Mar 18

Do You (Still) Read Books?

When is the last time you read a book?

My answer to that question is: late February.  But my real answer should be: I don’t read enough.  And that’s a sad thing for a writer.

I talk a lot about the way we wrote as kids, just for the fun of it, no expectations, just playing with words.  I should also be dancing with books, traveling through other worlds to experience the words of others.  I should be reading not necessarily to learn from or to study with an eye towards technique, but really, just to pass the time.

“Should” is an evil, passive excuse of a word.  Anything that “should” be done “needs” to be done.  That is so much easier to say than do because there is so much more in the world to do.

Welcome to the world of social media.  We pass our time with heads buried in our phones or tablets, getting neck cramps from looking down too much, missing the scenery we ride by and not hearing the people around us.  Given that, who wants to carry a book when you’ve got hundreds downloaded onto your Kindle or Nook app?  Further frustration:  who wants to open those apps when you can have the three-star-rush of Angry Birds or discovering five new Pinterest recipes for banana nut bread?

The world of electronic gadgets and the bright shiny oooooooh of it all do suck me in.  I don’t spend my time reading books.  That makes me sad, but I don’t see myself changing my routine.

The most recent book I finished was a memoir recommended to me.  I bought it—a physical copy—because that person said, it sounded like the type of memoir I was writing.  I bought it to study and learn from it, the story being a secondary aspect.  It turns out that the approach worked for me; the story was not a great one and I didn’t connect with the character, but there were lines of brilliant emotion that struck my heart.  I wonder: would I have bought that book just off a bookshelf, physical store or otherwise, if I didn’t have that writing connection to it?

I’m writing this in a Starbucks, and what a twist of coincidence just now.  I overhear a conversation between two women where one says, “Have you read the latest James Patterson novel?”  I’m pausing to listen.  The music’s loud enough and the women are far enough away that I’m only hearing snippets.  “He has a team of writers.”  “He’s always on top of it.”  “It’s always a mystery story.”  “Reading Wall Street Journal,” at which point I think the discussion has moved on to other topics.

I am thrilled to hear this conversation.  Angled towards each other, these women are still a community of two.  What are they doing?  I have to get a closer look.  I’m a terrible judge of age, but they look the age of people who still prefer reading paperbacks.  Do they have a roughed-up paperback between them?  That’d be so cool.  I tell myself I need to sweeten my coffee more, so I shuffle by and peer over their shoulders.  They’re both looking down at large smartphones or small tablets.  I am actually disappointed.  I tell myself that regardless where or how they read it, they read it.  Together.

They’re doing more than I am.

Months ago, I made reading a priority and set goals for the year.  I contributed my part to my writers group’s list of our New Year’s Writing Non-Resolutions.  You can read everyone’s lists here. One of my non-resolutions is what I think is an achievable reading goal for me.

As a writer, I feel a need to be more involved on Goodreads, so I updated my pathetically outdated account.  I enrolled in the 2015 Reading Challenge.  The number of books that I think is achievable for me is…well, check it out here and form your own opinion.

My list of books “currently reading” or “want to read” include two that people want me to review and/or critique.  Now I’m a reviewer.  Now I’m reading with a purpose, an obligation.  It’s more like a job.

When was the last time I wandered a bookstore with the intention of finding a book to read for selfish pleasure?  I don’t know.  I really don’t know.  There’s a lack of bookstores in my part of southeast Michigan.  There are two Barnes and Noble bookstores located a short drive from me.  There is one nice local independent store of new and used books, and then there’s one junky, cluttered used bookstore.  There’s a fabulous large used bookstore on the edge of Detroit, but it’s just far enough away for me to think of it as out of the way.  Nice excuses soothing my guilty conscience.

I guess I should stop making excuses for not reading.

Mar 16

The Gentleman’s Game and a Lady’s Ambition

Dear Readers, I had planned on blogging about a carpenter who uses his professional talents in his pastime of building sand sculptures. I met him and his wife last month and intend to share his story. However, I’ve decided to submit that article to a magazine and hope to get it published. For those of you, especially Marc and Debbie, who were expecting to read that article here, this month, please stay tuned for an update. If all goes well, I’ll have good news, and the article itself, to reveal at a later date. For now, please enjoy the following post in which I explain my perspective on golf.

