The Way Things Are

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Yesterday I attended a PTA meeting at a local coffee shop, where a few members gathered to hash out some details about an upcoming fundraiser for our high school. I grabbed a cup of coffee from the young woman working behind the counter, who happened to be the fifteen-year-old daughter of a good friend. We chatted for a minute about the long weekend we had just enjoyed and school in general.

When I took my place at the table that the early-arriving members had snagged, I ended up sitting in a seat facing the window of the coffee shop which just happened to face the driveway where deliveries for the stores in the strip mall are made. As we discussed a fundraiser that we’ll be sponsoring at the end of February, I noticed a young man walk over to a collection of bags, blankets, and other personal belongings, reach into one of the bags and take out a container of jam which he proceeded to eat with his fingers. I became completely preoccupied with the sight, missing most of the PTA discussion. I finally asked the other members of the board to look out the window and asked them if they, like I, thought he was homeless.

We all agreed that that was the case.

A few years back, while volunteering at a local soup kitchen, I had the occasion to try to help a young man who was completely without any sustenance or shelter. I spent a few minutes calling the local police department and then the Volunteers of America to find out where in our affluent community and county one could send someone who had no place to go. I was told that there was only one drop-in shelter in this county and that it was about twenty miles south of here in a very tough neighborhood in a pretty tough city. Our options limited, we opted instead to send the young man to a shelter north of here at a monastery, hoping that they would take him in even though the focus of the shelter was on rehab and recovery, not plain homelessness. We prayed that this would work out, because by the looks of him, he wouldn’t have lasted an hour in a rough shelter, besieged by mental illness and a host of problems we probably didn’t even know about.

Knowing that our options were limited, I approached my friend’s daughter at the counter and asked her and her coworker how long the man had been living outside; they thought it had been about twenty-four hours. They thought that the owner of the shop—who had gone home hours before and was not coming back—was aware of the situation as well. I asked them to give him a call to find out what, if anything, he wanted them to do upon closing. I was a little concerned about a fifteen-year-old and her not-much-older counterpart closing up shop and departing with someone living on the grounds in their path. I was jumping to conclusions, but my mind was racing at this point as to what to do or how to help this man. I didn’t want to call the police because truly, he wasn’t bothering anyone. I also knew that if the police got involved, he would end up in the rough shelter and that might not be the best thing for him. I wondered if I should talk to him to find out his story and help him find somewhere to stay. In the end, I decided to go home and get the wise counsel of Jim.

I left the coffee shop and noticed that the man was surrounded by a group of people, one of whom seemed to be sharing the food and shelter with him, bringing our current total of homeless up to at least two, if not more, judging from the group. They were young, happy, and seemingly having a great time; one of the group’s members had a laptop, I noticed curiously. I got into the car and went home, my first phone call going to my friend, the one whose daughter worked in the coffee shop. She was alarmed and immediately called the coffee shop owner to find out what was going on and what we should do, if anything.

Turns out that the homeless men were part of a group a young woman who lives in our town had befriended overseas while visiting a youth hostel. The men were from Brazil and headed there; she planned on accompanying them. She brought them back to town without telling her parents, promising them a place to stay while they regrouped before the next leg of their trip. Her parents, none too pleased with this turn of events, denied her request to put them up and told her to find somewhere else for them to stay. They’ve been camping out as well as couch surfing, and the makeshift set-up they had next to the coffee shop was erected for them to air out their camping equipment.

Ah, youth.

I travel into New York City on a regular basis and see so many homeless people that it almost absolves me from doing something for each and every person I encounter. I also know that the infrastructure in the city for dealing with homelessness exists in a far more structured sense than it does here, as evidenced by my quest to find a bed for a homeless man at the soup kitchen. But to see someone in my own town who may be without a bed and food was a new sight as well as one that I didn’t know quite how to deal with. The average age of a homeless person in the United States today is NINE. And I think we’re going to see more people in the places we live struggling for survival. I feel like yesterday’s experience was a test and has allowed me to figure out exactly what I will do when confronted with homelessness again. Because with the economy, joblessness, and poverty becoming more common-place, it will not be IF the situation happens again, but WHEN.

Maggie Barbieri

Ghosts and Angels

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Anyone who has known me for anytime at all has heard about all the haunted places hubby and I have stayed or visited: The Queen Mary, Room 17 in the Bella Maggoire Bed and Breakfast, the hotel across the street from the Alamo. Just this weekend we went on a ghost tour and visited the haunted Ventura Courthouse (while wandering around in the dark halls of the jail I’m positive I glimpsed a wraith) as well as other old hotels in the area.

