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The East of Eden writers conference is a two day plus Sunday writers conference put on by South Bay Writers. It will cost a little money and you may need a motel to stay at if you don't commute there, but I've always found it well worth the price of admission. You can pitch your novel to an actual agent besides a meriade of classes and such. A gala dinner with key-note speakers comes with it. Last time, I ate dinner with another agent (other than the official one I met earlier). Both were very interested in my novel. Do preactice your pitch on your project before you get there. You have maybe 45 seconds to make your first good impression.
I especially recommend it if you're a serious writer and early-to-intermediate on your learning curve, though there will be plenty of veterans there, too. Not to be missed. This link gives more info and a place to register using PayPal or by check.
Join the short story contest (or poetry or novel contests). Get your name and face out there. Maybe I'll see you there.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Early Edits Received for My Novel
I received back from my new editor, we'll just call her Leslie, her red marks on the first 72 pages (double spaced, 12 pt Times New Roman, of course) of my novel-in-progress, Sagebrush at Stony Creek, and I devoured her comments and had a good glance at my own writing style as well. Now I wonder if my beginning hooks the reader enough. It isn't particularly clever, but it does immediately bring into play an ominous knife (and knife thrower), later to play some role in my novel. Might that hook someone. It's an Indian vs. Rancher tale. I can see this knife being a main element on the cover of the published novel, but that would be the call of the publisher. What's up with that knife? That's what I'm hoping the browsing shopper would think. Even the final title will be determined by the publisher; that's what I've heard.
Well, anyway, I use these things " ... " too much and commas not enough. Most the marks were just not getting hyphenated words right and make some homonym goofs. I saw a few word clusters she caught. I'm thrilled and will get busy implementing the corrections I think will help the story, probably 90% of the editor's suggestions. Somehow, it's easier to feel motivated when someone else is active in the project with me.
Write on. ;^)
Well, anyway, I use these things " ... " too much and commas not enough. Most the marks were just not getting hyphenated words right and make some homonym goofs. I saw a few word clusters she caught. I'm thrilled and will get busy implementing the corrections I think will help the story, probably 90% of the editor's suggestions. Somehow, it's easier to feel motivated when someone else is active in the project with me.
Write on. ;^)
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
A Note on My "Cat" Short Story
I noticed that Part 7 of my short story sample "Write Richly: Preacher and the Cat - Part 7", a few posts back, stands alone pretty well as an even shorter short story of its own.
I'm joining the "sound bite" generation. ("Can't beat 'em; join 'em!")
Yes, it's a comedy, but it has the more serious undertones associated with humans wondering what the Christian's heaven will be like, and just how to get there. Try part 7 on its own. It's a hoot. I read it a week ago at Pruneyard and it got laughs in the right places.
I'm joining the "sound bite" generation. ("Can't beat 'em; join 'em!")
Yes, it's a comedy, but it has the more serious undertones associated with humans wondering what the Christian's heaven will be like, and just how to get there. Try part 7 on its own. It's a hoot. I read it a week ago at Pruneyard and it got laughs in the right places.
Where'd You Go? Out.
Last night, I went to the regular blog workshop in Campbell (or San Jose) put on by Bill Belew. Learned by looking and listening to other bloggers. Things I need to do is make my entries much shorter; much more often.
But problem is I think deeply, not in short sound bites, and in fact, I believe that gives better food for thought and action.
"What good is that if no one reads your blog?" Bill said.
Now that's food for thought. But is it junk food? Fast, convenient, available, non-nourishing??
________________________________________________________
Go to my sample short story (a comedy) finale: Write Richly: Preacher and the Cat - Part 7
But problem is I think deeply, not in short sound bites, and in fact, I believe that gives better food for thought and action.
"What good is that if no one reads your blog?" Bill said.
Now that's food for thought. But is it junk food? Fast, convenient, available, non-nourishing??
________________________________________________________
Go to my sample short story (a comedy) finale: Write Richly: Preacher and the Cat - Part 7
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Preacher and the Cat - Part 7
To start at the beginning, click Write Richly: The Cat and the Preacher - Part 1. To see previous chapter, use navigation links at bottom, i.e., "Older Post".
Part 7
The lady next to her had tapped her husband on the shoulder and pointed at the "trained" cat, set like a piece of ceramic on the pew cushion.
A little boy in the pew in front of her with head turned around noticed the cat. "Here, kitty, kitty," he said. His mother tugged him back to sitting, facing the front, cramming crayons and a paper into his lap.
Now the cat had stretched up her neck, looking wide eyed, alert. Oh, she's listening, Matilda thought, but she very soon lost confidence. With a minimum of fuss, she took the cat in both her hand, folding the cat warmly into her lap, stroking her.
She bent down to Cinnamon's ear and whispered, "Now listen to what the preacher says. Don't pay the people any mind. Remember, our goal is to get baptized."
Apparently she had whispered loudly enough that the people in front of her, to her left, and to her right heard, reactions ranging from stifled smiles to surprise to outraged disapproval.
The old lady smiled. The cat purred. The preacher’s sermon, well on its way, began to crescendo and soar.
Matilda took down notes, and needed a place on her lap to write. For by her note-taking diligence, she let Cinnamon sit next to her again. The cat looked to be listening in wrapt attention. But suddenly, the cat leaped down. The utter quietness of the movement caught Matilda off guard. The leash jerked out of her relaxed grasp and Cinnamon disappeared under the next pew. Matilda lunged down to grab but missed the red diamond studded leash. "Oh, my," she said.
