The Good, The Bad, and the Quirky

It’s all about the characters. Think about the best stories you ever read. The setting can be beautiful, the plot thrilling or tame, but what draws the reader in, what keeps the reader turning the page is the depth of characters in a story. Consider Goldilocks and the Three bears…it’s not the breaking and entering that makes us wonder how the story will end, it is the confrontation between the gentle baby bear and the oblivious child who breaks chairs and pilfers pantries. Think about Sherlock Holmes. Not a traditional hero type; he’s bossy, occasionally rude, overtly conceited, an addict, and he is missing that romance gene altogether. Yet he is such a richly drawn character—so complex and layered, we simply must stick with him and with Dr. Watson to find out how he will save the day. And the importance of a well-drawn character is not limited to protagonists. Supporting characters can often be curiously intriguing, themselves. What would Dracula be without Renfield? That minor character mirrors the “everyman” who constantly questions his own existence and his relationship with a higher power. Granted, Ren’s behavior and outlook is a bit gloomy bordering on ghastly, but every thought he speaks, every fear he expresses, echoes in our minds and draws into the story like a moth to a flame. Why, even in Romeo and Juliette, while the main characters face the tragedy of youthful love, we find Tybalt, Mercutio, and even the friar to be magnificently engaging characters. We care about what they have to say, and so we continue to read the story even though we know that two feuding families will never break bread over a happy marriage. MacBeth would be nothing without the Weird Sisters! And in The Wizard of Oz, we all are spellbound by the Wicked Witch, and the man behind the curtain. We want to know what their personal stories are. Whenever somebody complains that they want to portray the main character, I wonder why? Often the best parts are the ones in the shadows, on the edge, or the ones who don’t even know they matter so much. In the musical 1776, the most poignant character is the messenger who recalls seeing his friends die on the battlefield. That young man’s moment in the spotlight is quiet, reverent, and heart-wrenching. In two minutes, he reveals what is at stake, not just for the Continental Congress, but for every man, woman, and child, on both sides of the fight. And we weep for him and for his pals. Character is how one sees the world, and how one is seen by it…the good guys, bad guys, and all the ones in between…

Old Loves...a passion for historical fiction

Be still my heart! Forty years have passed since Robyn Ellis graced the television screens on PBS’s Masterpiece Theatre, portraying the dashing Captain Ross Poldark, returned from war with the Colonials. That was the beginning of a long standing love affair with historical fiction. A serious addiction, I must admit. And now, four decades later, BBC and PBS have resurrected the classic tale into another heart-stoppingly-beautiful series. And Aiden Turner is absolutely up to the task! I know, I know. For some people, history is boring. That’s because, they’ve never known the joys of a good story woven with rich characters, complex plot twists, and phenomenal cinematic backdrops. And costumes! Why, in the first episode alone, we see the urgency of battle, the loneliness of death and transition, and the cold truth about life in rural Cornwall in the late 18th century. We also are privy to the passion, the perseverance, and the promise of a life well lived. Aiden Turner (of BBC’s Being Human, and The Hobbit), is both roguish, and heroic as the man who inherits a ramshackle house and mine, and all the trials included in being a landowner at the close of the Revolutionary war. It would be so easy to be bought off, and escape to the gaming tables of London, but Ross decides that the higher road is to do something with the land, and with the people he feels connected to (not necessarily his own family). When he realizes the young person he has saved from a rowdy mob, has suffered beatings by her own family, he meets her reluctance to return home with a pragmatic job offer...and invites her dog, too. Now, truth be told, I probably wouldn’t have read Winston Graham’s novels at age eleven, if not for that original show, so long ago. And had I not read those books, I might not have flirted with Anthony Trollope, Charles Dickens, The Brontes, Mary Stewart, Theodore Dreiser, etc (my little black book of titles is full). To this day, I relish curling up in bed, next to a thick, leather-bound book, with a remote control in my hand. I can live in the pages until the words blur, then take a break to watch any episode which has costumes, horses, or stories that include a bit of the past with a hope for a future. Face it, I was and am a historical-fiction harlot.

With a song in my heart, and a word on my pen...

