Writing and Publishing

The distance between having an idea for a novel, writing the novel, and publishing it--even self-publishing--is long and torturous.  At least, it's been that way for me.

Over ten years ago, I began with an idea:  what would happen if an innocent person got caught with a dead body?  Building the characters, envisioning the settings, giving everything verisimilitude--all were a challenge.  I would write and let it rest.  I would pick it up again.  I would re-write.  Let it rest.  Take it up again.

Finally, last fall, the time seemed just right for publishing.  Since I had never found an agent, I took the Amazon path to self-publishing.

Oh, my!  Preparing a manuscript called for more advanced computer skills than I had ever used. 

When I saw the art work Jac, an artist friend, had created, I really believed in the whole project as an entity standing on its own merits.

What did I do then?  Immediately, even before finishing the publishing aspects, I began reviewing the second novel, another murder mystery.  Hey, I have to get this one through the process before I forget how I did it!

Luck of the Mummy

            The scene is right out of Bram Stoker’s Dracula.  No formal entry way.  Instead, a hole in the ground near the grey stone walls shows steep, narrow steps cut roughly into the bedrock.  Steps that grudgingly allowed entry into the burial vaults under the old church.   The low doorway forces visitors to stoop to enter.  Inside everything is covered in ancient dust and cobwebs.  Dim light from low wattage bulbs barely gives enough light for the visitors to see into the individual crypts where wooden coffins are haphazardly stacked.  The lids to several are broken.   Slightly hunched over, the caretaker/guide speaks in a high-pitched voice that holds a hint of a malevolent giggle.   He gleefully points out the coffin of the nun, the thief whose feet had been cut off, the brothers who were hung, drawn and quartered.                               

     At the end of the hallway, he waits in the gloom for today’s visitors:  two couples—one young, the other much older.  He rubs his hands together as he tells the story of the final coffin and its occupant.  A knight.  A crusader.  His legs broken and crossed to form a crude crucifix.  His right arm extending a bit above the level of the open casket.  

     The visitors peer into the gloom.  In the dim light, they see the open casket covered with dust and old dirt.  The mummified remains are a darker shade of grey/brown.  If the two men visitors are unnerved, they show no sign.  Both of the women, especially the young one, look nervous and uncomfortable.

            The guide, looking and sounding like Dracula’s slave who ate flies and bugs, makes an offer to the visitors, his voice tinny with glee and challenge:  “Would you care to shake hands with the mummy?” 
            With a barely suppressed squeal, the young woman brushes past the older couple and almost runs to the stairway leading out into the gathering dusk.  The young man follows her almost as abruptly.
            The older couple is left alone with the centuries-old mummies and the guide who still waits expectantly for an answer to his question.

            A novel? No.  A movie? No.  Just us. 

            Although Richard and I (the older couple) had found St. Michan’s Church in Dublin after the last tour of the day had started, the ticket seller assured us that we could join the tour at the half-way point, seeing the last half with the larger group, and then the guide would take us and another couple through what would normally be the first part of the tour. 
            The guide was delightful.  He had obviously studied the role of Stoker’s Enfield, especially as played by Dwight Frye in the black and white movie version with Bela Lugosi.  What could have been either a boring or more-than-slightly disgusting look at dirty coffins in a dry, airless basement became a dip into the past.   This was aided by the knowledge that Bram Stoker actually visited the vaults before he wrote Dracula.   At least, Stoker’s visit is one of the many legends surrounding the church, the vaults, and the mummies.  Legends a realist might question.
            But on this day, Richard and I aren’t being realists.  As the young couple fled the crypt, the guide continued, “Shaking hands with the crusader was said to bring good luck.”
            “Well,” Richard said.  “Let me in there."
            The guide opened the iron gate and Richard went inside, edging his way between the wall and the casket.  He took the mummy’s fingers in his right hand, touching it but not shaking it.  Then he carefully made his way back to me.
            My turn.   I heaved an inward sigh.  Then I followed Richard’s pattern.  When I touched the fingers, they felt leathery, like old modeling clay. 
            “Now you will both be lucky,” the guide told us.

            The next day, on our flight from Dublin to Faro, Portugal, Richard looked out the airplane window just in time to see another plane at the same level as ours but going in the opposite direction, close enough for him to read the logo and could have read, given more calm, the numbers on the tail.  Our plane veered away and onto another flight pattern.   Airlines call this “a near miss.”   We call it “luck of the mummy.”

             

Christmas Magic

Christmas Magic

   “Would you let me show you our Christmas lights?” the taxi driver asked.  He had overheard my exclamation of delight at a quick glimpse of a lighted boulevard as we crossed its southern end.

