London Calling

As well as Scotland and Tuscany…

I’m going to be away from this blog for a while, as I’m leaving on an exciting family/research trip to Britain and Italy. I’m not planning on reading any novels during the trip, but I am packing my journal in order to take notes and to channel my muse (I heard she’s hanging out in Britain—gotta find her).

And to propel me into the writing mode, I've filled my iPod with instrumental music that reminds me of England and Scotland, such as the soundtracks from PRIDE AND PREJUDICE, MASTER AND COMMANDER, THE LION, THE WITCH, AND THE WARDROBE, and, of course, music filled with bagpipes and fiddles. OK, confession time: I LOVE listening to bagpipes. Tears well in my eyes at the first few notes, especially if the piper is playing “Amazing Grace.” Sigh. I could literally listen to bagpipe music All. Day. Long.

However, that hasn’t been my packing music. Nope, I’ve reserved The Proclaimers and the Bay City Rollers for that, but now I can’t get “S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y NIGHT!” out of my head. :-)

Oh, and I’m totally looking forward to trying Turkish delight. Finally. Ever since I was about ten years old, I’ve wanted to taste the sweet that tempted Edmund in THE LION, THE WITCH, AND THE WARDROBE to betray his brother and sisters to the White Witch. And it can be found in London. Woo-hoo! Yeah, it really doesn’t take much to make me happy. (I know. I could’ve ordered it over the Internet, but it’s just not the same.)

We’re also spending a week in Tuscany, which will be such a completely different experience from Britain. We’re staying just outside Florence in the Chianti region and I’m sure we’ll take about a thousand pictures of the hills, Florence, San Gimignano, Rome, and Pisa. Can’t wait to see the Leaning Tower (I’m such a tourist)!

Talk to y’all when I return…

Michele

Nora Saved My Life and Other Conference Tales...

Hey! Wanna know how Nora Roberts saved my life in Reno? Go to The Writer's Vibe and find out (click the link on the sidebar, as, unfortunately, my browser doesn't allow me to link in this post--no snickering, Jen A.). At the Writer's Vibe, Louise, Dana, and I are relating our conference tales and would love for you to join in the discussion, too! :-)

Michele

Whose Story Is It?

Hello! So, yep, I’ve been away from this blog for a while. Deadlines, you know.

But while I’ve been working hard to meet those writing and Orange Blossom deadlines, I’ve been keeping the craft of writing front and center. As a matter of fact, I don’t believe there’s ever a time when I’m not thinking about how to create a better story. And P.O.V. is one of those tools of writing that keeps me on my toes. Which character wants to tell the tale? One of them or all of them?

Whenever I start a novel, I find I write in third person-limited POV. Others exist, such as first person and omniscient, but for some reason third person-limited beckons me every time. The story just seems to click then. Perhaps it’s because I enjoy delving into the psyche of the characters. I want to know how the heroine feels about the hero and vice-versa, or what the antagonist is thinking—what’s his motivation for giving the protagonist a hard time?

But that can be accomplished in first person, too, right? Yes, there are different ways to approach it, ways that solve my need for multiple character points of view. For example, have you ever read CHOCOLAT by Joanne Harris? (I know. I've used this story as an example before, but I like it alot). Anyway, Harris has two different characters tell first person accounts of the story that takes place in France, during Lent: Vianne Rocher (the woman who runs the chocolate shop) and Pére Reynaud (the local priest). Harris manages to keep the reader in this deep, intimate POV, yet we know exactly what the protagonist and antagonist are thinking and feeling. Cool. That makes me want to attempt writing a story in first person. One day, I’ll give it a try. Have you ever written one?

Then there's omniscient POV, which has that “fly on the wall” aspect. But whenever I try to write that way, I just…I don’t know…I simply don’t feel close to the characters, so I wind up slipping into third person-limited. It could very well be that I haven’t practiced writing in that POV enough to feel that connection. But it also seems that, as the author, I’m intruding on the story. So maybe more practice is in order. Other writers can pull it off without a hitch, but not me. Have you tried omniscient POV?