Remember A Chorus Line? The song, “I Hope I Get It”? The broadway musical profiled the lives and stories of those dancers who made it into the chorus line, the ensemble performers for a grand stage production. All longed, ultimately, for stardom; but for that short time in front of the footlights, they all had a story to tell, of how they had found the the theatre; of why the stage was the life for them. And while their goal was the same, each performer had a story that was unique. Writers are the same. Whether novelists, screenwriters, playwrights, poets, we each have a tale (or several) that forges the path we choose. Some stumble to the right door, straight out of college. Others wander through the dark forest for what seems like a century searching for a happy ending. Regardless of the road we take, we all work and dream for the same happy ending. We want to be published. Each time we send a story to an editor, an agent, a contest, a blog site, we want our work to be validated. We want our stories to be read, to be appreciated. We want readers to well with emotion when they read our work. Some stories will elicit righteous support and inspire action. Others will make our hearts break with compassion for the characters’ pain. A few might incite raucous laughter. We long for that connection to our readers. Writers look at the world and see plot, character, dialogue, and a dozen different endings to everyday occurrences. A trip to the grocery store could end with a walk down the aisle. A line at the post office could end with a line-up at the police station. A discarded note on the sidewalk could be a clue to a crime, or a hidden treasure. In a world where so often, words are used to hurt, to offend, to render speechless, it is comforting to know that there are people who wish only to create mesmerizing, transcending tales that will take us, even briefly, into that world where everyone has a story? On any given day, all a writer ever needs to hear, or think is, “I Wish--” [Into the Woods] ~and soon a story begins...

If a picture's worth a thousand words...

A picture is worth a thousand words, but words can be the essence of our lives, our experience, and our emotions. Words can change history, or record it; they can start wars, or end them. Recently, I heard Joseph Stroud read aloud some of his works. Mr. Stroud is a prolific American poet. His words linger in the air, settling on the listeners shoulders after the words have left his lips, or have leapt from the page. Poetry in our modern society seems an arcane~a mysterious genre that seems to have faded from the fast pace of our busy lives. Nothing could be farther from the truth. Poetry, like so much about our cyber lives, economizes words to their utmost efficacy. A few words, carefully woven, convey an entire scene with only a few characters. Consider Stroud’s Night in Day: “The night never wants to end, to give itself over 
to light. So it traps itself in things: obsidian, crows. 
 Even on summer solstice, the day of light's great 
triumph, where fields of sunflowers guzzle in the sun— 
we break open the watermelon and spit out 
black seeds, bits of night glistening on the grass.” Fifty five words create a myriad of images and emotions and evoke a dozen questions in the reader’s mind. Similarly, Emily Dickenson, used words efficiently to tell tales, and make a point. Faith offers a simple argument: “Faith is a fine invention 
When Gentlemen can see— 
But Microscopes are prudent
In an Emergency.” Songs offer the pop-culture version of poetry to the masses. With a background of drums, sythesized syncopation, guitar, or orchestral background, lyricists string words together to tell stories of love, of woe, of misunderstanding, or revolution. Instead of texting about fashion, or rumors, or traffic, perhaps we should encourage people to text poetry. Imagine what a beautiful world me might create. I smiled as I listened to the poet on the radio. Reading is a magnificent escape, but to hear the bard speak those precious few words--those metaphors and similes--to paint pictures transported me, momentarily. Like a time traveler, I sifted to the poet’s world, and was mesmerized by its magic.

Into the unknown...

2014 plowed past me and left me standing at the platform of 2015 feeling a bit flustered and perhaps a bit excited by the possibilities before me. It is fitting, then that in the moments of the waning year, I picked up Neil Gaiman’s Neverwhere(1999) only to be whisked away to both the familiar and tantalizingly unfamiliar London underground. I slipped into a wonderfully haunting (and terrifying) world of the faces people to live below in the underground world. What happens when people fall through the cracks? They fade away and become part of the unseen society which exists...neverwhere. Protagonist Richard Mayhew does something nice, and (since no good deed goes unpunished in literature), he finds himself abandoned in a world where people exist between the normal world that most of us know, and a disturbingly distopian subterranean world of subway stations, abandoned tunnels, sewers, and fog. All those things that go bump in the night live in this world, and rear their ugly heads frequently to threaten Richard and company as he tries to save a young woman from the evil that pursues her. And of course there is a secret society (isn’t there always?) I’ve been to London a few times. I’ve ridden on the “tube” and am aware of some of the history of the subway system. Gaiman’s mix of historical elements, fantastical characters, suspense, and that wonderful bit of humanity had me hooked from the first pub scene when Richard says goodbye to his hometown to the end of the story (no spoilers here, folks). The romp thrilled me and filled me with a desire to investigate the London underground stations with my new awareness of Gaiman’s mythological underground. I’m sure there must be a such a tour offering such a rousing romp somewhere in Londinium. Conventional time and space, and relative dimension, are all challenged by Neverwhere; I kept wondering just how this might play into an episode of Dr Who (Neil has also penned a few episodes for that sci-fi phenomenon). Describe it in twenty five words or less? Alice-in-Wonderland meets Dr. Who, sprinkled with a touch of Twilight Zone, and Life on Mars, all with a film noir feel. Quite a wild ride and well worth the price of a ticket.