Neighboring worshipers turned to look at the bent-down old lady.
Two rows up and off to the center there was a commotion. People looked down. A lady yipped like a small dog. Another stood and seemed to be eyeing something moving along on the floor. Children had slid off cushions, disappeated, apparently crawling to look under the pews. The pastor must have thought this was really in reaction to his words about how faith had let Jesus do his miracles. He was on a roll.
"You can walk on water, I can walk on water, we just need that elusive quality of the human heart: faith. Sometimes we all question that faith. But grasp it, it's for everyone who hears of the good news of the Bible. Faith and hope. God's on the side of the repenting and the saved. But do you act saved? Ah, the question of the hour.”
The preacher's head lifted up, eyes puzzled, his gaze shifting over to the center aisle. That was where the people chuckled and buzzed, a low murmur disturbed the usual sounds and coughs of the congregation. Some turned quickly in their seats, others pointed.
Aghast, Matilda decided she had to do something. Standing, she carefully sidled in front of a family, careful not to step on shoes, and she moved into the center aisle. She ran forward, a run like no one had ever seen before from Matilda at her age.
Seeming only slightly puzzled by the apparent uncommon excitement of his flock, the preacher exhorted his congregation. The cat, in its zigzag path toward the front, however, garnered much attention.
At the third row, Matilda stopped to gather her thoughts, finding a handy empty place to sit.
A little girl, second row, on the other side of the aisle, upped, dashed a short distance and clutched for the leash. But, heavens, the cat scooted forward. Others in that row bent down and reached.
Cinnamon, quick and still dragging the leash, was now in the open space in front of the broad, carpeted stairs leading up to the pulpit and choir loft. The cat seemed to recognize Pastor Todd and jumped up on top of the lectern. Tail high, it wasted no time walking to sit on top of the preacher's Bible, rubbing her feline face against the preacher's Bible on the lectern. The preachers hands went back and up, quickly, possibly wondering where this out-of-place animal came from.
"Excuse me," he said leaning toward the microphone. "I gotta--."
The loud popping sound cam from the microphone when the cat rubbed her whiskers against it."
A smattering of guffaws came from around the a uditorium.
The preacher blurted out, "What the hell ..."
Quickly, he grasped the cat gently about the ribs. "Don't I know you?" he said.
And elder of the church rose half way back on the aisle, shouting, "Do we have two deacons who can round up this animal."
The cat, now alarmed, squirmed away, bounded down, racing across to the foot of the choir benches near the music director and on over to the baptistery.
A chunky deacon streaked toward the steps up to the baptistery. Cinnamon by now had raised herself on hind paws, looking over the edge of the front wall of the baptismal pool, filled to about three feet of water, as always.
A tall deacon from the other side moved in to block the animal's path. The shorter deacon got their first, but the preacher was close behind. Both grasped for the leash, spooking the cat further. The tall deacon moved rqpidly, reaching to grab the scuttling creature. By now, two other volunteers moved into place to surround the cat.
Escape was now a real challenge for Cinnamon. But not really. It was an unfair match up. The cat ran darted under the preachers legs.
The congregation now stood, completely mesmerized. This was action; this was what church was meant to be; there was more excitement now than when James Parker had fainted at his wedding, topping a row of potted flower. There was a rumble. The congregation by now issued forth a burst of applause. Sharply worded comments, belated questions, whoops, and yells filled the hall.
Poor frightened Cinnamon jumped up on top of the counter at the edge of the water surface.
Running figures came at her from all directions, hands grasping for her leash. She bounded along the counter toward the tall Deacon.
“Get him, “ shouted the pastor. Applause every time the cat got away.
Cinnamon was about to leap away when the tall deacon dived at the red leash. He missed. He stood up. The cat jumped up onto the deacons shoulder, quickly went around his shoulders, a half-circle behind the deacon's head. CThen the cat turned quickly and leaping off the shoulder into the water with a splash.
The shorter deacon fell back, water all over his suit, sputtering. The preacher wiped water from his face.
“Oh, save him!" shouted Matilda, having moved up even with the front pew and about to climb the steps.
A couple more brave souls from the front rows had joined in the round up, laughing. "Fun game!" one of them said.
The cat, in a flurry of splashes, swam desperately toward the rear of the baptistry.
"Oh, heavens, don't hurt my kitten!" Matilda yelled, not managing the stairs very well.
The flustered preacher leaned over within inches of grabbing the struggling cat's leash. The pPastor Todd stretched out further. in a fraction of a second, his feet slipped from the floor and he dove ingloriously head first into the water.
A unison oh-my-god ghasp emminated from the onlookers, then raucous laughter. The place sounding more like a football game than a church.
The preacher stood up, spat out a long stream of water, and held up something red and dripping in his hand. Matilda could see it was the diamond studded leash, twinkling brightly in the lights. This was just before she lost her balance and fell on the carpeted dais. Some people in the front row came to help her to her feet.
Pastor Todd turned to pull the cat toward him, the poor, drenched beast seeming only too happy to be picked up out of the cold water.
The pastor was now ghasping from the cold water, too, as there were no baptisms schedule for this day. The tall deacon was helping Matilda brush off and assessing the damage.
By the pool, the chubby deacon, could not keep from smiling at this whole scene, held out his hand, pulling the preacher up over the edge. Pastor Todd shook away the offered hand, wading toward the side of the pool with the stairs.
Red-faced Matilda reach for the cat as soon as she was close enough, and the preacher, now able to laugh along with a congregation, shook what must have been quarts of cold water off his coat sleeves.