My grandkids sincerely believe our house is haunted–and it may be, we have doors that open and close on their own. I have my own theory about ghosts, I think they maybe no more than echoes from the past. If you think about the fact that their might be another dimension, what went on before could very well still be hanging around.

Angels are a whole other story. Because I am a Bible student, I firmly believe that angels are surrounding us all the time, many examples are in the Bible, Old and New Testament. Good ones, those who look out for us, and the fallen angels (demons) whose agenda is totally different.

I’ve heard far too many miracles where angels intervened. According to the Bible, angels sometimes take on human appearance–hence the stranger who helped out at an accident and saved someone’s life and then disappeared before anyone could find out who he was. (And yes, I do know some personal stories where this has happened, but it would take far too long to recount them.)

Anyone who believes in ghosts ought to believe in angels too. Ghosts are fun to think and talk about, but the angels are the ones who actually intervene on our behalf.

Marilyn
http://fictionforyou.com

Bring on the Drama(s)!

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Now that Jay Leno is moving back to being the king of late night television, there should be five prime time hours in the NBC schedule opening up for new dramas. I can’t wait!

Since the Fall TV season started, and some long-running NBC dramas were cancelled, I’ve moved most of my drama watching to CBS and TNT. With the Leno shift change, I’m hoping for new NBC shows like the cancelled ER, a show that had strong female characters and broad appeal.

My favorite top ten, current, dramas in order are:
The Good Wife – one of the best shows I’ve seen in years. Great multidimensional characters.
The Closer – wonderful ensemble cast.
NCIS – Mark Harmon, Mark Harmon, Mark Harmon
Criminal Minds – despite the very dark mysteries, the ensemble cast is appealing.
Medium – long time favorite with characters to care about.
In Plain Sight – interesting female characters with unusual mysteries
Leverage – fast, fun, with quirky characters and the good guys win in the end every time.
Men of a Certain Age – despite the lack of female leads, this is a quiet charmer.
Law & Order – love the original, the theme music will hook me every time.
Burn Notice – strong female characters – and I’d watch anything with Sharon Gless in it.

I don’t watch many comedies and I’ve never liked the over-the-top ones. Instead of laughing, I’d feel embarrassed for the one getting the pie in the face. I didn’t love Lucy. I didn’t love Raymond. The Golden Girls were more a pale yellow in my mind and Gilligan could keep his island. Cheers was kind of sad. I liked MASH but it was more of a drama than a comedy. I like PSYCH and MONK for the mini-mysteries. I liked Frazier for the dog, Eddie.

Maybe the reason I’ve always liked dramas best is that I was rewriting the endings in my mind all these years. Writing an extra joke or two doesn’t do much for me, but writing a better or extended ending to a drama is something I can really get my writer’s teeth into.

What are your favorites? Do you prefer dramas over comedies? Or vice versa.

Rhonda
A TV Addict in addition to being the Southern Half of Evelyn David

The Weirdness of Being a Writer

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by Susan McBride

Here I go again, getting all geared up and nervous for a new book release (11 days from today, to be exact!). I’m strapping on my mental Kevlar vest and my sturdiest virtual helmet, and I’m crossing fingers, toes, legs, eyes, whatever’s remotely cross-able. On January 26, THE COUGAR CLUB will be available in bookstores all over the place, and three women who have lived in my head since I signed a contract in September of 2008 will be unleashed on the world, at which point they will cease to belong only to me. They will be wide open to public scrutiny, and I’ll have to accept the inevitable: some readers and reviewers will find these women fabulous and inspiring and all sorts of good things, and others will hold their noses and declare them odious, pounding out angry one-star reviews on Amazon that warn others not to spend a single penny on such drivel. Gulp! And I will have no control over either. (Sweat is breaking out on my upper lip as I type this but my positive thinking will surely evaporate it in no time, right?)

It’s a weird thing sometimes, being a writer. I mean, it sounds really fabulous when you decide at some point, “I want to be Margaret Mitchell (or Harper Lee or Barbara Taylor Bradford)! I have stories to tell! I want to share my wild imagination and love of words with the universe!” Only you don’t stop and think how unsafe an occupation it truly is, and there are no OSHA rules to protect those of us determined enough to proceed. It’s one thing to have your mother read your first manuscript and declare, “This is brilliant! Pure genius!” It’s another to peel one eye open enough to read what Publishers Weekly or Library Journal or Romantic Times decided about your latest opus. To put it bluntly, publishing can be scary!