A fond farewell

The Belle of the Ball... She was the stuff of stories, made not merely of timber and nails, but of magic, too. And like so many magical things, she has faded, forgotten, into nothingness. Known as the White queen of the gulf, for her exterior design, the Belleview Biltmore, near Clearwater, is to be torn down. Her frame adorned with more than a dozen gables, and nearly twice as many corridors, has withered beyond repair and will soon be put out of her misery. And yet, our memories of her will live on. The hotel was not merely a resort, it was grand adventure, like something out of a movie. Similar to the Grand Hotel at Mackinac, the Belleview stretched for what seemed like a mile from one end to the other. Built by railroad magnate Henry B. Plant the resort accommodated wealthy travelers who spent long holidays escaping from the harsh northern winters. Long hallways, offered glimpses of pristine lawns primed for lawn bowling or badminton. At the far edge of the grounds were tennis courts; a golf course paralleled the opposite edge. Two swimming pools offered guests a choice of lounging in the sun, or swimming laps in a glass ceilinged pool-house adorned with french doors that opened to admit a balmy breeze on warm days. Late at night, wandering the long quiet corridors, one could even envision the spirits of former residents sashaying through the building, dancing and drinking champagne, and being completely scandalous. Originally, the train tracks would deliver people directly to the hotel’s front door, and guests could step from locomotive car to lobby into the hotel’s lavish world of fine woolen carpets, and chandeliers, and grand pianos. Verandas decorated the property for a bit of fresh air in winter, and a respite from the heat during summer (pre-air conditioning). I stayed at the hotel many times. The most magnificent room was a suite that had not only a decadent king-sized bed with a sitting area, and a lavish bathroom, but also a dressing room. Imagine a room dedicated just to changing clothes and preparing one’s appearance, from an era when people lived for weeks or months at the hotel and so, entertained guests in the sitting room. I spent hours gliding back and forth in the indoor heated pool (prominent in the movie Cocoon), and strolling the grounds. There was an oak tree that was so large, one could sit on the lowest bowed branch, as it nearly kissed the porch. Six piano decorated the halls; no one ever complained if someone decided to plunk out a tune. Stairways zigged and zagged, and seemingly led to nowhere, and delighted children of all ages who had an indoor maze to meander. Did I mention the best coffee I ever had anywhere, was in that dining room? Grand ballrooms, elegant dining halls, afternoon tea, and cocktails in the piano bar were the offerings when I visited the Belleview. Small salons in the main hallway offered books, souvenirs, ice cream, and jewelry. Holidays brought families from all around the bay area to magnificent brunches that stretched through three of those ballrooms, accommodating hundreds of diners. Like the Plant Museum, the Belleview entertained the wealthy and famous once upon a time. In more recent times she entertained families and golfing enthusiasts. The hotel was the site for weddings, anniversaries, reunions, proms, and getaways. It never advertised because it never had to...until the time came when flash and deals won out over the old world wonder. However, it’s hard to keep up a building that suffers sun and wind and rain damage, and nearly a century of age. Several corporations and preservation committees attempted to save, protect, resurrect her, unsuccessfully. Sometimes money just is not enough. The Belleview will be put to rest. With her, goes a grand bit of Florida history and an age of golden revelry. Goodbye to Cocoon, to verandas,to vintage New Year’s Eve soirees, and to the best cup of coffee, ever.

Apathy abounds!

It is time for a rant. Apathy is an infection that has swept the continent; it’s victims range from adults who can’t be bothered to drive their kids to a track meet, to nine year olds who can’t be bothered to participate in class “because”. Just because. My father long held that I didn’t have to agree with his perspectives on life, religion, or politics as long as I had an opinion and could support my opinion. “ Just ‘cause...” was never an answer for anything. My father was right. Every single day I encounter people who have no opinion on anything other than the latest sale at the mall. Even that isn’t so much opinion as excitement over the stimuli of color and bright yellow and red on sale signs (sort of the cartoon network for adults). The worst thing is that parents and adults allowing children to be mindless sheep baa-ing their way through life sets the kids up for failure. But then again, so many of these same adults will eventually blame a teacher for their kids’ apathy. Trust me, I have yet to meet a teacher who is apathetic or who promotes apathy in the classroom. Apathy is learned at home, and in the community. The “I don’t care” attitude might begin as a defensive device against disappointment, turning quickly to a “whatever” approach (a word I do not allow in my house, stage, or classroom, by the way). That’s how the infection begins, and then the plague erupts when an entire room of kids (or adults) shrug over everything from the importance of of writing a thank you note, to the ebola crisis, or civic responsibility of voting and jury duty. I sat in jury duty last month and listened to people whine for eight hours about sitting in an air conditioned room with a television and with access to all their electronic devices. They whined about how unfair it was that they had to sit there, and that they were being expected to wait to be questioned as potential jurors for our county. These are the same people who threaten to sue over scuffed tennis shoes and a delay at the doctor’s office. Heaven forbid they should step up and do something to make a difference in their community. That might be seen as being proactive. And of course, these people all have someone in their lives who emulates their behavior-- a niece, a nephew, or children of their own. Once upon a time (stop me if you’ve heard this one), there was a man who wanted to be a leader. As he bullied his way through the countryside, the villagers decided better him than them, and so they let him do whatever he wanted. Their apathy allowed the Third Reich to emerge. Yeah, it’s a bit melodramatic, but at least you have an opinion about it, now. Don’t you?

