Guest Blogger: Jennie Bentley: Reflections on Truth and Fiction

My husband’s a funny guy. Not hah-hah, laugh-a-minute, lampshade-on-the-head funny—although he can do that, too—but strange funny. Like, when I make him read some of my writing (and ‘make’ is the appropriate word here; he loves me, but he doesn’t like to read), and he says, “Yeah, I liked it, especially when you said...” and then he goes on to quote one of my protagonist’s lines. Or “Yeah, that was pretty good, when you did such-and-such.” Or “No, I didn’t like it when you kissed that guy.”

No kidding. I wouldn’t like it either, if he was the one doing it.

Except I’m not actually doing it. My protagonist is. Which should be obvious, since she has a different name than I do, and is kissing some guy who only exists in my imagination. On paper. But to my husband, obviously I am the main character of whichever manuscript I’m working on at the moment. And she’s me. Never mind the fact that he knows quite well that I’m not a New York City textile designer renovating houses in Maine. We live in Nashville, and DH sees me there every morning when he wakes up. So it’s not like I’ve got a secret life somewhere else.

DH isn’t the only person to think this. Other people also ask, “So are you like your character?” They seem somewhat disappointed when I say apologetically that no, I’m really not.

Or maybe I am. At least to a degree. Enough to relate, anyway.

Avery is a New Yorker born and bred. She grew up on the Upper West Side and graduated from Parsons School of Design.

I lived in New York for a few years. Long enough to get to know and love it. I’ve been to the Upper West Side, and I know what Parsons School of Design looks like, from the outside.

Avery is a 31-year-old textile designer turned home renovator in Maine, after inheriting her Aunt Inga’s home and cats.

I waved goodbye to 31 a few years ago, and I’ve never been a textile designer, nor have I ever inherited anything worth having, but there isn’t much I don’t know about home renovation. My family has owned eight houses over the past eight years, and renovated all of them. Most around our ears as we tried to go about our business as usual, with two kids, a dog, a parakeet, and a goldfish. No cats, because I’m allergic to them.

Avery is in love with Derek, who’s six feet tall, with hair that’s a little closer to blonde than brown, and dreamy blue eyes with long lashes.

I’ve been married for longer than I care to remember to DH, who is just under six feet tall, with blonde hair and eyes that are a little closer to green than blue, and surrounded by the kind of lashes any woman would gladly sell her soul for.

Avery is short—5’2” or 5’3”—with lots of strawberry blonde hair, freckles, and a fashion sense that borders on the eccentric. Derek calls her Tinkerbell.

I’m more like 5’8”, and no one in their right mind would call me Tinkerbell. Not if they wanted to live. Instead, I’m what is usually referred to as a ‘statuesque brunette.’ My fashion sense is non-existent, since like the majority of writers, I live under a rock.

Avery is insecure, a little cynical, a little hopeful, prone to being sarcastic, and quick to take offense.

I’m...

Yeah.

We may not have any outward characteristics in common, but she speaks with my voice. Her reactions are my reactions. Her thoughts are my thoughts, her feelings my feelings. She’s me, deep inside. The experiences that shaped her may not be the same experiences that shaped me, but the end result is much the same.

Ultimately, I guess it’s a compliment. I’ve created a character that’s real enough that people expect her to be a real person. And I could have worse complaints than that.

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Jennie Bentley is the author of the Do-It-Yourself Home Renovation mystery series from Berkley Prime Crime. When she’s not writing about real estate, she’s buying it, selling it, or renovating it somewhere in Nashville, Tennessee. You can find out more about her at http://www.jenniebentley.com/ or http://www.theabcsofdiy.blogspot.com/

Where Real Change Begins

"All great change in America begins at the dinner table."
Ronald Reagan

We've heard a great deal over the last two years about change. Everyone's promising it. But as I was thinking the other day, I realized that no matter what I think about a political candidate, that's not where real change begins.

I grew up with a mother who had dinner on the table every evening at five o'clock whether we were hungry or not. To this day those are some of the best memories in my life. It was the place where my parents challenged us on our attitudes, shared with us their dreams for our family and taught us about the things worth having and holding onto in this life.

In fact, in just a couple weeks many of us will gather around our tables for Thanksgiving dinner and my family will scoot back from the table, unbuckle our belts, or untie our drawstrings and talk. We'll talk about our year. We'll talk about our fears. We'll talk about our new visions. We'll talk about the craziest things that have happened to us. And around that table we'll dream, laugh, maybe even cry. But it will be those moments that really change us.

