As a writer, I love words.  Words allow us to communicate our thoughts to others.  Words can make us laugh, cry, see red, get sick…you name it!  As time marches on, words can evolve and take on new meanings.  Sometimes whole new words spring up.  Neologisms are newly coined terms that have yet to enter the mainstream.

Recently, I found a few examples and, well, am still wiping my eyes.  Enjoy!

• Intaxication:  The quick spurt of joy you feel when you get your income tax refund only to wear off when you realize it was already your money.
• Reintarnation:  Dying then coming back to life as a hillbilly.
• Bozone:  A gaseous layer around the earth that keeps bright ideas from penetrating stupid people’s brains.
• Cashtration:  Having to fill up your pickup when gas is over $3.50 a gallon.
• Dope-ler Effect:  The reason stupid ideas seem smart when they come at you rapidly.
• Pokemon:  A proctologist from Jamaica, mon.
• Beelzebug:  That devilish mosquito in your bedroom when you’re trying to sleep.
• Tequilaquarium:  That place you go to drink like a fish.
• Fartsided:  What happens when you stand next to someone who ate refried beans for lunch.
• Abdicate:  Giving up on ever having six-pack abs.
• Arachnoleptic Fit:  That crazy dance you do after walking into a spider web.

*                                                                         *                                                                         *

Have you heard any neologisms you can add to the list?  Perhaps you’ve made up one and would like to share?

~Tiffany

www.tiffanygreen.net

I was having lunch with my significant other, Herbie, at our favorite old-time diner on Main Street of our little town today. We’re not exactly of the twenty-, thirty-, or even forty-something set. There’s a good reason I write about the 50′s. I don’t have to do much research, just open a diary or high school annual, and ‘remember when’. We were waiting for our lunch–old fashioned meatloaf, green beans, and mashed potatoes–and chuckling over the displays of Coca-Cola memorabilia that decorate the place. I pointed out a sign that advertised fountain Cokes at five cents and remembered the shock waves that went through my family when our favorite soft drink DOUBLED in price. My gosh, how could our family afford to pay ten cents for a six ounce bottle? Somehow that comment led us back along the old ‘Did You Ever” road. Remember playing out in the evening with about fourteen cousins, running under brush and behind fences for hide-and-seek? When no one worried if you were safe? You were okay and they knew it. Remember Saturday afternoons, having a quarter for the movie? A movie that included a cartoon, a newsreel, a thrill-packed serial, and a double feature–one of which would be a hard-riding Western starring Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, or Hopalong Cassidy. And if you had saved your allowance, you might have a spare quarter for a hamburger and a drink at the Hi-De-Ho afterward. I remember when Grandmother got a new refrigerator and I was given the box it came in. That box became Sky King’s airplane, Sargent Preston’s Yukon sled, an Indian canoe, and the Green Hornet’s speedy car Black Beauty. It was the greatest toy ever and cost my parents nothing.

Mentioning the Green Hornet of course led us to a quick review of all our favorite radio shows. We both listened avidly to The Shadow, Inner Sanctum (with the eery creaking door), Fibber McGee and Mollie, and The Great Gildersleeve. Sunday afternoon always meant a sack of apples and peanuts and a session with Bulldog Drummond, Gang Busters and the Lone Ranger. It took a moment to recall the radio actor who was the voice of Matt Dillon in Gunsmoke. I’d almost forgotten it wasn’t always James Arness who played that role. The original sheriff was William Conrad. I still think he was more impressive.

Life, at least in retrospect, was simple. You ate your vegetables, said ‘Yes, ma’am’ and ‘No, sir’, came home when you said you would, and remembered to do your homework before you went out to play. And no one had to tell you to go outside and play. Unless it was raining cats and kittens, or the snow was too thick to see the house across the street, or (in our case) the wind and sand would flatten you if you stepped off the porch, you were already outside. Your friends’ parents knew yours; your sisters, brothers, and cousins were your first friends; and heaven help you if you sassed the teacher. Mom would hear about it before you got home and there would be consequences.

So Herbie and I were thinking back, how blessed our young years were. How lucky to have extended family that lived within walking distance. To have had granddaddies who were our refuge, friend, and mentor. To have grandmothers who introduced us to the pleasure of tomatoes filched from the garden, the mysteries of homemade biscuits, and the wealth of stories handed down generation to generation. I know my grandchildren are blessed with great parents–after all I raised those parents, how could they be less than perfect? The kids have good health, sensible diets, cultural exposure, and diverse friends. They’re smart, beautiful, well mannered, and greatly loved. But did they ever play hide and seek in the moonlight or float down an imaginary river in an Indian canoe made of a refrigerator box and paddled by a discarded broom handle? No? Well, maybe it’s not too late.

