I have a weekend, this weekend, that is a two day vacation from entertaining. In the last six months I have hosted many, many, more many, and even more, many, holiday, family, friend, happy, sad, joyous and really joyous gatherings ranging from twenty to eighty-five people in my home. In all cases I did most, if not all the cooking, except for desserts. I don’t make desserts I just eat ‘em.
That I am tired of keeping the bathrooms spotless is like saying, can’t I just go one day without a shower. Sweeping up the tumble weeds of dog hair has become a chore so heinous that I am ready to shave the dog. Thank God Harley is housebroken or I’d have to cork his…eww…not really.
Anyway, I’m sleeping in tomorrow. I’m not sweeping, vacuuming, scrubbing, cooking or showering…eww…not really.
I’ll sweep, I can’t stand the dog hair.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Thursday, March 31, 2011
BUG BOY
A woman I work with introduced me to her husband. He is some kind of big-wig at a big pharmaceutical company. His hobby, or actually his passion, cockroaches. Yup, creepy, crawly, cockroaches. Why anyone would be interested in roaches is a mystery to me but the guy is crazy about them. And he’s written a book and he‘s not sure how to approach the whole publishing thing. He didn't ask my advice but I gave him some anyway. This is what I told the bug-nerd, his wife’s description not mine.
It’s all in the proposal.
When I told him he didn’t have to finish his book before he started to query, and get paid to complete it, the bug-nerd got excited. Yes bug-nerds do get excited. I gave him a book on writing proposals. Thinking Like Your Editor, by Susan Rabiner and Alfred Fortunato. (To borrow only.) The book was recommended to me by Ellen Fitzpatrick, historian, college professor, TV commentator, all-around-amazing-woman and author, most recently of Letters To Jackie. After discussing with her a project I was working on regarding 125 discovered letters after the deaths of my parents, her sage words:
It’s all in the proposal.
I also told bug boy to NOT query his dream agents or dream publishers first time out. Send to the back-ups first, sort of like testing a new dish on friends before serving it to the soon to be in-laws. Because his book is almost finished, his credentials impeccable, and his passion great I think the guy has a chance AND I haven’t read a word.
It’s all in the proposal.
My one concern, who is his audience?
My nerd-friend travels to schools demonstrating dissections and discussing stuff I deem disgusting. Academics seem to eat this stuff up…ugh…just the thought. So he does have an audience, textbook, not huge but in need. Just think about it. If a professor requires a book for class…well, built in readership. How about a bunch of professors in a bunch of schools and my nerd friend is right there ready to demo his bug stuff. A slam dunk. (Had to insert a basketball analogy, it’s March madness, go UCONN women.) But like I said…
It’s all in the proposal.
Oh wait, I forgot, it’s all in the writing too.
It’s all in the proposal.
When I told him he didn’t have to finish his book before he started to query, and get paid to complete it, the bug-nerd got excited. Yes bug-nerds do get excited. I gave him a book on writing proposals. Thinking Like Your Editor, by Susan Rabiner and Alfred Fortunato. (To borrow only.) The book was recommended to me by Ellen Fitzpatrick, historian, college professor, TV commentator, all-around-amazing-woman and author, most recently of Letters To Jackie. After discussing with her a project I was working on regarding 125 discovered letters after the deaths of my parents, her sage words:
It’s all in the proposal.
I also told bug boy to NOT query his dream agents or dream publishers first time out. Send to the back-ups first, sort of like testing a new dish on friends before serving it to the soon to be in-laws. Because his book is almost finished, his credentials impeccable, and his passion great I think the guy has a chance AND I haven’t read a word.
It’s all in the proposal.
My one concern, who is his audience?
My nerd-friend travels to schools demonstrating dissections and discussing stuff I deem disgusting. Academics seem to eat this stuff up…ugh…just the thought. So he does have an audience, textbook, not huge but in need. Just think about it. If a professor requires a book for class…well, built in readership. How about a bunch of professors in a bunch of schools and my nerd friend is right there ready to demo his bug stuff. A slam dunk. (Had to insert a basketball analogy, it’s March madness, go UCONN women.) But like I said…
It’s all in the proposal.
