Thursday, February 20, 2020
Dear Reader, Love Author: Dear Reader, Love J. Arlene Culiner
Dear Reader, Love Author: Dear Reader, Love J. Arlene Culiner: Dear Reader… Today, I’m offering you Armchair Travel — and there’s nothing quite like it! No last-minute panic getting out to the ai...
The Book Tour Episode Thirteen: The Ex-Husband
“I ast my granddaughter out t’ dinner. She’s only three,”
says the dumpy woman in the coffee shop.
“That din cost you a lot,” scoffs her equally dumpy
friend.
“Did. I bought her 30 dollars worth of toys. Have to do
something for the poor kid. You know, my daughter, she jus’ reads all day.
Yesterday she did 250 pages. I tell her, can’t you do something? Like, clean
the place up. Wash the floor or somethin’. She’ll lay there and jus kina…” The
woman raises her hands in defeat. Her friend shakes her head with
commiseration.
Me? I’m rooting for the unknown daughter. I wish her many
wonderful books.
***
I’ve
given book talks in Sausalito, San Bruno, and Santa Rosa, and now, with free
time before the next talk in Oklahoma City, I can go where I please. And since
this is Episode Thirteen, why not head down the California coast to LA, for a
meeting with an ex-husband, DT.
DT
and I had been married back in poor student days, when we’d stolen Brussels
sprouts from the surrounding fields, but couldn’t afford the butter to put on
them. Nowadays, he was a Hollywood big shot. I last saw him in 1981, when I
came to LA to visit my friend Nancy. DT invited us out to dinner — he wanted to
show me he could now afford the best, and that, in a restaurant frequented only
by the rich and famous, everyone knew who he was. He also liked being seen with
a woman on each arm, and Nancy, half Mexican, half Swedish, was gorgeous.
After
dinner, we all went back to his house for a nightcap — his present lady friend
was away, in Phoenix, on business, but she’d left messages on the answering
machine (this was in the days before cell phones). The first was cutsie-wootsie:
‘Hi Honey, Why can’t I reach you? Call me when you get home.” The fourth was
edgy. The eighth was hysterical. “Where the hell are you, you shit!”
“She’s
a bit possessive,” said DT with a meek grin.
The
last, frankly menacing: “I’ll kill you, you lousy bastard. I know what you’re
up to.
DT
looked slightly embarrassed as he poured out wine for the three of us…wine that
we never did get to taste. For, no sooner had we all settled, glass in hand,
than we heard a wild shriek, frightening, unworldly. And before our astonished
eyes, a fury hurtled into the room brandishing a large butcher knife.
Fortunately,
DT was stronger than she, or we’d all have ended up as luncheon kebab.
***
Their
romance hadn’t survived, and DT had been living in a trendy residential hotel
in Hollywood for twenty years. Since he’d be at work when I arrived, he’d told
the doorman to let me in.
But
as soon as that venerable gatekeeper catches sight of me, he’s immediately
suspicious: how could a big shot like DT have been married to this creature with
long grey hair, wearing a shabby winter jacket and lugging an unwieldy old
backpack? Come on! He won’t even let me wait in the public area just past the
front door, a nirvana-like area of palm trees and tropical plants around a
swimming pool.
I
don’t mind — I’m just amused and not in the mood to argue. I ask if I
can leave my jacket and backpack with him while I go walk around the city.
Begrudgingly, he accepts. But at just that moment, DT arrives. So I end up
sitting in the courtyard, after all, sipping something unidentifiable,
delicious, and head-turning while the hotel staff comes to inspect me —
goodness knows what DT has told them.
“He
said you were the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen,” announces the maid, a
tiny delightful Mexican woman named Maria.
“And
now look at her,” say Maria and DT in unison. “She’s still beautiful.”
The
doorman (obviously he can’t believe what he’s hearing) is looking only slightly
less suspicious: I’m not a respectable ex-wife. He wants Yves Saint Laurent, a
facelift, and diamonds, not walking boots, rumpled stretch jeans, and no
make-up.
We
all sit around chewing the fat for a while — it makes the reunion easier. The
maid and maître d’ keep saying that they haven’t seen DT this happy in months,
and we get on so well, why did we ever split up?
I
could give them a few reasons, but don’t, and when the curious crowd finally
departs, DT begins bragging about his life.
Once,
many years ago, he’d been an investigative journalist who’d won prizes for his
work, but that was before becoming a television CEO, then a writer: “I’m the
best writer out here in Hollywood, and the best-paid one, too.” He names shows
I’ve never heard of.
“I
live in Europe, you know.”
“Sure,
but you get American programs over there.”
“I
don’t own a television. Never have.”
This
makes him angry. “You always were a snob. Elitist. I always said that, and you
haven’t changed.”
