Observations from an Ozark Life

New Home

noreply@blogger.com (Wendy) — Wed, 09 Mar 2016 14:21:00 +0000

I've moved all (most?) of the stuff here to a new site, so come visit me there. I'll be posting all the new blog entries on that page, PLUS I have a couple of new projects coming up. One of those is up now (the Wendy City) and another one is still in the works.

http://www.wendy.com/

Hope to see you there sometime!

Rethinking the Broken

noreply@blogger.com (Wendy) — Wed, 30 Dec 2015 16:50:00 +0000

(cc: Flickr) by Tina

My garbage disposal is broken. I flip the switch and it just makes a sick noise that is the equivalent of a wild animal that has been injured beyond repair.

My mother came over and I warned her not to put any food down that side of the sink and she gave me a look as if she were insulted, as if I was rude to suggest she would even use a garbage disposal. "You should compost," she said, wrinkling her nose at me.

She's against garbage disposals. All food that can be composted should be composted, she thinks. She is suddenly interested in vermiculture.

I agree with all this, except I suspect that she is against garbage disposals because hers stopped working too. Because of a wayward scrubby that got sucked down the drain, chewed up and a large plumbing bill later has left her angry at all garbage disposals as if they are lying in wait just to ruin your day.

When she saw I was not ready to give up on it she offered a solution involving torque and a broom handle. But she said it with little resolve, as if she was just checking the box under "obligatory maternal advice."

I think she is secretly hoping I will finally abandon it and join the revolution of anti-disposal worm farmers who will unite to make the world a better place.

Remember Me in 2033

noreply@blogger.com (Wendy) — Mon, 28 Sep 2015 03:14:00 +0000

September, 2015, we stood at the edge of the silent street and stared at it, the eclipse of the supermoon, a blood moon. Down the street a neighbor, also in his pajamas stared motionless into the sky. Up the street I heard children running out of their house shouting for their parents to hurry, to see the moon, to see the magic.

My vision was suddenly clouded by a memory of another time, being woken in the dead of night by my grandmother who sneaked me out of bed and walked me, groggy and confused, barefoot down a dirt lane to her house where hot chocolate waited. Outside in the sky, Comet West tore past our planet. I have no idea how it looks in outer space but to a nine year old girl on the surface of Earth it was a fat, smeary star, fuzzy around the edges. The greater novelty was being out under the stars with my grandmother and a mug of cocoa while my parents slept in the house next door, completely clueless as to my whereabouts.

It was February, 1976. Mystics claim that comets portend coming cataclysmic events. That summer my parents would divorce and my life would change radically. But right then there was hot chocolate and magic. As far as I knew, all was right with the world.

But forward to 2015 I stood in the street with my family in a surreal diorama with neighbors, all of us staring entranced at the sky like a scene from a weird sci-fi movie.

I wrapped my arms around my littlest boy, my mouth nuzzled against his ear. "Remember me in 2033 when this comes around again. Be sure to bring your kids outside to watch this with them, okay?"

"I will Mom, I promise."

Seasoned Favorites

noreply@blogger.com (Wendy) — Thu, 03 Sep 2015 15:05:00 +0000

There is a header at the top of Neil Gaiman’s blog in which a photographic “bust” of him is perched looking out at the reader. He sports his trademark unruly hair and traditional rumpled vibe. But what captivates me at the moment I’m looking are his eyes.

He has bags under his eyes. A healthy portion of them.

And I think to myself how interesting it is that they are not Photoshopped, not minimized and it thrills me. It thrills me in the way that I’m thrilled by a plate of real food in the world of processed, fake garbage edibles. Or by someone who maintains eye contact with me during a conversation despite the fact that their phone is dinging with incoming text messages. Or by a friendly moment with a stranger in which you see some humanity instead of the jet trail they leave behind as they race past you like you don’t exist.

I guess I’m talking about authenticity. But particularly with the bodies we wear while we are alive.

There is so much energy and money put into holding back time, to pretending we are not what we are – seasoned, experienced. Weathered.

Neil Gaiman is weathered. And it’s awesome. So was Maya Angelou, Georgia O’Keefe. So is Margaret Atwood. But I look at their pictures and I find their faces beautiful because they tell a story. Those are faces that have lived and seen and done things. The faces announce, “I’m here and I’m perfectly fine where I am on this path toward Home.” To me there is something comforting in looking at a person like that.

There’s a perverse irony in approaching waning youth armed with scalpels and injectables and other horrors of the invasive shoring up of the body against the ravages of time. We’ve all seen the plastic surgery fails posts online. The harder you try to fix it, the more bizarre and less human the face becomes until you’re left with a strange mask that resembles much of nothing, a faint shadow of whatever dissatisfied person is left in there.

My favorites are the bodies that are like old journals, the supple leather ones that are creased and worn. The ones that when cracked open have a thousand scrawled pages of stories inside, that are interesting because they have spent their energy on living and earning every mark they carry instead of spending it on avoiding what is inevitable – that we carry ourselves around in a vessel that is subject to wear, subject to imperfection. Destined for eventual failure.

Some mornings under the harsh light of my bathroom mirror I gently touch the skin around my own tired eyes, nudging them smooth until they look ten years younger, then sigh and let it resume being what it is. Me.

Beautiful, real me.

Images from Wikimedia Commons.

Summer Carols

noreply@blogger.com (Wendy) — Thu, 09 Jul 2015 20:27:00 +0000

I've decided we need Christmas-style Carols for summer time to hold us over until we get to December.

So, I'm starting the trend.

Deck the Yard (sung to the tune of "Deck the Halls")

Deck the yard with citronella,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Tis' the season to be bitten,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.

Ticks and chiggers love the springtime,
Fa la la, la la la, la la la.,
Donn we now our stinky bug spray,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.

See mosquitoes fly before us,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Slap your arms and curse the summer,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.

Follow me to Lawn and Garden
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Where we get our Deet repellent,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.

Chemicals may give us cancer,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Keep us from the itching, scratching,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.

Scabby chiggers, painful bug bites
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
We’re avoiding West Nile Virus,
Fa la la la la, la la la la la la la la

One Day in Summer...

noreply@blogger.com (Wendy) — Sat, 13 Dec 2014 02:22:00 +0000

Summer, 1984. I got my first real paying job. It was in a hardware store and I knew pretty much nothing about working in a hardware store. I was 17 and pretty much new nothing about anything.

That summer I learned a lot. I learned that a 2x4 isn't actually two inches thick. I learned the names of 10 different types of nails and what is the appropriate job for each nail. I learned about the mistake of falling in love with someone you can't have. And falling out of love with someone you can have, but maybe shouldn't.

But the most important lesson I learned was about earning respect and how important it is to fight for the things you deserve.

They started me off by dusting. The least domestic girl in the universe started at the southeast corner of the building and worked her way to the northwest corner. The manager said, "This will help you learn what we have in inventory and where everything is. By the time you are done, you'll be familiar with the lay of the land."

It was hard to argue with that reasoning. It seemed reasonable. At least until about two weeks in and I was somewhere in the flood-mud encrusted electrical supplies that had been salvaged two years ago when our town was under eight or ten feet of water for days. My hands were dry and cracked and the smell of Murphy's Oil Soap made me want to vomit. Two weeks in I was ready to quit my first real job.

I was too young to know then what I could do or what I was capable of, but the Boss could see. He was an astute observer of people, a salesman, he was a seasoned employer. One day I stood up from wiping the bottom shelf in the middle of the fastener section and there he stood.

"Follow me," he said and walked to his office.

When I got there he handed me a huge binder. "Read this. If you study this and you pass the test, I will give you a five cent raise per hour. We have a bunch of these. You can do as many as you want. I don't mind paying extra for an employee who is willing to learn and better herself. The more you know, the more money you'll make me. In the meantime, keep dusting."

As I dusted, I looked at everything. If I didn't know what something was, I read the package. I remembered where everything was. I could find anything in the store. At night I read the binder. It was all about electricity and electrical parts. I passed the test and got my first raise.

