The Last Of The Savage Women (new 2nd chapter of The Narcissist)

Eighteen years ago Maggy moved to Santa Barbara. I'd moved there six months before, in part to get away from her, but mostly to be with Charlie. When he and I first left Salt Lake we'd lived together in Salt Lake for four years. Moving to Santa Barbara was moving home for him. For me it was moving to paradise. The climate reminded me of the Italian Riviera. The house sat on eighteen acres of Madrone, Bay, Eucalyptus and Oak forest. It had a view of the jewel that is Santa Barbara directly below with the curve south toward Montecitto and north toward Golita. On a good day we could see the Channel Islands. For a couple of blissful months it was perfect. Charlie set about improving the house and landscaping and I got a great job at Robinsons. Then Maggy started dropping in.

She'd call from Salt Lake and say, "Hi, I'm coming to see you. I'll be there next Thursday and I'll stay for a week." I'd be standing there with the phone clutched to my ear and my mouth hanging open, listening to a dial tone, heart thudding as adrenalin flooded my system. I could never beat her to the draw. She'd never been to Santa Barbara. We had room, didn't we? I could pick her up at 7:30 Thursday night. She knew how to entertain herself. She was a grown-up. Whenever I heard words like that from Maggy I could not help but roll my eyes.

Six months later Maggy has a great job and Charlie and I have separated. Now I have an apartment near Alice Keck Park on Garden St. And Maggy is living in a villa in the hills of the Riveria, looking down on me again.

She got a job as Caroline Franzen's companion. Caroline is a wealthy widow with an estate on the Riviera just above the Mission in old Santa Barbara. Now Maggy knows every art or film luminary living within a hundred miles of Caroline's house. There is a Salon every Wednesday evening. Maggy is in heaven. She has one of the cottages with a view of the pool and a place at the table of a world she has only dreamed about. Maggy had been a fine arts major and had been named Designer/Craftsman of the year when she graduated. She wore her Phi Beta Kappa key around her neck on a thin gold chain.

I went to her place every other day or so to keep her from dropping in on me. One of the things she been saying she wanted to do was organize the photographs she's kept over the years. I'd offered to help her put them in books. So on this balmy December afternoon we are sitting at her table with the light reflecting off the swimming pool with the photographs spread out into decades, starting from her childhood. And in seeing her life laid out like that, much of it in black and white, started her on a shocking trip down memory lane.

She had portraits I'd never seen of my grandmother Savage looking like a Mexican Madonna and a young, angular, serious Gramps standing stiffly next to her looking down on her as she gazes into the infant face of my Uncle Lindon. Without a doubt my grandmother was a woman whose ancestors had been on this continent many centuries longer than most. I look from this lovely portrait of mother, father, and child, to my mothers face. She has grown more to resemble her mother than I dare tell her. She looks like a blue eyed Eskimo. Her nose is flat across the bridge and her nostrels flare broader than mine. I have my father's, uncle's, grandfather's hawk nosed face. I share their high cheekbones, and angularity, but I have my mothers hairline, mouth, and voice. People often say we look alike, but I think it's that we talk alike. We are rather direct, sometimes our blunt, to the point speech seems rude. I try very hard to soften the edges of my deep strong voice.

Maggy was the the second child. Then came Lucinda, the real baby, and the only family member I look exactly like. Maggy often calls me Lucy. I wish she'd named me Lucy. I liked my aunt. In this picture, Sonny looks so slim and earnest. Lucy seems distracted by something to the side and off in the distance, but Maggy looks straight at the camera as if taking a dare. She is the fierce one of the Savage Women. You can see it in her face even as a six-year-old.

Maggy's been telling me stories of hardship and deprivation during the Great Depression all my life, so I expect to see a family in distress in these photos. I see photos of a family that looks well groomed and glossy, if a bit serious. They stand well dressed in front of a small house or in front of a car. Gramps was a Ford salesman. She has been saying things in a voice like someone narrating a film. But the moment she starts talking about her Daddy, my Gramps, her voice grows venomous. She says, "I tried to get that stupid bitch to leave him all my life." Her finger stabs at a snapshot of Grandmother as a young women wearing a printed shirt dress that comes just below her shins. She stares unsmiling into the camera. She's broad shouldered and slender. She's wearing lace up leather oxfords with stacked heels. Her hair is in a roll at the nape of her neck. She looks very stylish to me. And I never experienced my grandmother as a bitch. Mildly annoying, but the very antitheses of a bitch. My experience of her was of a sweet and generous woman who complained a bit too much. But the last time I saw her I was fifteen.

I stare at the table and realize that much of Maggy's life has been a secret, or rather a mystery to me. She's told stories, but these photos are the illustrations, the cast of characters. There is a snapshot of her in a nurses uniform and I've never seen it before. I look across the table at her and she says, "I dropped out to marry Chuck. It was war time. I met him at a dance and I was mad about him. I had brain fever for that man. He had a big house off base in Paris, and the boys seemed like an adventure, but you were a surprise." She's looking of the portrait photo of Chuck just before she married him and he is indeed a handsome man. He looks a bit like Clark Gable. He has dark hair and a slight dimple in his chin. He has a mustache and dark eyebrows and dark lashes. But there are no wedding photos, there are no snapshots of her pregnant wearing maternity smocks. I ask about this omission, and she tells me that it was one of the worst times of her life. She would have killed anyone who took a picture of her. Besides, nobody had the money for such luxuries as pictures all the time. There was rationing of everything during the war and for years after.

Then she says, out of the blue, "Chuck was involved with a smuggling ring. He sent me money. Lots of it. I hid it. He was a Supply Sergeant. He could get his hands on anything. I saved the baby dress he sent you. But remember my star sapphire ring?" I do. It's exactly the glacial blue of her eyes. "Chuck sent that to me. I have no idea how he came by it. It's set in platinum. I still have the baby dress too, along with your baby book."

"I had a baby book? Why haven't I ever seen it?"
"Because every time you get your hands on something I never see it again." I think she's projecting here, but decide not to get into it. The message is, I'm irresponsible. I try to lose interest in the baby book. But just as I move on she gets up from the table and goes to her closet. I watch her stretch to a top shelf and she pulls down a box. It holds my baby book. She proudly carries it to the table and hands it to me, saying, "You can have it now." I open the pristine book. I leaf through the empty pages and tears start to leak from my eye. I put my hand over my mouth. Maggy says, "What the hell are you crying about?"