   We were in a taxi in Malaga, Spain and, as you may have gathered, it was mid-December.  Malaga is located on a narrow shelf of land between high, barren mountains and the Mediterranean Sea.  About a half million people are crowded into the city which seems to be about 2 miles wide and about 8 miles long.  Our hotel was located in the western end of Malaga; the restaurant which had been recommended as having the best seafood paella in all of Spain was located, wouldn’t you know, in the eastern end.

   The taxi driver who had taken us to the restaurant had taken the interstate-type highway that runs along the base of the mountains.  The one taking us back to the hotel was taking us along southern streets running parallel to the Mediterranean. 

   For the cynics who are sure the taxi driver offered to show the lights simply to pad his fare, let me assure you, he didn’t.  It cost virtually the same for both trips.

   “Would you?” I responded to his offer to see the Christmas lights.  “That would be lovely.”

   He quickly made a u-turn and took us back to the boulevard of lights.  We drove through an enchanted tunnel of lights.  The broad boulevard was divided in the center with an area wide enough for palm trees, sidewalks, and park benches.  All the trees were wrapped with lights.  Above us intricate displays of snow flakes, bells and other Christmas symbols were outlined in lights.  At one spot on the boulevard, the park in the middle was broad enough to accommodate a bigger-than-life-sized wooden nativity set.  The taxi driver explained that many other streets are lighted during the Christmas season but none so beautifully as this central one.

   A town or city decorated for Christmas has long been one of my favorites of the many traditions associated with the holiday season.   I remember, as a child in Ozark, eagerly awaiting December 1^st when Ozark’s lights would turn the courthouse square into a carousel of lights.  We could see the star from our house—wasn’t it all red one year?—and if the weather weren’t too cold, Mother and I would walk the block and a half from our house to enjoy the sight.  The light bulbs then were big, strung on heavy wires, and were in blue, red, green and yellow.

   The habit of strolling—rather than driving—through the display of lights continued when my daughter and I lived in Fayetteville.  Drinking hot chocolate and strolling around the square was enjoyable; later, showing off the lights to my grandson became a delight.

   Equally beautiful but in a different way were the decorations in Lagos, Portugal, the small city of about 20,000 near our village there.

   Much of central Lagos is for pedestrian traffic only.  The walkways—in some places as narrow as a sidewalk, in others a huge central area for outdoor cafes—are made of marble blocks about 4 inches square driven into the ground long ago and worn smooth with time and thousands of footsteps.   Each sidewalk opening off a square features a different seasonal theme in the designs that create a tunnel of light.  The soft patina of the marble below reflects the light enveloping the whole area in a soft glow.  In the heavily traveled areas, the marble glistens as if it were wet.

    We think of light and dark as being opposites, often giving them the connotations of “good” and “bad.”  At Christmas, however, they complement each other.  Christmas lighting creates a world where light and dark enhance one another.  The dark covers the common place, everyday world creating a soft backdrop for the light.  The light transforms the dark into a magic world where adults are allowed the freedom of shiny-eyed wonder.

     Before the magic play of light and dark become ho-hum, before the lights become ordinary, it’s January and the lights go off, packed away in some under-the-stairs closet to be ignored until magic time again.   

  

Song in the Air

Song in the Air

December, 2006

     Honest Confession:  I love Christmas music.  All of it.  From Handel’s “Hallelujah Chorus” to “I’m Getting’ Nutin’ for Christmas.”  I grew up loving the music that in politically correct terms is called “seasonal melodies.”  At the Baptist Church we sang carols.  At school, Miss Ruth taught us all manner of songs, both religious and secular.  At home, my prize possession was a record player that looked like a suitcase, and I had an original 43 rpm recording of Gene Autry’s “Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer.”   

     On the flip side of “Rudolph” was a much, much lesser known ditty entitled “If It Doesn’t Snow on Christmas, How is Santa Gonna Use His Sleigh?”  In Arkansas, we dealt with that possibility—or rather probability—every year.  Although I love the thought of a white Christmas “like the ones we used to know,” I don’t remember snow in December very often, and we never approached the “Currier & Ives” beauty of “dashing through the snow.”  That didn’t deter my love for either song, and nothing has dampened my love for “Sleigh Ride” including a distinct lack of appreciation for it by various band directors at Ozark, notably Jeff Marlow who tried unsuccessfully to dodge my request for it during the days preceding the yearly band concert.

