Celebrating Life

For your sake, I wish this picture were a scratch and sniff….fresh thyme, sage, rosemary, and garlic.

Ready for the oven and smelling
delicious!

The aroma greeted the guests at the front door – if not in the driveway. It had been ages since I prepared a meal for company and I loved every minute.

I should be be writing something writerly. This is my 100^th blog. That very fact kept me from posting until now. I should be writing something significant – meaningful – for this post. But what? The description of my blog is ‘musings of a writer’, which means I can write anything that comes into my mind. The possibilities are endless.

Stalling, I take a moment and look at the items on my desk for some inspirational vibes. There’s a ceramic snowman with a bulbous nose. A fat candle surrounded by smiling snowmen, my ereader, two stacks of books, a camera, my cell phone, a whole slew of highlighters in various colours...but no coffee – a coffee would be good.

A reminder to sauté the apples and thyme.
My memory doesn't improve with age.
 

I just celebrated a birthday and the warm wishes of friends and family are occupying my mind. The subject isn’t writerly, perhaps, but this is what I’m musing about today.

 

Rather than go out, I preferred to cook dinner for a couple of long-time friends, and for my son and his family. It wouldn’t be a life celebration without the people who mean the most in my life. Circumstance prevented other special friends from attending, though they were in my thoughts.

 

The next day, following a birthday visit from one of my besties, I lay snuggled in a blanket watching old movies with hubby, and snacking on fresh fruit. Warmed not only by the fireplace, but also by the birthday wishes popping up on facebook. My only exertion was a trip to the kitchen to warm up a plate of leftovers. Indeed, a lazy day.

My husband teases that my birthday celebrations last longer each year. He’s right. I like to milk at least three or four days out of them. Unfortunately, I had to postpone lunch with a friend today or I would be out there celebrating right now.

My birthday and Christmas are synonymous with dinners, gifts, catching up with old friends, and remembering.

I received a birthday card in the mail from a childhood friend. My husband forgot to give it to me when it arrived yesterday and I spotted it just before bedtime. Glitter sprinkled onto the table as I pulled the card from its envelope. In part, she wrote, ‘Over fifty years of friendship – not many are so blessed…from your life-long friend…

 

It felt like a warm hug.

Perfect way to end the day.

 

 

 

Fate or Magic

Strange things happen. I call them fate. My friend, Debbie, calls them magic.

This last couple of years has been a torment. Each time I thought of forgetting about this crazy writing thing, something would happen. I’d receive a call from a publisher asking permission to use one of my stories in an anthology, or an email of congratulations would pop up in my inbox from a contest. Magically, this abolished all notions of quitting and was encouragement enough to put me in front of the computer, pounding out another story or researching new agents for my novels.

I’d written a series of short stories for a book about my nearly twenty years of experience in the retail lingerie trade. Mostly humorous stories but some were not so funny. Shoplifters could be funny, stalkers were not. One publisher considered the book for months but thought it might be challenging to market. I’d written it in third person point of view. At the time, that was a comfortable option.

After a ‘magic’ encounter with an award winning memoir author Iain Reid, I began to revise my book to first person POV. 42,000 words into the revision, my hard drive bit the dust. No, for some reason I did not save my work. I say ‘for some reason’ because I had saved other files but not this one. I told myself that the work was lost because it just wasn’t ‘right’. I had to take that attitude, or crumble under the depression of losing all that work. I promised myself that I’d tackle a new revision soon – just not yet.

Then, ‘magically’, a non-writer friend visited with a stack of writer’s books. I wrote about them in the last blog post, Unexpected Trove of Books. A couple of days later, I reached into the pile for Elizabeth Berg’s book, thinking I would read it first. When I settled into my chair, I realized that the book in my hands was not Berg’s but rather an Abigail Thomas book entitled, Thinking About Memoir. It was enough to make me snort out loud. Alrightalready, I said to no one, as I reached for a highlighter, fresh notebook, and pen.

With an open mind, I read each page while making copious notes as Thomas’s suggestions and ramblings triggered ideas and further memories. Thoughts of how better to revise my manuscript were taking shape. The book would be more effective as a memoir. Iain Reid, the author I met in Eden Mills,  had suggested as much during our conversation about my collection of stories. Slowly, the realization was growing that something important was missing in the re-telling of these incidental encounters.

