"My friend, my teacher, James Hall [author of Under Cover of Daylight and Body Language] said that all books are about writing, and to some extent, when you're sitting there trying to create this plot, you, in a way, are the mastermind. So my books become books about masterminds creating plots. That's a little postmodern, but I think there is a lot to it."
Dennis Lehane
http://januarymagazine.com/profiles/lehane1999.html
I want to use that quote as I slide from my study of the fine writing of James W. Hall to the fine writing of Dennis Lehane. Seeing the end of Hall's oeuvre inching closer, I began looking for someone else to study. Both Hall and Lehane are grads of Eckerd University in St. Petersburg, FL, and Lehane was a student of Hall's at Florida International University in Miami.
Of course, I began with Lehane's detective series. Love mystery/thrillers. The Kenzie/Gennaro team is absolutely first-rate, but what won my heart forever was a foggy, midnight car chase on the Sunshine Skyway Bridge! And Bubba.
His writing is crisp and deep, with Lehane unafraid to tackle moral and ethical issues.
OK, I'm that weirdo who hasn't seen any of the three films made from Lehane stories, so it was easy to tackle his stand-alone titles without prejudice. Having knocked off GONE BABY GONE, I looked at that film first. Ben Affleck had to be crazy to cast that very Irish-looking woman as Angie Gennaro, and where was her spunk? And Cheese became a Haitian? Sorry, but the best I could do was fast forward through the film. So call me Book Spoiled.
Sitting on the TV now is Clint Eastwood's version of MYSTIC RIVER, one of the finest novels out there. The library has given me five days to watch it. Hmmm...
My Lehane bookmark (yes, I have markers for each book I read to make notes) is stuck in the middle of SHUTTER ISLAND right now. This is another difficult book to put down. I'm reminded of John D. MacDonald's NIGHTMARE IN PINK (Travis McGee series), both for the time period covered and the subject matter. And once again, I feel I am in safe hands with this writer. He will deliver more than a sound and entertaining tale, but one where the reader is allowed a self-examination of her own ethics and morals.
Which brings me to something Lehane said to the graduates at Eckerd University a few years ago:
"Since 9-11, something's happened to our empathy in this country. I don't know what exactly, but it ain't good. I wrote a novel in which all the characters have perfectly good and understandable reasons to be angry and they only commit acts of violence and vengeance once they're sure they're right. And yet…they're wrong. I think human beings are at their most dangerous when they lose their empathy, when they objectify other human beings, when they are so sure they are right they feel justified in a take-no-prisoners attitude. And I don't know when mercy and decency became signs of weakness in this country."
And then I have to remember each writer has something to teach. "All books are about writing." And reading.
I have to ask how far I've come since opening that first grade reader and staring in awe at the first real word I remember reading: "Look," it said on page one. Look.
I've finished HERITAGE and have submitted the first three chapters to an agent I'd like to represent me. If the answer is no, then I have another on my list. And an editor friend who has read HERITAGE has recommended I submit it to a particular editor, and I'm considering that if the agent passes on reading the entire manuscript.
Meanwhile, I'm hammering on EPIPHANY. As a writer friend reminds me: you can do only one one thing at a time. I do have a short story being considered for an anthology, so I have my fingers crossed for that.
And I'm awaiting the November 2 release of MOONLIGHT MILE, Dennis Lehane's follow-up to GONE BABY GONE, but the latest in the Kenzie/Gennaro series. I have a copy ordered from the bookstore my husband and elder daughter and I haunted when we visited Boston a few years ago. We stayed in Brookline and found a home at the Brookline Booksmith.
But back to what I love doing best: writing!
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Monday, September 20, 2010
Rhythms and Methods
"I'm a poet who also writes crime novels. One foot on the high road, one in the gutter. It makes for a lovely stride." James W. Hall "Poets Sinks to Crime," an essay in HOT DAMN!
