Watching the Olympics

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Two days ago I watched the U.S. Women’s Olympic gymnastic trials. I haven’t kept up with the sport since the last Olympics, so I didn’t recognize any of the competitors. The faces were different; the scoring was different; but the excitement was the same. The Olympics is now on my radar! August will be here before you know it.

The first Olympics that I can remember watching was the one held in Munich in 1972. I’m sure I saw others before, but they really didn’t register. Munich was different. Maybe it was my increased attention span or maybe it was because the television coverage began to highlight each individual’s story instead of the teams as a whole. I was always easily hooked by a well-told tale! It may also be that I remember that Olympics because it depicted both the best and the worst humanity had to offer.

Munich was where Belarusian Olga Korbut changed women’s gymnastics forever. The tiny, pig-tailed girl with the big smile did her incredible backflips and inventive routines making her an audience favorite and a gold metal winner. After Olga, the female gymnasts would all be younger and more athletic.

U.S. athletes Mark Spitz broke all records by winning 7 gold metals in swimming; Dave Wottle, coming from behind, won the 800 meter run; and Frank Shorter won the marathon. I watched it all with edge-of-the-seat excitement.

I also watched in horror as Palestinian terrorists broke into the Olympic Village and took eleven Israeli athletes hostage. For almost two days, the games took a backseat to the life and death struggle between innocent athletes, governments, and terrorists who were determined to use the event to further their cause. The hostages were either killed directly by the terrorists during the standoff or later during the rescue attempt. Some of the shine of the Olympics was gone forever.

Thirty-six years later, this summer’s Olympics are being held in Beijing. Security will be tight. There are still terrorists who would love to disrupt the games and take over the world stage. There are governments who will try to use the games to make political statements. But there are also still athletes who are determined to achieve their dreams, who have sacrificed much in the name of competition and the quest to be the best in the world.

Whether you prefer to chalk up your hands, tie on your running shoes, or dust off your ski poles, which Olympics touched your heart? Which Olympian do you remember best?

Evelyn David
– who never had a Dorothy Hamill haircut but thought about it.

The Rodney Dangerfield of Literature

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Elizabeth Foxwell despises Moby-Dick; serves as managing editor of Clues: A Journal of Detection, the only US scholarly periodical on mystery and detective fiction; and won the Agatha Award for her short story “No Man’s Land.” She blogs regularly on mysteries and other literary matters at http://elizabethfoxwell.blogspot.com/

The phrase most likely to irritate me?

“Transcends the genre.”

The assumption is ubiquitous: mysteries are just something writers do until they see the light and produce a “real” book. I suppose the corollary is: mysteries are something readers read until Moby-Dick whacks them in the head, they repent the error of their ways, and read only The Mill on the Floss forever after.

Snort. The favorite writer of Nobel Peace Prize recipient Aung San Suu Kui is not some painfully serious author-with-message, but Georges Simenon, the creator of Inspector Maigret.

There are times too numerous to mention where I’ve read a review in Publishers Weekly and thought, “Sounds like a mystery,” but the book, because of some perception of the author in the pecking order rather than a desire for accurate description, appears in the tonier “fiction” category. Yet PW noted in its December 31, 2007, issue, reporting on Bowker data, that mystery/detective was the most popular category for book buyers from January to September 2007.

I detect a dichotomy. Unwilling to be deemed mystery, but more than happy for people to buy it as such?

I’ve referred to mysteries as “the Rodney Dangerfield of literature”—that is, they get no respect, especially from some segments of academe—and find this state of affairs, appropriately enough, mystifying. Writing mysteries is no work for a dilettante. There are background settings to be researched, characters to be developed, crimes to be plotted, clues to be planted, investigations to be conducted, and plausible solutions to be devised—all without, according to the rules of Monsignor Ronald Knox, resorting to Chinamen.

Consider Arthur Conan Doyle, who thought he would be remembered for his historical novels, rather than for what he deemed to be slight stories featuring a character based on his former professor. Today, the universal sign for detective, across cultures, is a tall, thin figure in deerstalker and Inverness cape—a certain sign of immortality. Who reads Micah Clarke these days?

