When Characters Revolt

Thought for the day: You can't blame a writer for what the characters say. [Truman Capote]

As you can probably tell by that nifty badge on the left, it's that time again.Time for our monthly IWSG posts. As always, thanks to our fearless leader, Alex Cavanaugh, for founding this fine group, and
 thanks to all the other nurturing guys and gals who've helped turn it into the thriving community it is today. To join this super supportive group of writers and to see links to other participating blogs, please go HERE

Okay, so it'd be terrific if I could say I've churned out twenty thousand or so fantabulous heart-wrenching words on my WIP since last we met, but that'd be a big fat lie. I haven't. On the plus side, I'm still hard at work editing an excellent book for another writer, so at least my brain hasn't completely turned to mush. Yet.

Sure, editing does put some cash in the ol' account, but it really DOES make me happy, too. It's a thrill to help other writers improve their work. Is it also a sneaky way to procrastinate about finishing my own work? Maybe, but I don't care. (So THERE!)

The author whose work I'm currently abetting has a ton of sometimes chilling imagination, so her books are always entertaining. Being able to help make her diamond shine as brightly as possible is very satisfying... for both of us.

Edit... or regret it! That would be my advise for any writer. Shine your baby up as much as possible before sending it out into the world.

[NO... I'm not soliciting for more clients. I WILL return to my own book as soon as possible.]

Okay, enough of that. Let's check out this month's question:

Has your writing ever taken you by surprise? For example, a positive and belated response to a submission response to a submission you'd forgotten or an ending you never saw coming?

Oh heck, yeah.

Sometimes, I think writers are only kidding themselves when they think they're completely in charge of the stories they're creating. Changes from what we think is going to happen to what actually ends up happening are inevitable.

For me, anyway.

The changes were more subtle in my first book Hot Flashes and Cold Lemonade. The bones remained pretty much the same, but I certainly never intended for Matt, a conservative young  Republican, to be gay. And I never meant for a lifelong friendship between a white lab tech and a black doctor to turn into something more, either. Those things just... happened. And they felt right.

I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I ended up where I needed to be. [Douglas Adams]
                                                                                   WHAT JUST HAPPENED???

 [image courtesy of unsplash]

The changes that evolved in Explosive Beginnings were more... shall we say...explosive? At one point, I laughingly lamented that my ungrateful characters had staged an insurrection and were running away with the plot. I  mean, the ingrates wouldn't even have existed without me, so how dare they...??? But (sigh) I think they were right to insist on their plot twists and surprise ending. (Maybe one of them deserves the byline...)

Okay, that's about it for now. Time to get back to the editing... but one more thing. I think I may know why I've been dragging my feet a little bit with my current WIP.

I believe I may need to lose a couple pounds and tone up my gluteus maximus a bit before going through that again...












                               Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.

Good Guys Don't Always Wear White Hats

Thought for the day:  What I had to face, the very bitter lesson that everyone who wants to write has got to learn was that a thing may in itself be the finest piece of writing one has ever done, and yet have absolutely no place in the manuscript one hopes to publish. [Thomas Wolfe]

Howdy! It's that time again... time for the monthly post for the awesome Insecure Writer's Support Group. I'm telling ya, the amount of support this group offers beats the heck out of the most expensive underwire bra in the world... lots more comfortable, too.

Hats off to ninja writer Alex Cavanaugh, the founder of this extraordinary group, and to all of the fine folks who work so hard to make and keep it a success. If you'd like to join or would like to follow links to some other IWSG posts, please go HERE

HEY! After you read my post! (sheesh)

Man, judging by the thought for the day, that Thomas Wolfe sure knew what he was talking about, didn't he? I kid you not, while doing my current editing job, I sometimes spent days... I'm not exaggerating... DAYS...perfecting a scene until I was finally satisfied with its tone, rhythm, wording, and whatnot. Then I ended up deleting the whole darned thing. (sigh) C'est la vie. 

Okay, before answering this month's question, I'm going to share a post that first appeared in March, 2011 as Keeping it Real. I was a newbie blogger then, and it only got one lonely comment, so I figured it was safe to dust it off and pull it off the shelf again.

