Margaret Mitchell House

Repost from 8/5/2009

www.margaretmitchellhouse.com

My husband and I recently had the opportunity to tour the Margaret Mitchell house, cleverly marketed as the birthplace of Gone with the Wind. I’m not sure what I expected when I walked in there, but whatever it was, I was wrong.

We paid the twelve bucks each to take the tour. I did not read the brochure before, so I was unaware that although the building was three story highs we would be seeing three rooms on the first floor. The large gift shop was about the size of half the space that we would be touring. About six of us lined up while a magenta haired woman took center stage.

She begins the tour by telling us who saved the building, which was once apartment buildings, from destruction, about multiple fires, and how the tile floor is the original tile floor. I would quickly learn that would be one of the only things that was original. Well, except for a toilet, but don’t get excited, it wasn’t Margaret’s toilet. No chance of sitting down and channeling greatness. It belonged to an apartment on the third floor.

She then complained in great detail because the keys were not numbered while searching for the one that would open Apartment Number One. My mood quickly shifted for the worst. 

The tour was of the apartment where she lived while writing the book. The walls, I think were even new. A living room, bed room, kitchen (smaller than most closets), and a bathroom with the third floor toilet. All filled with antique furniture purchased to give the appearance of what it would have looked like. 

It wasn’t the short tour that aggravated me. It was the woman. I’m not sure that she has even read GWTW. She seemed so uneducated. She walked from room to room speculating and making weird comments about the photos. I was none too happy with my trusty tour guide.

When we excited, I finally went off on my own. I walked over to a plaque on the wall and began to read. And this was the place where everything changed. Margaret Mitchell’s first fiancé went to war, but never came home. Her first husband was a drunk and very abusive. She married a second time. She said that before she wrote GWTW, she read up everything she could get her hands on and feeling frustrated she started her own book. Her famous quote was “In a weak moment, I have written a book. “ (My closest friends will understand that.) And lastly, when she finished chapters she would put them in manila envelopes and send them to a friend who would read them. By the time I finished reading this plaque, my face was soaked. Tears involuntarily flowing down my face. 

My husband, who was reading along with me, says, “Wow, ya’ll have a lot in common.” And here, I thought I was nuts.

We walked over to the movie memorabilia part of the house. I turned to my husband and said, “If I ever make it big, let’s systematically burn and destroy every house we have ever lived in.” 

He laughed. He thought I was kidding.

But then Ann saved the day. I was standing in the gift shop holding a cookbook titled “Gone with the Grits” with complete disgust, when a southern woman’s twang filled the air. It was time for the 3:30 tour. Her humor and knowledge struck me. We took the tour again. She knew so much about the petite author, you would have thought they were old friends. She gave us gossip, and was full of laughs. A real tribute to the personality and quirkiness of Margaret Mitchell. By the end of the tour, I wanted to hug her neck. 

I then went home and smiled at my own pile of manila envelopes filled with chapters.

Thanks Tour Guide Ann!

A Day in Paris: Planning and Pantsing

A few years ago, I went on a study abroad trip to London and Paris. It was my first time out of the country. It was a whirlwind of a trip, only lasting a week, but filled to the brim with adventure as well as education on how business is done overseas.

The last three days were to be in Paris, and our next to last day we had entirely on our own. I stayed up late the night before, planning and plotting my adventure. I was going to take the double decker bus tour with a friend,visit Montmarte, and take my friend back to the hotel and split ways. Afterwards, I would be viewing things that were fascinating to me, but a bit too macabre for my friend such as the Catacombs and Père Lachaise Cemetery,where Jim Morrison and Oscar Wilde are buried. I folded up the highlighted and ink-circled maps and placed them into my purse. My backpack was prepped with water, sunscreen, and snacks.

We woke early, the sun peering through the thin drapes of the hotel window.We dressed quickly, stopped for pastries and expresso, and then continued our journey into the Parisian sun. It was quite overbearing as we tried to snap pictures from the top of the tour bus. The ride was putting us behind schedule,but I tried not to let it fluster me. I am in Paris, one shouldn't be frustrated. 

