Category Archives: The Writing Life

What Makes Suspense Work?

An illustration by W. W. Denslow from The Wond...
An illustration by W. W. Denslow from The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, also known as The Wizard of Oz, a 1900 children’s novel by L. Frank Baum. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Although movies and books about monsters (or dragons or paranormal teen angst) aren’t something I normally read, I happened to pick up Relic by Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child. I read it, well, most of it. There is a lot of gore at the beginning. I’m not a fan of gore. So by now you might wonder why I read what I don’t normally read.

Stephen King in his non-fiction book Danse Macabre (a gem of a book) about horror movies and books and why we are so fascinated by being scared, and what makes us scared. He has condensed the reason. We are most frightened by what is behind the door, as long as the “it” of that thing is kept behind the door. Isn’t that true? Weren’t we as children most scared of what the wicked witch threatened to do to Toto in the movie Wizard of Oz because we didn’t know what powers she had? She actually didn’t do anything to Toto. Then we were scared of the castle because it was big and it looked like it was full or those hairy-coated ‘ooma’ guys. Then the witch dissolves in water. WHAT?!! The “door” was opened. As soon as the door is opened or we “see” what is behind the door – we are either a) no longer frightened, or b) disgusted, and no longer frightened. At that point it is up to the author to create suspense in some other way.

So the answer to the why I kept reading Relic is this – the authors knew to keep the monster hidden. I was nearly at the end of the book when I discovered the full reveal. They kept me curious. So I kept reading. Simple.

I skipped about half the book trying to get to that point. What were the parts I skipped? The scientists arguing about DNA, the scientists discussing DNA, the scientists blah, blah, blah. Who cares what the scientists think when there is a freak of nature eating people’s brains?

Someone once told me that Elmore Leonard Jr. said that he writes a book and then deletes all the parts that he didn’t want to read either.

His writing is succinct.

Of all the authors of the past fifty years his fiction will likely stand out in the top 10 most read.

So how do you make your writing suspenseful? You write and write and then delete, delete until you have left only unanswered questions such as – what will happen to the woman suspended above the bridge? or when will the poor child ever get to see her mother? And what happens to the puppy? So with these sorts of questions the reader can’t help but keep reading. The longer the answer is hidden, the more the reader wants to know the answer. That is the anatomy of suspense. The reader may come to the final reveal and it is not the answer they want. But the questions are answered. It is important to always provide an answer.

Conflict is not always a fist fight. Unanswered questions are conflict.

No one wants to read the boring stuff. If there is no conflict, there is no intrigue and therefore no reason to pursue the end of the book.

I saw a funny cartoon in the comics today. The prince and the princess are on horseback and the sign on the side of the road reads: “Happily Ever After, A place lacking all the drama and excitement that brought you together”. Well, the rest of the sign could have said “The sort of thing no one wants to read.”

Something of Mine That’s Been Published

Here’s a little free fiction just for you.

A Woman’s Prerogative

He never wanted to but he went ahead and opened the purse. There were compartments. He didn’t have a clue what the use of so many sections could be.

He’d heard on a TV show that it was a woman’s prerogative to keep her personal life bound up in her purse.

Slowly, like pulling a hot filter out of one of those newer model cars, he managed to remove her wallet from the purse without disturbing too much.

There were the two snaps on the wallet. One. Two. A threefold contraption. He laid the entire thing flat on the table next to his empty coffee mug. He took a deep breath. Mildew. Another scent. I’ve got Windsong on my mind. That brought pain with it.

The first fold of the wallet, a clear plastic window, revealed her face on her Club Membership card. Taken years ago when big glasses were the rage. Made her face look small, petite, so very pretty.

The next fold held her credit card. She had only one stuck in the slit. She believed in that, one credit card. Put everything on it, she told him. Pay one bill at the end of the month. He didn’t cotton to that much. Then there were the library cards stuck in the other slots. One library card for each of the kids. Funny. The kids were in college now.