So the next time condescension over the mystery’s place in literature rears its pompous head, produce the following short list:

Nicholas Blake – creator of sleuth Nigel Strangeways (modeled on mystery lover and poet W. H. Auden), better known as British poet laureate Cecil Day Lewis

Madeleine Brent – wrote romantic suspense works; better known as Peter O’Donnell, the creator of Modesty Blaise

G. K. Chesterton – creator of sleuth Father Brown, eminent British man of letters, and Catholic theologian, who once wrote that detective stories are “the earliest and only form of popular literature in which is expressed some sense of the poetry of modern life” (“A Defence of Detective Stories,” The Defendant 158)

William Faulkner – mystery fan and god of Southern literature; wrote the mysteries A Rose for Emily, Intruder in the Dust, and the collection Knight’s Gambit that features lawyer Gavin Stevens.

Graham Greene – Revered for works such as Brighton Rock and The End of the Affair, but delighted in writing what he called his “entertainments,” such as Stamboul Train and The Third Man.

John P. Marquand – won the Pulitzer Prize for The Late George Apley, served on the Book of the Month Club selection panel, created Mr. Moto.

Mary Roberts Rinehart – one of the earliest US female war correspondents (in World War I), appeared on the bestseller list 11 times between 1909 and 1936, created Miss Pinkerton, made more than $9 million in the 1920s from her play The Bat.

Glen Trevor – wrote Was It Murder? , a mystery set in a boys’ school; better known as James Hilton, author of Lost Horizon, Random Harvest, and Goodbye, Mr. Chips.

Respect indeed.

Elizabeth Foxwell

Me and Sally Field

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I like to think of myself as a strong, independent woman, confident in my abilities, aware of my limitations. So how come I’m reduced to a sniveling wuss when it comes to my fiction writing?

I write nonfiction books for a living. I’ve got 10 books to my credit, two will be published this year. Unlike mysteries, you almost never write the entire nonfiction book before you have a contract. Yes, you have to do enough research to make the case to an editor that that you have a unique idea that will appeal to a large segment of the book-buying public, but generally you haven’t spent the better part of a year or more finishing your life’s work—only to have it rejected.

I never take it personally if a nonfiction book proposal is rejected. I might be disappointed, but I don’t immediately launch into a weeping rendition of the “I’m never going to work in this town again” blues. I, Ms. Rationality, am able to discuss in modulated tones how the market for this topic has changed; or conversely it’s been done to death (even if I could have done it better); or the editor wouldn’t have the good sense to recognize a great idea if he were on the Titanic and being offered a life preserver. In other words, it’s not me that is being rejected, but instead it’s a bad concept or maybe just bad timing. As Michael Corleone would say, “it’s not personal, it’s business.”

But my fiction? Whether it’s a short story or a novel, I crave feedback and unless I hear the equivalent of a marching band playing the Hallelujah chorus, I’m crushed. When I read a favorable review, I break into my best Sally Field impersonation, announcing to the world “you like me, you really like me.”

Conversely, even a minor criticism or less-than-enthusiastic comment, and I’m ready to turn in my Mystery Writers of America membership card in abject humiliation. As my mother, the original Evelyn, would say, OY!

I’m amazed at the authors who insist that they never read reviews – the good ones or the bad. I’m impressed by their self-confidence and self-restraint. Not only do I read the reviews, but I parse each sentence and search for intonation and nuance.

Do you think this need for outside validation is because I’m still relatively new at the fiction game? Does Mary Higgins Clark still worry when she publishes a new book? Did Agatha Christie care what the reviewers said?

Tell me the truth. Is this an affliction of a newbie or do all writers need public confirmation of their work? Is it “this too shall pass” or “learn to live with it; it goes with the territory?”

Evelyn David
www.evelyndavid.com

Bye, Tim

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Believe it or not, two or three weeks ago, I began writing this blog and typed the words, “Is there anybody better at calling b.s. on people than Tim Russert?” But being as we here at the Stiletto Gang are a bipartisan, non-political bunch who don’t talk about politics, religion, or sex (at least not in polite company), I shelved the post, thinking that I would come back to it at some point when I felt a little more impartial on the subject.

