Diana's Blog: Quirky Words and Book Reviews

August 31, 2008
It is the last day of August, and we have felt the chill of Fall for at least a week now. Too soon for the Northwest where rains fall for about nine months steady. I notice lights are out -- one in the hallway where three should be lit; three out in the kitchen where eight spotlights should shine. I find a hidden cache of spotlights, and swiftly change the four dark ones, leaving all the lights on when I am done. It is too dark. It is still summer. I want the heat. I want the light. I discover a book on one of my bookshelves I'd forgotten about -- it is FENG SHUI IN A WEEKEND. It is Sunday. Why not.
Usually when I read a Feng Shui book, I feel very discouraged. When I check my home against a feng shui book's recommendations, I come close to flunking. And, yet, when I held a small fund-raiser at my home for Itafari a couple of weeks ago, at least one of the guests remarked how at home she felt, embraced, I think she put it, when she walked inside.
I've lived in this house about half my life, and -- except for a few kids' birthday parties -- I didn't have a party for adults until four years ago. And, then I wouldn't do it until a friend who knows a lot about hospitality promised to be there with me every step of the way. Another errant quirk I have had to heal. Another odd consequence of actions taken by my mother and stepfather. We had parties in our house all the time when I was growing up. Adult parties. Drunken parties. Often violent parties.
"What if it happens again?" the small child voice inside would whisper, putting the nix on any such idea.
"Why would I want to chance replicating that?" my adult voice would translate.
Plants would die in that house where I grew up.
It took years before I would buy any plants for my own home. They live! There's a beautiful green-leafed plant in a bright red pot -- a gift from a friend from a cutting that has survived several generations in her family. "Imagine that!" I tell the little girl voice inside. And there's a tall green plant at the end of the hall, sharing a pot with an avocado plant that accidentally grew when I put a pit in there. Transcending the trauma.
Put plants near your electronic equipment, says FENG SHUI IN A WEEKEND. Author Simon Brown says plants can make your home more yang. Every room should have at least two plants.
This book is beautiful. It feels good and inviting. On every page colorful, bold images impart key information -- Letting Go, which breezily instructs how to handle clutter; Mirrors, which you should not place facing the front door; Adding Excitement, you can choose candles or spotlights for two different moods. I'm Yang, it seems.
There's even a Feng Shui astrology. I look up my birthdate and find my three colors -- purple, black and pink. Ironically, the same three colors I love to wear. My favorites. So I am convinced enough. There's no way I can transform my home this weekend, but I will light my candles, declutter my desk, and surround my computer monitor with gorgeous green plants.
And they will live.

Labels: FENG SHUI IN A WEEKEND, Itafari, party, plants, Simon Brown, transcending the trauma

August 30, 2008
One of the most fun writing tools is to take a situation that feels right and to ask "what if?" That's apparently what Jincy Willett did when she conceived of her novel THE WRITING CLASS.
It's about an aging overweight fearful female writer who was published to great acclaim at age 22 -- then, nothing! So she teaches these writing classes, quite reluctantly. There's a twist in the novel, when two of the thirteen in the class end up dead.
The point of the writing class is not unlike the mission of what we writers call Workshop -- where the members bring in the latest chapter of their book, read it aloud, and everyone else critiques it. Workshop is on Thursday nights. I love Thursday nights. When I first joined, it was on Monday nights. Then, I loved Monday nights.
By comparison, THE WRITING CLASS made me really crabby. I was looking forward to interesting characters, maybe a few writing tips, but the novel tried too hard to be clever and literary. I wanted to love those characters, and I didn't.
My mind wanders back to just before my first Workshop, about two and a half years ago. I promised in an earlier blog that I would tell this story.
It was a few weeks into January, and I was just driving around the SW Portland suburb where I live. It was a typically rainy day, but a light rain was falling, a mist. I could easily see through the windshield of my Mustang convertible, as I drove on a main road where I've driven thousands of times. My cell phone sang out its cheerful, nameless tune, and I picked up without looking.
"Hello, Diana. What are you up to these days?" It's Chuck Pahalniuk, whom I've interviewed a half-dozen times.
"I'm procrastinating writing my book." I have no idea why these words popped out of my mouth, but they did.
At that very instant, a white Lexus with gold lettering turns, pulling right into view, with the license plate even with my line of sight.
It says W-R-I-T-E.
I say, "Omigod!"
Chuck says, "What?!"
I tell Chuck of this seemingly random appearance of this Lexus and its license plate "WRITE."
Chuck says "Are you in a writing group?"
"No," I say.
"Well you are now -- we meet Monday nights."

I had never seen this car before -- nor have I seen it since. The synchronicity of that car with that plate at that moment -- that changed my life.
I love this magic!

Labels: book review, Chuck Palahniuk, Jincy Willett, synchronicity, THE WRITING CLASS, workshop, writing

August 29, 2008
I spent today doing a shoot for a high tech company, so picking up E-PRENEUR seemed the perfect book to cap the day.
A little more than a year ago I didn't know a Wiki from Web 2.0. It was all a high tech blur. Babble! But babble that savvy people were making millions on.

I'm a generalist, like most journalists, so to do interviews about -- and discuss -- high speed serial data and Twitter and USB 3.0, today -- that was a high dive for me.
Exhilarating.
Unnerving, at times.

Sometimes mistaken for a Gen-Xer, I am a Boomer.
Gen-Xers embrace technology and the Internet, says Richard Goossen in E-PRENEUR. To launch a Web 2.0 venture, Boomers, he says, have the managerial experience. (I am playing catch-up there, with most of my experience creative, versus financial or managerial.) The oldest -- the Traditionalists -- have the deep pockets. Gen-Xers have the skills. And, what Gen-Yers contribute -- is their intuition.
The new virtual marketplace is charged by crowds -- and that's a good thing, Goossen says. Entrepreneurs who harness their ventures to the power of the crowd. That's what his book is about. I am reading this one very slowly. Taking notes.
What I love is the collaborative, everyone-is-equal sense of our new marketplace. Think Wikipedias, Facebook, Google, Cambrian House, open sourcing.
The current marketplace -- where CEOs collect the lion-share of the profits, firing thousands of people who are on the bottom rungs of the business -- smacks of the old feudal systems of one-thousand years ago. It is time for this online revolution that could spin out fortunes to us all. And Goossen contends these new crowdpreneurs can power those huddled around their computers to create new policies, assist companies, and affect countries.
That's big.
I call myself a Multi-Media Entrepreneur. Without this next step into becoming a crowdpreneur, that will cease to be true. Whatever venture strikes me will no doubt have to do with books. Or transcending the trauma. Or passion. Or all of the above.
I'll get back to scouring E-PRENEUR...after I post this blog...and once I finish the podcast about an online MBA program.