We arrived at the foot of the Basilica of the Sacré Cœur. We popped in a few stores, ate macaroons, and tasted a truffle that was so good that I realized that I had never actually had a truffle before.  We gazed at the most colorful mime, and then stood at the foot of the stairs. The hours were running away. I needed to be at the hotel right now to be on schedule,and we still had more than 300 steps to climb. Take the funicular? Ha! We weren’t wimps. 

We stepped into the cathedral. Nuns were singing, and I believe that I had a spiritual encounter as I watched the many that had come to see this magnificent place. My eyes were blurred by tears as I toured the inside and the outside. I peered out over Paris. I was here. In that moment. 

We hiked back, yes, taking the stairs once more. When we reached the bottom, my friend asks, “Want to grab lunch?”

As much as the ticking clock said “no”, my grumbly tummy answered, “Yea, that would be great.”

It was nearly two hours later, when we arrived back to the hotel. I tossed my plans of using the free tour bus (we had all weekend to make use of the tickets we had bought) and decided to take a taxi. 

The dark skinned man only had a few words of English, and I had only a few more of French. It was going to be a long ride, and we were both the inquisitive type. He was concerned that I was going to the catacombs, as an impressionable female, alone.  He typed questions into his iPhone and translated them into English. It started with just trying to figure out how to say a word or two and by the end of the ride,we were typing full paragraphs. We discussed my writing, his hometown in Africa, my curiosity of how he viewed Americans, and his political beliefs.Truly, one of the best conversations of the trip. 

He dropped me off at the cross street next to the catacombs and offered one more, “Be safe. Hope you not be too afraid.”

I smiled and thanked him, wishing him well.

I walked across the street. I found the entrance, but was slapped in the face by a closed building. Last tickets sold thirty minutes ago. I cursed the silent curse. 

My next adventure was to be a walk to Père Lachaise Cemetery. I consulted the map and plotted my path. I had walked nearly a mile, when I started realizing that things weren’t lining up. I found a park bench and sat down, trying to makesense of it. 

Dammit.I turned the wrong way this (------------) long ago on my tiny map. I tried tojust make it work, but I needed to turn around, walk through a park, and then Iwould be back on the right path. 

I closed the map and behind it was a wall calling for a revolution. It made me smile. I snapped a few pictures and continued on my journey. 

I came up on a huge circle. Music was playing, a crowd was cheering, and curiosity got the better of me. I walked up on a dance troupe. I stood and watched the b-boys swirl on their heads on the streets of Paris. 

The song ended, and I continued on my path. The park that I needed to walk through had been converted into a marketplace. I hadn’t had a chance to buy souvenirs. I thanked the universe and ducked inside the lined up white tents and tables. I talked to an Indian man about chakras, smelled every handmade French soap, felt tapestries, tasted jams, and checked everyone off of my gift list. 

I reached the end and turned up the last street that would bring me to the final resting place of Morrison and Wilde. The impenetrable stone wall stretched around the 110 acres of graves. I walked and walked, trying to reach the entrance. I was crushed when I found it, and it was locked tight. Closed nearly an hour ago. I couldn’t help but cry a little, frustrated at my failure. First the catacombs, and now this. I mean, if you compared my original plan with what was checked off my list, I was a failure. 

I walked around the last corner and saw a line of tables, volunteers standing behind them, and ladles being filled with soup and poured into the bowls of what appeared to be the hungry. The humanity filled me with warmth. I smiled and walked aimlessly up the next street. 

At the corner was a café with tables and chairs pointing at the street. Time to knock another thing off my wish list. I sat and ordered wine and cheese, and I just  watched, listened, and absorbed. 

The wine was loosening my lips, and I started up a conversation with the waiter. He sat down and talked about his home village. The table next to me joined in. It was the young girl’s birthday, 18, now legal to drink. She wanted to move to America and become an actress. 

