I think it's important that we share the stories that make up our family history, for it's those stories that keep us rooted in our relationships. My sweetie and I did that last night. I started it by making a request: "Tell me your favorite Ronnie and Joyce story."
He didn't have to think about it--his response was immediate. "The first day I met you... we had lunch at Saltgrass Steakhouse, and I'll never forget that beautiful smile on your face. I knew then that you were someone special."
We traded stories for the better part of the evening. We remembered how I left for Dallas to spend a week with my brother and sister-in-law immediately after that lunch meeting. He called me every night I was there. He said he didn't want me to forget about him... And I didn't. In fact, I started looking forward to his call.
Our official first date was July 4, 2011. He picked me up on his Harley trike, and we rode the freeway that circled downtown, pulling off to watch Freedom Over Texas, the fireworks extravaganza flashing from Eleanor Tinsley Park and exploding over Buffalo Bayou. The official first date ritual is repeated every year... Last summer we celebrated by riding the trike to College Station to watch the fireworks being launched from the George Bush Presidential Library. Instead of staying on the trike, we hauled camp chairs out on one of the Aggie soccer fields and held hands while we oohed and awed at the splendor.
Our first kiss was in a Houston parking lot in front of a Souper Salad on West Gray. I'd been giving him a hug and a peck on the cheek for several dates in a row, but on this particular night he was pressing for the real deal. So... What can I tell you? Souper Salad is now closed on West Gray. (Honest.) To give you more details might be TMI. However, we love retelling that first kiss story to each other.
Our first fight.... Okay, you get the idea. No need for you to know the details of every story. You can know this: Ronnie and I remember not only the fights, but more importantly, the lessons we learned from those careless misunderstandings and humongous arguments we've had.
We have three years worth of Ronnie and Joyce stories, and we're adding more every day we're together. It's our personal narrative.
Why do we take time to remember them and retell them to each other? It allows us to reflect on the development of our relationship, the progress we are making as a couple, and the evolution of our love for one another. I think it's important for couples to do that so they don't get too settled and take each other for granted.
Time and again, Ronnie and I recount for one another the favorite chapters of our love story. He's no Prince Charming, and God knows, I'm not Cinderella, but I surely do like where the story is headed.
Sunday, August 17, 2014
Sunday, August 10, 2014
Writing in Alpine
I spent last week in Alpine at a summer writing retreat, sponsored by the Writers League of Texas. Writers swooped down on the tiny town from all corners of Texas and parts of Louisiana and Oklahoma. They were writers of fiction, non-fiction, memoir, and poetry, and like me, they came to explore their craft--with each other and with the pros who make up the WLT faculty.
This is my third year at the retreat. My sweeties comes with me every year and hangs out while I'm in class. At night we go out and do fun things... for me anyway.
The first evening we gathered at a writing instructor's rented casita and watched the sky turn orange, red, purple, deepening to navy as the sun sunk behind the Davis Mountains while a version of King Ranch casserole cooked in the oven. We listened to the night birds, watched billy goats across the road, slapped at biting mosquitoes, and talked about the juicy alchemy of Alpine on the writer's soul.
The second evening a panel, comprised of the WLT faculty, fed our curiosity with details about their successful writer lives. Although these journalists, authors, and poets seemed to have fallen into their writing careers by accident or the intercession of a benevolent Fate, Joseph Campbell would be proud of their heroic quest to become noteworthy. We listened, infatuated by their stories, and yearned for our own benevolent Fate to favor us with the Holy Grail, a publishing contract.
The third evening three of us drove to nearby Marfa and sat on the patio of the Hotel Paisano where Rock Hudson, Elizabeth Taylor, James Dean, Natalie Wood and other cast members stayed while filming the movie Giant. We watched other tourists and a couple of ranchers and their families enjoy the cool desert evening and a fine meal. We had the restaurant's signature entrée: pistachio crusted fried steak, garlic mashed potatoes, and fresh string beans. If you want to know how to charge $16 for a chicken fried steak, I just told you. Alas, even though it was past eight o'clock when we headed back home, it was too early to see the Marfa lights.
The fourth evening we met up with 2008 Texas Poet Laureate Larry Thomas and his wife Lisa in the Holland Hotel bar. My sweetie and several writer friends are partial to the margaritas there. Larry, an Alpine resident transplanted from Houston, pumped us for city news while we envied his and Lisa's languid life in the Big Sky Country. Afterwards we went to the public library to hear fellow workshop participants read their work. Yes, I was the designated driver, and happy to be of service.