Matilda pciked her cat out of Pastor Todd's hands in a big hurry to get out of there.
The preacher whispered out of the side of his mouth, "I should've baptized your wildcat on Thursday.”
"I told you."
He rolled his eyes. "I had no idea how badly the little critter wanted it."
Matilda managed to say before she ran up the aisle, "Thank you, pastor, for handling the baptism. Not so awfully organized as usual, but I think it met the intent, don't you?"
The preacher hesitated, then nodded.
Now the crowded, so curious, so entertained offered help down the stairs and up the aisle. onlookers' hands reaching out, scattered applause around, whistles echoing off the walls.
Out the door the old lady carrying the stow-away cat scooted. She held her precious cargo tight, the sopping wet Abyssinian shivering, now destined for heaven to be at Matilda's side in Heaven when their times came.
Part 7
The lady next to her had tapped her husband on the shoulder and pointed at the "trained" cat, set like a piece of ceramic on the pew cushion.
A little boy in the pew in front of her with head turned around noticed the cat. "Here, kitty, kitty," he said. His mother tugged him back to sitting, facing the front, cramming crayons and a paper into his lap.
Now the cat had stretched up her neck, looking wide eyed, alert. Oh, she's listening, Matilda thought, but she very soon lost confidence. With a minimum of fuss, she took the cat in both her hand, folding the cat warmly into her lap, stroking her.
She bent down to Cinnamon's ear and whispered, "Now listen to what the preacher says. Don't pay the people any mind. Remember, our goal is to get baptized."
Apparently she had whispered loudly enough that the people in front of her, to her left, and to her right heard, reactions ranging from stifled smiles to surprise to outraged disapproval.
The old lady smiled. The cat purred. The preacher’s sermon, well on its way, began to crescendo and soar.
Matilda took down notes, and needed a place on her lap to write. For by her note-taking diligence, she let Cinnamon sit next to her again. The cat looked to be listening in wrapt attention. But suddenly, the cat leaped down. The utter quietness of the movement caught Matilda off guard. The leash jerked out of her relaxed grasp and Cinnamon disappeared under the next pew. Matilda lunged down to grab but missed the red diamond studded leash. "Oh, my," she said.
Neighboring worshipers turned to look at the bent-down old lady.
Two rows up and off to the center there was a commotion. People looked down. A lady yipped like a small dog. Another stood and seemed to be eyeing something moving along on the floor. Children had slid off cushions, disappeated, apparently crawling to look under the pews. The pastor must have thought this was really in reaction to his words about how faith had let Jesus do his miracles. He was on a roll.
"You can walk on water, I can walk on water, we just need that elusive quality of the human heart: faith. Sometimes we all question that faith. But grasp it, it's for everyone who hears of the good news of the Bible. Faith and hope. God's on the side of the repenting and the saved. But do you act saved? Ah, the question of the hour.”
The preacher's head lifted up, eyes puzzled, his gaze shifting over to the center aisle. That was where the people chuckled and buzzed, a low murmur disturbed the usual sounds and coughs of the congregation. Some turned quickly in their seats, others pointed.
Aghast, Matilda decided she had to do something. Standing, she carefully sidled in front of a family, careful not to step on shoes, and she moved into the center aisle. She ran forward, a run like no one had ever seen before from Matilda at her age.
Seeming only slightly puzzled by the apparent uncommon excitement of his flock, the preacher exhorted his congregation. The cat, in its zigzag path toward the front, however, garnered much attention.
At the third row, Matilda stopped to gather her thoughts, finding a handy empty place to sit.
A little girl, second row, on the other side of the aisle, upped, dashed a short distance and clutched for the leash. But, heavens, the cat scooted forward. Others in that row bent down and reached.
Cinnamon, quick and still dragging the leash, was now in the open space in front of the broad, carpeted stairs leading up to the pulpit and choir loft. The cat seemed to recognize Pastor Todd and jumped up on top of the lectern. Tail high, it wasted no time walking to sit on top of the preacher's Bible, rubbing her feline face against the preacher's Bible on the lectern. The preachers hands went back and up, quickly, possibly wondering where this out-of-place animal came from.
"Excuse me," he said leaning toward the microphone. "I gotta--."
The loud popping sound cam from the microphone when the cat rubbed her whiskers against it."
A smattering of guffaws came from around the a uditorium.
The preacher blurted out, "What the hell ..."
Quickly, he grasped the cat gently about the ribs. "Don't I know you?" he said.
And elder of the church rose half way back on the aisle, shouting, "Do we have two deacons who can round up this animal."
The cat, now alarmed, squirmed away, bounded down, racing across to the foot of the choir benches near the music director and on over to the baptistery.
A chunky deacon streaked toward the steps up to the baptistery. Cinnamon by now had raised herself on hind paws, looking over the edge of the front wall of the baptismal pool, filled to about three feet of water, as always.
A tall deacon from the other side moved in to block the animal's path. The shorter deacon got their first, but the preacher was close behind. Both grasped for the leash, spooking the cat further. The tall deacon moved rqpidly, reaching to grab the scuttling creature. By now, two other volunteers moved into place to surround the cat.
Escape was now a real challenge for Cinnamon. But not really. It was an unfair match up. The cat ran darted under the preachers legs.
The congregation now stood, completely mesmerized. This was action; this was what church was meant to be; there was more excitement now than when James Parker had fainted at his wedding, topping a row of potted flower. There was a rumble. The congregation by now issued forth a burst of applause. Sharply worded comments, belated questions, whoops, and yells filled the hall.
