HTTP Sorta Awe-tistic: June 2006

Friday, June 30, 2006

Waking Lazarus: the blog tour


Author Tony Hines and I have at least one thing in common: at an early age, we were both deeply influenced by Stephen King's The Shining. For Hines, it led to a life-long interest in creepy books that eventually led to the publication of his own creepy book. But for me, it led to a life-long interest in avoiding Stephen King.

I remember it well. It was one of those nights when the mom wasn't around and I could toy with the idea of violating her 'no cable' policy. These were the early hours of the creature known as HBO, and half the neighbors had tapped into the other half's cable boxes in order to gaze on its face with adoration--for free. Back in those gentler days, HBO reserved its 'R' rated films to the evening schedule, which meant HBO was off limits after seven. We didn't even question why; we knew better.

So with one hand on the A/B buttons and one ear listening for the door, I peeked at HBO to check out what the big deal was.

By now you've probably guessed what HBO was playing. That was on channel 2B. Channel 2A was the local channel, syndication heaven, and home to Leave it to Beaver, the Andy Griffith Show, and the Brady Bunch. That was the day schedule. But by night...say after 7pm...their standards changed.

So back to young me, sitting nose to screen in front of the TV (with one hand on the A/B button, and one ear at the door), half frozen with fear of the bizarre world of the Overlook Hotel--and knowing that if things got too freaky, I could pop the cable button and in a wink arrive safely in the land of...Benny Hill.

Truly, I've never been the same since. Now everytime I hear that crazy "Hackysack" theme song from Benny Hill, my mind slips into the POV of a preschooler zipping along on his trike over the baroque carpeting of the Overlook. (See what I mean? The impression is indelible.)

Since then, with two exceptions, I've avoided all things 'scary'. (For the record, I don't do clown dolls, and I don't do velociraptors.) So I really don't know why I volunteered to read Waking Lazarus. I guess I was simply curious to read what passes as 'really scary' and 'a new direction' in CBA mystery/supernatural books.

If Hines's book is an example of what will coming our way, I think the genre will continue to improve and draw in readers like me, who just don't find battling angel scenes all that fearsome. What is much more frightening to me is the fellow next door who looks normal, but isn't.

That's why I was pretty sure Jude Allman wasn't the bad guy: he's a paranoid mess and so obviously un-normal that he had to be our hero. Jude's biggest problem is that, having built a proven track record of returning from the dead, he doesn't much want to live anymore, either. His second biggest problem is one too many men share with him: what to do with Dad; what to do with being a dad.

And that's the heart of this story. Sure there are some ugly people, some scary people doing harm to little kids in Red Lake, Montana, but why? Hines, to his credit, rarely comes out and does anything close to proselytizing but through his story he make the message very clear, anyway: to become good fathers, we've got to come to terms with the Father.

The other message is equally clear: don't diss the gift. Some common gifts, like the simple beauty of an abundant garden or a loving wife, are easily overlooked by a resentful and bitter heart; other gifts, like Jude's unnerving ability to taste death before it arrives, are so uncommon and strange, we flee from them as if a tornado was scouring the very earth behind our heels. If we should succumb to the gift, or even touch it, we fear we will be annilated by its force. So we run. And in the process we run from the nearly inscrutable God that hands us such things. We can't stand the mystery, so like Jude in his hot-wired house, we pack ourselves up and hope to lie low until we die for good.

But if summer's too hot to go this deep with a murder mystery, never fear: Hines keeps the pace lively, which should charm all those commuters stuffed in airless 737s this August. Most might find that satisfying, but for me this is where the book falls flat--and the author might not be to blame. Jude, Rachel, Kristen, and all the rest are actually interesting people, and I would have loved to know them better. But for the sake of commercial viability, we're kept moving just three beats slower than teleplay pace. Only once did I wish the pacing would pick up: Rachel's unnaturally calm behavior as they seek out Nathan had every nerve in my mother-self screaming "get a move on!" (But as I said earlier, this is a book about sons and their fathers, not little boys and their mommies.) It was problems like these that kept me from feeling the horror of the action that I know Hines would have wanted.

