In Loving Memory

Dorothy L. Jackson
February 4, 1934 - September 22, 2006

"Mom"

"What's past is prologue"

I've been hearing a lot about finding your "core" story, or the theme of your life that you habitually write into your stories over and over again. I've finally figured mine out. If I look back on the four books I've written (well, I'm currently finishing up the fourth--only about 20 pages left to go!)[*Author's Note: It's finished! Critiqued! Spellchecked! Revised!], I realize the theme of each is that those events that occur in our past shape our future. Or, as Shakespeare said, "What's past is prologue." My characters are often people who have had some life changing event, often a tragedy, occur in their youth or formative years. This event changes them forever, sometimes casting them adrift until they learn to search for and find the meaning in their lives. The characters would have been completely different people if it hadn't been for that event, and in the end, it makes them stronger once they learn to overcome it.

This realization hit me out of nowhere, and I must admit it has been the theme of my own life. What's past is prologue, and I tend to think that is true of most people. What was the event of your past that shapes your writing today? Think about it.

Welcome Back!

It’s been so long since I’ve blogged, I momentarily forgot my username and password to get into the post section. Ha! Sorry I’ve been MIA, but I’ve had an absolutely miserable summer. My mom’s been seriously ill, so I’ve flown back home a couple of times to help out. My own health has seen a rapid decline this summer as well. Growing older is hell. But, I'm dealing with it, taking steps to get my health back and my energy up, and, thank God, it's nothing that can't be dealt with. After spending time with my poor mom, it helps to put everything in perspective. Number one task is to get my back strong again, so I'm doing the PT thang right now.

Anyway, I have been productive, even though I haven’t been blogging. My work-in-progress, The Justice Seeker, which I’m estimating is between 50-60 pages away from being finished (yeah!) actually finaled in two contests this summer, the RWA San Francisco Chapter’s Heart to Heart contest (which has kicked my behind every other year I entered it) and the RWA NW Houston Chapter’s Lone Star contest (which I finaled in a couple of years ago with Dreamweaver). I didn't actually enter to final; I entered to test the beginning of the book to make sure I was on target with it. Finaling was a nice by-product. I’ve written about a hundred pages on the book in the last six weeks or so, which is good considering my fearsome schedule.

Take care,

TJB

"Smallered"

Has anybody else noticed how ink manufacturers are putting less ink into pens these days than they used to? I've thrown away three brand new ink pens in the last week that ran out of ink while I was marking on essays. I finally noticed in the last one that the ink tube was less than half full before I even started writing! It used to be that the ink went up nearly to the top of the tube, with perhaps an inch of air at the tip.

What's up with that? Is this yet another step on the "same size container, but less for your money" road?

It's just like when the chocolate manufacturers started making candy bars just a little bit smaller. They didn't want to raise the price because, frankly, the candy market is very cutthroat and competitive, so they "smallered" the candy.

Anyone else notice anything that has gotten smaller while the cost has stayed the same (or gone up)? Or is it just me?

I can't help feeling there is a life metaphor in there somewhere. When did they "smaller" my hopes and dreams? Our heroes? The Presidency? When did we start expecting to get less, even though we were putting out the same amount?

Okay, I'll stop now.

TJB

New Agent at Firebrand Literary Agency

Hey, I realized I hadn't posted any industry news lately. Not that there isn't any, I just haven't been motivated to post. However, for those of you watching for that sort of thing, here is a tidbit:

There is a new agent at Firebrand Literary Agency. An agency client reports that "Megan Atwood will represent a mix of young adult/children's and adult projects. She is currently acquiring young adult and middle grade fiction books, literary fiction, political/crime fiction thrillers, and nonfiction political books. She is looking for edgy, innovative writing that doesn't overwhelm with adjectives."

Queries can be directed to her via email at megan@firebrandliterary.com.

As I've mentioned before, it's usually a good idea to try to get in on the ground floor with an agent when they are new to an established agency. While the Firebrand agency isn't an "established" agency, there are agents working there who have come from other successful agencies, so it's a good bet.

One note: on the agency's forum (which is pretty cool, by the way), it states that the agency is not a member of AAR (Association of Authors' Representatives). Normally, this would raise a red flag for me; I'm going to be "cautiously optimistic" in this case, however, because of the reputation of the people involved, as well as knowing a couple of their clients personally. The agency has apparently chosen not to become a member because it limits some of the "packaging" they do for their clients. Okay, I'm not sure exactly what that means, but the good news is that they state they do adhere to the guidelines of the AAR, so that may set your mind at ease if it is a concern for you. I would ask questions if you get the opportunity to be offered representation about how any disputes between you and the agency might be handled. Also, it is always a good idea to talk to previous and current clients of the agent before agreeing to be represented. Firebrand does list their clients on their website, so they should be easy to track down.

