In the novel A Christmas Carol, Scrooge is a miserly soul whose only concern is money and gain. Ironically, Scrooge does nothing with his vast wealth, not even making himself comfortable until he is visited by three spirits who show him the error of his ways. Of course, some would argue in this era of crass commercialism that some cynicism is in order. After all, we are bombarded with ads for expensive goods at the holiday season, and all of these ads seemingly only want our money. Any of us would have to be millionaires to afford all of the products pushed by vendors. I, too, become disillusioned with the commercial aspect of the holiday. At times, Christmas buying has resulted in violence, even death. Remember a few years ago in the States when customers at a Wal-Mart pushed through the doors before the store officially opened? A security guard was trampled, and the shoppers were upset when the management closed the store so that EMTs could tend to the dying man. Where was the true Christmas spirit in those people as they ran over their fellow human being?
It is because of the vastly commercial nature of modern Christmas that I referenced Dickens' tale. When I feel that I am becoming like Scrooge, I think of Dickens' amazing story and its lesson. Some people scoff at the story's piety and unapologetic mysticism, but what the story shows is that the season should be a time of generosity originating from the soul. I don't think Dickens--or God, for that matter-- would advocate such reckless spending that we all go bankrupt, but I do think that the season is a time to give what we can to those we love and to those in need. Often, that is not the most expensive toy or item in the store. Sometimes, it is the gift of time and of love. If we can give, we should think of those in need who may have less this holiday season and spread cheer. Sometimes that gift may be money but sometimes it may be a smile or an hour of our time. Yep, this comes from me--the author of historical romances that are often violent. In fact, some people may think it's ironic that I'd be writing about Christmas cheer when Red Rose Publishing is going to publish one of my stories, a story about love gone wrong at a Christmas Eve party, but my story shows how the stress of the season can lead to hurt and humiliation.
People of many faiths celebrate their holidays for various reasons, and those celebrations hold importance to the celebrants for a variety of secular, religious, and sentimental reasons. Most people remember good times with families and friends at these times in addition to the sacred meaning of holidays like Christmas or Hanukkah. (I don't mean to leave out any holiday, by the way. Those two have come to mind eaisly). Some of us hurt during the holidays because of losses we've experienced, but these religious holidays should be times of giving from the heart--giving of our love and our treasure if we can afford it. This season, I've decided I will give to charities providing for needy children. I'm no millionaire. I can't give much, but I will give what I can to help someone. I also will be more tolerant of the people in my life and tell them I love them, and on Christmas Day, I will light a candle in church for my parents--two people no longer here but who gave me so much.
My prayer for my family and friends is that the joy of the holidays fills their hearts with peace and love.
Sunday, December 9, 2012
Sunday, December 2, 2012
E-publishing and the Old Guard
I've listened with interest to the debate surrounding e-publishing. Many traditional publishers and literary critics mourn what they sometimes call the "death" of the traditional print book. They frequently look upon e-published books as the bastard sister that has stabbed her more sophisticated and desirable sibling in the back, even stealing her boyfriend. Another scenario: According to traditionalists, the paper novel is the $5,000 a night professional while the e-book is a pay-by-the-hour working girl, standing on the corner flashing her coarser wares.
What many people don't seem to realize is that writing and the production of artistry through writing have evolved throughout the ages. Change is nothing new. The earliest people wrote crudely upon cave walls, communicating their thoughts to those no more advanced than they--but maybe in their times, they were very advanced. When we discovered how to place the written word onto paper tablets many years later, human beings' ability to disseminate their thoughts was still sorely limited. We hear much about Medieval monks copying by hand biblical stories as well as documents relevant to their culture, but those who could benefit from such writing were a limited few--other religious and the wealthy, who could afford such masterpieces. Johann Gutenberg's perfection of the printing press revolutionized the publishing industry, making books more accessible to millions. The Protestant Reformation made reading and writing essential to biblical study. Books, however, were still costly luxuries for the few.
The book continues to evolve as does what fascinates readers. In modern times, we've seen hardback books and softback books. The price of both has risen substantially over the years. Critics have bemoaned that people "no longer read." Readership has declined, but many people still do read. They simply cannot afford to buy a luxury purchase. Many have flocked to libraries instead. Let's look at how expensive books are. My high school paper copy of Pride and Prejudice was $.50. Such a book would now be at least $5. Hardbacks around the same period were $8-12. Now, those books are $25-30. Many people want to read, but the books are not affordable. What we enjoy to read has also changed, but change is nothing new in the literary world. For example, I looked at a textbook of poetry produced circa 1932. Several poems by Samuel Taylor Coleridge's son Hartley are in the volume but not one of Coleridge's master works. Yet, only a few years later, Coleridge's poems are in texts but none of Hartley's. My point is that what is considered important literature shifts with community tastes. Critics said that children no longer read and certainly wouldn't read a huge book. A British woman named J. K. Rowling proved them wrong. Still others said even adults didn't have the patience with big books or complex plots, but a Swede named Stieg Larsson made us care about a girl with a dragon tattoo.