That said, I look forward to Hines' next book. In it, I hope we get to know Jude Allman better. It'd sure be a shame to come alive again, only to zip through our lives in one evening's read.

For Waking Lazarus, click this link.
To learn more about TL Hines, click this link.
If you want to relive The Shining, but would rather see it acted by bunnies, click here.

Thursday, June 29, 2006

It isn't my fault...


if you showed up today for my dazzling deconstruction of Waking Lazarus, but were rudely greeted by nothing new. (Yet another promise broken in this terrible ol' world, you say. You sigh, and move on to something more important.)

Ok. Well I just want to say that it's not my fault.

Last night we got one of those sweet fill-in-the-blank cards on our door from the friendly city public works folks: "You r_________(water) will be turned off from _______(9am) to ______(4pm) on _________(June 29th). Please excuse any inconvienence this may cause."

So this morning, as I was doing my morning blog rounds, Randy says, "What's today?"

"June 29th."

"Uhm. You might want to fill up some bottles. You won't have water all day."

We de-camped at 8:15; I returned around 6:15. I'm pooped. So TL, I'll see ya tomorrow.

(And Rach? Thank you, again. And I thank your functional plumbing.)

Wednesday, June 28, 2006

Dem bones, dem bones...

Bones are on my mind today.

First, thanks to Paula's generousity, I'm unstuck with my synopsis and am making good progress towards a resolution! Whoo-hoo!

Paula shared a fun and helpful image she learned from Angela Hunt for developing the essense of a story--and ba-da-bing! out pops a summary.

And yes, there's a skeleton involved.

So I doodled away with my femurs and ribs and even the little coccyx bone down at the base of the spine, and the essence of the story finally took form on the page. Not that I didn't know it before, I'd just gotten myself into a real mental ker-fuffle and my brain didn't know which thought to follow.

Muchas gracias, Paula!

Skeletons (of the Dias de los Muertos variety) also charmed Brad Whittington. (I've never met Mr. Whittington, but he sounds like one heck of a guy. I mean, how can I fault a man who's willing to post a picture of himself posed with fried mystery meat on a stick?) Anyway, today marks the inauguration of Brad's first blog, Eating Fred. If you're a fan of Austin eateries, or just like Dias de los Muertos skeletons, go check out the joint he visited--or at least read about it. Also check out the Fred books, a serio-comic series about the son of a preacher-man growing up in pea-sized Fred, Texas.

(He's got a bit of that Cha look about him, doesn't he, Ro?)


And finally, looking toward the day when we will all die and go on to be something else...or maybe the same person, who didn't stay dead...I'll be chatting up Waking Lazarus tomorrow, the debut novel of TL Hines, a man who likes to stand behind trees so he can jump out and holler, "Boo."

Until then, break a leg folks!

NB: Over at Lisa Samson's blog, Brad helpfully explains the origin of this photo, and claims the mystery meat is actually coconut shrimp. He doesn't disavow any relationship to Ted, but if he reads this blog, he probably will soon.

Friday, June 23, 2006

The Art of the Pitch












A few of you know that I've been working on a novel/story/thing. I really don't like to talk about it, not because I'm ashamed of the work, but because I've always indulged the stereotype of writers, like actors, as a narccisstic breed, only too happy to corner you and bore you to bits about their latest Important Work. It's a bit like getting stuck at the family reunion with your cousin who pulls out a brag book the size of a bible and proceeds to tell you in minute detail about the startling perfection of her precious angels. At least with your cousin, you're often bound by common decency and genetics to entertain her for five minutes; and if you're lucky, you have some embarassing old history on her that might stop her story dead in its inflated tracks.

So I usually just bored my closest friends when I began, but lately I've wisely dropped even that. There are many more important things in the world to discuss than whether my protag will survive her freshman year.