The last fold held a plastic packet. The driver’s license. The kids’ pictures. A family picture, the last one they had taken. Years old. Her insurance card long expired. The video store card, checking account card, beauty store discount card and membership card to the book club. (He’d been working for months to get that canceled.) He pulled and tugged the last shred of paper sticking out of an obscure slot.

The paper fell like an errant autumn leaf at his feet. He stooped to pick it up. He unfolded the scrap, soft with much handling, and laid it flat on the table next to the wallet.

It had been a year. One whole entire stupid year.

Energy had gone with her passing. Couldn’t work. Couldn’t go anywhere. Could only sit and watch the news, flipping channels.

He had only recently gotten around to clearing the closet. Had Goodwill in to haul the stuff away from the garage. The only thing left, besides that little piece of purple ‘n white paper for income tax purposes, was the purse. And the wallet.

Good memories? He’d been a good husband. Came home every night. Not like some. He’d paid the bills. Bought a big house, five bedrooms for cryin’-out-loud! A king could live in a house like that. Or a queen.

Five bedrooms.

He worked long hours. Worked like the dickens, in fact. And to top it off she’d complained. Made him mad. He bent over backwards to scrape together what they had.

She’d told him she wasn’t happy. She wanted more.

“More what?” He demanded to know.

“I don’t know.” She replied with tears in her eyes, muttering something about living.

Didn’t catch her exact words.

“What do you call this?” he asked her. “Dying?”

He smiled at the thought of how he’d won that argument before it had even started.

But he still hadn’t found a note. A reason. Dammit … Why?

With the contents of her wallet strewn on the kitchen table with last weeks’ dishes and stacked pizza boxes, he knew as certain as certain that she had left him long before she actually had.

He stared at the photo that she had hidden in her wallet. The man in the photo stared back at him from atop the table. Didn’t know him. No movie star. Just a basic looking guy. Basic. Nothing special.

He stared at the photo.

A woman’s prerogative.

———————-

Suddenly V,  Prose Poetry & Sudden Fiction is edited by Jackie Pelham and published by Stone River Press.

Houston Writer’s Guild 2012 Conference Goes Without a Hitch

Today’s writing conference with the Houston Writer’s Guild was very well organized (Thank you, Roger Paulding) and well attended. The guest speakers were excellent.

Chitra Divakaruni, author of many books including Mistress of Spices, told us that not one word we ever write is truly wasted. Even if we toss it away, that word led us to another word or another way to phrase something so it is a stepping stone to being better. So keep writing.

Nikki Loftin was hilarious, positive, and thought provoking. She used parts of fairy tales as analogies. For instance, there are witches in our lives who want to keep us from writing. Sometimes the biggest witch is our inner voice telling us to “quit writing and get on with your life!” (that one’s my own personal witch just now popping out of the dungeon) Or she talked about keeping our bread crumbs so we can find our way out of the woods (a scary dark place where we can forget why we keep writing). A bread crumb might be remembering that first time I realized a sentence that I created was wonderful. Or the feeling of finally completing a novel. Yes. I’m keeping my bread crumbs, Nikki. I’m going to put a big poster on the wall with all my bread crumbs on it.

Ken Atchity talked about the changing book marketplace, the film industry, and then he left us with an encouraging poem about being on the first step of a writing career. In other words if we could make it past all the discouragement and rejections into a place where we have completed a writing project is huge step. His story merchant companies http://www.aeionline.com and http://www.thewriterslifeline.com provide a one-stop full-service development and management machine for commercial and literary writers who wish to launch their storytelling in all media.

The break-out sessions with the editors and agents went smoothly this year. I say that because I heard no grumbling or complaining. And some compliments. So … well done you people!

I thought the Panera Bread sandwiches at lunch were great – we could grab one and eat and talk to people and mingle. So that was so much nicer than a sit down lunch.

And here is a little something that has nothing to do with the conference.

Image

Bad Boys Are Never Good

Charlotte and Susan Cushman (the Cushman siste...
Image via Wikipedia

My daughter is a brilliant microbiologist. But she was reminding me the other day that she blames Disney for her bad taste in men.