The fifth night we fretted over our approaching departure. This annual summer retreat is grueling work, but I am so viscerally affected, being among this tribe of writers who migrate to the desert every August, that I feel a deep sadness when it is time to leave.
This is my third year at the retreat. My sweeties comes with me every year and hangs out while I'm in class. At night we go out and do fun things... for me anyway.
The first evening we gathered at a writing instructor's rented casita and watched the sky turn orange, red, purple, deepening to navy as the sun sunk behind the Davis Mountains while a version of King Ranch casserole cooked in the oven. We listened to the night birds, watched billy goats across the road, slapped at biting mosquitoes, and talked about the juicy alchemy of Alpine on the writer's soul.
The second evening a panel, comprised of the WLT faculty, fed our curiosity with details about their successful writer lives. Although these journalists, authors, and poets seemed to have fallen into their writing careers by accident or the intercession of a benevolent Fate, Joseph Campbell would be proud of their heroic quest to become noteworthy. We listened, infatuated by their stories, and yearned for our own benevolent Fate to favor us with the Holy Grail, a publishing contract.
The third evening three of us drove to nearby Marfa and sat on the patio of the Hotel Paisano where Rock Hudson, Elizabeth Taylor, James Dean, Natalie Wood and other cast members stayed while filming the movie Giant. We watched other tourists and a couple of ranchers and their families enjoy the cool desert evening and a fine meal. We had the restaurant's signature entrée: pistachio crusted fried steak, garlic mashed potatoes, and fresh string beans. If you want to know how to charge $16 for a chicken fried steak, I just told you. Alas, even though it was past eight o'clock when we headed back home, it was too early to see the Marfa lights.
The fourth evening we met up with 2008 Texas Poet Laureate Larry Thomas and his wife Lisa in the Holland Hotel bar. My sweetie and several writer friends are partial to the margaritas there. Larry, an Alpine resident transplanted from Houston, pumped us for city news while we envied his and Lisa's languid life in the Big Sky Country. Afterwards we went to the public library to hear fellow workshop participants read their work. Yes, I was the designated driver, and happy to be of service.
The fifth night we fretted over our approaching departure. This annual summer retreat is grueling work, but I am so viscerally affected, being among this tribe of writers who migrate to the desert every August, that I feel a deep sadness when it is time to leave.
Sunday, August 3, 2014
Brainstorming
Let me say upfront that I don’t believe in writer’s block.
However, I do believe in being stuck.
Chuck Sambuchino recently tweeted a
column he wrote previously for Writer’s
Digest about finding ways to increase writing productivity by focusing on
brainstorming. The advice includes excellent ways to get unstuck.
He lists five brainstorming opportunities: while driving,
while doing chores, while falling asleep, while cooking, and while waiting (in
line or in the reception area of the doctor’s office).
Two of his five are favorites of mine. I especially like to “sleep
on it” when I’m having problems with a scene. Sambuchino writes: "Think about your novel as you fall asleep, envisioning scenes as if they're in a movie," and I do exactly that. I play different scenes in my head and rewind and edit and replay until I figure out what my character does or says next.
I also "daydream" about plot twists and scene sequels while I'm waiting to see the dentist or the dermatologist or the physician. (Amazing how many doctors I have to see on a regular basis now that I'm on the north side of sixty.)
His other suggestions are not on my list. I need to pay attention when I'm driving, especially on Houston freeways. Getting lost in thoughts about my novel could be as risky as texting. As for cooking, I prefer getting lost in the creative process of making a recipe my own, so I leave story-crafting outside the kitchen.
Doing chores? No, thank you. I pay other people to do those bothersome but necessary chores. Doing so leaves me more time to write.
Sunday, July 27, 2014
Yee-haw
My honey took me dancing last night at the Western Club, which is out on the highway in Navasota. It was our first time there, and Jody Nix was playing the best western swing I've heard since I was nineteen and saw Bob Wills and his band play at the local VFW ("Yee-haw, sing it, Leon"). Jody Nix's band covered a lot of those old Bob Wills songs, along with others made classic by Ray Price.
At the Western Club, the average person on the dance floor is 65 years old, doing the Texas two-step, moving in a circle around the dance floor as one big happy mass. There were easily two hundred people, paying $15 apiece, to drink longnecks and belly rub with their wives, or a widow woman, or divorcée, or a neighbor's wife. It was amazing to see so many folks out having a rousing good time without even one of them getting knee-walking drunk.
These men and women came to dance, and dance they did--even during the band's breaks when the music was piped through the club's sound system. They two-stepped, waltzed, and jitterbugged the night away. My man and I, having been out of practice and easily winded, only made it to the dance floor five or six times, but we had almost as much fun people-watching.