Oh wait, I forgot, it’s all in the writing too.
Monday, March 14, 2011
GOD TIPPED HIS HAT
My husband called, God just ‘winked’ at him.
As an independent contractor, and a member of a veterans association, my husband often volunteers his skills and time for the organization. He is not a veteran but his father was and because he is the child of a vet he was able to join.
My husband donated his labor to build new cabinets behind the bar...lord knows he’s pounded down more than his share at that watering hole...anyway, today as he and some other volunteer members installed the beautiful wall of cabinets he built something amazing happened.
As they removed the old cabinets and were cleaning up the ’stuff ’ that falls behind and under such places a newspaper clipping was found. It was his father’s obituary. He passed away years ago.
I believe in the mystery of such things. My father-in-law was saying hello and thanks for the job well done. God had tipped his hat in greeting. What a great way to start the day.
As an independent contractor, and a member of a veterans association, my husband often volunteers his skills and time for the organization. He is not a veteran but his father was and because he is the child of a vet he was able to join.
My husband donated his labor to build new cabinets behind the bar...lord knows he’s pounded down more than his share at that watering hole...anyway, today as he and some other volunteer members installed the beautiful wall of cabinets he built something amazing happened.
As they removed the old cabinets and were cleaning up the ’stuff ’ that falls behind and under such places a newspaper clipping was found. It was his father’s obituary. He passed away years ago.
I believe in the mystery of such things. My father-in-law was saying hello and thanks for the job well done. God had tipped his hat in greeting. What a great way to start the day.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Words
Words are wonderful, they make you show your teeth or cause your eyes to leak, they fill your heart or empty your soul.
God…I love what I do.
God…I love what I do.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Query Letters, ugh !
Our ‘Inspired Writers Group’ has an interesting project for the next meeting, the query letter.
E-gads, the horror of the query letter.
I’ve written dozens, actually the same one dozens of times.(Ah, only kidding, I change the titles.)I’m not an expert because they sure haven’t gotten me any book deals.
So, is it the book or the letter?
Hmmm interesting thought.
Like American Idol, is it the try-out or the singing? So what if you suck while doing the acappella thing in front of the judges but your voice is really great. Do they hear the voice or latch onto the sucky part? Part of me says you are not going to Hollywood because there are lots of good singers that don’t screw up the try out, and part of me says give the bitch another chance.
It’s the package I guess…good try-out, good voice, good song…Hollywood all the way.
So, good query, good voice, (yes writing has a voice), and good story, the whole package. I get it.
Funny thing though, I don’t watch American idol anymore because I’m writing all the time. I’m working on my try-out and my song.
E-gads, the horror of the query letter.
I’ve written dozens, actually the same one dozens of times.(Ah, only kidding, I change the titles.)I’m not an expert because they sure haven’t gotten me any book deals.
So, is it the book or the letter?
Hmmm interesting thought.
Like American Idol, is it the try-out or the singing? So what if you suck while doing the acappella thing in front of the judges but your voice is really great. Do they hear the voice or latch onto the sucky part? Part of me says you are not going to Hollywood because there are lots of good singers that don’t screw up the try out, and part of me says give the bitch another chance.
It’s the package I guess…good try-out, good voice, good song…Hollywood all the way.
So, good query, good voice, (yes writing has a voice), and good story, the whole package. I get it.
Funny thing though, I don’t watch American idol anymore because I’m writing all the time. I’m working on my try-out and my song.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Two short stories, two points of view, which is better?
An Afternoon Walk
Behind a stand of sugar maples, the sun balanced on the horizon like a brillant beach ball poised to slip over the edge. Shimmering through the trembling red and orange leaves, the late afternoon sunlight made the trees look as if they were ablaze. It had been a cliché of a day, the kind New England is famous for. So exquisite was the flawless visual snapshot before me, I wondered how much I was going to have to pay for such an unforgettably perfect moment.