 

“Do you golf?” seems to be a polite way for a golfer to ask someone else what he or she really wants to know: “Are you a good golfer?” The first question, although gentle, invokes just a hint of tension, as in “What do you do for a living?” The more specific second question verges into the realm of intrusiveness, like “How much money do you make?” A skillful, confident golfer would respond with a simple “Yes,” and no additional explanation would be needed. Instead, both good and bad golfers feel compelled to either elaborate on their level of expertise or mention how little they get out and practice.

Married to a golf addict, I refuse to be a golf widow. I play just enough so that I have a decent drive, can handle my irons, and don’t embarrass my husband too badly on the course. The one important thing I need to work on, however, is establishing my handicap—a golf score average developed from more than par, in my case. Somehow, I’ve avoided attaching the tell-tale label of a high handicap to myself for my entire golf life. Now I’m realizing the far-reaching extent of not embracing the numbers and exposing my personal limitation: I’m in golf limbo.

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Oasis Nine fairway, The Phoenician. Scottsdale, AZ. Photograph by Greg Bixby, March 2015.

Without figuring out my own handicap, I can’t expect other golfers to know if I can keep pace or if I’ll slow the game down and burden my partners. To play with undesignated handicappers like me calls upon gracious golfers to offer, “We’re just out to have fun.” They’re good sports. Impatient golfers quickly seek to round out their foursomes with other known decent golfers so they can avoid the discomfort of playing with someone who makes it on the green in two and then takes a four putt.

I appreciate the gracious and can’t blame the impatient. Athletes of all kinds push themselves harder when they know their competitors have talent. Good golfers are motivated that way, and sometimes it’s just more fun to be evenly paired. You’re more likely to be relaxed and finish each hole in a timely manner.

Because I don’t play regularly, my golf prowess is subject to speculation. There’s a tendency for people who don’t know me to pass judgement on my abilities. Recently, after a round of golf during a business event, a woman who hadn’t been able to golf that day herself asked me if I had gotten stuck behind the slow group. I was pretty sure she thought I was the cause of the delay, since I was the only female in the two foursomes, and it’s often presumed to be difficult for women to keep pace with men. Feeling a bit defensive, I carefully selected my response and admitted to her, “I think we were the slow group.”

I wasn’t significantly hampering my group’s time, however. One of the men hadn’t played in several years. It took him a little while to get used to the set of clubs he had borrowed from the course and to find his swing again after being away from the sport for so long. As he worked out the kinks in his play, I relaxed more and more and shot one of my best games to date.

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Sunset view from the 8th tee, Desert Nine, The Phoenician. Photograph by Kelly Bixby, March 2015.

Even so, I realize that I have to focus on lowering my average score. Not just because of the image I want to present, but so I can enjoy specific privileges. I discovered that without an established handicap of 36 or less, I can’t play at world-renowned St Andrews Links, known synonymously as “the home of golf.”

Located in Scotland, St Andrews offers seven courses and is revered by golf’s masters. The Links’ online history page proudly boasts, “When Nicklaus waved goodbye to his adoring fans from the Swilcan Bridge in his final round of professional golf at the 2005 Open it demonstrated the warmth and affection held for the place where the game started.” Jack Nicklaus himself professed: “If a golfer is going to be remembered, he must win the title at St Andrews.” As one of the world’s most accomplished players, he achieved three Open wins, and two were at St Andrews on The Old Course.

St Andrews is open to the public and fuels the aspirations of amateurs, including my husband. His passion has infected me and I’ve learned to love and respect the gentleman’s game. After years of warming up to it, I’ve gathered fond memories: a particularly awesome chip shot and a well-played round; gorgeous scenery connected by expertly-groomed greens and fairways; intrinsic challenges and friendly conversations. My husband’s pilgrimage to golf mecca is important to me as well and is a part of our future plans. Someday it will be my turn to step upon the sacred ground at The Old Course, push my tee into the soft earth, and square up to take a swing. By nightfall, I’ll tally my score and tuck away favorite moments from across the pond. ‘Till then, I’m perfecting my answer to that loaded question, “Do you golf?” by simply and confidently replying, “Yes!”

