I'm telling it now.

Back in the early 1980s, I was in my early 20s. I did some dumb things and made some bad decisions. Like most people in their early 20s, I had a crappy job and I lived with my parents and there weren't too many places to go in our town. My friends and I would go to Friendly's, or to the movies, or to this local dive bar. It was that post-sexual revolution, pre-AIDS, classic rock and disco time period -- we spent a lot of time dancing and drinking.

One night I went out with a bunch of my girlfriends to this local bar. It was a rundown piece of lumber, and the music always got louder as the night wore on and the people there got drunker and louder themselves. But the beer was cheap and even though the floors were sticky and it usually reeked of eau de piss before midnight (because you only rent beer, as my friend Janet used to say), we usually managed to have a good time. We were there so much we knew the bouncer and the bartenders and in those days the bouncer or the bartenders would end up buying you a free drink for every few you purchased. Then around four in the morning, everybody would get into their cars and either drive home or to the nearby diner (drunk, I am sorry to say, but that's how it was then).

So this particular night, we met this group of men who had not been in there before -- the bouncer was their friend; one of them had a sister I knew from when I'd worked at the beach in my summer job; one of them was a neighbor, even though I didn't know him very well because he was older than we were. There were maybe four or five of them, and probably six or seven of us, and we all ended up dancing and talking and laughing, but at last call I looked around and realized all of my girlfriends were gone.  Another one of the guys offered to drive me home, and the bouncer didn't warn me off and the guy hadn't done anything to set off any alarms so I agreed. I lived about three miles straight north of the bar. He said his house was on the main road before that but it was no problem taking me home. I got into his car and I was very drunk.

The car was a Cadillac. It was the nicest car I'd ever been in and when you got in a recorded female voice softly said, "Your door is ajar." When he parked the car, it gently said, "Your lights are on." And when he parked the car I was not at my house. We were at his. I was only halfway home, and it was four in the morning in February. And he said, "If you don't give me head right now, you're walking."

I remember the color of the pre-dawn sky. I remember being very cold. There were no cell phones then and I didn't have parents that would have been very sympathetic to my calling them to come get me at that hour, drunk, even if I had been able to get to a payphone. I walked. It was four degrees.

I am not done.

The next week, after ranting at my friend Janet about what had happened, we went back to the bar. Janet told me that my friends had thought I was having such a good time I didn't want to leave the week before, but promised deserting me wouldn't happen again. She and I sat down and after a little while that same group of young men made themselves comfortable at our table. We talked and the guy who'd not driven me home kind of hung back, which was fine with me. Less said the better, I thought. Until his friend, the brother of my former co-worker, who was now home after being recently released from playing for a pro football team, started telling stories. I found myself boxed in between two of them with another full table at my back. Janet had gotten up to go talk to the bartender or pee or dance, and the bouncer was at the door doing his bouncing thing. And this very large, former pro football player informed me that his friend had told him his version of what I'd done the week before and that he didn't see why I couldn't take two of them, or all of them, on. He told me that he'd done things like this when he was playing in the league. He told me, breathing beer on me and crowding me into that spot, about a night in Texas when he and three other players had managed to lure a girl out of a bar and "partied" with her. That they had raped her with their bodies, and then they had raped her with a flashlight, and they had gotten away with it because who was going to believe the word of some drunk slut against the word of four clean-cut football players? He thought this was very funny.

To this day I do not remember how I got out of there, whether I escaped to the bathroom or Janet saved me or ... but I got out and that was the last time I went there.  Because who was going to believe me? I had been sitting among a group of raucous men, talking with them for the second week in a row. They were all clean cut, popular...and I was a girl who had been a regular, who liked to drink and dance. Who would have believed me when I said I hadn't done as demanded the week before? And you know what else? Here's what he said to me about why I should just go off with all of them, as if they'd be doing me a favor: "After all, you aren't that pretty."

It's been over 30 years since that happened, and even now as I write my hands are shaking with anger. Anger that I allowed myself to be put into not one bad situation, but two. Anger that I had to escape rather than confront, even though realistically there was no way I could've done any physical damage to any one of them, let alone the ex-pro. Anger because I was a coward, that in all this time I've probably told less than half a dozen people that story, and because of my silence he might've had other opportunities to attack other girls.

I do not know whether powerful men recently accused of sexual misconduct have actually committed these acts. I do not know whether the many, many women who have come out as their accusers are all telling the truth or are looking for attention in one of the saddest ways I can think a woman would ever conceive of seeking attention. I will watch as evidence falls into place and witnesses come forward and conclusions are made.

But I know what happened to me, and how close I came to something much worse. And I know I thought for a long time it was all my fault, and I kept silent about it -- because it was my fault for drinking, my fault for talking to people I didn't know, my fault for getting in that car, my fault for going back to a place I regularly went to, my fault for not doing something about what he told me he'd done and wanted to do again. My fault for basing my expectations of behavior on other men I'd known who had driven me home without demanding sexual favors, or had a conversation with me without recounting terrible things they'd done -- because they'd never done them. Basing my reality on knowing other men who were respectful and intelligent and...it was my fault for not second-guessing that some night I might run into someone who thought forcing sex on me would at least make me feel pretty for a while. And if you think not actually being physically raped or sodomized doesn't count, maybe you should go inside the head of someone who deals with those kinds of thoughts, those misgivings and doubts and fears that they will never be able to judge someone else's character correctly again.

