Calling Miss Clairol

This morning I was looking in my mirror and couldn't believe I still had white paint in my hair.

I looked a little closer.

It was a grey hair.

Joy

Yesterday morning when The Child and I were getting in the car to go to school, a little breeze stirred and yellow leaves from a tall tree began dancing their way down. I told him to look, and he tilted his head back to look straight up and I did, too. The sky was that incredible blue we’re blessed with in the fall and those golden leaves falling and twisting, the look of delight on his face...it took my breath away.

No No to NaNoWriMo and NaBloPoMo

November is National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) and its offshoot, National Blog Posting Month (NaBloPoMo). Last year and the year before I participated in NaBloPoMo. That was big fun.

This year, as much as I’ve enjoyed NaBloPoMo the last two years, I won’t attempt to post every day. This year I’d planned to finish my novel by Christmas. That plan was hatched this summer and it seemed completely doable. If I were to write a 90,000-word novel (which is an average word count for recent novels) I could simply write something like 900 words a day, five days a week for five months and I’d have a novel. Perhaps a poorly written novel in dire need of editing, revising, and rewriting but still. I’d have written a novel.

900 words a day, five days a week. Completely, absolutely doable.

Yet when The Husband’s old house out of town sold and we bought a new one and were in the midst of packing up and moving two houses before moving into one, one where each room would get a thorough makeover from floor to ceiling, I knew it wouldn’t happen, not this year.

Writing a novel while moving and unpacking and painting and Halloween and The Child’s birthday and the holidays would be a challenge but not impossible. Anyone could do it but I chose to step back a bit.

See, early on I outlined the novel in a big, looping fashion. I knew whodunit and why and how. I knew where the story took place. But I found as I went forward that the main character was the person I knew the least about. A BIT OF A PROBLEM.

For now my daily writing is about that main character. This word count doesn’t technically go toward the novel because most of it won’t be in the novel. What brand laundry detergent she uses, what kind of music she listens to, and her favorite gift the Christmas she was seven. The author needs to know all that and more but the reader most likely doesn’t.

That’s what I’m working on now, filling in the empty gaps and figuring out what I know about the protagonist. The exciting thing is that it’s working. I’ll be writing along and something I didn’t know about the main character tumbles out. “Huh. I didn’t know that.”

Which is great. But I’m a bit sad at missing out on the NaBloPoMo fun. It is fun.

I’m more than a bit regretful over not having a steadfast deadline and the camaraderie and encouragement that would come from knowing hundreds, thousands of people are battling the same demons and working just as hard that would have come from participating in NaNoWriMo.

I was looking forward to using the book the founder of NaNoWriMo wrote. I’ve read the first couple of chapters and loved it. (I stopped reading because the author begs you not to until you’re actually doing NaNoWriMo.)

By the holidays, we’ll have everything done in the house that we want to do. Or not. Either way, we’re going to stop and take a break and enjoy the holidays, enjoy our home for a bit.

Come the new year (and what time is more appropriate – except maybe back to school – for starting a new project), I’ll dive back into the novel, head first and headlong.

October Books

Whisimical and lyrical and mystical - The Art of Disappearing was a great read. I won the book by leaving a comment here, a great blog to visit for book and author news.

From Amazon.com:
“How do you know if love is real or just an illusion?

When Mel Snow meets the talented magician Toby Warring in a dusty roadside bar, she is instantly drawn to the brilliant performer whose hands can effortlessly pull stray saltshakers and poker chips from thin air and conjure castles out of the desert sands. Just two days later they are married, beginning their life together in the shadow of Las Vegas, where Toby hopes to make it big. Mel knows that magicians are a dime a dozen, but Toby is different—his magic is real.

As Toby’s renown grows and Mel falls more and more in love with his wonderments, she starts to realize that Toby's powers are as unstable as they are dazzling. She learns that he once made his assistant disappear completely, and couldn’t bring her back. And then, just as Mel becomes convinced that his magic is dangerous, a trick goes terribly awry during his Strip debut.

Exiled from the stage, Mel and Toby flee the lights of Las Vegas for the streets of Amsterdam where a cabal of old-time magicians, real magicians like Toby, try to rescue him from his despair. But he’s haunted by the trick that failed, and obsessed with using his powers to right his mistakes, leaving Mel to wonder if the love they share is genuine or merely a fantasy, conjured up by a lost magician looking to save himself from being alone."



A few weeks ago, I had the pleasure of meeting Sonny Brewer at a book signing. He read from his new novel, The Widow and the Tree.

After the reading, the author said that if he’d done his job right when we got to the end of the book, we’d understand why the widow did what she did. I absolutely did.

There is a big old tree back in the woods in the northwest corner of Humphreys County, where I’m from. I’ve heard of it all my life and have never seen it. It’s way back. Way back. From what I understand I’m not entirely sure one could get a four-wheeler back there to it. Those who’ve seen it say it’s all but indescribable, that 6 or 8 men could lean against its trunk, circling it.

Because of that tree that grows where I come from, I felt a bit of kinship when I heard the story of this novel.

From the book jacket:“The magnificent Ghosthead Oak has stood watch over coastal Alabama’s mysterious backwater bays and slow-running rivers, where bull alligators rumble the nerves of lesser creatures and every living thing has the capacity to kill, for five hundred years. Some say the fabled giant tree was once a knee-high seedling brushed by the black boot of Spanish conquistador Hernando Cortez. No other tree along the entire coastal crescent from New Orleans to Apalachicola can rival its majesty or its power to draw people to it.

