It’s the Little Things

I just have to tell you about my newest fascinating purchase — a Scunci Steamer! OMG! I had seen them on TV, but hadn’t bought one until today. You fill it with water, and it steams off any kind of dirt, grime, germs, grease – on practically any surface.

I got it home and went crazy cleaning. My microwave looks like new. My stove shines so bright I have to wear sunglasses when I cook. I’m relishing the thought of using it in every room in the house.

Usually I hate the thought of cleaning. It’s one of my least favorite things, as there are so many more interesting things to do in life. But this is the same as an experience with my daughter the other day. We were driving along, and I waxed enthusiastic – ”I love this new shade of lipgloss!” She looked at me like I was crazy, and I had to explain — “Hey! Sometimes, the stupidest little things can make you happy, if you just let yourself appreciate them!” 

A Parsley Poem

I have no idea what to post about today, and it’s gently raining outside – so I’ll just send along one of my favorite poems, by J. Patrick Kelly:

Gathering Parsley Before the Solstice

Yes, some dawns have been white

with ice, but the afternoons have been blue hot

and we are still harvesting small things

from our garden.

I put on my red coat, worn skiing, long ago

and torn then by the brutal snow.

Now the rain leaps from the clouds;

Down through the songless trees it glides.

The knife lies on the scored cutting

board. I take it out into the storm, to slice

parsley from the nearly barren garden.

Rain sings on my arms and feet. Dark shapes are

scattered across my shoes–the notes of a botched aria.

The lawn slides away under my feet.

In the garden, puddles are strewn with wreckage:

cracked pods, bits of branches, nests, leaves,

the rubble of autumn. There are smeared

footprints of foraging animals.

In the strawberry patch, oak leaves rot with the unsought fruit.

Tomatoes sink in the mud, mushy globes

of green and red, like eroded stars

dissolving near ruined worlds.

Over the parsley I lean and cut. So close

to winter, it sprouts green, shaking in the rain.

Water slices along the knife, warping reflections.

Two handfuls will suffice.

I gather them up and go inside,

where it’s dry. Somewhere, on high,

the rain begins to turn to ice.

Friends Forever

Robin challenged us to post about a person who meant a great deal to us, so here’s one of mine. My college roommate was a gorgeous girl named Diane Lohmeier. She literally made my freshman year at the University of Nebraska. 

     Since I still felt like the ugly duckling stage when I first came to college, I was in awe of her beauty and style. Tall and thin, she had copper-penny red hair in a sleek page-boy. She lined her brown eyes with dark eyeliner. She always wore skirts, matching sweaters, and penny loafers which she polished religiously every night. She turned heads, and I felt proud just to be seen with her.

     Besides being a beauty, she was a great person. She came from an Air Force family and had been everywhere. We had fun together, laughing over the agonizing sorority my mother made me join. She invited me home for weekends at her house in Bellevue. She took me to my first opera.

   Diane had a great sense of humor; she was also very deep. She kept a poetic diary, and went to pottery classes where she designed a white vase with raised white trees (she loved nature and trees). It was shaped like the one pictured here.

     Over Easter vacation of our freshman year, Diane was riding on the back of a boyfriend’s motorcycle. They were going very slowly, a block away from her house, when a cable broke, got trapped under the wheel, stopped the bike, and sent them both sprawling. He walked away, but Diane hit her head on the pavement and never regained consciousness. 

     I spent the week following the funeral, typing up her entire diary so I could keep a copy before I gave it to her parents. I have it still. 

     Over the years, I’ve often thought what Diane would be doing at this stage of our lives. Living to the hilt and having people love her, I’m sure. We would still be best friends. I try to live the good life that she never got to finish. 

Rocky Balboa

Saw this movie over the holidays, and I highly recommend it, especially if you liked the previous Rocky offerings. There were some Rocky movies there in the middle that I thought got a little tiresome, but this one is very good! It kind of puts the cap on the first movie, bringing back many of the old characters and memories.

     Baby boomers will particularly like this Rocky. He’s now 59, out of shape, his face wrinkled, etc. But, believe it or not, he goes back for one more fight.

     The theme of the first Rocky movie was “If I can go the distance, I’ll know I weren’t just a bum from the neighborhood.” The theme of this one is “Life is tough; but when you get knocked down, you just have to keep getting back up and moving forward.”  Inspiration for us all, starting off a brand new year.

Graduation!

Santa is bringing the best Christmas present this year! My daughter is graduating from the Myotherapy Institute. She spent the last year in school learning to become a massage therapist, and yesterday was her actual last day. It’s been a long expensive year, but I think she enjoyed it. Next come passing her Boards and getting a job. 

     Big sigh of relief. Thanks, Santa!

     I hope you all get just what you want for Christmas.

