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Wednesday, February 24, 2021

The Book Tour Episode Twenty-Four: Perfection


 

 

There are perfect moments. They take us by surprise, creeping up when we least expect them: for one fleeting hazy moment, everything feels just right, and we’re perfectly content. They don’t have to come from epic events — just standing in a dry safe place watching a thunderstorm can bring on that feeling, or it can be a heady feeling of joy at finding yourself in a place that might have seemed unattainable once upon a time.

 

And so I felt now, heading for my last book talk on this tour, at the Center for Jewish History in New York. I had no idea if I’d be able to charm the learned audience, impress them, make them chuckle or sigh (and I had no idea that my conference would be filmed) but just being invited was an honor, and I was relishing that. My book, Finding Home in the Footsteps of the Jewish Fusgeyers, had been recognized as an important work, and that was thrilling. “I never could have imagined this,” I kept saying to myself as I tripped through the sunny streets heading for that auspicious red brick building. And I couldn’t help remembering my earlier arrival in this city, back in in 1962.

 

It was, to say the least, an inauspicious entry (youthful experiences often are) although memory preserves it as an ecstatic time, albeit fraught with doubt and fear. I was one of those seventeen-year-old runaways, and after having been expelled from yet another high school, I was unwilling to face what would be dire consequences. My dream was life in New York, and I had some money in my pocket — not a fortune, perhaps fifty dollars — but why worry. Things would work out. Stardom was at my fingertips.

 

It was night when my bus from Michigan arrived at the Port Authority bus station, and I walked over to Times Square, thrilled by the lights, the noise, the strange characters on the streets, excited by my first independent journey and taste of freedom. And when walking around became too tiring, I snuck into a building and curled into the back of a corridor, careful not to wrinkle my good wool coat. I was afraid of nothing – pure innocence can achieve that.

 

The next day, I walked into a modeling school-cum-agency, certain of success. Imagine my surprise when I was told, no, I wouldn’t do. I could sign up for modeling classes (at a steep price) and perhaps with a nose job, I might make the grade. A discouraging start, yes, but not a hopeless one.

 

That afternoon, I found a (pretty awful) job as a page in the First National City Bank and a place to live. But what a place! It was the old Barrymore house, a once-lovely five-story brownstone where John, Ethel ,and Lionel Barrymore had each had their own floor. Yes, of course it had seen better days. Now, there was a Chinese laundry in the basement, and the first three floors were condemned, their windows were covered with big white Xs.

 

The large square room I rented was on the fourth floor — the fifth was occupied by male transients — and it was lovely…or, at least, it had been. There was a large elegant fireplace (that I was never to use unless I wanted the whole building to burn to the ground) a large sash window looking out onto courtyard with the neighbor’s sash window directly opposite. The leafy molding on the ceiling was a visual delight, the bed was a large double, and I felt like a princess sleeping in it. And, like a princess in any old stone castle, I froze. There was, of course, no heating and it was impossible to plug in a heater or any appliance since the wiring dated from the 1930s or even earlier.

 

Halfway down the corridor was an old elevator shaft with its elevator firmly stuck in place for decades: it was now home to a league of pigeons, and they cooed happily all day. Beside that, was an ancient bathroom with a huge claw-foot tub.

 

I rented the room from a Mr. Taylor, a spry weedy man who was always cheery. I didn’t see him very often because he’d only pass by from time to time, fuss about in his room along the corridor, then leave again. In change of everything, was Sally, a slatternly woman who lived in housecoats and was around Mr. Taylor’s age. She lived in the room next door to Mr. Taylor’s. Both had been actors in the old days of vaudeville theatre, they told me. Those days were long over. They were in their sixties now, and back then, that was considered old — especially to me.

 

At the very end of the corridor lived Katie a pregnant woman from California. Her husband was finishing medical studies, and they had no money to live anywhere better. Katie was a handsome dark-haired woman with freckles, and a good sense of humor. She was also very confident and several years older than me. I was rather in awe of her, and would have liked to be her friend, except Sally confided that Katie was really rather odd: “She does very strange things.”

“Really? Like what?”