As a recovered smoker, the smell mixed with the alcohol was getting to me. Ah, when in Paris… I asked the waiter for a smoke. 

An older man, a picture perfect mental image of a Parisian, hat and all, joined in the conversation. We all laughed and drank .The older man wrote out all the things I needed to see in Paris, and then posed with a basket of baguettes to humor me—his idea. 

When I plotted my day, I built a path of A leads to B leads to C.  Although it could be deemed a failure because I arrived entirely too late to points B and C, I would call my adventure a smashing success. I had an outline for my story, but beautiful prose filled it with long lasting memories and experiences, inspired by the moment, the scenery, and the possibilities.   The end result was a lovely day in Paris.

Telling Tall Tales: A Kindergartener's Story

http://www.nga.gov/kids/

After pulling together yesterday's post, I realized that I've always invented stories, ever since I was young. I remember in kindergarten I loved show-and-tell. I always chose tell. Maybe because I always forgot to bring a thing to show. Who can say? It's all a bit fuzzy now. I do remember the tells though.

One time I told the entire classroom that I had a twin sister named Mary. I had a very compelling story and a few of my classmates might have even believed me. I came to school the very next day, hair parted on the opposite side. That day I was Mary. It only improves the story, right?

But at show-and-tell that day, I had moved on. I had a new story, this one involving a great airplane ride into the jungle. My parents and I were going on a safari. But there were scary, bad men in the jungle. They were after us.

The little girl across from me, who was precisely the same age as I was, looked frightened. "Go on," she said.

Before I could finish, the boy next to me shouts out, "I was there and I saw it."

Imagine my shock. I swallowed, but went on. "Yes, and we ran very fast and leaped back into the jeep."

He smiled so large, so proud. I smiled as well. It was my first collaboration. Maybe ever the first Keep It Going story.

The teacher was amused, but needing to keep her classroom under control, pulled us aside. "From now on, for tell, we need to clarify if the story is true or make believe."

I was happy for that. Now, I knew that it was possible to tell a tall tale and it not be a lie. Let the story live on.

Recycled: The Conversation

Tune in on Wednesday, January 9th for the Beginnings Blogfest, courtesy of L.G. Keltner over at Writing Off the Edge. There is still time to participate if you'd so desire.


In the meantime, I am recycling an old post from my early days. Oddly enough, it is as fitting today as it was when originally written. Deeper oddity still, it is Iron Thirst and Touch of Light once again vying for the attention, meanwhile Blend sits idly by. Sad really, since Blend may be the best out of all them. Ah, as it goes. I figure since I'm going through this for the second time, it might resonante with some of you.  Hope you enjoy the post. 

The Conversation 
originally posted 11/3/2009

Now that book one is finished, well as finished as it can be right now, it’s time to pick up and start a new project. You’ll notice on the sidebar that Craving Copper is currently at 15,000 words. This is the sequel to Iron Thirst, and it’s already been started. I was working on it before I decided to go back and revise Iron Thirst. It is the most logical choice.

Then there is a new idea. Something that I have been mentally chewing on. A complete departure from Iron Thirst. This is the idea that I was talking about last week. It is the one talking to me and pulling at me. The problem here is that it scares me. This book is going to take me down some dark paths, some very unfamiliar terrain. On one hand, I am excited. On the other, I am terrified. Even though it is the project that is talking to me, I’m not sure I am ready yet.

But more on the fun side. I’ll give you a dramatization of what’s been going on.


THE CONVERSATION

Craving Copper stands arms crossed, toes tapping, clearing his throat in exasperation.

“What?” I ask.

“I think I’ve been more than patient.”

“You have, and I appreciate that.”

“Do you? It’s hard to tell since you started a whole new book. One that has nothing to do with us.”

“I know, I know. It’s just--,” I stare at my toes unable to look into the eyes of the betrayed. “He’s the one talking to me. You haven’t really opened up.”