Like, simply writing a book isn’t tough enough. I was emailing with Ellen Byerrum (who’s on a crazy deadline) the other day, and she asked me if the process ever got any easier. I didn’t need to think too hard to answer, “Nope, it never does.” THE COUGAR CLUB will be my 10th published novel–and number 11 has been in the can since last January–and even before I was under contract, I wrote 10 manuscripts that will never see the light of day. Whew, it makes me tired just recalling how much blood, sweat, and tears I’ve dripped on my keyboard through the years. Those of us who write don’t do it for the glory or the money. Anytime I hear a starry-eyed novice proclaim, “I’m going to write a book and make a lot of money so I can quit my job and support my family,” I have to fight the urge to say, “Are you crazy?” How nice it would be if it worked out that way! (Plus, you never know. I mean, if your name is Stephenie and you had a dream about a vampire, then that’s pretty much how it went.)

For those of us who are mere mortals, success doesn’t come overnight. It comes through persistence, determination, sacrifice of time with friends and family, lots of travel and self-promotion, and the unflagging hope that “maybe this will be the one.” Because, honestly, in this business you never know. It’s not always possible to predict where lightning will strike in book publishing (or else publishers would only be putting out best-sellers, as they say).

Despite the odds, despite how weird this game is to play (with the rules ever-changing), despite the naysayers declaring things like, “Books will be obsolete by 2025”–okay, I made that up but someone probably did say it!–I can’t imagine doing anything else. Words have always been my passion. I was the kid in grade school scribbling stories in my Big Chief tablet just for fun, not because it was homework. I was the student who grinned when I heard the phrase “essay test,” because I knew I could write my way through anything. I’ve always played “what if” in my head: “What if that boy on the bike is running away from something…what did he do and where is he going?”

It’s who I am, it’s what I do, and, God help me, but I love it. It’s never easy, but it satisfies some part of me that I can’t even explain. And I worry over every new book that’s about to be released, no matter that I realize I can’t control what happens to it any more than I can control the weather. So in eleven days, I’ll hold my breath for a second when I wake up, knowing that I’m letting THE COUGAR CLUB out into the wild. At least I can be sure of what my mom will say about it: “This is brilliant! Pure genius!” (You’ve gotta love moms!)

Sneak Peek at The Cougar Club by Susan McBride

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Kat Maguire on getting older:

Aging gracefully isn’t about aging gratefully. It’s about living life with your engine on overdrive, making love with all the lights on, trashing your diet books, and diving into the chocolate cake.

Chapter One

When it rains, it pours.

The sky opened up just as Kat Maguire exited Grand Central Station after taking the express train from Chambers Street in Tribeca. She’d left Roger’s loft without an umbrella as the chirpy meteorologist had promised “cloudy skies with a slim chance of afternoon showers.” Right! Maybe she should have peered out the window instead of sparring over whose turn it was to pick up the dry cleaning and running around like a chicken with her head cut off before dashing out the door. She had a client meeting scheduled for eight-fifteen, and it was nearly that now.
The late February drizzle turned the air gray around her, and Kat shivered in her trench coat. Mist settled on her face and falling drops pelted her hair. With a resigned sigh, she did the only thing she could, much as it pained her: she set her black leather Coach briefcase atop her head and merged into the mass of shuffling humanity. She noticed plenty of them had umbrellas.

She ignored her stomach which loudly complained about skipping her daily fix of coffee and bagel from Hot ‘n Crusty. She was running late and couldn’t afford to slow down much less stop. The BuzzShots account was too important to the advertising agency’s bottom line since profits weren’t what they used to be. With an unsettling shake-up in the employee ranks of late—“thinning out faster than Donald Trump’s hair,” as one nervous staffer had put it—Kat felt like her career was on the line as well.

Just a block to go and she’d be standing in front of the building that housed Dooney & Marling set smack across the street from the stone lions guarding the New York Public Library. Good thing she could walk it blindfolded after fifteen years, because she could hardly see two feet ahead of her. She didn’t slow her brisk pace until she pushed through the glass doors. With a “woo” of relief, she lowered her briefcase and her aching arm then brushed damp strands of hair from her brow.

“Raining cats and dogs out there, eh, Kat?” the white-haired security guard quipped as she passed his desk with a cursory wave. “Bet it’s the dogs part you hate.”
Ha ha. He was lucky she didn’t have a moment to waste, or she might have tasered him with the lonely weapon dangling from his utility belt. Her mood was as foul as the weather.
“Hold it, please!” Kat called out as she made a beeline for the bank of elevators just as a pair of doors slapped shut. Dammit. Sneezing, she sent soggy brown bangs into her eyes again as she pressed the “up” button. While she waited, she stamped on her drenched leather boots, leaving tiny puddles on the marble floor. She watched the long hand on the clock above the elevators tick ahead a notch, to 13 minutes past eight, and panic set in.