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Thought for the day: Howcum noses run and feet smell?

Years ago,  late-night TV carried commercials that urged viewers to grab their credit cards, pick up their phones, and order their very own genuine faux pearls NOW! NOW! NOW!

Remember those ads? Hysterical, right? But at least nobody could say the advertisers didn't tell the truth. They didn't try to pretend those pearls were anything more than they were. Pretty fakes.

Now there's another new commercial that totally cracks me up. Now you TOO can own a genuine reproduction of the ring Prince William gave his fiancee! Wow! It features a beautiful genuine fake sapphire in the middle, surrounded by beautiful genuine fake diamonds! And get this! It even comes with its very own letter of authenticity! (Ohmigod, how can we possibly pass up a deal like that?)

But, again, at least they're telling the truth about it. Nothing shady here.

                                             They didn't put together a bunch of pretty rocks

                                              And try to pass them off as priceless gems.

As writers, it's up to us to create characters that are so realistic, so genuine, that readers accept them as the true gems we intend them to be. If our characters are predictable and two-dimensional, our product becomes nothing more than those genuine faux pearls they used to hawk on TV.

Based on the kazillions of books I've read, here's my thoughts on what it takes to make a character come alive for me. The two major points are:

• A believable bad guy is never entirely bad. Thomas Harris' Hannibal Lector was one of the creepiest bad guys of all time, but he was also extremely intelligent and knew how to be quite charming. What magnifies the ick factor about a bad guy for me is when I can identify with him in some way, by either seeing something of myself, or someone I know, in him. Maybe he's a serial killer, but by God, he has to be home on Wednesday night to watch American Idol. He's a rapist, but he takes tender loving care of every stray cat in his neighborhood. He's a love 'em and leave 'em dude, but he visits his mother in the nursing home every Sunday afternoon.
• By the same token, the good guy has to have some flaws to be believable. It's hard to sympathize with someone who comes across as perfect. Assuming we want the reader to care about the good guy, he needs to have idiosyncracies, or flaws, or simply has to screw up sometimes. It wouldn't hurt for that drop-dead gorgeous heroine with the perfect skin to get a zit every now and then. Or for the hunky guy with the abs of steel to break wind once in a while. Or to have a crooked nose, or heck! Let him pick his nose! One of my favorite heroines is Janet Evanovich's Stephanie Plum. She certainly isn't perfect, by any stretch of the imagination, but she sure is believable. And likeable.

That's just my three cents' worth. (Inflation.) How about you? Who's your favorite villain? Your favorite hero? Are they multi-dimensional? If not, what made them memorable for you?

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[image courtesy of morguefile]

Now, then... on to the

Question of the month:  Have you ever surprised yourself with your writing? For example, by trying a new genre you didn't think you'd be comfortable with??

In a word... NO.

Wait! You didn't seriously think I was gonna stop there, did ya...?

Seriously, I'm terrible at surprising myself. (I stink at keeping secrets... I can't tickle myself, either...) However, it's equally surprising to stumble across something I wrote years ago and think, "Damn! That's pretty good!" as it is to read something I once considered terrific, only to discover it's become horrifyingly cringe-worthy.  (Surely, someone must have changed it!)

Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.

Getting Rid of the Clutter

Hi-ya. Welcome to this month's edition of the Insecure Writer's Support Group meeting... er, virtual meeting, that is. This, the first Wednesday of the month, is the time when writers all over the world post about the ups and downs, the highs and lows, the ins and outs... of writing. We celebrate... we complain... we commiserate. Whatever we need, this is the place to find it. Humble thanks and a jolly tip of the hat go to Alex Cavanaugh, our fearless ninja leader and the originator of this fine group. If you'd like to join (It's FREE!) or would like to read some of the other posts, please go HERE

First off... YES!!! I finally finished writing the first draft of Blast Rites. (Thank yew, thank yew, thank yew very much...) Now comes the fun stuff. I'm currently deep in the throes of rewriting and editing, so before answering the question of the month, I'm gonna share a gently-used and slightly updated post from May, 2011, originally titled Some Pets Have Gotta Go! Yep... it's about the joys of editing. Kind of appropriate, don't ya think?

