No, I certainly don’t want to bring back the 1950’s, but some things are disappearing or gone, and I think we should fight for them to stay.
First, the use of whom. It’s not that hard, folks. If you’d use the word him or her when you replaced the interrogative or relative pronoun, then you use the word whom. The dog rescue sticker I see on many automobiles? It should read, Who rescued whom? You have a crush on a celebrity and you meet him? I met the celebrity whom I love. But if the celebrity has a crush on you? I met the celebrity who loves me. [By the way, there is a well-covered song and not one singer has fixed the grammar error in it. In “Life is a Highway” a line in the song goes, “There is a distance between you and I.” I want to scream every time I hear it. It’s “between you and me,” damn it!!! You’d think one person would sing it correctly. (You probably don’t want me to rant about the subjunctive here.)]
The passenger pigeon. Yes, I know the subject of cloning is fraught, Jurassic Park and all that, but I don’t care. I want the passenger pigeon. While we’re at it, let’s bring back the great auk, the northern white rhino, the ivory-billed woodpecker, the Tasmanian tiger, and even the dodo. Wouldn’t it be cool to see a real live dodo? Heck, let’s bring all them animals back that should be here.
Comfortable air travel
More big publishing houses (or the opposite of bringing back, fewer conglomerates)
Art and music in the schools
And vocational training
Anything else you want to add here? Please feel free.
So Valentine’s Day—the day the world is forced to consider romance and love. Go nuts, if that’s your thing. But, contrarian that I am, think a little bit differently.
Some people consider the building of the Taj Mahal as one of the world’s grandest romantic gestures. The Mughal emperor had it built for his wife. Okay, it’s beautiful, but the empress never saw it because it was her tomb.
Personally, I want my romantic gestures to be something I can enjoy. Just the other day, I had one of my most romantic experiences with my husband. Before you think I’m going this post will have TMI, let me start by saying we went to the zoo.
We took my youngest and her boyfriend (both special needs young adults) on a date, but I think Robot Guy (that’s my nickname for my husband because of his nearly thirty years in robotics) and I had just as much fun. We talked, laughed, and learned as we walked. We admired the beautiful creatures we saw and gave respect to the toxic ones behind glass walls or separated from us with moats and high cement walls.
Romance isn’t the chocolates, jewelry, dinners out, or flowers, although those can be great, right? It’s always nice when someone thinks about you. It also isn’t sex, although that’s a lot of fun too. It’s the sharing of little moments. It’s the laughing at the dumb jokes he tells (because I never tell dumb jokes >clears throat<) holding hands, sharing information we hope the other finds interesting, and spending time together even in silence. Sometimes, it’s crying together.
In my novel MYSTIC,
there isn’t a lot of time for big romantic gestures (Okay, so there’s one at the very end, but that’s to be expected in a novel). The hero and heroine are on the run, but they learn they can rely on each other, and come to admire each other. They find themselves understanding each other and sometimes even taking on the other’s quirks. That happens in relationships. In spite of the magic in the story, I strove for realism. And humor. Because I believe laughing is one of the world’s great ways of sharing one’s soul.
Hope you enjoyed your visit here with me. There are four ways to get extra entries into the prize giveaways:
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There are daily prizes from the Safari Heat site, but for those of you who comment here, I will assign a number (only one) at the end of the hop to you in the order of your response and select one randomly to receive a copy of MYSTIC, a tote, and a little stuffed cat. (Yes, the cat is in the book—not a stuffed one). Please let me know if you don’t want to be added to my newsletter. And although the Blog Hop prizes can only be won by US or Canadian readers (except ebooks—those can go world wide), I’m willing to send my prize anywhere.
Each day the coordinator will choose a different blog to visit to give away prizes to those readers. At the end of the hop, the coordinator will collect all names with the required info and give award grand prize.
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My latest novel is out and available. MYSTIC is the story of skeptical novelist who has to help a psychic find sanctuary. Although it has romance, MYSTIC is more of an urban fantasy with lots of action. I’d love it if you read it. And, yes, the cat on the cover is relevant.
Books I’m reading now:
THe Secret, Book, and Scone Society by Ellery Adams
We’ve all done it—played the mental game “Will I survive the Zombie Apocalypse?” or other variations of that game (What if I had to go on the run? Would I survive the Nazis? What if Armageddon happened today? What if the Yellowstone Supervolcano erupts? What if Aliens destroy the world? And so many more). I do have rudimentary survival skills—fire building, camping, trapping, etc.; they’re rusty, but I’m sure they would come back—but that’s not the reason I wouldn’t survive. Here are five reasons I would be among the first to go.
I need to floss my teeth.
I just read a sentence somewhere that said, “We’ve all fallen asleep without brushing our teeth.” Nope. I can’t. Not only that, I have to floss. Have to. I’d be a month into survival, when the floss would run out, and I’d hang it up. It’s over.