Three movies in particular, she pointed out, make bad boys look good to get. She said it seemed reasonable when seen from a very early age. For instance, take Lady and the Tramp, Beauty and the Beast, and Aladdin.

In each one, the good guy is a wreck.

In Lady and the Tramp the male dog is a not only a tramp (bum, ne’er-do-well, street-person) but he thinks he’s God’s gift to the female of the species. Look out, Lady. She sets out to change him so he can be her beau. In Beauty and the Beast you have a guy who is a mess both physically and emotionally. The Beauty sets out to change him, and voila – you’ve got a brilliant dance with the talking dishes. In Aladdin you have a handsome guy who is a thief and a liar.

Even West Side Story plays this up with the bad guy trying to get the good girl. It is supposed to be patterned after Romeo and Juliet but really the guy is a switch-blade carrying, grease-ball. The Pirates of Penzance was one of my children’s favorite musicals when they were very small. It’s about a pirate who wants to change and the girl who tries to change him.

These days the big rage in children’s lit and movies is often about the vacuous gorgeous girl finding a handsome vampire to marry and have little vamplets…i.e. “Breaking Dawn.” I suppose a whole race of blood-sucking super babies will engender another round of novels.

Perhaps we have never broken free of Victorian ideals of what a woman is. Women, the fragile species, can’t think. Can’t plan. Can’t make important decisions about the future. And for goodness sakes aren’t they hopeless with money?

Having spent the years my children attended public school (14 years) as a paraprofessional working with special education or as an inclusion teacher, I know firsthand the “self-esteem thing” was drilled into all students from preschool onward. Especially aimed at girls. No good came of it. Not a bit of difference did “education” make in how a child felt about themselves. If anything it made children aware of their own shortcomings.

Let us reflect on the many classic examples of the weak woman and the strong, yet heartless man. Take  Charles Dickens‘s portrayals of the heroine – she is a weak, almost brainless, classic beauty with no personal or future expectations save to worship some man and reflect in his glory. (Exception note: In Great Expectations the heroine struggles out of her brainwashing by Ms. Haversham and discovers a few thought of her own. This was an anti-heroine for Mr. Dickens.)

Girls. Bad boys don’t change. You can’t make them change. They like their unchangeableness. Don’t waste your breath. It won’t work.

Parents beware. There are wonderful movies out there that have nothing to do with gender classification.

Here are a few examples: “The Sandlot“.  “Beethoven Lives Upstairs“, wow, if you haven’t seen this movie you must do so. “Shrek” turns the tables on the good girl meets bad boy when we discover at the end that the good girl is a troll, too. “Toy Story” – and of the three, “Toy Story 3” is the best. There are so many good movies for kids that don’t make a big deal of  THE STRONG FEMALE CHARACTER but instead have a simple story – the brilliance is often in the simplicity of reason.

And by the way, I have stumbled upon a wonderful heroine (Thursday Next) who upsets the apple cart of reason as she stumbles through her story as a litera-tec who works for Spec Ops 27. She “fixes” the ending of Jane Eyre. Loved this book – it’s called The Eyre Affair by Jasper Fforde. Good read.

Steer your child, boy or girl, away from movies that depict a character who thinks they have to change the person they love to make the world a better place. Or a character who decides to change their life to capture the one they think they love (see the movie “Zookeeper” cute – okay for older children like me).

No one can change another person. We can influence other people. We can lead by example. Children know without being told that – Actions speak louder than words.

When my daughter was a child I accepted the popular view that Disney movies were child-tested and parent approved. Silly me.

 

2011 in review (A Good Start)

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2011 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 2,200 times in 2011. If it were a cable car, it would take about 37 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

Thought for Food

Dunkin1
Image via Wikipedia

Restaurants appear and disappear all around my neighborhood. What is it that attracts people to open up a restaurant in such a terrible economy?

I can think of several reasons why 0pening a restaurant might be like writing a novel. I’ve written a novel. I wonder if I could open a restaurant…

It takes a dream. I make lovely lasagna- people will flock. My book will sell and I will make millions.

