Life goes on

Thanks to all for your kind thoughts in the aftermath of a very stressful week here in San Diego County. I saw stars last night and today, blue sky. Life is slowly returning to pre-fire normal. My son went back to his high school today after the fires had forced a week’s closure. When he got home he asked me to guess what he found in his locker. I didn’t have to think twice. I knew it wasn’t a love note or a forgotten ham sandwich. Ash covered the tops of all his books and papers. Lockers are housed outside in San Diego. All the lockers at his school were lined with ash on the inside. But he brushed it away and now it’s gone.

For so many others of course, the fire’s aftermath can’t just be brushed away. My family and I were some of the lucky ones. Nearly 350 students in my son’s school district alone were left homeless by the fire. Well, not exactly homeless. Houseless is a better word. The recovery and rebuilding process will be long and tedious for so many. I wish there was a way to speed up time so that the Big Inbetween could somehow seem short. I’ve heard that for many of the victims of the 2003 San Diego fires, it was 2005 before life seemed normal again. Kind of puts my light and momentary inconveniences in perspective.

I should mention, too, that in our haste to flee last Monday, I forgot to take a picture when we released Truman back into the wild. (Truman is the tarantula, as in “Hairy S.” Geddit?) I had promised the Edge that I would post a picture of his release. But the day we evauated was also the day we decided Truman needed to be able to run like the dickens into a rock pile if the flames reached the house. So the last thing we did before we left the house to whatever destiny awaited it, was let Truman go. It actually wasn’t that dramatic. I think he might’ve been a little sluggish from all the crickets he had eaten the day before. (Note to self: Do not put all four crickets in tarantula cage thinking he will eat just one a day. He will eat them all the same day. Little hairy piglet. ) When we drove down the driveway, Truman was just sitting on the piece of bark we used to coax him out of his temporary home, watching us go. I’m thinking he might not have wanted us to see which way he went.

And now that the local world is spinning on its axis at the normal speed, here’s a look at a new mass market release by my good friend and simply the nicest person you will ever meet, Deb Raney. Within This Circle is a sequel to her stunning A Vow to Cherish.

Within This Circle continues the story of John Brighton and Julia Sinclair. After a tumultuous courtship, John and Julia Brighton have a second chance at happiness, a fresh marriage and, now that their children are grown, a new era in their lives to revel in the promise of the future. Only such a promise is never guaranteed. And life can change in a heartbeat. The Brightons’ life is turned upside down when John’s daughter, Jana, abandons her husband Mark and three-year-old daughter. As Jana struggles through delayed grief over her mother’s death, her actions put her marriage and her own daughter in danger. John and Julia reach out to little Ellie, to give the young couple time to heal, but the little girl is confused and longing for her mother. How much sorrow and stress can both fledgling marriages endure? Two very different couples, each with only their love and faith to guide them.

Check it out. See you on Friday. And if you happen to see Truman, tell him I said hey and for pity’s sake, go easy on the crickets.

Things to take when you flee

Suppose you had just handful of minutes to gather what was really important to you, what you couldn’t imagine living without? Suppose you had to fit it all in your vehicle with your family, your dog and cat, and water and food and clothes and boring-but-important papers. What would you take?

I know what I would take. Photo albums.

Really. That’s about it.

On Sunday night when my family and I (sort of) went to bed, a wildfire was devouring brush in the foothills that line the horizon outside my kitchen window. High winds were already fueling the thing and we knew we would not sleep. We knew before we turned out the light that San Diego County would be in the line of fire for the next two days. No pun intended. Santa Ana winds, which had already reduced the relative humidity to single digits, would rip across the tinder-dry landscape over the next 48 hours feeding the fire like gasoline feeds a sports car.

By dawn Monday, the Witch Creek fire – one of several in San Diego County – had raced down the foothills and devoured hundreds of homes less than eight miles away from my house – many belonging to good friends. At 2 p.m our power was gone. At 4 p.m. we were evacuated. The fire had turned south and east. Towards us.