So, what's your favorite? Do you write in more than one? I’d love to hear about it!

Michele

If It's Baroque, Fix It (ba-dum-bum-tish)

No, this isn’t a picture of a Baroque-style palace in Europe. It’s the inside of a movie palace, the Los Angeles Theater, on Broadway in—yep, you guessed it—Los Angeles. This theater opened in 1931 and premiered Charlie Chaplin’s "City Lights" and closed in 1994, except for special events and filming.

Last Wednesday night was one such special occasion, as the L.A. Conservancy opened the theater for their 20th Annual Last Remaining Seats and showed "The Mark of Zorro," starring Tyrone Power and Linda Darnell, to an eager crowd of what looked to be about 2000 people. What a blast that was! Nothing beats viewing an old movie on the big screen after the decorative curtain rolls up, with the sound emitting from the top of the screen—no Dolby surround sound here—and the auditorium filled with people enjoying the humor and wit of Power’s character, Don Diego/Zorro. I loved it.

What makes this theater different than the others on Broadway, such as the Orpheum and the Million Dollar? This one had a periscope-like system of prisms that relayed the movie from the auditorium to the lounge downstairs, so one didn’t need to miss the movie if a break was necessary. It also had two soundproof Crying Rooms (how cool is that?) and a playroom for the children. And, of course, one can’t miss the crystal fountain displayed at the top of the grand staircase (as seen in the picture above). Absolutely stunning.

You guys know how much of a sucker I am for anything historical, right? Well, old Los Angeles and Hollywood are certainly no exceptions. I’ve always wanted to write a story set in 1930s Tinseltown, and strolling down the red carpet and soaking up the French Baroque details of this theater only fueled that desire.

The only bummer part--besides the guy kicking the back of my chair throughout the entire movie (grrrrr…)--is that the theater is in disrepair. It’s only 75 years old, yet the plaster is chipping off the walls and frescos, the walls in the ladies restroom have holes, and the parquet floors in the lounge below the auditorium are in desperate need of refinishing. It tears me apart to see such a glorious place in such a sad state. It needs to be fixed before it too succumbs to the ruined existence of the other closed theaters on that street, such as The Pantages where Sophie Tucker and other vaudeville acts performed, the Roxie, and the Tower (which premiered with The Jazz Singer—not even the landmark talkie could save that one from closing). Sigh. That’s the Southland for you. But the good news: the L.A. Conservancy is doing what it can to repair the theater.

If you ever get a chance to tour one of the old movie palaces, I highly recommend you do so. With every step, every turn of a corner, inspiration met me and carried me away to a different era. I’m so eager to get the story that’s forming in my mind down on paper…but I’ve got a few other stories to finish first.

Michele

Congratulations!

I've enjoyed reading the stories behind the people who have influenced you and I hope you continue to share them in the comment section of "She Did it Her Way, Part Two." I'm going to keep checking to see if any more have been posted, so please keep them coming!

On a different note, I'd like to congratulate my friend, Jennifer Apodaca. Her book, BATTERIES REQUIRED (Kensington Publishing), is a 2006 finalist in the Mainstream Mystery Suspense category of the PUBLISHED DIVISION OF THE DAPHNE DU MAURIER AWARD FOR EXCELLENCE IN MYSTERY/SUSPENSE! Way to go, Jen. :-)

She Did it Her Way, Part Two

Thank you all so much for the lovely responses to "She Did it Her Way, Part One." As promised, I’m going to tell you the story of my other grandmother, Wilma, and I’ll also let her tell you part of her story in her own words, taken from an oral history interview I conducted with her a few years before she passed on.

She, like Mary Crawford, taught me the importance of standing up for myself and going after my dreams in a spirited fashion. But not only did she impart upon me strength, she also attempted to teach me to cook and bake, as she was an excellent chef; however, that wasn’t a gene I’d inherited. But I did learn expressions like “That’s not even enough to fill your ear,” which meant I needed to add more of an ingredient when making the crust of her famous peach cobbler. Now, if only I could remember what that ingredient was…

Wilma grew up in a German farming community in Colorado, the second youngest of eight children. Her parents came to the United States, with their respective families, around 1900 when the flood of Eastern Europeans immigrated here.