I can feel the anger radiating from him.“You do realize that the only reason why I shut up is so that you could go back and clear up the unfinished business with Iron Thirst. You said you’d be right back. You promised!” He stomped his feet, matching each syllable.

Dear God, don’t let him cry. Wet pages are so hard to deal with. “It’s not that I’ve forgotten you. You are very important to me.”

Through wet eyes, he says, “But, shouldn’t you write about us right now. While all the voices are still so clear. Think of the tone.”

“I plan on writing about Fee and Blake and Bristow for a long time. I have ideas for at least two more books. Complete outlines.”

“So, are you bored with us? Is that it? Do you like this, this, Touch of Light better?”

Good grief. Books are just as sensitive and insecure as the writer. “All right, listen. Don’t be jealous of Touch of Light, I mean, that’s just a working title anyway. You have to take some responsibility for yourself.” He starts to interject, but I hold up my hand. “Let me finish. You can’t just blame it all on me. You shut down first. Say it was Iron Thirst, but you know as well as I do that if it was not perfect, you would never see the light of day.”

“So,” sniffles and wipes nose, “you’re saying that if I open up, if I talk—you’ll listen?”

“Yes.”

“Promise?”

“I owe you that.”

“Thank you.” He gives me a joyous hug.

So after a little tough love, we are all in agreement. We’ll see what happens. 

Capoeira: Second Encounter

 A year after the first installment, I am finally getting around to writing the second. Some of the details are a bit foggy, but I did my best to recreate them.
READ THE FIRST INSTALLMENT HERE.

"Outside?" Brian asked, eyebrows punctuating the word.

"Yes, outside," I replied. "The weather is beautiful. A walk would be nice. Isn't that the whole reason we moved so close to the square?"

"Well, yea, but you normally dig in your heals anytime I suggest an adventure of this nature."

"I know. But today I feel different. Don't question it. Let's go."

The meds were doing their job. It had been nearly a month since I started taking them. My fear was starting to subside. For the first time in over three years, I craved being near people. I wanted adventure. I wanted to see what was out there in the big scary world.

He stood, no longer questioning, and began ushering the children to their bedrooms to get dressed.

“Cartoons!” they protested.

“Simmer down. They will be here when we get back,” he retorted. “However, who knows how long your mom’s mood will last.”

He had been very supportive through it all, watching me shift from scared of my shadow to extrovert back to recluse during our eight years together. The last few years I had been adventurous, but the adventures were left to the characters that whispered in my head and became words on page.

The doctor’s visit and medication came after a sudden realization that my fraidicatness was not just hurting myself, but also my children. My four and eight year old stayed inside most of the time, because I was terrified of what was out there lurking for them. Irrational fears that paralyzed our lives--not just mine.

I recognized the fear. The last time it was present, my daughter was a fresh, fragile bundle of joy. I knew it could be overcome, and I knew that I could pull myself back out of this. I just needed a little jumpstart.

We stepped outside, the sun’s rays hugging our skin.

“I’m hungry,” the boy whined upon making the first turn out of the neighborhood.

“Then we will eat,” I replied; now at least finding direction in this impulse decision.

“Can we go to Raging Burrito?” asked my oldest daughter, pushing her chestnut hair from her face.

“That sounds like a great idea,” added Dad.

We walked the distance to the restaurant. We ordered, we ate, and we drank. The waitress had just rested our second round of margaritas on the table when the children became restless.

“Uh, it’s frozen—I can’t kill it,” I said, my voice mirroring my youngest at his worst. I was beginning to regret this decision.

“Miss, can we have the check and two to-go cups for our waters?” Brian asked the waitress.

As she walked away, I asked, “Why would we take our waters?

He winked at me.

“Oh.”

He poured the pomegranate and mango margaritas into the styrofoam and helped wrangle the kids. We stepped back out into the sunshine, our eyes readjusting and our brains swimming a bit in our skulls.

When we had only walked a few feet, we heard it.

“Shh, listen, kids,” said Brian.

