A Life in American Theatre.

If you go to any college orientation, it's easy to pick out the theatre major wannabes.  While the business majors are making contacts and the proto-engineers are using their smartphones to game and/or calculate maximum spillage in their latest prank, the theatre majors are busy being theatrical.  Other students wear clothes; the theatricals show up in layers. Layers and layers of rehearsal outfits which can be removed or rearranged as needed, along with an overly large carrier of some kind that also looks like a refugee from the consignment store.  Once inside, it's hard to get theatre majors out the door again.  They aren't friendly during interviews, they are effusive (or moribund, if they're channeling a Method Actor).  An English Major is ten minutes late for class; the Theatre Major appears just before he/she is declared dead.  It's the nature of the beast.  And, concealed into the folds of rehearsal layers or tucked into the overlarge carrier are the proto-drama major's tools of the trade: their Starbucks card, a few B&W headshots, a book on acting by Stella Adler (read), another by O'Neill on masks (not read) and Moss Hart's autobiography, Act One.   When you see one of these young and theatrical types, knock them down, grab their copy of Act One and run for the exit.  They can draw on the memory of you mugging them to prepare for some future role and you can get a good read.  When it comes to a life in the theatre, there is no better story than this one.

Hart was the Horatio Alger of 20th century American Theatre, a child of immigrants from the poorest slum in New York whose success and drive allowed him to build the kind of life that (according to one critic) God would have built...if he only had the money.  But it didn't come easy.  There was no Julliard at that time, no AADA, or film school for those who wanted a life in the industry.  There was only the stage and how you got in depended on connections or drive.  Moss got there by drive, first taking the worst jobs in the least stable productions (where getting paid was still a gamble) and then inching his way up to something better.  Along the way he saw the Catskills resorts at its best and some declining stars at their worst and realized that he needed a life behind the footlights.  Hart was a director and a playwright but not an actor.  His idea of how sound would affect silent pictures became a satire on Hollywood that attracted the biggest playwright on Broadway at that time: George S. Kaufman.

It's difficult to describe Kaufman in terms of contemporary theatre.   He started out as a journalist and drama critic (like Shaw) and became a playwright, someone infatuated with the rhythm of a spoken line as well as the idea it presented.  He was a sought-after play-doctor, for his ability to see the structural flaws in developing vehicles and correct them.  Harvey Fierstein does some of that these days and, like Fierstein, Kaufman was known to act, on occasion.  He was a fearsome director, a tireless worker and the most intimidating person in the world, according to Moss Hart but he was also a generous collaborator and, as Act One shows, a firm believer in the practice of "Kill Your Darlings."

Kaufman and Hart's first comedy, "Once in a Lifetime" is a study in Hollywood excess and early performances included a third act in an expensive, bird-themed nightclub set that was hilarious to look at but it stopped the action cold.  Another Broadway legend, Sam Harris (the man who partnered with George M. Cohan for years) mentioned after one dreary, show-killing point how loud and tiring the whole show was.  There was never a scene where a couple of the actors could simply talk over the events, he said and give him a chance to rest.  Hart took the suggestion seriously and rewrote the entire act, scrapping the expensive, already paid for set and adding the quiet interlude needed before the mayhem of a finale begins.  That quiet, third-act moment is necessary for the audience and whenever I've seen one in other productions, I know it was put in because the playwright heeded the advice of Moss Hart and Sam Harris.  George Kaufman agreed and when "Once in a Lifetime" opened to rave reviews, Kaufman made sure Hart got most of the credit (financially and publicly) for the hit.

The plural of genius: Kaufman & Hart

It's a shame Hart never wrote the follow-up to this vivid theatrical autobiography because there was so much for him to cover: the string of plays and musicals he wrote and/or directed, his screenplays (including Garland's "A Star is Born" and "Hans Christian Anderson), but it wasn't in the cards.  Moss Hart died when he was still in his fifties and two of his shows (Camelot and My Fair Lady) were still running on Broadway.  Instead, he left behind a widow, two children, the theatrical legacy of a wunderkind and an autobiography theatre majors still pore over.  Let the sagacious and elderly rethink their lives reading Shakespeare; Act One is when you need to feel young.

