Book Blurb Friday

         Lisa Ricard Claro has launched a new meme. She posts a photo, you write a blurb about the book, along with the title.  The luring blurb must be 150 words or less...

         If you want to check it out, go to Lisa's blog.  Perhaps the photo will entice you to write a short, engaging description of a book that has not yet been written. And then perhaps you will love your blurb so much, you will be driven to write a novel to match the blurb. And eventually, perhaps your novel will be snapped up by a major publisher, and you'll become the author of a best-seller and you'll travel all over the country for book signings and you'll then write the next in the "series."  And then perhaps you will give major credit (and maybe a few bucks) to Lisa for starting the ball rolling...

       (And what's interesting is that the photo was taken by Lisa's daughter. I hope and pray her daughter is no older than a teenager---given the way Lisa looks on her blog's photo--otherwise I will have to reach through the blogosphere and scratch Lisa up, out of jealousy.)

        While you're wallowing in that fantasy, read my Book Blurb below:



self portrait by Christina Claro

The Greenest Eye

        Annie stared at her face in the mirror several times a day. And it was only her eyes she focused on.

       The eyes: the window to a person's soul. In Annie's case, her eyes were a tunnel to despair.

       How could she have the greenest eyes--like pure emeralds--and both her parents had brown eyes?  Annie just knew her father was an imposter. This teen angst was tearing her apart. So as her parents lived out their lie, acting as if nothing had ever been wrong, Annie searched for who might be her true father.

        Was it the 93-year old greeter at Walmart? He had sparkling green eyes...

        Was it the guy who cleaned the hippo tanks at the zoo? His eyes were as green as spring grass... 

        Every prospective father she saw, when their green eyes locked, made Annie wonder.  Who's her daddy?

         

A "Made-Me-Feel-Dirty" Weekend

          A couple of weeks ago I spent the day at a puppy mill auction.  Dogs that were no longer wanted by puppy mill breeders--the younger dogs, the ones with one eye or three legs or one testicle--they were all for sale.

         And even though it was unbelievably muddy, that was not why I took a long, hot shower when I got home.

         It was a disgusting experience...And try as I might, I could not wash off the sleaziness and disgust that I had become encased in.

photo by Star Cat

        As I watched dogs, their hopeful eyes pleading, get sold for anywhere from $5 to several hundred dollars, I grew more and more despondent.  Only a few of the bidders were with a rescue group; the rest were Amish (puppy mills is now one of their new ways of making big money), Mennonite, and the rest were folks I considered "typical" for where we were and what we were doing.  And what we were doing was horrible...

       The auction was held on the property of a puppy mill that was retiring its "stock."  Their house was quite nice----spacious-looking (from the outside) and brick. Probably comfortable inside.  The family probably padded around in the evening on carpeting or lovely hardwood floors.

        Dogs that live to breed are not so lucky.  Some of them never get to stand or walk on grass.  Some of them don't even have enough room to turn around.  And almost none of them get the chance to know what a loving home is like...

photo by rglaser

        Unfortunately, most of the property was off-limits. Several large buildings could be seen, wire cages (empty) were stacked inside, but signs clearly said, "Stay away."  Also posted were signs warning us to not take any photos or videos. 

         The auctioneer, when a pregnant dog was being bid on, would call out, "She's showin' a belly, she's got a belly," and the assistants would hold the dog up for everyone to see. 

         By seven that evening, the Golden Retrievers we had bought were loaded in the car. Our rescue friends bid on Bloodhounds and Japanese Chin and various other canines. Altogether, 31 dogs were rescued, which meant no more litters would be born because of those dogs.  Thirty-one out of more than 300. Not very good odds, I'd day...   

photo by tcsails

        

What's in a Name?

          I love when a post prods me to go to my book shelf--or even better--compels me to write.  The writing inspires me to trot off, on a mission, to find the something I'm looking for...

         Yesterday Donna Volkenannt's blog, among other things, got me thinking of first lines of books.  Donna is asking for you to share some of your favorite first lines. If you haven't done so already, do so. 

        I always look at the first line of a book before I buy it.  Sometimes it doesn't immediately hook me, but if I already love the author, I'm willing to go on the journey anyway.  Most of the time, however, if I make the purchase, it's because that initial line sends me off into a much-desired direction, or it intrigues me to the point that I must know where it leads... 

        When commenting on Donna's blog, I included that I loved Dickens' first, paragraph-long sentence from Tale of Two Cities.  Com'on.  You know you want to join in with me..."It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness..." (and that's only half of it).

       Also, I quoted Barbara Robinette Moss' first line from her brilliant and moving memoir Change Me into Zeus's Daughter. This was an author I was unfamiliar with.  I remember vividly picking this book off the shelf, looking at the first line, being held hostage--with that sentence jabbing me in the back---until I paid for the book and started reading it, completely immersed.

     "Mother spooned the poisoned corn and beans into her mouth, ravenously, eyes closed, hands shaking."

      I just had to know why the woman was eating something poisoned while she was obviously being watched by her child/children. I figured she was bent on killing herself, but no, that's not where the story leads...(Buy the book or borrow it from the library. It's a worthwhile read.)

       

       I also love Mary Karr's first line in her memoir Lit.  After the prologue. When the story really begins...