We packed the cars with the essentials for the unknown. Would we be able to stay with family in southern Rancho Bernardo or would they be evacuated as well? Would we end up at Qualcomm Stadium? After we packed what we had to take (clothes, water, food, bedding, towels, important papers), we packed what we wanted to take – in the tiny amount of space left to us. For me, it was the photo albums.

As I ran out to my car with my hand over my nose and mouth to keep out the choking smoke, this is what I carried. The box of photo albums.

The proof that I’d had a blessed life.

Funny, I didn’t grab the CPU for my computer. The back-up flash drive in my briefcase was enough. I didn’t bring the first copies of my published works, nor any of the hundreds of books I own. I didn’t even bring my address book or business cards or Rolodex. And that surprises me because I actually had room for those. I brought the Josh Groban Christmas CD I had just bought and hadn’t listened to, the library book I am reading for book club on Friday (I am not even sure we will still meet) and my photo albums. And that’s it.

I am back at home now. We were allowed to return today and our power has been restored. The worst for my family is over but I am very aware that for others, the odyssey is just beginning.

When you are forced to reduce your possessions to that which you would carry in a shopping cart if you were homeless, you find out some interesting things about yourself. You find out what defines you.

I guess when it’s all said and done, I want to be able to remind myself I have memories no fire can steal and here they are in this box. They are mine. They are me.

And I suppose if I didn’t have the photos, I would still have the memories, but I know how fragile we are. I know a tangible reminder of what has made life rich and meaningful -like a box of photographs – is sometimes what keeps us from slipping off the edge when it seems like we’ve lost everything. Know what I mean?

Factors for fears

I apologize to the Edge for being late.

But had I blogged yesterday instead of today, I wouldn’t have been able to include this picture of the arachnid my husband found on a fold on the pool cover this morning. The tarantula had no doubt spent a very long night trapped on an island of plastic. When the sun came up and his exposed body became easy food for hungry hawks, he probably wished, even begged, for someone to come along with a Kerr jar and offer him an avenue to safety.

He probably wasn’t counting on the lid.

In any case, when I strolled into the kitchen this morning, my husband poured me a cup of Caribou Coffee (the best-kept secret we brought out of the Midwest) and he told me he had a new friend. He proudly pointed to the velvet spider, whose ballet legs were stroking the smooth glass of the jelly jar sitting on the kitchen table. I looked closer and the thing rewarded me with a clear view of his fangs.

“The boys are going to love this,” I said to husband. The week before, husband had removed two drowned scorpions from the bottom of the pool, and put them in jars to show the boys (14, 17, and 20). We were all amazed and aghast when a day later, the scorpions (which had been at the BOTTOM of the pool for several days) came back to life and began curling their wicked little tails at us, showing a complete absence of gratitude for having resurrected them.

I didn’t mind sharing my breakfast table this morning with a spider-under-glass and I didn’t overly mind the earlier close proximity of ungrateful scorpions. We let the scorpions go after everyone had a chance to oogle their brilliant nastiness and we will let the tarantula go as soon as The Boyz scare their older sister with it. I mean, show it to their older sister.

These animals, which probably would scare a lot of people -especially other women – don’t really bother me. I don’t mind snakes too much either. Or mice. (I take offense at the stereotypical woman-screaming-on-the-chair while a mouse prances on the tiles below her). And before we recently moved back to California from Minnesota, I insisted any bat caught in our house would be set free outside. No bats would be pummeled to death with a tennis racket in my house.

I am not afraid of bugs or reptiles or spiders.

But suggest a ride on a giant Ferris wheel and I could easily jump on a chair and scream. Put me on any roller coaster outside of Disneyland and I would hyperventilate first and then throw-up. All before the thing took off.

Insist we take a ride up the St. Louis Arch or the Eiffel Tower and I will hug terra firma and yell that you can take me when you can pry my cold, dead fingers off whatever it is I have a death-grip on. I’ve been to the top of the Arch and I will never do it again. I’ve been to the second base of the Eiffel Tower and though I had a ticket to go to the top, I didn’t use it. Couldn’t use it.