In silence and with dignity, the Ghosthead has served as sentinel to the widow’s family land for countless generations. It was a childhood friend and a spirit guide in troubled times. Her father is buried in its shade.

So why would the widow walk into a biker bar and hire a man to fire his chainsaw and inflict fatal gashes around its trunk, ending in a few minutes what took five centuries to create?

”The Widow and the Tree is a tale of dark deeds committed with mercy in mind, provoking the reader to ask: Would I have done the same thing? This book is based on a true story.”


When I began reading The Poet of Tolstoy Park, I was intrigued by and I liked this Henry Stuart character, who was stubborn and who loved his sons. He was also dying of consumption and decided to move to Fairhope, Alabama and live out his last few months. He took a train from Nampa, Idaho and gave his shoes to a porter because he wanted to walk around barefoot the rest of his days.

Henry Stuart began to feel a bit like Charles Ingalls, a two-dimensional perfect person. His work ethic was unquestionable, as was his character, his stamina, his strength. It was a bit off-putting. He seemed so perfect as to feel unreal, as in not an actual person who I could imagine being around.

While this is a novel, Henry Stuart was in fact a real person and much of the work is based on him and his life.

By the end of the book, my thoughts and opinion had swung in another direction and I liked this guy so much.

It was late one Saturday night that I finished the book. I read the reader’s guide, the author’s interview, all the back matter. I closed the book and sat there, staring at the wall for a time, just thinking about the book.

From Booklist:
“First-novelist Brewer chronicles the real-life journey of Henry Stuart, who, in 1925 at the age of 67, is diagnosed with consumption and told he only has a year to live. Henry decides to leave his home in Idaho and bid his two grown sons and best friend good-bye before his decline begins. Henry chooses a small plot of land in Fairhope, Alabama, as his final residence, and he corresponds with a man named Peter Stedman in order to get the supplies to build a house. On the train to Alabama, Henry gives his shoes away to a porter and determines to live out the rest of his days in solitude. But life might have other plans for him: on the final leg of his journey he meets a friendly schoolteacher named Kate, and Peter also seeks to develop a rapport with Henry. Henry tries to shut them all out until one life-altering night gives him a new perspective. Fans of quiet, philosophical novels will find much to enjoy in Henry's musings and revelations.” Kristine Huntley


Jill McCorkle came to town on a windy and rainy night week before last and my friend and I went to hear her. Jill is pretty, warm, and approachable. She read from Going Away Shoes, her first new book in eight years.

Years ago I read McCorkle’s Creatures of Habit, another collection of short stories. I was surprised by how much I liked it. I’m sure that was the first time I’d read a short story since literature classes in college.

I keep saying I don’t like short stories yet I keep reading them and keep liking them. This is a great collection, for readers who enjoy short stories and those who usually don’t.

"Immensely appealing . . . These spirited and surprising stories are powered by humor and hard-won understanding of the lacerating effects of union. The result: admirable women who are 'sure-footed and steady in real time.'" —Amy Hempel, author of The Dog of the Marriage

From the book jacket:
“Jill McCorkle, a master of the short story whose work has been compared to that of Alice Munro and Lorrie Moore, is a writer whose characters insist on our immediate and total attention. Here, in her first collection in eight years, are eleven new stories bristling with her signature wit and weight. One way or the other, all of these stories are about women looking love in the face without flinching. Some of them are confronting the reality of domestic disruption; others are simply flirting with the possibilities—and dangers—of change. McCorkle's characters make mistakes but aren't interested in hiding behind them. They get divorced or quit their jobs or tell people to step aside, and they move on."


Favorite Book: I really enjoyed each and every book I read this month although I probably enjoyed The Widow and the Tree the most.

Book That Made Me Think the Most, That I Am In Fact, Still Thinking About: The Poet of Tolstoy Park

Character Who I’d Most Like to Have a Drink With: Henry Stuart, the poet of Tolstoy Park

It Doesn't Get Much Better

It was still daylight when we began trick or treating Saturday night. Kids were everywhere in their bright costumes and treat bags. They walked down the sidewalk, branches of old oak trees above them. I saw lots of people I knew and some I didn't. Everyone smiled and greeted one another. It's hard not to feel festive with Transformers, Dorothys, SpiderMan, princesses, butterflies, and cowboys walking about.

A full moon was overhead and it was good and cool outside. We walked around the neighborhood for a couple of hours before going to a festival at a local church. Mom and I munched on toasted pumpkin seeds and watched The Child go up and down the giant slide inflated in the church yard.

Afterwards, we went to my parents for dinner and dessert of homemade fried pies.

This morning I enjoyed the extra hour of sleep and ate two popcorn balls for breakfast.

I love fall.

Among Other Things

Do you know what I just learned? Daylight Savings Time (which I hate with the heat of a thousand fiery suns) ends this weekend! That means we get to fall back.

It gets dark earlier and all but what I know for sure is this: an extra hour of sleep.

Woo hoo!

Trunk or Treat

Sunday afternoon we festooned my car with pumpkin garland, fake spider webs, and purple tulle.

We filled bowls with candy and cookies for the children who were in costumes.

And a few adults who were, too.



Not calling any names or anything.