I know life is crazy. I know we spend more time eating in our cars than sitting at our dinner tables. But where are we receiving the core values of our heart, the real treasures of this life? From the television? Even from books? I can't believe I'm about to say this, since people reading my books is how I make my living, but what if we took a couple nights a week, gathered our family around the dinner table and talked about the things that create true change, character, perserverence, faith, love, and the ability to still hope.

The government will never truly be able to provide such things. They can paint grand pictures, ease the pressure of our mortgages, but they can never offer that which can change the very core of who we are. No, real change is found when we're willing to go to the intimate places with one another, listen more than we talk, and love even those who at times are unlovely.

May God bless us today...as both Americans and Families.

Denise lives in Franklin, Tennessee with her two shih-tzu's Maggie and Sophie. She enjoys long walks, good books, Coca-Cola and evening dinner's with her families. And every now and then she writes a few books. Her latest is The Will of Wisteria.

Anybody There?

Is anybody out there?

It is four a.m. and I am up writing because I’ve promised a friend and sister writer I’ll be part of this southern writers blog. At four a.m., however, when the world outside my bay window is dark and not even a night bird is calling, I have to wonder who is going to wake up in the morning and seriously care about anything I have to say.

That is one prong of the eternal writer’s dilemma: is anybody out there listening?

The second prong is equally important: if somebody is listening, am I saying anything worth listening to?

The Internet has not made our society more profound, merely more prolific. Three times this week I have been invited to sign up for Facebook so I can be a “friend” to somebody who wants to fill me in on the day-to-day happenings of her life. One of those people was a total stranger. The other two are casual acquaintances, not people I already keep in touch with. Do they think I need or want an hour-by-hour update on what they are doing? Do they imagine that reading other people's journals is the way communication happens and relationships are formed?

As a society, we seem to be forgetting how to forge lasting friendships, yet desperate to be constantly connected with other people--as if by shouting into the void we can convince ourselves that we not only exist, but we matter. Why else do folks blog? Or fill up every vacant moment with text messages, cell phone calls, and the Internet? We are a society who is substituting chatter for content.

Which brings me back to the writer’s dilemma, and my own. I have finally realized why I have such a problem blogging. Blogging is supposed to fill you in what I am doing and what I am thinking, but I find both of those things too trivial to talk about. Do you really want to know about my grandchildren, as cute as they are? Do you need a report on my dad's recent gallbladder operation, or the fact that my latest haircut was less than a success?

We writers deal with Story, not minutiae of daily life. Robert McKee in his book Story says that facts are truth with a small “t,” but story is Truth with a capital “T.” The task of writers is to take the stuff of life and squeeze out the whey, reduce it to the essentials of universal truth. We spend our lives not shouting into the void, but listening to the void from which story comes. Otherwise we write books and articles that are “full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”

“But significance is relative,” says the voice of post-modernism. “One person’s triviality is another’s truth.”

Maybe so. But back in the late sixties a wise writer named Peter Berger anticipated where society was heading and wrote a book in which he asked a profound question: Given that all things are relative, which of them is true? The illustration he used, I believe, was that of a desert traveler, who must discern which among the mirages is the real oasis. Perhaps that is the task of everyone who seeks to navigate our current political, economic, and social world. It would certainly seem to be the task of anyone who claims to be a writer.

My latest book, Daughter of Deceit, which came out last month, deals with the issue of truth, and how the discovery of a web of lies in her own family changes the life of Bara Holcomb Weidenauer. I could tell you about it, but I’d far rather you bought the book--and let me know what you think about it.

At four a.m. in the stark light of my computer screen, I find myself facing the hard questions: Amid all the chatter on the Internet and the triviality of much of what passes for contemporary literature, do I have anything to say that is really worth reading? Amid all the words I have written, will any survive a hundred years because they speak Truth to subsequent generations?
Amid all the stuff in my fridge and pantry, is anything likely to put me back to sleep now that I’ve finished this blog?

HAPPY HALLOWEEN! from Cathy Pickens

Cool day to draw for a blog -- Halloween. Except it's the night before and I've made myself sick on Halloween candy. (I allegedly bought it for the tricker-treaters, those I won't be home to greet, so might as well get an early start on bloating myself with sugar).