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Thought for the day:  If you have a bunch of odds and ends and get rid of all but one, what do you call it?



It's hard to say goodbye.

Do you have a bunch of stuff around your house that you can't let go? I'm not talking about necessities; I'm talking about those unique treasures from your past that still manage to pluck your heartstrings like a two-bit harp.

Like my cheap-o fifth grade orchestra pin. It still occupies a place of honor in my jewelry box, along with a "lucky stone" I found when I was in second grade, and a neat-o metal typeset of my name that came from a field trip to the Baltimore Sun (newspaper) building, which I, in fact, missed, because I had the measles. None of those items will mean anything to our children when I'm gone, but somehow, I can't bring myself to part with them.

                                    And records. Have I ever got records! My favorites are the 45s.


It's probably time to tell those records sayonara, but like Celine Dion sang, "It's hard to say goodbye." Not that any of these records are anywhere near as recent as Ms. Dion's birth. No, these treasures are Elvis records, Little Richard, (when he was still a young rough and tumble rock 'n' roller) the Coasters, Nat King Cole, Chuck Berry, and Rosemary Clooney singing about "This Ol' House."  They're the Drifters, Dion & the Belmonts, (before he went solo) and Eddie Fisher singing "Dungaree Doll." The McGuire Sisters, Artie Shaw and his orchestra playing "Star Dust"  (one of my favorite songs of all time) and Jerry Lee Lewis on the old Memphis, TN Sun label. Treasures, I tell you, treasures!

                                    Not that I've played any of them in the past forty-five years.

The fact that I don't have a good-working turntable is beside the point. If I wanted one badly enough, I'd buy one. But why should I? I don't NEED one.

No, all I have to do is look at these old records and admire their brightly-colored labels and sleeves to remember my first record player with its wobbly turntable, which could only play one record at a time. To play a 45, you had to put a plastic piece into the larger record hole to make it fit. Had to tape a penny to the arm to make it heavy enough to play the records right, too. Then, my brother got the portable RCA player. All it played was 45s, and you could put on a whole stack at one time. (Like Sarah Vaughan crooned, The record player's automatic ... ba-by.) One look at these records, and I'm bopping in the club basement with my girl friends, or dancing cheek-to-cheek at the teen center. So I don't have to actually HEAR them ... to hear them in my heart.

What got me to thinking about those old records is the editing I'm doing on my novel right now.  Know what? It's every bit as hard to cut words as it is to get rid of records. What's funny is that some of the parts getting the axe are the ones that I sweated the most blood over while laboring to give them birth. Witty stuff. Clever stuff. Stuff that makes me smile and laugh out loud.

But it's gotta go! Because it injects ME into the book and serves to draw the reader away from the story. No matter how much I love those words, it doesn't serve the book if the reader stops to admire my writing. Damn it.

So, the words are going. I delivered 'em, and now I'm killing 'em. And the book will be better for it. And some day, those records will go, too, I promise. But not yet.

How about you? What treasures are you holding onto from your past? No matter how illogical it is to hang onto them, they sure do bring us comfort, don't they?

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And now, it's time for the (ta-DA!)...
Question of the month:  What is one valuable lesson you've learned since you started writing?

Hmmmm, let me think about that a sec...

Okay, I've got it!

I've learned that writers are the most creative, supportive, insecure people in the world. That means they've got my back, and I've got theirs, so none of us is ever...

alone.


Our craziness, imaginations, and love of the written word unite us, and that is abso-freaking-lutely awesome.









Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.

Higher Expectations

Thought for the day: A writer is somebody for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.  [Thomas Mann]

I never thought about it before, but now I'm inclined to believe Thomas Mann's quote about writing  may very well be true.

It's kinda like when I was a child. Whenever I had the opportunity to play a piano, I'd sit there for glorious lost-to-the-world hours, pounding and teasing the keys, even though I'd never had a single lesson, and didn't have a clue about what I was doing. I didn't know how to play, and knew nothing about tempo or playing chords; I just poured myself into the experience with reckless abandon. No doubt, the noise I was creating was sheer torture for anyone within earshot, because I didn't give a good diddle about hitting the right notes. I wasn't thinking about the people who were subject to my senseless noise; I was thinking about my own enjoyment.

