Some of the nicest folks you'll ever meet are planning a murder--or three. Seriously, it's a puzzlement, when you think about it. Mystery writers--folks who spend their days plotting inventive ways to kill people and hide the bodies--are, as a group, so pleasant.
I'm just back from Sleuthfest in Orlando. This annual event is a writers' conference sponsored by the Florida chapter of Mystery Writers of America. I saw old friends and met many online friends in person. Everyone I came in contact with was open, friendly, and helpful.
A few standouts (for me) among many workshops offered Thursday were Daniel Palmer's "Coming up with Your 'What If?'" Reed Farrel Coleman's "Building 3-Dimensional Characters," and Hank Phillippi Ryan's "Get Your Motor Going." In addition to presenting helpful content, these folks were all genuinely entertaining. I'm positive all the workshops were just as wonderful, but my efforts to clone myself have been largely unsuccessful, and thus I could only attend one in each time slot--I had to choose. I hate to choose. I'm horrible at making decisions. I digress.
One of the (many) highlights of the conference for me came Friday morning. I arrived early for the panel discussion, "The Traditional Mystery," (one of my favorite panels) and chose a seat near the front center. I like to make sure I don't miss anything. Anyway, I'd been there a few moments, flipping through my program, when I looked up to see Charlaine Harris walking towards me with a friend. For the record, Charlaine Harris is one of my very favorite authors--I know, me and millions of other folks, right?
I'd set my purse on the seat to my left. Charlaine sat in the next seat over. We smiled and said, "Good morning." I tried so hard to act normal and not at all like a lunatic fan. I was mostly succeeding and was so proud of myself that I felt the need to share this information. I turned to her and said, "I'm trying really hard not to act like a total fangirl."
She smiled real sweet and said, "I was just admiring your sweater."
"Coldwater Creek," I said.
And then we had a lovely conversation about how we both loved shopping online in general, and Coldwater Creek in particular, and how if she'd seen that sweater she'd have bought it. Something about Charlaine put me instantly at ease. You know how some famous people travel with an entourage and give off this vibe that screams, "Back off, I'm far too important to be bothered by the little people?" These people are the polar opposites of Charlaine Harris. (None of those folks were at Sleuthfest, of course.) She introduced me to Paula, her friend and assistant, who was equally charming. Truly, I have never met more delightful people.
Charlaine's keynote on Saturday was fabulous as well--humorous, and inspiring. My only disappointment was that I already own all of her books, and had forgotten to bring one to have it autographed.
But you see, she makes my point. This warm, friendly woman has come up with enough creative ways to kill people, not to mention vampires, shape shifters, fairies, and all manner of supernatural creatures, to fill a shelf in my bookcase.
I think maybe writing about murder must be therapeutic. Getting all of your frustrations out by killing off the people who get on your last nerve, even if it's just on the page, must release a happy hormone or some such thing. That's my theory, anyway.
Peace out,
Susan
Wednesday, March 07, 2012
Tuesday, February 07, 2012
The Striptease
A friend of mine and I were solving the problems of the world via protracted phone chat/bon bon eating marathon last week when the conversation turned to her work in progress. Her local critique group felt that she needed to front load more backstory. I cringed.
I hadn't read her current project, but I'm not a fan of this strategy. When I'm reading a mystery or romantic suspense novel--and that's the genre pool she and I read and write in--I want to experience the story through the close point of view of the main character. And I want the protagonist to reveal the story bit by bit, as she lives it--dances it--like a striptease.
If a striptease artist walked on stage fully naked, (or nekkid, as we say in the South, when one is unclothed and up to something) it would be something other than a striptease. Some may get their jollies this way--in states where this is legal--but not me.
I love the mystery, the suspense--the tease. I want to see the dancer all dolled-up in layers of clothes and accessories--fur, jewelry, hat, scarves, belt, gloves, high heels, skirt, jacket, blouse--you get the idea. Then, piece by piece, each article--each clue--is peeled away, revealing the next. The striptease is a long, sensual dance, an art form unto itself. Reveal too much too soon, and you ruin the dance for me. I don't want to see the garter belt until the very end.
Y'all know we're talking books here, right?
Peace out,
Susan
P.S. Mamma, I swear I've never seen a strip tease dance in my life. You well know I was raised better than that.
I hadn't read her current project, but I'm not a fan of this strategy. When I'm reading a mystery or romantic suspense novel--and that's the genre pool she and I read and write in--I want to experience the story through the close point of view of the main character. And I want the protagonist to reveal the story bit by bit, as she lives it--dances it--like a striptease.
If a striptease artist walked on stage fully naked, (or nekkid, as we say in the South, when one is unclothed and up to something) it would be something other than a striptease. Some may get their jollies this way--in states where this is legal--but not me.
I love the mystery, the suspense--the tease. I want to see the dancer all dolled-up in layers of clothes and accessories--fur, jewelry, hat, scarves, belt, gloves, high heels, skirt, jacket, blouse--you get the idea. Then, piece by piece, each article--each clue--is peeled away, revealing the next. The striptease is a long, sensual dance, an art form unto itself. Reveal too much too soon, and you ruin the dance for me. I don't want to see the garter belt until the very end.
Y'all know we're talking books here, right?
Peace out,
Susan
P.S. Mamma, I swear I've never seen a strip tease dance in my life. You well know I was raised better than that.
Monday, January 02, 2012
Okay, Let's Try This Again...
Well, well, January, here you are back already. I know what you're thinking--that I haven't kept a single one of last year's resolutions, and you're right. But I think I've just been going about this resolution thing all wrong.
This year, I'm going to stick to resolutions I can, well, stick to. For example, instead of declaring my intention to exercise every day--which even I know is a joke--I'm resolving to exercise more than I did last year. (Trust me, this is an easy one. Even I can do this.)
Also, instead of adopting some exotic new diet from another region where people eat all they want of certain foods and stay thin, or one based on counting or measuring ANYTHING, I'm simply going to vow to eat healthier than I did in 2011--again, easy.
And I'm going to put first things first. Every day, before I check email, sign on to Facebook, tweet, blog, or any engage in any other form of electronic interaction, I will write. This is easy, because it's what I really want to do.
For some reason, I've gotten into the habit of checking in with all things Internet before my day begins. This is a huge mistake, because once I'm online, it's almost impossible to get off. I click a link on a Tweet to check out a blog, which leads to reading a few other blog entries on the same site, then clicking a link to something else that looks interesting...and four hours later it's lunchtime and I haven't written anything except a status update and a tweet or two. The only thing that comes before words on the page is family.
That's it, January. That's all I've got. So next year, you can forget all about being smug. I can do this.
Peace, out...
Susan
This year, I'm going to stick to resolutions I can, well, stick to. For example, instead of declaring my intention to exercise every day--which even I know is a joke--I'm resolving to exercise more than I did last year. (Trust me, this is an easy one. Even I can do this.)
Also, instead of adopting some exotic new diet from another region where people eat all they want of certain foods and stay thin, or one based on counting or measuring ANYTHING, I'm simply going to vow to eat healthier than I did in 2011--again, easy.
And I'm going to put first things first. Every day, before I check email, sign on to Facebook, tweet, blog, or any engage in any other form of electronic interaction, I will write. This is easy, because it's what I really want to do.
For some reason, I've gotten into the habit of checking in with all things Internet before my day begins. This is a huge mistake, because once I'm online, it's almost impossible to get off. I click a link on a Tweet to check out a blog, which leads to reading a few other blog entries on the same site, then clicking a link to something else that looks interesting...and four hours later it's lunchtime and I haven't written anything except a status update and a tweet or two. The only thing that comes before words on the page is family.
That's it, January. That's all I've got. So next year, you can forget all about being smug. I can do this.
Peace, out...
Susan
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Chicken à la Twitter
I can't recall ever blogging a recipe
before, but, by special request from a Twitter friend, here is the
Crock-Pot®chicken recipe I threw together week before last. I tweeted the
ingredients as I was creating, but it took me a few tweets, and searching a
Twitter stream is a hard way to find a recipe.
Chicken à la Twitter (aka Santé Fe Chicken--that's what I
was going to call it until Alyse asked for the recipe.)
3 lbs. boneless, skinless chicken
breasts (I used hormone & anti-biotic free)
1 envelope taco seasoning (I used Old
El Paso brand)2 cups uncooked rice (I used Uncle Ben's original converted--orange box)
1 jar salsa (I can't recall how many ounces, but you know, a regular-sized jar--I used chipotle flavor)
1 can fire-roasted tomatoes (I think that was a 14 oz. can--you know, regular-sized)
1 can whole kernel corn (I used yellow)
1 can black beans (I used Bush's)
1/2 cup chopped olives (I used green because I like them better and had them in the pantry)
32 oz. chicken broth or stock
2 containers Philadelphia brand Philly Cooking Creme (Santa Fe flavor)
1. Put the chicken breasts in a large Crock-Pot® (5 - 6 quarts)
2. Sprinkle the chicken with the taco seasoning, turning to coat both sides
3. Sprinkle rice over chicken
4. Pour salsa over top
5. Pour tomatoes on (don't drain)
6. Pile on the corn (drained)
7. Pile on beans (drained)
8. Pile on the olives
9. Mix the chicken broth with the cooking creme in a separate bowl, then pour the liquid mixture over into the crock pot
10. Stir it a little, but leave the chicken on the bottom
11. Put the lid on the Crock-Pot®and cook on high for 6 hours
12. Check the pot after 4 hours and again at five if you're around just to make sure the rice doesn't need a little more liquid. If it does, stir in a little water or broth. (Mine was fine, but I've made similar recipes where the rice was dry and needed more liquid.)
13. Using two forks, shred the chicken and stir in with the rest of the casserole just before serving.
If you like (I did) serve with sour
cream and tortilla chips on the side.
If you have leftovers, try wrapping
them up in tortillas the next day. We did this and topped with lettuce, tomato,
sour cream, guacamole and I can’t even remember what else—but you get the idea.
It made some pretty decent burritos.
If you try it, I hope you like it. All
I can say is, we didn't have to toss any of it out.
