My guest this week is multi-genre author Sherri Fulmer Moorer. Welcome, Sherri! Please tell us something about yourself.
By day, I work as a program assistant in professional licensing. By night, I write. I started out as a Christian writer and published my first book, Battleground Earth – Living by Faith in a Pagan World in 2004. I switched to writing fiction and published my first fiction novel, Blurry, through Wings ePress in August 2011. My second fiction novel, Anywhere But Here, will be published through Whiskey Creek Press in April 2012.
1) What kinds of books do you like to read?
I like science fiction, mysteries, and some fantasy. I recently started reading detective novels and I enjoy those as well.
2) Who are your favorite authors, past and present?
J.R.R. Tolkein and C.S. Lewis are my favorites. They had a unique perspective on life and the world and were able to capture it so well in their writing. I also like R.A. Salvatore, P.D. James, Ben Bova and the young adult writers Christopher Paolini and Christopher Pike.
3) Are there any authors who have inspired you to write and, if so, who are they?
I’ve always enjoyed writing and dreamed of being published, but I have to admit to being inspired by my favorites. I’ve also started to read works by other independent authors, and that encourages me to keep writing. Every time I read a book that I enjoy, I have the hope that perhaps one of the stories I create will inspire others.
4) How do you choose your characters’ names?
I won’t lie – names give me a fit. I’ve utilized some old family names in my writing. For example, the protagonist in Blurry is named Rachel Shull. I’ve always liked the name Rachel and Shull is an old family name. Since I work in professional licensing, I see a lot of names on applications and try to note ones that I particularly like so I can mix and match them for my characters.
5) Do you plan your novel from beginning to end either in your head or by outline or jotting down notes? Or, do you go with the flow and let the characters dictate their journey?
I go with the flow. I’ve tried outlining and the outline is usually blown by the time I get a few chapters in because something develops that throws everything else out of wack. I do usually know how I want to start and end the novel, but I try to keep the middle flexible because something usually jumps out that makes the plot develop in ways that I didn’t expect. I like those surprises and usually run with them.
6) What kind of writing schedule do you have?
I do most of my writing in the evenings. I’m not a morning person and getting to work on time in the mornings is enough of a challenge, so all that advice to get up a few hours early and write just won’t work for me. I find I’m more creative when my routine tasks for the day are done anyway, and I don’t have to worry about a “to do” list or getting somewhere on time.
7) How do you choose your titles? Do you have a title in mind before you start writing or does something occur after you have begun to write or after you have finished?
I usually wait until I’m at least halfway through my rough draft to put a title on a novel. I like to see how it’s developing and if there’s any concept that seems to keep showing itself that will lend to a title. For example, I picked the title for Blurry based on a conversation the protagonist was having with her boyfriend about how tragedy had made a crystal clear life blurry. That quote hit me as so powerful because it really summed up the entire theme for the book.
8) Do you base your characters on real people or are they completely from your imagination?
I’d say it’s a mixture of both. I think they do need to be based on real people to make them believable, but you have to use your imagination to fill them out to fit the plot you create.
9) Have you used real life experiences in your novel or is everything from your imagination?
Again, it’s a mixture of both. Blurry is entirely imagination. My next novel, Anywhere But Here, is backed by experience. That novel is about a young woman who becomes depressed when her life is sidetracked by reality. I have personally known many people who struggle with depression, and I have to humbly admit that some of the dirty office politics in that novel are based on things I’ve seen over nearly 13 years of working in an office.
10) When did you realize that you wanted to write novels?
I always wanted to be a writer, but I think I realized that I really wanted to be a novelist in 2008 when I got the idea for Blurry and started writing the first draft. I enjoyed writing that novel so much more than any of the inspirational writing I did, and it occurred to me that it was probably because I really was a novelist at heart. I still do occasional inspiration pieces – in fact, I’m wrapping up a blog series on my website on being authentic and finding your purpose in life – but by and large, I spend most of my time on fiction.
11) What genres do you write?