Playing Faire...

I adore medieval faires and renaissance festivals. Within the gates of these quirky, raucous gatherings we find the most extraordinary and eclectic collection of talent and brains outside of Comicon. And yet, the faire folk are often misunderstood. It all starts with a love of art and of language. I have been a fan of these festivals since college. I have dated fencers and stage fighters, have worked as a tavern wench, and have dressed as everything from a royal, to a wench, to a Whovian time lord (remember Ramana?). Here are some observations that need to be noted. Renfolk are smart and talented. Some of the performers are locals who have day jobs as lawyers and real estate agents; their work on the weekends is an artistic escape whether they are acting, or are working as vendors in a craft booth. Other performers are professional actors who travel from faire to faire throughout the year on a schedule; they work diligently on their stage routines and at developing the “characters” that will entertain audiences. In both cases, the majority of these people have college degrees and are making a living doing what they love. I knew a man who worked 20 years selling medical equipment for a large corporation. When he retired from sales, he bought an old school bus, threw on a tunic and started selling custom-made boots at the faire. The work allowed him to travel the country, make a living, and have some fun. He met people from all around the world, and didn’t have to worry about dry cleaning or about shaving. What a life. Some of the smartest people I have met work at the faire. A few weeks ago, I toured a faire which was new to me. The level of writing for the scripts was astounding. Even more impressive were the conversations I overheard as I passed through the crowds. Philosophy, History, Physics, Language...everything was a topic for discussion. Even politics and world events. From pirates! And perhaps the greatest gift these people offer us is a reverence for Language and communication. Through comedy, song, music, dance, and art, these wonderful enthusiasts and professionals are preserving something that continues to fade as we become a tech-dependent society, heads bowed over our phones. Thumbs meet eye-contact. For eight hours a day (sometimes much longer), these performers are not texting, they are talking, making a connection with the crowd. They are communicating with words, rather than initials and emoticons. Of course this does not surprise me. I have long known that the ren-fest circuit is a home for creativity and for intelligence that just does not fit into a suit or cubicle. However, so many suit and cubicle people spy the colorful time travelers as the characters they portray. Books and covers, people...take a look and find the story beneath the colorful brocade and tights. Within the renaissance faire, there is a renaissance of thought and talent. A round of applause for all the wonderful, brilliant performers and artisans to have the courage to take center stage and take a chance.

The Seed of an Idea

My husband mentioned a project being undertaken in Scandinavia. Apparently, trees and authors are coming together in an unusual way. Authors are being enlisted to dedicate an unpublished work to the planting of a tree. The manuscript will be held in an archive for the next 100 years, with its publication being dedicated to the particular tree being planted in its name. On the tree’s 100th anniversary, it will be felled, and used to produce the paper for the publication of the book. I find this intriguing and disturbing at the same time. There is something nearly “Distopian” about the ceremonial archiving of a book while the tree grows toward its own death to promote the author’s publication. And yet the idea of drawing attention to the written word, and to the destruction of trees (versus recycled materials) is equally mesmerizing. I keep thinking of Well’s Time machine and Bradbury’s Farenheit 451. I don’t know why this story brings those two tales to mind other than each exemplifies a society lost to reading, while this new project seems to be promoting the preservation of the printed word. Perhaps the true intent here, is just that--to heighten awareness that the cyber-words we read on our electronic devices are real. Once upon a time, writers touched quill to vellum to create books. Printers set rollers to metal type on parchment. Typewriters pounded ink onto paper. And now, we click keys and send the words into the ether. Plucked from the air, our ideas soar through the internet in a virtual world. The very success of virtual books begs the question, in one hundred years, will we really want to cut down a tree for the decadence of printing a paper book? More importantly, in one hundred years, will we still read? Or will reading be merely a legend?