Peace, out,
Susan
Wednesday, November 02, 2011
The Christmas Trees Won't Fit in the Bathroom
I can write about this now, because it's over. But, I've danced perilously close to the line between sane and crazy these last few months...
Sugar and I are blessed with a large family, and we are grateful for each and every loved one. We love it when they all come over to visit. We were not, so much, prepared for five of them to move in for an extended stay. But, the economy and other disasters made it necessary. This is what family does, right?
The guestroom became an extended-stay bedroom, which meant all my off-season clothes had to either fit into my closet or be stored in the basement. Both my office and Sugar's also became extended-stay bedrooms, which meant that everything in those offices, including all the stuff stored in the closets, had to go downstairs. All of this had to happen quickly, which meant we ended up with what looked like the aftermath of a tornado in the basement.
When we first bought our current home, the partially finished basement served as an overflow area. It was eclectically furnished, and we could hang out there when all the family was around, or when we felt like rounding up a group of friends for Karaoke and didn't want trouble with the HOA. (The sound doesn't carry outside from the basement.) Also, there was a nice-sized storage room, the laundry room, and a pre-plumbed, but unfinished, bathroom.
We tried carving office space out of the storage room, but the Christmas trees wouldn't fit in the bathroom, which was the new storage room. With all the stuff now in what used to be the unfinished-but-not-too-bad Karaoke/Family room we were low on space for everyone to hang out separately when we started getting on each other's nerves. And, as I am slightly--okay, maybe much more than slightly--OCD, the chaos in my house was driving me to the brink of a breakdown.
Suddenly, the basement we might finish one day became the basement we needed finished lickety-split. All the stuff that had just been moved to the basement had to be moved to the garage. The cars had to be parked outside. Never one to pay someone else to do something he can conceivably do himself, Sugar drew up a construction plan, got a permit, and got to work--during the one day a week, some weeks, but not all, when he was home.
Progress was slow. Nerves frayed. Construction dust drifted upstairs and covered everything, no matter how often we cleaned. After about eight weeks, Sugar looked at me and said, "Call somebody." I did, and the work is mostly finished now. We had a few bad moments when we were cleaning the aftermath and moving things back in from the garage. Several pieces of furniture are worse for the experience, and one didn't make it.
But, we have a fully-functional family/Karaoke room now, with more than one bare bulb and a disco ball for lighting, and more than one electrical outlet to replace the two power strips and spaghetti bowl of extension cords. The Christmas trees have their own storage space. Sugar has his office back, and I have a killer new writing cave. And boy, does that extra bathroom come in handy.
Peace, out...
Susan
Friday, September 30, 2011
Decisions, Decisions, or How I Chose Which Book to Buy Today
I have a Nook Color, which I might have mentioned that I love. But, it has changed my book-shopping habits more than I anticipated. Now that Amazon has unveiled the shiny new Kindle Fire, I plan to become a dual
e-reader owner. (I had to have color, you see.) And I can easily justify to
Sugar why it's essential that I have both--I hope.
Anyway, about book shopping....
Today I perused my to-be-read list, which consists of a stack of actual books purchased pre-Nook, and 21 books I've downloaded to my Nook but haven't yet read. These are all books I'm eager to read--some are written by friends, some by favorite authors, some both. But, on any given day, what I want to read is driven by the mood I'm in. Nothing in my to-be-read list jumped out, grabbed me by the throat, and shouted, "You must read me now!"
I checked the Goodreads recommendations--this is a great feature, by the way. Goodreads checks what you've read and rated highly and recommends books for you. There were good suggestions on the list. I decided to download either Lethal, (the new Sandra Brown novel) The Affair (the new Lee Child novel) or (and this was the odds-on favorite) Robert B. Parker's Killing the Blues by Michael Brandman. I SO miss Jesse Stone.
With those three novels in mind, I logged on to the B&N website. Yes, I know I can easily shop directly from my Nook, but because the screen--and therefore the store--is bigger, I prefer shopping on my laptop.
I clicked Nook Books, selected fiction, then mystery. I sorted by Bestselling. The first 2 books on the screen were The Affair and Lethal. Should've been an easy in and out of the store, right? Not so fast. I love browsing books. So, I meandered down the list. Number three was a Michael Connelly--also a favorite author--and this was a steal--a back-list title for only $1.99. But, it was a title I'd already read and own in paperback.
The first page of 573 pages of mystery novels held 30 titles, most by name-brand authors. Many of them I've already read. Some I just wasn't in the mood for. I went to page 2. More of the same--some new titles by favorite authors, some back-list titles--plus here a few authors whose names were familiar, but whose work I've never read, along with an unfamiliar name or 2. My scrolling slowed.
There, on the bottom line of page 2, a cover and a title caught my eye" January Kills Me, by Evan Katy. I read the first sentence of the overview: "January Kills Me is a romantic comedy, an action filled mystery and a cautionary tale of how not to go about recovering from a divorce."
DING-DING-DING! We have a winner. That caught my attention. I glanced at the reviews. There were only 12 ratings so far, but the overall rating was 4.5. The five reviews on the first page were all glowing endorsements.
But, wait... the book is only 99 cents? Is this a back-list title of someone I haven't read before, or an indie author? Great cover, great title, great reviews--nothing that screamed, "This is somebody's first draft of her first novel, and she got her cousin to upload it because he knew how." It was a completely professional package. And (I had to look) Evan Katy is an indie author.
I can gamble with 99 cents. Jesse Stone, I still miss you, but maybe next week. The budget is a little tight just now.
Peace out,
Susan
P.S. As a reader, I never looked to see who published a book until the day I started researching publishers and agents as a writer. I'm not an advocate for independent publishing or authors. Neither am I predisposed to think that a novel written by an indie author is of poor quality. I am a lover of good novels, however they arrive on my e-reader. I am also the CFO of my family budget.
Anyway, about book shopping....
Today I perused my to-be-read list, which consists of a stack of actual books purchased pre-Nook, and 21 books I've downloaded to my Nook but haven't yet read. These are all books I'm eager to read--some are written by friends, some by favorite authors, some both. But, on any given day, what I want to read is driven by the mood I'm in. Nothing in my to-be-read list jumped out, grabbed me by the throat, and shouted, "You must read me now!"
I checked the Goodreads recommendations--this is a great feature, by the way. Goodreads checks what you've read and rated highly and recommends books for you. There were good suggestions on the list. I decided to download either Lethal, (the new Sandra Brown novel) The Affair (the new Lee Child novel) or (and this was the odds-on favorite) Robert B. Parker's Killing the Blues by Michael Brandman. I SO miss Jesse Stone.
With those three novels in mind, I logged on to the B&N website. Yes, I know I can easily shop directly from my Nook, but because the screen--and therefore the store--is bigger, I prefer shopping on my laptop.
I clicked Nook Books, selected fiction, then mystery. I sorted by Bestselling. The first 2 books on the screen were The Affair and Lethal. Should've been an easy in and out of the store, right? Not so fast. I love browsing books. So, I meandered down the list. Number three was a Michael Connelly--also a favorite author--and this was a steal--a back-list title for only $1.99. But, it was a title I'd already read and own in paperback.
The first page of 573 pages of mystery novels held 30 titles, most by name-brand authors. Many of them I've already read. Some I just wasn't in the mood for. I went to page 2. More of the same--some new titles by favorite authors, some back-list titles--plus here a few authors whose names were familiar, but whose work I've never read, along with an unfamiliar name or 2. My scrolling slowed.
There, on the bottom line of page 2, a cover and a title caught my eye" January Kills Me, by Evan Katy. I read the first sentence of the overview: "January Kills Me is a romantic comedy, an action filled mystery and a cautionary tale of how not to go about recovering from a divorce."
DING-DING-DING! We have a winner. That caught my attention. I glanced at the reviews. There were only 12 ratings so far, but the overall rating was 4.5. The five reviews on the first page were all glowing endorsements.
But, wait... the book is only 99 cents? Is this a back-list title of someone I haven't read before, or an indie author? Great cover, great title, great reviews--nothing that screamed, "This is somebody's first draft of her first novel, and she got her cousin to upload it because he knew how." It was a completely professional package. And (I had to look) Evan Katy is an indie author.
I can gamble with 99 cents. Jesse Stone, I still miss you, but maybe next week. The budget is a little tight just now.
Peace out,
Susan
P.S. As a reader, I never looked to see who published a book until the day I started researching publishers and agents as a writer. I'm not an advocate for independent publishing or authors. Neither am I predisposed to think that a novel written by an indie author is of poor quality. I am a lover of good novels, however they arrive on my e-reader. I am also the CFO of my family budget.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
For my Friend, Who Sleeps with his Autographed Nora Roberts Books
Okay, he doesn't sleep with them. But he clutches them to his chest for a few minutes every day. He loves his Nook, but he also loves the tactile sensation of holding a book with his favorite author's signature. So do I.
And who can really enjoy a book signing--where you get to meet one of your favorite authors, and maybe have your picture taken with her/him--when you have nothing tangible to be signed as a memento?
Until recently, this rather extreme measure was the only option. Now, Amazon offers this for Kindle owners, but you have to sign in with Twitter, and it appears to be only available for select authors and/or titles.
Here's what I plan to do, sometime before the South Carolina Book Festival next year. I'm going to make myself a Reader's Passport--essentially an update on an autograph book. (Disney offers something similar for your favorite characters.) I'll start with a scrapbook--one with a cover that strikes my fancy. I'll personalize it a bit, and make sections for my favorite genres--mystery/crime, thriller, romance, mainstream fiction, et cetera.
Then, like collecting passport stamps, I'm going to collect autographs. Most authors have either postcards or bookmarks--or something with the cover art of their book--at an author event. I'll ask her/him to sign whatever is available. If I've collected every book she/he has ever published, maybe I'll have my picture taken with him/her and add it to the page in the scrapbook.
Then if I want to sleep with my autographs, my bed will be much more comfortable. If you've switched to an e-reader, how will you have your books autographed?
And who can really enjoy a book signing--where you get to meet one of your favorite authors, and maybe have your picture taken with her/him--when you have nothing tangible to be signed as a memento?
Until recently, this rather extreme measure was the only option. Now, Amazon offers this for Kindle owners, but you have to sign in with Twitter, and it appears to be only available for select authors and/or titles.