She told me they lived on a good farm, but their lives were hard: “You know, growing up in a German family, we all knew that the man was the ruler of the house, and it wasn’t like we had specific chores to do--we did all the chores. This included milking four to five cows night and day, working in the fields during the day, and cooking, cleaning, and so forth. My father, uh, he just frequented the bars while we all worked. . . .The farther away I could get from the farm, the better. Boy, I had too many sleepless nights with my father threatening to do things to us.” He often threatened to kill them and was physically abusive, but she’d told me proudly that he never laid a hand on her. She said he knew no good would come of it if he had. And I believed her. Still do.

In all the photos she showed me of her during her childhood, she never cracked a smile. No one in the photos smiled. They all seemed so dismal and heartbroken.

At the age of 16, she knew she couldn’t wait around for someone to rescue her from the life she hated; she needed to rescue herself. So she left the farm to take a job as a waitress in a drug store in Denver where she got a taste of independence for the first time in her life. And loved it. A year or so later, she told her family she was going on a two-week trip to visit her sister in Yakima, Washington. But she and her best friend, Audrey, headed to San Diego, California instead and never looked back. In her words: “When we left here there was about two foot of snow on the ground at the train station. When we got to California, everything was sunny and beautiful and green and I said, ‘Boy, this is for me’” [laughs].

She and Audrey left Denver in the beginning of 1942. If you know anything about San Diego, you know it’s a military city and the population boomed after the U.S. entered WWII. Navy and Marine men and their families swarmed the city.

Fortunately, she and Audrey found jobs in a diner where they worked from midnight to eight in the morning as waitresses, and then eventually as cooks. She told me: “Well, we made a lot more money, and we couldn’t find a place to live--except a hotel that was across the street from the Grant Hotel. And, uh, they were hiring out, uh, their rooms by the month and by the week and making it easier for the--because it was so overcrowded that there just was nothing to be had. There were no rooms. There were no houses. There were no apartments. Nothing. . . . Well, you know, whoever could live together did. The service men who were stationed out here usually had girlfriends who followed them out, and those girls needed housing, too."

During the day, she and Audrey would head to Shermans where, for about fifty cents, they’d dance to the big bands, like Harry James and his orchestra and Henry King and his orchestra. They had the time of their lives and their pick of men to dance with. LOL

When I look at the photos of her during her days in San Diego, I can hardly believe they were of the same girl who once grew up on that farm in Colorado. In these pictures, the girl was laughing in a diner with friends, reaching for the sky while swinging in a park, and hanging upside down on monkey bars. She was living life her way, not the way her oppressive, abusive father wanted her to live it.

Eventually, though, she did find herself sucked back into the world of bad relationships. Twice. But she invoked her own strength and divorced both men. In order to break the cycle, she was determined never to marry again. And she didn’t. My mom broke it completely when she met and married my dad. They’ve been happily married 37 years now. And my husband and I have been married for 13 years already, so the new cycle of happy relationships continues.

When my grandma and I would speak about her time in San Diego, she’d laugh and tell me story after story about her life there (too numerous to post here), but as soon as we'd speak about her marriages after the war, she'd quit laughing, except when being sarcastic, and she'd say she felt like there was not a lot for her to talk about. She also told me that when she thought about it, her life had been boring. Of course, I disagreed with her. I am still fascinated by it. She did it her way.


So tell me the story behind a person who influenced you. I can’t wait to read your stories, too! C’mon, you know you want to share them! :-)

Michele

I Haven't Forgotten You. Promise.

I want to thank you all for the kind responses to "She Did it Her Way, Part One." I am so touched by all of your comments and your personal stories. Thank you again for sharing them.

