Tomorrow I leave for Wichita KS to experience a celebration by and for the Kansas Center for the Book. I enjoy visiting Wichita and the friends I've made there. Friday and Saturday will be filled with taking in Kansas-related programs. Native American Dancers, Bluegrass musicians, poetry readings, and book signings are only a few events on the menu. The Black and White and Read All Over Ball is Friday night. I won't be doing the bugaloo in my formal attire this year. Maybe next year.
One of my favorite writers, Max Yoho, will receive the Kansas Notable Book Award along with 14 others. A couple more of my favorite Kansas writers -- Tom Parker and Nancy Mehl -- did not win this year. I'll start right away thinking good thoughts for next year's nominations.
The highlight of any trip to Wichita for me is an evening at the Mosley Street Melodrama. I eat dinner and laugh myself silly at the vaudeville-esque antics and sing along with the wonderful music. Joining me in the fun and frolic will be writer Todd Hunter and his wife Cheryl, and Nancy Mehl. I might even have a libation in way of celebration. Smith and Kerns is a favorite after dinner drink of mine. The Long Island ice tea is great, but packs a huge wallop!!
I apologize to readers who must scroll down to the bottom of the page to see my profile and blogroll. Don't know what happened there but a technowhiz I ain't, so unless blogger techs know how to fix it, guess it will stay in its state of misalignment.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Sunday, September 24, 2006
A fine day for a book reading......
We drove to Blue Rapids, Kansas in bright sunshine. The weather was near-perfect with a brisk breeze and temps in the low sixties. Whatever route you choose in that kind of weather provides pleasant natural vistas. Colorful scatterings of yellow and white daisies, goldenrod, and buttercups grow wild along the highways. Sleek cattle and horses graze on native grasses or drink belly-deep in farm ponds. Hardwood trees, just starting to turn fall colors, mark indelibly riparian causeways. Every so often a farmstead looms, nestled safely into vales between plateaus and rolling hills. As always, I imagine what this land must have been when native tribes were the sole human inhabitants. By the time we reached Blue Rapids, my mind and spirit were energized and ready for the afternoon event.
Shoppers browsed Mercantile treasures and a fascinating array of Kansas-made products as we breezed through the door. I joked that my "groupies" would be arriving soon. Owner Lori Parker set out tasty snickerdoodles, confetti cookies, and raspberry tea as treats. She also treated us to a sample of scrumptious Scuppernong Cider, made and bottled in Blue Rapids. This did not taste like any cider commonly known, but more like fruit juice of an indescribably delicious flavor. The legion of my faithful groupies arrived. With everyone sated by cookies, tea, and cider, the reading began. Tom Parker introduced me with a flourish and I was off and running.
Tom had insisted I lay out all my books, but My Name is Esther Clara was to be the main focus. I read a passage about the hapless rooster who got drunk on fermenting wine bubbling through the bunghole, followed by one that showed Grandma's strong opinions about politics and politicians, women's liberation, and setting priorities. I was center stage from one to two thirty and most of that time was spent answering questions or telling literary war stories. The audience was appreciative, but keep in mind that they were groupies -- friends, family, and loyal fans. I'm not certain what the response might be in an audience of strangers.
Before heading home I bought a bottle of Scuppernong cider. Can't wait to introduce my husband to it. Next time, I'm checking out the ear candles more closely and buying jelly. Maybe, if I'm lucky the Mercantile will have be back for another performance.
Shoppers browsed Mercantile treasures and a fascinating array of Kansas-made products as we breezed through the door. I joked that my "groupies" would be arriving soon. Owner Lori Parker set out tasty snickerdoodles, confetti cookies, and raspberry tea as treats. She also treated us to a sample of scrumptious Scuppernong Cider, made and bottled in Blue Rapids. This did not taste like any cider commonly known, but more like fruit juice of an indescribably delicious flavor. The legion of my faithful groupies arrived. With everyone sated by cookies, tea, and cider, the reading began. Tom Parker introduced me with a flourish and I was off and running.
Tom had insisted I lay out all my books, but My Name is Esther Clara was to be the main focus. I read a passage about the hapless rooster who got drunk on fermenting wine bubbling through the bunghole, followed by one that showed Grandma's strong opinions about politics and politicians, women's liberation, and setting priorities. I was center stage from one to two thirty and most of that time was spent answering questions or telling literary war stories. The audience was appreciative, but keep in mind that they were groupies -- friends, family, and loyal fans. I'm not certain what the response might be in an audience of strangers.
Before heading home I bought a bottle of Scuppernong cider. Can't wait to introduce my husband to it. Next time, I'm checking out the ear candles more closely and buying jelly. Maybe, if I'm lucky the Mercantile will have be back for another performance.
Saturday, September 09, 2006
Thoughts on a rainy day....
Now that our fall weather pattern has set in, temperatures have moderated here in the plains. I hunker down through summer every year, waiting for fall and winter. Soon there will be no more flies and mosquitoes, no gasping-hot days and smothering nights. Today, with cool breezes blowing through the windows surrounding my computer desk and the first frost just around the corner, I'm celebrating life.
A couple days ago I started reading 1491 by Charles C. Mann. He provides a compelling picture of North and South America before the arrival of Columbus, de Soto, and the subsequent influx of immigrants from other lands. I must admit the North American Indian tribes interest me more than those in South America. So far, the book provides more questions to pique my curiosity instead of answers.
I'm surprised paleontologists and archeologists don't know more about the North American Indians. Granted, they did not build huge pyramids and cities made of stone like their cousins in the southern hemisphere, or create objets d'art out of gold, but their accomplishments were amazing. Perhaps the lure of finding gold treasures buried with bones adds interest to digs in South America? And stone cities don't deteriorate like those of wood, thatch, and animal skins. Mann proposes that millions of indigenous natives populated the North American continent, living in well organized cities, before the advent of European diseases. I want to know how they lived and what they thought in the millennia before the first European arrived. I want to know why they actually welcomed people they viewed as weird, smelly and unwashed instead of killing them the second they touched ground in the new land. How and why did the Indians see those first explorers as fellow humans and treat them as such?
Where I live now was at one time a lush river valley and crossroad of an ancient indigenous highway. Long before fertile grasslands were broken by plows, Native tribes set their tipis in riparian forests along the river. Game was plentiful here -- bison, antelope, turkeys, pheasant, quail, fish and fresh water clams. I wonder what their lives were like before explorers and immigrants arrived, in the centuries when only tribes with tradegoods from the east and west walked these trails? Maybe I'll find answers yet in 1491. I'm only halfway through the book.
A couple days ago I started reading 1491 by Charles C. Mann. He provides a compelling picture of North and South America before the arrival of Columbus, de Soto, and the subsequent influx of immigrants from other lands. I must admit the North American Indian tribes interest me more than those in South America. So far, the book provides more questions to pique my curiosity instead of answers.