The Plot Thickens...

For anyone who is a fan of Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander series, the dynamic Starz series, of the same name, reveals few shocks. We who have read the books over and over again know these characters almost as well as the backs of our hands (hey, that freckle is new...). And yet, each week, as we watch the storyline unfold, and allow ourselves to be drawn into the backdrop of 18th century Scotland to mingle with the MacKenzies, Jamie, Claire, and the dastardly Black Jack Randall, we hold our breath in anticipation as each scene unfolds. To say that the creators have done a wonderful job, is an understatement. The adaptation of Gabaldon’s ongoing saga of war and love and time travel is mesmerizing. A good deal of the scenes take place outdoors, in forests and glens, and the cinematography could offer no better tourist inducement than the natural beauty of the landscape. I suspect flights will be full to Scotland next summer. As breathtaking as the landscapes are, the interior scenes are haunting. Where so many shows offer rich and opulent interiors meant to remind us of the days when velvet and brocade were commonplace, the Outlander interiors subtly remind us that luxury, both in the post WWII era and in the 18th century was not always an option, even for the wealthy. The lighting casts shadows, even in the daylight hours; there is a chill in the air at midday, and the cool demeanor of the clansmen and their English interlopers is palpable even when they are not speaking. One of the greatest testaments to the clever handling of the work is how the company (everyone connected with the production), allows the people to be real. More dirt and mud and dust adorn the actors faces, than make up. The hair may be matted, shaggy; the nails may be dirty and ragged; the eyes pale and creased, but we believe we are looking upon the characters as they have stepped from the pages, not from central casting or the makeup trailer. We are repulsed by the battle wounds, and are entranced by the simple unadorned beauty of a smile. And because of all of this, and so much more, as I watch each episode, I treasure those minutes as if that time has been suspended. I do not want the story to rush. Each scene is so priceless, that I listen for the sound of the ticking clock on my mantle to slow, to pause, to stop, just briefly, as I get swept away and travel back through time for an hour or so... Until the music swells, the credits flash, and I breathe, once more.

A look back to our future

Having just finished watching several episodes of the 60s drama The Avengers, I contend that Emma Peel is without a doubt one of the most inspirational female characters written for twentieth century television. She embodied the transitional paradigm for women in a modern society. While we might look upon the show, now, and smile at the predictibility of the scripts, the tongue-in-cheek turn of phrase, or the simplistic choreography of the fight scenes, we must note that in her creation, the writers of The Avengers television series departed the usual text, and reached into the future. While Honor Blackman was the original side-kick sleuthing agent for the secret and never-named British homeland investigative branch, she departed as the series was beginning to ride the crest of the cold war spy show craze. Honor’s character was very much like a character she would later play in the James Bond film, Goldfinger. 1963, however, welcomed Diana Rigg as a new partner for the ever-so-British John Steed. Rigg’s character broke most of the stereotypes for sidekicks, especially female sidekicks. First of all she was married. “Mrs. Peele, we’re needed,” introduced an attractive and presumably not available woman who was neither a housewife, nor churchmouse. Emma Peele fenced, fought (martial arts), and penned papers on physics in her spare time. Wait! A woman who was self sufficient, self aware, and had a sense of humor? Indeed. Emma could take a joke, throw a punch, and calculate a physics computation without breaking a nail. Not that she bothered about her nails. She was too busy foiling bad guys to worry about a manicure. And, she wore the most practical wardrobe ever seen on television. No stranger to heels and stylish hemlines, Emma Peele wore pants and flat ankle boots to do her snooping. Catsuits, or capes were the costume of choice when breaking and entering by night, or when tromping through the hills and dales of the English countryside. She climbed ladders, did not squeal when her hair got in her eyes, and even carried a second pair of shoes when out and about (just in case the car broke down and she had to walk to the nearest RAF station). More over, Emma Peele defended herself. On occasion, Steed would ride in to save the day, and her life, but more often than not, Emma threw her own high kicks and karate chops, parried and thrust her own sword, and played hero for herself. She seldom screamed, did not wimper or cry, and never once-in 51 episodes- fell into a fit of hystrionics. And Steed, admirably, never once challenged her on her reason, her intellect, or her biorhythms (although he did on occasion criticize her driving). She was sexy and confident in her attitude, compassionate and empathetic when necessary, and pragmatic and professional on the job. Remember, there were no other women doing this in 1963. She became a role model for millions of female viewers, world wide. She was cultured, well read, and did not shy away from expressing opinions or ideas. Legend has it that her name was a play on words, themselves. “M appeal” or male appeal was the hook that the producers were looking for in her character; that’s how she came to be Emma Peele. Millions of men, also were watching. Apparently, even in the sixties, smart was sexy. The writers allowed her to have a flirtatious, intelligent relationship with her coworker that did not involve her fetching coffee, or wearing a frilly apron, or ironing his shirts...ever. And we love her for it.