Labels: blog, book review, Boomers, E-PRENEUR, Gen X, Gen Y, high speed serial data, Multi-Media Entrepreneur, online MBA program, podcast, Richard Goossen, Traditionalists, transcending the trauma

August 28, 2008
Toss out the old John Gray MEN ARE FROM MARS, WOMEN ARE FROM VENUS...Sorry, John, you're a great interview, but in the context of what's coming...well, you'll understand.
And, dump HE'S JUST NOT THAT INTO YOU.
That's what these authors say. They wrote DATING MAKES YOU WANT TO DIE...BUT YOU HAVE TO DO IT ANYWAY: GETTING THROUGH THE ABSURDITY OF DATING WITH YOUR SOUL INTACT.
Back to John Gray for a moment. He is super-adorable, and quite a gentleman. Great heart. And if I can find our picture together, I'll post it. Oh, I just remembered -- it was taken before the era of digital cameras. It's close to midnight, and I'd have to find the photo and scan it. I will, in another post, I promise.
Maybe that's the point of DATING MAKES YOU WANT TO DIE. It's now. And it's probably written for young professionals, who may still be living with Mom and Dad. Its silly wisdom still works. Except that the authors, Daniel Holloway & Dorothy Robinson keep wanting to get you drunk -- or at least drinking -- and we already know I am not going back there.
They give advice from the "wanting someone in your life" stage to getting married, and I found the chapter on the third date particularly helpful. As in -- are you gonna do it, or not. First, you have to find a good enough match to even get to the third date.
There's the bar scene -- martini bars, airport bars, sports bars -- and there's the internet. No craigslist or eHarmony -- "two sides of one creepy coin" they write. I've tried a few, and so far my favorite is FitnessSingles.com. They suggest MySpace and Facebook.
I'll cut to the chase. The book made me hot -- and it made me laugh. Only thing is...Chuck Palahniuk told me that to be effective, you really can't get readers hot and have them laughing in the same section -- they wash each other out. But that's in fiction. I digress.
Get the book. Get hot. Laugh.

Labels: books, Chuck Pahalniuk, Daniel Holloway, DATING MAKES YOU WANT TO DIE, Dorothy Robinson, HE'S JUST NOT THAT INTO YOU, Internet dating, John Gray, MEN ARE FROM MARS, WOMEN ARE FROM VENUS

August 27, 2008
THE FRONT is the perfect size for summer reading. It's spare and smart. Patricia Cornwell has a somewhat new set of characters -- Massachusetts State Police investigator Win Garano and DA Monique Lamont, who debuted in AT RISK. Very different from Cornwell's well-known character, Kay Scarpetta, but still as sharp a read.
Lamont "owns" Garano, which is all the more perturbing when he realizes that she is creating a connection between a victim of sexual homicide and the Boston Strangler -- that may not exist, and for her own gain. I bristle at the improper use of power and the lack of integrity in Cornwell's female DA. And I really like Garano, even though he seems confused and insecure at times.
My favorite is Garano's grandmother -- Nana, a woman of the Craft -- a good witch. Those two powerful forces -- Nana and Lamont -- both lay pressure on Garano.
His Nana reminded me of my grandmother. Her name was Blanca, and there was a mysterious silence about her. Every afternoon, at four, she would dress in her nurse's uniform, and head for Lenox Hill Hospital in NY. She'd worked there for decades as the head RN in the ER. She giggled when they finally figured out that it was time for her to retire. They thought she was 65. By then, she was close to 80. She knew things. In the 70's -- long before the body-mind connection was in the mainstream -- she would say "Don't keep that anger inside you. It is a toxin -- it will poison your body if you don't release it." There was also a back-story I found fascinating.
Blanca came from a family of about eight children, but several passed away along the journey from Peru, over the Andes, eventually to New York. I met two sisters -- my great-aunts Lola and Raquel. Lola played piano at Carnegie Hall when she was four. Raquel was an artist who invented pop-ups. Blanca's daughter -- my mother -- was born around the time of the Lindberg baby's kidnapping, and Blanca invented a baby intercom so she could hear my mother -- as a baby -- sleeping in the other room. The kids in school teased me wickedly, not believing me, until I showed them the newspaper clipping documenting that. Another sister was a dancer. And Marguerite, whom I never met, was said to be a lawyer.
The story goes that Blanca wanted to be a physician, but her father forbid her -- simply because she was a young woman. After he died, Blanca got her RN in the early 1920's, and worked in the ER -- as close as she could to make her dreams come true.
She would make predictions -- and I never knew her to be incorrect. And, she could read cards and palms. She knew about salves and healings. And, I always wondered if maybe, just maybe, she wasn't a doctor or a nurse...but a good witch. Like Garano's Nana.

Labels: books, dreams, grandmother, Patricia Cornwell, THE FRONT

August 26, 2008
I love Broadway musicals.
I believe in breaking into song and dance.
Call it corny, I don't care -- I love musicals because they raise my spirits.
My grandmother lived in NY all her life at 93rd and Central Park West in a rambling old apartment that she could afford on social security. Thank rent control, and the fact that she lived there for decades.
I thought it might be cool to live there -- the apartment unfortunately isn't with the family any more -- so a few months ago, I located the realtor for that apartment building and asked the price. I lived with my grandmother, my grandfather and my parents there until I was three and a half; I visited most weekends while going to school in the suburbs; and I lived with her the year after college graduation.
So I ask the guy how much.
"Nine million dollars," he says, "Would you like to see it?"
"Oh I know it quite well," I say and tell him the history.
Holy crap. I lived in a nine-million dollar apartment!
That's not what was valuable. It was my grandmother scrimping to buy tickets to Broadway shows so my little brother and I could escape into this rich, fabulous fantasy. To this day, strong emotions evoke songs that just pop into my mind. I may not know what I'm feeling, but if I analyze the lyrics to the song, I'll get it. Hey, "Don't Rain on My Parade."
So I receive with great delight the book HISTORIC PHOTOS OF BROADWAY: NEW YORK THEATRE, 1850-1970. Something strikes me right off about the book, but instead of puzzling over it, I pour through every page.
I find reference to LONG DAY'S JOURNEY INTO NIGHT, written by Eugene O'Neill, and I reflect on the paper I wrote on O'Neill in tenth grade. The teacher gave us the choice of any playwright, and when I asked a literary family friend for a suggestion, she recommended that I research O'Neill, noting that I would relate to him. Then I discovered the violence and alcoholism in O'Neill's family.
Back to the theatre. I remember seeing PETER PAN and THE SOUND OF MUSIC on Broadway, along with many other shows. I wander through the book, seeing black and white photos of a young Fred Astaire, Imogene Coca, Helen Hayes, Jimmy Durante, Bob Hope, Ethel Merman (who began life as Ethel Zimmerman), and Katharine Hepburn.
Way past page 200, I begin seeing some of the shows I grew up with.
Then it hits me. FIDDLER ON THE ROOF. It's the next page in the book, and it's on the cover. I'd seen the musical on Broadway, and when I was in college and the show was on campus for a week, I went to every performance. I felt compelled. I wanted to immerse myself in the story. There was something in that story that connected so deeply with me, but I didn't know what.
Until a couple of years ago. That's when a family friend revealed a fact about my family that my secretive mother had never mentioned. I knew my mother's mother was born in Peru, and that my grandmother's hyphenated Latina name ended in -berg, but these pieces never connected until one day my family friend said to me, quite out of the blue. "Your grandmother's father was a Russian Jew."
He lived in Russia about the time the character Tevye did, and also had to emigrate.
We always know the truth.

