Earth Day -- a time to be thankful for the beauty and bounty Earth provides her children ...
From buckeye blooms to bustling biddies...
The lavish fragrance of romantic sweeps of wisteria ...
And maybe it's time to think about our impact on this great mother of us all.
When we were planting potatoes, look what turned up. That little piece of bright blue plastic below is a tab from a paper diaper and I'm embarassed to say I was the litterer -- back in 1973. At that time we were camping out in the barn just above the potato field with our not quite one year old and cloth diapers seemed pretty much out of the question.
The plastic is dirty but (unlike parents and baby) un-aged. It's good for anothe thirty-something years. It's not going anywhere.
Now think about all the plastic that doesn't get recycled but instead ends up in our landfills, our waterways, our roadsides, our beaches, our oceans.
Another anonymous comment left here recently -- for some reason I just adore these dada-esque messages
Hello everybody subservient to the bronze knick-knacks
That's eager of the note
I'm concomitant to here
Thrilled as pummel to equivalent to of thinking you all
Well-received to my blog.
While I don't consider myself subservient to the bronze knick-knacks, I am, however, thrilled as pummel to find this favorite -- and oh, so apposite! -- Monty Python sketch on YouTube.
Oh, joy! While mowing the orchard, John discovered a pair of morels! We had found some there about ten years ago but haven't seen any since -- until now.
Only two little morels -- I decided to stretch their flavor by putting them into a cream sauce.
They're hollow . . .
I sizzled them in a tablespoon of butter with some garlic chives . . .
Then I added a tablespoon of flour, about a cup of hot milk, and salt and pepper to make a cream sauce. Piled onto a toasted ciabatta, it made an fine breakfast. (About four times as many morels would have been nice ...) My Carolina Kitchen has another wild mushroom recipe (and far more elegant presentation) HERE.
Q: In your writing classes, what is the most common mistake that beginning writers make?
A: The thing that I find myself writing the most often on my students' pages is "Show, Don't Tell."
Show is like watching a drama on TV. Tell is like reading someone's synopsis of what happened in that drama. Guess which is more interesting...
Here's an example from The Day of Small Things. I could TELL the reader that Aunt Belvy insisted that Dorothy drive her to the graveyard because she was worried about Birdie.
That would have been quick and easy -- probably why it's so tempting to do rather than SHOW. And there's nothing wrong with TELL for some information -- mundane, daily stuff. No need to SHOW your protagonist shopping for a bag of apples and some cereal unless there's something REALLY important about that shopping trip.
But if you use TELL when there's an opportunity for a dramatic scene, a scene that SHOWS your characters, then you've missed a chance to draw the reader in.
Here's my SHOW example.
*** *** ***
She said she needed some fresh air but where in mercy’s sake can she have got to?
Dorothy stepped out to the front porch and looked through the trees to the path running up the mountain. There was still no sign of Miss Birdie, not in the yard nor out on the road where she usually took her walk.
“Up in the grave yard, that’s where you’ll find her.”
Dorothy started and whirled around. A moment ago Aunt Belvy had been sitting on the plastic-covered sofa, seemingly lost in a prophetic trance. Or asleep. Now she was standing, tall and imposing, in the doorway. And she was saying- no, the old woman was confused. Dorothy silently cursed Marvella for leaving this ancient, obviously crazy woman in her care, even as she spoke slowly and loudly into the ear of the prophetess.
“Why, you’ve had you a bad dream, Aunt Belvy. Birdie’s not in the graveyard; she’s just gone for a walk. I reckon you got a little confused-”
A bony hand grasped Dorothy’s arm. “Git in your car and crank the engine, young un. I want you to take me up to the grave yard where Birdie is. She’ll be talking to that old woman and I got to go protect her.”
The fingers held her in a pincers grip. “And I ain’t one lick confused.”
Fifty pounds of seed potatoes have been riding around in the back of my jeep for over a week now. But the weather finally cooperated and the ground dried out and John and Justin and I got the cut-up taters in the ground.
Some folks plant by the signs; some plant on Good Friday ( in hopes of a sure resurrection, I suppose;) we plant when we can. It's an important yearly event for us but it's a movable feast.
These are Kennebecs -- ordinary white potatoes -- and, if nothin' don't happen, they'll yield plenty to keep us all well supplied through the year. I'm going out today to try to find some Yukon Golds and some red potatoes as well to plant down at the lower place.