How does that link to e-publishing? Tastes evolve and so does the technology through which we produce books. The technological revolution, as well as ecological concerns about tree conservation, have led to changes in how we read books. In the West, we are fast-moving societies. We travel and sometimes even take mass transit while we work or play. For that reason, many people love their e-readers. They can carry a small device that easily fits into a purse or briefcase. They can go on vacation and take several books. With the birth of technology, authors can now reach a generation of young people reared on technology. Technology also has opened up new avenues for authors. Traditional publishing is highly competitive and somewhat closed. Many people are now publishing their own books through avenues like Amazon. I'm not saying everyone should publish a book. Some people can't write, but some people are very good writers. They have self-published or sought out e-publishers, many of whom are more open about accepting promising authors. Where many traditional houses only take "established" authors or "slam dunk" books, e-publishers are often more open and willing to take a risk on someone who is up and coming. And while not everyone publishing is great, many new authors are very talented. Their work is well-written and researched.
I am not saying that print publishing is dead. I also like print books, but I don't think that traditional publishing can ignore the impact of technology. Even print authors now host blogs and have Facebook pages. Promoting oneself is essential, and the means of promotion cannot only be through print media. I think print publishing and e-publishing can grow together in healthy respect. Long live writing! Long live the written word!
What many people don't seem to realize is that writing and the production of artistry through writing have evolved throughout the ages. Change is nothing new. The earliest people wrote crudely upon cave walls, communicating their thoughts to those no more advanced than they--but maybe in their times, they were very advanced. When we discovered how to place the written word onto paper tablets many years later, human beings' ability to disseminate their thoughts was still sorely limited. We hear much about Medieval monks copying by hand biblical stories as well as documents relevant to their culture, but those who could benefit from such writing were a limited few--other religious and the wealthy, who could afford such masterpieces. Johann Gutenberg's perfection of the printing press revolutionized the publishing industry, making books more accessible to millions. The Protestant Reformation made reading and writing essential to biblical study. Books, however, were still costly luxuries for the few.
The book continues to evolve as does what fascinates readers. In modern times, we've seen hardback books and softback books. The price of both has risen substantially over the years. Critics have bemoaned that people "no longer read." Readership has declined, but many people still do read. They simply cannot afford to buy a luxury purchase. Many have flocked to libraries instead. Let's look at how expensive books are. My high school paper copy of Pride and Prejudice was $.50. Such a book would now be at least $5. Hardbacks around the same period were $8-12. Now, those books are $25-30. Many people want to read, but the books are not affordable. What we enjoy to read has also changed, but change is nothing new in the literary world. For example, I looked at a textbook of poetry produced circa 1932. Several poems by Samuel Taylor Coleridge's son Hartley are in the volume but not one of Coleridge's master works. Yet, only a few years later, Coleridge's poems are in texts but none of Hartley's. My point is that what is considered important literature shifts with community tastes. Critics said that children no longer read and certainly wouldn't read a huge book. A British woman named J. K. Rowling proved them wrong. Still others said even adults didn't have the patience with big books or complex plots, but a Swede named Stieg Larsson made us care about a girl with a dragon tattoo.
How does that link to e-publishing? Tastes evolve and so does the technology through which we produce books. The technological revolution, as well as ecological concerns about tree conservation, have led to changes in how we read books. In the West, we are fast-moving societies. We travel and sometimes even take mass transit while we work or play. For that reason, many people love their e-readers. They can carry a small device that easily fits into a purse or briefcase. They can go on vacation and take several books. With the birth of technology, authors can now reach a generation of young people reared on technology. Technology also has opened up new avenues for authors. Traditional publishing is highly competitive and somewhat closed. Many people are now publishing their own books through avenues like Amazon. I'm not saying everyone should publish a book. Some people can't write, but some people are very good writers. They have self-published or sought out e-publishers, many of whom are more open about accepting promising authors. Where many traditional houses only take "established" authors or "slam dunk" books, e-publishers are often more open and willing to take a risk on someone who is up and coming. And while not everyone publishing is great, many new authors are very talented. Their work is well-written and researched.
I am not saying that print publishing is dead. I also like print books, but I don't think that traditional publishing can ignore the impact of technology. Even print authors now host blogs and have Facebook pages. Promoting oneself is essential, and the means of promotion cannot only be through print media. I think print publishing and e-publishing can grow together in healthy respect. Long live writing! Long live the written word!
