Good Eats

A friend asked me what my plans were for the weekend... BBQ, maybe? Nah.

I think I must be missing the BBQ gene. When I was a kid (back in the 50's) outdoor eats consisted of cold fried chicken and raw veggies. Or peanut butter sandwiches. Once in a while our family would find a dry wash in the desert, build a little fire and roast hotdogs and marshmallows on straightened wire coat hangers.

Grilling or cooking over a fire was reserved for rough camping--not the backyard. Civilized people ate in the house. If you were entertaining, the whole point was to impress your guests with your cooking skills and gracious table-settings.

Actually, I'm not all that enamored with hamburgers. Or hot dogs. If I'm going to eat a steak or fish, I prefer a nice sit-down in a restaurant. And I'm allergic to chicken...

Now I understand the attraction of a backyard BBQ if you're entertaining a lot of people. I was one of seventeen grandchildren on my dad's side of the family. When we all gathered, there was usually a crowd of about thirty. Of course, it was easier to move the party outdoors. It isn't my preference, though.

During my growing-up years, I had favorite dishes. My stepmother's potato salad. Ambrosia salad. Corn on the cob. Brisket. Home-made yeast rolls. Most of that is no longer on my list of acceptable foods.

Maybe...I'll have a nice piece of salmon and some green beans. Yeah...

Have a peaceful holiday of remembrance.

anny

Cow in My Sidecar

Some days life is...odd. Nothing unfolds according to plan. Weirdness litters our paths. You know--we have a cow in our sidecar.

Such days are NOT catastrophic or disastrous. We've all had those types of days, weeks, even years. No, cow in the sidecar days require something different from us. They require humor and adaptability. They are exactly the days that we have to laugh lest we cry.

I've had many days like this. The Thanksgiving the turkey exploded all over my new kitchen. The morning my young sons decided to build a campfire in their bedroom (after carefully protecting the carpet with a layer of newspapers). The afternoon my toddler daughter decorated her crib and wall with the contents of her diaper after waking very quietly from her nap. The afternoon my granddaughter poured furniture stain on my couch. And the list is endless.

A few people have more cow-in-sidecar days than not. I do. Perhaps my attitude toward life is due to my vast experience with such days. There have been days when I crammed two or three cows in the sidecar and barreled on down the road of life. What else is there to do?

During the last few years I have observed a certain class of people who do NOT deal well with the minor difficulties in life. I suspect these folks don't recognize the terrible monster in their sidecar is really just a cow. They moan and whine and scream about the terror riding with them when in reality the terror is merely a little lagniappe tossed in their life to liven things up. I feel sad for such folks because they never build coping skills to deal with the real demons in life.

How about you? Do you have many cows in your sidecar?

anny

Hooks

Some folks labor under the mistaken impression that series are easy to write. After all, you have the characters--more or less--already roughed out. Characters are not enough. The main difficulty as always is the necessity for a plot.

I have two or three series in the hopper. Since I refuse to tell the same story over...and over...and over...most of them are simmering somewhere on a back burner. At the moment, I'm working on two very different stories, both in the middle of their series.

Part of series work (for me) is re-reading the earlier stories so I don't forget obscure little plot points and details. No one can remember every single detail and you really cannot note everything in your series bible. Yesterday I found myself spending a LOT of time looking up stuff in the earlier books.

One of the things I noted about the other stories was the various hooks. The hook is the bit of the story that grabs the reader (hopefully). And there was the problem. I have no hook.

The thing is...it's hard to have a hook with no plot. The plot is that one or two sentence description of the story. No plot. Hmmmm. I should probably address that, shouldn't I?

Then I might be able to devise a hook.

Back to the drawing board.

anny

Gone

Xenia, Joplin, Granbury, Shawnee, Birmingham, Moore...the list goes on and on. Towns wiped from the map. Lives shattered. Grief and anguish and numbness. Terror and dread for those not found yet.

Can you help? Surely. If not financially or physically, then by offering a prayer, an encouraging word, a compassionate ear to those who need to speak. Hearts are heavy. Devastation is everywhere. Long after the news media have moved on to the next catastrophe, folks will still struggle with the aftermath.

