A RACING FAN'S OPEN LETTER TO MARCO ANDRETTI

Dear Marco,

Racing fans everywhere know your family history. Here’s a little of my family history.

I’ve been a racing fan my whole life. My Dad was a mechanic and machinist, and he was brilliant. He was a man’s man who also had a helluva brain for history, science, art - you name it - a Renaissance man with grease under his fingernails.

Daddy’s name was Louie, and I am Louie’s Kid the Mechanic’s Daughter.

When I was a kid he raced go-karts locally here in Texas. Before I was born he raced other things, too. He loved anything with a motor - and so do I. The first thing I ever drove was Daddy’s single-engine racing go-kart. I was 11. Mama wouldn’t let me race. :\

That was okay, though, because I would go out to the practice track with Dad and he would sneak me into the go-kart and let me drive it. HA!

I used to work in the garage with Dad on restoring old American cars, and all kinds of stuff. It was a great way to meet guys. ;)

Dad and I went to races around here, but we mostly watched races together on TV - especially the Indianapolis 500 - the King of all Races! I would ask him questions and he would answer them. He knew everything about all the drivers and all the cars.

We were Andretti fans for sure.

Even after I grew up, moved out of my parent’s house and moved to Dallas, Dad and I would watch the races together over the phone! :)

One day some years ago, Dad got out of the shower, had a massive heart attack and dropped dead in the middle of the bathroom floor. My world tilted the wrong way on its axis that day.

May rolled around and I didn’t watch Indy. For a few years after that I didn’t watch it, or any other race. I just couldn’t.

Then I couldn’t stand it anymore. Time had passed and I wanted to see the 500, so I tuned in again.

It was 2006.

That’s when I became YOUR fan - and I’ve been your fan ever since. It was a bittersweet day - heartsick over the outcome of the race, but so happy because my love of racing had been re-awakened. I felt my Dad’s spirit there with me, loving every heart-stopping minute of that race.

Every year I put out two beers on the table for Indy. One for me (which I drink as I watch) and one for Dad (which I drink while the winner drinks the milk).

Daddy would have LOVED that qualifying run you made last Sunday. He would have been right there standing on his feet with me yelling “Come on, Marco!”

My Dad got to see Indy live with his best buddy, Bernard, one year. Someday I will get to see it live, too.

On Sunday, I’ll be watching from my living room - with two beers on the table. When I drink that second beer, I hope it will be YOU drinking the milk.

You go out there and be safe, drive this thing smart with a good strategy. It’s a long race, and you have time to bring it to the front, so don’t lose your head about it.

You have to be in it to win it.

I have one last thing to tell you, and that is something Louie would say:

“Blow the soot out of that thing!”

Polla Filia,
J.F.

MANUAL GEARBOXES AND REAL MEN

“Don’t ride the clutch.”
My Dad, Louie

The other night on Craig Ferguson’s show, a viewer wrote in on the email and told Craig that her boyfriend didn’t know how to drive a manual gearbox, and she told him a real man should know how. Her question to Craig was: “Am I wrong?”. Craig shook his head slowly, and then said “No, if you’re a dude, you should know how to drive stick.”

All of which got me to thinking.

I couldn’t agree more with the girl, and Craig.

Real men *do* know how to drive a manual gearbox - period.

Actually, I think everyone should know how to drive “stick” shift, to be quite un-sexist about it.

Most people, though, don’t enjoy driving and only do it because they have to. This is a fact which I have never understood in my heart, but my intellect acknowledges that it is true.

It’s kind of like knowing that some people mix ice, water, or (***gasp***) soda with their scotch. I know it is true intellectually, but I find it impossible to wrap my head around it. I mean, if you’re mixing your scotch with something, why are you drinking scotch? Go drink gin, or vodka. For the record, scotch should be drunk NEAT, people - NEAT! Anything else is an abomination before the Deity of Your Choice.

Okay, on a super hot day, *maybe* you can drop one cube in the glass - ONE CUBE ONLY - and drink it fast before the ice melts! Otherwise, just order a water back with that sucker, and keep the scotch pure, as nature intended. ;)

Back to driving.

So, I know some people don’t like manually shifting gears, and I’m never going to convince those people that driving “stick” is fun, and that it makes the whole experience better; but, I wish I could convince them. It saddens me to think that some are missing this joy.

