My Leg of the Blog Tour in Progress

First and foremost, my genuine THANKS to Nancy Coats Posey for inviting me to join this Blog Tour. 

A word about Nancy:

Nancy is a lot like me, having so many interests, she needs to be twins and even some days, triplets. Nancy is an Alabama native who has lived in North Carolina since 1995, an English instructor, poetess, wife, mother, and grandmother, a photographer, and a perpetual beginner mandolin player. She has a couple blogs she floats in and out of for poetry, general information, and art projects. Her regular blog "Discriminating Reader" is devoted to her lifelong love of books. She reviews her recent (and excessive) reading and sometimes just chats about books and reading in general. Check her out at whenthepenbleeds,blogspot You’ll be happy you did.

The tour is comprised of questions starting with

       1.  What am I currently working on?

I HAD A BOY, my latest novel about Robin Dockery, a pregnant teenage runaway in Los Angeles, during the music explosion of the ‘60’s and ‘70’s. Robin gives her baby up for adoption but gets him back when she marries a handsome British lad so he can get his Green Card and stay in the USA with his boy friend, the son of a Venezuelan diplomat.

I completed writing BOY last year and had some interest, mainly from Anderson Literary in NY, who send me the kindest, most informative rejection letter a person could ever hope to receive.

BOY is a unique story because it is mine… I lived it and felt all the pain and joy that’s transferred onto the pages. The music scene in LA was a magical one and music really was everywhere. I take great liberties with facts and plot twists, giving cameos to the quick and the dead.

As she moves up and down the coast, over a couple decades, between Southern California and a small town in rural Washington, Robin is continually torn between her self-made family and the gnarly nest of her religious and mildly demented mother, her browbeaten father and redneck siblings with whom she has never been able to relate. I’m happy to report these characters are not based on my own personal family.

Robin’s story is important because she represents a generation of females whose choices were limited. Birth control was not quite impossible to get, but it was a challenge. Pharmacists kept condoms, (which were known by the objectionable name rubbers) behind counters so they had to be asked for. If a girl purchased a condom, she was considered nothing less than a slut and usually underwent interrogation by some white-coated pervert. Boys inquiring about prophylactics were shamed with stupid questions like “What size? You want extra large or extra small?” by the chuckling jokesters.  Roe v. Wade was on the horizon, but aborting a pregnancy was way too expensive for the majority, whether they could have the procedure legally or not. I've knew girls who found surgical solutions. They went through horror and humiliation. Some never fully recovered.

So… what happened to Robin and others like her, when their children realized they could've had a different life with someone else, someone not related to them? They might have grown up in a fantasy family, chosen and adopted. or maybe with that completely uninterested father.  

What about the mothers who didn't know who was the father of their baby? That was more common than most want to admit. Or those who barely knew him; their sperm donor, as we have semi-fondly referred to those guys who showed up for maybe a night or two, then disappeared down the road, taking responsibility and their last name with them.

How does it feel to have men come back into a mom’s life, who previously insisted she illegally abort her baby, but now want to play the role of father, grandfather, cuddly best friend and confidante?

My goal with BOY, at this point, is to re-edit… once more, and make it just a bit rawer than the original. Ms. Anderson, the literary agent, gave me some recommendations that I do believe it would be wise to pursue.

2.  How does my work differ from others of its genre?

I HAD A BOY and my previous novel SING, AND DON’T CRY are about my personal adventures, turned upside down with fictionalization. Not that it hasn't been done before, but no one has ever told my story. 

I weave a certain amount of lessons in my tales, without being moralistic. John Irving wrote about the morality of abortion without ever being political or didactic. The same could be said about Mark Twain and racism; he didn't beat you over the head with it. Stephen King told stories about the death penalty and the mortification of prison life but it wasn't his intention to make his reader be shamed or feel guilty. Good teachers and I aim to emulate them.