A Year in the Company of Words

New Years is such a peculiar holiday on the calendar.  It doesn't have religious nor historic connotations like most major holidays although it does contain elements of both.  The drinking or party phase section of the population, commemorate it with the required bacchanalia and woozy recovery but the rest of us aren't so sure of our role.  We can review the year end lists or re-watch  The Benny Goodman and Glenn Miller biopics that seem to appear on each New Year's Eve TV schedule but by now I know exactly when Lionel Hampton will show up and June Allyson will tug on her ear lobe.  Nope, I don't want to spend this New Year's re-watching the same old movies, nor do I want to spend it kicking my poor old liver with an overdoes of scotch.  Instead I want to end the year as I've spent it:  in the company of words.

• Reading New Books - After checking various electronic records and the drain that sucks up my spare income and phone space (Amazon Kindle) I can safely say I read at least one new book every week this year, which was sort of like making a new friend every week.  Some of them, like A Tale Dark and Grimm and The Ocean at the End of the Lane went straight to my heart and onto my  re-reading list.  (I am a re-reader of books).  Others were nice and interesting for the interval but not a lifetime love.  A couple, like The Forsyte Saga, could only be defined as "new" books because I hadn't read them before and one or two I read not from paper or through a book-friendly program, like Kindle, but as text files on a screen simply because I couldn't wait to find out what happened next. While each new book may not life up to its hype, each unread book brings new hope when it's opened.  
• Re-reading Old Books - When I was in Girl Scouts, we used to sing a song.

Make New Friends,But Keep the Old.  

One is Silver and the Other's Gold

• Well loved books are like old friends and I have to stay in touch.  Wherever I go, they go with me and yes, I'll put down the new books to re-acquaint myself with the prose and poetry that I've known for decades.  If that makes me weird, so be it.  I just wish I had more time to spend with them.  Still only part of this word year was about reading
• 2015 is, for me, the year I stopped writing in short, painful bursts (and re-writing, re-writing and hiding the finished product in shame) and began the discipline of printing something at least twice a week.  Something the public could see and criticize. I still have an enormous amount to learn but I'm not as afraid of failure as I was a few years ago. Instead of thinking, "Oh what if I fail!" and then scrambling to hide under the bed, I've learned to think "Of course, I'm going to fail; so what!" I learned I can survive being rejected.  I can't recommend it as a life-experience but learning I don't implode after hearing "No" was heartening. I even learned I can write something new to submit for rejection.  Amazing.

Reading, to me, is honest-to-God magic, a way to climb inside someone else's soul and understand their feelings and thoughts.  Because of words, I know the voices of so many people I'd never have the chance to hear, sometimes voices of people who died long before I was born.  Writing then becomes the act of sending out a new transmission, adding my own voice to the chorus.  Amazing.  Words are a human creation but, arranged well, they bring us into the family of mankind.

So the year slides into it's final hours as I continue to peck at the keyboard, looking for the next decent sentence.  I hope you had a full and wonderful year with good memories to temper the bad.  May you find a better world next year and a future filled with hope and words. 

Settling In with a Winter Book

Winter is the Season with the strongest ties to Home and Hearth.  Spring and Autumn may pull us to work in our yards and Summer is for Adventure and Travel but Winter, with its long nights and bleak weather, is the time when people sub-consciously pull closer to the places that comfort and protect them and settle in for the Season.  While the winds blast across the open ground and temperatures plummet, we can feel safe as long as we have dry, warm rooms, comfortable seats and a selection of Winter Books to re-read. If there are Summer Authors (and I think there are) that invite the heart toward roaming, there are also the writers that celebrate hearth and home and these are a joy to re-read.  While the Winter stories are rarely in high demand (Winter tales have pages you want to mull over, not rip through) their appeal is eternal and simple.  Winter Stories insist on a mindful awareness of the joys and trials of everyday life.  They celebrate what is real.

New England is one of those places that seems to have a copyright on Winter and Gladys Taber is still one of New England's best-loved "home-and hearth" Winter Writers.  Robert Frost could scribble out poems about people who underpin their friendships with fences and allow the hired man home to die. That's fine for Robert Frost, but it isn't much comfort during Winter.  Instead, readers turned to the woman who fell in love with a 15th century farmhouse named Stillmeadow and made her life there with kids, cats, dogs and twin devotions to the written word and the natural world.  She supported herself by writing about domestic life and no one has written more skillfully or with more mindfulness about the Winter.