Just in case you decide to stop at one of these dance halls that speckle Texas' landscape, you might want to know what the dress code is, so you don't stand out like a dude. The men wear cowboy hats, straw since it's summer, and snap-button cowboy shirts they probably bought at the Tractor Supply Store (which has lots more than tractors for sale). They wear Levis or Wranglers held up by decorative belts and silver buckles as large as any champion cowboy ever won on the rodeo circuit. Their women folk are clad in jeans or skirts with white blouses or something with a Southwestern flair. Most wear no makeup, just the sun-kissed complexion from daily work in a garden, but their hair is newly coifed. Nearly everyone wears boots.
Ronnie told me to get a good look at everyone's face so I could recognize anyone who showed up at the First Baptist Church this morning. Heathens that we are, we didn't make it to First Baptist or any other church this morning; we overslept. We don't have cattle and chickens that we need to rise early to care for, so we stayed in bed. Our animals are family dogs, and they were more than happy to sleep in with us.
At the Western Club, the average person on the dance floor is 65 years old, doing the Texas two-step, moving in a circle around the dance floor as one big happy mass. There were easily two hundred people, paying $15 apiece, to drink longnecks and belly rub with their wives, or a widow woman, or divorcée, or a neighbor's wife. It was amazing to see so many folks out having a rousing good time without even one of them getting knee-walking drunk.
These men and women came to dance, and dance they did--even during the band's breaks when the music was piped through the club's sound system. They two-stepped, waltzed, and jitterbugged the night away. My man and I, having been out of practice and easily winded, only made it to the dance floor five or six times, but we had almost as much fun people-watching.
Just in case you decide to stop at one of these dance halls that speckle Texas' landscape, you might want to know what the dress code is, so you don't stand out like a dude. The men wear cowboy hats, straw since it's summer, and snap-button cowboy shirts they probably bought at the Tractor Supply Store (which has lots more than tractors for sale). They wear Levis or Wranglers held up by decorative belts and silver buckles as large as any champion cowboy ever won on the rodeo circuit. Their women folk are clad in jeans or skirts with white blouses or something with a Southwestern flair. Most wear no makeup, just the sun-kissed complexion from daily work in a garden, but their hair is newly coifed. Nearly everyone wears boots.
Ronnie told me to get a good look at everyone's face so I could recognize anyone who showed up at the First Baptist Church this morning. Heathens that we are, we didn't make it to First Baptist or any other church this morning; we overslept. We don't have cattle and chickens that we need to rise early to care for, so we stayed in bed. Our animals are family dogs, and they were more than happy to sleep in with us.
Sunday, July 20, 2014
Class of '64
My 50th Huntsville high school class reunion was this weekend, and holy smoke, about fourth-fifths of the class showed up--Art Koeniger as far away as Alaska and Nancy Hall-Hollis as close as a couple of blocks away. My cousin, Barbara Jean, aka Bubbles, who spent most summers with me and dated many of the guys in my class, accompanied me as did my sweetheart, Ron.
Sweet mercy, it was so good to see everyone. Many of us went all the way through public school together, from first grade through high school. Others like Pat Wood and Margaret Nuchia moved to Huntsville their junior year in high school and graduated with the class of 1964. When Bill Roy (he goes by Bill now, living in Arizona and no longer needing that two-name Texas moniker) introduced me to his wife, I told her that Bill and I danced the minuet in Colonial costumes when we were in Mrs. Jackson's first grade class. She replied, "Maybe that explains why it took me 40 years to get him on the dance floor."
Many of my female classmates had southern double names: Mary Ethel, Mary Elizabeth, Mary Nell, Nancy Gay, Carol Ann, Amy Lou, Linda Lou... you get the idea. Except for Mary Elizabeth, they have dropped the second name. As for the guys, almost all of them have dropped the "y" or "ie" on their boyhood names of Danny, Jimmy, Donnie, Ronnie... again, you get the idea. I think there's probably a rule of agreement that men can do that after they are 50 years old or have moved out of state.
We reminisced about the major impact Coach J.J. Head and journalism teacher Karey Bresenhan, among others, had on our lives. Coach Head is deceased; Karey Bresenhan went on to become the founder of the International Quilt Association. She was a surprise guest to our class meeting as was Grace's mother, Velda Hall, who at 105 is the oldest living parent of the class members. I was able to personally thank Karey B. for the solid foundation and encouragement she provided me as a young journalist. Grace's mother, who uses a walker to get around and has a mind sharper than mine, had us laughing in the aisles with the quick-witted repartee she exchanged at the podium with her niece Nancy.