However, with the enthusiasm and naivete of a true neophyte writer, I pitched the story to an agent at a writing conference last fall, and--to my surprise--she asked for a sample. What this usually means is 'Send me the first fifty pages and a synopsis'. No problem, I thought. (Fool.) I'm already thirty-five pages into the thing, and it's getting great feedback--I can whip out those last twenty pages, no big deal, and revise my synopsis. It'll be done before Christmas.

Now look at the calendar. It's June. And, yup, the story is still in my hands. Caroline Coleman O'Neil gave me a great critique on the first 50. Not only did she motivate me with her encouragement, but the story is much better now. But that resulted in a major revision and rethinking of the story--another delay. Now my problem is I'm 225 pages into the story and I still haven't conquered my synopsis. I also don't have a finished story. Yes, I know where it's going, but no, it hasn't taken flight from my fingertips, in part because I'm mommying most of my days. Some of you may question the wisdom of sending the first fifty of an unfinished story, but I'm betting that a promise kept is better than a proposal hidden. Who knows? Perhaps I'll give her the best laugh she's had in years. (And you know how I value a good laugh.)

But synopses are tricky things. Mark Bertrand explained the dilemma, excellently, at Notes on Craft. In a word, it's a pitch. I used to think the idea was crass--the unlovely verbage of marketing, but after struggling with this thing for six months now, I have come to appreciate its nuances. It requires a skill that comes through hours and hours of practice--its perfect economy of expression, like graceful precision and kinetic strength in the strong arm of a pitcher, demands fluidity and accuracy in the same movement. It's all over in a moment, and TWAP! the ball nails the catcher's glove, leaving a solid impression of skill, or it's sent out into the high grass of the backfield, lost in the weeds and remembered by no one.

If you're the praying sort, or even if you have a good word to say on my behalf. Remember me as I try to finish my pitch. I'm working on the wind-up even now.

Muchas Gracias

I've got a whole lot of thanking to do here.

First of all, thank you, all my lovely readers (all twelve of you!) and friends who left a comment or emailed me after my last entry. There are many kinds of community, and I'm so grateful you are all a part of mine--even if I can't reach out and poke you right now!

Claire--I'm holding you to that long lunch. How long do you think McGills will let us monopolize a booth before they kick us out?

Amy--yeah, it's hard to move outside our family routines and committments. Frankly, parenting is so exhausting, most days it's hard to imagine inviting a new challenge into our little homegrown circus. I moved from a community very much like you describe, with lovely women who supported me like your friends. But still, there were so many opportunities to reach out. I remember a pastor once telling a group of teenagers that a successful marriage lives for something outside itself; it lives to give, not to get. I know we don't do that right now, and I can feel the difference in our lives.

Kristen--Thank you for your encouragement at 2Peas. I know many moms are grateful for your help. Keep researching and advocating!!

Ro--Yeah. Community should be everyone's concern. Randy and I've also talked about this in the context of Peak Oil (Randy's new obsession). What will the daily practicalities of our lives look like when rock-bottom cheap gas runs $5 a gallon? This, according to Randy, will happen within our lifetime, and I know that in some parts of the country it's close to that price already.

***

Thanks to good ol' Rach, too. After writing my last post, I decided the next day I would suck up the gas prices, pack up Tesla, and hit the road to visit my friend and her girls. Rach is the kind of 'drop-in' friend you get when you live in a small community. Now that I live an hour away, I think twice about dropping-in, but Wednesday I made one decision, and that was to GO. We had a great time, and Tesla insisted on sleeping there--an almost unheard-of three hour monster nap! It was all quality time and quantity time--we got there at 11am and left at 7pm. Definitely worth the price of the trip. And Rach even dumped a load of rockin' good magazines into my car for some brain-free entertainment. Yee-haw!

But the most lovely surprise happened before we left for Rach's.

Hopefully I've connected with another mom here in town. We've enrolled Tesla in a social skills playgroup at her therapy clinic, and Wedsnesday was her second class. It was also the second Wednesday that Susan and I hit the local Starbucks for a drink and chat about our crazy kids. She's the kind of mom you look at and instantly know she'd be good for a chat: the funky glasses, minimal makeup, simple, hip clothing. Sharp. Turns out she's an Austin native (!), and a special ed teacher. So we had lots to share about the capital of Tejas and the rigors of getting certified to teach in Oklahoma. Mas y mas 'Yee-haws'!