The store was in the middle of a country town, a tiny town where time had stopped about fifty years prior. Ours was the only hardware store in town. A coffee machine was in the back and men would come and hang out, spin windys, spit tobacco juice into old styrofoam cups. They'd eyeball me as they came in the door, then headed to the back to buy their supplies. They always asked for Dave who would write up their ticket, then tell them what bay to pull around to for loading. "The boys will load you up. Good day, Sir."

Dave was the master of every construction problem known to mankind. And I'm pretty sure Dave hated me. Now and again I'd ask him a question and he never wanted to answer it. He always wanted to take the problem from me and fix it. He never wanted to teach me. Dave had no time for a silly 17-year-old girl.

I'd glance to the back of the office, past the bookkeeper and I'd see Boss lurking in the dark passage between his office and the employee bathroom watching us. He knew Dave and I were not good. We made eye contact and he'd nod a single time, sharply, then turn away and go back into his office. He the Emperor, we the gladiators.

For weeks, I owned the binders. Nobody else was using them. I burned through electrical, hardware, plumbing. I became intrigued by how houses were built, that you could take basically sticks and metal spikes and fasteners and create a dwelling that could last hundreds of years if you did it right. At the back of the building was a sample of tiny cut up pieces of wood molding. I memorized those, too, even without the promise of a raise.

I watched Dave wait on customers. I peeked over the displays I was dusting and eyeballed him when he wasn't looking. Periodically, I'd see Boss squinting at me through the picture window of his office and I'd duck down and dust some more. I got brave enough to start asking customers who came in, "Can I help you, Sir?"

Without fail their answer was always, "Yeah, get me one of the men."

Without fail I always did. For weeks and weeks. Until the day I didn't.

"Can I help you, Sir?"

"Yeah, get me one of the men."

"No, sir. I won't get you one of the men."

He jerked his head back as if I'd slapped him. "What?"

"I can help you."

He laughed. I smiled good-naturedly, expecting him to insist I get him one of the men, but secretly hoping he'd give me a chance. He looked around me to the back and couldn't see anyone he could call out for. There was nobody to rescue him from the girl who thought she knew about hardware.

"Listen... I'll make a deal with you."

"What's that?"

"You tell me what you need. I'll help you and if turns out I can't help you, I'll get you one of the men. I think you'll find I'm just as smart as them and a whole lot better looking."

He laughed again as if this were a game and shrugged. "Alright, missy. Here's what I need..."

We ran through his list. I found everything. I solved one problem and on the way to the check-out counter I sold him a flashlight he didn't actually need.

I turned to go back to dusting and saw Boss standing in the shadows. I'm pretty sure he smiled, the first one I'd ever seen on his face.

The next day I was fired from dusting duty and put in charge of the electrical department. And soon enough I was taking orders and solving problems just like Dave. I stopped hearing "get me one of the men." The next time I heard it was when it was said to a new girl, Patty, who had taken over the dusting where I had left off.

And Dave still hated me, but he hated me more now because I wasn't a silly 17-year-old girl. I was the girl who one day had to explain to Dave where something was because he couldn't find it himself.

It was a good summer, the first of many spent learning about coming into my own. And that you only get the amount of respect you earn. And you earn it because you fight for it, sometimes by doing hard things, bold things.

And I learned that often the fruits on the highest part of the tree are the ones that taste the very best.

The Glory of Behaving Badly

noreply@blogger.com (Wendy) — Wed, 26 Nov 2014 02:46:00 +0000

I have to wear reading glasses a lot now. I'm not in the habit of always carrying them with me, because this problem of defective eyesight is a new one. So I squint a lot or ask people to read things for me. I remember always being frustrated with my mother when she asked me to do this for her, as if somehow she should be completely in control of how the muscles and lenses in her eyes work. It's the arrogance of youth and I'm paying for it with newly-acquired remorse.

Along with said remorse, I also seem to have a higher level of "curmudgeonliness." Either that or people are getting more obnoxious. Or they are the same level of obnoxious and are embracing it more.

Take the guy who developed an addiction to rummaging through John Updike's trash. I suppose on one hand it's John Updike's own fault for hauling his garbage to the curb. But to me it seems really tacky for this stranger who starts off by semi-stalking Updike at church to then forage in Updike's trash for things he could sell for significant amounts of money because the trash used to belong to a well-known writer.

And even that isn't the worst part. The worst part is he goes on to describe in detail the entire process, how bad he felt about it, speculating that perhaps it was wrong and then leverages the article for publication.

This comes on the heels of the author who didn't like a poor review she got for her book. She subsequently stalked the woman who wrote the review, then wrote a long article describing how she probably made a bad decision, but wow, wasn't it interesting enough to get the story published in The Guardian?

My son just came in and asked what I was writing and I read him the title of the post. He snickered and said, "Oh, I wonder where you got THAT idea." He assumed it was about him and his brother and their antics. He's eleven and his brother is eight. Unfortunately, no, I'm writing about grown adults who feel perfectly fine bragging about their bad behavior and capitalizing on it. (And probably acting surprised when people react negatively.)

But in a way it does remind me of my boys. We have a "no burping at the table" rule and periodically when one of them wants to be outlandish they will let a giant belch rip -- one loud enough to vibrate the silverware against the plates. And then they snicker when I make the "mom face" because they think it is hilarious. They act up because they like the reaction. We do this when we are 11. We should probably stop doing that somewhere around puberty.

Anyone who has a small grasp of history understands that the pendulum of social culture swings across the decades. I love free speech, freedom in general. I love the wild permissiveness that fosters creativity. I hate that we mistake bad manners and an inability to control our human weakness for freedom of action. I can't wait for the pendulum to swing back to the place where civility is the norm and tacky behavior is not applauded as fine entertainment.

It's probably just the beginning of the end for me. Not only do I have the glasses perched on the end of my nose, but I have the pursed mouth below and the glaring stink-eye of old-lady judgmentalness peering out over the top.

It's the trifecta of cranky grandma-face.

Embracing the Hard

noreply@blogger.com (Wendy) — Wed, 09 Jul 2014 17:57:00 +0000

There is a funny mystique about writing. When I think about writers I imagine the life as romantic -- a quiet place, a contemplative author, a message spilling forth from the abundant fountain of words the writer carries within.

I do it all the time even knowing, from personal experience, that it's a big bunch of hooey.

Writing is no easier, or beautiful, or magical than any other creative task. And some days it's not any more romantic or wonderful than laying bricks. Some days that's what it feels like, including getting hot and sweaty as you lay the words down in a line with kids in the background fighting over whose turn it is for the game station.

And if it's hard for me, I assume it's just ME. There is something wrong with ME, because I'm certain that JK Rowling and Stephen King are just sitting around with umbrella drinks or fancy coffee typing 180wpm while listening to classical music and being caressed by a perfect spring breeze through open windows facing the beach or a mountain view. Oh, and their first drafts are ALWAYS perfect.

I'm certain this is how it is for every writer except me.

And so every morning in the shower I whine pathetically to myself about how hard writing is because I have trouble plotting. Plotting is my nemesis. There are writers out there who could plot while disarming a nuclear bomb under heavy fire without breaking a sweat. I'm not one of those. For me, it's an uphill battle constantly. I am in love with the imagery of writing, of building characters and animating them. These are my strengths and these tasks come easy for me. And probably because they do I get angry because the rest doesn't come easy. In my weak moments it smacks of unfairness and, yes, I complain. (Although I generally try not to do it out loud. Sort of like what I'm doing at this very moment.)

Lately I have been reading The Long Walk by Stephen King (as Richard Bachman.) And it's fascinating because the entire plot is "a big group of boys walk down the road as an endurance competition that only one can win and survive." That's it -- the entire book is a group of boys walking down a road. If you came up to me and told me to write a story about boys walking down the road, I'd assume you'd left out part of the instructions. But King manages to create a grim, robust miracle out of that single idea.