Last week I read that about a million women had responded to a newspaper article asking if any women who had been sexually assaulted would share their stories. A million women.

And now it is a million and one.

I'm telling it now.

Back in the early 1980s, I was in my early 20s. I did some dumb things and made some bad decisions. Like most people in their early 20s, I had a crappy job and I lived with my parents and there weren't too many places to go in our town. My friends and I would go to Friendly's, or to the movies, or to this local dive bar. It was that post-sexual revolution, pre-AIDS, classic rock and disco time period -- we spent a lot of time dancing and drinking.

So one night I went out with a bunch of my girlfriends to this local bar. It was a rundown piece of lumber, and the music always got louder as the night wore on and the people there got drunker and louder themselves. But the beer was cheap and even though the floors were sticky and it usually reeked of eau de piss before midnight (because you only rent beer, as my friend Janet used to say), we usually managed to have a good time. We were there so much we knew the bouncer and the bartenders and in those days the bouncer or the bartenders would end up buying you a free drink for every few you purchased. Then around four in the morning, everybody would get into their cars and either drive home or to the nearby diner (drunk, I am sorry to say, but that's how it was then).

So this particular night, we met this group of men who had not been in there before -- the bouncer was their friend; one of them had a sister I knew from when I'd worked at the beach in my summer job; one of them was a neighbor, even though I didn't know him very well because he was older than we were. There were maybe four or five of them, and probably six or seven of us, and we all ended up dancing and talking and laughing, but at last call I looked around and realized all of my girlfriends were gone.  Another one of the guys offered to drive me home, and the bouncer didn't warn me off and the guy hadn't done anything to set off any alarms so I agreed. I lived about three miles straight north of the bar. He said his house was on the main road before that but it was no problem taking me home. I got into his car and I was very drunk.

The car was a Cadillac. It was the nicest car I'd ever been in and when you got in a recorded female voice softly said, "Your door is ajar." When he parked the car, it gently said, "Your lights are on." And when he parked the car I was not at my house. We were at his. I was only halfway home, and it was four in the morning in February. And he said, "If you don't give me head right now, you're walking."

I remember the color of the pre-dawn sky. I remember being very cold. There were no cell phones then and I didn't have parents that would have been very sympathetic to my calling them to come get me at that hour, drunk, even if I had been able to get to a payphone. I walked. It was four degrees.

I am not done.

The next week, after ranting at my friend Janet about what had happened, we went back to the bar. Janet told me that my friends had thought I was having such a good time I didn't want to leave the week before, but promised deserting me wouldn't happen again. She and I sat down and after a little while that same group of young men made themselves comfortable at our table. We talked and the guy who'd not driven me home kind of hung back, which was fine with me. Less said the better, I thought. Until his friend, the brother of my former co-worker, who was now home after being recently released from playing for a pro football team, started telling stories. I found myself boxed in between two of them with another full table at my back. Janet had gotten up to go talk to the bartender or pee or dance, and the bouncer was at the door doing his bouncing thing. And this very large, former pro football player informed me that his friend had told him his version of what I'd done the week before and that he didn't see why I couldn't take two of them, or all of them, on. He told me that he'd done things like this when he was playing in the league. He told me, breathing beer on me and crowding me into that spot, about a night in Texas when he and three other players had managed to lure a girl out of a bar and "partied" with her. That they had raped her with their bodies, and then they had raped her with a flashlight, and they had gotten away with it because who was going to believe the word of some drunk slut against the word of four clean-cut football players? He thought this was very funny.

To this day I do not remember how I got out of there, whether I escaped to the bathroom or Janet saved me or ... but I got out and that was the last time I went there.  Because who was going to believe me? I had been sitting among a group of raucous men, talking with them for the second week in a row. They were all clean cut, popular...and I was a girl who had been a regular, who liked to drink and dance. Who would have believed me when I said I hadn't done as demanded the week before? And you know what else? Here's what he said to me about why I should just go off with all of them, as if they'd be doing me a favor: "After all, you aren't that pretty."

It's been over 30 years since that happened, and even now as I write my hands are shaking with anger. Anger that I allowed myself to be put into not one bad situation, but two. Anger that I had to escape rather than confront, even though realistically there was no way I could've done any physical damage to any one of them, let alone the ex-pro. Anger because I was a coward, that in all this time I've probably told less than half a dozen people that story, and because of my silence he might've had other opportunities to attack other girls.

I do not know whether powerful men recently accused of sexual misconduct have actually committed these acts. I do not know whether the many, many women who have come out as their accusers are all telling the truth or are looking for attention in one of the saddest ways I can think a woman would ever conceive of seeking attention. I will watch as evidence falls into place and witnesses come forward and conclusions are made.