“Is that?”

“Yep.”

I wanted to run towards it. A large crowd formed around a dance studio. I could hear the twang of the berimbau, but I couldn’t see it. We pushed up closer to the crowd.  The spirit of the berimbau was pulling us.

Inside the studio, we saw the circle of capoeiristas. The watchers were tightly packed in the wide-spread glass doors, half wondering what they were watching and the other half glad to see it once more.

My son tried his best to see, his height barring him from full sight. A tattooed man wearing the all-white uniform, covered in grass stains saw this and smiled at me, eyes asking permission, and then reaching for the hand of my youngest.

A caramel skinned girl, with a long ebony braid, and the most honest, open face I’d ever seen turned her back on the circle for a moment and walked over to us. She took the hand of my son and led him to the circle. He followed, smile hugging his ears.

The circle opened, making room for the boy who was half the size of the next smallest—a boy about nine with a faux-hawk.  They invited him to play. Having watched their movements and trying to mirror them, my son cartwheeled right into the center alongside of the tall skinny man, who appeared to be their leader.   He moved his limbs similarly to theirs, and managed to duck a kick and throw one of his own.

My son beamed as he walked back towards me.

The tattooed man still standing next to me, extended a colorful flyer towards my clasped hands. “We have kids’ classes.”

I remembered my wish from my first encounter with capoeira. If I had only found this when I was younger. It was too late for me, but he could have it. He could love it. I could love it through him.

I bent down to the boy, “Would you like to learn how to do that?”

“Yes!”

“Can I try it too?” asked my daughter, eyes sparkling at my side.

We gathered down the time, the place, and all the other information that would bring this beautiful art form into our lives.  So what if it was only vicariously through our children?  

I still had no idea what transformation lied ahead. No idea what we would all become. That a simple, extended Brazilian hand would later give me a new name, a new identity, and a new life. This was the baby step. A simple stroll in the sunshine.

Share any thoughts, perspectives, etc. I'd love to hear from you. 

Some background on this piece. I am embarking on a journey of studying the culture, social movement, and communication of Capoeira. In order to move forward, I felt it was important to look back. I hope to role out additional pieces based on my past with this beautiful art form that has grabbed a hold of me and changed my life.

Capoeira: The Story of My Introduction

photo from http://usslave.blogspot.com

Back in 2005, my husband and I, along with our three-year old little girl, were exploring Blue Star in San Antonio. Blue Star is an artist community that opens its doors to the town on the first Friday of every month. We went from space to space exploring all the Indie Art, introducing our princess to paintings, sculptures, photography, and many other beautiful expressions of the heart and brain.

When we stepped out of one of the buildings, our ears perked up to a combination of drums and another very strange yet beautiful musical instrument. Brian had heard it before, but my ears were virgin to the pulsing twang and hypnotic beats. We gravitated immediately to a circle of souls, clapping along to the music. There were lyrics, but they were unfamiliar to me. Not English, not Spanish. 

As we stepped closer, I saw the circle's center. The crowd watched as two flexible bodies moved together in harmony. It resembled a fight, but nearly looked choreographed to prevent injury to each other. A dance?

"What is this?" I asked the person beside me.

"Capoeira," he replied.

I nodded, the syllables lost on me.

I watched in amazement. The circle continued to shift. The bodies dressed in all white took turns in the center--dancing, performing acrobatics, and moving instinctively with each other. This circle, a cultural melting pot, was stirred by all shades and tones of skin color. Men, women, teenagers, and even a few small children took their turns.  They each brought their own spice, flavoring the flow of energy pulsing through the crowd.  My mouth remained in the largest grin. My eyes could not open any wider.

The person next to me tapped my shoulder and exaggerated his hand gestures. He wanted me to clap. He didn't say a word. He only moved his hands in front of me, and I knew what he wanted. I was no longer just a spectator; I was part of the musical circle -- if only by providing more percussion with my hands.