She even asked for my number and called me for a kiddie playdate.

Ok. So I feel like a pitiful 13 year old--the odd one who can't get on with her 'cool' classmates--who finally finds a friend. "She called me! She called me! We can go to the mall together!!" It doesn't matter that we're just going to the sprinkler park this Saturday, it's just as cool, and it's totally free.

God Bless you, every one.
Tiny Tim.

Tuesday, June 20, 2006

Fringe Benefits


This afternoon I met a woman at the pool who leads Tesla's class at church. She's the kind of person I'd like to know better. But it's hard. She was there with her two girls and a handful of nieces, cousins and grandparents, so there was little time to chat.

I watched them as Tesla and I swam our little duets together, and later, on our way home, I began to feel sad again. Sometimes I feel as if Randy and Tesla and I are stranded on a lonely island in a sea of people who are too busy and too connected to reach out to us. And I've tried, I've really tried to stretch my hand towards them.

Then I came home and found this at Lisa's blog. Amazing. Wish I could go. I like my house--for once I'm not living in a mold factory--and the neighbor reminds me of my childhood, but I'm feeling so very lost in this suburban, self-restrained, self-reliant world. Who is our community? Just we three. What are we living for? To get to the next day, the next month, the next year--past the next illness when we might have a bit more 'freedom'?

Frankly, my writing is the only spot where I stretch beyond the boundaries of my limited world. I'd say that it's an act of faith to hope that someday I'd be published, but it's not a life or death kind of faith. It won't push me outside the scope of acceptable, comfortable middle-class American Christianity. So it's not much of a stretch, barely worth noting, honestly.

I look at people whose lifestyles are on the fringe of my faith--the freaks, the missionals, the monastics, the nomads--and know that though their lives are challenging, the benefits are many--a life requiring daily faith, and the acknowledgement that cooperative community is a neccessary (NOT optional) ingredient of a healthy worship.

American middle-class churches could learn much from our neo-hippie pals, but are they? Maybe we could take a lesson from the fashion world, and realise that the seemingly outrageous 'clothing' that designers trot out each season, like the 'radical' stance of the Emergent Movement, is meant as inspiration, not prescription. Like couture, ideas get trimmed down, the expensive bits removed, and shape is simplified; what seemed so radical last fall is simply this year's wardrobe basic from Penny's.

Personally, I'd like a little Fringe on my frock. That's just my style.

Friday, June 16, 2006

the ragamuffin diva sings


I'm violating my new policy of computer free friday's, but it's been a wierd week anyway, so what the heck.

One of the writers I've have the extraordinary good fortune to discover this past year is Claudia Mair Burney, the 'ragamuffin diva'. I've never met her in person, but to sit at her feet for fifteen minutes would be like coming home.

Check out Crowded House. For my part these days, I think that if sorrows were emails, my inbox would be full of spam.

Thank you, Mair, for the lift.

For more Mair, her novel, Murder, Mayhem and a Fine Man is coming out this July.

Wednesday, June 14, 2006

Happy Hindu Hoe-down on the Low Prairie

Ok. That title is a bit misleading, but I can say with near certainty that at least 7% of us in attendance were not Hindu.

The occasion was the first birthday of David, my friend Glory's son. For the celebration, Glory and Rajeev invited the pastor and a few friends from church--and every last Southeast Asian Indian currently living in the Bartlesville area. And with Conoco-Phillips' presence in town, that accounted for many, many invitations. Last Saturday night all of us assembled in the atrium of my old church back in B'ville.

It was lovely. Gosh, I wish I could have assembled every woman in that atrium, young or old, for a group photograph because their saris were simply stunning. Such color! I wore a tunic outfit from April Cornell--asianish and modest--that suited the event, but man, I still felt like week-old hash next to the beautiful butterflies who floated around in their silks that night.