Poor frightened Cinnamon jumped up on top of the counter at the edge of the water surface.
Running figures came at her from all directions, hands grasping for her leash. She bounded along the counter toward the tall Deacon.
“Get him, “ shouted the pastor. Applause every time the cat got away.
Cinnamon was about to leap away when the tall deacon dived at the red leash. He missed. He stood up. The cat jumped up onto the deacons shoulder, quickly went around his shoulders, a half-circle behind the deacon's head. CThen the cat turned quickly and leaping off the shoulder into the water with a splash.
The shorter deacon fell back, water all over his suit, sputtering. The preacher wiped water from his face.
“Oh, save him!" shouted Matilda, having moved up even with the front pew and about to climb the steps.
A couple more brave souls from the front rows had joined in the round up, laughing. "Fun game!" one of them said.
The cat, in a flurry of splashes, swam desperately toward the rear of the baptistry.
"Oh, heavens, don't hurt my kitten!" Matilda yelled, not managing the stairs very well.
The flustered preacher leaned over within inches of grabbing the struggling cat's leash. The pPastor Todd stretched out further. in a fraction of a second, his feet slipped from the floor and he dove ingloriously head first into the water.
A unison oh-my-god ghasp emminated from the onlookers, then raucous laughter. The place sounding more like a football game than a church.
The preacher stood up, spat out a long stream of water, and held up something red and dripping in his hand. Matilda could see it was the diamond studded leash, twinkling brightly in the lights. This was just before she lost her balance and fell on the carpeted dais. Some people in the front row came to help her to her feet.
Pastor Todd turned to pull the cat toward him, the poor, drenched beast seeming only too happy to be picked up out of the cold water.
The pastor was now ghasping from the cold water, too, as there were no baptisms schedule for this day. The tall deacon was helping Matilda brush off and assessing the damage.
By the pool, the chubby deacon, could not keep from smiling at this whole scene, held out his hand, pulling the preacher up over the edge. Pastor Todd shook away the offered hand, wading toward the side of the pool with the stairs.
Red-faced Matilda reach for the cat as soon as she was close enough, and the preacher, now able to laugh along with a congregation, shook what must have been quarts of cold water off his coat sleeves.
Matilda pciked her cat out of Pastor Todd's hands in a big hurry to get out of there.
The preacher whispered out of the side of his mouth, "I should've baptized your wildcat on Thursday.”
"I told you."
He rolled his eyes. "I had no idea how badly the little critter wanted it."
Matilda managed to say before she ran up the aisle, "Thank you, pastor, for handling the baptism. Not so awfully organized as usual, but I think it met the intent, don't you?"
The preacher hesitated, then nodded.
Now the crowded, so curious, so entertained offered help down the stairs and up the aisle. onlookers' hands reaching out, scattered applause around, whistles echoing off the walls.
Out the door the old lady carrying the stow-away cat scooted. She held her precious cargo tight, the sopping wet Abyssinian shivering, now destined for heaven to be at Matilda's side in Heaven when their times came.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
The Cat and the Preacher - Part 6
To start at the beginning, click Write Richly: The Cat and the Preacher - Part 1. To see previous chapter, use navigation links at bottom, i.e., "Older Post".
Part 6
The purse was big enough, the one she found dusty and forgotten, hanging there, out in the garage, filled with heavy evidence of much of the lady's past in it. She brought it in to the dining room. Tested it out for suitability. Dumping the rattling content of her current purse into the capacious new one, laying a face towel doubled over on the content, she lovingly set her alert-looking cat inside. The poor alarmed cat clawed with both front paws at the long-zippered opening, as Matilda struggled to unhook those claws. Then she proceded to explore the new, dark surroundings.
"Now, Cinnamon, isn't that comfortable.” Matilda stroked her cat, its sleek furry back rising to meet the pressure of her bony hand. "This could be a terrific adventure, you know, kitten."
Matilda sat down on the couch to see if the cat would jump out. But, no; it stayed. “Once we're both inside the chapel, maybe I'll even let you out and sit next to me."
The cat had settled down, lying proudly like some viking ship floating on calm seas.
"You do need to hear and see what’s going on.”
A loud noise from out on the street startled Matilda. A motorcycle sped noisily past the house. The cat must have heard it too and sprang out of the purse. Matilda had a good hold of the leash, though. The cat hung in mid-air for a moment, leash taut, springing high several times in quick succesion, its front paws flailing.
“Goodness me, let’s not be that way, kitten.” She settled her back down on the towel in the dark insides of the purse. “You have to promise to be good. How else will you be allowed into heaven? Saint Peter can be quite a stickler on behavior, you know."
The cat circled twice on the folded towel, at last lowering herself, her legs folded neatly under her.
Matilda stroked Cinammon and felt her purring to beat the band. "That's better."
"Meow," said her cat, laying its furry, thin face forward on the towel and closing its eyes.
Matilda tucked the rest of the leash into the purse and zipped it. She tested it slowly up and down and swung it back and forth gently. She heard not one peep out of the Abyssinian passenger, not a murmur, not any feeling of movement inside.
"Cinn, Cinn, Cinn,” the old lady clucked. “I do want you with me when I hunt for you in heaven. Do you suppose they have a lost and found. I don't think anything like that is mentioned in Revelations."
The cat must have been purring. No sound.