There. Now you've had your industry fix for the day.

TJB

One of these days, I’ll let the dog sleep in the bed.

One of these days, I’ll let the dog sleep in the bed.
Why not?
He’s attentive, caring, devoted.
He follows me around with unabashed admiration and curiosity:
“Where are we going now?
What are you eating? Why are we walking to the laundry room?”

I feed him the same thing, every day.
Yet he is so grateful when I put his food in front of him.
No complaints, just a wagging tail and a busy mouth.

When I’m bored, he lets me play with his paws.
I tickle the little bits of fur sticking out between his foot pads
and even though it torments him, he always brings the paw back.
I toss a stuffed toy for him, and he runs and gets it every time.
“Good boy!” I croon, and he listens, even if he’s heard it all before.

When I’m sad
He lets me cling to him for long minutes at a time,
never shifting or restless
or thinking about what else he could be doing at that moment.
He lets me stop hugging first.
Sometimes he even licks my chin.

When I go out the door in the morning, he rushes towards me
in the hope that he can be my companion for whatever the day might bring.
“Can I come, too? I’ll miss you while you’re gone.”
“No,” I have to tell him. “Stay.”
Sometimes I wish I could open the door wide and take him along.
When I come home, he’s waiting in the same spot for me,
so excited to see me he’s dropped everything just to say “hello.”

At night, when I climb into the bed,
He’ll come and nose my hand before he wanders off to his box
He in his place
me in mine.

One of these days, I’ll let the dog sleep in the bed--
A soft snorting companion to my dreams.

TJB

Haiku

I’m going to be teaching a literature course in the fall, my first ever. It’s been years (none of your business how many) since I earned my masters degree in lit, so I’ve been brushing up a bit. In reading about the poetry genre, I came across the descriptions for haikus, and remembered the haiku poems our teacher had us write in fifth grade. Well, I don’t remember the poems themselves, but in general I remember how much fun they were. Haikus are often like photographs of a moment, captured in present tense word choices. They follow a five-seven-five syllable pattern.

So, just for the heck of it, here are some “picture poems” (as I like to call them) I came up with today.


Haiku #1
A black and white dog
lying helpless and trusting
with his legs spread wide.

Haiku #2
Reaching for ketchup
in the back of the Kenmore.
There isn’t any.

Haiku #3
The scent of mangos
Papayas sweet and shiny
I prefer oranges.


Let’s see some of yours!

TJB

King Kong, or The Movie that Shouldn't Have Been

My husband and I received the DVD King Kong as a gift a couple of months ago, but hadn’t had the time to watch it. Finally, we set aside three hours one night after the kids had gone to bed and settled in for the viewing. We were cautiously excited about it because the director, Peter Jackson, is very popular in our house. We loved the Lord of the Rings trilogy. We hoped to love this movie, too, but we wondered, how can one say anything original the fourth time out of the gate about a big ape who falls in love with a blonde?

Sadly, we discovered that one cannot, even if that one is Mr. Jackson.

While the filmmaker did try to bring a new angle to this tale of “girl meets ape” that eschewed the unsavory sexual undertones of previous versions, going instead for a “owner/pet” relationship between the two (with the girl being the pet), unfortunately that angle was too thin to be stretched over three hours of film. Heroine Ann Darrow, as played by Naomi Watts, was as lovely and emotive an ingénue as any who have played the part, but after watching scene after scene of her trading soulful, silent gazes with Andy Serkis’ Kong, enough was enough.

High adventure is something we expect of a Peter Jackson film, as well, and he made a heroic attempt to deliver. However, the middle hour of the movie appeared to be one long bite-fest, with prehistoric dinosaurs attacking each other, the cast members, and Kong non-stop. After the umpteenth time of Ms. Watts falling into the clutches of yet another beastie and having to be rescued by Kong, it got to the point where we just didn’t care anymore. Like the monk in the Monty Python classic Search for the Holy Grail, we were persuaded to “skip a bit, brother,” and fast forwarded through most of those scenes. When, at the end, Jack Black’s character, movie producer Carl Denham, comments that seventeen shipmates had been killed in the rescue of the heroine, my husband and I were amazed. Really? Only seventeen? So many were dropped into yawning caverns, squashed, or consumed, we thought that surely there had been many more than that.

Finally, the willing suspension of disbelief is a critical element of bringing the audience along for the ride in a fantasy horror film of this ilk. If one can get past the “Jurassic Park meets Godzilla” feel of the film, one still has to believe that after hours of man--er--ape-handling by Kong, the heroine still looked perfect (not a scratch on her). As much as the heroine got whipped around in this film, she would have needed a neck brace, casts, and crutches after she was freed.

We wished this film had lived up to the reputation of the director. At a minimum, the movie could have been seriously edited by at least an hour. A better choice would have been to let sleeping apes lie, and not to have made this remake at all.