It was entirely devoid of photos or mention about the “baby”. The only page that had anything written on it was the page about baby’s pets. Two Dobermans, Gin and Vermouth. No pictures, no writing anywhere except that page, just the breed and names of the dogs. I have kept it as evidence.

The next batch of photos is of my first year. For the first time the boys are not just lined up like stair steps. Now there is a baby being held by one or the other. They don't looked pleased to be pressed into service like this. There's one picture of Jim holding me. My youngest half brother is about six and I am probably three months. He has me under the arms and I dangle there, a long thin baby in a sagging diaper, my head turned to the side. His head is cocked slightly to toward his shoulder. We both look really uncomfortable, but game. And as I'm staring at that picture I have a vision of a swimming pool and a feeling of terror.

"Did the boys take me to a swimming pool?"
"Yes, they took you to the pool on base."
"Just the boys?"
"Yes, why?
"I don't know. How old was JR?"
"Sixteen. He was old enough to babysit you. Chuck and I needed time alone." I feel something like an electric shock run down my spine. The hair at the back of my neck prickles. I recognize panic creeping up on me.

"Here, look at this one." She hands me one of the two of us. "This was your first Christmas. You were six months old." She beams as she hands it to me and in the picture she is lovely, she has the glamourous good looks of a film star. Her hair is black and shiny, pulled back from her face exposing her widow's peak and the broad planes of her cheek bones. She has the most wonderful smile. She has full curved lips and even white teeth. Maggy was a gorgeous woman. She's still a very handsome woman. In the photograph we're looking at, she has me balanced on her knee, her face above mine and she leans into the light of an elaborately decorated and brightly lit Christmas tree. My eyes are glistening in the light from the tree. My wet lips are parted. She looks from the picture to me and says, "You have me to thanks for your good looks."
"Thank you Maggy."
"Too bad you don't have my temperament."
"You'd have been happiest with a clone, wouldn't you?"
"Yes, I think I would have."
"Why did you have me call you Maggy?" I can't believe I haven't asked this before. She hesitates for a moment and then says, "Because the boys called me Maggy and I didn't want you to feel different."
"Do you ever hear from them?"
"No, do you?"
"Not since Jim was arrested."

Thank You, Ms Case

I've had 99 followers for quite awhile now, and then yesterday or the day before, Ms Case became my 100th follower. I don't know you Ms Case, but thank you. I hope as a follower you'll be kind enough to start leaving a comment now and then. I'd like to throw you a party.

I've been lazy about writing posts lately. I have some terrible things going on in my little life--my friend Z, who has lung cancer (never been a smoker) has been having a terrible time. She finished chemo and radiation but seemed about to die of the treatment. Yesterday when I talked to her I realized that she might not have long to live, and whatever free time I have to spare should be spent with her. So today I'll be with her.

I do want to let you know that even in Utah, the reddest little theocracy in the Union, with only four days preparation and a very loose network of MoveOn members and this little tweeter we managed to get 350 people together for a demonstration in favor of a public option for healthcare reform. Those of you who know me well, know how I hate to go out in public. It's been years, probably three or four years, since I went out after 5 PM. I think of myself as someone who pretty much hates "people" and likes to avoid them as much as possible. But this crowd was part of my networking and we are in the same boat, so to speak. We are progressives in a state full of reactionaries. The Utah State Capitol is a gorgeous building in a lovely setting. And it was on the Capitol steps where we had our demonstration. I took my camera and have a few photos that aren't blurry to prove that we had a big crowd with homemade signs and little kids, old folks (even older than I) people in wheelchairs and on crutches and walkers, as well as young adults. I loved every one of them. I loved them for their commitment to healthcare reform and their willingness to make their commitment visible.

Twitter is an amazing place if you're trying to pull people together. Word passes from network to network like wildfire on twitter. I'm followed by 600 people there as well a Utah news source. So by tweeting for three days to Utah Progressive and Utah News we had a big crowd and news coverage on KSL, the most Mormon of the local news outlets, as well as Fox news the most reactionary news source. It didn't hurt that I called all four local news channels just before Nick picked me up. If you are not a member of MoveOn.org, might I suggest that you join. It's a very good organization.

I'm loosing readers as fast as Z is loosing pounds. She's over 5' 7" and weights 100 lbs. Please know that at some point I'll be back to writing posts on an obsessive basis, but for now, Z gets my time, and you get crumbs here. When not with Z, I'll be trying to salvage my book. But just because I'm not making the rounds to visit all of you, doesn't mean I'm not thinking about you and wondering what I'm missing.

I might tweet for a minute or two, but that doesn't mean I don't love you best. I'd love to combine both worlds--all you bloggers would make great tweeters, but so far most of you haven't taken to it in a big way. I see La Belette Rouge now and then. Darkblack tweets once in awhile. Liberality is out there tweeting what she's listening to on blip. Where are the rest of you? I probably know what Randal's doing--watching sports and/or pleasuring his wife one way or another. But most of you started tweeting and them gave up on it. For some odd reason, I think of it as Facebook for grown-ups. I love it. I can find networks of politicos, reporters, other writers, literary agents, and publishers. It's one of the rare places I feel completely at home and in my element.

Editing Never Seems To End

I have been following other writers on twitter and one of them has taken an interest in my writing. She read the first chapter of the novel The Narcissist and loved it. She read, or started to read, the second chapter and sent me an email, telling me I need to work on the second chapter to show not tell that early family history. So for the next couple of days, I'll be working on it. I might post it here. If you want to help, jump in. If not, please forgive the working in public. I want to make it as good as I can. I'd like to be done with it, find a home for it and then move on to the next book.

I've been writing stories about the years that are missing from the book. These stories are written in the third person and have been a lot easier to write. They cover the marriages and the relationships with men that are mostly missing from The Narcissist. My friend Nick has wanted to know why I married the kind of men I did. Why did I choose such assholes to live with? It's a good question and in my exploration of these relationships I might find the answer that will satisfy Nick. I know why. The real answer is found in the early years of my life. But that's not enough. Plenty of us have had awful lives as children in crazy families, yet managed to find love and marry and have children. Why couldn't I? Why has living alone been the happiest time of my life? Maybe we'll find out.

Oh How I Love the Great Bass Players

Boxed In

The Page, The Blank Page

Who Will Teach Me to Write?