Blurry is a young adult mystery novel. Quarantine is a suspense novelette. My upcoming book, Anywhere But Here, is an adult supernatural suspense novel. Battleground Earth - Living by Faith in a Pagan World is Christian Self-help.
12) Where can readers find your book(s)?
Amazon.com is probably the best place to find a comprehensive list of my books. I have an author profile there at http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B005G5DW9U . You can also find links to my books at my website at http://www.sherrithewriter.com .
Thank you very much, Sherri. It's been a pleasure having you here.
Friday, November 18, 2011
Saturday, November 12, 2011
My Earliest Thanksgiving Memory
The first five years of my life were spent on a farm in east central Oklahoma. We didn’t have electricity, gas or running water. There was a cistern near the house where my parents drew water. As a child, I was afraid of that cistern and kept away from it. But my fear of the cistern has nothing to do with this story.
One day in November when I was about four years old, I heard my father tell my Mother that she would have to cook the Thanksgiving turkey because my grandfather was sick and my grandmother wouldn’t have time to cook the Thanksgiving meal and take care for him.
Apparently my mother was astounded. Cook a turkey on a Franklin stove? A wood-burning stove that was loaded from the top? She had never cooked a turkey before in her life.
“But it will take more than a day to cook a turkey on that stove,” I overheard her say.
“Yes, I know. I’ll get it in plenty of time,” said my father.
My mother must have been twenty-eight years old at that time. The drafty farmhouse was quite different from the city home she had grown up in. Before her marriage five years earlier in 1939, her family always had electricity, gas, running water and indoor plumbing. But here she was in rural Oklahoma in a house without any of those amenities. But as I look back, I realize she must have adapted quite well. She had learned to cook not only on the Franklin stove but on a kerosene stove as well. We had a coal-burning stove in the living room. Kerosene lamps provided light. Water was drawn from the cistern. But what my mother missed the most was indoor plumbing. The outhouse, set a short distance from the house, was a nuisance to say the least, especially in cold weather.
Several days before Thanksgiving, my father brought home the turkey and killed it. He hung it upside down in the shed so that the blood would drain out.
Before going out to the shed, Mother told my three-year-old brother Mike and me to wait for her in the house. She thought that seeing a headless turkey dripping blood might scare us.
Although I didn’t witness what happened next, I have heard the story told many times. She opened the shed door and stood in front of the turkey. It looked enormous and she wondered how she could possibly cook the thing. Suddenly, she turned and saw little blonde-haired Mike staring upwards at the turkey, his mouth open in wonder and awe.
“Mike, I told you not to come out here,” she scolded gently. She led him back to the house and told him to play with me. She could only wonder what little Mike thought when he saw that turkey. This was apparently one of my brother Mike’s first memories of the farm and I’ve heard him tell the story many times. Staring at that turkey left an indelible impression on him.
Mother gave herself three days to cook that turkey. After the turkey had been plucked and cleaned she placed it in the roasting pan. She went to the cistern and drew up some water, which she poured into the pan. She loaded the wood into the Franklin stove and lit it. Lighting a fire was her least favorite chore. It absolutely terrified her. In order to start it she poured kerosene on the wood, stood back, lit a match and threw it on the kerosene. It was a miracle that the house never caught on fire! When the fire was hot enough, she set the pan on top of the stove. And so it went for three days, lifting that pan off the stove, adding more wood to it and adding more water to the pan.
Most of my father’s family were coming and luckily my grandmother and aunts were bringing the side dishes. Because my grandmother, a sweet, mild mannered lady, had her hands full caring for my grandfather, she was only going to bake a cake that year. No one could bake a layered cake as well as my grandmother. My aunts would bring the vegetable dishes. Two of my uncles were away in the war. My father, then thirty-eight-years old, had been too old to be drafted when World War II started.
Mother’s next problem was finding enough seating for all the guests. Our family didn’t have very much furniture. My mother’s pride and joy was the baby grand piano that she had brought with her when she married. She decided that she and I could sit on the piano bench to eat and Mike could sit on a wooden orange crate. I don’t remember but I guess everyone else sat on chairs.
