This one's for our friend AZTECLADY....desert sage in the best bloom we've had in five years. What is Karyn doing to these plants to make them so happy?!? Lots of love! Happy summer to everyone.
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Rome Wasn't Built in a Day--The Slideshow
This is probably way too long to work properly. Cannes Film Festival it's not. It's not Rome, either. And the yard took 15 days to finish. It's gorgeous. I'm happy with it. Maybe you'll see it!
Because Rome Wasn't Built in a Day: The Story
It all started with "Let's go to Home Depot and get a couple plants."
If you hear this sentence at any time in the next four months: run. Run very fast. Run until you get a headache. And then, with complete truthfulness, you can say, "Not today, dear, I have a headache.
Do I say, not as I did.
So we throw on our jeans, our baseball caps and our "Vote for Hillary," and "I'm Your Girl," (another Hillary design) t-shirts, and head off in the German SUV we call "Buttah," which is Butter for all you who don't name your cars. Buttah is a most unbuttery Obsidian Black with a gorgeous buttery tan/gold leather interior. While Buttah is a lovely, sophisticated sled in which to go get "a couple plants," it's also the kind of luxury vehicle one doesn't want to get too dirty. Well, I don't. Karyn thinks of it as her own uber-stylish 'work truck.' You'll understand in a moment.
We arrive at the local Home Desperate, and we're barely through the gates to the garden section when, somehow, Karyn gets ahead of me. It's absolutely not because I'm dragging my feet. I stop to look at a very pretty Dorotheanthus bellidiformis, named after my dear friend Dorothy, I think. Of course you may know this plant by its popular name, Mezoo Livinstone Daisy or Mezoo Trailing Red. Dorothy has another name, too, but I forget, right now, what it is. I'm pretty sure it's not Daisy, but...no, no. Definitely not Daisy...Mezoo would be catchy, though.
Anyway, as I'm serenely perusing Mezoo, the scent of a popular teen aftershave (Axe?) wafts across my scent-sensitive olfactory space and blends awkwardly with night-blooming sweet Jasmine just before it smacks my whole face with a tidal wave of overwhelm. I turn to my left and I see a 50-something person with a razor haircut, a plaid Pendalton-like, and yet, not, shirt, sleeves rolled up, in a pair of slightly baggy meant to be very baggy jeans. If she'd have had a Marlboro behind her ear, I would have thought: the spitting image of James Dean! She didn't see me, because she was making a beeline in the direction of Karyn. Trust me, Home Desperate does not usually have this level of customer service. I didn't see the crooked smile on her face or have a full-on appreciation of her soave bolla manner, but the sotto voco "Hi, there, can I help ya, young lady," told me this was going to be no ordinary trip through the tulips.
I gave her just enough time to exchange pleasantries, and then I ambled up to Karyn, who introduced me as her partner. James Dean stuck her big paw out to shake mine. "Dottie, but my friends all call me Dot."
Wow. She was so not a 'Dottie.' At some point Dot got called away by the PA System for some very important administrative issue on Aisle 9, and we wandered through the garden section. We headed toward Trees, but the pickings were slim, so we ended up in ground covers and climbing vines.
We had begun the morning outing with a single shopping cart, but thinking trees, we quickly switched to a giant flatbed on wheels. As mentioned, there were no trees to be had, but those flat-beds can easily hold $400 worth of things I could probably go through my entire life not knowing the names of...except I was about to own several dozen of these things, and they come with name tags, so, go ahead, ask me anything.
Euonymus Japonica!! No, I don't have botanical Tourette's---I told you: They have name tags.
As we headed tantalizingly close to the check-out counter, of which there are always two and one is always closed, Dot springs up out of nowhere with the crooked smile and a completely hyper- friendly "Didjafin'everythin'?"
Why no, no we didn't. Trees...you're low on trees, Dot.
"Lucy's," she says. "Gotta go to Lucy's if you want really good trees." She looks in both directions and leans in toward us, her voice becoming a whisper. "Better trees and cheaper too, than here," she says.
She offers directions. I say, "Nah, that's OK, we'll go some other time." Dot's face falls, although her sideburns remain intact.
She looks at Karyn with something resembling sympathy, as if to say, 'Oh, young lady, here you are all ready to give love and life and warmth to some tree, and this non-tree hugger you're with isn't interested. Don't'cha jus' hate that?'
OK, then, for future reference, where, exactly, is Lucy's? I could tell by the number of times she said 'just across from,' 'just down from' and 'about a half mile east of,' that Dot was no TomTom Navigation system, however much she might...nevermind.
With Buttah loaded to the tailgate with flats of groundcover and a couple dozen blooming plants, we drive to Lucy's in our own personal greenhouse. We miss it, we double back, and we see why we missed it. No signage and no sign of human life. Unless your line of sight took a sharp right at the non-existent signage, you'd have missed about two acres of all kinds of trees.
But wait! What is that little shadow holding a garden hose? That, my friends, is Maria. Although Maria spoke no English, she was a whiz at Arabic numbers. Every time I'd ask "How much?" Maria would pick up a small stick or a nail or just use her finger to write $350 in the dirt. Everything was $350, except for a couple of things that were $50. But they were dead or dying. So, OK then, $350 it is!
In fairness, I have to acknowledge that Lucy's had the best selection of healthy trees I've seen anywhere in the Antelope Valley. We found two olive trees, in 48-inch boxes, that stood easily 12 feet high and were only half grown, if that. In West Hollywood or Malibu or Pasadena where there are some darn good nurseries, those two olive trees would have been $600-700 each, or more. I got 'em for, you guessed it, $300 each, including delivery. What happened to $350? Uh, excuse me, I never, nevah, pay retail. My best friend Mezoo taught me that.
A white pickup pulled into the tree lot, and a very small man with a great big cowboy hat walked up to the make-shift table where I was writing directions to the house. He introduced himself as Jesus. Maria talked to Jesus, they nodded, and the next thing I knew, he was taking my six hundred dollar bills. As they walk us out of the tree lot (it was closing time), Karyn was talking and pointing excitedly at some very large rock. Jesus was nodding. We waved goodbye, see ya tomorrow morning at 9 a.m., thank you, have a good evening, take care of the the Benjamin Franklins!
We got in the car, and I said, "I didn't get a receipt."
"Oh, it's fine," said Ms. Congeniality, "I have a good feeling about them, and besides, he's going to bring those five rocks over too, for free!"
That's nice, I thought to myself, trying not to focus on the thought that the rocks are free if he shows up; if he doesn't, we just bought a half ton of air and two fantasy fruitless olive trees for six hundred bucks. For the sake of my own serentiy, I decided to go with her "good feeling about them."
On the way home, the plans for our new front yard were chattering away next to me, and my own personal earth architect and exterior decorator had some very nice plans, indeed, all involving trees, ("...oh, more than just the two olives..."), plants, "...oh more than just the boatload (my word) we got today..." and some real boulders ("...oh those were mere rocks we got today..."). Karyn's father was an agricultural biologist in northern California, but the real love of his work life was planting, landscaping, designing, growing, and nurturing little seedlings and snippets of things to full life. His daughter was so much like him, not counting starting with 5-year old olive trees instead of one little olive pit.
I smiled, encouragingly, because this makes her happy, and that makes me happy. Happiness notwithstanding, a wayward thought bounced across my consciousness, knocked up against the walls of resistance and came to rest beside a deliciously evil thought: Dot is so damn dead.
(TO BE CONTINUED, With Visuals)
If you hear this sentence at any time in the next four months: run. Run very fast. Run until you get a headache. And then, with complete truthfulness, you can say, "Not today, dear, I have a headache.
Do I say, not as I did.
So we throw on our jeans, our baseball caps and our "Vote for Hillary," and "I'm Your Girl," (another Hillary design) t-shirts, and head off in the German SUV we call "Buttah," which is Butter for all you who don't name your cars. Buttah is a most unbuttery Obsidian Black with a gorgeous buttery tan/gold leather interior. While Buttah is a lovely, sophisticated sled in which to go get "a couple plants," it's also the kind of luxury vehicle one doesn't want to get too dirty. Well, I don't. Karyn thinks of it as her own uber-stylish 'work truck.' You'll understand in a moment.
We arrive at the local Home Desperate, and we're barely through the gates to the garden section when, somehow, Karyn gets ahead of me. It's absolutely not because I'm dragging my feet. I stop to look at a very pretty Dorotheanthus bellidiformis, named after my dear friend Dorothy, I think. Of course you may know this plant by its popular name, Mezoo Livinstone Daisy or Mezoo Trailing Red. Dorothy has another name, too, but I forget, right now, what it is. I'm pretty sure it's not Daisy, but...no, no. Definitely not Daisy...Mezoo would be catchy, though.
Anyway, as I'm serenely perusing Mezoo, the scent of a popular teen aftershave (Axe?) wafts across my scent-sensitive olfactory space and blends awkwardly with night-blooming sweet Jasmine just before it smacks my whole face with a tidal wave of overwhelm. I turn to my left and I see a 50-something person with a razor haircut, a plaid Pendalton-like, and yet, not, shirt, sleeves rolled up, in a pair of slightly baggy meant to be very baggy jeans. If she'd have had a Marlboro behind her ear, I would have thought: the spitting image of James Dean! She didn't see me, because she was making a beeline in the direction of Karyn. Trust me, Home Desperate does not usually have this level of customer service. I didn't see the crooked smile on her face or have a full-on appreciation of her soave bolla manner, but the sotto voco "Hi, there, can I help ya, young lady," told me this was going to be no ordinary trip through the tulips.
I gave her just enough time to exchange pleasantries, and then I ambled up to Karyn, who introduced me as her partner. James Dean stuck her big paw out to shake mine. "Dottie, but my friends all call me Dot."
Wow. She was so not a 'Dottie.' At some point Dot got called away by the PA System for some very important administrative issue on Aisle 9, and we wandered through the garden section. We headed toward Trees, but the pickings were slim, so we ended up in ground covers and climbing vines.
We had begun the morning outing with a single shopping cart, but thinking trees, we quickly switched to a giant flatbed on wheels. As mentioned, there were no trees to be had, but those flat-beds can easily hold $400 worth of things I could probably go through my entire life not knowing the names of...except I was about to own several dozen of these things, and they come with name tags, so, go ahead, ask me anything.
Euonymus Japonica!! No, I don't have botanical Tourette's---I told you: They have name tags.
As we headed tantalizingly close to the check-out counter, of which there are always two and one is always closed, Dot springs up out of nowhere with the crooked smile and a completely hyper- friendly "Didjafin'everythin'?"
Why no, no we didn't. Trees...you're low on trees, Dot.
"Lucy's," she says. "Gotta go to Lucy's if you want really good trees." She looks in both directions and leans in toward us, her voice becoming a whisper. "Better trees and cheaper too, than here," she says.
She offers directions. I say, "Nah, that's OK, we'll go some other time." Dot's face falls, although her sideburns remain intact.
She looks at Karyn with something resembling sympathy, as if to say, 'Oh, young lady, here you are all ready to give love and life and warmth to some tree, and this non-tree hugger you're with isn't interested. Don't'cha jus' hate that?'
OK, then, for future reference, where, exactly, is Lucy's? I could tell by the number of times she said 'just across from,' 'just down from' and 'about a half mile east of,' that Dot was no TomTom Navigation system, however much she might...nevermind.