This book made me think of other stories like it, with plots that are spare but stories that are fat, juicy. Doris Lessing wrote a wonderful story ("Through the Tunnel") about a boy's efforts to swim through an underwater tunnel. There is little more action to it than that and yet I read this story when I was a teenager and never forgot it. Same with Ambrose Bierce's "Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge" (spoiler alert) about a man's visions while dying. Then there is the fascinating and unforgettable "The Things They Carried" by Tim O'Brien -- stories revealed by what Vietnam soldiers carried in action.

I'm sure there are more, but those ran through my mind as I pondered how such a big story can come from a small seed and how easy it is to make an excuse out of what you consider a shortcoming. George R.R. Martin's Thrones series is amazing in scope, but it is no more wondrous than making a memorable, expansive story about boys walking down a road.

So what, plotting is uncomfortable for me. So is being a runner with one leg and yet how many marathoners overcome that "little inconvenience." The romance is not the writer sitting in a quiet, bookshelf lined study. The romance is the sweaty writer who overcomes the challenge and gets the job done, who makes an amazing story out of nothing. That's the magic.

Under the rain of the shower as I leaned my head against the cold tile I thought of Steinbeck and Atwood and King and Jackson and O. Henry and all the other authors I love and how they are allowed to be called writers because they didn't let "the hard" get in the way of revealing the story. The statue doesn't come out of the stone unless you whack it with a hammer and reveal what's underneath.

But you have to keep whacking or else all you have is just a hunk of rock.

The Peripatetic Goat

noreply@blogger.com (Wendy) — Fri, 16 May 2014 23:08:00 +0000

Yesterday I was driving down the road and saw a guy on a four-wheeler with two baby goats in his lap.

I thought to myself, "Awww, how cute... a guy on a four-wheeler with two baby goats in his lap!"

Then I realized my first thought was not that there was anything at all strange about this sight.

* * *

Once I had a client who needed to sell her 2nd home. I went there to show it to a buyer and when I walked through the privacy fence gate I was greeted by several goats. I called her from my cell phone.

"You know there are goats at the house?"

"Yes," she said, nonchalantly. "We've run out of weeds and trees for them to eat over here, so we moved them. The buyers don't have to take them. They are negotiable."

* * *

A colleague of mine has had some surgery and his health is not the best. He is short on stamina and his wife worries about him taking care of the many acres of land they have. He walked into my office recently and said, "We bought two goats. Baby goats."

"Why?"

"Well, I was thinking maybe they would eat all the weeds and stuff and that would be less mowing for me."

"Okay..."

"And when the season is over I think I can sell them to some Mexicans. They eat a lot of goats."

* * *

There is an article on the Internet about why you should eat goats. At this time in my life I am verging slowly toward going meatless. It has nothing to do with anything you've read so far.

* * *

One of my favorite places to drive used to be way down Highway 16 West in the hard left-hand curve that is intersected by Eagle Road. On the left side of the highway is a big open field that eventually rolls gently down to a no-undergrowth mini-forest that provides shade for hundreds and hundreds of tiny white goats. In the field is a large herding dog sitting upright, surveying his charges.

The goats have a distinct personal space. When one goat moves, the others around it move an equal distance in order to maintain a uniform open perimeter around themselves. When I noticed this I pulled over to the side of the road to watch. The behavior persisted, so it must be a goat thing. Goats have a bubble. Like me.

I asked someone why the man who owns this field has so many goats. I was told it was because of Cinco de Mayo. I drove over there last week and, coincidentally, there were no goats to be found.

Adventures in Straw Bale Gardening

noreply@blogger.com (Wendy) — Sun, 11 May 2014 20:01:00 +0000

I'm not a gardener by any means. Even in the most loose sense of the word. I don't like the sun. I don't like the heat. My mother used to make me help her pull weeds as a teenager. I don't know which I hated more at the time... her or the weeds. The first experience I had planting a garden was helping my mother when I was 9. She let me plant the zinnia seeds. I sprinkled them in a line and then she yelled at me for doing it wrong. Clearly, gardening was not intuitive. Or a great child-rearing activity.

So, fast forward 8,000 years and I've matured. I have kids of my own. I am starting to care about what I eat. I get the idea a few years ago that I should know how to grow my own food, but I'm a busy mom with a jillian jobs and a back that aches all the time. Gardening? Bah.

Heirloom Cucumbers

Fast forward three more years and I'm reading about square foot gardening and straw bale gardening and I cannot set aside the persistent drive to grow some of my own food. But I'm also realistic about taking on too much. I've learned my lesson dozens of times over. My passion and confidence dictate that I must DO IT BIG. Reality leaves a wake of half-finished projects set aside because someone needs help with homework or housework or clients need things or I just want to finish that really good book before my library expiration date.

This year I gave myself permission to do something small. Straw bales. Six of them. I fell in love with the look of straw bale gardens. It seemed so manageable, and cheap. About $22 for the bales and I already had soil and fertilizer. Another $15 for organic heirloom seeds. No tilling. No weeding. No kneeling and bending. It seems like an adventure that was fairly risk-free.

I set the bales up with space all around them so I could get to the plants from all sides. I thought maybe they would need the room. Or I would need the room. Honestly, I have no idea what I'm doing. I'm just doing it. I needed to finally just DO something about gardening to break the ice. Hello, gardening, nice to meet you.

The buckets and ice chest are for water collection. We catch rain water from the gutters and when we run out of that we fill the buckets from the hose and let the chlorine from the water outgas before putting it on the plants. I don't know if it makes a difference but chemicals are chemicals and less is better.

Ants. Ants. More ants. And more ants. And still more.

We have a ton of ants. Everywhere. There are mounds and mounds and mounds of ants. Ants are in the bales. I think that's okay, but I have no idea. "Ants are aeration," sayeth my mother. Today I saw an ant carrying something red that I hoped was a chigger. Maybe ants are removing chiggers from my yard. One can hope.

I read somewhere that you are supposed to plant your tomatoes deep, like halfway bury them. I have no idea if this is true, but in the parking lot of the grocery store I mentioned this to an old-timer who nodded and said it was definitely true. It's hard to know what is true. People make things up. The Internet lies. But also people are wise. And also the Internet knows everything.

My mother likes to quote Deuteronomy 19:15 which says, "on the testimony of three witnesses the matter should be established." So I ask her, I ask the Internet, I ask the old guy in the parking lot. They all three think tomatoes should be planted deep, so that is what I do.

They seem happy, the tomatoes, and already have blooms.

Everything else I planted as seeds. The lettuce came up first. I planted an heirloom mix. I love all types of lettuce and it will be a surprise what comes up.

I have pangs when the seed package tells me to thin the seedlings. I know it must be done for the health of the ones I don't pluck but it seems wasteful and cruel in a way. The neighbor busted me cheating. I plucked a tiny seedling and instead of throwing it on the ground I tucked it into the side of the straw bale. He squinted his eyes at me and asked what I was doing. I told him I was thinning the lettuce and he looked at me sneaking the seedling into the side of the bale and said, "Hmph."

Okay, I know it's ridiculous. I know it's going to die, but I'm giving it every chance to survive. And, strangely, today both the seedlings I stuck in the side of the bale are growing. So, take that neighbor. He's an entomologist anyway. What does he know about lettuce?

When the carrots first came up they looked like weeds, but now they have crinkly tops that look like carrots are supposed to look. Not that we ever see that in the local grocery store where everything is bagged in plastic.

Lemon Thyme

I read you can plant things in the side of the bales so I bought a plant called lemon thyme. I broke it into two pieces and planted one in each bale. The bales are very difficult to dig into and I didn't do a very good job planting these. One half made it; one half did not. Every day I look at it and think "that thing is going to fall right out of the side of that bale." But it hasn't yet. Which proves that even when people do things half-assed it can sometimes turn out okay. Not that I recommend that method. Do your best, really. It's better than later bragging that you did it half-assed and it worked out by accident.

