Memories of First Dates and Friday Night Football

I was in my boot camp the other morning, “Body by Bill” we call it. Should be called, “How many ways can I kick your booty!” But that’s another blog. So, I’m jumping rope when the song Maniac came on. Immediately I’m taken back to a theatre in a small city in England the summer of my thirteenth year when I saw the movie Flashdance. The cut out neck sweatshirt that Jennifer Beals wore changed my complete eighth grade wardrobe. Before I knew it Bill was playing the best of the eighties and I forgot I was working out. Instead I was immediately transported to Friday nights after high school football games, riding in my boyfriend’s baby-blue pickup truck, dancing in front of the mirror in my pj’s with a hairbrush for a microphone with my best friend. Wonderful nights. Good times. That’s the power of a song.
For about eight years I had the privilege of writing songs. And through those years I received countless letters, yes, actual things that come in the mail letters, about how those songs impacted people’s lives. Now, I have the privilege of writing a story. I say the word privilege because every time an e-mail comes and someone tells me how the laughed until the bed shook, cried until they were out of tears or wished there were more pages when they got to the end, I count it a privilege.
Every time I walk into a bookstore and see a book with my name on it I still don’t know how that was ever accomplished. I’ll reread a passage, remembering the moment I wrote it, yet still not knowing how something divine can blow into the heart of someone like me. There are days I don’t feel qualified. Moments I wonder if there will ever be another story inside of me. And then from somewhere deep and kind, the words flow across the page.
I will spend the rest of my life hearing Cherish by Kool and the Gang and remember the very first night Garland Greenway drove me home in his daddy’s car and my heart beat so fast I thought he would hear it. I will spend the rest of my life seeing C.S. Lewis’ The Problem with Pain and remembering how it walked me through the season of my greatest pain. I will spend the rest of my life remembering how Lord of the Flies introduced me to the power of story. And then I’ll remember, that somewhere, for the rest of someone’s life, my songs, or my stories will be a part of someone’s memories. And I will count that a privilege. We as writers may share our wit, our rawness, or our humanity. But the fact that someone is willing to give their time, their most precious commodity in this life to read it, well, that is a privilege.

Denise Hildreth makes her home in Franklin, TN where she enjoys long walks with her Shih-tzu's Sophie and Maggie, and drinking Coca-Cola with a good friend. www.denisehildreth.com www.denisehildreth.blogspot.com

Sister Sandy in Rich City, Ga. had a problem many parents face in the summer.
Her youngest son, Preston, 8, decided the saltwater pool in his backyard had enough chlorine that he needed no baths for the summer.

“I get clean in the pool,” he told his mother, who was trying to spiff the kid up for when her ex picked him up for a lavish vacation.

She had no trouble getting her teen to take showers. With Preston, nothing worked.
Then a wild idea zapped her.

“Everybody get in the golf cart. Wear your swim trunks,” she said, loading up her boys and entering one of those explosive washes where one can choose from a variety of cleaning, buffing and waxing options.

Sandy entered the stall, paid her $12 for the Super Soaker, Peel-the-Rubber-off-the-Tires wash with a wax job even duck feathers can’t match.
They slowly pulled up but nothing happened. The message flashed. “Back up! Back up!”

“This golf cart doesn’t weigh enough,” she told her boys. “Stand up and let’s jump up and down to get some weight on this thing so we can get our Wash and Wax.”

They did as told, to no avail. Sandy ate that $12 and decided to go across the street to the eight-bay, do-it-yourself wash.

“We were ready for our hot high pressure, touchless car wash. No brushes. Just a blasting with these jets,” she said.

“It may take the skin off your butts, but you’ll get a good bath,” she told her boys. “I can’t send you to your father smelling like our two dogs.”

She couldn’t stop laughing. I heard the boys squealing in the background when she called to report her latest outrageous behavior. Nothing had topped this since she spent $200 on a possum fur coat and wore it by the pool in her bikini, glass of champagne in her hand.

