Monday: Late entrance into ROW80; post took two days to complete; goals set, not attempted.
Tuesday: Type type type type type type type type type type…316 words.
Wednesday: Type type type type type type type type type type…323 words.
Thursday: Type…type…44 words; one word was XXX.
Friday: Type type type type type type type type type type type type type type type type type type…551 words.
Saturday…Type…Play Poppit…type…Check email…type…type…Check Facebook…type…type…type…Play Poppit…Play Poppit…type…type…type…Check email…Check Facebook…Check email…Play Poppit…Check Glassboard…Play Poppit…type…, and so on…505 words.
Total: 1739 words / 5 days = 347.8 words per day
That’s not exactly what I set out to do–an average of 347.8 words per day isn’t the same as minimum of 300 words a day–but I’m not complaining. Having put in the promised five days and produced the promised 1500 words, I owe myself no more words until Tuesday.
Tomorrow, however, I owe Travis County an afternoon of jury duty. This is my third summons in four years. I don’t complain about that, either, though the summonses are beginning to seem redundant.
I do complain about being called down to the courthouse, where there is practically no parking, on a blazing summer day, when walking to the bus stop would turn me into an ambulatory puddle of sweat.
The first time, I took a taxi. The second time, David was on holiday and drove me. Tomorrow, he’s going to pick me up and drive me downtown on his lunch hour. He’s very kind and is also probably tired of hearing how standing outside waiting for a taxi–I don’t trust the cabbies to negotiate a certain turn–renders me a stationary puddle.
Anything more on this topic is premature. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll gather material for future posts or future fiction. But my goal is to end the day with nothing more remarkable than the weather to write about. I’ve served on juries before. Deciding the dispensation of other people’s lives and treasure, though a civic responsibility, is not something I relish.
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To see what other ROW80 writers have to say, click here.
Today I’m reblogging a free-writing Fancy Fairchild wrote last month during a meeting of the writing practice group 15 Minutes of Fame. I’m especially fond of this piece, not just because it’s humorous and well written, but because I learned from it that I’m not the only one whose couch is backed by stacks of paper impersonating an end table.
I’m raising procrastination to a high art. Example: I am supposed to turn in my mileage documentation by the fifth of the month—it is now June 15 and it’s still in the folder, line upon line (64 or so) and I haven’t calculated the mileage on Bing yet.
Last night when I got on the computer to do it, I started playing solitaire. I finally won on the sixth try—then looked up other free games, looked up Bradley Manning and NSA articles on World Can’t Wait, tried to watch a youtube video, and browsed political and other blogs until I was exhausted and went to bed.
I finally threw away my book about overcoming procrastination. The program in the book required too much perseverance. Besides, it didn’t fit on the shelf crammed with books about being organized; “How to Get Things Done,” “Organizing for…
This is Alpine, Texas with the six-thousand foot plus Ranger, Twin Sisters, & Paisano Peaks in the foreground. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
In Monday’s post, I announced my goals for Round 3 of A Round of Words in 80 Days (ROW80):
To write 300 words a day, five days a week; and
Not to haul myself out of bed at 5:00 a.m. to write the 300 words.
So far, the latter goal has been easier to accomplish than the former. Nonetheless, I made my 300-word minimum and then some both Tuesday and today.
I’m working on a short story that began as a ten-minute timed writing at the Writers’ League of Texas Summer Writing Retreat at Sul Ross State University in Alpine a couple of years ago. I spent the week in Karleen Koen’s class, Writing the Novel: The Basics. That was probably the most productive week I’ve ever had. Karleen told us she couldn’t teach us to write, but she could teach us to play. And she did. She’s teaching the class at this summer’s retreat later in July. She also teaches for Rice University’s Continuing Education Department in Houston. Anyone who has the opportunity to take one of her classes should do so. Lots of writing, lots of fun.
The timed writing that I hope becomes a full-fledged story begins, The day I found Mama stirring ground glass into the eggs she was about to scramble, I took the eggs away from her and called a family conference. When I started, I had no idea where it was going. Back at home, I added to it and showed it to my critique group. They said I should work it into a novel. I still didn’t know where it was going. Or where I could make it go. But it didn’t seem like novel material, at least in my hands. Last summer, I tried to turn it into a ghost story but kept running into obstacles, the chief of which was that the plot was forced and downright silly. Now, a year later, an invitation to write a different kind of story has come along. Once again I dragged out Mama and the ground glass. And this time I think I can pull it off. It’s not over till it’s over, of course, but I’m optimistic.
It takes time to get some things right.
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To see what other members of ROW80 are writing, click here.