Thanksgiving turned out to be a cold, gray day but all of the anticipated guests arrived including our two older cousins who lived up the road on a nearby farm. The table was set and ready for the turkey that had cooked for three days. Mother was a little apprehensive. What if it had not cooked enough? There was nothing worse on Thanksgiving than an undercooked turkey.
Everyone gathered around the table and someone said a blessing. Then my father carefully removed the turkey from the pan and placed it on the serving platter. There was no need for him to carve that turkey. It was so tender and juicy that the meat literally fell off the bones.
Mother sighed with relief as she received accolades for a turkey cooked to perfection on a wood-burning stove.
One day in November when I was about four years old, I heard my father tell my Mother that she would have to cook the Thanksgiving turkey because my grandfather was sick and my grandmother wouldn’t have time to cook the Thanksgiving meal and take care for him.
Apparently my mother was astounded. Cook a turkey on a Franklin stove? A wood-burning stove that was loaded from the top? She had never cooked a turkey before in her life.
“But it will take more than a day to cook a turkey on that stove,” I overheard her say.
“Yes, I know. I’ll get it in plenty of time,” said my father.
My mother must have been twenty-eight years old at that time. The drafty farmhouse was quite different from the city home she had grown up in. Before her marriage five years earlier in 1939, her family always had electricity, gas, running water and indoor plumbing. But here she was in rural Oklahoma in a house without any of those amenities. But as I look back, I realize she must have adapted quite well. She had learned to cook not only on the Franklin stove but on a kerosene stove as well. We had a coal-burning stove in the living room. Kerosene lamps provided light. Water was drawn from the cistern. But what my mother missed the most was indoor plumbing. The outhouse, set a short distance from the house, was a nuisance to say the least, especially in cold weather.
Several days before Thanksgiving, my father brought home the turkey and killed it. He hung it upside down in the shed so that the blood would drain out.
Before going out to the shed, Mother told my three-year-old brother Mike and me to wait for her in the house. She thought that seeing a headless turkey dripping blood might scare us.
Although I didn’t witness what happened next, I have heard the story told many times. She opened the shed door and stood in front of the turkey. It looked enormous and she wondered how she could possibly cook the thing. Suddenly, she turned and saw little blonde-haired Mike staring upwards at the turkey, his mouth open in wonder and awe.
“Mike, I told you not to come out here,” she scolded gently. She led him back to the house and told him to play with me. She could only wonder what little Mike thought when he saw that turkey. This was apparently one of my brother Mike’s first memories of the farm and I’ve heard him tell the story many times. Staring at that turkey left an indelible impression on him.
Mother gave herself three days to cook that turkey. After the turkey had been plucked and cleaned she placed it in the roasting pan. She went to the cistern and drew up some water, which she poured into the pan. She loaded the wood into the Franklin stove and lit it. Lighting a fire was her least favorite chore. It absolutely terrified her. In order to start it she poured kerosene on the wood, stood back, lit a match and threw it on the kerosene. It was a miracle that the house never caught on fire! When the fire was hot enough, she set the pan on top of the stove. And so it went for three days, lifting that pan off the stove, adding more wood to it and adding more water to the pan.
Most of my father’s family were coming and luckily my grandmother and aunts were bringing the side dishes. Because my grandmother, a sweet, mild mannered lady, had her hands full caring for my grandfather, she was only going to bake a cake that year. No one could bake a layered cake as well as my grandmother. My aunts would bring the vegetable dishes. Two of my uncles were away in the war. My father, then thirty-eight-years old, had been too old to be drafted when World War II started.
Mother’s next problem was finding enough seating for all the guests. Our family didn’t have very much furniture. My mother’s pride and joy was the baby grand piano that she had brought with her when she married. She decided that she and I could sit on the piano bench to eat and Mike could sit on a wooden orange crate. I don’t remember but I guess everyone else sat on chairs.