We recalled climbing the Huntsville water tower, sneaking cigarettes, driving to the bootlegger on Gospel Hill, Friday night football, slumber parties, learning the Garner stomp (similar to the today's Texas 2-step), meeting at the Tastee Freeze after school, Mrs. Oliver's typing class, going to the college to "paste up" the high school student newspaper (the Hornet Hive) and checking our shoes to be sure we didn't have part of the newspaper clued there .... such memories!
We all agreed that we grew up in intense times (Cuban Missle Crisis, Kennedy Assassination, beginning of the Vietnam War), and that may be the reason we still care about each other. There are no cliques anymore
--we love each other for the survivors we are. We lived through interesting times and now we live interesting lives, and it's good to hear about our university research, our writing projects, our medical care work, our volunteer service in schools, hospitals, clinics, and our children and their children.
So much went into the weekend activities. Larry and Merrie Monzingo provided commemorative drink coozies and commemorative labeled bottled water for us. Margaret Prentice and Nancy Hall were the amazing coordinators who managed to track us down and make all the arrangements for a grrrrrrreat reunion. I wish I could recall all the individuals who contributed their time, leadership, and finances for this once-in-a-lifetime event, but I'm getting up in the years and it was taxing enough to put names to faces.
Hornet Hugs to all my classmates.
*FYI: Huntsville High School's mascot is the Fighting Hornet.
Sweet mercy, it was so good to see everyone. Many of us went all the way through public school together, from first grade through high school. Others like Pat Wood and Margaret Nuchia moved to Huntsville their junior year in high school and graduated with the class of 1964. When Bill Roy (he goes by Bill now, living in Arizona and no longer needing that two-name Texas moniker) introduced me to his wife, I told her that Bill and I danced the minuet in Colonial costumes when we were in Mrs. Jackson's first grade class. She replied, "Maybe that explains why it took me 40 years to get him on the dance floor."
Many of my female classmates had southern double names: Mary Ethel, Mary Elizabeth, Mary Nell, Nancy Gay, Carol Ann, Amy Lou, Linda Lou... you get the idea. Except for Mary Elizabeth, they have dropped the second name. As for the guys, almost all of them have dropped the "y" or "ie" on their boyhood names of Danny, Jimmy, Donnie, Ronnie... again, you get the idea. I think there's probably a rule of agreement that men can do that after they are 50 years old or have moved out of state.
We reminisced about the major impact Coach J.J. Head and journalism teacher Karey Bresenhan, among others, had on our lives. Coach Head is deceased; Karey Bresenhan went on to become the founder of the International Quilt Association. She was a surprise guest to our class meeting as was Grace's mother, Velda Hall, who at 105 is the oldest living parent of the class members. I was able to personally thank Karey B. for the solid foundation and encouragement she provided me as a young journalist. Grace's mother, who uses a walker to get around and has a mind sharper than mine, had us laughing in the aisles with the quick-witted repartee she exchanged at the podium with her niece Nancy.
We recalled climbing the Huntsville water tower, sneaking cigarettes, driving to the bootlegger on Gospel Hill, Friday night football, slumber parties, learning the Garner stomp (similar to the today's Texas 2-step), meeting at the Tastee Freeze after school, Mrs. Oliver's typing class, going to the college to "paste up" the high school student newspaper (the Hornet Hive) and checking our shoes to be sure we didn't have part of the newspaper clued there .... such memories!
We all agreed that we grew up in intense times (Cuban Missle Crisis, Kennedy Assassination, beginning of the Vietnam War), and that may be the reason we still care about each other. There are no cliques anymore
--we love each other for the survivors we are. We lived through interesting times and now we live interesting lives, and it's good to hear about our university research, our writing projects, our medical care work, our volunteer service in schools, hospitals, clinics, and our children and their children.
So much went into the weekend activities. Larry and Merrie Monzingo provided commemorative drink coozies and commemorative labeled bottled water for us. Margaret Prentice and Nancy Hall were the amazing coordinators who managed to track us down and make all the arrangements for a grrrrrrreat reunion. I wish I could recall all the individuals who contributed their time, leadership, and finances for this once-in-a-lifetime event, but I'm getting up in the years and it was taxing enough to put names to faces.
Hornet Hugs to all my classmates.
*FYI: Huntsville High School's mascot is the Fighting Hornet.
Sunday, July 13, 2014
In the flow
The writing life is multi-layered. The fun part is the creative process. It's what keeps us coming back to the computer screen.