"We have an appointment with winter and we are ready. The wood is stacked with seasoned applewood and maple, the snow shovel leans at the back door, the shelves are jammed with supplies. When the first innocent flakes drift down, we put out more soot and fill the bird feeders. When the snow begins to come in all directions at once and the wind takes on a peculiar lonely cry, we pile more wood on the fire and hang the old iron soup kettle over it, browning the pot roast in diced salt pork and onion. As the blizzard increases, the old house seems to steady herself like a ship against a gale wind. . . Snow piles up against the windowpanes, sifts under the ancient sills, makes heaps of powdered pearl on the ancient oak floors. But the house is snug in the twilight of the snow and we sit by the fire and toast our toes feeling there is much to be said for winter after all." 

Ms. Taber may have been my mother's favorite writer; I'm sure she's the only one Mother trusted enough to write to and Ms. Taber's handwritten reply was one of Mama's treasured possessions.  It was enough for me to watch Mama's reaction as she pored over one Ms. Taber's volumes.  She would sit quietly, with one hand on the edge of the pages and a small smile would appear on her face.  Pages were turned with deliberation.  After spending twenty minutes with Ms.Taber and Stillmeadow, Mama would return to our world, a happier, more serene person.

As for me, I followed a southern star and my favorite hearth writer became Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings, that Florida transplant and author of The Yearling and Cross Creek. Ms. Rawlings described the rough but wonderful life she found in the backwoods of Florida and how winter can be a wonderful thing in a place where it's still seen as alien.

"For all our battles, winter at the Creek is the cozy time, when fat pine fires crackle on all the hearths. I take my dog for a walk up the road at sunset and the wind blows in our faces. I turn back to walk westward home as the red sun drops behind Orange Lake. The dusk comes quickly and we turn in at the gate and shut the house door behind us and drop down in front of the hearth fire in the living room. A fresh log of fatwood thrown on the slow-burning bed of oak coals catches and blazes and roars up the big chimney. The flames light the old white-walled room so that there is no need even of candles, though one or two over the bookshelves are always pleasant, for candlelight on books is one of the lovely things of this world. The ruby-red velvet sleepy hollow chair glows in the firelight. The dog groans for comfort and turns his belly to the heat and stretches out his paws in the ultimate luxury. Only a hunting dog or a cat can share man's love of the open fire, and if I had a whole kennel full of dogs, on winter nights I should let them all come in to enjoy mine with me."

In a number of weeks, we will venture out into Spring and run forward again, with our futures.  Take the time this season to be aware of your life and enjoy the comforts of home.  Settle in with a winter book.

A Season for Memory and Love

There's a reason some people love this time of year; the same reason other folks hate it: family. Tradition dictates we spend part of our winter holidays with individuals tied to us by DNA or marriage and who you are determines whether you like or loathe the custom.  My husband says, there's a reason family push our buttons faster than anyone else; they installed most of them.  Still, they are the people who define our earliest selves and even when they're gone, their voices come back in our memories like the song of  The Grass Harp, Truman Capote's novella about his Alabama childhood.  While it's not the obvious choice for December, the Grass Harp is a tender remembrance of how love and family shape us all.

Collin Fenwick is the narrator of The Grass Harp, a boy (like the author) cast into the care of maiden aunts.  Aunt Verena is the financial provider, the richest soul in town and, as Truman says, the earning of her wealth had not made her an easy woman.  The other aunt, Dolly, is nature-focused and terrified of all humans in authority but self-sustaining because of her homemade dropsy cure, an old-fashioned name for swelling.  When Verena tries to browbeat the dropsy recipe from the gentle Dolly, a minor revolt occurs and Capote warms to his other theme: there are family we find, not through DNA but through soul.

Collin, Dolly and their friend Catherine Creek hide in a tree-house outside of town and make friends with two other misfits - Charlie Cool, the superannuated judge who has been bossed out of his job and home and Riley Henderson, a Huck Finn of sorts who worries because he cares for no one except his sisters.  These five and a family troupe of wandering evangelists quickly split the town between those who need to follow a different drummer and those who intend to call the tune.

Anyone whose memories of Truman Capote are confined to murder or his waspish love of gossip need to be reminded he was also be a tender, lyrical storyteller. It is through his eyes that we see that the the gentle Dolly is not be as cowardly nor Verena as unwavering as general gossip would have us believe and it is his voice that brings us back to the place that nurtured them both. 

