Tag Archives: “Books

The Varied Paths to Publication Book Tour & Its Consequences!

IMG_3943Jaffrey to Hartford to Jaffrey to Providence to Stonington—twice—to New York City to Providence to Jaffrey to Saratoga Springs to Jaffrey (and up Mount Monadnock to celebrate our 25th Anniversary!) to Burlington, VT to Randolph, VT to South Burlington, VT. to Jaffrey to Providence to New York to Providence (Happy Birthday to me!) to Boston to Providence where I type now. In one month and one week. 2214 miles. 41 hours and five minutes of  movement over the course of 36 days. Which equals 61.5 miles a day at 54 miles per hour. Thank goodness for calculators and thank goodness it’s over. We had a great time but my soul is huffing to catch up. Even Carl got a bit confused when we were leaving Boston the other night post a Boston Community Capital celebration: as we approached the entry to Route 93, he had a moment: where were we going? North or South?

Between family commitments and The Varied Paths to Publication Book Tour, our carbon footprint has been shocking this month. Too, I raised the heat in our Endless Pool in Providence from 50 to 86 so that I can use said pool, thereby exposing the fact that I am my own worst enemy in my war against climate change. Granted, the trips to New York were made by train, and once we got to a city, we stuck to walking but my feints at change have been as vexatious and quixotic as a regular American’s hope to find a drop of democracy in the tea party’s vitriol, or a vertebra of backbone in too many Democrats. But before I go too far down the Road of Rant, let’s return to the over two thousand miles Carl chauffeured me through in the past two weeks.

Varied Paths Tour

SaratogaSprings flyer 8.8.15 final JPEGIn Saratoga Springs, the Northshire Bookstore hosted Nina Gaby, Tammy Flanders Hetrick and Celine Keating and me. We had a great discussion with a small but interested audience. Yes! We had an audience though we knew only our spouses. It was, indeed, an auspicious beginning and fun way to get to know these three authors. I had read their books (Dumped: Stories of Women Unfriending Women; Stella Rose and Play for Me, respectively) and it was quite wonderful to hear them read their books, and talk about writing, publishing and being women of a certain age and attitude. Which is the sub theme of the tour. I found it incredible and slightly intimidating to be with such energetic, cool women.

IMG_3789Back in Jaffrey, Carl and I did some amazing foraging and then climbed Mount Monadnock to celebrate our 25th if-you-can-believe-it anniversary. It was the first time Carl had climbed the White Dot and I saw him bristle when he had to pay to climb his mountain. But the five dollars goes to support the maintenance and oversight of the mountain and so, with that justification, we proceeded on a perilous, vertiginous climb.

IMG_3813May I just say, we aren’t as young as we used to be but we still know how to climb mountains: with each other to help!

 

IMG_3820 As we cheerfully commented after making it to the top: It’s all down hill from here! Via the White Cross trail, which was touted as less steep yet was more slippery and painful to the knees . . . but going down hill always is, isn’t it? Half way down, as I slipped on another slick rock, I had to wonder: why cross?

That weekend, we drove to Burlington for the Burlington Book Festival, and two Book Tour events, one in Randolph and one in South Burlington.

IMG_3884At the book fest, we had the pleasure of hearing David Macaulay, Paul Muldoon and Abigail Thomas speak. And of being interviewed by Lesley Nase for her radio show Books, Yarns and Tales.

IMG_3889 And onward to Randolph, where we ate fantastic cronuts (who needs NYC!) and drank decent espresso—who’d’a thunk!—at the Three Bean Cafe—and enjoyed a great gathering at the Art of Vermont Gallery. There we dug a bit deeper into our personal stories and I had the pleasure of meeting Alexis Paige, one of the contributors to Nina’s book and our special guest that day. And then we headed back up to South Burlington’s Barnes and Noble.

IMG_0984Ironies abound, don’t they? Years ago, I wrote a short story called “Chain Material” about a dastardly chain bookstore that, like an octopus had spread its tentacles. A chain rather like Barnes and Noble—which today is almost a local bookstore. Certainly this one supports authors and building community.

We drove home to the light of the moon which later that night eclipsed. We made it about a third of the way through before passing out.