It was meant to be an homage to my Sunday-morning boyfriend, Tim Russert, but I figured I had time to work on it so as to cast the proper light on one of my favorite pastimes, watching “Meet the Press.” But Scott McLelland was the guest the morning that I began writing the post and let’s just say that I don’t feel impartial about him in any way, shape, or form.

And then the unthinkable happened. My hero, Tim Russert, died suddenly last Friday of an apparent heart attack. And all I kept thinking was “you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone.” Except I did know what I had. What I had was a Jesuit-educated, Irish-Catholic political junkie who became the go-to guy for all things fair and impartial. He was our mouthpiece, the guy to call b.s. on all of those politicians, pundits, and spin doctors. He was one of us, but way, way smarter. He was a son, father, brother, husband, uncle. He was an Everyman from Buffalo, New York. He was a giant of journalism, keeper of the proving ground for candidates and elected officials alike. I have watched many Russert interviews over the years, but the one that got me started on this post a few weeks back is one that will stay with me for a long time. It was a butt-kicking of the highest caliber, but done in Russert’s always polite, always respectful way. It was the interview he did with weasel numero uno Scott McClelland.

And so begins the post I started on June 2, one day after McClelland appeared on “Meet the Press”: Is there anybody better at calling b.s. on people than Tim Russert?

I had this past Sunday morning free and as luck would have it, “Meet the Press” was beginning just after I had finished preparing a lovely sandwich of leftover chicken sausage on a roll and poured myself a big glass of Diet 7UP. I settled in to find out who Russert was hosting this day and it turned out to be turncoat extraordinaire, Scott McLelland. For those of you who don’t pay close attention to the best-seller list, politics, or lying mclyingpants in general, Scott McLelland is a former Bush White House Press Secretary, and by his own admission, someone who repeatedly lied to the American people during his employment. A sample? The administration, namely, the President, lied about the circumstances (e.g. WMD’s, link to Al-Qaeda) leading up to the U.S. invasion of Iraq. McLelland, good boy that he was, stood at the White House press secretary podium and laid out the case for going to war, invoking the very lies he had now laid out in his new book. What else? He/they lied about leaking of Valerie Plame’s identity to the media. He/they screwed up the response to Hurricane Katrina. And the list goes on.

But I don’t want to write about politics or how I feel about these lies and screw ups. What I want to write about how Tim Russert, a.k.a MY NEW HERO, questioned little Scott McLelland, a man who is now profiting from the lies he presented and perpetrated after being on staff for seven years serving the President. My moral outrage wasn’t enough, nor was the sausage sandwich I was eating. What I needed McLelland to endure –and exactly what he got—was a televised tongue-lashing from Russert, the beauty of which can be seen here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nXCL9x8k1nk. What you’ll see is McLelland in all of his glorious, double-talking duplicity. And Russert with all of his smart guy, “you sure you want to play it that way?” questioning style.

I was initially entranced with the whole Q and A but became even more mesmerized by the astounding amount of research that went into Russert’s line of questioning. For every equivocation, there was footage of McLelland at a White House podium, contradicting what he just said. For every statement of McLelland fact (what we normal folks call “lies”), there was a shot of him embracing the President, or Karl Rove, or Scooter Libby, people who he now claims lie without losing a moment’s sleep, who have put the lives of American servicemen and women in serious jeopardy . For every time I said, between mouths of sausage sandwich, “ask him this!”, Russert did. And not in a nanny-nanny-poo-poo, gotcha kind of way, but in a matter-of-fact, “let’s see you get yourself out of this one” way.

But when all is said and done, Scott McLelland sold a ton of books that day, but hopefully, after a stint on “Meet the Press” feels just a wee bit guilty about it. Because he’s profiting from the lies and Russert, in his polite, yet firm way, let him know that.

We need more Russerts and fewer McLellands. We need guys—and by “guys” I mean men and women—who write books revering their fathers, books that talk about the struggles of the middle class. We need less lying, sniveling, turncoat rats and more people committed to truth and justice. I don’t care who we get it from—Democrats or Republicans. All I hope is that someone thinks about a guy like Russert, a stand-up guy at that, and thinks, “that’s who I want to be like.”