It takes an idea – a menu or a story line.

It takes a lot of perseverance. The bank will love my proposal and give me a loan for this restaurant straight away. I will finish my novel even though I have no editor on the sidelines urging me forward.

It takes more perseverance. Okay, so the bank thinks I’m just one of millions with a lasagna recipe, I’ll go to another bank, or I’ll create more and even greater recipes. (You can see the analogy).

My husband and I try to visit the new restaurants at least once, and depend upon our daughter to try out the ones we can’t get to in time, before they close, I mean.

Why do they close? There are two reasons I believe restaurants are so quick to open and just as quick to close and only one of them has to do with the food. First, because the food was less than exceptional. In a world full of restaurants and people who eat at restaurants, the food must be beyond good.  Secondly, a restaurant fails because of lack of business acuity. For instance, one recently closed restaurant handed out menus that had no English subtitles. I need to know what I’m ordering. Another is close to failing (despite wonderful food) because they added no sound-proofing along the walls and their patrons can not carry on a conversation below shouting level.

In the world of book writing a novel doesn’t get published for two reasons (And I’m being simplistic, I know.) First, because it isn’t well written. Secondly and more importantly, because the writer doesn’t push forward and persevere with publication.

But there are restaurant that are extremely successful that serve mediocre and even BAD food. (You can see the analogy I’m making. I hope.)

At Baby Barnaby’s people line up for hours on weekend mornings to get in and get a bad breakfast. On my visit I ordered a simple dish and after a few bites, could not eat it. I didn’t say anything to the waiter because I don’t want my plate whisked away and redone with spit added. Nor did I mention this to others who planned to try the restaurant. Everyone is entitled to eat bad food. But the others I had in mind have stood in line and then reported the same experience. Yet, people line up. And now I’m warning you – don’t do it! Save your money! Stand in line at the Breakfast Club instead.

There are soooo many restaurant around us. You would think I’m fortunate. I live blocks from Midtown, which is the epicenter of Thai/Vietnamese restaurants in Houston. Every one that we’ve tried isn’t worth a second visit. There is an excellent Chinese restaurant on Buffalo Speedway and I-59 called Q’uin Dynasty (five stars from me, consistently good, too). There are four Greek/Mediterranean restaurants in walking distance from my home. Not a one of them serves anything decent except the gyros. That gets boring. There are four Mexican or Tex/Mex restaurants within a few square blocks. I can’t get excited about any of them. The neighbors gather every Friday night at the pink Mexican restaurant. I will point out that of all the Mexican restaurants the pink one is the best. I think the name is La Palisado – or something else that I can’t pronounce, so it remains “the pink one.”

We went to a cafe around the corner last week and I ordered the chicken salad stuffed avocado. How could I go wrong? I received a plate sprinkled with dry iceberg lettuce with brown edges, a halved avocado with skin intact. I would describe the chicken salad as boiled chicken mashed with mayonnaise. It had been squished into the center of the avocado. I would at least grind down that cooked chicken so it wasn’t stringy, and then I would add some flavor.

Even the doughnut shop on the corner, (how can you mess up a doughnut?) can’t compare to Dunkin’ Donuts. But their parking lot is crowded with cars.

It isn’t all bad. There are incredible restaurants nearby. Marks, Davino’s, The Chocolate Bar, Little Bigs, Indika’s, and that hole-in-the wall Cajun place behind the gas station to name only a few. There are others yet to be tried and I will report.

I could make a restaurant work. I am married to a man with a good head for numbers, I DO have some great recipes and my business plan is simple – if you feed people enough tasty food, they will be back.

No, I don’t think I will start that restaurant business any time soon (though that may change as the really great restaurants are becoming fewer and farther between. And I am hungry.)

For now, I will stick to writing more tasty novels.

How opening a restaurant is NOT like writing a novel:

If at first you don’t succeed it is much too expensive to open another restaurant.