IMG_3845The next morning, during a lull in our active driving schedule, I briefly faced the dilemma of our dapper Little Big Man. There is no mistaking his rooster-ish ways anymore and I keep thinking how this should not have happened. He was supposed to be a she. But I could say the same about Big Red, previously Rhoda Red, who is now three. It does make me a bit sick. Last year was so easy! We adopted the sex-link girls Brownie, Clownie and Downie. Yes, Opie, too. Who for all I know was a boy and was kind enough to die so I wouldn’t have to deal with another Roo. Just as did Little Big Man, Surprise and Exclamation’s brother who died four days after his arrival. Thoughtful boy. But really? I ordered auto sexed chicks. A no brainer. No mistakes possible! And still we received two boys. I appear to be irresponsible but really, I think these things through. Maybe stopping short of thinking it through to all possible consequences. But we now have two cocks and Big Red is being strangely obsequious. IMG_3869He’s sleeping on the coop floor. Leaving Little Big Man to get an ego.

All to say, we aren’t there. We are here. Again. Heading there shortly. And I have signed up at NaNo to write a novel next month. Even as I struggle to find a story for my soon to be trashed book that was supposed to save the world and now?

Writer’s block sucks.

IMG_3898Which leads me to suspect that all the movement might be having consequences I hadn’t anticipated. Or maybe, unconsciously, I did. Maybe I don’t want to find the story? Or write one? Maybe I’m supposed to be paying more attention to other things. Like my cats.

Final note: a new person that I met on the road wrote on his facebook page that he “was going to write like a motherfucker” last weekend. Excellent goal except. . . . has anyone read the definition of motherfucker recently?

So instead of wanting to write like a motherfucker—I know, it’s just a saying but my grandmother berated me once for using such language in my writing. There are better and more interesting phrases—next time I sit down to write I will hope to write like someone who has something true to say, and —most important—that I figure out a way to say it.

Writer’s Block & Electra

IMG_3590I am not writing. I’ve been blocked for weeks. That’s my excuse anyway because then it is within my power to overcome the block and write again. Far worse would be if it is a conspiracy of the swirling energy around me. The negative ones determined to prevent me from reaching my goal of writing a book that might save the world. A big goal? Yes. One that might have something to do with this wall I keep knocking my head against? Could be.

IMG_3589Three days ago, those negative energies had succeeded. I decided to dump the book I have been working for two years. It has, as one reader put it, everything but the kitchen sink. An off-grid memoir. An environmental eulogy. A political rant, and diatribe against our Demo-n-Captialist society. A chicken drama. Yes, this book was to have been a call to arms for an Attitude Change Time-ion (A.C.T.)

It was too hard. Hopeless. I decided to add the sink and throw in the towel. Who was I fooling, right? After all, too few people care enough. Those that do are overwhelmed. Not even the surge of Bernie could uplift spirits beaten down by the disappointment of Hope and Change. So what if our current president had prevented a global economic meltdown, passed healthcare reform, has lower gas prices and higher employment than seen in recent times. Obama is seen as a failure because that’s how Fox News will have him portrayed.

And then I read about the Bohemian club. Have you heard of it? Talk about Sickos. And those Sicko Homo satanicus-types run the world and so I decided to hell with it all. I was done. I would move on to the novel I have outlined in my mind. It has been percolating for the months and months I have been working on Darwin’s View One Breath After Midnight. How could I have ignored it for so long? Because at least in fiction I could control things.

Well. Except my subconscious and unconscious but that’s another conversation. Part of the below mentioned Varied Paths I am going to be walking this month. My point here being, maybe Eloise could save the world given if I can’t. Mother Daze has potential. All ideas do. And it is fresh and new. I could get fired up! and ready to go! and write again!

IMG_3499But this morning . . . I wasn’t settling in. I had been verging two days ago but yesterday we drove to a family memorial in Connecticut. And so my energy was disparate this morning. It takes two or three days for me to settle in again after a day away. We are going to be away a lot this next month or two. Driving the northeast for the “Varied Paths to Publication: Women of a Certain Age . . . and Attitude” tour I am participating in. And if we add on eight hours of road time/carbon footprint by going to the Common Ground Fair in Unity, Maine?

Swirling energy and there are not three days together in one place in my near future. Not for about a month or two, so starting a new book? Really?

I bethought myself. How to settle one’s energy? MEDITATION. Of course. Deep breathing. So I stepped outside my office, set my timer for five minutes—I would be breaking a record if I managed to sit still for that long—and settled down on the solid, granite step. Grounded and grounding. I closed my eyes and Om. A noise. One eye opened. A humming bird in the sunflowers. How cute is that? I couldn’t see it clearly as I didn’t have on my glasses but I was mediating. Calm focus. Rustling to my left. In the garden. Had Brownie gotten into the vegetable garden again? She has figured out a way to leap over our electric fence and scrabble about in there. I peeked. There was definitely something over there. I attempted to ignore it but we still have plant life in the form of tomatoes and eggplant and swiss chard and none of it is ready to be uprooted by a chicken’s scratching. I decided I would free said chicken and return to meditation.