Ah, yes, I'm still savoring the finely crafted writings of James W. Hall. Oh, I finished all his novels and his book of essays and even a few of his poems and short stories. Now, I'm rereading in what I call "Judi order": how the themes work best.
I did the same with John D. MacDonald. When I finished his final Travis McGee book, THE LONELY SILVER RAIN, I reopened THE DEEP BLUE GOODBYE. And I was stunned to find parallels. Things mentioned at the last that had been mentioned in the first. But most of all, I found Travis McGee a richer character because I knew who he had become all those years later.
The same is true of Hall's Thorn. When I finished reading his latest Thorn adventure, SILENCER, I pitched myself back inside the pages of his debut, UNDER COVER OF DAYLIGHT. Great trip. Happily, Hall is again traisping through an adventure with his best know character in his own writing process.
But the arc I'm enjoying is with his Alexandra Collins character: BODY LANGUAGE (a stand alone novel), BLACKWATER SOUND, OFF THE CHART, and MAGIC CITY (these are Thorn novels).
As for my own writing, I'm 25k into a story outside my four-part HERITAGE series, though my evening writing times are devoted strictly to what I call H2, the second book in the Daniel and Johanna epic. I find it's not easy shifting back and forth because my characters jostle too hard for center stage in my mind.
The Hall readings have made me understand how important it is to do works outside a series. As much as I love the Thorn adventures, I find Hall's stand alones to be so very rich. I can see how they stretch him creatively. That's what I'm after: growth as a writer.
Meanwhile I about to box up HERITAGE and post it to the appropriate party. Big step here as I gulp down my fears. Feedback has been very encouraging and strong from my reliable first readers. Heck, I'm no newbie. I have stories published in several respected anthologies. So, we'll see...
Writer L. McKenna Donovan notes at her fine site that writers often "self-sabotage." http://lmdonovan.wordpress.com/yin-yang-of-writing-fiction/#comment-75 I think she's absolutely right.
For me, I'm out of here, fitting my own feet in different places, setting my own stride. If it is odd, if I limp, then I like to imagine I'm in good company. Imagining is what I love doing.
Ah, yes, I'm still savoring the finely crafted writings of James W. Hall. Oh, I finished all his novels and his book of essays and even a few of his poems and short stories. Now, I'm rereading in what I call "Judi order": how the themes work best.
I did the same with John D. MacDonald. When I finished his final Travis McGee book, THE LONELY SILVER RAIN, I reopened THE DEEP BLUE GOODBYE. And I was stunned to find parallels. Things mentioned at the last that had been mentioned in the first. But most of all, I found Travis McGee a richer character because I knew who he had become all those years later.
The same is true of Hall's Thorn. When I finished reading his latest Thorn adventure, SILENCER, I pitched myself back inside the pages of his debut, UNDER COVER OF DAYLIGHT. Great trip. Happily, Hall is again traisping through an adventure with his best know character in his own writing process.
But the arc I'm enjoying is with his Alexandra Collins character: BODY LANGUAGE (a stand alone novel), BLACKWATER SOUND, OFF THE CHART, and MAGIC CITY (these are Thorn novels).
As for my own writing, I'm 25k into a story outside my four-part HERITAGE series, though my evening writing times are devoted strictly to what I call H2, the second book in the Daniel and Johanna epic. I find it's not easy shifting back and forth because my characters jostle too hard for center stage in my mind.
The Hall readings have made me understand how important it is to do works outside a series. As much as I love the Thorn adventures, I find Hall's stand alones to be so very rich. I can see how they stretch him creatively. That's what I'm after: growth as a writer.
Meanwhile I about to box up HERITAGE and post it to the appropriate party. Big step here as I gulp down my fears. Feedback has been very encouraging and strong from my reliable first readers. Heck, I'm no newbie. I have stories published in several respected anthologies. So, we'll see...