Here is a recipe:

My Mom’s Shrimp Dip

1 8 oz. block of cream cheese (room temp)

1 cup mayonnaise (gotta be the real stuff)

1 teaspoon sugar

1/2 lemon, juiced

1 and 1/2 cup fresh shrimp* (cooked, peeled, chopped)

Combine.

Best eaten the next day.

*the secret to good boiled shrimp is this. Put the raw, unpeeled shrimp in rapidly boiling, seasoned water. Wait two minutes. Turn fire off. Let shrimp sit in seasoned water for fifteen minutes. My favorite seasoning is two tablespoons of liquid Zatarain’s Crab and Shrimp boil, and two tablespoons salt.

Writing Time

Writing
Random hairy arm

Bottom line. Nothing thrills the writer’s soul like writing – marking up a blank sheet with anything resembling words, or better – sentences, or best of all – whole thoughts that might, just, make sense. That act of committing feels priceless.

Elizabeth George in her book Write Away says that she tells her students on the first day of her creative writing courses:

“You will be published if you possess three qualities – talent, passion, and discipline. You will probably be published if you possess two of the three qualities in either combination – either talent and discipline, or passion and discipline. You will likely be published if you possess neither talent nor passion but still have discipline … but if all you possess is talent or passion, you will not be published. And if by some miracle you are published it will probably never happen again.”

A bold statement. And I believe it. No matter what is happening in my life I try to set time apart to write. And at present those are at ODD times. The jury is out on whether a writer commits those little dashes and dots to paper every day, twice a week, every possible moment, whatever. Part of the “art” of writing is the “art” part. Art, unlike craft, is not a disciplined endeavor. It is the inspiration, the beating heart, the passion part. Because I must write. That’s what writers do. And when I’m not writing I think about what I’m going to write next.

But a writer will get no where thinking about writing. I know a lot of people who have a wonderful novel they have thought about. Until the words are committed to the page, I’m sorry, it isn’t a novel. That is the reason writers must MUST write. Butt on chair. Do it.

Some writers claim to spill out countless words all the time – be it on tissue, the napkin, or ink on the arm – when no paper is available. Others say they write a certain number of hours every day. This is a nice business-like attitude. I believe most of those who write in this way are men. (sexist) In fact, one of my favorite suspense writers, Dean Koontz, said in a recent interview that he got up every morning and shut himself away in his study to write. I think he mentioned the word business in the interview.

Some writers claim the morning is best for writing. I do. Although with my crazy life it happens that I use what moments I can grab. But mornings seem to be the most popular by a non-scientific three-to-one count on my part. Non-scientific because I haven’t kept score on paper and am at present trusting memory.

Again, to say with any conviction that this time or that time is best denies the artistic part of writing.

Jane Yolen author of Take Joy and one of the most beloved and prolific writers of children’s novels, picture books, and essays said, “Before I got a house in Scotland I thought I was a morning writer. Then we started spending summers in Scotland where the day lasts until 11 o’clock at night. That’s when I realized I was a Light writer.”

I love that. She’s so witty. It isn’t the time or day, it is the writing.

Writing with results must be a dichotomy, a disciplined art. Remember what Elizabeth George said – for publication the discipline is more important than the passion or the talent.

So put down the phone, put down the TV remote, and take the time to write, no matter what.

The Real Rebecca Nolen Will Now Stand Up

Mercedes-Benz F400 "Carving" Prototype
Image via Wikipedia

Have you googled yourself lately? I have. Curiosity compelled me to go to “Google”, type in my name, and press “search”. There it is – my website, which I keep meaning to figure out how to link to this blog, or manipulate into this blog and do away with the extra site altogether. If I ever get someone to come put back the closet shelf that fell with a resounding explosion on July 4th, and get the electric inspection to pass, I might have some time on my hands. Then I’m signing up to attend the workshop with the Houston-SCBWI group to figure out how to add my site to my blog.

But there is even more to see in that “search”. There is a website for “The Real Rebecca Nolen”.