I LOVE Halloween -- which led me to write a ghostly walking tour of Charleston, South Carolina, one of my favorite "haunted" cities ... and which led me to include some ghost-hunters I lovingly refer to as "ghosters" in my latest mystery, Hush My Mouth (out in paperback in November).  

One of my favorite travel treats is to find a really good

ghost tour. My long-suffering husband rolls his eyes dramatically, but he always comes along. I've never heard him scream, but he's jumped a time or two.

One needn't wait for Halloween to partake in a ghostly tour because, my goodness, one wouldn't have time to see very many. For whenever you have time, may I suggest some delights?

In Wilmington, NC, they have some wonderful storytellers who conduct walking tours around this historic seaport city. A little farther south, try the harbor boat/ghost tour in Georgetown, SC (check the times and dates, though, because they're usually closed in the winter). 

Charleston, SC is, of course, awash in ghosts, as is Savannah. And don't forget the Jekyll Island Club, on a sea island on the Georgia coast. Spend the night there and imagine all sorts of hauntings. While you're traveling, continue on down to St. Augustine, which has a fun tour.

Not coming South any time soon? The Boston ghost tour is one of my favorite -- complete with a hearse-like bus to chauffeur you around. Seattle has an Underground Seattle tour which is spooky. Or try yet another boat tour -- near midnight in Chicago. Beautiful and mysterious.

While combining beauty and scares, put a night tour of Alcatraz on your San Francisco itinerary. It's the most beautiful view of the city, and the U.S. Park Service (as always) does a spectacular job of storytelling. Book before you leave home -- it's often filled during peak vacation times.

Going abroad? None can beat the haunted Edinburgh tours, unless it's the several mystery walks in London -- the Jack the Ripper walk is a fave.

For me, it's the stories and the unusual views of familiar places and a sense of history that lead me to these tours. So while you're making your Thanksgiving and Christmas travel plans (something to distract the family from a squabble?) or your summer vacation, don't forget to check whether there's a ghost tour nearby. One website includes tours in a variety of states.

Anyone else have any out-of-the way favorite ghost tours? Let us know! I've got to go have a lie-down -- too much candy.

Brainstorming Rocks!

Brainstorming Rocks
by T. Lynn Ocean

Some people try to get inside the heads of others because it's what they do for a living. Psychiatrists, character actors, and hostage negotiators are a few examples. Me? I enjoy getting inside someone else's head for research. I'm not talking about the generic emailed interview or even a face-to-face Q&A over lunch. What I'm referring to is brainstorming. Think cerebral orgy. Brainstorming with intelligent people is one of the most fun activities you can do with clothes intact! Imagine a game of Truth or Dare combined with Balderdash.

A down-and-dirty brainstorming session is good for any type of problem-solving, but since this is a Murderati blog, let's say that you're in the process of creating a character. She's an elementary school teacher. Her plan is to kill the owner of a nearby dry cleaners, but she wishes to stay out of jail afterward. This simple setup can be the core of an hour-long brainstorming session that starts like this: If you were the teacher, how would YOU do it?

You can brainstorm with your spouse, friends and even strangers. If you've gathered the right type of open-minded and fun people, you'll most likely walk away with several ideas on how the teacher can murder the business owner. One of the ideas just might be fresh, fabulous, and a perfect fit for your plot. If you decide to give brainstorming a try, choose your topic, have a notepad handy, and follow THE RULES:

First, anything goes. Second, no criticism is allowed.

The 'anything goes' rule is just as it sounds. Maybe the teacher isn't a teacher at all. Maybe she doesn't have a degree and she faked her resume. Maybe she is really a former pest control technician. And maybe the dry cleaners is experimenting with a new environmentally friendly cleaning solvent. Maybe there is a giant pothole in the road and a hubcap from a passing pickup truck knocked a vial of the solvent into a nearby Bloody Mary, and it turns out that the solvent is toxic when mixed with tomato juice.

What does any of this have to do with your main plot? Maybe nothing. But then again… the nature of brainstorming is that one idea fuels another, and that idea fuels another, and so on. It doesn't matter if somebody verbalizes a thought that is wacky, tacky or totally unrealistic because someone else will take that cerebral stimulation and run with it. You'll be surprised at the morsels that can turn up in a brainstorming session.