I'm surprised paleontologists and archeologists don't know more about the North American Indians. Granted, they did not build huge pyramids and cities made of stone like their cousins in the southern hemisphere, or create objets d'art out of gold, but their accomplishments were amazing. Perhaps the lure of finding gold treasures buried with bones adds interest to digs in South America? And stone cities don't deteriorate like those of wood, thatch, and animal skins. Mann proposes that millions of indigenous natives populated the North American continent, living in well organized cities, before the advent of European diseases. I want to know how they lived and what they thought in the millennia before the first European arrived. I want to know why they actually welcomed people they viewed as weird, smelly and unwashed instead of killing them the second they touched ground in the new land. How and why did the Indians see those first explorers as fellow humans and treat them as such?
Where I live now was at one time a lush river valley and crossroad of an ancient indigenous highway. Long before fertile grasslands were broken by plows, Native tribes set their tipis in riparian forests along the river. Game was plentiful here -- bison, antelope, turkeys, pheasant, quail, fish and fresh water clams. I wonder what their lives were like before explorers and immigrants arrived, in the centuries when only tribes with tradegoods from the east and west walked these trails? Maybe I'll find answers yet in 1491. I'm only halfway through the book.
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
The words of gods.....
A comment to my last blog prompted the title of this post. Now, I don't see physicians as gods. Perhaps a handful of doctors reign godlike over their domains, but most physicians I know understand their fallibilities only too well.
The commenter told his doctors that they BECOME gods to scared patients in pain. He stated, "The words of gods must be chosen carefully and be with the clarity of a god." Meaning, I think, that he wanted to be fully informed by the doctors who hold his life in their hands.
People with catastrophic diseases, those facing surgery or even simple diagnostic testing need information from the doctors and nurses responsible for their care. I wonder sometimes if medical professionals empathize with the shock, horror, and fright their patients experience when thrown into the confusing maelstrom of a modern health care system. Most people are not versed in human disease processes. All they know for sure is that they DO NOT WANT the disease, pain, heart numbing fear, surgery, and a body image different from the one they've had since birth. The only thing that helps frightened, suffering people in the slightest is compassionate teaching and explanations from the doctors and nurses they are forced by circumstance to trust.
Patients may be too shocked and scared to understand the words doctors and nurses speak, but they do sense an underlying kindness and compassion. They see the body language as a doctor speaks, hear the tone of voice, hold to any offering of hope and assurance. No communication is effective unless the patient understands. When a nurse or doctor says, "Do you have any questions?" the patient may not know enough yet to ASK a question. I'll use my sister as an example.
When doctors gave her the option of taking oral chemotherapy and radiation before surgery, each one said essentially the same thing: "I've seen tumors break up and shrink considerably with radiation." Granted, they did not PROMISE the tumor would shrink but that's what she heard -- the carrot on a stick, the hope of a tumor shrinking down to nothing. Nobody told her the radiation would burn soft tissues in the area of the tumor and she would suffer horribly with that. No, when she complained of horrible burning in her vaginal and anal area, she was told by technicians, "Hmm, you're the first one who ever complained of that." Really? The only one? If she had known healthy soft tissues would be "fried" by radiation, her decision might have been different because she ultimately found out that radiation did nothing to shrink the tumor.
Despite her long ordeal, my sister is a brave woman and presented a humorously courageous front to caregivers. But her words told anyone listening what her fears were. The outcome of radiation and surgery horrified her. She's only one of hundreds of thousands of patients shocked and horrified each year. In that respect, the commenter to my original post hit the proverbial nail on the head:
"The words of gods must be chosen carefully and be with the clarity of a god." Patient education is not effective unless it educates, informs, and lessens fears.
The commenter told his doctors that they BECOME gods to scared patients in pain. He stated, "The words of gods must be chosen carefully and be with the clarity of a god." Meaning, I think, that he wanted to be fully informed by the doctors who hold his life in their hands.
People with catastrophic diseases, those facing surgery or even simple diagnostic testing need information from the doctors and nurses responsible for their care. I wonder sometimes if medical professionals empathize with the shock, horror, and fright their patients experience when thrown into the confusing maelstrom of a modern health care system. Most people are not versed in human disease processes. All they know for sure is that they DO NOT WANT the disease, pain, heart numbing fear, surgery, and a body image different from the one they've had since birth. The only thing that helps frightened, suffering people in the slightest is compassionate teaching and explanations from the doctors and nurses they are forced by circumstance to trust.
Patients may be too shocked and scared to understand the words doctors and nurses speak, but they do sense an underlying kindness and compassion. They see the body language as a doctor speaks, hear the tone of voice, hold to any offering of hope and assurance. No communication is effective unless the patient understands. When a nurse or doctor says, "Do you have any questions?" the patient may not know enough yet to ASK a question. I'll use my sister as an example.
When doctors gave her the option of taking oral chemotherapy and radiation before surgery, each one said essentially the same thing: "I've seen tumors break up and shrink considerably with radiation." Granted, they did not PROMISE the tumor would shrink but that's what she heard -- the carrot on a stick, the hope of a tumor shrinking down to nothing. Nobody told her the radiation would burn soft tissues in the area of the tumor and she would suffer horribly with that. No, when she complained of horrible burning in her vaginal and anal area, she was told by technicians, "Hmm, you're the first one who ever complained of that." Really? The only one? If she had known healthy soft tissues would be "fried" by radiation, her decision might have been different because she ultimately found out that radiation did nothing to shrink the tumor.
Despite her long ordeal, my sister is a brave woman and presented a humorously courageous front to caregivers. But her words told anyone listening what her fears were. The outcome of radiation and surgery horrified her. She's only one of hundreds of thousands of patients shocked and horrified each year. In that respect, the commenter to my original post hit the proverbial nail on the head:
"The words of gods must be chosen carefully and be with the clarity of a god." Patient education is not effective unless it educates, informs, and lessens fears.
Friday, September 01, 2006
So many interesting writing projects, so little time...
September 1st is here at last. I can see and feel fall arriving in the prairies. I'm hoping for a spurt of creativity, or at least a steady trickle. A bit of added encouragement came yesterday when I checked two of my books on Amazon. Copies of My Name is Esther Clara and The Alley of Wishes had sold. It's impossible to know how many copies, but some at least, according to the much improved rankings.
The main book project I'm considering is a novel based on a relative's ancestors. Reading her genealogy information is a fascinating trip through time in the British Isles. Her ancestors have been traced back, so far, to the 12th century in England, with a handful of Irish and Scottish progenitors thrown in for good measure. Some day soon I'll dig out the genealogy search and begin in earnest. And once I begin, I'll be consumed. Writing My Name is Esther Clara inspired me to do more biographies. Real people, real places, can be more intriguing than fiction.
My co-author on the poetry book, Stephen Sulik, wants to begin a mystery suspense novel with me as editor. Sulik's previous book, The Tattered Coat, had action, mystery, and suspense with tinges of surreality mixed in. If he decides to write another book, I'll edit.
My sister Pam thinks I should write a book about her experiences with colon cancer --
The main book project I'm considering is a novel based on a relative's ancestors. Reading her genealogy information is a fascinating trip through time in the British Isles. Her ancestors have been traced back, so far, to the 12th century in England, with a handful of Irish and Scottish progenitors thrown in for good measure. Some day soon I'll dig out the genealogy search and begin in earnest. And once I begin, I'll be consumed. Writing My Name is Esther Clara inspired me to do more biographies. Real people, real places, can be more intriguing than fiction.
