• • Just for the fun of it, I am posting a thread of comments about Dream Lover from my Facebook Page.  Let me preface this by saying these three ladies are friends of mine; Melinda is a new friend from Michigan and Michele and Marilynn and I went to school together from kindergarten.
  • Michele Popoff Sturzenegger  oh my suzie…. reading it now ! how the hell do u think of this stuff ? u r AMAZING !!!! im ordering kindle version now so Lar can have the book WOW…. freakin cr rayyyy zeeee story !!!! im shocked at each page— js
  • 14 hours ago · Unlike · 2
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    Melinda KlingHappy Dance……

    14 hours ago · Unlike · 1
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    Melinda KlingLoving it so far but I need to go to sleep now. Have to get up early tomorrow and I have missed many hours of sleep. That Jack is something else. Wooowoooo! But bad.

    13 hours ago · Unlike · 1
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    Marilynn Neher BachorikYea!!! Just bought it!

    10 hours ago · Like
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    Melinda KlingI can’t sleep with a Suzie on my Kindle. This is rough. And yet you seem so normal….HA! I would love to sit inside your head for an hour. I thought I had an active imagination. … I can’t come close to what goes on inside your mind.

    3 hours ago · Like · 1
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    Michele Popoff SturzeneggerSo started the book yesterday and read the first 11 chapters….got this post and ordered on kindle…read til late into the night….Lar started the book this morning and said he wanted to stay in from church and read instead :O. A sinful Sunday morning story of betrayal …lust…sickos…etc…etc…etc…

It’s seven in the morning in west Michigan, but because of daylight savings time, it feels like the middle of the night.  Someone posted a funny saying on Facebook yesterday depicting a storybook Indian wearing a full head dress who says, and I am probably getting the quote wrong, ‘Only the government could think you can cut a foot off of one end of a blanket and sew it on to the other side and get a longer blanket.’  True.  Back in the olden days, a phrase I use almost constantly now, when I worked in the OR, daylight savings time served a purpose because after having to be at work in a space with no windows for eight hours, I could get home in the evening and have day left.  Now that we eat dinner at four o’clock in the afternoon, it makes the time until bed seem awfully long.

The book I am currently working on, The Greeks of Beaubien Street is about a Greek family who live in an apartment above their grocery store.  All the children are grown , most with kids and grandkids and are going through adult situational crisis. I remember that silly term from nursing school mental health classes.  What does it mean? Losing a job, getting divorced, spouse dying, kids hating you, illness, betrayal; the list is endless.  So I interpret it as meaning living. If you are living, and not a TV evangelist, you have trouble somewhere in your life. It might be as simple as your wonderful homestead slowly becoming surrounded by people who don’t care about the environment the same way you do, or losing touch with someone who formerly meant the world to you. Many of us have had that dilemma; you can feel an old friendship slipping away through a change of lifestyle or for an unknown reason, and are powerless to do anything about it.   I once had a beloved friend who stopped calling when she married a man with four children from another marriage.  I did what I could to facilitate a relationship with her; had them for dinner, drove the hour to her house as often as I could, but it didn’t seem to make much difference. Then the coup de grace; her car was parked on my street one summer day and I was stymied until I realized she was at a neighborhood Bible Study that I wasn’t invited to. She had driven an hour and didn’t stop in to say hello.  I finally got it through my thick skull that it wasn’t the marriage or the kids or the distance that was causing us to drift apart.  It was me.  She didn’t want to know me anymore.  Once I accepted it, it took about twenty years to recover from. When we moved from New Jersey to Michigan I found a box of her belongings that must have been left behind when she lived with me briefly during a rough time in her life.  I debated for a year about trying to get in touch; I’d heard they had moved to Maine.  And in a  moment of, I don’t know what, maybe glee, or revenge, I gave the box to the Goodwill. It felt so delicious.

So to get back to my story, one of the wives goes on a cleaning rampage and discovers boxes her husband stashed in a storage area under the eaves in his office.  Here’s the excerpt.