But I know what happened to me, and how close I came to something much worse. And I know I thought for a long time it was all my fault, and I kept silent about it -- because it was my fault for drinking, my fault for talking to people I didn't know, my fault for getting in that car, my fault for going back to a place I regularly went to, my fault for not doing something about what he told me he'd done and wanted to do again. My fault for basing my expectations of behavior on other men I'd known who had driven me home without demanding sexual favors, or had a conversation with me without recounting terrible things they'd done -- because they'd never done them. Basing my reality on knowing other men who were respectful and intelligent and...it was my fault for not second-guessing that some night I might run into someone who thought forcing sex on me would at least make me feel pretty for a while. And if you think not actually being physically raped or sodomized doesn't count, maybe you should go inside the head of someone who deals with those kinds of thoughts, those misgivings and doubts and fears that they will never be able to judge someone else's character correctly again.

Last week I read that about a million women had responded to a newspaper article asking if any women who had been sexually assaulted would share their stories. A million women.

And now it is a million and one.

Communication Addiction, or, I would've written sooner but I just needed 5 more minutes on Facebook

I’ve been thinking about writing this blog for a month, and I am going to post that I’ve written it on Facebook. I will check back frequently to see if people have looked at it. I might go to the stats for my blog to see if anyone has looked at it, probably even check where in the world people may have looked at it (yay! One person in Czechoslovakia likes me!).

Any comments on Facebook will all show up in my messages, linked to my LinkedIn page, and comments there or on the blog will go to my email. But not to my regular email; comments to my blog go to an email address I rarely use but which gets forwarded to my regular email address. Maybe one or two people might text me about it on my cel phone or call me (it’s true, some people still do that) on my landline.  Thank heaven I don’t have a twitter account or a web page; there aren’t enough hours in the day for me to keep track of so many forms of talktalktalk and simultaneously keep myself clean, fed, and employed.

Ironically, it might be a bit rant-y about how electronic communication is melting our minds. So you can leave now if you feel compelled to wander through layers of YouTube videos instead. I won’t hold it against you. I’ve been known to get lost in that vortex as well.

If you still have the capacity (and you’re still here), you should read this: http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2008/07/is-google-making-us-stupid/306868/

It’s a 2008 article by Nicholas Carr, published in The Atlantic, that considers the way our brains are being reconfigured by our exposure to various forms of media. It’s longer than your average USA Today article and definitely longer than something you might find on Facebook or Buzzfeed, and infinitely longer than any tweet. And it doesn’t say we’re getting stupider, or more antisocial, or going blind from staring at screens or getting fat from so much time sitting in front of our laptops. But it’s important because it talks about our powers of concentration, our ability to focus on a single task.

Another irony: I first read this article on paper, and was fascinated by it. Today when I went to find a handy link for this blog, I had a hard time re-reading it because of all of the moving ads interspersed throughout the text (oooh, maybe I really do want to buy that LED-lit dress that changes color when I walk…). Focusing on an article about focusing was virtually impossible with all of the shiny stuff floating around.

Anecdotally, I’m discovering that there are a lot of people suffering from depression, anxiety, obsessive behaviors and ruined relationships because of the time they spend enmeshed in a web of media. It’s as if they’re slogging through a jungle with a machete, cutting back vines and swatting mosquitos the size of Smartcars and fending off snakes and leopards to get…they forget where.  But along the way they begin to feel that if they step away they might miss something; they think that the amount of friends or followers is more important than the quality of their friends or followers. And if they put something out there and it gets responses it’s almost a high – responses are validation, camaraderie, …love. How could one not want that feeling? Who wouldn’t want to see that other people think the same way they do, or support them, or at the very least, read what they have to say?

So they go back, and back, and back.

BUT. I have had people send me texts when they are in the same room with me, or send me messages that aren’t complete – they admit later they forgot what they were going to say, but pressed send anyway. I have friends that before they even pee in the morning will check Facebook, or will let everyone know they’re peeing by posting about it on Facebook (okay, that’s possibly an exaggeration, but it’s the minutiae like that that boggles my mind). It’s become such a habit to check their various forms of media that they don’t leave the house without a charger for their device of choice; they can’t be off the phone or the iPad in traffic or in a restaurant or even among their family and friends.  Their brains have been altered; they need a constant fix.

Think cocaine, only without the drip at the back of the throat. Lots of speedy babbling, but not always about anything of value or that makes sense.

I dipped my toe into the Great Lake of Facebook because other writers told me I really needed a page; they also advised me to get a Twitter account (but I just don’t have all that much to say a lot of the time, and, as evidenced by this blog, I do NOTHING in 127 or 144 or however many characters Twitter limits you to when I do). I don’t have a web page, or a “platform.” I find that even with the relatively small amount of time I spend monitoring what social media contact I do have, I am losing my ability to focus on the tasks at hand, much less write creatively.  If someone actually wants to publish me eventually, might they then decide I don’t have enough of a following to promote my work to take me on?  It’s a conundrum.

I have a landline phone, people – the kind of phone line that if all of the power goes out, I will still be able to call all five of the other people in the US who still have a landline to see how they’re doing before everyone’s looted. I was perfectly happy with that until all of this “media” became a “necessity.” Well, that and texting. Which I frequently used, originally, as evidence to point out to one of my then-teenagers what they said they were going to do as opposed to what they actually did. Therefore, I am completely cool with texting.

I want to be clear: This isn’t a media bash. I have learned a lot from various types of social media, and research is far less onerous than it was when we used card catalogs and microfilm. Correspondence with friends in far off places is less expensive and nearly instantaneous. News travels faster, and globally, even though it’s sometimes difficult to tell what is real and true news. I think it’s important to figure out how to discriminate between what is valid information and what’s just sensational and potentially hazardous to your judgment and time management and real-life relationships.