Sally lowered her voice to a theatrical sotto voce: “In the middle of the night when I’m sleeping, she sneaks out of her room, comes up the corridor and into the kitchen, takes one of the spoons out of the drawer and leaves it in the sink. It drives me crazy.”

I admitted this was a very strange thing to do, but Sally was also rather an odd character. I was fairly certain she came into my room when I was absent and poked around — there were no keys to any of the doors. Once, she slipped up and mentioned a book I happened to be reading; how did she know about it? I took to wedging a tiny piece of thread in the crack of my door, just to see if it were opened in my absence. Of course, the thread was never there when I returned, but I didn’t dare confront Sally. Anyway, with my sparse belongings (little other than books and some cheap clothes) there wasn’t much to spy on or protect.

 

Since Katie was only a few years older than me and had little to do during the day or in the evenings when her husband was on duty at the hospital, we did become friendly. Around Christmas, she invited me into her room for a drink.

The room she shared with her husband was even lovelier than mine. Large, square, it was probably probably the main sitting room in this old brownstone’s heyday. I liked Katie considerably, especially after we had downed several warming drinks, although Sally’s story about the spoons did make me wary.

“Doesn’t it make you angry that Sally keeps coming into our rooms when we’re out?” Katie asked. “Because she does, you know. I’ve seen her leaving your room.”

“I didn’t know she does the same to you.”

“Of course, she does. She even made a comment about my Christmas tree the other day. How would she know I had one? Of course, you do make her crazy by leaving those spoons in the sink.”

“Me?” I stared at Katie, appalled. “But Sally told me you were the one who did it!”

“Why would I? She’s totally mad.”

 

We became firm friends, after that, and as allies, we plotted. Sometimes one of us would sneak a spoon out of the kitchen drawer and leave it in the sink. And, one afternoon when Sally was out, we dared sneak into Mr. Taylor’s room. It was a dark place with heavy sheets covering the windows. There was a bed with a mattress but no covers, and a few bits of furniture. And, stacked everywhere, were bound bundles of pornographic magazines. So that was what Mr. Taylor’s real business was.

 

Naturally, young and romantic, I remember dreaming about finding true love, and entertaining a fantasy about that window opposite mine. What if a wonderfully handsome man lived in that other apartment, a Prince Charming? What if we were to begin a Romeo and Juliet romance?

 

And, lo and behold, imagine my excitement when one Saturday, I peeked out the window and there was a rather nice-looking man smiling at me. He pulled up his sash window, I did the same. No…he wasn’t quite Romeo. Around ten years older than me, he did have a rubbery sort of face, but he was amusing and lively. His name was Ernest Austin, and he was a professional actor. We chatted for a while, then he invited me for breakfast the following morning.

 

I was dancing on air. The next day, there I was, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready for Romeo and a love story. I went around the corner, found his brownstone — things were constructed in a higgledy-piggledy way — raced up the four flights of stairs, and knocked on his door. Imagine my surprise when his door swept open, and there stood fantasy man, totally naked.

 

I do remember scuttling back down the stairs, and his voice calling, “Come back! I’ll get dressed.” But the fantasy was over. Romeo had turned out to be Lothario.

 

 

More about my books and passionate life can be found at http://www.j-arleneculiner.com

and http://www:jill-culiner.com

and on my story podcast at https://soundcloud.com/j-arlene-culiner

Monday, February 22, 2021

Last of the Mohicans – tough to read – great to watch by Kaye Spencer #prairierosepubs #moviesthatarebetterthanthebook

195 years ago —February 4, 1826—James Fenimore Cooper published Last of the Mohicans. It was/is the second in his five-novel series called the Leatherstocking Tales.




Source: Wikipedia, Leatherstocking Tales


I grunted my way through these books many years ago. All I can say is... Ugh. Cooper wrote about such an interesting period in American history in such a painfully dry and disjointed manner, not untypical of the time, that even though I have a soft spot in my reading heart for the dry old classics, I cringe at the thought of re-reading them.

But my interest in this story changed when the 1992 movie came out. I went from Ugh to WOW! in no time flat.


Yes, the movie reassigned names, changed names, swapped love interests, and took other great liberties with the plot, but as far as I’m concerned, every change made a huge improvement to the book.

I can’t get enough of everything about this movie version of Last of the Mohicans.