     Many people have favorite Christmas songs.  My mother’s favorite Christmas songs harkened back to her pre-small town days.  Having lived most of her life in cities, her favorite Christmas songs dealt with the sounds of Christmas.  She loved “Silver Bells” because it reminded her of Salvation Army bells, church bells, and the jingling sound of bells on department store doors.  Her favorite religious song reflected that memory as well.  She knew all eight or nine verses of “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day.”

     I could hardly write about favorite Christmas music without mentioning the generosity exhibited by the choir members of St. Mary’s Church at Altus.  They graciously allowed me, a non-Catholic, to join their choir each year for Midnight Mass for a number of years.  While adding new songs to my retinue, I had the marvelous experience of seeing Christmas begin from the heights of their choir loft.  My best memory from there is watching the women sing carols in Latin, the language of carols in their youth.  The soft glow on their faces more than made up for the difficulty I had with the unfamiliar words.

     But Christmas isn’t all carols.  It’s funny songs, and I like those too.  I like “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer” and “All I Want for Christmas is my Two Front Teeth”—a song I heard again sung impromptu by middle school students just the other day.  My daughter favors a song called “Christmas Cookies” by George Strait.  I think it reminds her of our family tradition of baking cookies on Christmas Eve.  However, I can’t believe she has forsaken Alvin and the Chipmunks whose “Just Can’t Wait for Christmas” echoed through our house at all times of the year for several years.

     Other people have favorite musicians.  My friend Richard favors Mannheim Steamroller’s combination of old and new forms of songs, and Tristan, Richard’s grandson recently recommended an interesting version of “Silent Night” by Thans-Siberian Orchestra which uses electric guitars mixed with a symphony orchestra.

     Occasionally, a particular rendition of a song will leave me less than inspired, but mostly any Christmas melody puts me in a “sing-along, hum-along, foot-tapping” frame of mind.  Whether it’s “Blue Christmas,” “Rocking around the Christmas Tree,” or “Up on the House Top” that delights you, I’ll sing along. If you prefer something more sedate, I’ll join you for “The Christmas Rose” or any of the many beautiful carols.  If you want to just listen to a non-vocal rendition, I can handle that too.

     There is one song that I nearly ruined:  “The Christmas Song.”  Written in 1944 and recorded by everyone from Michael Bolton to Hootie and the Blowfish, the song incorporates so much that we all think of as Christmas:  the cold, the anticipation, the wonder and simplicity of Christmas that makes children of us all.  One thing I hadn’t experienced personally until last year was the opening:  “Chestnuts roasting on an open fire.”  I had never had chestnuts.  As we were walking through Lagos, Portugal last year, admiring the lights and doing some window shopping, we found a man with a vendor’s wagon selling, you guessed it, roasted chestnuts.  “Ah-h-h-h,” I said.  “Here’s my chance to really know about that part of Christmas that Nat King Cole makes sound so lovely.” 

I bought a batch, hot off the roaster, in a paper cone.  Yuck!  Double yuck!  Chess nuts are not crunchy; they are mealy.  They aren’t tasty; they are gritty.  What a let down!  Now, every time I hear the beginning of that beautiful song, I frown.  I refuse, however, to let the beginning ruin the entire song, so with Mel Torme who wrote the song and the many others who sing it each year, I say, “Have yourself a merry little Christmas,” but I warn you:  stay away from the chestnuts! 

     Oh, yes, in case you wondered, according to Gene Autry, if it doesn’t snow, Santa will use a plane, a train or a bus to get to all of us who don’t really want a white Christmas after all.

    

Appearances

   It happened to me again.  Yesterday.  I popped into the bakery in the village.  On the upper shelf of the display case:  four beautiful slices of fresh banana bread with walnuts wrapped in clinging plastic wrap to both protect and display.  Beautiful.  I bought them, along with the bread which had been my original purchase, and we hurried home.  We waited impatiently while the tea kettle did its job and the tea pot did its.  Out to sit in the gentle sun of autumn late morning for fresh, hot tea and beautiful, lush banana nut bread. 

      One bite for each of us told the story:  not banana nut bread with walnuts adding crunch to the sweet, slightly gooey, rich texture.  This is bread.  Plain and simple.  Multi-grain bread.  Bread. 

      Worse, these are not walnuts, but chestnuts!  Ever had chestnuts?  In my opinion, they are bland  but with a mealy texture.  Flavorless but leaving a bad taste in the mouth.  Of course, others do not share my opinion.  They are adored by many people in Europe and lauded in that Christmas song.  Chestnuts, or castanhos as they are called in Portuguese, have been added to the bread adding insult to my injured taste buds.