Fleeta Cunningham

DON’T CALL ME DARLIN’

BLACK RAIN RISING

ELOPEMENT FOR ONE

HALF PAST MOURNING

CRY AGAINST THE WIND (available for Kindle, hard copy in June)

www.fleetacunningham.com

fgcunningham@yahoo.com

Happy March! Happy St. Patrick’s Day! And Happy Easter!

These three things make me very happy because their arrival also means that Spring is close. Very close. Yippee! Although Mother Nature can still deliver some nasty days of snow, cold, and wind in March here in the Midwest, inclement weather doesn’t usually last as long when it does hit. Another huge boon to March is we know that warmer temps are just around the corner. That fact alone can help us tolerate one more day of crappy weather. Yes! There is a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, Dorothy! All we have to do is hang on a bit longer and it will come!

The same holds true for me as a writer. After months of working on the same manuscript day after day, I really start to look forward to—no matter how much I love my characters—wrapping up the story and typing The End. The need for a sense of accomplishment, and the call to move on to something new, is strong. Very strong. The exciting prospect of new characters and a new story tempt me to betray my current WIP and hop the fence to get to the other side where the grass appears to be, oh, so much greener. The trick is to ignore that temptation and “gut it out,” as my critique partner Julie Miller so eloquently told me. To gut it out means I have to—no matter how hard and painful—see that manuscript to fruition. Not always an easy feat for me.

But the flip of the calendar to March also reminded me I need to pick up the pace on my writing schedule for the year. Three months into 2013 and I’m already behind. Darn. Not what I’d hoped for when I set those goals at the end of last December. And in just two months the kids will be out of school for the summer. Yowza! For once I’d like to be on schedule—even better get ahead of schedule for a change. But I’m not pushing it. For now I’ll settle with simply being on schedule.

But each day I work, puts me one day closer to my goals. Progress is progress. I’m not knocking it.

I thought you might enjoy seeing the progression of a Sherry James manuscript, in this case ELF TROUBLE, a novella in my Studs 4 Hire series. I’m a visual person, and I tend to find editing/revising on hard copy along with the computer much easier. This is my process, and not necessarily the approach of all writers, but it works for me. Admittedly, it can be a bit overwhelming to see this rainbow colored mess I’ve created and then have to figure out a way to make sense of it all. Thank the stars for sticky notes! I really should kiss the feet of the person who invented these mighty little buggers. I love these things. And these days you can get them in all shapes, sizes and colors. Woo-hoo!

The second version will see some color, but not as much. And as much as I love color, lack of it on my WIP is a good sign. It means the book isn’t as rough in the second draft as it was in the first. I’m well on my way to reaching the finish line.

By the third draft I hope to see no color. And if I don’t that means the book is ready for submission. Once I’ve sent the manuscript on, I get to start the next one and start the whole process over again, and hopefully, this time the process won’t seem so hard, won’t take as long as the last, and for once I’ll be on schedule!

See you back here in April when I hope I can report I’m well on my way to finishing yet another book for readers to enjoy.

Sherry James

www.sherryjames.com
Twitter: @sherryjames
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/sherry.james.315

Why is it, exactly, some books are merely okay, while others you cannot put down to save your life?  I’ve been pondering this question for a while.  Is it the story?  The characters?  What?  Why is To Kill a Mockingbird still one of the best stories ever told?  What sort of magic has Stephanie Meyer tapped into when she wrote her Twilight series?  Why can’t I stop chuckling every time I pick up my copy of Beyond Heaving Bosoms?  Okay, that last book is not a novel, but a rather hilarious glimpse into the world of romance writing.  Still, I am moved to tears with reading the blasted book.

One of my favorite things to do when reading a “keeper” book is to try and figure out why it worked so well.  Recently, I read Gaelen Foley’s My Wicked Marquess and knew within the first ten pages this book would stay with me to the grave.  So, the first thing a “keeper” book must have is a good opening.  Of course, having an interesting plot is a must as well.  Just one look at the following blurb and you know there’s no boring stuff going on inside Eclipse:

As Seattle is ravaged by a string of mysterious killings and a malicious vampire continues her quest for revenge, Bella once again finds herself surrounded by danger.  In the midst of it all, she is forced to choose between her love for Edward and her friendship with Jacob—knowing that her decision has the potential to ignite the ageless struggle between vampire and werewolf.  With her graduation quickly approaching, Bella has one more decision to make:  life or death.  But which is which?