Labels: books, Broadway musicals, Eugene O'Neill, grandmother, HISTORIC PHOTOS OF BROADWAY, LONG DAY'S JOURNEY INTO NIGHT, NY, PETER PAN, SOUND OF MUSIC, Tevye, transcending the trauma, truth

I was out dancing Saturday night with a date. I don't drink, which means I can have an unjaundiced frame of mind. It can get pretty drunk on the dance floor, especially among the women, dressed in short tight dresses, showing cleavage, showing off for each other. We danced until close to one in the morning, then got a bite to eat downstairs, next to an open door, next to a stream of men and women lined up, hoping to make it in.
But this is nothing like NY. Nothing like the Meat Packing District, where Alafair Burke's beautiful underage blonde from Indiana flirts her way inside an exclusive bar. And then gets killed.
As we settle into her friend's mansion in SW Portland this afternoon, up in the fully furnished loft, with a pool table and a huge TV, she divulges that she's read my book blog from the previous day. My hand is tipped, but I will ask about her famous dad when it feels appropriate in the arc of the interview.
But first, Alafair tells me that she's been on both sides of those partying nights when everyone is too loaded to know what's good for her -- and she wants to stay or she wants her friends to leave with her. I remember those days, too, but because I can't remember what happened next -- and other people would remind me the next day -- or ten years later -- that's why I quit drinking fifteen years ago.
Alafair cites cases like Natalie Holloway who partied in Aruba on a school trip, and vanished. And there have been other beautiful young women. Too many. That concept sparked this novel, centered around the beautiful, savagely murdered Chelsea Hart. That was the hardest part to write, Alafair says, how Chelsea was cut and slashed up, her tresses chopped off at crazy angles.
Alafair's newest books have been starring Ellie Hatcher, in NYPD, who's climbed her way up to homicide detective too fast, in some peoples' opinion. A clue. Maybe. Alafair hopes readers fall in love with Detective Ellie enough to make her an ongoing character. I do. I read Ellie as cool, funny, smart, very real. Actually, a lot like Alafair.
How did her dad -- bestselling author James Lee Burke -- influence her? She says she saw him absorbed in his craft -- and few know this -- but her mom was a school librarian. Books were all around the four siblings -- now all successful. Alafair says her dad was always very encouraging. "He must be proud of you, " I say.
She laughs, "He'd be proud of me if I wrote the phone book."
And then she adds, "He says I was younger than he was when I made it."
Salud to Ellie and to Alafair!
Here's the Angel's Tip recipe, credit to Alafair:
Shake two ounces of Vanilla Vodka with an ounce of Creme de Cacao and a tablespoon of Bailey's with ice in a cocktail shaker. Strain into a martini glass, garnish with maraschino cherry.
A Diet Coke -- no ice -- over here, please.

Labels: Alafair Burke, ANGEL'S TIP, books, dancing, drinking, James Lee Burke, quitting drinking, transcending the trauma

Instead of anchoring the news this weekend, I am free to take a Zumba class. So, this afternoon, I dance, and then hit the treadmill to read Alafair Burke's newest book ANGEL'S TIP. I'll be interviewing her tomorrow, and I'll tell you more about her thriller after that.
Alafair and I have had several conversations over the years, made easier by a twist of fate that led her to Portland -- where I live -- where she was a deputy district attorney for Multnomah County. This is in stark contrast to her dad, the bestselling author James Lee Burke who is from Texas and Louisiana. Alafair's voice would sound at home on any Portland street. James' speaking voice is gentled by a southern blend that sounds like "kindness" and "dad" to me.
Alafair's dad, of course. I love listening to him. Especially since he has this down-home wisdom. A few years ago, when I was interviewing James Lee Burke about his book PURPLE CANE ROAD, I asked him -- like I ask every author -- "what is your best hope for your book?" Some authors are glib, and respond "the New York Times bestseller list" and then, often embarrassed about that glibness, reveal their passionate connection with the material, often a revelation I would not expect. Novelists often strain past the obvious "to entertain" and again add spice to the interview. Other authors -- like Burke -- knock it out of the park.
James Lee Burke wowed me this particular time with his answer. It is packed with wisdom and applicable in a much broader respect. Like to Life. After the interview, I listened to the tape over and over, transcribing his words:
"I never try to impose meaning on the work. A fellow told me a long time ago, never keep score. The score takes care of itself. Bear down on the batter one pitch at a time, and you'll be pleasantly surprised by the arithmetic on the scoreboard at the bottom of the ninth."
A study long ago concluded that women learn about success from their fathers. I wince a bit when I consider that I didn't have that opportunity -- so I learn from other peoples' fathers.
When I see Alafair tomorrow, maybe we'll talk about her and her dad's wisdom.

Labels: Alafair Burke, books, dad, hope, James Lee Burke

August 23, 2008
What irony that an interviewer has to be told to "ask." My questions usually spring from curiosity about an author's book, body of work, or even about their process. It is a different kind of question my literary manager wants me to ask of the authors I know.
When I am reticent to act...or ask...I often get a nudge from the universe. Most of us do -- it only takes being aware of this deeper source to reap the pleasure.
So, I am digitally editing an interview last night around eight when Christina Katz, author of WRITER MAMA, pops into my mind. I begin having a conversation with her -- in my head, subconscious role-playing, if you will -- about how to find focus amid all my passions, meanwhile making a living. Now I haven't seen or talked to Christina since December when I moderated her Writer Mama panel at a Willamette Writer's event.
Ping! An email sails in.
No kidding.
It is from Christina -- sending a cheer to me on Facebook. And to her other 451 friends. But her timing blows me away, so I email her back, telling her I'd just been thinking of her, and may I call.
Ping! Call anytime.
So I do.
She opens with "Your website needs focus." Holy crap, what's going on here. It's only slightly off the topic I was thinking of earlier -- like my entire life. Christina is talking about promoting the book I wrote. She asks what it's about. I reprise "It's called BookMark: Life-Changing Secrets I Learned from Interviewing Authors. It's a memoir about how, when I was four, my mother -- alcoholic, suicidal, schizophrenic -- not only divorced my father, but forbid me to speak of him, changed my name completely, cut his pictures out of all photos. And then she married a tall, dark and handsome pedophile who beat up my dad when he tried to visit a year later, and forbid him to come back. I survived the rapes and the violence and the uncertainty by vanishing into my books. And, I could see angels. When I became a journalist in my search for Truth, and serendipitously began interviewing authors, I learned how to live, and piece back together the life I had lost." Every author taught me something, and actually, I learned about the Law of Attraction from some of them more than twenty years ago. What I couldn't do, was break through all the self-limits that were created through the abuse and abandonment. Now, I have broken through, and I am compelled to share how I did it. BookMark isn't self-help -- it's stories. And you'll find what you need in its pages.
Christina listens, and we talk about what I really want to do -- to help you transcend the trauma. This is actually the impulse behind every book blog. At some point, Christina says, I must create a website just for my book.
I ask about writing for magazines other than for The Costco Connection, and she pours out tips. Later, I pull her book, WRITER MAMA, off my shelf and flip through it. It's got every detail I need in there. Plus, she has a new book coming out in October GET KNOWN BEFORE THE BOOK DEAL.
She asks my sign. "Leo," I say.
"That's the ta-da on your website," Christina says. "What's your moon?"
I reply, "Pisces." She tells me I'm excellent at emotional rapport -- that's the Pisces." And my ascending sign is Scorpio -- the intensity, the desire to dig deep. All makes sense! That's why I love to interview.
After our hour-and-a-half conversation is over -- thank you, Christina -- I realize how the advice from my literary manager, Ken Atchity -- echoes universal wisdom.
"Ask," he told me.
I ask.
And, I receive.