A manual gearbox also gives a person more control over the vehicle - that is, if that person *really* knows how to use a manual transmission. If they’re just driving it like it’s Grandpa’s farm truck then they’ve missed the whole point. They’re probably also the kind of person who puts soda in scotch.

The net of the above is: my thoughts on manual gearboxes don’t just apply to men; however, I do believe that a real man *should* know how to drive one.

I personally would not date a guy who only knew how to drive automatic. For one thing, he couldn’t drive any car of mine, since I don’t *buy* any car without a manual transmission.

Hmmmm, now that I’m thinking about that, maybe that’s a good way to keep my guy from driving my ride. :)

All of the above is why I am teaching my 15-year-old nephew to drive “stick”. We go to one of the local high school parking lots after hours (when it’s empty) and I sit in the passenger seat, and I turn the controls of my 3,750-lb. motor vehicle over to a 15-year-old male.

Yes, I am a brave, brave chick. A brave chick who has neat scotch waiting at home after the lesson is over. ;)

Seriously, though - I have brass, just like my Daddy did. No scotch necessary for that. :) If Dad were still with us, he would be the one teaching my nephew to drive stick.

So, I am passing down a treasured skill in my family. A skill taught to me by my beloved father - who was a real man, and for so many other reasons than just driving manual gearboxes.

Just like his grandfather, The Nephew took to stick shifting like a duckling takes to water. Learned how to smoothly slip the clutch on an incline on his first try. He only killed the engine *once* during the entire first lesson! That’s my boy! That’s my Daddy’s grandson. That’s the beginnings of a real man.

To all you guys out there who can’t drive stick, you can cuss me for my opinions, or you can get off your lard backsides and go learn. I suggest the latter. It’s a lot more fun.

‘Nuf said.

Polla Filia,
J.F.

FRIED APPLE PIES

There is a statistic I heard on the news the other day, and I had heard it recently before that. Here it is: kids stay off drugs and out of trouble when they have dinner with their family. That was it. Yeah. Somebody probably did a “study” to come up with that one. My parents could have told them that (and my grandparents, too).

We’re Greek, and in a lot of Mediterranean families (I know it’s true for my Italian friends) - we eat together. I know other cultures do that, too. What a concept. Food isn’t just physical nutrition, it’s mental and spiritual as well. Dinner with ecoyennia mou (my family) is an essential part of our culture.

Tonight we had such a dinner - at a restaurant, but nevertheless, it was a family dinner: me, my two sisters, my brother-in-law and my niece and nephew. It’s what we do on a regular basis. My sister has family dinner with the kids and her husband daily. My niece and nephew don’t know any different. You eat with your family - don’t you? Yes, is their answer.

What this means is, if you have trouble, or need help, you know you can go to your family, because you’ve been eating meals with these people since forever. You’re a tight group. You have actual conversations. You share food. You actually like each other. My family and I all *love* each other (wow, another concept, right?).

It all started with my grandfather -a Greek from the “old country”. The man was a chef. He had a little café in Austin before I was born. He could come into your house, take your leftovers out of the fridgie and rustle up something marvelous for dinner. You would be asking yourself “These are *my* leftovers?” You wouldn’t recognize that food (in a good way) after he got done with it.

We have a saying in my family (a joke): When two Greeks get together, they open a restaurant. It’s almost true. Of course, as I said above, food for us is more than just food.

Tonight over our family dinner we discussed our plans for Thanksgiving this year, and that lead to a remembrance/conversation about my grandmother (maternal, not on the Greek side) and her fried apple pies.

First of all, I need to tell you about love. This woman was not my actual biological grandmother. She was my great aunt. My grandmother died when my mother was two months old. My grandmother and grandfather had five (count ‘em) children! My grandfather was a farmer (again, this is on the non-Greek side of the family). My grandmother was dying, they had a two-month old baby (my Mom) and they had to have a plan. My grandfather could not run the farm and take care of the other four kids and an infant. My eldest aunt (then only eight) had to help him manage the other three kids. She couldn’t manage the infant either - since she was eight - you know - years old.

My grandparents decided before my grandmother died (at the age of thirty-one) that my mother would go live with my grandmother’s older sister. So, the woman I referred to as my “grandmother” was actually my great aunt. In order for all of this to come to pass, my great aunt had to agree to take on this responsibility (she had two biological children of her own).

