Judge a Book by its Cover. Please.

The publisher I've signed with is willing to look at up to two possible designs for my book--a Lyme Disease Murder Mystery set throughout New England, from Cliff Island, Maine, to Berkshire County, Massachusetts, as well as in Southern Vermont, Concord, New Hampshire, Boston, and other points in Casco Bay, Maine.

Would you pick up any of these designs? Which cover most entices you? Please cast your vote via a comment here or on my Facebook post. Thank you!

Anchor Chain

Casco Bay Lines Ferry

Snowy Bucket

But how will we feed the children?
(My daughter.)

Thanks to Black Rose Writing for its belief in my story. And to Canva, where I was able to create these possible cover designs. Maybe even to Lyme Disease, which has hit me FOUR times and continues to challenge me now, but which has helped me to slow down and appreciate the quiet (and sometimes not so quiet) times with family and friends.

A Koan for a Spring-Like Day, 2018

As she hung the sheets on the line strung between the fence and the peach tree, a songbird landed on a branch above her, seemingly there to watch the middle-aged woman.

"Don't poop on my sheets!" the woman said.

"Tweet, trill, chirrup!" the bird sang.

"You're right. I can wash them again." And in that moment the woman knew she'd taken a giant step toward enlightenment. To celebrate, she threw the sheets to the ground, stomping and dancing on them as she sang at the top of her lungs a silly tune she'd learned as a child.

When she was at last exhausted and her sheets brown with dirt and green with grass stains, she looked up at the bird. It met her eyes, holding briefly on her gaze before flying off.

The woman gathered up the sheets and headed inside to wash them again. More enlightened or not, she knew the sheets were not going to wash themselves.

She was glad for the task.

# # #

Today's meditative writing eventually took the form of a koan. Or at least my attempt at one. I've been reading daily from The Hidden Lamp: Stories from Twenty-Five Centuries of Awakened Women, edited by Florence Caplow and Susan Moon (Wisdom Publications). I originally discovered the book and information about the authors via Natalie Goldberg's website listing of her 2018 Workshops. The three of them are hosting a weekend workshop I would dearly love to attend in September this year at the Upaya Institute and Zen Center in Sante Fe, New Mexico. While I probably won't be able to get away, I will continue to enjoy my daily dose of koans followed by the insights of modern-day women teachers. 

Living Landscape

Flocking, frolicking juncos scratching seeds in frosted gardens;
roiling, boiling, crackling, cooling lava blanketing the landscape.
 
 
 

A nod to Ezra Pound's poem

"In a Station of the Metro."

Batman Works for the CIA

Mother recently told me about a childhood friend,

A boy I’d played Caped Crusader with

Nearly everyday after kindergarten.

I was Robin to his Batman.

At his house we wore towels for capes, and

Were actually permitted to jump from

Sofa to coffee table to chair in pursuit of

The Joker or, my favorite, the Penguin.

At mine, our capes were mimed as a

Backyard plum tree provided the obstacle

To climb, dodge, and drop from as we narrowly

Escaped injury in time for PB&Js dunked in milk.

Our mothers kept in touch through the years

As we moved about the country,

She and her husband still in that cozy northern

Ohio home a block or two from our first house.

“Apparently he works for the CIA now,” Mother said.

Since learning this news, I’ve envied him. At first for

Becoming what I’d only ever dreamed of. But as I grow older,

I am jealous he can return home to a place he knows well.

My family continued to move, finally depositing me

In a New England college town like sediment left  

Behind by an iceberg on its travels; the rest 

Eventually migrated to Southern California.

In the year before he grew ill, Dad was accompanied

Everywhere he went by a new security guard. Mother

Would complain that the guard was eating with them

Again and sleeping in their guest room again.

The guard even traveled with Dad to his new

Destination of China and places around the region.

We wondered why Mother was no longer invited

To journey with him as she had so many times while

He visited the English plants that he managed from

This side of the pond, the German manufacturers with

Which he often did business, and his Italian relatives

With whom he was pleased to finally become acquainted.

None of us knew why he was suddenly sending us selfies 

From the Great Wall and Tiananmen Square, yet saying 

Little about his new Far East adventures other than they 

Were equipment-purchasing forays from retired mills.  

In an office desk drawer, which Mother thought

Was jammed as, upon his death she cleaned out

His personal effects, and which my brother

Successfully jimmied open, was a handgun.

“He was a decent shot,” said the guard who

Suddenly darkened the threshold, there

To retrieve the weapon. But we knew

Dad could not possibly have been. After all,

We’d seen him shoot his 22, balancing the butt of

The gun in his armpit as he used a hand to cover

His eye and the other to pull the trigger because

He couldn’t blink. How could he possibly sight a pistol?

Apparently he’d been trained to work around his

Odd handicap. He’d had to learn for his own

Protection. Not even an undercover CIA operative

Posing as the new head of security could protect

My father twenty-four-seven from the 

Hit that had been placed upon his head 

By a foreign government. Perhaps all his

Training had been for naught after all.

When he suddenly fell ill with stage-four 

Cancer—dying five months later—he often 

Said cryptically that it probably wasn’t 

Natural causes that got him in the end.