I feel, and others may disagree, that the characters are the most important part of a story.  I have to care about them.  They pull me into the story and make me keep reading.  I must feel for them when they go through the harrowing journey of falling in love.  I must laugh when they say something funny; I must cry when their world comes crashing down around them; I must be moved to tears when they finally figure it out.  Something about the characters must stir my soul, where I have to keep turning the page to find out what happens to them.  Then, when the last page is read, I must be spitting mad that I can’t read more.  With a “keeper” book, I continue to think about the characters long after the book is put down.  I must wonder what they were like when their children had children and what happened as they grew old.  Do you ever wonder what Scout and Jem were like as adults?  I do.  For surely, those children lived and breathed and grew old, even if Harper Lee really did make them up.

Finally, I think a “keeper” book must beget more “keeper” books.  We romance writers must be so moved with what we’ve read, we wish to write our own “keepers.”  I am very interested in knowing what books you’ve read lately you would consider a “keeper” and why.

~~Tiffany~~

www.tiffanygreen.net

I am so excited to introduce to ABM a new author with a great debut novel. Lael Neill now lives in Central Texas but her roots are in the Northwest. Her book, STONE DREAMING WOMAN,  from Wild Rose Press, has already received high praise on the Amazon.com reader review. It is available as an ebook now and will be out in hard copy in March. I asked Lael to tell ABM readers about her book and how a Texas gal wound up writing about Mounties and medicine women of the early Twentieth Century. This is how our visit went.

FC:  Your story STONE DREAMING WOMAN is set in the period just before WWI in Canada. What inspired you to use that time and setting? Do you have a strong personal interest that suggested the story?

LN: The very first romance that ever caught hold of my imagination and my heart was MRS. MIKE, by Benedict and Nancy Mars Freedman.  I fell in love with the hero, so I wove a story of my own about a Royal Northwest Mounted Police officer and a woman whose background was about as far removed from his as I could imagine.

I grew up in Tacoma, Washington, only about an hour and a half from the British Columbia border.  I am very familiar with western Canada, and I originally imagined setting the story there.  However, the Mounted Police did not have jurisdiction over British Columbia until much later, so I was faced with a choice.  I either had to move the timeline up or I had to reset the story in a different area.  Moving the timeline would have reduced the impact of the basic theme of the story (gender bias), so changing the setting seemed the more logical course to take.

The period before WWI was a real watershed concerning the role of women in society.  They had fought for and won the right to vote, and were crusading for reproductive rights and gender equality.  The resistance at that time was much greater than during or after the war.  In Jenny’s case, the lack of physicians stateside and the demands of the Spanish Flu epidemic created a vacuum that would have sucked her into a medical practice somewhere out of people’s sheer need and desperation, hence the necessity of setting the story before the war heated up.

FC:  Your heroine Jennifer is a medical doctor in a time when few women, certainly not women with social stature, dared enter the medical profession. And your story shows a lot of medical knowledge. Do you have a medical background? Or did you build the character based on research? The details in your story are impressive.

LN: I do not have a medical background, but my education included detailed a five semester hour honors course in human anatomy.  It both fascinated me and provided enough basic grounding that I could expand my knowledge and understanding on my own.  I also have a trick memory for trivia.  If it’s something I’ll absolutely never have any possible use for, I’ll remember it.  For instance, the little bony bumps we sit on are called ischial tuberosities.

I did have to conduct a boatload of research for the story, though.  Most of it had to do with the state of medical practices and knowledge of the time and if, how, and when things like surgical gloves and stethoscopes changed over the years.  I also had to research firearms of the period and, of course, fashions, though I had some expert help in that regard.

FC:  What led you to set the story in Canada? Surely that made heavy demands on you as an author. The setting is a major feature of the book and contributes to the conflicts the characters face. You weave it seamlessly into prose. Did you know when you started the story that the place would influence the story so much?

LN: The story had to be set in Canada because you don’t find Mounties anywhere else.  And yes, I did know that the setting would influence the story.  Local color is one of the best ways to achieve realism.  Until I moved to Texas I was an outdoors girl, which included fishing, camping, hiking, scuba diving, target shooting, and skiing, so describing the woods, the mountains, the rivers, the salt water, and the seasons comes very naturally.

FC:  I’ve heard it said that one good story opens the door to many more. Will there be more stories with this location and time? Maybe centering on characters we meet in STONE DREAMING WOMAN?

LN: I ’m working on a sequel right now involving Jenny’s younger cousin Elizabeth.  Without giving away too much, the hero is Sergeant Paul Weller, the best friend and sidekick of Jenny’s love interest in STONE DREAMING WOMAN.  Elizabeth and Paul are coming through as a well defined characters in their own right and their story is clamoring to be told.  At this point the working title is SAND ISLAND DIARIES.