Don't forget them...

anny

Terror from the Sky

Every year, folks lose their property, their lives in storms. Tornadoes frequently strike in the middle of the night with little warning. In their wake, they leave devastation and grief.

Depending on where you live in our country, you may deal with floods, earthquakes, volcanoes, hurricanes, blizzards, drought, wildfires, or tornadoes. Of all of those, the average citizen has the greatest chance of dealing with a tornado.

Some parts of the country are more susceptible than others, but when it gets down to it, if you have the right ingredients in the atmosphere, a tornado could wipe out your town. Unlike a hurricane that's unlikely to strike inland, a tornado dances across the country, terrifying and destroying. Because they often whirl up during the night, you don't see them coming. Folks are sleeping.

All my blessings and prayers to the latest victims in Texas. The grief and destruction will impact their lives long after the news crews and cameras are gone. And life will never ever be the same.

anny

It was THIS Big

Have you ever noticed how size increases every time a person talks about...well, anything, really. Size apparently matters. We don't squash an ordinary spider. It must be huge in order to impress. Snakes have to be longer or deadlier. Mosquitoes must be the size of bombers. Why not just admit we were afraid?

I wonder why the need for exaggeration? Why must everything be bigger?

Why to we need to compete? "My daddy/mama/child is better/richer/has more stuff/smarter than your daddy..."

While I support doing your best, I think our quest for more, more, more is unhealthy and stressful. Contentment is rare. Pursuing less instead of more is considered strange.

Last night I killed a spider. It was only the size of my thumbnail but it gave me the shivers. There now. That wasn't hard at all.

anny 

Quite a Character

I recently re-read a book I hadn't read in a long while. The story was interesting and well written--except for one thing. The bad guy was comprised of every stereotype possible. I want to read a story where the bad guy is charming, good looking, friendly...and a snake.

For years, the heroines were sexy sylphs. Now they're all curvy 'big' girls. Heroes used to be handsome and incredibly rich. The current style is grubby, gritty laborers or ex-military dudes. We've exchanged one set of stereotypes for another.

Since I was thinking about such things, I paid attention as I worked my way through several more books. One book--a favorite of mine--had minimal description about the characters. The first twenty times I'd read it, I never noticed.

As an exercise in one of my college classes, we were assigned to read a three page selection from one of the 'classic' authors. When we arrived for the next class, there was a pop quiz. Describe the characters in the assigned selection.

The answers varied wildly. Readers imposed their own ideas on the characters, even when they were described in detail!

How closely do you read the story? And how do you decide what the characters are like?

anny

Dead Stories

Yesterday I went through my vast collection of WIPs in search of something, some tiny kernel of an idea that captured my imagination. I have a lot of jumpstarts. Nothing reached out and grabbed me. Most of them yawned and rolled over in boredom.

That's not because they're bad. It has nothing to do with the quality of writing or the story idea. I'm...preoccupied. I have no idea how to deal with this issue. I've cleaned, done laundry, went shopping, read books, watched TV, crocheted, went swimming, baked. And still, when I sit in front of the computer, all ideas fade away to nothing.

I took a pen and pad of paper in the other room, thinking to possibly jot down some ideas. The paper remains blank. Mild panic is setting in. What if I can never write another story? Will I be reduced to knitting a never-ending stream of socks and mittens? Maybe I should take up painting or weaving?

Anxiety breeds anxiety. As I poke at my pitiful collection of stories, they remind me of my garden experiments, rows of dying plants that slowly shrivel and die for unknown reasons. Not enough sun? Too much water? What? What to do?

My 'what if' and 'once up a time' has deserted me--for now. While I wait for them to return, I believe I'll haul out my calligraphy supplies and work on that. Perhaps, keeping the mind and fingers busy will spring an idea or two loose. Until then, there's an abundance of chores to keep me occupied.

anny

Courage and Integrity

"Each paper has a description of love, courage, and faith...a TRUE gift today. I love my girls more than life, I am so proud of their courage, I am blessed with their love. Forever their mommy"

My daughter posted the picture and text on her Facebook on Mother's Day. They're going through some really bad stuff right now. When things are bad, some people give up or turn nasty or rebel. 