       "Age seventeen, string-haired and halter-topped, weighing in the high double digits and unhindered by a high school diploma, I showed up at the Pacific Ocean, ready to seek my fortune with a truck full of extremely stoned surfers."
Occasionally I turn to the last page and read the last line. Of course, I'm taking the risk of sabotaging myself.  But it's like the bread that makes a sandwich. If it's spongy white Wonderbread that holds the story together, I'm not interested. However, if it's hearty, coarse bread with a thick, crunchy crust, baked in a brick oven (in southern France!  Make it bread baked in France!), then I'm gonna take a bite and start chewing...

       ("Okay.  Enough with the on and on moaning about first lines and now---Geeze---salivating over bread.  Your post's title was "What's in a Name?"  Stop digressing.  Get back to the point you began with.)

       Donna's post got me thinking about the fact that sometimes, it's the title that gets me excited. Usually it happens with books that I use with my third graders.  And just like I bought Change Me into Zeus's Daughter just because I fell in love with the first line, I also bought this intermediate book simply because of the title: No More Dead Dogs.  (And no, it's not a depressing book about the death of a dog. In fact, it's funny.)

      So, share with Donna some of the best first lines from books you have collected on your bookshelf.  And share with me the book titles that have most intrigued you.  What titles have lit you on fire?

I Remember...

         I admit it. Any time I can slip in an ellipsis, I do.  So, when I saw Barb's memoir piece on her blog, I pounced on it. Not because I wanted to share a part of myself via a piece of writing. No, I knew that I would have the opportunity to slip in an ellipsis (or six) if I wrote a "I remember" piece.  So here goes...

photo by Stephanie Whitehead

      I remember going on vacations in the Falcon station wagon, a flyswatter flailing back at us when we got too loud, and eating picnic lunches along the way...

      I remember falling in love with James Taylor, lipsyncing to Carole King, and taping David Cassidy's picture all over the basement wall...

      I remember learning about apartheid through Alan Paton and the French Revolution through Dickens and about Kent State and Woodstock because of Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young. And I remember discovering that a thirteen-year old girl has no chance of winning the heart of a God of an English teacher...

     I remember giving birth to a beautiful daughter at home--in my own bed--and afterward, having cake and coffee with the doctor...

     I remember going to France for the first time. Four hours for dinner, shooting off the top of champagne bottles into the woods so "champagne trees" could grow, and wishing I could stay forever...

     I remember my life changing with a couple of messages in my in box. The discovery of a sister I never knew about. The news that, yes, someone other than me saw value in my stories...

     I remember, and now that I am past middle-aged, I grasp my memories tighter with every advancing year...



      What do you remember?  And you have my permission---go crazy with the ellipsis...

   

A Funeral for an Enemy

        After reading Pat Hensley's post about teachers and students who feel defeated before they even begin a task, I unearthed a memory of a funeral several years ago.

        I was teaching fourth grade then. It was October, I believe, and my students comments were regularly peppered with "I can't..."  They couldn't figure out how to solve the math problem.  They couldn't figure out how to make trees for their shoebox scene.  They could not add any more details to their story.

        I got tired.

       Of course, I had my own "I can'ts" but they remained buried...unspoken.

       So, in an effort to end the whining, I had everyone (even me) write down all the things they could NOT do on little slips of paper.  I borrowed a shovel from our custodian, and we all walked outside, had a "funeral" and buried our "I can'ts."  

       From that point, none of us were allowed to say, "I can't."  After all, it was dead. Buried under the ground. No longer breathing...

photo from the queen of subtle

       As writers, as artists, there are many times we try to convince ourselves that we're incapable of doing something.   I can't carve out some time for writing this weekend---I'm too busy.

I can't rewrite this so that I can resubmit it.

I can't win this contest...I don't have a chance.

        I have a big "I can't" revolving around how often I write.  I keep wrestling with it, but the self-defeated attitude wins most of the time.

         Perhaps it's time for another funeral...

Questions to Ponder...

         This evening on the radio (heard while I was hurtling down the highway) a horrific tidbit spewed out over the airwaves.

         Ladies, please pay close attention. This information will change life as you know it:

If you are size 8 or larger, you are "plus size." *
                                                   * (according to the fashion industry)

         So, while you are wallowing in a mixing bowl full of ice cream, followed by a mashed potato chaser, here's something else to add to the depressing funk.

          Check out the back label of the granny panties you're wearing. What size is it?

        The underwear I wear is labeled XL (or "grande."  Do they think that makes it more "festive" and fun?).

         Now, most of my blogging buddies have not seen what I look like but trust me, I have a big butt.  It's not big in the Jennifer Lopez-Beyonce way.  It's big in more of the slow moving-truck-hogging-up-the-highway-with-its-wide-load-sign way.  It's flat and broad. 

photo by flickrway

       Every time I see that "XL" inked onto the back of my bloomers, it makes me wonder.  Yes, I know my rear has spread in a cellulite version of imminent domain, but I know there are lots of rears that are larger than mine.  Lots.  (Just watch Jerry Springer to see some especially fine specimens.)

        And that's when I start wondering.  Underwear has a number size (I'm not telling you the number that I wear) as well as the "XL/Grande." What do the larger sizes say if my butt (a median butt, with an extra dollop or two thrown in) is "Grande"? 

           And when did we start viewing women that are a size 8 as huge?