My co-author on the poetry book, Stephen Sulik, wants to begin a mystery suspense novel with me as editor. Sulik's previous book, The Tattered Coat, had action, mystery, and suspense with tinges of surreality mixed in. If he decides to write another book, I'll edit.
My sister Pam thinks I should write a book about her experiences with colon cancer --
- radiation, chemotherapy, and their side effects
- what to expect from the surgery and post op course
- the importance of faith and a positive attitude on patient outcomes
- the detrimental effect on patients when they don't have adequate teaching each step of the way
- and the impact of various physician specialists on their patients.
I haven't investigated yet to see how many other books have been written on the subject .
Several others have asked me to write memoirs of their parents/grandparents' lives. I use the "method acting" technique while writing. I become the characters, live in their milieu, and act them out in prose. Some characters are easier to "become" than others.
Stay tuned to see if this old lady writer has it in her to complete another book or books.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
How I Occupy my Retirement Time
I've heard some people are bored after retirement. Boredom has never been a problem for me, not during the days I trucked off to work each day and certainly not now.
My day begins by feeding the feral strays, dumpees, and tamed cats that eat at what I call our "smorgasbord" each morning on our patio. I'm the alpha female of this feline colony. Some love me, others fear my presence, but all quickly learn that no fighting is allowed within the confines of our yard. Two females are currently slated for spaying, if my husband and I can figure out how to get them into the pet taxi.
Housework. I often wonder now how working women manage to clean house. Half my time is taken up each day with shuffling and reshuffling the clutter that accumulates around my computer desk. Books, review notes, phone numbers and addresses jotted onto sticky notes, dates and times of trips or meetings -- all join the clutter I shuffle every day.
Reading blogs. I check certain blogs each morning. Most are on my blogroll, which is in serious need of updating. On Aston West's blog I learned that fellow writer Matt Dinniman was named Blogger of Note. Congrats Matt! I imagine one of my favorite heroic characters -- Aston -- is toasting you with Vladirian liquor as he zooms recklessly through deep space.
Over at K.K.'s Profound Thoughts, that long time friend shared her thoughts on turning 60 and not appreciating her mother in youth. Life is short and passes swiftly by. Our priorities change with age. Today I'm empathizing with K.K. because my mother died too young, also. Her loss more than twenty years ago changed my outlook on life.
At Tom Parker's Dispatches from Kansas, he took me on a lively journey to the edge of the world and beyond. My main whine about Parker's blog is that he doesn't have a new one posted to start each day. His writings are addicting.
Reading books and writing reviews of same: Some of the books I review are easy to read while others require extra time and concentration. I'm a volunteer reviewer, which means I don't get paid. :) People ask me why I devote so much time and energy to reviewing without compensation. The answer is complicated. One, I have always enjoyed reading and reviewing allows me that pleasure without having to buy books. Two, crafting a review is an exercise in writing. Each book and review is different so I try to capture the essence of the book and its author in my reviews. Three, reviewing introduces me to a wide array of gifted writers, their publishers and publicists. I've "discovered" many unknown gems in my tenure as a reviewer. Believe me, many talented writers never see the best seller list, which is a sad commentary on our times. I believe that the Kerouacs, Hemingways, Fitzgeralds, and Cathers of our time are mostly undiscovered.
So those are the highlights of this retiree's day. I'm never, ever bored because I don't have the time. Sometime soon I'll add "Starting on my fifth book" to the list and then for SURE my waking hours will be packed full.
My day begins by feeding the feral strays, dumpees, and tamed cats that eat at what I call our "smorgasbord" each morning on our patio. I'm the alpha female of this feline colony. Some love me, others fear my presence, but all quickly learn that no fighting is allowed within the confines of our yard. Two females are currently slated for spaying, if my husband and I can figure out how to get them into the pet taxi.
Housework. I often wonder now how working women manage to clean house. Half my time is taken up each day with shuffling and reshuffling the clutter that accumulates around my computer desk. Books, review notes, phone numbers and addresses jotted onto sticky notes, dates and times of trips or meetings -- all join the clutter I shuffle every day.
Reading blogs. I check certain blogs each morning. Most are on my blogroll, which is in serious need of updating. On Aston West's blog I learned that fellow writer Matt Dinniman was named Blogger of Note. Congrats Matt! I imagine one of my favorite heroic characters -- Aston -- is toasting you with Vladirian liquor as he zooms recklessly through deep space.
Over at K.K.'s Profound Thoughts, that long time friend shared her thoughts on turning 60 and not appreciating her mother in youth. Life is short and passes swiftly by. Our priorities change with age. Today I'm empathizing with K.K. because my mother died too young, also. Her loss more than twenty years ago changed my outlook on life.
At Tom Parker's Dispatches from Kansas, he took me on a lively journey to the edge of the world and beyond. My main whine about Parker's blog is that he doesn't have a new one posted to start each day. His writings are addicting.
Reading books and writing reviews of same: Some of the books I review are easy to read while others require extra time and concentration. I'm a volunteer reviewer, which means I don't get paid. :) People ask me why I devote so much time and energy to reviewing without compensation. The answer is complicated. One, I have always enjoyed reading and reviewing allows me that pleasure without having to buy books. Two, crafting a review is an exercise in writing. Each book and review is different so I try to capture the essence of the book and its author in my reviews. Three, reviewing introduces me to a wide array of gifted writers, their publishers and publicists. I've "discovered" many unknown gems in my tenure as a reviewer. Believe me, many talented writers never see the best seller list, which is a sad commentary on our times. I believe that the Kerouacs, Hemingways, Fitzgeralds, and Cathers of our time are mostly undiscovered.
So those are the highlights of this retiree's day. I'm never, ever bored because I don't have the time. Sometime soon I'll add "Starting on my fifth book" to the list and then for SURE my waking hours will be packed full.
Saturday, August 26, 2006
Book Readings and Signings
I used to hate book signings, and shied away from readings. It's not that I'm bashful. Actually, I've been a public speaker all my adult life and can ham it up with the best of them....off the top of my head and without notes. Crowds don't intimidate me. But when it comes to reading from my own books, I flounder a bit.
Selling myself as a writer is hard. I'm more charismatic in print than I am in person. I've even tried to schmooze an attractive friend into making personal appearances and pretending to be me. Darn it, she refused.
In September a book reading is scheduled at the Blue Rapids Mercantile. My sisters call it "the Merc" because they enjoy giving everyone, everything, and every place nicknames. The Mercantile is a very cool place, with the personality of an old time general store. You could wander for hours there, checking out all the antiques, collectibles, and gifts on display. Blue Rapids is a small northeast Kansas town on the Blue River, nestled into a broad valley and rolling hills. I'll be reading from My Name is Esther Clara.
Esther Clara -- my grandma -- loved Blue Rapids so it's fitting that I'll be reading from her book there. I need to choose several interesting passages to read. Everyone likes the chapter where she burns the outhouse down at age five. Me, I like the time she and her siblings dyed their father's prize winning geese green, the time they "helped" the rooster get drunk on Pa's home made wine, or when she nearly killed the hogs by scraping pepper she'd spilled into the slop bucket. Reading those passages, I could ham it up big!
