What I Know So Far is no more. I’ve brought all the old posts over here. So if you want to browse through any of the old stuff, it’s here. Until I started importing the posts, I didn’t realize I’d been at this blogging thing since 2005. As Jenny from Always would say, Good Gravy!
My regular 29th of the month column is up at Blogging in Black. It’s about . . . websites and other author woes. Leave a comment for me over there and you’ll get a chance to win an autographed copy of Soldier Boys! Enjoy!
I have always been interested in the paranormal–things for which the five senses we credit ourselves with have no explanation. I couldn’t help it. With Halloween for a birthday, what else can you expect? I read tarot cards during my bohemian teenage years and to this day own a couple sets. In my dotage here I’ve finally started writing on the first book I’ve ever wanted to write–a story about witches and ancients and the fate of the earth. It’s damn slow going since it means so much to me, but most fulfilling.
It’s scary really–not because there are any spooks or goblins running around in the story, but because this book is something I haven’t found in a while–a true book of the heart. My first book, Spellbound (which will be reprinted in October by Parker Publishing), was my first book of the heart, a labor of love for the island (Martha’s Vineyard) that I loved, for the people who’d shared part of my youth (many of whom assumed they were someone in the story) and for the occult lover in me (are the women in this family witches? Only their familiar knows for sure).
As the average writer and they’ll tell you a book of the heart is a rare thing. If you’ve ever had the feeling that you were put on this earth to do a particular thing, that’s close to how a writer feels about that “heart” book. Or maybe it’s like salmon returning to their home stream to spawn–produce or die trying. But finishing this story feels like a biological imperative; the fingers to the keyboard are the labor pains.
Anyway, I’m back to writing now. But if you’ve got a book of the heart you’re working on, tell me a little bit about it. What makes it a book you just have to write?
I know. I know. I said I’d get organized this week, but I’ve got to do some babysitting today and will not have much time to do much else. So instead of a Thursday writing tip post, I leave you with a joke . . .
Job at FBI
The FBI had an opening for an assassin. After all the background checks, interviews and testing were done, there were 3 finalists; two men and a woman.
For the final test, the FBI agents took one of the men to a large metal door and handed him a gun. ‘We must know that you will follow your instructions no matter what the circumstances. Inside the room you will find your wife sitting in a chair. Kill her!!’ The man said, ‘You can’t be serious. I could never shoot my wife.’ The agent said, ‘Then you’re not the right man for this job. Take your wife and go home.’
The second man was given the same instructions. He took the gun and went into the room. All was quiet for about 5 minutes. The man came out with tears in his eyes, ‘I tried, but I can’t kill my wife.’ The agent said, ‘You don’t have what it takes. Take your wife home.’
Finally, it was the woman’s turn. She was given the same instructions, to kill her husband. She took the gun and went into the room. Shots were heard, one after another. They heard screaming, crashing, banging on the walls. After a few minutes, all was quiet. The door opened slowly and there stood the woman, wiping the sweat from her brow. ‘This gun is loaded with blanks’ she said. ‘I had to beat him to death with the chair.’
MORAL: Women are crazy. Don’t mess with them (US!).
Enjoy your day!!
Yes, it is one of my favorite Poitier flicks, but I’m talking about the organization of this blog. I figured I might try posting on particular topics on specific days so folks know what they’re getting. I’d love to have a guest blogger on Mondays as often as possible, so if you’ve got something to say, drop me a note and I’ll schedule you in. On Wednesdays, I wanted to do something sexy for Wicked Wednesdays (getting you over the, ahem, hump of the work week). On Fridays I’d like to post the paranormal–hey, I’m old enough to have seen the original Freaky Friday, in the movie theatre, with my mother. Damn, that’s ancient. But anyway, I am off-topic. Tune in Tuesdays for a Crime Scene post and Thursday, well. Don’t know what to do about Thursday. Maybe a writing tip or two. Now since it’s Wednesday . . .
I found this quiz over at iVillage. Was it irony or coincidence that the ad on the page wanted to introduce me to the new way to do Coolwhip. Hmmm. I wasn’t surprised at the answer I got. How about you?
While you’re at the site, read about the top 10 sex myths (only 2 are true, including one that should make lovers of black men very happy).
The first thing I heard when I woke up this morning and turned on the TV for the news was that George Carlin had died. While his dead is not as shocking as Tim Russert’s, I was surprised. Carlin struck me as too cantankerous to die–at least anytime soon. He was still performing in Vegas as late as last weekend, for chrissake. Complaining of chest pains, the 71-year-old Carlin was brought to the Santa Monica Hospital where he died of a heart attack.