She met the task.

As children, we would go to my grandfather’s farm house and spend time with him, and also go to my “grandmother’s” house (great aunt) and spend time with her and her husband (who we called “Pop”).

On Sunday afternoons, this woman would lay out a spread that would feed the Dallas Cowboys. I kid you not. There was cold ham, fried chicken, mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese, green beans, peas, carrots, squash, green salad, fruit salad, rolls, bread... are you getting the idea yet?

We would sit down at that table and have Sunday dinner with “Grandmother” - the woman who raised my mother and told everyone we were her “grandchildren”.

The Grand Finale to this meal would be her homemade fried apple pies. Yes, people, I said *homemade*. Pie crust from scratch rolled and cut into a round shape, apple filling from scratch spooned into the middle of the round crust, crust then folded over into a half moon, sealed around the edges with the tines of a fork and plopped into hot oil and quick fried. Then she drained them on paper towels over a plate and dusted them with cinnamon and sugar.

My father (who was her son-in-law, technically her nephew-in-law) loved these things (hell, who didn’t?). He often could not come with us on Sunday, because, as a mechanic, he was frequently making extra money working on cars.

Grandmother would pack up three or four (or more) of those delicious apple pies in a big piece of foil and send them home with us. She would say: “I know Louie likes these, so they're his, since he’s working hard and he couldn’t come.”

You didn’t touch those pies when you got home. They were Daddy’s - from Grandmother - and Mama would swat your hands if you tried to snag one of those.

Daddy would sit down to supper and then afterward dive into Grandmother’s homemade fried apple pies.

We had dinner together every night, and we had family dinners with grandparents and cousins on a regular basis. Family was, as my Greek grandfather would say, “number one”.

The fried apple pies? They were far more than just a tasty treat. They were all that love my grandmother had to give: the love she gave to her sister’s child, her sister’s grandchildren, and her sister’s son-in-law.

Love like that will keep you out of a whole helluva lot of trouble in life, people - and it tastes damn good, too.

Polla Filia,
J.F.

HOMECOMING

I have been a long time away from this blog, and I have no real excuse except that it has been a long, hot summer, and I have been working on the next book. Now, to more important matters.

I am from Austin (born and bred), but I lived in Dallas for many years before moving back here to Central Texas (I live just outside of Austin now). Austin is not the same as it was in my youth, and that is a bad thing. I cannot bear what the interlopers have done to it. In their ignorance they irrevocably changed that which drew them here in the first place. Stupid. Consequently, I have taken to living in the hills outside the city, near Lake Travis.

Why I left Dallas and moved back to the CenTex is a story for another day - hell, that’s about three or four different blog posts.

Next week I am going to Dallas for five days. That may not sound to you as exciting as the trip I took to San Francisco last year, or the trips to New York City I dream about and pine for on this blog (ah, New York, how I miss you!). It may not seem exciting to you; but I am longing to see Dallas.

You see, Dallas is my second home. I wasn’t born there, and I didn’t grow up there by conventional definitions of “growing up” in a place; but it *is* my second home. It is changing and never changing. Dallas’s charm is defined by change. Whereas, Austin’s charm *was* defined by its unique and previously never-changing spirit. Gone are those days - and if you didn’t grow up in Austin like me, with a Dad who also grew up there, then you cannot debate this point with me. You simply don’t know enough to know what you’re talking about. Now, back to Dallas, because I have digressed into my “Austin Ain’t What It Used To Be” rant.

When I left my parent’s home, I moved to Big D to begin my “day career” (that is the thing I do while I work on the writing gig). It was in Dallas where I first began to seriously water the seeds of my writing dream. It was also there where I truly “grew up” (to the extent I can at all be considered to be grown up - although, I can fake it pretty well for short bursts).

Dallas is more home to me in many ways than any other place. Even after many years away, I still know it like the back of my hand; and I know its nature, its pulse, its hidden magic.

Dallas puts on a face like a sprawling, glittering metropolis; but it has heart - real heart. It is a heart it hides from the superficial traveler; but it will open itself to the dreamer who explores its depths, and who is open enough to understand its warmth.

I leave one week from today. I will relax and breathe in My Great City, My Home Town of Dreams. I will see old friends and very familiar places. I will look at that great dazzling skyline and remember exciting days as I began a new life there, and that excitement will bloom in me anew. I rejuvenate some of the best parts of myself in that place and take them away with me each time.