Guess I'll think about it some more. Wish me luck with the reading.
Selling myself as a writer is hard. I'm more charismatic in print than I am in person. I've even tried to schmooze an attractive friend into making personal appearances and pretending to be me. Darn it, she refused.
In September a book reading is scheduled at the Blue Rapids Mercantile. My sisters call it "the Merc" because they enjoy giving everyone, everything, and every place nicknames. The Mercantile is a very cool place, with the personality of an old time general store. You could wander for hours there, checking out all the antiques, collectibles, and gifts on display. Blue Rapids is a small northeast Kansas town on the Blue River, nestled into a broad valley and rolling hills. I'll be reading from My Name is Esther Clara.
Esther Clara -- my grandma -- loved Blue Rapids so it's fitting that I'll be reading from her book there. I need to choose several interesting passages to read. Everyone likes the chapter where she burns the outhouse down at age five. Me, I like the time she and her siblings dyed their father's prize winning geese green, the time they "helped" the rooster get drunk on Pa's home made wine, or when she nearly killed the hogs by scraping pepper she'd spilled into the slop bucket. Reading those passages, I could ham it up big!
Guess I'll think about it some more. Wish me luck with the reading.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Moonflowers and templates
Over at KK's Profound thoughts, (she's on my blogroll) she wrote about the moonflowers growing along her back yard fence. Her blog reminded me of the moonflowers growing under our bedroom window in a previous home. The fragrance is beyond description -- lush, exotic, spicy, sweet -- and I swear the huge white blooms glow in the moonlight at night.
The blooms often come out on cloudy days too. Hummingbirds love them. I can't get them to grow where I live now, but I'd love to have a huge bed of moonflowers to scent the night air.
So far only two readers have commented on changing my current blogger template. In addition, I've received five emails on the subject from people who either did not know how or preferred not to post a comment. Sorry Cash, but the vote so far is against changing my template to gray or anything else. Maybe the readers who knew me as a nurse, and know me as a writer, think I'm more a peach orchard purple person than gray. I'll continue to take comments for awhile before considering a template change.
Now, go plant some moonflowers for inspiration and an unequaled perfume.
Friday, August 04, 2006
Bellowing Ark
Look: I build my bellowing ark to the best
of my love as the flood begins...
Dylan Thomas
I had heard of Bellowing Ark the journal, and had even reviewed a book released by Bellowing Ark the publisher, but knew very little otherwise until visiting their website. With one brief pass through the website, I understood their philosophy. The Dylan Thomas quote above explains their mission as I see it, from strictly my point of view: Life can be noisy, scary, and messy, so we offer hope and love wherever we can find it.
My adventure began when CarrieAnn Thunnell, a poet and journal editor from Washington State, suggested I visit the B.A. website and read "The Conversations: Unchain the Power of Women as a Mighty Force for Revolution." As an editor familiar with my poetry, she also thought I should submit samples of poetry for consideration, something I rarely ever do.
I don't have the time or energy for this! was my thought at the time, but I dutifully checked the B.A. website. B.A. Editor Robert Ward's "Conversations" were not at all what I expected. His commentaries and responses from subscribers hooked me, took me back to childhood to a time of hope in a flood of happy memories. His words inspired and intrigued me, so I sent off a response to his commentary along with several poems. I'm delighted to report that Mr. Ward printed my response AND my poems and even solicited more. When my complimentary issues arrived, I discovered poetry, prose, serialized novels, commentaries, and interviews featuring known and unknown writers, all in a roomy newspaper format WITHOUT advertising.
Robert Ward and I have communicated numerous times since my initial visit to the Bellowing Ark website. Some of my poetry is too dark for his journal's philsophy, lest you think he accepts everything I submit. But I understand his goals. This is an excellent journal, presenting hopeful thoughts and concepts to a world staggered by war, disease, greed, and depletion of natural resources. We have too many dark spectres shadowing our world and Robert Ward is determined that Bellowing Ark will not add to that darkness.
If you enjoy a variety of poetry and prose and need a dose of hope and courage, check out www.bellowingark.org. If you are a poet or writer, gird your loins and send Robert Ward a submission. Or if the "Conversations" spark an opinion, send him a response whether you agree or not.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Klyd Watkins' The Time Garden
I should be doing shameless self-promotion, hawking my books, but I'd rather talk about interesting people and websites today. Klyd Watkins and his website The Time Garden are favorites of mine.
An interesting and diverse group of writers, poets, and musicians pop into Klyd's garden from time to time. In fact, that's where I discovered some of my favorite contemporary poets. I never know whose work will be featured when I visit. Christina Pacosz, Sharon Doubiago, David Pointer, Charles Ries, Charles Potts, and Dan Powers can be found in a multitude of journals and websites, but I read them first at TTG.
Watkins is a humble gardenmeister who hovers proudly in the background as his guests enjoy the poetic flowers and sometimes lively discussions or commentaries. "The Great Duckweed Debate" is a personal favorite of mine, where Reed Richards and Klyd Watkins square off poetically. Yours truly has even been known to comment.
The Time Garden is unusual, the ambiance casual, much like the man who tends the garden. Watkins and his visitors prefer it that way. If you enjoy poetry or music, check it out at www.thetimegarden.com. Check the Poet Index, the Theme Patch, and the Fresh Produce Stand to get an idea of what Klyd's Garden is all about.
An interesting and diverse group of writers, poets, and musicians pop into Klyd's garden from time to time. In fact, that's where I discovered some of my favorite contemporary poets. I never know whose work will be featured when I visit. Christina Pacosz, Sharon Doubiago, David Pointer, Charles Ries, Charles Potts, and Dan Powers can be found in a multitude of journals and websites, but I read them first at TTG.
Watkins is a humble gardenmeister who hovers proudly in the background as his guests enjoy the poetic flowers and sometimes lively discussions or commentaries. "The Great Duckweed Debate" is a personal favorite of mine, where Reed Richards and Klyd Watkins square off poetically. Yours truly has even been known to comment.
The Time Garden is unusual, the ambiance casual, much like the man who tends the garden. Watkins and his visitors prefer it that way. If you enjoy poetry or music, check it out at www.thetimegarden.com. Check the Poet Index, the Theme Patch, and the Fresh Produce Stand to get an idea of what Klyd's Garden is all about.
Saturday, July 29, 2006
Comment from across the pond.....
No, not just any pond, THE pond. Today I received comment on Grandma's book from a reader in the UK. Since I call these folks my "Britbunny pals" they just might be a bit prejudiced in my favor. I call the male half of the Britbunnies "our gallant knight." He had this to say about the book:
The good times at the beginning were brilliant.
The chapter "Decoration day", very poignant It's a pity we do not have that special day over here.
Esther Clara was quite a woman.
Husband Herb was a very good and kind man.
As a pair, they set a good example to the rest of us, as we should be living our lives today!
The best book I've read in a long time!
You know how we writers are. We treasure such kind words about the work we've poured our life's blood into. So thank you dear gallant knight, for the review. I'll treasure it.