And I know I said I'd post Wilma's story soon, but it's taking a little longer than I anticipated because a few deadlines snuck up on me when I had my back turned. I hope to meet those deadlines today and tomorrow and then post Wilma's story by Wednesday at the latest. Oh, and I found the transcipt of an Oral History report I did, with her as the subject, a few years before she passed away. Finding that has brought back a flood of memories and I can wait to share them with you. :-)

Also, I plan to write a bit about a research trip I took this weekend to a working, Paint horse-breeding ranch. Wow. That was an eye-opener! LOL It certainly was great research for an upcoming story, though. (Don't worry. I won't go into graphic details!)

So be sure to check back because I have so much to tell ya'll!

Michele

She Did it Her Way, Part One

This is the easiest and the hardest thing I’ve ever written.

It’s the easiest because when I think of two women who personify strength, integrity, and love, I immediately call to mind my grandmothers, Wilma Morris and Mary Crawford. You want examples of spirited, independent women? Then look no further. They did things their way and that was that. Stubborn doesn’t even begin to describe either of them, but you can’t fault how fiercely loyal they were to their children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. And we all loved them for it.

Wilma and Mary are my heros and the reason I’m the way I am today. They are the embodiment of the type of heroines that I write and have influenced me in countless ways—from how intensely I love my family to how I set goals and accomplish them.

It’s the hardest because Wilma passed on two years ago (I’ll tell her courageous story in a few days).

And Mary passed on Thursday night, May 4, 2006. I was fortunate enough to spend the last week in the hospital with her, to be able to tell her over and over how much I love her and for her to tell me the same. Not many get that chance and I know how lucky I was to be given that opportunity. I’m so proud to be her granddaughter and I made certain she knew that before she moved on to an existence where she’d suffer no more.

The hospital let her family camp out in her room for several days. 24 hours a day, there’d be anywhere from 1 person to 15 people in that tiny space around her bed. We sprawled out anywhere we could—on the tile floor, under the table, in the few chairs that fit in the room--but none of us minded, as we all wanted to be there for her. Just as she’d always been there for us.

Five children, whom she raised single handedly while working full time. Fourteen grandchildren. And fourteen great-grandchildren. And the majority of us jockeying for position at any given time in order to brush back her hair, to kiss her, and to say…Thank you.

As we all huddled together in the hospital room, we got to know each other better than we ever had. Family members I hadn’t talked to in 10 years or I had seen only once a year, suddenly became more than family—they became friends as our emotions vacillated between sobs and laughter. We held one another as my grandma slept and we swapped stories about her and one another.

And when she’d waken, we’d stand around her and tell her the stories, too. We’d do the talking, as she only had enough energy to tell us she loved us, that she didn’t want to be a bother to us, but she was happy we were all there. “No one could ask for more,” she’d say before the morphine pulled her back under. That was all she wanted—for her family to be together. And we were. We wouldn’t have it any other way.

We talked about how she was a “Rosie the Riveter” during WWII, how she used to only make right turns when driving somewhere, how through her bloodline the women of the family qualify for Daughters of the American Revolution (a grandfather was General Israel Putnam who fought at Bunker Hill—some sources say he was the one who said “Don’t shoot until you see the whites of their eyes,” but other sources say it was some poser name Prescott *VBG*), and how she fought so hard for her own independence, even as the family took away her car to keep her and others safe. But she did live in her own place until the day she entered the hospital. And no one wanted to dwell on the thought that one day that form of independence would be taken from her, too. Believe me, her shouting would’ve been heard clear across the state. She wanted to do things her way. Like I said, stubborn doesn’t even begin to describe her—God love her.

We all prayed we had her strength. When she was admitted into the hospital her heart only worked at 10% of its capacity. Most people can’t turn over in bed at that, but she was walking around. And at 86 years of age, she was still traveling, up until a few days before her heart attack.

Last Thursday, we knew she was going to leave us at any moment. With each breath, about 15 of us watched and wondered if it was her last. For hours, we cried, we assured her it was all right to go, assured her we’d be all right, assured her we’d take care of one another, assured her that she did a great job of taking care of everyone else and now we wanted her to be in peace…Then we started to laugh because we realized she was being stubborn until the very end. She wouldn’t go. It was as if she were saying, “I’ll go when I’m damn well ready. And that’s NOT now!”