Wait a minute! What am I? And yet. And yet. Am I really Rebecca Nolen? When I was in my flippant 20’s I changed my name. Not legally because my legal name is Rebecca Nolen. But I changed it because my first husband, a Frenchman, liked Rebecca better than Becky. “Becky is so choppy” (say it with a French accent). So the more formal name stuck. The Frenchman did not. He ran off to join the French army with hardly an O-Ree-Voir.

I grew up under my nickname – Becky. And it is life changing to change a name from what one is called growing up to a new name as an adult. But I’ve been Rebecca longer than I was ever Becky. So it feels part of me. We grapple with these things when naming a child, and now the naming of a grandchild. It all comes down to – what will she/he be CALLED? The calling of a name is an intimate gesture from one person to another. So what happens when that gesture is interrupted by a change?

Now, here is my scientific analysis: changing your name with all your new acquaintances isn’t difficult, most of the time.

One assumes when introducing oneself under a certain name that the other person accepts that is your real and “called” name. This is not always so with the name Rebecca, as I’m sure those with the name Robert (Bob? Robby? Rob?) understand, and the name Elizabeth (Betty? Liz? Elspeth? Lizzie?) and there are many other names out there that chopped to bits and remade – I get called Becky anyway. I had a lady I worked for for about ten years call me Becky, although everyone else at the workplace called me Rebecca. It was a school setting so it wasn’t as if my name was not used in general assemblies, etc. I don’t know what it was that this lady had against the name Rebecca. Or was she trying to put me in place because she was the boss? It is a mystery.

It is acceptable and understandable when friends from my youth, and when my family call me Becky. They have always called me Becky. And so by the right invested by me – they can call me Becky.

I am still Rebecca Nolen.

There have been three instances where my identity has been compromised. At one point I owed money to the Ebony magazine group for the books they sent me as part of their book club membership. I never received the  books. After getting a couple of nasty notices, I called the magazine’s accounting department. Once the person on the other end of the phone realized this particular Rebecca Nolen was unlikely to have ordered a book called something like “Hot Black Mamas in the Office!” he took me off the “creditors have been summoned to evict you” list.

Over the last few months I have taken several calls on my cell about the cars I had shown interest in. The people calling me were from Volvo, Mercedes, and Cadillac dealerships. Yeah, roight! If I were looking at all I would more likely to be looking a little lower on the car scale. No, it wasn’t me looking at cars on the internet and typing in one of my OLD addresses but then typing in my current cell number.

How do these crooks do that?

When I first purchased my .com name to keep it in reserve, I put up a small website with my email address. No sooner than that I had an email from an eleven year old Rebecca Nolen in Australia. She told me she had wanted to get the .com of our name but she was too late in doing so. I don’t know how I was supposed to respond to that email. I told her I was glad to hear from her, but yep, I got the name.

Now I see the REAL Rebecca Nolen has a website. So even if I wanted to give up my .com I wouldn’t want someone like that to have it. I would want the other totally real Rebecca Nolen in Australia to have it. The real-ish Rebecca Nolen of all has spoken, the one with the actual and real .com. So there!

The Artful Dodger

There is no place like home. My home at this moment is no place to work on art projects right now. It is the art project.  The yellow bathroom is still yellow. I’ve got the paint for it and hope I can start the transformation tomorrow. The person I would hire to do the job – and he is such an expert he would be finished in an hour or so – is taking some time off because his father just passed away. So I keep thinking I will just open the can of paint and begin.

The most daunting part of any project is the beginning. The act of opening up the can of paint, ripping open the box of window blinds, or taking the electric saw out of the shed feels like slogging through deep mud. Suddenly all the other undone or unfinished projects silently scream for attention. I still haven’t finished mending the shelf in the kitchen. I haven’t painted over the daubs of putty I put on the siding months ago. I haven’t replaced the cracked board on the deck.

At the same time I think of other projects waiting for me. My art projects. They are in careful packets or thick files, or even stacked in my art room under the boxed ceiling fan. I continue to take photos of careful compositions that would translate into artwork eventually. My files have become volumes on the computer’s photo organizer.