Writer L. McKenna Donovan notes at her fine site that writers often "self-sabotage." http://lmdonovan.wordpress.com/yin-yang-of-writing-fiction/#comment-75 I think she's absolutely right.
For me, I'm out of here, fitting my own feet in different places, setting my own stride. If it is odd, if I limp, then I like to imagine I'm in good company. Imagining is what I love doing.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
From One Word Lover to Another
I haven't decided if mingling with other writers is a good or bad thing. I also haven't decided whether playing a lone wolf is any good either. Writing is certainly a solitary endeavor. Yet, if a writer stays cloistered in her den then is it any surprise all her stories are about characters cloistered in a den/castle/spaceship/cabin/etc.? Kind of like all the country songs about lonely country boys picking up lonely country girls in bars where country singers sing.
But...
As I indicated in my last post while I'm hammering away on new words and scenes for TOUCHING LEAVES and EPIPHANY and working on the dreaded synopsis for HERITAGE for my leap into submissionville, I've been reading the works of James W. Hall.
Hall writes thrillers and essays and poems. His novels include those written with his continuing character Thorn, a minimalist who cherishes the environment and follows the simple rules where people should be kind to one another. He fashions fishing lures and lives with few possessions. But, boy, does trouble find that guy!
I'm only just now heading into his others fictional pieces. I have read BODY LANGUAGE, but I cheated because I knew Alex Collins and her dad Lawton Collins, who appear in three Thorn books, are the main characters. I've just begun ROUGH DRAFT.
Finding Hall's poems is a rich man's journey because I simply can't afford any of the four volumes he's published. But I did catch the four poems he had posted on his old website. Liked very much what I read.
Though I've read only a few of his short stories, I have found myself thoroughly enjoying the essays he collected in HOT DAMN!
Turns out Hall and I have lots in common. He's originally from Hopkinsville, KY, a place just a spit down HWY 41 from where I live in Indiana. Oddly, it's a place my family and I travel through on our way to one of our favorite places: Florida. That's where Hall felt driven to live. I fully understand. The only other place I'd like to live is North Carolina, which just happens to be where Hall and his wife have a second home.
One of his essays discusses going back to read books that had an impact on him in his formative years. I do that quite often, and have found myself being sorely disappointed. Melville's BILLY BUDD and Conrad's LORD JIM were two very important books for me along with James' THE TURN OF THE SCREW, Crane's RED BADGE OF COURAGE, Twain's HUCK FINN, and Lee's TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD. Plus, every Ian Fleming James Bond novel I could check out on my mom's library card.
It seems every essay of Hall's I read I can relate to. So though I'm merely sitting here in the corner of my Indiana kitchen, I'm connecting with another word wrestler. Hardly an equal. His prose hits harder than mine. He's been at it longer and is no doubt a lot smarter. But in a simple way that maybe his Thorn could understand and appreciate, we can at least sit at the same table.
My mornings begin with making the coffee and getting breakfast ready for my husband, but my day never begins well unless I get to read a bit. My matins or morning prayer comes with opening one of Billy Collins' books of poetry. I read at least two, letting his fine, sharp knife peel back the gristle and flick away the fat rendering the fine succulent meat.
But the other day, I had a few extra minutes and beyond those poems I read a few paragraphs of Hall's latest, SILENCER. And I was struck by how Hall had somehow snuck in and wielded a similar fine, sharp knife, peeling away gristle and fat.
Hall has said he doesn't write poetry any more. Pffff, Grammy Maevie, a character of mine would say. It's niggled its way into his prose and the dear can't help it.
Alas, all these years later, the words I feel so madly in love with, offered out to me by James and Twain and Melville and Crane and Fleming and Conrad and Lee and Bradbury and all the others may have a different meaning for me now than they did then, but they remain unchanged as each author intended. As each author carefully nipped and tucked and sweated and searched and peeled and cobbled. Teaching as they pass along to another silly person who hears the voices and sees the lush scenery in the mind. Prickled by too many thoughts not to write them down, not to toss out the characters and allow them to suck in the sweet air of life.