She shook her head and laughed as she recalled things from earlier years. "My four ex-husbands, God knows, would never make it to heaven. Good Lord, what if I'm wrong. Well, Jack would be busy with his mistress, that's sure. Collin, now he was not one of God's better works. He'd be hugging a damn six pack.”
She rose, hanging on to the big purse, going out to the front sidewalk, so careful, watching her balance as she turned at the sidewalk and on to the corner. She returned back toward her house. “Oh, gee, maybe we can pull this off,” she said, her heart almost singing.
"Hello, Mrs. Graham." It was that loud little boy next door. Kind of startled the old woman, and she jerked to a stop.
"Hello, Jimmy, how are you?" That's what she said, but the skinny old lady thought, the little brat almost scared the puddin' out of me. No movement from inside the purse. She thought that was a good sign. Calm kitten, that's what we want.
Once inside, Matilda opened her purse, the brown-red, sleek creature lighting immediately to the ground, tugging impatiently at the leash.
"Hang on, girl." Matilda chased and forgot herself, turning too fast. Suddenly lost her balance. She had learned in a previous life, decades ago, to roll when one fell. It reduced any chance of breaking bones.
Once again there she laid, sprawled, one knee up, the other extended a little to the side. The faux Tiffany floor lamp rocked dangerously back and forth before coming to a standstill. Cinnamon sniffed and pranced around her, and occasionally bouncing lightly on her shoulder, now her knee, now up on her stomach.
"Oh, darn it, Cinnamon. It happened again." Sheay here ad tought a moment, took inventry. Nothing hurt. Nothing broken. But this falling down thing is bad. She thought it was almost as bad as when she had cancer and lost her left breast. No, not that bad. Not yet. "My, I must remember to always brace myself."
With considerable difficulty, she ot up, dusting off the lower part of her dress. She unclasped the leash, releasing Cinnamon from the cat-halter. The cat scampered away with mouse-catching speed, bounded up onto the couch, settling atop the padded back of it, looking out the window.
Sunday morning presented a sky of dark grey, wind that whistled under the eaves. Elsa from two doors down knocked at the door--shave and a hair cut ... two bits--like she always did whenever the weather was bad. Offered Matilda a ride.
"No, honey, I think I'll stay home and straighten out my spice cupboard. The TV says it's clearing up for a sunny afternoon. I'll go to the five o'clock. Tea, dear?"
Elsa stepped into the entry way. "No time. I'm running late. Got to go, really." She looked Matilda up and down. "Plenty of room in the car."
Matilda made a pushing away motion with her hands. "Walking is healthy you know."
"Healthy is staying out of the rain, old lady," Elsa said. "You take care of your tender self, you hear?" She turned about; opened the door.
"Hey, you take care of yourself, Elsa, and you'll have your hands full, I'm sure."
"You been having those dizzy spells?”
“Oh, heavens, no. That was just a one time thing."
"Humph, a one time thing. I'm sure." Elsa looked at her, frowning, a knowing look of doubt lingered on her face. "I know how these things go." She gave her a shake of the head, as she shut the door to leave.
Elsa's no dummy, Matilda thought. "Well, a two time thing, then. If my hair wasn’t all white, I’d feel thirty years old."
ooOoo
Matilda and her cat did walk to the block and a half to church that evening. The last of the clouds had broken up and all but a few cotton-balls of it had moved out of sight over the two story apartments to the south. “Be sure to listen to the preacher when he talks about the Bible. You must be carefully taught.”
The cat looked up then ran forward on the side-walk, make the diamonds on the this red leash dance and sparkle.
Before crossing 4th Street, Matilda crouched down, unzipping her purse, and try to get Cinnamon to leap in. Perhaps the traffic was too loud. Cars were streaming into the parking lot and noisy children across the street were jumping and chasing and shouting.
"No, kitten, don't pull." Matilda was gently coaxing the cat back. "It's a nice purse. Remember? You like it, you like it." She grabbed the cat, stroked a couple times, and it made it down in the purse, stuffing the leash in after it.
Waiting for the signal at 4th Street, Matilda lifted her purse near her face, murmuring, "Now, remember. When we're inside, you sit still and listen.” The light turned green; she started across. “And don't sing when the rest of us sing."
Cinnamon must have been running laps inside the out-sized purse, all bouncing around like two hamsters were fighting in there. "Calm down now or we’re going to have to just turn around and go home."
The cat meowed, but then settled down, much to Matilda's relief.
For the evening service, parked cars letting out passengers lined curb and the parking lot half full, people milling about, various ones heading in. Now Matilda felt just a little bit daunted. Yes, there was the church and there was those cement stairs, seeming this evening like those fronting the Capitol in Washington, D.C.. Luckily, she remembered about her falling incidents so turned very carefully, worked her way up the stairs with her heavy purse, moving around, now, as if by magic, like a Mexican jumping bean.
“Calm down in there,” she warned.
“What?” said Mrs. Crane, just passing her on the right.
“Oh, my. I didn’t say anything.”
Mrs. Crane looked her up and down briefly, a frowned flickered for an instant, replaced quickly by a smile. “Oh, that’s good.”
Matilda thought she detected an it’s-best-to-be-tolerant-of-nutty-people look she and her friends must have used a bit when she was young. She needed her short pause before heading up to the top, and was glad her cat had quit all that movement.
It was after a hymn by the choir, the congregation standing to sing, “What a Friend We have in Jesus,” and the invocation that Matilda decided it was time. One of the church elders was loudly making announcements when she unzipped her purse. She had chosen a seat off to the side in the next-to-last row of pew, and her nearest neighbor was a good six feet away on her right side. Evening service was never as crowded as the two morning services.