Monday, July 24, 2006
Dreams and Regrets
One of the chapters in My Name is Esther Clara is "Dreams and Regrets." In that chapter, my 90-year-old Grandma reminisces about the small dreams that came true and her regrets about the ones that didn't. The dreams she and Grandpa transformed to reality were small ones, but life-enriching in ways meaningful to them:
- they hoped to own their own home and finally fulfilled that dream after 29 years of marriage. Home ownership, in their eyes, measured their success as a couple;
- Grandma wanted a modern automatic washer and dryer so Grandpa saved his money and finally bought her the best they could afford;
- Grandpa had dreamed of seeing the ocean since he was a young lad feeding his imagination through books. One year during a trip to Pennsylvania, their son took them to the Atlantic shore so Grandpa got to roll his pants legs up and wade the waters he had dreamed of all his life.
The regrets Grandma contemplated were dreams left unpursued for one reason or another:
- after retirement, Grandpa wanted to take her to Hawaii as the honeymoon they never had. Grandma said no, because she feared leaving the continental U.S. and also thought they were too old;
- Grandpa loved caves and dreamed of visiting Carlsbad Caverns. By the time they could afford such a trip, Grandpa's vision had failed and Grandma's practical side prevailed.
Most people I know are just like Grandma and Grandpa, postponing their dreams until they have more money or time. Hopes, dreams, plans are put on hold until retirement, until the kids get through college or the house is paid off. There's no sin in being practical, but life is short and sometimes we face a hard row to hoe from cradle to grave. Our dreams are the flavoring that makes hard times palatable. Grandma saw that clearly near the end of her long life.
So what are your dreams, large or small? Like Grandpa, I've always wanted to experience the ocean. So what's stopping me? I've dreamed of owning a home that would be ideal for a writer's retreat? Why didn't I follow through? If my dreams don't come true, should I blame lack of time, money, planning, vision, courage? I wonder what Grandma's answer would be to that question.
Friday, July 21, 2006
Rain and Tom Parker
This is a good day. After a week of temperatures in the high 90s and low 100s that baked every living thing to toast, a cool front has arrived with soaking rains. So far this morning I've watched robins, blue jays, cardinals and meadowlarks splash and frolic in the yard, fluffing their feathers and singing joyfully as the dry earth cools and softens. Trees raise their branches to the rain, sighing a collective relief. Brown grass is greening as I write. The scent of rain-washed air drifts through my window on a stirring breeze. Yes, this is a very good day, indeed.
Today is a gift in more ways than one. While checking the blogs I regularly read, I discovered Tom Parker's "Dispatches from Kansas" had TWO new postings. Any new offering by Parker is Literary Nirvana and two is a bonus! So with the sound of gentle rain dripping outside my window, I read Parker's poignant tributes to two old friends: one a man who served his community with a cheerful energy all his life, the other an ancient cottonwood whose shade had sheltered humans and animals for untold centuries. (I couldn't help but imagine how many droughts, healing rains, blizzards, and tornadoes that old tree survived in its lifetime.)
Anyone reading my blog needs to hop on over and read Parker's "Dispatches from Kansas." A link to his site is on my blogroll. Discovering the people, places, and things of rural Kansas through his eyes is a treat akin to a ghastly summer drought relieved by rain.
Today is a gift in more ways than one. While checking the blogs I regularly read, I discovered Tom Parker's "Dispatches from Kansas" had TWO new postings. Any new offering by Parker is Literary Nirvana and two is a bonus! So with the sound of gentle rain dripping outside my window, I read Parker's poignant tributes to two old friends: one a man who served his community with a cheerful energy all his life, the other an ancient cottonwood whose shade had sheltered humans and animals for untold centuries. (I couldn't help but imagine how many droughts, healing rains, blizzards, and tornadoes that old tree survived in its lifetime.)
Anyone reading my blog needs to hop on over and read Parker's "Dispatches from Kansas." A link to his site is on my blogroll. Discovering the people, places, and things of rural Kansas through his eyes is a treat akin to a ghastly summer drought relieved by rain.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Nurses, Writers, and human nature
Back in the early 1960s when I was an impressionable young nursing student, one of our instructors made a dire prediction. Petite, feisty, and outspoken, fire blazed in her eyes as she stalked the aisles of our packed classrooom, tossing a stub of chalk from one hand to another. Her words are as fresh in my mind today as they were more than 40 years ago.
"Before you reach my age, you'll see the beginnings of a nursing shortage in this country. It's inevitable."
None of us believed her, and thought her classroom teaching had veered off in the wrong direction. She'd been a young nurse during W.W. 2 and then Korea. Nursing schools in my home state still reaped the benefits of those war years, with classes bursting at the seams and quotas exceeded to the point that prospective students had to be turned away. I watched her eyes spark, watched that bit of chalk traverse an arc from hand to hand.
"Those shortages are bound to happen because nurses have a bad habit of eating their young. In this class, you're gonna learn not to do that or I'll die trying."
Eat their young? What the hell does that mean? She read our collective thoughts that first day and laughed, with very little humor in the sound of it.
"Older nurses will try to figuratively eat YOU and I will just be DAMNED if that is gonna happen!" She saw the furtive looks that passed between us while we wondered if she might be crazy and paused a couple beats before continuing in a softer, sadder voice. "OK. Here's what I mean. You've worked the floor for several weeks now. How many welcomed you with open arms?"
None for most. Only a couple in my recollection.
"How many tried to orient you to meds and treatments in any meaningful way?"
Again, none or maybe one was the class concensus.
"How many slept and left you on your own at night? Complained about your ignorance behind your back and joked about 'baby sitting students' just loud enough for you to hear? Ridiculed your nursing documentation and lack of knowledge about charting?"
She watched the light dawn as our minds ran through the weeks of floor assignments. I could think of two helpful staff members. One was my aunt, a nurse, the other an intern who welcomed any set of hands available in holding death or disease at bay.
"That's what I mean by 'eating their young.' If they don't make positive contributions in helping mold students into accomplished nurses, if they tease and ridicule and gripe instead of teaching in positive ways, I call that 'eating their young.' That isn't gonna happen on my watch!"
That instructor taught us, one scenario at a time, how NOT to be discouraged when older nurses put us down. She taught us how to find the information we needed to enhance our classroom education, how to gain experience and strength from every patient in our care. And most important of all, she provided step-by-step guidelines to prevent her students from eating their young when they became Registered Nurses. The philosophy she shared was simple: Do for others what you hope others will do for you. Have patience. Be kind. Make suggestions. Teach by example. Nurture. Help others become the best they can be.
Her prediction came true. There HAS BEEN a nursing shortage in our country. I often wonder if the nursing shortages in this nation have a bit to do with that long-standing human tendency to gripe and complain about others instead of nurturning.
Forty years passed and I moved from nursing to writing. That nursing instructor's words seemed appropriate for writers, also. I thought writing might be different, that writers might not eat their young, but it isn't. A few writers DO nurture and support their colleagues in many ways, are kindly and encouraging. Others publicly shame and slam inexperienced or unknown writers, zeroing in on every typo and tense shift with gusto. You can read such slams on message boards, on amazon, and a multitude of places around the web.