This is what I fear. Not bugs, spiders or creepy crawlers. I am afraid of falling. Not heights, exactly. Falling. And there is a difference. I’m not as bad as Dr. Thorndike in “High Anxiety.” I can ride an elevator and fly in an airplane and climb most stairs. But give me a rosy boa instead of a ladder any day. Give me grumpy scorpions instead of a ticket on Wild Thing. Give me a hairy arachnid instead of vertical climb of just about any height.

I don’t know why I’m this way. Am I wired so? Did I have some traumatic childhood experience involving heights that I can’t remember? Are some of us naturally afraid of falling and some naturally afraid of bugs and rodents? Do you get to decide somehow what you will be afraid of? I may have to do a little poking around and get back to you on this.

In the meantime, I will take a photo of the Release of The Tarantula (thank goodness that will require no ladders) and post it here. Hopefully with new insights into what makes us afraid. Feel free to post your own suppositions.

Familiar beginnings

I am halfway through a full-read of Stephen King’s “On Writing.” Been wanting to read it in full for a long time; I had heard it’s an honest look at the way writers are born and how some of them grow up. I’d also heard it’s a bit irreverent at times. Both are true.

But King’s transparency is one of his strong suits. He knows what we all fear, down to the silliest thing. And he’s never been afraid to exploit that knowledge in ways few have matched.

He also knows what it’s like to be driven to write, to be restless until your ideas find paper and he especially knows what it’s like to wonder if you actually have any talent at all. He knows that little voice that says, “You’re just fooling yourself and no one else.”

It has surprised me, though it probably shouldn’t have, that King started out poor and unpublished just like the rest of us. He crumpled the beginning pages of what would be his first bestseller and tossed them into the trash. His wife was the one who pulled the pages out, smoothed the wrinkles and told him she thought he had something there. He needed affirmation, just like me.

I may not share much with the legendary horror writer, but it’s nice know there is this common thread, albeit a thin one:we both needed someone we loved and trusted to tell us we had something to offer no one else could in just that way.

Before I head out (until Friday) here’s a look-see at a new release my friend Lyn Cote is celebrating. If you’re a fan of historical fiction, you’ll want to check this out (I love the cover on this one!):

Lyn Cote’s first historical series, BLESSED ASSURANCE, is reissued, revised and revamped – all three in one book. Three generations of women struggle to find true love in these three historical dramas. In Whisper of Love, Civil War widow Jessie Wagstaff must fend for herself and her own son against the Great Chicago Fire. In Lost in His Love, San Francisco heriess Cecelia Jackson meets social activist Linc Wagstaff who opens her eyes to her role of the abuse of the helpless as they face the Great 1906 Earthquake. And in Echoes of Mercy, Meg Wagstaff, just back from volunteering in WWI, must now face the challenge of the racial barriers of the 1920’s New Orleans in order to prove her childhood friend did not commit murder.

Where’s the tension?

Okay, I confess. I am an Office fan. A devotee. I plan my Thursdays so that I am home by 9 p.m. and I have the previous seasons on DVD so I can watch the older episodes if I get a hankering. My family is addicted, too.

Sometimes the show makes me blush. Sometimes the humor is too crude to be truly funny, but most of the time I am glued to the storyline. The Office is the perfect laboratory for characterization observations. I’m serious. I could count watching The Office as a business expense if that were possible. That’s how deeply flawed, searching, endearing and engaging the characters are. And the best part is, it’s a comedy so we really don’t have to take any of it too seriously. But wait. But there are exceptions . . .

The Office actually has its moments of dramatic brilliance. Like season three’s episode where Michael visits Ryan’s business school and then later stops by Pam’s art show; he’s the only Office member to attend and affirm Pam as a person and artist. Remember that one? Yeah, Michael’s a narcissistic buffoon most of the time, but every now and then he becomes a hero and he doesn’t even know it. Like in this episode. I think I actually teared up the first time saw it. The producers had tapped into my deeply emotional side.

