A Bird In My Hand

Peeps, the baby hummingbird

2010-05-06T22:32:00.000-07:00

In honor of the title of my blog, I share this little video for your watching pleasure. It's a friend of a friend, so I know, somehow, we're kindred spirits. Enjoy!
PS. - if you can't see the whole picture, click on the picture and it will take you to a bigger pic.

ISSUES

2010-04-22T17:29:00.000-07:00

My cat, Sylvester, is having...issues.

Sylvester, in calmer days...

You may recall that we adopted him from a shelter at the advanced age of 11 1/2, separated from his brother, (his lifelong friend), his family and well, a piece of his sanity, apparently. Yes, it seemed pretty cute at first that he was hiding under his little blankie, sucking his thumb. I love him more than my luggage.

So cute, right? But as the years go by, well, Sylvester just becomes more, um, neurotic.

He's always been a crier. [read: yowler.] At night, maybe it's because he was declawed by his previous owners and can't jump up high to find our other [normal] cat, Maisy, he yowls for her. "Halllloooo?? Hallllllooooooo??"

Luckily, we have a beautiful, finished garage/gym/office area where he and Maisy, sleep at night. Because if they didn't, we wouldn't sleep a wink. Maisy, who is a perfect little lady, feels this is totally unfair, since she wants nothing more than to curl up behind my knees at night and blissfully sleep tight. But, because her love, Sylvester, can't do without her, Maisy is deprived of that coziness.
Oh, the guilt.

Lately, he's started meowing compulsively during the day. From the minute he comes in until we hold him and let him suck his little paw. Which is fine, but we can't just sit there all day and hold him. Eventually, things like dishes, showering and going to work intervene.

Anyway, we've been searching around for ways to deal with his "issues" which only became more profound after I went back to work. We've tried leaving the tv on for him. Aside from hiking our power bill higher, it didn't help. Now, he meows at us constantly. Simply walking past his 'spot' on the couch brings on a session of meowing that sounds suspiciously like "Mommy?mommy?mommy?mom?mom?mom?mom?"

Nothing deters him. Nothing. Sigh. (Note: Except when I pointed a camera at him to try to catch this disturbing behavior, he politely turned away and stopped. Hmmmm. I may be on to something here.)

So the other day, we bought this stuff that you spray on the place where he sleeps or hangs out, called Feliway Spray. Cat pheromones. And I must say, it's helped a little. I mean, every now and then, he'll settle down and relax. Look content, even.

Then...."Mommy?mommy? mom? mom? mom?"

Ideas out there? Ever had a cat like this?
It's not us, so much, you understand, but Maisy's delicate nerves are frayed.

"Mommy? Mommy? Mom? Mom? Make him stop."

Spring has Sprung and Happy Easter!

2010-04-03T19:16:00.000-07:00

Happy Easter!

For me, Easter has always been about flowers, spring, the birth of new possibilities. This year, with all of our rain, our flower season has been pretty nice so far. All the trees are in bloom, the azaleas are screamingly gorgeous and all is right with the world.

This photo is a little flowering plum or cherry tree at Descanso Gardens, here in La Canada. A very wealthy publisher who had a passion for gardening and particularly for camelias, purchased this huge track of land in the early 1900s and ultimately planted the entire estate with every imaginable variety of camelia. But that's not all.

There are ponds filled with fat coy, swimming under the clouds.

And this little sweetie hoping for a handout. This goose was so cute. Such a handsome fellow. Very intent on the little girl standing a few feet above him with promises of a few more kernals of corn.

There are hiking trails and strolling trails that you can almost imagine some knight riding through. (If you squint and forget you live in L.A.)

Fern grottos....

And walking spirals...

Oh, and Camelias...

This one's for you.

Have a wonderful holiday, my friends. I hope this season brings with it all kinds of new possibilities in your life.

xoxo Barbara

Mea Culpa. (Translation: Doh!)

2010-03-25T07:35:00.000-07:00

See, this is what I'm talking about. Have you ever had one of those months where not only your sleep, but your short term memory starts to go? When you go on overload and start tilting like a spinning-- well, you know.

First it's little things. Like: "Now, where did I put that open bottle of wine we started last night? Oh, on the washing machine next to the Shout, tucked beside the Bounce dryer sheets.Yeah. That makes sense."

Or: Your keys show up on top of the cat box. Why?

Or you call someone at work you've already called three times to check on the same freakin' detail. Just because you really cannot recall if you've done it.

Or, even more embarrassing, someone you absolutely adore leaves you an award on her blog and (okay, maybe you have been a little out of touch) but THEN she leaves a sweet follow up comment on your blog and mentions it. And YOU SEE IT, and for a moment your brain computes it, but in the next instant, you think: "Award...award...Now where was that bottle of wine again? And why won't that damn phone stop ringing??"

And then suddenly, in the middle of the night, or in the middle of a letter to an important client about a deposition date, you suddenly think, "Award. From Debra. On March what??"

Debra at She Who Seeks, one of the funniest bloggers out there, who is also one of the sweetest and, for the record, is quite well informed on everything Goddess, Arthurian and England-ian (is that a word? Uh, No.) is the lovely person in the above referenced brain fade, for it was She Who Seeks, who kindly left me an award for Beautiful Blogger on March-freaking-9th. (What's the date today? I rest my case.)

And I'm here to humbly say "Thank you, Debra!" and please forgive me.

I will address all that this award entails (Seven things about myself, etc...) as soon as possible. In the meantime, please go visit Debra and say "Hi!" for me.

In The Moment

2010-03-21T11:47:00.000-07:00

In case anyone wondered if I had fallen into some old well that was hidden in my path and was patiently awaiting rescue, without my computer, or means of communicating with you to explain why I haven't posted in weeks....

Well, there was no well involved. At all.

I was, in fact, sick for the better part of a month, with whatever horrid thing is going around, with only enough energy to drag myself to work, then fall into a puddle of fatigue at night. And frankly, facing my keyboard after a long day at work to post a blog here just wasn't happening.

So, anyway, after a long gap, (I'm sorry!) I'm here to say "I survived!"

[I'm being dramatic. But that's just how I roll.]

But, no. Seriously. Yuk.

Have you had this mysterious kick-in-the-*ss this year? Was it H1N1? Was it the flu? Was it just some virus with ulterior motives?

Anyway, moving on.
I thought I should show you something that made me smile this month.

There was this.

This little boy always makes me smile. He's looking out the window at the doggies, who fascinate him. Oh, the concentration!

Then, there was this belly laugh...

Oh, dear...
And will someone please explain to me why those little creases in their arms are so delicious?

Some things just defy explanation.

Like this picture.

Hmmm.

Give up? Okay, it's my cat, Maisy, rolling in the hammock of our shade-cloth covered patio. She likes to run up there and show off when we're in the back yard with her. She's very excited to have company and likes for us to poke her and play with her through the cloth. She's a cutie.

Here's Maisy with a paw outstretched in invitation.

Wouldn't it be nice if all you had to worry about was a good play date on the patio cover? What I love about pets is that they're just that simple. Like babies. In the moment.

That seems to be a concept that eludes me. But, as I roll through this thunderstorm of change in my life, I am working hard to keep it in mind.

Just put out a paw. And play a little.

Be kind to yourself,
xoxoxo Barbara

Rain

2010-02-27T18:19:00.000-08:00

It's raining again.

Here in Southern California, we need the rain badly so there's no complaining about it, unless you live in La Canada, where the hillsides are sliding down because of the terrible fires we had here this year. The rain washes the ash down from the hillsides and clogs up the streets below.

But here in the flatlands, clear rainwater feeds my thirsty trees and puddles in my uneven driveway,

reflecting my giant Jacarunda tree on its glassy surface.

And then? Just when you think it's never going to stop? This:

I know... Seriously.
Have a great weekend!

Dear Renee

2010-02-20T16:41:00.000-08:00

If you can, please ignore the storesfronts and the streetlamps and the pedantic clumbsiness of this photograph.

Instead, if you will, notice the beam of sunlight streaking between those two banks of clouds, like a pillar of energy. As if God had taken a magnifying glass and aimed it between the edges of two worlds. Guiding something powerful upward, toward Him.

This is for you, Sweet Renee. May God's guiding hand find you and give you peace. I will miss you.

xoxoxo Barbara

What else is out there?

2010-02-16T19:38:00.000-08:00

What is it?
1) Microscopic salt crystals.
2) A Hollywood sound stage in a futuristic saga?
3) A Fly's POV of a landing strip atop a grey-haired man.
4) None of the above.

If you answered 4, you're right. I found this online today and was awestruck. This cave in Mexico is deep and very hot (near magma) and was filled with boiling hot water before miners discovered there was lead and silver to be mined. So they pumped out the water and look what they found!

Naica Crystals! Weighing hundreds of tons! Apparently this stuff is gypsum, the same stuff they use in drywall. But this has been 'cooking' for millions of years into this amazing display of crystal. A real crystal cave!

A filmmaker decided this was too good to miss, so he went down and filmed the exploration of this chamber. (coming soon to a PBS station near you.) They had to wear cooling suits just to be in that room, which averaged 120* F. So there was a limited exposure allowed.

Isn't that crazy beautiful?

Sadly, whenever they finish mining that silver, they'll stop pumping out the water. It'll fill up again and disappear.

But you have to wonder: If something this beautiful exists deep in the earth, what other hidden wonders have we not yet discovered? What have we blundered over or destroyed without even noticing?

How delicate it all is.

Were you watching?

2010-02-08T07:38:00.000-08:00

1.Did you watch the Superbowl?
2. Were you rooting for New Orleans? (I love an underdog!)
Or, 3. Are you female and you only watched it because it was on every television in the house?

Okay, that doesn't really matter, because I know a lot of women who love football. I don't happen to be one of them, but I can be wrangled into watching playoffs in most sports, namely, the BIG KAHUNA OF FOOTBALL, unless it conflicts with "Big Love" or some book I'm enthralled with.

Last night, I had no such conflicts (luckily "Big Love" was on later where I live. (Do you watch that show? Do you love it? I can't stop watching it!)

Still, I thought, at least the commercials would be entertaining. I used to do commercials. Did I tell you that? Okay, it was a long time ago. But I tend to watch commercials with a slightly ~~jaded~~ discerning eye.

So which ones did you like?

I know a lot of people liked the Jay Leno, David Letterman one, but my favorite?
The GOOGLE ad about the guy moving to France for a semester abroad. Click, click, click. Ends up looking up how to build a crib?
Genius.
Even though, as a traitor to my fellow actors, since no actors were involved...I loved it because it let me use my imagination. And that made it so much better than the ones that tried so hard to grab my attention by being idiotic.

Which ones were your favorites? C'mon. I know you were watching.

If not, what did you think about BIG LOVE???

Perfect

2010-01-31T09:02:00.000-08:00

It's January (okay, almost February.) But still. This is what's sprouted in my garden in the last week.

I know in many parts of the world, it's snowing. Miserable. Cold. Icy.

And I show you this, not to rub in our moderate weather in California (because we've had our share of ugly stuff this winter) but, rather, to share this little piece of sunshine with you.

These little babies sprouted with full confidence that they were doing what they were meant to do, when they were meant to do it. And even if it wasn't perfect timing, their effort was going to be their best.

Nighttime frigid plunges?
Bah!
Flooding rain predicted?
Who cares? I'm here, World! Look at me!

Likewise, my camelia has joined in on this optimistic impulse.

Season after season, it waits until the dead of winter to share a little beauty with my fallow garden, dressing itself up with jewels like this one.

They're sturdier than they look. And they don't whine about the weather. Or the nighttime dips.

They welcome them as part of their journey, apparently. Expect them, even.

They simply bob their heads in the breeze and impart a little sunshine as we human's pass.

Yes, I suppose if they'd waited until April or May, they would surely have found a more welcoming climate, less adversity.

But the truth is, the timing of this bloom is perfect.

Absolutely perfect.

Eenie, meenie, minie, mo...

2010-01-21T07:50:00.000-08:00

Awww. So cute. Right?
Fuzzy little grey squirrel. What's he eating anyway? A nut? Sure. Nuts abound here in our neighborhood.
Fifty years ago, it used to be a walnut grove.

Walnut trees spring up in my flower pots all the time where some cute little squirrel has planted them. Sometimes jaccarunda trees too, with their little hard-shelled seed pods. Little gifts. Taking over my pots.

But they're sweet little things, aren't they? So fuzzy. And grey.

I feel sorry for them in the rain. I mean, out there in the miserable cold? Looking for that walnut they buried in one of my flower pots?

Cute Little Squirrel: Now...which one was it? No. Not that one. Not that one... Oh,wait! What's that? Yum! That looks tasty!

Bleckkkk! Phuttt!

Yes, that would be my phone line.

My phone has been out for almost a week now. My internet is sporadic at best, and works when the rain stops for a while. (Hence my absence on all of your blogs!) I would like to thank that fuzzy grey squirrel who lives in my bottlebrush tree for mistaking my phone line for a walnut. The poor phone repairman is supposed to show up today, in the middle of the worst rain storm in years, to fix my dead line.

The phone repairman and I would like to send a shout out to you, sweet little grey squirrel.
No, really. Thanks.

Not Forgotten

2010-01-15T18:33:00.000-08:00

Even if we can only do something small, that small bit becomes something larger that carries our prayers and hopes with it.

Imagine

2010-01-12T18:27:00.001-08:00

What if we all just quit banking with them?

What if we just stopped using these loan sharks' freaking credit cards and paid cash?

What if we let them sink as they've done to us?

What if we took control of our destinies?

What if we did?

Then, what might happen?

Smoke Signals

2010-01-10T06:55:00.000-08:00

Cybermation. \n. cy-ber-ma'-shun [2010] - facts perported on the world wide web; 2. \v. broadly : the validation of facts through cyber-means.

I'm inventing a new word. (At least, I think I am.)

Have you heard this word before? No, me either. But I think it's a valid word. And maybe it will end up in the lexicon someday as we're all doing it.

Need a restaurant? Look it up on the web.

Need to know who played Clarence in It's A Wonderful Life?" Google it.

Need a map to a job interview? Yahoo map it.

What the heck kind of bug is that crawling up my rose bush? Who knew garden clubs have websites!!

What's for sale on E-bay? Forgetaboutit! Hours are gone in a blink.