In the bay, she cranked the wand, the gun, and other apparatuses and proceeded to “bathe” her boys. Preston, being light of weight, nearly blew into the road. The soap sprayed, the gun blasted, then Sandy told them to work the lather in their hair as if it were a bottle of Pert Plus.

“You wouldn’t believe how clean they got,” she said. “Their hair had never smelled better. All we needed was some Armor All for their nails and one of those pine-scented things you put on the rearview mirror for their wrists.”

I called Mama that night to tell her about Sandy’s latest bathing routine. She was not amused.

“But Mama, don’t you recall Daddy sudsing by the pool every summer at out house?” She remained silent. The memories of my father, after swimming his laps, surfaced, and I recalled him with the hose in hand, a cake of soap and his triple-blade plastic razor on the table nearby.
He’d shampoo his hair, shave, take the soap to every part of his body, including the insides of his trunks, rinse, and be done.

“We ain’t right,” Sandy said. “Let’s just face it.”

Susan Reinhardt is the author of the newly released “Dishing with the Kitchen Virgin,” and the bestselling, “Not Tonight Honey Wait ‘Til I’m a Size 6.” She also penned “Don’t Sleep with a Bubba. Previously with Ethan Ellenberg, she is now at the Waxman Agency in NY,

Summer Camp

by Cathy Pickens

Okay, summer’s half over, so what have you done for fun? When fall comes, about what will you write your “What I Did On My Summer Vacation” essay?

True, you’re probably not going back to school and no English teacher is going to torture you by requiring an essay.

Still, wouldn’t it be fun to look back on your summer with the same happy-that-it-came/sad-that-it’s-passing sigh that you had as a kid?

So, when was the last time you went to summer camp? What?? It’s been years? Why?

It’s not too late. What would you like to do this summer? Trips to exotic locations? A pampered spa retreat? A challenging outdoor experience?

Yeah, that would be great. But mundane things like money, time, work and family commitments cut into that summer freedom we remember from childhood.

I started thinking about the magical taste that summer has when I began planning an MBA elective at Queens University of Charlotte on creativity for business. Why can’t grown-ups have the fun – and the benefit – of a summer camp, despite all their other responsibilities?

Sure, you say, that would be easy if I had unlimited time and money, but it’s possible even with limited resources. The limits can add to the fun and the challenge.

What would you like to do? Art camp? Music camp? Science camp? How about a trip to the library to get books on drawing or the latest on brain science research [The Female Brain and Brain Rules are great reads.] At the library, check out some classical music CDs. Head to the art store for a few supplies.

Check the listing at your area colleges and universities for noncredit courses – everything from ballroom dancing to landscape design to creative writing.

Or many cities have shops that offer courses on beading or jewelry-making, ceramic painting, photography … or pole dancing. Most are inexpensive and are taught by enthusiastic artists passionate about their subject and experienced at teaching it to others.

The hardest part for you will be narrowing down your choices.

Don’t live in a city that offers lots of options? Start something at your community center or church. Heck, check out Mindy Friddle on this blog, talking about starting The Writing Room in Greenville, South Carolina.

Create your own literature camp. Months ago, I embarked on a reading program – a sort of literature camp. I finished two Jane Austen biographies (one on audio from the library, while I was running my usual errands), re-read some Austen novels, checked out the BBC video versions, even read The Jane Austen Book Club.

Maybe for your literature camp, you might want to try a new writer. Someone on this blog? Check out his or her website. Try one of their books. That’s a summer camp that can fit into the crevices of a busy life.

In June, my husband and I went to Owensboro, Kentucky to watch mystery plays. I love mystery plays, starting with Agatha Christie. [If you can be anywhere near Owensboro next June, I would recommend that you check it out – great fun and a pleasant city to visit.] Click on Discovering New Mysteries

When we got home, I checked out some library books on writing screenplays and spent some time playing with ideas for writing my own screenplay. I haven’t written a play yet, but I might. And playing with the ideas was fun.