Who will teach me to write? a reader wanted to know. The page, the page, the blankness of eternity which you cover slowly, affirming time’s scrawl as a right and your daring as necessity; the page, which you cover woodenly, ruining it, but asserting your freedom and power to act, acknowledging that you ruin everything you touch but touching it nevertheless, because acting is better than being here in mere opacity; the page, which you cover slowly with the crabbed thread of your gut; the page in the purity of its possibilities; the page of your death, against which you pit such flawed excellences as you can muster with all your life’s strength: that page will teach you to write.

ANNIE DILLARD

My Neighbor's Bounty

This is all just picked from my neighbors big garden. I just walk over any time I want and help myself. This is the raw material for a very good, fresh Ratatouille. I already have a pepper I picked a couple of days ago and a Vidalia onion I picked up at the grocery store. This will feed me for days and I'll share a little with friends. I can serve it over rice or pasta, but tonight, I'm just having a big bowl of just ratatouille.

The only thing I won't use is the little spaghetti squash. I'll cook the squash and have ratatouille on it like it was spaghetti.

First I'll make a tomato sauce. While its cooking I'll slice and salt the eggplant. Pat and wipe off moisture, turn and salt. Repeat.
Then cube big and gently brown in olive oil.

the rest is easy as pie. Oh next week I'll make eggplant pie.

Advise On How To Write a Query Letter

How to Write a Query Letter to a Literary Agent
Posted by Chuck

This is a "Blast From the

Past" post. To celebrate the

GLA Blog's 2nd birthday, I am

re-posting some of the best

"older" content that writers

likely missed.

I talk to a lot of writers about how to compose a good query letter. Make no mistake - it's no easy task, and it will take a lot of work. But what I can tell you right off the bat is that a good query has a distinct structure, and I can show you it right here below.

Think of a query as a three-part monster, broken down into three paragraphs. At the top of the page, you will have your contact info, as well as the mailing address info for the agency and the date. After that, you have your three paragraphs:

Paragraph One:

1. Explain what the work is. So - what are you writing? What is the genre? The length? The title? Is it complete? State all the basic info upfront so the agent will immediately know if this is a type of work that she represents.

2. Explain why you're contacting this agent. Did you meet them at a conference? Were they recommended by a friend? Did you see an interview online where they said they were looking for steamy romances and you're writing one such steamy romance? Show them why you picked them out of the big pile, so they have a reason to pick you out of a big pile.

Paragraph Two:

1. Pitch Your Work. This is the most difficult part. You have to boil your book down to about 3-6 sentences and explain what makes the story interesting. You've got to get to the hook. What is the irony - the catch - that makes this story interesting? If your story is simply about a police officer who retires and adjusts to a new lifestyle, that has no hook. But if you say that this newly retired police officer decides to get a sex change, and finds that the police union wants to cancel his pension, and his old friends won't speak to him - then you've got a hook. You've got a unique, interesting idea for a story.

Paragraph Three:

1. Explain who you are and why you're qualified to write this work. Do you have publishing credits? Are you a journalist? Have you won any awards? Have you had short stories published? If you're pitching nonfiction, this becomes the most important section of the query because you will have to prove that you are the ideal person to write this particular book.
Keep in mind that if you don't have anything to say or brag about, you can just keep this section short. Tout your accomplishments quickly and humbly. You want to say "I'm not brand new and I take writing seriously." You don't want to say "Yoo-hoo! Look at my accolades! I'm the man, if you didn't know it, sucka."

2. Thank them. Thank the agent for considering your project. Ask them if you can send more. "Can I send you the first few chapters or some pages?" "Can I send you the full book proposal?"


Want more on this subject?

• There are lots of articles about queries on this GLA blog. See the whole category here.
  
• The newest issue of Writer's Digest (September) has some real query letters that worked to snag agents, as well as tips on writing good queries. If you're not subscribed to the magazine, please sign up.
  
• Looking for a literary agent for your work? I'm teaching an awesome webinar on Thursday, Aug. 27, called "How to Land a Literary Agent." Sign up today!

Queries and Synopses and Proposals

Dog Day AFternoon

You Kill Me

Two of my favorite actors are in the film You Kill Me. It's a quirky little dark romance about an alcoholic hit man sent to San Francisco to clean up his act and a strange female client he meets in a mortuary. Terrific performances from Tea Leoni and Ben Kingsley. This is the second time I've seen it and I like it even better this time.

I've Become a Bengals Fan

I know, Randal, it's just unbelievable. But I've been feeling a little mean and snarly. And in this feelingstabby phase, I've started to watch the Bengals on HBO.

The Sound Of Crickets On A Hot Summer Night

In Arlington National Cemetery the night they buried Senator Edward M Kennedy there were
crickets chirping and the low murmur of voices waiting at the gravesite.
I, an unbeliever, was moved to tears by the prayers and answered aloud
Hear our prayer
Hear our prayer

It grew dark and lightening off in the distance over the hill where
A lone soldier stood gun held in white gloved hands waiting for the
Final Salute flashed off and on as a gentle wind blew the
Eternal flame in the growing darkness
And then it was over

If You've Got The Money....

This is a song for the healthcare system we have. If you're loaded and can afford the insurance, your doctor and hospital will take great care of you. If you're busted and broke, good luck on finding a quiet place to die.

Why Do I Love Paul Krugman? This Is But One Reason

Heredity, environment, justice

Oh, Kay. Greg Mankiw looks at a graph showing that children of high-income families do better on tests, and suggests that it’s largely about inherited talent: smart people make lots of money, and also have smart kids.

But, you know, there’s lots of evidence that there’s more to it than that. For example: students with low test scores from high-income families are slightly more likely to finish college than students with high test scores from low-income families.

It’s comforting to think that we live in a meritocracy. But we don’t.

To All My Crow Friends

I've Gone Missing

In many respects I've been absent lately. Missing from my own blog, off tweeting or rewriting and otherwise tinkering with the first chapter of the novel and giving it a new title. It feels so familiar that I keep searching Wiki looking for it already taken by a better writer and published long ago. The Narcissist's Daughter is what I call it, but I'm haunted by the feeling that I didn't get it first. I have read so many novels over my amazingly long reading life that I often buy or check books out of the library that look interesting only to find, about a quarter of the way in, that I have read the book before. I've heard others of you say the same thing. I'm glad I'm not alone is this forgetfulness. Finally I Google it and what do you know, there it is, on sale at Amazon.com. I don't think I've read it because the author's name isn't familiar. Maybe one of you has posted it on Good Reads or Book Blogging. I get updates in my email. I go and look and I'm overwhelmed by the little bit I've put into Good Reads. I probably haven't updated it in a year or more.

