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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

Days of Future's Past

"Patriotism is a kind of religion; it is the egg from which wars are hatched."
Guy de Maupassant: French short story writer and novelist (1850-1893)

In my first novel in the HERITAGE series, BOTTOM'S DREAM, my story begins with the rebuilding of a once-great country from the ashes of tragedies. There are two tragedies actually: a pandemic and a civil war. The former preceeded the later, but respectively I tagged them the Green Fever and the Poor Wars.

With our economy sinking into this horrible abyss where 401k's (K nows stands for Knockout, huh?), pensions, and savings huddle in shivers, my husband now wonders how prophetic teh HERITAGE series could be. I hope not very.

If you missed either BOTTOM'S DREAM or SOME TOUCH FIRE, the first two in the four-part series, it's understandable. They haven't found a home with a publisher. Such is the life of a writer. There's always another story...

But anyway...

In my last blog, I waxed eloquent (OK, maybe just "waxed") about layaways. This morning's Wall Street Journal includes a story about the reappearance of such an antiquated device. According to a story by Miguel Bustillo, KMart, Burlington Coat Factory, TJ Maxx, and Marshall's are again offering layaways. Kmart even has Jon and Kate Plus Eight's mommy, Kate Gosselin as its layaway spokeswoman. Of course, there is a charge for taking the merchandise off the showroom floor. Additionally, ELayaway.com supposedly offers some fantastic merchandise for those who prefer online shopping.

Either way, when 2009 rolls around, there will be no hefty bills for all that fun shoved under your kids beds.

Okay, I'm off to my life now...

Best
Judi

Life Goes On or Denial May Be THE New Virtue!

My brother used to call me "Quarter Judi" because, as he contended, give me a quarter and in a little while I'd own the world.

Of course, he was wrong, but way back then when I wanted something -- clothing, books, presents, etc. -- I wouldn't feel shy about plunking down a quarter to lay something away. Layaways were more than common then. Everybody did it, especially in the months just before Christmas.

I snatched up the very first copy of the Beatles' RUBBER SOUL album at the 5 & 10, securing it away with a whole 25cents. The album sold out before the next Monday at both of the dime stores and the record store. And even if it took me several weeks to earn the money to spring that album free of its bin, I knew it was there, waiting for me.

Back then credit was something rarely used and when it was, payments were made in a timely manner. The little old ladies in our neighborhood had some of their groceries "put on the books" at the corner grocery. Then when their Social Security or pension checks arrived, they'd clean the slate.

I know because besides being the princess of the layaway, I was also a demon on a Schwinn who brazenly dashed the extra "delievery charge" the corner market tacked on. I ran errands for a number of very sweet old ladies and charged nothing. On the other hand, these sweeties were rarely without a freshly baked cookie or two. That seemed more of even trade, and for an aspiring writer, the tales I heard in kitchens ripe with scents of powdered detergent and boiling kale.

Which brings me to the present. I didn't wind up owning the world, and all those quarters my husband and I tucked away for sunsets on a sugary beach have dwindled to a sad stack.

We're hardly alone, I know. There are far too many in our situation. We trusted that there were only two things to do with money: spend it or save it. We trusted the latter meant it would be there for us to do the former someday when jobs weren't as available to us.

But... well, life goes on. Possibly the world can still be had for a quarter. Maybe I can buy a share of Ford Motor Company now. :-)

Don't look for www.judirohrig.com. I couldn't afford the site just now. Maybe later.

+++

Please do vote during this presidential election. Look closely at the candidates for president and other offices. It doesn't cost a dime (or even a precious quarter) to cast your ballot. As an American, it is your right and responsibility to vote. Exercise that or it may up and disappear, too.

Meanwhile, hang in there for as Scarlett O'Hara declared: "Tomorrow is another day!"