Here's what I plan to do, sometime before the South Carolina Book Festival next year. I'm going to make myself a Reader's Passport--essentially an update on an autograph book. (Disney offers something similar for your favorite characters.) I'll start with a scrapbook--one with a cover that strikes my fancy. I'll personalize it a bit, and make sections for my favorite genres--mystery/crime, thriller, romance, mainstream fiction, et cetera.
Then, like collecting passport stamps, I'm going to collect autographs. Most authors have either postcards or bookmarks--or something with the cover art of their book--at an author event. I'll ask her/him to sign whatever is available. If I've collected every book she/he has ever published, maybe I'll have my picture taken with him/her and add it to the page in the scrapbook.
Then if I want to sleep with my autographs, my bed will be much more comfortable. If you've switched to an e-reader, how will you have your books autographed?
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
I'd Like the Buffet, Please
Dear E-Reader Provider,
I love my e-reader--truly, madly, deeply--I do. In fact, since Sugar bought it for me my blog posts are getting fewer and farther between, and I'm staying up far too late reading, because new reading material is always at my fingertips. In fact, me with an e-reader is somewhat like an alcoholic with keys to the liquor store. Which makes me one of your best customers.
But, I have issues.
If you could see your way clear to upgrade the software that drives my book-shopping experience, I would be so very grateful. You have changed the way I buy books, and not in a good way. I can't shop the way I shop brick-and-mortar stores. I can't go, for example, to the mystery section and browse alphabetically by author. No.
When I browse mysteries, or romances, or women's fiction, or just fiction, I'm given the opportunity to narrow my choices by type. Or I can see what you think are the best picks. I can, of course, see bestsellers and new releases. It's easy to find the books that are free. None of these options comes close to how I like to shop for books.
Granted, I can search for a specific author. This is usually the way I begin shopping in my local bookstore--by checking out what's new and what I might have missed by my favorite authors. But I can no longer check out the authors beside them on the shelf, or skip down to the next shelf to a cover that catches my eye and pick up a title by an author I've never heard of before but who might be my new favorite. I know this isn't your intention, but you are preventing me from discovering new authors in my favorite genres.
I feel like I'm being spoon-fed books selected by someone else, while a feast of titles I would devour is on a buffet in another room that I can't find. Please understand that I am a customer and a book lover. I just need a better way to find books I will fall in love with among the millions of titles in your online store.
Sincerely,
Susan
I love my e-reader--truly, madly, deeply--I do. In fact, since Sugar bought it for me my blog posts are getting fewer and farther between, and I'm staying up far too late reading, because new reading material is always at my fingertips. In fact, me with an e-reader is somewhat like an alcoholic with keys to the liquor store. Which makes me one of your best customers.
But, I have issues.
If you could see your way clear to upgrade the software that drives my book-shopping experience, I would be so very grateful. You have changed the way I buy books, and not in a good way. I can't shop the way I shop brick-and-mortar stores. I can't go, for example, to the mystery section and browse alphabetically by author. No.
When I browse mysteries, or romances, or women's fiction, or just fiction, I'm given the opportunity to narrow my choices by type. Or I can see what you think are the best picks. I can, of course, see bestsellers and new releases. It's easy to find the books that are free. None of these options comes close to how I like to shop for books.
Granted, I can search for a specific author. This is usually the way I begin shopping in my local bookstore--by checking out what's new and what I might have missed by my favorite authors. But I can no longer check out the authors beside them on the shelf, or skip down to the next shelf to a cover that catches my eye and pick up a title by an author I've never heard of before but who might be my new favorite. I know this isn't your intention, but you are preventing me from discovering new authors in my favorite genres.
I feel like I'm being spoon-fed books selected by someone else, while a feast of titles I would devour is on a buffet in another room that I can't find. Please understand that I am a customer and a book lover. I just need a better way to find books I will fall in love with among the millions of titles in your online store.
Sincerely,
Susan
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Me and You and a Bartender Named Boo
Sugar and I recently returned from a much-needed vacation. Okay, he needed it much more than I did, but we are ONE in the eyes of The Lord, right? We spent two weeks in St. John--a milestone anniversary trip postponed several times due to the madness which is our life. Never mind which milestone--they are all special.
This was our sixth trip, and if we ever win The Big Pot, we'll have a home on St. John. I hold Kenny Chesney responsible for all the college spring-breakers in the airport and at Trunk Bay. Kenny did for St. John what Jimmy Buffett did for Key West, and while I'm sure the tourism industry thanks him for that, I'd just as soon he sang about the beautiful coast of somewhere else. Nevertheless, there's a lot of his music stored on my iPhone. I don't hold a grudge.
This was as laid back a vacation as you could possibly imagine. We had a very private cottage on the hillside overlooking Reef Bay and spent many days on the deck, dressed in sarongs, reading and sipping rum drinks.
Occasionally we'd slip out of the sarongs and into the pool.
We snorkeled... One day we ventured out and snorkeled Waterlemon Key, a small offshore island. Another time I'll tell you about the British guy who talked like Hugh Grant and wore interesting, positively shredded swim trunks.
We had beach days... We spent one day at Trunk Bay, which regularly makes Top-Ten Beach lists on The Travel Channel and in travel magazines. But Trunk Bay was crowded, and we weren't feeling the crowd thing, so our other beach days were spent at Maho Bay and Francis Bay, which in my opinion, are just as beautiful as Trunk. We hiked... We did the Reef Bay hike, and saw the petroglyphs-- pre-Columbian rock carvings chiseled by the Tainos while they smoked pre-Columbian err...herbs and communed with their dead relatives. Well, that's one of a couple prevailing theories, anyway, and I'm not buying that alien nonsense.
We explored... we tooled around the island in the Jeep, stopping whenever we felt like it to stare at everything beautiful. We had lunch a couple of times at a favorite bar in Coral Bay, Island Blues, which has great burgers. 
But aside from the cottage deck, where we gazed at the crystal blue waters of the Caribbean, and a billion stars, and the moon, while sipping cool drinks, our other favorite hangout was--as always--The Beach Bar. The Beach Bar is the home of the Three Pain Killer Lunch. They serve a most excellent grilled Mahi Mahi sandwich, and I washed more than one of those suckers down with three Pain Killers. What? Of course on different days. Well, except for the one day we had lunch AND dinner there. Yes, mamma, it was Aspirin, not Tylenol.
Our favorite bartender was a chick named Boo. I asked her what Boo was short for. "Tiffany," she told me. I nodded, like I understood, and I guess I did. Everything makes sense when you're viewing the world from The Beach Bar... Peace, out...
Susan
Tuesday, February 01, 2011
In Which I Give Thanks to Felix Hoffmann
Felix Hoffmann was a German chemist who, according to the Bayer website, in 1897, invented the first stable compound which would later be introduced as Aspirin. I will be eternally grateful for his efforts.
Yes, I went back to Jazzercise yesterday. Due to a long list of REASONS, (not to be confused with excuses) I haven't exercised much lately. First there was the NASTY cold of late September and early October, followed closely by the sprained derriere incident of early November, then the holidays...I could go on, but what's the point, really? Suffice to say, I am even more out of shape than is my custom.
Since Sugar and I recently booked a trip to St. John to celebrate the milestone anniversary (let's not get into which one, okay?) that we actually passed a couple years back when we were too over-committed to go on that first honeymoon we never took, very soon, I will have to put on a bathing suit.
So, yesterday, I drug myself on over to the dance floor and let The Queen of Pain start whipping me back into some semblance of shape. I nearly missed class because the UPS man was late getting here with our Korbel shipment, and I have to sign for that. Besides, I really didn't want to leave champagne on the front porch. But, Brown showed up at the precise moment after which it would have been impossible for me to get to class on time.
I was really worried this time that I wouldn't be able to make it through a whole class. I told the QOP that I needed to stand in the back, but she would have none of it. "They don't want to be running over you back there any more than we do," she said. The woman has no empathy--none, I tell you. Later, it dawned on me that the reason she wanted me up front was that if she had to hop off the stage and perform CPR, she'd have less floor to cover.
By the Grace of the Good Lord, I make it through without a medical incident or fall, and I avoided throwing up on PPJ's floor. Now I'm popping Aspirin and using the hand-held massager on my major muscle groups. I won't be going to class today, as my body needs time to recover. But tomorrow I've got to haul myself back in there. Casey only has until March 19th to get me Caribbean-ready.
Peace, out...
Susan
Yes, I went back to Jazzercise yesterday. Due to a long list of REASONS, (not to be confused with excuses) I haven't exercised much lately. First there was the NASTY cold of late September and early October, followed closely by the sprained derriere incident of early November, then the holidays...I could go on, but what's the point, really? Suffice to say, I am even more out of shape than is my custom.
Since Sugar and I recently booked a trip to St. John to celebrate the milestone anniversary (let's not get into which one, okay?) that we actually passed a couple years back when we were too over-committed to go on that first honeymoon we never took, very soon, I will have to put on a bathing suit.
So, yesterday, I drug myself on over to the dance floor and let The Queen of Pain start whipping me back into some semblance of shape. I nearly missed class because the UPS man was late getting here with our Korbel shipment, and I have to sign for that. Besides, I really didn't want to leave champagne on the front porch. But, Brown showed up at the precise moment after which it would have been impossible for me to get to class on time.
I was really worried this time that I wouldn't be able to make it through a whole class. I told the QOP that I needed to stand in the back, but she would have none of it. "They don't want to be running over you back there any more than we do," she said. The woman has no empathy--none, I tell you. Later, it dawned on me that the reason she wanted me up front was that if she had to hop off the stage and perform CPR, she'd have less floor to cover.
By the Grace of the Good Lord, I make it through without a medical incident or fall, and I avoided throwing up on PPJ's floor. Now I'm popping Aspirin and using the hand-held massager on my major muscle groups. I won't be going to class today, as my body needs time to recover. But tomorrow I've got to haul myself back in there. Casey only has until March 19th to get me Caribbean-ready.
Peace, out...