IMG_3594. . . Not a chicken. I yelled for Carl.

I don’t know why. That seems to be my reaction whenever something out of my comfort zone and particularly nature-ish happens. Train of thought: Nature . . . danger . . . who got me into this . . . CARL!! COME QUICK! PORCUPINE IN THE ELECTRIC FENCE.

This brought to mind our previous experience, years ago, with groundhogs also known as woodchucks and/or little bastards. They ate our first garden when we lived on Angell Street. Our beautiful cabbages gnawed on. I hired someone to catch and relocate said L.B.s. They never caught the groundhogs. They did capture two possums on two separate occasions, and I found out that they were not rehoming them.

IMG_3596All to say, I reached for the phone to call a humane society or an Animal rescue number while Carl approached, very carefully, our resident porcupine. Carl and I by now had reached the same conclusion: Sh**.

I brought Carl wire clippers. Lowered the fencing. He clipped the fencing. The porcupine panted in terror. His struggles only got him more enmeshed, his arm more fully tangled in the fencing.

For the record: porcupines are really cute. This is a full grown one but he has a pudgy little face. Very dark brown and soft looking. And the quills don’t look so terrible though both Carl and I maintained a very, very healthy respect for the ones on his tail. Porcupines are rather hedgehog-ish that way. Cuddly looking. Bringing to mind the phrase don’t judge a book by its cover.

It was emitting an odor of fear. I was grateful it wasn’t a skunk. It breathed heavily and it was not Bhasktrika pranayama yogic breath. I wished we knew porcupine language. Instead, we spoke human as soft and reassuring as we could.

You will have to take my word about the cuteness level. Though I had my camera in hand, I didn’t take photos because I thought it would be irresponsible to be taking photos while Carl tried to free the porcupine. Instead of photos, I got a blanket and placed it between Carl’s bare arm and the porcupine’s tail. I found a useless pair of garden clippers. And shooed the chickens—who were all excited! by the excitement! and raced in our direction! to see what was going on!—back into the coop. Where Little Big Man raced about and then out. All the others were in but he was out and so I was chasing him while Carl continued to wrestle with the fencing.

And the porcupine struggled, his left arm entirely wrapped up in the fencing material. If we had been able to hold onto him for a half hour and gently untangle him . . . which was clearly not going to happen.

IMG_3598IMG_0723That was the morning’s dither. The fence is down and fairly well wrecked. Electra, the porcupine, is exhausted and hiding under our deck, his/her left arm tightly wrapped in fencing. I worry if s/he will be okay as I begin to pack up my office. Because my writing day is over. It is time for other projects and more travels. Instead of debating which book to focus on, I contemplate priorities, and how close I was to a porcupine and what photos I might have taken if only I had opted for photography instead of  moral support and an apprenticeship in toreador-ism with a green wool blanket. Next time, will I opt for the camera, only to capture Carl attacked by a rabid skunk?

The only other news from Darwin’s View is that Little Big Man is testing his vocal chords. Both Carl and I heard a stranger noise earlier this morning. Ironically, we thought it was an anonymous porcupine. I looked out to the coop, thinking perhaps a hawk had once again landed on the bench in the run. There was Little Big Man, stretching his neck, lifting his head. Ra-row-a-doodle.

IMG_3602Big Red’s crow is boisterous relatively. Big Red is still three times Little Big Man’s size. And Little Big Man is beautiful, reminiscent of Cornelius two summers ago . . .

Two summers? Is it already so long ago? I was supposed to have finished my book by now. Instead?

Electra. Chickens and hawks. Gardens and forests. Travels. Sunrise to sunset, life happens. Just like that.

Sunset
Sunset
Sunrise
Sunrise

The Places a Broody Hen Takes Me; or Living Ones Values

IMG_2665I started this post almost two weeks ago. Panda, our mother hen, had gone broody. Again. I’m a sucker for a broody hen. Or at least this one. She’s one of the original six chicks we adopted four springs ago and this will be the third year I have gone through the debate of whether to let her have her stubborn way. Usually she waits until late July, just before we leave for an annual family reunion, and so I have not been around to think through the consequences of my decision. But almost a month ago, I heard the unmistakeable guttural kruk! of a mother hen, distinct in its relentless, anxious (to me) call: ATTENTION CHICKS!

Panda with her cheeps last
Panda with her cheeps last year.

Listen to me! Stay near me for safety or the other hens will peck you. Good food here. This is how to scratch. Did I not tell you to stay near? You deserved that peck. This is how to drink water. Here’s a delightful blade of grass. Get over here. You aren’t listening. Good food here. Now scratch. A tiny stone just for you to swallow for your gizzard. Etc..