It was a beautiful day -- perfect for this Spring ritual we've enacted for thirty five years now. Back at the house for an omelet that included the first asparagus and shitakes, we felt truly blessed in this country life.
The clouds rolled in yesterday bringing chilly, blustery weather.And 'they're givin' rain' for today.
No matter -- we know what April showers bring...
Two small chuckles I'd like to share. (I think I've mentioned that I'm easily amused.)
One, as I was eating lunch yesterday, I was startled to hear a news report that seemed to say three concubines had exploded... never did get that one sorted out.
And then, oh joy, I was editing a paper from one of my writing students and came to the line that said a rapist had been found dead with his tentacles removed. . .
Spring . . . it's almost more than I can deal with. I spent the day outside, planting, pruning, weeding -- and almost every five minutes there was something that demanded a picture. A flush of shitakes, the first tree peony blossom (it went from tight closed to open in the course of the day,) Eddie showing off, the azaleas in bloom, and the hostas unfurling. Oh, what a glorious season!
It's Library Week -- a good time to think about showing your support and appreciation for your local library. Most all of them are in trouble -- budgets being slashed -- just when they're the most needed.
My love affair with libraries began in Tampa at Roosevelt Elementary school in the early Fifties. My third grade classroom had a small library with lots of what we called 'little orange books' -- simple biographies of famous people as children.
I blazed through all of these little orange books but my great joy was the weekly trip to the school library. I could walk in right now, I believe, and put my hand on the Oz books.
There was one that featured a sea of vegetable soup and big soft pillowy, buttery rolls -- not unlike those served by the school cafeteria. Though I own most of the Oz books, I've never been able to track down that particular scene. Ah, but I remember it fondly...and the rolls.
At about this time I also accompanied my parents to the 'downtown library' once every few weeks. Oddly enough, I have no memory of getting children's books here -- I was in a serious cowboy phase and Will James and Zane Grey were my choices.
The library at Wilson Junior High was well stocked with horse books -- all the Walter Farley books -- as well as various series --the Cherry Ames , the Nancy Drews, the Dana Girls ...
But the Hyde Park Branch Library -- just a short walk away from Wilson -- ah, that was the library of my dreams. My first library card (orange, with a little metal inset) was issued there. And there, in the children's section I found the Narnia books, Enid Blyton's Adventure series, more horse books, Noel Streaton's Shoes series, and title after title of YA science fiction -- Heinlein's The Rolling Stones, Andre Norton's The Stars Are Ours!, a wonderful time travel adventure, (with a title I can't remember) involving Vikings landing on the Yucatan peninsula ...
When I'd exhausted the childrens section, I was at last allowed (it took parental permission) to check out adult books -- historical fiction, books on ancient history and archaeology, and Richard Halliburton's travel books were my reading choices as I moved into high school.
Every week I checked out a great stack of books and every night I read late -- traveling, learning, experiencing other times, other worlds, other lives.
As Emily Dickinson put it, "There is no frigate like a Book/
Q: I'm nervous about speaking in public -- do you have have some tips on speaking to a group? When you have a book out and you do a presentation at a bookstore or library, what do you say? What about just reading from the book?
A: One encouraging thing to remember about speaking as an author is that your audience is made up of people who have chosen to be there -- unlike the 'audience' a teacher faces every day. Even better, your audience wants to know more about you and your book -- subjects on which you are the expert. Still, a little preparation is certainly helpful.
A typical presentation lasts around an hour -- maybe twenty or thirty minutes of speaking, ten or fifteen minutes for Q and A, and the remaining time for selling and signing books.
When a new book come out, I prepare a little talk and pick out a few short bits to read. Most audiences get a little twitchy with twenty minutes of straight reading -- unless the reader/author is David Sedaris or someone equally compelling. I print it out and read it over to time it. I take the print out with me to the bookstore but usually end up just glancing at it to remind me of what I want to say next. (Of course, I have the bits I'm going to read bookmarked in my reading copy.)
When my first two books came out, I would spend some time talking about how/why I got started writing so late in life and what my inspiration was. Now I concentrate on the story behind the new book -- though often in the Q and A period, someone will ask how I got started and I'll tell the story one more time. (It always gets a laugh.)
And speaking of Q and A -- sometimes the audience will just sit there -- no one wanting to be first. You can prime the pump by having a friend in the audience with a few questions ready. Once the ice has been broken, others will join in.
This below is my standard talk for The Day of Small Things.
DST talk 30 min + Q & A
Thanks, insert name of introducer ,thanks to name of bookstore or library for being such a good friend to me, and thanks to all of you for coming out.
