Autumn is here. I can tell from the spider webs. Going out onto our back deck each morning is now an adventure because their silky nets have been spun overnight and hang from our sun umbrellas. Spider silk is mainly composed of a protein similar to that in insect silk, the kind that the Japanese have for years used to make silk cloth. It’s similar in tensile strength to nylon but is much more elastic, so it can stretch much further before breaking or losing shape. Which is why it stretches when it catches you. Definitely a biological wonder. I don’t mind running into the webs, but I do worry about is having the spider actually on me. I respect spiders, largely because they help reduce the insect population, but North Carolina is also home to both the brown recluse and the black widow, both of which deserve a wide berth. Our pool seems to be a spider attractant. I have never seen so many different species as I’ve seen while swimming this year, from tiny almost transparent ones to huge black and yellow garden spiders 2-3 inches across. No matter the size, shape or color, they all have the same eight legs. No, spiders are not insects. Insects have six legs and are on the spider menu. The webs are a marvel of engineering and design and I think everyone should take the time to admire the work and try to avoid running into them, if possible. In the last few days I’ve seen the egg balls in the center of the webs, the mother’s promise of a new generation. Autumn is definitely here. 0 0
I don’t know how many people reading this have written something, anything, that requires rewrites. I am personally on my fourth or fifth (and hopefully the last) of Sudden Death and am finding the work very hard going. Sort of like slogging through mud. My beta readers did a fantastic job finding errors, crumbs misplaced in the story line or even not developed sufficiently, and things left out. While this has led to the inevitable chapter by chapter fixin’, it has also led to backtracking and more rewriting. Slogging. I find myself wanting to write something, anything, for fun. To create, not recreate. Trying to stay on task is a constant effort. I’d love to know how other people handle this. What tricks do you use to keep yourself interested and excited about the rewrite? Solutions, anyone? 0 0
My left shoulder finally got to the point where the pain was occasionally unbearable, and my PA at the orthopedist’s office said it was time for an MRI (magnetic resonance image) to see what was going on. So at 9:00 sharp I showed up at the radiologist’s. It first had to be determined if any of the metal bits in my knee, abdomen and neck might somehow interfere with the MRI. I was thinking of their red hot heating and internal combustion, but they assured me this wouldn’t happen. I was asked if I was claustrophobic, which I’m not. Then I had to get rid of any clothing with more metal bits, and finally I was ready. The MRI machine looks like a lunar landing module with a white tube inside, and to start, I was asked to stand on a platform (the better to take off from, I guessed) and turn sideways. Then my left arm was placed in a padded tube and the wall I was leaning against rotated so that I was lying on my left side. I was handed a rubber bulb to squeeze if something went wrong (so something could go wrong?), then the bed I was lying on glided slowly into the white tube. The technician put a blanket on me because it was like Antarctica in there, and I was told not to move for the next 25-30 minutes. This may sound like a minor request, but have you ever been completely still for that length of time – not a wiggle, not a shift? It would have been easier if I had been comfortable, but my neck was bent at a contortionist’s angle and I felt like a pretzel. Things soon became painful and I had to figure out how not to move for 30 minutes and block out the discomfort and the noise. Yes, MRIs are noisy, emitting a variety of clicks, grinds, buzzes, and whirrs, which to the uninitiated might sound like a meat processing machine. I practiced slow breathing for a minute or so, which really calmed me, and then focused on a place where I’d been truly happy: sitting high on some rocks overlooking the ocean in Acadia National Park in Maine. Visualizing the panoramic view of the ocean, Otter cliff, the waves crashing on the shore, the distant islands, and sailboats gliding by kept me occupied for about 15 minutes. When I could no longer focus on the view, I decided to create dinner menus and had at least three when I was informed that I only needed to hold still for three more 3 minutes bursts. What to do now? I decided to concentrate on scenes and characters for the book I am writing, and that kept me pretty busy for two of the three minute sessions. By the third, I was sure my head would soon explode, so I just did a mental countdown: one thousand, two thousand… Finally the noise stopped, and bed slid out of the tube and I was returned to an upright position, sort of like an airplane seat. I realized I had had my eyes closed for the entire time and opening them took me from the life of the mind to the lights of the MRI room, so it was a minute or so before I could descend from my inner trip. My advice if you have to have an MRI: have a mental list of things to think about! And oh, yes, bring ear plugs, but not metal ones. 0 0
This past week was a hard one. We had to have one of our dogs put down, a lovely, smiley, gentle soul named Rock (although she was a girl). She came to us as a puppy, an adorable little German Shepherd mix, and she quickly became the boon companion of our older dog, Sampson. Sampson became a puppy again with her around and I think those were the best years of his life. About four years after Rock arrived on the scene, we acquired another dog, Angel, a Jack Russell – rat terrier mix who has bounced through life for the last eleven years. After Sampson died, Angel was Rock’s companion, often sitting with her rear end on her prostrate friend. They went everywhere together, whether it was to determine who was encroaching on our yard or on wild romps through the woods on their occasional escapes from our pool enclosure. Rock had not been eating for a while and was losing weight, and even though we suspected the diagnosis would not be good, it was heart-rending to learn she had cancer, a type from which she could not recover and which could cause her to stroke out at any time. We buried her in our back yard, where Sampson and the cats with which we have been blessed share her resting place. She was so much in our lives that we still think we see her here and there, and it has been hard to watch Angel looking for her everywhere. Here’s to all dogs and the people who say they are their owners, but who are really family. My one regret is that dogs have shorter lifetimes than we do, so when we have a dog, it is with the realization that sooner or later we will be losing a part of our hearts. 0 0