Funny. Maybe a writer's life is so much less lonely than we imagine or pretend. As Wavy Gravy at Woodstock said, "Chew a bit and pass it on."
So thank you, Storytellers who have been brave enough to pass their words my way: John D. MacDonald, Ray Bradbury, David Morrell, James Michener, Mary Shelley, Flannery O'Connor, Ed Gorman, Gene Wolfe, Joe R. Lansdale, Andrew Vachss, David B. Silva, Brian A. Hopkins, Jean Rabe. And most recently, James W. Hall.
Thank you for the gift of your words.
But...
As I indicated in my last post while I'm hammering away on new words and scenes for TOUCHING LEAVES and EPIPHANY and working on the dreaded synopsis for HERITAGE for my leap into submissionville, I've been reading the works of James W. Hall.
Hall writes thrillers and essays and poems. His novels include those written with his continuing character Thorn, a minimalist who cherishes the environment and follows the simple rules where people should be kind to one another. He fashions fishing lures and lives with few possessions. But, boy, does trouble find that guy!
I'm only just now heading into his others fictional pieces. I have read BODY LANGUAGE, but I cheated because I knew Alex Collins and her dad Lawton Collins, who appear in three Thorn books, are the main characters. I've just begun ROUGH DRAFT.
Finding Hall's poems is a rich man's journey because I simply can't afford any of the four volumes he's published. But I did catch the four poems he had posted on his old website. Liked very much what I read.
Though I've read only a few of his short stories, I have found myself thoroughly enjoying the essays he collected in HOT DAMN!
Turns out Hall and I have lots in common. He's originally from Hopkinsville, KY, a place just a spit down HWY 41 from where I live in Indiana. Oddly, it's a place my family and I travel through on our way to one of our favorite places: Florida. That's where Hall felt driven to live. I fully understand. The only other place I'd like to live is North Carolina, which just happens to be where Hall and his wife have a second home.
One of his essays discusses going back to read books that had an impact on him in his formative years. I do that quite often, and have found myself being sorely disappointed. Melville's BILLY BUDD and Conrad's LORD JIM were two very important books for me along with James' THE TURN OF THE SCREW, Crane's RED BADGE OF COURAGE, Twain's HUCK FINN, and Lee's TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD. Plus, every Ian Fleming James Bond novel I could check out on my mom's library card.
It seems every essay of Hall's I read I can relate to. So though I'm merely sitting here in the corner of my Indiana kitchen, I'm connecting with another word wrestler. Hardly an equal. His prose hits harder than mine. He's been at it longer and is no doubt a lot smarter. But in a simple way that maybe his Thorn could understand and appreciate, we can at least sit at the same table.
My mornings begin with making the coffee and getting breakfast ready for my husband, but my day never begins well unless I get to read a bit. My matins or morning prayer comes with opening one of Billy Collins' books of poetry. I read at least two, letting his fine, sharp knife peel back the gristle and flick away the fat rendering the fine succulent meat.
But the other day, I had a few extra minutes and beyond those poems I read a few paragraphs of Hall's latest, SILENCER. And I was struck by how Hall had somehow snuck in and wielded a similar fine, sharp knife, peeling away gristle and fat.
Hall has said he doesn't write poetry any more. Pffff, Grammy Maevie, a character of mine would say. It's niggled its way into his prose and the dear can't help it.
Alas, all these years later, the words I feel so madly in love with, offered out to me by James and Twain and Melville and Crane and Fleming and Conrad and Lee and Bradbury and all the others may have a different meaning for me now than they did then, but they remain unchanged as each author intended. As each author carefully nipped and tucked and sweated and searched and peeled and cobbled. Teaching as they pass along to another silly person who hears the voices and sees the lush scenery in the mind. Prickled by too many thoughts not to write them down, not to toss out the characters and allow them to suck in the sweet air of life.