Labels: Ask, Ask and you shall receive, BookMark, books, Christina Katz, GET KNOWN BEFORE THE BOOK DEAL, interviewing, Ken Atchity, transcending the trauma, WRITER MAMA

August 22, 2008
On the envelope, it says "Open and begin knitting immediately." Not that I follow directions -- I tend to follow the spirit of the directions -- which is probably why I get lost driving so often. Not that I follow directions, but I open the envelope, and pull out the book immediately. Not the knitting part. I haven't held knitting needles in my hands since I was a young teen. But the book, I open. It is beautiful. This is a knitting book? MASON-DIXON KNITTING OUTSIDE THE LINES. I can't believe it -- I look at every page in the entire book, reading most of it. There are inspirational quotes knitted into what Ann Shayne and Kay Gardiner call "A Mystery Sweater" -- from Martin Luther King Jr "The means we use must be as pure as the ends we seek." And Gandhi "You must be the change you want to see in the world." On the back, from Margaret Mead -- one of my childhood heroes -- "Never doubt that a small group of citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has." This week has been a week of bad news for me, and its impact hurt, but barely damaged my spirit, as my soul has been connecting instantly to smiles and inspirational thoughts and cuddly black cats. I'm a bit puzzled over the knitting. What is it about this knitting book...?
I read a parody about the Knitting Police pulling over a woman who forgets to block her swatch. Huh? And the memory floods back, my mother putting soggy sweaters on towels and calling it blocking. I liked knitting, but lanyards were faster, and I soon fell away from knitting. But, my mother persisted in knitting sweaters and sox.
And then I see it -- the pattern for the Christmas stocking! I don't have my mom, but I have Christmas stockings that she made decades ago for my two sons and their father and me. Each is three-feet long, a foot wide. Mine says Mommy on one side, and Diana on the other. The boys' have teddy bears pictured at the top, along with their names. Every Christmas I met the challenge of filling each stocking to the top. I haven't a clue anymore how to knit, but somewhere inside me there's a woman itching to.
Last page of the book: Mason-Dixon Rule Number 61: Never say never.

Labels: Ann Shayne, books, Christmas stockings, Kay Gardiner, MASON-DIXON KNITTING OUTSIDE THE LINES

The perfect book always seems to arrive on time. SILVER LININGS landed on my porch this afternoon. The book is full of homespun wisdom, old saws that still sparkle, still photographs that seem sunny. Many of the essays are manufactured and tired, other thoughts are delightful prose. I glance at each page, drawing from it a smile or a memory.
When I was a kid, the other children called me Pollyanna. I was always trying to see the bright side, despite the yelling and the hitting, the swearing and the touching in my house.
We lived in the suburbs, but the woods behind our house hadn't been developed yet. And, there I found jack o'lanterns and ancient oak trees, whose thick low branches easily supported my weight, and even a trickling brook that dwindled to near nothing. I walked through the shallow woods any time I could escape, being scratched by thorns, bitten by mosquitoes, entranced by the lightning bugs, and I was in my own heaven. On special days, I could see elves and fairies, and angels. When I was around seven, I considered myself a Pantheist. I heard that word -- which I interpreted as the divine in every creature, even rocks -- and I embraced it. I kept that perception secret.
One day I saw a deer with a small rack on his head, standing on the hill that led from the woods into our backyard. So close to us, the deer had safely traveled a few miles from his home in the mountains. Excited, I broke my rule to keep special beauty secret from my mother and stepfather. I yelled, "A deer! A deer!" And, they immediately called someone to take the deer away. I couldn't watch, and I felt so guilty.
In SILVER LININGS, an Anne Frank quote pops into view: Think of all the beauty still left around you and be happy. It was a summer night, the night of the deer, and I wandered back outside -- secretly -- after dark. The stars sprinkled across the entire sky, lifting my spirits. There's a Vincent Van Gogh quote in the book: For my part I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of the stars makes me dream.

Labels: Anne Frank, books, deer, kids, Pantheist, Pollyanna, SILVER LININGS, Vincent Van Gogh, violence, woods

We were driving through a wooded area in Pennsylvania. I was about eight years old. We had to stop the car and pull over, because my brother had to find an outhouse. Quickly. When he got out, I scrambled out and walked a bit further down the path. Away from the people. And, there I saw her! A beautiful deer, about my size. I opened my eyes and looked into hers. I poured all the love I had within me toward her, and I slowly walked toward her. She wasn't frightened, and neither was I. She let me touch her -- and as I gently lifted my hand from her soft fur, I felt a bond of protection and I felt loved.
Suddenly, other people appeared, and the deer fled.
Some fifteen years later, I was staying at a cabin in the Wallowa Mountains with friends. In the morning, several deer appeared -- so close -- and again, I was filled with joy at their presence, feeding them from my cupped hands.
This has happened numerous times in my life. About a month ago, I drove to Estacada to visit a friend, and a deer appeared by the side of the road. While at her home, I saw a hummingbird -- the first one I had ever seen.
It didn't surprise me, just a few days later, to learn from a local shaman what my totems are. She is a physician by profession, a shaman by calling. She went on her quest for me, and without any hints from me, revealed that my totems are the deer and the hummingbird.
ANIMAL OMENS by Victoria Hunt arrived within days. It's a beautiful little lavendar book with Victoria's stories of her experiences with creatures from the Ant to the Woodpecker, as well as the spiritual meaning of each animal.
I was so enraptured with the idea of the deer as my totem, that, a few days later, I prayed as I drove on a slightly wooded highway to see a deer. It was a road I traveled at least eight times a month, and had never seen a deer. As soon as the prayer left my lips, I saw a deer. Dead by the side of the road. Before I could even cry out, just yards away, pulled over on the other side of the two-lane highway, there was a forest-green jeep, the hood crunched, steam pouring out, a woman running around to the rear of the vehicle, phone in hand. And there was another deer, motionless, lying in the same position as the other deer, on the shoulder of the road. "I meant live deer," I cried, "Alive!"
I called the shaman in a panic, but she eased my fears -- I hadn't caused the death of the deer.
A few days later, on a road near my home that I must travel sixty times a month -- where I have never seen a deer, I was thinking about that experience, and I tried again, "Please let me see a live deer."
Later that day, on a return trip, a deer bolted from the most unlikely place, right past me, just in front of my car...close enough to enjoy her beauty, far enough away to not threaten her. Joy surged through my body -- and relief.
I opened up ANIMAL OMENS to DEER -- "DEER is about listening from the heart with patience and love, being who you innately are." This, I reflected, is what my author interviews are all about.
Next to HUMMINGBIRD. Victoria Hunt says hummingbirds are all about the joy of living. She says if you see a hummingbird, "she wants you to share and spread her beauty in the world. You can help her by carrying her gift of joy with you as you go about your everyday life." It is this joy I feel when I write my daily book blogs, sharing with you what I have learned from authors and from life.

