Let's Write a Book

A few days ago I was talking with my smart friend about how many people dream about some day writing a novel but never do.  Novels are much more glamorous than non fiction books because you don't have to do that pesky research. 

Somewhere in the middle of the conversation we both revealed that we'd each written our dream novel.  Neither of us was surprised.  Nor were either of us surprised they had not been published. 

I wrote my novel over 20 years ago when I was confined to the house for long periods of time when my husband, Ken, was ill.  It started with an interest in Florida history, especially Central Florida where I live.  So, I started hunting down and reading everything I could find on Old Central Florida.  

Yes, I loved doing the pesky research, as well as the writing. 

And, no, it did not get published.  But I learned so much about Florida, about writing, about what it takes to get a novel published - and I learned some things about myself along the way.   

So, while we're once more confined for a chunk of time, I hope you're doing something creative that  you've put off for a rainy day.  Now's the time -we're in for a few more "rainy days" of confinement.

I'm not doing much writing nor heavy reading right now but, for the last several days, I've been reading my novel.  I was afraid it might be cringe worthy but I'm enjoying myself.   Maybe I'll work on it some day.  It needs a rewrite. 

But not anytime soon. I'm not up to writing or reading anything heavy.  Now I feel like Pete Rose who was  once quoted as saying, "The only book I ever read was the one I wrote."

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Memories in the Time of Covid

 

A while back my grandson found this collage hidden away in my condo.  I don't remember when it was given to me but it had to be late 1970s or early 80s because that's the time frame that my husband, Ken, was the minister at  Broadway United Methodist Church in downtown Orlando. And I recognized a handful of these Broadway folks. 

Today I took the collage to be laminated because it was in rough shape.  It's been fun to discover little clues about who these folks are - or were.  I still can't place many of them, but here are some fun finds. 

The little blond kid in the upper right corner is my son John.

The young lady in the lower left corner is my daughter Cathy.

Pat Moses was a dancer, among other things, who studied at the Buddy Ebsen Dance Studio in Orlando, and has remained a life long friend.  You can easily find her in the collage. 

Helen Hurt, pictured on the bottom row, had two sons, Maury and Pete, who were well known artists.  I don't own any of their work but my children do.  All those many decades ago when I visited Helen, there was a painting just inside her front door that I loved with a passion.  It's at the center of this college.  My picture is just below.  

And I could go on.....but the strangest thing regarding this college happened yesterday. 

In a totally unrelated matter, I posted a desk chair I wanted to give away on my Facebook page.  The first person to reply was a woman named Diane.  I had no idea who she was.  Her last name was unfamiliar to me.  Yesterday she and her husband met me in my garage to take the chair.  We, of course, all wore masks.  But when she removed her mask for a minute I immediately remembered her from the Broadway Church.  I grabbed the college out of the car - and there she was!  Forty years younger.

How crazy was that?

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What It Feels Like

 

As you know, I love my New Yorker magazines.  The poetry, however, has always been daunting, to say the least.  They're notorious for not making sense to us regular folks.

But this week's issue has a treasure of a poem written by, Margaret Atwood,  one of the most prodigious, prolific poet/novelist alive today.  (The Handmaid's Tale comes to mind.)

Margaret Atwood and I are approximately the same age.  She has pretty much nailed it for me in describing what this feels like.  

FLATLINE

Things wear out. Also fingers, 

Gnarling sets in,

Your hands crouch in their mittens,

Forget chopsticks, and buttons.

Feet have their own agendas,

They scorn your taste in shoes

and ignore your trails, your maps. 

Ears are superfluous:

What are they for,

Those alien pink flaps?

Skull fungus.

The body, once your accomplice,

is now your trap.

The sunrise makes you wince:

too bright, too flamingo.

After a lifetime of tangling,

of knotted snares and lacework,

of purple headspace tornados' 

with their heartache and rubble,

you crave the end of mazes

and pray for a white shore,

an ocean with its horizon;

not, so much, bliss

but a flat line you steer for. 

No more hiss and slosh'

no reef, no deeps,

no throat rattle of gravel.

It sounds like this:

            - Margaret Atwood

 

                                                                                                                               

  

Childhood Friends

 

Sluggo Malene lived in my neighborhood for a time when I was growing up.  He was my age but he was smaller than me, and that's saying quite a bit because I was a scrawny little kid.  He got his name from a comic strip called "Nancy." Nancy lived with her Aunt Fritzi and Sluggo was Nancy's tough little friend.  My little friend Sluggo was not tough.  He got the name because he was the polar opposite of Nancy's Sluggo.

Just by coincidence, my little brother Paul had the nickname Butchie.  That name also came from the "Nancy" comic strip. In the strip,  Butch would occasionally beat up Sluggo.  In real life Paul was delicate and small for his age and sick much of the time, hence the (opposite) nickname Butchie.

My friend Sluggo lived on the other side of the street in a big old house that had been divided into tiny apartments.  I don't remember his mother but the two of them lived in two of the cordoned off rooms.  People came and went quickly in the house but Sluggo and his mother stayed a while.  Sluggo was always happy and full of fun and ideas.

What I remember most about him was his love of makeup.  One summer when we were very young, he and I spent hours under a big tree in my back yard smearing on foundation, lipstick and mascara that he'd lifted from his mother's makeup box.  He assured me she'd never miss it.  Sluggo told me that even when they didn't have enough to eat his mom bought copious amounts of makeup on a regular basis.  

I was too young and too naive to give any thought about how unusual it was for Sluggo to be heavily into the makeup routine.  And, in my defense, cross dressing had not yet been invented.  

We had a fun couple of years being friends and then he and his mother were gone and I never heard from him again.  

My brother Paul soon outgrew his nickname Butchie and he grew up to be a devoted husband and father and a truly stand up guy in all areas of his life.  I've often wondered about whatever became of Sluggo. 

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