Are Men Clueless?

       Do men understand anything about women? Do they understand that wine and chocolate--for us--are two of the most important food groups? Do they get it that when we come home after an awful day, we don't want them to fix it for us--we just want them to listen? Do they realize that we forget nothing, and will sometimes lie in wait--for ages--in order to get revenge/to pull a payback prank on them/to gleefully say, "I told you so"?

      Sean McLachlan has written about women--one of his main characters is a woman--in his newest novel Radio Hope. He's doing a guest post on Friday, February 7 about writing about women...when you're a man.

      So come back at the end of the week, and see what Sean says about men...and how well they know women.

This is Sean McLachlan, probably in some exotic location,
since he lives in fascinating spots all over the world. Currently
he's living in Spain (I believe).

Standing Tall

Caution: There is a colorful word--not my favorite word but a word that offends some nonetheless--in the photograph. If you have delicate sensibilities, put your hand on top of the picture and don't peek between your fingers.

       My daughter is quite an opinionated, sometimes-stubborn and brazen woman. (I have no idea where she got those characteristics...probably from her father.) There are certain things that either drive her bat**** crazy or make her fret uncontrollably. The circus--at least any circus where there are mistreated and abused performing lions and tigers and elephants. Stray cats in the middle of winter. And a chemical company that has its headquarters in St. Louis and is known for creating Astroturf.

      Tuesday of this week, there was a board meeting at this company--also known as the Devil's Laboratory. A small band of protestors--my daughter one of them--were there as they battled the bitter cold and over-zealous police officers. My daughter stood tall and straight and unwielding...like I've always taught her to do...at least indirectly.  

       No matter what profession we're in, or what social circle we belong to, there are times when we either have to stand tall for our beliefs or we have to back down and remain silent. It's my opinion that with age comes a freedom. I am no longer terribly worried about what others think of me--at least I don't obsess about it. I speak my mind, try to say things respectfully, but don't usually pussy-foot around issues. What you see is what you get...

     How about you? What is a time that you had to decide if you were going to stand up or let things go?

The other side of the sign says,
"Corporate greed creates mutant seeds."
This is my little girl...

Winners and Losers

     Tonight I'm going to lose the battle to stay up. A cold--resulting in a snotty nose and loads of exhaustion--has bested me.

     Hold up your tissue-filled hand and say it with me:  aaaachoo! You are now officially a member of the club.

     But before I lost my standing upright status and collapse into bed, I wrote names on slips of paper, folded them into tiny rectangles and drew one.

      The winner of Marcia Gaye's book is...Kim. (I guess you need to figure the ratio of success before you figure the ratio of failure.

          Kim--email me your address (my address is on the top horizontal bar) and I will send you the book. Groovy, huh?

Something Delicious

        A good book is delicious. Really.

      At our last writing critique group meeting, a book was being passed around. Tammy, one of the WWWPs had loaned it out. Lynn had borrowed it and was returning it. Beth had read it a while ago. Before Tammy could get it back, I snatched it and dragged it back to my lair.

      "Whoah. You mean this writing critique group is a little self-made library? You mean you do something besides critique each other's writing?" you say?  Not only do we toss books back and forth, we also nibble (on--too often--homemade treats), we drink (mostly tea, but once we drank a satisfying alcoholic concoction that is named after what Meg Ryan faked in the movie When Harry Met Sally), we play proctologist and examine what comes out of one member's anal sphincter every two weeks, and we investigate threats on Linda O'Connell's life. (Writers who are desperate to slow her submission rate down have threatened her with death by wood chipper...a leg of lamb...a nail gun.)

photo by www.thedawgsdish.com

       The book I'm almost finished with is Gillian Flynn's Gone Girl. In the middle of my sneezing and snorting, I think I can finish it tonight. I'm enjoying it so far, but at least two of the women expressed disappointment about one particular part/aspect. (And they wouldn't say WHAT was lacking...)

Is the end disappointing? I hope not.

\What deliciousness are you savoring right now?  (Yes, I know what you'll say, Shay. You're luxuriating in a month-long vacation, and are burying us all under an avalanche of your poems.) What book or television show or project are you immersed in right now?

My snot-filled nose wants to know.

 

"I Think It's My Best Writing."

         This past fall Marcia Gaye and I were at the same book signing. I got there first, and set up my Chicken Soup books and my Not Your Mother's books. Fortunately, I was in the room where a large table of appetizers was set up. A bathroom was there as well. I suggested to the writer next to me that we would demand people buy a book before they were allowed to eat or relieve themselves. During the rest of the evening, this person kept looking at me warily. I wondered why. Wasn't it reasonable to "charge" for food and restroom privileges? I thought it was...