"Below the hill grows a field of high Indian grass that changes color with the seasons: go to see it in the fall, late September, when it has gone red as sunset, when scarlet shadows like firelight breeze over it and the autumn winds strum on its dry leaves sighing human music, a harp of voices."

It is Dolly that reminds us that the sounds from the Indian grass are the voices of lost loved ones, telling the stories of their lives.  The people are gone but their voices continue to murmur in the whisper of the leaves and the grass, like they sing in the memories of those that love and remember them still. As long as we can hear them, they remain loved and immortal in memory even if in life, they could make us crazy.

So, if the weather permits it in this holiday season, find your own quiet moment outside town and listen to the wind blowing through the long grass.  May you hear the voices of those who defined you and those you found to love.  And may your voice be recalled someday as well in a symphony of grass and the wind.

Unexpected Christmas Presents

Another Christmas is looming fast and I see the hordes of last-minute shoppers whenever I drive by the stores - a vision that triggers my agoraphobia.  Still, I understand the shoppers' need to seek out each perfect present.  Those presents are for loved ones and each year we want to give them something they want or they need.  So, wish lists can really aid a holiday shopper.  Still, sometimes it's the present that's not on the list that makes the biggest impact.

It was 1972 when we celebrated Christmas in California.  My parents drove half way across the continent so we could spend the holidays with my mother's parents in their San Diego apartment.  California was unalloyed good as far as my sister and I were concerned.  California meant warmth, and trips to Disneyland, and time with grandparents who would move heaven and earth to gratify our every whim. I was 13 and, in Grandma's words "too old for toys, too young for boys", so my wish list was fairly nebulous but my sister was much younger and very specific.  She wanted Mattel's "Barbie Surprise House", one of the hot-ticket items that year.  Since I was "old enough to know", Mom told me about the hours she and the grandparents spent scouring stores on the hunt for that prized pink box.  Unfortunately, forays into every "Toys-R-Us" in two states weren't successful.  My sister's wonderful gift wouldn't be available until after Christmas Day.

Mom put us to bed early on Christmas Eve, telling us Santa would avoid the apartment until we were asleep.  I closed my eyes and opened my ears, wondering what delights the grownups had cooked up.  I heard some odd noises and my dad's attempt to sing but I couldn't guess what made them all giggle.  Probably a pitcher of my Grandpa's martinis. 

Christmas morning brought it's usual avalanche of sweaters and socks, hugs and nonsense gifts as well as Mom's earnest promise that we would pick up the Barbie Surprise House in a few days since Santa "couldn't fit it on his sleigh".  Mollified, my sister cuddled a little stuffed dog Grandma had pushed in her stocking while I studied the source of last night's mysterious noises.  My family had given me a guitar.

Now, I had not asked for a guitar. I'd never thought about learning to play one.  Yes, I liked music (who didn't?) and, like most girls I knew, I was taking piano lessons. But a guitar?  What were they thinking?  Did my family want me to become a hippie?

The visit was great and my sister got her Barbie House sometime before New Year.  Funny thing, though: Sis would play with the marvelous toy house until she was tired of it, and then walk away, but the stuffed dog with the club foot and belly-button stayed with her wherever she went. The name on his chest was Henry and Henry became a member of the family, and my sister's dearest companion. At first he followed my sister through the house, then around town on errands.  If Henry came up missing, Dad would tease her, saying Henry went to the local bar to drink beer, but he would search with us until the little dog was located and returned.  No matter what, Henry always came home again. After a few years, Henry became a family man as relatives came to join him but he remained my sister's favorite, following her to school and then to camp, college, and into her married life, the most loved gift of her childhood,  When he disintegrated this year, we both mourned.


And, after a few false starts and blistered fingers, I taught myself to play the guitar reasonably well.  I never became great and the tone of the instrument wasn't much but that unexpected gift filled a hole in my adolescence.  Learning songs and practicing passed some otherwise lonely hours and, even though I still felt awkward and shy  around other kids, I finally had a role; I was the one who played the guitar.  A few years later, another guitar-playing girl moved into town and I made my first life-long, close friend.  The git-fiddle followed me, like Henry followed my sister, and although it disappeared in a burglary, the replacement guitar introduced me to the man I married (another guitar player, of course).  None of the best parts of my adult life would have happened the way they did if I hadn't learned to play that guitar.  I wonder if my folks guessed, when they picked out that gift, how far their surprise present would take me.