Oh, I've done it all. I don't have the phone yet that has the touch screen or the fun keyboard, (I'm still in the Stone Ages with my little AT&T ABC keyboard.) But at work or home, I rarely call 411 anymore. I look it up on the web. And once you discover this treasure trove of information at your fingertips, it's hard to stop . Some of us are a little obsessive.

I'm not naming names.

No, I'm not.

But along with all this wonderful access, I wonder if our own common sense is in danger of being trumped by the common opinion.

For example:

I was standing in a store line the other day with a woman who began chatting with me as she picked up a Mommy book for her daughter who was due to deliver this woman's first grandchild soon. We started talking about all the 'do's and don'ts' that have suddenly changed the face of pregnancy for our daughters. Mostly don'ts. Don't eat soft cheese. No fish. Don't sleep on your back. No this, no that.

Our daughters, both recenly pregnant had signed onto birth clubs online. And they had access to copious amounts of information that we'd never heard of wayyyyy back when we ourselves had had babies. How did our children ever survive without all of these warnings heeded??

We found ourselves laughing in that store line. Not that we were discounting this new information, but that we often found our own experience as moms trumped by online opinion.

The other day, my grandson had his first runny nose. Here's how that went:

"I think the baby has a cold," she said.

"Maybe it's a cold," I suggested, "or maybe he's just teething."

"Teething doesn't have anything to do with a runny nose, Mom."

"Where did you hear that?"

"Online. Doctors say it has nothing to do with teething."

"Hmmm. You guys always got little runny noses when you had a new tooth breaking through."

"No, mom. That's just wrong information. Maybe an old wives' tale."

Was it? Wait a minute... It couldn't be just me... (And did she just call me an old--? Never mind.)

"Wait," I said, stepping into her camp, "let me look it up."

Naturally, I Googled. And I found information to back up my claim. Yet, even as I'm doing this, I'm laughing to myself. Why do I need the internet to back up my own experience as a mom? (And to be fair, I found information to back up her claim as well. )

I forwarded her my carefully selected quote. She emailed me back a consession. We both laughed. And as soon as that darned tooth broke through, his nose miraculously stopped running.

Maybe it was a coincidence. Maybe it is an old wives' tale. In the end, it wasn't really about who was right and who was wrong. It was either a cold or not a cold.

But it really made me think: am I actually second guessing my own real-life experience in favor of the common opinion??

I love the internet.

The internet is scary.

Now, excuse me while I google that pancake recipe I saw the other day online...

Our Christmas Vacation ( Part Deux)

2010-01-03T18:19:00.000-08:00

(Part II)
Tucson was amazing and seeing my sister, Anne, again was so fun. But, then, we were off to New Mexico to accomplish the real reason we packed ourselves up in our car and drove 900 miles.

The official cuddling our Grandson on his first Christmas!

We were lucky enough to be invited out to spend that first Christmas with our son-in-law's family (it was their turn this year to get the kids) . Our in-laws were wonderful hosts. We arrived on Christmas Eve when the whole family gathered to exchange gifts with our son-in-law's dad and step-mom.

(Note: Yes, that IS an entire buffalo hide draped over the back of the couch!)

They had the biggest tree I'd ever seen in a house. And probably the highest ceilings. A real New Mexico casa. Beautiful, with great views of these:

Here was our first glimpse.

(Gasp!)

And later, our second.

These beauties, called the Organ Mountains, (supposedly, because they resemble pipe organs) were, by then, tinted pink with the sunset, and when the sun finally went down, the stars blanketed overhead across a black sky. I tilted my head back, tempted to break into Don Maclean's "Starry, Starry Night!"

Thankfully for all involved, I refrained.

I wish I could have gotten a shot of that, because you really haven't seen the night sky until you've seen it in New Mexico. (Well, maybe you have. But not if you live in L.A.) But my camera wasn't quite up to that task of capturing it. Sigh. I'll just have to rely on my starry sky memories.

The real star of the show, however, was the little boo. (er, Ryan). Here he is opening presents.

Being the one and only granchild, he was showered with toys, clothes, books and hugs. He had fun. Particularly with this:

This yummy doggie he received for Christmas from his parents is strangely reminiscent of the one we got our daughter on her first Christmas. (see below)

(Note: Please try to overlook my hubby's yowsa striped bathrobe, circa 1980 in the background. It's hard I know. There's no accounting for 1980's fashion taste.)

Can you see the resemblence? It's in the smile. Whew, that takes me back!

But I digress.

So, over the next two days, the 'boys' played tackle football (and could hardly move the next day), went skeet shooting (bruised their shoulders and thumbs) and generally accomplished male bonding.

The girls cooked, shopped and visited the old-town square. (where Billy the Kid was reputedly incarcerated and shot down by Pat Garret!) The town looks almost exactly the same as it did then, with old adobe buildings and original glass windows. La Mesilla was beautifully decorated for Christmas with paper bag luminarias on every rooftop and sidewalk.

That was gorgous. And then we all had wonderful New Mexican food.

Ry was happy.

He really enjoyed his sippy cup lid.

And we enjoyed him.

All in all, it was a fabulous trip with only one (minor) speeding ticket involved. ( FYI: In Arizona, if you see one of those radar jeeps with its antennae up, don't think for a second they aren't watching you. They're armed with cameras, baby!) But it was a small price to pay. We had fun.

Hope your holidays were wonderful and filled with relaxation, friends, family and fun!
xoxox B

What We Did On Our Christmas Vacation

2009-12-31T10:02:00.000-08:00

Helllloooooooo!

Yes, I know it's been a long time, (if anyone noticed) but like so many of you, I was off doing the Christmas holidays with family. I hope your Christmas or holiday was wonderful.

This year, for the first time EVER, we were not at home for Christmas. No waking up to our little tree packed with presents. No, this time we hit the road to meet our daughter, grandson (for his first Christmas!) and son-in-law and at his family's digs in New Mexico!

We drove (very unlike us!) and managed to get our other grown son, (Brian) to come along. It was a blast! So I thought (for part one of this post) I'd give you a taste of what we saw along our way. These amazing windmills cover several hillsides of Southern California. Like for miles. They're 100 feet tall and generate a lot of power for us, apparently.

(Please inform So.Cal Edison. Thank you.)

The desert is so beautiful. So stark. So serene. We passed these giant boulders poised atop one another as if someone was playing Lincoln logs with them and lost interest. (Please ignore the reflection in the window. No, that's not actually a GPS holder in the sky.)

For those who've ever been to Disneyland, (or Disney World), don't they remind you of Thunder Mountain? Maybe the designers drove through these parts and thought, 'Hmmm. Wouldn't they make a terrific rollar coaster ride?'

We stopped for the night at my sister, Anne's house on the way out. She lives in beautiful Arizona and has all kinds of fun stuff to entertain us. Thank you, Anne! We had so much fun.

There were mule-drawn wagon-rides to see the Christmas lights!

How fun was that?

These two stood patiently as we all oogled them.

"Try to ignore them, Wilber. They're tourists...."

And beautiful light displays.

Then, there were Anne's horses, who were much more friendly....

Here's me and Smokey getting reaquainted.

He was kind enough to let us city slickers ride him.

That's me, giving Smokey's mom, Hershey, mixed signals with my knees: Run! What? NO!

Hershey: "Make up your mind, will ya?!"

Here's my honey, David, and Anne.

Please take note of the posture difference. The ~~wild flailing arms~~ glee on one side, the relaxed 'this is fun' posture on the other. Yes, those horses were patient with us. Paticularly Smokey, the calm one. We all got to ride and it was wonderful.
Then, my son got to do this:

That's right, baby. He drove Ann's hubby's vintage tractor! He was set for the trip after that. He couldn't stop grinning.

And because I know you have trees to dismantle, parades to watch and hours to kill doing more important things, that's all for now.

Part duex of our BIG CHRISTMAS ADVENTURE to come next!

Happy New Year! To all of you.
I hope (and I sincerely mean this) that 2010 is a MUCH better year for all of us! See you in the new year!
Love & Hugs
B

Merry Christmas, my friends

2009-12-22T22:03:00.000-08:00

Merry Christmas to all of my wonderful blogging friends!

You all have been one of my best and most surprising gifts this year. Wouldn't it be fun if we could all get together and have a Christmas cookie or two?

But in lieu of that, let me just say that you are, each of you, so special to me. And I thank you for sharing a little piece of your precious time with me.


                  Have a safe, wonderful, joyous holiday!

                                      Love, Barbara

PS. - Be back soon!

For Renee

2009-12-20T18:19:00.000-08:00

This Christmas Angel is for you, sweet Renee.

Please know that you are in my thoughts and prayers.

If you want to visit Renee and add to the hundreds of wishes rising up

please follow her link and leave a message. She can use all of

our prayers. And if we all shout, maybe someone

will listen to reason.

Be Kind To Yourself

2009-12-19T07:19:00.000-08:00

Do you make resolutions? New Years or otherwise? How do you feel about them? Do you find yourself let down at the end of the year when you don't achieve your goals? Or does your list make you work harder to accomplish things? Do goals set your direction for the next year or do you drift along waiting for fate to find you?

I'm a believer in goals. But I've never been a writer of lists-- mostly because I inevitably lose them, and then I feel like an idiot for doing it. I keep my lists in my head. (Although, I confess, that is a less and less efficient system considering C.R.S has set in. (Can't Remember, uh, Stuff.) Or maybe it's system overload. "The hard drive is temporarily inaccessible." Whatever the reason, lists are starting to be more appealing. And according to Oprah and the other 'experts' out there, the very act of writing a goal down imprints it into your psyche or shoots the request out into the Universe to be fulfilled by the Wish Gremlins and... yeah, never mind...

Maybe it's too early to begin thinking about goals for next year, but today, it occurred to me that (thankfully!) 2009 is wrapping up. And just as I began to feel depressed about the time wasted this year, the things left undone, I began looking back over the year I realized that I actually accomplished a lot this year. I:

graduated from Grad School
rewrote my screenplay 4,391 times. (okay I may be exaggerating that a bit. It just feels like that.)
published another book
welcomed a grandson into the world (while that was a deam of mine, my darling daughter did all the work on that one...)
learned to Skype.

survived the horrid economy (Yeah,...that would be me on the right. Should've seen that one coming...)
got a full time (office) job for the first time in 30 years.
and have managed to survive 3 months of crazy law office stress.
realized that everything (including this job) comes for a reason and I'm learning a lot.

I guess we all tend to be hard on ourselves this time of year when things haven't gone as planned. But making this list of accomplishments made me feel better than looking at the things I'd left undone. And it gave me a starting point for my next year's list.

Oh, there will be things on that one, too, that will go undone. But next year, I'm gonna write another list of the great things that happened and not beat myself up too much for the other stuff.

Hope you all have a wonderful, blessed Holiday, however you celebrate it, and I wish you all bright 2010 with lists of dreams realized.

Wrecking Ball Dreams

2009-12-09T18:58:00.000-08:00

Tap, tap, tap...

[silence]

Knock, knock, knock...

[crickets]

Higher Self: Hello?? Is anyone in there?

Lower Self (er, me): Oh. You talkin' to me?

Higher Self: Uh, actually, yes. I've been trying to get your attention.

Me: Wow. How long have you been standing there knocking?

Higher Self: A while.

Me: Sorry. I've been a little busy.

Higher Self: Yeah, apparently you didn't get my message the other night either.

Me: Message? Uh, no, I--

Higher Self: In the dream, the dream! You know the one where you were in the roomful of babies?

Me: Babies? Well, maybe there were babies. Hey, you're not suggesting--

Higher Self: No, no, nothing like that. You're being literal.

Me: Oh.

Higher Self: So you remember, in the dream, how your boss kissed your forehead, smiled benevolently and said, "You should do that." (indicating the babies)

Me: (Eyeing ~~Self-Righteous~~ Higher Self suspiciously) I should become a nanny?

Higher Self: Try to focus.

Me: Okay. I'm focused. Like a laser beam. Just spit it out, will you?

Higher Self: The babies. They're not...babies. They're ideas. The birth of something creative. You remember creative...right?

Me: Creative.... Uh, huh.... Those 'babies' don't come cheap, you know? And like I said, I'm a little busy right now.

Higher Self: Hey, I'm not concerned with minutae that blocks your path.

Me: Path, schmath... I'm getting a regular paycheck. I don't have time for "babies." (grandson excluded)

Higher Self: (Smiling pitiably at it's lower common denominator.) If the knocking's not loud enough, I can arrange for a wrecking ball...

Me: Is this all about that finished novel manuscript I'm not submitting? Because I'm not scared if that's what you think. I'm not. Of rejection.And ego battering "this was really close for me" letters, or reminders about how hard the publishing biz is these days. And when I say'finished' that's merely a figurative statement. It needs a 5,365th rewrite.

Higher Self: Two words: Minutae, excuses. That's all I have to say.

Me: Well, thank God you're done. I'm sure all the people out there reading this are glad, too.

Higher Self: I'm gonna keep sending the baby dreams.

Me: I know.

On Blooming

2009-12-03T07:15:00.000-08:00

This was my day yesterday.
This will probably be my day today.
But, hey. Someday, that damn flower has to bloom to give me somewhere to sit.

Right?

Peace, Barbara

Thank You!

2009-12-03T06:50:00.001-08:00

To all of you who have sweetly stopped by my DH's blog (see below) and/or became a follower, thank you so much! I love you guys! You really made his week.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I just have to go wrestle the computer away from him. :p)

Did You Know?

2009-11-28T09:41:00.000-08:00

Are you a STAR WARS fan? Or maybe your significant other is. Or your son. All I know is that pretty every man who's lived in the last three decades has been touched by George Lucas's Ode to Joseph Campbell's HERO'S JOURNEY in one life-altering way or another.

For some, it's like an answer to all questions, like THE GODFATHER is to others. Funny, huh? I mean, I loved STAR WARS and everything, but never totally understood the fanaticism that went along with it.

However, when my son was young, he began watching it like so many others: A LOT! We had pretty much every new version of the series that came out, from video tape to DVD with Special Features. He loved them all.

But somewhere around the time when he was almost 7 or 8, my husband casually mentioned that he had played a part in STAR WARS. He'd done a voice of one of the stand-out minor characters.

I remember my son just staring at his dad blankly, like WHAT???!!! How could you keep this from me??

So we played his part back and, for the first time, my son heard his DAD'S VOICE COMING OUT OF THIS STAR FIGHTER'S MOUTH!

