there again when the quake struck and the hospital was evacuated. You can read Wen's post here and the NZHerald here. Please send her and all the people of New Zealand your prayers or healing thoughts. Thank you.

P.S. One more link. Walk Through Sorrow is so heartbreakingly eloquent.

A quieter place

Historical fiction is usually a quieter read than paranormal, dsytopian or fantasy. But that doesn't mean it can't transport you to another land and leave you breathless.

I just finished Jennifer Donnelly's A NORTHERN LIGHT, a Printz Honor book, and a while back I read Kirby Larson's HATTIE BIG SKY, a Newbury Honor book.

They are lovely, nuanced stories that are not without traumas. One of the things that intrigued me was that the authors had been drawn to write these novels by real-life events. Kirby Larson's tale grew from a family story about a great-grandmother who homesteaded by herself. Jennifer Donnelly, too, had family stories handed down from relatives who lived in the Adirondacks--the site of a murder that made sensational news in 1906.

Both authors also researched historic documents so the books are filled with authentic detail and a sense of having walked in the shoes of those who came before us. My editions include bibliographies of works the authors read to better know the time and place of their stories.

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I'm going to give you teasers. A bit of blurb and sample to perhaps lure you into these fine books.

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For most of her life, sixteen-year-old Hattie Brooks has been shuttled from one distant relative to another. Tired of being Hattie Here-and-There, she summons the courage to leave Iowa and move all by herself to Vida, Montana, to prove up her late uncle's homestead claim. (from back cover)

Snippet:

One minuscule step at a time, I battled toward the barn, praying for help: "Lord, I can't do this alone." But no help came. It was up to me. I drew in an icy, ragged breath. I couldn't fail. Couldn't lose my way. Or lose my cow. That thought propelled me forward the last few steps. Finally, finally, I reached the barn, gasping and sobbing for air. My face was raw. I tasted the salt of blood trickling down my cheeks.

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A NORTHERN LIGHT is set in 1906 against the backdrop of the murder that inspired Theodore Dreiser's An American Tragedy. Donnelly's novel puts a teenager trying to escape a hardscrabble life in the middle of the mystery surrounding another girl's death.

Snippet:

It was dry and remarkably warm for the start of April, and I was tired and dirty and dripping with sweat. The muscles in my arms ached and my hands were raw from guiding the plow and I was just as mad as a hornet. Pa had kept me home from school again. . .

Can't resist another sample:

I sat slumped on my milking stool, knowing that the last chance I had to go to Barnard was on its way into the till of some bartender. Knowing that my uncle was off on a three-day spree. Or four. Or five. Or however many days it took to spend a hundred dollars. It was a hard and hopeless thing.

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So, yeah. We learn a lot about our present by delving into our past. Hope you pick these books up if you haven't read them yet.