Those eighteen years existing in a pink and blue world of maribou and satin, were my greatest and worst years. It was a high profile and productive time of my life, but not without a price. There were sorrowful personal challenges to overcome. If I can’t acknowledge my role by writing in first person POV, the book is nothing more than entertaining stories.

Unexpected Trove of Books

“I made cranberry sauce, and when it was done put it into a dark blue bowl for the beautiful contrast. I was thinking, doing this, about the old ways of gratitude: Indians thanking the deer they'd slain, grace before supper, kneeling before bed. I was thinking that gratitude is too much absent in our lives now, and we need it back, even if it only takes the form of acknowledging the blue of a bowl against the red of cranberries.”
― Elizabeth Berg, Open House   

Gratitude for all the wonderful little things in my life is what I’m feeling. I’ve been writing and reading and shopping and visiting and enjoying it all! 

I’ve also been working on my First Monday columns as this is a busy time of year and the deadlines have moved up. By the way, you can read my magazine columns on this blog site. They’re all listed on the right sidebar. And, of course, Christmas is just around the corner and after that I’ll be packing for the cruise we booked. Yay!!!!

Speaking of happy, happy…A friend stopped by yesterday with the most wonderful surprise. A DOZEN used books she’d picked up with me in mind. More books, I thought. My yet-to-read stack was already a wobbly tower on my night table. Then I spotted the top book on the pile and knew it was a must-read-without-delay. It was Elizabeth Berg’s ‘Escaping into the Open…The Art of Writing True’.

My Stephen King book ‘On Writing’ has remained an all-time favourite and though Berg and King are polar opposites – but then again, not – I can hardly wait to read her take on the art of writing fiction. King and Berg both make writing look effortless. When I’m reading their books, it feels like they’re sitting across from me, telling me their story. They have that easy yet spell-binding style. The obvious difference is in the stories they tell.

My heart raced as I uncovered book after book. Since they are top-notch handbooks and guides for fiction writers, obviously a writer from our area had owned them. Who? Who? Two popular writers passed away in the last couple of years and I wonder if these ‘writer go-to books’ came from their shelves. It’s a lovely thought.

Some of you may have seen my recently published book review of Linwood Barclay’s thriller, ‘The Accident’. It’s on Brian Henry’s Quick Brown Fox site. You can read the review here.

Further writing updates include the entry of my novel, Bad Seed, in a contest. It’ll be several months before they announce the winner. If any of you are inclined to cross your fingers or mumble a prayer, that’s okay with me. My short story, Whiskey Nights, is also in the running (I hope) in a short story contest. You’ll know by my excited squeals if I get a mention.

Today an interviewee regretfully cancelled our appointment. Of course, I’m disappointed, but you know my attitude – there’s a bright side to everything. This gives me free time to polish the draft of my next magazine column, or begin wrapping Christmas presents, or meet with a friend for coffee, or vacuum the house.

OR snuggle into my reading chair with a mug of hot chocolate and some of those yummy cookies reserved for company, and peruse my newfound treasures.

The busy holiday season is here, so remember…Don’t sweat the small stuff… Stress less!                                                                                                                 

Admitting the Downs and Ups

It’s great having hubby back home. He’s been working out-of-province for almost a year. Sure, there were regular visits but a few days at a time were never enough. I must admit that the first couple of weeks he was away were pretty fantastic. Eat when and what I want. Vacuum late at night – or not at all. Stay in pj’s all day and write to my heart’s content without thinking of what to thaw for dinner, or wondering about fresh veggies in the crisper.

Speaking of the fridge, it quit working. That was a major drag. Although a lot of the meat hadn’t thawed, some of the freezer contents had to be tossed – others had to be cooked and re-frozen. Actually, that part of it worked out quite well. Steaks cubed and simmered in beef broth and onions, ground meat browned and seasoned. Quick and delicious meals at the ready. Fortunately, I had another fridge with freezer downstairs or a bad situation would have been much worse. Speaking of much worse, my computer crashed that same week. It was meant to be. My all-time answer for everything that turns to #@@%.