I've stopped visiting most of you or only spottily, now and then. So obsessed with the news, that I tape all my favorite news shows so I can watch them without the commercials. Yet most of the day I'm tweeting with the news playing in the background. I'd be better served by listening to NPR or AirAmerica, rather than listening to what I'll watch later.

There is a bit of method in the madness to my obsessive tweeting. There are so many literary agents and publishers on twitter. They tweet tips for first time novelists. It's due to these tips that I decided to rewrite the first chapter of the the novel, The Narcissist.

I know, it was Maggy, but I like the ambiguity of The Narcissist. Who is the narcissist in this book? Judy, Maggy, or is it Chuck or Brent? Is Gramps the first and most important of the men, or is it Brent, probably the most damaged of the very damaged men who populate this novel? Men like those who, sadly, have populated my rather emotionally barren life. I say barren because sadness and failure do not make for a rich and happy emotional life nor do these emotions feel like healthy children. Fearing and eventually disliking the men you live with does not make for a happy life, and no matter what the other successes or adventures I've had, it's those failed relationships with men that have been most painful. But trapped like a bug in pine pitch my relationship with my interesting and difficult mother sent me on the search for men as damaged as the men in her life, the men who fathered me and later in her life, the men who tried to get between us. Families are sure full of good material.

If you have time and the inclination, take a look at the newley edited first chapter and tell me what you think. Is it better or worse for my tinkering? Leave bread crumbs.

An Email From The President and First Lady

Peggy -- Michelle and I were heartbroken to learn this morning of the death of our dear friend, Senator Ted Kennedy. For nearly five decades, virtually every major piece of legislation to advance the civil rights, health and economic well-being of the American people bore his name and resulted from his efforts. His ideas and ideals are stamped on scores of laws and reflected in millions of lives -- in seniors who know new dignity; in families that know new opportunity; in children who know education's promise; and in all who can pursue their dream in an America that is more equal and more just, including me. In the United States Senate, I can think of no one who engendered greater respect or affection from members of both sides of the aisle. His seriousness of purpose was perpetually matched by humility, warmth and good cheer. He battled passionately on the Senate floor for the causes that he held dear, and yet still maintained warm friendships across party lines. And that's one reason he became not only one of the greatest senators of our time, but one of the most accomplished Americans ever to serve our democracy. I personally valued his wise counsel in the Senate, where, regardless of the swirl of events, he always had time for a new colleague. I cherished his confidence and momentous support in my race for the Presidency. And even as he waged a valiant struggle with a mortal illness, I've benefited as President from his encouragement and wisdom. His fight gave us the opportunity we were denied when his brothers John and Robert were taken from us: the blessing of time to say thank you and goodbye. The outpouring of love, gratitude and fond memories to which we've all borne witness is a testament to the way this singular figure in American history touched so many lives. For America, he was a defender of a dream. For his family, he was a guardian. Our hearts and prayers go out to them today -- to his wonderful wife, Vicki, his children Ted Jr., Patrick and Kara, his grandchildren and his extended family. Today, our country mourns. We say goodbye to a friend and a true leader who challenged us all to live out our noblest values. And we give thanks for his memory, which inspires us still. Sincerely, President Barack Obama

The Fight For Universal Healthcare Was Teddy's Fight

Senator Edward M. Kennedy

Teddy Died

Statement from The Kennedy Family

August 26, 2009

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

“Edward M. Kennedy – the husband, father, grandfather, brother and uncle we loved so deeply – died late Tuesday night at home in Hyannis Port. We’ve lost the irreplaceable center of our family and joyous light in our lives, but the inspiration of his faith, optimism, and perseverance will live on in our hearts forever. We thank everyone who gave him care and support over this last year, and everyone who stood with him for so many years in his tireless march for progress toward justice, fairness and opportunity for all. He loved this country and devoted his life to serving it. He always believed that our best days were still ahead, but it’s hard to imagine any of them without him.”

Press Contact

Anthony Coley/Melissa Wagoner (202) 224-2633

"The work begins anew, the hope rises again and the dream lives on," - Ted Kennedy

Dirty Fucking Hippies Were Right

Found on twitter. I'm not kidding. Twitter is rich with insurrection.

Wee Wee Up

I'm Having An Upside Down Day

This morning while talking on the phone to Z, half asleep at 11:30, I took my pills. I always wake up, get coffee, pee, take the dogs outside and then open my weekly pill minder, take the day of the week container out and slam that handful of pills back with a swig of coffee. There are two doses: the one for morning contains the mood stabilizer Neuronton, the blood pressure drug Lisinopril, the blood thinner Warfarin, Estradiol, the drugs that keep my heart in normal rhythm, Diltiazem and Flecainide, and one tiny aspirin; and then there are the night time drugs that include a dose of Lisinopril, a Flecainide, two of the Neurontin, a whopping 80mgs of Simvastatin, and my antidepressant Doxepin. For the first time ever I opened the pill minder upside down and took my night time dose by accident. I didn't realize it until I got off the phone. Then I looked at the pill minder in my hand and realized my mistake. I had to take the morning drugs that I don't take at night, like the Warfarin, and the Diltiazem. It's a fuck-up, but not disastrous. The worst that will happen is a minor doziness today since my antidepressant is slightly sedating.

I called my therapist Fred, the minute I realized what I'd done. I left him a message. He'll check with my psychiatrist to confirm my decision skip my usual evening dose since I took it this morningish. I'm going to try to avoid double dosing if possible. The worst that will happen if I take another Doxepin will be a mild hypomania. And like most normal people I kind of like a little hypomania. It sure won't kill me and I just might finally get my house clean. I was going to grocery shop today, but now I don't think driving is wise, so I'm going to stay close to my bed as I may be flopping down and sleeping as if this day were night.

The Real Death Panels

Stolen from Sherry at After the Bridge

Breaking News: Obama is Bipolar

Is It a Novel or a Memoir? This Is the Question

The book has been written, the second book started, but the query is killing me. I started the first book as a memoir then changed my mind and called it a novel. 2,000 people have read it and they think it's a memoir. These 2,000 people don't know me, but they say it makes them cry and reads too true to be a novel. That says something sad about the novel as a form.