3.   Why do I write/create what I do?

4.   How does your writing/creating process work?

I say this with a grand heaving sigh: I don’t have a choice in the matter. Words flow out of me, and like many artists, I wonder whom I’m channeling. I've stories to tell and if I try to do it through spoken word, I’m likely to be whacked over the head with a 2X4 until I shut up. So writing seems like a healthier alternative. More than once I've been told “you should write a book.” It seems like the things that have happened to me over the course of six decades are not your ordinary life. Everyone has a story to tell. My position is that some of them really neeeed to be shared. Point is, I know I like to read a good book and my aim is to give others the same pleasure.  

I work best in the mornings, which is odd, since I always used to consider myself a night owl. I’m not; I just have a hard time getting out of bed in the mornings on some days.

I like background music when I’m writing and if I want to get super inspired, I put CD’s on like soundtracks from Chocolat, The Mission or Amélie.

I can write in chaos or tranquility. There are boxes in drawers and closets with reams that attest to the fact. I possess notes written in darkened hallways, adjacent to deathbeds; bright glaring hospital rooms where my own personal cot was tucked in the corner of the patient room; boats pitching on the open sea leaving no resemblance of proper penmanship; humid jungles where cicadas screamed so loud, writing was more conducive than talking.

I've trained to perform in a circus; single-handedly midwived a baby into the world, with no training; marched, sat and sang for equal and civil rights; worked with famous people in theater summer stock and held lead and minor roles in plays and musicals; sang in a rock band; moved to a foreign country where I had to teach myself the language and then owned and ran, not one, but two businesses;. That’s just the tip of my literary iceberg. 

I end my blogs by saying “Thanks for reading” and what I mean by that is thank you for reading my blog; thank you for reading and buying books from first and second hand stores; thank you for reading poetry, mine and everyone else’s; thank you for reading newspapers and the internet; thank you for reading to your children; thank you for reading billboards; thank you for reading graffiti (because it's often someone’s creation meant to be shared); thank you for reading your emails; thank you for reading recipes; thank you for reading report cards and progress reports; thank you for reading your homework; thank you  for reading famous authors and not so famous authors; thank your for reading directions, the manual, the map and instructions; thank you for reading cereal boxes; thank you for reading The Magna Carta, The Constitution, the Bible, the Koran and the Talmud; thank you for reading... you know… Thank You for Reading.

World Book Night 2014

Tonight I was a giver. I gave books on World Book Night. The book I gave was WILD by Cheryl Strayed. 

About Cheryl Strayed, Ursula Hegi says: "In language that's lyrical and haunting, Cheryl Strayed writes about bliss and loss, about the kind of grace that startles and transforms us in ordinary moments."  

I must meet Cheryl, as I have met Wally and Anne and other amazing people, who can put words on paper better than I, and make magic.

Giving books to people, and explaining they are free, has a remarkable effect. At one point we were surrounded by girls, whose ages were 16 and 17 and all clamored to get a copy. How could I refuse? I made them promise to form a book club. I should have thought to give them my business card so they could report back.

The we of whom I speak is my granddaughter and I. For the past three years, she has accompanied me on World Book Night, which serves two purposes. She is willing to carry my extra books and she is soaking up experience. Tonight she was disappointed to the point of anger when a woman we talked to said she had no interest in reading. My granddaughter is a good actress and didn't let on that she was completely annoyed, however she marveled that someone could be so thick as to not realize what a gigantic world they are missing by having absolutely no interest in books!

WILD is an embracing book that made me weep, laugh, shout, chuckle, chortle, sob and sigh. A movie is being made starring Reese Witherspoon, which I may or may not see. Sometimes it’s easier for me to hang with my own images.

When we had one book left to give, we walked around until we approached a young woman at Starbucks. I opened my conversation with “the author lost her mother when she was 22” and I was handed back words that sent a waterfall of chills down my spine: “I lost my mom two months ago,” she said. I couldn't retreat with my offer nor there was much left for me to say. I handed her WILD and with my hand on her shoulder, said I was so sorry for her loss and hoped she might find some comfort in the book. 