I also crocheted a purse. I saw the pattern in a store, bought three balls of yarn, and wrestled with a less-than-perfect pattern and my rusty needlework skills. After several months, I finished it. Maybe I’ll carry it. The important thing was that I challenged myself with something.

The real secret to summer camp? EXPECT to have fun. Attitude can make the ordinary an adventure.

What will you try? A new recipe? An elegant picnic for family and friends? Shag dancing with your spouse? Learning what your digital camera can do? Taking your children – or borrowing children – to explore something in your area that you haven’t visited before – a train museum, a park, a tea party café?

The possibilities are endless.

So what will you get for your efforts? Awakened brain cells, energized synapses firing, a proven way to stave off dementia, a new way of looking at things, a sense of accomplishment.

Heck, you’ll have some fun. And, if anybody asks what you did over the summer, make them so jealous they’ll want their own summer camp!

HOT PINK IS THE NEW BLACK...TOOLBOX

HOT PINK IS THE NEW BLACK.... TOOLBOX, THAT IS!
BY T. LYNN OCEAN

I just wanted to hang a picture. I'd been asking my husband to do it for weeks, and if I continued to ask, my request would soon be considered nagging. I decided to do it myself. With a deep breath, I found the padlock key and boldly entered his storage shed.

Once my vision cleared after whacking my head on the low entry overhang, I took inventory. Or rather, standing in place, I tap-tapped a 360-degree circle, like a ballerina in blue jeans and flip flops. There was so much stuff piled everywhere that I couldn't do much else. I found golf clubs, muddy work boots, truck parts, a variety of lawn equipment, and boxes. Lots of cardboard boxes. I just needed a hammer and a nail. The most primal and basic of tools.

Frustrated, I thought back to the first townhouse I ever owned, shortly after graduating college. My dad helped me buy it and as a housewarming gift, he gave me a toolbox. I was the proud owner of a new hammer, screwdrivers, self-adjusting wrench and the all-important needle-nose pliers. He'd included an 8-piece socket set and wire cutters. There were a variety of nails and picture hanging equipment and a magnetic stud finder. Dad had carefully selected each tool—all top quality stuff with padded grips and lifetime warranties—and packaged the lot in a bright red toolbox.

But I soon discovered that men didn't want me to have tools. A chemical in testosterone
must convince their brains that a woman can't possibly know what a wrench is, much less
how to install a showerhead. It seems that every male in my life—even neighbors and boyfriends—left my house with one of my tools. They'd craftily offer their help and then make off with my wire strippers or screwdriver. Many years and several moves later, I still had the bright red toolbox, its contents a mere shell of what they used to be. When I married, my husband appropriated the barren toolbox and stashed it away with all his manly stuff.

Standing in the shed, filled with nostalgia, I thought back to all the little projects I'd successfully completed during my single days. Between several moves, I'd hung plenty of pictures, sure. But I'd also put in new light fixtures, fixed a broken hinge on an oven door, installed a cable splitter, and put in deadbolt locks. Even as my tools kept disappearing, I managed to be my own handyman, or rather, handywoman.

Jumping off memory lane with a sigh, I was ready to give up my search for hammer and nail when a beam of light caressed something red. My toolbox, perched high on a shelf! I carefully maneuvered it down. With anticipation, I opened the latch and lifted the lid…only to find a stack of spotted, folded rags. RAGS!

I experienced an epiphany, right there in the middle of my husband's turf: PINK TOOLBOXES.

Why, you ask? Because a man won't go near a pink box—something they'd imagine to contain pretty-smelling bath products or frilly, spiky shoes. I think it's every woman's inherent right to have HER OWN toolbox, fully stocked with things like a cushy-grip hammer and shiny nails. Blessed little picture-hanging nails.