Labels: ANIMAL OMENS, books, deer, hummingbird, shaman, totems, Victoria Hunt

August 19, 2008
One of Glenn Kaplan's answers leaped out of our interview. And it was to my question "What was the spark for EVIL, INC?" Glenn says that during his research for an earlier, non-fiction book, Bruce Henderson, a consultant, told him that CEO's of big companies have a lot in common with sociopaths. That goes to explaining the headlines I read on the air -- the massive layoffs, the multi-million dollar payoffs to CEO's, the insanely high gas prices.
But what I don't read on the air is the pure goodness of gracious friends doing what they can for people they've never met halfway around the world. All these actions, at whatever size, shift us into a world that has heart. Actions such as those I witnessed in my very own home tonight.
I hosted a gathering for Itafari. The word means brick among the people of Rwanda. And Vicky Trabash, a co-founder of Itafari, unveiled her story before a room full of warm and wonderful people. I didn't take notes, but what clings to my heart -- devastatingly poor Rwandan women who prostitute themselves for one-dollar, or, for unprotected sex, they can get two-dollars, often resulting in AIDS babies who die long before their time. Another tragedy. But, Vicky tells us our dollars can buy goats, build a school, sponsor a child. There are baskets, woven by the women, glorious baskets,woven with their joyfulness at creating a work of art someone in the U-S will buy,and you feel the energy in the flawless work. You hold a basket, you feel the story of the woman who wove it -- and in case you forget, there is her signature woven on a scrap of paper to the basket. One woman who had just been laid off -- there it is again -- clutched a beautiful green and black and orange basket to her chest, saying she couldn't leave it -- she had to buy it even if she wasn't sure of her financial future.
Glenn's chilly thriller takes us around the world, too, and we see how mercenaries cover up a crime that has killed thousands at a company, including the family of his main character, family man, Ken Olson. EVIL, INC could come true.
I've been interviewing hundreds of MBA students lately, and I see how so many treasure the bottom line...and only a few watch to keep low the number of people fired, laid off, quitting. It's a numbers game. Which numbers will future CEO's watch?
Basket by basket, bangle by bangle, brick by brick, dollar by dollar, the beautiful women in my living room are connecting with the women of Rwanda, those who are left after the crippling, evil destruction of their country.
Usually, at these functions, one child is "adopted." Vicky tells me among these beautiful women, six children are adopted. Six!
Now that's a story.


How not to wear a basket:

Labels: books, CEO, EVIL, Glenn Kaplan, good versus evil, INC, Itafari, layoffs, Vicky Trabash

Blogging is like being on the radio -- you wonder sometimes if anyone is out there.
Either way, I love it, so I do it.
I also love cards. How they feel in my hands. How they crackle as I shuffle. Today I received a beautiful Tarot deck by Llewellyn. It is THE DREAMER'S JOURNAL, and the cards are exquisite. Unlike Anna Franklin who painted the 78-cards in THE SACRED CIRCLE, artist Heidi Darras created these cards online, using existing art work, and designing them through photo-manipulation. They are dreamy. I haven't met Heidi, nor the author of the book, Barbara Moore. I appreciate Barbara's musings over what a challenge it was to write a book of interpretations about such an intuitive deck.
But, I interviewed Anna many years ago. She seemed like a fairy cast in human form, her lilting voice, delicate bone structure. And as someone who feels a rush of fear when a card is reversed, I was quite happy to hear Anna say that she ignores reversed cards, deciding only that they may have a bit less power than they would while upright.
So today -- in life -- I had a reversal of fortune. Usually, a few hours later, I will notice there is a lot more good about such changes than I first see. There's the grief thing, the anger thing, the sadness thing. Those emotions flit about the surface, and must be expressed. Beneath, I am beginning to connect with Faith. Not hope. Faith. Deepak Chopra once told me that to hope infers uncertainty, and one must know that the desired outcome exists.
The Dreamer's cards arrive, and in my pensive state, they are just perfect. I shuffle and shuffle, and listening to the rustling, they take me back to when I was a little girl, and my grandmother was shuffling her playing cards. I watched her play canasta with her sisters long long ago. They were all Peruvian, and would chatter in Spanish. As her sisters passed, my grandmother had other friends to play cards with. Now it was gin and gin rummy. She taught me all three games. I retain -- loosely -- the rules for gin, which I play with my sons.
She was ruthless at the card table. I loved her enthusiasm. But when she and I were alone, and we were about to play canasta, she would shuffle and shuffle and shuffle, and I would pass under a spell. I don't remember winning and losing, I only recall that faraway place, dreamy, where she and I would play cards.
I pull a card now, randomly, from the deck. It is the Wheel of Fortune. "It is likely that the temporary chaos will bring good fortune in the long run."

Labels: Anna Franklin, Barbara Moore, books, Deepak Chopra, faith, grandmother, Heidi Darras, hope, playing cards, THE DREAM'S JOURNAL, THE SACRED CIRCLE