 
So I'm glad when friends and relatives tell me what's on their Christmas list.  It makes shopping for them much easier.  Still I keep my eye out for the unexpected gift.  I've learned it's the items we don't ask for - the ones we don't even know that we need - that we'll use  and cherish the most.

The Mystery with a Heart

People have certain expectations about the genres they favor and mystery fans expect stories driven by a puzzle.  As interesting  or well-developed as some of the characters in these stories are, they still exist to serve the central plot and very few of them are driven by ideals.  Holiday stories, on the other hand, focus much more on character and these usually have an underlying moral code.  That's what makes Sue Ann Jaffarian's The Ghost of Mistletoe Mary such an unexpected delight.  She balances the requirements of both genres and then blends them to create a mystery with a heart.

 Like Charles Dickens, Jaffarian has a keen social conscience for the downtrodden in our society.  Dickens noticed the growth of the Industrial Age also exploited the least protected in Victorian Society - the poor and children, in particular.  Jaffarian's story takes us to Skid Row in Los Angeles and the dispossessed of our own era: the indigent, the addicts, the emotionally troubled, and all too often, the military veterans whose return to civilian life is hijacked by untreated traumas.   Because these people don't fit in with society's norms and because they tend to distrust the police, they are easy targets for criminal exploitation.  But therein hangs the mystery.

One of the homeless men living on the Row insists he's being harassed by a streetwalker known as Mistletoe Mary.  Actually, the man says he's being pestered by her ghost.  While most people assume the man's complaints stem from the onset of dementia or the last stage of alcoholism, detective Jeremiah Jones has qualifications to determine the truth.  First, as a one of the few who successfully left Skid Row, he doesn't judge the residents there by the hard times they've fallen on.  And Jeremiah Jones knows a thing or two about ghosts.

The Ghost of Mistletoe Mary is an installment in Jaffarian's cozy mystery series featuring Granny Apples, an endearing and outspoken remnant from California's early days who loves modern slang and being an amateur sleuth.  At first, Jeremiah needs Granny's help to learn about Mary and how the most vulnerable people on the Row are being manipulated by others.  When the bullets start to fly, he'll need her help to avoid becoming a ghost himself!

Like her main characters, Jaffarian combines an understanding heart with practical sense and good humor and she keeps the puzzle in this story on track.  Nevertheless, the greatest asset in this novella is her depiction of the street people as characters.  The poor and homeless are not the despised debris of humanity here, nor are they all innocent martyrs to the Tyranny of Capitalism.  They're people, some good, some not so good, but all individuals with their own stories, sorrows and hopes. Jaffarian and her detectives never get so involved in the search for truth that they forget their objective is people.

As I said, this is a book that defies expectations and there are times you can almost forget it's a holiday story.  The setting may be in December but there's not an dreidel or a reindeer to be seen.  There's murder and crime instead of presents and ivy and even Granny Apples can't make the bad guys turn good.  But along with the bad stuff, there's love and there's hope and a memory of family, the essence of December's celebrations.  So celebrate with a mystery this December.  A mystery with a heart.

We All Know Someone from Grey Gardens

Big and Little Edie Beale

A few years ago, my sister, I and our husbands saw a production of Grey Gardens, the musical based on Big and Little Edie Beale and their home with the GG name. It's a well-constructed play with some reasonably good songs but at the time I wondered why people respond to this story. What is it about these "eccentric" women and their haphazard world that attracts us, like the wild critters they fed?  No sane person would choose such an existence but we like the women who lived it, insanity and all.  Why?  I think it's because anyone with relatives recognizes someone they love when they read about or watch the famous Beales.  All of us have a bit of Grey Gardens tucked away in the family tree.

My husband, Roger, loves to talk about my two bachelor uncles, men as close in residence as they were unalike as human beings.  The elder was a sweet, gentle soul who, except for his time in the service, stayed on the family farm and spoiled the children of his siblings, instead of having his own. The younger was a tall, thin, wasp of a man with an advanced degree in chemistry who loved travel, gadgets, and needling others with his quickfire wit. Temperamentally, they were the original Odd Couple, but they continued to argue and share a house as long as they both lived.  No one in the family thought this was strange (fish, they say, rarely notice the water) so it took my husband to point out my uncles sat in adjoining rooms watching the same football game on similar large TVs (both cranked to top volume) but they could never watch the program together. I used to think my uncles defied explanation; now I see them as the Edies in our family of Beales.