With Buttah loaded to the tailgate with flats of groundcover and a couple dozen blooming plants, we drive to Lucy's in our own personal greenhouse. We miss it, we double back, and we see why we missed it. No signage and no sign of human life. Unless your line of sight took a sharp right at the non-existent signage, you'd have missed about two acres of all kinds of trees.
But wait! What is that little shadow holding a garden hose? That, my friends, is Maria. Although Maria spoke no English, she was a whiz at Arabic numbers. Every time I'd ask "How much?" Maria would pick up a small stick or a nail or just use her finger to write $350 in the dirt. Everything was $350, except for a couple of things that were $50. But they were dead or dying. So, OK then, $350 it is!
In fairness, I have to acknowledge that Lucy's had the best selection of healthy trees I've seen anywhere in the Antelope Valley. We found two olive trees, in 48-inch boxes, that stood easily 12 feet high and were only half grown, if that. In West Hollywood or Malibu or Pasadena where there are some darn good nurseries, those two olive trees would have been $600-700 each, or more. I got 'em for, you guessed it, $300 each, including delivery. What happened to $350? Uh, excuse me, I never, nevah, pay retail. My best friend Mezoo taught me that.
A white pickup pulled into the tree lot, and a very small man with a great big cowboy hat walked up to the make-shift table where I was writing directions to the house. He introduced himself as Jesus. Maria talked to Jesus, they nodded, and the next thing I knew, he was taking my six hundred dollar bills. As they walk us out of the tree lot (it was closing time), Karyn was talking and pointing excitedly at some very large rock. Jesus was nodding. We waved goodbye, see ya tomorrow morning at 9 a.m., thank you, have a good evening, take care of the the Benjamin Franklins!
We got in the car, and I said, "I didn't get a receipt."
"Oh, it's fine," said Ms. Congeniality, "I have a good feeling about them, and besides, he's going to bring those five rocks over too, for free!"
That's nice, I thought to myself, trying not to focus on the thought that the rocks are free if he shows up; if he doesn't, we just bought a half ton of air and two fantasy fruitless olive trees for six hundred bucks. For the sake of my own serentiy, I decided to go with her "good feeling about them."
On the way home, the plans for our new front yard were chattering away next to me, and my own personal earth architect and exterior decorator had some very nice plans, indeed, all involving trees, ("...oh, more than just the two olives..."), plants, "...oh more than just the boatload (my word) we got today..." and some real boulders ("...oh those were mere rocks we got today..."). Karyn's father was an agricultural biologist in northern California, but the real love of his work life was planting, landscaping, designing, growing, and nurturing little seedlings and snippets of things to full life. His daughter was so much like him, not counting starting with 5-year old olive trees instead of one little olive pit.
I smiled, encouragingly, because this makes her happy, and that makes me happy. Happiness notwithstanding, a wayward thought bounced across my consciousness, knocked up against the walls of resistance and came to rest beside a deliciously evil thought: Dot is so damn dead.
(TO BE CONTINUED, With Visuals)
Sunday, April 27, 2008
A Book Review
Phyllida and the
Brotherhood of Philander,
A Novel
By Ann Herendeen
Publisher: HarperPaperbacks
HarperCollinsPublishers
Publisher: HarperPaperbacks
HarperCollinsPublishers
(Release Date: April 29, 2008)
It's London, it's 1812, and on page one of this outstanding novel, we meet Andrew Carrington, a rory-tory, hunky-dory heir to a fortune, who is gay. And that's only the beginning set of circumstances that launch this debut novel by Ann Herendeen who writes about romance and history with comedic timing and the kind of dialog that makes you feel you are in the room with the characters. It's a bonus beyond hoping for that Herendeen also has a writer's sense of what makes a great love story, which she unfailingly gives to her readers throughout this entire book.
And that's what I liked most about this book: It's a great love story, beautifully written, with a sense of life and a sense of comedy that is at once exhilarating and impassioned.
Tired of the endless Regency nights of gambling and debauchery, Andrew Carrington decides he needs to find a wife who will give him an heir and thus fulfill his legacy responsibilities. Finding a wife, he discovers, is far easier than actually having a wife. The situation is ripe for a comedy of errors, combined with a faux tragedy of (too many) manners, when the prospective wife learns she must share Andrew with his boyfriend. For most, that would be a deal-breaker; not our group!
Phyllida Lewis is the spirited, pretty, talented and very poor author of romantic novels. She loves to write, and that's all she really wants to do: write. Although every mother in England is frothing at the prospect of her daughter marrying Andrew Carrington, he sees life a bit differently than most. He prefers men, and he prefers everything about them: their company, their interests, their looks, their sex appeal...all of it. Still he does not take his privileged status lightly. He feels he has a duty to produce an heir. That, typically, would involve taking a wife. Carrington figures to find a woman who needs a husband, advise her of the situation and then proceed to live his life as he wishes, not counting the baby-making process.
Phyllida has her own agenda, though, not the least of which is that she doesn't need to get married. She could spend her entire life in her ratty old robe writing pages of Gothic romance, ink-stained fingers and all. Regrettably, her mother disagrees and does all she can to pander her daughter off to anyone who will have her. That Andrew Carrington might want her silly daughter is more than Phyllida's mother could have hoped for. As readers, though, we're thrilled! This is getting delicious.
For her part, Phyllida, contemplating this most unusual marriage proposal, reviews her options. She really is fine with the boyfriend aspect of Carrington's proposal, much to his surprise, (and perhaps her own) but her single condition is that she must be allowed to continue writing---not exactly the approved pastime for the wife of an Earl.
Immediately, Carrington disabuses her of any notion that his marriage to her is to be a democracy. But, Phyllida, sensing the delicate public position a gay Earl might find himself in, proceeds to hold firm until and unless her one condition is met. Reason (and a bit of expediency) wins the day, and Andrew Carrington, reluctantly gives his permission for Phyllida to continue her writing. And then, the real fun begins!
Matthew Thornby is the boyfriend, the honorable and handsome son of a Baronet. It takes Matthew to create a bridge of understanding between Carrington and his bride. It's also Matthew who comes to the rescue, along with Carrington, in the secondary story involving the blackmail of the Brotherhood of Philander, a high-end private club for gay men in London, modeled after several clubs known to exist during this era.
Herendeen's immanently readable and rewarding writing style takes an unorthodox, romantic relationship set among three people two hundred years ago and brings the spirit of the story and the people right into one's most contemporary world. Although Andrew Carrington gets to have his wife and his boyfriend, one senses that Phyllida and Matthew are getting no less a good deal in this comically triangulated romance.
I highly recommend this book to anyone who likes a good love story. The male/male/female configuration is not my personal cup of tea, but Herendeen and her story have transcended the usual squiggly wigglies regarding genders and gender preferences with this endearing, engaging and elegantly witty romp through the lives of three people who stumble, falter and throw themselves into the mix that is Herendeen's unequalled specialty. That alone is quite a feat!
I found myself rooting for our heroes, and heroine, to get to the Happily Ever After...and I was not disappointed.
So if you're not sure if you're reading a Regency romance, a Bi-sexual Romance, a Comedy or a Novel, allow me to help you out here: Call it all of that or none of it: It's a great read!
With a debut novel this good, I do imagine we could well see "based on the book by" coming to a movie screen in your neighborhood....conjure up, if you will, a young group of actors and actresses sharing a film with the comedic elements of Shakespeare In Love meets A Fish Named Wanda meets Victor/Victoria meets What's Up Doc? meets one funeral and several weddings! Trust me, this book is tons of fun, with tons of engaging characters and tons of Ton.
t.t.thomas
Monday, April 07, 2008
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Sunday, February 03, 2008
Happy Birthday Karyn!
Crowds Gather to Watch Karyn Celebrate;
Authorities Find Crowd Control of No Use At All
On February 4, 2008
I asked Karyn what she wanted for her 48th birthday, and she said, "A love letter." So I wrote one, but I didn't just write it.
No. It's a long, long letter that I've been writing for seven years, and I add a little bit every day. The individual words, the fragments of phrases, and the full sentences seem more like a streaming video in front of my eyes than a collection of words in my head. It happens throughout each and every day, and it's a 'letter' I never get tired of writing, feeling, seeing, thinking, being a part of. It's very visual and tactile, this letter, because Karyn is a world-renown space invader. She'll hug ya and kiss ya and hold ya just because you're in front of her, and once she's done it, you realize you didn't even know you needed it. You can be a lady at the market who can't reach the Ovaltine on the top shelf, an old geezer at Trader Joe's who says he likes her cowboy boots (yeah, right), or an actor past his prime and public recognition who gets recognized by her at the car wash. It doesn't matter who you are: You're a happier person when Karyn smiles, makes eye contact and says something sweet by way of acknowledging you as a unique individual. Your day is made, there's hope in the world again, and I'm pretty sure that whoever meets Karyn goes home and says, "I met the most wonderful person at the car wash!"
How'd it happen? How did she get like that? I have to believe it was the wonderful parents who raised her and the siblings who love her. Her dad's gone, but she's got his sense of adventure and a healthy amount of the Irish DNA. Her mom has the same dazzling smile, the pretty blue eyes and the warmest of hearts. Her brothers, Tom and Chuck, and her sister Kimberly are proud of her, protective of their baby sister and they seem genuinely happy that Karyn and I have the kind of love you'd want someone like her to have in her life.
So while I certainly hope you weren't expecting to read the love letter....I'm OK with you having a general idea of what's in it and why. The pictures above were taken during our trip to Europe last February...I took the one of her on the Bridge Sant' Angelo in Rome, and Kimberly took the portrait photo in the lobby of our hotel, The Beau Rivage Palace in Lausanne. It was truly a Trip of a Lifetime, with stops in Germany, Switzerland, Italy and England, and though we have Paris and Prague on our agenda for the next trip, the Trip of a Lifetime will always be special because it was our first.
And that's the way it is with Karyn....even the familiar comfort and ease of living together is always new, always holds treasures, always repeats and reaffirms itself the way love was designed to do. She is my love and my life. No letter could ever capture the mysterious wonder of that, but I think what I've written here gives you an idea of what approximates the miracle of Karyn.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Do You See It Now?
Life Among the Elephants...or
Living in a Red Section of a
Blue State With Rainbows
Living in a Red Section of a
Blue State With Rainbows
The mountains you see in the pictures, the snow covered mountains, is what I woke up to this morning. So beautiful. This is my view from the back of our home, and with both the family room and master located at opposite areas at the rear of the house, it truly is a million dollar view not only from the back yard and pool area, but from within the house itself.
We live in the Las Pelonas foothills across the valley floor from the range you see, known as the Tehachapi Mountains, home of the famous Grapevine (Interstate 5) that closes for hours and hours at a time when the snow falls hard. So, anyway, that light dusting of snow that I (and, apparently, only I) saw the other day was part of the decidedly heavier snowfall in the mountains you see in these pictures. Most of the snow from the recent storms only fell to about 3500 feet. We live at about 3400 feet above sea level and about 25 miles from the Tehachapi range, as the crows fly.