Susan
Friday, January 14, 2011
Trot Out Your Turkeys
Back in the late 1800s and early 1900s, there was a columnist at the Salisbury Post whose pen name was Venus of Faith. He was the "country correspondent," and he reported news from the small towns--Faith, Granite Quarry, and Rockwell, among others--surrounding Salisbury, which was the "big city" in the area.
Venus, (his real name was J.T. Wyatt) often ended his columns with the challenge, "If you can beat that, trot it out." With a tip of my hat to Venus, here is my turkey story, as related by my manicurist...
Another of my manicurist's clients is married to an engineer, or possibly a physicist--a man with some such nerdy occupation. She's a drug rep, or maybe she sells hospital equipment--something like that. Suffice to say they are both college educated, and have demanding jobs, a house, mortgage, 2.5 kids, etc. They are living the American dream.
The day before Thanksgiving, Mrs. Very Busy Professional asked Mr. VBP to please stop by the grocery store and pick up a turkey as she was in over her head bringing home the bacon, frying it up in the pan, and making her mani-pedi appointments. He agreed to pick up the bird.
Now, Mr. VBP had been reading up on locally sustainable food sources, organic farming, global warming, and many other socially conscience topics. He was looking to reduce his carbon footprint, et cetera. He thinks to himself, I can do better than stopping by the grocery store. I can get us a REAL turkey for Thanksgiving.
He drives his Mercedes all the way to a farm in Boiling Springs and picks up a LIVE TURKEY and totes him home in a cage in the back seat. The bird was unhappy with this development, and spoke about it to Mr. VBP all the way back to Greenville.
Can you imagine this man's poor wife's face when he unloaded that sucker in the backyard? I crack up every time I think about it. What kind of idiot... I wonder sometimes if too much education might unhinge certain personality types... I digress.
She stared at him with confusion and disbelief. "What am I suppose to do with that?" she reasonably inquired.
"You grew up on a farm," he said, rather defensively. "You can pluck it, right?"
Amazingly, she did not kill him.
She did what all wives do in the face of husbandly idiocy. She ignored him and carried on. She got into her BMW and drove to the grocery store, leaving him to deal with his new pet.
Thanksgiving dinner came and went, but big bird was not getting along well with the family dog in the fenced in backyard. The turkey tended to peck at the small pooch. The bird was likewise unfriendly to the children, who were afraid to go outside. Mrs. VBP had meetings the day after Thanksgiving, and demanded Mr. VBP deal with the poultry.
The farm apparently had a no-return policy, and it took some imagination and a lot of phone calls to find someone willing to adopt the turkey. Then there was the matter of cleaning the feathers and stench from the Mercedes. I guess some ideas sound better on the Internet than they are in practice.
If you can beat that turkey story, trot out your turkeys.
Peace, out...
Susan
P.S. Don't forget! Bob Strother's short story collection, Scattered, Smothered, and Covered, is scheduled for release in early February and is available for advance order right now. Order your copy today and take advantage of the discount price of $9.00 -- that's six dollars off the cover price! The book can be ordered from the MSR Online Bookstore. Here is a link that will take you directly there: Scattered, Smothered, and Covered
Venus, (his real name was J.T. Wyatt) often ended his columns with the challenge, "If you can beat that, trot it out." With a tip of my hat to Venus, here is my turkey story, as related by my manicurist...
Another of my manicurist's clients is married to an engineer, or possibly a physicist--a man with some such nerdy occupation. She's a drug rep, or maybe she sells hospital equipment--something like that. Suffice to say they are both college educated, and have demanding jobs, a house, mortgage, 2.5 kids, etc. They are living the American dream.
The day before Thanksgiving, Mrs. Very Busy Professional asked Mr. VBP to please stop by the grocery store and pick up a turkey as she was in over her head bringing home the bacon, frying it up in the pan, and making her mani-pedi appointments. He agreed to pick up the bird.
Now, Mr. VBP had been reading up on locally sustainable food sources, organic farming, global warming, and many other socially conscience topics. He was looking to reduce his carbon footprint, et cetera. He thinks to himself, I can do better than stopping by the grocery store. I can get us a REAL turkey for Thanksgiving.
He drives his Mercedes all the way to a farm in Boiling Springs and picks up a LIVE TURKEY and totes him home in a cage in the back seat. The bird was unhappy with this development, and spoke about it to Mr. VBP all the way back to Greenville.
Can you imagine this man's poor wife's face when he unloaded that sucker in the backyard? I crack up every time I think about it. What kind of idiot... I wonder sometimes if too much education might unhinge certain personality types... I digress.
She stared at him with confusion and disbelief. "What am I suppose to do with that?" she reasonably inquired.
"You grew up on a farm," he said, rather defensively. "You can pluck it, right?"
Amazingly, she did not kill him.
She did what all wives do in the face of husbandly idiocy. She ignored him and carried on. She got into her BMW and drove to the grocery store, leaving him to deal with his new pet.
Thanksgiving dinner came and went, but big bird was not getting along well with the family dog in the fenced in backyard. The turkey tended to peck at the small pooch. The bird was likewise unfriendly to the children, who were afraid to go outside. Mrs. VBP had meetings the day after Thanksgiving, and demanded Mr. VBP deal with the poultry.
The farm apparently had a no-return policy, and it took some imagination and a lot of phone calls to find someone willing to adopt the turkey. Then there was the matter of cleaning the feathers and stench from the Mercedes. I guess some ideas sound better on the Internet than they are in practice.
If you can beat that turkey story, trot out your turkeys.
Peace, out...
Susan
P.S. Don't forget! Bob Strother's short story collection, Scattered, Smothered, and Covered, is scheduled for release in early February and is available for advance order right now. Order your copy today and take advantage of the discount price of $9.00 -- that's six dollars off the cover price! The book can be ordered from the MSR Online Bookstore. Here is a link that will take you directly there: Scattered, Smothered, and Covered
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
And Then One Happy Day I Signed With a Literary Agent
So, I've been sitting on this news for a while, just to make sure I didn't dream it. Since I've pinched myself black and blue, and Sugar has read the copy of the executed contract and assures me it's real, and I've waited a month to make sure she didn't change her mind, I feel safe in sharing the happy news that I've signed with Denise Little, an agent with The Ethan Ellenberg Literary Agency.
I have an agent.
I say those words aloud to myself about fifty time a day. Sometimes I tell random strangers. People look at me oddly, but I'm accustomed to that, really. I mean, when you do things like run off with a man's vodka in the grocery store, you grow immune to the look that says, "Poor thing, she's Not Quite Right." Full sanity is highly overrated and, I suspect, boring.
Anyway, this year I have one more thing to be thankful for. (The list is long--I am ridiculously blessed.) Denise is enthusiastic, has been in publishing long enough to know the industry well, and is possibly the hardest working person I've ever come across. I count myself exceedingly fortunate to be her client.
Peace, out...
Susan
I have an agent.
I say those words aloud to myself about fifty time a day. Sometimes I tell random strangers. People look at me oddly, but I'm accustomed to that, really. I mean, when you do things like run off with a man's vodka in the grocery store, you grow immune to the look that says, "Poor thing, she's Not Quite Right." Full sanity is highly overrated and, I suspect, boring.
Anyway, this year I have one more thing to be thankful for. (The list is long--I am ridiculously blessed.) Denise is enthusiastic, has been in publishing long enough to know the industry well, and is possibly the hardest working person I've ever come across. I count myself exceedingly fortunate to be her client.
Peace, out...
Susan
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
An Incognito Rock Star with a Sprained Derriere
You know that old Billy Joel song We Didn't Start the Fire? Sometimes my life is like that--one long rapid-fire series of events. But hey, I'm never bored.
When Sugar and I arrived home from two weeks in Indiana around tenish on Friday the 29th, we lugged our stuff upstairs, had a glass of wine, and collapsed into bed. Saturday morning, we had to fit our house tour and all the errands into a compressed time slot, because we were invited to a killer Halloween party in Greenwood, ninety minutes away.
This was a Guitar Hero party, and we were supposed to go dressed as rock stars. All we could pull off was Sugar in his (typical) Jimmy Buffett weekend attire, accessorized with a captain's hat and shoulder parrot, and me in big sunglasses. I told our hostess I was incognito, and could be any rock star she wanted me to be. (For some reason, people kept calling me Tennille.)
The party was a blast--so much fun, good food, good company--but we stayed well past the pumpkin carriage's schedule, and spent the night in a local hotel instead of making the ninety-minute drive home.
We arrived back in Greenville on Sunday just in time to prepare for friends and family coming to our house for a cookout. When our loved ones left around tenish, we finished the laundry and repacked, as Sugar was leaving on a jet plane at 5:00 the next morning, and I was headed home to North Carolina to "handle" my father who was being obstinate about a gall bladder operation he needs. This, of course turned out to be a fool's errand, as Daddy is completely unmanageable, but I got in some quality family time.
I spent half the week with Mamma and Daddy, then went to Raleigh to "handle" another crisis involving my offspring. This leg of the trip was marginally more successful, and again, I got quality family time--always precious.
Then, when I arrived home on Friday last, I did a very stupid thing. I do not travel light. I have a large suitcase, which is always packed with everything I might conceivably need. (I'm nothing if not prepared.) As Sugar wasn't home yet, I carried this monster in my left hand, with my laptop and mammoth purse on my right shoulder, up the stairs. This arrangement required me to rest the suitcase on my left hip as I lugged it up the steps.
It wasn't until Saturday, when the lower back pain started, that the full consequences of my stupidity started revealing themselves. At a friend's house for dinner Saturday night, I had to keep moving from chair to chair to floor to standing trying to keep the pain at bay.
By three a.m. Sunday--mere hours before Sugar and I were scheduled to head BACK to Indiana--the pain in my left derriere was so intense I was nauseous. I nudged Sugar. "I hurt so bad I'm about to throw up," I said.
The love of my life mumbled, "Just relax. We'll go to the ER in the morning."
"Why do I have to wait?" I wailed.
"They aren't open now."
"It's the ER--THEY DON'T CLOSE." The louder wail woke not only Sugar, but likely the neighbors, and set several dogs to barking.
Sugar was up, dressed, and had me in the car within mere moments.