FC:  Your first book is a vintage romance. Do you write about other times and places? Can you give us a hint where we might find you next? What audience will you be writing for?

LN: I have a story all but finished, but since I did it as a point of view exercise, it needs a complete rewrite before it goes anywhere.  It takes place in and around New Orleans during the period between the Louisiana Purchase and the War of 1812, the sunset of the age of Caribbean piracy.  The heroine is the daughter of a British naval officer and an aristocratic lady from New Orleans.  Marianne has the temerity to fall in love with her father’s worst enemy, a privateer sailing under Letters of Marque from France.  The target audience for MAGNIFICENT PIRATE is, of course, the same audience who will enjoy STONE DREAMING WOMAN and SAND ISLAND DIARIES.

Even though I am exploring the world of romance writing now, I have always had an abiding love of fantasy.  A huge and very different “swords and sorcery” trilogy lurks in my computer, hopefully to find a publisher someday.  In it, two powerful and very different men on opposite sides of a rebellion forge an unlikely friendship to bring peace to their war-torn country.

FC:  What book/books first inspired you to tell stories?  What story elements did they have in common? All romances? Adventure? Strong and unconventional heroines? Do you remember the first story you created?

LN: The book that first inspired me to tell stories came my way when I was eight years old.  Those of us “of a certain age” remember the WEEKLY READER and JUNIOR SCHOLASTIC magazines we purchased through our schools.  I had never found it easy to go to sleep, so when I read one of the letters to the editor from a little girl who said when she could not sleep she told herself a fairy tale, I decided to try her tactic.  After going through CINDERELLA and SNOW WHITE ad nauseam, I thought, “Well, how boring is this?  Why don’t I tell myself MY OWN stories?”  Thus a writer was born.

I played with writing until I started high school, and when I had a little maturity under my belt the bug bit seriously.  Then at Central Washington University I had the rare privilege of studying creative writing under Dr. Harold L. Anschutz, a totally brilliant professor who loved his subject and loved his students.  He was also my faculty advisor, so after worshiping at his feet for four years, writing was so deeply ingrained in me I knew, like Lady MacBeth, I would never be able to wash it from my hands or out of my soul.

I became deeply involved in skiing and alpine racing then, so naturally my main characters were skiers.  The stories were both romances and adventures, with brave heroes and strong heroines who knew their own minds and were not afraid to go for broke.  Some of those characters from way back when have survived and cropped up in a Vietnam-era romance I have tentatively called GOING PRO.  It concerns a sheltered young man who retires from the Austrian Olympic team, comes to the United States to manage a ski school, and encounters American culture.  It is a very long and very complex story that may or may not see the light of day.  Writing is like that.

FC:  Will you give us a short scene from STONE DREAMING WOMAN? Something to whet our appetites.

They finished their food, and he helped her clear the table.  She discovered they made as good a team doing something as mundane as picking up dishes as they did saving a life.  She rinsed the bean pot and the bowls, then put all the dishes in the pot and covered them with water.  Then she dried her hands on the flour sack towel and anointed them with her favorite Honey Almond Cream.

“There.  That’s good enough.  We’ll do them with the breakfast dishes in the morning,” she said.  He had moved behind her to return the butter to the cooler, and when she turned she bumped into him.

“Sergeant!  Excuse me!”  A toucher, she laid her palms above the breast pockets of his tunic by way of apology.  Impulsively he covered her hands with his.

“Miss Weston, I can’t thank you enough for what you did today, for being kind enough to come to North Village with me, and for saving Jimmy’s life.  He’d have been in dire trouble without you, Miss Weston…”  He paused awkwardly, stumbling over her name.  “No, I… Doctor Weston?  I’m not certain how I should address you now.  After today, ‘Miss Weston’ sounds so frivolous…”

“ ‘Jenny’ will do quite nicely, Sergeant.”

His gaze leveled on her, and he gave her a deeply searching look that was all grey eyes and hugely long lashes.  “I have a first name too, you know,” he said softly.

“Touché.  Shane.”  She smiled and felt her cheeks flush.  “Then have a good night.”

“You too.”  Her hands lay trapped against his Red Serge.  She turned them beneath his and held them palm to palm for a moment.

“Until tomorrow, then…Shane,” she said awkwardly.

“I look forward to it.”  Then he reluctantly let her hands go, drawing a deep, nervous breath.

“Jenny?  May I call on you, then?  With Richard’s permission, of course.”