Away for a time, I am now ready to return...I think. While I often think I have nothing of any great importance to post (hence my silence), it has been pointed out to me that I am always spewing opinion and thoughts, some of which deserve contemplation. So, here goes~ As the equinox approaches, and all things are new again, I wonder at the newness before us. The world, after all, is ever changing. Now, our awareness of that constant change is heightened by our technology. We are ever aware, where once we could exist in an ignorant bliss. Wow, that sounded terribly sober, which is not my intent at all. Creatures of routine that we humans tend to be, we are often reluctant to accept change. And yet, change comes ever faster, as our technology changes. On the horizon is a set of spectacles (glasses) that will do what our phones do. And yet, it was only a less than twenty years ago when the concept of a phone that attached to the ear, or one small enough to fit in the palm of a hand seem preposterous. Well, most have accepted the bullet train speed with which our society is proceeding, I wonder about the finer points of communication that we leave behind. I hate the cavalier attitude of the person in front of me who talks on his cell phone while conducting business with a human being behind the counter. It is rude. I think, “Stop it. Suspend the phone conversation until you finish your business transaction. I know your parents did not raise you to be so inconsiderate.” Convenience and a disposable society have wrongfully inspired us to think that others no longer matter, when in fact, it is just the opposite. Because we are so buffered by our electronic devices, we should even be more aware of those precious opportunities to make contact with one another. Make eye contact with the clerk. Take the time to ask the toll taker “How’s your day going?” Take the initiative to take out the trash or discard an empty cup even if it isn’t yours as a courtesy to those around you. Seasons change, society adapts. Courtesy never goes out of style.

The Sound of Silence

Applause. That is the sound of silence this season. From the accolades of film critics and audiences to the approval of introverts across the land, the truth is, that silence seems to be golden in 2012.

Two films nominated for multiple Academy Awards this season reflect on the artistry of the silent age of films. Hugo and The Artist each detail man’s journey through the ever changing world of film, yet from different perspectives. Don’t worry-no spoilers here. While Hugo’s narrative style reveals the sense of mourning for a bygone age, The Artist clever adaptation of the silent film genre offers the viewer the thrill of storytelling through the lens.

With each, we find the importance of actions. In each, actions speak louder than words. (What a concept for those of us who write!)

Consider then, the cover story by TIME magazine, this week, which profiles those who are introverts. Citing that while we exist as a society that has become a culture of personality, those who are introverts have so much more to offer than our media-mad culture would have us think.

Introverts may be more quiet, yet their silence might actually indicate a tendency to process more information, to make better thought out decisions, and an ability to perform tasks independently. All of this may mean that the introverts are the ones we want on to be stranded on an island with...raft construction, engineering concepts, and broader categories for conversation when engaged in one-on-one discussions.

So, I suggest we all strive to find a bit of quiet time and just enjoy the solace of silence...

The opening line of Max Ehermann’s poem, “Desiderata” says it best, “Go placidly amidst the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.”

Greetings of the New Year to All!

The ribbons strewn, the paper shredded, and the boxes are piled high, ready to be stashed for another year, until we celebrate the winter holidays once more.

For some the new year means a new beginning. For others, it means the second half of the fiscal year, or the school year is about to begin. And for some it means an end to what may have been a stressful year. Whichever suits our needs, the fact is, 2012 marks a transition in our lives.

For me, transition means I begin to look to the beginning of the spring-season-to-come. Having finished a rough draft, and three shows, I will turn my attention to the shows yet to come, as well as the revisions, and brainstorming that comes when I consider another story.

The yule season marks a restful period. In some ways, I agree. There is a quiet sense to the world at the beginning of January, almost as if we have inhaled deeply, and now are gently exhaling, allowing everything to wash over us before we begin once more.

Even in slumber, however, our minds are active~anticipating the exuberance of the season to come. Spring, new life, warmth of spirit, renewed energy.

Rest well in this quiet time. Line up your dreams and get ready to hit the ground running! Happy New Year to all!

It's the most wonderful time of the year! Traffic jams, crowded malls, stress, deadlines, pressure to get the right gift, pressure to not max out the credit cards...see where I'm going with this???