Acting calmly, as if nothing unusual was happening, she lifted her out, grasping the loop at the end of the leash securely and set the feline on the pew, a comfortable, well-kept pew with cushions.
The woman to over near the aisle turned her head slowly once and then back quickly and raised her eyebrows. Her lips shaped by her silent chuckle, but commenced to looking forward, ready for the sermon.
Trying to look completely normal and her old studious self, Matilda looked down at her Bible opened to the right page, notepad in her hand. She was ready to jot down any pearls of wisdom coming from Fred's pulpit.
All her life, she had said her nightly prayer with religious regularity, often using the week's notes as a basis. Maybe Cinnamon would join her in prayer, this week, after she was baptized. Nothing wrong with hoping.
The cat's eyes roamed around, first the people near her, then taking in the stained-glass windows and stretching her skinny neck high to see the choir to the left and the preacher, speaking the power of faith, faith that would allow anyone to be more than they would be without it and the resultant help from God.
Part 6
The purse was big enough, the one she found dusty and forgotten, hanging there, out in the garage, filled with heavy evidence of much of the lady's past in it. She brought it in to the dining room. Tested it out for suitability. Dumping the rattling content of her current purse into the capacious new one, laying a face towel doubled over on the content, she lovingly set her alert-looking cat inside. The poor alarmed cat clawed with both front paws at the long-zippered opening, as Matilda struggled to unhook those claws. Then she proceded to explore the new, dark surroundings.
"Now, Cinnamon, isn't that comfortable.” Matilda stroked her cat, its sleek furry back rising to meet the pressure of her bony hand. "This could be a terrific adventure, you know, kitten."
Matilda sat down on the couch to see if the cat would jump out. But, no; it stayed. “Once we're both inside the chapel, maybe I'll even let you out and sit next to me."
The cat had settled down, lying proudly like some viking ship floating on calm seas.
"You do need to hear and see what’s going on.”
A loud noise from out on the street startled Matilda. A motorcycle sped noisily past the house. The cat must have heard it too and sprang out of the purse. Matilda had a good hold of the leash, though. The cat hung in mid-air for a moment, leash taut, springing high several times in quick succesion, its front paws flailing.
“Goodness me, let’s not be that way, kitten.” She settled her back down on the towel in the dark insides of the purse. “You have to promise to be good. How else will you be allowed into heaven? Saint Peter can be quite a stickler on behavior, you know."
The cat circled twice on the folded towel, at last lowering herself, her legs folded neatly under her.
Matilda stroked Cinammon and felt her purring to beat the band. "That's better."
"Meow," said her cat, laying its furry, thin face forward on the towel and closing its eyes.
Matilda tucked the rest of the leash into the purse and zipped it. She tested it slowly up and down and swung it back and forth gently. She heard not one peep out of the Abyssinian passenger, not a murmur, not any feeling of movement inside.
"Cinn, Cinn, Cinn,” the old lady clucked. “I do want you with me when I hunt for you in heaven. Do you suppose they have a lost and found. I don't think anything like that is mentioned in Revelations."
The cat must have been purring. No sound.
She shook her head and laughed as she recalled things from earlier years. "My four ex-husbands, God knows, would never make it to heaven. Good Lord, what if I'm wrong. Well, Jack would be busy with his mistress, that's sure. Collin, now he was not one of God's better works. He'd be hugging a damn six pack.”
She rose, hanging on to the big purse, going out to the front sidewalk, so careful, watching her balance as she turned at the sidewalk and on to the corner. She returned back toward her house. “Oh, gee, maybe we can pull this off,” she said, her heart almost singing.
"Hello, Mrs. Graham." It was that loud little boy next door. Kind of startled the old woman, and she jerked to a stop.
"Hello, Jimmy, how are you?" That's what she said, but the skinny old lady thought, the little brat almost scared the puddin' out of me. No movement from inside the purse. She thought that was a good sign. Calm kitten, that's what we want.
Once inside, Matilda opened her purse, the brown-red, sleek creature lighting immediately to the ground, tugging impatiently at the leash.
"Hang on, girl." Matilda chased and forgot herself, turning too fast. Suddenly lost her balance. She had learned in a previous life, decades ago, to roll when one fell. It reduced any chance of breaking bones.
Once again there she laid, sprawled, one knee up, the other extended a little to the side. The faux Tiffany floor lamp rocked dangerously back and forth before coming to a standstill. Cinnamon sniffed and pranced around her, and occasionally bouncing lightly on her shoulder, now her knee, now up on her stomach.
"Oh, darn it, Cinnamon. It happened again." Sheay here ad tought a moment, took inventry. Nothing hurt. Nothing broken. But this falling down thing is bad. She thought it was almost as bad as when she had cancer and lost her left breast. No, not that bad. Not yet. "My, I must remember to always brace myself."
With considerable difficulty, she ot up, dusting off the lower part of her dress. She unclasped the leash, releasing Cinnamon from the cat-halter. The cat scampered away with mouse-catching speed, bounded up onto the couch, settling atop the padded back of it, looking out the window.
Sunday morning presented a sky of dark grey, wind that whistled under the eaves. Elsa from two doors down knocked at the door--shave and a hair cut ... two bits--like she always did whenever the weather was bad. Offered Matilda a ride.
"No, honey, I think I'll stay home and straighten out my spice cupboard. The TV says it's clearing up for a sunny afternoon. I'll go to the five o'clock. Tea, dear?"