Mindful of the slick tiles, she hurried toward the stairs. High heels tapping, she climbed rapidly at first but had to slow down around the fourth floor. When she arrived on nine, she was panting, heart skidding against her ribcage. With no time to catch her breath, she pushed open frosted glass doors and trudged through the lobby of D&M, homing in on the glorified cubicle that served as her office. She’d scarcely gotten off her coat to hang it up when someone cleared their throat behind her.

“Ms. Maguire? Mr. Garvey wants to see you.”
“Now?” Kat blinked at the pony-tailed stranger standing at the cubby’s threshold. Gertrude, her secretary for a decade, had departed just last week in another round of brutal lay-offs, and everyday there were fewer familiar faces and more per diem fill-ins floating around the place. “I’m sure it can wait.”

“He said ASAP,” the girl insisted, her un-rouged skin positively blood-less. She gnawed on her lower lip, most of her plum-hued lipstick already chewed away.

Kat laughed. “Like that’s gonna happen.” She quickly wiped off her boots and briefcase with a handful of Kleenex and tried not to drip on the paperwork she’d dumped atop her desk. “I’ve got a meeting in the conference room that started already. I’ll duck into Chace’s office after I’m done.”

The temp cleared her throat again. “He said it’s urgent.”
“Urgent?” As in her client meeting had been canceled? Kat couldn’t imagine any other reason for being summoned pronto. Had she missed an important text?
Kat snatched her BlackBerry from her bag but it didn’t show anything but a fresh message from Roger—the only way they communicated lately besides arguing—getting in the last word on the Great Dry Cleaning Debate: Its UR turn! And wld U plz get Chinese 2 nite while UR at it? Wow, placing his dinner order already? Well, at least he’d said “plz.”

“Mr. Garvey’s waiting, Ms. Maguire,” the girl prodded, obviously not going away. “You want me to walk you down there?”
“No, thanks, I can manage,” Kat said brusquely and left her BuzzShots files on her desk. She couldn’t very well blow off her boss, even if it meant having to apologize profusely to the energy drink execs. Kat just hoped her two juniors on the account had arrived early enough to ply the clients with Krispy Kremes and coffee. “You can let Mr. Garvey know I’m on my way.”

The temp scuttled back to her desk as Kat marched toward the office of Chace Haywood Garvey, Jr., the very young senior vice-president who lorded over the New Accounts division. She passed the conference room en route and glanced through the glass panels to see Steph and Marsh on their feet, well into the Power Point presentation she’d been working on for weeks.

Kat jerked to a stand-still, so startled they’d begun the pitch without her that her head spun. She nearly barged into the room, forgetting Chace altogether; but a weird feeling in her gut made her reconsider. Something bad was brewing, and it wasn’t the Sam’s Club Kona. One foot in front of the other, as her daddy liked to say; so she moved on.

“Morning, Maryanne,” she greeted her boss’s secretary on the way into his office; but the frizzy-haired woman didn’t even peer over her monitor. In fact, she seemed intent on looking down at her keyboard, avoiding Kat’s eyes.

Uh-oh. Kat drew in a deep breath before briskly knocking on her boss’s door. She didn’t wait for an invitation to step inside.

“Do you realize Steph and Marshall are mid-pitch with BuzzShots, and I’ve been slaving over that account for months?” she complained as he rose from his desk and motioned for her to take a seat. “Whatever you have to say, please make it quick.”

Chace frowned, puckering his baby face. “Uh, yeah, sorry about that.” He seemed to have as much trouble looking up at her as Maryanne. Usually, he was all smiles and back-slapping, like he was still in the frat house at Penn State and not a decade removed. He didn’t even mention that she looked like a semi-drowned rat.
Run, Kat’s intuition was telling her. Run straight back to the loft and call in sick. Only it was too late for that. She sat down opposite him, and the anxious knot tightened in her belly.
“I don’t know an easy way to put this.” Chace leaned forward and blinked pale-lashed eyes in her direction. “The economy’s not doing us any favors. We’ve had to make some tough choices here at D&M, and sadly that means letting go of valuable employees on every level.”