August 17, 2008
He answers on the first ring, his Scottish brogue warm and inviting. We'd been playing phone and email tag for a couple of weeks, during which time I had downloaded and watched his interview with Oprah. Fabulous! And as natural with her as he is with me. I interviewed Ainslie MacLeod several months ago when THE INSTRUCTION: LIVING THE LIFE YOUR SOUL INTENDED came out, in his room in a quaint, refurbished Portland hotel.
Ainslie tells how he felt his life was off course, and how a psychic told him he would relocate to the West Coast from Scotland and become a psychic. He is such a humble guy, it takes him awhile to embrace his true path. Even now, he hides behind his guides -- he gives them all the credit. We all have guides, he says. I ask if the angels I write to in my morning journal are guides. "Yes," he says. "Good," I think, because I love how they take hold of my pen when I ask them a question, and they splash wisdom on the pages of my legal pad. Long ago, I quit using pretty journals -- I didn't want to sully the pages. I just use white legal pads tucked inside a zippered black leather binder I've been carrying around for seven years. I don't obey the lines, writing wherever there is space.
I've seen angels since I was a little kid, but the name "guide" distances me a little -- I get a male authority figure in mind. Ainslie says the guides -- and angels -- are without gender. I promise myself I'll invite in my angels and guides.
"Do they have names?" I ask.
He says it doesn't matter, and perhaps it's better to not name them. That's so the best guides for the particular job enter in when we summon them.
Tonight, I am concerned mostly with relationships, especially with men. My patterns are shifting. Yet I'm not where I was, and I'm not where I know I will be. Ainslie and his guides tell me it doesn't serve my soul's purpose to focus on connecting with men I have loved who are more in my past. Describe the person I want in the future, tell my guides who I want. It's clear that letting go is really hard for me -- the guides let me know that I need to do more EMDR on father and stepfather stuff. Ainslie says "Don't stress about the future. It's working out the way it should."
I consider the first time we met. I didn't tape our reading -- he says the guides would shut down. I took notes. Not sure where I filed them. But I have his book, and I flip through it now -- I want to be sure before I write down my soul level and mission and soul type. I know I'm a Level Nine Soul -- these souls work on confronting phobias, overcoming addictions, and correcting flaws. There are ten levels -- after that, we're done on the earth plane. I'll ask Ainslie to remind me next time we talk, but I'm pretty sure I know.
This time I say that I feel like I know what he has just told me. He comments that I'm intuitive, and that most people he reads are intuitive. We already know -- we just need to be reminded.
I have just one more question -- does he believe in me. "Yes," he says, "you're just in a holding pattern now, but you will make it."
Ainslie's journey crosses my mind. He seemed almost shy when we did our interview at the beginning of his book tour. With Oprah, he is quietly powerful. "I'm proud of you," I say. Ainslie thanks me, and we'll talk again in a few weeks.
He's a Soul Level Ten.
In case you hadn't guessed already.

Labels: Ainslie MacLeod, books, life journey, Oprah, souls, THE INSTRUCTION

August 16, 2008
HOW TO BE A BUSINESS SUPERHERO is one of those rare books with a schtick that actually works. I flip open the book to the chapter on my favorite superhero -- Wonder Woman. Of course she's my favorite. For starters, we share the first same name. And she's sexy and bold and a role model. Then there's the chapter on Catwoman -- I've even interviewed one of the actresses who played Catwoman -- Eartha Kitt. Meow. I'll share that story another day. But then I find myself skipping around the whole book, and compelled, I open up the very beginning of the book and immerse myself. Sean Wise begins with ten golden rules, including Do No Evil, Swear An Oath, MO, identity, and so on. I'm not sure what my costume would look like, but certainly there would be a high percentage of Lycra involved.
Wonder Woman's lesson is to Stay Focused. Ironic, because earlier in the day, I felt ill at ease when I fell off that focus a bit. And falling is painful. Being in the moment -- that's the best way to be fearless and guilt-free. Wise writes to Have A Mission. Wonder Woman's is Fight for Peace. Mine must be Inspire. It's so central to my mission, it is on the flip side of my business card. But Wise asks for a few more words than just one. So I reflect back over my year with HeartSpark -- which encourages each participant to uncover the patterns that work best. I don't have mine memorized -- probably because it is so long. But I remember well how it took form. One day, business author Jeff DeGraff, whom I'd interviewed, offers up that I am an Impresario. That brings a smile. It feels right. So,it becomes the key word -- and then I jazz up the pattern statement with all the other aspects that I enjoy. It becomes "I am a confident impresario of spiritual connections, living a limitless magic life with openhearted faith and intuition, inspiring others through my stories, support, patience and dreams."
This is what I love most to do -- to connect people at that passionate core.

Labels: books, Catwoman, Eartha Kitt, Heartspark, HOW TO BE A BUSINESS SUPERHERO, mission, Sean Wise, Wonder Woman

August 15, 2008
I don't really want to talk about SAY GOODBYE. Which means that I am compelled to. And I will, in a moment.
It is a contradiction that makes sense to me, finally. You don't speak of terror, you take the blame, you take care of others. That is what you do when you are a child facing terror, and you have no choice but to go along. You learn to be silent. Silence is a deep dark tunnel to slide into -- the most comfortable place to hide until the sexual touching stops, the yelling ceases, the fists quit flying, you don't hear the glass shattering. Every moment in a home like this is just before the terror, or just after, or it is happening. Every sense is heightened. You notice every nuance in a room, things slightly out of place, a voice raised a decible -- the quiet before the storm. This was all normal for me growing up. I didn't speak. I have stolen back pieces of myself over the years.
And SAY GOODBYE brings it all back. The creepy feeling -- Lisa Gardner's writing brings it back. It's about Kimberly, a four-month pregnant FBI agent, married to another agent -- who gets pulled into investigating horrible crimes involving teenage girls. One of the girls who acts as an informant, jeopardizes Kimberly's life and that of her baby. You will learn more about spiders and tarantulas than you may want to know. This thriller is clever, diabolical. It is about the bogeyman in the closet, like the real bogeyman that was in my bedroom. It brings it back.

The terror stays -- triggered by reminders -- the shadow of a man, the anger in a voice, the thwack of a belt as it rips through pant loops, the slamming of doors, the flicker of the hall light, the scent of his cologne, that touch, that coaxing "come here."

Listen to your young darlings. Hear the words even in their silence. Save them. If you don't, they will never be able to completely SAY GOODBYE to that bogeyman's terror.

Labels: books, Lisa Gardner, SAY GOODBYE, terror

August 14, 2008
I walked in the door around one this morning, home from my flight to Penn State to interview MBA students and staff for a podcast for MBA Podcaster.com. I collected nearly six hours of interviews and natural sound to incorporate into a thirty-minute show. I will be busy.
Somehow -- for the second time ever -- I managed to pack all my audio equipment, laptop, hairdryer, flatiron, and clothes into two carry-ons. One was a silver wheeled suitcase, that I delighted in dead-lifting over my head into the airplane's bins. That was about the only workout I got there -- other than trying to adapt six aged machines in the hotel to my usual routine. The other carry-on was a hot pink Guess bag in which my laptop and purse fortunately just barely fit. I was grateful.
I was also reminiscing about the other time I adapted to just a couple of carry-ons. And this time, I wasn't even flying. Chris Bohjalian reminded me of this incident when I interviewed him in Portland in May for his newest book, SKELETONS AT THE FEAST.
This novel about a precarious, grueling time during World War Two might seem daunting. It is actually lit with love, in particular, the love of an 18-year old woman of Prussian aristocracy named Anna, and Callum, a captured Scottish paratrooper, and Uri, a 26-year old Jew who impersonates whomever he must in order to survive. SKELETONS AT THE FEAST highlights the best of what can occur when the human spirit faces unavoidable cruel uncertainty. It is a magnificent undertaking. Better yet, it was based on a true journal that a friend of Chris' asked him to read.
Chris inspires me.
This time we met at the Heathman Hotel in Portland -- a venerable old hotel which loves to host authors. We've done several interviews over the years. He walked into the conference room on the mezzanine where we met, broad grin, solid handshake. And right away he reminded me of our interview for THE BUFFALO SOLDIER in March of 2005. I had been traveling at the time, and while I was headed from Portland to San Francisco, he had the reverse schedule. I really wanted to do the interview. Chris' publicist and I shot back emails furiously, until we figured out that if I were to meet him at SFO, we could do the interview in his literary escort's car...between take-offs. I didn't particularly want the sound of jets obliterating Chris' audio interview. So I arrived, dragging my carry-ons, and meeting up with him. I had forgotten one thing in the telling. Chris reminded me this past May, "To interview me at the airport, you had to go through security not once, but twice!"
I like that that was unforgettable for him.