Many of the readers were men, and even the men said, "This is my family you're writing about." That seems to be the most common comment. Readers can relate to my characters. So now what? Can I market a memoir as a novel or should I look for an agent who specializes in memoir? I can't really write my query until this question is settled. Can I call it Autobiographical Fiction?

I was married to a writer who called his writing Autobiographical Realism. It got him a PhD and a life of slavery as a university professor. That was not the life I wanted. I just wanted to write. Now that I've been writing for 20 years I want to publish. Any suggestions?

First Healthcare, Next Dental Care

As you age, not matter how good your teeth were, they will start to fail. Most of us eat too much sugar and since dental care is expensive and not covered on all employer plans, a lot of you will be having significant dental problems in your thirties. It just gets worse over the ensuing years.

Dental care is way too expensive. I know. I've poured hundreds of thousands of dollars into my mouth. And now even the teeth that have had root canal therapy and porcelain crowns abscessing in the bone. Currently the last three bottom molars on the right lower side are abscessed and the whole right jaw and lymph node on that side are swollen and tender to the touch. I grind my teeth in my sleep, but every mouthguard I had made ($100+ a pop) needed to be replaced with every bit of subsequent dental work.

I am trying to hang onto these bottom molars since they are my only remaining chewing surface. It is your bottom molars that really take a beating in chewing. When a tooth abscesses under the tooth in the bone, the tooth rises slightly making any contact that much more painful. This is probably the tenth time I've gone through this trauma with these teeth. I should have had them pulled a couple of years ago, but a round or two of antibiotics gives me another few months. And since my last experience of having teeth pulled and replaced with a thing like a retainer with teeth has been a complete disaster, I am loathe to lose these teeth. I like chewing. I hate pain. And this time it's really painful. It used to be that if you lost your molars, you got a partial plate and that was that. No more cavities. But like watch makers, it's a dying art.

Now dentists are all about the implants. An implant starts at $2,500. That's just for the tooth. These are the variables. The implanting itself is a separate charge from the implant. You may need bone grafts. You may get infection, and you may have problems of alignment. I can't afford any of this and I'm not sure if I could afford it I'd risk bone grafts. My jaw is rather delicate.

What I need is a dentist who is a partial plate artist. I just don't know how to find such a dentist. In the meantime, I'm on antibiotics again and in pain again. Thank god for Compazine and Hydrocodon. I'm sedated, the pain is still there, but I don't mind quite so much and I'm sure to start itching soon. And day after tomorrow I'll be able to chew again for a month or so.

Dental care is the next big need for the elderly, the poor, and children. Dental infection can kill you. And if you can't eat, you won't survive.

To All My Writer Friends

This is one more reason to tweet. I'm following Writer's Digest on twitter and woke up this morning (10 AM is still morning) to this email notice. Get your stories out and start editing. I am not a genre writer but I think I have at least one story that can be considered horror or suspense. There is an entry fee of $15. but even I can afford $15.

Barney Takes On Bat Shit Lady

Just another light hearted town hall meeting.



Another tidbit from Twitter.

Tweeting My Life Away

I spent all day yesterday on twitter tweeting. I am learning the fine art of the retweet. I find an interesting tweeter and follow them, then they follow me. It's just all so smart and fast moving and takes a certain wit so say something smart in 140 characters. You know me as a rather long winded whiner, but I can pitch snark with the big boys on twitter. There are certain bloggers who are natural tweeters. Tengrain is one, ConecticutMan is another.

For every cause there are a group of tweeters who make it their own, who do the research, follow the news for up-to-the-second updates, and for every profession there are tweet networks. I think it was just a few months ago I started tweeting and now I have almost 400 followers. I wake up every morning to 10 invites to follow other tweeters. Throughout my day at twitter I find smart and interesting tweets from people I follow home to follow, then next morning there they are, following me. I think this is what they call "going viral." I could be wrong; I often am.

For every interest there is a twitter network. I'm following reporters, and pundits. For instance I follow Rachel Maddow, David Shuster, Don Lemon, Anna Marie Cox, Contessa Brewer, Jake Tapper, and many many more. I follow the NY Times, The Nation, NPR, MSNBC, CNN, The LA Times, The Washington Post and more. I follow too many news sources to remember them all first thing in the mid-day upon just waking. Twitter's an interesting place. I could follow Sarah Palin, Karl Rove, and every other right wing nut job if I choose, but I let others follow the crackpots and relish their skirmishes with them. It's a fast, wild ride on twitter.

I tend to be a bit long winded when I write. That's one of the reasons writing a one or two page query letter is such agony. So much to say, so little space to say it. Twitter forces me to condense my writing. I think it's a good discipline for me.

And after I have an experience like getting together with an important person from my youth to find myself shaken to my core, twitter is the kind of meditation that keeps me focused for a day on something else and breaks the cycle of painful looking back and wondering why.

There are twitter rooms for those with very specialized interests. I have found agents, publishers and other writers. I even follow The Writers Digest. The networking aspect is one of the reasons for tweeting. Find an agent who handles the type of fiction or non-fiction you write and then follow them to their blog site where you will be able to read about all the agents in their agency and what each is looking for. I've found tips on how to write a query letter and who accepts chapters with a query letter. I can't imagine another social networking site that would let me move so quickly and freely through these many diverse worlds.

Some of you have invited me to join FaceBook. I tried it once and then realized quickly that I didn't want any of the people I knew in High School or College to find me. I've been hiding from them for fifty years. And social networking takes time. So choose the place you want to spend your time and jump in with both feet. Hope to see you on the twitter.

Talk To Me

I've been taken back to my youth by a visit from the woman who was most influential in my young life. She was a rebellious and unconventional young woman who grew to be a classicist, an academic, an intellectual, and ever more conservative in her lifestyle. I want her to talk to me for as long as it takes to make me understand this journey toward the right when traveled so far from her radical youth. I was not as radical as she in my youth but have grown ever more so in my old age. We still have the same affinity for each other but we have moved past each other and are on such different journeys now. I can't bear the thought that the thirty years since we last saw each other is a marker for how far we've grown from each other. She, as much as my terrible family, influenced the journey I took toward this now, this here, this fascination with words and their power. We won't have another thirty years. We are old women striding toward death and time is of the essence. What sent us on these philosophical trajectories? Why are we here now at this time in our lives and in the vast scheme of things and places, so near and yet... Thirty years is a lifetime and for us like a blink of the eye.