Thanksgiving turned out to be a cold, gray day but all of the anticipated guests arrived including our two older cousins who lived up the road on a nearby farm. The table was set and ready for the turkey that had cooked for three days. Mother was a little apprehensive. What if it had not cooked enough? There was nothing worse on Thanksgiving than an undercooked turkey.
Everyone gathered around the table and someone said a blessing. Then my father carefully removed the turkey from the pan and placed it on the serving platter. There was no need for him to carve that turkey. It was so tender and juicy that the meat literally fell off the bones.
Mother sighed with relief as she received accolades for a turkey cooked to perfection on a wood-burning stove.
Friday, October 14, 2011
Hooked from the Start, Part 3: A Painted House by John Grisham
"The hill people and the Mexicans arrived on the same day. It was a Wednesday, early in September 1952. The Cardinals were five games behind the Dodgers with three weeks to go, and the season looked hopeless. The cotton, however, was waist-high to my father, over my head, and he and my grandfather could be heard before supper whispering words that were seldom heard. It could be a 'good crop'.”
Those are the beginning words of John Grisham's A Painted House. This series started out as a forum on First Lines as Hooks to get people reading and if they impacted my choice of reading material. As I go through some of my very favorite novels, I have discovered that the first words did not do so for the most part. I avoided reading John Grisham's A Painted House because I thought it was going to be a sappy sentimental journey and I prefer to read his legal thrillers. However, when it was announced that the novel would be made for television, I hurriedly read it and was amazed at how much I liked it. And strangely, that very first sentence did hook me!
Although the novel takes place in Arkansas, much of it reminded me of my early days on a farm in rural Oklahoma. Granted, we didn't have Mexicans or hill people but the overall setting, the small town and life in general was reminiscent of my childhood. As an adult, I have lived in Mexico and I was thrilled with the way Grisham portrayed his Mexican characters. The story is narrated by a seven year old boy named Luke and he observes things that no seven year old should see including violence and murder.
But this is the kind of story a reader doesn't want to end. At least I didn't. And yes, in a way, that first line did hook me although I knew I was going to read it before the TV show aired.
Those are the beginning words of John Grisham's A Painted House. This series started out as a forum on First Lines as Hooks to get people reading and if they impacted my choice of reading material. As I go through some of my very favorite novels, I have discovered that the first words did not do so for the most part. I avoided reading John Grisham's A Painted House because I thought it was going to be a sappy sentimental journey and I prefer to read his legal thrillers. However, when it was announced that the novel would be made for television, I hurriedly read it and was amazed at how much I liked it. And strangely, that very first sentence did hook me!
Although the novel takes place in Arkansas, much of it reminded me of my early days on a farm in rural Oklahoma. Granted, we didn't have Mexicans or hill people but the overall setting, the small town and life in general was reminiscent of my childhood. As an adult, I have lived in Mexico and I was thrilled with the way Grisham portrayed his Mexican characters. The story is narrated by a seven year old boy named Luke and he observes things that no seven year old should see including violence and murder.
But this is the kind of story a reader doesn't want to end. At least I didn't. And yes, in a way, that first line did hook me although I knew I was going to read it before the TV show aired.
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Embarrassing Moments: Slip 'n Splash
Now that summer is over, I thought back to the days when my son was quite young and I tried to make our summers fun. In the following he had fun--but not so much did I!
I have always joked that my idea of camping out was to stay at the Holiday Inn but, as a single parent of a rambunctious boy, I had to make adjustments in my attitude. Therefore I tried to make our “camping” experience as easy on me as possible yet fun for my son Jaime.
When Jaime was ten years old, one of our favorite weekend destinations was Garner State Park in the Texas Hill Country. However, our last trip to Garner did not quite fit the bill, especially for me.
We left early on a Saturday morning from our home in Crystal City, Texas, arriving before noon. We parked our Chevy Vega between enormous RVs and campers along the Frio River, literally all of us lined up on the river bank among large shady trees. We always tried to get there early enough to get a good, safe spot.