I've been struggling with my main character in my second novel, which is about a race for Texas governor. The race itself has lots of twists and turns—typical Texas politics with backroom pacts and dirty tricks in the mix. She’s covering the race and you’d think she’d be as flashy as the plotline, but she’s been stiff as cardboard.
My friend Karleen reminds me that this is typical in the process. The character is new to me and I don’t know her yet, so I put her in different situations and figure out how she might react. Eventually, as I will get to know her and what makes her tick, I won’t have to force anything. She’ll take over and write her own story. I’ll just be taking dictation. Until then, my job is to keep exploring her character, looking for the interior story, for what motivates her.
Last night, for example, after weeks of drafting five chapters and moving her from scene to scene, she showed me how ambitious she is. It helped me see why she wants to make this journey. She’s going to risk her reputation in this story, and I couldn’t see how someone so strongly identified by her career would put it on the line. But now I see: her ambition drives her to the brink. Wow. I did not know this when I started writing this novel.
Today adrenalin is popping through my veins and I’m writing “in the flow” as Karleen likes to call it. In the flow, for you who don’t know, involves those times when the story comes out hard and fast. A writer’s job, when this happens, is to jump into the rapids and write as fast as she can, capturing the story. (To hell with punctuation and spelling, I’ll handle that in the editing.)
Will I be able to ride the flow to the end of the book? Possible, but unlikely. And frankly, I don’t care. Right now I’m just thrilled with the ride.
PostScript: I mention my friend Karleen Koen occasionally in this blog. She is a best-selling historical novelist who will be revealing ways to wrangle a finished novel from the rough draft at a weeklong retreat in Alpine, TX. She’s an amazing Sorceress who graciously shares her magic potions.
Interested? Go to http://www.writersleague.org/ and click on Conferences and Retreats for detailed information about the 2014 Summer Retreat. This will be my third time to attend the retreat. Hope to see you there.
Sunday, July 6, 2014
Finding an agent
Writers League of Texas awarded my novel UNDERCOVER a finalist place in its 2014 Manuscript Competition and I've been sending queries to New York literary agencies trying to find an agent to represent me. It's a long, arduous process.
Each agent has specific guidelines--one wants a short synopsis and five pages, another wants a chapter-by-chapter synopsis and the first ten pages, another wants the first chapter but in rich text, and another wants... well, you get the idea. And each agent is unwavering about following her particular guidelines, or else. The "or else" means that she won't read the partial manuscript, and since that is the whole reason for contacting her, I follow each one meticulously.
It's not easy finding someone to represent an unpublished novelist, even if I'm a contestant finalist. Literary agencies receive hundreds of email and snail mail submissions on a daily basis. Okay, I get that. They're busy folks who have lots and lots of wannabe authors vying for their attention. But hey, isn't that the core of their business? Could they exist if wannabe authors weren't trying to get agency representation?
My man created a manuscript tracker for me, so I could keep up with my queries and to whom I sent them. I've got nine queries out there right now, looking for a connection.
It's funny but I feel like I'm on match.com because even when an agent expresses interest, she may not be the right agent for me. I'm working on the draft of my second novel and have started the idea file for a third one. This lady is no one-trick pony, so it's important that I find an agent who is interested in my writing goals and publishing dreams, not just in selling one novel.
The dance has begun. I'm both excited and impatient to see who will be my partner.
Each agent has specific guidelines--one wants a short synopsis and five pages, another wants a chapter-by-chapter synopsis and the first ten pages, another wants the first chapter but in rich text, and another wants... well, you get the idea. And each agent is unwavering about following her particular guidelines, or else. The "or else" means that she won't read the partial manuscript, and since that is the whole reason for contacting her, I follow each one meticulously.
It's not easy finding someone to represent an unpublished novelist, even if I'm a contestant finalist. Literary agencies receive hundreds of email and snail mail submissions on a daily basis. Okay, I get that. They're busy folks who have lots and lots of wannabe authors vying for their attention. But hey, isn't that the core of their business? Could they exist if wannabe authors weren't trying to get agency representation?
My man created a manuscript tracker for me, so I could keep up with my queries and to whom I sent them. I've got nine queries out there right now, looking for a connection.
It's funny but I feel like I'm on match.com because even when an agent expresses interest, she may not be the right agent for me. I'm working on the draft of my second novel and have started the idea file for a third one. This lady is no one-trick pony, so it's important that I find an agent who is interested in my writing goals and publishing dreams, not just in selling one novel.
The dance has begun. I'm both excited and impatient to see who will be my partner.
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