And so here’s the problem I have with season four. My emotional side has been following the “she likes him/he likes her” circus that has followed Jim and Pam since the first season. Season one was the set-up. Season two was the tension-soaked lead-up to The Big Kiss. Season three was the agonzing pull as they pretended each did not love the other and which ended with Jim finally asking Pam for a date. So here we are at season four. We have waited three seasons for this. And how are we devotees awarded for investing emotionally into Jim and Pam’s troubled affections? The tension rug is pulled out from underneath us. The emotional roller coaster comes to a skidding, whiplash-inducing halt. J & P are simply a couple now. They just are. No peeks into The Date we waited so long for, and no Kiss like the one that sealed season two. The brakes have been aggressively applied and the engine is idling now, barely puffing out any steam.

I still love the show but the writer in me – who longs to master the art of skillful charaterization and audience engagement – has learned a startling truth: Where you have sown troubling tension you must reward with satisfying, observable results. We have been able to observe nothing.

I’ve stopped caring about these characters and that’s bad, from a writer’s standpoint. You know what I mean? Anyone out there getting any of this? Or I am the only one?

Even here, there is fall

When I moved from Minnesota back to California earlier this year, I said farewell to cicada songs, pop, frog eye salad, sundogs, chiggers and Alberta clippers. I kissed blizzards goodbye (no love lost there) and tornados and boxelder beetles and fireflies. I also had to say farewell, or so I thought, to autumn; that spectacle of crisp, chaotic color that nearly hurts to look at and is so enchanting it makes up for the six months of winter that follow it.

I didn’t remember fall in southern California being much different than its spring. But I remembered wrong. There is an hors d’oeurve-like autumn here that is sneaky and subtle. Where in Minnesota there is tree after tree in blazing boulebard beauty, here there is just the occasional liquid amber, the scattered maple wth leaves that actually look auburn in the 80-degree sun. A Virginia creeper here and there. An ash and birch — dainty dicideous delights that you have to look for. But they are there. Yes, they are bit outnumbered by olive and manzanita, pepper and palm, but they are there if you look for them.

Like so many other lovely things in life that you could easily fail to notice if your aren’t eyes open, and you’ve no expectation of being wowed now and then. . .

And now before I head out until Friday, here is a new book, Shadows in the Mirror, by my friend Linda Hall. Perfect for a fallish afternoon when a book, a cup of something warm and slippered feet are all yours.

”Never go back to Burlington!” Those were the dying words of the secretive aunt who’d raised orphaned Marylee Simson. Yet to discover who she was, Marylee had to go back, sure the Lord would look out for her. But learning anything about her past was proving impossible. Why were there no records of the accident that claimed her parents’ lives? No records of her parents, period? And who was trying to stop her from finding out? Someone whose threats were escalating. Someone close to her, such as Evan Baxter, the handsome photographer she’d entrusted with the one clue she had.

Here’s what The Suspense Zone had to say about Linda’s newest: “In Shadows in the Mirror, Hall has done an excellent job or marrying her skills in character development and suspenseful plots with a strong romance element. Though, I am not an avid romance reader, Shadows in the Mirror provided me with a fast moving, yet intriguing mystery to keep me reading until the very last page and yet provided just the right amount of romance to satisfy the Romantic Suspense reader but not overpower the work for others.With Shadows in the Mirror you have cause to celebrate, as another strong Romantic Suspense author has been added to the must read list.”

Linda tells me that Shadows in the Mirror is the first in a three-book romantic suspense trilogy where shadows of the past must be accepted, acknowledged and forgiven before one can move on in life and love in the present. You can learn more about Linda right here.

Until Friday, Edgelings

Lessons from the virtuoso

I finally got through two weeks of old newspaper articles I’d wanted to read during a busy stretch of September. In the mix was a eulogy to Luciano Pavarotti, and as I read it, I couldn’t help think there was a lesson here for the writer. If motorcycle maintenance can teach the principles of Zen, then surely I can learn a thing or two from the eulogy of the legendary opera singer.