Carlin started out as a suit-and-tie comedian, performing on such exalted shows as Ed Sullivan, Jack Paar and The Tonight Show. He shed his variety show persona in the ’70s when he dropped out, grew a beard and started doing drugs. His “7 Words You Can’t Say on TV.”
When Carlin wasn’t busy being profane, he was often profound, or both at the same time–and almost always funny. I don’t know how fitting a tribute this is, but I’d been reading his book Brain Droppings as a throne room selection. As I writer, I particularly appreciate his take on the mangling of the English language by folks who know nothing about it.
Carlin was scheduled to win the 2008 Mark Twain prize for American Humor to be handed out in November by the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts.
I’m not going to mourn Carlin. I can imagine what he’d say about wakes and funerals and the like. Mourning is bullshit. There’s even a bit on his website about the passing of celebrities. So I won’t contribute to the hoopla. But I will miss his wit and his insight.
When I saw this quiz over on blog things I couldn’t help but add it to my blog. How they discovered all this about me in four questions, I don’t know, but, who am I to argue with the blogosphere? Enjoy!
Your Blogging Type is Confident and Insightful |
You’ve got a ton of brain power, and you leverage it into a brilliant blog. Both creative and logical, you come up with amazing ideas and insights. A total perfectionist, you find yourself revising and rewriting posts a lot of the time. You blog for yourself - and you don’t care how popular (or unpopular) your blog is! |
The release of Jeffrey Deaver’s latest tome has got me thinking why, in principal, I like Alex Cross a lot more than Lincoln Rhyme. Let me start by saying that I’ve never read a Rhyme book. Deaver’s quadriplegic hero came across my radar when Denzel Washinton played him in The Bone Collector, opposite Angelina Jolie. Now we’re not going to get into what I think of the (not-so fair) Angelina, but you’d think any character played by the inimitable Denzel would win my favor. What killed the drool factor was Rhyme’s confinement to bed, and not in a good way. It struck me as too close a metaphor for what often happens to black men in American society–mentally competent but handicapped by a populace afraid of their physical prowess. And it really, really doesn’t help that the woman he’s forever denied, on a sexual level, at least, is white.
Although Deaver won an award for the creation of this creating this character and presenting a great role model for handicapped folks, proving they can be productive members of society. I’d guess, though, that there is a more pressing need in society for black men to be seen as cerebral, competent, active and sensual–without cutting the legs out from under them in either a literal or figurative way.
By contrast, Alex Cross is an active man who gets the girl he wants (who just happens to be black), a school teacher (or is it principal–either way she’s an educator, so I’m biased), has a family he takes care of, and is in general an honorable man. Aside from the near-tragic casting of Morgan Freeman as his movie persona, he’s pretty terrific. Or he was. I haven’t kept up with Cross as much as I would have liked to.
Truthfully, I’m all for breaking down barriers, for portraying us humans in all our infinite variety. Just sometimes there seems to be a certain awareness of what these images might imply. This isn’t limited to the way black men are portrayed, though that issue is on my mind at the moment. Don’t get me started with the pairings of old, half-dead geezers with sweet young things everywhere, as if women drop off the face of the earth once they hit thirty-five.
In my own work, I’ve written about men and women, blacks and whites, whoever–and I know what it’s like to be careful not to make the villains or the heroes too stereotypical. Frankly I applaud folks for creating characters, especially heroes, out of people unlike themselves. How about, give it a bit of thought before you create a character outside your comfort zone. That’s all I ask. And a damn good story, of course.
One of the aftereffects of Tim Russert’s sudden death is the intense focus on cardiac health across the country. Waist size has emerged as a leading indicator of heart attack risk. Men should keep their waists 40″ or less. For women it’s 35″ or less. Since I quit smoking my waist, as well as the rest of me, has ballooned a bit. So contemplating getting out that tape measure is an exercise in stress induction, which makes your belly fatter, which presses on your other organs which puts strain on your heart. You see the problem here, don’t you.
On top of that, your waist should be no wider around than half your height. Now, I’m five foot nothing. Not even another half inch to play with. That means my waist should be no more than thirty inches across. Damn! These two skinny minis they interviewed on TV had twenty-nine inch waists, so I have no shot whatsoever.
Luckily I stopped smoking long enough ago that I feel ready to diet off those extra pounds.
And speaking of Tim Russert, it is said that after Bruce Springsteen’s ukelele strumming version of Somewhere Over the Rainbow was played at his funeral, mourners walked out to see . . . a rainbow.
Here’s a tribute to Tim . . .