“It would be my honor entirely.”  His hands went slowly to the points of her shoulders, and he drew her to him.  She closed her eyes and tipped her head back.  All her senses were full of him, from his warmth to the masculine scent of soap, sunshine, and the wool of his Red Serge.  She let her hands travel to his muscular shoulders, and as he gathered her into his arms, her left hand slipped over the standing collar of his tunic to the slightly long hair at the nape of his neck.  It felt soft, satiny, and much finer than her own.  Then his lips met hers, gently and tenderly, the stimulating touch of warm velvet.  As she flowed up against him, the night turned to fireworks.

The kiss was exactly what she would have expected from Shane: undemanding, powerful, and thoroughly exciting.  Then he held her close and pressed his cheek against her hair and she let her arms encircle his back.  He was a big armful for her.  His lips traveled across her cheek and he nuzzled into her hair.

“Oh, Jenny,” he whispered, sending a shiver from her heels to the top of her head.  Then they kissed again.  This time his red-clad arms engulfed her and she was lost in the incredible power that was Shane Adair.  She went weak all over and plastered herself against his chest.  She wanted to blurt out that she loved him madly, but that was a frightening idea.  She laid her hand against his cheek and backed up a few inches.  His face held high color and he was breathing hard through flushed, slightly parted lips.

“Do I owe you an apology now?” he whispered.  Her arms tightened about him.  Then she raised her head just enough to look up into his eyes.

“No.  That was just as much my idea as yours.  Don’t apologize to me unless it was just a one-time impulse and you intend never to repeat yourself.

He proved to her that he was up to her one-line stingers.  “Chèrie, I’ll kiss you goodnight every night for the next eighty years if you’ll have it,” he said softly.

“In eighty years I’ll be a hundred and five!  Who in their right mind would want to kiss a hundred-and-five-year-old woman?”  The grey eyes tilted again.

“A totally smitten one-hundred-eight-year-old man,” he whispered, holding her hands against his chest.  She laughed softly.

“I swear, one of your ancestors had to have kissed the Blarney Stone!”

“Just wait eighty years and you’ll know that I’ve never meant anything more.”

“I’ll check again tomorrow, thank you.”

“Tomorrow, gladly.”  He raised her hands to his lips.

“Then good night, Shane.”

“Good night, Jenny.”  He leaned down and bestowed a chaste peck on her forehead.

“Sleep well.”

“I don’t think I’ll sleep at all, after this,” he sighed.

“I’ll see you in the morning.”  She backed away from him, letting her hands run softly through his.  Then she was gone, leaving behind an aura of Honey Almond Cream.

I had the fun of reading STONE DREAMING WOMAN while it was still in draft form and know first hand what a great tale it is. I’m really looking forward to the sequel and keep urging Lael to write fast so I can see how it all comes out. Thanks for sharing your time and your ideas with us, Lael. Come back soon and keep us informed about your projects.

Fleeta Cunningham

DON’T CALL ME DARLIN

BLACK RAIN RISING

ELOPEMENT FOR ONE’

HALF PAST MOURNING

CRY AGAINST THE WIND (forthcoming)

I am in labor with a new book. You know what that’s like. Seems as if the idea that was brilliant at midnight loses all its shine in the cold light of a winter morning. As I was struggling with the WIP, I was struck by the ‘bad elf’ gifts a romance writer might receive on Christmas Morning. So for all my fellow sufferers I give you. . . . .

The Twelve Days of Christmas

(for writers)

On the first day of Christmas my muse gave to me

A writer’s block as thick as Santa’s list.

On the second day of Christmas my muse gave to me

Two cardboard characters,

And

A writer’s block as thick as Santa’s list.

On the third day of Christmas my muse gave to me

Three diverging plot lines,

Two cardboard characters,

And

A writer’s block as thick as Santa’s list.

On the fourth day of Christmas my muse gave to me

Four shifting points of view,

Three diverging plot lines,

Two cardboard characters,

And

A writer’s block as thick as Santa’s list.

On the fifth day of Christmas my muse gave to me

FIVE COWBOY HEROES WEARING STETSONS AND SPEEDOS!

Four shifting points of view,

Three diverging plot lines,

Two cardboard characters,

And

A writer’s block as thick as Santa’s list.

On the sixth day of Christmas my muse gave to me

Six long lost heiresses,

FIVE COWBOY HEROES WEARING STETSONS AND SPEEDOS!

Four shifting points of view,

Three diverging plot lines,

Two cardboard characters,

And

A writer’s block as thick as Santa’s list.

On the seventh day of Christmas my muse gave to me

Seven secret babies,

Six long lost heiresses,

FIVE COWBOY HEROES WEARING STETSONS AND SPEEDOS!

Four shifting points of view,

Three diverging plot lines,

Two cardboard characters,

And

A writer’s block as thick as Santa’s list.