The doctor gave me a shot of something that allowed me to ride ten and a half hours in the car to Indiana, and five prescriptions. But, since the shot wore off, I can't sit. I can lie in any position that doesn't put pressure on my left derriere at all, or kneel at the desk and answer quick emails.
All of this to explain my absence from Jazzercise, Twitter, Facebook, my blog, and most human interaction for the last week and a half. I'm also over-medicated, so anything I do say should be taken with a large grain of salt.
Peace, out...
Susan
P.S. About the house... Your know that saying about how you can't go home? Sometimes it's true. When Sugar and I walked into the house we loved, the one that holds so many memories, we realized immediately the answer to what had mystified us a few years earlier: why did it take so long to sell such a great house?
Since we left, we've lived in new construction, and have grown accustomed to an open floor plan, nine-foot ceilings, modern baths, and windows that work properly. We're spoiled, yes. We stepped into the foyer of our previous home, and immediately felt claustrophobic.
The good news is, we can quit pining for what we thought we missed, and even if we never embrace certain aspects of subdivision living, we can fully embrace our new home and get on with life. This is a good thing, as we have a full one.
When Sugar and I arrived home from two weeks in Indiana around tenish on Friday the 29th, we lugged our stuff upstairs, had a glass of wine, and collapsed into bed. Saturday morning, we had to fit our house tour and all the errands into a compressed time slot, because we were invited to a killer Halloween party in Greenwood, ninety minutes away.
This was a Guitar Hero party, and we were supposed to go dressed as rock stars. All we could pull off was Sugar in his (typical) Jimmy Buffett weekend attire, accessorized with a captain's hat and shoulder parrot, and me in big sunglasses. I told our hostess I was incognito, and could be any rock star she wanted me to be. (For some reason, people kept calling me Tennille.)
The party was a blast--so much fun, good food, good company--but we stayed well past the pumpkin carriage's schedule, and spent the night in a local hotel instead of making the ninety-minute drive home.
We arrived back in Greenville on Sunday just in time to prepare for friends and family coming to our house for a cookout. When our loved ones left around tenish, we finished the laundry and repacked, as Sugar was leaving on a jet plane at 5:00 the next morning, and I was headed home to North Carolina to "handle" my father who was being obstinate about a gall bladder operation he needs. This, of course turned out to be a fool's errand, as Daddy is completely unmanageable, but I got in some quality family time.
I spent half the week with Mamma and Daddy, then went to Raleigh to "handle" another crisis involving my offspring. This leg of the trip was marginally more successful, and again, I got quality family time--always precious.
Then, when I arrived home on Friday last, I did a very stupid thing. I do not travel light. I have a large suitcase, which is always packed with everything I might conceivably need. (I'm nothing if not prepared.) As Sugar wasn't home yet, I carried this monster in my left hand, with my laptop and mammoth purse on my right shoulder, up the stairs. This arrangement required me to rest the suitcase on my left hip as I lugged it up the steps.
It wasn't until Saturday, when the lower back pain started, that the full consequences of my stupidity started revealing themselves. At a friend's house for dinner Saturday night, I had to keep moving from chair to chair to floor to standing trying to keep the pain at bay.
By three a.m. Sunday--mere hours before Sugar and I were scheduled to head BACK to Indiana--the pain in my left derriere was so intense I was nauseous. I nudged Sugar. "I hurt so bad I'm about to throw up," I said.
The love of my life mumbled, "Just relax. We'll go to the ER in the morning."
"Why do I have to wait?" I wailed.
"They aren't open now."
"It's the ER--THEY DON'T CLOSE." The louder wail woke not only Sugar, but likely the neighbors, and set several dogs to barking.
Sugar was up, dressed, and had me in the car within mere moments.
The doctor gave me a shot of something that allowed me to ride ten and a half hours in the car to Indiana, and five prescriptions. But, since the shot wore off, I can't sit. I can lie in any position that doesn't put pressure on my left derriere at all, or kneel at the desk and answer quick emails.
All of this to explain my absence from Jazzercise, Twitter, Facebook, my blog, and most human interaction for the last week and a half. I'm also over-medicated, so anything I do say should be taken with a large grain of salt.
Peace, out...
Susan
P.S. About the house... Your know that saying about how you can't go home? Sometimes it's true. When Sugar and I walked into the house we loved, the one that holds so many memories, we realized immediately the answer to what had mystified us a few years earlier: why did it take so long to sell such a great house?
Since we left, we've lived in new construction, and have grown accustomed to an open floor plan, nine-foot ceilings, modern baths, and windows that work properly. We're spoiled, yes. We stepped into the foyer of our previous home, and immediately felt claustrophobic.
The good news is, we can quit pining for what we thought we missed, and even if we never embrace certain aspects of subdivision living, we can fully embrace our new home and get on with life. This is a good thing, as we have a full one.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
When Life Sends You a Fruit Basket
We all know what to do with lemons, right? When life hands us lemons, we make lemonade and add our libation of choice. Common sense, that. When we have only one choice, we make the best of it.
But what to do when life hands you a basket filled with mangoes, kiwi, and all manner of luscious fruits? I'm ridiculously blessed, and perhaps, sometimes, have too many choices. If I fill up on figs and strawberries, I won't have room for a peach, right? And I love peaches...
Saying yes to one thing always means saying no to something else. Saying no is hard for me. I spent years of my life so over-extended by commitments--okay, yes, I'm no longer talking fruit here, we're on time management, please stay with the group--that I was in need of an intervention and regular doses of that spiked lemonade.
But the need to make hard choices, embrace them, and not look back applies to so many things. (Leaving time management, on to life choices...it's all about the fruit...)
A few weeks ago, when I was explaining how Sugar and I are not cut out for subdivision living, I mentioned that we were working on a plot with our old neighbors--the ones we lived next door to for years in the house we loved, before I filled up on pears (decided we should live downtown, within walking distance to restaurants, etc)--to convince the interlopers who bought Barbie's Dream House that it was in fact haunted, and they must move to satisfy the spirits and whatnot.
Well, I guess it worked. I got a phone call a few days ago from said dear friends next door, who we'll call Wilson and Sandra, because those are their names. It seems the folks we sold our house to are interested in selling. Now, I have no evidence that Sandra or Wilson either one hid a tape player with a timer in the neighbors' attic that played "GET OOUUTTT" at 3:15 a.m. every morning, so we'll say no more about it.
Sugar and I have an appointment to see our old home and discuss details on Saturday morning. Right now, I so long to drive into OUR driveway when we get home from Indiana and be home again. Of course, there's the detail of selling the subdivision house...
But saying yes to Barbie's Dream House will mean saying no to some other things we really want to do. It will need new windows soon (two vacations we won't be able to take). And Sugar wants to replace the paneling in the den with sheet-rock. The master bath needs updating... Already we have a list of projects we're excitedly considering. The budget for all those projects would eat up a lot of travel.
And the time spent on all these projects could be spent enjoying family, volunteering, or taking up crop circle interpretation.
That house is special to us. We have so many wonderful memories there. It's home. But saying yes to it will mean making choices. It will mean fewer date nights out, fewer vacations, and less time and money for a long list of things we enjoy.
But I suspect if we can come to an agreement with the very nice folks who bought it, we will buy our home back. We'll eat the peaches with the juice dripping on our hands, having learned that pears are nice, but you simply can't eat all the fruit in the basket. You must choose.
And there's no place like home. (Clicking my heels together...)
Peace, out...
Susan
But what to do when life hands you a basket filled with mangoes, kiwi, and all manner of luscious fruits? I'm ridiculously blessed, and perhaps, sometimes, have too many choices. If I fill up on figs and strawberries, I won't have room for a peach, right? And I love peaches...
Saying yes to one thing always means saying no to something else. Saying no is hard for me. I spent years of my life so over-extended by commitments--okay, yes, I'm no longer talking fruit here, we're on time management, please stay with the group--that I was in need of an intervention and regular doses of that spiked lemonade.
But the need to make hard choices, embrace them, and not look back applies to so many things. (Leaving time management, on to life choices...it's all about the fruit...)
A few weeks ago, when I was explaining how Sugar and I are not cut out for subdivision living, I mentioned that we were working on a plot with our old neighbors--the ones we lived next door to for years in the house we loved, before I filled up on pears (decided we should live downtown, within walking distance to restaurants, etc)--to convince the interlopers who bought Barbie's Dream House that it was in fact haunted, and they must move to satisfy the spirits and whatnot.
Well, I guess it worked. I got a phone call a few days ago from said dear friends next door, who we'll call Wilson and Sandra, because those are their names. It seems the folks we sold our house to are interested in selling. Now, I have no evidence that Sandra or Wilson either one hid a tape player with a timer in the neighbors' attic that played "GET OOUUTTT" at 3:15 a.m. every morning, so we'll say no more about it.
Sugar and I have an appointment to see our old home and discuss details on Saturday morning. Right now, I so long to drive into OUR driveway when we get home from Indiana and be home again. Of course, there's the detail of selling the subdivision house...
But saying yes to Barbie's Dream House will mean saying no to some other things we really want to do. It will need new windows soon (two vacations we won't be able to take). And Sugar wants to replace the paneling in the den with sheet-rock. The master bath needs updating... Already we have a list of projects we're excitedly considering. The budget for all those projects would eat up a lot of travel.
And the time spent on all these projects could be spent enjoying family, volunteering, or taking up crop circle interpretation.
That house is special to us. We have so many wonderful memories there. It's home. But saying yes to it will mean making choices. It will mean fewer date nights out, fewer vacations, and less time and money for a long list of things we enjoy.
But I suspect if we can come to an agreement with the very nice folks who bought it, we will buy our home back. We'll eat the peaches with the juice dripping on our hands, having learned that pears are nice, but you simply can't eat all the fruit in the basket. You must choose.
And there's no place like home. (Clicking my heels together...)
Peace, out...
Susan
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Why Excel is Like Duct Tape
Sugar, like many men, can fix almost anything that breaks with a roll of duct tape. It has uses far beyond those originally envisioned by its designer--as does MS Excel.
Not so long ago, in another life, I was a project manager. This is one of those job descriptions like "consultant," that can mean many things depending on the context, and while I once toured the Adam & Eve warehouse in North Carolina (purely professional--they had distribution needs, I had distribution software--though they did offer me a free sample of my choice) most of my days were spent staring at Excel spreadsheets.
