30,000 ahoy!

A Maid in the Kitchen, David Emil Joseph de Noter

Day 18, and I’ve reached 30,000. I want to be as far along as I can before the Thanksgiving break ’cause I really don’t know how I’m going to fit in the writing time between food, my sisters, and jaunting off to see NEW MOON–again! (Can hardly wait until Saturday for my first viewing.)

Yesterday, for the first time in what seems like ages, a wonderful thought about Sweet Taboo popped up from the swamp. I’ve now got a theme for Deidre’s arc, and a starting point for a whole sequence. I have not had a thought, wet or dry, about Sweet Taboo in…months? It’ll have to keep until December, when I’ll have a chance to squeeze it alongside A Haunting of Roses.

stargazer

 

Got an idea for a fantasy novel where the hero is a gargoyle. Must think about that one a bit. Like the idea, have scribbled a few notes about the hero. No story yet.

Spent a glorious 4th of July birthday with my sisters and nieces (the demonettes). Watching the youngest demonette (she turned 5 on Sunday) in the pool, I realized the child is a bundle of annoyances–in the way of mischievous, energetic children. She insisted on belly-flopping into the pool, sending tsunamis over her mother and me; spitting water at her older sister, throwing things at her, harassing her with the water toys, standing on the edge of the jacuzzi and giving her mother visions of her falling off and breaking herself–that got her a time-out for a bit–and generally having a good ol’ time, to our amusement. My sister offered to give both of them to me–delightful as they are, I politely declined.

Sweet Taboo is on the sideline for a moment. Shadow Walk has lured me into working on it for a little while–writing the second draft. I roughly finished the first draft years ago; roughly ’cause I left a hole near the end; now I’m hoping to finish it again without a hole. Who knows–might have two manuscripts ready by the end of July!

There’s an interesting Nora Roberts interview at Borders (link below) that reminded me of the value of the discovery draft. I tend to start writing as soon as I get a story idea, and of course, I get into trouble. My first drafts are definitely discovery drafts since I often do not have a clue to where I’m going with a story when I start it. I’m really trying to break that habit–somewhat–and teach myself to outline first. Then my discovery drafts won’t be so nightmarish.

Happy writing, d:)

<a href=”http://www.borders.com/online/store/ArticleView_robertsnora2?cmpid=SL_20090707_RWB”></a>

moonbeam

Beatrice, Maria Spartali Stillman

Michelle asked me if I was still walking on moonbeams over the acceptance of The Baby by Dark Fire–well, just one moonbeam. I’ve been lax here at pendrifter ’cause I’ve been writing. I finally figured out what to do with A Haunting of Roses, another short story I wrote several years ago. I wasn’t satisfied with the ending so I put it away and left it in the dark of the files.

Last week I added it to my list of stories I shouldn’t give up on. I re-read it, and re-titled it ’cause I’m going to use that title for one of my Angharad fantasy novels. Over the weekend I cut, revised, and edited it, baptised it Ghost of Roses, and submitted it Monday night to a chosen market. At last, that birdie has flown the nest–for a few weeks anyway.

I’m waiting for summer to strike. The days have been fair, sunny, warm, but the winds zip through, sea-chilled and rambunctious, frightening the sun so it hides behind the clouds, and I’m afraid to step outside without my blankie.

Sweet Taboo is coming along nicely. I’m going to pause a bit in Kenny’s storyline to do a little reading on ghosts, occult magic, and alchemy, while doing some contemplative work on the Deidre-Randall arc. I feel a title change coming on for this book too.

My birthday’s Saturday. I’m going to spend it at my sister’s by her pool, G&T in hand, and Eclipse, which I’m re-reading. Or maybe, since Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince is about to pop, I may take one of the HP’s with me. Since it’s Moreno Valley, I know the weather’s going to be hot!