Funny. Maybe a writer's life is so much less lonely than we imagine or pretend. As Wavy Gravy at Woodstock said, "Chew a bit and pass it on."
So thank you, Storytellers who have been brave enough to pass their words my way: John D. MacDonald, Ray Bradbury, David Morrell, James Michener, Mary Shelley, Flannery O'Connor, Ed Gorman, Gene Wolfe, Joe R. Lansdale, Andrew Vachss, David B. Silva, Brian A. Hopkins, Jean Rabe. And most recently, James W. Hall.
Thank you for the gift of your words.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Summer's Still Hot!
"Writers are just wingnuts with keyboards." James W. Hall
For those in the writing game, the announcement of Barnes & Noble seeking a buyer is yet another crack in the fissure called the publishing game. And game it is. The B&N "for sale" sign joins Borders who has been looking for a new sugar daddy for a bit.
And there are other growing fissures: Dorchester's announcement of the end of mass market paperbacks as we have come to know and love them; the addition to every writers' vocabulary of the new diety: Smashwords (on the road to Kindle and other ereaders); the Horror Writers Association's discussion of changes to admission requirements; author Brian Keene's dive into self-publishing.
See the highway? See the hitchhikers? Thumbs of editors and agents and publishers? Where do they go from here?
Are people reading? Ask THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO. Ask Stephen King. Maybe they know.
As I sit here in my local library, the computers are standing room only, but scattered in the cool are people comfortable in chairs reading. People searching the stacks for books. Not everyone is here for the web-time or the DVDs or the CDs or the magazines. Though nobody seems to be here for the newspapers.
What's a writer with a finished and yet unpublished novel to do? I guess what other writers are doing: write. And read. And then write some more. Mingle with people. Live life.
I've nestled down with the James W. Hall Thorn novels in the past few weeks. Being a John D. MacDonald junkie, it's been nice reading the finely crafted words of a fellow JDM junkie. I like Thorn. He's... Well, I'll save that until I've read more.
And in between Hall's words, I'll listen to my own and practice my own wingnuttiness at the keyboard. Got to please those voices in my head. Because like Mr. Hall, I feel life is amazing. So is writing.
For those in the writing game, the announcement of Barnes & Noble seeking a buyer is yet another crack in the fissure called the publishing game. And game it is. The B&N "for sale" sign joins Borders who has been looking for a new sugar daddy for a bit.
And there are other growing fissures: Dorchester's announcement of the end of mass market paperbacks as we have come to know and love them; the addition to every writers' vocabulary of the new diety: Smashwords (on the road to Kindle and other ereaders); the Horror Writers Association's discussion of changes to admission requirements; author Brian Keene's dive into self-publishing.
See the highway? See the hitchhikers? Thumbs of editors and agents and publishers? Where do they go from here?
Are people reading? Ask THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO. Ask Stephen King. Maybe they know.
As I sit here in my local library, the computers are standing room only, but scattered in the cool are people comfortable in chairs reading. People searching the stacks for books. Not everyone is here for the web-time or the DVDs or the CDs or the magazines. Though nobody seems to be here for the newspapers.
What's a writer with a finished and yet unpublished novel to do? I guess what other writers are doing: write. And read. And then write some more. Mingle with people. Live life.
I've nestled down with the James W. Hall Thorn novels in the past few weeks. Being a John D. MacDonald junkie, it's been nice reading the finely crafted words of a fellow JDM junkie. I like Thorn. He's... Well, I'll save that until I've read more.
And in between Hall's words, I'll listen to my own and practice my own wingnuttiness at the keyboard. Got to please those voices in my head. Because like Mr. Hall, I feel life is amazing. So is writing.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Oh, Happy Day!
I have finished my first novel and am happily pounding away on number two. Spring brought with it some gift for me to be able to work again after too many months of infertility.