So, when Sugar gave me the green light to make things up and write them down full time, (thus securing his position as a patron of the, ahem…arts) at first I was adrift without my lines and columns. I tried story boards, which in my case were foam boards with elaborate charts and pictures of my characters cut out of catalogs and magazines. But large foam boards were difficult to transport, which was a problem since my life most resembles that of a gypsy. I tried making notes about each chapter on index cards, but since I can't read my own handwriting, this didn't work out either.
At this, my larval stage as a writer, I had not yet considered the profound question of whether I was a plotter or a pantser. I had no clue that I needed to be one or the other, as I had not yet read the hundred books on writing that now have their own shelf in my bookcase, nor had I attended the slew of conferences and workshops that would come over the next few years. I was winging it. Hey, I'd READ a lot of books. Surely I could write one... Yes, in fact, I was that ignorant.
After a few months of experimenting and suffering from depression as a result of spreadsheet withdrawal, I figured out that Excel worked great as a writing tool. I've learned so much in the last few years, and as with any craft, I know I need to continue learning. But the one thing I've hung onto from those early days is the use of spreadsheets for plotting. (I now know that--big surprise here--I'm schizophrenic. I'm a plotter who turns into a pantser at the drop of a hat. (Okay, if you're not a writer, and you've read this far, a pantser is one who writes by the seat of his/her pants--organically. Her characters tell her what happened and she transcribes their story.)
I have one Excel workbook per project. Within that workbook, I have one tab with a spreadsheet for characters. This tab typically has columns for not only biographical info and physical description, but quirks that define the character. Another spreadsheet has a plot outline. This starts simple, with a beginning, middle, and end, and expands as I add lines for each chapter as the story comes together. When my characters take over and tear off on a tangent--and I love those days; those days are magic--I simply open the spreadsheet and document where they've taken me when we get back.
There is one danger in using Excel as a plotting tool for a novel: a reader cannot keep in his/her head everything that you can keep track of in a spreadsheet. I learned this the hard way, and had to rip out my first novel at the seams and remove an entire subplot and several characters.
On the plus side, Excel is highly portable, and I can read what I type into my lines and columns. Excel helps me maintain order in my virtual universe. If only reality were so easily organized...
Many plotters and half-breeds like me struggle with how best to organize their work. Check out Julie Weathers' blog post from yesterday. She has a copy of J. K. Rowling's solution posted.
Peace, out...
Susan
Not so long ago, in another life, I was a project manager. This is one of those job descriptions like "consultant," that can mean many things depending on the context, and while I once toured the Adam & Eve warehouse in North Carolina (purely professional--they had distribution needs, I had distribution software--though they did offer me a free sample of my choice) most of my days were spent staring at Excel spreadsheets.
So, when Sugar gave me the green light to make things up and write them down full time, (thus securing his position as a patron of the, ahem…arts) at first I was adrift without my lines and columns. I tried story boards, which in my case were foam boards with elaborate charts and pictures of my characters cut out of catalogs and magazines. But large foam boards were difficult to transport, which was a problem since my life most resembles that of a gypsy. I tried making notes about each chapter on index cards, but since I can't read my own handwriting, this didn't work out either.
At this, my larval stage as a writer, I had not yet considered the profound question of whether I was a plotter or a pantser. I had no clue that I needed to be one or the other, as I had not yet read the hundred books on writing that now have their own shelf in my bookcase, nor had I attended the slew of conferences and workshops that would come over the next few years. I was winging it. Hey, I'd READ a lot of books. Surely I could write one... Yes, in fact, I was that ignorant.
After a few months of experimenting and suffering from depression as a result of spreadsheet withdrawal, I figured out that Excel worked great as a writing tool. I've learned so much in the last few years, and as with any craft, I know I need to continue learning. But the one thing I've hung onto from those early days is the use of spreadsheets for plotting. (I now know that--big surprise here--I'm schizophrenic. I'm a plotter who turns into a pantser at the drop of a hat. (Okay, if you're not a writer, and you've read this far, a pantser is one who writes by the seat of his/her pants--organically. Her characters tell her what happened and she transcribes their story.)
I have one Excel workbook per project. Within that workbook, I have one tab with a spreadsheet for characters. This tab typically has columns for not only biographical info and physical description, but quirks that define the character. Another spreadsheet has a plot outline. This starts simple, with a beginning, middle, and end, and expands as I add lines for each chapter as the story comes together. When my characters take over and tear off on a tangent--and I love those days; those days are magic--I simply open the spreadsheet and document where they've taken me when we get back.
There is one danger in using Excel as a plotting tool for a novel: a reader cannot keep in his/her head everything that you can keep track of in a spreadsheet. I learned this the hard way, and had to rip out my first novel at the seams and remove an entire subplot and several characters.
On the plus side, Excel is highly portable, and I can read what I type into my lines and columns. Excel helps me maintain order in my virtual universe. If only reality were so easily organized...
Many plotters and half-breeds like me struggle with how best to organize their work. Check out Julie Weathers' blog post from yesterday. She has a copy of J. K. Rowling's solution posted.
Peace, out...
Susan
Monday, October 11, 2010
Clearly, Something is Wrong With Me
Driving along several interstates this past weekend, we passed multiple outlet malls. All had billboards miles in advance to alert travelers to the shopping opportunities ahead. At least one of the malls had movie theaters, bowling alleys, and other entertainment venues attached. We drove past each with barely a glance.
Most women I know love to shop. For some, it's their drug of choice--a stress reliever. Not me. Nothing makes me want to crawl out of my skin quite so badly as going into a store--any store--to browse. If I don't have a specific purchase in mind, I have no desire to go into a store. In fact, I balk like a mule every time my sister or a friend tries to interest me in recreational shopping. I just don't get it.
To my mind, there are way more entertaining things to do--like, maybe, watch concrete harden. I've tried to explain this, but I get blank, sympathetic stares.
And another thing... If I'm driving along, minding my own business, and have no pressing need for say, a clever new set of cocktail napkins that say, "I'm a hybrid--I run on chocolate and wine," or perhaps a new set of wine charms, or even a scented candle, why would I stop to browse a store filled with such things?
I'm sure the hypothetical store would smell nice and be filled with displays of artsy things pleasing to the eye. But here's the thing. This store is filled with things that I don't know I want as I drive by on the interstate. I am content in my car. But if I stop and go inside the store, once I'm over being cranky at having done so, I will see things I want. Things that are not currently in my budget. And then I will be unhappy if I do not purchase them.
It's best I stay in the car.
Peace, out,
Susan
Most women I know love to shop. For some, it's their drug of choice--a stress reliever. Not me. Nothing makes me want to crawl out of my skin quite so badly as going into a store--any store--to browse. If I don't have a specific purchase in mind, I have no desire to go into a store. In fact, I balk like a mule every time my sister or a friend tries to interest me in recreational shopping. I just don't get it.
To my mind, there are way more entertaining things to do--like, maybe, watch concrete harden. I've tried to explain this, but I get blank, sympathetic stares.
And another thing... If I'm driving along, minding my own business, and have no pressing need for say, a clever new set of cocktail napkins that say, "I'm a hybrid--I run on chocolate and wine," or perhaps a new set of wine charms, or even a scented candle, why would I stop to browse a store filled with such things?
I'm sure the hypothetical store would smell nice and be filled with displays of artsy things pleasing to the eye. But here's the thing. This store is filled with things that I don't know I want as I drive by on the interstate. I am content in my car. But if I stop and go inside the store, once I'm over being cranky at having done so, I will see things I want. Things that are not currently in my budget. And then I will be unhappy if I do not purchase them.
It's best I stay in the car.
Peace, out,
Susan
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
What About Bob?
A few years ago, when the company I'd worked with for 11 years went out of business, Sugar and I decided it was time for me to give the writing thing a spin. I'd dreamed of writing and sporadically tried to fit writing into our lives for years without much success. Now it was my turn.
I've been a voracious reader practically from the cradle. I'd write what I loved to read, I thought. What I didn't realize was that my eclectic reading habits were producing a schizophrenic manuscript. It wasn't sure whether it was romantic suspense, a mystery, or women's fiction. I needed a critique group.
My first critique group--and one I still attend when I can--was the Greenville chapter of South Carolina Writers' Workshop. This is a great group--tons of fun--and for the first time I had the chance to talk to other writers about writing. One of the first friends I made was Bob Strother.
Bob is very low key. In fact, he speaks so softly that you'll miss what he says if others are talking in the room. And you want to hear what Bob says, because he's a smart guy and a talented writer. What I didn't know until much later is that Bob is also an ex-Marine (yeah, I know, Marines are Marines for life and all) and he may be soft spoken, but he could kill any of us eight different ways if he took a notion. Bob's a master of critique in that he can tell you what you need to fix without burdening you with how he would write it if it were him.
I've lost track of how many short stories Bob has published, but I've read many of them in our group. Each is well-crafted, and it's fascinating to me how different they all are. Some make me laugh out loud. Others are so creepy they have prompted me to ask his wife, Vicki, how she sleeps next to him at night knowing what goes on in his head. One was nominated for the Small Press Pushcart Prize.
Main Street Rag is publishing a collection of Bob's stories, Scattered, Smothered, and Covered, which comes out in February. It's available for pre-order right now, and I've ordered my copy. You'll want one, too. Just click the title link and it can be yours.
Peace, out...
Susan
I've been a voracious reader practically from the cradle. I'd write what I loved to read, I thought. What I didn't realize was that my eclectic reading habits were producing a schizophrenic manuscript. It wasn't sure whether it was romantic suspense, a mystery, or women's fiction. I needed a critique group.
My first critique group--and one I still attend when I can--was the Greenville chapter of South Carolina Writers' Workshop. This is a great group--tons of fun--and for the first time I had the chance to talk to other writers about writing. One of the first friends I made was Bob Strother.
Bob is very low key. In fact, he speaks so softly that you'll miss what he says if others are talking in the room. And you want to hear what Bob says, because he's a smart guy and a talented writer. What I didn't know until much later is that Bob is also an ex-Marine (yeah, I know, Marines are Marines for life and all) and he may be soft spoken, but he could kill any of us eight different ways if he took a notion. Bob's a master of critique in that he can tell you what you need to fix without burdening you with how he would write it if it were him.