I finished LKH’s Skin Trade a week ago. Have got some thoughts about it; maybe I’ll share them. The concluding scenes made me go EWW!.

yesterday’s silent light

 

Yesterday my sisters, nieces and I visited Mom’s grave. We took her roses, big fat cabbage roses in peach and scarlet and elegant American beauties in hearts-blood red swooning in fern. Riverside National Cemetery was sunny, breeze-swept, and full of other families paying respects and leaving behind bouquets of roses and lilies and tulips. We told Mom we loved her and missed her, and my four-year old niece asked if grandma was down there beneath the plaque, and we said yes. I was very glad to have given Mom roses every Mother’s Day. When going through a collection of old photos my sisters and I found the papery petals of aged rose blossoms.

More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.

-Edna St. Vincent Millay

soliloquy

 

Mom was a leap year baby, and today she’d be 68. Nearly five months have passed, and not a day goes by that I do not think of her. This weekend we’ll place fresh flowers on her grave.

*************

Going through my old manuscripts, I found this little two-pager. So I’ll let it see the light of day…
CROSSING

The traffic light flashed “Walk” before Jamal reached the curb. He ran the last few steps to the crosswalk, and slowed abruptly to a stroll, behind the old lady ahead of him. In the blush of Sunday afternoon sunshine, he ambled across, his hands in his pockets, tennis shoes scuffing against the pebbly asphalt. He should have called Calvin and made sure he was home. But he’d probably be there since his car wasn’t running anyway. That meant killing a six-pack and watching basketball on television. Perfect.

The old woman ahead of him cast a sidelong glance back. He glimpsed the turn of her sallow, veined cheek. She traveled fast, her cane not slowing her down any. She probably wanted to make it across before the “Walk” started flashing, before the two lanes of idling cars were ready to roll. Her quick stepping, the cane crunching smartly on the pavement, reminded him of the way his Grandma Vivian used to cross the road, her cane stamping along briskly like this old lady’s. Ain’t no thing, mama, he thought. They ain’t gonna run us over even if you still crossing when the light changes.

But he could see why she was hurrying. They never gave you enough time to cross these long intersections before the light began blinking. If you were old and couldn’t move too fast, there you were, trying to get across with everybody staring at you. He wasn’t hurrying. He would get to the other side when he got to the other side. That’s all there was to it.

He caught her looking back at him and looked behind himself. Nobody behind him; nothing to see. What’s up with her?

Wherever she was going, she must be running late. She ought to have somebody taking her around, but he guessed she didn’t. Otherwise she wouldn’t be out here with her cane trying to get to the store, or wherever, and home before her knees started hurting her.

Right on cue, the “Walk” light winked frantically. Jamal tsk’d, watching the old lady quicken her steps as best she could. They must know how many steps it took to get to the middle, and then they made you nervous, tried to rush you across. They ought to put a little more time on the clock for old people. He glanced at the waiting cars, didn’t hurry his walking in the sunshine pace. They’d just have to wait.

The old woman reached the curb and looked back at him. Sunshine flashed on her wire-framed glasses. Her mouth trembled, lips parted as if she were about to say something.

Did he know her? Did she know him? Was she one of the ladies who shopped at the FoodMart, who came through his line regularly? He smiled at her, but let it crumble as her look struck him like a hard flick of sand in his face. He stepped past her, staring at his shoes, away from her frightened gray eyes, away from the sharp clefts at the corner of her thin lips. The sun fell hot over him, its heat barely cut by the flat brush of breezes. He didn’t want to look back, didn’t want to care, but he felt her gaze burning the back of his neck. He turned his head, looked back anyway. Her glare slapped him like a clop of thrown mud. Calvin’s house was another block down the street. That first beer was going to taste too good to be true. He was just taking a walk, going somewhere like she was going somewhere. It didn’t mean a thing. He strode on, but her face hung in his mind, white and glaring like the sun.

all the good stuff

Autumn, Lucien Levy Dhurmer

This has been quite a year for me–a new job at the start of the year that turned out to be a great disappointment, a return to the old job, having major surgery, and on top of it all, losing Mom. I’ve rarely felt lonely, but I feel lonely now. Mom’s death has left a gnawing emptiness that I suppose in time will fade some, although I don’t know if it’ll ever go away. Since I cannot face that emptiness, I’ve turned my attention to the business of living. My half-sister, who lost her mother, and a good friend of mine who also lost her mother several years ago, tell me the first two years after are hard, and then it gets easier. Time heals, as they say.