Music. Acting. Scenery. Magua. Costumes.

I will find you.





                              The ‘Final Scene – Promontory’ with the hypnotic, tension-building music.



And The Kiss—oh the kiss.

 


If these videos aren’t visible on your mobile device, it’s a result of the ‘new and improved’ Blogger interface. Below are the linked YouTube urls for your viewing convenience.

If you’re interested in Behind the Scenes Making of the Movie videos, go on YouTube and type in: Making “The Last of the Mohican” Part 1. Parts 2 and 3 will follow.

Until next time,
Kaye Spencer

Writing through history one romance upon a time

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Sunday, February 21, 2021

CRITIQUE, AND OTHER DIRTY WORDS, by Mollie Hunt, Cat Writer

 

Certain words can instill instant fear and trepidation, and for me as a writer, none so much as “critique.” (Although “review” comes in a close second, and “promotion” an easy third.) 

To me the word, critique, translates into laying my work bare for others to judge, condemn, mock, or flay as they seem fit. Though in my experience, most people are kind, or at least constructive with their criticism, the fear is still there. Like the little girl I once was, all I can think is, “Will they like me?” 

Recently the tables have been turned, however. I volunteered to critique a set of short stories for an anthology to be published by one of my writers’ groups. Since I don’t write short stories myself and would not be entering a submission, I was deemed a perfect judge. I accepted willingly. Stories of under 5000 words—how bad could it be? 

The first story was easy. The author had done everything right, from plot to arc to grammar and punctuation. My only consideration was a typo or two. Hey, bring it on, I said to myself. I was good at this! 

Then I began story number two. 

Though this storyline was intriguing, the body was full of errors—grammar, spelling, punctuation, etc. It was nothing that couldn’t be fixed by an editor, and goodness knows, we all need one of those, but the writer hadn’t bothered, and it showed. Sadly the problems ran deeper. The plot was turbulent and difficult to follow. Terms like trying too hard and overcomplicating came to my mind. How was I ever going to tell the author of their shortcomings without breaking their heart? 

As I made my notes, I tried to be kind and optimistic while still conveying specific points where change could be advantageous. I don’t know if I succeeded, but I hope so. I believe anyone who is driven to write should be encouraged. No one’s first attempt will turn out a Louise Penny or a Steven King. 

I recently looked at the first manuscript I wrote—450 pages of drivel. I had no voice of my own, so I imitated writers I loved. My plot likes were mediocre and my characters two-dimensional and cliché. Still there was hope. An upsurgence of ideas and my first experience with how the story writes itself. Without that first there wouldn’t have been a second or a third or a Crazy Cat Lady Cozy Mystery Series or a Cat Seasons Sci-fantasy Tetralogy. 

I’m still no Louise Penny or Steven King, but I am myself. I have a voice. I have a plot. (More than I can ever get to paper!) I was encouraged by others, and now I hope to pass that on. 

If you critique others’ works, feel free to give me some tips. How do you handle the heartbreak of crappy writing? How can one be honest with out being brutal? Do you have reference items you love to pass on with your writerly advice? I know I can’t make everybody happy, but is there a way to not make them cry?



Tuesday, February 16, 2021

Death to Your Manuscript - the "Passive Voice". 
Ruben D. Gonzales

Some editor said the passive voice is death to your writing, like -“It was a dark and stormy night”. I’ve seen an editor’s query instructions state, “Don’t open your story with a weather report.” I think the two warnings are different, but both probably wise. A long time ago an editor critiqued a piece I wrote and sent it back with the words written in red – “Take out was.”

Have you ever used the “find” function on your word program to scan through text to locate the scoundrel passive “was”? Or equally lame adjectives scattered about your prose? My early manuscript drafts are all on paper, typed with an old portable Remington typewriter. I carried that typewriter all over four continents and after five years brought it home with me, unfortunately the passive voice came along with the typewriter. Thank goodness for editing software. So much easier to edit with a “find” function in a word program. Just enter “was” into the search box and hit the find button. When I see how many times I’ve used the word it is still a surprised to me.