I will feel Dallas in my blood again in that way only I can know, but can’t describe. Whenever I go back, it claims me again. I feel as if the time that has passed from my last visit is no time at all. Dallas and I are old friends and too close to ever truly grow apart. The familiarity will wrap itself around me as soon as I look out that airplane window and see it sprawled across the north Texas plains.



When I leave it five days later, it will break my heart again, as it has every single time; but as always, I will promise to return. For I never say goodbye to Dallas. I only ever say “Until next time, my old, good friend.”



Polla Filia,
J.F.

TEACHER, FRIEND, HERO - FATHER

“I have come to believe that a great teacher is a great artist and that there are as few as there are any other great artists. It might even be the greatest of the arts since the medium is the human mind and spirit.”

-- John Steinbeck

In honor of Father’s Day the below is a re-write of two posts I previously put up here about my Dad. Happy Father’s Day, Daddy!

My father was a great father. Like all great fathers, one of the things which made him great was that he was a great teacher. He also managed to be those things and be a friend. Combine all of it, and he became one of my greatest heroes as well.

My Dad died some years back. He got out of the shower one night, had a massive heart attack and that was it. As bad as it was (and for me it was a great darkness), I still say that’s the way to go - so fast you don’t know what hit you.

Dad was a tough guy - a man’s man; but, he was loving and giving to his kids. He would praise us often for doing well in school, or in some other effort. He didn’t spank or yell, but if you dis-obeyed the rules you would be grounded - and you DID NOT ask for early reprieve on a grounding. There were no bicycling privileges when you were grounded. We were required to spend our time only in our yard, and in contemplation of how we would improve ourselves and amend our ways. Consequently, we followed Daddy’s rules.

I was the worst of the three of us, getting a two-week grounding (with the bicycle put up on high hooks in the garage). I had ridden said bike outside of the approved area for riding my bike without an adult. I rode it all the way down to the creek and was riding it through a culvert when Dad came looking for me. I had been gone a long time. This rule was (of course) one for my own safety. I never did it again.


My Dad was a mechanic and a machinist. He did the machinist thing as his main livelihood (the man could fix or fabricate *anything*), and he did the auto-mechanicin’ at night and on the weekends. When I was a kid, he raced go-karts. Before my time, he raced other stuff. All of it was just local - in Texas; but, I grew up with cars on my mind, and racing as my favorite sport to watch.


When I got old enough to hold a wrench (or any other tool), I was out in the garage learning from Dad, and when I got old enough to know what I was doing (about 15), I was actually working on cars with my Dad.

Dad didn’t work on new cars - he restored and worked on old American cars (you know, the kind before they put computers in them). I was right there with him, up to my elbows in grease.

Once the work was done, it was time for a cold brew (when I was legal). I would go inside and get two bottles and bring them out to the garage. The two of us would lean back against the workbench with our refreshment and feel the relief which can only come from cold beer after a hard day’s work. Then the family would all get dressed and we’d go out for Mexican food. Daddy and I would frequently go play pool afterward. We were notorious for playing until three in the morning.

While hanging out with my Dad, I was learning a lot more than just cool stuff about cars and racing. I was learning about work ethic, integrity, and the importance of approaching a project with organization, focus and the right state of mind.

My Dad was a high-school dropout who later got his GED, but the man was wicked smart. He was an autodidact. He read anything and everything, and absorbed it like a sponge. He had a red-neck Texas accent, but you’d be a fool to think he wasn’t smart. He made straight A’s in high school English before he dropped out. He could speak perfect English if he wanted to, and he could discuss physics with you if you were smart enough to keep up. It was from this Renaissance man I learned to value the acquisition of knowledge, and to strive for constant improvement of myself.

All men should strive to be the kind of father my father was.

Think about it - this man disciplined his children without threats, spanking or yelling. He was firm and consistent, and he showed love and praise often.

Don’t get me wrong, he got angry; but, his anger was a controlled and calm kind of anger. His was a stern look and “Don’t ever do that again.” And that was it. No histrionics or drama. Just a firm and serious reminder of what was right and what was wrong. I never argued with him, or questioned him - not out of fear, but out of admiration and respect - and *love*.

He was a man of remarkable character and ethics. Streams of people consistently remarked on this at his funeral - and it was standing room only that day. A man such as this compels people to come and pay respect.