Elsa stepped into the entry way. "No time. I'm running late. Got to go, really." She looked Matilda up and down. "Plenty of room in the car."
Matilda made a pushing away motion with her hands. "Walking is healthy you know."
"Healthy is staying out of the rain, old lady," Elsa said. "You take care of your tender self, you hear?" She turned about; opened the door.
"Hey, you take care of yourself, Elsa, and you'll have your hands full, I'm sure."
"You been having those dizzy spells?”
“Oh, heavens, no. That was just a one time thing."
"Humph, a one time thing. I'm sure." Elsa looked at her, frowning, a knowing look of doubt lingered on her face. "I know how these things go." She gave her a shake of the head, as she shut the door to leave.
Elsa's no dummy, Matilda thought. "Well, a two time thing, then. If my hair wasn’t all white, I’d feel thirty years old."
ooOoo
Matilda and her cat did walk to the block and a half to church that evening. The last of the clouds had broken up and all but a few cotton-balls of it had moved out of sight over the two story apartments to the south. “Be sure to listen to the preacher when he talks about the Bible. You must be carefully taught.”
The cat looked up then ran forward on the side-walk, make the diamonds on the this red leash dance and sparkle.
Before crossing 4th Street, Matilda crouched down, unzipping her purse, and try to get Cinnamon to leap in. Perhaps the traffic was too loud. Cars were streaming into the parking lot and noisy children across the street were jumping and chasing and shouting.
"No, kitten, don't pull." Matilda was gently coaxing the cat back. "It's a nice purse. Remember? You like it, you like it." She grabbed the cat, stroked a couple times, and it made it down in the purse, stuffing the leash in after it.
Waiting for the signal at 4th Street, Matilda lifted her purse near her face, murmuring, "Now, remember. When we're inside, you sit still and listen.” The light turned green; she started across. “And don't sing when the rest of us sing."
Cinnamon must have been running laps inside the out-sized purse, all bouncing around like two hamsters were fighting in there. "Calm down now or we’re going to have to just turn around and go home."
The cat meowed, but then settled down, much to Matilda's relief.
For the evening service, parked cars letting out passengers lined curb and the parking lot half full, people milling about, various ones heading in. Now Matilda felt just a little bit daunted. Yes, there was the church and there was those cement stairs, seeming this evening like those fronting the Capitol in Washington, D.C.. Luckily, she remembered about her falling incidents so turned very carefully, worked her way up the stairs with her heavy purse, moving around, now, as if by magic, like a Mexican jumping bean.
“Calm down in there,” she warned.
“What?” said Mrs. Crane, just passing her on the right.
“Oh, my. I didn’t say anything.”
Mrs. Crane looked her up and down briefly, a frowned flickered for an instant, replaced quickly by a smile. “Oh, that’s good.”
Matilda thought she detected an it’s-best-to-be-tolerant-of-nutty-people look she and her friends must have used a bit when she was young. She needed her short pause before heading up to the top, and was glad her cat had quit all that movement.
It was after a hymn by the choir, the congregation standing to sing, “What a Friend We have in Jesus,” and the invocation that Matilda decided it was time. One of the church elders was loudly making announcements when she unzipped her purse. She had chosen a seat off to the side in the next-to-last row of pew, and her nearest neighbor was a good six feet away on her right side. Evening service was never as crowded as the two morning services.
Acting calmly, as if nothing unusual was happening, she lifted her out, grasping the loop at the end of the leash securely and set the feline on the pew, a comfortable, well-kept pew with cushions.
The woman to over near the aisle turned her head slowly once and then back quickly and raised her eyebrows. Her lips shaped by her silent chuckle, but commenced to looking forward, ready for the sermon.
Trying to look completely normal and her old studious self, Matilda looked down at her Bible opened to the right page, notepad in her hand. She was ready to jot down any pearls of wisdom coming from Fred's pulpit.
All her life, she had said her nightly prayer with religious regularity, often using the week's notes as a basis. Maybe Cinnamon would join her in prayer, this week, after she was baptized. Nothing wrong with hoping.
The cat's eyes roamed around, first the people near her, then taking in the stained-glass windows and stretching her skinny neck high to see the choir to the left and the preacher, speaking the power of faith, faith that would allow anyone to be more than they would be without it and the resultant help from God.
A Robert Burns Poem
Poor Molly
By Robert Burns
(Translation by Richard A. Burns[1])
By Robert Burns
(Translation by Richard A. Burns[1])
As Molly and her lambs, together,
Were one day nibbling on the tether,
Upon her hoof she cast a hitch
And over she struggled in the ditch.
There, groaning, dying, she did lie,
When Hughie came a-blundering by.
With glowering eyes and lifted hands,
Poor Hughie like a statue stands;
He saw her days were almost ended,
But–woe, my heart–he could not mend it!
His mouth gaped wide, but nothing spoke,
At length, poor Molly the silence broke.
“Oh, Hugh, with shocked, lamenting face
Come close to mourn my woeful case!
My dying words attentive hear,
And bear them to my Master dear.
“Tell him, if e’er again he keep
A shilling aside to buy a sheep,
Oh, bid him never tie them there
With wicked strings of hemp or hair!
But lead them out to park or hill,
And let them wander at their will.
So, may his flock increase and grow
To scores of lambs and packs of wool!
"Tell him he was a Master, kind,
And mostly good to me and mine,
And now my dying charge I give him,
My helpless lambs, I trust them with him.
"Oh, bid him save their harmless lives.