Paddle boating, hiking, miniature golf and swimming were Jaime’s favorite pastimes at the park. I skipped on the swimming but joined him in the other endeavors. At one end or bend of the river was a shallow area with stepping stones that led to a small island, a popular destination for the curious as well as sun worshippers. We enjoyed walking over the stones to the little island, exploring it often.
On this last trip to the park, we crossed as usual to the small island. I noticed that the stones seemed to be more slippery than usual. However, no one else, including Jaime, seemed to notice. Once on the other side, after walking across very carefully, we began exploring the island, finding it crowded with other tourists. Jaime wanted to go back and swim in the area in front of our car. Walking quickly ahead of me over the stones, he reached the other side and proceeded toward the car. Other people came and went across the stones, too.
As I stepped on the first stone, I found it to be exceptionally slippery. Losing my footing, I slipped and fell into the water. I was fully dressed in jeans, shirt, and canvas shoes. Terribly embarrassed I got up with as much dignity as possible. However, at a glance, I noticed that no one seemed to pay the least bit of attention to me, which let me hope that no one had seen me fall.
Taking another step, I slipped and fell again. As I picked myself up, I decided it might be easier to just wade across in the shallow water. But the stepping stones created a little waterfall and as I stepped into the rushing water, I lost my balance and fell yet again! Now I was beginning to panic. There didn’t seem to be any way I could take a step without falling. I momentarily thought about crawling across but that would be too undignified and ridiculous. If I had had my swimsuit on, I could have waded or even crawled into deeper water and swam across. But fully dressed I didn’t want to do that.
Finally, standing precipitously on the third stone, I decided that I was just going to have to walk across. Everyone else was doing it without any problems and some were even running across. So with great determination, I cautiously stepped toward the fourth stone, slipping and falling again. As I got up, I decided that maybe my shoes were to blame. Kicking them off, I picked them up and started to proceed barefoot. I took one step, slipped and fell. I was now in the middle of the stepping stones and there was no turning back.
With people rushing past me in both directions and others sitting along the bank, everyone seemed too busy to see me, so I continued on my way. With each step I slipped, fell into the water, and got up. And so it went interminably—step, slip, fall, splash—until finally I made it to the bank and clambered up it, soaking wet. No one gave the appearance of having seen me or of noticing anything different about me. Grateful for that much, I walked back to the car with as much grace and dignity as I could muster, got some dry clothes and went to a restroom to change.
Jaime had been waiting impatiently for me and was ready to swim. I watched him swim and go on the paddle boat but I was not about to partake of any water sports. We spent the night in the back of the Vega with the hatchback up—my concession to “camping out”. I was more than ready to go to a Holiday Inn!
The next morning as we walked along the bank in front of rows of RVs and campers and people milling about, I began to forget my slip-n-splash nightmare. Suddenly, behind me I heard a woman whisper, “Look! It’s that crazy woman!”
And that is why that was our last trip to Garner State Park!
I have always joked that my idea of camping out was to stay at the Holiday Inn but, as a single parent of a rambunctious boy, I had to make adjustments in my attitude. Therefore I tried to make our “camping” experience as easy on me as possible yet fun for my son Jaime.
When Jaime was ten years old, one of our favorite weekend destinations was Garner State Park in the Texas Hill Country. However, our last trip to Garner did not quite fit the bill, especially for me.
We left early on a Saturday morning from our home in Crystal City, Texas, arriving before noon. We parked our Chevy Vega between enormous RVs and campers along the Frio River, literally all of us lined up on the river bank among large shady trees. We always tried to get there early enough to get a good, safe spot.
Paddle boating, hiking, miniature golf and swimming were Jaime’s favorite pastimes at the park. I skipped on the swimming but joined him in the other endeavors. At one end or bend of the river was a shallow area with stepping stones that led to a small island, a popular destination for the curious as well as sun worshippers. We enjoyed walking over the stones to the little island, exploring it often.
On this last trip to the park, we crossed as usual to the small island. I noticed that the stones seemed to be more slippery than usual. However, no one else, including Jaime, seemed to notice. Once on the other side, after walking across very carefully, we began exploring the island, finding it crowded with other tourists. Jaime wanted to go back and swim in the area in front of our car. Walking quickly ahead of me over the stones, he reached the other side and proceeded toward the car. Other people came and went across the stones, too.