He also had a great sense of humor, and a terrific laugh. He was, and still is, the best Dad a girl could ever have. He was Louie - teacher, friend, hero - Father.

I wish you could have known my Dad, because you would have been like every friend I ever had who knew him. You would have said “Your Dad is soooo COOL!”

Yes, he was.

Every race I watch on TV, or go to live, I know he’s right there sitting next to me enjoying every second. I know he’s in my corner no matter what I’m doing. He’s ready to whisper advice in my ear and remind me about the right way to do things - anything. His spirit will always be near me, because he’s there, and because he left so much a part of himself in *my* spirit.

He was Louie, and I am lucky enough to be Louie’s Kid.

I know he’s out there driving down Heaven’s roads, winding through Elysian fields, golden sun shining down, wind across his face, laughter in his wake.

Drive on, Daddy, drive on!


Polla Filia,
J.F.

I NEED A VACATION

Long, hard day at the “day job”. I think I’ve mentioned here before that I do legal work for a living. Today I read legal documents and summarized them.

Yes.

You guessed correctly. The work was riveting! Enthralling!

As compared to watching grass grow, maybe.

*
*

Oh, wait...

If I watch grass grow, and I’m sitting on my back deck with a cold beer in my hand...

Revision to my previous statement. The work was neither riveting nor enthralling! I mis-spoke.

Upon further reflection and reconsideration of the potential circumstances and setting, watching grass grow is infinitely more exciting.

*

*

I’m in a blue funk tonight. Feeling a bit punchy, too.

I need a vacation.

Lately I’ve had an uphill struggle on a matter in the *business* of writing. More on that in another post. The manuscript is finished and now the “business” part of it all has to be worked out.

I love the writing part, and I can handle the business part, but that doesn’t mean I like it. I LOVE the writing part - the research, the plotting, the planning, the outlining and getting it all down on the paper - all of it. I tolerate the business part.

I could tolerate that business part of writing a whole lot easier, if I didn’t have to go to the “day job” and do all the “business” there.

*
*
*

Have a I mentioned how exciting it can be to watch grass grow? All you need is a cold beer on the back deck...

Maybe a slight evening breeze...

A shade tree over your head...

**sigh**

The business matters in my writing career are not at a point of being resolved - yet. There is much to do, and no guarantee of any success. It’s a crapshoot, this “business” is.

I soldier on.

Tomorrow I go back to the “day job” and read more legal documents. I have a conference call in the afternoon, too. Then maybe I get to review some more legal documents. Then more conference calls the next day, emails, drafting a legal document.

Unh...

What I wouldn’t give for a first class ticket to... somewhere lovely and relaxing... maybe with a beach and the surf, and a really handsome man (I currently don’t have one of those).

OR, a night in New York City, on the town, dinner at a great restaurant, a handsome man - (are you seeing a theme here?)

I have a writing conference for which I need to prepare. I have a “day job” for which I must get some sleep. I have ACTUAL WORK TO DO!

**sigh**

**sigh again**

I need a vacation.

I’m going out on the back deck. I think I heard the grass growing. Hand me a beer please.

Polla Filia,
J.F.

MERCY MERCY ME

This is for our precious Gulf of Mexico which is being damaged beyond any kind of repair in the next decade - and maybe longer. I won’t say what I think about offshore drilling or BP in particular because none of it is good. The whole situation makes me furious.

I will say that I have been a card-carrying, and very proud member of the Sierra Club for a very long time. There are ways for us to have the fuel we need and grow a robust economy in the process. In fact, the one would create the other quite nicely. We are smart enough to do it. We must do it.

On top of what they have done to our ocean and shorelines, eleven men - ELEVEN - are dead. Their families grief-stricken. May their memory be eternal, and may God bless their loved ones.

My heart also goes out to all the people who live along the Gulf Coast which is being beset by this ecological disaster, and especially to those hard-working people who are losing the livelihoods they have worked so long to build. May God bless you all!