Others shine.

So proud of my daughters, daughter-in-law and granddaughters. They are women of integrity and courage. All my blessings and prayers for them this week. Life is hard.

anny 

Wrinkles or Fold

I spent the better part of the day doing laundry at the Laundromat. It was very, very hot as they didn't have the AC on, despite temps in the eighties. We bundled all the laundry in our baskets and brought it home to fold (where we very sensibly have AIR CONDITIONING!)

As I sat folding a mountain of endless clothing, I wondered--WHY do we fold clothes? Why not have a basket of clean undies and a basket of clean socks and pick them out as we need? Why fold nighties? They just get wrinkled when we twist and turn in our sleep. WHY do we waste hours of our precious time FOLDING?

I can understand folding sheets and towels because they fit better on the closet shelf. But underwear and socks? What's the point? And imagine all the drawer space that would be freed up if you just keep them in a basket...

How many chores do we do needlessly because 'that's the way we've always done it'? Wrinkles in my underwear are waaaay down on my list of priorities. There are possibly two or three people in the world who will see my wrinkly underwear (though honesty compels me to admit the wrinkles disappear when stretched over my fluffy body).

As I look around my apartment, it occurs to me that much of the standard housework is really 'make work' from long before my generation. I've never understood the logic in making the bed. If it was up to me, our bed would never be made except when the sheets are changed. However, the hunk feels uncomfortable with the unmade bed so HE makes the bed everyday. *Shrug*.

Anyway, I think I may go with the basket idea. I could save at least an hour every time I do laundry. Time is precious. Besides, at heart, I really hate laundry.

anny

Lost and Found

Found:

Four packages of tortellinis. Have no idea when they were purchased, but the dates are still good.

Small slightly damaged purple snake, given to me by a co-worker sometime in the past as a gag gift. It used to sit on top of my monitor at work. Perhaps I can repair the small hole on his nose so he doesn't lose his sandy innards...

Road maps for six eastern states (almost current, too.) As we travel, I collect maps to use as research sources when I write. Added them to my collection.

Basket of hair clips. Except for the very top of my head, my hair is too short to use them, but perhaps this is a sign that I should let my hair grow out again. Maybe?

A package of fifty cheapo plastic gloves. Where did they come from? Don't know. Why were they purchased? Don't know. Can't think of any reason to keep them.

Six spanking new metal Christmas cookie cutters. If I ever make Christmas cookies again, they'll come in handy.

One car charger for a phone I no longer own--still in the original unopened package. Have to check to see if it will work with my current cheapo cell phone.

Lost: Large bottle of Febreeze. Maybe I gave it away? Guess that says a lot about how often I used it.

That's the sum total for today. Adventures in cleaning at the Cook house...

anny

I Love You

"I love you." Three words, the words we wait for the hero to say to the heroine in every romance. The same words we say to our children, our parents, our siblings. Perhaps that is why they feel...inadequate.

Sonnets and songs have been written about love. Paintings and graphics attempt to portray it. But the truth is, our best efforts are less, much less than the whole of what we feel. Nothing encompasses all the emotions that comprise that most elusive of feelings--love.

One of the problems is we've devalued of the word love. We 'love' our new shoes. We 'love' our new car. We 'love' movies, television shows, celebrities, our haircut, books, chocolate, a comfortable bed, and hot coffee in the morning. Small wonder then that we have nothing left to express how we feel when we hold our child, when we embrace our parents or when we touch our mate.

As writers we struggle to convey the overwhelming feelings our characters develop, frequently falling back on the physical when all else fails. Sex is not love, though it can be an aspect between lovers. How to describe our hero's love?

Often we demonstrate it by allowing the hero to rescue the heroine which may leave the reader feeling shortchanged. Riding to the rescue is not love, either.

Each time I speak to my children and grandchildren on the phone I say, "I love you." Every single time it seems insufficient and lacking. Is that because it's via electronic media? I don't know. Somehow without the human touch, it feels like less.

When I speak to my parents across the wide distance that separates us, I say, "I love you." Can they feel how I wish I was close enough to hold them?

"I love you."

anny