Art is not difficult for me. It excites me. Sometimes there is nothing I would rather do in the world than draw or paint a picture. Some pictures take many hours, some don’t take long at all. I do not stop until I know that it is done. I can’t explain how I know a picture is done. I just know when it is. Sometimes I have to do pictures over and over again because they aren’t what I saw in the beginning, in my mind. Art is visual for me and so the picture comes to mind and then I create it. Although my art is often very tactile, even using my hands to push the paint around on the canvas, I use many techniques and resources to produce the picture that I visualized.

At this moment in time my artful pursuits have taken on a larger canvas – the house(s). I’ve reached back in time on the arts and crafts home to try to visualize what the house looked like in 1910. My smaller canvasses sit quietly on their easel. It isn’t that I couldn’t reach the paint wherever it is. I could do it. It wouldn’t be that difficult. But the larger project has taken me out for a while. I feel guilty though. I feel as if I’m betraying my little pastels and colored pencils.

I wonder if I’m delaying the great projects for the good ones. I read a book long ago about the “urgent” and the “important”. There is a fine distinction because in the midst of busy-ness making a clear decision between what is truly important within all the terribly urgent – makes all the difference.

The Accent is Genuine

MTV interviewer Josh Horowitz (After Hours with Josh Horowitz) has some of the stars of the Harry Potter series repeat phrases with an American accent.   Of course I’m impressed. I can not speak with an English accent, although there is an English accent in my head. I’ve always loved anything English. To call myself an Anglophile does not begin to encompass my lifelong obsession.

It began in childhood. My mother was besotted with the Queen and everything English. Her grandmother was the third daughter of a titled landowner. With a child’s wide-eyed awe I listened to tales of my great-grandmother’s privileged childhood of having someone else do everything for her including brushing her hair (the ultimate luxury!) with tortoise-shell combs. And the stories didn’t stop there. She grew older and fell in love with a man who came from London, an indentured apprentice. They ran away together to America where they traveled by covered wagon to the wilds of Iowa. Their home included an “indian cabinet” a cupboard to hide in when the indians came to raid the pantry, though actually they were only after the pickles.

The truth lies somewhere in here. My great-grandmother was the third daughter of a titled land owner, who was actually a farmer. She probably did enjoy some luxury in comparison to others. The Orkney Islands of Scotland are cold a lot of the year. Relatives who still reside there must keep their sheep and cows in the barns for almost nine out of twelve months of the year.

My great-grandmother did fall in love with a man from London who was a plumber. She married and moved to America with her father’s blessing. And I imagine Iowa was still a little warmer than Scotland. I’ve seen the home they built. A three storied, multi-gabled Victorian. It may still be there in Mason City.

I know there is a lot more to the stories. The bit about the indians leaving one of their old people behind the fence where the body wasn’t discovered until the Spring thaw. The part about my great-grandfather’s family dying of influenza so he had to apprentice himself in order to pay debts and survive. I have a family history booklet created by some great-aunts and passed to the extended family where many of these stories are proved by eye witness accounts.

My mother’s family was from Scotland, but my father’s family was too. Does that make me doubly crazy about all things British? Yes.

I’ve immersed myself in British murder mysteries, classics, and television programming for over thirty years – or for as long as I can remember. If anyone could do an accent is should be me. In fact, after a car accident where I was knocked out, According to eye-witness accounts, I spoke in an English accent. They found it so amusing. Me? I don’t remember anything about it.

That’s why I say I think I have an English person residing in my head. I imagine this person sitting next to me wondering why I drive on the wrong side of the road. And asking what’s wrong with spotted dick pudding? But sadly I have not much accent. I can hardly do a “roight” right. Strange, really.

I used to have more of a Texas accent but can hardly remember much of it.  I still say Italian with a long ‘I’ as in ICE. Occasionally I add an ‘r’ to wash so it comes out ‘warsh’. And I add ‘fixin’ as a preface to what I’m about to do, as in “I’m fixin’ to throw my warsh at the IIItalians.” And that’s as genuine as it gets.