The late and blessed Mr. Marvin Gaye wrote this outstanding tune around 1971. It appeared on his “What’s Going On” album of that year. You can read more about the tune here: Mercy Mercy Me on Wiki

Click on this and you may read the lyrics below while you listen to the Great Mr. Gaye sing his song which is so fitting to our current situation: Mercy Mercy Performed by Mr. Gaye

Mercy Mercy Me

Oh, mercy mercy me
Oh, things ain't what they used to be
No, no

Where did all the blue sky go?
Poison is the wind that blows
From the north, east, south, and sea

Oh, mercy mercy me
Oh, things ain't what they used to be
No, no

Oil wasted on the oceans and upon our seas
Fish full of mercury

Oh, mercy mercy me
Oh, things ain't what they used to be
No, no

Radiation in the ground and in the sky
Animals and birds who live nearby are dying

Oh, mercy mercy me
Oh, things ain't what they used to be

What about this overcrowded land?
How much more abuse from man can you stand?

My sweet Lord
My sweet Lord
My sweet Lord

Polla Filia,
J.F.

SPRING FORTH

Now, with more rain, the plants are *covered* in blooms. Even this is just the beginning! I wish I could post the fragrance of that pink one. If it could be bottled, it would sell for thousands! :)

The hedge goes all the way across the front of my house from one side to the other. I can't believe I had the presence of mind to plant these like this, because I had no idea how they would fill out and become something this lovely and thick.

Ah, and now it rains again outside my window. :)

Here they are - as always click on the photos for a larger view:

THE ALIGNMENT OF FORTUITOUS CIRCUMSTANCES, FIREWORKS,THE BOSTON POPS, AND HEAVY CANNON

The thing that always astounds - always comes through for me somehow in this crazy writing game, is how things seem to just line up for me in these stories. You work - no, slave over details. There is some problem in this part of the plot, or you need to nail down the motivation for this character here or there, or the sequence of something is off, or (God forbid) you just can’t get a handle on the “hook” - and then, BOOM!

There it is.

Some crazy thing that lands at your feet and it starts the wheels turning, and an idea forms, and the “what ifs” start... and oh, sweet Lord, you have just found a way to save that freakin’ story you thought might be a goner! Except in your heart you loved it, and you just could not pronounce it DOA. Now, thanks to the Alignment of Fortuitous Circumstances, you don’t have to. IT IS ALIVE!!!!!

I have a series I’m writing which I call the “Art of Crime”. I am currently revising manuscript number one (ms #1), writing ms #2, and I have ms #3 banging around in my skull.

Ms #1 is basically in the bag. The revisions are just clean up stuff. Ms #2 is fully fleshed out and I’m already writing text on it. I have some research yet to do, but it’s all stuff I know where to go, and what I’m looking for, etc.

Ms #3 has been begging - BEGGING for more form - a more cohesive high concept. The basic concept was there, but certain pieces of it wouldn’t gel! I could not get a string of events fitting together the way I needed them to in order to make the story really work. Pardon the pun here, but I needed a skeleton upon which to overlay the story. This would give me a framework for my plot, which gives me a framework for all the details, and so on.

So I’m having a conversation with someone today. This person told me an offhand story in support of a point they were making. The story they told isn’t important for purposes of this post. What is important is that two small details in that story - its location within a certain Houston neighborhood, and the presence of certain cemeteries - those two details, which were insignificant in the story the person was telling me - those details absolutely LIT UP THE SYNAPSES IN THE DULL GREY MATTER OTHERWISE KNOWN AS MY BRAIN!

Bright lights! Bells! Whistles! Dizzying and thrilling electric currents!

So, I call my best friend who lives down in the H-Town and start telling her about these details because she is an actual, bonafide HOUSTONIAN. As soon as I mention this particular neighborhood (which she and I have been to before), and the cemeteries, she’s like “Oh yeah.” Then she goes on to tell me about ghost stories in a certain place near there, and bayou stuff, and oh, Oh, OH!!!

MORE LIGHTS GOING ON IN THE GREY MATTER!

Ding, ding, ding!!!!

After I got off the phone with her, my brain would not shut down.

I brain stormed. I printed maps. I had a detailed high concept now, and I was laying the plot over it. There will be more plotting soon. There will be trips to the H-Town, and photographs, and notes, and excitement, and more plotting, more excitement, and then detailed outlining, and even more *excitement*, and then actual, Honest to Mike writing of MS #3!!!

YYYYEEEEEEESSSSSSS!!!

I love days like this when some one little thing gets laid in my lap, and I see how a seemingly insignificant detail can start a creative fire.