“On November the twenty-first, the day of her forty-seventh birthday, and three weeks and two days before she was murdered, Rhoda Gradwyn went to Harley Street to keep a first appointment with her plastic surgeon, and there in a consulting room designed, so it appeared, to inspire confidence and allay apprehension, made the decision which would lead inexorably to her death.” ~ P. D. James, The Private Patient
The day Eddy Cranny got himself murdered started bad and went downhill from there . . . especially for Eddy. ~ Janice Hamrick, Death Rides Again
Janice Hamrick
When I reached the second floor of BookPeople for the June 19th launch of Death Rides Again, Janice Hamrick’s latest mystery novel, my day turned around and started uphill at a gallop.
Janice, who lives in Austin, made news in the writing–and reading–communities when the manuscript of her first book, Death on Tour, won the 2010 Mystery Writers of America/Minotaur Books First Crime Novel Competition. Published in 2011, the novel was nominated for the 2012 Mary Higgins Clark Award and the Romantic Times Reviewers Choice Award.
Scott Montgomery and Janice Hamrick, 2012 Texas Book Festival
In 2012, Janice followed Death on Tour with Death Makes the Cut. Now she presentsthe third in the Jocelyn Shore series, Death Rides Again.
Critics have been complimentary. So have readers. From her tour of Egypt, to the high school where she teaches, to a family reunion at her Uncle Kel’s ranch, main character Jocelyn Shore has a talent for solving murders and gathering fans as she goes.
At the book launch, Scott Montgomery, Crime Fiction Coordinator of MysteryPeople, BookPeople’s store-within-a-store, interviewed Janice before an audience of mystery lovers. This was the second time I’ve seen the two together: at last fall’s Texas Book Festival, Janice appeared on a panel Scott moderated. The subject was using humor in mysteries, something Janice does well. (See quotation from book, above.)
I took copious notes, as I always do on such occasions. The conversation ranged far and wide, however, and my notes comprise two pages of scrawl, on the diagonal, a series of jottings devoid of connective tissue. Turning them into paragraphs would take several hours and considerable energy (for reason, see “Why I Am Not a Journalist”), so I’ll share a few bullets:
Janice got the idea for Death on Tour from a trip she made to Egypt (during which no one was murdered). The idea for Death Rides Again came from a setting–her family’s ranch near Brady.
Some reviewers class the Jocelyn Shore novels as cozy mysteries; others don’t. Janice is glad the books aren’t easily categorized. She describes them as funny but hopes they have more depth than the typical cozy.
Asked what she learned while writing the series, she said that between Death on Tour and Death Makes the Cut, she learned, “I can do it.”
She’s working on another book–not a Jocelyn Shore–but she doesn’t talk about that one yet.
Janice rises about 5:00 a.m. and writes before going to work. She sets out to write 1500 words a week: 300 words a day, five days a week. On a bad day, she says, she can produce 300 words and feel okay. On a good day, she can “blast right through” her goal.
Now this is where things get personal. I began this post by saying my day went uphill because I attended the book launch.
Goals have never been my friends. Most people find them energizing. To me, setting goals is stimulus for digging in my heels, heading off at a 45-degree angle from the rest of the group. When my CP, who likes goals and thinks I should like them too, makes me set some for the coming week, I growl, scribble in my notebook–almost, but not quite, singing Nyah nyah nyah to myself–and then ignore them.
But Janice’s description of her 300-word goal–low enough to attain and feel good about, low enough to sometimes blast right through–spoke to me. Her system is so logical, so sensible, so humane. Sitting there in that folding chair, I heard the little light bulb above my head click on, and I said to myself, Well, d’oh.
So, on that basis, I’ve decided to jump into Round 3 of A Round of Words in 80 Days, the writing challenge that knows you have a life, with the following goal:
I will write 1500 words a week: 300 words a day, five days a week;
and this stipulation:
I will not rise at 5:00 a.m. to get the job done.
Now back to the book launch:
The question on the mind of nearly everyone in the audience was, What happens next?
When you’ve spent quality time with a character like Jocelyn, gotten to know her and her family, watched her fall in–and maybe out–of love, deal with matters of life and death, turn shaky post-divorce self-esteem to strong self-confidence–you don’t want the relationship to end. Three books, the number Janice contracted to write, aren’t enough.
So what might influence Janice’s publisher to ask for a fourth Jocelyn Shore novel?
The Jocelyn Store mysteries are available from booksellers listed on Janice’s website.
On Saturday, July 20, Janice and Hopeton Haye, host of KAZI Book Review, will appear at the Pflugerville Library for an interactive discussion about the Jocelyn Shore series, mysteries, and writing. On Saturday, August 31, she will sign copies of her books at the Round Rock Barnes & Noble.
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For more information about A Round of Words in 80 Days (ROW80) click here.
To read what other ROW80 participants are writing, click here.