“I’ve already lost Gertrude so what else do you want from me?” Kat asked and rubbed her hands over her knees, wondering who was next. “Are you breaking up my team? Steph’s a little green, but she’s a fast learner and ambitious as hell—”
“We’re not letting Stephanie go,” Chace interrupted.
“You’re laying-off Marshall?”
As soon as Kat said it, she knew it wasn’t possible, considering her boss had been the one to hire him, a fellow Penn State grad and brother in Sigma Chi. The two of them hit bars together after work. Which could only mean one thing, couldn’t it?

Oh, shit, it’s me, Kat realized just before Chace puffed his cheeks and exhaled. “I’m sorry, Kat. We hate to lose another seasoned player, but things are tough all over. We either have to trim the budget or take down the whole ship.”

A neon EXIT sign started flashing in Kat’s head, though the rational part of her thought no, no, no, this can’t be real.

“I’m being pink-slipped?” She grinned like a goof, praying it was some kind of bad joke. She’d been with the agency since well before Chace’s family connections had gotten him his cushy veep gig. Hell, since before Chace had taken his first legal drink. “You’re kidding, right?”

For a third of her life, she’d devoted herself to this place, sacrificing holidays, her family, and her social life, all so she could ravage her manicure climbing the ladder from lowly copy writer to New Accounts Team Leader. If the BuzzShots campaign scored a hit, she’d be due a more senior position with plenty of perks and more job security.

“It’s a scary world,” she heard Chace saying as he slid a dreaded red folder from beneath his pudgy hands. “Nothing’s certain these days.”

Like loyalty of any size or shape?

“I think you’ll appreciate the package we put together for you. A year’s severance, a year of Cobra, glowing references,” her boss intoned as he rose from his ergonomic leather chair and skirted his desk to drop the red folder in Kat’s lap, snapping her out of her momentary haze. “It’s painful, I know, and I guarantee it hurts us as much as you.”

“So you feel like a million Ginzu knives just impaled you?” she asked, bitterness flooding her voice as she flattened her palms on the file, unwilling to open it up and look inside. That would make it all too real. “How can you do this to me?”

They were keeping Marsh and Steph, who were barely out of school, but letting a veteran like her go? Kat suddenly wondered how many of the recently shed D&M staff were old-timers like her, deemed too expensive to keep?

“Please, don’t take it personally,” Chace murmured, giving her a wounded look, but Kat wasn’t having it. “We certainly appreciate all the contributions you’ve made to this company. If only things were different.”

But Kat heard instead: if only you were younger. She felt like she’d been kicked in the gut.

A Ghost Story

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Everyone I know loves a good ghost story. I come from a long line of believers in the other world, some of whom claim to have had visitations, dreams, or visions from the other side. As for whether or not I believe, I guess I’m not sure. I think I’ve decided that there is no harm in believing, as long as you don’t bet the house on it.

I was thinking about this because I just read a story in our local paper about a house that was recently purchased from a local family to become the new headquarters of our EMT group. The house had belonged to a long-time Village resident, a lovely woman who went to my church. She was blind, yet ran the very hectic newsstand at the train station in town, and was known to everyone who commutes to New York City from this major hub. Sadly, two years ago this March, she stepped out from behind the newsstand, as she did every day, and lost her way during her trek to her usual break spot. The elevator that she normally took to go to the platform was broken so she took a different one, confusing her. She ended up on the tracks and was killed by a speeding Amtrak train on its way north. Her daughters, who worked side-by-side with her every day, were there when the EMTs and our pastor came to shepherd her body to the medical examiner’s office.

The family home sat vacant on a street not far from the train station and her children decided to sell it to the Village so that our brave and compassionate EMTs would have a new, state-of-the art building from which to conduct their business. Everyone was thrilled at this turn of events and the EMTs moved in recently, taking some time last summer to do some renovations prior to setting up shop.

One by one, they began reporting strange and inexplicable occurrences. First, there was the laughter coming from various rooms of the house. Somewhere, merriment was being made, despite the fact that nobody lived there anymore. Children could be heard giggling, as could the sound of a woman laughing. After that, things began moving. First a roll of paper towels, then a few other things. The wind was not an explanation during the still heat of an East Coast summer. Finally, there was the story of the EMT chief in the attic. While fixing the attic fan—which resided below him, it’s large, sharp blades turning as he worked—he grew dizzy and passed out, falling toward the blades of the fan and to his certain death. When he awoke? He was beside the fan with nary a scratch on him.

Once a skeptic, he’s now a believer.

The newsstand woman’s family is comforted tremendously by these stories of sprit interventions and goings on in their childhood home. Nobody seems frightened by the fact that something is going on there; from all accounts, the vibe is positive and good. No poltergeists or demons, just the laughter of a woman and her children and some prank playing in the form of misplaced paper towels. And one life-saving intervention, if all is to be believed.