From dogs and foxes and butchers’ knives!
But give them cow milk, their good fill,
Till they be fit to fend themselves.
And tend them duly, eve and morn,
With tufts of hay and heaps of corn.
"Oh, may they never learn the ways
Of other vile, restless strays,
To slink through slats t’plunder an’ steal
His stacks of peas and stocks of kale.
So may they, like their great forebears,
For many a year come through the sheers.
Good wives will give them bits of bread,
And bairns weep for them when they're dead.
"My poor ram-lamb, my son and heir,
Oh, bid him breed him up with care!
And if he lives to be a beast,
Please put some sense into his breast.
And warn him, when mating-fevers come,
To stay content with ewes at home
And not to run, wear out his hooves,
Like other ill-bred, graceless brutes.
"Lambs, may you ne’er take up with trash
As ones accursed an’ low of class.
But always mind to eat and meld
With sheep of credit like yourselves.
And next, young ewes, the mainest thing,
God keep you from a tether string!
"Oh, young ones, with my last short breath,
I leave my blessing with you both.
Be kind, be fair, remember mother,
Get angry not at one another.
"Now, honest Hughie, do not fail,
To tell my Master of my tale,
And bid him burn this cursed tether,
And for your pains, you'll get my leather."
This said, poor Molly turned her head,
And closed her eyes among the dead.
[1] Source used: Robert Burns Poems in Scots and English; Edited by Donald Low; 1985, 1993; Charles E. Tuttle Co., Inc., Vermont; page 32-33; “The Death and Dying Words of Poor Mailie, The Author's Only Pet Ewe, An Uncle’s Mournful Tale.”
Sunday, May 2, 2010
A Writing Instructor Extraordinaire
I think I've mentioned him before, Randy Ingermanson. He cranks out a good newsletter, has good websites (see http://www.advancedfictionwriting.com/). My days are busy, but I must look more at his techniques and suggestions. He also speaks/instructs/mentors at conferences ... for a price, of course. See the same link.
A just finished reading The Shipping News by Annie Proulx. What an inspiration that is for her assured, daring style, and fascinating content, goings-on in and around a small fishing town in Newfoundland. Her characters even tell great stories. Now I got to chase out and see the movie on DVD.
Sheesh, and more! I took an 8-week internet novel writing course (March-April) from Random House Struik (in South Africa), a class of the highest quality they term GetSmarter, with plenty of expert support from teacher/editor/agent, Ron Irwin, a strong leader and critiquer. We endured and tried our hands at student critiquing and other challenges. I shared excerpts from of my novel, Sagebrush at Stony Creek, for critiquing. A few poems; Thanks Kim and Kris and other new South African fans for their encouragement. 80 students with quite a spread of ages and subjects; genres. Some of my critiques were seen as overly harsh and condescending, but I defend it, as I am focusing on improving the work, and of course, the receiver has the option to consider my thoughts and immediately dismiss them. Thick skin does come with this profession, novel writing, unless you're a Grisham or Brown or Stephen King. Hey, they probably have thick skin, too.
In the middle of the Random House Struik course, I took three day writer's "Retreat" at the PEMA OSEL LING Retreat Center outside of Watsonville, CA sponsored by the Norcal Group of branches of California Writers Club. Learned a great deal about sliding down hills in Santa Cruz Hills mud. Nora Profit ( http://www.thewritingloft.com/ ) taught two of the classes on writing with emotion. A couple other classes were given by Luisah Teish on shifting the paradigm, spreading the mythos of conservation and caring for the fragile Earth in all one's writings ( http://www.luisahteish.com/ ).
I must get back to my short story and publish the ending here for all you fans who are waiting. If you're holding your breath, you must have keeled over by now. I want to send it in to GlimmerTrain by May 25. -rb
A just finished reading The Shipping News by Annie Proulx. What an inspiration that is for her assured, daring style, and fascinating content, goings-on in and around a small fishing town in Newfoundland. Her characters even tell great stories. Now I got to chase out and see the movie on DVD.
Sheesh, and more! I took an 8-week internet novel writing course (March-April) from Random House Struik (in South Africa), a class of the highest quality they term GetSmarter, with plenty of expert support from teacher/editor/agent, Ron Irwin, a strong leader and critiquer. We endured and tried our hands at student critiquing and other challenges. I shared excerpts from of my novel, Sagebrush at Stony Creek, for critiquing. A few poems; Thanks Kim and Kris and other new South African fans for their encouragement. 80 students with quite a spread of ages and subjects; genres. Some of my critiques were seen as overly harsh and condescending, but I defend it, as I am focusing on improving the work, and of course, the receiver has the option to consider my thoughts and immediately dismiss them. Thick skin does come with this profession, novel writing, unless you're a Grisham or Brown or Stephen King. Hey, they probably have thick skin, too.
In the middle of the Random House Struik course, I took three day writer's "Retreat" at the PEMA OSEL LING Retreat Center outside of Watsonville, CA sponsored by the Norcal Group of branches of California Writers Club. Learned a great deal about sliding down hills in Santa Cruz Hills mud. Nora Profit ( http://www.thewritingloft.com/ ) taught two of the classes on writing with emotion. A couple other classes were given by Luisah Teish on shifting the paradigm, spreading the mythos of conservation and caring for the fragile Earth in all one's writings ( http://www.luisahteish.com/ ).
I must get back to my short story and publish the ending here for all you fans who are waiting. If you're holding your breath, you must have keeled over by now. I want to send it in to GlimmerTrain by May 25. -rb
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