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
The Movie Lincoln and Superb Acting
Yesterday, I went to see the movie Lincoln. Bravo, Steven Spielberg and the cast! The scenery and images were superb, and as always, Spielberg had assembled a stellar cast. Tommy Lee Jones was superb as Thadeuss Stevens, an avid supporter of racial equality. That proud Texan and Harvard grad never disappoints. Sally Field also was amazing as Mary Todd Lincoln, a woman holding onto sanity amid the pressures of a wartime White House and the loss of a young son. The actor at the heart of the drama, however, is Daniel Day-Lewis as Lincoln. Day-Lewis' Lincoln spellbinds. Whenever he is on camera, I can't take my eyes from him. He dominates the screen as only he can.
I first saw Day-Lewis in the 1980s. He'd played a gay tough in My Beautiful Laundrette and an effete aristocrat in A Room with a View. Both films emerged in the same year, but Day-Lewis is unrecognizable in each role. He embodied the characters, and many people were shocked but impressed to learn the characters been portrayed by the same actor. He is a man who lives the fates of his characters. When playing Christie Brown, the crippled Irish actor, Day-Lewis lived in his wheelchair and learned to write with his left foot. He so channeled the role of Hamlet that he had to leave the role when memories of his late father, the poet Cecil Day-Lewis, began haunting him. Day-Lewis has never failed to impress. He is convincing as the lecherous doctor Tomas in The Unbearable Lightness of Being and as the tortured Puritan farmer John Proctor in The Crucible. He is a scout in The Last of the Mohicans. He is a wrongfully convicted Irishman in In the Name of the Father and a ruthless oilman but doting father in There Will Be Blood. While filming The Crucible, Day-Lewis formed a lasting friendship with Arthur Miller, and soon, the son of a man of letters married Rebecca Miller, the daughter of a man of letters.
And now Lincoln. Day-Lewis ably portrays Lincoln's kindness and humanity while still showing the steel within the man. He converses with African-American soldiers and tells anecdotal tales to his staff. He is a loving father to his sons as well as a tolerant husband to his unhappy but loving wife. However, Lincoln also is a determined man. He argues the law with the acumen of men more educated than he and is willing to use subterfuge to gain passage of an amendment he deems fair and essential to the survival of the country. Through it all, Day-Lewis lets the appropriate emotions grace his face. Spielberg's lighting and direction also illustrate the isolation as well as humanity of the man. We see every doubt as well as kindness on the man's well-lined visage. We also see him walk down a long hallway, his back to the camera as he deals with conflicts within his family, his party, and his country.
Bravo to a talented cast and director!
I first saw Day-Lewis in the 1980s. He'd played a gay tough in My Beautiful Laundrette and an effete aristocrat in A Room with a View. Both films emerged in the same year, but Day-Lewis is unrecognizable in each role. He embodied the characters, and many people were shocked but impressed to learn the characters been portrayed by the same actor. He is a man who lives the fates of his characters. When playing Christie Brown, the crippled Irish actor, Day-Lewis lived in his wheelchair and learned to write with his left foot. He so channeled the role of Hamlet that he had to leave the role when memories of his late father, the poet Cecil Day-Lewis, began haunting him. Day-Lewis has never failed to impress. He is convincing as the lecherous doctor Tomas in The Unbearable Lightness of Being and as the tortured Puritan farmer John Proctor in The Crucible. He is a scout in The Last of the Mohicans. He is a wrongfully convicted Irishman in In the Name of the Father and a ruthless oilman but doting father in There Will Be Blood. While filming The Crucible, Day-Lewis formed a lasting friendship with Arthur Miller, and soon, the son of a man of letters married Rebecca Miller, the daughter of a man of letters.
And now Lincoln. Day-Lewis ably portrays Lincoln's kindness and humanity while still showing the steel within the man. He converses with African-American soldiers and tells anecdotal tales to his staff. He is a loving father to his sons as well as a tolerant husband to his unhappy but loving wife. However, Lincoln also is a determined man. He argues the law with the acumen of men more educated than he and is willing to use subterfuge to gain passage of an amendment he deems fair and essential to the survival of the country. Through it all, Day-Lewis lets the appropriate emotions grace his face. Spielberg's lighting and direction also illustrate the isolation as well as humanity of the man. We see every doubt as well as kindness on the man's well-lined visage. We also see him walk down a long hallway, his back to the camera as he deals with conflicts within his family, his party, and his country.
Bravo to a talented cast and director!