This is one of two areas in Southern California known as the High Desert. The other area is in the San Gabriel Mountains, specifically the towns of Victorville and Hesperia that one passes on the way to Las Vegas. The most famous Low Desert area would be Palm Springs, although it is usually called, simply, "the desert," because people who live there are under the sad illusion that it is the only desert. They do have better restaurants, the scenery in Palm Springs is gorgeous, and the place is a part-time favorite of snowbird retirees from places in the Midwest. The High Desert area grows Joshua trees, fields of wild poppies, the yucca, a fierce desert wind, and a fairly rabid, vocal, but small, group of racist and homophobic uber Conservatives. Palm Springs, on the other hand, grows Date Palms, golf courses, perpetual tans and...a stylish and eclectic group of residents and vacationers. So why live here? Because the makeup of this area is changing rapidly...and has changed for the better in the five years we've been here. More tolerance, more diversity. Things take time. And you have to agree, the views from our little slice of heaven are great.
The High Desert can be a tough place to assimilate, but we do smile at the frequent and gigantic rainbows that cross from one mountain range to the other after, and sometimes during, our desert storms and microbursts. Nature, it seems, not only abhors a vacuum but is also a big fan of symbolism. So you see, "Someone" is doing something about the weather.
Weather Captain,
Geography General and
Political Opinionhead Margaret, over and out.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Seriously Seeking Susan Brown
When Is Something Not a Mixture?
There was a time in my life when I was free to write to my heart's content---no job to go to (I was seriously unemployed), no kids to take care of (unless you count my cat Rewrite), no place to go, really (the first Volvo was reliable but ugly), and no one to answer to (unless you count my Mother, who did occasionally wonder aloud about my getting a "real" job).
By virtue of my most recent job, I had met a film director who was impossible to work for and yet desperate to find a secretary/assistant who wouldn't walk off the job after three weeks as my predecessors had. The alliance with him lasted seven months, but I knew if I could stick it out, something good would come of it. It was not, however, going to be friendship: He loathed me and I despised him; only in that regard were we a good match. I believe he did fire me about five times, but as I kept showing up for work each day, each successive firing was laid aside never to be mentioned again. Later I realized he was happy to see me because he got to look forward, once again, to firing me.
One day, six of his very big-shot Hollywood Agents came in for a meeting, or as we say here, 'took a meeting.' They were from a really big talent agency in Hollywood, and the meeting was important. I was to deliver tea and coffee to the upstairs loft where the director had his office. Oh, and answer the phones, which rang off the hook with people wanting their scripts read. One of the agents, named Mike, came down the stairs just before the meeting began and asked if I could do him a favor. If his wife called, would I let him know right away---but I was to do it by slipping him a note when I came to refill the coffee. Mike was very nice, and so of course when his wife did call, I assured her he'd have the message in 10 seconds. I wrote him a small note on a very small Sticky: "Call your wife." I delivered it to his tea cup saucer as I went from person to person refilling coffee. When he came downstairs a few minutes later to call home, he thanked me and said he loved the way I stealth dropped the note on his plate, as it were.
As the agents were leaving, several hours later, this same agent was the only one to purposefully walk into my section of the office to say goodbye. I knew I only had one shot, so I took it. I told him I was a writer, and that I was writing a book and wondered if I might call him sometime to get some direction on who to talk to for a literary agent. As he was a talent agent, I knew he would not feel pressured to look at anything I wrote. He was completely at ease with my request and actually named the day in the following week that I should call him. I did call him, and he gave me the name of a literary agent in his office that he felt I would work well with---and he offered to give her a heads up that I'd be calling. Huh? An agent I could work with? Oh my G-d!
With a great deal of trepidation, I made the call to the agent Mike suggested. Her name was Cheryl, and although it was pretty obvious that she was taking the call more as a favor to Mike than because of any real interest in me, I just kept talking and ended by saying that I wrote much like I spoke. As I had made her laugh a couple times, she figured that was worth seeing. She said, "OK, send the book over tomorrow."
Oh dear. Thinking quickly, I told her that the book was only three quarters done, and that three quarters was "at the typist." I promised to get her the first five or six chapters the following week, and the rest sometime soon after that if she liked it well enough to read on. Of course I was playing for time, and if she knew, she never said. It took me another ten months to get the full manuscript to her, and when I did, it was 650 typed pages.
The truth: I had written about 100 pages of what was to be a 350-page novel. I was unemployed, so there was no "sending things out to the typist." The typist lived with me and I lived alone, not counting Rewrite. Rewrite? Oh hell, this 100 pages needs a serious rewrite, or if not that, then a good edit. I had to get Cheryl hooked on that first 100 pages. I had to do it.
I went down my short list of friends, and although all of them were intelligent, not all of them read much. They weren't literary. But one had a degree in English Literature. I dialed Susan Brown and told her my good news. She didn't even know I was writing a book. Naturally, I asked her if she'd like to read it. She'd love to. How about that evening? Perfect.
Susan Brown was someone whose first name was never said without also saying her last name. It was never "I saw Susan," but rather, "I saw Susan Brown." Susan was very educated, very well spoken and very savvy about how the world works. She also had a great big heart. "Can I bring you anything," she asked, after accepting my invitation. "How about some diet 7-Up and a pint of vanilla Hagan Daz," I said. After a notable pause, she said, "Sure, why not?"
Skipping ahead to the good part, I cajoled Susan Brown into being my "editor," for that first 100 pages, and she later assured me that she was only staying on the job for the entire 650 pages because she wanted to know how the story ended. It was a lie, and I was grateful. Although her editing skills would come in handy, we both knew I needed a deadline that incorporated just the right amount of comfort, trust and inspiration to get the book finished. We set up a daily schedule: I would write during the day, and in the evening, Susan Brown would come over to my apartment in Studio City to read and edit the previous day's pages. And to celebrate that day's literary output, we'd share the 7-Up poured over a huge dollop of vanilla ice cream in a big, tall, wide-mouthed tumbler. It is believed by people who know about such things that this period in my life was the beginning of the high cholesterol count which I'd have to work on years down the line. At the time, though, it was a delicious way to finish off an evening.
One Sunday afternoon, Susan Brown called and said she wasn't sure she could make it because her car wasn't running very well. Was it running at all? Well, yes, but it was making funny sounds. Having had a particularly satisfying day in front of the IBM Selectric (yes, this was that long ago!) I was far too selfish to let a little car noise get in the way of what I felt would be a most productive editing session. At some point, Susan Brown decided it would be easier to deal with her car than deal with my disappointment, so she agreed to keep our editing date, and yes, she would pick up the ice cream and 7-Up.
About two hours later, I began to look out my window and wonder what happened to my editor. I no sooner pulled the curtain aside when I saw and heard a red Ford turning onto my street in a gigantically wide arc, wheels squealing, motor sputtering and Susan Brown's hair blowing across her face and pretty much blinding her to oncoming traffic. As I started to laugh at the sight, one of Susan Brown's tires and wheel came right off her car, bounced up on the curb and went flying across the neighbor's yard straight at my kitchen window and me. As I ducked, I heard the tire hit the side of my building, right beneath my kitchen window, and I heard but did not see Susan Brown's red Ford screech to a stop as it fruitlessly tried not to jump the curb, where it landed perilously close to my ugly Volvo.
I ran downstairs and outside to see about Susan. She climbed out of her soon-to-be red-tagged sled, raised a grocery bag above her head and said, "I think the ice cream's melting." We knew the car was going to need some pricey work, if it were not a complete lost cause, but as it was Sunday, we couldn't really call the local fix-it guy until Monday morning.
We decided to have the 7-Up and ice cream while Susan read the pages, which she would always do once before getting out the editing pencil. As I was slurping away enjoying my slivers of ice cream iced into small sheets of tasty, crunchy deliciousness, Susan Brown laughed out loud. I saw that she was only on the second page of that day's work in review, and I knew there was nothing funny in that section of prose.
I don't think I've ever felt quite so dumb. I had that deer-in-the-headlights look, and then I sprayed her with the big spoonful of 7-Up and ice cream that I had just put in my mouth. I laughed so hard, I fell over. I laughed so much, I...had to cross my legs. Then Susan Brown started laughing as hard. Then for some reason, the vision of Susan Brown sailing around that street corner with her tire and wheel flying off sent me into paroxysms of laughter and glee, and I felt the need to do a re-enactment. I had her on the floor, laughing, and by the end of the evening we both agreed her broken car was worth the price of admission, not to mention the utter embarrassment it saved me when I turned the manuscript in.
That novel was shopped around by my agent Cheryl to some New York literary agents, but the general consensus was:brilliant but flawed. Several years later I realized just how kind everyone had been to call it that. I re-read it, and I saw that it was entirely more flawed than brilliant. That agency never made a dime off me, nor did I by having signed with them. We let my contract expire, and I went out to get "a real job." How I got to be signed with a major Hollywood agency, how my book got shopped around to major agents in New York, and how the whole experience blew me away is the stuff, one hopes, of legends. It took me years to get over the notion that I had wasted my big chance.
I never realized how hurt my feelings had been that nothing ever became of that book, but not writing for a dozen more years would have been a clue to most people. Not surprisingly, it was Susan Brown who told me that I was a good writer, I just needed to practise my craft more and get great. That was so Susan.
The thing about writing fiction is that, at the beginning at least, your novel is your whole show. There's no additional fancy dance steps, no prettying up of one's outfit and no showing of one's sizzling personality(if one even has all that to add to the mix) to help your story and quality of writing. And if my experience is any indication, it's not, strictly speaking, even who you know. I didn't even know Mike, who gave me my first big break. No, it's all in the story and all in the way you tell that story. I basically decided that I had ended up a telling a pretty half-baked story in a decently skilled way, but that wasn't enough, I realized. Now, I think I have a wonderful story, and let's see if I can get it written well. I believe I can and will.
I lost track of Susan when she moved to San Francisco, but maybe the Internet gods will send this blog post to her or one of her friends. It's a long shot, but so was my getting back to writing, which I've done over the past few years. I do have a new book I'm working on, and I do have a new editor, who seems to have got as wise to me and my tricks as Susan Brown was. Fear of rejection is a terrible thing, especially when one thinks one is oh so very brave. ::shrug::
But I was onto something in asking Susan Brown to edit my work. Some people have critique partners, official ones, and that works great for them. I need a little more one-on-one attention, encouragement and...oh yeah, editing.
Karyn, my beloved, and, I think, my biggest fan, reads and loves everything I show her. If I ask her to, she'll even edit a bit, leaving me a few very soft, light pencil marks where something needs fixing. And she's always right---it might be a typo, it might be clarity needed, it might be one of my famous run-on sentences. But I'll tell you this: By the time Robin (known on this blog as Occasional Guest Blogger) gets it, there's not a single mixture of bug-eyed silence anywhere to be found. And that's a good thing 'cause there's no soft, little, gentle marks on the page when Robin gets done with it! I write and she edits in MS Word, and if part of being a good writer means never having to see another red cartoon balloon with the words "What the heck does this mean?" from Robin, then I'll not only be a good writer, I might just be an author! It could happen.
Thank you Susan Brown!
There was a time in my life when I was free to write to my heart's content---no job to go to (I was seriously unemployed), no kids to take care of (unless you count my cat Rewrite), no place to go, really (the first Volvo was reliable but ugly), and no one to answer to (unless you count my Mother, who did occasionally wonder aloud about my getting a "real" job).
By virtue of my most recent job, I had met a film director who was impossible to work for and yet desperate to find a secretary/assistant who wouldn't walk off the job after three weeks as my predecessors had. The alliance with him lasted seven months, but I knew if I could stick it out, something good would come of it. It was not, however, going to be friendship: He loathed me and I despised him; only in that regard were we a good match. I believe he did fire me about five times, but as I kept showing up for work each day, each successive firing was laid aside never to be mentioned again. Later I realized he was happy to see me because he got to look forward, once again, to firing me.