Granted, maybe losing a few writers through discouragement, slamming, and shunning can't be compared to losing nurses. Nurses, when they are at their best, benefit humanity. They labor selflessly in obscurity, saving lives and easing pain. But what of art, the miracle of words? What if the work of Chaucer, Shakespeare, Wordsworth, the Brownings, Cather, Camus, Dostoevsky, Hemingway, Morrison, Wiesel had been shunned and ridiculed out of existence before it gave voice to their times? Would that be a loss to humanity?
"Before you reach my age, you'll see the beginnings of a nursing shortage in this country. It's inevitable."
None of us believed her, and thought her classroom teaching had veered off in the wrong direction. She'd been a young nurse during W.W. 2 and then Korea. Nursing schools in my home state still reaped the benefits of those war years, with classes bursting at the seams and quotas exceeded to the point that prospective students had to be turned away. I watched her eyes spark, watched that bit of chalk traverse an arc from hand to hand.
"Those shortages are bound to happen because nurses have a bad habit of eating their young. In this class, you're gonna learn not to do that or I'll die trying."
Eat their young? What the hell does that mean? She read our collective thoughts that first day and laughed, with very little humor in the sound of it.
"Older nurses will try to figuratively eat YOU and I will just be DAMNED if that is gonna happen!" She saw the furtive looks that passed between us while we wondered if she might be crazy and paused a couple beats before continuing in a softer, sadder voice. "OK. Here's what I mean. You've worked the floor for several weeks now. How many welcomed you with open arms?"
None for most. Only a couple in my recollection.
"How many tried to orient you to meds and treatments in any meaningful way?"
Again, none or maybe one was the class concensus.
"How many slept and left you on your own at night? Complained about your ignorance behind your back and joked about 'baby sitting students' just loud enough for you to hear? Ridiculed your nursing documentation and lack of knowledge about charting?"
She watched the light dawn as our minds ran through the weeks of floor assignments. I could think of two helpful staff members. One was my aunt, a nurse, the other an intern who welcomed any set of hands available in holding death or disease at bay.
"That's what I mean by 'eating their young.' If they don't make positive contributions in helping mold students into accomplished nurses, if they tease and ridicule and gripe instead of teaching in positive ways, I call that 'eating their young.' That isn't gonna happen on my watch!"
That instructor taught us, one scenario at a time, how NOT to be discouraged when older nurses put us down. She taught us how to find the information we needed to enhance our classroom education, how to gain experience and strength from every patient in our care. And most important of all, she provided step-by-step guidelines to prevent her students from eating their young when they became Registered Nurses. The philosophy she shared was simple: Do for others what you hope others will do for you. Have patience. Be kind. Make suggestions. Teach by example. Nurture. Help others become the best they can be.
Her prediction came true. There HAS BEEN a nursing shortage in our country. I often wonder if the nursing shortages in this nation have a bit to do with that long-standing human tendency to gripe and complain about others instead of nurturning.
Forty years passed and I moved from nursing to writing. That nursing instructor's words seemed appropriate for writers, also. I thought writing might be different, that writers might not eat their young, but it isn't. A few writers DO nurture and support their colleagues in many ways, are kindly and encouraging. Others publicly shame and slam inexperienced or unknown writers, zeroing in on every typo and tense shift with gusto. You can read such slams on message boards, on amazon, and a multitude of places around the web.
Granted, maybe losing a few writers through discouragement, slamming, and shunning can't be compared to losing nurses. Nurses, when they are at their best, benefit humanity. They labor selflessly in obscurity, saving lives and easing pain. But what of art, the miracle of words? What if the work of Chaucer, Shakespeare, Wordsworth, the Brownings, Cather, Camus, Dostoevsky, Hemingway, Morrison, Wiesel had been shunned and ridiculed out of existence before it gave voice to their times? Would that be a loss to humanity?
Monday, July 10, 2006
A birthday for Esther Clara's husband
July 11 is my maternal grandfather's birthday. Herb Ford was born in 1892 and died in 1981 and let no grass grow under his feet at any point in between. Shown here with his great-grandson Kevin, Grandpa's face reflects his mischievous and playful side. Grandma often said he had a streak of mischief in him a mile wide. He liked to gently tease and play with his grandchildren and great grandchildren, making up for lost opportunities and the years of hard work that occupied his time and energy when his own kids were small.
Grandpa was 50 years old when I was born, no longer young, but youthful. Until his death he was the dominant male figure in my life. His philosophy of life influenced my personality and behaviors from birth through young adulthood. His own life had been one of hard work and struggle. Such a life is all he'd ever known. But he enjoyed the small happinesses of life with a childlike optimism. He looked forward to Grandma's fried chicken on Sunday with as much anticipation as he did Christmas. Ice cream and cake on his birthday was a major event. His dreams and needs were simple ones, easily fulfilled and always accepted with twinkling eyes.
The day before Grandpa died, Grandma baked one of his favorite treats -- Bulgur wheat bread. He waited patiently, as usual, for the first loaf to come out of the oven so he could lather a thick warm chunk of fresh bread with butter. Late that afternoon before suppertime, he delivered a loaf of Bulgur bread to my door, all smiles, saying he'd already "tried it on for size and it was some of Grandma's best yet." The next day after breakfast, unexpectedly, he was gone.
Now I don't mean this post to be pitiful in any way. Grandpa got his wish for old age and its inevitable date with death. He still got around on his own two legs, still enjoyed his eats with gusto, and did not have to linger in a nursing home. He exited life happy and content, with a tummy full of Grandma's delicious Bulgur bread.
If he happens to be hanging around in the invisible realm, I just want to say, "Happy Birthday, Grandpa!"
Friday, July 07, 2006
A Moveable Feast
Readers who know I'm a writer may find this hard to believe, but I'm not all that familiar with the work of Hemingway. In my high school years, The Old Man and the Sea was required reading, but most of what I remember of the story comes from the movie of the same name. I've always been a voracious reader, since early childhood. Certain books and authors made a lasting impression on me: Mazo de la Roche; Gene Stratton Porter; Colleen McCullough; D.H. Lawrence. But Hemingway did not make my preferred reading list. Ditto Faulkner, Camus, Fitzgerald, Gertrude Stein, and Ezra Pound. That brings me back to the main topic, which is
A Moveable Feast by Hemingway.
I had preconceived notions of Hemingway's writings, based on nothing, really. Assumptions I guess. I'm not a fan of terse prose, of which I assumed Hemingway was master. His mystique was lost on me. Author Michael Corrigan strives mightily to expand my horizons as a reader so finally convinced me to read either A Moveable Feast or The Sun Also Rises. I chose the former because it entails Hemingway's memories of Paris in his early years with first wife Hadley, before the fame, before the subsequent wives. Paris in the 1920s appealed to me.
What I discovered was not terse, dry prose at all, but words carefully chosen and lovingly crafted. Through Hemingway's eyes, I found the true essence of Paris as it was in that time and will never be again. In his day, an expatriate in Paris could live on five dollars a day and still have the money to travel. At his side, I walked the streets he loved and saw them as he did -- the trees and parks, quais and bistros, shabby flats. And I participated in intimate conversations with 20th century literary icons, laughed at the oddities of personality, empathized with their doubts.