We stood and continued to watch. There was a spirit here. I could feel it. It was climbing in through my skin and beating along with my heart.

I shifted to gain a better view. Soon, I stood behind a girl playing one of the odd instruments with the peculiar sound. It was a long wooden bow with a single string. Attached was a gourd, similar to what my grandmother had hollowed into a birdhouse on her farm. The girl held the gourd against her belly, tapping the metal string with a skinny rod. I would later learn the name for this magical instrument -- berimbau. 

I had never in my life witnessed something so beautiful, so raw, and so primitive. I wish I would have been exposed to this earlier, I thought. My, I would love my body to move in such a way. 

Little did I know what was in store.

Share any thoughts, perspectives, etc. I'd love to hear from you. 

Some background on this piece. I am embarking on a journey of studying the culture, social movement, and communication of Capoeira. In order to move forward, I felt it was important to look back. I hope to role out additional pieces based on my past with this beautiful art form that has grabbed a hold of me and changed my life. 

Insomnia

I have stared at the screen for the past thirty minutes. My brain is swimming inside my skull, grasping for focus. Yet it evades me. Why am I so lost today?

Well, let me tell ya. Insomnia. Vicious, evil insomnia. Oh, and the worst kind--to me anyways.

Last night, I decided to go to bed early. So, the irony begins. It sets the stage. The characters appear -- Me, Hubs, and The Boy.

I climbed into bed, saying the words, "want to go to sleep" repeatedly, hoping Hubs would catch onto my not so subtle clues. By 11:30, I gave up, ignored the TV, and rolled over. It was earlier than normal, but not as early as I had hoped, but it would have to do.

Hubs asked a few questions. He received an unintelligible, mumbled response of "Mmm, sleepin".

The moment that I was still, I was out. Like a light. Quickly and totally unconscious.

At 1:30, the evil insomnia crept in through the window, slid into my bed and placed a hand upon my forehead. Like the lid of a jack-n-the-box, my eyes simultaneously flipped open with an audible thud.

Following a normal routine, I flipped the pillow over to the cool side, flopped over to my other side, and shut my eyes tight. At that point, the little hamster that controls the gears in my noggin began an intense run of the wheel. Flip. Eyes open once more.

I've suffered from insomnia before, so I opened up my bag of tricks. Count backwards from 100, concentrate on breathing in and out, focus on a spot behind my eyelids. It was slowly working.

Then I hear The Bear. The man beside me lets out this ghastly snore, startling me from my relaxed state, and sending my heart racing down the block. Then, I did the worst thing possible. I looked at the clock. 3:30

The hamster runs faster on his wheel. I've been doing this for two hours. I can't miss that much sleep. This is bad. I'll never get back to sleep. Meanwhile, Hubs continues to try to suck all the oxygen from the room, run it through a wood grinder, and whistle it back out.

Ahh! I try the tricks once more. 100,99,98 SNORE! Breathe in, breathe out. SNORE!

I don't think I hit him with a pillow. I think that was just an Ally McBeal internal visual, but I can't be certain.

I found ear plugs, and looked once more at the clock. 4:45  I cussed a string of profanities that would make George Carlin proud. I climbed back in bed and fought my way back to sleep. I'm sure there was sleep in there, but I didn't feel it nor remember it.

The next thing that I remember is the faint sound of a child crying. The Girl has been sick recently, and so I jumped up, tripped over a Croc, not my Croc, and rounded the hallway. At this point, I realized it wasn't The Girl. It was The Boy. Oh, no. He's caught it, I think.

"Baby, what's wrong?" I ask.

I focus my eyes, and now see his faint silhouette, light courtesy of the moon shining through the blinds. He is sitting on the toilet. He responds with a few more whimpers, and adds, "I was trying to go poop, and I slid, and my butt fell in the toilet."

All I could do was put my face in my hands. A real live face-palm.

"Son!"

"What, Mommy?", now using sweetest voice he could muster.

"Nothing."

I cleaned him up and pointed him back towards his bed.