As I stepped on the first stone, I found it to be exceptionally slippery. Losing my footing, I slipped and fell into the water. I was fully dressed in jeans, shirt, and canvas shoes. Terribly embarrassed I got up with as much dignity as possible. However, at a glance, I noticed that no one seemed to pay the least bit of attention to me, which let me hope that no one had seen me fall.
Taking another step, I slipped and fell again. As I picked myself up, I decided it might be easier to just wade across in the shallow water. But the stepping stones created a little waterfall and as I stepped into the rushing water, I lost my balance and fell yet again! Now I was beginning to panic. There didn’t seem to be any way I could take a step without falling. I momentarily thought about crawling across but that would be too undignified and ridiculous. If I had had my swimsuit on, I could have waded or even crawled into deeper water and swam across. But fully dressed I didn’t want to do that.
Finally, standing precipitously on the third stone, I decided that I was just going to have to walk across. Everyone else was doing it without any problems and some were even running across. So with great determination, I cautiously stepped toward the fourth stone, slipping and falling again. As I got up, I decided that maybe my shoes were to blame. Kicking them off, I picked them up and started to proceed barefoot. I took one step, slipped and fell. I was now in the middle of the stepping stones and there was no turning back.
With people rushing past me in both directions and others sitting along the bank, everyone seemed too busy to see me, so I continued on my way. With each step I slipped, fell into the water, and got up. And so it went interminably—step, slip, fall, splash—until finally I made it to the bank and clambered up it, soaking wet. No one gave the appearance of having seen me or of noticing anything different about me. Grateful for that much, I walked back to the car with as much grace and dignity as I could muster, got some dry clothes and went to a restroom to change.
Jaime had been waiting impatiently for me and was ready to swim. I watched him swim and go on the paddle boat but I was not about to partake of any water sports. We spent the night in the back of the Vega with the hatchback up—my concession to “camping out”. I was more than ready to go to a Holiday Inn!
The next morning as we walked along the bank in front of rows of RVs and campers and people milling about, I began to forget my slip-n-splash nightmare. Suddenly, behind me I heard a woman whisper, “Look! It’s that crazy woman!”
And that is why that was our last trip to Garner State Park!
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Dorothy L. Sayers: The Golden Age of Mystery
Dorothy L. Sayers was, according to Wikipedia, "a renowned English crime writer, poet, playwright, essayist, translator and Christian humanist. She was also a student of classical and modern languages. She is best known for her mysteries, a series of novels and short stories set between World War I and World War II that feature English aristocrat and amateur sleuth Lord Peter Wimsey. However, Sayers herself considered her translation of Dante's Divina Commedia to be her best work. She is also known for her plays and essays."
This little essay, however, deals only with her mystery sleuth and some personal bits about her life. I haven't read a Sayers novel since 1998 but I have read most of her Lord Peter Wimsey dectective novels. I fell in love with Lord Peter in the British mystery series on Masterpiece Theater. After seeing the first episode, I started reading the books. Of the novels I have read, my favorites are The Five Red Herrings and Have His Carcase.
From my point of view, Lord Peter was aristocratic, rich and charming. And Wikipedia notes that he was also "well-educated and brave, as well as an accomplished musician, an exceptional athlete, and a notable lover." My goodness! Who wouldn't like the guy?? But Wikipedia also says that he had "serious flaws: the habit of over-engaging in what other characters regard as silly prattling, a nervous disorder (shell-shock) and a fear of responsibility. The latter two both originate from his service in World War I. The fear of responsibility turns out to be a serious obstacle to his maturation into full adulthood (a fact not lost on the character himself)."
Lord Peter had a love interest in Harriet Vane who was featured in four novels. Some have criticized the character for being a stand-in for the author. I can't see the harm in that. The author herself must have been in love with her own creation of Lord Peter.