To say it was a happy surprise would be an understatement and thereafter, our son's friends would drift in with disbelief.

Later (much later) we would learn that there are whole websites devoted to this character on the Internet, fan sites, etc... A few years ago, my husband began doing celebrity signings at STAR WARS Thirty Year Anniversary conventions, and Comicon shows, traveling to London and Japan among other amazing places. He's had a lot of fun with it.

This is all to say that if you're interested in that world, or in the world of Hollywood, (My husband's other love) I'm so happy to say that he's started his own BLOG!! It's called Speaking of Hollywood. Please tell your Star Wars fanatics to go say hello and maybe learn something they didn't know about STAR WARS, or the crazy world of Hollywood. Hope you enjoy it!

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

2009-11-26T07:53:00.000-08:00

My honey and I are cozying up, baking pies, turkey and the fixings. (The cats? They're just cozying up...) But wanted to wish you all a Happy Thanksgiving before the day passes us by and to let you know how thankful I am to have you all in my life. I hope your day is full of love, family and yummy food!

Blessings to you and your family.

xoxo Barbara

It's In The DNA

2009-11-22T09:23:00.001-08:00

Ask anyone. We're the theater family. My kids were going to theater long before any of their friends. They, in turn, have dragged their friends into that wonderful fray, and even some family. Our daughter’s sweet sixteen birthday was a “Beauty and The Beast” (the musical) extravaganza!

The first time we met our soon-to-be-son-in-law, we dragged him to his very first musical, "Wicked!", which was premiering in San Francisco (where our daughter lived at the time) before making its run to Broadway. We saw the original cast.

It was awesome. That was a good start. Our future son-in-law left the theater a little dazed by it all, unsure what he'd just gotten himself into. He was a musical virgin no more. Since then, he's even become enthusiastic about going when we drag him along. It's pretty cute.

My husband grew up in a family of actors. His parents were part of the original Pasadena Playhouse, stage actors and film actors, too. So, his transition into that world was almost a foregone conclusion. He became an actor, for many years, then a sit-com writer, finally a talent agent.

One of the [few] perks of this job is HOUSE SEATS, BABY!! That means the cast has a certain amount of tickets they give out [or sell] to family, friends, agents... that are usually somewhere around 6th row center.

We're totally spoiled. Even on Broadway, we can mostly get these choice seats. If we are ever forced to buy from the box office and sit in the balcony [what??], we whine a little bit. Because, we're...ya know, a little dramatic.

It's in the DNA.

Last weekend's "Big River" was an example of this whole [free] house seat thing, with the actor playing Jim hoping to go with my husband's talent agency. A kind of audition. He liked him!

Last weekend, too, we went to the red carpet opening to see this guy!

It’s the Christmas season and what’s that without a little Dr. Seuss? Of course, they don’t let you take pictures inside the theater, but you can see a bit of this monument to Art Deco in the background of this shot. It’s amazing. The Grinch was great. Fun for everyone and the cast, amazing.

But this weekend, we went to see this gem! Mary Poppins!

Oh, that plucky Mary Poppins! It was much of the original cast from both London and Broadway, including Mary herself and Bert, [who happens to be married to one of the other cast members, who is my husband's client!] So we got to schmooze backstage afterward with him. He’s totally British and is digging the California Sunshine! So adorable.

I’ve seen a lot of musicals, but Mary Poppins has to be one of my all-time faves. There’s this moment, when she’s singing this song, “Anything can happen if you let it!” and she sprinkles this sparkly light out over the audience, as if she’s giving us that gift. It was, well, magical.

Now, close your eyes, say those words to yourself three times, imagine some twinkly lights tripping over you. And let some of Mary Poppins magic rub off on you, too.

Because, "Anything can happen, if you let it."

Be kind to yourself, Barbara

A Moment

2009-11-15T19:54:00.000-08:00

Have you ever read Mark Twain's Huckleberry Finn? Or Tom Sawyer, for that matter? That Twain was a genius, of course, doesn't need saying. He had his finger on the ironic pulse of America in the mid-19th century.

A few years ago, a show called "Big River" made it to Broadway. It was a musical, with music by Roger Miller, and the 'book' was nearly lifted directly from the Twain novel, "Huckleberry Finn."

We went to see a small theater production of "Big River" this afternoon in Hollywood. It seemed strange that they would choose this relatively BIG production to do in a small theater and we were curious as to how they'd manage it. Well, it was a terrific, theater-in-the-round experience.

For those who don't remember the story, it's the continuation of the old Tom Sawyer/ Jim story that came before it, but this is Huck's adventure with Jim (as a runaway slave) up the Mississippi River.
Of course slavery is the theme, and even Huck's struggle to be free of civilized convention. But by the end of the show, (this was the final performance of an extended run) half the actors were in tears and so were we.

What was so amazing though was that after the performance, they did a "Sunday talk back" after the show, where audience members can stay and ask the cast questions or comment on the show. There were the usual comments, nothing much too interesting.

And then...

This old black woman raised her hand. She was 87 years old and she said she'd been raised by her grandparents who had been slaves in the 1850-60's and when she was a girl, they would tell her stories about slavery and "those days" on the front porch of their house. You could hear the emotion in her choked voice as she said how much the play had moved her and made her remember all of those days, and stories, and her grandparents. And she thanked the cast for the experience.

We were all tearing up, in awe of this moment. Because I never imagined I'd hear an eye witness (once removed) account of slavery in my lifetime.

How near we are to losing the last surviving hearers. To learn from the source what went so awfully wrong in our country so long ago. 87! And her grandparents grew up as slaves.

The cast unanimously burst into tears at her words. The producer, already emotional, literally sobbed. Later, the young black actresses who'd played slaves, sat beside her and held her hand.

It was a moment I will never forget.

A Few Sound Bytes.

2009-11-12T06:40:00.000-08:00

Joycee, from Granny Mountain, left this sweet award on my site the other day.

Thank you, so much, Joycee! Or, Joy C. Oh, heck...she's great, whatever name she uses! I love her blog, and her beautiful mountain. Go and take a look at her website and while you're there, say hi from me!

So the rules of this one are to tell you seven things about myself you may not know.

Some of you may recall(okay, painfully recall) my drawn out list of seven things you might not know about me from a few weeks ago, so I'm gonna keep this short and sweet.

1. I read milk cartons. Yes, it's true. I love reading. I'm a little compulsive about it. And when nothing more substantial is around as I eat breakfast, I'll resort to milk cartons, labels, fliers, my husband's hieroglyphics, ...albeit, when I can locate my glasses. (If I can't, I stare at my strawberries sadly and my day is a little less colorful.)

2. I love to bake. I don't mind cooking, but baking...yes, that's my thing. Apple pie is my personal fave. Someday, I'll post about it. Because we sisters are sorta well known for pie. We all learned at the knee of our Mom, who was secretly proud of how people gasped when they tasted it. She would do little happy dances inside.

3. I miss her.

4. I love a good challenge. Just don't tell me I can't do something. Unless you want me to figure out how to do it. Reverse psychology was always my downfall.

5. I've been married thirty (30!) years to the same sweet man. (The one under the sink, cursing.) And yes, I was twelve when we got married. (Just kidding.)

Stop it. Don't do the math. No seriously.

6. I'm a dog person.
I'm a cat person.
I'm a dog person.
I'm a cat person.

Okay, I'm hopelessly in love with both. I can't pass a dog on the street without talking to it. (Often to the chagrin of impatient owners who just want to keep walking.) I may have to get another one, soon. My cats will just have to deal.

7. I love Taylor Swift and I don't care who knows it. I love her imperfect voice and her originality. (And her SNL monologue.) She's representing for all of us girls on the fringe. And despite our age differences, sometimes, I still feel like she does...just a little outside the curve.

And most days, I'm okay with that.

So, thanks again, Joycee! I enjoyed this. And since I just passed this along a little while ago, I'm only gonna pass it on to a couple of new friends I'd love to know more about. Kelly Lish at Love is My Religion. And Sherry Byrum at Byrum Art.

photo credits:
Sisyphys cartoon © 2002 The New Yorker Collection from cartoonbank.com.
milk carton: istockphoto.com
dog and cat: downtownpet.com

We're Missing What?

2009-11-08T11:02:00.000-08:00

Home Repair Code: 1192-79333

1192.et al (a) Except as provided in this section and in Sections 1193,1194, and 1195, evidence of a(any)minor home repair taking less than two full weekend days, fourteen trips to home repair store (including returns of parts that are missing parts, wrong parts, forgotten parts, or any combination, thereof...) is unsubtantiated and dismmisable as a fluke, or otherwise, as Divine Intervention. Proof of such, unless videotaped, is inadmissable as evidence in Homeowner sanity hearing.

A Long, Long Time Ago

2009-11-04T18:30:00.000-08:00

This is what happens when you clean out drawers. You find pictures like this, lurking at the back.

Yes, that's me behind that beach towel. You might be asking yourself, what I'm doing hiding behind that swath of terrycloth. I'm trying to breathe. You see, I'm standing at the edge of a volcano. In Hawaii. 30 years ago. On my honeymoon. My DH took this one. "That's right, honey. Just a little further back. No, one more step."

Just kidding. He didn't really want me to fall into that sulfer-laden, magma pocket of fascination. He just usually doesn't take the shots. See the fish eye lens? You don't see those around much anymore.

The reason these photos (and more) were hanging around in a drawer, half-forgotten, is because they were slides. Slides I always intended to turn into wall art someday. But just never got around to it until now. Because I always loved the shots I took that trip. I used an old Yashika reflex film camera. And while they're not, like, totally great shots, I just loved this one. That bird was actually sitting on that horse's rump seconds before I snapped this. Symbiosis. Or loneliness. I could never be sure which.

Finally, I'll leave you with this one. Taken just after an afternoon rainstorm.

I'm picturing myself back there right now.

Be kind to yourself, xo Barbara

FLY BY

2009-11-01T13:30:00.000-08:00

While I was in Texas, we bundled up for my first ever air show at Alliance Air Field in Fort Worth. Instead of paying $$$ to park in the muddy field outside the airport and lose a little bit of our hearing, we parked at the side of the access road (Texas Style--Try to imagine getting away with that in LA...)with the rest of the watchers. The show was across the way, in the airfield, but we had great seats.

There were stunt pilots doing death-defying loop-d-loops, Waldo Pepper Outside Loops and stalls until they disappeared at the horizon and you thought they were moments from crashing, only to pull up and zoom skyward again. But here's how my pictures of those crazy stunts turned out.

See the smoke? Now, imagine you can actually make out the plane where that little black dot is. Yeah. You had to be there.

But then, the Blue Angels appeared. These guys are the elite fliers/goodwill ambassadors for the Navy and Marine Corps.

I kept pointing my camera at the blue, Texas sky, zooming in on the jets that were flying overhead. Even here, the shot's not so good, but you can get the feeling of the speed and proximity of the jets, tearing across the sky like maniacs.

These two were solo pilots that did that Top Gun, parallel, over/under move. But it was too far away to catch. Besides, I was too busy gasping to catch it.

They kept zooming over our heads, rumbling over the fields with a heart-stopping sound, literally inches apart.

If you click on the picture their Delta Wedge actually becomes visible.

Finally, after many misfires, I got this shot.

Their wingtips are literally inches apart. You can almost see the pilots in this shot. I kept thinking about their mothers, holding their collective breaths as their sons and/or daughters threaded the needles of time and space.

All I can say is, "Wow."

And, next time an airshow comes near, I'm going.

Oh, Dear.

2009-10-30T18:07:00.000-07:00

Is there ever a wrong time to go visit your grandchild? If so, I please don't enlighten me. Especially when Halloween is in the air and every holiday is a first.

Luckily for me, last week I was able to drop everything (including work for a few days) and fly out to Texas to see my sweet daughter and Little Boo.

He took this one just for me, because I call him Little Boo.

We were simpatico, Boo and I. Because we Skype on the computer a few times a week, he remembered me when I first saw him and he gave me that little melt-your-heart smile. And never worried when I reached for him (read: snatched him out of his mother's arms!) for a cuddle.

Or to share a little snack. (Sorry, a little macro setting problem in this shot. But still...)

[On a side note: Is it wrong of me to feel some small grandma-happiness that when strange women koochie-cooed him and told him what a cutie he was, he looked to me when he burst into stranger-danger tears? Oh, my gosh. It was so adorable.]

He waited until I came for his first roll-over. Which was really, really sweet of him, considering it's hard to intersect those big moments from 1500 miles away.

Baby hugs and kisses. Oh, my.

Sometimes, I even let him sleep.

Help.

Revelation # 7-- Imitation of the White Rabbit or...

2009-10-28T18:22:00.000-07:00

I'm late! I know. WTH?? Almost a week since my last post! (I'll explain later. It was for a good and fun reason!)But now, since even I am completely sick of talking about me (and I'm falling waaaay behind in this whole business)I'm going to end this 7 things you ought to know about me with this:

I'm very grateful to have met all of you. Who knew what would happen once I started blogging? I mean, maybe no one would have even stopped by? Made a comment...Gave a fig.

But as it turns out, I have met some really fantastic women who I feel like I sorta know after all of this blogging business. Women who, should we meet in real life, I would love to spend time with, share a glass of wine, smell the roses. We have gotten to know each other by revealing ourselves in these interesting little blogging ways. What you share here both make me smile and touches my heart.

I'm in awe of the courage you have and what you share. I'm wowed by your lives and your talent and your friendship. I so appreciate all the kind things you've said to me, all the precious minutes you've taken from your days to leave me a comment of support or just a hello.

So, what I want to say is "Thank You!" for making me feel welcome here. I am so honored to be part of your world.

Thank you so much to Debra from She Who Seeks for giving me this award!

Just to recap, the "official rules" of this award are as follows:

1. Thank the person who gave this to you.
2. Copy the logo and place it in your blog.
3. Link to the person who nominated you.
4. Name 7 things about yourself that no one would really know.
5. Nominate 7 Kreativ Bloggers.
6. Post links to the 7 blogs you nominate.
7. Leave a comment on each of the blogs letting them know you nominated them.

Because I don't want to overwhelm the same people I have recently passed an award to to,(and my giving pool is still kinda small) I will pass this award on to only a few special ones:
1.Sarah at Cottage Garden Studios
2.Holly at Your Mother Knows But Won't Tell You
3.Alicia at Boylerpf
4.Anne at Aging Lite

All of these ladies are inspiring and supportive and fun. Please go and visit their blogs and let them know you did. You won't be sorry!