So bang, bang, bang! I'm hitting on all cylinders again and it feels great.
On the reading front... I'm knee-deep with John D. MacDonald's Travis McGee novels. I wondered how they would be this second time around, and they're better than ever. I highly receommend anything written by John D., but this time around I started with A DEADLY SHADE OF GOLD first, read them in order until CRIMSON when I backtracked and read THE QUICK RED FOX. Character Lysa Dean returns in FREE FALL IN CRIMSON, so I thought I'd refresh my memory of their dealings. Worked great! Now I'm reading CINNAMON SKIN. Does that mean the end of Trav adventures? Pish tosh. I can always read any title I want.
Ding! That's all the time I've allotted for online activities. It's back to my own writing.
So bang, bang, bang! I'm hitting on all cylinders again and it feels great.
On the reading front... I'm knee-deep with John D. MacDonald's Travis McGee novels. I wondered how they would be this second time around, and they're better than ever. I highly receommend anything written by John D., but this time around I started with A DEADLY SHADE OF GOLD first, read them in order until CRIMSON when I backtracked and read THE QUICK RED FOX. Character Lysa Dean returns in FREE FALL IN CRIMSON, so I thought I'd refresh my memory of their dealings. Worked great! Now I'm reading CINNAMON SKIN. Does that mean the end of Trav adventures? Pish tosh. I can always read any title I want.
Ding! That's all the time I've allotted for online activities. It's back to my own writing.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
William Meacham
I like to write about writing because the actual writing process for me has been an obsession since before I could actually form letters on page with a pencil. But when I could, my mother took full advange of paper and pencil to, well, frankly, shush my constant "prattling," as she called it.
Yet before I could actual employ pencil to paper, I had to learn to read. My first word was "Look."
I remember clearly that word on the first page of my First grade reader (the one with Dick and Jane and Sally and Puff, the cat).
Odd how we remember with such clarity some things while other moments never get burned into out memories. I mean life's simple moments whose complexities we come to understand only later.
My first memory: Large black chunks fall away from the sky, revealing the colors of the blue sky. I know I am in the back yard of the cottage where my family lived on my grandparents huge swatch of land on the southside of Indianapolis. Above my head, dangling from my cousin Tommy's muddy fingers is wriggling worm. "Eat it," he says. "Eat it." But then Tommy is brutally pushed aside, and I feel saved. "Get away from my sister," the brute/savior says.
It seems my older brother, Bill, was always saving me from one thing or another while we were growing up. Most of the time he didn't even need to be present. All I had to do was threaten to sic Bill -- who was quite tall for his age and looked much meaner than he was -- on the offender and that proved enough. "Billy Meacham is your brother?" Nuff said.
Through all these many years, he and I have stayed in touch, never forgetting each other's birthdays or Christmas, but we fell away from being as close as we were as children and teenagers. I often tell my girls not to blink because life sweeps away so quickly, but when it came to my big brother, I failed to heed my own advice.
Twenty years passed since we last actually saw each other. Twenty years.
Sadly, my big brother and I came together again in the same place because he was dying. The savior of my first memory had panceatic cancer, the same demon that took our father 25 years ago.
One of the last gifts my brother gave me was a copy of the book with "Look." (He and I had each been hungry readers while growing up. How well I remember his stack of westerns beside the bed in his room.)
Last month, my brother slipped away while he slept. He had been in much pain. He didn't want any sort of memorial, but I think he simply said that because he figured no one would give him one. The brute/savior was a simple and kind man with a terrific sense of humor. He held strong political opinions, yet carried his 6'6" frame with such gentleness.
There are things I will miss about my brother, and things I can never miss because I allowed 20 years to whiz past. But I have the sound of his voice in my brain: "Hello, Judy? This is Bill."