I loved Mom with all my heart; we were companions. We’d hang out together, she’d talk and talk, I’d listen, we’d laugh over family stories, complain to each other about family problems; she’d tell me all her worries and her dreams; I’d update her on my doings. Looking back I realize Mom and I shared much–and for that I’m grateful. I never forgot she was “MOM” but she was also much like an older sister and best friend. I’m glad for all the hugs and kisses I gave her, for all the “I love you’s,” for the trips we took together, for the times I made her laugh, for that chuckle and wink she would do when she’d successfully accomplished a task or solved a problem, for the Mother’s Days, for the sound of her voice telling me everything, and for all the good stuff she taught me–independence, self-reliance, how to roll with the punches, how to be strong, the pursuit of dreams. She’s gone too soon.

I’ve taken refuge in my writing; it’s where I always go to deal with my troubles. A part of me sits in a fog, and another part redirects itself and makes it bearable. Mom used to say “Knock me down and I’ll get up every time.” How to get up every time is the most valuable lesson she taught me.

Whitney’s eulogy

Georgie Mae Young
February 29, 1940 – October 8, 2007

Tuesday, I and my siblings laid Mom to rest at Riverside National Cemetery. Mom was a lovely woman, inside and out. Like everyone else she had her good and bad days when the irritations of daily life rubbed her patience thin. She had an honest heart and a clean spirit. She was vibrant, straightforward, good-humored, and undeceiving. She took great care of us in life, and even in death, she still managed to take care of us.

A couple years ago she planned her funeral–even though she had no idea what would happen. She choose her coffin, decided she wanted red and white flowers (we chose a floral piece of red and white roses, lilies, and ivy); she included a limo for the family, and even wrote out the menu for the meal afterward–spaghetti, sweet cornbread, green salad, and a sheet cake. She left me in charge of carrying out her wishes; I gotta say the details of arranging a funeral are mind-boggling, but we gave Mom the dignified funeral she wanted.

I asked my niece to write her memories of her grandmother to present at Mom’s funeral, and below is what she wrote. She captured Mom’s essence.

Whitney’s Eulogy to her Grandmother

When I think about my grandmother, it’s hard not to think about the sick person that she was for the past few months. Seeing her that ill was upsetting and unsettling, not just because I loved her and cared about her and didn’t want to see her sick; more so, because of the vibrant and healthy person that she normally was.

The grandmother that I remember got up and made her bed every morning. She drank her coffee, or sometimes heated up water but left it in the microwave and forgot to make coffee. And she took her blood pressure medication, or sometimes took the bottle out and left it on top of the microwave and forgot to take her blood pressure medication. She would start soaking beans or chopping vegetables for that night’s dinner at 8 o’clock in the morning, after making breakfast, and getting my sister off to school. Sometimes, she would clear off the kitchen counter, or go online and work on her Internet business, or call friends and family to see how they were doing. She cleaned, and cooked, and fed, and washed, and talked everyday, from 6am to 10pm.

The grandmother I remember rode the bus with me everywhere- to the Tyler mall, before it became the Galleria, to the grocery store for Stater Brother’s sandwiches, to the movies, and the library, and Brockton arcade, and the dentist’s office, and finally back home. She walked me to school, even when I didn’t want her to, and brushed my hair in the mornings.

The grandmother I remember loved to laugh, loud, throaty, contagious laughs; and sneeze loud, contagious sneezes that could be heard throughout the entire house and scare you if you weren’t expecting them. If she saw you in a store she would stop you and say hi and talk to you about the past five years of her life, or what she’s done since the last time she saw you, whichever period of time was longer. She would listen to gospel songs every Sunday because her church was in her heart, she would say.