Mar 15

Trombone

Lowrey Elementary School Band Director, Mrs. Johnson, came into our 6th grade homeroom the first week of the new school year, wanting us to learn to play an instrument and join her band. Two friends and I envied a 7th grader beating drum-sticks on school steps, so we wanted to be drummers in the worst way. Mrs. Johnson saw me in her dimly-lit office next to the band room, offering a new world of opportunity. “Well, my dear”, she asked in a kindly voice over her horn-rimmed glasses, “What sort of instrument were you thinking of playing?”

“Well, Ma’am, I want to be a drummer ‘cause I saw a friend beating drumsticks and it sounded good.” The simple truth was best and she seemed unperturbed by a straightforward answer.

“Tell you what. I’ll loan you drumsticks and a pad for practice, but you have the lips to play trombone. I happen to need a trombonist and can lend you a trombone.” She assembled one before my eyes. “Here’s a mouthpiece for you to practice. Put your lips together and buzz into it like this. You’ll get the hang of it and I’ll see you next week.”

Even at my young age, I knew it was a trap. The trombone was longer than I was tall and a lot more expensive than drumsticks, but I couldn’t get out of seeing her the following week because I had to return the sticks, pad, and mouthpiece.

I asked my friends what happened with their visits to Mrs. Johnson. The first was still in a state of shock. “I have to take this cornet home along with the drumsticks and try them both out. She needs cornets, so she lent me this.” I was mystified my friend had given up so easily on drumming. The other was even less satisfied.

“She ran out of drumsticks because you guys took them all. I have a saxophone mouthpiece to try but I get the drumsticks next week. Dad says Charlie Parker is the world’s greatest jazz saxophonist. Who’s he, anyway?” By the time I got home, I figured Mrs. Johnson had all the drummer-trainees she would ever need. The drumsticks would be taken from my grasp, to be delivered to someone else, and I would be snookered into a lifetime of playing trombone if I wasn’t smart enough to find a way out.

Sitting around the kitchen table a few nights later, my mother said, “I had a call from Mrs. Johnson and she says you have a nice embouchure. Tommy Dorsey and Glenn Miller were the greatest American band leaders and trombonists ever, except Glenn Miller blew up in an airplane in World War II.”

I was appalled to discover the trap had been sprung. “Mom, all the mouthpiece does is make “Thrrrp” noises and spit comes out. I don’t have trombone lips; I have braces. Why can’t I play guitar? And what’s embouchure anyway?” Diversionary guitar tactics weren’t going anywhere, despite scary visions of trombonists blowing up in airplanes.

“Mrs. Johnson wants to see you tomorrow. She’s going to lend you one to try out.”

Mrs. Johnson had invaded my life to an awesome extent. Who was this Tommy Dorsey so enthralling my mother? I had serious doubts about satisfying her Tommy Dorsey needs but, within weeks, I was a struggling elementary school trombonist. In a few more years, I was an acceptable junior and then high school trombonist. In my senior year, our orchestra was in the play “Brigadoon” with a cast party after the last performance.

My father let me drive his new 1957 V8-powered Chevrolet to the party, a special privilege. However, a rat-faced band member challenged me to race his dad’s new 6-cylinder Dodge Coronet. We decided to race one block. At a signal, we took off and God was kind that night because we didn’t crash. At the end of the block, I had beaten him handily. In frustration, he gunned his car and turned left, his left front hitting the right front of our brand-new Chevrolet. We both got out, shaking. His father’s car had damage but, try as we might, we couldn’t find anything wrong with the Chevy. Then I realized the trombone had been lying on the back seat and was now on the floor.

Driving home, trembling all the way, I knew there must be some damage to the Chevrolet. If I hadn’t been talked into playing trombone by Mrs. Johnson years before, this never would have happened. Next morning, before I could look at the car, my father said, “It’s the strangest thing. I didn’t tell your mother but a few days ago I hit the right front bumper of our new car on a telephone pole. It pulled it out two inches, a lot of money to fix. But now it’s like it never happened. It’s back in place without a mark on it.”

I croaked, “Wow, dad, that’s amazing. They must have a new kind of steel that reforms into place if it’s hit. I’ve never heard of anything like that.” I went outside and checked the bumper in bright sunlight. There wasn’t a scratch or ding. Back in my bedroom, I found a slight dent in the trombone bell, but no one would ever know except me.