On the eighth day of Christmas my muse gave to me

Eight seafaring pirates,

Seven secret babies,

Six long lost heiresses,

FIVE COWBOY HEROES WEARING STETSONS AND SPEEDOS!

Four shifting points of view,

Three diverging plot lines,

Two cardboard characters,

And

A writer’s block as thick as Santa’s list.

On the ninth day of Christmas my muse gave to me

Nine kidnapped brides,

Eight seafaring pirates,

Seven secret babies,

Six long lost heiresses,

FIVE COWBOY HEROES WEARING STETSONS AND SPEEDOS!

Four shifting points of view,

Three diverging plot lines,

Two cardboard characters,

And

A writer’s block as thick as Santa’s list.

On the tenth day of Christmas my muse gave to me

Ten conniving courtesans,

Nine kidnapped brides,

Eight seafaring pirates,

Seven secret babies,

Six long lost heiresses,

FIVE COWBOY HEROES WEARING STETSONS AND SPEEDOS!

Four shifting points of view,

Three diverging plot lines,

Two cardboard characters,

And

A writer’s block as thick as Santa’s list.

On the eleventh day of Christmas my muse gave to me

Eleven evil uncles,

Ten conniving courtesans,

Nine kidnapped brides,

Eight seafaring pirates,

Seven secret babies,

Six long lost heiresses,

FIVE COWBOY HEROES WEARING STETSONS AND SPEEDOS!

Four shifting points of view,

Three diverging plot lines,

Two cardboard characters,

And

A writer’s block as thick as Santa’s list.

On the twelfth day of Christmas my muse gave to me

Twelve torturous re-writes,

Eleven evil uncles,

Ten conniving courtesans,

Nine kidnapped brides,

Eight seafaring pirates,

Seven secret babies,

Six long lost heiresses,

FIVE COWBOY HEROES WEARING STETSONS AND SPEEDOS!

Four shifting points of view,

Three diverging plot lines,

Two cardboard characters,

And

A writer’s block as thick as Santa’s list.

Fleeta Cunningham

fleetacunningham.com

Don’t Call Me Darlin’

Black Rain Rising

Elopement for One

Half Past Mourning

Cry Against the Wind (forthcoming)

Conversation on an Airplane

He: (headphones stowed now the movie’s done) What’s that you’re doing? All that typing red words into black. Don’t you have any games?

Me: (smiling). I’m working. No time for games. (Unspoken—or idle chatter with a fat man.)

He: What kind of work?

Me: (trying to be polite but not overly welcoming of conversation) I’m an editor. What do you do? (that usually works—but not today.)

He: Really? Like, how does that go down?

Me: Authors submit books to the publisher for possible acceptance and publication. I read some of them and make recommendations.

He: Like what?

Me: (giving in to the inevitable, craning neck for the vodka-cart, which some people erroneously call the coffee-cart, but as an editor, I get to make some rules. It’s a vodka-cart today) Whether to accept, reject, or request revisions on the manuscript.

He: (looking disgruntled on behalf of all would-be writers) It all comes down to you? I write a book, send it in, and you get to decide if it’s going to be published? (wrinkles nose as if smelling a nearby fart.)

Me: (resignedly shutting down and closing laptop—that vodka-cart is far away, but coming this direction, clinking and tinkling, tantalizing me) Not for every book written. Just those sent to the publisher I work with.

He: Seems like a big responsibility for a woman like, well, you. (I should maybe be home baking cookies for grandkids or simply dozing in my rocking chair?)

Me: I’m up for it. (that’s going to be a double vodka, easy on the rocks)

He: (suspicious as all-get-out) Okay, so I write a book and send it in. What would make you accept it?

Me: An interesting concept, well presented. Clear and concise writing showing the author’s attention to detail, an ability to show rather than tell, good writing-craft and a solid sense of genre.

He: Genre?

Me: Genre is the type of story. In a murder mystery, there must be a dead body, either before the story begins or within the first chapter or so and someone must care enough to pin-point the murder by the end of the book so the villain is suitably punished. In a thriller, I look for a strong plot with carefully crafted good guys, equally well defined bad guys, and a thrilling chase or two, a couple of gun-fights or fisticuffs leading up to a world-saving event at the end. For science fiction, a credible world I can see and believe in, where beings, be they human or alien or a mixture of races brought together by some kind of strife work their way to a satisfactory conclusion. It’s pretty much the same in fantasy, though there are lots of different kinds of fantasy, each one has its own rules and parameters that have to be followed. In a romance, I’ll want to see characters I can care about, a love story that shows me the conflicts and problems that block the lovers’ way yet can be solved or corrected to allow a happy ending

He: (dismissively) Oh. That girlie-stuff.