It's the same with writing. Those who know nothing or care nothing about the basics of writing scribble whatever comes to mind, regardless of spelling, grammar, or whoever might be subject to reading it.  But a writer? A writer expects much more of himself. He wants his words to create something wonderful and truly worthwhile. It isn't enough to use words; they've got to be the right words, and if he's very lucky, they strike the right chord with his readers. Writers don't want to make readers cringe like a certain little girl pounding out those sour notes used to do.

As you can probably tell by that badge up there, it is once again IWSG day, when writers all over the world are encouraged to share their ups and downs with each other. Thanks go out to Alex Cavanaugh, ninja captain extraordinaire, for coming up with this super idea. If you'd like to join this caring group or read the posts of other writers, please go here

Okeydoke. I don't have anything to complain or crow about this month. I'm looking forward to (gulp) being the guest speaker at a book club meeting later this month, and I'll let y'all know how it went next month.

So on to this month's question: How has being a writer changed your experience as a reader?

For life-long addicts to the written word, reading is a vital part of our existence. As a child, I consumed books indiscriminately like a plague of locusts leveling a wheat field. Some books I loved, some I liked, and others I liked less, but I always enjoyed the experience of reading, and never criticized the work. If I was reading, I was happy.

[morguefile]

As an adult, I still read a lot of books. Our house is full of them. Bookshelves everywhere. Books in every room. Books in the attic. If I wanted to, I could build a wall with books. (But why would I want to do that? Then no one could read them.) When I was considering buying a book at a yard sale, Smarticus wanted to know why in the world I wanted another book. I already had hundreds of them. I said, "But I don't have this one." He couldn't argue with that, and neither could the gal selling it. She laughed and gave it to me for free.

But as a writer and an adult, my reading has become much more discriminating, and my reactions are much more critical. I notice misspellings. Bad grammar drives me up the wall. Poor plotting and cardboard characters annoy the stuffing out of me, and poorly constructed sentences... especially in the newspaper... are endlessly aggravating. Perhaps because I employ a pushy nit-picking internal editor when I'm writing, I can't shut her down when I'm reading someone else's work. I find myself judging what I read instead of simply enjoying it. In short, as a writer, I have an even greater appreciation and admiration for beautiful writing, and much less patience for sloppy writing.

I still crave... and sometimes find... books that are so beautifully written, they sweep me away and engulf me in a wondrous world populated by exciting ideas and characters, but it isn't as easy as it used to be. Darn it.

Are you more aware of errors in the things you read than you used to be, or is it just me? Or... are there simply more errors?

                             Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.

P.S. I'm experiencing a bit of a split personality today. In addition to being HERE, I'm also guest blogging with the really real housewives HERE

How about popping in over there, too? And it'd be extra nice if you'd sign on as a follower while you're there. It's a super blog run by four super ladies, and they and their guest bloggers always come up with lots of interesting and helpful tips and advise. I'm offering some health tips today... and some of them might even be true!

Trowel and Error

Thought for the day:  When weeding, the best way to make sure you're removing a weed and not a valuable plant is to pull on it. If it comes out of the ground easily, it's a valuable plant.

Are you a gardener... or are you a garden-dreamer, like me?

I mean, I harbor amazing delusions of grandeur while browsing through garden catalogues and piling a cart high with purchases from the local nursery every year.

And then something happens.

I like to call it reality.

Gardens are not made by singing, 'Oh, how beautiful' and sitting in the shade.  [Rudyard Kipling]

Darn it. (I'm really good at sitting in the shade.)

Kipling was a real kill-joy, huh? I do fine getting all the stuff into the ground, and for a little while... just over twenty-three minutes, I think... the garden looks marvelous. Then comes these things:

                                                                      Yep, weeds.

The philosopher who said that work well done never needs doing over never weeded a garden.   [Ray D. Everson]

It's a little-known fact, but I'm pretty sure weeds are organized. Not unionized yet, but they're definitely working together. Just think about it. They grow at precisely the rate you pull them out. Yank a weed from one part of your garden, and boing! another one pops up in another part. Really. I've seen it happen.