I've lost track of how many short stories Bob has published, but I've read many of them in our group. Each is well-crafted, and it's fascinating to me how different they all are. Some make me laugh out loud. Others are so creepy they have prompted me to ask his wife, Vicki, how she sleeps next to him at night knowing what goes on in his head. One was nominated for the Small Press Pushcart Prize.
Main Street Rag is publishing a collection of Bob's stories, Scattered, Smothered, and Covered, which comes out in February. It's available for pre-order right now, and I've ordered my copy. You'll want one, too. Just click the title link and it can be yours.
Peace, out...
Susan
Friday, September 24, 2010
We've Got to Do Better Than This
Y'all might have heard me Twhining (whining on Twitter) about my nasty cold this week. Here's the rest of the story. It's, okay, a little self-indulgent, but stay with me. There's a point.
I have weird sinuses. A deviated septum and a hollow flat bone that's not supposed to be hollow or flat combine to make my sinuses drain poorly, or so says the ENT guy who did the CAT scan on them a few years back. (I know, TMI, right?) Because I also have chronic allergies, he wanted to perform surgery to correct the problem.
Oh nay nay. I don't believe in elective surgery. Even when it's not elective, those release forms you have to sign give me pause. After some trial and error, the ENT and I came up with a routine to manage my sinus woes. An important piece of this is a steroid spray, Nasacort AQ. I've tried other brands. For whatever reason, they don’t work for me. It's like squirting water up my nose, except they also give me a headache. For years, my primary care physician has been renewing my Nasacort AQ prescription.
Then, (as I understand it) because our current insurance company was going to raise premiums a substantial amount, Sugar's employer changed insurance providers from Insurance Company A to Insurance Company BCBS. This was August 1st.
On August 12, I went to get my Nasacort AQ refilled, and the pharmacy clerk at Walgreens told me that BCBS would not pay for it unless the doctor’s office filled out a pre-authorization form. (Excuse me, but when did writing a prescription stop being enough authorization from a doctor to give me medication? Used to, you only had to get pre-authorization for surgery.) She said she'd fax it to the doctor right then, but it might take a few days, did I want to pay the full amount for the prescription?
I was completely out, and knew from experience that letting the medication lapse during ragweed season was NOT a good idea, so I said okay. I nearly choked when she handed me the slip to sign. ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-EIGHT DOLLARS AND NINETY-NINE CENTS for a bottle of nasal spray. WTF?
But I paid it, because I needed it, and I thought SURELY by the time I went back to get my next refill, this would all be straightened out. Oh nay, nay.
A week or so later I got a call from my doctor's nurse. "Dr. (Redacted) would like you to try Flonase because your insurance company won’t pay for the Nasacort AQ." I asked her to please look at my chart and she would see that I had already tried Flonase and every other nasal steroid manufactured in our galaxy. She looked. She saw. She said she'd call me back. She didn't.
A week goes by, and I call the insurance company. They haven't received the faxed form from the doctor, but they'll be glad to fax another. I called the doctors office. They're having trouble getting Insurance Company A to pay for it...
I explained (without losing my temper) that I was no longer with Insurance Company A, but with BCBS. Okay, the nurse said, she'd try them. I never heard anything else from her, but I figured the SNAFU had been identified and corrected.
Oh nay nay.
When I went to pick up my prescription at Walgreens on September 12, the pharmacy clerk informed me that BCBS was still declining to pay for the Nasacort AQ, but did I want to pay full price?
Ha! I fell for that last month, thought I. I will call and straighten this out in the morning. So I did not get my prescription, even though we are still in ragweed season. I was living dangerously, but figured I could get this worked out quickly. Oh. Nay. Nay.
I spent the next week going back and forth between the doctor's office and the insurance company, who are apparently plagued by sunspot interference on faxes that travel between the two places. Both report having no trouble sending or receiving faxes with anyone else.
Then, last Saturday, we went to my sister's house for a cookout. Someone there was a carrier for a cold virus. I'm not pointing fingers, but my niece had a runny nose, and my brother complained of "allergies." All I know is that Sugar and I both came down with heinous colds in less than 24 hours.
Monday morning at 5 a.m., poor Sugar had to get on a plane, regardless. I stayed home and by Monday afternoon, I was feeling good enough to go to Jazzercise. Big mistake. By Tuesday morning, I was much sicker than I had been to begin with. There was a perfect storm in my sinuses. Ragweed, cold, no Nasacort AQ.
By this morning (Friday) I had green gunk in my head and my chest, and I was coughing so much my throat felt like it had been carved up with razor blades.
I called the insurance company yet again this morning, but they were having system problems, and the recording advised me to call back after 11a.m.
I called the doctors office and made an appointment ($35 co-pay). He must have thought I looked and sounded rough, because the antibiotic prescription he gave me ($60 co-pay) is, according to the leaflet written in 3 point font that they give you with all drugs now, ALSO USED TO TREAT ANTHRAX. I am not making that up.
When I explained my Nasacort situation, he regaled me with stories of having received faxes from insurance companies at 3:15 a.m., with a refusal to pay coming in at 3:30 a.m. because forms had not been submitted in a timely manner. I do not doubt him.
As I left the doctor's office, on the way to Walgreens to pick up my prescription, I called BCBS back. Their system was up. And no, they had not received the fax from the doctor on the Nasacort. I called the doctor's office back. The clerk said, "Wait a minute, you were just here? Why didn't you talk to the doctor about it?" I explained. (I did not yell at her.) She told me to come on back by and talk to the nurse. When I finished at Walgreens, I did just that.
My regular doctor (not the guy on call today who I'd seen earlier) came out, apologized, said the form was on her desk. They'd just gotten it two days ago, she said. Today, they faxed it back.
But, no one at BCBS can confirm receipt due to the volume of faxes they receive. I had the Nasacort filled. I paid the $138.99. Again.
BUT HERE'S MY POINT...
What about all the poor souls who have prescriptions for life-threatening illnesses who have to go through all this crap? The ones who can't afford to pay exorbitant amounts for their medications? The antibiotic, by the way, would have been $193 had I not had insurance. I asked.
What about the ones with cardiovascular conditions who would have had a stroke from the stress?
I'm sorry, but WE HAVE GOT TO DO BETTER THAN THIS. For the love of sunshine and blue skies, we've got smart people in this country. Some of them are doctors and insurance executives. Some work for pharmaceutical companies. Heck, some of them are even in the government. Surely, someone can figure out a better way.
I know legislation has been passed. I still don't know what's in it. Does anyone? I'm not saying it's good or bad. I'm saying I don't have a clue what the impact to me or anyone else will be or when we can expect to see it, and I'm not sure anyone else knows either.
Here's what I do know. If memory serves, Sugar's company pays his portion of the insurance and part of mine as well. But the part we pay ourselves (however it's divided) went from $412 per month to $465 per month when we changed to BCBS, but that was less of an increase than if we'd stayed with Insurance Company A. Our co-pays also went up.
So far, the only change I can see that was caused by the recent legislation is that beginning January 1, we will have to have a prescription for over the counter drugs if we want to use our health savings account to pay for them. And we can no longer use the Visa card attached to our health savings account, even if we get a prescription for aspirin, cough syrup, or Alka-Seltzer. I will have to fax receipts to the HSA manager and wait for reimbursement from our own account.
More paperwork for my doctor, more paperwork for me, and more paperwork for the folks that manage our health savings account. But so far, nothing is cheaper.
Is this really the best we can do? Really?! I hope like hell it's not.
Peace, out....
Susan
I have weird sinuses. A deviated septum and a hollow flat bone that's not supposed to be hollow or flat combine to make my sinuses drain poorly, or so says the ENT guy who did the CAT scan on them a few years back. (I know, TMI, right?) Because I also have chronic allergies, he wanted to perform surgery to correct the problem.
Oh nay nay. I don't believe in elective surgery. Even when it's not elective, those release forms you have to sign give me pause. After some trial and error, the ENT and I came up with a routine to manage my sinus woes. An important piece of this is a steroid spray, Nasacort AQ. I've tried other brands. For whatever reason, they don’t work for me. It's like squirting water up my nose, except they also give me a headache. For years, my primary care physician has been renewing my Nasacort AQ prescription.
Then, (as I understand it) because our current insurance company was going to raise premiums a substantial amount, Sugar's employer changed insurance providers from Insurance Company A to Insurance Company BCBS. This was August 1st.
On August 12, I went to get my Nasacort AQ refilled, and the pharmacy clerk at Walgreens told me that BCBS would not pay for it unless the doctor’s office filled out a pre-authorization form. (Excuse me, but when did writing a prescription stop being enough authorization from a doctor to give me medication? Used to, you only had to get pre-authorization for surgery.) She said she'd fax it to the doctor right then, but it might take a few days, did I want to pay the full amount for the prescription?
I was completely out, and knew from experience that letting the medication lapse during ragweed season was NOT a good idea, so I said okay. I nearly choked when she handed me the slip to sign. ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-EIGHT DOLLARS AND NINETY-NINE CENTS for a bottle of nasal spray. WTF?
But I paid it, because I needed it, and I thought SURELY by the time I went back to get my next refill, this would all be straightened out. Oh nay, nay.
A week or so later I got a call from my doctor's nurse. "Dr. (Redacted) would like you to try Flonase because your insurance company won’t pay for the Nasacort AQ." I asked her to please look at my chart and she would see that I had already tried Flonase and every other nasal steroid manufactured in our galaxy. She looked. She saw. She said she'd call me back. She didn't.
A week goes by, and I call the insurance company. They haven't received the faxed form from the doctor, but they'll be glad to fax another. I called the doctors office. They're having trouble getting Insurance Company A to pay for it...
I explained (without losing my temper) that I was no longer with Insurance Company A, but with BCBS. Okay, the nurse said, she'd try them. I never heard anything else from her, but I figured the SNAFU had been identified and corrected.
Oh nay nay.
When I went to pick up my prescription at Walgreens on September 12, the pharmacy clerk informed me that BCBS was still declining to pay for the Nasacort AQ, but did I want to pay full price?