Bye, Tim.

Maggie

Plans Often Go Astray

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My plan for the weekend was to leave early Friday morning with hubby and all the paraphenalia to have a booth at a Flea Market in Temecula CA–about a 4 plus hour drive from our home. We were to meet at our eldest daughter at our granddaughter’s home for lunch. We left in plenty of time, just a bit after 6 a.m.

When we drew close to the bottom of the road over the mountains (I-5, the main connections from the San Joaquin Valley to Southern CA) all the cars slowed to a stop. Accident, we thought. We expected to eventually be guided around it. Instead we were detoured off the highway, around a big loop and back to the main highway going back the way we came. Like sheep, we followed all the trucks and cars figuring they, like us, needed to find an alternate route.

We had a pretty good idea of where we needed to go, up to Tehacapi and down to Mojave, and then we hoped our Magellan would guide us the best way to get to Temecula. By this time we learned via the radio that the problem was a hazardous waste spill on I-5 and no one was going through for a long, long while. Our Magellan wanted to take us back to I-5 through Palmdale but since we had no idea where the spill was we didn’t want to take a chance.

Finally, the mysterious voice on the GPS led us to San Bernardino and on to Genie’s. Of course daughter had already left for home as they had other plans. Genie and Mark are always gracious overnight hosts and we had a great time visiting them and their two little kids.

Before our hosts were awake the next morning, hubby and I headed off for the Flea Market. We thought we left plenty early, but the park where it was being held was already packed. We found a place to leave the car and began hauling the Easy-Up tent, tables, chairs and the pull-alongs with all my books.

I was the only author–something I’ve found to be a good thing–and began attracting attention from the other vendors. Though I didn’t sell a ton of books–I made my fee for the spot back, plus quite a bit more. I also handed out lots of cards and bookmarks and talked to lots of people. By three o’clock the wind came up and vendors began packing up–so we did too.

We programmed in grandson Patrick’s address and followed the voice to his house. There we visited with his wife and three kids. We took them out to dinner, then Patrick, hubby and grandson all went to the motorcycle races. I stayed home with the girls and we watched a chick flick and did a lot of talking.

Once again we left before our hosts were up and about. Left a thank you note and headed for home. Told the mysterious Magellan “best use of freeways” and ended up driving through downtown LA. Not too bad since it was Sunday–however next time I’ll put in “shortest distance” which would have taken us a better way. This time, the drive was uneventful and we arrived home just in time for a barbecue cooked by our son for Father’s Day.

Marilyn
http://fictionforyou.com

Summertime and the Living Was Easy

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Do you remember when summer used to be half the year? I don’t think I noticed that it was only three months until well into high school. Summers meant swimming, softball, staying up late, sleeping in, odd jobs for spending money, and reading – reading as many books as possible. Summer was wonderful.

In grade school I loved westerns (covered wagon stories, Kit Carson, and all the Zane Grey novels I could get my hands on) and mysteries (Nancy Drew, The Hardy Boys, and Trixie Belden.) My best friend and I cleaned a motel swimming pool one summer for a little cash and free use of the pool. We cleaned in the mornings and then sat by the pool during the afternoon, reading. When we’d had enough chlorine and sun, we’d go over to the motel restaurant to drink large cokes and eat chips and salsa.

In high school my reading tastes shifted a little. I discovered biographies. My favorite subjects were Abraham and Mary Lincoln, Golda Meir, Amelia Earhart, Mary Queen of Scots, and Eleanor Roosevelt. Yeah, I was all over the place, but that was half the fun. I also discovered true crime (In Cold Blood, Helter Skelter) and the bittersweet romance of Danielle Steele. Ms. Steele made me cry every time.