I write in bursts and fits, sometimes working on several different projects per day. I tend to wait until the first draft of a book is completed before I go back and edit out the passive and other weaknesses of my writing. I claim that stopping to fix grammar and tense slows my creative drive. I know others edit as they go, completing massive amounts of text, perfectly written, ready for the press. I’m not like that. It may be a little because of the language differences, English is not my first language. Some say I pronounce words unusually; like the first sound in Chicago – pronounce like Chicano – not like – “she-cago”.

A friend of mine is with our local chapter of Sisters in Crime and her career as an editor is 50 years long. She wrote a book on editing that won an Agatha Award, and it’s a wonderful and instructive book. She offers many “tips” for editing out things that can “kill” a manuscript. After reviewing one of my manuscripts she returned it to me with kind words, but with a note suggesting I read page 185 in her book. That section of her book deals with dialogue and the importance of pacing. It was great advice, or should I say, “Her advice makes me a better writer.” I’ve got a copy of her book on my desk which I diligently use during the course of the editing process. Blast that lady, how did she know I needed so much help!

www.rubendgonzales.com

"Murder on Black Mountain"
@RubenGonzales77


Wednesday, February 10, 2021

New Release -- Chicago Lightning By Kaye Spencer

 

Valentine’s Day, 1929

Chicago

It didn’t take long for Ceara Galloway to realize she’d made the biggest mistake of her life in getting married. Her mobster husband, Eddie “The Roach” Rocchelli, has shown his true colors and hair-trigger temper in a beating that nearly killed Ceara, and now, she’s got to get away to survive. In a daring scheme to expose Eddie’s under-the-table bootlegging operation to the authorities, she steals the proof she needs and contacts J. Edgar Hoover.  Can this dangerous plan ensure her freedom and her safety?

Hagen Kane is the hand-picked one-man cavalry the Bureau Chief sends to rescue Ceara in a do-or-die mission. As Kane slowly infiltrates Rocchelli’s gang as an auto mechanic, he walks a razor-thin line, knowing at any moment his cover could be blown—and he and Ceara will both certainly be killed. When the time comes, they make a break for it, both realizing their plan has become more complicated—they are in love with one another. Escape has suddenly become more important than ever, now that there’s something to live for.

In a cross-country race for their lives, with Rocchelli and his gang hot on their tail, they must depend on every trick either of them has ever learned to survive—along with hoping for a healthy dose of luck on their side. Time is running out, and hope is running low.  Can Ceara and Hagen turn the tables on Rocchelli and his men in one final stand against CHICAGO LIGHTNING?


EXCERPT


Chicago, Illinois – Valentine’s Day 1929

Belly down on cold concrete, Ceara Rocchelli fought her way to consciousness. Stale cigarette smoke mixed with garage odors accompanied her slow ascent into disoriented awareness. Blinking away double-vision, her foggy brain recognized the thin yellow glow in the dim distance as light peeking from under a closed door. Something on the other side of that door mattered, but what it was became mired down in her muddled thinking and sank into obscurity. Her lips were sticky, and she tasted blood when she swallowed. A wish for water faded under the tantalizing lure of sleep. She was bone-deep cold and so tired. So tired…

Ceara jerked awake. What was that noise? She held her breath, listening. There— Voices. Angry voices. Men’s voices in the other room. A cautious check left and right revealed darker shadows of things she couldn’t make out, but she felt no sense of another person. Chancing she was alone, she pushed upright, despite every part of her body protesting. The chink and rattle of chain scraping on the concrete didn’t register in her cobwebbed mind. How long had she been out? Minutes? Hours? When she tucked a strand of her blonde bobbed hair behind her ear, her attention locked on the ring of metal around her right wrist. Puzzled, she trailed her gaze along the chain attached to the metal ring to where it wrapped around the back axle of a Model-T a few feet away.

She stared dumbly for some moments. Then it hit her.

Panic blazed hot and fast like a wildfire in high winds. She yanked the chain and tore at the cold circlet of steel. Useless, her mind said. Stop fighting. Desperate seconds ticked until her tenuous hold on rational thought got the upper hand, and she wrestled her terror into submission.

Think! Think! How did I get here? Why am I chained?