It got me thinking: why is it that we love these stories? Is it proof that there is life beyond our death? Is it a comfort to know that the people we loved, or even knew tangentially, are looking out for us, resting on our shoulders, providing us with solace and safety? I’m not sure. For me, it’s all about the comfort. I remember, during a particularly difficult time during my cancer treatment, prone on the couch, sick as a dog, a voice spoke to me. I was somewhere between sleep and waking, that lovely calm place that brings us peace before we go into our dream space. As I lay there, I thought about my situation and how it was going to take nothing short of a miracle to get me well, when a voice inside my head said, “You’re going to be ok. You’re going to be ok.” It wasn’t my voice, nor was it a voice I had ever heard. It wasn’t male. It wasn’t female. It just was.

Maybe it was just my subconscious sending me a message I wanted to hear. Maybe it wasn’t. All I know is at that moment, I felt a spiritual intervention on my behalf. Does that make me crazy? Maybe. But I’m ok, just as the voice told me I would be. I’m ok just like the EMT chief who surely should be dead, if something hadn’t intervened on his behalf. So I’m going to continue to open my heart and head to the laughter of those who came before us. Because it doesn’t cost us anything to believe.

What do you think, Stiletto faithful?

The Good Old Days

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Dana Cameron pointed out the good old days weren’t always that good. However, my memories of the ’50s which is a period that’s often mentioned as good old days, were for the most part just that.

This photo was taken in 1958, not exactly sure when though the baby in my arms was born at the end of 1957 and he only looks a few months old. The handsome fellow next to me of course is the one I always refer to as hubby, and the two girls are now grandmothers.

We were standing in my parents’ front yard in Los Angeles where I grew up.

At the time, hubby was in the Seabees (he made a career of it and did three tours in Vietnam) and we lived in Oxnard near the Seabee base.

Most of my memories of this time period are wonderful. Not all of course, it wasn’t easy raising kids sometimes alone when hubby was overseas. I was fortunate in having supportive parents and grandparents who didn’t live all that far away.

The baby in my arms was our first son and hubby was really proud of him. Unfortunately Mark died of cancer when he was in his early forties. We both feel blessed we had him in our lives for that long. He was a fun kid and grew into a remarkable man. He was always happy with whatever he had–which never was a lot. He never envied anyone. As a kid he had all sorts of jobs: dishwasher in restaurants, fileting fish on a fishing boat, janitor at the Navy base. As an adult, he worked as a janitor in two different hospitals, a gardener at a golf course, a bus driver for a camp for developmentally disabled children and adults, was an instructor at a sheltered workshop, ran a forklift at a Wal-Mart Distribution Center, and his last job was in a box factory. He helped raise his second wife’s three children and dearly loved his two grandchildren.

I didn’t mean to spend so much time talking about Mark, but talking about the good old days made me remember a lot about him.

Going back to the photo–I can see that hubby and I seriously need to go on a diet. Back in those days we could eat and drink what we wanted and still stayed skinny–may have had something to do with taking care of those kids. We had two more after that picture was taken, another girl and a boy.

Yes, I have fond memories of the good old days. And now you know I’m really as old as I’ve been saying.

Marilyn

http://fictionforyou.com/

Sherlock Who?

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I think it’s a generational thing. ***Spoiler Alert*** for books and movie.

We walked out of the movie theater: husband and wife of a certain middle age; son and daughter, young adults. The movie? Sherlock Holmes. The reviews? Nothing short of fantastic, according to the younger set.

For us older folks, it was a perfectly fine movie. Entertaining, beautifully shot, incredible costumes, and zero relationship to the books by Arthur Conan Doyle. Robert Downey, Jr. and Jude Law are terrific actors – but bear almost no resemblance to the Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson that I know.

I confess that I have special feelings about the Holmes books. It was probably the first mystery series I ever read – eagerly returning to the library to get another book as soon as I had finished the one I had in hand. Doyle taught me two things that have affected my writing. First, it never crossed my mind that an author could kill off his protagonist – but that is exactly what Doyle does in “The Final Problem.” I still love his mother’s reaction when Doyle informs her, “I think of slaying Holmes…and winding him up for good and all. He takes my mind from better things.” His Mom points out (and let’s hear it for Mom’s intuition), “You may do what you deem fit, but the crowds will not take this lightheartedly.” And guess what, Mom was right.