And it’s important to know when to stop…to stop getting sucked in to ignorant arguments sane people would never have in person, to stop and look up from your little screen at what’s actually going on around you, to stop looking for gratification without and look instead for ways to be happy and directed from within.

Your brain will thank you.

I now open the floor to anyone who feels that I should still totally get a Twitter account…

Translation -- Look, Eat, Dance, Love

A lot of time has gone by since the last time I decided to put together a blog. Sometimes things happen and you find yourself caught up in events and taking on responsibilities that you don't expect to last as long as they do or be as involved as they turn out to be, or you're not emotionally in the place you need to be to wax philosophical, or be funny, or point out something useful about writing or life in general.

In the middle of everything going on, there are some moments, or in my case occasional hours, that make you grateful for what you have, who you know, where you've been. No matter how crazy or awful or frustrating everything around you gets, sometimes there are unexpected idylls you need to stop and enjoy, and recognize for what they are: moments to be joyful, and loving, and grateful -- to discover, or just be silly, or weep or sing.

This is not Scorpio, but that's what I saw first...

Sometimes these moments come quietly, on a walk with a friend around the block in the deep dark streets and suddenly you realize, looking up, that you can recognize the constellations -- something you thought you'd forgotten how to do. And there's the sky, in all its wonder, and you are under it, looking up. And you are very, very small, and somewhat amazed.

PizzaClubNoLimitsMilan.com
Via Carlo Imbonati, 20
Milano, Italy
The most delicious place!

Sometimes these moments are in a different land, surrounded by a dozen people speaking a language you barely grasp, in a wonderful restaurant where there are thirty different kinds of pizza and everybody is laughing and kind.



Sometimes it's on a car ride with your child who is not really a child anymore, listening to music you aren't familiar with, saying "play that again!" until you learn the words and can sing along. Even if you can't dance while you're driving, you can always dance later. You've got the song in your head now, even if it's mostly in Korean and your favorite line is the ridiculous falsetto of two English words: "Bay-bee Girllll..."

Exo: "Call Me Baby" -- I dare you not to want to dance once the chorus hits you.

Sometimes it's in listening to someone you love very dearly because they need listening to -- or sometimes that someone is listening to you, because you need listening to -- and you realize how lucky you are to have that person, that connection. And you don't have to say how much you love them and how much you love that conversation. Because they know. And you are still... very small... but what's between you is not. 

Find those moments. 

 

Uggh....So. Many. Words.

A fellow writer, after listening to some samples at Critique times I attended, frequently and succinctly had this to say about individual readings that had been presented: 

"Too many words!" 

Ninety percent of the time he said this with a smile, so you knew he was doing his best to be constructive. Unfortunately, his brief assessment rarely specified exactly which words there were too many of, so that could be a frustrating exercise if you were the person trying to figure out where to edit your excesses. A lot of the time that person was me. I like words. A lot.

A couple of weeks ago I was working on a project that made me wish he was sitting with and coaching the project's author, on exactly what had to go, with his heroic catchphrase. Here is a small sampling of some of the interesting turns of phrase used: 

"The flames of the fire reached almost to the ceiling on top of the walls." 

"I was too afraid and scared to talk."

"His eyes fell to the ground."

"He turned his back to her so he was facing away from her."

"It was probably possible."

"She watched the steam rise up from the kettle."

"We noticed as we got closer the skyscrapers got larger and bigger."

"His thighs and ankles ran hard against the pavement."


Sometimes I had to get up from my desk and think about how to say "too many words" constructively, because I know, I really know, that writing something clear and connective and interesting can be really fucking hard. I had to suggest a more concise sentence, pace around the story without stepping on meaning, without imposing my own voice and structure upon the author's own. 

That's what a copy editor is supposed to do -- I'm supposed to make it better without figuratively grabbing the manuscript and slapping it around until it fits what I think will work. Because sometimes I'm wrong. Sometimes the author really wants the redundant "larger and bigger",  or "probably possible" is a voice-ism of a first person narrator. Personally I assume ceilings are at the tops of walls so the phrase isn't necessary, or I'll delete "up" because what other way would something go if it's rising?; and I get the most comical imagery in my head watching eyes hit the ground, or thighs and ankles running without the rest of the body in play -- kind of like those Irish step dancers whose top halves are almost perfectly still while their legs and feet snap precisely, a thousand steps a minute, across a hardwood floor.

But because of my friend Harris, I carry that mantra -- when I work and when I write -- not because you should always use the least amount of words possible, but because you should choose the words that mean something, that make sense and beauty and story, only using the words that count. And you really don't need any more. 

And for him, I have only these three: We'll miss you.

No big philosophical stuff today, just Hemingway

Child Number Two quoted Ernest Hemingway to me this morning, on the subject of writing. I'm not a big reader of Hemingway, but I love this quote: 

"The most solid advice for a writer is this, I think: 
    Try to learn to breathe deeply, 
      really to taste food when you eat,
    and when you sleep, really to sleep.
Try as much as possible to be wholly alive
    with all your might, and when you laugh,
       laugh like hell. 
And when you get angry, get good and angry. 
       Try to be alive, 
    You will be dead soon enough." 