“Some
things never do.”
“Anyway,
I’m thinking of retiring, going down to live in Mexico or Costa Rica, spend the
rest of my life fishing.”
What
I’m seeing is a time-worn guy, diabetic, stiff, with a big belly. It’s clear
that, despite the bragging, when he comes home from sitcom writing, he’s pretty
depressed. How does he spend his evenings? Watching TV. “Shows, sometimes films like…”
He names a few.
They
mean nothing to me, but to keep the peace, I don’t mention I haven’t seen a
movie in a quarter of a century.
During
dinner, his talk is of wild parties long over, bad behavior in public places,
being thrown out of bars with his raucous, wealthy, and famous friends, all
people I’ve never heard of.
“You
live down in some dark hole or something?”
No,
just in a parallel world, but he shows no interest in me. I’m the one who’s
supposed to be impressed; I’m the listener, the only wife he ever had, perhaps
the woman he felt closest to in his life.
“I’m
an old man now,” he repeats often, for having set his intellectual goals too
low, he’s gone bankrupt. And he’s frightened. Suspects, perhaps, his “name is
writ in water.” At least, with me listening, he is validated: I put him back in
the picture.
***
“Enjoy
the city,” says the doorman as I set out on foot the next morning, determined
to see what the real world looks like. And…well…there must be people who love
what’s out here, the commercial tat, the chance of seeing a star, the
movie-based kitsch, but for me, it’s only roaring traffic, noise, loud music,
squat buildings, and un-loveliness. I try to imagine what this area looked like
long before humans arrived with their warfare, temporary alliances, rites, and
destruction. When this was a marshy plain, and the many sheltered lagoons were
home to birds and unfamiliar water creatures; or when wolves, mastodons, bison,
mammoths, short-faced bears, horses, and camels nibbled vast grasslands. But
it’s a hopeless struggle.
Everywhere
is cement, rubbish, and an abysmal sky, thanks to cars, and nitrogen oxide
emissions pumped out by oil refineries. Rising sea levels threaten coastal areas
with flooding and erosion; the millions of people littering, spraying
pesticides on their lawns, hosing off driveways, and cars are all contaminating
run-off water; and the ocean, nearby creeks and rivers are bacteria-infested. Much
of the plastic I see around me is completely unrecyclable — clamshell food
packaging, black plastic trays, take-out containers, cold drink cups — and,
these days, we can no longer ship it off to some faraway out-of-sight-out-of-mind
exotic locale. Instead, in 2018, Los Angeles county alone sent more than half a
million tons of plastic to four different landfills; another 20,000 tons of
plastic went into its waste-to-energy incinerator.
***
“You
could come back here to live,” says Maria a little sadly. “Take up where you
left off. He’d be so happy if you did.”
But
my bag is packed, and it’s with the springy steps of an escapee that I head for
the bus station. I’m traveling east, on the lookout for the perfect place, the
ideal community, the little paradise, the setting for a good story, although I
know perfectly well such a place probably doesn’t exist.
On
the bus, the Mexican on the seat beside mine is a dishwasher. “I’m perfecting
my English,” he says in perfect English. What’s the book in his hand? Orestes?
I
stare at him. “The play by Euripides?”
He
laughs at my surprise. “All you need is to want to learn.”
More about my books and
passionate life can be found at http://www.j-arleneculiner.com
and on my podcast at
https://soundcloud.com/j-arlene-culiner
Sunday, February 16, 2020
HOW I SPENT MY WINTER VACATION, by Mollie Hunt, Cat Writer
How do you picture your dream vacation? Fun in the sun? A
writing retreat? Lots of great food? Maid service? No worries?
My recent trip to Cabo San Lucas was all those and more.
Staying at an all-inclusive resort a ways out of Cabo, my husband and I had a
suite right on the beach. From our room we could watch both the sunrise and the
sunset. As an extra bonus, the Super Snow Moon made a showing during our stay
as well.
Though Jim and I go to his timeshare in Mazatlán just
about every year, this was my first experience with the all-inclusive plan. In Mazatlán,
one of our favorite things to do is shop at the central market for fresh foods,
then cook them in our room. Jim fishes on the beach and buys langoustines and
shrimp from the fishermen. But the Cabo place was new to us, and a ways from
town and shopping, so we decided to try something different.
It was fun not having to think about cooking (or cleaning
up after) and one of the only times in my life I didn’t look at the prices. We
enjoyed the many resort eateries. There was a bistro, a buffet, a Chinese and a
Japanese restaurant. The Japanese outdoor place was my favorite, not only
because of the great food, but it also had cats! A few friendly ferals popped
in for a share of the bounty, and I was happy to give it to them. I didn’t see
the sign saying not to feed the animals until after the deed was done.