The only really alarming thing is the mold I found today. Some kind of mildew or mold. The Internet says I shouldn't worry about it. The Internet also says I should be VERY worried about it. My mother doesn't know. I re-read the passage in Deuteronomy again just to make sure it said "testimony of three" and not "testimony of two, none of whom seem to agree."

So in the meantime, I sprayed it with a mixture of baking soda and oil mixed with water because that didn't seem like it would hurt anything. And I'm waiting for additional testimony.

In the meantime, feet up. It's Mother's Day.

Celery Trailer

noreply@blogger.com (Wendy) — Wed, 20 Nov 2013 17:38:00 +0000

I had a blast making this book trailer for my last book. Which slightly distracted me from working on the NEXT book.

The Fun of Research

noreply@blogger.com (Wendy) — Sun, 27 Oct 2013 23:12:00 +0000

I'm currently working on a second novel. Once I got past the kind of frightening prospect of starting a new project, I began having fun. The start of a big project is a little bit daunting, but with the help of research to inspire and ground me, I was able to make the leap from ideas in my head to ideas on paper, to actually typing something that looks like it is turning into a book.

And during this time, I ran across something delightful I wanted to share for anyone who likes American History or the history of exploration and whatnot.

It's the journal of Henry Rowe Schoolcraft who wrote about his explorations of the interiors of Missouri and Arkansas during 1818-1819. It's a wonderful insight into what it was like to move around the countryside before there were roads and cars and grocery stores. There are tales of him exploring caves he ran across with little or no equipment and I marveled that he did so without managing to kill or maim himself. He wrote interesting descriptions of people he met along the way. Some kindly, some not so kindly like with his disappointment in discovering that the hunters he was staying with did not observe the Sabbath.

"The sabbath is not known by any cessation of the usual avocations of the hunter in this region. To him all days are equally unhallowed, and the first and the last day of the week find him alike sunk in unconcerned sloth, and stupid ignorance. He neither thinks for himself, no reads the thoughts of others, and if he ever acknowledges his dependence upon the Supreme Being, it must be in that silent awe produced by the furious tempest when the earth trembles with concussive thunders, and lightning shatters the oaks around his cottage, that cottage which certainly never echoed the voice of human prayer."

That's way more eloquent than what most people do now, like on Facebook when they say, "Those people really suck."

So, I'm shooting for the draft to be done by Christmas and the book finished and ready to be published by Spring. Unless I am further distracted by Henry Schoolcraft.

Indiegogo: The Lascaux Prize

noreply@blogger.com (Wendy) — Wed, 04 Sep 2013 23:27:00 +0000

I hope you will take a minute to look at a project I'm involved in.

For the last couple of years I've been working on a literary journal called The Lascaux Review with my editor-friend and crit partner Stephen Parrish. It's a wonderful place to hang out if you love literature and good writing.

We've run two flash fiction contests and have published some notable names in fiction, nonfiction and poetry.

Now we want to offer a chance to award a larger prize to writers of short fiction and we need help. So, we're raising funds through Indiegogo and getting the word out to see who can help us meet our goals. We have some great perks for people who donate. Those who can't donate for even the lowest perk, I hope will at least pass the word on to friends and family who will donate and help spread the word. Or put a widget on your page. Every little bit will help us meet our goal.

Check it out and watch the video. It's informative and fun and you might learn something cool in the three minutes that it plays. About literature, about the world, about history, about my passion.

Thank you for taking a moment to look!

Painted Hands by Jennifer Zobair

noreply@blogger.com (Wendy) — Sun, 02 Jun 2013 23:24:00 +0000

The lovely and talented Jennifer Zobair has a debut novel coming out on June 11th! I was able to get a review copy to read before her release date and enjoyed the time I got to spend with new "friends" Zainab and Amra.

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From the back cover:

Muslim bad girl Zainab Mir has just landed a job working for a post-feminist, Republican Senate candidate. Her best friend Amra Abbas is about to make partner at a top Boston law firm. Together they’ve thwarted proposal-slinging aunties, cultural expectations, and the occasional bigot to succeed in their careers. What they didn’t count on? Unlikely men and geopolitical firestorms.

When a handsome childhood friend reappears, Amra makes choices that Zainab considers so 1950s—choices that involve the perfect Banarasi silk dress and a four-bedroom house in the suburbs. After hiding her long work hours during their courtship, Amra struggles to balance her demanding job and her unexpectedly traditional new husband.

Zainab has her own problems. She generates controversy in the Muslim community with a suggestive magazine spread and friendship with a gay reporter. Her rising profile also inflames neocons like Chase Holland, the talk radio host who attacks her religion publicly but privately falls for her hard. When the political fallout from a terrorist attempt jeopardizes Zainab's job and protests surrounding a woman-led Muslim prayer service lead to violence, Amra and Zainab must decide what they’re willing to risk for their principles, their friendship, and love.

Jennifer Zobair's Painted Hands is The Namesake meets Sex and the City, an engaging and provocative debut novel about friendship and the love lives of American Muslim women.

What I thought:

Jennifer Zobair, in PAINTED HANDS, creates a cast of characters that give a fascinating look at Muslim-American culture. Within her story about navigating love and life while balancing Muslim religious and cultural beliefs with an American way of life, Zobair provides an array of characters covering the spectrum between devout followers of Islam and those who reject the beliefs of family and childhood.

The story follows a group of friends for more than a year as they juggle careers, political differences, the trials and tribulations of love and prejudice. Setting aside for a moment that the characters are Muslim, Zobair easily captures the conflict all women face between the desire to be true to themselves and their own beliefs and the pain we feel when we reject the desires and expectations of family and friends. Layered on top of that is the heavy blanket of cultural responsibility and the judgment of a community that expects you to support its long-standing traditions whether they are good for you or not. Or good for society as a whole.

PAINTED HANDS can be read simply as a story about women facing these issues, or it can be read on a deeper level with an exploration of Muslim-American culture and the politics of being Muslim in America. I enjoyed getting insights into a world I’ve had little exposure to and also think Zobair does a fantastic job of illustrating how, when you strip everything else away, we are all just human beings, the same as each other, trying to find our own happy place in the world.

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Do pick up a copy and support a talented author with her debut. Christmas is only six months away and it will make a great gift!

Also, check out the book club questions at the author's web site. They will add a great dimension to your reading and definitely show this is a book worth considering if you're looking for a new book club book!

Down River

noreply@blogger.com (Wendy) — Sat, 11 May 2013 12:04:00 +0000

"Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling in at night." -- Edna St. Vincent Millay

I grew up near the river where the bamboo was thick like a jungle forest. When the breeze blew it would lift a layer of chilled air off the surface of the jade water and send it wafting up the steep bank, bladed-leaves shuddering in its wake. Living on the river, you can close your eyes and tell the distance between you and the water because you know how it smells, how it feels the closer you get to it.

And in the bamboo you could imagine you were anywhere. And on the banks of the river, you could watch the water flow and wonder where it would end up, who and what it would touch on the way. Upriver was no real mystery -- it came from the lake above the dam and sometimes that's where you went to swim. There was no mystery there. In this world all water comes from that source, but the mystique is downriver. The water runs to the mighty Mississippi where Mark Twain was a steamboat pilot. And from there it roils south to the ocean to become a little piece of the whole wide world, the water that touches every shore of every exotic continent.

When I was twelve I begged my mother to buy me Encyclopedia Brittanicas from a salesman who came to the door. I knew she didn't want to. We couldn't afford them, but I could not give up the thought that all that knowledge would walk out my door in the hands of the tired man in his brown suit.

And so, sensing my hunger, and possibly hoping the books would help me make something of myself she signed a contract, paid a downpayment and I was allowed to keep the book he brought as a sample. The rest would arrive by mail.

The following year the Brittanicas gathered dust as I hankered for a boy who made my heart beat in my chest like a caged beast. The blood in my veins tingled in anticipation of seeing him and every sensation was a symptom of a certain and impending death. I'm not sure I ever even spoke to that boy, but to this day I remember his shiny handsomeness, the strong jaw, the broad shoulders. I remember the sharp ache of wanting but not getting.