Even with the whack-a-mole racket weeds have going for them, I don't mind weeding all that much.

At first.

And then something else happens.

I like to call it debilitating heat. In Georgia, that could happen just about any time of the year, but as a rule, by the end of springtime, (which could occur as early as February...) perspiration is pretty much flowing like Niagara Falls around here.

                                                                     I'm talking ...    

Oh, and did I happen to mention our annual summer droughts? And the outdoor watering bans? And whattayaknow? While flowers and vegetables gasp for water, weeds seem to thrive under these conditions.

Crabgrass can grow on bowling balls in airless rooms, and there is no known way to kill it that does not involve nuclear weapons.  [Dave Barry]   

They say hard work doesn't hurt anyone, but at my age, why take chances? I tend to agree with good ol' Tex here:

The best way to garden is to put on a wide-brimmed hat and some old clothes. And with a hoe in one hand and a cold drink in the other, tell somebody else where to dig.  [Texas Bix Bender]

Alas, nobody was around who was willing to let me stand around giving orders, so I tempted fate last week and went outside in the early morning (before the heat index hit triple digits) to weed and prune. I know. What a trooper, right?

So I grabbed a rug to protect my dainty little knees, my handy-dandy gloves, hand hoe, clippers, pruners, and trowel, and I was ready to go. Approximately two minutes later, the attack began.

First, the reconnaissance mosquito swooped down to sample the cuisine. Then came the rest of his brigade.

You think weeds are organized? They've got nothing on mosquitoes.

So, I tore into the house to swap shorts for sweat pants and to douse myself in bug spray. Which, I'm pretty sure, the mosquitoes around here actually like. Kinda like a finishing sauce.

But, I eventually managed to finish the job. (Which, of course, could stand to be done all over again now.) For some reason, our front garden is a flipping magnet for wild onions. Pain in the derriere to keep digging them out and digging them out, too. But didja know if you don't dig 'em out, they grow pretty little purple flowers? (ahem)  I may have read that somewhere ... yeah, that's the ticket...

Anyhow, the task gave me plenty of time to hum and think. Like, about editing. Wouldn't it be nice if it were as easy to axe the deadwood from a written work as it is to prune it from a bush? And, watching all those tiny bugs scurrying around, I thought about how tiny we are in comparison to the universe. Suppose we're part of some kind of a cosmic garden, waiting for the Master Gardener to come pull weeds? Then the question becomes: are we the weeds... or the flowers? (Yeah, I was getting a little heat-addled by that time.)

Even so, it kinda made me wonder. Who am I to decide which plants should grow and which should go?

Some...  no... most... wildflowers are beautiful.







And Ralph Waldo Emerson, a very wise man, I might add, said, What is a weed? A plant whose virtues have never been discovered.

I think he's absolutely right! So, I may just have to reconsider this whole notion of pulling weeds. Because, if you think about it,

                                                              Dandelions are quite dandy.

(sigh) If I could only grow green stuff in my garden like I can in my refrigerator... [unknown]

                                          Okay, hands up. I give. Time to throw in the trowel.

For now. I have been looking at topiary pictures lately. That just might be the way to go, ya know? Think our neighbors will be impressed?

                              Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.

** All images, except the last one, come from morguefile The topiary shot is courtesy of seniorark

I Protest!

Thought for the day:  When our spelling is perfect, it's invisible. But when it's flawed, it prompts strong negative associations.  Marilyn vos Savant

You don't think spelling matters? Maybe you agree with Napoleon, who said, A man occupied with public or other important business cannot, and need not, attend to spelling.

Oh, yeah??? Tell that to the foolish husband who sends the following message to his wife: I'm having a wonderful time. Wish you were her.


If you follow the news, you already know that The Protester was named Time magazine's person of the year. Well, I have a protest message of my own:


                  If you aren't sure how to spell a word, maybe ya better look it up!

Feeling any strong negative associations after looking at these pictures? Or are ya ...  just laughing? [Pictures courtesy of dribbleglass]

                               Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.