Critics have called A Moveable Feast an irreverent portrait of such literary icons as Stein, Fitzgerald, and Ford Madox Ford. I found these portraits to be anything but irreverent. In fact, Hemingway's depth of compassion for dysfunctional friends and peers amazed me. In most cases he empathized, sympathized, made allowances and gentle observations in his recollections. And always, he focused on improving his own writing without envying the successes of his peers. Only the very rich were roasted. He spared the rich nothing in his memories of traveling and enjoying life on a shoestring. Hemingway believed the very rich ruined pristine places for common travelers, and robbed people of their innocent pleasures through wickedness and excess.
So hmmmm. Hemingway was not the man or writer I expected him to be. I can see now why his persona was so appealing to a generation of readers and why so many writers wish to emulate his sparcity of prose. I can't decide which Hemingway book to read next, but am leaning towards For Whom the Bell Tolls.
A Moveable Feast by Hemingway.
I had preconceived notions of Hemingway's writings, based on nothing, really. Assumptions I guess. I'm not a fan of terse prose, of which I assumed Hemingway was master. His mystique was lost on me. Author Michael Corrigan strives mightily to expand my horizons as a reader so finally convinced me to read either A Moveable Feast or The Sun Also Rises. I chose the former because it entails Hemingway's memories of Paris in his early years with first wife Hadley, before the fame, before the subsequent wives. Paris in the 1920s appealed to me.
What I discovered was not terse, dry prose at all, but words carefully chosen and lovingly crafted. Through Hemingway's eyes, I found the true essence of Paris as it was in that time and will never be again. In his day, an expatriate in Paris could live on five dollars a day and still have the money to travel. At his side, I walked the streets he loved and saw them as he did -- the trees and parks, quais and bistros, shabby flats. And I participated in intimate conversations with 20th century literary icons, laughed at the oddities of personality, empathized with their doubts.
Critics have called A Moveable Feast an irreverent portrait of such literary icons as Stein, Fitzgerald, and Ford Madox Ford. I found these portraits to be anything but irreverent. In fact, Hemingway's depth of compassion for dysfunctional friends and peers amazed me. In most cases he empathized, sympathized, made allowances and gentle observations in his recollections. And always, he focused on improving his own writing without envying the successes of his peers. Only the very rich were roasted. He spared the rich nothing in his memories of traveling and enjoying life on a shoestring. Hemingway believed the very rich ruined pristine places for common travelers, and robbed people of their innocent pleasures through wickedness and excess.
So hmmmm. Hemingway was not the man or writer I expected him to be. I can see now why his persona was so appealing to a generation of readers and why so many writers wish to emulate his sparcity of prose. I can't decide which Hemingway book to read next, but am leaning towards For Whom the Bell Tolls.
Monday, July 03, 2006
Sometimes the old classics said it best.....
The World is too Much With Us; Late and Soon by William Wordsworth
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
My apologies to Mr. Wordsworth for not quoting his fine poem in its entirety. Those of you who are poetically inclined may find it strange, as I do, that the words of this poem are as appropriate today -- perhaps more so -- as they were 200 years ago. It's the small things that get me down until the world is too much with me, flaws in my everyday world. The flaws that throw my spirit out of tune are nothing in the grand scheme of things, but enlarge incrementally until they're all I can see.
For example, we live in a small town of roughly 4,000 people. A copper-domed court house dominates its central square with dignity. Raised sidewalks, a holdover from the horse and buggy days, set apart the downtown area from others of its size. Stately shade trees line brick streets laid in another century. All roads leading into town pass wheatfields, cornfields, rolling pastureland, or milo fields. Clumps of cottonwoods, elm, and oak line creeks and rivers. Charming.
Unfortunately, this town boasts a larger feral cat population than human. Cats live in the storm drains, in sheds and garages if they can find entry, in and under every sort of shelter imaginable, such as porches. They breed incessantly, and God help you if your porch or garage is their chosen shelter. Local authorities say there is nothing they can do.....unless said cats congregate on your property and the neighbors complain.
Our retirement years have not been the peaceful golden time we expected. In a desperate attempt to stem the cat population, we spend endless time and money worrying about, taming, spaying, and neutering feral cats. My husband, ever the old softie, insists that any cat visiting should be fed. He can't go along with the advice of locals who say, "Just let them starve." (Yes, he feels the same about humans. We'd be bankrupt if we lived in a city full of homeless starving people.)
My computer desk is in a window-lined room on the south side of our house. Every so often a car stops in our alley, easily visible from where I sit. Such stops are dumpings in progress. Half grown pregnant house pets, kittens, or ancient house cats in dire need of euthanizing are deposited by their loving masters in our alley. You don't want to know the punishment I wish on such people, but here's a hint: It has something to do with being hung by their boobs or balls and left to twist in the wind until half dead from starvation.
Most people love and nurture their pets, regardless of species, just as most people do their children. It's the tiny handfull of those who don't that throw my spirit out of tune.
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
My apologies to Mr. Wordsworth for not quoting his fine poem in its entirety. Those of you who are poetically inclined may find it strange, as I do, that the words of this poem are as appropriate today -- perhaps more so -- as they were 200 years ago. It's the small things that get me down until the world is too much with me, flaws in my everyday world. The flaws that throw my spirit out of tune are nothing in the grand scheme of things, but enlarge incrementally until they're all I can see.
For example, we live in a small town of roughly 4,000 people. A copper-domed court house dominates its central square with dignity. Raised sidewalks, a holdover from the horse and buggy days, set apart the downtown area from others of its size. Stately shade trees line brick streets laid in another century. All roads leading into town pass wheatfields, cornfields, rolling pastureland, or milo fields. Clumps of cottonwoods, elm, and oak line creeks and rivers. Charming.
Unfortunately, this town boasts a larger feral cat population than human. Cats live in the storm drains, in sheds and garages if they can find entry, in and under every sort of shelter imaginable, such as porches. They breed incessantly, and God help you if your porch or garage is their chosen shelter. Local authorities say there is nothing they can do.....unless said cats congregate on your property and the neighbors complain.
Our retirement years have not been the peaceful golden time we expected. In a desperate attempt to stem the cat population, we spend endless time and money worrying about, taming, spaying, and neutering feral cats. My husband, ever the old softie, insists that any cat visiting should be fed. He can't go along with the advice of locals who say, "Just let them starve." (Yes, he feels the same about humans. We'd be bankrupt if we lived in a city full of homeless starving people.)
My computer desk is in a window-lined room on the south side of our house. Every so often a car stops in our alley, easily visible from where I sit. Such stops are dumpings in progress. Half grown pregnant house pets, kittens, or ancient house cats in dire need of euthanizing are deposited by their loving masters in our alley. You don't want to know the punishment I wish on such people, but here's a hint: It has something to do with being hung by their boobs or balls and left to twist in the wind until half dead from starvation.
Most people love and nurture their pets, regardless of species, just as most people do their children. It's the tiny handfull of those who don't that throw my spirit out of tune.
Friday, June 30, 2006
Writing does have its rewards sometimes.....
Every writer enjoys praise for their work and I'm no exception. Whatever form a compliment may take, however unusual, I happily receive it. Since I dedicated a post to the reader who called my first book "the worst schlock she ever read," today I'll share a review that's as far to the other end of the spectrum as you can get. I'm betting this complimentary bouquet is rarely received by writers.