She [Paula] came across a box of Nick’s memorabilia that his mother had assembled for him over the years, and when he finally got his own place, she [Eleni] felt safe handing it over to him. The words ‘Nickie’s Treasures’ written in her careful hand across the top flap,  the box didn’t look like he had opened it again .  Paula rummaged through it and saw that it was nothing more than some old schoolwork papers, drawings he had done as a small child, awards he had received for good behavior, and a few silly mementos.  Basically, it was a box of junk only a mother would care about. When she couldn’t throw it away, she left it to the son’s wife to do so.  Paula wondered if Liz and Anna had similar boxes in their houses.  She shook her head in disgust; her mother-in-law was a peasant.

I don’t know what it was about this scene, but I started to cry as I was writing it.  The process of going through my children’s mementos when we moved was difficult because the truth is, you can’t keep everything. Having to throw away their school work was so difficult, but neither of them wanted it, and I had saved boxes and boxes. My husband, Jim packed a box for Andy with movies he ‘d made as a teenager, and few collectible toys we kept and shipped it to him.  For the rest of the stuff,  I  bought large, clear Rubbermaid containers with tight fitting lids and as I sorted through old photos and mementos, I made each kid their own box. I decided to keep them here and when I die, the kids can retrieve their boxes of mementos.

The process of aging is intense.  I am aware of the changes I”m going through because of the pain, and the mortification of seeing my face in my cell phone when my grandchild and I do Face Time. Oh my God, who is that sagging, asymmetrical, bad dye job hag looking back at me?  The fact that the lighting makes me look slightly blue doesn’t help.  I have to make sure my hair and make-up are done early every day just in case Jen calls, and now my friend Betty calls me, too and I never know if she has one of her many man-friends looking over her shoulder to see the cool gadget. My new computer has a camera in it. If I ever get used to the key board, I will tape a piece of cardboard over it, just in case.

It’s early, but spring has come to west Michigan.  Today on a walk to the mailbox I saw some green sprouts popping up along a creek that runs under our driveway.  It flows into a pond that still has a little ice on it…but not for long. The tall weeds around the creek are matted down; Jim pointed out that something big  made its bed there; maybe the delicious herd of deer we have in our backyard each morning. The corn they leave is quickly devoured by three, fat male turkeys.  Last year, I had their girlfriends and babies in the woods next to my bedroom and each morning, they made their way across the yard to the neighbor’s corn field.  Lately, the Great Dane who lives on the horse farm across the way has been coming to do his morning toilet on my front lawn. I live in fear that the turkeys are going to return to their old nest to lay their eggs and the Dane will have an early Thanksgiving dinner.  I love dogs, but this guy is a bit much.  Plus, he’s black and white spotted, like a cow.  I thought he was a calf the first time he came over.  My mission is to find a loving way to ask his owners to keep him in his own yard.  The last resort would be to run fencing across the property. What keeps dogs out might also keep deer, foxes and other four leggeds away.

My dear friend Jill had her garden tilled today.  My wonderful neighbors, Kirk and Terry, not of Great Dane fame, are thinking about their garden already, too.  Last year they supplied us with vegetables all summer.

Tomorrow is my dear, late mother’s birthday.  She would have been eighty-four.  The return of the wild turkey to Michigan was especially exciting for her.  Last spring she saw a gaggle or flock, or whatever they are called, near her house and because of the haze of the sun, and her failing eyesight, she said at first glance she thought it was a group of men standing around talking, they were so tall.  She would be thrilled to see my pictures of this trio of males.  Happy birthday, Mom! I miss you.

March so far has not been what you might call a banner month.  I refuse to allow events of last week to taunt me into believing that it may continue through the next twenty-five days.  I succumbed to depression which lead to self-pity which lead to a caramel corn pig out.  Last night I pulled myself up by my boot-straps. I had a few ‘signs’.  So you won’t be bored to tears,  I’ll keep all but one to myself.  A  friend emailed to tell me my first published book, Pam of Babylon, is #34 on Amazon Best Sellers List in Love and Loss books.  It really doesn’t make a bit of difference in the scheme of things; only to me.