Revelation #6--I Need Sunshine

2009-10-23T07:31:00.000-07:00

I grew up in upstate New York, where there were probably 45 days of sunshine all year. The rest were clouded up with some kind of weather or other. Mostly rain or snow. While that led to summer greenness, it also made me long for somewhere else to be where warmth could seep in and sunshine would make me tip my face toward it on a daily basis.

In college, Joni Mitchell's song, "California" would play on an endless track on my stereo. I guess it was my soul speaking to me. "Californ-i-a...Ohhhh, California I'm comin' home." I knew I had to get there somehow.

I moved here when I turned 26 through a lucky twist of fate. That was many years ago. I never looked back. Sure, California has its problems. Traffic, smog, a busted economy. Oh, and earthquakes.

But, hey.

You can't beat the sunshine. It makes me happy.

Revelation #5--English Lit Is Underrated

2009-10-22T22:28:00.000-07:00

"Finish every day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities no doubt have crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day; begin it well and serenely and with too high a spirit to be cumbered with your old nonsense. This day is all that is good and fair. It is too dear, with its hopes and invitations, to waste a moment on yesterdays."
~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

Words to live by.

I probably heard them the first time thirty five years ago. Did I listen? No. Am I now? Yes. Do I wish I had then?

[See above.]

Be kind to yourself~ Barbara

[Edit: PS.- I should have said, American Lit, since Emerson was one of the great American writer/philosophers of the 19th century. But he (along with Thoreau, and Whitman) was so...so existential, I just lumped him in there with the cool British ones. For fun.You're buying that, right? Good. I can just hear my comp. 101 Lit. teacher tearing at his Norton's Anthology now...]

Revelation #4-- Writer, Know Thyself.

2009-10-18T17:30:00.000-07:00

When I write books, I write them from myself. Thematically speaking, they're about what I care about. And even though they're romance novels, about two people who fall in love, or overcome terrible odds, or odds they've stacked against themselves, their struggles are mine in a strange way. Struggles I've been through in one way or another in my life. Things, I am still working out for myself.

They say to write what you know. I know this: the things that have happened in my life are the sum of me. That equation is what makes me write books, because, like you, like all of us, sometimes those equations don't add up in our lives.

My themes (and after writing ten books, I can clearly see them) are about injustice, about redemption and about the healing power of love. Pick up any of my books and if those themes speaks to you, you will probably enjoy them and find them between the covers.

What I have learned: As I work through these things in the pages I write, I heal. I get stronger. I have gotten stronger. And while I may not have completely figured out all I should know about these things, I understand myself better than I did once when I imagined myself as a writer of books. I know who I am.

And for that, I am grateful.

Revelation #3: It 's Sew Barbie

2009-10-17T09:00:00.000-07:00

Yes, I'm actually old enough to have had one of these penitentiary striped beauties. (Whose idea was that look??) It was my first Barbie and this is what she came wearing.

A bag. And some kind of wierd bathing suit.

No frills, no sparkles, no...shuuushh! So being a fashionista-in-the-making, this is where my allowance money went, toward Barbie clothes.

I bought this one. I loved this one.

And this one. Very Marilyn. Sparkly!

Apparently, I had a powerful, Cinderella fantasy going on.

But all these Barbie clothes were expensive and I was...well, eight and broke. Besides, I'd seen the patterns in the fabric store where my mother loved to shop. I had a sewing machine of my own. Of course you had to hand-crank it and it was seven inches tall, but that didn't deter me. Did you have one of these, too?
I decided to learn to sew so I could outfit my Barbie appropriately. Or at least economically.

And that's where it started. My love affair with sewing. Many little, eensy seams later, (Hey if you can sew an eensy seam on a Barbie pantleg, A-line skirts in Home-Ec are a piece of cake.)

I got a bigger machine. Clothes, though, were never my thing. I'm more crafty. I made baby quilts later when my kids were born, then little blankies for every baby I knew, long before they were the thing. This one I made for my first-born, my daughter, and in a few days, I'm giving it to her first-born, my grandson.

As my daughter grew up, I graduated to fabric purses and made a ton of them, just before they were coming into vogue. I gave them away.

Then everyone started selling them. Everywhere. I was behind on the selling curve. But I love figuring out how to make something complicated.

Then, because I was still broke and I began apologizing for my perfectly good-except-for-the-way-it-looked couch, I bought yummy Italian Chenille in downtown L.A. for dirt cheap, and a big, flannel sheet and made myself a pattern. I thought, how hard can a slipcover be?

Uh, it had me slapping the floor crying "Uncle!" by day four.

But here it is in all its flawed glory. It required quantum physics and jigsaw puzzle expertise--neither of which is part of my particular wheel house. That it actually fit the couch in the end was something of a miracle. But at least it feels delicious to sit on!

I'm not an artist like my sisters, so I have to settle for construction. But I've learned to live with my artistic limitations. I'm not sure what I'll try next, whenever I have a minute. But I'm sure I'll come up with something to drive myself temporarily crazy.

Do you sew? I know its a dying art, but I know you're out there! I'd love to see what you create.

Revelation #2: I'm A Perfectionist

2009-10-14T23:05:00.000-07:00

I'm not proud of this character flaw. It's made me do things. Things I'd rather not admit. But I will, because it's you. And I promised I'd give you some revelations.

This defect routinely shows up when I'm learning something new. Like learning to sky-write or paint a wall, or learning this new job I just started. (Just kidding about the sky writing, but that does sound like fun.)

I like to do it right. NOT wrong. Where does this phobia come from? My sordid past as a child neurotic.

Yes, I admit it. As a kid, cold sweats, mysterious ailments and stomach aches were routine. I would wheedle out of all kinds of pressure situations if I thought I would somehow fail. School, tests, and ohmigod, ballet recitals.

The crazy thing was, I loved dancing. At eleven, I went so far as to audition for a big Syracuse University production of Carousel. And, crazily, I got the part! (This picture is not us. But a representation of us. Only probably better.)

I don't know what I was thinking. I had terrible stage fright. But I desperately wanted to be an actress someday. I was so scared that when it came time for the real performance I curled up in a ball and told my father I couldn't do it. I would absolutely barf!

His answer? He drove me to the theater, CARRIED me in the back stage door, dumped me on the floor and turned and walked out. (Seriously, right now, I can smell that dusty, black-painted hardwood pressing against my nose.)

Now this may sound a little...harsh for today's politically correct standards. For years, I even thought so. But that opening night, I had no choice but to go on. And I made it through. I even had fun. My dad was in the audience, clapping for me.

Turns out, he did me a big favor. See, I'm still a perfectionist and my own harshest critic. But after that day, I quit stopping myself from doing those things that scared me silly. I did them anyway. Sometimes I fail. Sometimes I make it through. Sometimes, I surprise myself. But I'll give almost anything a shot.

So...Thanks, Dad, wherever you are. Just so you know? I needed that.

An Award and a story

2009-10-10T14:36:00.000-07:00

Debra at She Who Seeks--one of my fave blogs--has left me a lovely Kreative Blogger Award on her post. Thank you so much, Debra! I'm honored that you would include me in such great company!

Just to recap, the "official rules" of this award are as follows:

1. Thank the person who gave this to you.
2. Copy the logo and place it in your blog.
3. Link to the person who nominated you.
4. Name 7 things about yourself that no one would really know.
5. Nominate 7 Kreativ Bloggers.
6. Post links to the 7 blogs you nominate.
7. Leave a comment on each of the blogs letting them know you nominated them.

So I liked the way Debra did this, posting one revelation about myself at a time and since I'm a little on new-job-overload, this will work well for me. So I hope you can bear with me while I do this. Then, I'll nominate a few of my favorite bloggers to recieve this award.

REVELATION #1: I'm...er, clumsy.

For example:

A few years ago, while running to answer the ringing phone (Who knows who that was?) I got my toes tangled up in the fringe on my Oriental rug and the afgan I had wrapped around me and did a flying, face plant on the hardwood floor! WHAAAP! My arms, still clutching the blanket, remained stubbornly at my side. (No time to react? Striking for better wages? Hunhhh. I had a serious talk with them later. They agreed they'd been unecessarily negligent.)

Now, all this would have been bad enough, but as I sat alone on the floor cradling my poor broken toe and crying "Ow-owowowow!" my normally docile cat, Sylvester, whom I had only recently adopted (a closeted neurotic)F-R-E-A-K-E-D OUT, came running over to me YOWLING and HISSING as if I've suddenly morphed into this alien creature that was about to eat him. It was so out of character that he was actually yelling at me for breaking my toe, that I couldn't help, but crack up. So, there we sat, facing off, me laughing/crying, and him hissing/yowling for a while until we both got ourselves under control. Then, he licked his fur and removed his neurotic self back to his chair.

Somewhere around the same season, I sprained my ankle. I think I was walking on a flat sidewalk (There might have been a prickly, round Sycamore seed pod involved) and BAM! Down I go. It was pretty ugly. So ugly, I figured I'd possibly broken it. So I decided to get it X-rayed just to be safe.

(I should mention here, that some 6 months before all of this drama, something happened to my heel. It was VERY tender for a long time, and I really couldn't pin point any particular incident when I'd hit it, kicked it or otherwise abused it, so I figured it was possibly the result of my DH inadvertantly kicking/bruising my heel by walking too close while I was wearing sandals...something he had a maddening tendency to do, not recognizing my personal foot space. Now? I cut a wide berth around him and keep my eye on his feet. He's always like, "What?")

So I get my ankle X-rayed. The Doctor comes back with the picture and slides it up into the light box.

Doctor: "Your ankle's just sprained. But what's this?" He points to a suspicious-looking shadow on my heel.

Me: "Hmmm."

Doctor: "That's a healed fracture."

Me: "Wow. Really? Well, it did hurt for a while, but-- I broke it?"

Doctor: (eyes narrowing) "You don't remember breaking it?"

Me: "Well, I-- Not exactly."

Doctor: "I see. Do you often hurt yourself and not remember how you did it?"

Me: What? No. I mean I might remember how I did it, but I'm sort of guessing."

Doctor: Leaning conspiratorily closer. "Do you frequently lose time, ma'am? Experience blackouts?"

What??!!

I tried to keep a straight face as I hobbled out of his office. He watched me go, shaking his head pitiably, sure I was either 'Sybil' or a closet, black-out drinker.

Here's what I wanted to know: Where's that damned cat when I need him?

STRUCTURE

2009-10-06T21:37:00.000-07:00

So, it's been many, many, many moons since I went to an office on a daily basis and sat behind a desk. I've been a writer/actress/mommy for so long I forgot what it really was like to keep a schedule.

I used to fantasize about it when I'd feel a little stir-crazy, wondering what the real people out there in the world were doing. Always walking fast down the street in their business clothes, with somewhere to be.

What would it be like if I did that? Would it cure me of my restlessness? Would I finally feel like I was a contributing member of society??

Not that I wasn't contributing with writing books. At least, I told myself that someone must be enjoying them. I got royalty statements. Royalties, even.

I reassured myself that if people were actually slapping down money for something I wrote, then I couldn't be a total loser. Right?

Mind you, all of this internal-kvetching started after my mommy-role took a back seat to watching my kids fly off on their own. As I found myself less structured, I also found myself missing self-imposed deadlines. Which is bad when you're your own boss. Very bad.

What I needed was more structure. A framework, if you will. More face time with real human beings. Less time with my cats.

Moral of this tale: Be careful what you ask for.

All this is merely a preamble to the real topic of this post, which is--

I got a job.

An 8:30-5 real, sitting-behind-a-desk, legal-freaking-secretary job. (Did I mention I'm completely unqualified for this sort of work? The learning curve is daunting.) My friend, the lawyer, is in dire need of help (translation: someone who can write) and I need the work, so it's all worked out perfectly. Sort of.

Except now I have structure and less time to write and blog, and visit blogs. Which is all my way of saying that if you've noticed my absence on your blogs, (Okay, so you didn't notice. But I did) this is why. So I apologize that I'll be here a little less obsessively, er...often. I will get my working legs under me and figure out how to make all of this work. In the meantime--I'll try to sneak a peak between Production of Document demands and Special Interrogatories.

Because I miss you already!

A Little Monday Diversion...

2009-10-04T18:46:00.000-07:00

Because I'm in a weird mood, and because I love you all, I thought I would share a few more photos of my Paris trip a couple of years ago.

Because let's face it. Paris rocks!

This is an illicit photo I snapped of the astonishing Marc Chagall mural on the domed ceiling of the Paris Opera a few year ago when I was lucky enough to go to Paris. Illicit because they don't let you take pictures of it. (I plead the fifth.)A few seconds afterward, a security guard was wagging his finger at me with a threatening look in his eye and ushering us out into the hallway from whence we'd come.

I hope you can see some of the amazing detail there. I stood there, staring at it, realizing that like all of the amazing artwork I'd been gazing at around the museums of Paris, this was the work of genius. On such a huge scale. (If you click on the picture, you can enlarge it and really see the detail.)

For some reason, they did not want people taking pictures of it. Why? I wondered. Why keep this only for those who are fortunate enough to stumble upon it? It was in this dark theater, that seriously, I had to open a door to find. And there it was. Oh, it's probably in a book somewhere on Chagall. But I'd never heard of it. It's full of angels.

We took the train out to the French countryside to Versaille, the palace that Marie Antoinette lived in with King Louis XVI. That was another mind boggling place.

During the revolution, after they took off the heads of the Royal 'we', the people stripped the palace of everything valuable, down to the tapestries on the walls. For years--centuries--it stood virtually empty, until a Concervancy came and decided to restore it. They purchased back pieces like this bed that belonged to Marie Antoinette (ostrich plumes and all) from the people who had taken it for a LOT of money.

There were fabulous pieces that they had collected a little at a time, all gilded and ornate like desks, chadeliers, mirrors, etc... From the very people who stole them- Families of the once poor peasants. Now isn't that ironic?

Here are the gardens of Versailles. (Click on this one too to see the perspective.)This has to be one of the most symetrical, gorgeous, archetectural gardens I've ever seen and what you're looking at is a mere fraction of the grounds and gardens they have there. Wow.

And here is the last wierd photo I'll share with you today. Don't ask me how this one happened. But we were standing under the Eiffel Tower and there were these soldiers with AK-47s etc...standing guard against...well, terrorists.