One day, six of his very big-shot Hollywood Agents came in for a meeting, or as we say here, 'took a meeting.' They were from a really big talent agency in Hollywood, and the meeting was important. I was to deliver tea and coffee to the upstairs loft where the director had his office. Oh, and answer the phones, which rang off the hook with people wanting their scripts read. One of the agents, named Mike, came down the stairs just before the meeting began and asked if I could do him a favor. If his wife called, would I let him know right away---but I was to do it by slipping him a note when I came to refill the coffee. Mike was very nice, and so of course when his wife did call, I assured her he'd have the message in 10 seconds. I wrote him a small note on a very small Sticky: "Call your wife." I delivered it to his tea cup saucer as I went from person to person refilling coffee. When he came downstairs a few minutes later to call home, he thanked me and said he loved the way I stealth dropped the note on his plate, as it were.
As the agents were leaving, several hours later, this same agent was the only one to purposefully walk into my section of the office to say goodbye. I knew I only had one shot, so I took it. I told him I was a writer, and that I was writing a book and wondered if I might call him sometime to get some direction on who to talk to for a literary agent. As he was a talent agent, I knew he would not feel pressured to look at anything I wrote. He was completely at ease with my request and actually named the day in the following week that I should call him. I did call him, and he gave me the name of a literary agent in his office that he felt I would work well with---and he offered to give her a heads up that I'd be calling. Huh? An agent I could work with? Oh my G-d!
With a great deal of trepidation, I made the call to the agent Mike suggested. Her name was Cheryl, and although it was pretty obvious that she was taking the call more as a favor to Mike than because of any real interest in me, I just kept talking and ended by saying that I wrote much like I spoke. As I had made her laugh a couple times, she figured that was worth seeing. She said, "OK, send the book over tomorrow."
Oh dear. Thinking quickly, I told her that the book was only three quarters done, and that three quarters was "at the typist." I promised to get her the first five or six chapters the following week, and the rest sometime soon after that if she liked it well enough to read on. Of course I was playing for time, and if she knew, she never said. It took me another ten months to get the full manuscript to her, and when I did, it was 650 typed pages.
The truth: I had written about 100 pages of what was to be a 350-page novel. I was unemployed, so there was no "sending things out to the typist." The typist lived with me and I lived alone, not counting Rewrite. Rewrite? Oh hell, this 100 pages needs a serious rewrite, or if not that, then a good edit. I had to get Cheryl hooked on that first 100 pages. I had to do it.
I went down my short list of friends, and although all of them were intelligent, not all of them read much. They weren't literary. But one had a degree in English Literature. I dialed Susan Brown and told her my good news. She didn't even know I was writing a book. Naturally, I asked her if she'd like to read it. She'd love to. How about that evening? Perfect.
Susan Brown was someone whose first name was never said without also saying her last name. It was never "I saw Susan," but rather, "I saw Susan Brown." Susan was very educated, very well spoken and very savvy about how the world works. She also had a great big heart. "Can I bring you anything," she asked, after accepting my invitation. "How about some diet 7-Up and a pint of vanilla Hagan Daz," I said. After a notable pause, she said, "Sure, why not?"
Skipping ahead to the good part, I cajoled Susan Brown into being my "editor," for that first 100 pages, and she later assured me that she was only staying on the job for the entire 650 pages because she wanted to know how the story ended. It was a lie, and I was grateful. Although her editing skills would come in handy, we both knew I needed a deadline that incorporated just the right amount of comfort, trust and inspiration to get the book finished. We set up a daily schedule: I would write during the day, and in the evening, Susan Brown would come over to my apartment in Studio City to read and edit the previous day's pages. And to celebrate that day's literary output, we'd share the 7-Up poured over a huge dollop of vanilla ice cream in a big, tall, wide-mouthed tumbler. It is believed by people who know about such things that this period in my life was the beginning of the high cholesterol count which I'd have to work on years down the line. At the time, though, it was a delicious way to finish off an evening.
One Sunday afternoon, Susan Brown called and said she wasn't sure she could make it because her car wasn't running very well. Was it running at all? Well, yes, but it was making funny sounds. Having had a particularly satisfying day in front of the IBM Selectric (yes, this was that long ago!) I was far too selfish to let a little car noise get in the way of what I felt would be a most productive editing session. At some point, Susan Brown decided it would be easier to deal with her car than deal with my disappointment, so she agreed to keep our editing date, and yes, she would pick up the ice cream and 7-Up.
About two hours later, I began to look out my window and wonder what happened to my editor. I no sooner pulled the curtain aside when I saw and heard a red Ford turning onto my street in a gigantically wide arc, wheels squealing, motor sputtering and Susan Brown's hair blowing across her face and pretty much blinding her to oncoming traffic. As I started to laugh at the sight, one of Susan Brown's tires and wheel came right off her car, bounced up on the curb and went flying across the neighbor's yard straight at my kitchen window and me. As I ducked, I heard the tire hit the side of my building, right beneath my kitchen window, and I heard but did not see Susan Brown's red Ford screech to a stop as it fruitlessly tried not to jump the curb, where it landed perilously close to my ugly Volvo.
I ran downstairs and outside to see about Susan. She climbed out of her soon-to-be red-tagged sled, raised a grocery bag above her head and said, "I think the ice cream's melting." We knew the car was going to need some pricey work, if it were not a complete lost cause, but as it was Sunday, we couldn't really call the local fix-it guy until Monday morning.
We decided to have the 7-Up and ice cream while Susan read the pages, which she would always do once before getting out the editing pencil. As I was slurping away enjoying my slivers of ice cream iced into small sheets of tasty, crunchy deliciousness, Susan Brown laughed out loud. I saw that she was only on the second page of that day's work in review, and I knew there was nothing funny in that section of prose.
"What? What's so funny?" I said.
"This passage," she answered, handing
me the page.
I read it. I could see absolutely nothing wrong with the
section. In fact, it was one of my favorites. But it certainly wasn't meant to be funny."I don't see anything wrong," I sniffed.
"OK," she said, laughing, "let me read it aloud."
"Fine, go ahead." Slurp. Crunch. Smack lips.
Holding the page in one hand and her glass of vanilla float in the other, she read:"He looked at her with a mixture of bug-eyed silence."
She laughed again. I did not."What's missing?" she asked.
"Nothing," I said. "Sounds just like I
meant it to sound."
"Really?" she answered, "Let me read it aloud
again."
She read it. I starred at her. She laughed. I didn't. She
laughed some more.I finally said, "OK, smartypants, tell me what's missing?"
She looked at the page and read:'He looked at her with a mixture of
bug-eyed silence,' and?" she said.
"And nothing," said I. "That's what he looked at her with."Susan Brown was seriously beginning to annoy me.
"Bug-eyed silence," she repeated "and what was it mixed with?"
"Nothing!" I answered righteously,"It wasn't mixed with anything---should it be?"
"I think," she said, trying really hard not to spew her
ice cream all over my bug-eyed silence, "that you've mistaken a hyphenated word
for two words. A "mixture of" bug-eyed silence? No such animal."
I don't think I've ever felt quite so dumb. I had that deer-in-the-headlights look, and then I sprayed her with the big spoonful of 7-Up and ice cream that I had just put in my mouth. I laughed so hard, I fell over. I laughed so much, I...had to cross my legs. Then Susan Brown started laughing as hard. Then for some reason, the vision of Susan Brown sailing around that street corner with her tire and wheel flying off sent me into paroxysms of laughter and glee, and I felt the need to do a re-enactment. I had her on the floor, laughing, and by the end of the evening we both agreed her broken car was worth the price of admission, not to mention the utter embarrassment it saved me when I turned the manuscript in.
That novel was shopped around by my agent Cheryl to some New York literary agents, but the general consensus was:brilliant but flawed. Several years later I realized just how kind everyone had been to call it that. I re-read it, and I saw that it was entirely more flawed than brilliant. That agency never made a dime off me, nor did I by having signed with them. We let my contract expire, and I went out to get "a real job." How I got to be signed with a major Hollywood agency, how my book got shopped around to major agents in New York, and how the whole experience blew me away is the stuff, one hopes, of legends. It took me years to get over the notion that I had wasted my big chance.
I never realized how hurt my feelings had been that nothing ever became of that book, but not writing for a dozen more years would have been a clue to most people. Not surprisingly, it was Susan Brown who told me that I was a good writer, I just needed to practise my craft more and get great. That was so Susan.
The thing about writing fiction is that, at the beginning at least, your novel is your whole show. There's no additional fancy dance steps, no prettying up of one's outfit and no showing of one's sizzling personality(if one even has all that to add to the mix) to help your story and quality of writing. And if my experience is any indication, it's not, strictly speaking, even who you know. I didn't even know Mike, who gave me my first big break. No, it's all in the story and all in the way you tell that story. I basically decided that I had ended up a telling a pretty half-baked story in a decently skilled way, but that wasn't enough, I realized. Now, I think I have a wonderful story, and let's see if I can get it written well. I believe I can and will.
I lost track of Susan when she moved to San Francisco, but maybe the Internet gods will send this blog post to her or one of her friends. It's a long shot, but so was my getting back to writing, which I've done over the past few years. I do have a new book I'm working on, and I do have a new editor, who seems to have got as wise to me and my tricks as Susan Brown was. Fear of rejection is a terrible thing, especially when one thinks one is oh so very brave. ::shrug::
But I was onto something in asking Susan Brown to edit my work. Some people have critique partners, official ones, and that works great for them. I need a little more one-on-one attention, encouragement and...oh yeah, editing.
Karyn, my beloved, and, I think, my biggest fan, reads and loves everything I show her. If I ask her to, she'll even edit a bit, leaving me a few very soft, light pencil marks where something needs fixing. And she's always right---it might be a typo, it might be clarity needed, it might be one of my famous run-on sentences. But I'll tell you this: By the time Robin (known on this blog as Occasional Guest Blogger) gets it, there's not a single mixture of bug-eyed silence anywhere to be found. And that's a good thing 'cause there's no soft, little, gentle marks on the page when Robin gets done with it! I write and she edits in MS Word, and if part of being a good writer means never having to see another red cartoon balloon with the words "What the heck does this mean?" from Robin, then I'll not only be a good writer, I might just be an author! It could happen.
Thank you Susan Brown!
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Snow and Sun...in the High Desert
Antelope Valley, Southern California -- No, it doesn't happen often, but it happened this morning: A lovely, light dusting of the white powdery stuff greeted me and my coffee cup. I can't exactly say that I "love" snow (and maybe that's because I trudged through mountains of it growing up in Illinois), but I can say I love the look of it. More snow is expected over the next couple days, and overnight temperatures are in the low thirties. If the days keep warming up like today, though, I'll have to snap the next batch of pictures at dawn because by 8 a.m. this picture was gone, and the melt off trickled down the foothills and onto our street throughout the day.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Ad Lucem! Semper Ad Lucem!
PART II: The Ethics of Authorship
"Toward the Light, Always Toward the Light"
The Romance fiction genre's recent crisis of spirit, occasioned earlier in the week by the discovery that Romance writer Cassie Edwards has been plagiarizing other writers for decades, was ameliorated and considerably lifted yesterday. Popular top-selling author Nora Roberts pledged to match up to $5000 in donations to the Defense of Wildlife Fund, a group dedicated to saving seriously endangered species, including the imperiled black-footed ferret around which controversy swelled when it was discovered that a prominent nature writer, Paul Tolme, had parts of his article on ferrets lifted by Edwards for passages in her book called Shadow Bear.