Then, years later, the river was at my back. I left it behind to discover what the city had to offer with its lights and fast pace. The slow beat of natural living was replaced by the white noise of urban life, the hubbub of choosing from a menu of seemingly limitless choices, the excitement of acquisition, experimentation, the challenge of overcoming. The sinking sensation of failure and loss.

Finally, if I wanted, I had the power to dispell the clutching sense of yearning by getting what I wanted. I had tools, I had means. Sometimes I succeeded and sometimes not and that was the year I discovered that the opposite of yearning was sadness or, sometimes, despair.

I remember lying on a couch staring up at the ceiling, tears running, wetting my ears, my neck. I remember the deep sense of loss and my brain spinning trying to figure out how to fix the brokenness, to rebuild the core that felt crumpled up on the inside.

Eventually I tackled it. And it was the first of many massive emotional construction jobs -- building, demolishing, rebuilding, remodeling. Each time I left one home in sadness I comforted myself with reminders of the joy I felt when I was there, of the things I learned... a laundry list of life skills and talents developed in tandem with someone who was now leaving, now gone. Or who I had drawn away from. Had someone with a magic wand come and offered to take the pain away along with the memory of this past I would have declined. Experience was my Encyclopedia Brittanica.

To this day I still find that better than the oxygen-sucking sensation of yearning. That bitch cuts like a knife, deep and bloody, and I have never mastered the fix for it.

But I am back by the river, having flowed in a circle like the water does, back again to watch the sun sparkle off green water, my gaze always, always pointed downstream to where the water runs.

Reconnecting with Myself

noreply@blogger.com (Wendy) — Wed, 01 May 2013 04:47:00 +0000

"We need to reconnect with those really primal parts of ourselves… We need to reconnect with who we really are.” – Dan Phillips (Phoenix Commotion) from his TED Talk.

Lately I feel the urge to admit that I'm a weird person disguised as a normal person.

I come from a long line of weird people -- from both sides of my family. My paternal grandmother wore Hawaiian muu muus and went barefoot in public. Always. My maternal grandfather lined his driveway with fake gargoylesque monsters made of twisted stumps and found-objects like bones and rocks. I grew up thinking this was normal. Well, in my world it WAS normal.

I recently watched a TED Talk by Dan Phillips who makes houses out of repurposed material, stuff that would normally go in the trash or to the landfill. The houses are amazing. Well, amazing if you like things that are out of the ordinary. While his talk was very focused on worldwide waste, he touched a bit on how we as humans like to fit things into categories, ourselves included. And it made me think again, more, about how the reality of me is that I'm a weird person who blends in really well with normal people.

For quite some time I thought it served me well. But lately I've been thinking I've done a great job of kidding myself. Being normal is a habit. It's not an onerous task -- about the same as getting dressed before leaving the house or using your napkin when you eat instead of wiping your hands on your clothes. A habit borne of the quest for ease, like the film on a fish that makes it glide easily through the water.

A few years ago I was driving down Main Street of my little town, past a crummy, ramshackle building. The facade had peeled off and all that was left were remnants of the black cement that had held it together since, probably the 40's. I called the owner of the building and without any formal niceties I launched in.

"Jack. I just drove by your place and had a vision -- you need to mosaic the front of that building. It would be amazing."

"I need to what?"

"Mosaic the building. You know. Broken tile. In some kind of beautifully aesthetic configuration. Art!"

"Okay. Yeah. Right."

About a year later, circumstances would arrange themselves such that my mother became owner of the building. She wanted to do something interesting to it. I did a watercolor sketch of the vision I had that day. And under a cruel summer sun in over 100 degree weather we worked at it, for weeks, until we got this:

And some details (click to biggify...)

I sit in front of the building sometimes and just look at it. Because it's pretty and I'm proud of it, sure. But these days more because it's a metaphor. It's a glimpse of naked flesh through a door left ajar. It's the summer day you wore the sleeveless shirt, for once, not caring if your flabby arms were showing. It's me giving myself permission to not care what people might say because it's the loudest building in town, that it's not orderly.

In fact, I went so far to go on a guerrilla artist mission and paint the neighbor's alley door. Bright, electric blue with a dripping faucet. (It's the municipal water department. Humor!) While I was back there a truck passed through the alley, the occupants staring at me as I stood in an artistic fugue covered in blue and white paint. I waved my big paintbrush at them as if it was a thing I did every day and that I had every right to be there instead of possibly violating a small handful of state and local laws.

And it was good.

And then I fell asleep again for a while and went back to being normal.

I admire self-restraint, yet I wonder lately what good it is. Within the boundaries of the law and the proper function of society, what good is it? What do we achieve when we hesitate to speak our minds, to laugh out loud in a quiet museum, to apologize for our desires? How much do we miss by not standing in the rain until we are soaked through? Does it matter in the big picture that anyone might see our bra under our wet shirt or that our hair sticks to our face?

I have a day job that requires me to be quite meticulous, confine myself to a lot of legal rules and codes of professionalism. I have clients whose needs I must meet. I am basically on call every day, including weekends and nights. I am a mother, too. My life is not my own -- not really. In my office I don't wear my shoes because I don't like to wear shoes. Sometimes I forget I don't have shoes on and a client or customer will come in and notice and remark on it. I used to get embarrassed and apologize.

A couple of months ago I stopped apologizing. Now I say, "I love not wearing shoes." One part of me chastises the other part of me for being unprofessional. That girl scolds me and purports that such behavior could be bad for business.

And I feel a little bit bad in case she is right. But then I think... I'm in my 40's now and this is the only life I get. I'm not going to spend what time I have left apologizing for being authentic.

I hope you don't either.

Small Town

noreply@blogger.com (Wendy) — Sun, 07 Apr 2013 01:47:00 +0000

"Miss Wendy! Miss Wendy! Miss Wendy!"

Finally, I hear my name sink into me and look up to see who is calling. Betsy, with her hair chopped off. I had forgotten that. She waved, delighted to see me, a grown-up she loves, at her school program.

"I still love your new 'do, Betsy." She has a cousin with cancer. Now the other half of her hair is on its way to Florida to be made into a wig. It was her idea.

My eyes scan the room. Children everywhere, a happy din, hubbub, excitement. It's award day. Everyone is here.

For some reason I think of tiny feet and how I knew a lot of these feet back when they belonged to the babies they used to be. I live in a small town and this is what we do -- live together, die together. We know each other.

I know the story of Betsy's hair, the hair she had all her life up to this point. Two rows behind her I know the little boy who is in remission from his brain tumor. The town raised funds, for years, to help support the family through his medical care. Three seats down I know the little boy whose mother used to do meth but doesn't anymore. She got arrested for shoplifting birthday decorations for her son's party because she couldn't afford them. Now she's going to school full time because her husband has a job that is good enough to support the whole family.

Two days ago I stood on the sidewalk and heard a man yell out the door of his shop at two girls walking down the street. "DOES YER DADDY KNOW YER WEARING THAT?" The girls with their midriffs showing scurried down the street as if he might chase after them. He huffed at me and said, "I'll bet you Bobby Dean does NOT know." He turned and went back into his store. Probably to call Bobby Dean.

As my mother was called when I was 15 and skipped study hall to walk to the corner store for a roll of SweetTarts.

As I was told when my son went to the store and loaded up on double-shot espresso drinks. "Does your mother know you're buying those," the checkout lady asked. My son, who already knows how it works in a small town replied, "I'm sure she will pretty soon..."

Twenty minutes. That's how soon.

I look at the old pictures in my school yearbook. My fingers pass over the faces of the 70 people I graduated with and I name how they turned out. Dentist. Bank teller. Farmer. Insurance Salesman. Drug Addict. Housewife. Travel Agent. Store Owner. Cook. Politician.