But as I snapped this picture with my little point and shoot, something wierd happened. Someone was either walking through the frame really fast or... or...who knows who that wierd blur is.

But I thought seeing the soldiers near the Eiffel Tower with big guns was a little crazy. And interesting.

Just a little taste of Par-ee for you on this Monday morning.... Hope you enjoyed this little diversion. Have a wonderful day!

Something Special

2009-10-02T12:00:00.000-07:00

Sarah, my sister, left me this beautiful, special award. Somehow she always know when I need a little hug and she sent it in the form of this beautiful hand-drawn Mental Duck to Mental Swan Award. This isn't one to pass on. She only hands them out once in a while. I'm in great company, too with her other friends she's bestowed it upon.

I just want to say, if you don't know Sarah, you should get to know her. She's a wonderful artist, a wonderful friend and a wonderful person. Oh, and her blog is pretty amazing, too.

Thank you, Sarah. So glad we're sisters and even if that did have just a little to do with giving me this, I'll take it anyway. Luv Ya!

Grateful.

2009-10-01T22:38:00.000-07:00

Aww. My sister, Sarah, was sweet enough to send me this new award. Thanks, Sarah! Considering it's her BIRTHDAY WEEK, I'd better do as she says and accept this award and forward it on to those bloggers who have inspired me! :p)

So, here are the rules for this one:

Copy and change the answers to suit you and pass it on. It's quite tricky to use only one word answers! Once you have filled it out be sure to pass it on to 6 of your favorite bloggers. Alert them that they have been awarded! Have fun!
One word answers have got to be the hardest- but here goes:

1. Where is your cell phone? Purse
2. Your hair? Blonde
3. Your mother? Missed
4. Your father? Missed
5. Your favorite food? French
6. Your dream last night? Sleeplessness.
7.Your favorite drink? Water.
8. Your dream/goal? NYT
9. What room are you in? Livingroom
10. Your hobby? Gardening
11. Your fear? Poverty
12. Where do you want to be in 6 years? Comfortable.
13. Where were you last night? Class.
14. Something that you aren't? Timid.
15. Muffins? Blueberry
16. Wish list item? Pool.
17. Where did you grow up? NY
18. Last thing you did? Wrote.
19. What are you wearing? Yogapants.
20. Your TV? On.
21. Your pets? Cats.
22. Friends? Love'em.
23. Your life? Unbalanced.
24. Your mood? Hopeful.
25. Missing someone? Grandson.
26. Vehicle? Jetta.
27. Something you're not wearing? Shoes.
28. Your favorite store? Marshalls.
29. Your favorite color? Blue.
30. When was the last time you laughed? Today
31. Last time you cried? Sniff!
32. Your best friend? Husband.
33. One place that I go to over and over? Neighborhood
34. One person who emails me regularly? Laura.
35. Favorite place to eat? With friends.

So I'll forward this award onto six bloggers who make me smile and whose blogs are OVER THE TOP!! Please stop by these wonderful blogs and say hi!

1. Bonnie
2.Debra
3. Snap
4. Janna
5. Claire
6. Kathryn

Oh! Those Mad Men!

2009-09-28T16:35:00.000-07:00

Well, now that I've fessed up to my crush on Clint, I suppose I might as well confess another obsession. Mad Men. I love them all. But Don, the ad man on Mad Man--the dark mysterious one? The man with the illicit past who isn't who everyone thinks he is? Yeah. That Don. Now he's interesting.

Then there's Betty, his wife. The cool, beauty who reminds us of Grace Kelly. But nastier. She snaps at her children and smokes and drinks like a fish while pregnant. Mystifying.

There's all the ad men at Sterling-Cooper who only wish they were as smart as the women they work with. And all that butt grabbing in the secretarial pool? THAT doesn't go on anymore. Much.

Do you watch Mad Men? I think it may just be the best written show on TV right now. Yet, under viewed. It's on AMC, I think. Why are folks obsessed with it? Well, (aside from JOHN HAMM!) maybe because it's a glimpse into the mysterious world of our (all of us baby-boomers) parents.

I can actually remember those days, with Naugahyde ottomans to cuddle while watching the Cuban Missile Crisis unfold on the black and white TV; my mother's rare evening out that required a hand-sewn, turquoise blue brocade dress; us sitting on the bed awaiting our turn to give her our approval. Swanson chicken dinners and my father's punctual arrival home at five thirty sharp. The cigarette smoke. The silent meals.

I was reading a Salon article today about the show that posed an interesting question: "Has Mad Men Gone Mad?" The happy-go-lucky-no-real-consequences-for-the-men seasons 1 and 2 are fading, replaced by the trouble-comes-home-to-roost, dark secrets that are beginning to unfold in this one. The grifters, the blackmailers, the lies are all bubbling up. So why is it that this so-long-ago series is relevant to us still so many years later? Why can't we get enough of it? The writer suggested that it's a metaphor for the meltdown that's taking place today in our world. The deception, the denial, the secrets that have, like some medieval alchemy wrought by greed, become our screwed up world of today. Wow. I totally love that theory. Micheal Weiner is a genius writer, understated with a firm grip on his characters. He isn't opposed to the slow unfurling of character, in no hurry to give it all to us right away. With little hints of the gold to come.

Every character, good or bad or indifferent, is 3-dimensional. With secrets. I remember an acting coach telling me one time to never walk into an audition without a secret. Because that gives you power. That's what you play. It makes them want to know more about you. So Weiner's characters make us want to know more, despite all their flaws. I'm compelled to keep watching. [Note to self: Remember this when plotting.]

I was lucky enough, last season to be a fly on the wall on the Mad Men set, as a background actor for a day. My first extra job ever and they called me for my favorite show! I was like, "Uh, YES!!!"

That's me on the set. It's a really horrible shot of me taken with someone's cell phone, but you get the general idea: a three mile beehive and check out the jewels! The wardrobe department was huge. Every bit of what I wore--including the, uh, underthings--was completely vintage. Their attention to detail is amazing. But the best part was, when I tried on wardrobe we finally decided on this turquoise blue brocade dress that (I swear) was the identical fabric my mom's dress was made of those many years ago. I had to wear it.

I got to watch this process close up, to see January Jones (Betty) in all her ethereal beauty, popping Skittles all day long. (How does she do that and stay so thin?) John Hamm's movie star good looks had every eye turned his way all day. You just can't stop looking at him. In real life, he's a smiler. He turns that smile on and people gasp. No seriously. It was fun. Plus, we had to smoke herbal cigarettes all day. Bleehhck! But they gave me a cigarette holder that was oh, so chic!

Anyway, I love the show. Can you tell? But it all makes me wonder... We've come a long way as women from this world of chauvinism. But when you watch Mad Men, do you still recognize it in today's world? Have we really come as far as we should have, or is Mad Men simply reminding us that we're still living with some of these stereotypes that hold us back, either in reality or in our own thinking. Do you watch this show? What do you think?

A Little Weekend Music

2009-09-26T19:18:00.000-07:00

"Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know
what you're gonna get." Fo-orrest Gump's Mama

Especially when you go down to the Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica where everyone and his third cousin routinely show up to perform.

So the DH and I went down this weekend to break up the monotony of living where we live....(In the burbs.) We were contemplating going to the beach. But there was a monster cumulus cloud hanging over the coast. So we went instead to the Promenade. It's a great shopping area with all kinds of fab stores. But we weren't shopping. We went for the music.

There's music aplenty on weekends there. This duo was apparently still living out of a van, but were actually pretty good. We nicknamed them "The Middle-aged Hippies." They'd seen better days, but they were still passionate about their music. It kinda made me teary and made me want to throw up a peace sign and yell, "Don't give up on the dream!" Luckily, I restrained myself.

This beauty had a beautiful voice and was bravely standing there all alone with her guitar case open, belting out her own original songs. They were good. We kept walking.

Past a topiary Stegosaurus spitting water. Cool.

And this guy was a Flamenco/Latin guitarist extraordinaire. His name was Nicolas Tengler. I know this because I bought one of his CD's. I'm listening to it right now. I'm in love with it. He's a little samba-ish, a master at Flamenco. Wow. Is all I can say. Sorry I couldn't get him to look up. He was concentrating. Sheesh!

So was this darling Golden. On this:

Yes, that is a monkey. The one on the right. The one on the left is my DH. Can you see the bemused expression he's making? Like, "I'm holding a monkey's hand! WTH?" I also shook the little guy's hand, which was crazy. His little fingers were seriously human. He took my finger, gave it a shake. For a dollar. Cheap, I say. I mean, how many chances like that are you gonna get in one lifetime?

This guy was playing kitchen utensils. Pot lids and buckets and broiler pans. And he was actually making music. While doing a Unibomber impersonation.

And I will leave you finally with this sweet face:

That's what happened after I left a tip in his Electric Violin Case. To pay for all those Juliard student loans. He was freaking amazing. I wish I had a video with sound.

Thanks, Promenade. You made our weekend! Hope yours was as musical!

Friday Critters

2009-09-25T08:52:00.000-07:00

Here's a little Friday Shoot Out of Critters in my neighborhood. Sort of. Okay, I know this isn't the right topic for today, but I'm doing it anyway. Okay? Call me a rebel. Or out of order. Anyway...

These ducks are actually at a private little garden we go to now and then called Discanso Gardens. It's nearby and there's a little pond there filled with ducks and snapping turtles.

This little pair, a male and female mallard, seemed unwilling to leave each other's side. Sweet.

Here is a mature, at the other end of his life Praying Mantis that said hello to me on the arm of our front porch swing. He didn't seem inclined to jump me, but he didn't want to take his eyes off me either. He's like, "Hey! You lookin' at me?"

This is Bailey, my daughter's beautiful chocolate Lab, who really enjoys a good splash. Here, he's trying to fit his bigness into this too-small pool for a quick cool off! He made me laugh as he ejected most of the water by simply displacing it. But he thought it was pretty fun.

I'm a little smitten with coy. How do they get that big? Look at it. He's substantial. I mean, I've had the school carnival goldfish. This is a mutant goldfish. A beautiful, mutant goldfish. Who eats from your fingertips.

Have a great weekend, everyone!

Taglines And Other Bugaboos

2009-09-22T07:27:00.000-07:00

Have you read Lolly Winston's book, Good Grief ? I know this book has been around for a while, but if you haven't read it yet, go and buy it! Or take it out from the library. (No, I don't know her at all and don't even know anyone who knows her!) But I'm just sayin'. It's good.

It was her first book, which is astonishing enough when you read it, but it's also an incredibly moving story that tackles grief, loss of love and recovery. It sounds dark and yes, it has its moments, but it's also funny and insightful, too. And though I shed a few tears, I also laughed out loud at it.

She wrote it in First Person present tense, meaning we are always and only in her head and watching the action as it is happening. Now. Those of you who read a lot of chick lit or women's fiction are already aware that you're seeing more and more of this POV in books. For those who are longing to write in this tense, it might pay to study Winston's take on it.

One of the big problems with using this tense is that new writers tend to insert too many tag lines. For the uninitiated, a tag line is a clause at the end of a quote like "Blah, blah," I say to him. Or "Blah, blah, blah," he says, without turning to look at me." It's used to identify the speaker for the reader. ('Cause, ya know...sometimes we forget and we don't want to have to count quotes backward to see who's talking--you know you've done it!)

For some reason, this kind of tag line(ie: I say, he says) seems to jump me out of the moment, remind me that I'm reading in present tense instead of being lost in the story. NOT that it's wrong to use it. But I find it gets over-used especially with new writers trying to crack the difficult POV code. Maybe that's why Winston's almost invisible use of First Person Present struck me as so good. Maybe it's because there's often a better way to identify the speaker than to use a tag. Winston's characters voices were honestly so distinct, I rarely needed a tag line to know who was talking.

Of course, there are a lot of reasons this book is a good, smooth read and her mastery of this tagline issue is only one element. But because I'm always curious when I read something that works, I went back and studied what made her dialogue feel smooth to me. While she included at least one of those "I say," tags per conversation (just to orient us with the speaker), more often she used no tag at all (assuming there are only two people in the conversation and, how confused can we be?) or action or inner thought as a tag. This technique works for all POVs and not just first person, present tense. But here, it seems to accomplish what a tag line aspires to accomplish without jolting me out of the moment. Check out how Lolly Winston uses sub-textural inner narrative instead of a tag, as well. She says one thing, while thinking about something entirely different. But this inner narrative is always connected thematically to the dialogue.

When you're submitting your books to publishers, just know that tags tend to be a bugaboo with editors. Often they wave like a red flag. Editors are all so subjective. Some freak out if you use any other verb but said, as in "She said, I say, he said," etc... The argument is that 'he said' is an invisible tagline to the reader. While I guess it is true to some degree, if it's overused, like anything else, it seems to jump out at the reader, too. Some editors encourage these other tags. It can be confusing!

There are a few all editors seem to agree on. Tags like 'she gulped, barked or growled,' make editors (justifiably) pull out their hair and uncap a new red pen! Mostly because one cannot literally growl and speak simultaneously. They particularly object to using noises as tags, ie: he sniffed, she huffed, she clucked or sighed. As in "I wish you'd stop doing that," she sighed. Your characters can do all of those things. (maybe not cluck unless she's a bird) but they can't talk AND sigh at the same time. Hence, the tag veto.

Say you want your protagonist to snort. It's a funny verb. I like it occasionally. But instead of "Right," she snorts. "When synopses write themselves." (Ugh.) It becomes -- She snorts. "Right. When synopses write themselves."-- See how I've turned what would have been a (bad) tag into an action? Not only that, if you listen to the way people speak, often the action of snorting in disbelief, etc... will come BEFORE the dialogue in real life. Not after. Because we're formulating something to say AFTER we react to it. Not before. Try reading your dialogue out loud and you'll see what I mean. Literally act out your tags. It's an eye opener.

You can also try taking a page of your book heavy on dialogue. Take a red pen and highlight how many tags you've used. Then ask yourself, was each one necessary? Am I losing track of who is talking and if so, why? Is there something I can do to strengthen, or make my characters voices more unique so that we already know who's talking? Or can I find a more interesting way to help readers keep track of my characters by using action or inner narrative to identify them?

That's all for now. I've babbled enough for one post. Happy writing!