Dad had been spying for Congress. Foreign steel had

Flooded the marketplace, purchased illegally by unscrupulous

Businessmen who dared blame their shady dealings on legal

Loopholes that allowed them the luxury to shun domestic steel.

A contingent from a country south of north had allegedly taken a

Contract out on my father. Either they or natural causes—

Or perhaps all those chemicals he’d been exposed to over

The years—got him before he could deliver his expert testimony.

He’d spent many more than Malcolm Gladwell’s ten

Thousand hours earning his reputation for greatness

In the wire mills of the world, and could easily identify shifty

From legal, frugal from dangerous, and strong from fragile.

He also knew how to recognize working mills from

Reportedly retired ones, which may have been the

Final nail in his coffin—

Or cancerous tumor in his spine.

My father had worked undercover with the CIA

As a super-secret agent for our government,

Giving me yet another reason to admire him.

I wondered if he and my kindergarten Batman

Ever worked together, feeling a sudden pang of

Jealousy if they had. But as time continues on,

What I most envy is that my childhood friend is 

Still able to return home and visit with his father.

  

  

-->

Dad of Steel

This morning as I fill and flip an
omelet, spread probiotics over the
dogs' breakfasts, measure chicken for
my husband's lunch, I half watch a
public television travel show host tour
the country ruled by a government that
years ago took a hit out on my dad.

That is one place I'll never go, I think.
Until he ends with a celebration of
Buddha's birthday and a chance meeting
with the American ambassador and his
dog out for a stroll and breakfast supplied
by the myriad of street vendors.

My father's slight against that country's
leaders was recognizing a trade
imbalance; they were dumping illegal
steel into the American marketplace.
Hired by our government to spy,
trained and protected by an agent
of the CIA, my father instead
succumbed to an aggressive cancer.

Within a few months of its discovery,
he was gone. Once in conversation with
my mother he apparently hinted at the origin
of his illness--wondering if it was natural
or planted, while also recognizing it may
have simply been the multitude of chemicals
his professional life was built around.

In our current age of political madness with
a commander in chief who, during a debate
with the other party's candidate, bragged
about using illegal foreign steel to construct
some of his buildings, I now understand
how money drives maniacal power.

And I wonder if my father's death was
a convenient coincidence for the foreign
powers, or a plotted timeline that cut him
down before his scheduled expert
testimony before congress.

Soup

Soup has always
for me been a starter
to a meal,
not the meal itself.

Older now,
and a wee bit wiser,
I eat soup
as a complete meal.

This morning it is breakfast,
ham and artichoke hearts in
thinned Thanksgiving gravy,
the perfect starter to my day.

Keeping Up With

I'm not sure I can do this--
Write a novel.
And yet I know I can.

Pen to paper.
Fingers to keys.
Plod forward, trying to keep up with my characters.

Wait. What did he just say to her?
What would he say?
Who is that approaching?
And now a dog is in their lives?

The story fascinates the storyteller.
It better.
If not, it won't entertain anyone at all.

On writing a novel.

Daily meditation writing

after penning a portion

of Chapter Twelve

in my current novel,

Fermi's Redux. 

A brazen attempt at blazon poetry

Reading Natalie Goldberg's books serve as my daily writing prompts. A couple days ago I read about Blazon poetry in her book The True Secret of Writing: Connecting Life with Language and naturally attempted my own. Goldberg suggested penning a list, an ode to something or someone you love. It's a fun exercise no matter what you think of my own scrawling, a snippet of which I am sharing here. Give it a whirl; you may find yourself addicted to the process!

A Blazon to Summer

Days of insomnia.

Light pools an immense lake.

Morning explodes in chirps.

Days linger; a lover remaining close.

Flowers a frock.

Grass slippers.

Moss socks.

Snake play toy.

Sun bath.

Lawn mower cicadas.

Crickets evening symphony.

Herons statue heralds.

Bees gossiping neighbors.

Dogs synchronized to the sun,

We sleep no more.

Penning the six-word memoir

This year I've plunged into a practice of daily meditative writing. Or mostly daily. I embarked on this new journey one day as I was cleaning off my bookshelves, leaving my adjunct professor years behind while welcoming my new life as a writer. And occasionally teaching artist, especially now that I've been added to the New Hampshire State Council on the Arts roster.

While weeding through my vast collection of books, setting aside those I was certain I'd no longer need, I removed Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg. Later, sitting to read Pema Chodron and take some time to reflect and meditate, I noticed a book spine with the Shambhala Publications logo. Those who already know Goldberg's work and that of Chodron will know my instant excitement. I picked up the book, opened, and began reading. In that instant an entire new world of writing and meditating possibilities opened up to me.

I am onto a second book of Goldberg's now: The True Secret of Writing: Connecting Life with Language. In it yesterday I read about the six-word memoir.

Created at Canva.com.