Sunday, November 18, 2012
Into the World of Celts, England and Beatles
I've always loved travel. Even before I ventured beyond my own city, I loved reading of different places and eras. One reason I'm a novelist is because I loved reading about different places and people when I was a child. I hated being rooted to one place--even one era--and oh, I liked having a place to which to return, but I hated feeling rooted. Wanderlust has never deserted me.
My first trip out of the country was to London. That was a revelation. I was enthralled by the Strand, the British Museum, and Trafalgar Square. The West End theatre scene was a delight, and I attended as many plays as I could. While attending a production of THE PIRATES OF PENZANCE, I caught a glimpse of Ringo Starr and his wife Barbara Bach in the audience. They cut out immediately after the show, but my celebrity sighting was thrilling nonetheless. When I visited Westminister Abbey, the graves of the literary dead and late politicians transported me to other eras of adventure and daring. What was it like to live in Elizabeth's day, to be her lady-in-waiting? A side trip to Stratford transported me to Renaissance England. The carefully preserved structures serve as illusory tricks, and the observer almost expects to see gentlemen and ladies in period clothes. The theatre there astounded me. I saw Derek Jacobi as Prospero in THE TEMPEST. His ringing soliloquy at the play's end had the audience on its feet clapping, and the stage went black when he broke the staff above his head. Of course, one of my fondest personal memories is of walking back to the hotel on New Year's Eve. I'd ventured out alone and couldn't find a taxi. The streets were filled with revelers, and I'd left THE MOUSETRAP. I had no alternative but to walk. When I came to Trafalgar Square, wild revelers were jumping into the fountain. Hell, when in Rome. . . I did, too! Then, I walked back dripping wet and cold but very happy. When I returned to New Orleans, my mother asked me why my coat was so dirty. I gave her some lame excuse, but I don't think was fooled.
That wasn't my only sojourn into the land of Shakespeare. I've returned several times, but the most memorable visit to London was when I was a scholar, finishing my doctorate. I spent time in the British Library--so much time that I thought I'd become a library rat, hiding in the stacks. I had to surrender my possessions when I made my way to the desk. I donned gloves to touch some of the work my Blake. While I was there, I looked for some books that no one could find. One young man said, "It may have been lost in the war, ma'am." An alarm went off later, and we had to vacate the building. The reality of war, and by extension terrorism, became very real. This was before 9/11, but the British filed out the building very calmly. KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON. This was a country that had been bombed extensively, and I realized the price of war. When my mother died, I read her own brothers' letters home while they were stationed overseas. It was then that I began to formulate the plot of LOVE AT WAR, but when I write, my influences are only subliminally in my consciousness. It is only later that I realize their impact, and my travels to England, being steeped in its history, also contributed to parts of the novel.
My time in London didn't end my traveling. Ireland is the ancestral home of many long gone relatives; I first visited Galway and the Aran Islands. Never had I seen land so green, so lush. The people were friendly, generous, and open. The local music scene in Galway pulsated. In the Aran Islands, sheep sometimes blocked traffic, and I climbed Dun Aengus with people who would become close friends. During the day, I explored the city and village. At night, I listened to my friends Danny and Misha crank out amazing Irish music. When I stood by the Cliffs of Moher and looked at the rugged but beautiful land, I think I knew even then I'd write a book about this place. Years later, when I went to Dublin, I learned more about the grit of my ancestors. As I explored the famous General Post Office and the National Museum, I discovered more about the "terrible beauty" that formed this great country. I attended Mass in the Pro Cathedral and toured St. Patrick's. I put back a few pints of Guinness and loved being in the land of Joyce and Yeats. Oh, let's not forget Heaney. And I loved the connection to the sea. Whenever I thought of the West, I wanted to celebrate that land, and I think PIRATE WOMAN, my book about Grace O'Malley formed then. She was the ultimate rebel woman who embodied the dangerous and rugged existence of this country and its people.
My musical taste has always been eclectic, and I've journeyed twice to Liverpool, reveling in the history and spirit of the people. I ventured into the preserved homes of John Lennon and Paul McCartney. I toured Beatle haunts like the Grapes as well as the resurrected Cavern. I was moved by the White Feather exhibit, Julian Lennon's tribute to his father, but I soon learned that Liverpool had even more to offer than Beatles memorabilia. The Tate Liverpool contains some amazing artwork, and the Maritime Museum celebrates Liverpool's contribution to Britain's naval history. Most moving was the exhibit on slavery and the many stories of young people still sold into slavery of one kind or another. I toured St. George's Hall and imagined the fate of criminals in the 1800s. I strolled a street called Penny Lane and then ran my hand along the gates at Strawberry Field. The ideas flowed. THE DOCTOR AND THE WAR WIDOW is set partly in Liverpool, and my main character accepts a marriage proposal there.