Some Pets Have Gotta GO!

Thought for the day:  Why is it you put your two cents' worth in, but are only offered a penny for your thoughts? (Where are all those extra pennies going?)

Oh, yeah, this is reeeeeally funny.

As mentioned in Monday's post, this is National Pet Week, the time of year for rabid pet owners all over the country to make a concentrated effort to humiliate and pamper the living daylights out of their beloved animals. Coming up this Saturday will be this year's annual Woofstock celebration in Suwanee, Georgia. (I kid you not!) Alas, Bob Dylan and Jimi Hendrix aren't available, but there will be other live music, and it's pretty likely that many of the pooches in attendance will be singing along. Thirty pet vendors and fifteen non-profit and rescue groups will have booths set up, and there will be food, drinks, and various entertainments for the two-legged kids, too. All pets are welcome, but they must be on a leash, and their owners must clean up after them. (Maybe one of the pet vendors will be selling pooper scoopers and baggies.)

OK, it's time to talk about another kind of pet now, the kind that requires neither a pooper scooper nor a baggy. Has neither feather nor fur, and doesn't even beg while you're eating dinner. Animal lovers and animal haters alike have 'em, even though we may try to deny their existence. They're those annoying little beasties known as pet PEEVES.

If she does that again, I'll SCREAM!

Pet peeves are those seemingly minute annoyances that get on our last nerve, and nurture simmering resentment that threatens to explode with little provocation. All it takes it that proverbial last straw. Here are some typical pet peeves:

• You're so thirsty, your tongue is sticking to the roof of your mouth. You go to the fridge for a tall cold drink of your favorite beverage, and find the container has barely a half teaspoon of liquid left in it.
• Someone empties the ice cube tray, but doesn't bother to refill it with water. 
• Someone borrows your car and returns it with nothing but fumes left in the gas tank.
• Someone borrows your XYZ and returns it broken.
• Your neighbor encourages his 150-pound dog to defecate on your front lawn. (But he must do it at NIGHT, because you never catch him in the act. Still, there's that incriminating pile every morning.)
• Your neighbor blows all of his leaves out of his yard ... and into yours.
• After your mailman puts mail into your box, he forgets to close it. Rain or shine. 
• At least twice a week, your paperboy throws the morning newspaper under your car.
• Whenever your roommate, child, or significant other uses the kitchen sponge, (s)he leaves it sopping wet on the counter in a soggy sodden mess. 
• Inside-out socks and underwear in the laundry basket.

Any of those ring a bell with you? My only real pet peeve is over people who don't use their darned turn signals. In particular, when I'm waiting at a red light with my left hand turn signal blinking, and there's a whole line of traffic on the other side of the intersection, blinkerless. Most of THEM are waiting to make a left turn, too, but they don't have their turn signals on, so I have to WAIT, just in case they come straight. ARRRRGH! It makes me crazy!!! Still, I wait. After all, some rights are worth dying over, but the right of way isn't one of them. How about you? What's your biggest pet peeve?

Now that we've talked about pampered pets and pet peeves, I want to touch on one other kind of pet, and that's pet words. If you've ever known anyone with a verbal pet word or phrase, it's hard to miss. I used to know a gal whose favorite word was "absurd." The first five hundred times she used it were mildly amusing. Then, there was the "awesome" phase, when it seemed like just about everyone was sprinkling their conversation with that word. Teenagers are probably the most apt to glom onto favorite words; they have their own unique "teen speak." My friends and I used to overuse words like gross, neat, cool, and gag a maggot. (Matter of fact, I STILL say neat and cool ...) 

Extending beyond verbal pet words, writers are just as likely to fall into the pet word trap. 

Out, damned pet!

When editing, we have to leash those pet words and show 'em who's boss. Many writers have a tendency to overuse words like and, but, then and now, and I'm one of them. Another weakness I share with some other writers is using phrases like was thinking or was running,  when the simple past tenses thought and ran are much more effective. It's also a good idea to be aware of the word used to begin each sentence. If fifteen sentences within the first page all start with the same word, maybe it's time to consider spicing it up with a little bit of variety. 