I need to wash my hands.
I can hear you saying, “What’s so bad about that? It’s hygienic.” Nope. I can’t stand the feeling of having dirt or other things on my hands. It’s why I don’t garden. I can’t have the dirt on my hands for any length of time. And don’t tell me to wear gloves. The sweat and lint from the glove is just as bad. I have to wash my hands after I pet my dogs, after I touch dough or vegetables or meat (Cooking is a nightmare and please don’t make me decorate cookies), after filling the gas tank, after loading the washing machine and after doing dishes.
I need to sleep.
I love to sleep. I don’t do it well, but I do like my 8.5-9 hours in bed. After a couple of days without that much sleep, you’d want to shoot me yourself.
I am not in the best shape.
Yes, I play a mean game of volleyball. For my age, I am an outstanding player and even strike fear into the hearts of many younger players. But even though I play well and often, I’m not in great shape. Yes, I’m not a slug, but I couldn’t imagine being on the run for several days in a row. Or even running. I can do the quick bursts of speed needed to play VB, but I don’t run. My knees are shot after forty plus years of volleyball. I can ignore it on the court, but you should see me get up in the morning.
I don’t play well with others.
There’s a reason I write books. I create them, I set the plot, I can do it alone. As soon as I disagreed with the group, I’d want to set off alone, and I’m smart enough to know that’s dumb. I don’t take orders well. You won’t catch me doing the wave at a stadium. No one can tell me what to do. When I do play with others, as in games, I play to win. I love games, but I’m not a nice player. I’m ruthless. Heck, I never even let my kids win at Candyland when they were little. If they won, it was on their own merit.
My novel MYSTIC (coming soon, real soon) is about a cross-country chase where my protagonists had to leave their lives behind and survive. They don’t floss.
I am shy. There you have it. I am shy. Put me at a party where I don’t know people, and I’m in my living nightmare (happened just recently to me–I barely kept it together). Trying to initiate conversation with someone I don’t know is absolutely excruciating.
But that’s not the whole story. When I tell my friends (and volleyball teammates) that I am shy, they don’t believe me. That’s because I don’t have any issues with speaking one on one, or telling anecdotes to a group of friends, or even giving talks in front of people. I can give a talk to room full of strangers and feel fine. Put those strangers in a party setting, and I won’t say a word. I was in a situation where I stood beside a good friend (a well-known author) and soon we were in a circle of other authors I didn’t know. I said nothing. A few minutes later, George RR Martin (name-dropping here) joined the circle for a little bit (a couple of his best friends were in the circle). I literally froze inside (Yes, literally. I was cold, I didn’t move, I was barely breathing). The worst part is that I’m tall, and I stuck out. So I remained nameless and voiceless for the entire time. I am way too self-conscious for my own good.
Here’s what I’m trying to get at. As an author, we’re supposed to get out there and network. I die a little inside when I have to introduce myself to someone. Conversely, if a stranger initiates the conversation with me, then I have no problem speaking to them. So I’m begging you, if you ever see me, or have the opportunity to talk to me, or you want to write to me, by all means, stop me and talk to me. I DO love to meet new people, but I can’t do it myself, and I enjoy the opportunity to meet new people. Drop me an email (or tweet or facebook me). I’m trying to overcome my paralyzing irrational fear of initiating contacts, but it’s not an easy task.
You’re not human if you’re not filled with contradictions.
Do you remember how you felt the first time you saw Star Wars (we’re talking original series here)? The elation at the end of the first movie, the agony at the end of the second (don’t get me started on cliffhanger endings), and the satisfaction at the end of the third? The cheesiness never mattered. I loved the experience of it (except the cliffhanger ending, don’t get me started). The same thing happened at the end of Indiana Jones (the first, and while I liked the second and third ones, they weren’t the first. I’ll just ignore number four.), and Jurassic Park, and Shawshank Redemption, and Notting Hill. Movies that left me optimistic about mankind, that justice will prevail, that love triumphs (hey, there are all kinds of love: romantic love, the love between friends, the love of a T-Rex for its dinner) . It’s that feeling that I crave and search for in my entertainment, and that I seek to create in my books.
That type of ending is harder to find in books. Harry Potter did it. So did Ready Player One. So did the Ryria Revelations. Some books have absolutely the ending they deserve and need to have to make the story work. The Mistborn series had a brilliant ending. Six of Crows and Crooked Kingdom ended just as they should have. I enjoyed those books too, but they don’t leave me with that ebullient sensation I got from the other works mentioned. I can even recommend those books and analyze them and point out their strengths and show how deep and complex they are. They are satisfying in their own way. And therein lies the rub for me. They are satisfying in their own way. I loved the ending of Rogue One. That’s how that story needed to finish. But I adore the cheese.