I worked one summer for the National Park Service. I’d spend a couple of hours in the morning at the lake, swimming and reading, and then I’d get ready for work. I had the 3:00 pm to midnight shift at a campground. I was supposed to collect camping fees and make sure nobody disturbed the peace by playing their boom boxes too loudly or engaging in public screaming matches with their spouses. I also had to keep the campground kiosk open in case someone had an emergency and I needed to radio for help (this was pre-cell phone days folks.). But it was a slow summer, the springs at the campground were dry and the tourists preferred the lake. Mostly I sat alone in the kiosk, a small rock building with windows on all sides. People could see me, but because of the forested darkness outside, I couldn’t see them. I sat there, night after night and read the scariest stuff Stephen King had to offer. That was a great summer!

I still like to read all kinds of fiction, although I read less since I started writing. I was shopping on Saturday for a Father’s Day gift and books were at the top of my list. I picked up the latest Lee Child novel for my Dad and couldn’t resist grabbing a paperback mystery for myself. The book, The Grave Tattoo by Val McDermid, had a lake scene on the cover and a blurb from one of my favorite authors promising it was “irresistible.”

If I get a sunny afternoon this next week, I might play hooky from work, lay in a lounge chair in the backyard with my book and pretend I’m on summer vacation from school. No bills to pay, no career to worry about, no deadlines looming. I won’t even notice that the lawn will need mowing again and that my deck could use a coat of fresh paint. I’m going to ignore all that and do a little time traveling – back to when summers lasted half the year.

Evelyn David
http://www.evelyndavid.com/

Outstanding in My Field

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Vicky Polito is a screenwriter currently working on a novel entitled “Our Safety Is Our Speed”. This photo is Vicky to the core: always looking elsewhere with a mix of suspicion and fascination.

Writers are the independent type, in several ways. The most common: independence of mind. The least likely: independence of bank account.

Until a decade ago, I’d nearly always had another full-time job. Writing was something I did mostly nights and weekends. Aside from practice, which has value, I didn’t get much done. I also seldom made money writing. The fact is that if my husband hadn’t said when we were going to buy our house “look, if you really want to write full time I’m with you and you should quit your job now so that we don’t go out and get a mortgage based on two salaries”, I’d still be floundering. He saw the writing on the wall of what writing on the page might pay and faced reality with great generosity. Since then, I’ve made some money from screenwriting, but that’s still a curvy road and I’d rather write my novel, which for now pays nothing.

When I quit my last day job I was working in IT as a programmer/analyst, far from my degree in Journalism. After I quit, someone complimented me, saying, gee, that was brave to give up a good salary just to try writing. But, I had a safety net. One that didn’t just earn the money, but backed me up all the way, encouraged me and tried to understand my work. So, my question is, just how independent am I?

The answer is in other parts of working as a writer. Trust me, when the first time you’ve spoken to a human since breakfast is when you answer the phone at four in the afternoon, you get it. Writing is a job done mostly alone, but it’s not lonely most of the time. The bigger problem is that you start to lose your grasp on the mainstream world because you take yourself out of it to write. I’ve got to plug back in periodically to ground myself.

And then there’s my frequent liberation from basic hygiene—the days when I realize it’s quitting time and I still haven’t showered. Or my freedom to take a punch from someone who smiles condescendingly and says, “Well, you don’t work” in response to anything I’ve said about having time to cook or clean or making sure to get enough sleep or having just finished reading a good book. You name it, and apparently the reason I have 48 hours in a day to everyone else’s 24 is because I “don’t work.” It’s always a treat to hear people sum you up that way.

My most treasured but also sometimes most painful independent streak? It’s that oddness of personality that I believe most people feel, but that writers feel acutely. It’s that gnawing, frustrating sense that you are always, always somehow apart from everyone else. Writers operate at a different elevation from sea level. We take in everything out there with a perspective that differs from that of the crowd. It’s like being a lightening rod in a field of wild flowers. But, oh, the view!

So, I fight the not so pretty aspects of my independence and cherish the good. I tell myself, sometimes with a sigh, that it doesn’t matter if no one gets me, so long as someday someone gets something I write. That’s why we stand out in that big field of flowers, taking in every breeze, ray of sun, and bolt of electricity, and then write it all into something we hope others can be struck by, reveling in that few moments of connection between our worlds.