Instantly intrigued, I grabbed my notebook, made grids, and wrote several. It's a fun word play that I used again today, penning: The bite of fresh ginger tea. It may not be revolutionary, but it was what I was thinking as I brewed green tea with fresh ginger for my husband this morning. I've not been a green tea aficionado, but have recently begun to develop a taste for it, so long as there is that sharp edge of fresh ginger root to spice up a warm cup or a glass of it cold.

As you can see from my graphic, I ended up expanding on the six-word concept until I had a handful of lines that together formed a memoir. It's a slice of who I am and who I'm becoming as I grow in my daily spiritual practice. I gladly share it with you, and invite you to try the six-word art form. I also recommend you consider launching your own daily meditative writing practice.

Turning a question into an opportunity to teach research skills to a teen

While working with my junior high mentee last winter, she asked about a local legend: the Ghost of Ocean Born Mary. "Who was Mary?" she wondered.

Our research on the internet, at the local library, and at the town's historical society turned up more than just information about the Widow Mary Wallace; we also learned about the huckster who moved to town in 1917 and proceeded to spin a number of yarns about the Ghost of Ocean Born Mary who allegedly haunted the home he shared with his mother.

As an internationally-recognized photographer, Louis Maurice Auguste "Gussie" Roy knew his way around the press. During the 1920s, 30s, and 40s, stories of the ghost who haunted his Henniker home were published across the country. At the height of his publicity campaign, as many as a hundred tourists could be seen queuing up to take the famous Ghost Tour.

Wanting to share the juicy details with others, we decided a stage play would be the best presentation. Thus was born "The Ghost & Gussie Roy." Coincidentally, we were also able to whip the play into shape by the 200th anniversary of Mary Wallace's death: Feb. 13. It will be featured as a staged reading on Wednesday, March 19, at 7 p.m. at the Congregational Church of Henniker.

What's next? We hope to see the play fully staged, of course. And we're considering co-writing a screenplay for a film about Gussie Roy and his Ghost, which would be filmed and released in time to celebrate Ocean Born Mary's 300th birthday in 2020.

Write a Short Screenplay in 2010
Lesson Three:
Tag!  Your Character is it.

What's a tag?  It's the description of the character the first time he appears in a screenplay.  It's the one time in screenwriting that the writer is permitted to write details that will only be read by the actors and director.  Though if you've crafted your story correctly, the viewing audience will pick up on the characteristics that you outline in your tag.

What makes a good tag?  It's the spot-on definition of character traits.  Spoiled. Arrogant. Pissed at the world. Always in a hurry. Too good for mankind.  Everyone's friend.  Mild-mannered.  A doormat.

And what of looks?  Only tell us physical details if they are pertinent to what makes the character who she is.  For example, you might write: BRENDA DILLON (13), the tallest girl in the school and painfully aware of that fact.  She's also the best Center in the state of Nebraska, but that's hardly just compensation for the pain of always being the wallflower at junior high dances.

You wouldn't want to describe Brenda as six foot tall.  Why not?  What if the best actor for the part was five foot seven?  You don't want to force your casting director to choose a runner-up simply because the actor fits the height requirement.  This way you allow your casting director and production team to work together to make sure the supporting actors are shorter.  Remember: filmmaking is a collaborative process.

The best way to get a good feel for how to write tags is to read them in screenplays.  If they gave an award for best tag ever written, I'd argue loudly that it be granted to Mark Andrus, screenwriter of AS GOOD AS IT GETS, for his description of Melvin Udell (played by Jack Nicholson).  Melvin is described as:

"...well past 50, unliked, unloved, and unsettling.  A huge pain in the ass to everyone's he's ever met."

Now that's a tag an actor can sink his teeth into.  See the movie if you haven't already; you'll witness how the screenwriter, director, and actor brought Melvin to life exactly as the character was tagged.

An optional exercise today: use the photos to describe what kind of character is behind them.  I'll post my own ideas in a day or two.

Cheers!

107 stories to be told...

...and my intro scriptwriting class began by telling twenty.

Today was day two of intro scriptwriting.  We each took a turn telling a tale from our past--all of which left us laughing WITH each other, not at.  Really.  While we learned a bit about each other, we also saw how the simplest idea can lead to a short screenplay, a short story, a play, a poem, an essay, a blog....

One script that we read began with a simple "What if?" twist.  What if my father had taken that job offer with the mob boss in Cleveland upon graduating college?  What would the responsibility of such a commitment do to an honest man?  (For those of you who don't know the laws of the Mafia--had my father taken the job with the mob, since he was not already a member of the family he would have had to kill someone to both prove his loyalty and so the mob would always have control over him.  He couldn't, but when I explore what conditions could make an otherwise honest man agree to such conditions--whala!  A story is born.)

We also read a short excerpt from my PLAYING HOUSE script, a story based on my husband who actually tried to save a woman and her toddler...who wasn't a toddler at all, but was a DOLL.  He was nearly run over by a car for his good deed.  While his story shocked and scared me, it also yielded a poem by me, which I later turned into a dialogueless short screenplay.

So what is your story?  Don't worry about whether or not it might make a great short script, with or without that "What if?" twist--simply entertain us.

Next week: the technical parts of a screenplay--a primer in how to draft the blueprint of a film.

Cheers!