I looked to the coop and sure enough there was Panda fluffing and stalking about, creating a DO NOT CROSS ME zone around her that rebuffed any sign of amorousness from Big Red, and kept the other hens—particularly her daughters Beatrice, from her first year’s clutch, and Brownie, Clownie and Downie from her second—in their places, too: away. Adding to the kerfuffle Continue reading The Places a Broody Hen Takes Me; or Living Ones Values

Bittersweet Manor’s First Anniversary and an Award!

ImageJust back from the happy, morning task of cleaning the chickens’ poop deck, I am here to announce that Bittersweet Manor is one year old! In celebration, and most conveniently, on May 27th, my novel will be awarded a Silver medal, an IPPY Award for Contemporary Fiction, from Independent Book Publishers. I ask: What could be a better birthday present?

Now, a few people have commented, “too bad you Continue reading Bittersweet Manor’s First Anniversary and an Award!

Mud Season 101

MUD SEASON 101

IMG_2633_2Saturday was a spectacular day. It was spring like they write about.

Our rosemary plants and Figgy out sunning themselves.
Our rosemary plants and Figgy out sunning themselves.

I had planned to go to the Monadnock Writers Meeting to hear the New Hampshire Poet Laureate but at home, I dawdled. By the time I left, I had missed the meet and greet part of the meeting but was determined to follow through with my plan-for-the-day: Attend the talk and discussion, then go off to buy organic shrubberies, wherever I might find them. A happy balance of intellectual stimulation and interaction with people, and gardening prep.

IMG_2610_2. . . Determined might be too strong a word. Ambivalent. Continue reading Mud Season 101

Blog Reset?

Did you know that Key West is an island? Well! I know that. And you (now) know that. But apparently too many who live on Key West—or is it those nasty Too Big to Fail companies again—don’t.

IMG_2565

Are you lost? Then make this Exhibit One, proof of the road-to-hell-is-paved thang. I have every intention of writing a regular post . . . and then life happens. Or Continue reading Blog Reset?

My cross-country, whistle stop book tour with flash readings assessment: Amtrak

IMG_1699What logic did we follow when we decided to travel across the country and back by train? The logic of principles. Think carbon footprint. Flying sucks. Driving would be exhausting and relentless, and would take us full circle, back to carbon footprint.

Carl, of course, was game to drive if we decided to tuck our carbon footprint into the backseat. He is a road warrior having been “on the road” as a musician for years. He’s used to cruising across the country in a bus and has always said he’d love to go across the country without a schedule to push him along.

But we had a schedule, if a self-imposed one. Two flash readings in New York. Two in D.C.. Two in Chicago, and then straight to the west coast for ten more. Continue reading My cross-country, whistle stop book tour with flash readings assessment: Amtrak

Writing, Indiesfirst, Time and Patience

IMG_1878As to the writing process, it never ceases to amaze me how easily off kilter and out of a routine I get. If I leave on a trip, which I seem always to be doing, for a day, it takes me two to get back in the groove. Or, if I leave for three weeks . . . well, here I am and still not in a groove. Only just barely seeing the outline of getting back in to work.

IMG_2216
BLUEBIRD!

Happily, I just finished reading May Sarton’s Journal of  Solitude. I began it five or ten years ago and never got past page twelve. This time, I picked it up on a whim and was rapt. It spoke to me. She experienced life as I experience it. I see that is okay to prefer to be alone.

Well. Not prefer exactly. It is more I need that solitude to get my thoughts in order. I go skeetering through life and think I am on top of things when, in sorry fact, I have pieces of hay hanging off my coat, a hole in my shirt, and/or my eyebrow is wildly skewed up in a remarkably devil-like way; people have actually reached over to smooth it.

And so, whereas usually, I Continue reading Writing, Indiesfirst, Time and Patience

Independent Bookstores: Who needs them?

Do independent bookstores matter? Hmmm.

Have you seen the Monty Python skit in which a medieval monk is staring, with much frustration, at a book on his desk? A knock at the door. “Tech support!” With relief, the monk ushers in the tech support fellow. He points to the book, saying something to the effect of, “I can’t open this thing. Scrolls made so much more sense.”

I use this skit to show how far technology has come, and to point out that, what we consider old hat used to be new, and hard to understand and use. Regarding books (and clocks with hands, not digits) the upcoming generation might be reaching a point that they don’t know how to use such archaic technologies. But Continue reading Independent Bookstores: Who needs them?