William Anderson Meacham III, born to William A. Jr., and Mary Ann (Gorman) Meacham, in Indianapolis, IN, June 20, 1945, died November 6, 2009, in Rantoul, IL, at his home. He was a mechanic and antique dealer. He leaves his wife, Norma; three step-daughters, Robin McNish, Tami Benniger, and Teri Bailey; sisters Judy Rohrig (Byron) and Kathy Meacham; four step-grandchildren, Nathan and Joshua Hayn, Cody Shinker, and Brad Bailey; two nieces, Kristin and Rebekah Rohrig; one nephew, Bart Meacham; three step-grandchildren, Austin Hayn, Gavin and Emma Nicole Shinker; Two great-nephews Aidan and Micah Owen; a great-niece Ona Meacham; numerous cousins; his life-long best friend Dennis Dailey (Denise); and his best buddy, Molly dog.
A memorial service is being planned for a later date where his ashes will be scattered in the Ohio River at Madison, IN.
Yet before I could actual employ pencil to paper, I had to learn to read. My first word was "Look."
I remember clearly that word on the first page of my First grade reader (the one with Dick and Jane and Sally and Puff, the cat).
Odd how we remember with such clarity some things while other moments never get burned into out memories. I mean life's simple moments whose complexities we come to understand only later.
My first memory: Large black chunks fall away from the sky, revealing the colors of the blue sky. I know I am in the back yard of the cottage where my family lived on my grandparents huge swatch of land on the southside of Indianapolis. Above my head, dangling from my cousin Tommy's muddy fingers is wriggling worm. "Eat it," he says. "Eat it." But then Tommy is brutally pushed aside, and I feel saved. "Get away from my sister," the brute/savior says.
It seems my older brother, Bill, was always saving me from one thing or another while we were growing up. Most of the time he didn't even need to be present. All I had to do was threaten to sic Bill -- who was quite tall for his age and looked much meaner than he was -- on the offender and that proved enough. "Billy Meacham is your brother?" Nuff said.
Through all these many years, he and I have stayed in touch, never forgetting each other's birthdays or Christmas, but we fell away from being as close as we were as children and teenagers. I often tell my girls not to blink because life sweeps away so quickly, but when it came to my big brother, I failed to heed my own advice.
Twenty years passed since we last actually saw each other. Twenty years.
Sadly, my big brother and I came together again in the same place because he was dying. The savior of my first memory had panceatic cancer, the same demon that took our father 25 years ago.
One of the last gifts my brother gave me was a copy of the book with "Look." (He and I had each been hungry readers while growing up. How well I remember his stack of westerns beside the bed in his room.)
Last month, my brother slipped away while he slept. He had been in much pain. He didn't want any sort of memorial, but I think he simply said that because he figured no one would give him one. The brute/savior was a simple and kind man with a terrific sense of humor. He held strong political opinions, yet carried his 6'6" frame with such gentleness.
There are things I will miss about my brother, and things I can never miss because I allowed 20 years to whiz past. But I have the sound of his voice in my brain: "Hello, Judy? This is Bill."
William Anderson Meacham III, born to William A. Jr., and Mary Ann (Gorman) Meacham, in Indianapolis, IN, June 20, 1945, died November 6, 2009, in Rantoul, IL, at his home. He was a mechanic and antique dealer. He leaves his wife, Norma; three step-daughters, Robin McNish, Tami Benniger, and Teri Bailey; sisters Judy Rohrig (Byron) and Kathy Meacham; four step-grandchildren, Nathan and Joshua Hayn, Cody Shinker, and Brad Bailey; two nieces, Kristin and Rebekah Rohrig; one nephew, Bart Meacham; three step-grandchildren, Austin Hayn, Gavin and Emma Nicole Shinker; Two great-nephews Aidan and Micah Owen; a great-niece Ona Meacham; numerous cousins; his life-long best friend Dennis Dailey (Denise); and his best buddy, Molly dog.