"I'm not tired!" Insert an on the floor tantrum.

"Son, just go play in your room, but please be quite. Mommy just needs a few more minutes of sleep."

A lie, Mommy needed a full eight hours, but Mommy takes what she can get.

I head back to my room, climb into my bed, hug my pillow like it was my long lost BFF, and the alarm screams. A shrill yell that could wake the dead. I searched for snooze, gave up, and turned the whole thing off. I buried my head, and died to the world.

I don't know how much time passed before The Boy smacked me in the head with a granola bar and said, "Sun's up, Mommy."

I look at the clock, and yep, you guessed it--I was late.

I arrived at the office, completely worthless and slamming caffeine like its tequila on Spring Break. And no better for it. Seriously, I went to the break room for a glass of water, was holding the cup, and staring into the freezer. I don't know how long I was there. Just gone. The last brain cells evaporated. When I snapped out of it, I returned to my desk. Still no water. I wasn't going back. No telling where I would end up. On a plane next to Tyler Derdan, who knows.

So cheers writing buddies. Lord knows, you are no strangers to insomnia. What do you think is worse-not being able to fall asleep, or dozing off and not being able to stay asleep? What are some of your tricks for going back to sleep? Or just say hi, and make sure that my head hasn't floated away. 

I Don't Think They Like Us, Part 1

Growing up, I always had pets. Rescued kitties, the family dog, and an occasional bunny. But there was always an animal.

When I moved out on my own, I adopted a Pomeranian that, strangely, loved to eat lipstick. Seriously, I would secure it in a zipper pouch inside my purse and this determined K-9 would gnaw through the fabric to get to it, leaving stained fur and carpet and zero instructions on how to clean that up.

As time passed and we were blessed with children, we decided against pets. We now had other lifeforms to try to prevent from eating random objects and to stop from pooping on the floor. Cute, yes. Blessings, yes. We know all that. But determined to injure themselves, and it's my job to supervise--that's children in a nutshell. So the pets, um, well, they disappeared. We did have a beta fish for a while. It died.

But the children are getting older and want pets of their own. "We'll take care of them. We'll feed them." Lies, bloody, lies. But yes, a pet. They should have a pet.

Problem--we live in a cracker jack box. People in the 40s were smaller and apparently, not fond of privacy. But we're in a great school district, so what do you do? And our landlord, who is very fond of the original hardwood floors, doesn't allow pets. Even if he did, we are crammed in here as it is. I can picture it now--a floppy-eared, chocolate lab sliding across the floor, colliding into the large screen television. Nope, we need something smaller.

The Boy (4) has been exposed to a guinea pig in his classroom. He talks about it constantly. I spoke to the teacher. "Oh, yes. She loves children. And your child adores her."

Enough for me. Ta-da! We are getting a guinea pig.

Hubs asks, "What do you know about them?"

"Nothing. And you?"

"Nope."

Let the research begin. The Hubs and I are both nerds. Off to the Internet to learn more about these odd looking rodents, which they call pigs, which look nothing like pigs. Oh, we would learn later why they are, in fact, pigs. But lets not get ahead of ourselves.

Near the end of our research, we learned they do better in pairs. Now, we needed not one, but two of the furry rats. We would be smart. We would save up. We were only going to the pet store to hold one, and see if we were ok picking them up. That is all.

Being the geniuses that we are, we took the whole family for this exploratory mission. The guinea pigs were housed in an open-roofed cage in the middle of the store. There were about six of them all huddled inside of one pink house in the shape of an igloo. I swear I could hear them chanting, "We are not the pigs you're looking for."

The Hubs ripped the house off of them like a tornado. Dorothy and Lollipop Kids scurried. All except one. He remained still. Brave soul.

"That's what we need. One that is not afraid. The Boy can be rough. We need one that's durable," said Hubs.


Hubs lifted the pig from the cage and handed him to The Girl (8). Let the squeally, giggly noises begin. From The Girl, not the rat. He couldn't care less.