Mar 10

Witchy Woman

Crows circled the house as my footfalls cracked branches and dirt sank between my toes. The old house was my safe haven, the darkness my hiding place when the light seemed too oppressive. Weeds clung to the worn slats of siding, vines crept up the walls, their small fingerless leaves reaching for the light and overgrown trees and foliage blocked the sun like living gravestones. I looked up to the ominous birds again, and asked, “Why do you circle crows? You shouldn’t be here.”

I walked faster, my steps uncharacteristically thoughtless. My worries were my own here in the dense woods, as I wandered outside the walls of my secret world. Then a tinkle of laughter filled my ears. I turned my head to listen closer. The delightful but abrupt sound echoed inside the abandoned house off its walls as I drew closer. I stopped, my throat closing in anger. This was my place. Unsheathing my dagger, strapped to my chest, I prepared to defend what was mine.

I listened for the sound again. Not hearing anything, I moved up onto the back concrete porch where the backdoor was wide open, broken from its hinges long ago. This time, I entered without a sound, my eyes scanning for any disturbance in the familiar landscape. I wondered what the humans were like who had lived here. Did they eat their meals together and talk about their day, or did they find the nearest pub to paw up the skirt of a wench. My long hardened fingers clenched and released.

I heard the laughter again, and sucked in a painful breath. I would have to find another place to go to for solitude. My shoulders slumped low, my fists clenched and my chin fell nearly to my chest, my mood slowly moving onto rage. I didn’t get very far. My name seemed to come to me on the wind from the next room, making my skin prickle and shiver with need.

“Silas Anastad,” the voice said joined by her tinkling laugh. “Do not leave.” The feminine timber singed my body. I turned to the voice unwilling to leave but my feet carried me closer.

“I’ve waited too long to meet you.” I smiled again as she spoke. “Come to me, male of the Sidhe.” That got my attention even more. How did the female know I was of the Fae?

“Because silly, I’m special.” She continued to laugh, the wonderful sound finally dropping off as I walked through the grand archway into the core of the dilapidated home. I held my weapon firm.

What greeted me was nothing less than astounding, the most beautiful human woman I’d ever laid eyes on. She seemed to glow from the inside out, her warmth radiating onto my dark, flesh, like a soft caress from her lips. I closed my eyes and felt it sink into my soul, opening a part of me that had been stuck in an abyss of hate. My body swayed forward.

Blinking my eyes open, I couldn’t help but stare. Her cerulean colored eyes were luminous. They glowed as if they were jewels filled with laughter. Soft plump lips, painted a glossy crimson, curled up in a mischievous smile. Her dark chestnut hair lay in soft curls winding down and over her full pale breasts that a black lace and blood red satin corset hugged so lovingly. Her lush hips flared out draped with more red satin accentuating her full figure so well, I wanted to grip those curves bring her hips flush with mine. When I trained my eyes on her feet, they were bare, her small delicate toes adorned with black paint on her nails, just as she’d done to her fingernails.

I cleared my dry throat, but the word stuck. I tried again. “Hello.”

She waved and looked at me coyly from under her lashes, her skirt twirling back and forth.

“Hello, Silas.” She stopped moving, her stature growing as she straightened to her full height, which was still much shorter than my six foot four frame, but no less commanding. She seemed luminous in her confidence, her age somewhere in her twenties, belying the number. It was amazing to watch the transformation from the shy but excited female to this more regal woman who stood before me.

I cleared my throat again, “How do you know my name?”

“I’ve seen you,” she tapped her temple, “up here, since I was very young.”

She was so beautiful, I lost track of what I was going to say. I shook my head to clear the confusion of her appearance, and finally asked, “But how? You’re human. How do you know about my kind?”

Her lips twisted up at one corner and her head tilted to the side, as if to tell me I was an idiot. I laughed. I couldn’t help it. I returned my dagger to my harness. She seemed so excited to see me, but I shook my head. “I don’t understand,” I said.

She started to twirl in a circle and hummed to a tune I couldn’t hear. I finally had had enough and quickly moved toward her, grabbing her by the shoulders, bringing her to a standstill, or so I thought. But she swept me up in her joy and my arms easily wrapped around her, one hand going to her little waist and the other gripping her nape at her hair, and we started to dance around the grand room. The music I hadn’t heard suddenly flit across the room as it transformed into something wild. The chandelier above us sparkled anew and the floor became a polished marble, the walls a rich tapestry of  fabric, as the magic emanating from her touched us both, carrying us in the dance. Her head went back, she smiled through her laughter, and all I could do was hold on.