I’ve been largely missing out on time for serious writing lately. That worries me. The rule of thumb is to write every day. I wonder if critiquing the work of the other authors in my two writers’ groups and revising their stories to submit for publication really counts. I also know that I have to be ‘in the mood’ to write de novo, something that Elizabeth Hein in her blog, Scribbling in the Storage Room, calls a ‘luminal state’. For me, being in the mood means I have an inspiration and am so eager to get it down, that I can sit at the computer for several hours without even noticing the time. In any event, I’m reinvigorated and have completed the second chapter of my new book and am researching an idea for a piece about the Pilgrims, which I hope might be published around Thanksgiving. I grew up in Plymouth, MA, in the 50s and 60s, during what I think was a special time, after WWII and before the social changes and upheavals of the mid-60s and 70s roiled the country. Because my father was anxious for his children to fit in, I was enrolled in a course given each summer at the Harlow Old Fort House. The house was a small story and a half dwelling with graying shingles, gambrel roof, and a large central chimney, built in 1677 by William Harlow, a cooper or barrel maker. There I learned something of Pilgrim life. We, all young girls, learned to cook in the fireplace; make candles and soap; and to wash, card, spin, dye, and weave wool—all in that wonderful, old house. It enchanted me with its creaking floors, the smell of nearly three hundred years in its wood, and a sun-dappled, peaceful garden with rows of corn and vegetables growing at the rear. When I was in high school, I was asked to become a tour guide at Plimoth Plantation, which was opening the following year. In preparation for the Plantation’s visitors, I took Saturday classes to learn more about the Pilgrims. At that time British accents were not required. The garb I wore had not been thoroughly researched and wasn’t accurate, but I nevertheless felt a kinship with these doughty people who crossed the ocean in a small, leaky boat and risked their lives for freedom. I’m looking forward to writing this piece. To all of you who have posted comments, thanks for your support. I can be contacted more directly on my Facebook page! 0 0
I’d like to tell you about a book I just finished reading, called Escape from Camp 14. It is written by Blaine Harden, who is an author and journalist for PBS Frontline and contributes to The Economist. I read about the book in a Wall Street Journal report and had to give it a read. The book recounts the story of Shin In Geun (now Shin Dong-hyuk ), who is the only person to have been born in a North Korean prison camp and escaped. Shin is the child of a man and woman who were awarded a gift of having a night with each other, and he grew up chronically malnourished and unloved in a place of brutality, torture, paranoia and fear. When he was 13, he reported to camp authorities that his mother and brother were planning to escape. He was tortured just for knowing about it and then had to watch their executions. He felt no remorse. Surprisingly, Shin’s desire to escape from the camp was not based on a desire for freedom, but simply because he wanted food, in particular meat! How he managed to get out required an inordinate amount of luck and incredible perseverance, and is fascinating in the telling, but the real story is his struggle to adjust to the modern world, first in South Korea and later in California. This is a powerful memoir, written from interviews with Shin over the course of several years. I recommend it not because of its sensationalism, but because it reveals the truth about North Korea’s prison camps and also explains why South Korea, and indeed the world, has shown little interest in reunification, the human rights violations of North Korean, and the abolition of the camps. It is also a testament to the power of the human spirit in the face of unfathomable cruelty and deprivation. 0 0
Like Rhe, the main character in my book Sudden Death, I learned to sail at an early age, skimming around Plymouth Harbor in a Turnabout, now called a Class 10. She was small, maneuverable, and came about on a dime (hence its name). Since that time, I’ve crewed on a Columbia 50 on the Great Lakes and sailed a Shields (a 30 foot “mini-twelve meter”) off Newport Beach, CA, but I’ve always wanted to get back to sailing a one-two person boat. Kids and a career intervened, but finally this past winter I bought a used Tanzer 16 (she was a bargain) with a friend. Saturday, we took her out for a shake-down sail, and it was everything I’d hoped for. Wind and sails and the slap of waves on the hull and dancing over the lake. We still haven’t named her, but plan to take her out on the sound side of the Outer Banks next month. Maybe the name will come to us then. So here’s to all small boat sailors and the exhilaration of being one with wind and water! 0 0
Dear Readers: This is my first time I’ve blogged, and right off the bat, I need to thank the writers in my critique groups for helping me to become a better writer and learn the practice of the art. There’s still a way to go, but I think I’m getting better. Special thanks to Bob, Elizabeth, and Sandy, who slogged through every chapter of my book over the last eighteen months, offering great insight, reality checks, and practical advice. Bob and Elizabeth have their own blogs, and I recommend them: birdwords.wordpress.com and scribblinginthestorageroom.wordpress.com. I’ve attached the first two chapters of Sudden Death to get feedback from a wide variety of interested readers, along with a couple of short stories. Do not be put off by the title There’s a Penis in my Pocket. It isn’t pornography, but rather an incident that happened to me during the years I was teaching gross anatomy laboratories and sort of funny, at least from an anatomist’s point of view. I plan to write more as my search for an agent and a publisher progresses this spring and will have some books to recommend that I’ve read this year or am in the process of reading. 0 0