And in the middle of all this joy, we contend with the ever popular self-righteous proclamation that we MUST not say Happy Holidays because it is Christmas.

Bah Humbug.

Hold on to your hymnals~This is as politically incorrect as I can be in 2011. The fact is that "holidays" is derived from the phrase Holy Days, and refers to feast days and prayer days as they were observed in the early Church. Period.

Now, as to the whole Christmas versus other religious holidays. Besides Kwansaa, Christmas (orginally Christ's Mass) is one of the youngest holidays. Hanukkah is much older that Christmas. Yule much older than Christmas. And don't get me started on the rituals that Christians adopted from poly-theistic civilizations to facilitate the infiltration of Christianity into the cultures.

The fact is that this season is filled with traditions that are holy to all. I don't care who says Merry Christmas, or Happy Hanukkah, or Season's Greetings. ALL ARE GOOD. The nay-sayers to insist that this YULE must be addressed with Merry Christmas are being rather exclusive...sort of like the Sneeches who had "stars upon thars" (read Dr. Seuss); they are not playing nicely. Feel free to take your Christmas balls and go home.

So, to all, I say~ May your holidays be bright, cheerful, reflective, warm, and filled with laughter and love, and fond memories as you look to a new year. May this season bring a smile to your face and a song to your heart.

Autumn is the most fabulous time of the year. Everything is crisp, and an sense of something about to happen lingers in the air.
Smoke, fog, suspense, and the scent of suspense all conspire to make October evenings exhilerating.

That being said, something wickedly wonderful is about to happen. October 28 the questions we all want the answer to might just be answered. Did Shakespeare write all those scripts?

The trailer suggests, “we have all been played,” and that might just be the best tag line of the season. The movie asserts that the Earl of Oxford wrote the plays, not our favorite Stratford boy, that W. S. was merely used as a pawn in a game of Rulers, realms, and political intrigue.

The possibility gives new meaning to the phrase “who dunnit?”

Personally, I cannot wait! As a fan of everything Shakespearean, I don’t care who wrote the plays, I just love the language, the period, and--of course--the mystery!

Spring Cleaning

Well, it is that time, again~ we clean out our closets, we sweep the stoop, we start looking at the yard and envisioning trips to the nursery and hardware store! It is spring. What are you purging, philosophically speaking?
This year, my spring cleaning is an introspective one as well as a utilitarian one (gotta get ready for graduation week). Boxes of old notebooks scribbled in a fourth-graders hand will eventually depart the house, very much like the eighteen year old who once penned them...
And so, too, will I turn toward my next journey. For nearly a lifetime, I have focused on home and family, on the security of routine. However, with the shift of seasons this year, I am ready to turn my attention to my own new adventures. A new boss, a new story, a new approach to life, all are the markers for this leg of my path. If I am wise, I will be able to cast away old fears, insecurities, and bad habits, and find a more industrious approach to embracing my dreams.
Someone recently told me that once one commits to a dream, it becomes a reality. I doubted that at first, but have in the past few days realized the truth in it. Even in my past. My father once said that I had achieved many of my dreams; I nay-sayed him, and he reminded me that I had wanted a children's library (I then became a paraprofessional librarian in a school); that I had wanted to have a children's theatre ( I'm a drama instructor); and that I had wanted to see the world (travel industry professional for 14 years). He was right. I had managed to make my dreams reality. I had committed.
So...now I must commit to my next series of dreams. I wanted to write a book (I've written five). Now I want to move on to the next stage in publishing; I want to continue to travel; and I have a great desire to become a student once more.
Ooh, perhaps I shouldn't be so hasty about getting rid of those notebooks...

Autumn has arrived! While some see this season as a time for slowing down, it is a season filled with energy. The air is crisp, sunsets golden, and in only a few days Diana Peterfreund's new book Ascendant hits the shelves.

As you all know, I love mythology, fantasy, and a good story with a medieval twist. Back for a second tale, is Astrid Llewellyn, a young woman with a mind of her own, who is not afraid to be herself. Previously, readers were introduced to the ancient and very secret order of young unicorn hunters who, for hundreds of years, protected the world from the not-so-fluffy single-horned creatures. Trust me, these are not the soft, cuddly creatures won at the carnival midway. In Ascendant, Astrid continues to struggle with her commitment to the cause, as well as her commitment to do what's right. Along the way, she struggles with the balance between science and nature, well-meaning activists, and the personal choices that so many young women must make-career, school, romance, family, and which weapon also earns points as an accessory.

I thoroughly enjoyed the first book, Rampant, and I have to admit, Ascendant is even more thrilling. The story weaves a tale as rich as the tapestries that hang in the ancient Italian abbey where the story begins.