White Light

2009-09-18T19:12:00.000-07:00

Sweet Renee at Circling My Head could use our white light and prayers today. Her dear nephew, Sheldon, passed too soon of cancer yesterday. If you feel moved to do so, please stop by her site and leave a hug. She needs them today. Renee, my prayers are with you and your family.

A Little Obsessed

2009-09-17T08:00:00.000-07:00

Okay, I admit it. I've had a crush on him since I was really young and he had a black and white television series on TV. A rough and tumble Western called "Rawhide!" Westerns were big in my house as my father was a huge fan. Bonanza, Rawhide!, Big Valley, Wagon Train. (I beg you, don't google the dates. You'll only be sorry you did. It was a long time ago, okay?)

Anyway, my bedtime was always (for some unexplained reason) too early to watch these shows. But that didn't faze me. Especially where Rowdy Yates was concerned. I had to watch. I had to. Somewhere in my mind, I thought he'd know about my betrayal if I missed it. I don't think my parents ever caught me. I would creep down the stairs and somehow our black and white TV was oriented exactly so that the reflection of the screen showed right in the little windows at the top of our front door opposite the stairs. So I could sit out of sight and watch the show with no one the wiser. And listen to...sigh...Rowdy. Seriously. He was cute. Just look at that face! (Yes. I said face. What else would I be talking about?)

He had this whispery kind of sexy voice that always made me hold my breath to really hear him. I thought he was all that. Someday I would marry him!

Not.

Anyway, I never stopped loving him from afar. Play Misty For Me, The Good, The Bad and The Ugly, Dirty Harry ... I loved them all. Because I knew, you know, we were meant for each other. I became an actress, secretly hoping I'd get cast in a Western with him in it. Didn't happen. Besides, as I arrived in Hollywood, he dropped out for a while and became Mayor of Carmel, CA. And played golf.

Then, (after I caved to reality and married my husband) when my daughter was in Kindergarten, she became friends with another little girl whose mom, it turned, out was CLINT EASTWOOD'S PERSONAL ASSISTANT! I know! Kismet, right? One degree of separation? Alas, no. I never met him. For some reason she was weirdly protective of him. Strange.

Clint became a director and did one of my favorite movies--"A Perfect World" with Kevin Costner, where he played a crabby, but sympathetic FBI agent. He had aged, but beautifully. He was still hot.
"Unforgiven" was a work of art. And a western. That won Best Picture at the Academy Awards. Maybe my husband didn't totally understand why I cried when it won. Maybe he did.

Anyway, I pretty much resigned myself that it wasn't meant to be. I couldn't seem to work out how it would happen. I moved on. Had a life. Raised my kids. Wrote western romance novels that I secretly dreamed he'd make one day on the big screen. (What? I don't recall ever saying I was a realist, okay?)

One night, a year or so ago, my husband and I were walking down Ventura Blvd. in Studio City after dining out. We ran into an old friend of his who is a well known stand-up comedian. So we're blabbing, saying hi and our friend is on his cell phone intermittently, because he's waiting for someone outside this restaurant who's meeting him to discuss some charity golf tournament he's organizing. But he sort of encourages us to hang there with him by blabbing about this and that. Nice, nice guy. We were happy to hang out with him. His dinner date was late.

Suddenly, he turns and goes, "Oh, good, here's Clint."

Did--? Did he just say--?

I swear, it all went into slow motion at that moment. Because who is walking toward us, with that loose-hipped confidence in comfy old clothes that look like they've hung in his closet for thirty years--not in any hurry, but moving toward us with movie star-ish authority?

IT'S CLINT EASTWOOD!!

THE Clint Eastwood! Rowdy Freaking Yates!

My mouth kind of drops open as our friend graciously introduces us and Clint reaches-his-hand-out-to me.

And just like that? I touched him. I took his hand, smiled up at him and burbled, "I-I'm a huge fan of yours, Mr. Eastwood."

He smiled a twinkly smile back at me and said, "Thank you very much. That's very kind of you. So nice to meet you both."

We exchanged a few more words that, frankly, are a blur now and said good-night. Afterward, I couldn't stop smiling, doing little bunny hops down Ventura Boulevard beside my sweet husband. Destiny had vindicated itself. Clint was gracious and lovely and sweet. Everything I hoped he would be. And a camera really wouldn't have been appropriate. No, that would've been tacky. But that picture of him reaching his hand out to me is settled comfortably in my mind.

And that's right where it belongs.

I heart you, Clint. Just in case you read this.

Wishcast Wednesday

2009-09-16T09:42:00.000-07:00

This is the first time I'm going to jump onto Jamie's Wishcast Wednesday thing through my sister Sarah's blog at Cottage Garden Studios. But this week, the question intrigued me. "What do you wish to stretch?"

So many answers! So little time! My first, knee jerk response was "My body!" I have fallen out of the habit of exercising, except for our daily walks, a mile and a half around the neighborhood in the morning before my DH is off to work. We have lived here for 24 years,(yikes!) raised our kids here, walked our dogs here. In other words, we've taken every possible route and combination thereof we could possibly take around this little neighborhood a gazillion times. I'm bored with it. It's uninspiring. Also, since I work at home, I'm anxious to get out with people in a class. So I want to start an exercise class. Pilate's, perhaps? Maybe Yoga. But to make this commitment to myself by writing it aloud may be just the push I need.

Second, I have been bad about exercising my writing muscles. I've been blogging, but my book writing has been on the back burner as the stress of the last few months has worked its way through me. (Long, boring story.) But now, I need to stretch not only my writing muscles, but my own confidence again. When I get away from the computer for too long, it's not good. I find I must just put my butt in the chair and write. It all comes out awful at first, but eventually, the babble begins to make sense. Then, miraculously, I write a good sentence. I don't know about you, but sometimes when I've been away too long, I begin to believe I've forgotten how to write a book. What's that about, anyway? (Note to self: Work on that.) But it's a little like riding a bike. I just need to get my balance again.

So stretching my self-confidence, my writing muscles and my body. Thanks for this topic, Jamie and Sarah. I needed this.

Be kind to yourself,
Barbara

Photo credit: blog.lifesip.com/images/yoga-1.jpg

O.M.G.

2009-09-13T14:44:00.001-07:00

Seriously?

He what???

Oh. No. He. Didn't.

Manners.
Use your inside voices.
Share your toys.

Oy.

Baby Love

2009-09-10T17:45:00.000-07:00

My new grandson came to visit me this last week with my daughter. They live halfway across the country from us. I was lucky enough to be there to watch his birth and to stay for a couple of weeks after. But he's changed so much in such a short time.

We had so much fun playing with him. He's almost three months old now. And we see contact sports in his future. Look at the size of those hands!

Or maybe a veterinarian. My cat, Sylvester, wanted to cuddle as close to him as he could. Oh, dear.

Look at those little folds!

He is such a sweet-tempered boy. Smiley all the time. He takes after his mom. When she was little she would wake up singing, making me laugh. She still makes me laugh.

I have a lot of friends who've had grandchildren. They all love them madly, of course. But just as no one could explain to me how I'd feel about my own children when they were born, that sweet ache of love that slides into you like sunlight, no one could have prepared me... Nobody warned me what would happen when this guy turned that smile on me.

Oh, help!

Writing Craft #2: One False Goal

2009-09-07T20:51:00.000-07:00

I thought I'd talk a little in this post about something that I've encountered along the road to writing. Something that can creep up and bite you if you don't keep your eye on the prize. So, it's like this: You're tootling along with the story you're writing and feeling good. The road's ahead, you can't really see around the bend, but you're feeling pretty okay with that because your characters are talking. And talking.
And talking some more.

They've got lots to say, you know? Like, "Pass me the salt, please?" and "Holy Cow! When did you start losing your hair?"

But suddenly (Well, not really so suddenly because it's been coming for a while. You know it has...) you notice that your characters have begun to sound boring, even to you. Oh, and not only that, they've been in the same room for 40 pages and they can't find the door. And action? Well, that was a good idea, but what are they supposed to be doing again? And doesn't picking navel lint qualify?

Perhaps some variation of this is happening in your story. Believe me, it's happened in mine. Even today, after lots of books, it happens. Why? Mostly it's because I've taken my eye off the road. As the writer, I need to have better vision than my characters. I need to be able to see around that curve in the road to the destination or, to put a finer point on it, THE GOAL.

Why do characters need goals? To keep them from wandering aimlessly through your story, blabbing up the other characters and settling in for a good pedicure with that woman who has nothing to do with anything.

There are really two goals for each character: the TRUE GOAL and the FALSE GOAL. The true goal is the thing the character needs but doesn't know they need. The false goal is the thing the character THINKS they want (or need) but it's merely a path (or a roadblock) to finding the thing they really need. Got that? Like the rest of us in real life, mostly internal goals are invisible to our characters at the start. Slowly, they become aware of why they are really doing the things they're doing and why that other protagonist or force has been put in their path.

Essentially, an external goal is something you could take a picture of. (Like they want to start a B&B, or travel to Italy, or build a house on a rocky cliff, or put a murderer behind bars.) An internal goal might look like finding one's own power, coming of age, letting go of the past, believing in love again, or redemption. Internal goals almost always have to do with relationships.

Even a book about a man's singular search such as Jon Krakauer's INTO THE WILD, a book about a man vs. nature, is really about his quest for self-love. Why does this speak to us? Because as human beings, this is what we're all engaged in. The struggle is a common one.

The goal of your story, first the external goal (which will give them something to physically accomplish in the story) and then the internal goal (which gives them emotional arcs) will help you find the turning points in your story, which will also lead you to the action required to reach them. Having a road map for your characters' journeys in your book will not only help you avoid the unbeaten paths they want to aimlessly meander down, but will focus your story.

Try watching a movie you love and see if you can pick out the false and true goals. Pay attention to how those are revealed. When you get good at spotting it in a film, try it with a book you've never read. Then take a look at your own Work-in-progress. Are your characters' goals strong enough? Can you find a way to strengthen the conflict by strengthening your character's T & F goals?

As with any of the writing craft stuff I post, feel free to take what you like and leave the rest. There is no right and wrong about it.

Now, back to pondering all that snow on Mr. Frost's road less traveled.

Brrr.

Radio Silence

2009-09-05T23:11:00.000-07:00

Sorry I've been out of the loop, so to speak, for the last week. Here's what I've been doing.
Himself is visiting and has taken over my life.
In a good way. I mean...look at those cheeks!
Oh, the deliciousness!
'Enuf said... See you very soon.

"Do you feel lucky? Well...do ya? Punk?"

2009-08-31T19:22:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking about luck.

This may seem like a random topic, but I've been thinking about it for a while. What is it? Does it actually exist? Or is luck a confluence between circumstance and opportunity that is totally random?

Why do some people seem "lucky" and others not-so-much? Is it simply our perspective? Our personal vantage point from either a cup-half-empty or cup-half-full place? Is it because these people worked harder, had better karma, deserved it more? Or conversely, when things don't work out, does it mean you deserve it less, did something bad in a past life or have, somehow, been a wastrel all your days?

I listen to people like Oprah talk about her notion that there is no such thing as luck. She's all about the whole 'Secret' thing and making your own luck happen. Visualizing it. But then I look at her and think, "Did she create every opening she ever got? Or did she simply walk through doors that opened as she passed nearby? Maybe that just makes her less afraid than me. Does seizing that sword every day make her talent any the less? No. Does that make us value what she has accomplished any less? No. But was there any luck involved with her becoming who she was? Maybe.

Why, after centuries, then does this concept of good luck and bad luck still persist? Maybe it's simply superstition, or a way of explaining the unexplainable. If we're having a good day we "feel lucky" and a bad day can mean that things haven't fallen our way. Some days I feel luckier than others. The day my beautiful grandson was born, I felt like the luckiest woman in the world. Yesterday, when our banker told us someone in Mexico had fraudulently used our credit card and cleaned out a bank account, I felt really, well...unlucky.

This was simply an exclamation point on an already crummy day, the sum total leading to this little rant. But maybe this was just random universal timing that someone put my credit card numbers together and then pulled the lever. I won the hacker's lottery. Or, rather, he won and I lost. Er...lucky for him. Bad luck for me. See what I mean? I guess I should feel lucky that eventually, we'll get it all back. If we didn't need that money right now, I guess we'd feel that way. Right now I'm just mad.

Oprah says believing in luck is just an excuse to let ourselves off the hook for not trying hard enough. And maybe she's right. Today made me realize I have to try harder to stay positive. To walk through all those doors and not be afraid. The laws of attraction and all that. I know that's probably the lesson in the crummy day I just had. And occasionally, I need a kick in the ass to make me see what I need to see. I can choose to be the victim or I can step out of that and take my day where I want it to go despite that little punk in Mexico. Because right now, I'm feeling a little lucky. As I write this my daughter's is flying toward me from across the country, and in a couple of hours I get to kiss her and hold my little grandson.

That's the funny thing about this life. It's always the bitter with the sweet...

Thanks for letting me rant.

Smoke gets in your eyes...

2009-08-28T11:55:00.001-07:00

Cough, cough! Blechhkk!

It's a bit of a mess here. Four fires are burning in the Southern Cali hills kind of in a giant circle around the city. The air is thick with smoke. Our cars are covered with a thin coating of white ash.

There is this weird yellow sunshine burning through the smoke. It's hard to really tell from this poor shot through my scraggly tomatoes, but maybe you can see the psychedelic rays burning down through this thick cloud layer of smoke. No? Trust me, if you were here, I'd show you.

The light is distinctive when there's a fire. I imagine it's as distinctive as the green color of the sky when a tornado is about to touch down. And despite being about ten miles away (and posing no fire danger to us) it's scary to see that brown blanket of smoke creep over the valley and steal away the clear August blue. And the ability to breathe.

It's also like 104*. Hot.

L.A. routinely burns, accidentally through freak lightning, or spontaneous combustion (caused by all the angst in LA no doubt) or intentionally at the hand of some looney arsonist who thinks watching fire eat through other people's lives is fun. Our fire season used to be in the fall, when the green hillsides naturally turned brown. But we've been in a drought for a while now and the hillsides are crispy and brown most of the year and just waiting for a spark. Soon, tumbleweeds will start blowing around our streets and scary Western soundtracks recorded in Italy will start playing over the loudspeakers. But only if Clint Eastwood walks by.

What? It could happen.

We're rationing our outdoor watering now--down to two days a week. My flowers are very unhappy with me. My poor little coreopsis is struggling to stay green. A lonely little shoot amidst the crackly brown. They don't all look this bad, but I'm sad to say many do.