Labels: books, Chris Bohjalian, Heathman, inspiring, interviews, SKELETONS AT THE FEAST

August 13, 2008
What if you could go back and whisper to your younger self -- what would you tell the seventeen year-old you?
That's the premise of IF I'D KNOWN THEN: WOMEN IN THEIR 20S AND 30S WRITE LETTERS TO THEIR YOUNGER SELVES. It's a slim volume,filled with the lovely musings of successful actresses, athletes and writers. There's a letter from the actress -- a brilliant mathematician now -- who played Winnie in the TV show THE WONDER YEARS. She tells her younger self to be unafraid of her mathematical talents. Then there are letters from athletes -- in their early years disturbed about their boyish looks, their slimless, their lack of curves in schools full of sexy young women, flaunting their appearance. These young athletes' bodies become perfectly formed for swimming or dancing or running just a decade or so later.
What I would write to my seventeen-year old self? Number one on my list:
"It isn't your fault!"
Something else I'd tell her: "Just because Michael Randazza calls you Thunder Thighs doesn't mean it's true. Besides, you'll grow up to dance and turn those muscular legs into dancer's legs -- and guys -- even those you don't know -- will compliment you on them. Not that looks or guys are all that important -- you think so now when you're seventeen. One more physical thing before we switch gears. Remember that older lady who -- when you were fourteen and you still looked like a little kid -- said that someday you'll look younger than everyone else and love it -- she was right! And I would tell you to Speak Out! You know the Truth -- always did. Speak it! You will grow up to interview a former Secretary of State -- Madeleine Albright -- and those are the words of wisdom she will tell you then. Speak up! You have inspirational stories to share."

Labels: body image, books, dancer, IF I'D KNOWN THEN, Madeleine Albright., thunder thighs

August 12, 2008
I grabbed DEAR AMERICAN AIRLINES because I would be flying all day. But the book was nothing like I expected, and neither was my flight.
First of all, I thought the slim book I'd tossed into my carry-on was non-fiction. It is, instead,a sardonic self-expose by a literary translator who intimates how he has terribly mis-managed his life, pre-AA. The novel is a cleverly written plea to the airlines which has terribly mis-managed his one attempt at redemption -- to walk his daughter down the aisle. He has not seen her since she was a baby, never mind that he must spin on a dime to adapt to the fact that his daughter is marrying another woman.
Bennie writes the long letter as he is stuck in O'Hare, thanks to an airline-manufactured weather disaster -- which he translates as American overscheduling itself into a corner. He will miss the wedding, of that he is sure -- that's not a spoiler, there are numerous endings and beginnings.
My beginnings -- up at 4:45am Pacific to make the 6:15 shuttle arrival to make the 8:45am flight. By the time I get to the airport, it has been determined that the flight to Philly will be delayed nearly two hours because the crew needs more sleep.
I have flexibility -- somehow, I have managed to pack everything into two carry-ons -- something I had found previously impossible, but I am delighted to notice that the flaming pink Guess tote carries my laptop and some of my audio gear, and my rolling silver luggage can accomodate the rest. I will later dead lift that second bag over my head into the bin -- unassisted. Now, with extra time, I think -- wow -- I can try out my year-old laptop that I haven't tried out in public yet. And I am deliriously happy to find that I can figure out how to go on-line without revealing that I have no clue. I have just enough time to blog, publish, and get in line before my row is called.
I prefer aisle, for a quick escape, but the window has been reserved by my client. Another stroke of luck -- in a full flight, the middle seat has somehow been left open. Magic is afoot!
On board, I test my limited experience with my laptop again, and finish corrections on chapter eight of my new book...just as the movie starts, and my laptop instructs me to save and exit lest I lose power with only ten-percent remaining.
We arrive in Philly at 6:37pm local time, and, taking the shuttle from the C concourse to the F concourse, I see a magnificent rainbow across the sky. I point it out to the woman next to me, who shrugs her indifference.
When we arrive at the F, I check the board for College Station. My second leg is at 9:40pm, but I notice a flight at 6:40pm. Three minutes. I stride to the gate, hand over my boarding pass, and ask if there's a way I can take this earlier flight.
"We're full." But then the gate attendant looks into my hopeful eyes. "Wait. Just a moment," she says, scanning her screen.
"It appears we have a no-show, and it's time to take off. Go. Fast." She points me out to the tarmac.
This is so cool -- no three-hour layover.
I climb on board and sit in the rear-facing seat next to a man with friendly energy -- and the flight attendant. She grabs my bags and stuffs them far away in an upper bin as quickly as she can. I'm sitting in the exit room, and my friendly companion, whom I will come to know as Donald, reads me the instructions as I strap in.
"Can you speak English?"
"Yes."
"Are you likely to..." and he rambles on with a question that I can only translate as whether or not I am crazy.
"No. Joyous, yes. Crazy, no."
We settle in, and discover that although we are three-thousand miles from PDX,we live minutes from each other in the Portland area.
I wonder, why didn't Bennie in the book meet wonderful people during his travels? I always do. On a previous trip, months earlier, I happened to sit next to a flight attendant in the very last row of the plane. She had barely made it, and, though she was just past twenty and slim, was panting from her run. She tells me, when she catches her breath, that she can always tell as she scans the faces on her flight who's going to be trouble and who isn't. And she loves to dote on those who smile. The only baggage they bring on board is their physical luggage.
Suddenly I realize I must have left DEAR AMERICAN AIRLINES on the previous flight, as I was juggling my luggage.
"No way to get it back, sorry!" says the flight attendant, Paula. But she is smiling and lively, and Donald tells me he wants everyone to applaud the stewardess at her friendly instructions. "Flight attendant," I offer, "Police officers, firefighters, postal carriers." Donald goes along with this, and challenges me with a smile,"Manholes." "You win," I say, "but remember those old ads with stewardesses saying 'Fly Me?'"
Paula pops in,"I don't mind being called a stewardess."
We land, cheerfully say goodbye like we've know each other forever, and as I retrieve my rolling silver bag and my hot pink tote, I unzip a foreign zipper on instinct. There, inside, DEAR AMERICAN AIRLINES. My book is back! My favorite line: "At thirty-five thousand feet, you can see the curve of infinity. It's all so possible."
What I love about air travel -- is that it seems to divide us between passengers who see the world as a good place where magical adventures unfold, and those passengers who think that something bad is going to happen.
And both beliefs are true.