Rimming the dirt road where I stood was a single line of gravestones, each standing sentinel, as the first in their row, each row dozens deep. They looked like soldiers standing at attention. I tried to count them but they disappeared beyond the slope of the land like a floating flock of seabirds drifting down and out of site into a trough between two waves. On the far side, toward the bay, hundreds rose up out of the trough and floated as far back as the civil war. That was the old part of the graveyard where the forgotten are remembered during the special days which honor duty and death as if they are brothers.
I wasn’t looking for any particular stone or a familiar name, I was just walking along the rows of lives now gone. As I approached the down slope I noticed a car parked by the side of the road. Scanning the sea of stones I didn’t see anyone standing head bent visiting a lost loved one. Of late it is young wives I often see pouring out their hearts to futures lost from war. But because I saw no one I assumed the visitor was like me, walking and taking in the solitude but in another part of the hallowed place.
Drifting off the road I wandered among the stones to avoid the car just in case someone was inside. Once I came upon a couple in a red Toyota enjoying each other in what they thought was privacy among thousands gone. A live person walking by their car window caused quite a reaction when I glanced their way. So I dodged the car and wandered deeper among the dead.
The rhythm of my walking was interrupted by my weaving among the stones, the sound of my steps muffled by the soft lawn. It was as if the world had gone silent in prayer.
Like a whisper, a heartbroken voice floated up from the depths of stillness; it was weeping. In a cemetery the sound of loss and loneliness, as an accompaniment to pain and suffering lives in every breeze. When I walk there I contemplate often the tears shed which I imagine replenish the earth. But this time the sound of crying was real, the sadness tangible. I thought, how senseless, another young wife or another mother anguished by tragedy. A few steps further; I saw someone lying on the grass, embracing the ground above a grave. It was a man. Leaning against the cold headboard of polished granite a picture of an old woman. Slowly I backed away and hurried from a moment meant not to be shared.
That I imagined the sound of weeping as that of someone young and someone female puzzled me. An old man sobs for a past connection gone, a young woman weeps for one never made; their tears come from a different kind of loss but emanate from the same kind of sadness and bewilderment.
As I hurried back to where I had begun my walk I felt embarrassed because I had intruded. Slowly disappointment and betrayal tragically burrowed into my own heart because I knew I would not walk in that cemetery again and I would not tell my mother how I came upon my father weeping for another women and a future lost to circumstance.
An Afternoon Walk
By
Carolynn Pianta
Behind a stand of sugar maples, the sun balanced on the horizon like a brillant beach ball poised to slip over the edge. Shimmering through the trembling red and orange leaves, the late afternoon sunlight made the trees look as if they were ablaze. It had been a cliché of a day, the kind New England is famous for. So exquisite was the flawless visual snapshot Anne wondered how much she was going to have to pay for such an unforgettably perfect moment.
Rimming the dirt road where she stood was a single line of gravestones, each standing sentinel, as the first in their row, each row dozens deep. They looked like soldiers standing at attention. Anne tried to count them but they disappeared beyond the slope of the land like a floating flock of seabirds drifting down and out of site into a trough between two waves. On the far side, toward the bay, hundreds rose up out of the trough and floated as far back as the civil war. That was the old part of the graveyard where the forgotten are remembered during the special days which honor duty and death as if they are brothers.
Anne wasn’t looking for any particular stone or a familiar name, she was just walking along the rows of lives now gone. As she approached the down slope she noticed a car parked by the side of the road. Scanning the sea of stones she didn’t see anyone standing head bent visiting a lost loved one. Of late Anne noticed young wives often pouring out their hearts to futures lost from war. But because she saw no one and assumed the visitor was like her, walking and taking in the solitude but in another part of the hallowed place.
Drifting off the road Anne wandered among the stones to avoid the car just in case someone was inside. Once she came upon a couple in a red Toyota enjoying each other in what they thought was privacy among thousands gone. A live person walking by their car window caused quite a reaction when she glanced their way. So she dodged the car and wandered deeper among the dead.