The Tarot Cards

Back then when we were young and after I'd had a lover or two
I wasn't looking for a man at all but if I were I'd want one
Who didn't want to fuck me
Like looking for an honest man in college or a bar or a truck stop

But you found the glance with slit eye and the slow slide down
Found your body of great richness and utility anywhere like
The wall of the bar just outside the back door, the bushes plumped
Like pillows for your hips. Strange men, old friends, ex lovers,
All comers. You fascinated me so unlike were we

I was the girl they all wanted to fuck
You were the woman who fucked them all
Married with children, it didn't change a thing
You were the one expelled from the campus coffee shop
Obscene language, solicitation and other outrages and I
Worshipped you. Let me live with you.
I'll watch the children, I'll wash the dishes, I'll be the nanny
I'll be the bait and then we'll switch

You read the Tarot Cards and you were the Queen of Cups.
You drew the The Tower reversed, bodies flying through the air
You insisted I was only a Page. I'd had no children. I would always
Be a page, a child, childless, no matter what my age. A Page
I drew the Devil upright and the Hierophant reversed

For a costume party you would go as Medusa, and knew
Enough to call me Persephone. I was that girl, the mere Page
Carried to the underworld by Hades, another name for Daddy
(I told no one your real identity, Daddy, King of the Underworld)
And yet the Queen of Cups knew the ghost of you in the circles
Under my troubled eyes too damn pretty to really be seen.
Ice girl Holding The Devil's hand wearing a well pressed black dress
The Page of Swords in love with the Queen of Cups
I still am.

Happy Birthday Tom

It's First Love/Last Love's birthday today. He turns 65 today, finally old enough to get Social Security and Medicare. Woot! Hurrah! Happy Days Are Here Again!

Where ever you are, Happy Birthday!

The Amazing Things I Get In Email. Thanks JackieSue

Pretty amazing works of art! (How do you step back and make those final touches?) Stunning crop art has sprung up across rice fields in Japan . But this is no alien creation . The designs have been cleverly planted. Farmers creating the huge displays use no ink or dye. Instead, different colours of rice plants have been precisely and strategically arranged and grown in the paddy fields. As summer progresses and the plants sh oot up, the detailed artwork begins to emerge. A Sengoku warrior on horseback has been created from hundreds of thousands of rice plants, the colours created by using different varieties, in Inakadate in Japan . The largest and finest work is grown in the Aomori village of Inakadate , 600 miles north of Toyko, where the tradition began in 1993. The village has now earned a reputation for its agricultural artistry and this year the enormous pictures of Napoleon and a Sengoku-period warrior, both on horseback, are visible in a pair of fields adjacent to the town hall. More than 150,000 vistors come to Inakadate, where just 8,700 people live, every summer to see the extraordinary murals. Each year hundreds of volunteers and villagers plant four different varieties of rice in late May across huge swathes of paddy fields. Napolean on horseback can be seen from the skies, created by precision planting and months of planning between villagers and farmers in Inkadate Fictional warrior Naoe Kanetsugu and his wife Osen appear in fields in the town of Yonezawa , Japan . And over the past few years, other villages have joined in with the plant designs. Another famous rice paddy art venue is in the town of Yonezawa in the Yamagata prefecture. This year ' s design shows the fictional 16th-century samurai warrior Naoe Kanetsugu and his wife, Osen, whose lives feature in television series Tenchijin. Various artwork has popped up in other rice-farming areas of Japan this year, including designs of deer dancers. Smaller works of crop art can be seen in other rice-farming areas of Japan such as this image of Doraemon and deer dancers . The farmers create the murals by planting little purple and yellow-leafed kodaimai rice along with their local green-leafed tsugaru roman variety to create the coloured patterns between planting and harvesting in September. The murals in Inakadate cover 15,000 square metres of paddy fields. From ground level, the designs are invisible, and viewers have to climb the mock castle tower of the village office to get a glimpse of the work. Rice-paddy art was started there in 1993 as a local revitalization project, an idea that grew out of meetings of the village committee. Closer to the image, the careful placement of thousands of rice plants in the paddy fields can be seen The different varieties of rice plant grow alongside each other to create the masterpieces . In the first nine years, the village office workers and local farmers grew a simple design of Mount Iwaki every year. But their ideas grew more complicated and attracted more attention. In 2005 agreements between landowners allowed the creation of enormous rice paddy art. A year later, organizers used computers to precisely plot planting of the four differently colored rice varieties that bring the images to life.

Friends and Time

I have a friend coming to town I haven't seen in over thirty years. She was, along with Z (a mere girl, like me) my first grown-up female friend. I met her in the Huddle Room at the University of Utah. She has been a Professor/Tutor at St Johns University, Santa Fe campus, and is now retired. She's coming to town for a high school reunion and I get to spend Friday afternoon with her. So I'll be cleaning house and cooking up a storm.

I have raided the large garden next door; I gathered loads of fresh organic eggplant, tomatoes, zucchini, peppers, parsley, and basil. The bag of purloined vegetables had to weight at least fifteen pounds. Yesterday, after my doctor appointment (I am still clotted just right) I stopped at a fruit stand and bought a Utah watermelon, two cantaloupes and five peaches. I have enough food for a small army, but I just want to feed these two very important women a lovely lunch. I'll fix a very fresh eggplant parmigiana, a fresh chilled melon plate, and fresh peach cobbler for dessert. My bar is well stocked and there is beer in the fridge. I have soft drinks and two varieties of iced tea. I could fix a great iced coffee. And last but not least, I have a HUGE bouquet of late summer flowers. I think I've got all the bases covered.

It cooled off for a few days last week, but it's very hot again now. Our days are in the 90s; our nights in the high 60s. It's too hot to do a lot of cooking in the middle of the day, so I'll probably get up very early Friday morning to cook the peach cobbler. I will make the tomato sauce this evening. Then while the cobbler is in the over Friday morning, I'll cook the eggplant and assemble the eggplant parmigiana. Once the cobbler comes out of the oven, I'll slip the eggplant dish in the oven for about a half hour--long enough to melt and lightly brown the cheeses. Then a quick shower for me, and I'll be ready. Even if neither of them feels like eating, it won't be wasted effort. My friend Tracy and I shared the last fresh eggplant parmigiana I made. She's ready for another such treat, and her husband, who didn't even get a taste of it last time, is planning on leftovers this time.