Just imagine, ladies: your own tools, waiting and ready at a moment's notice for those times when the belt rack falls off the closet wall or the icemaker gizmo gets jammed just before a dinner party. If a higher-up from Craftsman, Stanley, or Kobalt is reading this…think about it. A fully-stocked hot pink toolbox just might be your next best seller.

VISIT T. LYNN OCEAN AT http://www.tlynnocean.com/ . SOUTHERN FATALITY NOW IN PAPERBACK. SOUTHERN POISON COMING SEPT. 2

The Zen of Writing..by Mindy Friddle

Hint: You Just Walk the Path

My life continues to be enriched by reading novels that completely draw me into their worlds. You look up from the pages of such an absorbing read, startled to find yourself back in your own skin, as if you had been off somewhere else (in a Mississippi courtroom in the 1920's, say, or a post-Apocalyptic scarred planet), living another sort of life entirely. I think--I hope-- it's safe to say that writers start off as voracious readers first. We read for inspiration, for the bliss of an absorbing story, and, later, we read with an eye for craft.

I tell students this is the "feed your head" part of writing: a sort of intuitive trust that the right book by the right author will come your way for a reason-- for sustenance, to strengthen your talent, to teach you something about your own writing, help you get unstuck, show you what you need to know IF you're open to exploring, and IF you read widely and deeply.

Francine Prose (novelist and author of Reading Like a Writer) is adamant (in this interview) about seeking out what she needs from the "masters":

You can say, 'Look, James Joyce has written the greatest party scene that has ever been written,' or 'Tolstoy has written the most marvelous horse racing scene.' And if it happens to be that you want to write a party scene or a horse racing scene, you might want to go look and see how geniuses have done it and take a lesson.

Prose also said that, in a serendipitous fashion, the right book often finds its way to her at the right time and reveals something she needs for her own writing.

I LOVE the story of how E.L. Doctorow wrote Ragtime. He's one of my favorite authors; it's one my favorite books. It's a historical novel, full of pitch-perfect details, with a constellation of famous personalities (Houdini, Henry Ford, Emma Goldman, J.P. Morgan, just to name a few) alongside fictional characters. The research, I thought, must have been staggering. But, no. "When you’re working well," Doctorow said in a recent New York Magazine interview, "you don’t do research.Whatever you need comes to you."

Huh? Yeah. Case in point: In Ragtime, there's a scene where two characters (a father and a little girl) flee Westchester, NY on a trolley, making their way all the way to Massachusetts. A snag: After he'd written this scene, the author wasn't even sure if such a feat was possible. So, he got up from his desk at the public library, "and banged my knee on a book and looked down, and I picked it up. It was a corporate history of trolley-car companies. This is the way the book (Ragtime) was assembled."

In Zen-speak, I think this might be known as being in alignment with the universe, open to the present moment, and free from desperation and "grasping" that skews and distorts. In talking with my fellow writers, many tell me they've found the fastest way to get blocked and stymied in a work-in-progress is to consider the writing a means to an end (publication, best sellerdom, freaked out crazy deadlines, etc.) instead of focusing on the writing for its own sake. Richard Bausch, in an interview with Writer magazine some years ago, summed this up beautifully:

When I sit down to write, I'm not thinking about pulling stuff out of myself. I'm thinking about going somewhere, walking around, and seeing what I find. And there's never a time when I sit down and it isn't there. You just walk the path. There is a tremendous amount of work you can get done doing that. There's no part of that that's not fun. I never worry about whether or not it's good. I don't care, right then. I'm walking the path. I know that if I can bring enough attention to it, and be honest and open to it and not cheat it, it'll be fine. Whether it's the best I've ever done is not anything for me to worry about.

When you're in the zone, you're not even YOU, you're watching this story reveal itself (in hard glimmering icy plinks or long, luxurious warm rains-- the story is often fickle as the weather), and, then, somehow, you're writing it.