Vicky Polito

I Love You Dad

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I should have written something for Mother’s Day because I really adored my mother, the original Evelyn. She was smart, feisty, independent, hysterically funny, and the original feminist. So Mom, I owe you a blog.

But next Sunday is Father’s Day. The kids and I will celebrate the wonderful Dad that my husband indeed is. But I want to take a moment to honor Carol, my father. He died much too young. He’s been gone more years than we had together. And yet, that bedrock of love he gave me as a kid accounts for much of the person I am today.

First, the name. He spent his life explaining it because Carol is usually reserved for girls. But the family lore is that it was supposed to be Carl, the hospital got it wrong, and my immigrant grandparents didn’t want to argue with authority. So Carol it was.

He was intelligent, kind, gentle, generous, good looking, with a twinkle in his eye and a sense of humor that often saved the moment (especially for an over-dramatic teenage girl). It was Dad who took me to the library every week. He’d get a stack of books (always including a couple of mysteries!), while I carefully picked out my own selection. He traveled for business, probably three weeks out of every month, but never missed a recital, a holiday, or birthday.

We weren’t poor, but money was usually tight. Dad was a product of the Depression and for him, spending money was always a gut-wrenching experience. When I was in college, I begged to go overseas to a summer program at Oxford University. The cost was prohibitive, but his hesitation, I think, was primarily because he would miss me. Still, my heart was set on a summer in England and he reluctantly agreed. I bought my cheap charter plane ticket and headed off. Within two weeks, I was back home. I’d been in a motorcycle accident (don’t ask, I was just incredibly stupid). I’d lost a few teeth, my face was banged up, I looked a mess. But once Dad had been assured by my doctor that I was okay, he paid for a full-fare ticket for me to return to Oxford. “You have to go back,” he insisted. He didn’t want me to be scared to travel or to miss this unique opportunity. It was a magical summer, despite the temporary bite plate!

Now that I’m a parent, I realize how terrifying it must have been for him to let me go. Not to mention how hard it must have been to pay for that expensive plane ticket. But Dad knew what I needed, even if I didn’t.

From him, I learned parenting lessons, long before I had kids. He never spanked me (Mom took a swipe or two), but Dad just looked disappointed when I misbehaved and that would be enough. He said spanking just meant that he was bigger than me, not necessarily that he was right. He taught me to always tell the people you love that you love them – never assume they know. By his example, I learned what a real father should be and I wanted that (and got it) for my own children.

This Sunday, my husband will laugh at the funny cards his kids have given him, smile at the thoughtful gifts they’ve brought, and mostly, just revel in the company of his children. Carol won’t be here, but I’ll hear him in the laughter of his grandchildren. Love you Dad.

Marian, the Northern half of Evelyn David

Perception versus Reality

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It’s that time of year again when college graduates flood the job market in record numbers, only to be subjected to dire pronouncements of media talking heads warning of the dearth of suitable employment for our country’s best and brightest. That’s one problem. The other is that it is also the time of year when those same college graduates have to readjust their thinking—that is, take their diplomas, swallow their collective pride, and take a variety of jobs that have little or nothing at all to do with their major course of study. It’s the old perception versus reality conundrum. Your perception—the job market’s reality.

As an English/French major back in the 80’s, it never occurred to me that there were few, if any, jobs out there at a level I thought I was suited for available to someone like me. Sure, if you were a nursing major, like the majority of students at my college, you could have come out of college and begun nursing immediately. If you majored in accounting, you probably landed a job that involved crunching numbers. And if you were smart enough to be a computer science major back then…well, we know where you are now. Counting the cash from your Microsoft stock splitting a billion trillion times since graduation. But if you graduated with an English/French major, your options were limitless and limiting, all at the same time. You were qualified to do a broad spectrum of things, probably, but just not what you thought. I wanted to be a writer. But unfortunately, none of the writing stores were hiring.