I promised myself that tonight I would be on my stationary bike by 8:30 p.m. and in bed by 10:00.
Missing the bike objective, I set a new one: 9:00 p.m.
William and Ernest
So I sit here at 8:55, watching the minute hand make its way toward the 12, and I think, Should I push that goal back to 9:30?
Doing so would push bedtime back to 10:30 or thereabouts. Too late, really, for someone who sincerely desires to reestablish normal sleep patterns. As in, sleep while it’s dark, etc. and so forth.
Oh dear, oh dear. I’m about to miss the 9:00 p.m. bike time. In fact, I just did. It’s one minute after.
Perhaps it’s not necessary to begin biking on the hour or the half-hour. Perhaps it’s possible to bike for 16 minutes, or 23, or 27. Perhaps getting to bed by 10:03 would be acceptable.
Black-and-white thinking impedes progress. I’ll get on the bike as soon as I’ve finished this post. And if the minute hand happens to be atilt, so what?
Macaulay wants to walk across England this summer with his friend Kate. And he needs your vote.
How could anyone deny him his heart’s desire?
Please click on the link and vote for Kate Pitt.
(Macaulay looks just like my dear departed Tramp. I think he should have whatever he wants.)
To all who read yesterday’s post and voted for Kate in Penguin’s Wayfarer contest, many thanks. Here’s a sticker for you.
Lacking stickum, it’s not technically a sticker, of course, more like a pin-on-er. And you’ll have to print and cut it out and provide your own pin. I hope you don’t mind.
I’m not quite competent in Windows Paint and am amazed I got the text box to stand still long enough to put words in it.
To anyone who hasn’t yet cast a ballot, there’s still time. Voting runs through June 24.
Kate’s entry needs to be in the top 10 to advance to the next round. At last check-in, Kate’s entry ranked 11th out of 20. That’s close, but not close enough. And it’s not enough to send harmonious vibrations. More clicks of the VOTE icon–that’s what it’ll take.
Look for the only Kate on the page. Her entry is “A Walk Round Caesar’s Camp, Brackell.” Here’s the link: http://www.ajourneyonfoot.com/
Our friend Kate Shrewsday is competing to become a Wayfarer, walking–and writing, of course–across England. You can read her post about the competition here.
Her video has already made it into the top twenty. Our votes will help toward getting it into the top ten.
She’s a great writer, and her blog is filled with posts highlighting places she’s visited: Jane Austen’s house at Chawton; the platform where Charles I was beheaded; Dr. Samuel Johnson’s house and the statue of his cat Hodge, described by Johnson as “a very fine cat, a very fine cat indeed”; and Horsell Commons, the exact location where H. G. Wells’ Martians landed. To name only a few.
She also writes delightful pieces about Macaulay, the cute and often aromatic dog, which are located behind a tab bearing his name. She writes about the cat Clive as well, but Clive is young and, though a very fine cat indeed, doesn’t appear to have gotten his own tab yet.
Anyway, it would be a treat to read posts from Kate’s summer walkabout. But for that she must have votes.
Kate is British, and therefore polite. In her post, she says, “I wonder if you might consider voting for me?”
I’m a Texan, and a former teacher accustomed to giving orders, so I’ll say, “Just do it. Now.” (Please.)
To vote, click the link on her blog, or the one in the first line of this post, and look for her name. She’s the only Kate on the page.
Marshall Lyle Barrow, Mary Veazey Barrow Worden, Barbara Barrow, Bertha Arnold, Betty Lyle Barrow, Mary Phereby Veazey Barrow*, Crystal Barrow (Waller), ca. 1935
My grandparents, Mary and Marshall Barrow, had four children. My grandfather had been certain that each prospective baby would be a boy, but he ended up instead with four daughters.
One evening shortly before his death in the spring of 1940, he was lying in bed, listening to a radio broadcast of news of war in Europe. He knew the United States would eventually be drawn into the fighting.
Turning to my grandmother, he said, “I’ve lived to see the day when I’m grateful that all my boys are girls.”
*****
*My aunt Barbara found this photograph with my grandmother’s face cut out, so she pasted one in from another photo.
Yesterday evening we had the pleasure of attending a celebration of our friend Judith Rosenberg’s seventieth birthday.
We first met Judith several years ago when she joined the 15 Minutes of Fame writing practice group. Through both her writing and our conversations over lunch, we’ve learned that she hails from New York, that she earned a Ph.D. from the University of Texas at Austin, that she sings and plays the guitar, that she writes poetry, that she likes Indian cuisine, that she has thought of writing fiction based on her doctoral dissertation.
Now. Reading over the preceding paragraph, I’m struck by its inadequacy. I should have taken notes during the open mic segment of the party, when people who have known her for many years, worked with her, traveled with her to the Texas-Mexican border reminisced about their friendships, using words such as dedication, service, tirelessness, brazenness, and spirit of anarchy.