Tolme wrote a delightful piece this week in Newsweek about his experience of seeing his words about ferrets copied in a "bodice-ripper." Although Romance authors and fans hope to reinvigorate and change Tolme's reference to "standard romance novel schlock," one other line of his article caught the eyes and interest of the thousands of loyal members and hundreds of new readers who read the blog Smart Bitches Who Love Trashy Books.
Although he said he is no longer angry at Cassie Edwards for stealing his words, Tolme added: "Ignorance of law and ethics is no excuse, however. Plagiarism victimizes writers. It betrays the trust of readers. It tarnishes the craft of writing. But there is another victim here that has been lost in the discussion: the ferrets."
Oh brother! Watch out, news media. Watch out, nay-sayers who think there's no such thing as viral networking with quantifiable, verifiable results. One cannot buy this kind of public relations and publicity. All hail the ferrets!
With that line, Mr. Tolme has probably saved a lot of ferrets because it wasn't long before the Bitchery group practically adopted the black-footed ferret as its mascot. One member put up ferret-oriented anti-plagiarism t-shirts on Cafe Press, and Nora Roberts posted that she would match donations to the Defense of Wildlife Fund. Within hours the Bitchery had tallied nearly $3000 in donations that came from its readers. Some commenters seemed more interested in adopting Mr. Tolme, although it is not known if he is available for same.
As of this writing, Candy Tan and Sarah Wendell, the two women who run Smart Bitches Who Love Trashy Books, who initially alerted the world to the Cassie Edwards books that contain wholesale passages and paragraphs taken, without authorization, or credit, from other authors, have discovered dozens of examples of this plagiarism in a goodly number of Edwards' nearly 100 books. But it took another best-selling author, Nora Roberts, to help bring more attention to a discovery, originally made by poster Nikki, that Edwards had also stolen from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Without a doubt, Edwards steals from some of the best!
Comparing these two excerpts, one can easily see why Edwards is being accused of plagiarism:
Earlier in a thread of the comments sections about the Edwards situation, a poster who has his own website jokingly wondered if Ms. Edwards had ever taken credit for the famous verse in Longfellow's Song of Hiawatha that begins, "From the shores of Gitche Gumee....[...]" The popular poster, TeddyPig, was astounded when he realized another had found alarming substance in the answer to Mr. Pig's lighthearted question.
Indeed, with this discovery at the top of a heap of discoveries of apparent plagiarism in various Cassie Edwards' books, discoveries made by both the head Bitches and a volunteer platoon of Bitchery readers (including Opinionhead), the list of original research from which Edwards lifted almost word-for-word, and sometimes, precisely word-for-word, sections, include Encyclopadia Britannica, National Geographic magazine and Pulitzer-prize winning author Oliver La Farge, awarded a Pulitzer Prize for Laughing Boy, which was written in 1929 and for which a valid copyright is still held. If you want to see some very good detective work, see page 34 in the Bitches PDF file (called a Centralized Document of the Cassie Edwards Texts), referenced in my blogpost of day before yesterday. These women have documented the comparisons between what La Farge wrote in 1929 and what Casssie Edwards wrote in 1990.
As well as Roberts, several other Romance authors have posted their impressions and opinions, including Victoria Dahl, J.C. Wilder (who also writes as Dominque Adair), indy writer Silapa Jurun, Arlene C. Harris and Laura Vivanco. Another posster on the Smart Bitches site, Lisa, who links to a blog signed by Elle, provided sufficient genealogy material to cause even the most casual observer to question the authenticity of Cassie Edwards' claims that her grandmother was a full-blooded Cheyenne. You can read her article here.
"Toward the Light, Always Toward the Light"
The Romance fiction genre's recent crisis of spirit, occasioned earlier in the week by the discovery that Romance writer Cassie Edwards has been plagiarizing other writers for decades, was ameliorated and considerably lifted yesterday. Popular top-selling author Nora Roberts pledged to match up to $5000 in donations to the Defense of Wildlife Fund, a group dedicated to saving seriously endangered species, including the imperiled black-footed ferret around which controversy swelled when it was discovered that a prominent nature writer, Paul Tolme, had parts of his article on ferrets lifted by Edwards for passages in her book called Shadow Bear.
Tolme wrote a delightful piece this week in Newsweek about his experience of seeing his words about ferrets copied in a "bodice-ripper." Although Romance authors and fans hope to reinvigorate and change Tolme's reference to "standard romance novel schlock," one other line of his article caught the eyes and interest of the thousands of loyal members and hundreds of new readers who read the blog Smart Bitches Who Love Trashy Books.
Although he said he is no longer angry at Cassie Edwards for stealing his words, Tolme added: "Ignorance of law and ethics is no excuse, however. Plagiarism victimizes writers. It betrays the trust of readers. It tarnishes the craft of writing. But there is another victim here that has been lost in the discussion: the ferrets."
Oh brother! Watch out, news media. Watch out, nay-sayers who think there's no such thing as viral networking with quantifiable, verifiable results. One cannot buy this kind of public relations and publicity. All hail the ferrets!
With that line, Mr. Tolme has probably saved a lot of ferrets because it wasn't long before the Bitchery group practically adopted the black-footed ferret as its mascot. One member put up ferret-oriented anti-plagiarism t-shirts on Cafe Press, and Nora Roberts posted that she would match donations to the Defense of Wildlife Fund. Within hours the Bitchery had tallied nearly $3000 in donations that came from its readers. Some commenters seemed more interested in adopting Mr. Tolme, although it is not known if he is available for same.
As of this writing, Candy Tan and Sarah Wendell, the two women who run Smart Bitches Who Love Trashy Books, who initially alerted the world to the Cassie Edwards books that contain wholesale passages and paragraphs taken, without authorization, or credit, from other authors, have discovered dozens of examples of this plagiarism in a goodly number of Edwards' nearly 100 books. But it took another best-selling author, Nora Roberts, to help bring more attention to a discovery, originally made by poster Nikki, that Edwards had also stolen from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Without a doubt, Edwards steals from some of the best!
Comparing these two excerpts, one can easily see why Edwards is being accused of plagiarism:
SAVAGE OBSESSION, by Cassie Edwards, 1983, Page 284:
"The odors of the forest, the dew and damp meadow, and the curling smoke from the wigwams were left behind as Lorinda [...]"
SONG OF HIAWATHA by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 1855: Lines 3-5 of the Introduction: "With the odors of the forest, With the dew and damp of meadows, With the curling smoke of wigwams..."
Earlier in a thread of the comments sections about the Edwards situation, a poster who has his own website jokingly wondered if Ms. Edwards had ever taken credit for the famous verse in Longfellow's Song of Hiawatha that begins, "From the shores of Gitche Gumee....[...]" The popular poster, TeddyPig, was astounded when he realized another had found alarming substance in the answer to Mr. Pig's lighthearted question.
Indeed, with this discovery at the top of a heap of discoveries of apparent plagiarism in various Cassie Edwards' books, discoveries made by both the head Bitches and a volunteer platoon of Bitchery readers (including Opinionhead), the list of original research from which Edwards lifted almost word-for-word, and sometimes, precisely word-for-word, sections, include Encyclopadia Britannica, National Geographic magazine and Pulitzer-prize winning author Oliver La Farge, awarded a Pulitzer Prize for Laughing Boy, which was written in 1929 and for which a valid copyright is still held. If you want to see some very good detective work, see page 34 in the Bitches PDF file (called a Centralized Document of the Cassie Edwards Texts), referenced in my blogpost of day before yesterday. These women have documented the comparisons between what La Farge wrote in 1929 and what Casssie Edwards wrote in 1990.
As well as Roberts, several other Romance authors have posted their impressions and opinions, including Victoria Dahl, J.C. Wilder (who also writes as Dominque Adair), indy writer Silapa Jurun, Arlene C. Harris and Laura Vivanco. Another posster on the Smart Bitches site, Lisa, who links to a blog signed by Elle, provided sufficient genealogy material to cause even the most casual observer to question the authenticity of Cassie Edwards' claims that her grandmother was a full-blooded Cheyenne. You can read her article here.
Edwards apparently later corrected this to be her paternal great-great grandmother, but the blogger Elle, who (like this writer) has more than a passing familiarity with genealogy, did some basic research and could find nothing linking Edwards to the Cheyenne nation via bloodlines. While Elle, at this point, merely questions Edwards authenticity and veracity on this subject, my reading of even cursory research efforts occasions me to strongly doubt that Edwards has 1/16th Indian blood, if she has any at all.
There were many very feisty Romantic genre readers who weighed in on the subject of Edwards---far too many to mention in one blogpost. Many of the posters are authors whose blogs and websites you might enjoy visiting. They include: SusanWilbanks; S. Andrew Swann (who also writes as Steven Krane and S. A. Swiniarski), Jennifer Armintrout, Kay Hooper, and Theresa Meyers. Other writers who have weighed in on the Cassie Edwards situation over at the Bitches site include E. Ann Bardawill, Australian writer Bronwyn Parry whose first of two books will be puslished this year by Hachette Livre Australia, author Diane Castilleja, Katrina Strauss and Ciar Cullen.
And the reason I mention any names at all is because I've really had my eyes opened in the past few days by what I've read in the Bitchery posts and comments sections (you must read the Comments section after the main posts to get the full flavor, and fury). The insight I've gleaned goes way beyond the subject of plagiarism (and even ferrets!) because these women are passionate about what they write, what they read, what they feel about the genre of Romance fiction, specifically, and writing generally. This is my way of acknowledging them.
There were many very feisty Romantic genre readers who weighed in on the subject of Edwards---far too many to mention in one blogpost. Many of the posters are authors whose blogs and websites you might enjoy visiting. They include: SusanWilbanks; S. Andrew Swann (who also writes as Steven Krane and S. A. Swiniarski), Jennifer Armintrout, Kay Hooper, and Theresa Meyers. Other writers who have weighed in on the Cassie Edwards situation over at the Bitches site include E. Ann Bardawill, Australian writer Bronwyn Parry whose first of two books will be puslished this year by Hachette Livre Australia, author Diane Castilleja, Katrina Strauss and Ciar Cullen.
And the reason I mention any names at all is because I've really had my eyes opened in the past few days by what I've read in the Bitchery posts and comments sections (you must read the Comments section after the main posts to get the full flavor, and fury). The insight I've gleaned goes way beyond the subject of plagiarism (and even ferrets!) because these women are passionate about what they write, what they read, what they feel about the genre of Romance fiction, specifically, and writing generally. This is my way of acknowledging them.
You can tell from the Comments sections that the writers are good and the readers are sophisticated, intelligent, savvy, funny-as-hell big mouths with equally great big hearts. They're real people; I like that. The forums themselves can get introspective or crazy wild, but, amazingly, most seem to "course correct," as one poster put it, after some of the passion spends itself into a sigh, and the quieter minds come out of the shadows with reason and logic draped in soothing words and calming tones.