Where will my nest journey take me? I don't know, but the other part of my family is German. My mother used to tell me of my great-grandmother Katherine who came from Baden, Germany. She went to work in a butcher's shop and was so small she had to stand on a box. No child labor laws then! I wish I'd known Katherine. I wish I'd learned German at her knee. Maybe Germany should be next--or Italy. I like Italian men. Both would be great places to set stories.
My first trip out of the country was to London. That was a revelation. I was enthralled by the Strand, the British Museum, and Trafalgar Square. The West End theatre scene was a delight, and I attended as many plays as I could. While attending a production of THE PIRATES OF PENZANCE, I caught a glimpse of Ringo Starr and his wife Barbara Bach in the audience. They cut out immediately after the show, but my celebrity sighting was thrilling nonetheless. When I visited Westminister Abbey, the graves of the literary dead and late politicians transported me to other eras of adventure and daring. What was it like to live in Elizabeth's day, to be her lady-in-waiting? A side trip to Stratford transported me to Renaissance England. The carefully preserved structures serve as illusory tricks, and the observer almost expects to see gentlemen and ladies in period clothes. The theatre there astounded me. I saw Derek Jacobi as Prospero in THE TEMPEST. His ringing soliloquy at the play's end had the audience on its feet clapping, and the stage went black when he broke the staff above his head. Of course, one of my fondest personal memories is of walking back to the hotel on New Year's Eve. I'd ventured out alone and couldn't find a taxi. The streets were filled with revelers, and I'd left THE MOUSETRAP. I had no alternative but to walk. When I came to Trafalgar Square, wild revelers were jumping into the fountain. Hell, when in Rome. . . I did, too! Then, I walked back dripping wet and cold but very happy. When I returned to New Orleans, my mother asked me why my coat was so dirty. I gave her some lame excuse, but I don't think was fooled.
That wasn't my only sojourn into the land of Shakespeare. I've returned several times, but the most memorable visit to London was when I was a scholar, finishing my doctorate. I spent time in the British Library--so much time that I thought I'd become a library rat, hiding in the stacks. I had to surrender my possessions when I made my way to the desk. I donned gloves to touch some of the work my Blake. While I was there, I looked for some books that no one could find. One young man said, "It may have been lost in the war, ma'am." An alarm went off later, and we had to vacate the building. The reality of war, and by extension terrorism, became very real. This was before 9/11, but the British filed out the building very calmly. KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON. This was a country that had been bombed extensively, and I realized the price of war. When my mother died, I read her own brothers' letters home while they were stationed overseas. It was then that I began to formulate the plot of LOVE AT WAR, but when I write, my influences are only subliminally in my consciousness. It is only later that I realize their impact, and my travels to England, being steeped in its history, also contributed to parts of the novel.
My time in London didn't end my traveling. Ireland is the ancestral home of many long gone relatives; I first visited Galway and the Aran Islands. Never had I seen land so green, so lush. The people were friendly, generous, and open. The local music scene in Galway pulsated. In the Aran Islands, sheep sometimes blocked traffic, and I climbed Dun Aengus with people who would become close friends. During the day, I explored the city and village. At night, I listened to my friends Danny and Misha crank out amazing Irish music. When I stood by the Cliffs of Moher and looked at the rugged but beautiful land, I think I knew even then I'd write a book about this place. Years later, when I went to Dublin, I learned more about the grit of my ancestors. As I explored the famous General Post Office and the National Museum, I discovered more about the "terrible beauty" that formed this great country. I attended Mass in the Pro Cathedral and toured St. Patrick's. I put back a few pints of Guinness and loved being in the land of Joyce and Yeats. Oh, let's not forget Heaney. And I loved the connection to the sea. Whenever I thought of the West, I wanted to celebrate that land, and I think PIRATE WOMAN, my book about Grace O'Malley formed then. She was the ultimate rebel woman who embodied the dangerous and rugged existence of this country and its people.
My musical taste has always been eclectic, and I've journeyed twice to Liverpool, reveling in the history and spirit of the people. I ventured into the preserved homes of John Lennon and Paul McCartney. I toured Beatle haunts like the Grapes as well as the resurrected Cavern. I was moved by the White Feather exhibit, Julian Lennon's tribute to his father, but I soon learned that Liverpool had even more to offer than Beatles memorabilia. The Tate Liverpool contains some amazing artwork, and the Maritime Museum celebrates Liverpool's contribution to Britain's naval history. Most moving was the exhibit on slavery and the many stories of young people still sold into slavery of one kind or another. I toured St. George's Hall and imagined the fate of criminals in the 1800s. I strolled a street called Penny Lane and then ran my hand along the gates at Strawberry Field. The ideas flowed. THE DOCTOR AND THE WAR WIDOW is set partly in Liverpool, and my main character accepts a marriage proposal there.