We also enjoyed a fair share of room service, my guilty
pleasure. Getting breakfast delivered to
our room facilitated the other favorite part of my holiday— working on my
books. Ironically my story on takes place at the beach, but hundreds of miles
north in the cold and rain of Washington state. Sitting on the warm, sunny
balcony, it was sometimes difficult to put myself in the chill of those
northern climes.
Writing, walking, smelling the flowers, eating way too
much, sleeping in without having to feed and medicate cats— all those things
made the past week a wonderful vacation. I’m glad to be back though. My cats
missed me.
You can find more blogposts by Mollie Hunt, Cat Writer on her blogsite: www.lecatts.wordpress.com
Facebook Author Page: www.facebook.com/
@MollieHuntCats
Sign up for Mollie’s Extremely Informal Newsletter at: http://eepurl.com/c0fOTn
Wednesday, February 12, 2020
New Release - Quest for the Light of Valmora (Legends of Winatuke Book 3) by Sarah J. McNeal
The evil witch-queen, Mahara, has returned to the Dark Isle after her exile, even more determined for revenge on those who have tried to thwart her evil plans—and that vengeance begins with capturing Raven McKnight!
Raven’s son, Falcon, has distanced himself from the family after the near-death of his younger brother, Peregrine, which he believes was his fault. But now, he must push his feelings aside and return to save his father and the entire realm of Winatuke. Falcon, filled with self-doubt, knows he’s not an exceptional warrior. On top of that, he’s falling for Izabelle, the beautiful Gypsy woman who is Peregrine’s love—and that, he cannot allow.
Izabelle quickly comes to understand that her heart’s desire is for Falcon’s love—not Peregrine’s—whose affection seems to be solely for his music and his violin. As the terrible meaning of the QUEST FOR THE LIGHT OF VALMORA reveals itself fully, the sacrifices that Izabelle and Falcon must make seem unimaginable, and likely, unattainable. Neither of them may survive. Can Izabelle bring the Light of Valmora in time to vanquish Mahara and her cruel vengeance?
With the witch-queen’s anger aimed directly at her old flame, Raven, Falcon understands the only way to save his father is to take his place. No matter the consequences to himself, it’s the only way to keep everyone he loves safe from Mahara’s vindictive punishment. But will Falcon be able to survive even one night in her demonic captivity?
EXCERPT
A mist crawled on phantom
fingers along the forest floor as twilight threatened. Ebony trees, bereft of
leaves, stood like soldiers that reached for heaven through the gloom. An
unnatural silence fell upon the forest. Woodland creatures burrowed deep into
the earth to seek comfort, their hearts fluttering with apprehension. A living
cloud of birds darted across the darkening sky in an attempt to fly to the
safety of some distant place where the light still held. Cicadas hushed their chatter
and held themselves tight against the rough bark of the old oaks to become
invisible. Not even the wind dared to breathe.
A few thin clouds clung to the
darkening sky as the pale moon rose from the horizon. Out of the breech of
trees, a horse with glowing red eyes galloped and upon its back, a rider
appeared clothed in a dark cloak, its face shrouded in the depths of the
darkened hood. The specter approached with urgent speed, hooves thundered on
the forest floor and scattered dead leaves in its wake. Close enough now, a
face appeared in the bleak light of the sunset. Its skin, unnaturally white and
bloodless, glowed in the faded light. Obsidian tendrils snaked out of the hood
to ride in the wake of the wind created by the swift ride.
Closer and closer she rode. Her
soulless eyes filled with malice, glittered with death. Thin lips peeled back from
her sharpened teeth as she croaked, "I'm coming for you and death to all
who stand in my way." Upon the heels of her ominous threat, a hideous peel
of laughter pierced the quiet while the shadows of night enveloped the Earth.
The witch-queen of the Dark Isle rode with malignant purpose.
Mahara!
Tuesday, February 11, 2020
The Joy of Editing
You’ve probably heard of The Joy of Cooking and The Joy of Sex. I would much rather be doing either of those than editing. But I currently find myself in the editing phase on three different writing projects. I’m not sure how this happened - perhaps it was karma, coincidence, poor planning on my part, or maybe a little bit of each. Since I’m relatively new to writing, I’m not a pro at the editing process. In fact, I’m just the opposite.
How I feel when I have to edit something.
I have heard many tips like, read things out of order, take a break and come back to it, change the font, read your work out loud, print it out, etc. Even considering all of this, I have a hard time editing something I’ve written, myself, and seeing the work from an outside perspective.