      What to do?  I heaved the two half slices—each one minus a bite—over the fence.  We took the other 3 slices in their lovely, deceptive wrapping to our friends Pete and Ros who have professed their love for castanhos.

      Portuguese pastries are like that.   They look light and flaky or rich and gooey but are quite often rather dry and not very sweet. 

      Ben Franklin, Albert Einstein, John Lennon and many, many other people have written clever maxims on the disparity between appearance and reality.  That doesn’t mean the lesson is learned easily.  Next time I’m in the bakery, I’ll look more closely at the tempting wares, but you and I both know that one day soon I’ll buy something that looks completely different from its reality.  We keep doing that, don’t we?

Shucking Oysters

   If we'd drunk the medronho (Portuguese moonshine) first, this would make more sense.  Two drunks doing something crazier than usual.  But we didn't.  We bought a dozen fresh oysters in the shell and brought them home.  "Google 'shucking oysters,'" Richard recommended.  I did.  Asian guy says it's easy.
   1.  You need an oyster knife.  Problem:  we don't have one.  We have a cheese-spreading knife (too blunt), a good paring knife (too sharp/dangerous) and a less-than-great paring knife that will have to do.
   2.  Hold the oyster in a wet towel to keep it from slipping and to protect hands from the knife and the sharp edges of the oyster.  Richard decides we will use Ove Gloves (one of the best inventions of the 21st Century).
   3.  Find the little groove on the oyster and insert the knife.
   4.  Slide the knife around between the bottom and top shells and open the oyster, being careful not to spill the water (gourmets' call this 'oyster liquor").  Serve with lemon juice and Tabasco sauce.
   Having conquered steps 1 and 2, Richard and I stood side by side with the oysters on the kitchen counter.  By taking turns with the paring knife, we discovered that I am fairly good at #3.  With an Ove Glove on my left hand to hold the oyster and protect myself, I could locate the "groove" and stick the knife between the shell parts.
   Then I placed the oyster with the knife still attached into the Ove Glove on Richard's hand so that he could "slide the knife between the shell parts."  In the YouTube demonstration obtained through Google, the guy had oysters that were smooth and even.  The knife slid easily.  Not so with Portuguese oysters.  Edges where the plates join are rippled.  Still, we managed to open all dozen oysters in less than half an hour.
    During our work time, it dawned on me that a crucial ingredient to enjoying oysters was missing:  vodka.  In my opinion, ice-cold vodka is the perfect pairing with oysters.  Sip vodka.  Slurp oysters.  (Not the reverse!)  What to do?  Richard already knew.  We have a bottle of medronho, the Portuguese form of moonshine distilled from berries picked on the mountains here.  Maybe a bit more alcohol than vodka, but there's an art to making do with what you have.
   Will we make this a habit?  Become regular oyster shuckers?  Are you crazy? 

Behind Closed Doors

  We were walking down the sidewalk in Odiaxere this morning.  A man was unloading a dump truck load of dirt one wheelbarrow at a time.  He was taking it into a little cafe.  Some kind of revenge against the owner?  Some sort of sick mind who didn't like the food?  Nope.  Just an example of what I call "Closed Door Syndrome."  Sure enough.  Straight back from the door of the closed-for-renovation cafe was another door that was open to reveal a sort of alley and behind that was another door opened to reveal a garden and, believe it or else, at the end of the garden was another door open to receive the new dirt.  In all, about 80 feet of door-to-door-to-door entries into a world beyond the cafe.
   We've seen this before.  Once, we had just arrived from the States and had no hotel.  Our friend, Jose Reis, said, "You are welcome to stay with my parents.  They have a separate bedroom and bath for my sister and other relatives who come from Lisbon to visit."  Having assured us that we would not trouble his parents, we followed him up the same sidewalk we were on this morning.  We got to a metal garage door with a regular-sized door inset.  He opened the door and led us--not into a garage--into a lovely garden with citrus trees, marble-paved patio, and his father sitting under the shade of a grape arbor.  Our bedroom there was detached from his parents' home and had an even smaller garden area behind it, complete with chairs and a table.
  It seems to me that Americans are much more public people than the Portuguese.  We decorate our lawns with flowers and flags and lawn ornaments.  The Portuguese put a wall around most of their houses, especially the older ones, and create a space for themselves.
   I'm not sure why someone wanted the dump truck load of dirt this morning.  I couldn't see what the man was ultimately doing with it.  I hope he was adding dirt to a garden back there.  One people going down the sidewalk will never suspect exists.