A big debate among friends and family these days seems to be ‘where did the stories in my books come from?’ Human life is so fascinating, and the drama of relationships so compelling! When something interesting pops into my head, I have learned to run with it, no matter how odd or dark it may seem.
Some scenes are difficult to write; I try to be aware when to tone an idea down, or when it’s safe to take it to the next level. I may continue writing a provocative scene, and then in the middle of the night, wake up and think, ‘ah, no. Better take that out, or soften it up a little bit.’ An example of this struggle is the murder scene in my upcoming book, The Greeks of Beaubien Street, the story of a Greek-American family who own a grocery store in Greektown, Detroit, Michigan. The daughter, Jill Zannos is the main character. The murder scene I refer to is one Jill spends much of her life solving during the length of the novel. It’s a horrific crime that involves graphic scenes. I am debating as I do my preliminary editing when does something serve its purpose in a story, and when does it only titillate? Even the worst crimes may have an element of acceptability in its translation; it is difficult to write when it goes to the level of disgust. But shouldn’t crime disgust? And why do I want to write about something that would wake me up in the middle of the night because of its disturbing qualities?
Where does my imagination come from? I have had some of the worst experiences a person can have, (as have most other people, I’m learning), and I think the memories contribute to a certain kind of fantasy life that someone who has not been exposed to those experiences may not be able to understand. In the retelling, it is often second nature to embellish and extend the truth. That is why we have to be so careful about the things we say and do in front of small children. The boogeyman may be there, whispering lies.

I try really hard not to waste too much time on Twitter.  But once in a while when I am purposely trying to zone out, it’s a great place to go to find new blogs with the focus on reading, writing and publishing.  Most of those I follow are in the publishing world or of writers; I confess to getting ideas for marketing by following their tweets.  But then what happens is I discover more good reads, or worse; English language games and exercises.  My new favorite is Reagan Arthur Books Blog.  Reagan Arthur is the VP of Reagan Arthur Books, which is an imprint of Little, Brown. She’s a young mother, lives in NJ, and knits.  She spends much of her work life hanging out with best-selling authors.  I try to imagine what they talk about when they are together.  I bet the creative juices are flowing.  They probably don’t waste a second of time whining. (yeah right)

Unfortunately for me, my friend Russ introduced me to Seven Little Words, a word game app I immediately uploaded to my iPhone.  Thanks, Russ.  Delays at the airport are no longer a problem.  I look forward to insomnia.  Waiting at the dentist office is a delight.  This is the most addictive word game I have ever run across.  It started me on the hunt for other ways I can halt the onset of brain drain.  I’ve already confessed I think I have something going on up there that may be destructive.

Another favorite blog features free vocabulary games. If I may quote…..from Vocabulary.co.il…..

“What good are crossword puzzles?  A lot of good, if you notice current studies on puzzle-solving and the brain.  Research seems to indicate that working on puzzles that require specific brain strategies may be helpful for conditions such as:

• Alzheimer’s
• Attention Deficit Disorder
• Brain Fog, associated with several autoimmune disorders
• Dementia
• Stroke Recovery   A new book out, entitled the “Alzheimer’s Action Plan,” by Dr. P. Murali Doraiswamy, seems to indicate that by challenging the brain, you can form new nerve pathways. “

So I justify the time spent playing with my phone as time that may be helpful preventing my memory from running away any faster then it already is.

The bad editing of my first two books, mostly my fault because I missed errors that should have been caught, makes me crazy.  I may have resolved this problem because Jennifer is now doing my editing and she is a barracuda.  Sorry, dear.  She doesn’t miss a trick. My friend Jim, Betty’s husband, hates when he finds wrong usage of words in books. I think he missed his real vocation which should have been proofreading. I understand how easily it happens.  When I wrote the blog for my yarn shop, I found out later that my former partner would correct my errors in punctuation and word usage. The blog received a few accolades, including a mention in Vogue Magazine.  I still get inquiries from people I featured in stories.  Words are mesmerizing.  I have been known to use the wrong word in conversation and my only excuse is because it sounds like it should be the right word.

Caveat is a favorite wrong usage word for me.  It just sounds so positive, like a feather in one’s cap.  Like an award given for perfect attendance.  But a caveat is a warning.  It’s scary, the word caveat.

Punctuation is a tough one, too. I over use commas.  Jen had a least thirty red marks where commas were either used inappropriately or missing completely when she proofread Dream Lover.  I keep saying to myself, I wish I had listened during high school English.