The grandmother I remember cooked pecan candies, and Cornish hens, and jambalaya, and gumbo, and cornbread, and potato salad, and stewed osh potatoes, and oyster dressing, and greens, and she could do it all from scratch if she wanted to.

She wore fuchsia lipstick, and costume jewelry, and velvet boots or heels, and shirts with crazy prints. Not hospital gowns or sick pajamas. I don’t remember seeing her cry, ever. So that’s why it was so surprising and upsetting to see a sick person where my grandmother once was. It was hard to think about all the things she wouldn’t get to do and even harder to accept the fact that she could never go back to the grandmother I used to ride the bus with.

However, I realize now that in my memories of my grandmother, she will always wear fuchsia lipstick, and cook stewed osh potatoes, make her bed in the mornings, ride the bus with me, and pursue her dreams- because all these things about her are a part of my life experience. The things that she taught me: how to work hard, care for your family, how to be selfless, and not to be afraid of failure or success, or even to be myself- will live on in me. She showed her love by sharing her life and I’m grateful that I got to share mine with her.

Thank you, Whitney. I’m going to miss Mom greatly. She was the rock of the family. I know she’s gone, but a part of me still doesn’t believe it. I’m going to look for her in my dreams.

On behalf of my family, thank you all for your kind notes and condolences. Your thoughtfulness softened the sharp edges of Mom’s passing.

at peace

Mommie died Monday night. On behalf of my family, thank you everyone for your kind words, hugs, and well wishes sent for our Mom.

I can tell you that she is at peace; she looked like she was smiling and her face was absolutely serene. d:

quickie

Swans, Leon Spilliaert

Just a quickie post to respond to all the kind comments. My surgery went well; I was in the hospital for the past 3 days, and am home now (Saturday). The staples are out and I’ve got a bottle of vicodin close to hand (right now I’m feeling no pain–heh) and six weeks of recovery ahead.

Mom slipped into a coma on Wednesday but managed to come out of it. I was so afraid she’d die while I was in the hospital and greatly relieved when my sister told me she’d come out of it. She’s lucid, but wavers in and out. A friend’s going to drive me down to see her but I won’t be able to stay ’cause I can’t do much moving about and must be careful of physical stress. My aunt and cousin have arrived–thank goodness.

So–that’s it for me now; when I’m able to focus more I’ll chat a bit. Thanks, guys; blessings to you all. d:)

the bell

Delaneira, Evelyn De Morgan

Decided to stay home today, but called my sister and had a nice long talk with her about how Mom is doing. She’s doing fine; she’s eating more of the food she’s allowed–nothing chewable of course. Julie told me the doctor wants to know how much Mom is eating so she’s got to keep track of every spoonful.

Julie gave Mom a bell to call her when she needed her, but Mom was having way too much fun with that bell. When, after numerous other requests that kept Julie trotting back and forth, Mom rang the bell to complain that her bed was too small and she wanted a big bed, Julie took the bell away. “That’s enough of that,” she told her.

We had a good laugh over that. Mom’s a treasure. I talked with Mom a bit–she complained about the bed to me too. I really should have driven down there today but I really wanted to stay home too, just couldn’t get in the car for a long drive. I know she’s doing okay so that’s comforting.

Worked on AloS. Yesterday I re-drew House Jancoro’s floor plan, and printed out some art that reflected certain scenes for me–all a part of my visualization efforts. Today I’ve read and re-read the most recent writings, and I’m now wondering what to write next.

Today was a gloriously hot and beautiful Sunday; now there’s a cool breeze pushing against the curtains. Last night I finally watched my dvd of the movie RAY; it was good. Jamie Foxx gave a superb performance as the musically brilliant, blind Ray Charles. I’m reading a number of books–and find myself drifting restlessly between them. I’m halfway through Naomi Novik’s Throne of Jade; well into Steven Pressfield’s excellent Gates of Fire; started a book of poet Elizabeth Bishop’s letters titled One Art; and began reading Charles Frazier’s Cold Mountain–this book has been on my shelf for nearly ten years. I dunno–I was saving it. Guess it’s going to be my “post-surgery” novel.