Of course, marriage meant I got to meet the eccentrics in my husband's family as well.  His parents were born dirt-poor in the South so I wasn't shocked that his Uncle John's funeral turned into a de facto family reunion.  I was surprised when my mother-in-law handed me her camera and demanded I photograph her and her sisters at the head of their brother's casket.  They leaned over so Uncle John could be in the picture as well and I tried to photograph three old ladies without seeing the corpse at the bottom of the frame.  It wasn't easy.  Tell me that's not a Grey Gardens moment!

Really, what we tossed aside as family eccentricities really stemmed from financial reasons.  My uncles were taught itwas a waste of money to live apart when they could save by sharing a house.  And before the age of selfies, photography was an expensive luxury so the picture with a deceased relative was often the only opportunity a family had the chance to catch the likeness of someone they loved and lost.  The passage of time gave my husband and I different sensibilities that questioned their decisions.  Yes their choices seemed foolish to us and our decisions  probably seem silly to the next generation.  Well, if we're remembered by our silly, eccentric choices, at least we'll be remembered.


This all came back when I heard Jonathan Goldstein describe the footage he shot of his family at a long ago Rosh Hashana dinner.  In the middle of the meal, apropos of nothing, two females independently started singing White Christmas (an odd choice for the High Holy Days) and his father left the table to repair the long-broken front door lock. You can almost feel the embarrassment of the teen-aged film-maker as he documents his family's eccentric behavior and his adult realization that the critical adolescent behind the lens was no poster child for normalcy either.  That's what time does in the end; it makes everyone look ridiculous.

So what if we all look strange to the family who precede and follow us in life?  The important thing is to enjoy being alive and share it with those you love.  At least that's the philosophy of the Beale ladies of Grey Gardens.

Hurray for the Series Novel: Val McDermid's Splinter the Silence

They say publishers love novels that turn into a series.  The  characters in these collections of stories develop their own fan base assuring the publisher of a a steady and increasing audience to gobble up each new adventure as soon as it hits the stands.  Still, it's tricky to write that kind of series because each book has to serve two plots.  Each book has a primary, short plot: it finds and resolves a conflict that involves the new characters and most (if not all) of the permanent cast. The second plot is harder because it's part of the overall arc of the series. This plot creates some incremental change in the lives of the permanent cast and lets them create or resolve underlying conflicts (Continuing characters must evolve from book to book or the reading public gets bored and leaves).  Interweaving these two plots in each book is a little like jumping rope double-dutch style: it takes skill, balance and concentration.  Thriller/Mystery novelist Val McDermid has created three different detective novel serials, the most popular of which are the Tony Hill/Carol Jordan books.  Her latest in this series, Splinter the Silence, shows how a good author can make some themes serve two plots at once.

In the short-term plot, silence is what happens when crusading women are squelched.  Bloggers, journalists and other feminists who step into public debate have been showing up dead after being attacked in the social media.  Each of the deaths look like a suicide and most assume these women died to escape the continual cyber-bullying even though those close to the women all insist the victims never seemed depressed or suicidal.  The local police don't realize there's a serial killer in the mix and it's up to profiler/psychologist, Dr. Tony Hill and retired detective Carol Jordan to stop the murderer before more speakers are silenced.

The second silence has been building around central character Carol Jordan for some time. For seven novels, Carol Jordan fought criminals, the media, and her sometimes foolhardy supervisors in the police force in order to bring the guilty to court and speak for their victims. Her weapons in the fight were her anger, brain and drive; her sole release, the relaxation that came from alcohol. Her support staff knew about her boozing but kept quiet since it didn't seem to affect her work.  Then Carol's brother was murdered and grief drove her from the job and into the bottle. A phone call from jail provides Tony with the opportunity break through Carol's withdrawal and ask her to get help.

McDermid

Still the fight against progress permeates Splinter the Silence.  As the killer fights the idea of women having independent lives, Carol fights recognizing her dependence on drink, no matter how damning the contrary evidence. Even when she glimpses the how far she has fallen, Carol's continued sobriety is no assured thing.