Me: What kind of books do you like to read? (Didn’t he hear a word between Murder Mystery and Happy Ending? That vodka-cart is taking an awfully long time).

He: (looking offended) I don’t read. No time for that. Too slow. I like action. What kinda books you got give me action?

Me: Thrillers, mysteries, science fiction, fantasy, even romance, all have lots of action in them. Most genres combine elements of all the others.

He: So, who died and made you God and lets you choose who gets a book and who doesn’t?

Me: (Do I have enough time for an unneeded potty-break before the vodka-cart comes?) I don’t see myself as having quite that much power.

He: I bet the people who send in their stuff see it that way. (Looking avidly hopeful.)You get a lot of hate mail?

Me: Not so far. I like my work and try to make choices that will be good for the company and the customers who buy the books we publish. I also try to help the writers whose work I have to reject by making suggestions on how they can improve their work.

He: You go to editor school, or somethin’?

Me: Well, I did go to school. But lots of people do that. I think to become an editor a person needs to have a good working knowledge of the English language—its basics, such as spelling, grammar and structure. I learned most of that before I was eight years old but hone it every day. I’ve read a great many books and know what works and what doesn’t. I’ve also taught novel-writing classes.

He: (almost inaudible snort) Oh. Yeah. Like, those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach.

Me: (Gee, I wonder where he heard that. It’s clear he didn’t read it) Not always true. Some people can both do and teach.

He: (challengingly) Oh, yeah?

Me: (slipping fingers into jeans pocket for the ever handy credit card as the vodka-cart draws slowly nearer) As a matter of fact, yes. I’ve had something like fifty books published.

He: (eyes widening) Should I know you?

Me: No, especially since you don’t read, and I write romance novels. You know, that girlie-stuff. (Help! The steward with the vodka-cart is flirting with the blond guy three rows forward)

He: That’s wild. I never met a writer before. And you do them love stories?

Me: Yes.

He: (raising eyebrows) “They got sex in ’em?”

Me: (cautiously) “Yes. Some. (Thank God, he’s here! He’s leaning over with the coffee, tea or (not) me question.)

Me: (babbling) Vodkarocksdoublepleaseeasyontherocks. (flips out credit card)

He: No, no. Here. Let me get that for the little lady. (his card is a different color from mine. Why in hell is he traveling coach?)

Me: That’s very kind, but…

He: (gently shoving my pathetic little card away.) It’s my pleasure. Wow, have I got some stories for you. Maybe we could work out a deal for them. I tell them, you write them, and we both get rich! I’ve had lots of sex. (eagerness gleams in his eyes, punctuated by dollar signs)

Me: (to the steward) Since the gentleman’s feeling generous, make mine a triple, please.

Among the questionable pleasures of family life are the moments when one must deal with the detritus of either aging or late relatives. My children and I have had first hand experience with far too many of those moments this year. Most recently, after moving my parents–who are in their nineties–into a retirement home, we found ourselves with stacks of fading photographs, most of which were unidentified.  As I looked over the faded images, I felt both exasperated and amused. Someone had gone to so much trouble to pose, photograph, and save those moments in family life when the brothers, sisters, cousins, grandparents were briefly all together. And they are precious. In the mix are glimpses into life long past and faces to go with names that are now only ‘remember when’ legends. That dashing cowboy roping a steer–that’s Uncle Francis who worked on the XIT. I never knew him, but I know this is his picture because I remember Granddaddy told me about him. Wish somebody had written a note on the picture that said where it was taken and when.

Set to one side is a studio portrait of a lovely young girl, all in white lace, with a wide brimmed hat and a cat in her lap. I’m just about the oldest of the family now, so there’s no one to tell me who she was and what the occasion was for the portrait. She has dark hair and beautiful eyes. She looks like someone I’d like to know, but no one left a clue to her identity.

Tucked together in an old envelope marked 1928 I find a collection of family pictures all made at the same time on the front porch of a farm house. I suspect even the tiny baby the young mother in the porch swing is holding may well have passed on by now. It’s been more than eighty years if the date on the envelope is correct. Who was this family? Three generations stopped their visiting and working and playing together long enough to let the camera record six different shots of the event. Wish I knew what family it was. Were they related to me? Are the parents of one of my grandparents  sitting in that long ago afternoon surrounded by children now grown old or gone altogether? Can I see a family resemblance to my children and grandchildren? I think so but it may be wishful thinking.