I spotted a brown and white one with the cutest face, eyes much too large for its skull. I held it close to me, and he whispered, "Protect me from the others."

It was done.

Hubs found a saleslady and asked the question that would seal our fate, "What all we do we need?"

I swear that woman touched everything in the piggie aisle. Hay, feed, bedding, a chew toy."Why do they need a chew toy?"

"It's this or the furniture," she said.

I put the chew toy in the cart.

"Do you have a cage?" she asked.

"No," we said in unison.

Well, we were going to need a large one, because we were buying two of these furry critters. Their new deluxe, two story apartment was relatively larger than our house.

This cart is full. We could buy a registered cocker-spaniel and obedience classes for what we were about to shell out on these New Guinea Rats. A sane person would have abandoned the cart. A sane person would not have brought the kids. The Hubs and I are not known for our sanity. I stared into the faces of my children, who both looked up at me like Puss-n-Boots from Shrek. Their eyes seemed to beg, "PLEASE!"

Mission failed. We were out numbered. And let's be honest. I'm still holding Tiny Tim, and he's clinging to me for dear life. To the cash register we go.

I swiped the card, and the young boy handed me the receipt. He said, "If one of them dies before ten days passes, bring them back with the receipt."

I clasped my hands over the poor pig's ears. "He's not a carton of milk," I proclaim to the clerk.

That boy was smarter than me.

TO BE CONTINUED...

The Conversation

Now that book one is finished, well as finished as it can be right now, it’s time to pick up and start a new project. You’ll notice on the sidebar that Craving Copper is currently at 15,000 words. This is the sequel to Iron Thirst, and it’s already been started. I was working on it before I decided to go back and revise Iron Thirst. It is the most logical choice.

Then there is a new idea. Something that I have been mentally chewing on. A complete departure from Iron Thirst. This is the idea that I was talking about last week. It is the one talking to me and pulling at me. The problem here is that it scares me. This book is going to take me down some dark paths, some very unfamiliar terrain. On one hand, I am excited. On the other, I am terrified. Even though it is the project that is talking to me, I’m not sure I am ready yet.

But more on the fun side. I’ll give you a dramatization of what’s been going on.


THE CONVERSATION

Craving Copper stands arms crossed, toes tapping, clearing his throat in exasperation.

“What?” I ask.

“I think I’ve been more than patient.”

“You have, and I appreciate that.”

“Do you? It’s hard to tell since you started a whole new book. One that has nothing to do with us.”

“I know, I know. It’s just--,” I stare at my toes unable to look into the eyes of the betrayed. “He’s the one talking to me. You haven’t really opened up.”

I can feel the anger radiating from him.“You do realize that the only reason why I shut up is so that you could go back and clear up the unfinished business with Iron Thirst. You said you’d be right back. You promised!” He actually stomped his feet matching each syllable.

Dear God, don’t let him cry. Wet pages are so hard to deal with. “It’s not that I’ve forgotten you. You are very important to me.”

Through wet eyes, he says, “But, shouldn’t you write about us right now. While all the voices are still so clear. Think of the tone.”

“I plan on writing about Fee and Blake and Bristow for a long time. I have ideas for at least two more books. Complete outlines.”

“So, are you bored with us?Is that it? Do you like this, this, Touch of Light better?”

Good grief. Books are just as sensitive and insecure as the writer. “All right, listen. Don’t be jealous of Touch of Light, I mean, that’s just a working title anyway. You have to take some responsibility for yourself.” He starts to interject, but I hold up my hand. “Let me finish. You can’t just blame it all on me. You shut down first. Say it was Iron Thirst, but you know as well as I do that if it was not perfect, you would never see the light of day.”

“So,” sniffles and wipes nose, “you’re saying that if I open up, if I talk—you’ll listen?”

“Yes.”

“Promise?”

“I owe you that.”

“Thank you.” He gives me a joyous hug.

So after a little tough love, we are all in agreement. We’ll see what happens.