On this day I sit and think of the tiny feet in this room and how they will grow into their future lives and how I will know them and see the string of time from when they were born until they day they get their first job, have their first child, get arrested, win an election, buy a new business, die too young from cancer, grieve when they lose a child.

We will celebrate and grieve with them. We will champion them and judge them despite the fact that most of us have memorized the first few verses of Matthew chapter 7 that cautions us not to do just that.

We have done this since our town was born and will continue to do so until the population creeps up to a size where we begin to realize we don't know the names of our neighbors or know the people who are written about in the weekly newspaper.

And we will lament what we have lost -- this sense of belonging, for better or for worse. We will cease to be how we are connected (Miz Maisie's youngest girl who has the hair salon) and become our house number or a description of what we are wearing.

We will be one in seven billion people.

Spring Back

noreply@blogger.com (Wendy) — Mon, 18 Mar 2013 03:23:00 +0000

Spring is nearly here. I remembered today a few of the things I love about spring and it's funny that every year I forget and remember again. It's as if winter numbs my mind and makes me forget what I love about the other seasons so I won't feel the loss or longing.

It works. I love winter despite her bleak days and her sometimes-bitterness.

Tonight the frogs were singing in the fog. I drove slow with the windows down, my lights cutting through the swirl of white across the road.

It reminded me of something two decades dead and gone. It reminded me of a boy I knew, Ben, who made me want to run away and join the carnival with him. To sell everything. To surrender to a nomadic life, to give up everything and be dirty and uncertain while there was time to do that.

Time to do that before my back ached or before I had children. Before I understood my own mortality. Before there were mortgages and deadlines and expectations that, when not met at 40, fall like giant redwoods in a forest instead of like dogwood petals on a breeze when you're 20.

Ben said that sometimes he had to sleep with his head on the bathroom sink if nobody would let him sleep in their trailer. And I imagined myself in the fairgrounds bathroom in a town whose name I had forgotten because it followed a string of a dozen towns before it. I imagined how it would be to sleep with my face pressed to the cold enamel of a sink and that was enough for me to smile with only half-regret and touch his hand gently as I said goodbye.

And in the summer was a different boy and a jeep with the top down and Phil Collins blaring out of the speakers and stolen moments of passion by the edge of a quiet lake. And eventually a spot in the bed that I didn't sell for Ben. And times where I would apologize for the passion I felt for this new boy, for the urge I had to devour him whole because wasn't it unseemly for a girl to act that way?

Spring is oblivious to her own wonder.

Flash Fiction Contest

noreply@blogger.com (Wendy) — Fri, 15 Mar 2013 19:10:00 +0000

I'm in the midst of a flash fiction contest! If you like reading tiny bite-sized pieces of fiction, go check out Lascaux Flash.

Or if you like writing tiny pieces of fiction, go enter! There is a $250 prize for a mere 250 words!

Boycott Valentine's Day

noreply@blogger.com (Wendy) — Tue, 12 Feb 2013 20:12:00 +0000

I found myself standing in front of a bunch of Valentine's Day crap. Pissed. And the only reason I was there was because I have kids who have parties -- it's certainly not because I like Valentine's Day. In fact, quite the opposite.

Every year my ritual is to rant about Valentine's Day during the week of Valentine's Day. And friends who have known me for many years scatter like feral cats when they see me coming.

And I suppose it's ridiculous, because as holidays go it's rather innocuous. Who wouldn't like a holiday that promotes love?

Except, the thing is, it doesn't really promote love. Rather, it oppresses men and throws women into another arena where they compare themselves to each other to confirm how "worthy" they are in the eyes of those around them.

It's no secret that men say women are "complicated" or "tricky." I've heard being in a relationship with a woman compared to walking through a room that is rigged with flashbangs -- you never know when you'll set one off accidentally, unwittingly. As a woman, I personally don't feel I'm terribly complicated but it's also hard to argue with the deer in the headlights look a man gets when you ask him if your ass looks big in the dress you're wearing.

And so comes Valentine's Day. And on that day the man must go forth and procure for his lover some red or pink article that expresses just the right amount of love and creativity. Too much and you overshot your mark (does that send a message?), too little and you're a cheap, uninspired bastard who doesn't appreciate your girl. I don't envy a guy on Valentine's Day.

And for women -- imagine sitting in an office and all around you in their little cubes women are getting flowers delivered, or candy or tiny inappropriate teddies that they'll hate And you're not. Because maybe you're single. Or maybe your husband forgot it was Valentine's Day and is out in a leaky fishing boat with a 6-pack. Or what if the girl next to you has two dozen roses and you have a little $3 box of off-brand chocolate from the dollar store that is half oxidized because it was actually left over from last year?

In my opinion, the whole day is trouble waiting to happen.

"But, Wendy," you protest. "Isn't the day really about the sentiment? It's the thought that counts."

I don't know... does an obligatory holiday that forces someone to buy me a present really quantify someone's love for me? Are you buying it for me because you love me or because Hallmark says you should? And, you are a kind person who doesn't want me to feel ridiculous when all my girlfriends get stuff and I don't. Thank you for being kind, but maybe instead do something authentic for me like leave a funny note in the pocket of my jeans. Or bring a 2pm snack by the office and say, "Hey, just wanted you to have this treat." Do it on a day nobody tells you to do it.

And let's do it for each other -- not just our lovers. Let's do it every week for teachers or doctors or the lady who grooms our dogs or for the garbage man -- especially the garbage man, because his job really sucks. Open your heart to anyone and everyone who ever made your life better.

I started to ask you to consider boycotting Valentine's Day, but maybe instead what I really want is for you to celebrate Valentine's Day every day of the year.

January Featured Author

noreply@blogger.com (Wendy) — Wed, 02 Jan 2013 15:40:00 +0000

I'm starting off the new year with something fun! Over at Drey's Library I am the January featured author and today she posted an interview and a giveaway. So if you want a chance to win a book and either some yarn or soap, go check it out!

http://www.dreyslibrary.com/2013/01/02/januarys-featured-author-is-wendy-russ/

Feast on This: An Interview with Stephen Parrish

noreply@blogger.com (Wendy) — Sun, 02 Dec 2012 13:00:00 +0000

My writing partner, Stephen Parrish, and I are hanging out at each others' blogs today. Steve has recently published a new book, THE FEASTS OF LESSER MEN, and I wanted to interview him not only because the book is fantastic but also because of his unique perspective on Cold War espionage.

After you read his interview, I encourage you to hop over his blog where he is interviewing me in conjunction with my book giveaway.

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Germany, 1990: The Berlin Wall has fallen. East and West Germany are discussing reunification. After four and a half decades of cloak-and-dagger intrigue, the Cold War is coming to an end.

Not for Jimmy Fisher, a plans clerk in the American 111th Infantry Division. Fisher black markets cigarettes, steals valuables from the dead, and takes advantage of every weakness he identifies in each living person he meets. Which makes him the perfect target for foreign agents seeking to buy documents.

Forced to make life-or-death choices in an ever heightening conflict between his personal safety and the security of his country, Fisher flees to the Vosges Mountains of France with a woman he trusts. In time he learns that love is worthy of a greater conviction than is loyalty to one's country, and that abstract symbols and arbitrary boundaries are not worth dying for.

Wendy: It’s obvious from the book that you have extensive military experience. What inspired the book and were there any experiences you had that were particularly profound or illuminating (about life, the world, human nature or whatever)?

Steve: I had the extraordinary fortune, from a writer’s perspective (misfortune otherwise), to be actively recruited by the most notorious army spy ring since World War II. The Feasts of Lesser Men is fiction, but it capitalizes on my experiences as a foreign-stationed soldier during the Cold War.

The approach technique I described in the novel is fundamentally accurate: you target men who need the money and can be compromised. You ask for little things first. You conceal a big stick. By the time the target realizes he’s in trouble it’s too late; he has already committed espionage, sometimes unwittingly, and there’s no turning back.