We're certainly not alone in this water rationing thing. I know a lot of cities around the country are doing it, too. Cities whose resevoirs are drying up, while others are buried under enormous levels of rain. What's going on?

Are we in for another dust bowl like in the 1930's? Is it global warming? Or is it just a natural swing of nature? What do you think is going on with our weird weather? Is it weird where you are?

Bet you wish you didn't ask...

2009-08-27T11:54:00.000-07:00

Claire was sweet enough to honor me with the Me Me award today! Thank you so much, Claire. It couldn't have come at a better time as I was feeling a bit cranky as I sat down to decide what the heck to blog about today. And really, who can be cranky when someone sweet thinks of you in such a nice way? It was Claire's way of saying welcome to the blogging world, but the award also asks me to mention seven things you may or may not know about me and pass it along. Since I already gave out a bunch of awards last week, (And I don't know that many of you yet!) I'm only gonna pass it on to one. I hope that's okay.

So here goes:

1.) I used to be a ballerina! I danced for fifteen years as a kid, and into college. I loved to dance! I would do arabesques while setting the table and choreograph dances in my living room. My weird, dancer's arches will attest to starting on point at 11. Though peer pressure in junior high school tried to punch a hole in my balloon of happiness over dancing, I persevered! I even danced with a dance company for a while and did musical theater productions in the Syracuse University Theater. Oh, Carousel! Alas, water skiing put an end to my dreams of wearing a feathered costume one day in Swan Lake.

2.) I made my living for a while in LA as a commercial actress. I did probably 30 commercials over the years, including one particularly embarrassing,and long-running Head and Shoulders commercial where I'm best known for scratching my head! Someday, I'll post a link to it, so you can be embarrassed for me, too. I did a Hertz commercial with OJ Simpson and Jimmy Conners (for those of you too young to remember, he was a tennis player) when I was just pregnant with my daughter. All I remember of that nightmare is that it was 107* that July day and I had a three piece yellow polyester suit on in a closed, baking studio. Under hot lights. And I was nauseous. Somehow, I ended up on the floor with Jimmy hovering over me. (His wife was due right about then, so apparently he was empathetic.) The rest is a little fuzzy. But they miraculously let me finish with a fan and a glass of ice water nearby. Yes, Hollywood is glamorous.

3.)I met my husband in a bar. But before you get all judgemental, let me say in my own defense that I was employed as a waitress at that establishment, one of three jobs I was juggling in my quest for an Oscar. (Which, as you're no doubt aware, never happened.) He was the bar patron. I was so busy working I had no time for TV in those days. If I had, I might have known this guy I had a crush on was starring in a TV series at the time and worked all the time as an actor. I just thought he was cute. Anyway, it all worked out. Somehow, we've been married for 30 years and produced two wonderful--now grown--children. We just became grandparents!

4. I've published 10 books, all romance novels for houses like Kensington, Harper Collins and Harlequin/Silhouette.

5. I write screenplays, too. Part of the reason for the problematic slowness of my book productivity was my quest to learn this new skill. I took a few years off to re feather my empty nest, go back to grad school and enter into the Hollywood fray of screenwriting, like everyone and his brother here in La-La land. I finally optioned one a year and a half ago. It's still wallowing in development hell. But we're hopeful it will get made. Hopefully some time before Vampires are out of style....

6. Speaking of bats...I rappelled down a 180' cave once. Seriously. Down a shaft two feet wide and twenty-five twisty feet long of slippery, scary limestone (Did I mention I'm claustrophobic? What was I thinking?) and down into a cavern where I free-rappelled another 150' straight down. Toward a pile of ancient bones of critters and curiosity seekers who did not have a rope as they probed the opening I squeezed through. They didn't call it Moaning Caverns for nothing. And there were a few bats. *Shudder.* It was fun.

7. I conquered the subways of Paris. Well, my husband did it with me. They're beautiful subways. Clean and friendly. We found our way all over that beautiful city that way and I even left my reading glasses on a table at Montmartre just so I could take the subway all the way across Paris again the next day and race the little lift (that we missed) up the three hundred cute steps from the stop to retrieve them. I would have left them again, just to stay in Paris because I fell so madly in love with it. And even though we didn't speak French, the maitre d' at the restaurant saved them for me and was very kind. I long to go back there again. And someday, I will.

So that's me in a nutshell. Aptly. I shall forward this Me Me award on to someone I don't know well, yet, but would like to. Someone who's kindly been following my newbie blog and been very sweet in her comments to me: Snap.

My Characters Have Issues

2009-08-24T17:47:00.000-07:00

One of the things about writing a novel is that it's a 24/7 kind of job. With the books I sell to publishers, there are no time clocks to punch. No boss standing over me with a proverbial whip. The deadlines are mine and mine alone to do with what I will. And being the kind of person who does not like disappointing editors, I'm pretty good about self-motivation when I have a deadline. But this is a double edged sword. It means that regular work hours are meaningless. That is to say, it's not like you can leave a plot point at the office and say hello the next day at 9 am.

Me: (Stretching luxuriously after a good night's sleep) "Oh. Morning, Jack. So, did you and what's-her-face resolve your conflict issues last night?"

A long, irritated pause.

Jack: "No."

Me: "Oh. Well, did you at least come up with some better dialogue than that idiotic patter you were muttering yesterday? Because seriously--"

Jack: "Uh, no. We were...waiting for you."

Me: "Waiting for me? What kind of lame-ass hero are you anyway?"

Jack: "All right, that's it. C'mon, folks. We're going on strike until we get some real revision here." Jack motions the other characters together, then tosses me a pointed glance. "And that's your job. Read your contract."

Yup. Regular hours are a dreamy, fantasy-world away. Because these characters you've conjured up will hound you. They will hunt you down in the middle of a perfectly good nights' sleep and demand their right to a decent resolution. They are relentless, difficult and for the most part, unhelpful.

By the mid-point of your book, as the sagging middle rears its ugly head and they just stand there, arms crossed, taunting you, it can make a sane writer...well, cranky.

(Picture Tom Hanks here, yelling:) "There's no crying! There's no crying in publishing!"

When my characters have reached this impasse, they are not capable of sorting it all out for themselves. Although, as most of you who write know, occasionally,they will lead you to the closed door looming ahead like a road block and helpfully point out that you took a wrong turn back there and it's time to retrace your steps. Here's where the familiar refrain of "Where did this stop working for me?" begins banging away at my sleep.

Nine times out of ten, it's because I've chosen the wrong Point-of-view for a scene. I'm trying to make some character talk when it really has little to do with them emotionally. By switching this to the other character in the scene, it's amazing how suddenly things loosen up. Characters put down their strike signs and belly up to the bar. POV usually finds its strongest ally in the character who has the most at stake in a scene (emotionally or physically.) Why? Because every scene is a mini-book. Each scene has a beginning, middle and end. Each scene starts with one or both characters having goals. And by the end, one character will win and the other will lose. Deciding who does and who has the most at stake emotionally for a particular goal is your choice. Try it both ways if you're stuck.

This all becomes so much trickier, of course, when writing in First Person (meaning the camera is always viewing from one POV--your main character. In that case, you don't have the option of changing POV. So your impasse probably has more to do with whether the scene you're writing has a strong enough goal, motivation or conflict.
Rocky Balboa

I'll talk more about GM&C in another post. For now, if you're not a fiction writer and you managed to get all the way through this post, I apologize. Maybe it'll all pay off and you'll notice this stuff when you read your next novel. But even if it's blogging, I'd love to hear: What kinds of problems keep you up at night when it comes to your writing?

SILENT SATURDAY

2009-08-22T12:35:00.001-07:00

Touched

2009-08-21T09:14:00.000-07:00

In Ces's words...
"I designed this award to celebrate art in the blogs and to honor the value of friendship, sisterhood, sharing and caring. It is to be awarded to the gifted, accomplished, eloquent and talented blogger whose friendship and influence inspire us to do our best. That I named it after Bella Sinclair is because she epitomizes all of these things. She is an inspiration to many of us."

Sarah, my sister, honored me with this beautiful award from Ces and Bella and it's so special to me. I'm so lucky to have my beautiful sisters (Sarah and Anne) in my life. There's nothing like that bond. This blogging thing only happened because of Sarah, who prodded and cajoled me into it, but now that I'm doing it, I see why she did.

The wonderful friendship and support from the people I've met here is amazing and rare. We get to share with each other, sometimes in ways that don't happen in the real world--in ways that touch me every day. So, to all of you who've stopped by here and left comments on my blog, or even stopped by and took a look, thank you, too. I'm so happy you're here. And thank you, Sarah, for giving me this beautiful (seriously, I love the tree!) award.

In return, I'm passing this award to a couple of people who have been very kind and generous to me-- new friends I would love to honor with this special friendship award.

Renee
Bonnie
Holly
Alicia
Debra

Thanks for making me feel welcome here!

A Cat in Sheep's Clothing

2009-08-19T14:38:00.000-07:00

Here's the culprit. Doesn't she look innocent?

Oh yes, she can look so sweet and sleepy-eyed and...domesticated. Even cuddly.

But don't let that fool you.

Anything that flutters, breathes, or wiggles, Maisy considers fair game.

Just ask the neighborhood mockingbirds,
who spent the last two weeks dive bombing her, knowing what lay in store for their nesting babies. (I think the war is over, for this season.)

Ask the hummers who love sipping my Lilies of the Nile. I can watch Maisy out of my front window as I write and occasionally, I'll see a calico blur fly by the window pane. I rush outside to see if I can rescue whatever now sits inside her jaws, because the truth is, she has no will to kill these things she catches. She just wants to play. So she rarely hurts on first swipe.She loves the chase. This Spring, I found a series of hummingbirds inert on my sidewalk after a long game, but one day, I caught her in the act!

She instantly dropped the poor little creature when I yelled at her and looked at me, like, "What? This is what cats are supposed to do."

But she took my theft diplomatically.

The hummingbird wasn't hurt. It was dazed by cat breath. It blinked up at me and I hoped it was going to make it. I took the little thing in my hand and warmed it for a long time. I sat really still and cooed to it. Told it everything would be okay. Soon, it wiggled its toes and I opened my palm up and it helicoptered up in the air and buzzed around my den, flying into walls.

So I picked it up again and held it some more. It hopped on my finger and stayed there, blinking up at me. Eventually, I decided I should let it go. It's little feet were curled around my index finger as I walked outside with it to Hummingbird Nirvana--The Sacred Bottle Brush Tree.

Then, the weirdest thing ever happened.

It would not fly away. It sat there, as if to say, "No way. Uh-uh. Ain't gonna happen. There's a C-A-T out here. Take me back inside!"

So I did. By then it was almost dark. I lifted the little bird up to some wires hanging across my rafters in my den and it seemed perfectly content to stay there. So I hung a bottle brush blossom beside it (in case it got hungry) and we let it have a sleepover.

In the morning, it climbed back on my finger (I know, right?) like we were old friends and let me take it back outside. After a moment, it blinked up at me then buzzed to a nearby flower to take a sip. Then it disappeared into the trees.

(Haikudo)

I have to say, having that little bird trust me not to hurt it after what it had been through was seriously a spiritual experience. It was a moment. Sometimes I hold my finger out to hummers in my yard, hoping it will return and remember me. But so far, no one has taken me up on the offer. But I'm okay with that. And Maisy and I are still friends.

Reflections

2009-08-17T13:10:00.000-07:00

Brace yourself for this little profundity:

Sometimes a tree is just a tree. Sometimes, it's a reminder that what we're looking at is a universal nudge.

No seriously, brace yourself. I'm about to speak in metaphors. Take this tree, for instance. I think it's a redbud. It lives at the edge of this pretty little pond in the Botanical Gardens in Fort Worth, Texas. And on this day, when I snapped this shot, I was simply looking at how pretty it was with its reflection in the water.

Today, something entirely different occurred to me as I looked at it. You see how the reflection in the pond isn't the exact opposite of the tree? In fact, it's the underside of the tree reflected in the water, not the tree we are seeing from a distance. But still, we look at it squarely and think, yeah, that's the tree, reflected in the water.

Today, as I looked at this picture, it made me ponder the distortion that frequently enters into that small, internal conversation I often have with myself about...well, me. About my failures, my shortcomings, and my dark, veiny underleaf. That is to say: When you look at me, you just see the tree. I see something completely different.

My vision of me is coming up through the water. Shot through with uninvited shadows rippling the image. Maybe that explains my habitual, none-too-generous assessment of myself and my accomplishments, and underscores all those things I know I should be grateful for:

1.My husband.
2.Our kids.
3.Our grandson.
4.Health.
5.My sisters.
6.Our home.
7.Good friends.
8.Being a writer.
9.Our cats.
10.Trees, reflected in water.

Sometimes, my history floats just under the surface, distorting my idea of myself. And the reflection? It's not necessarily all that accurate. Maybe that's where the old, "Keep your head up," saying comes from. As in, "Don't look down there and scare yourself. Here is where the real tree is."

Okay, I warned you about the metaphors. Don't say I didn't.

Buzzed

2009-08-13T18:36:00.000-07:00

I was outside today, staring at my vegetable garden noticing that nothing was producing anymore except for these gorgeous little white flowers on my flowering garlic, which is sad because I live in California where you'd think my whole summer would be overflowing with veggies. But it's not. No, my tomatoes are finished; green, but finished. My zucchini has bitten the dust. Likewise my summer squash. I think it's probably my fault somehow because at some point, too early every year, this happens. Too much water? Too little? Who knows? I love to garden but I'm no expert. I throw the plants in there, boost them up with good stuff and hope. That's really what planting a garden is, right? It's a hopeful act. You hope you'll eat off of it every year.

Here's my zucchini in better days.

Oh, sweet zucchini! I loved you!

Its leaves are peppered with fallen purple jacaranda blossoms from my nearby tree. I would swear that (The Artist-Formerly-Known-As-) Prince came up with his song title "Purple Rain" from these blossoms. Well, not specifically my blossoms. But from one of these gorgeous, crazy making trees. (Hint: Never plant one in your backyard.) Do you think this has anything to do with my failed garden?

And here, hiding under pristine green leaves with no trace of the powdery futurama that awaits it, is the yellow squash.

Aren't they little beauties? But alas, they are no more.