Thinking about this quote makes me want to walk in the woods, take up boxing, ride a Ferris wheel, and drink red wine. Also to write. 

Have a lovely week -- breathe deeply.

On Going Gray

Recently I encountered someone I'd known in my twenties, someone I used to meet when I hung out in places where there was drinking and loud music. I was thirty pounds lighter then and my hair was probably to the middle of my back and permed out of its genetically straight nature. We're talking over thirty years ago. I had not seen him in the years between.

I met this person during a business transaction set up by a mutual friend. He confessed he did not remember me. We did that thing where you talk about people you knew way back, when you could still dance for about six hours without getting short of breath, and what they were up to now. I had to admit I did not know or sometimes recall most of the people he mentioned, since I'd moved away from the town where he still lives, and anyway, I'm one of those people other people generally do not remember. I wasn't any more popular then. I'm okay with that.

Midway through the reminiscing, he said, "You know, my wife could help you with that hair. She works out of our house, she's pretty good."

We finished our transaction, talked a bit more, and he left.

Now, I do not know why this comment from someone I had not seen in decades -- barely knew then except to sing out the chorus of a ZZ Top song with on occasional Saturday nights among other inebriated people -- bothers me so much. I've got a niece who teases me about my hair going gray, which never bothers me. My mother occasionally comments upon it. Doesn't bother me.

But here's the deal: I am fifty-(mumble mumble). I took a good, newly self-conscious look the other day at my hair -- you see what this virtual stranger has done by invading my psychological space?

damn it

 -- and I would estimate that I am about 60/40 still brunette. That's pretty good.

 The last time I actually dyed my hair, somewhere near its original color, the people I worked with did not comment. You know what it means when there's no comment. It's generally not good. Honestly it looked like someone had dropped a mink on my head. I have never been remotely beautiful, but now I am not remotely beautiful and fifty-(mumble mumble). Dyed hair just doesn't work for my face.

Of course, I also never have the response I need when someone says something that rattles me, or I don't realize how much it rattles me until they're no longer there to respond to. But here's what I should have said:

I like my partially gray hair. It would be nice to be twenty-something again, to be able to dance and drink and stay up all night, but I am who I am, and my hair is the way my hair is.

I have grown/nearly grown children now. I have been married nearly a quarter of a century to someone who's also 60/40 gray. I love him more now than I did when we were both 100 percent brunettes, even though some of the gray I've developed is due to the experiences -- both good and bad -- we've endured together. I've lost and gained dear friends; worried exponentially through the teen years with our children; survived financial ups and downs, sleep deprivation, natural disasters, conflicts between family members, car crashes, holiday meal traumas, travel snafus, and career changes.

My gray hairs are earned. They are part of what I look like because of what I've experienced, just like my laugh lines and the never-fading scar on my knee from a game of hide-and-seek gone wrong when I was five. They mean that I've come far. I'm not judging anyone else who wants to change their appearance, to feel younger, to experiment with how they look, but I'm comfortable this way. I don't need to be twenty-seven again, even though I sometimes wish I was, because I happened to like being able to dance for six hours without getting short of breath.

I don't need help fixing something that's not broken.

What I Did On My Summer Vacation

Writers Police Academy, 2015

(This blog's been simultaneously published on the Long Island Romance Writers' blog.)

Where unruly passengers are dealt with.

I only need one word to describe the Writers Police Academy held this past weekend in Appleton, Wisconsin, and that is AWESOME. Take roughly 300 people, put them together for four days of seminars and demonstrations about law enforcement, criminal behavior, things that blow up, a couple of amazing German Shepherd dogs, a jet (yes, as in “airplane”), and hands-on workshops about guns, blood, fire and EMT practices, and forensic psychology, and you get AWESOME.  

Karen Slaughter does stand-up

Add in generous sponsorship by the Sisters in Crime, guest speakers from the ATF, FBI, police forces (Ohio, California, Wisconsin, New York to name a few), the Secret Service, forensic specialists, firemen, and one (I heard) hunky SWAT team – plus the bonus of hearing from down-to-earth and funny Alison Brennan and hysterical, riffing-on-my-dysfunctional-Southern-roots Karen Slaughter – and about 300 raffle baskets, and you’ve got the kind of exhaustion that comes from a full mind and shared laughter.  And there’s no way I’m leaving out one kickass female officer who thrilled us with her fierce respect for the law and her responsibility and drive to uphold it. Also because she rocked the uniform, drove like an ace, and made us all want to be her.

Colleen Belangea, Lee Lofland, Joe LaFevre

Lee Lofland, who originated the Academy and is a former sheriff, is warm and organized and funny, and there’s a camaraderie among the instructors revealed by their mutual teasing. One of former Secret Service Agent Mike Roche’s classes is Romance Behind the Badge and he’s known affectionately as The Love Doctor; John Gilstrap gleefully taught us how to “blow shit up”; and Marco Connelli, former NYPD detective, took us through his days undercover and explained “defenestration” (look it up!). Joe LaFevre, our man at the brand new Fox Valley Technical College and Public Safety Training Center, made sure every one of us had our questions answered and was a terrific host. Dr. Katherine Ramsland explained psychopathy in both children and adults, and Instructor Colleen Belangea (our hero!) talked about what it was like to be one of the few females on the force when she started in the mid 1980s.