This particular reader started by saying all the usual things we writers love to hear. The book referred to is My Name is Esther Clara:
- could not put the book down;
- excellent;
- felt a part of Esther Clara's life and times;
- experiences in the book rang true.
And then this reader put a capper on it that was priceless. Have you ever had a colonoscopy prep? For two days before the main event you eat nothing but clear liquids while taking strong laxatives at prescribed intervals. As a result, long spaces of time are spent in the bathroom praying to survive the abdominal cramping and other icky ordeals. The reader said being engrossed in My Name is Esther Clara made that colonoscopy prep less stressful and easier to endure. Reading my book got the intrepid soul through a long, difficult prep.
Unusual as compliments go? Yes. But ever so gratifying. I'm happy to have been of service. Anyone scheduled for a colonoscopy might keep this satisfied customer in mind. As the reader said, with tongue firmly planted in cheek, "Nothing passes the time more pleasantly than a good read."
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
POD-DY Mouth -- a person of generosity and vision
In keeping with my blog's stated philosophy, the third prong of which is showcasing exceptional blogs and people, today I want to discuss POD-DY Mouth. Her blog can be found at http://girlondemand.blogspot.com and she's well worth the read, especially if you are an author familiar with print-on-demand publishing. (POD)
The designation of POD has been called the kiss of death by some and the best thing that ever happened to publishing by others. POD books can be self-published by the author, as those with iUniverse, AuthorHouse, Lulu, XLibris, and others. There are also numerous small press publishers who utilize print-on-demand publishing because it is more economical. Huge print runs and storage of said print runs is unnecessary with POD-published books. Books are literally "printed on demand." Whether one book is ordered, or ten, the order is printed and shipped when received.
Now back to POD-DY Mouth. The purpose of her blog is "Wading through the sea of print-on-demand titles, one overpriced paperback at a time...and giving you the buried treasure." Since she is a published author whose books are with PENGUIN, her goal of reading POD books and sharing the gems with readers is a generous undertaking. Instead of sitting on her laurels, feeling superior, she has the vision to realize that all POD-published books are not necessarily stinkers. Similarly, all authors with POD publishers are not untalented hacks and losers.
As a reviewer for several online and hard copy groups, I've waded nose-deep in the same sea of POD titles as POD-DY Mouth. If not for POD publishing, I would not have discovered Tom Sheehan -- a national literary treasure if there ever was one. I would not have experienced the joy of reading Kevin Watson. The shattering prose of Michael Corrigan would have been lost to me. None of these, or the glorious prose of Tom Parker, would have permanent homes in my book shelf today if POD publishing did not exist. For brevity's sake I won't go on, except to say that some of the best books I've ever read, books I treasure, are POD-published books.
I'm a POD-published writer myself. I chose that route deliberately because I'm no spring chicken anymore for one thing, and my patience with rejection has worn thin. As stated in a recent POD-DY Mouth posting, "Not everyone equates success with the best seller list." That's me in a nutshell. The POD company that published my two most popular books -- without a penny's cost to me -- says they are arrows of love shot out into the world. I'll never be famous, maybe, and major reviewers won't review POD books, but my arrows of love have reached many of their marks anyway.
Once you've waded through my ramblings, go read POD-DY Mouth. Her blog is exceptional many ways. I applaud her efforts and her honesty. And if she had not vowed to remain anonymous, I'd extol her books here too. Thanks so much, Girl On Demand, for your generous spirit and vision. Take a bow. Take several bows.
The designation of POD has been called the kiss of death by some and the best thing that ever happened to publishing by others. POD books can be self-published by the author, as those with iUniverse, AuthorHouse, Lulu, XLibris, and others. There are also numerous small press publishers who utilize print-on-demand publishing because it is more economical. Huge print runs and storage of said print runs is unnecessary with POD-published books. Books are literally "printed on demand." Whether one book is ordered, or ten, the order is printed and shipped when received.
Now back to POD-DY Mouth. The purpose of her blog is "Wading through the sea of print-on-demand titles, one overpriced paperback at a time...and giving you the buried treasure." Since she is a published author whose books are with PENGUIN, her goal of reading POD books and sharing the gems with readers is a generous undertaking. Instead of sitting on her laurels, feeling superior, she has the vision to realize that all POD-published books are not necessarily stinkers. Similarly, all authors with POD publishers are not untalented hacks and losers.
As a reviewer for several online and hard copy groups, I've waded nose-deep in the same sea of POD titles as POD-DY Mouth. If not for POD publishing, I would not have discovered Tom Sheehan -- a national literary treasure if there ever was one. I would not have experienced the joy of reading Kevin Watson. The shattering prose of Michael Corrigan would have been lost to me. None of these, or the glorious prose of Tom Parker, would have permanent homes in my book shelf today if POD publishing did not exist. For brevity's sake I won't go on, except to say that some of the best books I've ever read, books I treasure, are POD-published books.
I'm a POD-published writer myself. I chose that route deliberately because I'm no spring chicken anymore for one thing, and my patience with rejection has worn thin. As stated in a recent POD-DY Mouth posting, "Not everyone equates success with the best seller list." That's me in a nutshell. The POD company that published my two most popular books -- without a penny's cost to me -- says they are arrows of love shot out into the world. I'll never be famous, maybe, and major reviewers won't review POD books, but my arrows of love have reached many of their marks anyway.
Once you've waded through my ramblings, go read POD-DY Mouth. Her blog is exceptional many ways. I applaud her efforts and her honesty. And if she had not vowed to remain anonymous, I'd extol her books here too. Thanks so much, Girl On Demand, for your generous spirit and vision. Take a bow. Take several bows.
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
Sanow Family ties....
Until I reached my forties, family history meant very little to me. Maybe I was too focused on my job or other mundane things. Life gets in the way sometimes, and then before we know it we've lost an entire generation of people who were a large part of our lives. I tried to rectify that in later years by writing a book about my maternal grandmother and her family.
In the photo above left, Esther Clara Sofia Sanow is standing on the far right, next to her seated mother, Emelie Schultz Sanow. My Name is Esther Clara is the story of her life and times. Esther Clara is the little Cherokee County Iowa girl who burned the family outhouse down and nearly killed the hogs by putting pepper in their slop when she was five. Her adventures were many and varied throughout life and certainly did not stop when she met and married Herb Ford from Kansas. Whether burning outhouses, sick hogs, drunk roosters, mean goats, white witchcraft, blizzards, bedbugs or World Wars, Esther Clara took life head on.
Any Sanow descendents out there searching the web for information, I hope you find this blog and contact me. The Sanow children in the photos are as follows:
- Anna Augusta
- Amelia
- Louise Emma aka "Lizzie"
- Esther Clara
- Carl Albert
- Frank August
- Otto Carl
- Henry
- August
- Alfred
Emelie Schultz Sanow and August Ferdinand Sanow were their parents, who raised their ten children on a farm near Marcus, Iowa from 1878 until the last child left home.
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About Me
- Laurel Johnson
- I enjoy good writing by writers and poets who are not famous. My mother said I was born a hundred years too late. The older I get, the more I realize how right she was.