Which taught me the second important lesson – well maybe third, since learning that Moms are usually right is a point I often try to make with my own kids. But as to writing, under pressure from the public, Doyle brings Holmes back to life in “The Adventure of the Empty House,” and I discovered that an author creates and controls the fate of her characters. You may have some unhappy readers – you might even lose some of them – but as the author, it’s up to you.

But back to Sherlock Holmes, the movie. It’s been said that Holmes as portrayed by Robert Downey, Jr. has become an action hero, a romantic leading man. It’s not that Doyle doesn’t make reference to Holmes’ knowledge of the martial arts – but that’s not the focus of the novels. It’s his deductive powers that always resolve the mystery. Maybe having an actor who is good looking and in good physical shape made it an easy decision to have Holmes in one fight scene after another – preferably without his shirt. And the scene of nude Holmes, handcuffed to a bed and a pillow strategically covering his private parts is funny – and gratuitous.

Which leads me to Irene Adler, the romantic heroine for Mr. Holmes, played nicely by Rachel McAdams. But let’s put Irene Adler in perspective. In the Doyle books, she appears but once, in “A Scandal in Bohemia,” although she is mentioned in other stories. There’s no question that Doyle makes clear that Irene Adler is smart, a fitting intellectual foil for Holmes, but Ritchie puts the emphasis on the unfulfilled romantic longing between these two characters – and that’s a plot invention of the director’s imagination, not Doyle’s.

Maybe it doesn’t matter that Ritchie has essentially taken a well-known character and morphed him into someone that fits today’s movie standards. I don’t miss the deerstalker hat, but I do miss the concept that being smart is as valuable as being good-looking or an outstanding fighter. But maybe, a movie of watching someone think wouldn’t draw in the crowds? Instead, for me, one of my new year’s resolutions is to reread the original Sherlock Holmes books. Cheers to Mr. Ritchie for producing a pleasant afternoon’s interlude. Bravo to Mr. Doyle for creating characters that have lasted for generations.

Marian aka The Northern half of Evelyn David

Boning Up On Books

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The WOOFers, Mary (Milkbone) and Diana (d.d. dawg) have stopped by this weekend on their 2010 WOOF Blog Tour to promote reading for all ages. Be sure to leave a comment for a chance to win a free copy of the newly released download, “Accentuate The Pawsitive.”

I’m pleased to report this WOOFer’s reaction to learning her granddaughter read Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye. I did not go to that all-too-familiar place of feeling like a dinosaur. Instead, I was overwhelmed with excitement that she’d discovered Holden Caulfield.

I devoured the first-person narrative when I was about her age. I remember my daughter reading it when she too was around 15 or 16. A great age to be introduced to that icon of teenage rebellion while experiencing a master writer’s creative style.

As it turns out, my granddaughter inspired her mother to re-read the 1951 novel. My daughter related how she not only gained a new appreciation for the book, but more importantly, an opportunity to discuss its topics with her teenager.

So nothing would do but that I trek to the library and check out one of the worn copies lining the shelf, the one with the least amount of tape holding it together.

What a treat! How wonderfully the book has aged. It is truly timeless. The characters, the dialogue, the issues as relevant today as they were when the book was first published.

But the real joy of re-reading that book at this point in life has manifested in other ways:
• I appreciate that my granddaughter, my daughter and I shared the experience.
• I know I am still basically that same girl who first read those pages.
• I am grateful to authors who write books worth reading again and again.
• I am reminded that as we mature, we gain new insight and perspective.

Perhaps some books should be re-read every decade. Interestingly enough, I saw somewhere that a number of people feel guilty reading a book a second time. They say they feel like they’re wasting time. They believe they should always be reading something new. Exploring the unknown!

Well, I would argue I was exploring the unknown. I’d never read The Catcher in the Rye with +2.50 readers. I’d never read the classic after becoming a mother or being divorced or losing both of my parents.

And a waste of time? Did I mention the discussion with my “girls”?

So, if there is still anyone out there who thinks a re-read is frittering away precious hours, well, you can just give me back my hunting hat!

What are you reading now? In addition to WOOF: Women Only Over Fifty, that is. Leave a comment here and enter a drawing for “Accentuate the Pawsitive,” a WOOFers guide to realigning your life!

“Mind spinning? Mood Swinging? Middle sagging? Get used to it! When you reach 50, shift happens. But, you’re not alone. WOOFers to the rescue!”