I desperately don't want to give anything away, yet I can tell you I was completely engrossed in this story; so much so, I read it in two sittings! Mystery, romance, fantasy all conspire to keep readers turning pages. Appropriate for young adults, the heroine appeals to anyone who is young at heart...Astrid is ageless.

Ascendant hits bookstores on October 1.

       With the strains of  "It's a Small World" still playing in my head from my stroll through the park last night, I registered for the writer's convention, procured my packet and tote bag, and sat down to schmooze.  Within five minutes, I found myself being introduced to a writer from~of all places~Paducah, KY (located halfway between Possum Trot and Monkey's Eyebrow).  Well, after the guffaws and hugs, we sat down to a proper chat. After all, its not everyday, one meets somebody from one's hometown.  

  

     Having said that, so often, I find myself face-to-face with people whom I know, or who are part of that whole six-degrees-of-separation phenomena.   My husband is cursed (or blessed) with it.  We've been strolling in NYC, and have heard his name called; have been in line at Universal, and have run into co-workers.   A few months ago, someone read his name and immediately asked, "Do you have a brother named 'soandso'?"  This man had made  a connection between my husband and his brother.  In New Jersey.

We live 1500 miles from New Jersey.  

I was once in an airport out west, when I heard a familiar voice, and turned around to see a former coworker.  She was there with a tour.  I was there catching a connection.  Even more bizarre...the woman had grown up near my mom  (once again, hundreds of miles from where we lived).  

Stranded in Wales, doing research for a book, I ran into a road construction worker to lent me his phone to call home to the states.  I turned out this guy's mother who lived in northern England, was also an historical novelist.  Go figure.  After I spoke to my husband, the construction worker called up his mom and we had a fine chat.    

      

      We once stopped for gas at a hole-in-the-wall station in Mississippi, only to run into my parents~who are not from Mississippi.   They had stopped for gas, too.   Seriously.

Oh, the stories I could tell!

        Consider just how small the world is.  Walt got it right, somehow, all those years ago.  As did my husband's grandfather when he told his kids, "Remember, no matter where you go, there will always be someone who knows who you are."  In this age of Face book, Twitter, Blogspot, and Skype, it seems we are making the world ever smaller. 

So...talk to me.  How many of you have run into someone you know in the most unlikely places?  Have you found yourself in the 3rd, 4th, or 6th degree of separation?  What cosmic quirks have you experienced? 

       

What color is your rainbow?

Color can set mood, denote emotion, incite action, or non-action. 

 

   This week,  two movies have set my mind whirling about the importance of color.

I went to see Eclipse, as did numerous others.  I was struck by the simplistic color scheme.  Brown and grey were the predominant hues throughout the movie, with the exception being Victoria's red hair (no spoilers).  Although the season is spring, the cinematographer did  a wonderful job of presenting a quilt of scenes that are just a touch off black and white...thereby giving the audience that sense that there is a hint more to good vs. evil in this tale.  

   Having contemplated this, I sat down and watched The Village this weekend, as well.  M. Night Shyamalan is a genius for his ability to take something simple and turn it into something unsettling, or horrifying, depending on your perspective.  In The Village, the predominant colors are gold (all things bright and beautiful), and red (all things alarming and dangerous).  While the sets, costumes, and lighting are neutral, these two colors which he brandishes like flags set us on edge, pulling us into the emotional turmoil, into the panic.  

   Many years ago, a book hit the racks with a white cover.  Ghost Story was a hit, and part of that might have been the strategy of the cover.  Few books at that time had such a stark cover, but for this one, the color caught the reader off guard. Ghostly figures and white just seemed to go together.  It worked.  Sales hit a high; ultimately the story headed to Hollywood and became a feature film.

   When my daughter was young, I discovered that she responded negatively to red. It was just too bold for her, and her perpetually calm sense of self would suddenly react fretfully to the brightness of the color when she found herself in a room or store where red was the main color.  Likewise, when I did work for the public affairs department of a hospital, we helped develop a color scheme that emphasized neutral shades of mauve, spruce, blue, grey, purely for their calming effect.

   I've read that some studies show that men respond favorably to the color red.  I know someone who gets headaches from the color orange.   Some people look better in pastel colors, others in gemstone or dark colors.  Some choose earthtones for their statement.   Marketing personnel know how important color is to packaging. Color affects sales.  

   What colors inspire you to buy? What colors turn you pensive?  What hues brighten your day? Give you a headache? Make you want to get up and dance?  Go look at your living room, your closet, your car, your favorite sweater.  Then tell me, what color is your rainbow?