Val McDermid never hands out assurances but life doesn't either.  Instead, her books hold out hope for those who keep trying to communicate.  As long as her characters engage readers' emotions, she will be begged for more stories of Dr. Tony Hill and DCI Carol Jordan.

Diary of a Mad NaNoWriMor

Every November for the past 15 years, various aspirants to Literary Lionship have girded on their writing tools and thrown away their few remaining brain cells on what is known as NaNoWriMo - the Nation Novel Writing Month.  The objective of this event is to see if the would-be writer can create a first draft of a 50,000 word novel within 30 days.  What follows is the expurgated diary of one of these self-imposed masochists.  

11/1/15 - Ok, here goes nothing, as the man said.  Got an idea, got a word-processor and the nice people  at   http://nanowrimo.org/  promise that if I'll just scribble down 1,666 words of this thing every day, I'll have a sure-nuff 50K  word first draft by the end of the month.   At least Darling Spouse is in my corner.  What would I do without him?

11/4/15 There are thousands of writers using this site and everyone else seems bustin' loose and making literary history.  I've got a first chapter done - I don't like it, it stinks, but at least it's done.  I sure am glad six or seven of these people want to be my writing buddies - misery loves company and maybe they can help me figure out a better beginning since all of them seem to be terrific scribblers.  Still I think my "buddy" BigWriteGuy probably started before November 1 - nobody kicks out 12K words on their first day!  Anyway, I don't need to focus on anyone else's attempts to cheat.   What I need is to find a better opening to this cockamamie story!

11/13/15 Day 13 and I'm already 2,700 words behind where I ought to be.  Acck!  This is Not My Fault!  First off, a virus killed my link with the internet which meant I lost contact with my writing buddies, my dictionary, my thesaurus and my word count validator.  I got the computer to regain the 'net by reinstalling the Operating System but the repair ate my word-processing program!  Are they sure Marcel Proust started out this way?  On the good side, my imagination gave me a character named Jeremy and that guy is funny!  No wonder writers like what they do.

11/16/15 Well, I'm a day behind schedule but I'm at the half-way point both in words and plot. You know, I used to laugh at writers on the chat shows who talked about characters that appeared and then took over the story.  They weren't kidding!  I've got to get that  louse, Jeremy out of the story quick - he grabs all the good lines but he's not advancing the plot!  I've tried asking my writing buddies but none of them respond to my emails.  I thought we were going to help each other through this experience!  Well, I need some help getting that little scene-stealer out of my story!

11/20/15 - 6 Thousand words behind schedule and why did I ever agree to do this?  Other people are experiencing the gold-bitten, thrill of November (ok, not my favorite month but right now Purgatory looks like a vacation in the Bahamas compared to this!)  I know why they call this part of the book a pinch point - this is when the reader sees how impossible the hero's quest is.  Well, I know what happens here at the 67%/ Pinch Point mark and I know what will happen at the 75% point (the plot rounds third base and kicks for home) but damned if I know what happens between them!  That's roughly four thousand words of story I need to figure out now and I haven't got a clue!  Tell the truth, I'm not sure I even like these characters anymore.

11/25/15 Oh somewhere folks are happy, traveling to a T-day feast

                     In some spot, Balloons are filling for a 3 mile parade (at least)

                     Somewhere families gather to laugh, love, eat and cook

                     But the only Turkey in this house is this lousy, stinking book!

11/28/15 So this is what the last mile up Everest looks like.  No silly wannabes on the forums at this stage.  Nobody's talking.  Nobody's brainstorming.  There's a fair amount of weeping and wailing in some spots, but that's got to be expected.  And me, I'm trying to make it up one more step, write one more paragraph, fill in one more hole in this farchadat story.  If I ever say I want to do this again, I want someone to hit me over the head, tie the collected works of Dickens around my neck and throw me in the River!  Now I know why so many writers are warped, drunken, no-good, goof-balls!  They write!

11/29/15  ...And the rest is silence.

12/2/15 - Darling Spouse asked today when I was going to start the revisions.  Maybe my next book should be about murder.