The rhythm of her walking was interrupted by her weaving among the stones, the sound of her steps muffled by the soft lawn. It was as if the world had gone silent in prayer.
Like a whisper, a heartbroken voice floated up from the depths of stillness; it was weeping. In a cemetery the sound of loss and loneliness, as an accompaniment to pain and suffering lives in every breeze. When she walked there Anne contemplated often the tears shed which she imagined replenished the earth. But this time the sound of crying was real, the sadness tangible. She thought, how senseless, another young wife or another mother anguished by tragedy. A few steps further; she saw someone lying on the grass, embracing the ground above a grave. It was a man. Leaning against the cold headboard of polished granite a picture of an old woman. Slowly Anne backed away and hurried from a moment meant not to be shared.
That she imagined the sound of weeping as that of someone young and someone female puzzled her. An old man sobs for a past connection gone, a young woman weeps for one never made; their tears come from a different kind of loss but emanate from the same kind of sadness and bewilderment.
As Anne hurried back to where she had begun her walk she felt embarrassed because she had intruded. Slowly disappointment and betrayal tragically burrowed into her own heart because she knew she would not walk in that cemetery again and she would not tell her mother how she came upon her father weeping for another women and a future lost to circumstance.
Behind a stand of sugar maples, the sun balanced on the horizon like a brillant beach ball poised to slip over the edge. Shimmering through the trembling red and orange leaves, the late afternoon sunlight made the trees look as if they were ablaze. It had been a cliché of a day, the kind New England is famous for. So exquisite was the flawless visual snapshot before me, I wondered how much I was going to have to pay for such an unforgettably perfect moment.
Rimming the dirt road where I stood was a single line of gravestones, each standing sentinel, as the first in their row, each row dozens deep. They looked like soldiers standing at attention. I tried to count them but they disappeared beyond the slope of the land like a floating flock of seabirds drifting down and out of site into a trough between two waves. On the far side, toward the bay, hundreds rose up out of the trough and floated as far back as the civil war. That was the old part of the graveyard where the forgotten are remembered during the special days which honor duty and death as if they are brothers.
I wasn’t looking for any particular stone or a familiar name, I was just walking along the rows of lives now gone. As I approached the down slope I noticed a car parked by the side of the road. Scanning the sea of stones I didn’t see anyone standing head bent visiting a lost loved one. Of late it is young wives I often see pouring out their hearts to futures lost from war. But because I saw no one I assumed the visitor was like me, walking and taking in the solitude but in another part of the hallowed place.
Drifting off the road I wandered among the stones to avoid the car just in case someone was inside. Once I came upon a couple in a red Toyota enjoying each other in what they thought was privacy among thousands gone. A live person walking by their car window caused quite a reaction when I glanced their way. So I dodged the car and wandered deeper among the dead.
The rhythm of my walking was interrupted by my weaving among the stones, the sound of my steps muffled by the soft lawn. It was as if the world had gone silent in prayer.
Like a whisper, a heartbroken voice floated up from the depths of stillness; it was weeping. In a cemetery the sound of loss and loneliness, as an accompaniment to pain and suffering lives in every breeze. When I walk there I contemplate often the tears shed which I imagine replenish the earth. But this time the sound of crying was real, the sadness tangible. I thought, how senseless, another young wife or another mother anguished by tragedy. A few steps further; I saw someone lying on the grass, embracing the ground above a grave. It was a man. Leaning against the cold headboard of polished granite a picture of an old woman. Slowly I backed away and hurried from a moment meant not to be shared.
That I imagined the sound of weeping as that of someone young and someone female puzzled me. An old man sobs for a past connection gone, a young woman weeps for one never made; their tears come from a different kind of loss but emanate from the same kind of sadness and bewilderment.
As I hurried back to where I had begun my walk I felt embarrassed because I had intruded. Slowly disappointment and betrayal tragically burrowed into my own heart because I knew I would not walk in that cemetery again and I would not tell my mother how I came upon my father weeping for another women and a future lost to circumstance.