Which might explain the article I tore out of yesterday's science section of the NYT: "Tongue Orchid's Sexual Guile: Utterly Convincing." I'm in the midst of final edits of my manuscript and I've been stuck for a few days on one paragraph that just needed a little...something. So there, over my first cup of coffee, I found it: There's a slew of delicious, odd scientific facts stuffed into this article, one of which is the perfect missing detail for my scene about a presentation on orchids to senior citizens. I'm grateful, delighted, but not entirely surprised. I knew my little something would come. And in this case, it was delivered to my door.

Mindy Friddle--that's her, pictured at right, at the NY Botanical Gardens-- is the author of THE GARDEN ANGEL (St. Martin's Press/Picador) and SECRET KEEPERS (forthcoming from St. Martin's Press/Picador).Visit www.mindyfriddle.com to read her interviews with authors, drop by her blog, Novel Thoughts. Befriend her on Facebook.

Chunky Monkey by Karin Gillespie

Writing, like most professions, comes with its shares of occupational hazards. There’s Amazon-itis, the compulsive checking of one’s Amazon rating—usually most severe in debut novelists but even the old saws can’t always resist a daily peek or two or three… or ten. Also the unhealthy pallor from staring into the blue glow of the cathode ray tube for hours on end. Not to mention the looming risk of carpal tunnel, and nightmares of being forced to write an entire opus with one’s big toe.

But the real bugaboo, the tragic little secret is that, after several years as full-time writers, most of us transform from being thin, neurotic artistic types to… how should I put this delicately?…downright robust artistic types.

In other words, we become chunky monkeys.

I’m speaking from experience. And I know I’m not the only scribe who has far too much junk in the trunk, a bit too much butter on the bean.

Fact is I no longer resemble my author photo--taken in those lean, hungry pre-publication months—and I refuse to replace it with a more true-to-life Jabba the Hut version.

The weight snuck up on me. I kept telling myself I was retaining water, or pre-menstrual or post-menstrual or that my pants had shrunk in the wash. Unfortunately denial finally had a head-on collision with reality and I was forced to go up a couple of sizes.

That’s when I tried to accept my bloat: So what if I’m a little round, I’d rationalize. Life is short! Who wants to give up red wine, chocolate and the occasional Krispy Kreme run? Bring on the BLT.

But in truth I was a fair weather friend of my newly “enhanced” physique. Some days I’d strut around like Jennifer Hudson with an Oscar in hand; most days I felt like the dumpiest woman on the planet.. There were times I didn’t recognize myself in photos. Do my arms really look like twin loafs of sour dough? When did I get that extra chin?

My weight issue started occupying far too much space in my mind. I was constantly touching my belly as a gauge. Am I having a fat day or a thin day? Would I ever lose weight? Where would I get the motivation?

It was an unforgiving hotel mirror that finally prompted me to take action. I had ways of tricking my home mirror (standing in front of it only while wearing head-to-toe black, high heels and Spanx) but this mirror bounced back my image just before I was getting into the shower… Enough said.

So I started a diet. Truth is I’m a pretty healthy eater. I love veggies, salads, fruit and fish. And I’ve always exercised, Most days I run four miles and two times a week I lift weights. But the combination of being in my mid forties, having a sedentary occupation, and coming from a less than svelte gene pool all added up to a couple of Michelin radials around my middle.

I decided to cut out all starches (except for fruit and yogurt in the morning to give me energy for my run) all sugars and… this was the hardest for me by far… all alcohol.

I LOVE red wine—how it smells and tastes—the way it looks in the glass like liquid rubies. I love the curve of the bottle, the wide-mouth goblets, the velvet feel of a Cab, the delicate bouquet of a Pinot and the slap-you-in-face, jammy taste of a Zin.

I thought I’d only last a day.

But here I am nearly THREE WEEKS later, and I’ve already dropped a size. (Not a real size mind you,. I went from a loose size eight to a tight size six. I’m five foot two and very fined-boned so a size eight is big for my body type.)