As for rule number two, no criticism, that one is simple. There is nothing that will bring a creative sharing of ideas to a screeching halt more quickly than a negative person spouting, "that's the stupidest thing I've ever heard." Or, "that would never happen."

So the next time you're working on a plot, planning a big event, or solving a problem at work—find some willing people, have a great time, and remember the rules.

Anything goes. No criticism allowed. Oh, yeah and one final thought. You might want to be careful where you have a brainstorming session, especially if you're plotting ways to get away with murder.

# # #

Harlot Halloween

Even though I spend my days writing or editing, life DOES go on. And we writers are moms, wives, daughters, employees, and must participate.
As I set out to buy my 10-year-old innocent cherub a Halloween costume, I envisioned her as a princess or pop star, preferably a teeny-bopping singer who wears clothes and hasn’t been in rehab or prison.
Oh, but no. The winged fairy outfits nor the ballerina suits did a thing for her pre-teen tastes.
She and her friends marched straight for the gigantic Hoochie Mama Section of this particular Halloween mega-mart. The mannequin capturing my girl’s eyes dazzled upon long thin legs, thigh-high boots and a snug as Spandex “Batgirl” outfit that would have Robin running for the hills and screaming, “Alert! Estrogen! Alert!”
I thought the getup was for grownups but was dead wrong. Children’s Halloween costumes this year have become racy, sexy and not the Snow White suits of yesteryear.
There’s always been the harlot fare for adults, such as the French Maid suit, the Playboy bunny costume and other revealing garments those with great bodies can’t wait to wear to parties while they sip from a cauldron of potent punch.
But lately, the trend seems to be stitching up some mini-skirts over in China or India and shipping them over here for our prepubescent babes to parade around in.
“I want that ‘Batgirl’ costume,’” my daughter begged.
“You’ll freeze,” I said. “Plus it’s not Batgirl. It’s Bat Hussy.”
“It’s no skimpier than my swimsuit,” she protested as only the young can do, those who are as good at manipulating as sneaky lawyers.
“Well, we’re not going swimming, now are we? We are going trick-or-treating in 30-degree weather. I’m not buying that Lexington Avenue outfit.”
“You’re mean. I don’t know what you’re talking about so I’m not speaking to you.”
“Fine. Sounds reasonable. But if you do decide to talk, there’s a darling little nun’s suit over on aisle 4. How fun is that? We can put some wings on it and you can be the Flying Nun.”
Her eyes roved toward a costume called “High Seas Hotties.”
Not a good sign so says the American Psychological Association that has shown adult-themed sexuality is marketed more and more to kids at younger ages. The study also revealed this early parade of young girls’ bodies could be linked to eating disorders, low self-esteem and depression.
The study concluded parents could be protective and positive role models.
“OK, missy. I have an idea. You can go as a moose and I’ll go as Sarah Palin.”
“I don’t want to be a moose. No one will see me or know who I am.”
“Yes, but you’ll be warm.”
“Look around, mother. Do you see a moose costume here?”
I was afraid to go down aisle 7. It wouldn’t surprise me to see partial fur, perhaps made into a string-bikini, a couple of antlers and a sign on a costume that said, “Sexiest Moose in Alaska.”
“I can sew you a moose suit.”
“You can’t sew.”
“You’re right. So I have a better idea. I’ll be Sarah and you can be Obama.”
Susan Reinhardt is the author of “Not Tonight Honey Wait ‘Til I’m a Size Six,” “Don’t Sleep with a Bubba,” and “Dishing with the Kitchen Virgin,” her latest.
This is the opinion of Susan Reinhardt. Contact her at sreinhardt@citizen-times.com

Possibly Maybe Probably Writing

" F*** rap, I'm givin' it up, y'all, I'm sorry
'But Eminem, this is your record release party!' "
-Eminem

And, with those words, the modern poet Marshall "Eminem" Mathers, in his song titled something I wouldn't say in polite company (which of COURSE we around this blog are) perfectly summed up my current plight:

I am so scared of writing my book, y’all. And I mean that. With every earnest, sincere fiber of my being. I have absolutely no idea what I’m in for. I mean, I discussed last time I was on here about how I’m not an author by any stretch of the imagination and yet a handful of things have me, lately, thinking I can do some sort of memoir in November. Which, dear readers, is, like, NOW.

*Sigh*. This is why writing is a craft and shouldn’t be left to untrained putzes like yours truly.