I add a little extra spark to it and suddenly I have a Creative Fire Works Display - with Boston Pops playing the 1812 Overture, and heavy cannon firing right on cue! Metaphorically speaking...

*Breathing now.*

These are the kinds of days a writer lives for. The stuff that makes you deliriously happy and totally nuts at the same time - deliriously happy for what it has brought to the story, and totally nuts because it was pure fortune.

What the Hell would I have done if that one story with those two insignificant details had not been told to me?

I will not dwell on the way in which fortune deigns to visit or pass me by, as the case may be. No, I will simply revel in what is here for me tonight, because...

It. Is. Good.

I only have one problem.

You know, with all the fire works, and symphony, and cannon fire...

How the Hell am I going to get to sleep now?

Polla Filia,
J.F.

FIRST BLOOMS

The front hedge is just beginning to bloom, but not in the splendour we will have in a few more days. We must be patient for that.

Meanwhile, the first blooms are showing their pretty heads. Enjoy!

Click on the photos to get a larger view.









Polla Filia,
J.F.

THE MIDNIGHT OIL

“We spend our midday sweat, our midnight oil; We tire the night in thought, the day in toil.”
-- Francis Quarles

I don’t know what Francis Quarles was on about with that quote, but it seems apropos for this subject.

I’m getting down to the “lick log” as we say here in Texas (they probably say it in Wyoming and other “cowboy” states - it has to do with cattle). I’m getting to the end of the revisions on this manuscript. I always have the next book in mind. Actually, I usually have the one after that lurking around in my head as well.

I’ve also been contemplating a standalone for quite some time - that is, a book that is not part of my “Art of Crime” series on which I am currently working.

During the day, thoughts on my various projects cruise in and out of my head. At the end of the day I begin to actively cultivate those thoughts. I run scenes in my mind, revise them, re-run them, revise them again, and when the spark catches real fire, I quickly commit them to paper. I have been doing this in regard to these recent revisions.

The other night, something I had been fussing over in the manuscript revisions just clicked. This was about 10:00 at night. I think I mentioned the “day job”. It seems my highest productivity in writing comes after 10:00. I think this is because a certain amount of decompression time must take place after work before those ideas really click. The problem is, when they do, I cannot then just turn that off. First of all, the ideas re-energize me completely so that it would take some time to “re-decompress”. Secondly, I have that writer’s fear, which I think is innate, that I could lose something valuable if I don’t set it down on pen and paper, and set it down quickly.

So, you do what you can to capture the thoughts, the feeling, the essence, and to train yourself to then somehow let it go, believing that falling asleep with those ideas in mind may breed something even better.

So it was the other night. The “aha” for the revisions to ms #1, and then - something that just sprung into my head on the standalone. I have struggled with one element of that standalone story for a long time. I think it is going to be a great one, and someday I will be able to discuss in detail the concept, how it came to me, and all that; but, not now.

So, this “solution” to the one element just started to roll out in my mind. I see my stories like film. I think that’s because I am an artist as well as a writer, but who really knows? So, there it was playing out with narrative and dialogue and details for me to put into my notes.

By this time, the “aha” from revisions to ms #1 had taken me a bit of time to put down. It was now around midnight and I am sitting on the edge of my bed with large index cards (I use them to structure scenes and map out details because I can move them around later), and I am working out these new details for the standalone. I don’t remember what time I actually finished, but it was late. I slept well (a bonafide miracle). When I awoke the next morning, and looked at the index cards again, and contemplated all the previous nights revisions and ideas, they all still seemed exciting. That’s the litmus test for sure.

These are exciting moments in the life of this writer! I carried the index cards with me the whole day. I didn’t look at them. I just carried them with me. Okay, so maybe that’s weird to you, but to this writer having them right there is - I don’t know - comfort, a way of keeping the thoughts going. It’s like carrying the love letters from an absent paramour. No, I’m not kidding.

The revisions to ms #1 will be done soon, and then I will have a big task on my hands in another respect - but, more on that at a later date. I will also begin the next book in my series - well, actually, I already have - but, I will focus on it without revisions to something else.

I will also continue to cultivate these exciting ideas for my standalone book. I don’t know when I’ll get down to the business of really plotting it out, but I’m thinking I won’t be able to hold off for long.

As with love, the passion builds in writing until resisting the urge to leap is utterly futile.

Polla Filia,
J.F.