Thankfully, twenty-three years ago this month, I left college lucky enough to have a job in pocket when I processed across the stage. Sure, it only paid $13,000 a year, and sure, I wouldn’t get any vacation time for a year, but one thing was certain: I had to take it because not taking it would mean that I couldn’t live in my old bedroom in the family homestead. I could come back home but I had to be gainfully employed. Now that I’m older (and a mother), I can say that that sounds eminently reasonable. Back then? Well, I wasn’t thrilled. It was one of those jobs that I never thought I’d have to do; it involved typing, filing, answering phones, and being an all-around girl Friday to an editor-in-chief at a publishing house. I never had to get his lunch, and he was the nicest man in the world, but I did spend many day hunched over a broken down copy machine, looking for the paper jam that it proclaimed I had produced. I should have known that this was the only type of job I was qualified for after graduating with my liberal arts degree but I was sure that I would interview at a few places for this type of position only to have the interviewer say, “There must be some mistake. You are completely overqualified for this job. You are brilliant! A gift to the literary world! We will make you an editor right away!”

I remember wandering the streets of midtown Manhattan at lunchtime for the first few weeks eating hot pretzels from street vendors (because that was all I could afford) and reminding myself that I was a writer, not an assistant. It became something of a mantra.

But you know what? I worked with a lot of “writers not assistants” and they were all extremely bright and talented people, and much happier in the job than I was. What did they know? Were they just broken down? Had they completely supplanted their dreams and aspirations? Maybe. But they were a great group and I made good friends. Vicky Polito, Friday’s guest blogger, is one of them. I ended up having a lot of fun at my job, met some interesting people, learned some amazing things. I worked with writers and at that point in my life, that was enough to help stoke the fire inside of me to keep writing. I stayed in the field, in house, for fifteen years, and after that, another nine as a freelancer. Turns out I really liked what I did. And I was good at it. I eventually rose to the rank of editor and when the demands of that job became too great for me, I started freelancing. And writing again. It all came full circle.

If there are any liberal arts college graduates reading this blog, take it from me: if you have a passion, like writing, you’ll find a way to do it. But you have to be gainfully employed. It’s no fun being a starving anything, particularly a writer. Because if you are weak from hunger, you won’t be able to pick up a pen never mind sit in front of a keyboard for hours. However, if you are employed, even at a job you think is beneath you, it will all work out. You will dance, paint, write, act, or do anything else that your liberal arts degree prepared you to do. Maybe not right now. But someday soon.

Maggie

Planning Towards Next Book Promo

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In my book that will be coming out towards the end of August, Kindred Spirits, my heroine, Deputy Tempe Crabtree heads to Crescent City, CA to see if she can find out some information about a murder victim. While there she meets relatives of the victims, who are also Tolowa.
As a presenter in a writers conference at the college in Crescent City, I had the opportunity to meet a wonderful Tolawa woman, Junie Mattice. She told me fascinating stories about her people, Big Foot, and some of the horrors the Tolowa have endured. Besides the fact, the white man did a wholesale slaughter on them in the 1800s, President Eisenhower decided since there weren’t many of them left, they shouldn’t be considered a legitimate tribe. So no Tolowa receive the benefits other Native Americans do. What a travesty!

Within the boundaries of Crescent City are redwood forests–gorgeous enormous trees that were growing before Christ was born. They cut down a whole section of the forest to build the infamous prison, Pelican Bay. They’ve also cut down many of these magnificent trees to clear the land for houses. Also sad.

I’ll be going back to Crescent City in September to promote my book. I’m not sure how well I’ll be received as I’ve portrayed the Tolowa and how they are treated now in a factual manner.
We’ve been invited to stay with friends who are enthusiastically planning the promotion for the book. I met the wife years ago when she attended a writing class I was giving. She is married to a minister who is now retired and they chose Crescent City as the place they wanted to live. She’s hoping to line up a library talk, a bookstore appearance over the border in Oregon, and most exciting, an appearance at the Tolowa coffee house run by Junie Mattice. Of course I dedicated the book to Junie.

One of the most fun parts of the book is some references to Big Foot. The Tolowa are great believers in Big Foot. In the book that comes after this one, Dispel the Mist, Tempe encounters the Hairy Man, the Yokut’s counterpart of Big Foot.

Marilyn
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