A Little Obsessed

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

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.

Seriously?



He what???



Oh. No. He. Didn't.

Manners.
Use your inside voices.
Share your toys.

Oy.

Baby Love

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

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

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?"

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.