And the food! Good glory! (Good Glory!) was it heavenly. For that alone, it was worth the trip. We whities got to play 'what's in the rice?' while I explained the ingredients for raita to my pastor, who's an amateur chef.

Of course, the kids got a giant sheet cake, because food coloring and sugar means 'happiness' in any culture.














And the men documented the whole affair.















Coming back home, I thought a lot about our hopes for community. If any group of humans is likely to resemble any other group, then surely there were those in this gathering who disliked one another, held a grudge, was irritating or otherwise unpleasant. And yet we stick together by bonds of culture and need. If we are lucky, or work very hard at it, we find ourselves drawn to others by friendship and love. To find such blessing requires God logic, not man logic; for what it takes is beyond fear and frailty, beyond power or persuasion.

I think I enjoyed a taste of that blessing Saturday night.

Saturday, June 10, 2006

It's a Sensory Thing



I had this great post half written about my sensory thing (twisting my hair), when my fingers must have brushed exactly the wrong combination and POOF! the whole thing disappeared into the ether.

Grrr...

But my thoughts were prompted by this little half-hour of craziness last Thursday afternoon:

Tesla's been fascinated with a little birdhouse her Papa built. It's been sitting in the garage ever since we moved here a year ago, but just last week Tesla finally brought it in and insisted that we paint it.

So out came my good acrylic paints--the tempura ones were toast, and I didn't have the money to go buy more cheapo paints. (Besides, Papa's birdhouse deserves quality paint, doesn't it?) We grabbed this cute paint smock given to me by my dear friend Claire, and hit the backyard for some painting-crafty fun.

It started out well enough, as you can see. (We allow Tesla's summer backyard wardrobe to be rather casual, but she did have panties on.)

Then we had to let the birdhouse dry before we went at the roof. This is where the trouble began.

But I want to warn you: some of you will find the following photos very disturbing. If you are obsessed with tidiness, you may not want to continue.

That said...

First Tesla decided to be a 'tiger'.


But that soon became boring, so she went directly to her face and arm, declaring herself to be a 'polar bear'.

"Polar bears are white!"


Actually, the paint bottle said 'Antique White', so maybe she was an old polar bear. But I know how useless it is to make this sort of point to her. I decided I'd better cut off the face painting, instead.

No arguments there; her other leg needed painting, so that was just fine with her. This time she went for the full monty.

Now you may be wondering what I, the adult in the situation, was thinking to allow my child to cover herself in acrylic paint. I mean, at least Shirley Bassey got PAID to cover herself in goo and she nearly died of the adventure.

Well, acrylic paint in these doses probably won't kill anyone. And my girl has an absolute need to go whole hog when she's painting; since she could hold a brush her favorite canvas has been herself. So I was just indulging her sensory needs: she has to feel the whole experience, not just a taste. Moderation isn't in her vocabulary yet.

But while I was was congratulating myself for allowing this sensory exploration, I began to think about the implications of what I was teaching her. After all, she'll be in preschool next year with a new teacher, and painting one's self from head to foot isn't as cute as it might be with her special ed teacher. I began to tap my foot impatiently. Now what would I do? I checked the bird house. Still wet. Sigh. Oh well...I needed a distraction. Reasoning was not an option.

So out came the garden hose and an old washcloth. Yes....

I would love to show the aftermath, but the photographer and the subject were quite soggy (and a little bit grouchy, too) in the aftermath, so no pics.

(And the photographer painted the roof a cheery red. More pics on that later.)

In Schmolland, heaven forbid that we find a drop of liquid on our shirts, but do let us bathe ourselves with any kind of goop and we'll be just fine.

Tuesday, June 06, 2006

Tie One On--The Musical!


Amy, who hosts Tie One On, announced July's theme apron: make an apron in the theme of your favorite musical!

What will I make??? Of course, Sweeney Todd immediately came to mind. But an apron in that theme might be a little grim for a household with a small child. (Although my girl would never ask 'What's in the meatpie, Mommy?' so I'm covered there.) Then I thought about Into the Woods, which of course, lends itself easily to all types of apron themes.

Mmmm....don't I already have enough to do? Sigh.