There were so many possibilities for research that I’m sorry if I leave any out. There were jail tours, police ride-alongs, simulated and real firearms training, crime scene photography, forensic procedures and portraiture, and methods of handling everything from handcuffs to light sources to martial arts moves to intercepting a fleeing vehicle.

Every day I met someone new, from every corner of the country. Some of the attendees had been coming for years (WPA is in its seventh year), but many of us were newbies – it didn’t matter how many times you had been to the Academy before; everyone was excited. Although the conference was centered around getting your story – thriller, mystery, procedural, romantic suspense, spy novel, noir – right, many of the writers crossed genres. I met many writers who were part of Sisters in Crime, but many as well who were RWA, or completely unaffiliated.

Some of us occasionally pointed out where it would be a good place to hide a body (but only theoretically, since Appleton's actually a very nice town -- check out FatGirlzBakin for amazing cupcakes or the Appleton Brewery for great brews and snacks), or asked how you could (again, just theoretically, we promise) blow up a cottage from a mile away, or how relationships worked between members of different branches of law enforcement. We learned about biological dangers and what the term “badge bunny” meant, how luminol reacted when bleach was used to clean up a crime, and how witnesses could be coaxed to recall the criminal’s features or suspects to confess. If you wrote about good guys versus bad guys, this was the place to be.

Lee told us near the end that the planning for next year’s event would be starting shortly after he got home from this one. 

If you’re interested in finding out more, look for the Writers Police Academy online and join their mailing list. Or try #2015WPA or www.The GraveyardShift.com, which is Lee Lofland’s blog. 

I’ll be watching and waiting to return, when I’m not writing more realistic sleuthing…

"The pool closes at eleven"

No Thank You Does Not Mean You're No Good

(This was recently published in Shorelines, the newsletter of the Long Island Romance Writers. With extremely minor adjustments, I'm re-running it here.)

When I was in my twenties, a boyfriend broke up with me because he said he wanted to spend more time drinking Budweiser with his friends rather than hang around with me. I suppose I was upset at first, but really, who can compete with that? Budweiser is, after all, the King of Beers, while I am a mere descendant of humble Italian and Irish peasants.  Over time, I have come to think of this as my most fortuitous rejection; shortly after he left me I met my husband, and I have been happily married for nearly 25 years. All functioned as it should in my universe.

                I have decided to keep the ridiculousness of that rejection in my mind as I go through the process of submitting my manuscripts for publication. It is sometimes difficult to keep perspective – last week I received two rejections within twenty minutes of each other, about a week after an agent who had offered me representation withdrew the offer when I asked if we could possibly negotiate the terms of the contract. The terms would have me agree to relinquishing 20 percent of everything I owned and thought of, including random ideas and possibly one or both of my kids. I didn’t have a problem with random ideas, since most of those involve matters like where to plant the beets and what might make an awesome color combination for hair clips, but I did have a problem with turning over twenty percent of my kids – one of them cooks and the other occasionally can be badgered into mowing the lawn. Long story short, I remain unpublished and unrepresented. 

                In the midst of my brief self-pity party, I made a snarky remark to someone I felt was a smidge overly optimistic about submission prospects, and found myself agreeing to write something about rejection.  And while I’m sure further details of my experience with Mr. Still-An-Alcoholic would be incredibly engaging, it seemed more prudent to discover what other writers had gone through instead.  A sampling, for which you might want to sit down:  

                Margaret Mitchell, author of Gone with the Wind, was rejected 38 times. Kathryn Stockett of The Help was rejected 60 times. Thirty-one publishers turned down James Patterson – he has since had sales of over 220 million books, spearheaded literacy projects for children, and had nineteen consecutive number one New York Times bestsellers. Stephen King received thirty rejections for Carrie, which was only completed after his wife retrieved it from the trash, where he’d thrown it after being rejected for an earlier project.  He’s done okay for himself since.

                J.K. Rowling was told “No thank you” by fourteen publishers before Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone was picked up.  Alex Haley worked for eight years on Roots only to be turned down a whopping 200 times for it – the book later sold over 8 million copies (1.5 million of that in the first seven months!) and was awarded a special Pulitzer Prize. Even the Diary of Anne Frank was rejected – fifteen times.

                Most of my rejection letters have been along the lines of “Thank you, but it’s not something we feel is right for our list” or “Thanks for your submission but it’s not for us. We wish you the best,” or my personal favorite (and my first rejection letter), “Please remember I am only one person and while the book may not be right for me, I’m sure you’ll meet with success elsewhere.”  Nobody’s ever been hostile or rude.  But consider these comments:

                “Stick to teaching.” Louisa May Alcott was given this feedback in response to Little Women. The book has now been in print for over 140 years.

                “An endless nightmare. I think the verdict would be ‘don’t read this horrid book’,” was one opinion given to H.G. Wells for his classic War of the Worlds.

                Vladimir Nabokov was told, “I recommend it be buried under a rock for a thousand years” in reference to Lolita, which went on to eventually sell 50 million copies.