Diana aka – d.d. dawg

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WOOF – Women Over Fifty – “Hilarious! Made me laugh out loud!” Blog Critics – Reviewed by Mayra Calvani

Like to laugh? You’ll discover more funny women stories, limericks and poems when you…

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Mary Cunningham is author of the award-winning, four-book ‘tween fantasy/mystery series Cynthia’s Attic (Quake) and two short stories Ghost Light, Christmas with Daisy, a Cynthia’s Attic Christmas story, and is co-author of WOOF: Women Only Over Fifty (Echelon Press). A member of the Georgia Reading Association and the Carrollton Creative Writers Club, she lives in the mountains of west Georgia.

Diana Black is the third author of the humor book WOOF: Women Only Over Fifty (Echelon Press). A published songwriter and cartoonist, her professional work also includes illustrating children’s books as well as graphic and cover design. Her project, Wendel Wordsworth: No Words for Wendel, a picture book, song and educational materials, is designed to encourage young readers. Black is a member of the SCBWI (Southern Breeze Chapter) and the Carrollton Creative Writers Club.

The Bad Old Days

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In addition to her award-winning archaeology mysteries, Dana Cameron’s Fangborn short story, “The Night Things Changed,” won the Agatha and Macavity and was nominated for an Anthony Award. Her historical short story, “Femme Sole,” appears in BOSTON NOIR and an historical Fangborn story, “Swing Shift,” will appear in CRIMES BY MOONLIGHT (April, 2010). Dana lives in Massachusetts and you can learn more at www.danacameron.com.

In between gatherings with family and friends, we spent the end of this holiday season as we traditionally do: flaked out on the couch, eating too many chocolate shortbread cookies and drinking just enough whiskey, while watching whole seasons of serial drama. Last year, Rome was the focus of this marathon. This year, it was Deadwood, The Sopranos, and Mad Men. Criminal behavior set in the past (even seen through flashbacks) makes for a fine time, even if it meant our new shelter kittens Kaylee and Zoë learned some exceedingly bad language.

One of my most memorable moments as an archaeologist was the day I was working on a 17th-century house site. The guides would lead groups of visitors past, and usually they’d ignore me, pretending perhaps I was an over-sized and grubby garden gnome. Or maybe a vole. On this particular day, a woman gazed at me dreamily and said, “Wouldn’t you love to have lived back then?”

My first instinct was to say, “Lady, are you kidding me? Potential attacks from pirates, Europeans, andIndians? Rampant epidemics battled with medieval medicine? Limited legal rights for women? And that’s before you consider what this waterfront would have smelled like back then. Alex, I’ll take the category “Things That Make A Seagull Retch” for $100, please. Rotting fish, garbage dumped outside, oil lamps, and privies? I think not. Give me indoor plumbing, electricity on demand, and antibiotics any day.”

Being a well-behaved garden gnome, I said, “The past is a nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there.”

Apparently, that was not concession enough; she looked disappointed. She clearly believed the good old days were better than these, that big skirts + petticoats + horse-drawn carriages = fine manners, crossed legs, and decency. To quote the Bart: Au contraire, mon frere. Do some spelunking through the court records of the era, and you’ll see what I mean. Better yet, check out The Naked Quaker. This splendidly fun book runs down some of the highlights of 17th-century New England police blotter: violent fisticuffs in church, highwaymen, sex scandals, theft, cheating, witchcraft. I mean, it might as well be an episode of Maury.

Romanticizing the past is one of my pet peeves. It’s something I frequently invoked in my Emma Fielding novels, and more recently, in my short stories. “Femme Sole” (in Boston Noir) is set in 1740s Boston. Anna Hoyt owns a North-End tavern and all the local toughs—including her husband—want a piece of it. I chose the setting because I’d never written noir and didn’t want to sound like I was imitating Cain, Hammett, or Chandler (or Lehane, Pelecanos, Abbott, or Lippman), so I put my story a bit further back into the past. To me, noir isn’t restricted by time or place; it’s a story wherein people who live outside the law have to find their own solutions to life-and-death problems. I also wanted to see how a woman at that time might respond to the threats to her livelihood.

The story coming out in April is part of the MWA anthology Crimes by Moonlight. “Swing Shift” features elements from my “Fangborn” world. It’s also set in historic Boston, but this 1940s Boston is full of vampires and werewolves, as well as Nazi spies, jazz, and nascent computer technology. Greed, crime, and secrets are as old as humankind.

The bad old days are familiar to mystery readers. From Didius Falco to Benjamin Weaver to Amelia Peabody to Paddy Meehan—who are your favorite historical detectives?

(Thanks to Maggie Barbieri and the Stiletto Gang for inviting me!)

Dana Cameron
www.danacameron.com