I've also been linked, via the Bitchery, to a couple other sites that I found very informative. One, Dear Author, is written by six devoted readers who specialize in reviewing books from the Romance, Fantasy and Manga genres and dish up some very tasty commentary on issues affecting authors and the publishing industry. Again, the Dear Author blogposts are nicely enhanced with Comments from readers of that blog. An especially moving blogpost titled The Many Faces of Plagiarism provided brief biographical notes on the Edwards' victims. In the case of the deceased victims (about a half-dozen that we know), there's something deeply upsetting about seeing names, faces and bits about the plagiarized authors' lives. I think another writer, author of the Mind Meanderings in a blogpost titled "Silence is the Voice of Complicity," put it best with these words: "It was bad enough that she did this while giving neither credit not attribution to the true authors, most of them deceased writers whose works had fallen out of copyright — which, to me, reeks of grave-robbing." Indeed.
A third site to which I have been introduced through my new associations with the prior two is Teach Me Tonight, Musings on Romance Fiction from an Academic Perspective. This blog, written by Sarah S.G. Franz, Gwendolyn D. Pough, Pamela Regis, Sandra Schwab, E.M. Selinger and the above-mentioned Laura Vivanco, serves up a delightfully insightful, thought-provoking and well-written buffet of bon mots ranging from the deliciously esoteric through the abundantly fruitful to the frequently fecund---essays that reveal a depth of thought and the academics' eyes for detail and logic on a variety of subjects of interest to anyone who seriously intends to write Romance fiction and for anyone who enjoys reading good to great Romance fiction.
A third site to which I have been introduced through my new associations with the prior two is Teach Me Tonight, Musings on Romance Fiction from an Academic Perspective. This blog, written by Sarah S.G. Franz, Gwendolyn D. Pough, Pamela Regis, Sandra Schwab, E.M. Selinger and the above-mentioned Laura Vivanco, serves up a delightfully insightful, thought-provoking and well-written buffet of bon mots ranging from the deliciously esoteric through the abundantly fruitful to the frequently fecund---essays that reveal a depth of thought and the academics' eyes for detail and logic on a variety of subjects of interest to anyone who seriously intends to write Romance fiction and for anyone who enjoys reading good to great Romance fiction.
Oh, and don't forget the ferrets. If you go here, take a screenshot of your receipt and send it here---that way, Nora Roberts will have to cough up five grand in matching monies, and see, everyone will live happily ever after, unless of course you're a ferret-word ripper-offer.
To paraphrase a poster whose name I swear I cannot remember, you can't make this stuff up!
Friday, January 11, 2008
The Ethics of Authorship
I received a couple letters, yesterday, from The Romance Writers of America (RWA) that led me to find out about quite a furor and a half going on over at Smart Bitches Who Love Trashy Books, a very popular website of readers and writers of various Romance genre books. The Bitches have led many of their readers (including the wildly popular and successful Nora Roberts, herself a victim of plagiarism) to agree there really seems to be something to the allegations of abundant plagiarism in various works of Cassie Edwards, a writer of so-called "noble savage" type Romance books, whose 100th book will be published soon. She has written for Signet, Penguin and Dorchester, among others, and while the first response from one of the book publishers indicated the imprint felt Ms. Edwards "had done nothing wrong," a later statement by the same corporate entity indicated the publisher will be looking into the allegations.
(Update: Today, January 12, 2008, a day after I wrote the bulk of this blogpost, The New York Times covered the story in its Arts Section.)
When you go to the Smart Bitches web site, you'll see a listing on the right-hand side of the current blogpost called "Looking For the Cassie Edwards Articles?" I suggest you read the articles in order as it makes for a fascinating read. As well, it's a truly impromptu version of what crowd sourcing can do.
The Smart Bitches have done a rather masterful job of tracking down a large number of passages from Ms. Edwards' books, and in a PDF file worthy of academic research standards, the passages in Ms. Edwards' books are placed side-by-side with original source material, much of it out of copyright, which reveals, as The Bitches put it, "an eerie" similarity. They put it mildly at that point; later in their blog, it's clear that passages in the Edwards' books were lifted almost word-for-word from the original source material.
I suggest everyone who writes take a look at the PDF file, and report back to me! It's an amazing document.
Comment of my own: I don't need to know if something is copyright infringement, a legal designation, to know that it's plagiarism, an issue of theft, and thus ethics; however, if you read through all the comments over at the Bitches' site, you'll see a few people have allowed as how plagiarism might happen once or twice, by accident, but not a lot of times. I'm not sure I buy this. I know as a researcher, I read tons of material, and then I sit down to write a story using the information I have read, but not the words, not even a so-called paraphrasing of the words. The benefit-of-the-doubt people say that after of hours of research, it's hard to separate what you read from what you're going to write, that we're sponges, that we genuinely think what we've written is our own. I just wonder: How many of you have heard of a shoplifter who didn't know he was shoplifting? Probably no one.
(Update: Today, January 12, 2008, a day after I wrote the bulk of this blogpost, The New York Times covered the story in its Arts Section.)
When you go to the Smart Bitches web site, you'll see a listing on the right-hand side of the current blogpost called "Looking For the Cassie Edwards Articles?" I suggest you read the articles in order as it makes for a fascinating read. As well, it's a truly impromptu version of what crowd sourcing can do.
The Smart Bitches have done a rather masterful job of tracking down a large number of passages from Ms. Edwards' books, and in a PDF file worthy of academic research standards, the passages in Ms. Edwards' books are placed side-by-side with original source material, much of it out of copyright, which reveals, as The Bitches put it, "an eerie" similarity. They put it mildly at that point; later in their blog, it's clear that passages in the Edwards' books were lifted almost word-for-word from the original source material.
I suggest everyone who writes take a look at the PDF file, and report back to me! It's an amazing document.
Comment of my own: I don't need to know if something is copyright infringement, a legal designation, to know that it's plagiarism, an issue of theft, and thus ethics; however, if you read through all the comments over at the Bitches' site, you'll see a few people have allowed as how plagiarism might happen once or twice, by accident, but not a lot of times. I'm not sure I buy this. I know as a researcher, I read tons of material, and then I sit down to write a story using the information I have read, but not the words, not even a so-called paraphrasing of the words. The benefit-of-the-doubt people say that after of hours of research, it's hard to separate what you read from what you're going to write, that we're sponges, that we genuinely think what we've written is our own. I just wonder: How many of you have heard of a shoplifter who didn't know he was shoplifting? Probably no one.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Bay By Day, Bay By Night
Christmas Day, 2007.....A view of the San Francisco Bay. If you look closely, a third of the way up on the right side of the photo, you can see a length of the San Mateo Bridge, which connects the East Bay with the Peninsula. The day was truly glorious, warm, sunny and sparkling...and matched beautifully by the sunset, pictured below. A California Christmas from the bounty of the Bay, surrounded by family and friends...in person, on the phone and via the internet.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
In Honor of the Writers & Bloggers of NaNoWriMo & NaBloPoMo
Tomorrow (or today, depending on when you read this), 30 November 2007 is the official end of NaNoWriMo and NaBloPoMo 2007. Although I did not participate in this year's event, I want to congratulate all the writers and bloggers who completed their commitment to write a novel in a month or blog every day for a month---and even those who tried but dropped out at various points during the month, for as many reasons as there are people.
It seems to me that these two events (and the wonderful Young Writers Program) is, at its most basic, a vehicle for writers to prove to themselves that they can make a commitment, fulfill it and share the joys, pains and fruits of their labor with a large community of fellow writers, cheerleaders and even detractors.
Beyond that, though, or perhaps before that, the people who participate in events like this possess something very special. It's more than a trait, more than a habit, even more than a virtue. It's a belief that something about life can be good, can be accomplished, and can be achieved by any person.
You might be a runner in a marathon, a person who gets a 3o-day achievement chip for staying clean and sober for thirty days, a person who cares for a sick, elderly or disadvantaged person or pet for a month, a kid who shows up for school when it seems like bullies and math are everywhere and friends are hard to find, or just someone who gets up in the morning and puts one foot in front of the other for another month of days when depression, anxiety, panic and fear are so compelling that staying in bed seems preferable to another day of pursuing some vague, distant, amorphous sliver of hope that there is a purpose to all of this, and more specifically, a personal purpose---to everyone who does anything for a month that celebrates their efficacious relationship with the world, whether or not they feel it or know it, I say: I admire you, I celebrate your achievement, I am inspired by you, and I wish you the best.
From my own experiences, I know that if one can do something for 30 days, one can do many, many things for far longer. This post is just a little applause we give you, and applause you ought to give yourself. We've been watching you, we know what you've done. It's as magnificent as the sunset in the high desert this evening, to which no photo can ever quite do justice.
Still, as these events draw to a close, this celebratory picture is offered to all of you who finished the month-long commitment. And to all who started but didn't finish, and to all who never started for fear of not finishing, and to all who could not fathom a reason to start or finish...it's never too late to reconsider, regroup, rededicate and realize the dreams some dared to desire....and I'm not just talking about NaBloPoMo or NaNoWriMo. But you knew that.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Happy Birthday MaryBelles!!!
Laguna Beach, CA---Nov. 13, 2007
According to reliable, unnamed sources, today is the 59th birthday of Mary Todd (pictured on the right), seen elsewhere on this blog signing off as Belles. On at least two occasions, she has posted a Blog post when she meant to post a Comment. Inasmuch as she, at that time, didn't know the difference between a Blog and a Post, never mind a blog post and a Comment, it was decided to leave her blog posts intact as they were most amusing!
Although Miss Todd joined her sister, T.T. Thomas and sister-in-law Karyn Pierce in the high desert for high dessert over this past weekend, she is apparently joining her friend Cathy for lunch in Laguna Beach today as it is their mutual birthday week, although that could be just an excuse for more cake. Mary's other sister, Elizabeth, and her niece Danielle, are no doubt calling to wish her a Happy Birthday as we post.
For her birthday, Mary insisted on "something practical" if anyone insisted on a gift. After a celebratory dinner at one of the local gourmet seafood establishments, located about 75 miles from the nearest ocean, reports are that Mary and her two hostesses whipped through Gottchalks Department Store like three small tornadoes, 10 minutes before closing time, which the women had originally and erroneously estimated to be an hour later. Mary wanted pillows. Two down-topped feather pillows and one feather bed later, the three women were escorted out of the department store by a man holding a big key, and possibly a weapon. He was not laughing, but Mary was.
Back at her home-away-from home, her high-desert casita, as it were, Mary settled in for a good movie and a lovely chocolate caked baked for her by Karyn. From scratch. Oh wait, scratch that---from the ever-lovely Betty Crocker, another family friend.
Now, early indications are that Miss Todd had a lovely weekend, and forgot all about getting older. Indeed, we believe she may have had a jolly good time. In short, she got to have her cake and eat it too! Happy Birthday, Mary, and may you have many, many more!
Friday, November 02, 2007
Finding Brenda Sue
It happened, more or less, like this: I left California and moved to New York, for the second time. I had lived on lst and 53rd in 1968-70, but neither that move nor the husband who came with it worked out so good. But I loved New York, and I was young enough and nuts enough to feel that I wasn't quite done doing the City thing. So I talked the owners of the public relations company I worked for into opening a New York office to serve a couple clients I had acquired for them, and, oh by the way, I'll run that office for you!