Thanks for reading....

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The Magic Ingredient of a Book

I continue to engage myself in the NAIWE challenge this week. Lord knows, I love challenges; I’m up to my ears in them.

A bit about NAIWE (National Association of Independent Writers and Editors): An association devoted to writers and editors, who are committed to earning a living by doing what they love. Online classes, vital information for writers/editors and great benefits are included in the membership.

The prompt today from NAIWE is “Writers are people who take isolated words and craft them into memorable phrases, stories, poems and plays. Who are the writers who make your heart sing? What is the magic ingredient?”

Lately I’ve been reading a lot of non-fiction and I do believe those writers have the more daunting job. To make history and current events hold a readers attention like a novel is an ambitious undertaking. But I digress…

I recently read Paul Auster’s Moon Palace. I’d heard him read and speak at the Opera House in Oaxaca in November ’08 and was fascinated by his prose, however it took more than a year for me to jump into one of his novels. When I finally did, I nearly ate it. Moon Palace makes you care SO much for the main character and his cast. MS Fogg has been securely implanted in my memory banks and, I suspect, will remain for some time to come. In the first paragraph of Moon Palace, the reader is exposed to every basic element of the entire book, yet not one surprise is spoiled. MS reveals how he was born the summer that men first walked on the moon, nearly perished, walked the breadth of a desert, lost all his money, fell in love with Kitty Wu (who saved him), discovered his father and took an unlikely job. And then strange things began to happen.

A fundamental element in capturing the reader’s imagination is to have him know and care for the character/s. The earlier the introduction, the better... and a writer should not be afraid of revealing too much. Given Auster’s example, it’s really okay to let the reader in on the plot. It will entice him to go further. Auster’s moon tie-ins are also inspiring: the man on the moon, the Moon Palace Bar and Grill with its neon sign, and the references to the actual heavenly body all figure heavily in the story.

Auster’s imagery is stunning and leaves the reader with descriptions and emotions that linger. Less than two weeks after I concluded Moon Palace, I read The Man in the Dark, a tale in two dimensions that leaves one breathless to move back and forth. August Brill’s dream-world gives the reader a glimpse of possible realities, while at the same time, reflects the chaos of his imagination. Political in nature, it is Brill who the reader focuses on, regardless of opinion or bias. It only really matters what happens to him, the man in the dark, and how he embraces his little family of daughter and granddaughter.

To make the reader care, wonder and rejoice or commiserate; this is the magic ingredient.

Thank you for reading.

Chopsticks

In honor of Words Matter Week, I am prompted to write about the following: "Communication breaks down when words are misused. What is the funniest, most interesting, or worst break-down you’ve ever observed?"

Years Ago.

We finished dining at China First on University Way and were driving down 45th Street, when I was sure I heard my daughter say “Do you have any chopsticks?”
I thought it was a very peculiar request and said “No, I do not.”
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“Of course I’m sure,” I said and went on to explain we had plenty at home in a drawer that Grandma had given us, some very old ones and a lot of new ones, too. “Why would I?”
“Because you always have some in your purse.” She was staring at me as if I had lost my mind.
I shook my head in disbelief. And turned to look at her.
“I always have some in my purse?” I was incredulous. "Did you take yours?"
“Mom,” she said. “What do you think I said?”
“You asked if I had any chopsticks.”
“I asked you if you had any chapstick,” she said with eyes wide, a gaping mouth and a slow shake of the head.
We both fell into a spell of laughter that forced me to pull to the side of the road.
“Chapstick,” I sputtered, tears streaking down my face.
“Chopsticks,” she said, wiping her eyes, launching into another round of guffaws.
Chopsticks/Chaptick turned into a family mini-legend. We try to have a sense of humor about the misery of hereditary hearing loss. Rarely does an episode pass, when one of us “mis-hears” that chopsticks aren’t mentioned.

Thank you for reading.