The writer, John Timpane, obviously a Pavarotti devotee, said there were three things about the singer that distinguished him from everyone else. First, he had the voice. He had that which came from the “province of the Creator.” You either have a divine instrument woven into your vocal chords or you don’t. I feel this way about writing. You can learn to write, you can learn to be a better writer, but the gift of weaving words together so that they are more than just squiggles on paper, well, that comes from a well you did not dig yourself. It was given to you. People who say to me, “I just don’t see how you can write a whole book!” have a different well within them. Writing, for me, is work, but it isn’t a chore. The well has already been dug. I just dip my bucket.

Two, Pavarotti had musicianship. He knew his talent. He was intimate with his craft. He knew his talent needed exercise, discipline, and rest. Timpane wrote this: “You must grow expert in the history of music; the rules, the legacies of thousands of other performers. It’s religion. It’s slavery.” Above that, Timpane said you must move beyond the didactic and somehow touch human emotion. It’s not enough to have taught yourself all that you can, all that is available to you to learn. You must be technician and artist.

Thirdly, the master had the ability to meld what he knew and what he could do into performance. Pavarotti knew how to entertain. He knew how to make the audience love him. He knew what would make them stand up and cheer.

Timpane wrote that few can master all three abilities: unequaled talent, mastery of the craft, and audience connection but Pavarotti nailed them all.

To tell you the truth, I don’t know enough about Pavarotti to know if this is true of him, but I do know that I was challenged as I read this eulogy to throw down a plumbline to see how I measure up to him as an artist. I don’t know that I have exquisite talent, but I certainly can do more to master whatever talent I do have. And as far as improving my audience connection, well, I simply must. Every writer must connect with his or her audience. There is little reason to write a thing if no one is going to read it.

Pavarotti’s voice, mastery and skill was a rare blend, Timpane wrote. But I’m sure that doesn’t mean there’s no point in imagining that I could do with my gifts and passions what Pavarotti did with his. Surely it is not a waste of time to consider that. . .

Have a restful weekend, Edge people.

Just around the corner

It’s only the first of October but my friend Christine Lynxwiler has a new book out that makes me want to warm up a cup of apple cider when I look at its cover. If you’re looking for a cozy read to get you in the mood for the holidays, well, here ya go. Check out Forever Christmas.

After two broken engagements, so-called runaway bride Kristianna Harrington is content to run her shop, Forever Christmas, in her little hometown of Jingle Bells, Arkansas, and forget about romance. She reluctantly agrees to be the maid of honor at her best friend’s wedding, but making it down the aisle becomes the least of her worries when a handsome newcomer threatens her precious town. Kristianna vows to stop the striking lawyer hired to change the town name and turns to her childhood friends for help. But Ami is busy with wedding plans, and Garrett seems more interested in bowling than politics. Will Kristianna get the help she needs before both her town and her Christmas spirit are extinguished?

Here’s what one early reviewer had to say about Forever Christmas:

“. . .a delightful romance with a few twists I didn’t see coming. A romantic tale, it’s perfect for Christmas gift-giving. It’s well written and the plot makes it a fun read. It held my interest from beginning to end. . .A great read with a warm and satisfying end.” ~ Reviewed by Ane Mulligan for Novel Reviews

Chris is an award-winning novelist who lives with her husband and daughters in a small town nestled in the north Arkansas Ozarks. Her other books include Promise Me Always and Arkansas. When writing Forever Christmas, Christine used her own love for both the hometown of her childhood and her current hometown as a pattern for Kristianna’s passion for Jingle Bells. However, regardless of local rumors, the quirky townspeople are strictly figments of her imagination.

When she’s not working on her next deadline, you might find Chris kayaking on the nearby river with her family, poking around auctions and estate sales with friends, or curled up alone in a quiet corner with a great book. You can learn more about Chris here.

On Friday, I will tell what an eulogy to Pavarotti taught me about writing . . .

Archive: October 30, 2007