Better luck next time, Mr. Jackson.

TJB

A Typical Day

So, I’m driving home the other day after a really long day at work, and I begin to merge onto the freeway. Now, you have to understand where I work--a small college town in East Texas--the freeway is really a long stretch of two-lane road with its own set of rules. If you’re doing less than 80 in the left hand lane, you need to get the heck over or get run over. This is understood. No one will honk at you--that would be considered rude. They will, however, ride your bumper for five miles until you get the message and MOVE OVER. The other rule is, since everyone is pretty much doing 80 all the time, when you merge, you merge fast. Those in the right hand lane when you are attempting to merge need to get the hell out of your way, or slow the hell down to let you in (pardon my French).

So, a big 18 wheeler is in the right lane, far enough back, with no one in the left hand lane to get in its way, when I start to merge onto the freeway. I’m speeding up...and so is he. I check his left hand lane--no cars, so I figure, okay, dude’s gonna pull to the left lane and let me in. He doesn’t. He came up right on my left bumper, and then just kept coming. That idiot ran me off the road right into the breakdown lane! Scared me to death. He didn’t even acknowledge my presence. I was very nearly killed--could have been if I’d lost control of the car, since the breakdown lanes here are pitted to wake you up as you go over them--hard to drive on.

I was ticked! At first, I’m just yelling at the guy, “What are you, nuts?” Then, I happened to see that, unlike most Texas trucks, he’s got one of those little handy “How am I driving?” signs on his back bumper.

Well.

Now, gotta figure, if a man's gonna drive like a freakin' maniac, he ought not to have a sign on his bumper that says, “Call my boss if I run you off the road.” So there I am, driving 85 miles an hour with my cell phone stuck to my ear trying to read the number on the back of his truck, and at some point the guy realizes what I’m doing. He tries to speed up, dodge me in traffic, but I’m not havin’ any of it. I GOT HIS NUMBER. Oh, yeah, baby, I did.

“I’ll report this to the driver’s supervisor right away, ma’am.”

Heh heh heh.

Boy, that felt good. So good, in fact, that as I passed him on the two lane highway, I even resisted the urge to give him the one fingered salute. Just waved and smiled a lot, knowing a three day suspension without pay would be waiting for him when he got home.

That’ll teach him to mess with evil minded Californians who know how to seek revenge.

Heh heh heh.

TJB

On being a good parent

I was a good mom yesterday.

Most days, I go to bed disappointed in myself in that department. My poor kids have put up with so much: my inattentiveness, my impatience with them, my need for proper order. Though they are still in elementary school, I expect so much from them. When a caring relative told me once, “They’re just little boys,” my response was, “I’m not raising boys, I’m raising men.”

It’s true, too. I expect a lot from them: I want them to learn right from wrong, to have a strong value system, to cherish friendship, to turn away from deceit, and to be kind to others when it is in their power to do so. That’s a big load for a little kid. But, I’m raising men, not boys, and to my mind, a successful man does all that. I don’t care whether they turn out to be janitors or generals, but I do care about their character.

So, anyway, must days, as I said, I go to bed thinking, “I was too impatient. They’re just children, give them a break.” In fact, God convicted me of this recently, to the extent that I was forced on my knees to ask His forgiveness for not treasuring the gift that he gave me. I also know my impatience is hard to control, and comes out of my mouth when I don’t. I asked God to teach me the patience with my kids that He has with me.

He heard me. Somehow, in the last few days, he’s given me the supernatural ability to cut my kids some slack. They seem calmer now, happier, more affectionate, and I know that isn’t coming just from my abilities. I’m just as annoyed when they mess up, or do something to deliberately irritate me, but I think first before I open my mouth, and that’s the blessing He’s given me. Somewhere, from the depths of my soul, comes the words, “They’re only little boys.”

So, when one of my boys suffered an emotional setback yesterday, God’s hand touched us both. My heart went out to my son, and I asked myself, “What can I do that won’t make this worse?”

I took my son on my knee, listened to his troubles and his despair, and sympathized with him. I ignored the mountains of work on my desk that weren’t going to get done that evening (although they desperately needed to be), and the dinner that wasn’t going to get cooked (we didn't eat until 8pm), and I figured out a way to help my child. For over an hour, we sat and talked and developed a strategy to solve his problem. I valued his fears, and validated his strengths. At the end, I played a game with him, and he was smiling. Smiling!

My husband, who had been sitting nearby and apparently listening, afterwards came up to me and hugged and kissed me, telling me I had done a good job. I didn’t even feel I could take the credit. God gets the credit for that one, and I only hope He’ll give me the wisdom to do it next time. Only maybe not when I’ve got so much work to do on my desk...?

:-)

TJB