In fact, brazenness and spirit of anarchy make me wish I’d both taken notes and asked questions. I believe I missed some interesting stories.
The Judith story I’ll share will seem trivial compared to what others have told, but it relates to something in her personality and character that I have personal knowledge of, and that appeals to me: Judith likes dogs. Not long after we met her, she adopted Chucho (Chuchi to his friends).
According to my research, chucho means dog, mutt, ormongrel. Depending on where in Latin America you happen to be, it can also mean long-eared owl, sweetheart, rawhide whip, jail, shiver and shake, gossipy, tamale, and custard-filled doughnut. It can mean something else, too, but I won’t go into that. It’s enough to say that Judith’s Chuchi is a sweetheart. There’s a bit of custard about him, too.
When Chuchi became part of Judith’s family, our writing group was meeting in the large back room of a small but popular coffee shop. We arrived early on Saturdays and took over a far corner, moved tables together to accommodate the usual six or seven people, and settled in for the next two or three–or four–hours. Because the City of Austin allows dogs on decks and patios of eating establishments, Judith brought Chuchi along. He was blessed with the enthusiasm of (large teenage) puppyhood, but he behaved admirably, especially when Judith was with him. When she went inside the main room to order breakfast, leaving David to act as dogsitter, Chuchi loosened up, danced around a bit, greeted strangers. David is not a strict disciplinarian.
While we breakfasted, wrote, and read, Chuchi lay on the floor beside Judith’s chair. Occasionally he took a stroll, bumping legs, poking his nose out from under the table, reminding us he was there, willing to accept all morsels that came his way, probably wondering why none ever did. Chuchi wasn’t allowed people food.
This pattern continued for the better part of a year, until one day a man with an air of authority about him approached Judith and kindly told her that Chuchi was violating a city ordinance: dogs are allowed on decks and patios outside. The room we met in had once been outside, but since the gaps in its concrete block walls and its partial roof had been closed, and it had been gussied up with paneling and A/C and a heater, it was now inside. He was sorry, but Chuchi could not return.
We were sad, but soon afterward we moved our meetings to a library, where dogs don’t even think about entering. So Chuchi wouldn’t have been able to stay much longer anyway. And since libraries don’t serve food, he probably didn’t regret his banishment. He enjoyed our society, but the aroma of sausage seemed to be the real draw.
We couldn’t get a picture of Chuchi last night because instead of attending the party, he went to a sleep-over.
All right. End of Chuchi story and back to his owner.
Judith’s passion is social justice. She is board president of Austin tan Cerca de la Frontera, an organization that seeks to address conditions of social and economic injustice along the Texas/Mexico border particularly as they affect women and communities of color, and to find community-driven alternatives through transnational solidarity and fair trade. She’s also involved in Women on the Border, the Texas Fair Trade Coalition, and Fuerza Unida. She organizes delegations to travel to Mexico to meet with maquiladora workers in communities along the border.
You can read more about Judith and Austin tan Cerca’s activities at the ATCF website. Judith may show up again here as well. There’s still research to be done on that spirit of anarchy thing.
Elizabethan Museum, Totnes. The Victorian nursery, with a courtyard through the window. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
I dragged through yesterday because I’d stayed up late the night before, finishing Susan Hill’s novel The Woman in Black. I’d planned to get to bed at a decent hour but made the mistake of turning one page too many and, as so often happens in cases such as this, all was lost. I couldn’t stop reading until I’d turned the last page.
I first heard of The Woman in Black from Kate Shrewsday, who said in a blog post,
“Susan Hill, a masterly ghost story teller, uses the nursery as the very epicentre of her masterly tale. An old house has unhappy history with tragic death at its centre. And those who died had lives which circulated about the nursery.”
The description sounded promising, so–after nearly six months of alternately remembering and forgetting–I got my hands on the book. It’s masterly, all right, a ghost story whose horror increases after the book has been returned to the shelf.
Now I’ll drag through tomorrow because of an inconvenient compulsion to post tonight. I’m probably already in hot water, because I have to be up and out before daylight, and my cousin Mary Veazey, the bossy one–you might remember her as the one who fell asleep while I was reading aloud the latest installment of my novel–well, anyway, she told me three hours ago to pack my suitcase and go to bed. I said I would but I didn’t.
Well, it’s too late to do anything about that now. Pun intended.
Before I get to the suitcase part, however, I’ll take a couple of minutes to link to a video of a little girl talking to a 911 operator about her father, who is having a heart attack. It has a happy ending. You may have seen it already–I’m usually the last one to discover such things–but if you haven’t, enjoy.
M. K. Waller 