“Finally,” she kept saying, “Finally.”

When the music dwindled and we came to a stop, she looked up at me and the world came to a sudden halt as our heads came closer together. She lifted a hand to my face and brushed her slight fingers against my cheek, up, over my pointed ear, and down my jaw, stopping on my lips. Her fingers touched me, where her eyes focused on my lips, in a lazy back and forth motion. Her tiny pink tongue swept across her own lips making them wet and I groaned. My head bent down to hers and…

I snapped my head up, but still held her close, my hand twining in her soft hair, tipping her head further back, not loosening my controlled grip. “You’re a witch.” It was a statement of fact and she gave another one of her tiny coy smiles. But there was nothing really coy about her. Her eyes flared with sexual heat and power that made my body stir as only a males could. I leaned in again, her lips parting, her breath hot, and my blood pumping hard as I leaned in once again. “What’s your name?” I whispered so close I could almost taste her.

“Analise,” she said, her voice a shiver across my skin, as her body started to tremble with a need as strong as mine, her scent sharpening as I breathed her in.

“Who are you?”

“I am yours.”

Mar 08

Hungry for a Short Story

WARNING: May cause cravings for Spanish tapas and short stories.

A meal of Spanish tapas is similar to the reading of short stories. Imagine different flavorful dishes served one after another – combinations of vegetables, fish, cheeses and more. Dinner guests suffice with a few bites of each dish. Add dates, sherry and marinated olives to the next round of tapas. Still hungry? Order again from the menus – hot or cold – with different ingredients, seasonings and sauces. Want more? Then turn the page for the next short story in an anthology because reading these tasty bites are just as delicious.

Like tapas, short stories come in many different forms and structures. Longer stories might be structured as miniature novels. The reader travels at warp speed through the character arch or hero’s journey. A short story, however, might give a glimpse into only one aspect of a longer story. In The Rose Metal Press Field Guide to Writing Flash Fiction, one of the contributing writers, Nathan Leslie, categorizes flash fiction into five basic types: the monologue, the tale, the scene, the snapshot story, and the experiment. Leslie states the individual scene is the most common. The scene format worked for my first short story which I entered and placed in a contest. Since a novelist already thinks in scenes, this style is an easy transition to short stories. Likewise, in a tapas restaurant, an order might begin with the more familiar food items and progress to the more experimental.

The waiter brings the tapas and proudly says the name of the dish. We have ordered several tapas. Perhaps if the restaurant were not so loud, or our Spanish were better, or less of the sangria had found its way to our glasses, we would know what was in front of us. Nevertheless, part of the fun is guessing the dish. We sniff for the garlic and look for the pimento. And then, someone sees the olives and knows it is definitely the beef. A novel prolongs the guessing of who “done it” or “will do it.” Guessing games frequent literature, television shows and even childhood playtime such as Hide and Go Seek; Animal, Vegetable, Mineral; and Hangman. Short stories are guessing games on steroids. The form compresses the timeframe and eliminates unnecessary details or facts. The reader must parse through subtle gestures and implications to arrive at the theme and decipher hidden clues, meanings and flavors.

When I mention tapas, I also speak of menus, waiters and restaurants because it is far easier to eat tapas at a restaurant with a bevy of chefs, cooks and busboys. Similarly, short stories are a treasure to read and analyze yet very difficult to write. The challenge is to determine the most concise presentation of the theme and then the best way to reveal the story.

Now I have to decide which theme I want to write next. Which one of these will it resemble?

QUESO DE CABRA CON NUECES – goat cheese rolled in caramelized pecans, served with poached pear in red wine, grapes and toast points

CAZUELA DE PULPO – marinated octopus with sweet peppers and sherry vinaigrette

CAZUELA DE POLLO SALTEADO – casserole of sautéed chicken with garlic, chorizo, mushrooms and amontillado sauce

PINCHO DE SOLOMILLO A LA PIMIENTA – grilled beef brochette rolled in cracked pepper, served with caramelized onions and horseradish sauce

If you’re tempted by these tapas, stop at Emilio’s Tapas in Chicago for any of the menu items above. Take along an anthology of short stories by Spanish authors. Or practice your Spanish and read Colombian short story writer, Gabriel Garcia Marquez.