I am frantic to get my house clean, but things just keep popping up that can't be ignored. Am I making excuses? Probably. I used to go to group therapy where one of the women in the group always talked about getting up and vacuuming and mopping all the rooms in her house, cleaning all the bathrooms and doing laundry EVERY DAY! I thought she was especially crazy.

I'm a once a week sort of cleaning lady. I change the bed, clean the bathroom, vacuum and dust and call it good. Then another day I do laundry and think I've done a good days work. I try to keep things neat, but I hate vacuuming and mopping floors. I just don't ever plan on eating off my floor. I would like to get all the windows clean, but that's optionaly given time constraints.

For some odd reason I seem to be very popular the last little while. Phillip is coming back for another pit stop on his way back to San Francisco, and Larry, my boyfriend when I was twelve, is also coming to town for the reunion. It's a hive of activity here, and drastically cutting into my blog reading time. I've become an addicted tweeter too. I need a little cooling off time there.

Z is having a very rough time of it right now. She has radiation burns on her chest and back. She's allergic to sulfa drugs and when they treated her burns they didn't check her chart and put sulfa/antibiotics in a salve on the burns. She had a very bad reaction: high fever, chills and shaking, and extreme pain. All of this makes her dislike of western medicine more intense. She hates them all. It was a nurse who dressed her burns with the sulfa drug and didn't check her chart for allergies. Every interaction with a medical professional turns into another trauma. She is going to take a radiation break this week. She still has two weeks to go on radiation, but just can't take it anymore. I'm not sure she's going to feel well enough to get together. I'll just have to clean house with my fingers crossed.

I'm Getting Ready for the Ladies Who Lunch

Query Fear

I have written longish short stories in less time than I've been working on an almost two page query letter. There are so many things the tiny query letter must do. It needs to make me sound interesting, smart, talented, and marketable. Not just my book needs to be marketable; I must be marketable, too. Everything but the writing and the story depends on marketing. Well, I take that back--the story needs to be marketable too. Once written the handling of a book is all about the marketing. I have very little confidence that I am capable of marketing myself in a two page letter. In a couple of paragraphs I need to say an awful lot. I have to pack into as few words as possible why I chose to write about a crazy family, and why that might be a good thing to read.

I do believe that the novel I've written has something that almost everyone can relate to. We all have crazy families. Maybe not this crazy, but crazy enough that almost everyone can relate to a mother like Maggy, the mother in my book. Almost everyone has been through some aspect of divorce and the fracturing of a family. There has to be at least one narcissist in every family. Doesn't there? I'm betting on it.

The other kind of universal experience that I tell in excruciating detail is the care and feeding of a parent with dementia, on the long slow slide to brain dead; perhaps a parent who potty trained you and who now needs you to change her diapers for years, and is like any toddler, surly about giving up the shit. However, a toddler and a grown up the same size as you, are not the same to change. And if you are the least bit phobic about grownup's poop, it will turn your stomach and test your patience long past your patience's limit. Somehow a mean parent just gets meaner with dementia. Odd how that works. The very sweet seem to just grow sweeter. The marginally mean can turn into remorseless sadists, slowly, over a too short time that seems to never end, until you are changing the diapers of a person who has no idea who you are, but knows he doesn't like you, in fact hates you, and the struggle to keep his shit seems like a matter of life and death to him.

I won't say Maggy is a how-to-book on surviving taking care of crazy momma. But it is a book about a very dysfunctional family told from the point of view of the baby who is saddled with the worst jobs of all. I'm betting it doesn't hurt to know what's coming down the road as momma and daddy start going batty, giving the farm away to scam artists, and crapping their pants in public. And my generation, the baby boomers, are now going batty at an alarming rate. We are the most populous of generations. Think about that my darlings, while you ponder your future as you lie in bed worried about your children's education, their prospects for a job, your ability to keep your job as the economy goes to hell and the next generation is bringing its freshly minted graduate degrees to your boss, offering to work for less, and your daddy is now alone and not doing so well. Sleep well. Then tomorrow, tell me Maggy isn't a horror story.

Smile, Like I've Never Heard It Before

A Saturday Night Song for a Sunday Morning

The Odds and Ends of Today

We finally have a day that isn't going to fry my brain. We've had two months of 95-100 degree temperatures and not a drop of rain. It's all parched and crunchy, and I'm not just talking about my brain.

Today it will only reach 80 degrees and I'm actually going to be able to take Marley for a walk. Yes, I am going to get a little exercise. Shut up! No one likes a smart ass.

I'm also getting my head shrunk at 3:00 this afternoon. I'll come home and take a picture so you call tell me how my smaller head looks. There will be a few errands run on the way home from the therapist's.

Phillip of Sitenoise is stopping off here for a very short visit, so I'll be baking brownies and getting questions written so while he's here I can get a wee bit of help with my first submission to a Literary Agency.

It's a busier day than usual, so I'm off to take Marly on her walk.

Mike Snyder on Rachel Maddow

MoveOn: The Movie

This speaks for itself:


Thanks to The Vigil

Fat Cats In Mouseland

Please watch this clip. It was made just for you by the Canadian, Keefer Sutherland, grandson of Tommy Douglas (the man who brought universal healthcare to Canada) who has something to say about the current debate on healthcare. Watch it, it might just be the thing that flips that switch and wakes you up to actually vote the fat cats out so some smart mice can run the government for a change.

Dear TV Advertisers

I just had a Comcast Tech Support guy sent out because the volume on the advertising is driving me crazy. Don't say it. We all know I am already crazy, but why do advertisers not know that we hate the rising volume on all the ads? The Comcast guy says they get complaints about this problem all the time. It isn't them. Or so he says, and I have no reason to think he's lying to me. And the volume rises with each ad, so that the last ad is at scream level. I can't stand it.

The result you advertisers want (which I assume is to grab our attention so we will actually listen to what you're hawking) does exactly the opposite of what you intend. I do not listen to the screaming ads; I mute the screaming ads. Ill say it again. If your ad is louder than the program I'm watching, I mute your ads.

The worst offenders are local advertisers. The national ads start at programing volume, but each successive ad gets a little louder. By the fourth ad the volume is so high I have no choice but to mute them. So if you don't want us to listen to your ads or buy your products Advertisers, keep it up. If you do want us to listen to your ads, try whispering. I might even lean in a little to listen to your soft spoken spokesperson.