The Big Store (Part 9)

     Those next hours were the worst and the longest I’ve known since Ponder died.  I kept struggling to move forward with Jerry’s arm around my neck, his bad right foot banging against my left like we were the last pair in a three legged race. We walked through fields a good five yards away from the road and tried not to stumble.  The hot still night hugged my right side and Jerry hugged the left.    Our sweat and the blood brought out ever biting bug and they got every inch of us that wasn’t covered by clothes or each other. As we rocked along like some old, drunken couple, I heard myself singing under my breath:

"Leaning, leaning, leaning on the ever-lasting arms of God"     
"Leaning, leaning, leaning on the ever-lasting arms of God”        

    Jerry threw back his head and laughed “Viola, I’d never have picked you as a holy roller!”  Well I’m not but I’d gone to church enough to learn the old hymns.  Jerry must have too because he joined me on the chorus after we hit the paper mill smell.

     On and on, over and over, I put one foot out and then the other, dragging Jerry forward by pulling his arm around my neck.  I didn’t worry about the drug dealers any more.  I didn’t think about the car or those dad-gum dishes I couldn’t live without.  My mind didn’t reach that far.   All I could do was get Jerry to move one step further through the night, one step closer to that hotel. 

     I kept singing and the bugs kept biting but the worst of the heat finally wore out and Jerry started to shiver against me.  More and more of his weight was on my shoulders now and I couldn’t help but notice his bad leg was dragging more.  I couldn’t see behind us to see if we left a blood trail and I didn’t dare stop to look.  Neither one of us could have made it to our feet again if we sat or laid down here.

     Jerry changed the hymn to “Church in the Wild Wood” one of my mama’s favorites.  The words seem to keep us going.  I never thought about religion much but I could almost see that little church we sang about.  It was just a bit ahead of us and it had a side-yard statue of Jesus standing with his arms held out to us.  I’d think about that and then pull Jerry through the next step. 

     I didn’t recognize the first light I really saw.  It was too small and high to be a car’s headlight.  When I tried to look at it, sweat ran into my eyes so I dropped my head back down.  That light had been shining on us at least ten minutes before I saw the corner of the hotel roof ahead.

     “Jerry” I panted.  “Is that it?” 

     I tried to look at him but couldn’t really see Jerry’s face.  He didn’t speak anyway, just moaned. 

     It took another twenty five minutes to reach the back of hotel.  I pulled Jerry up a concrete slope they put in the sidewalk for wheelchairs and supply dollies.   We were at the corner of the hotel when Jerry collapsed on the sidewalk, nearly taking me down with him.

     “Jerry!” I hollered, but that didn’t wake him.  The lights didn’t show any color in his cheeks and the smears and drops behind him said he was still bleeding, probably had been for two hours.  “Jerry!” I yelled again, and started banging on the windows and doors of the hotel rooms close to us.  “Help somebody, I need some help out here!”  Just then I heard a child’s scream “Daddy!” and little Casey was running past me, barefoot and wearing pink pajamas.   “Daddy!” she screamed again and I turned around to see her at her father’s head.

     I said “Casey, please get your Mama”.  Then, my breath seized up in my chest and my heart seemed to swell up and choke off my airway.   I leaned against a pillar.  “Ponder, you help me on this,” I thought. “That little girl doesn’t need to see her father dying; I don’t want her to have that on her memory.”  Casey was crying and had her father’s head in lap, her little fingers wound in his hair.  She kept saying “Daddy, wake up, I need you.”

     A light flashed on by one of the room doors and I saw Jerry’s hand rise alongside of his body. “I’m all right, Baby.” I heard him murmur.  I closed my eyes and slid down the wall myself as I heard a strange man’s voice yell “Myrna, call the cops!  We got wounded people out here!”   Then I heard running footsteps and Gennine’s voice telling Jerry he would be all right, he and the girls were safe.  People were tending to me but I didn’t care.  I was thinking about how tomorrow would be, if I lived to see it. I would spend time with a wrecker and the police trying to compare discount dishes and a leather purse to the life of a man who helped strangers.  It didn’t make sense.

Now, if I live long enough to apologize to Gennine and give her Hazard Pay that will make me happy.   After that, I’ll catch up to Ponder and tell him how rich he made my life.  Then, I’ll look up Jerry’s grandma and tell her what a fine boy she raised.   Mostly I’ll thank the Lord for good friends and the smell of evening honeysuckle and the way a child smiles up at her dad.   Those are the things I care about now.  Everything else is just trash.

Well, that's Viola's story.  I hope you liked it.  Thanks for sticking with her (and me) until the end.  LLG