That’s what I most wanted to convey, of all that I learned: the people in my unit who are presently serving up to 36 years are not monsters, they’re casualties of masterfully crafted psychological warfare.

Also that it’s easier, it turns out, to steal Top Secret documents from the U.S. military than it is to snatch a high school class ring from Zales.

Wendy: What do you consider the root cause of this? To summarize one basic idea in the book, the main character Jimmy Fisher says you make a soldier miserable in all areas of his life and then give him a security clearance. Is it as simple as that?

Also, there have been times when concerned citizens have made attempts to demonstrate security weaknesses by committing crimes themselves such as various hacking groups getting into government sites or the 82-year old nuclear activist breaching the site where weapons-grade uranium is stored. Do you consider this a valid or acceptable form of civil disobedience?

Steve: I don’t believe in civil disobedience except under extreme circumstances. Administrators of secure installations—including military document vaults—should routinely employ breachers and hackers to test security. Imagine how fun that job would be.

As for why men spy on their own countries (there are virtually no such things as infiltrator-spies, outside of fiction; all modern-day spies are traitors), I’ll cite the rationale argued by my boss, who died in prison serving a life sentence:

1. It’s easy money. My boss made more than a million dollars, obviously tax free, by videotaping documents in the privacy of the vault he managed. Not counting occasional travel, which he enjoyed anyway, I estimate becoming a millionaire cost him about twenty hours of his time, total. In Feasts I made protagonist and narrator Jimmy Fisher definitively opportunistic, and thus a good target for approach.

2. The army demands more of its soldiers than it rewards them. My boss was a Vietnam veteran who felt unappreciated for his years of service and sacrifice. Jimmy Fisher feels like a bottom dweller.

3. This is the big one: Selling secrets to the enemy won’t hurt anyone; it’s all just a game. My boss was absolutely convinced of this, and had some good arguments—arguments I gave to the bad guys recruiting Jimmy Fisher.

Wendy: Being that you consider the people in your unit to have been “casualties of masterfully crafted psychological warfare,” how do you feel about how things turned out for them? Did the punishment fit the crime?

In the book there is peril at every turn in Jimmy Fisher’s world of spying. How closely would you say your fictional world resembled the reality of the spy ring you were made aware of?

And while there was a lot of menacing there was a startling lack of car chase scenes, explosions and no “Bond” gadgets! So, am I correct in assuming the spy racket is not nearly as sexy as Hollywood makes it out to be?

Steve: The punishment has to be harsh. There’s no way to justify a light sentence for committing, or conspiring to commit, espionage. However I believe the people serving sentences in this particular case should all be paroled today, and if given the opportunity I would testify at their parole hearings. I knew the guy who recruited them. I knew him well. An FBI agent assigned to the case referred to him as “Der Meister,” and there you have it.

Peril? I don’t know. Some, I guess. Not as much as my novel would suggest (it is, after all, a novel). The greatest peril a spy faces is getting caught.

As for the Bond stuff, no, spying is not sexy. Intelligence work, on either side of the fence, is exacting and tedious. The biggest rush a spy experiences is the same as what a shoplifter experiences: leaving a building with something illegal in his pocket.

Wendy: One of the things you do masterfully in this book is how you build the character of Jimmy Fisher. There are so many reasons to NOT like him and yet by the end of the book readers find themselves rooting for him. What was your process for building Fisher and what was your goal for him as a character? What did you want to achieve?

Steve: I wanted to invent a character who was definitively opportunistic, would do pretty much anything (petty) for sex or money. At the same time, I wanted to make him likeable. And—this was the challenge—I wanted to present him in first person. The point of the latter was, describing someone else’s wrongdoings, no matter how objectively or even sympathetically, is nothing compared to having that person boast of those wrongdoings himself. It took me a long time to get Jimmy’s voice. I rewrote the early scenes many times until I had the mildly sarcastic wit I wanted.

Plotting his bad behavior was the easy part. I just asked myself what I wouldn’t do. The first scene, which can be sampled on Amazon, is a good example.

Wendy: When you decide to write a book, how do you typically approach it with regard to planning and then moving on to the actual writing?

Steve: I don’t know. I’ve published two novels, discarded two others, and am slogging my way through a fifth. For reasons I don’t understand, this one’s the hardest, even though I know what to do at every step, because I always outline—which answers your question, I guess. I can’t “pants” a story.

I think the answer is different for every writer and possibly for every story. All I can say for sure is, just fill up blank pages with words, anyway it works for you, and if they’re bad words, exchange them later for better ones.

Wendy: Another nice touch in the book is an “interlude,” a flashback perhaps, of three boys who are hiking. What did you have in mind when you did this section of the book? Did you intend it to reveal more of Fisher’s character? Or was there some other reason?

Steve: Actually I had two such interludes, complete stories in their own right, but deleted one because it was slowing the book down. Honestly, I put them in (and took one out) simply because it felt right. You have to trust your instincts. You have to listen to your inner voice that says “this is right” or “this sucks.” Too often we ignore the latter, and it gnaws at our subconscious; we don’t feel entirely good about something we’ve written. When that happens to the writer, you can reasonably expect a similar reaction, or worse, in the reader.

LIGHTNING ROUND!

Favorite meal?

A salad. Crunchy vegetables with a vinegar dressing. Afterwards, popcorn and a movie.

One book you must have if you’re stranded on a deserted island?

Some large compilation of American poetry, the larger the better. I’d memorize it as I waited to be rescued.

Amazing wouldn’t-trade-it-for-anything experience?

Playing Barbies and doll house with my daughter.

Stand-up comic smackdown: George Carlin vs. Richard Pryor

George Carlin. In his later years he became utterly brilliant. Also, my mom always said I reminded her of him, my mannerisms and irreverance, even my looks. I took it as a compliment.

Greatest thing since sliced bread?

Doritos. If God exists, it’s because He made a firmament in the midst of the waters, and let the corn chips be gathered together unto one plastic bag. And the evening and the morning were the second day.

Three things from your bucket list:

Someone once said, you know you’re old when you leave the house in the morning without the hope or expectation of falling in love. I’m old. I’ve done everything I wanted to do, all that’s left is to write about it.

Wendy: And to wrap up, what advice do you have for writers who are just starting out or who might be floundering and trying to find their way?

Steve: In any given day, the only thing standing between you and your goals is a blank piece of paper. Stop making excuses, and fill it.

Thanks so much to Steve for indulging me on the interview. The FEASTS OF LESSER MEN is a wonderful book, well-written and an intriguing peek into the world of non-Hollywoodified espionage. Go get a copy!

And don't forget to stop by Steve's blog to see his interview with me.

Thoughts on Election Day

noreply@blogger.com (Wendy) — Tue, 06 Nov 2012 19:55:00 +0000

Carl Spitzweg [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

You're probably sick of the election. Like me. It seems like it's been going on forever. It's sort of like modern Christmas that starts somewhere around June and wraps up after the New Year's sales are over.

Politicians lie or stretch the truth or "spin" the story their way. The media spins worse. Or better, depending on your perspective. I spend a lot of time hoping I make the right decision and I'm not sure there really is a "right" one.

To me it comes down to one basic thing... sometimes life is great and sometimes life just sucks. And I don't care what anyone says -- not politicians, not economists, not the media. THE WORLD IS MAGICAL AND MYSTERIOUS and there's no controlling it.

We're a bunch of people on a planet and we are so tied into one another that changing the price of oil by a few barrels makes me buy less stuff at the grocery store. And some clever jerk who is an expert on the stock market can short-sell something and suddenly my neighbor is at the foodbank every Wednesday because he can't get a job. Yes, the butterly effect.

The other night my oldest son (age 9) was sitting on the couch with me and we were watching the news and discussing the upcoming election. He said, "Your vote doesn't count, Mom."

When I looked over at him, surprised that he knew much of anything about voting, he was ready to defend his position adding, "It doesn't. I'm serious."