A memorial service is being planned for a later date where his ashes will be scattered in the Ohio River at Madison, IN.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
No One Thing But the Other
"The dirt under your boots tells a story"
from the November/December issue of Cook's Illustrated magazine editorial
Christopher Kimball
On those heat-soaked August afternoons of my childhood when nothing seemed to assuage my doldrums, my mother used to offer me a cup of crisply sliced green peppers. She always had something to say, too. "Sometimes people travel all over the place looking for happiness. 'If only I could this... or that... or have money... or...' Well, you've heard them. And you know what? More often that not, happiness is staring you right in the face."
I know this falls along the line of how the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence, but with writers, the number one question asked by others is "Where do you get your ideas?"
"Grass is always greener..."
"Happiness is staring you right in the face."
"The dirt under your boots tells a story."
Wise words to writers from the editor and founder of Cook's Illustrated, a magazine for people into cooking? Actually, even though I love all that the magazine has to offer in recipes and tips, it's Kimball's monthly editorial that I relish first and devour with a passion. Any one of his columns provides a kicking-off for writing what Joe R. Lansdale referred to as a "hand on the shoulder."
In ON WRITING HORROR, a handbook published by Writers Digest Books and writing by members of the Horror Writers Association, Lansdale contends that most writer miss the gold mines they're in. "We stand there with our pick and shovel, we look about, and though the walls glow brightly with strains of gold, we squint our eyes against the light, reach down, and pick up iron pyrites instead of gold."
It takes no time at all to realize what Lansdale scrapes from his boots includes swamp muck and dry dirt from East Texas. In most of his works, his settings darn-near become additional characters.
I like to think his mother inspired him to look at what was staring him in face. I know my own stories all seem to at least touch a toe anywhere from Central Indiana to Northern Kentucky. Not that the fantasy writer in me doesn't dream of or appreciate distant worlds...
"Grass is always greener..."
It's just my characters must have been listening to my mother...
"Happiness is staring you right in the face."
And the writer in me can be inspired by a cooking magazine editor...
"The dirt under your boots tells a story."
from the November/December issue of Cook's Illustrated magazine editorial
Christopher Kimball
On those heat-soaked August afternoons of my childhood when nothing seemed to assuage my doldrums, my mother used to offer me a cup of crisply sliced green peppers. She always had something to say, too. "Sometimes people travel all over the place looking for happiness. 'If only I could this... or that... or have money... or...' Well, you've heard them. And you know what? More often that not, happiness is staring you right in the face."
I know this falls along the line of how the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence, but with writers, the number one question asked by others is "Where do you get your ideas?"
"Grass is always greener..."
"Happiness is staring you right in the face."
"The dirt under your boots tells a story."
Wise words to writers from the editor and founder of Cook's Illustrated, a magazine for people into cooking? Actually, even though I love all that the magazine has to offer in recipes and tips, it's Kimball's monthly editorial that I relish first and devour with a passion. Any one of his columns provides a kicking-off for writing what Joe R. Lansdale referred to as a "hand on the shoulder."
In ON WRITING HORROR, a handbook published by Writers Digest Books and writing by members of the Horror Writers Association, Lansdale contends that most writer miss the gold mines they're in. "We stand there with our pick and shovel, we look about, and though the walls glow brightly with strains of gold, we squint our eyes against the light, reach down, and pick up iron pyrites instead of gold."
It takes no time at all to realize what Lansdale scrapes from his boots includes swamp muck and dry dirt from East Texas. In most of his works, his settings darn-near become additional characters.
I like to think his mother inspired him to look at what was staring him in face. I know my own stories all seem to at least touch a toe anywhere from Central Indiana to Northern Kentucky. Not that the fantasy writer in me doesn't dream of or appreciate distant worlds...
"Grass is always greener..."
It's just my characters must have been listening to my mother...
"Happiness is staring you right in the face."
And the writer in me can be inspired by a cooking magazine editor...
"The dirt under your boots tells a story."
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