It's important to know that I had no friends in New York. I knew a few people---is two a few?---who I'd met at trade conventions (in Chicago) when they were working for trade papers and I was trying to get them to cover my various clients' products. I was a pretty good match for the reporters because I, too, had been a reporter and editor for a few trade papers, mostly covering the consumer electronics industry. I can't remember how it all happened, but one of the two people with whom I had a passing acquaintance knew somebody who knew somebody who had a friend who was looking for a roommate. It sounded less than ideal for someone who hadn't seriously called anyone I lived with a "roommate" for nearly 15 years. But this was to be a real roommate. I vaguely remember procrastinating about calling her, and as the time for my departure neared, I was more concerned with how to get my brand new white Corvette to Manhattan since I was flying. I got that sorted out with a friend in California who needed a free ride to New York and a Corvette sounded more than OK. I did worry about what condition the car would arrive in, but as time would prove, I should have had my head examined for bringing such a vehicle into that city.
And then my phone rang. She spoke with a drawl, but it wasn't quite Southern. It was that familiar twang/drawl that my relatives on my father's side talked with. My mother usually called them "them." Actually, the whole scenario would go like this: "He" (my father) came from "them" and "you" (me) came from "him," and "...quite frankly, you're all alike." I could never be certain, but I'd be hesitant to call it a compliment.
Anyway, I loved that drawl, and it belonged to someone who introduced herself by two names. Two first names. Just like all my cousins...the ones from "them."
"Hi there, it's Brenda Sue, how the hell you doing? I've heard all about you, and it's all good!"
Clearly, she had not heard all about me or she wouldn't sound so cheery. But I liked her enthusiasm.
A week later, I took the cab into the City from JFK airport and felt the growing excitement as we neared Brenda Sue's brownstone. Well, it wasn't hers, but she had two floors of it, and it was in a "good" neighborhood on 76th Street near Riverside Drive. The first thing I noticed was that all the cars were double parked, and it didn't look like "for just a minute" while the driver ran into one of the buildings to pick something up. These cars were lights-out-doors-locked-honk-if- you-need-to-get-out parked. The front of the brownstone, which was actually a red stone brick I think, was gorgeous. The owners, a young upwardly mobile couple who lived on the first floor, had renovated the building beautifully. On the outside. I got out of the cab, looked up the stoop at the handsome front door, and was still staring at the door when I realized the cabbie had driven away. That's when I realized the First Law of New York: Do not tip until your bags are inside the door.
I rang the bell and Brenda Sue answered back through the intercom. "I'll be right down!" she drawled. About 10 minutes later, she threw open the front door, gave me a big hug and said "Welcome, home!"
Somewhere on the landing of the third floor, after I had said, "How many more flights?" about three times, she smiled and said, "We have the whole fourth and fifth floor!" I'm sure my gratitude was more muted than I intended as I lugged two huge suitcases up the stairs. Brenda Sue was a half flight ahead of me with two more.
It was a great apartment, and I have many, many happy memories from that period in my life. Brenda was a great roommate, a wonderful person and just the best person to know in New York. She was a tall, willowy blonde with a perpetual grin. We had a few escapades together in New York and tore that town up pretty good on more than one occasion. Not that anyone can remember the details, mind you. Oh well, there is one story that would probably be better left in the underground morass of memories that ought not to be let loose, but it shows who Brenda was...and is.
I got it into my head that I liked my neighbor across the street, an Israeli woman with a live-in girlfriend. I had met them within a few weeks after moving in because everyone socializes from a starting point on one's stoop. If you don't have a stoop, you don't let it stop you. People without a stoop just wander into the streets and come over to your stoop to get to know you. So, anyway, against all my better judgment, better judgment not always having been my strong point, I decided that since this heartthrob was taken, I'd at least send her a Valentine, just something nice.
I can't recall when the brilliant idea hit me, but at some point I thought maybe sending a Valentine card in the mail wouldn't be the most discreet thing to do, so I came up with something more original. I went home and told Brenda. She looked at me like I was crazy, but the next day she materialized with the reference books I needed.
We made the sign, in Hebrew, and the only thing left was to convince the brownstone owners to hang this big banner outside their front window because our fourth and fifth floor walk up was in the back of the building, and Dafna (that was her name) was in the lower front of the building across the street. Everyday Dafna sat at that window and had coffee---no way would she miss the sentiment. Brenda said she'd handle the details about hanging the sign with the owners.
We spent the evening painting "Happy Valentine's Day to Someone Special" in Hebrew. The banner was some kind of white cloth, and the printing was, naturally, bright red. We didn't exactly find that greeting in one reference book, but we found all the words individually and just strung them together. I was so excited to imagine Dafna's complete look of surprise when she had her coffee the next morning. As soon as the paint dried, I was ready to take the banner to the owner's apartment. Brenda Sue said, "Uh, why don't I go talk to them first, for a minute."
Turns out she forgot to ask them if we could hang this big honking Hebrew sign outside their front window, but she didn't want to spoil my evening, so she hadn't said anything. Somehow, though, she did talk the owners into hanging the sign, but it was very windy that evening, so they said they'd hang it first thing in the morning. Where were the hooks? Hooks? All we had was masking tape.
"Well I don't know what this thing says," said the husband, "but if it's important, you better have some way of hanging it out our window. It's not going to cause a riot is it?"
Brenda looked at my face and said, "I have just the thing, upstairs. I'll bring it back down. C'mon, let's go, T., and thanks you guys. Let's go T!"
I backed out the door assuring him there'd be no riot. Boy was I wrong.
The next morning the sun was shining and the wind was blowing 50 m.p.h. I couldn't wait to get dressed, get ready for work and go outside to walk up to West End Avenue to catch my cab. My plan was to just casually wave and smile at the person in the window across the street. As I opened the front door, a gust of wind took my neck scarf and wrapped it around my head about three times. I couldn't see a thing, but as I stepped out the front door, I heard the flapping overhead. I pulled down the scarf, and there, hanging perpendicular to the window, instead of horizontally across the front of the building was my Hebrew handwriting. Well, it wasn't quite the presentation I had hoped for, but it was still neat. I walked down the stairs of the stoop, and when I got to the bottom, I couldn't resist. I looked across the street and into the window. I believe my eyes crossed and my knees buckled because there, standing at the window, holding a cup of coffee and bending her head sideways as if to read upside down was Dafna's "friend," the live in. Unbeknownst to me, Dafna had come down with the sniffles and didn't want to sit too close to the window for fear of catching the draft. So the bent neck was reading the banner to her. How could she read it? Easy---also unbeknownst to me, she was taking Hebrew classes.
I heard later tha Dafna spilled her hot coffee all over her nice warm cuddly pajamas while she was trying to come up with some reason the neighbors would hang a sign to "someone special" out their front window. "I thought that couple was married with a baby," the bent neck said to Dafna. "Who's the special person?" Evidently Dafna shrugged and muttered something about the mother-in-law. Dafna and bent neck broke up a couple years later, and I'm pretty sure my slapstick comedy of errors had nothing whatsoever to do with it.
And then I moved back to California, and later Brenda Sue moved to San Diego, and we talked on the phone quite a bit but we could never pull off that free couple days to go visit one another. Then Brenda moved back east, and I got some emails and I sent some. One day I got an email telling me that somewhere in her Fifties, she had finally graduated from college and got her degree. She also sent out an email to me and a half dozen others asking us not to send her any downloads because her computer was made in Jurassic Park. And thank g-d she sent that email.
I can't even tell you what, besides the living of life, happened, but one day I sent Brenda Sue an email, and it came back Unknown Name. I tried to call the last phone number I had, and, nothing. I knew that I had moved, that all my phone numbers had changed, and that Brenda didn't know where I was either. I got busy again, and another couple years passed, when I had another of my brilliant ideas. Hire a plane to fly over West Virginia with a banner that said "Brenda Sue Call Me!" In English of course. Just kidding. I decided to send an email to all the people Brenda had asked not to send her downloads. I apologized for the imposition and asked if any of them knew where Brenda was and how I could find her. Three or four wrote back and said they were trying to find her, too. It was decided that whoever heard from her first, let the others know.
The thing about Brenda is that she has this great, big, huge heart. When those fires erupted a couple weeks ago, she left a message with an old friend of hers in San Diego. Last night, that friend wrote to me, saying, "Brenda has been found! Phew!" She gave me her number, and I called Brenda today.
The last year or so, Brenda Sue has seen her share of difficulties, with both her and her Mom suffering some debilitating effects of a couple bad falls. Brenda is not able to work, and she is the original worker bee, so not being able to has been depressing and demoralizing for her. "Let's put it this way," she said, when I agreed she's had a tough year, "the whole last decade has pretty much sucked."
I've been there, too. When Brenda lived in San Diego, the highlight of my day was going to the grocery store. I was depressed. I was demoralized. I was diminished, and I couldn't tell you why. Oh I could have done he said/she said....but it was all so much more than that, and so much less. For me the cure came in the form of a very willful Pug named Charlie Girl.
No, I probably won't be shipping a Pug to Brenda, but I just want her to know that I've always thought of her as a survivor, I've always loved her happy countenance, her wry sense of humor, and that dimpled grin. I promised to entertain her with some pages from the book I'm writing because she's always been a great big fan and supporter of mine. But until I get some time to choose what I want to send her, I thought I'd just send her this post.
Everyone: Say hi to Brenda Sue---I found her, and I intend to keep track of her.
It's important to know that I had no friends in New York. I knew a few people---is two a few?---who I'd met at trade conventions (in Chicago) when they were working for trade papers and I was trying to get them to cover my various clients' products. I was a pretty good match for the reporters because I, too, had been a reporter and editor for a few trade papers, mostly covering the consumer electronics industry. I can't remember how it all happened, but one of the two people with whom I had a passing acquaintance knew somebody who knew somebody who had a friend who was looking for a roommate. It sounded less than ideal for someone who hadn't seriously called anyone I lived with a "roommate" for nearly 15 years. But this was to be a real roommate. I vaguely remember procrastinating about calling her, and as the time for my departure neared, I was more concerned with how to get my brand new white Corvette to Manhattan since I was flying. I got that sorted out with a friend in California who needed a free ride to New York and a Corvette sounded more than OK. I did worry about what condition the car would arrive in, but as time would prove, I should have had my head examined for bringing such a vehicle into that city.
And then my phone rang. She spoke with a drawl, but it wasn't quite Southern. It was that familiar twang/drawl that my relatives on my father's side talked with. My mother usually called them "them." Actually, the whole scenario would go like this: "He" (my father) came from "them" and "you" (me) came from "him," and "...quite frankly, you're all alike." I could never be certain, but I'd be hesitant to call it a compliment.
Anyway, I loved that drawl, and it belonged to someone who introduced herself by two names. Two first names. Just like all my cousins...the ones from "them."
"Hi there, it's Brenda Sue, how the hell you doing? I've heard all about you, and it's all good!"
Clearly, she had not heard all about me or she wouldn't sound so cheery. But I liked her enthusiasm.
A week later, I took the cab into the City from JFK airport and felt the growing excitement as we neared Brenda Sue's brownstone. Well, it wasn't hers, but she had two floors of it, and it was in a "good" neighborhood on 76th Street near Riverside Drive. The first thing I noticed was that all the cars were double parked, and it didn't look like "for just a minute" while the driver ran into one of the buildings to pick something up. These cars were lights-out-doors-locked-honk-if- you-need-to-get-out parked. The front of the brownstone, which was actually a red stone brick I think, was gorgeous. The owners, a young upwardly mobile couple who lived on the first floor, had renovated the building beautifully. On the outside. I got out of the cab, looked up the stoop at the handsome front door, and was still staring at the door when I realized the cabbie had driven away. That's when I realized the First Law of New York: Do not tip until your bags are inside the door.