     A publisher I know set up next to me, so we got to talk during the evening. Unfortunately, Marcia Gaye--a writing friend--came a little later, and the spots on either side of me were already filled, so we didn't get to sit next to each other and chat. At a slow point, I walked over and we talked. The book she was signing and selling was Times they Were A-Changing: Women Remember the 60's and 70's. The bright rainbow of colors on the cover immediately brought back a flood of memories.

        Oh, you don't know Marcia Gaye? Marcia writes prose and poetry, and whenever she enters a contest, she wins. In fact, there are some contests where she's won multiple prizes. There are even some writers who surrender and refuse to submit to a competition when they hear Marcia is a contender.

     So when I heard these words uttered from her mouth, my ears perked up. I asked her about her story in the anthology, and she said, "I think it's my best writing." This juggernaut of jewel-like poems? This unstoppable slayer of competitors? She was proudest of this story? I was drawn to the collection like a moth to a flame. Like a honeybee to clover. Like a menopausal woman to a box of Godiva. I had to read her tale. 

     I bought her book, had her sign it (but not to me), telling her, "I'm going to read it and then give it away on my blog," and while it was still slow, I went back to my table and read...read the beginning...continued reading...could not stop reading...was compelled to read the whole story.

     Marcia's "Two Sisters" story paints a perfect picture of that era. The rhythm of her writing, the images, the odors that come wafting back to the reader from the pages...it was like a long-gone lullaby.

       Here are the first two paragraphs:

         1964--Prayer
  
         Katherine and I gather on our big double bed after our brothers have been tucked into their own beds. The boys got stories from C. S. Lewis and Lewis Carroll. Now the two of us will read from the storybook that is all true. Straight backs and crossed legs, we settle into quiet attention. The Bible on her knees, Katherine reads aloud.

         We have been through creation and the flood. I've marveled at the perfect pronunciation Katherine gives to all the strange names. She shows me the divided kingdoms on the map as we travel alongside the kings. While she reads I twirl my fingers over the chenille and embroidery of the quilt. I trace the patterns of just the white flowers, and then just the pink ones.

       It is an ordinary story told in an extraordinary way, in that Marcia didn't witness the shooting at Kent State. She didn't hang out with Jimi Hendrix after he left the stage at Woodstock. She didn't ever do a duet with Janis Joplin (although Marcia does have the long flowing hair for it). It was a slice of Marcia's life told in an enthralling manner.

This is Marcia Gaye, so when you enter a writing contest and she jostles you
right out of the competition, you know who to trip...

        If you'd like to have this signed copy for your own, leave a comment. I'll draw names in a week...

Bright Spots of "Color"

photo by Charla Finn of Collinsville, Illinois

        Like a lot of the country, we got a bunch of snow dumped on us. School was supposed to resume last Monday...but we had a snow day instead. Tuesday...another snow day...Wednesday...yet another snow day. I figured that surely we would return to work on Thursday, but it didn't happen. Friday--another day off, much to the surprise of the teachers dismay of the parents.

       With the weather conspiring against us, it was necessary to look for the bright spots buried under the white (and then dingy) blanket.

       * I sent off a letter to a friend. Without this long expanse of time off work, I'm not sure I would have taken the time--at least not this week.

       * Finishing a black scarf for my son--along with a blue one for one of his best friends--made me feel like I accomplished something as I knit and watched old episodes of Project Runway online educational documentaries. 

       * I got immersed in Falling Leaves: The Memoir of an Unwanted Chinese Daughter by Adeline Yen Mah. I'm in the middle of it and it's heartbreaking but compelling...

       *Pitching some things made me feel better, but when I found a gold box labeled Godiva and frantically opened it to see if a piece was hiding in the corner, uneaten, I felt foolish. I knew I had gobbled up every one of those delicious delicacies. Only David Copperfield could have made a piece reappear...

      * I submitted a few things---to start the new year off--and am sweating over working on a couple more. One is about a time when I played "donkey basketball" (yes, I rode on a donkey and "played" basketball in a high school gym). Hopefully I will be able to finish them and send them off before the deadline smacks me in the face.

     *  I was entertained by one of our Goldens. Foley, not the brightest of dogs, loved frolicking in the snow. He would deliberately head for the deepest drifts and come back with snow on his nose and a zip in his step.

     What positive things happened to you this past week? It's now a new year--what good things are going on in your life?