Canada Care, from Salt Lake Tribune, Public Forum Letter

Print Email Font Resize Canada care Public Forum Letter Updated: 07/31/2009 06:27:24 PM MDT As a Canadian visiting Salt Lake City, I have been watching with great interest President Barack Obama's attempt at health care reform. I have heard comments by politicians, people and TV ads attacking Canada's health care system. Many of the facts are distorted. Canada has one of the finest health care systems in the world. I have never had to go to the United States for medical treatment because Canada offers all of the same treatments. I get to choose who I want for my physician. When I go to him or the emergency room or have major surgery, I don't pay anything. And I get it done quickly. Canada's health care system is largely paid for by corporations, which pay an employer health tax. Everyone is covered, even homeless people. A few years ago in a television poll, Canadians were asked to name the greatest Canadian. Tommy Douglas, the father of Canada's universal health care, won the vote. I have known many people, Canadians and Americans, who have lived in both countries. All of them state that Canada's health care system is superior. Ken Sisler Newmarket, Ontario, Canada

My Experience with Private Insurance

There was a long period of time from my late thirties and into my mid to late fifties when I had to buy my own health insurance as a self employed individual working as contract labor. Sounds very glamorous doesn't it? If you're an actor or model or voice talent or make-up artist or stylist working in Utah with an agent you're contract labor. If you get a part in a movie or on a TV show that's a union production, for that brief time when you're on set, you're covered by the production company should you be injured or become ill while actually working. But really, the bottom line is you're responsible for your own health insurance.

When I first signed up for coverage in the '80s there was only one insurance company offering individual coverage in Utah, and that was United Healthcare. My premiums started in the $300 range. I thought that was high but it was the only game in town. As long as my internist proscribed my antidepressant, United Healthcare covered my treatment. It was when my depression wasn't responding to the antidepressant I was on, and my internist referred me to a psychiatrist, that United Healthcare began increasing my deductible and co-payments at an alarming rate. I began to see my insurance provider as my adversary. Every year my premium went up close to $100 a month. My copay went from $5 to $10 and then $20. I knew I was bipolar, but my primary symptom, or at least the one that made working impossible, was severe depression. Until I started seeing a psychiatrist I had been able to keep the word "bipolar" out of my medical records. Once that diagnosis started appearing in my records, my premium doubled. In one month it went from $500 a month to $1,000 a month. At that point I had to give up coverage.

It was just prior to that last doubling of my premium that my biggest client went out of business. This decreased my income 80%. So, I had to drop my insurance; I simply couldn't afford the premium anymore. Then I discovered that my mother had vascular dementia. As her only living relative I became her only caregiver, the one person responsible for her. So she became my full time job, a job that is depressing even for those not inclined to depression.

Without my medications, caring for my mother drove me over the edge into psychosis. I was hospitalized at the University of Utah adult psych ward for two weeks. This was the beginning of the precipitous plunge into bankruptcy. I couldn't afford the drugs I was on. At this point my drug bill was almost $1,000 a month. I couldn't afford to pay my medical bills. So next came the slow process of applying for disability. Within one year I was bankrupt and disabled. And then I started getting the help I needed to stay somewhere close to the balance point of the seesaw I was living on.

Once I started getting a monthly check from Social Security Disability and getting 80% of my medical bills paid, I was able to hang on by my fingernails. Without that public option I don't think I would have survived that terrible time in my life. It is one thing to have an illness that is expensive, incurable, and tricky to treat; it is another thing to be treated like a deadbeat who can't pay her medical bills and doesn't deserve to live.

Even with the public option of Medicare, I have to make difficult choices regarding the allocation of scarce dollars. My illness is still expensive, but as long as I make a good faith effort to pay my bills, I am treated like a person with value and dignity. I'm never refused treatment. I choose my own doctors. My drugs are now affordable because of Medicare part D and the extra help I get with drug costs because of my low income--no donut-hole for me, thank god.

I can't work anymore. But I can tell my story. And it's a common story. I am not alone. Anyone who has lost benefits when they lost a job, knows what I'm talking about. If you have children, insurance is an absolute necessity. Children cannot go without some kind of health insurance. And we should never have to choose whether we get the medicine we need or buy food. It's that basic for a lot of our citizens. We have reached the bottom line. We need single payer healthcare. But if that's off the table, we must have a public option for those of us most at risk. Healthcare shouldn't be a choice, it should be a human right.

Taking A Day Off

Well, I'm sort of taking a day off. I woke up limp as a dishrag. I can't quite get my brain working, so editing is out of the question. I miss visiting you all and if my brain comes back online today that's what I'll be doing. Until then I'm just going to lie in my bed and drift in and out of sleep.

I have an appointment with my doctor Monday at 10:00. I've got a feeling the heart rhythm drugs aren't working as well as they did to control the a-fib. If I had money to wager with, I'd wager that I have an ablation in my future.

PS, if you're bored and came here looking for a little entertainment, might I direct you to the novel, Maggy, or the short stories, or maybe a bit of poetry? Don't forget to leave a comment. They are every so helpful to the creative writer.

According to the Mayan Astrological Calendar

Crystal Moon day 14
Year of the White Electric Wizard

kin 155: Blue Crystal Eagle
I Dedicate in order to Create
Universalizing Mind
I seal the Output of Vision
With the Crystal tone of Cooperation
I am guided by the power of Accomplishment
I am a galactic activation portal enter me.

Day Out of Time
Blue Electric Night
25.7.2009

This is my Mayan astrological sign or description. In the West there are two of me, twinned. In the East I am a monkey. Yes, I am mischievous, hopefully in a good way. And in the humdrum world of psychiatry I am a fine specimen of a woman with bipolar disorder.

It was the crow that led me on this search. And I do admit to wanting to live in the day out of time until it becomes Blue Electric Night in the Universal Mind with an Output of Vision Guided by the Power of Accomplishment toward the inner Galactic Activation Portal. But I'm a bit uncomfortable with the idea of being entered. This could be my fatal flaw.

Sculpt Your Arms While You Improve Your Handjob Skills

I found the link to this on twitter. See? Twitter isn't just a waste of time.

If the Birthers Don't Get You The Deathers Will Try

ConnecticutMan1 has written this about the Deathers. Wednesday night was the first I'd heard of the Deathers. Oh those crazy wingnuts! If they can't get you with one lie they'll try to scare you with another. There is no way to stop them, but they are quite entertaining. My suggestion is to do your best to humiliate them on twitter.