Where will my nest journey take me? I don't know, but the other part of my family is German. My mother used to tell me of my great-grandmother Katherine who came from Baden, Germany. She went to work in a butcher's shop and was so small she had to stand on a box. No child labor laws then! I wish I'd known Katherine. I wish I'd learned German at her knee. Maybe Germany should be next--or Italy. I like Italian men. Both would be great places to set stories.
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
The Origins of Buried Truths
On October 18, 2012, Red Rose Publishing will reissue my first published e-book BURIED TRUTHS. Another publisher, now defunct, initially released the novel in 2008, but the story made an even more circuitous journey from my brain to my pen. (Yes, I still plot with my pen.)
The idea developed from an encounter I had with a young woman in a local book store. As I was leaving, the rather confused clerk shyly asked if she could pose a question to me. When I said yes, she indicated that a friend of hers was looking for her birth mother. According to the young clerk, I was a dead ringer for her friend. Had I produced a baby and given her up for adoption? I told the young woman that I hadn't given birth to a child. Andrea, the employee, said she hoped I wasn't offended. The girl's embarrassment was palpable, but I reassured her I'd taken no offense. As I walked to my car, the wheels inside my brain began turning. What if someone had been asked that question and it were true? Of course, the hypothetical person would deny it to a stranger, but what would she do when she was alone?
In BURIED TRUTHS, a book store clerk asks Heather Kerry that question. Did you have a baby and give him up for adoption? In this case, the young woman is inquiring about her husband's birth mother, and Heather, like my hypothetical person, denies having had a child. Of course, that's a lie. Heather gave her son up for adoption twenty-three years before. After the encounter with the pretty bookstore employee, Heather returns home, pours a stiff drink, and then calls the man she hasn't seen since she surrendered her child to strangers.
In BURIED TRUTHS, Heather and Wesley, her former lover, must confront their pasts and see if they still have a future, and I sometimes think of that young woman searching for her mother in New Orleans. Did she find her birth mother? Did they have a future? My protagonists have to search for people they lost. Did this young woman search and find what she sought?
The idea developed from an encounter I had with a young woman in a local book store. As I was leaving, the rather confused clerk shyly asked if she could pose a question to me. When I said yes, she indicated that a friend of hers was looking for her birth mother. According to the young clerk, I was a dead ringer for her friend. Had I produced a baby and given her up for adoption? I told the young woman that I hadn't given birth to a child. Andrea, the employee, said she hoped I wasn't offended. The girl's embarrassment was palpable, but I reassured her I'd taken no offense. As I walked to my car, the wheels inside my brain began turning. What if someone had been asked that question and it were true? Of course, the hypothetical person would deny it to a stranger, but what would she do when she was alone?
In BURIED TRUTHS, a book store clerk asks Heather Kerry that question. Did you have a baby and give him up for adoption? In this case, the young woman is inquiring about her husband's birth mother, and Heather, like my hypothetical person, denies having had a child. Of course, that's a lie. Heather gave her son up for adoption twenty-three years before. After the encounter with the pretty bookstore employee, Heather returns home, pours a stiff drink, and then calls the man she hasn't seen since she surrendered her child to strangers.
In BURIED TRUTHS, Heather and Wesley, her former lover, must confront their pasts and see if they still have a future, and I sometimes think of that young woman searching for her mother in New Orleans. Did she find her birth mother? Did they have a future? My protagonists have to search for people they lost. Did this young woman search and find what she sought?
Sunday, September 9, 2012
The Danger of Holding onto the Past
I'm tired of listening to people who are mired in the past--as if everything about bygone times was idyllic and halcyon. Nothing remains the same, and life is made for moving onward. Years ago, scores of Americans who deemed themselves upwardly mobile abandoned their roots to live in cheap suburban tract houses. They consequently condemned their children to fantasy lives of privacy fences and manufactured domesticity. Many of them were quick to condemn those who wanted anything other than what they deemed a conventional, domestic life. They lived their lives as they wanted, and that was fine for them if they wanted such a life. However, no one should by judged or condemned for rejecting the white picket fence or suburban living.
We all should have lives that work for us, and sometimes that means abandoning the socially conservative ideas of the past. Not all of us are comfortable living the lives of others or adopting their often judgmental values. Don't misunderstand. I enjoy nostalgia. It often reminds me of the good times in my childhood. I love old pictures as well, and I belong to Facebook groups like "Ain't Dere No More," but I'm not--and should not be--bound to some outmoded concept of what others think is "the good life." To one generation, that may have been a white picket fence in the burbs. For another, that might mean living a Bohemian life Uptown, in the French Quarter, or in an artist's flat in Paris or New York. No narrow-minded individual should have the right to judge other adults for their lifestyle choices or think that they even have the right to an opinion. Of course, some misguided and narrow people think they have such a right.