After hours of sorting and comparing the curling and brittle pictures, I take a stack to my mother who probably has a better memory than I do and maybe recalls the people in them. Some she can put names to, but many came to her from my grandmother. “Why,” I ask, “didn’t somebody identify these folks? Put names and dates on these pictures?” Mom smiles, in her perfectly sensible way and tells me, “We didn’t need to, then. We knew who they were.”

Hours later, recounting this story to a friend, I realize that I, too, have stacks of photos from my school years, from the early years of my marriage, from adventures and visits, that I’ve never identified, because I KNOW who those people are. But one day my children and grandchildren will be doing what I am now. They’ll be looking at fading snapshots and curling, brittle pictures and saying, “Well, I think that’s Uncle Mike; he was the career army man. And this could be Aunt Joy’; she was the one who lived in the funky house.” I’d like my precious memories to pass on to my offspring of however many generations may come. I think I’ll invest in some albums and spend some time putting names and dates on those pictures.  Who knows, I might find material for another book in some of those old prints. At least I can make sure the kids can put faces to the family legends and keep some of the history alive.

Fleeta Cunningham

DON’T CALL ME DARLIN’

BLACK RAIN RISING

ELOPEMENT FOR ONE

HALF PAST MOURNING

CRY AGAINST THE WIND (Forthcoming)

As we move into November, we begin to think about Thanksgiving. First thoughts are usually about the big meal or the huge number of expected guests or the long trip to visit family. But we also think about what we’re grateful for. This year, that theme is particularly poignant for me. In October, I lost my job so life has become far more challenging just to get through each day. But I find that I am grateful for many things.

• I’m grateful that I’ll begin receiving unemployment soon. This will allow me to keep a roof over my head and pay my most pressing bills for the next few months.
• I’m grateful that there is a social safety net available for people in the form of food stamps.
• Oddly, I’m grateful for the extra time that I now have to write. I’ve wanted to try to write full time and I’ve been forcibly given that opportunity, even as I look for a full time position.
• I’m grateful for the support of friends and family. They have offered suggestions. Emotional support and even in some cases, financial support. I’m very thankful for all the help I’ve received. It has been heartwarming.
• I’m grateful for my cats. If I’m feeling low, they come to cuddle up with me and I feel better.
• I’m grateful for the little things. The things that cost nothing. Like a bright sunny day. Laughter. Going for a walk.
• I’m grateful for my readers. They make me smile and give me a reason to move forward. They like me, they really like me. LOL
• I’m grateful for hope. For believing that things will get better. Even when I get depressed at times, something will happen which will leave me feeling like tomorrow will improve. That I can move forward and all this happened for a reason.

In spite of this setback in my world. Life is good. I’m moving forward with that because for now, it’s the best thing to hold on to.

It’s that time of year again.  Glowing Jack-O-Lanterns spicing the air, tiny pirates, princesses, and devils demanding “trick or treat” in off-tune squeals, dancing ghosts and flying witches decorating the neighborhood.  Even Hubby wants to know when “It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown” special will be aired.

Halloween is one of my favorite holidays.  Candy apples, popcorn balls, and candy corn.  (Is it just me, or does anyone else wonder why we can’t get candy corn all year long?)

I also love all the spooky stories and books.  My favorite is “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” by Washington Irving.

Here’s a great excerpt:

An opening in the trees now cheered him with the hopes that the church bridge was at hand. The wavering reflection of a silver star in the bosom of the brook told him that he was not mistaken. He saw the walls of the church dimly glaring under the trees beyond. He recollected the place where Brom Bones’s ghostly competitor had disappeared. “If I can but reach that bridge,” thought Ichabod, “I am safe.” Just then he heard the black steed panting and blowing close behind him; he even fancied that he felt his hot breath. Another convulsive kick in the ribs, and old Gunpowder sprang upon the bridge; he thundered over the resounding planks; he gained the opposite side; and now Ichabod cast a look behind to see if his pursuer should vanish, according to rule, in a flash of fire and brimstone. Just then he saw the goblin rising in his stirrups, and in the very act of hurling his head at him. Ichabod endeavored to dodge the horrible missile, but too late. It encountered his cranium with a tremendous crash—he was tumbled headlong into the dust, and Gunpowder, the black steed, and the goblin rider, passed by like a whirlwind. (Irving, The Harvard Classics, 1917, para. 68)

What about you?  Do you have a favorite “spooky” book you’d like to share?

**Remember to leave a comment for a chance to win a $25 gift certificate.**

~Tiffany

www.tiffanygreen.net

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Reference

The Harvard Classics Shelf of Fiction. (1917). The legend of sleepy hollow. Irving, Washington: Author. Retrieved from http://www.bartleby.com/310/2/2.html