(thanks to www.sondheimguide.com for the pic)

Monday, June 05, 2006

Schmolland


I'm not in much of a cynical mood today, but I thought I'd share this anyway. A parent on one of my autism support group sites posted it. Cracked me up! Thanks so much to the author, a mom to a boy with autism, who really knows the score.

Holland-Schmolland: The Real Story

Saturday, June 03, 2006

Blueberries for Randy...and Tesla

Occasionally Randy has a brilliant idea. Unfortunately this one took three years to execute.

Way back, when we first joined the Oklahoma Food Co-op, Randy got excited about heading out to a berry farm and picking our own some morning. He was living on cherished memories of a Michigan boyhood where he and his brothers roamed freely along the rural roads, picking wild blackberries, raspberries and blueberries that grew along the property lines of neighboring farms.

"Did I ever tell you how good those blueberries were back in Michigan, honey?"
"Uhm. Yes."
"Do you want me to tell you again?"
"Uhm...No."

The story didn't improve with the telling and I had heard the story many times because we see a lot of blueberries around here. This is the land of Food Restrictions, but blueberries are one of the few foods Tesla can eat to her heart's content, so we pay a LOT for blueberries, year 'round. And I hear Randy's story year 'round.

My theory is that the blueberry memory was proof of all that was right about Randy's childhood--a childhood his daughter would never experience in suburbialand--making it also a kind of personal torture for Randy. For me, childhood was more about being awkward and lonely; it something to be endured before adulthood. I was the child of suburbia and my best summer memories were about chasing the ice cream truck on our bikes after a full day swimming at the country club. Sounds posh, but I always felt a sense of open emptiness in my unstructured summer days that lacked the adventurous spirit Randy and his brothers felt. These days, Bomb-Pops and the smell of chlorine don't captivate me as well as the smell of espresso. So Randy didn't impress me with his blueberry stories. I really didn't see what the big deal was.

But today I found out.

This morning we piled in the car, complete with a trunk sized cooler, and drove an hour and a half to a farm called "Blueberry Valley" to pick a few of the fabled "blueberries off the bush" and generally get our nature-lovin' groove on. As excited as Randy was, he was concerned the blueberries might be a disappointment. "They're not Michigan blueberries," he warned me. I wasn't worried: I was imagining not paying $6 a half-pint for organic blueberries in March--or forking over $3 for 10oz. of WalMart frozen berries. Oklahoma blueberries would do.

"Blueberry Valley" was indeed in the base of a valley. We drove past some spindly-looking blueberry bushes and down the red gravel and dirt road to the open shed in the driveway. Randy said he was worried; those didn't look as nice as Michigan bushes. "Well. It's Oklahoma, honey. What did you expect?" While Tesla and I used the restroom, Randy had a friendly chat with the owner and got a few buckets. Then we were off.

I wonder sometimes what explorers feel when they first encounter a rare bird, or come upon a grove of trees, heavy with fruit and calling to their empty stomachs. I am no naturalist, nor am I starving, but Randy might as well have been both.

"Look at these berries! Look at the size of them!" he said as Tesla trotted after him. He was right: they were huge and they were everywhere! Hurray! No more Walmart blueberries!!

We spent the next hour and a half picking and picking and picking. Lord, how we picked! Actually, Randy picked and ate, and picked and ate. (Here's the happy boy.)


Tesla even got into the game and stayed with it until near the end, when a butterfly caught her attention. Then she wanted to know where the chickens where: "Let's see the chickens!" (All farms must have chickens, of course.)


We quit sometime soon after that--our buckets were full and our necks were red. The haul, after all was bagged and weighed, was 22 pounds of sweet, organic, pop-in-you-mouth-goodness blueberries. Accustomed to buying little mingy boxes of berries for outragous prices, I nearly fell over when I saw gallon bags full of the stuff. I was worth the heat and the drive, and the three year wait so that Tesla could go with us. And the best part?
For $33, we got $132 worth of Tesla's favorite freezable fruit and a bit Randy's childhood back.

Yup. Now that's a deal.