Labels: air travel, books, DEAR AMERICAN AIRLINES, flight attendants, flying, lucky, optimistic

August 11, 2008
He ushers me into the office of his legal firm, which is in a building dating close to nineteen-hundred, old by Portland standards. The town I grew up in back east predates the signing of the Declaration of Independence. Nevertheless, I immediately feel at home. I have interviewed Phil Margolin half a dozen times, and he actually called me to do the interview instead of the usual, where I would set up an interview through his New York publicist.
There are boxes of his new book EXECUTIVE PRIVILEGE around the dark-wooded room, and I settle into a chair so big, I slide forward so my feet can rest on the floor. I tend to sit on the edge of chairs anyway.
The interview is scheduled for a half hour. We will talk past that. Always do. Phil is wearing his wedding band on his right ring finger, I notice, and I recall his words at the beginning of the book. His wife Darlene had passed, and it had been a difficult year for him to say the least.
This book, EXECUTIVE PRIVILEGE, I feel is his best book yet. Phil says he prefers GONE, BUT NOT FORGOTTEN. We won't argue.
I love his characters in this book. His earliest books, he admits -- when I comment that his characters have more depth these days -- were purely plot-driven. He loves puzzles, loves to create intricate webs of intrigue.
Phil is self-taught, developing his skill for writing characters along the way. He says that when his editor -- about a decade ago, or more -- asked him to write from a female point of view, he was deeply concerned. How was he -- a criminal defense attorney, soft-spoken (around me, anyway), but very male -- going to take on a female POV? Suddenly it occurred to him that his wife Darlene embodied all the characteristics he needed for this character -- and he decided to write as if he were Darlene.
He tells me this because I say I love the character Dana Cutler. She is a detective who is hired by an attorney with "powerful political connections" -- read, The President -- and she ends up tracking a high school girl who has political aspirations.
Dana is tough as nails. She can ride, she can shoot, she can blow holes in bad men before they know she's even there.
Dana was kidnapped during an assignment a few years back, and brutally sexually-abused. She is a mess for awhile afterward, does the necessary hospitalizations, and after that -- she doesn't hold back. I read Dana, and my mind floats. I wonder why some women get tough as a result of being terrorized, and why other girls, like me, grow up to become a journalist or a nurse or a therapist who, at first, step out into the world apologetic, and forgiving everyone except herself.
When I was eleven, I was firing a rifle at targets for a summer class, and passed the rigor of each set of requirements rapidly,getting award after award -- turns out I was a darn good shot. At this point, I'd been a rape target for more than half my life. But those were paper targets, with a black dot at their heart. Not a perp. Could I ever be -- could I have ever been -- angry enough to fire a deadly bullet? Doubt it.
My weapon is the written word. Maybe Phil's is, too, and that's why EXECUTIVE PRIVILEGE is, IMHO, his best -- feeling the loss of his dear wife, he poured his heart into his writing.

Labels: books, bullseye, EXECUTIVE PRIVILEGE, good shot, Heartspark, Phil Margolin, rifle, targets, writing

August 10, 2008
Jules Asner -- who wrote WHACKED -- is a screenwriter writing about a screenwriter -- who has ridiculously serious relationship problems. The main character, Dani, thinks she has the perfect life -- writing for a CSI type show -- dating another writer named Dave who looks like the perfect guy. With a little bit of cyber-sleuthing, it turns out that Dave is not so cool after all. He's a liar and he's been cheating on her. So she ends up internet-dating -- among other Hollywood-horrors -- a guy who's into kiddy porn, and another guy who's into smacking her -- hard -- during their most intimate moments.
The writing is quick-witted. And I could see the 'movie' in my head as I read.
It reminded me of Cynthia Whitcomb, who has sold close to 100-screenplays over the years. I took her class a few years ago. She lectures -- actually, she tells stories -- like, who really killed JFK -- which she found out while researching one of her screenplays -- and the classes are spaced out deliberately so we will each write our own screenplay during the course.
The average screenplay is about 85 pages -- one page per minute. I have written fourteen pages. IOW, fourteen minutes. It is so not done. And the vague echo of my full script beckons from the back of my mind. Haunting me. It's about a little girl who is taken from a musical, loving family into a brutal one -- and she survives because she can see what others cannot. Think DROP DEAD FRED meets WHAT DREAMS MAY COME meets WHO'S AFRAID OF VIRGINIA WOOLF.
I have just 71 more pages to go -- and considering that the memoir I sent off to my literary manager is 203 pages, I should be able to pour it out. That little girl is just about ready to talk to me. Louder, honey, I still feel guilty for not completing my screenplay during Cynthia's class.

Labels: books, Cynthia Whitcomb, DROP DEAD FRED, literary manager, screenplay, WHACKED, WHAT DREAMS MAY COME, WHO'S AFRAID OF VIRGINIA WOOLF, writing

August 9, 2008
Oh my gaw-ud! The higher the number, the better Janet Evanovich gets. FEARLESS FOURTEEN plunked me right back in Joisey. Yeah, to be in radio, I washed that accent out somewhere around Iowa City. But it's deliciously wicked to try it on when people least expect it.
I wonder who I would have been had I stayed there -- like Evanovich's Stephanie Plum maybe? Grabbing any odd job -- which in her case just happened to be a bounty-hunter -- and digging in for the ride? Being a journalist, I've been more of an observer. I've seen the world through other peoples' eyes. In this coming chapter of my life, it is time to dive in and do it. Like this past Thursday, a guy friend of mine asked if I wanted to go for a boat ride on the Columbia. I had work to do. I always do. I'd have to miss a dance class. I work weekends, so I don't take any days off. You know what. I just said yes. And we took off! For the first hour, I felt guilty playing hookey, but then with the wind tangling my hair, the waves slapping the bottom of my feet as I stood in the boat while it tore downriver, the sun tattooing my skin with its blessing....I synced up. The few thoughts that floated in, melted away instantly, and this was magical.
I find that place of sublime quiet and aliveness also when I dance or write and often reading, too. FEARLESS FOURTEEN -- a good reminder to take risks -- was a little loose on plot, but a freakin' lot of fun! Stephanie's guy Morelli inherits a house from his wacky aunt, and when it gets out that she might have buried nine-million dollars -- maybe under where he poured the concrete for the new foundation -- everyone including an aging lounge singer named Brenda is trying to dig up the place. I should mention that another guy, Ranger, really wants Stephanie too. That might be the only thing I miss about Jersey -- that unabashed sexual tension with the guys. I just remembered this Italian guy named Joe...

Labels: boat, books, Columbia River, FEARLESS FOURTEEN, guys, Janet Evanovich, New Jersey, playing hookey, Stephanie Plum

Cookbooks are beautiful. I have two stacks on top of my refrigerator of current cookbooks, but I never open them.
One book I received today was -- at first blush -- way too cute. COOK UP A COOKBOOK: CREATE YOUR OWN RECIPE BOOK FROM SCRATCH. Open the front of the book -- which is more like a box with an old-fashioned ribbon -- and you see instructions on how to create your own chef's hat. Um, skipping that. But when I burrowed through the labels and chef's tip cards, and found a little book -- and discovered the brilliant idea of interviewing loved ones about their special recipes. Oh, now that convinced me to maybe go for it, create my own cookbook! Or at least collect a few recipes.
I only have two that I love. One comes from my stepfather's family. I'm a little loose on details -- hence the de