My dead fridge was an inconvenience. My computer … well, it was depressing. I visited my email account and facebook on my cell phone with little enthusiasm. Though a lot of my files are on flash sticks and I have the means to retrieve lost stories from email submissions or attachments to beta readers, I’ve yet to restore them. I’ll do it later. To do it now would be like accepting a new friend before getting over the loss of the old friend. But I’ll do it. To some, it won't seem like such a big deal. Just get another computer. At the time, it seemed like the culmination of a lot of things gone wrong. Stress!

In the meantime, a week or so following my computer crash, a writer buddy brought me to a screeching halt. Do you miss writing, she wanted to know. I was rocked with the realization that in my frustration and panic, my bubbly enthusiasm for writing had vanished with the hard drive! Reading facebook updates by other writers now filled me with envy and remorse. Thrilled to have Marv back home, and being unable to deal with setting up a new computer or admitting to the loss of 42,000 words of revision, my brain had suffered creative paralysis.

But then while I was at the gym this morning, doing a soft workout while nursing a bum arm – which I’m convinced is a flare-up of tendinitis from too much ‘writing’ – I thought about my blogs. There was a time when I loved writing blogs and posted faithfully every week. Then I read somewhere – on someone else’s blog – never write about you on a blog. Save that for your diary – no one wants to hear it. I was stymied. 

That’s when my magazine column came to mind. It seems that when I write about my own experiences, readers relate and respond enthusiastically. It’s why I’m sharing my misadventures with you. Well, I’m not expecting an enthusiastic response but maybe someone out there can relate. Maybe it will speed my recovery. Hah! Good choice of words. I also purchased an external hard drive for saving EVERYTHING EVERYDAY. 

I’d better get busy re-writing those 42,000 words that disappeared in the flash of a burnt-out hard drive. I have a feeling they’ll be even better. You see, everything does happen for a reason. J

Keep healthy, stay happy, and hug often.  

Curling up with Matadora by Elizabeth Ruth

With only thirty-two pages left to read, I had to put Elizabeth Ruth's novel Matadora aside. Life happened and commitments and interruptions were distracting me from a good read. The writing is excellent−descriptions poetically detailed. I was transported in time to a place where dust tickled my throat and my breath quickened at the snorting of bulls in their pens. Yes, I was enjoying the book too much to rush through the ending. That’s strange coming from me−the one who impatiently flips to the last chapter because I just NEED to know the ending NOW. Shameful to admit, but I’ve even read the last chapter first. Just sometimes.

I cured myself of these habits, or maybe my readers cured me. ‘Were you shocked to learn that the killer was her deranged father??’ ‘No,’ he said, ‘actually, I accidentally read the last few paragraphs of the story first.’ Arrggghhhh! Serves me right, though. So, out of deference to the author, I no longer spoil the rhythm and pace of a well-written book.

Though crime/suspense is my favourite read, Matadora, published by Cormorant Books, is not of that genre. Something else that sets it apart from my ‘go to’ books is the setting−Spain and Mexico. Foreign settings are not usually favoured by me. So why am I reading it, you ask.

Elizabeth Ruth, Author

I had the pleasure of dining with the author of Matadora, Elizabeth Ruth, at the Eden Mills Writers’ Festival. My first impression was of a woman impeccably groomed, cool and confident, possessing an air of graciousness. In reading Ruth’s novel, I recognized the same proud carriage and qualities in her main character Luna, the courageous Matadora. Fleetingly, I wondered if Elizabeth Ruth always possessed these characteristics and passed them on to her protaganist, or whether Luna instilled them in her creator. I’m getting ahead of myself though.

At dinner, Elizabeth Ruth asked me what I liked to read. I need a good story, I told her. Even when the writing is great, the book is a disappointment if the story is lacking. She reached into her bag saying, this is a good story. She handed me her copy of her latest novel. Fortunately, I was immediately impressed. Can you imagine if I thought the cover was boring and the storyline sucked? I’d never make a good poker player. So it was with relief (for both of us) that I was immediately intrigued. I love character driven stories and I correctly suspected the 1930s story of a young female bullfighter would be filled with passion and courage. The enthusiastic testimonials on the book cover cinched it for me. I’d be ordering this book when I returned home. I couldn’t wait to read it. Which brings me full circle.

Thirty-two pages to go. The house to myself, a hot cup of Tetley, a warm fireplace, and Elizabeth Ruth’s Matadora...