I know there are people out there who didn’t like Star Wars (my mother being one of them), and that’s fine. Their opinions are valid. But for me, leave me the cheering for the good guy. Let the bad guys be defeated, let justice prevail, let love triumph, let the heroes win and survive. Those are the endings I seek. They are all too few in the real world. Let me embrace and escape into the fantasy. Just for a little while.
One of the dangers of aging is losing touch with modern language. We bought an electric car last week (Bear with me; it all ties together). Robot Guy’s old car was dying, and we knew we had to replace it. Since we installed solar panels, electric made the most sense. It’s a pretty little thing–metallic blue with black accents, and it’s perfect for his commute to work. So what about language? Well, as the car genius was taking us through the functions of the car he said, “XXX (something; I don’t remember; I am so not made for complicated gadgets.) won’t work unless the gas pedal is pressed down.” He paused and said, “I guess it’s not a gas pedal, is it?” Granted English has another word for it, accelerator, but who uses that word? But it’s no longer a gas pedal either. I guess accelerator will have to become de rigueur.
There are lots of changes happening in language because of the rapid acceleration (there’s that word again) of technology. I had to revise a book before publishing it because when I wrote it a few years ago, I had the hero place a CD in his car for music. Revised version? He engaged the bluetooth and played the song from his phone. A record skip no longer exists, nor can we slam down the phone. We don’t rent movies; we stream them (I admit I still get Netflix to send DVDs, and I still have a machine that plays VHS tapes). How long have we googled things? And the only time you need a fax machine these days is when you’re dealing with some kind of bureaucracy (Something I had to acquire because I have to deal with one regularly). “They” is now accepted as a singular pronoun, and I applaud it in the use of the LGBTQ community (and others, but if you use it in an academic essay, I will look down on you).
I actually find it exciting to witness the changes. Language is fluid, especially English, and it’s part of the reason for my hypothesis that English is a simple language to be understood in, but almost impossible to master. Who knows how language will change in the future, but I for one will look forward to learning it. Gotta keep up my reputation as a language master. (Yes, “gotta” was on purpose.)
Forty years ago today, Star Wars came out and, dare I say, changed the world. Here’s my own Star Wars story.
I didn’t get to see it in May when it first came out. I was in boarding school, and we were having finals and packing to go home for the summer. It was good bye to my friends and teachers for a few months and getting used to the idea of having parents hovering around me all the time. And I was turning sixteen–that magic age when you get your driver’s license (Had I known what a non-even that was, I wouldn’t have cared at all). I went back home to California and signed up for summer school driver’s ed and driver’s training to get that all-important license by the end of summer.
While in summer school (don’t ask me to remember even one of my fellow students from that summer), I kept hearing about this movie that was fantastic. My mother wanted to spend some time with me, so I told her about this film everyone was talking about, so we decided to go to Westwood to see Star Wars. Remember, my mother was (is) a Hungarian immigrant who lived through WWII bombs and major poverty and hunger as a child. Then Hungary went communist. Not the most stable of childhoods, although she had a loving family. She was almost twenty when she and my father escaped and lived in refugee camp for two years in Austria before coming to the US.
I remember the day well. A line snaked around the block and we took our place in it, waited a while, got our seats. Then the lights dimmed and and the now famous, but then revolutionary, scroll rolled out over the screen. I didn’t come back to this planet for the next two hours. To say I was blown away is understatement. The movie encompassed and portrayed everything a naive, yet intelligent dreamer believes in. I walked out with my insides cheering, energy bubbling through my veins, and a huge grin on my face.
My mother, on the other hand, said, “I didn’t like it.”
I was incredulous. How could she not like it? It had good guys and bad guys, and the good guys win. The action was incredible, the effects amazing. It carried you off to a different world. Nope. She didn’t like it and didn’t understand it.
We’ve had many a conversation since then, and a few things have become clear to me. As my mother claims, she doesn’t understand fantasy or imagination. She doesn’t understand how escapism helps anything, and she views the world as it is. Her favorite reading is non-fiction, and if she reads fiction, it had better have a deep, deep serious meaning. And yes, she has admitted that she doesn’t understand how I can write books or come up with stories. She doesn’t have stories in her head. The world is as it is. She believes that’s because of her childhood and experiences.
Me? Well, I went on to see Star Wars five more times that summer, and countless since then. I took my sister the next few times and for the all the sequels. Star Wars spoke to the morally rigid, naive sixteen-year-old I was, and in many ways still am. I believe in the good guy and the good fight, wish the world could be more black and white (although really the shades of gray–not 50–give more interest to the world), and believe that deep down most people are good. Sometimes we just have to remind them of it. Loudly.