I’ve been attempting to stretch my writing wings (note to self: they’re called “fingers”. “Fingers.”) as of late, and as such have expanded my vast (not-vast) media empire (tire-swing fenced into a back yard somewhere that I’ve never seen) to include my own personal blog, which, fittingly and creatively enough, is available at The Russ Marshalek Blog (maybe I should make "the" "thee", and class it up a little?). As of right now, there’s nothing overly spectacular or enlightening on there, because I’m finding it, oddly enough, more and more difficult to be transparent, to be forthcoming, to want to plumb the depths of my memory to find something-humor? Terror? “Art”? Ugh, art. Art’s the last thing I want to be responsible for creating, especially knowing the ins and outs of the brain that I have. Art’s nowhere around.

And that brings me to a point that has me stuck, spinning my wheels: the amazing, cut-throat memoir has been done. I made several mistakes in the past week or so that have impaired my thinking, my go-getting-ness about this whole “Russ can take on a memoir and have it result in anything that anyone would ever want to read and/or find enlightening”: each of those mistakes being in the form of someone else doing some facet of what I, myself, desire doing: being able to mine those depths and find jewels, or at least jewels in the rough.

First and foremost was the memoir penned by the frontman of the fantastic and oft-overlooked rock band Eels, Mark Oliver Everett. Things The Grandchildren Should Know is not-at-all the quintessential “rock memoir”-rather, it’s funny, painful and oft both at the same time, describing in vivid detail the sheer tragedy Mark seemingly walked into day after day after day…not the least of which was finding his blisteringly brilliant scientist father dead in bed one morning as a child.

Jesus. Between that and writing “Novocaine For The Soul”, which is a lost anthem of my generation (no, seriously, it is), how can I compete?

In terms of absolutely phenomenal, flooring books, I also recently finished Matthew Kneale’s When We Were Romans and Andrew Porter’s short story collection The Theory Of Light And Matter.

When We Were Romans is heartbreaking from the get-go, as the story, captivatingly told by the thrust-into-adulthood 9-year-old narrator Lawrence, who, in the course of the story, becomes one of the most memorable characters in recent modern fiction. This and Beginner’s Greek are the two books from this year that I really, desperately want to keep in the event I am locked in a cave, or a vault, or some other thing that locks/can be blocked off, for years to come.

Andrew Porter’s O’Connor-award winning The Theory Of Light And Matter came to me at a time when I needed it, namely when I was trying to find flesh and skin in the industrial-esque minimalist compositions of Amy Hempel. Don’t get me wrong: I love Hempel. I’ve recently become addicted to Hempel. Every moment that I don’t own her collected stories, I find myself wondering about word choices, phrases, thinking that there’s a magic of language located somewhere within her skeletal constructs. However, I was in a place, stuck in a moment, so to speak, where I needed stories with life and breath and feathers-on-wings, with people possessing hearts that filled with blood and oxygen. Porter’s stories stretch with life, but within the framework of memory, be it lost or found. Usually love itself is a factor, to a point where I was literally faking sick to remain at home, curled in bed, shivering into the words on the page.

Anyway, all this is a fancy way of saying: I AM HAVING COLD FEET. FOR REAL. Who am I, thinking I can write a memoir…and, and….and SELL IT? (Because, unlike some of you, I just don’t have the cash to self-publish. I mean, really, I just can’t AFFORD it, that’s what that’s about.) I’m not a Sedaris…despite what the photo below may indicate:

(l-r: Amy Sedaris, ME OMFG ME!)

That is, in fact, Amy Sedaris. And no, though it would appear as such she is NOT, in fact, my mom. God, I wish.

Anyway, November’s creeping in. I’m going to wring my hands for a few more days, listen to a lot of Hope For Agoldensummer, and dig in. Here’s hoping I see the other side and have more to show for it than the “just another failed memoirist” t-shirt that I am currently designing and then manufacturing for myself...
as a way to avoid writing.

This is a picture of Russ Marshalek, Marketing/PR director for Wordsmiths, with Food Network star Sandra Lee. He hangs out with famous people and takes pictures of said encounters as another way to avoid writing. He also, for the record, while in college at Oglethorpe, wrote an essay comparing Eminem to John Updike. Neither party has ever seen said essay, but Mr. Marshalek received a grade of 92 on the paper and enjoys talking about it immensely to anyone who will listen.