Sexual Tension Between Scenes

Here’s a hot tip for you romance writers out there! I’ve been reading Karen Wiesner’s book First Draft in 30 Days, and she has a good idea on building sexual tension between love scenes. It sounds like a good one, so I’m passing it on. Karen says:  

          “A trick to making sexual tension prominent between scenes is to focus on a certain aspect that intrigues the opposite character. For instance, in one of my novels, an erotic obsession began early in the book with the heroine watching the hero drink from a bottle of beer. This common act is palpably exciting to her. As soon as he leaves the room, she picks up that bottle and puts her own mouth on it. The hero comes back to find her drinking his beer. This increases the sexual tension between them until the fantasy becomes reality. In another book, the heroine loves the way the hero smells, so much so that the first time she enters his apartment, she ducks into his bathroom and snoops for his cologne. . . and ends up spilling it on herself, so the hero knows she was snooping when she comes out. This sensual awareness increased the tension considerably.”

          I like this idea! It certainly opens up a way to work with details in a meaningful way – building sexual tension on the page.

New Theme

Yes, you’re at the right place. I’m just trying a new theme from WordPress.com, the home of my blog. They have lots of themes to choose from, and you can switch by clicking on a single button. Blogroll and other info is still here, only at the bottom of the page. Cool, huh?

Santa to Myself

Not to sound like a Scrooge or anything, but Christmas shopping can be such a pain. Dh is impossible to buy for, since he doesn’t want anything (or so he says). My daughter, on the other hand, wants and could use everything! I hate the thought of trudging through stores, hoping to magically come across just the right presents that will delight everybody.

     But I have a cure for the Christmas shopping blues. I buy a present for myself, too, while I’m out. And I refuse to feel guilty about it!   *evil grin*

     There’s always the intriguing book. All the perfumes are out in lovely boxed sets, complete with bath gel, lotion, etc. A new Christmas sweater is always good — when I substitute teach, a picture of a reindeer on my chest keeps the students’ attention focused on me (somewhat). Egg nog and Christmas treats that should be verboten can be sneaked at this time also.  

     Do you shop for yourself at Christmas? I can’t believe I’m the only one. It sure makes the season more HoHoHo!

High Concept

Melissa Marsh blogged lately about the frustrating difference between books that are well-written — and those that make it big while not being well-written. She got me thinking, and here’s what I wrote to her:

I know, this issue can be frustrating. I remember reading Timeline by Michael Crichton and thinking the writing was the worst possible. I could hardly slog my way through it. Yet it got made into a movie, and Crichton is an enormously successful and wealthy writer. His books all have “high concept.” I really believe that every poorly-written book that “makes it” does so because there’s something special there, and it’s not necessarily the writing. Maybe there’s a great character or a “high concept” — something that excites readers. Sometimes it makes me think we strugglers worry too much about craft; but, to me, craft will always be tremendously important. Because when a writer latches onto something exciting, and then carries it off artistically, it’s the best of all possible worlds.

And that got me thinking further — what exactly is “high concept”? I’ve read lots about it, and it all boils down to something new, fresh, and exciting that can be stated in a short, strong sentence. Of course, the book lately that rocked off the charts with high concept was The DaVinci Code. It was an incredibly new and fresh idea. The thrills and codes kept readers turning pages. The deeper theme about women caught readers’ imaginations and satisfied somehow. The writing wasn’t great art, but I, for one, thoroughly enjoyed it.

Hey, are any of us struggling writers working to develop “high concept” ideas? Usually I plug along, grateful to come up with any story idea to work on. But maybe, just maybe, I should set my sights a bit higher? Try to come up with a high concept? How would I go about doing this? What do you think?

This Old House

I grew up in this house in Hooper, Nebraska. The town is what we used to call “the metroplex” – 860 people. Now we call it “Poopyville North.” Dh’s town is Chester, Nebraska — “Poopyville South.” The house is what is we used to call a “bungalow.” When I was growing up, it seemed so BIG!

Dh had to pass by Hooper on a business trip a few weeks ago. He knew I wanted to go and take a picture of my old house, but I had other commitments. When he got home, he had me download his photos, and there it was! I thought that was very sweet of him.

It’s odd — the house in the picture doesn’t seem as real as the house in my memories. I can’t say I was happy there, and I left as soon as I could get away to college, but the history is mine. That old house was filled with vivid color, people who were bona-fide characters, loud chatter, holidays, music, drunken fights, overwrought  emotions, food. Flashbacks of scenes, both heart-warming and horrendous, come and go in my mind like lightning, when I think of that old house.

 The house in this photo seems cold, colorless, lived in by strangers. Is that why they say “you can’t go home again”? I wouldn’t want to. Let the old house of my memories live on.