I am first and foremost the bootlegger's daughter. I do what I must to survive. My father forged his own destiny, and I recently finished a manuscript based--somewhat loosely--on his life. As a kid, my father delivered ice for the still existent Pelican Ice Company. When the Depression claimed the life of his first wife, he bootlegged so that the family could survive. The Depression killed his wife, so he wouldn't play by any governmental rules. He later booked and trained racehorses. In that way, he is very much like Jude Mooney, my protagonist. My father didn't regret the past, but he didn't idealize it, either. When people said to him, "I remember when an apple was a nickel," my dad would clip back, "Who the hell had the nickel?" Both of my parents forged their own destinies. My mother, my father's fourth wife, married him even though the neighbors told her he was a "racketeer." My mother didn't care. She knew what she wanted. I'm not saying her life was always easy, but she told me she didn't regret anything. She'd really liked "the old bugger." Daddy was seventeen years older than she. Like my parents, I respect the past, but I don't make a shrine to it. Some people think doing so is the only way to honor the dead and feel that moving on is almost sinful.
As a writer, I've forged my own way as well. My female characters often defy the conventional roles and stereotypes. Nuala in LOVE AT WAR and Grainne in PIRATE WOMAN throw aside the roles ascribed to them by society, www.redrosepublishing.com. Nuala becomes a covert operative during WWII to gain vengeance on those who killed her husband. Grainne defies the traditional role of an Irish chieftain's daughter, running her husband's sea interests. Of all my heroines, Harley in THE DOCTOR AND THE WAR WIDOW was in some ways the most tragic to write. She is mired in grief for a past that is dead. Only when she lets go of that past can she breathe again.
We all should have lives that work for us, and sometimes that means abandoning the socially conservative ideas of the past. Not all of us are comfortable living the lives of others or adopting their often judgmental values. Don't misunderstand. I enjoy nostalgia. It often reminds me of the good times in my childhood. I love old pictures as well, and I belong to Facebook groups like "Ain't Dere No More," but I'm not--and should not be--bound to some outmoded concept of what others think is "the good life." To one generation, that may have been a white picket fence in the burbs. For another, that might mean living a Bohemian life Uptown, in the French Quarter, or in an artist's flat in Paris or New York. No narrow-minded individual should have the right to judge other adults for their lifestyle choices or think that they even have the right to an opinion. Of course, some misguided and narrow people think they have such a right.
I am first and foremost the bootlegger's daughter. I do what I must to survive. My father forged his own destiny, and I recently finished a manuscript based--somewhat loosely--on his life. As a kid, my father delivered ice for the still existent Pelican Ice Company. When the Depression claimed the life of his first wife, he bootlegged so that the family could survive. The Depression killed his wife, so he wouldn't play by any governmental rules. He later booked and trained racehorses. In that way, he is very much like Jude Mooney, my protagonist. My father didn't regret the past, but he didn't idealize it, either. When people said to him, "I remember when an apple was a nickel," my dad would clip back, "Who the hell had the nickel?" Both of my parents forged their own destinies. My mother, my father's fourth wife, married him even though the neighbors told her he was a "racketeer." My mother didn't care. She knew what she wanted. I'm not saying her life was always easy, but she told me she didn't regret anything. She'd really liked "the old bugger." Daddy was seventeen years older than she. Like my parents, I respect the past, but I don't make a shrine to it. Some people think doing so is the only way to honor the dead and feel that moving on is almost sinful.
As a writer, I've forged my own way as well. My female characters often defy the conventional roles and stereotypes. Nuala in LOVE AT WAR and Grainne in PIRATE WOMAN throw aside the roles ascribed to them by society, www.redrosepublishing.com. Nuala becomes a covert operative during WWII to gain vengeance on those who killed her husband. Grainne defies the traditional role of an Irish chieftain's daughter, running her husband's sea interests. Of all my heroines, Harley in THE DOCTOR AND THE WAR WIDOW was in some ways the most tragic to write. She is mired in grief for a past that is dead. Only when she lets go of that past can she breathe again.
Monday, September 3, 2012
The Illusion of Safety
I'm writing this after Hurricane Isaac roared into coastal Mississippi and Louisiana, destroying lives and property. Many these days feel frustrated or fragile. Some judgmental people in other parts of the country wonder how we can live where hurricanes strike. We wonder how they can live around tornadoes, earthquakes, and crippling snow.