I rang the bell and Brenda Sue answered back through the intercom. "I'll be right down!" she drawled. About 10 minutes later, she threw open the front door, gave me a big hug and said "Welcome, home!"
Somewhere on the landing of the third floor, after I had said, "How many more flights?" about three times, she smiled and said, "We have the whole fourth and fifth floor!" I'm sure my gratitude was more muted than I intended as I lugged two huge suitcases up the stairs. Brenda Sue was a half flight ahead of me with two more.
It was a great apartment, and I have many, many happy memories from that period in my life. Brenda was a great roommate, a wonderful person and just the best person to know in New York. She was a tall, willowy blonde with a perpetual grin. We had a few escapades together in New York and tore that town up pretty good on more than one occasion. Not that anyone can remember the details, mind you. Oh well, there is one story that would probably be better left in the underground morass of memories that ought not to be let loose, but it shows who Brenda was...and is.
I got it into my head that I liked my neighbor across the street, an Israeli woman with a live-in girlfriend. I had met them within a few weeks after moving in because everyone socializes from a starting point on one's stoop. If you don't have a stoop, you don't let it stop you. People without a stoop just wander into the streets and come over to your stoop to get to know you. So, anyway, against all my better judgment, better judgment not always having been my strong point, I decided that since this heartthrob was taken, I'd at least send her a Valentine, just something nice.
I can't recall when the brilliant idea hit me, but at some point I thought maybe sending a Valentine card in the mail wouldn't be the most discreet thing to do, so I came up with something more original. I went home and told Brenda. She looked at me like I was crazy, but the next day she materialized with the reference books I needed.
We made the sign, in Hebrew, and the only thing left was to convince the brownstone owners to hang this big banner outside their front window because our fourth and fifth floor walk up was in the back of the building, and Dafna (that was her name) was in the lower front of the building across the street. Everyday Dafna sat at that window and had coffee---no way would she miss the sentiment. Brenda said she'd handle the details about hanging the sign with the owners.
We spent the evening painting "Happy Valentine's Day to Someone Special" in Hebrew. The banner was some kind of white cloth, and the printing was, naturally, bright red. We didn't exactly find that greeting in one reference book, but we found all the words individually and just strung them together. I was so excited to imagine Dafna's complete look of surprise when she had her coffee the next morning. As soon as the paint dried, I was ready to take the banner to the owner's apartment. Brenda Sue said, "Uh, why don't I go talk to them first, for a minute."
Turns out she forgot to ask them if we could hang this big honking Hebrew sign outside their front window, but she didn't want to spoil my evening, so she hadn't said anything. Somehow, though, she did talk the owners into hanging the sign, but it was very windy that evening, so they said they'd hang it first thing in the morning. Where were the hooks? Hooks? All we had was masking tape.
"Well I don't know what this thing says," said the husband, "but if it's important, you better have some way of hanging it out our window. It's not going to cause a riot is it?"
Brenda looked at my face and said, "I have just the thing, upstairs. I'll bring it back down. C'mon, let's go, T., and thanks you guys. Let's go T!"
I backed out the door assuring him there'd be no riot. Boy was I wrong.
The next morning the sun was shining and the wind was blowing 50 m.p.h. I couldn't wait to get dressed, get ready for work and go outside to walk up to West End Avenue to catch my cab. My plan was to just casually wave and smile at the person in the window across the street. As I opened the front door, a gust of wind took my neck scarf and wrapped it around my head about three times. I couldn't see a thing, but as I stepped out the front door, I heard the flapping overhead. I pulled down the scarf, and there, hanging perpendicular to the window, instead of horizontally across the front of the building was my Hebrew handwriting. Well, it wasn't quite the presentation I had hoped for, but it was still neat. I walked down the stairs of the stoop, and when I got to the bottom, I couldn't resist. I looked across the street and into the window. I believe my eyes crossed and my knees buckled because there, standing at the window, holding a cup of coffee and bending her head sideways as if to read upside down was Dafna's "friend," the live in. Unbeknownst to me, Dafna had come down with the sniffles and didn't want to sit too close to the window for fear of catching the draft. So the bent neck was reading the banner to her. How could she read it? Easy---also unbeknownst to me, she was taking Hebrew classes.
I heard later tha Dafna spilled her hot coffee all over her nice warm cuddly pajamas while she was trying to come up with some reason the neighbors would hang a sign to "someone special" out their front window. "I thought that couple was married with a baby," the bent neck said to Dafna. "Who's the special person?" Evidently Dafna shrugged and muttered something about the mother-in-law. Dafna and bent neck broke up a couple years later, and I'm pretty sure my slapstick comedy of errors had nothing whatsoever to do with it.
And then I moved back to California, and later Brenda Sue moved to San Diego, and we talked on the phone quite a bit but we could never pull off that free couple days to go visit one another. Then Brenda moved back east, and I got some emails and I sent some. One day I got an email telling me that somewhere in her Fifties, she had finally graduated from college and got her degree. She also sent out an email to me and a half dozen others asking us not to send her any downloads because her computer was made in Jurassic Park. And thank g-d she sent that email.
I can't even tell you what, besides the living of life, happened, but one day I sent Brenda Sue an email, and it came back Unknown Name. I tried to call the last phone number I had, and, nothing. I knew that I had moved, that all my phone numbers had changed, and that Brenda didn't know where I was either. I got busy again, and another couple years passed, when I had another of my brilliant ideas. Hire a plane to fly over West Virginia with a banner that said "Brenda Sue Call Me!" In English of course. Just kidding. I decided to send an email to all the people Brenda had asked not to send her downloads. I apologized for the imposition and asked if any of them knew where Brenda was and how I could find her. Three or four wrote back and said they were trying to find her, too. It was decided that whoever heard from her first, let the others know.
The thing about Brenda is that she has this great, big, huge heart. When those fires erupted a couple weeks ago, she left a message with an old friend of hers in San Diego. Last night, that friend wrote to me, saying, "Brenda has been found! Phew!" She gave me her number, and I called Brenda today.
The last year or so, Brenda Sue has seen her share of difficulties, with both her and her Mom suffering some debilitating effects of a couple bad falls. Brenda is not able to work, and she is the original worker bee, so not being able to has been depressing and demoralizing for her. "Let's put it this way," she said, when I agreed she's had a tough year, "the whole last decade has pretty much sucked."
I've been there, too. When Brenda lived in San Diego, the highlight of my day was going to the grocery store. I was depressed. I was demoralized. I was diminished, and I couldn't tell you why. Oh I could have done he said/she said....but it was all so much more than that, and so much less. For me the cure came in the form of a very willful Pug named Charlie Girl.
No, I probably won't be shipping a Pug to Brenda, but I just want her to know that I've always thought of her as a survivor, I've always loved her happy countenance, her wry sense of humor, and that dimpled grin. I promised to entertain her with some pages from the book I'm writing because she's always been a great big fan and supporter of mine. But until I get some time to choose what I want to send her, I thought I'd just send her this post.
Everyone: Say hi to Brenda Sue---I found her, and I intend to keep track of her.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Driving Through the Smoke
So far, everyone here is OK. We're staying alert, and Fire Marshall Margaret is on the job! Count on it!
Still, it's very unnerving to have this much land up in flames and smoke. We live in an area that is known for it's almost daily strong winds---the wind usually comes up in the afternoon and stays around for a couple hours. But the Santa Ana condition that is tearing down the mountain passes and canyons is a ferocious, erratic and hot wind. It can calm down to nothing in the wink of an eye, then stir itself up to 80 m.p.h. swirls in the next blink. My windshield cracked from the force of small road debris being hurled at 75 m.p.h down the canyon I was travelling up at 70 m.p.h.
Santa Clarita is about 32 miles and across some 3200-foot mountains from the Antelope Valley where we live. The area that burned today near Stevenson Ranch and Magic Mountain is only about 20 miles from us.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Mutts & Moms But No Moms with Kids Under 14: I'm So Mad About Iggy I Could Cry!
OK, I'll admit it right off the bat: I love dogs (and cats), I think Ellen DeGeneres is fabulous, and as Karyn and my sisters and some of my friends from 35 years ago can tell you, I am a MAJOR crybaby. I cry. I shed tears at the slightest thing, or, sometimes, it seems, for no reason at all. (Of course, there is, actually, always a reason.) ::shrug::
I saw the clip from Ellen's show today, Tuesday, 16 October. Then I did some more research on this Mutts & Moms group. Then I saw another clip with Ellen explaining how it all happened, and I got so mad I couldn't even cry, so I decided to write a letter to Mutts & Moms.
I don't know if the email address I have is correct. I certainly don't agree with anyone who makes death threats to anyone at Mutts & Moms, or does anything unlawful, or hurts their business, but I do think it's OK to express some absolute outrage. And OK, I did call them stupid. That wasn't nice. I'm sorry. Pretty much. So, here's my letter:
I saw the clip from Ellen's show today, Tuesday, 16 October. Then I did some more research on this Mutts & Moms group. Then I saw another clip with Ellen explaining how it all happened, and I got so mad I couldn't even cry, so I decided to write a letter to Mutts & Moms.
I don't know if the email address I have is correct. I certainly don't agree with anyone who makes death threats to anyone at Mutts & Moms, or does anything unlawful, or hurts their business, but I do think it's OK to express some absolute outrage. And OK, I did call them stupid. That wasn't nice. I'm sorry. Pretty much. So, here's my letter:
Hello, Mutts & Moms,
I wonder if you've considered the utter irony of a nonprofit organization called Mutts & Moms not allowing adoption by moms who have children under 14. Ellen DeGeneres acknowledged her mistake and apologized for it, on national TV, no less. And yet, Mutts & Moms, in a curiously astounding blast of poor judgment, really, really bad public relations and publicity, and a hard-line "following of policies" has (1) removed a well-taken care of puppy from a good home, (2) caused the children and parents in that family a great deal of grief, and (3) Mutts & Moms (its owner) has been unrelentingly unkind, inflexible and, may I say it, so stunningly righteous that you're going to show one of the most popular and beloved American icons, Ellen, that no good deed goes unpunished and no amount of her celebrity status is going to cause you to reverse your decision NO MATTER WHAT DOG IT SAVES!
So, yes, your policies are most curious, but your discriminatory double-standard is going to ensure that this State takes a much closer look at nonprofit organizations that claim humane treatment of animals while acting like blithering idiots to the very humans who were supporting your original cause. So she broke a part of the contract----can you not make an amendment, or make an exception, or better yet, review your policies about not letting families with children under 14 adopt a pet for which there previously HAD BEEN NO LOVING HOME! Is any of this getting through to you....anything at all? Or leave Ellen and her partner, Portia DeRossi, out of this completely (as they suggested), and re-give Iggy to Ruby and her family because they love that dog!
I'm afraid it's starting to sound as though you can't leave Ellen and her partner out of it, that your objections regarding Iggy are more personal, more related to other objections, but, really, I hope not. Let me say it differently: Given that you surely must know that thousands of dogs are dumped on roads, left in deserts, mistreated with neglect and indifference, unloved and abandoned to sickness, disease and usually death, then one has to ask: Based on what possible standard of ethics, humane treatment of animals and compassion, nevermind logic, could you possibly justify your actions?
I really want to know.
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