It’s been a long journey to the publication of this fifth book of mine and there’ve been some detours and dead ends – which is one reason I didn’t have a book out last year.
As far too many people remember, I ended my last book, IN A DARK SEASON on a cliff hanger -- a question about Elizabeth and Phillip’s relationship. At the time I confidently expected to resolve that question in a book called UNDER THE SKIN – in fact, I’d already begun to write that book when I met with my editor.
“Why don’t you do a spin-off before you do another Elizabeth book?” asked my editor (aka Herself), during our yearly conference at Bouchercon a few years ago. “A stand alone — a non-series book. Maybe about one of your minor characters. No Elizabeth.”
Hmm. After four books about Elizabeth Goodweather, I was open to trying something new. Besides, when Herself speaks, I tend to listen.
“I could do that,” I said. “What if I picked up where I left off in the historical subplot of Signs in the Blood? I’d been thinking it might be interesting to tell Clytie’s story – you, know, Little Sylvie’s sister. I could …”
I could tell Herself wasn’t interested. She was gazing off into the middle distance as she said, “Mmm, I was thinking about one of Elizabeth’s neighbors . . .”
That’s how Herself operates. She doesn’t so much tell me what to do, as nudge me till I end up where she wants me.
“A book about Miss Birdie.” I said. “You want a book about Miss Birdie?”
“What a good idea!” Herself exclaimed. “I can’t wait to read it!”
Miss Birdie is Elizabeth Goodweather’s eighty-something year old neighbor. She’s based on several of my own neighbors and is a gutsy little woman who reminds many of my readers of a favorite grandmother or aunt. A cute little lady who says ‘Ay, law’ a lot, she bustles around her kitchen making cornbread and dispensing local color. A wonderful minor character – but could I write a whole novel about her?
What did I know of Miss Birdie’s past? Not much – her husband Luther was dead as was her only child, a simple minded man named Cletus -- the only child that lived after several that died young.
About this time, while I was trying to decide if there was an interesting past to Miss Birdie, my friend Kathy (the original of Sallie Kate, Elizabeth’s realtor friend) told me a heart-breaking story about a local woman who had always been kept at home by her mother, not even allowed to attend school. Why? The mother had wanted to be sure that this youngest daughter would never get married and move away – this daughter was raised to be her mother’s caretaker in old age.
Building on this true story, I began to imagine what Birdie’s life had been before she was that quaint old woman down the road from Elizabeth’s farm – before, in fact, she was Miss Birdie.
I began with Birdie's birth and childhood. In this selection, Least, as she is known, is eavesdropping when a neighbor comes for a rare visit .
Read: pp16 -17 ( 4 minutes)
Oh, my! As I wrote, more and more of Birdie’s past made itself known – from her early life close to nature in a lonely mountain cove to the raucous setting of a local tavern/dance hall/brothel. There was Cherokee magic, there was romance, there was unsolved murder.
After a crisis at home Least, as her mother called her, runs away and reinvents herself as Redbird Ray. She finds work as kitchen help and later as a dime-a-dance girl at a local dance hall/tavern/brothel. In this scene she is being pressured go upstairs with the sheriff – who generally has free run of the girls at the tavern. Redbird has only been a dancer previously, taking part in dance downs where the last man standing wins a bottle of whisky --- unless he is bested by one of the dancing girls.
Read pp 162 – 165 ( 6 min)
And finally, in the present day section of the book,I was back to the Birdie of the first four books. But a funny thing happened. I've become increasingly aware of the invisibility of old women and of how easily they are dismissed and I decided I wanted the eighty-something year old Birdie to be a force that couldn't be ignored.…
And as I wrote, Birdie emerged in all her strength – not the cute little neighbor who seemed to sit around waiting for Elizabeth to drop by and bring her to life, but a woman of power – capable of risking all in defense of a child. She began to remind me of Merlin at the end of his life as portrayed by C.S. Lewis in That Hideous Strength.
Read pp 384 -386 (3 minutes)
I really loved finding out more about this woman I thought I’d invented. And I’ve decided that there are no minor characters – in fiction or in life.
They’re all just waiting to have their stories told.
Spring has me in its clutches -- I'll get back to visiting and commenting and. oh, yes, a FAQ post tomorrow. Until then, a picture is worth a thousand words.
Bleeding Heart
Wisteria
Marigold and Justin
Trillium (Wake Robin?)
Dogwood
John is building a more permanent house for the broiler chickens.