Around 7:30 PM, my cousins and I decided we needed to get something to eat, but our parents stayed in the room with her. It was while we were laughing and bonding over our dinner that we got the call. She’d waited for us to leave before she passed on with just her children surrounding her. She did it her way until her very last breath.

At her funeral yesterday, my cousins and I talked about how we want to be just like her: loving, independent, and spirited. We lucked into being born into this family, to be privileged enough to have her as our grandmother, as our role model.

My heroines have her qualities, but it wasn’t until these past few weeks that I realized how much of an influence she has been on my life and my writing. I’ll never forget her and will always be grateful to her. Thank you, Grandma.

Do you have someone whose very life has inspired you in any way? I’d love to hear about him or her, too.

Michele

Obsessed or Possessed?

Have you ever visited a place and felt an overwhelming connection to it that inspired a need to be creative—whether through writing, painting, photography, or anything else? That place could be a region or a city or even a house. It doesn’t matter because it’s just a place where you feel you belong, a place you feel you understand, a place that feels like it’s racing through your veins, a place that feels like home. No, not just feels like home…it is home. For me, that place is New England, specifically Maine and the Boston area.

I can hear my family groaning right now. Yes, I’ve become obsessed with or possessed by that area. It’s almost like I lived there in a past life, or something. Even though I’m on the other side of the country and it’s been almost two years since I visited, the connection pulls at me until my gut hurts because I’m not there. Weird, huh? Yep, that’s me.

Anyway, the area inspired me to write, write, write. Touring the historic homes and buildings, hiking the trails throughout the numerous woods, speaking to the people who live there…I embraced all of it and still do. I can’t believe how much I was able to write after soaking it all in and ::sob:: returning to the West coast. I have no problem picturing my family living in one of those old houses on the rocky, Atlantic coast and watching the boats, filled to capacity with lobster traps, as they head toward the docks. And I’m writing away, inspired by something as simple as a butler’s pantry and basement—things you don’t normally find where I live.

It’s odd to think that I feel more at home, more comfortable, in a place that I’ve only visited, rather than in the place I’ve lived my entire life. Why is that?

I think some of this has to do with the fact that the East coast people know how to save and treasure their historic structures (and not plow them over to erect another mini-mall). Sure, the West has a remarkable history, too, but there aren’t a lot of physical reminders of this left—earthquakes and fires have something to do with this, but not everything. And since I write historical stories set in California, I know quite a bit about it’s colorful past. I just wish more of it had been saved.

I’ve always had a fascination with history, American or otherwise, and have recently discovered that some of my ancestors came to the New World in 1631 and are quite prominent throughout the history books; in fact, some are infamous (Salem, anyone?). Oh, and I also have Cherokee ancestry, so it’s safe to say that one side of my family has been here a loooong time.

Is it familial history that causes the connection, that inspires me to write? Maybe. I know I’d write no matter what, but just visiting New England wakened something else in me.

What about you guys? Ever experience anything like that?

Neck Deep in Revisions

That’s where I am right now—neck deep in the revision stage of two of my historical novels. The first in the series is completed and I've sent it out to find a home in the publishing world (fingers crossed), and the subsequent two novels have the first drafts completed. Woo-hoo! So now I’m revising. This is where the story really comes to life for me, where I have those “ah, yes, that’s it” moments. Gotta love those. It’s those moments that give me confidence as a writer.

But what has been exciting for me as I revise the second story in the series, which is set in London, York, and parts of Scotland, is the fact that I know I’ll be in those places in a few months and will be able to pick up some specific, killer-diller details about them to incorporate into the story. Although I do have to remember not to get bogged down with details, it’s fun to uncover those gems that thread the reader into the story—whether you find those gems in books, the Internet, or on location.

So I’m diving back into my revisions now. What about you? What stage of writing are you in right now—planning, first draft, revisions?