I ran through my various options -- was it worth trying to explain the electoral college and the popular vote? I've read all the pros and cons about both and every time I read them I throw my hands up in despair because I'm not smart enough to fix a defective system and even if I were who would listen to me? Me, a mid-40's dumpling with freckles who doesn't have a PhD. (Although to my credit I make a really mean chicken soup.)

And so I took the easy way out and said, "Yes and no. What we do matters even when it seems like it doesn't. We must always make our voices heard even if it seems pointless at the time."

It's like the story about the starfish. Or, my favorite analogy... like throwing a rock in a pond and watching the ripples.

I frequently tell people I live in a small town. I suppose it's bragging because I think small-town living is the best kind of living. But one of the things I love about it is that you can actually SEE what happens when you throw the rock. You can volunteer to chair a committee and months later realize you've helped provide toys for 600 families who would have otherwise had a crummy Christmas. You can volunteer as a child advocate and make sure that a little girl who nearly starved to death from neglect gets adopted into a forever-home and has a chance at life and love and college. You can attend a meeting that results in a dock and bridge being built over a city pond so that handicapped kids can fish alongside all the other children when it's fishing derby time at the summer festival.

You can see the landmarks of your actions.

Twelve years ago before we had electronic voting machines, many of the townsfolk would gather on the courthouse square to watch the ballot counts come in. There were booths where popcorn was served and coffee and hot chocolate. Candidates would mill around and joke and josh and wait for the news. The guy who owns the radio station would stand on the corner and read off the tally sheets someone brought him and an old lady and man would change numbers on the white board as they listened to what he said.

We'd hang out there in the dim street lighting, our breath billowing white into the freezing November air. We didn't care that we were cold or that maybe the election results weren't exactly going our way. Because we were together, all of us. And that is what mattered.

And to me that's all that matters now. So the world is bigger and we are more global, but we still share the rent on the planet. What I do matters. What you do matters.

Keep flapping your wings.

The Nail in the Coffin

noreply@blogger.com (Wendy) — Fri, 07 Sep 2012 14:38:00 +0000

Tao Te Ching: Chapter 11
translated by Stephen Mitchell (1988)

We join spokes together in a wheel,
but it is the center hole
that makes the wagon move.

We shape clay into a pot,
but it is the emptiness inside
that holds whatever we want.

We hammer wood for a house,
but it is the inner space
that makes it livable.

We work with being
but non-being is what we use.

* * *

In the summer we walked to the beach every day. But now that I think about it, back then it was always summer no matter what month of the year.

I had a theory about men and women in California who always wanted plastic surgery -- in paradise you can't tell that time is moving forward. And one day you wake up and suddenly you're 50 and wrinkled and panic sets in.

But back then our skin was still taut and dewy. We glowed with a sunny optimism and the assumption of invincibility.

Every day my boyfriend and I walked to the beach. We'd walk down the steep hill from the house, hit the beach, run a few kilometers and then drag our tired asses back up the hill. During the walks down and back we had interesting discussions about life, work, politics, psychology, whatever.

One day in particular our talk was quite heated. It was about men and women and the differences between them. My boyfriend was smart, opinionated, conversationally aggressive. His assumption was that he was always right unless it was proven otherwise. And there was never an "agree to disagree" -- in a debate with him it was either win or lose. There was no such thing as a draw.

The sidewalk we followed was populated by snails. They were a terrible blight on the landscape and ate everything in their path. We poisoned them, or picked them off and threw them down into the canyon. But it never seemed to matter. There were as many the next day as the last.

At the bottom of the hill, my boyfriend huffed passionately and said, "You want to know the real difference between men and women? Do you?"

Punctuating his question he raised his foot and stomped it down hard on the snail in his path, then stepped back.

"That," he said, pointing to the slimy broken mess in front of us. "That is what men can do."

I stood in silence staring at the obliterated snail. I could feel my boyfriend staring at me, holding his breath in anticipation of celebrating his impending triumph at having made his point so powerfully.

There is no doubt it was a powerful moment. But not in the way he hoped. The argument about men and women -- who is stronger, who is dominant, who knows how to seize power and who doesn't -- shattered and the silence that followed was filled with the heavy realization that he had soundly driven the last nail into the coffin of our relationship.

And it wasn't the snail, I suppose. The snail was an unfortunate bystander in an age-old debate about men and women. It was ground zero of a blast that blew away any wisps of illusion, a blast that revealed the raw and naked character I hadn't paid attention to for all the charm, the beautiful words, the clever and impressive jousting.

I turned and began walking and he followed, mistaking my silence for surrender, maybe. He continued on, summing up his proposition in a tidy and logical manner as I thought about how much stuff I needed to pack, where I would go, how I would explain something he would never understand.

Because it was a small thing, a tiny moment, the slamming of a door. Nothing. But also everything.

Across the Way

noreply@blogger.com (Wendy) — Fri, 24 Aug 2012 05:13:00 +0000

My youngest son started Kindergarten this year. Kindergarten is the start of many new things, but one significant thing in particular is that Mom doesn't walk her "baby" to class any more.

I ease up the hill in the car and back down the other side to wait in line with a gazillion other parents who wait sometimes patiently, sometimes not. The boys like to go early so they can eat breakfast at school, mostly because of the chocolate milk they don't always get at home.

We sit in line, facing the sun and I watch the dispatching of various sized children in various styles of clothing. I like watching how the parents and grandparents send the kids off. Some drop off and drive away. Some open the doors and help the kids out. Sometimes there is hugging and kissing and sometimes not.

For the last two years I've dropped my oldest son off here and he doesn't want the hugging and kissing. He slides out of the car and trudges off, never looking back even though I wave vigorously out the window like I'm a tourist heading off on an exciting cruise vacation. My other son would yell from the back seat, "Bye Brubby!" And then we'd drive to his school building where he'd hang on to the back of my shirt until two teachers wrestle him down so I can make my escape.

But on this particular day, this first day of dropping him off it will be different. I don't know how it will be, but I know it will be different. I glance over my shoulder to see if he seems concerned or excited. He seems neither, merely interested.

"I'm just dropping you off today. You'll go up to the cafeteria with your brother. You okay with that?"

A flicker of worry crosses his face and he nods. He puts his head down and looks up at me from under his beautiful black lashes.

"You'll be fine," I remind him. "This is an exciting day!" I wonder for a second who I'm trying harder to convince, me or him.

Under my breath I say, "You'll take him up, right? You'll walk him in to the cafeteria and show him what to do? You'll stay with him until someone takes charge of him. You will, right?"

My oldest boy nods, not looking at me. "I will."

We sit in silence while the car rolls ahead a few feet as another car pulls away.

At the front finally, I ask, "Do you want to just get out or do you want a goodbye hug?"

"Will you hug me?"

"Of course, Sugar Face. How could I not hug you?"

I got out on the driver's side and he got out on the passenger's side. I thought about the long line of cars behind me and how they were waiting for me to move along so it would be their turn. I quickly dashed around the front of the car, but my youngest had already moved around the back to the other side. I turned and ran the other way thinking how ridiculous it now seemed to be chasing this child around the car for a hug. I imagined foot-tapping and sighing.

When we finally met up on the other side of the car I wrapped my arms around him, half of his mass a too-big backpack that crinkled noisily as I squeezed him to me. I straightened and smoothed his hair, my hands moving down to cup his cheeks. "I love you and I want you to have a GREAT day, okay?"

"Kissy me."

I thought of the cars waiting. Waiting. I smiled and decided I didn't care how long they waited. I bent down to kiss his cheek and he kissed mine, pressing hard into my face. He smiled and turned to walk with his big brother up the stairs and I turned to smile at the car behind me by way of polite apology.

Across the way a man sat in his truck with his son. He had a certain look on his face, the look I imagine I have when I watch something beautiful or moving, a sweet parent and child. His face was serene and he had a soft smile. Our eyes met and he nodded. I smiled and nodded back. His look said, "Take all the time you need because what you're doing is the most important thing you'll do all day."

And, as it turns out, it was.