Even if there's a particularly effective phrase within your work, overuse can dilute its effectiveness, and turn what started out as impressive into merely ordinary. For example, one book I read described a woman's hair as being the color of a new penny. I loved that. Vivid image, right? But, in the course of the book, the author described half a dozen other things as being the color of a new penny. He did the same thing in his second book, so I guess that truly was a pet phrase of his. I'd be willing to bet he was unaware of how much he overused it, though. (Both of his books were self-published, so this is a particular caveat for those who seek self-publication: beware of those pet words!)

Now that we've discussed pampered pets, pet peeves, and pet words, I'll leave you with a couple of priceless quotes about words. Referring to Ernest Hemingway, William Faulkner said, "He has never used a word that might send a reader to the dictionary." To which Hemingway replied, "Poor Faulkner. Does he really think big emotions come from big words?"

Until next time, it'd be awesome if you take care of yourselves. And each other. 

Holding Onto the Past

Thought for the day:  If you have a bunch of odds and ends and get rid of all but one, what do you call it?



It's hard to say goodbye.

 Do you have a bunch of stuff around your house that you can't let go? I'm not talking about necessities; I'm talking about those unique treasures from your past that still manage to pluck your heartstrings like a two-bit harp.

Like my cheap-o fifth grade orchestra pin. It still occupies a place of honor in my jewelry box, along with a "lucky stone" I found when I was in second grade, and a neat-o metal typeset of my name that came from a field trip to the Baltimore Sun (newspaper) building, which I, in fact, missed, because I had the measles. None of those items will mean anything to our children when I'm gone, but somehow, I can't bring myself to part with them.

                                    And records. Have I ever got records! My favorites are the 45s.


It's probably time to tell those records sayonara, but like Celine Dion sang, "It's hard to say goodbye." Not that any of these records are anywhere near as recent as Ms. Dion's birth. No, these treasures of mine are Elvis records, Little Richard, (when he was still a young rough and tumble rock 'n' roller) the Coasters, Nat King Cole, Chuck Berry, and Rosemary Clooney singing about "This Ol' House."  They're the Drifters, Dion & the Belmonts, (before he went solo) and Eddie Fisher singing "Dungaree Doll." The McGuire Sisters, Artie Shaw and his orchestra playing "Star Dust"  (one of my favorite songs of all time) and Jerry Lee Lewis on the old Memphis, TN Sun label. Treasures, I tell you, treasures!

                                         Not that I've played any of them in the past forty years.

The fact that I don't have a good-working turntable is beside the point. If I wanted one badly enough, I'd buy one. But why should I? I don't NEED one.

No, all I have to do is look at these old records, and admire their brightly colored labels and sleeves, to remember my first record player with its wobbly turntable, which could only play one record at a time. To play a 45, you had to put a plastic piece into the larger record hole to make it fit. Had to tape a penny to the arm to make it heavy enough to play the records right, too. Then, my brother got the portable RCA player. All it played was 45s, and you could put on a whole stack at one time. (Like Sarah Vaughan crooned, "The record player's automatic ... ba-by.") One look at these records, and I'm bopping in the club basement with my girl friends, or dancing cheek-to-cheek at the teen center. So I don't have to actually HEAR them ... to hear them in my heart.

What got me to thinking about those old records is the editing I had to do on my book Hot Flashes and Cold Lemonade this weekend. Know what? It's every bit as hard to cut words as it is to get rid of records. What's funny is that some of the parts getting the axe are the ones that I sweat the most blood over while laboring to give them birth. Witty stuff. Clever stuff. Stuff that makes me smile.

But it's gotta go! Because it injects ME into the book and serves to draw the reader away from the story. No matter how much I love those words, it doesn't serve the book if the reader stops to admire "my writing". Damn it.

So, the words are going. I delivered 'em, and now I'm killing 'em. And the book is better for it. And some day, those records will go, too, I promise. But not yet.

So, how about you? What treasures are you holding onto from your past? No matter how illogical it is to hang onto them, they sure do bring us comfort, don't they?

Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other. I believe I'll sail off into the sunset. (I always wanted to do that!)