So, anyway, I'm staring at my garden that is sliding into its yearly oblivion and notice bees swarming all over these garlic flowers. Totally ignoring me. Unconcerned by my presence. So I took some pictures of them. Of their little shiny, transparent wings.

They were busy, working. Not thinking or worrying about the zucchini flowers that had gone away. No, they were only thinking about these flowers. The ones that still had some sweetness in them. And I thought...bees are naturally wise.

...And Do It Anyway.

2009-08-10T16:05:00.000-07:00

In my thirties, I decided that I should do something that scared the heck out of me at least once a year. And I don't mean 'try sushi' or 'drive the LA Freeways at rush hour.' Although, both of those things could, possibly, hold valid fear factors for certain people... People who shall remain nameless... *shudder*

Anyway... I wanted to try something that was so far outside my comfort zone that it would make me break out into a cold sweat, possibly keep me up at night for weeks at the mere thought of how the heck I would ever accomplish it? Okay, I'm a middle child: that need to please, to succeed, and to prove that I, in fact, exist is in the job description.

Writing books was one of my wild hairs. Submitting them for sale, even scarier. Picture yourself stripped naked, holding a flogging strap with a little word bubble over your head saying "Thank you, sir, may I have another? (Name that film.) It turned out, I liked writing and selling books. It became a career.

Teaching writing at a major university extension was like that, too. (I endured an entire sleepless summer wondering how I could conceivably fill a three hour class and BTW, teach anything anyone wanted to learn.) Friends warned me against it, saying it would only interfere with my writing. But I did it anyway, because according to my devious plan, the very idea terrified me. I knew it was a good one. Ten years ago, I conquered that fear and I did not actually expire. I'm still teaching today. Sensing a pattern here?

It's been almost three years since I made the decision to apply to grad school after finding myself smack dab in the middle of an empty nest crisis. I did it with serious prodding from my DH (who understands my middle-child insecurities) but deep down, I relished a new challenge. And I thought it might be a good idea to have a backup plan for the future. Besides writing. Something that might involve a steady paycheck. Like teaching in a real college. So, I applied.

Then, I began to rationalize (Oh, yeah. This was part of the process.) "They won't take me." "I'm too old." "The low residency program is across the country from me. In Vermont. That's just crazy talk." No, I put the application in, I decided, and that was the scary part. I felt vindicated. Relieved. I'd done the hard thing.

Then one day as I was innocently listening to my cell phone messages, counting cracks in the sidewalk, I heard this:
"Hi, Barbara, this is P---, the program director at Goddard. I just called to say congratulations, you've been accepted into the Creative Writing MFA program starting in June..."

The rest I didn't hear. I think I said a four letter word.
By now, this sense of panic was familiar. But this time, I was so scared at the prospect I actually considered not calling him back. It took me two days to even tell my husband about it. But in the end, I did call the director back. And I accepted his acceptance. Because, did I mention? I'm a middle child.

Then, for the rest of the spring, I had a hard time sleeping.

Stay tuned for the stories of my Haunted Dorm Room and other grad school adventures. Meanwhile, inquiring minds want to know: Have you done anything to really scare yourself lately? I'd love to hear.

The Only Thing We Have To Fear Is...

2009-08-06T10:18:00.001-07:00

Kathryn at Tender Graces asked this question today-- Who are you? How do you label yourself? And how do you validate yourself about what you do? Great topic, Kathryn!

This is a question that comes up with my students over and over. And to be honest, it's one that rears its ugly head with me as well. Students who struggle for years with their own writing wonder if they'll ever get published. I wonder if I'll find the level of success I want. It's easy to fall into the trap of comparing ourselves, our careers, our publishing advances with others. After all, most of my friends are writers. Published, unpublished, I've found that the way success looks on the outside doesn't always match what the writer feels on the inside.

One friend talked about making the New York Times for the first time and being elated. For a minute. Then she started to worry how long she'd stay there. Would her next book make it onto the NYT? And if it did, would it move up the list? Would she feel like a failure if it didn't? These fears are really no different from the ones unpublished writers have. Will I ever sell? Will this rejection be better than my last one? And if I win this contest, will it make me feel like a writer?

The line that we draw in the sand as our measure of success shifts constantly as we take steps toward our goals. We redraw the line and erase the one behind us. But why can't we be happy about our successes? Is it just human nature to forget what we've accomplished in favor of driving ourselves forward?

Maybe.

But here's what I know. Spending time worrying about things out of our control like publishing, sales figures, book lists and reviewers will only keep us from what we're really meant to do: To Write. Worry keeps us from putting our butt in the chair and doing the work. Fear freezes up creativity. It is the bogey-man of artistry. Whether you write, paint, compose, or do anything that fulfills you, Fear's only job is to stop you in your tracks. Most often, it comes in the form of small negative voices-- maybe the naysayers in our past-- who chip away at our confidence. But all we have control over is what we do. If we paint, we paint. If we write, we write. No one can take that away from us. And it cannot label us. Only we can know who we truly are.

And now a word from my Id (as in the Freudian neuroses to whom this post was really directed.) "That was very enlightened. But can we just readjust this sand line here a smidge?"

"No."

You see sometimes, I need to listen to my own advice. Thank you.

Easily Swayed

2009-08-02T08:56:00.001-07:00

A couple of years ago, I decided to adopt a furry friend. Though we'd always had cats and for many years, a dog, they were all sweet memories now. I was officially in the dog camp now. I couldn't help myself when one would pass me on the street. I fell in love. Yes, I wanted a dog, preferably. One who would get me out of the house to walk, sit beside me as I wrote and make me laugh. My husband, David, wasn't as enthusiastic. He saw the writing on our (traveling) wall. Me, worrying about the dog. Me, with separation anxiety that always settled into my relationships with my dogs. Me, saying no to going out of town because of the dog... You get the idea.

But I was undeterred. I campaigned, I scoured shelters. I was determined.

Finally, I found a cute little mutt who needed a home. I twisted David's arm and dragged him to the shelter and tried not to notice he was lagging behind me, dragging his feet. Here's how the conversation went:

Me: "Wait til you see him. He has the cutest eyes. I think they're hazel."

Him: "Hey, look. A cat house. Let's go look in there first, just for fun."

Me: "But I want a dog."

Him: "We're just looking."

Me: (actually falling for this line) "Okay."

We prowled through the cat aisles. There were so many of them. Young, old, chubby, street-thin. One little tiny calico with a waist I could wrap my fingers around, peered lovingly up through the bars at me and meowed.

She was the most beautiful calico I'd ever seen. I nearly caved. But I steeled myself. I came for a dog. A DOG, understand?

We kept walking. And soon we saw a cage with a lump of a towel in the middle. No cat. Naturally, David had to see what was under the towel. That's just the way he rolls.

We weren't prepared. Nothing could have prepared us. Under the towel was a black and white long-haired beauty of a cat, hiding and madly sucking his thumb.

David had to have a closer look. He took him out of the cage. In the little private room, he cuddled him. I let him curl on my lap where he continued the thumb-sucking, and the paranoid glances up at us from under his inch-long lashes. And then, I was toast. His name was Sylvester and he was 11 1/2 years old. Who else would take this neurotic puddle of anxiety? He'd been raised with his brother (who had already been adopted away) and he was alone and scared. We had to have him. The note said "No Dogs. No other cats."

What??

That can't be right. He was raised with a brother. Look how he's missing him. I went back to the calico's cage. She looked deliciously up at me and meowed. She was a baby. 9 months old. If we were getting Sylvester, then we were also getting this one. This little girl for Sylvester. We weren't sure how it would work. But we hoped. I gave up on the idea of a dog. For now. I'm easy. Did I mention that?

We signed the papers. The little girl needed to be fixed. We would have to wait a couple of days. So we took Sylvester home alone. And he promptly disappeared. We found him under couch skirts, in closets, hiding amongst the towels in the pantry--sucking his thumb! Oh, dear.

Finally, the calico came home. We named her Maisy. We separated them by a door. Maisy meowed. Sylvester miraculously appeared from his distant, unrevealed hiding place. Sniffed under the door. Talked back to her in cat. She answered him. We opened the door.

A love story was born!

Sylvester and Maisy.

Maisy and Sylvester.

Picture them (music over) running in slow motion across a field of flowers toward one another... fur blowing in the wind!

They make me laugh.

It all couldn't have worked out better. Sylvester sits on my lap while I write and (of course) sucks his thumb. The long walks? Well, I have to do those on my own.

PS. That little mutt got adopted that same day by someone who is less of a cat cream puff than me.

Be good to yourself, Barbara

It's The Journey, Not The Destination. Right?

2009-07-31T10:13:00.000-07:00

First, I wanted to thank all of you who stopped by and left such sweet comments on my last (uh, first) post, buzzing by from sweet Sarah's blog. I am thrilled to meet you, hear your thoughts and to visit some of your blogs--which I will continue to do as I go. Wow, this can really be addictive! You're all so interesting!

Years ago, (don't ask me how many) I found a book called "The Writer's Journey" by a guy who taught at UCLA Extension named Chris Vogler. It has since become something of a bible in the screenwriting world when it comes to developing structure and it was based on Joseph Campbell's 1000 page epic, "Hero With a Thousand Faces," which, if I had two hundred years, I might attempt to plow through.

Vogler's book ( a condensed version) was kind of life changing for me. It was all about myth and The Hero's Journey. You know...character arc and figuring out how characters change in your story? Anyway, there are these stages that characters go through--out of the darkness and into the light? It's all very riddled with adventure and angst! At least, that's the way it's supposed to go. His title, "The Writer's Journey," eluded me for a while. I was so distracted, figuring out how my characters could use this structure in my stories.

But as I embarked on this new empty-nest chapter of my life (ie.-- flapping like an under-feathered baby bird in the grass, crying "Mommmeeee!") it occurred to me one sleepless night as I channel-surfed mind-numbingly bad infomercials that I had just stumbled into my own Inmost Cave! My own Tests, Allies and Enemies! The inevitable Crossing the Threshold! (Sorry, that's Vogler-speak for the *&^% is about to hit the fan!) All that I knew to be true was about to be tested. I was up a tree and some nameless force was throwing rocks.

What? I'm a character in my own life?? Hmm. This was an interesting concept. And as I looked around me, I realized it was true. And not in any archetypal sense either. For real. And most of my friends had inadvertently stumbled into it, too. We were all suddenly in this weird scary place, smack dab in the middle of our lives and none of us could figure out where the light switch was. The trick was, how to get to the other side with the prize. My own personal prize--if I could find it--would be to be figure out who I was. This new me.

I began to plot my way out of this fix. I decided to be--(er, I contemplated being) proactive, like any good hero. (Okay--in the interest of full disclosure, my husband latched onto this new idea with the optimism of man whose last floatation device has just drifted by.) He literally sent me dozens of emails during the day full of possibilities for story lines, ideas for jobs, connections for jobs.... Finally, he ran into a friend who had just come back from this fabu place in Vermont where she'd apparently unleashed the inner Her! She had a One-Woman show going up that had been part of a project she'd done for this place. My husband forwarded me the web site. Then, an application. He was relentless.

So, of course, I did the next logical thing. I applied for Grad school.

Be kind to yourself--Barbara

WHEN THE MUSE AND THE EMPTY NEST COLLIDE

2009-07-29T12:29:00.000-07:00

When I decided to do this blog, I contemplated what it would be about. I mean, it has to have some kind of focus, right? Had I started it a few years ago, the focus would have been my kids, my family and BTW, my writing. Not that writing wasn't important in my life then. It has been years since I sold my first book-- a romance novel for Zebra/Kensington.

When I began seriously writing, my daughter and son were little. So I put my desk in my living room, near the front window, where I could be part of things. Where I could see my kids as they ran in and out and, when on a horrid book deadline, give them a hug, or stop to talk about their days. I wasn't the kind of mom who said, "Don't bother me unless there's blood!" Because, frankly, blood makes me queasy and I always figured it was prudent to intervene before things got that far.

But back then, I knew who I was. I was a mom. My real job was to make sure my kids survived childhood. (Seriously.) And to make sure they were happy. Amazingly enough, they did grow up to be wonderful adults who are now off and running in their own lives. My son is following his dream in the film industry and my daughter and her darling husband just had a baby--our first grandchild! The little Boo. (see above)

Okay, now I'm totally distracted by the deliciousness in this picture....Sorry.

After my kids grew up, went off to college, there was this....long pause in my life. Those of you who've been through this know what I'm talking about: It was kind of a "Now, what?" moment. Or...a "What the hell?"moment. Okay, fine. It was a full-on identity crisis. Which was ironic, really, since I'd always thought my book writing would save me from that. I thought I'd know who I was because I had this whole writing career thing going... I'd breeze through, buck up and write. All would be well.

Could I have been more wrong? I don't think so.

My writing life skidded to a screeching halt. Not a word found its way to the computer screen. The blinking cursor mocked me. Repeatedly. I thought I'd give it some space. Allow myself to be in my empty-nestedness for a bit. Then I'd be okay. But the longer I went without writing, the harder it was to get back to it. I feared I'd never write again. This went on for a couple of years. My husband gave me foot-rubs and told me it would all be all right. (Did I mention that I love my husband?) But I still grappled with dark questions like: WHO AM I? And WHAT'S IT ALL ABOUT, ALFI?

Then, in the grandest of ironies, writing saved me. Lifted me right up and cradled me against its bosom. Angels sang and clouds parted and my muse stepped right up and--

What? Oh, right. My muse has asked me to inform you that none of that is true. No bosom cradling was involved. A couple of shin kicks, a shiner, as I recall. Some other injuries I won't go into here. But the part about writing saving me is true. But it didn't happen without serious determination on my part. Some call being stuck like this writer's block. I don't really like that term. I think it's life-block, because if I'm so stuck I can't write, there are definitely other reasons why. It's not about the writing.

Did I mention I teach writing? No? The only reason I mention it is that I get to see from a completely different perspective why people stop writing or doing any creative thing they love. And believe me when I say, it's not because the muse stops talking. It's for other reasons. Reasons that are important to address and work through. Ignoring them simply aggravates them. So, deep down I knew this. I knew I had to take action before the whole thing got away from me and I slid down that slippery slope I'd seen so many of my students take who'd given up on themselves completely. And despite the old adage, "Those who can, do. Those who can't, teach," I wasn't finished with writing yet. Besides, what good would I be as a teacher if I couldn't walk the walk, talk the talk...write the books?

(to be continued...)

Be good to yourself-- Barbara