An Afternoon Walk
By
Carolynn Pianta
Behind a stand of sugar maples, the sun balanced on the horizon like a brillant beach ball poised to slip over the edge. Shimmering through the trembling red and orange leaves, the late afternoon sunlight made the trees look as if they were ablaze. It had been a cliché of a day, the kind New England is famous for. So exquisite was the flawless visual snapshot Anne wondered how much she was going to have to pay for such an unforgettably perfect moment.
Rimming the dirt road where she stood was a single line of gravestones, each standing sentinel, as the first in their row, each row dozens deep. They looked like soldiers standing at attention. Anne tried to count them but they disappeared beyond the slope of the land like a floating flock of seabirds drifting down and out of site into a trough between two waves. On the far side, toward the bay, hundreds rose up out of the trough and floated as far back as the civil war. That was the old part of the graveyard where the forgotten are remembered during the special days which honor duty and death as if they are brothers.
Anne wasn’t looking for any particular stone or a familiar name, she was just walking along the rows of lives now gone. As she approached the down slope she noticed a car parked by the side of the road. Scanning the sea of stones she didn’t see anyone standing head bent visiting a lost loved one. Of late Anne noticed young wives often pouring out their hearts to futures lost from war. But because she saw no one and assumed the visitor was like her, walking and taking in the solitude but in another part of the hallowed place.
Drifting off the road Anne wandered among the stones to avoid the car just in case someone was inside. Once she came upon a couple in a red Toyota enjoying each other in what they thought was privacy among thousands gone. A live person walking by their car window caused quite a reaction when she glanced their way. So she dodged the car and wandered deeper among the dead.
The rhythm of her walking was interrupted by her weaving among the stones, the sound of her steps muffled by the soft lawn. It was as if the world had gone silent in prayer.
Like a whisper, a heartbroken voice floated up from the depths of stillness; it was weeping. In a cemetery the sound of loss and loneliness, as an accompaniment to pain and suffering lives in every breeze. When she walked there Anne contemplated often the tears shed which she imagined replenished the earth. But this time the sound of crying was real, the sadness tangible. She thought, how senseless, another young wife or another mother anguished by tragedy. A few steps further; she saw someone lying on the grass, embracing the ground above a grave. It was a man. Leaning against the cold headboard of polished granite a picture of an old woman. Slowly Anne backed away and hurried from a moment meant not to be shared.
That she imagined the sound of weeping as that of someone young and someone female puzzled her. An old man sobs for a past connection gone, a young woman weeps for one never made; their tears come from a different kind of loss but emanate from the same kind of sadness and bewilderment.
As Anne hurried back to where she had begun her walk she felt embarrassed because she had intruded. Slowly disappointment and betrayal tragically burrowed into her own heart because she knew she would not walk in that cemetery again and she would not tell her mother how she came upon her father weeping for another women and a future lost to circumstance.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Our world fell apart
More than a month since adding to this blog, much has happened.
Christmas, awesome as usual, New Years Eve, quiet and very nice, and then our world fell apart, for a bit.
Frankie died.
My wonderful mother-in-law, 93 and with a quality of life most dream about quickly slid away from us and into another world, one I hope is better then this one...which is a lot to hope for because this world has been very kind to us.
We have had great challenges and loses over the years but the death of Frankie is a silencing of wisdom. I will miss her terribly, we all will. I have lived side by side with her for over thirty years and in all that time we have never had a cross word. Amazing really. Good bye sweet friend…see you again someday.
Christmas, awesome as usual, New Years Eve, quiet and very nice, and then our world fell apart, for a bit.
Frankie died.
My wonderful mother-in-law, 93 and with a quality of life most dream about quickly slid away from us and into another world, one I hope is better then this one...which is a lot to hope for because this world has been very kind to us.
We have had great challenges and loses over the years but the death of Frankie is a silencing of wisdom. I will miss her terribly, we all will. I have lived side by side with her for over thirty years and in all that time we have never had a cross word. Amazing really. Good bye sweet friend…see you again someday.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)