After having read the autobiography of Agatha Christie recently, I have become intrigued by the personal lives of these ladies who wrote such clever mysteries. Dorothy Sayers led a most unconventional life although today her life would not seem that way. She had affairs with men she fell in love with and even had a son out of wedlock. She placed him with relatives and tried to keep her relationship with him a secret. He called her Aunt Dorothy but knew, at least as he grew older, that she was his mother. She did eventually marry and had a successful marriage.
Although I have read most of the Lord Peter Wimsey novels, there are several books of short stories featuring him that I have not read and I look forward to reading those as well as the mysteries that don't include Lord Peter.
This little essay, however, deals only with her mystery sleuth and some personal bits about her life. I haven't read a Sayers novel since 1998 but I have read most of her Lord Peter Wimsey dectective novels. I fell in love with Lord Peter in the British mystery series on Masterpiece Theater. After seeing the first episode, I started reading the books. Of the novels I have read, my favorites are The Five Red Herrings and Have His Carcase.
From my point of view, Lord Peter was aristocratic, rich and charming. And Wikipedia notes that he was also "well-educated and brave, as well as an accomplished musician, an exceptional athlete, and a notable lover." My goodness! Who wouldn't like the guy?? But Wikipedia also says that he had "serious flaws: the habit of over-engaging in what other characters regard as silly prattling, a nervous disorder (shell-shock) and a fear of responsibility. The latter two both originate from his service in World War I. The fear of responsibility turns out to be a serious obstacle to his maturation into full adulthood (a fact not lost on the character himself)."
Lord Peter had a love interest in Harriet Vane who was featured in four novels. Some have criticized the character for being a stand-in for the author. I can't see the harm in that. The author herself must have been in love with her own creation of Lord Peter.
After having read the autobiography of Agatha Christie recently, I have become intrigued by the personal lives of these ladies who wrote such clever mysteries. Dorothy Sayers led a most unconventional life although today her life would not seem that way. She had affairs with men she fell in love with and even had a son out of wedlock. She placed him with relatives and tried to keep her relationship with him a secret. He called her Aunt Dorothy but knew, at least as he grew older, that she was his mother. She did eventually marry and had a successful marriage.
Although I have read most of the Lord Peter Wimsey novels, there are several books of short stories featuring him that I have not read and I look forward to reading those as well as the mysteries that don't include Lord Peter.
Monday, August 1, 2011
Hooked from the Start? Part Two: Daphne du Maurier
"Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again." This is the first line of Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier, one of the most memorable of opening lines. I don't remember how old I was when I first read Rebecca--perhaps I read it in college or during my first year of teaching.
Rebecca is the most famous of du Maurier's books but the novel that stands out the most in my mind is The House on the Strand. According to Wikipedia it was considered as science fiction but to me, it was my first foray into time travel. The book mesmerized me.
And the first line: "The first thing I noticed was the clarity of the air, and then the sharp green colour of the land." No, the first line was not the reason I started reading the book. I read it because I loved du Maurier's books. But the time travel element hooked me and has been the greatest influence on a series of time travel novels of my own, which I'm writing now. I read the novel in the early 1970s and the aspect of time travel lived on in my sub-conscious. In subsequent time travel novels by other writers, the protagonist interacts with the people of the culture he/she is visiting. Not so in The House on the Strand. The male protagonist took a drug that transported him back in time to early 14th century England and he was an observer only except that as he followed one of the inhabitants of that time period, he traversed over 20th century terrain, not noticing where he was in reality. My time traveling protagonist will be an observer also but she won't be drugged. Her ability to go back to the past will come from something inherent inside her and from ancient relics that she touches.
Of all the novels I've read, The House on the Strand is the one that has influenced my way of thinking about time travel and how I want to write my own time travel novels.
Rebecca is the most famous of du Maurier's books but the novel that stands out the most in my mind is The House on the Strand. According to Wikipedia it was considered as science fiction but to me, it was my first foray into time travel. The book mesmerized me.