That’s why having someone who can provide editing assistance is a must. Shawn Cosby, an amazing author I met at a Bouchercon last year, has said about the editing process, “Opening that first email with ‘Edits’ in the subject line was like defusing a bomb in an 80’s action flick. Once I got through the first round of edits, I felt like I had survived a trial by fire.” I’m not sure I would go that far, but almost. Before my father passed away, he was my go-to guy for editing. I always asked him to read my stuff, and begged him for suggestions and critiques. He was very light-handed with his edits, however, and never provided much feedback. Strange for a former college English professor and prolific writer. I interpreted this as him not wanting hurt my feelings.
Not so much with the professional editors I have worked with since then. They tell it like it is, which I appreciate and it’s what they’re there for, but it can be hard to take. It’s not that I think my writing is perfect or that it can’t be improved. Far from it. I know that it can be, and I’m happy to accept constructive criticism, although it helps if it’s provided gently. And a few positive words sprinkled in with the negative can help ease the pain. (Yes, I need to toughen up!) The problem seems to be that once I’ve written something, I find it extremely difficult, if not impossible, to change. Like it’s set in stone. So I blame my fear and hatred of change. Once I’ve written something, it’s hard for me to see it from a different angle, especially if it involves changing a story’s structure.
I’m hoping the process will become easier the more I do it. Do you edit your own writing, or do you find friends or professionals who help you? Do you have any editing tips or tricks that work for you? Tell me in the comments!
Friday, February 7, 2020
Just Call Me Pollyanna
Pollyanna // Noun // An excessively cheerful or optimistic person
I admit it. I'm a bit of a Pollyanna. I'm the person who is always going to try to put a positive spin on something. Why? It's a choice. In a world where the mainstream media and social media are constantly trying to tell us how horrible everything is, I'm going to be the voice in the wilderness shouting that there is still good in the world.
I gave up watching the news a couple of years ago because I realized that it was having a negative impact on me. I suffer from anxiety, which is usually fairly well controlled, but being fed non-stop negativity twenty-four/seven was causing problems. I don't know why the main stream news media has decided that it must be all negativity, all of the time. And the worse, more shocking they can make it sound, the more they seem to like it. That's okay. I can choose not to watch.
I use my author FB page as a place to post things that I find encouraging: posts about people who are working to make the world a better place, inspirational quotes, and sometimes just something silly. (Cats/animals make frequent appearances on my page.) If you're looking for outrage, political posts, etc., I'm not the person to follow. There are plenty of other folks making those posts, follow them instead. If you want to get away from all of that stuff, I'm your girl.
Oh! I almost forgot - I also occasionally post things about my books. (I am an author after all.)
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| Image courtesy of www.depositphoto.com |
So, dear readers, the lecture for this month is over. I hope you have a wonderful month and take care of yourself - you're worth it.
Sign up for my
newsletter here: http://madmimi.com/signups/112968/join
Amazon Author Page: http://amazon.com/author/isabellanorse
Monday, February 3, 2020
Size Matters by Michael E. Gonzales
I’m doing research for a new novel.
Of course, it’s a science fiction story. I predicate part of my story on what’s
called the quilted multiverse. A theory that suggests that in the endless expanse
of space there is more than one universe.
Interesting theory if you read into
it but great fodder for a story!
The visible Universe
One of my many questions is… “How
big is our universe?” I would use its size to extrapolate the size of others.
My web searches provided me with numbers,
in miles, kilometers, astronomical units, light years, and parsecs. All so
large that only a cosmologist could get his head around such numbers!
So…I got on line and asked an astronomer.
Here is her response:
“The cosmic background radiation, in a synchronized map of
the gravitational cosmic background radiation will give a good description.
“I would describe it according to the updated Hubble
Equation. We can only see as far as the quarks condensate-plasma went before
going into its reversibly mathematically state.”
Well, that certainly cleared up that question.
Continued research led me to a neophyte’s
understanding. Our universe is huge beyond our puny mind’s ability to
comprehend.
Nevertheless, I continued to gather
information and plot my story.
I have tried to use language to
describe the vastness of space, but I am not up to the task. Everything I write
seems small in comparison.
I’ve read what other have written. Gallant
efforts, but…no.
It is not really the size of the
universe that impresses, but rather how infinitesimally small we are in it.
Take three minutes of your time,
and watch this video. It will leave you with a gasping impression of our place in this unbelievable
universe of ours, both above our heads…and beneath our feet!
Mike
Website - http://www.mikegonzalesauthor.com/
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/people/Michael-Gonzales/100010275572869
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/GONZOfiction/?pnref=lhc
Amazon -
https://www.amazon.com/Michael-E-Gonzales/e/B01CRR80RS
Publisher -
http://prairierosepublications.com/authors_2/michael-e-gonzales/
Fire Star Press Blogspot -
http://firestarpress.blogspot.com/
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