For all of us in this world, safety is an illusion we foster to keep ourselves sane. Of course, there are things people can do to minimize hazard. In areas prone to hurricane damage, people can evacuate to higher ground. They can raise their homes. In places prone to tornadoes, people should drill to find safe havens in the event of such a natural occurrence. All of these things are sensible precautions, but they are only that--precautions. For most of us in this world, we live with the belief that our lives will
drone on in a mundane fashion until we die in our beds. We rise in the morning, pack the kids off to school, head to work, and then head home in the midst of rush-hour traffic. Most of us also are not willing to face a stark reality: Our concept of safety is a manufactured idea. No matter what steps we can take to minimize danger, it is part of our daily lives. Some people live in the grip of war, fearing for their safety every day, and the reality is that any of us could find ourselves in the midst of war. All someone has to do is bomb us or fly planes into an iconic building, and we, too, are at war. Other people live in the grip of grinding poverty and crime. Our self-created concept of safety is as transient as the proverbial moth consumed by flame. We live in a world that is the antithesis of safety. Mad people walk into movie theaters, shooting innocents who have gathered to watch a film. Others walk into houses of worship, intent upon murder. Still other cold morons abuse their own children, placing those kids on a path to self-destruction. Other idiots pit dogs against each other in cruel fights. (I'd love to see them in the path of a hurricane with no shelter!)
My dad died when I was quite young. We had to leave the home I'd known since I was a child. Early on, I learned that things change and that things can be taken away from us. In my books, my characters also face this reality. In LOVE AT WAR, www.redrosepublishing.com, Nuala puts herself in harm's way to avenge the death of her husband. So determined is she to avenge his death that she willingly places herself in the arms of the enemy. For her, facing death is second to obtaining her revenge. In PIRATE WOMAN, www.redrosepublishing.com, Grainne O'Malley faces other pirates and stares down the gun barrels of her British oppressors in order to defend her family and clan. In THE DOCTOR AND THE WAR WIDOW, www.redrosepublishing.com, Harley Michel faces a less tangible danger--danger to her heart. As a grieving widow, she must decide if she'll risk loving again. She places her soul and sanity at risk when she enters an internet dating site and meets a man who holds both promise and danger.
All of my protagonists faced risks, but they chose to take those risks and live life to the fullest, and that's my point in this post. We never know when danger will find us, but we have to live life fully. As Tennyson said in the persona of Ulysses, "I will drink life to the lees."
For all of us in this world, safety is an illusion we foster to keep ourselves sane. Of course, there are things people can do to minimize hazard. In areas prone to hurricane damage, people can evacuate to higher ground. They can raise their homes. In places prone to tornadoes, people should drill to find safe havens in the event of such a natural occurrence. All of these things are sensible precautions, but they are only that--precautions. For most of us in this world, we live with the belief that our lives will
drone on in a mundane fashion until we die in our beds. We rise in the morning, pack the kids off to school, head to work, and then head home in the midst of rush-hour traffic. Most of us also are not willing to face a stark reality: Our concept of safety is a manufactured idea. No matter what steps we can take to minimize danger, it is part of our daily lives. Some people live in the grip of war, fearing for their safety every day, and the reality is that any of us could find ourselves in the midst of war. All someone has to do is bomb us or fly planes into an iconic building, and we, too, are at war. Other people live in the grip of grinding poverty and crime. Our self-created concept of safety is as transient as the proverbial moth consumed by flame. We live in a world that is the antithesis of safety. Mad people walk into movie theaters, shooting innocents who have gathered to watch a film. Others walk into houses of worship, intent upon murder. Still other cold morons abuse their own children, placing those kids on a path to self-destruction. Other idiots pit dogs against each other in cruel fights. (I'd love to see them in the path of a hurricane with no shelter!)
My dad died when I was quite young. We had to leave the home I'd known since I was a child. Early on, I learned that things change and that things can be taken away from us. In my books, my characters also face this reality. In LOVE AT WAR, www.redrosepublishing.com, Nuala puts herself in harm's way to avenge the death of her husband. So determined is she to avenge his death that she willingly places herself in the arms of the enemy. For her, facing death is second to obtaining her revenge. In PIRATE WOMAN, www.redrosepublishing.com, Grainne O'Malley faces other pirates and stares down the gun barrels of her British oppressors in order to defend her family and clan. In THE DOCTOR AND THE WAR WIDOW, www.redrosepublishing.com, Harley Michel faces a less tangible danger--danger to her heart. As a grieving widow, she must decide if she'll risk loving again. She places her soul and sanity at risk when she enters an internet dating site and meets a man who holds both promise and danger.
All of my protagonists faced risks, but they chose to take those risks and live life to the fullest, and that's my point in this post. We never know when danger will find us, but we have to live life fully. As Tennyson said in the persona of Ulysses, "I will drink life to the lees."
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