And the first line: "The first thing I noticed was the clarity of the air, and then the sharp green colour of the land." No, the first line was not the reason I started reading the book. I read it because I loved du Maurier's books. But the time travel element hooked me and has been the greatest influence on a series of time travel novels of my own, which I'm writing now. I read the novel in the early 1970s and the aspect of time travel lived on in my sub-conscious. In subsequent time travel novels by other writers, the protagonist interacts with the people of the culture he/she is visiting. Not so in The House on the Strand. The male protagonist took a drug that transported him back in time to early 14th century England and he was an observer only except that as he followed one of the inhabitants of that time period, he traversed over 20th century terrain, not noticing where he was in reality. My time traveling protagonist will be an observer also but she won't be drugged. Her ability to go back to the past will come from something inherent inside her and from ancient relics that she touches.
Of all the novels I've read, The House on the Strand is the one that has influenced my way of thinking about time travel and how I want to write my own time travel novels.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Embarrassing Moments: Tumblin' Tumblewig
Here is another of my embarrassing moments from the files of Hopalong Ganny:
One March day I decided to walk the four or five blocks to the shopping center where I worked in Midwest City, Oklahoma. For some inexplicable reason I decided to wear a black wig that I hadn’t worn in a long time. Maybe I wanted to see if my co-workers would notice that I was wearing a wig.
It was a cloudy, windy day as I set out on my little trek. As I approached the first corner, I vaguely noticed a car pull up at a stop sign and wait for me to cross the street in front of it. The moment I stepped off the curb, a gust of wind blew my wig off and it went rolling down the street past the waiting car like a black “tumblin’ tumbleweed.” Embarrassed, and that’s putting it mildly, I ran after it.
Just as I got close to it, another gust of wind blew it out of reach. And so it went, with me running after my wig and the wind blowing it away each time that I made a grab for it. I became extremely frustrated and worried that I might not be able to retrieve it. But I was determined—I had to get that wig! Finally I made a desperation grab, and yes, managed to hold onto it. I tried to put it back on but immediately realized that the wind wasn’t going to let that happen.
I knew then that I would have to return home, wig in hand. I had never, not once, had a wig come loose or fall off until now. As I turned back I could imagine what a terrible sight I must seem with my own hair pulled back, tightly pinned to my scalp, with the wig tucked securely under my arm.
As I was going back up the street toward the corner where the “incident” had occurred, I noticed that the car that had stopped to let me pass was still parked at the stop sign. The passengers had all turned around, apparently to watch my progress, and were now convulsed in laughter!
I ducked my head down and ran home as fast as I could.
One March day I decided to walk the four or five blocks to the shopping center where I worked in Midwest City, Oklahoma. For some inexplicable reason I decided to wear a black wig that I hadn’t worn in a long time. Maybe I wanted to see if my co-workers would notice that I was wearing a wig.
It was a cloudy, windy day as I set out on my little trek. As I approached the first corner, I vaguely noticed a car pull up at a stop sign and wait for me to cross the street in front of it. The moment I stepped off the curb, a gust of wind blew my wig off and it went rolling down the street past the waiting car like a black “tumblin’ tumbleweed.” Embarrassed, and that’s putting it mildly, I ran after it.
Just as I got close to it, another gust of wind blew it out of reach. And so it went, with me running after my wig and the wind blowing it away each time that I made a grab for it. I became extremely frustrated and worried that I might not be able to retrieve it. But I was determined—I had to get that wig! Finally I made a desperation grab, and yes, managed to hold onto it. I tried to put it back on but immediately realized that the wind wasn’t going to let that happen.
I knew then that I would have to return home, wig in hand. I had never, not once, had a wig come loose or fall off until now. As I turned back I could imagine what a terrible sight I must seem with my own hair pulled back, tightly pinned to my scalp, with the wig tucked securely under my arm.
As I was going back up the street toward the corner where the “incident” had occurred, I noticed that the car that had stopped to let me pass was still parked at the stop sign. The passengers had all turned around, apparently to watch my progress, and were now convulsed in laughter!
I ducked my head down and ran home as fast as I could.
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