                And finally, keep this in mind: It took Agatha Christie five years of submitting her work before she was published. The only other author to outsell her to date is William Shakespeare.

                  

Feel any better?

Me neither, actually. But knowing that my dinky total number of rejections so far pales in comparison to the quantity of “No thank yous” and other less kind responses these giants received does inspire me to keep trying.  On a grand scale, think of it this way – What were the opinions of 200 publishing professionals against Alex Haley’s eventual 8 million readers? Or the 14 individuals who didn’t “get” Harry Potter against the 450 million and counting that did?

I'm going to persevere. Eventually that one agent or publisher or distributor is going to come along and we'll have a nice discussion about my random ideas and how they're just what they've been looking for. Maybe we'll talk over a beer.

Meet Frannie Buckets

Hi, everyone. Welcome back for the continuation of the Character Blog Hop, which focuses this month upon heroines. Last week was Arla Dahl’s turn, and we met her intriguingly complex and seductive Mercy Paine from her historical erotic trilogy Immoral Virtue. If you missed it, you can find her interview here: http://wp.me/p4ueZD-mM

Today I’ll be speaking with Francesca Bousquet, leading lady and editorial aide extraordinaire, star of the mystery Frannie Buckets. In that story, she’s visited by her half-uncle Walter, who’s driven her crazy for most of her life – and Fran reluctantly helps him solve a cold case murder. Unfortunately, Walter’s well-intentioned antics also send the murderer after her.

Now, several months and some slick defensive moves with a tazer later, Fran’s agreed to meet with me. She was present for a portion of her uncle Walter’s interview in February, but “circumstances” led to her early departure. She’s happy to participate today if only to have the last word when it comes to perspective on their adversarial relationship. I do have to keep on my toes with Fran, however; she’s more intelligent and astute – and guarded—than I am.

We’ve settled in her kitchen while she heats water for tea. The room is lovely – white enameled cabinets, sunny south-facing window over the sink, and a pristine antique table and chairs circa 1940s. The bullet hole and the knife mark that were made over the stove and the phone, respectively, have been spackled and painted, so even though I know where they were anyone else might think this was not the kitchen where she threw a k-bar or averted a killer. I take out my notebook as Francesca places a floral print, fragile teacup before me on the Formica-topped table.

“Oolong?” she asks.

I agree; Fran prepares the pot, gathers sugar and (real!) cream. All very civilized. Outside there are birds singing and the soft sounds of an arcing sprinkler in the neighbor’s yard next door.  Fran settles with a sigh into her chair and gazes at me expectantly.

“I’m ready for your questions when you’re ready to present them,” she says directly.

“No caveats or cover image negotiations?” I cannot resist teasing. Uncle Walter had made some requests when he went through this process with me earlier. Francesca smiles and shakes her head.

“You’ll find I’m much more amenable and confident in whatever choices you make about our future. Would you care for any cookies or fruit?”

She’s also better prepared than I was when a hungry Walter arrived to speak with me. However, I demur; Fran indicates with a nod to proceed then. Gazing down at my notes, I ask, “What is your greatest fear?”

           

There is absolutely no hesitation to Francesca’s reply. “Well. Hands down I’d have to say having to let my uncle Walter move back into my home is currently the most horrifying thing I can come up with.”

She and Walter did go through some difficult episodes when he came to stay with her while he was in town for his friend Tommy’s funeral, so I completely understand. “Have you told this to anyone?”

Fran pauses with her cup in mid-air. “Of course I have. I’ve told my mother, my sister, several cousins, his friend Sollie…  I even had to explain my reasoning to my dog Marie (It’s for her own good, really, but how do you explain something like that to her?)… and Tim next door, since Walter’s parked his keister on Tim’s sofa for the time being.” She smiles quickly then, confessing, “Tim’s an angel.”

Not that I don’t understand her concerns, but further explanation might be a good idea. “Why?”

“Well, let’s see.” Fran says, ticking her points off on her fingertips after she’s placed the teacup back upon its saucer on the table. “There’s the snoring, the firearms, the flatulence, the way he insists upon taking a ninja approach and scaring the bejesus out of me for his own amusement. Taking three or four baths a day – my water bill, which arrived shortly after Walter departed, was extraordinary. You might have heard he also managed to send all of his notes and conclusions about a murder case to the actual murderer, which nearly got us both killed. That’s only in the past few months. The stories I could tell about how he’s tortured me for most of my life could fill entire shelves at any good, independent bookstore.”

Hmm. Apparently I’ve touched upon a nerve or two. I check my notes. “Is there anyone you would never tell this to?”   

Fran nods. “I would never tell Olivia, the widow whose husband’s demise brought him here. I might get lucky and they’ll finally figure out they’re perfect for each other. If she hears what a pest he is, she’ll never let him live with her. She’s a dear woman, but I must prioritize, and self-preservation has to be at the top of my list.”

Stunned by her vehemence, I follow my notes. “Why?”

           

Francesca sits back in her seat, gazing at me levelly. “Darling, you really do need to pay better attention to my responses before you ask your next query.” She must realize she sounds a little intimidating, because she continues in a quieter tone. “Although I did omit mention of the state of my kitchen if I leave Walter alone in it for more than five minutes. One morning I went out for a few errands and when I returned he had no less than five guests in here playing poker, stinking drunk! It was barely lunchtime. If Olivia knew he was up to such antics, I’d never be rid of him.”