Ha! I fell for that last month, thought I. I will call and straighten this out in the morning. So I did not get my prescription, even though we are still in ragweed season. I was living dangerously, but figured I could get this worked out quickly. Oh. Nay. Nay.
I spent the next week going back and forth between the doctor's office and the insurance company, who are apparently plagued by sunspot interference on faxes that travel between the two places. Both report having no trouble sending or receiving faxes with anyone else.
Then, last Saturday, we went to my sister's house for a cookout. Someone there was a carrier for a cold virus. I'm not pointing fingers, but my niece had a runny nose, and my brother complained of "allergies." All I know is that Sugar and I both came down with heinous colds in less than 24 hours.
Monday morning at 5 a.m., poor Sugar had to get on a plane, regardless. I stayed home and by Monday afternoon, I was feeling good enough to go to Jazzercise. Big mistake. By Tuesday morning, I was much sicker than I had been to begin with. There was a perfect storm in my sinuses. Ragweed, cold, no Nasacort AQ.
By this morning (Friday) I had green gunk in my head and my chest, and I was coughing so much my throat felt like it had been carved up with razor blades.
I called the insurance company yet again this morning, but they were having system problems, and the recording advised me to call back after 11a.m.
I called the doctors office and made an appointment ($35 co-pay). He must have thought I looked and sounded rough, because the antibiotic prescription he gave me ($60 co-pay) is, according to the leaflet written in 3 point font that they give you with all drugs now, ALSO USED TO TREAT ANTHRAX. I am not making that up.
When I explained my Nasacort situation, he regaled me with stories of having received faxes from insurance companies at 3:15 a.m., with a refusal to pay coming in at 3:30 a.m. because forms had not been submitted in a timely manner. I do not doubt him.
As I left the doctor's office, on the way to Walgreens to pick up my prescription, I called BCBS back. Their system was up. And no, they had not received the fax from the doctor on the Nasacort. I called the doctor's office back. The clerk said, "Wait a minute, you were just here? Why didn't you talk to the doctor about it?" I explained. (I did not yell at her.) She told me to come on back by and talk to the nurse. When I finished at Walgreens, I did just that.
My regular doctor (not the guy on call today who I'd seen earlier) came out, apologized, said the form was on her desk. They'd just gotten it two days ago, she said. Today, they faxed it back.
But, no one at BCBS can confirm receipt due to the volume of faxes they receive. I had the Nasacort filled. I paid the $138.99. Again.
BUT HERE'S MY POINT...
What about all the poor souls who have prescriptions for life-threatening illnesses who have to go through all this crap? The ones who can't afford to pay exorbitant amounts for their medications? The antibiotic, by the way, would have been $193 had I not had insurance. I asked.
What about the ones with cardiovascular conditions who would have had a stroke from the stress?
I'm sorry, but WE HAVE GOT TO DO BETTER THAN THIS. For the love of sunshine and blue skies, we've got smart people in this country. Some of them are doctors and insurance executives. Some work for pharmaceutical companies. Heck, some of them are even in the government. Surely, someone can figure out a better way.
I know legislation has been passed. I still don't know what's in it. Does anyone? I'm not saying it's good or bad. I'm saying I don't have a clue what the impact to me or anyone else will be or when we can expect to see it, and I'm not sure anyone else knows either.
Here's what I do know. If memory serves, Sugar's company pays his portion of the insurance and part of mine as well. But the part we pay ourselves (however it's divided) went from $412 per month to $465 per month when we changed to BCBS, but that was less of an increase than if we'd stayed with Insurance Company A. Our co-pays also went up.
So far, the only change I can see that was caused by the recent legislation is that beginning January 1, we will have to have a prescription for over the counter drugs if we want to use our health savings account to pay for them. And we can no longer use the Visa card attached to our health savings account, even if we get a prescription for aspirin, cough syrup, or Alka-Seltzer. I will have to fax receipts to the HSA manager and wait for reimbursement from our own account.
More paperwork for my doctor, more paperwork for me, and more paperwork for the folks that manage our health savings account. But so far, nothing is cheaper.
Is this really the best we can do? Really?! I hope like hell it's not.
Peace, out....
Susan
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Managing the Voices in My Head
I love novels--so much that I may need an intervention, or possibly a support group. I typically read books that fall into the mystery, suspense, or thriller genres, though I do enjoy the occasional women's fiction or romance novel. And I sometimes pick up a mainstream or literary read, especially if it's a Southern novel. (I love everything Joshilyn Jackson has ever written.)
Recently I was reading a very well-written Southern mystery, something I would ordinarily be incapable of putting down. But I struggled to stay engaged in the book. It's written from three different rotating characters' perspectives, and they get roughly equal stage-time. There isn't a clear main character. This made it difficult for me to become invested in any of the three candidates. I understand that this is purely a subjective preference. Certainly, other authors write this way, and other readers enjoy these books.
Maybe I've always been this way, but I've only recently noticed that I prefer books with only one narrator. The occasional, brief chapter in the villain’s (or love interest's) point of view doesn't bother me, but I want to experience most of the story through the eyes of one main character
Maybe this is a response to an increasingly complex world, but I want my reading entertainment to be focused. I don't mean I want it delivered on a fifth-grade level. But I like slipping into a character's skin and experiencing her/his world. It's harder for me to stay in character if I have to keep switching roles.
Or maybe I just need to keep the number of voices in my head at a manageable level.
Peace, out...
Susan
Recently I was reading a very well-written Southern mystery, something I would ordinarily be incapable of putting down. But I struggled to stay engaged in the book. It's written from three different rotating characters' perspectives, and they get roughly equal stage-time. There isn't a clear main character. This made it difficult for me to become invested in any of the three candidates. I understand that this is purely a subjective preference. Certainly, other authors write this way, and other readers enjoy these books.
Maybe I've always been this way, but I've only recently noticed that I prefer books with only one narrator. The occasional, brief chapter in the villain’s (or love interest's) point of view doesn't bother me, but I want to experience most of the story through the eyes of one main character
Maybe this is a response to an increasingly complex world, but I want my reading entertainment to be focused. I don't mean I want it delivered on a fifth-grade level. But I like slipping into a character's skin and experiencing her/his world. It's harder for me to stay in character if I have to keep switching roles.
Or maybe I just need to keep the number of voices in my head at a manageable level.
Peace, out...
Susan
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Why I Love Minor League Baseball
Last night was the last home game of the season for the Greenville Drive, the local class A affiliate of the Boston Red Sox. You might be wondering what kind of name The Drive is for a sports team, but I couldn't tell you. Lots of people in Greenville wanted to name the team the Greenville Joes in honor of Shoeless Joe Jackson, who was from the Greenville area, but whoever is in charge of such things at MLB wouldn't hear of it. The controversy, et cetera. I digress.
The total experience of watching a Drive game at Fluor Field in the West End of downtown Greenville is sublime. The field itself is only five years old, and it's modeled after Fenway, with its own Green Monster and everything. From the bar-top tables at the 500 Club, where we like to eat dinner, you can see not only the ballgame, but the Greenville skyline and Paris Mountain. Okay, the 500 Club makes most excellent fried pickles, just so you know.
When the weather is right, as it was last night--not too hot or humid--the evening air is soft on your skin. Greenville supports its team, so, even on a Tuesday night, there was a respectable crowd. The mascot is a big green frog named Reedy Rip'It (in honor of the Reedy River, which flows through downtown), and he along with a few cheerleaders kept the fans entertained and engaged. Okay, I love singing Sweet Caroline with a stadium full of people.
There was a bench-clearing altercation at the bottom of the fifth due to some unfortunate comments made regarding a play at home plate. This led to led to chest-bumping, then a full-fledged brawl. No one was hurt, but two players on each team were ejected, and the game was delayed for fifteen minutes while the officials sorted out who was getting tossed. We were sitting just to the left of home plate, and had ringside seats.
Anyway, the whole package is just fun. Big League games are fun, too, of course. But something about the scale of a single A game is just more accessible to me--more intimate. And at $9 a pop for box seats, we can go whenever we feel like it. We sang, and cheered ourselves hoarse. It was a blast.
Despite all the singing and cheering--not to mention a bottom of the ninth war party, complete with an aboriginal war dance by one of the pep team members in a grass skirt--The Drive lost last night. The South Atlantic League Championship series is tied at one game each, and moves to Lakewood New Jersey for games 3-5.
But it was a fun way to spend the evening.
Peace, out...
Susan
The total experience of watching a Drive game at Fluor Field in the West End of downtown Greenville is sublime. The field itself is only five years old, and it's modeled after Fenway, with its own Green Monster and everything. From the bar-top tables at the 500 Club, where we like to eat dinner, you can see not only the ballgame, but the Greenville skyline and Paris Mountain. Okay, the 500 Club makes most excellent fried pickles, just so you know.
When the weather is right, as it was last night--not too hot or humid--the evening air is soft on your skin. Greenville supports its team, so, even on a Tuesday night, there was a respectable crowd. The mascot is a big green frog named Reedy Rip'It (in honor of the Reedy River, which flows through downtown), and he along with a few cheerleaders kept the fans entertained and engaged. Okay, I love singing Sweet Caroline with a stadium full of people.
There was a bench-clearing altercation at the bottom of the fifth due to some unfortunate comments made regarding a play at home plate. This led to led to chest-bumping, then a full-fledged brawl. No one was hurt, but two players on each team were ejected, and the game was delayed for fifteen minutes while the officials sorted out who was getting tossed. We were sitting just to the left of home plate, and had ringside seats.
Anyway, the whole package is just fun. Big League games are fun, too, of course. But something about the scale of a single A game is just more accessible to me--more intimate. And at $9 a pop for box seats, we can go whenever we feel like it. We sang, and cheered ourselves hoarse. It was a blast.
Despite all the singing and cheering--not to mention a bottom of the ninth war party, complete with an aboriginal war dance by one of the pep team members in a grass skirt--The Drive lost last night. The South Atlantic League Championship series is tied at one game each, and moves to Lakewood New Jersey for games 3-5.
But it was a fun way to spend the evening.
Peace, out...
Susan
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