Do I miss the wine?

Every day when five o’clock rolls around the drum beats start up, growing more insistent with each passing minute; I swear I’m going to race to the liquor store, grab the first bottle I see (a screw top bottle; cork takes too long) and chugalug in the parking lot.

Instead I shush the drums and drink a diet Snapple instead. Eventually Dionysus’s siren song dies down.

I made a vow I’d go without the sauce for six weeks. When those six weeks are up, I’ll be less Chunky Monkey and more Skinny Minnie.

I’m hoping to lose ten pounds, and if I do…well, I will definitely drink to that.

P.S. One of my favorite reds is a Zin called Writer’s Block.

It’s about fifteen bucks and worth every nickel.

(Caution: Object in the box is much larger than it appears.)

11 tips for the debut novelist (Why 11? Because it goes to 11.)

"History has demonstrated that the most notable winners usually encountered heart-breaking obstacles before they triumphed. They won because they refused to become discouraged by their defeats."
-- B.C. Forbes

Where ever you are in your writing career, you have probably lived this quote. I’ve just been through my first 90-days as a published author and I can tell you this: I’m still living it. Maybe this first three months is like any new job. It’s a probationary period to see if you have the moxie to keep going. So I thought I’d tally a few things I’ve learned. Turns out, there are 11 key things I've learned that I do not want to forget.

1. Have courage. If you think you have enough courage from previously sending out query letters just to get published, think again.

2. Get bookmarks. This is your business card. ‘Nuff said.

3. Recognize that you are now a member of the great club called ‘published authors.” Many want to join. Few actually do. Remembering this along your debut journey will help support those days when your confidence wanes. (See #1)

4. Network on MySpace, the king of all social networks.

5. Be nice to EVERYONE especially bookstore managers. They are a tighter circle than you might think.

6. Ask your BFF to read your printed masterpiece for all the typos and errors you and your editors did not catch. Having your BFF do this job for you has three important purposes. One, you won’t have to go through the pain right now. Two, you’ll need that list should your masterpiece go to paperback later. Three, reviewing these errors in the harsh light of public humiliation will make you a human, seek-and-destroy missile of typos and errors.

7. Figure out how to flex your pitch to men and women. Men and women respond to different ideas. (Who knew?) And your book is no different. Take my debut, JANEOLOGY, for instance. Its initial incident involves a young, ill mother who snaps and drowns her toddler son. The question the novel asks is: What would cause a woman to kill her child? Following this question, the reader is instantly teamed with Jane’s grieving husband, Tom, as he finds himself on trial for failing to protect his children from his own wife. He and his lawyer look for answers in Jane’s family history so that they might use faulty genetic inheritance to raise reasonable doubt – a gamble for sure.

What I've discovered:

Women are turned off by the inciting incident. So then, the pitch becomes one emphasizing the family saga and exploring the cause and effect of nature and nurture.

Men are engaged by the legal ideas so then the pitch becomes one comparing this story to other legal thrillers with a unique emphasis on genetic inheritance.

8. Set guidelines about ‘TitleZ clicking’ else you become an addict of meaninglessness. I recommend twice daily visits. (If you don’t know what this refers to, you still have your sanity in check and I envy you.)

9. Learn to be a fearless asker. Ask for reviews from friends. Blog opportunities from strangers. Appearances at bookclubs. Just ask.

10. Have a sense of humor.

11. Heed the wisdom of my writing professor who once told me, “Many writers have talent, but few have the temperament to make a career of it.” (See 1-10)

For all you seasoned writers out there, what say you? What were your most important lessons learned as a debut author?


-

Karen Harrington is the author of JANEOLOGY (Kunati, April 2008) a novel BookList calls "Fascinating and compelling....as much a character study as a legal thriller."
Stop by my daily blog and say hello or visit www.karenharringtonbooks.com to read an excerpt and view the stunning book trailer for JANEOLOGY.