     

Tuesday, February 9, 2021

Edit: A Writer’s Four-Letter Word

I’ve seen a lot about editing lately - articles, blog posts, courses, etc. - so thought it would be an interesting topic to explore.  I even attended an enlightening webinar recently about editing hacks, and you can find hundreds of books out there with all sorts of tips and tricks.  

Writing is fun.  You get to disappear inside your imagination and create new worlds, plots, and characters.  In other words, make up cool stuff.  And hopefully, at the end of the process, you have created an entertaining and satisfying escape for others to enjoy.  


Editing, on the other hand, is not that much fun.  That’s where you get to go back and delve into all the things, large and small, that you got wrong (and hopefully, there will be a lot of things you got right, as well).  There are many different approaches to editing, and you must find the one(s) that works best for you.  


Some writers edit as they go and only complete one draft of a work.  This process generally consists of editing and polishing up what you wrote at the prior writing session each time you sit down to write.  You’re lucky if this process works for you since it assumes that you have been able to avoid any major content issues along the way that need to be addressed during a second draft.  


Others complete a “first draft” with the intention that it will get a complete overhaul during a later editing process and become a shiny new second draft.  There are a few different types of editing writers might employ while working on their second draft.  

The first is content or developmental editing, which includes the big picture stuff.  Are there any major structural issues with the work?  Is there an appropriate character arc?  Does each scene build off the previous scenes?  


The next step is line editing.  This includes all of the little stuff, down to the sentence level, like grammar, punctuation, fact checking, repetition, inconsistencies, etc.  Some people suggest reading your work out loud to make sure nothing sounds clunky, that voice and tone are consistent, etc.  Others suggest reading from end to beginning, or simply mixing the pages up and reading it completely out of order.  If you don’t watch out, this can become a never-ending process.  My father (a writer and English professor) once told me that, at some point, you have to stop editing and just be finished, because I could easily edit something forever!  


And if that’s not enough, you also have the option to hire a professional editor, or call on friends or writing buddies/groups to read your work and provide additional critical feedback.  


It can seem like an overwhelming undertaking, but don’t bury your head in the sand …




Pick up your pen and start editing!





What editing process works best for you?  When do you know you’re done?





Angela Crider Neary is an attorney by day and writer by night. She is an avid mystery reader and especially enjoys reading novels set in interesting locales. She was inspired to write her first mystery novella, Li'l Tom and the Pussyfoot Detective Bureau: The Case of the Parrots Desaparecidos, by one of her favorite areas in San Francisco, Telegraph Hill.  Her second book, Li'l Tom and the Case of the New Year Dragon is now available.  To learn more, visit her on Facebook and Amazon.

Friday, February 5, 2021

Hear Ye, Hear Ye

 


In general, I'm not one to worry about the aging process. No, I'm not crazy about the loose skin on my neck or my slightly saggy jowls but I'm a low-maintenance sort of gal so you won't see me doing Botox or having surgery. As far as the fading color of my hair, many of the women in my family develop beautiful white hair as they age; I hope I will be one of them. True, I may add blue, pink, or purple streaks but that's just a way to express myself. I'm all about color and sparkle.

I'm now 58 years old and so far, I don't have too much to complain about. I've had hypothyroidism for years. I've developed a touch of arthritis in my shoulders along with some rotator cuff issues. However,I have also developed an issue that completely blindsided me: hearing loss.😲 I went in for my annual hearing check not really expecting any changes. Leaving with the recommendation that I begin wearing hearing aids really took me aback. It took me a couple of weeks to come to terms with it. Yes, my daddy was hard of hearing my entire life but he worked on jet engines in the Navy before hearing protection was required. My mama didn't suffer a noticeable hearing loss until she was in her 80s. Somehow, the thought that hearing loss might impact me at this age had never crossed my mind; hearing aids weren't even on my radar for a few more decades. 

Now that I've had a couple of months to adjust, I'm okay. Most days I even remember to wear my hearing aids, LOL. I'm also now one of those people dealing with hearing aid batteries, which seem to last a week at the most. I find it amusing that, when the batteries need changing, my hearing aids play the opening bars of Beethoven's Fifth.😂


 In true me fashion, my hearing aids are red. Even though no one sees them, knowing that that pop of color is there makes me happy.

Have any parts of the aging process caught you off guard?

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