Clearly Walter will not be residing in Fran’s house in the future. We each sip our tea, and Fran nibbles on a lemon cookie. I change course. “Tell me about one person who made a positive difference in your life.”

This question seems to give her pause. Surely she can think of someone…

She finishes her cookie before she speaks. “Hmmm. Well, I must admit, I haven’t really encountered anyone recently who’s made a positive difference in my life. A long time ago, I was married to a philosophy professor named David. He was extremely intellectual and expanded so much of my knowledge and my curiosity about the world around me. Unfortunately my curiosity also led to the discovery that David was carrying on an illicit liaison with a cashier named Mimi at our local car wash. It was rather embarrassing at the time, but I have come so far intellectually that I now am able to wish them both w—.”

She stops herself, takes a breath, continues. “Actually, I have come so far intellectually, due to David’s earlier reassurances that I would continue to grow almost as smart as he was, that I would now be able to say this: ‘David, you are an insufferable prick.’”

She blinks, her expression thoughtful. “That felt better. Next question?”

           

“Where do you go when you need time to yourself?”

Francesca smiles.  “I take Marie to the park for a long stroll. Nothing like stretching our legs near the lakeshore. We have our best discussions there, and Marie’s a wonderful listener.”

              

“Do you have a secret? If so, why do you feel the need to keep it secret?”

Fran grins now. “Well. I really don’t like to brag. It’s not in my nature, you see. But shortly after David made his departure, I had a – well, let’s just call it a transitional period. I gathered up my belongings and took myself on a well-deserved vacation. I fancied myself a fledgling screenwriter at the time, and I did have some very good ideas. Where better to practice this art than in La-La Land, so I moved to Los Angeles.

“Well, the screenwriting did not take off as planned and I worked for a short time at an animal shelter because I’m a lover of all creatures great and small. One day – you’ll never believe this, but it’s true. We held a fabulous adopt-a-thon and Michael Jackson showed up! He brought along his chimp Bubbles of course, and made a generous donation. He even demonstrated a selection of his dance moves. At one point I held Bubbles so he could do some of his signature twists and turns, and when I told him how well-behaved the little primate was, he was so pleased he offered to teach me some steps.

“So that’s my secret. I know how to moonwalk.

“I would never want Walter to know. He would never cease teasing me about it; I’d never be able to go to family functions again. I’d probably have to move back to LA just to get a little peace. Please, if you could keep this just between you and me.”

“Oh, well… I’m not sure if I can do that. You’ve agreed to be interviewed for the blog, which is public, so…” I can see this is a dilemma for her. After several moments, she seems to come to a resolution.

“How about we just don’t remind Walter that I’ll be on your blog?”

I’m not sure that’s going to work, and my expression might betray my reservations. Fran pats my hand.  “Otherwise he’d only read it if we told him not to; trust me.”

Hmm. This is true. We move on to the last question. “What is your fondest childhood memory?”

And here I am finally surprised as Fran reveals something even I did not know before. Her smile is wistful.

“It has to do with my father, actually. I was only four, but I have this very vivid recollection of him in what I suppose was a tuxedo, very dark and handsome. One night he was getting ready to take my mother to some event or other, and he danced with me. I must have barely come to his knees, and I remember his shiny black shoes because my mother scolded him about letting me step on them – I in my pajama gown, standing on my father’s shoes while he slow danced us around the room. He did that so I could follow the steps, you see.

“He was a very beautiful, smiling man – I can’t recall his entire face anymore, just his dark eyes; isn’t that sad? but I recall the sense of … a very warm feeling with him. I remember he used to throw his head back when he laughed, but I don’t remember what that sounded like.”

“I’m so sorry. You’ve never mentioned him before. What happened to him?”   

She waves me off, not meeting my gaze. “Oh… I have no idea. My mother has never spoken of him, and he was out of our lives by the time I went to school. She’s remarried at least four times since then. I suppose I used to ask about him, for him, but she always changed the subject. After a while I thought it best to cease asking. My mother has not had the best luck in relationships so it’s possible he left us for some reason. We just don’t talk about it.”

But then she smiles teasingly. So brightly one would think I didn’t just see that vulnerability Fran never, ever shows.

“You’re sure I can’t talk you out of publishing that reminiscence about Michael Jackson….?”

***

Next week, be sure to look for Deb Druzy’s latest interview, with her heroine Lily Lane, Scenic View's lonely local sweetheart from her Contemporary Romance novel, Sleeping With Santa. You can find her interview here on her blog – https://debradruzy.wordpress.com/posts/

Debra Druzy is a lifelong Long Islander, writing contemporary romance while caring for the hubby, two daughters, and the dog. Her debut novel, SLEEPING WITH SANTA, a spicy romance, is available on Amazon, Barnes and Noble and other notable booksellers. To get to know Debra visit her website - http://www.debradruzy.com/, and be sure to visit her blog https://debradruzy.wordpress.com/posts/, where you’ll meet lonely local sweetheart, Lily Lane, her heroine from SLEEPING WITH SANTA.

Thanks for stopping by! I'll be back soon to talk about writing, or life, or writing about life....