Hands

Prompt:  Begin a story describing only two hands. Use the physical characteristics of the hands, as well as any relevant activity or movement, gesture, fidgeting, and so on, to reveal who the hands belong to.

“I don’t know what’s wrong.” She held her hands palms up, helpless.

“When did it start?” His right hand hesitated over the keyboard.

She touched her slender index finger to her pursed lips, thinking. Her fingernails, well-tended and cut short, shone the palest pink in the florescent light. “It’s worse now.”

He keyed her answer into the computer, the nail on his ring finger chipped and discolored.

She covered her eyes with her left hand. “I can’t keep going like this.” No wedding band, no adornment at all. The skin smooth, well past the dimples of childhood but not yet bereft of the tissue that precludes wrinkles.

He rested his hand on the counter. His sun-browned skin as free of jewelry as hers. He made notes. “Can you describe the sound you heard?”

“A terrible screeching noise.” She clenched both fists and drew her shoulders toward her ears remembering.

“Could you tell where it was coming from?” He touched the keys, his delicate movements at odds with his beefy hands, the broad pads of his fingers.

“No. It was dark and . . . .” Her hand fluttered above the counter, fingers gracefully curved. “I was alone and . . . .”

He covered her hand with his own for the briefest of moments, reassuring her.

“Not to worry. It’s probably the fan belt.”

To see my daughter's response to this prompt cllick  http://sinandinconvenience.blogspot.com/2013/07/writing-prompt-only-two-hands.html

Fantasy Series

Cover Art from Robert Jordan's The Eye of the World

I remember where I was and what I was doing when I heard about the Cuban Missile Crisis in 1962, President Kennedy’s murder in 1963, Senator Kennedy’s murder in 1968, the Edmond Post Office murders in 1986, the Murrah Federal Building Bombing in 1995, and 9/11 in 2001. Having grown up and lived most of my life in the Oklahoma City area, the Edmond Post Office and Murrah Building were parts of my daily life. I passed the post office on my way to work each morning and our credit union was in the Murrah Building. Each of these events shook my world, shifted my world view.

And then one day in September 2007, I was driving north on I-35 with my daughter, then a Freshman at Oklahoma University. The car radio was tuned to KGOU our Public Radio Station. Suddenly my daughter started screaming and beating on the dashboard. When she told me why, it made no sense. Some writer named Robert Jordan died. I had no idea who Robert Jordan was. She explained about his epic fantasy series. His unfinished epic fantasy series, eleven volumes of which she had read and loved and reread in anticipation of the final installment.

Being naturally commitment-averse, I made it a rule never to read serialized novels. Nonfiction in multiple volumes I’ve always been comfortable with. Who can cover the Civil War in a single volume?

Fantasy? Also, not happening. I don’t easily suspend disbelief, so the minute something supernatural comes on the scene, my mind begins to wander and the book languishes beside my bed or under it.

And I never reread works of fiction. There are too many good books out there and I don’t have enough time to read them all as it is.

There were noteworthy exceptions to my policies of no fantasy series and single read-throughs. Tolkien’s Trilogy of the Rings, which I read to please a husband. I still have the books, but not that husband. And Rowling’s seven-book Harry Potter series which I read to please my daughter. Happily I still have both the books and the daughter.

Jordan, however, was not a blip on any radar as far as I was concerned. And as of the day of his death, never would be.

Today I am one-third of the way through Eye of the World, the first in what was to become Jordan’s fourteen-book series The Wheel of Time. The final three volumes were written by Brandon Sanderson. And this will be my third time through the series from beginning to end. Plus rereads of the later volumes in anticipation of each new release.

Why The Wheel of Time? To be honest, I thought I’d never enjoy another fantasy after The Lord of the Rings. I tried a couple and was not impressed.

I believed Tolkien’s world, complete with his Orcs and Ents. Then I came to believe Rowling’s world and Jordan’s, with their Hogwarts and Quiddich and Aes Sedai and Tarmon Gai'don. In each and every one of these books, characters from unremarkable backgrounds lead their people against the forces of darkness and win. Characters I got to know and care about, thrown into intolerable situations, attempting impossible goals, and succeeding.

Some days, my real world feels threatened by darkness on an epic scale and I need to believe there are real people from whatever backgrounds who can and will stand up when we need them.

Writing Prompt: My favorite song

Last year my daughter Grace and I each got a copy of this book. A wonderful way to practice writing. We choose a prompt, write, then read them aloud. There's a link at the end of this post to Grace's story. See how she responded to the prompt.

Prompt:  Write a story based on the title of your favorite song.

I’ve missed you. It’s been a long time. Probably seems longer than it’s really been, but long enough.

When you left, it was supposed to be just for a while. A week. Two at the most. But then things happened. There was a baby and your grandfather died. I understand all that.

But then it seemed you might not want to come home.

I got called away, too. Then I was busy and didn’t think about the separation. That’s what I’ve started calling it—the separation.

When I get home now, the house seems empty. Like it’s been empty a long time. It doesn’t smell like you anymore. Your minty Altoids, fresh brewed coffee, a hint of tobacco smoke. Your deodorant.

Today I went in to the office at the regular time, but couldn’t face coming home again. Worked over. Stopped for a drink. Went to the movies. Late. Very late.

I came home to a dark living room. Lights flickered toward the back of the house. In the kitchen.

Candles.  

And flowers.

And you singing, “Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday dear…”

To see what Grace wrote using this same prompt go to   http://sinandinconvenience.blogspot.com/

The Lone Ranger--a movie review

What has this new Lone Ranger movie got? Flash and dash and a laugh or twenty-three. 

And Johnny Depp.

With a bit of computer magic there are more cliff-hanging, hair-raising, heart-stopping, spine-tingling sequences than I’ve ever seen. And so tongue-in-cheek that you’re bound to leave the theater laughing.

Don’t get me wrong. There’s more than enough graphic violence to earn it its PG-13 rating. In fact, it’s my opinion that the visual and auditory intensity of the movie should be quite enough to make it PG-13. That said, I had plenty of warning so I could close my eyes when I didn’t want to see what was coming. (I do that regularly in the movies, to the point that my daughter has punched me in the ribs thinking I’d fallen asleep. Well, to be fair, I’ve done that, too, but not in The Lone Ranger.)

I may be old, but not old enough to remember the radio Lone Ranger. I do remember the TV Lone Ranger. I loved it as a kid. This is not my father’s Lone Ranger, nor my generation’s Lone Ranger, but if you remember those Lone Rangers, you’ll get more of the jokes.

Johnny Depp has brought us The Pirates of the Caribbean Goes West. They play fast and loose with geography, history, physics, and probability theory. But the bad guys are ugly and mean. The whore has a heart of gold and a leg of another precious material. The school marm doesn’t teach school but she’s lovely, sweet, and vulnerable. And the hero wears a white hat.

What more could you want?

A side-kick, of course. Who, in this movie, is really the main character. Johnny Depp as the wise and wonderful wizard of odd. He’s Tonto wearing a dead crow on his head and leading the wrong brother by the nose into hero-hood.

And the score is grand. I swear I heard bits of Carmina Burana in there. Well, maybe not, but they finally did get around to The William Tell Overture and Silver reared up and The Lone Ranger shouted “Hiyo, Silver! Away!”

To which Tonto responded… Well, that would be giving it away. Go see the movie and don’t be afraid to laugh. 

Heroes

How is it that I, as a writer, build the heroes in my stories? Do I snatch them whole from the ether? Invent them new from my own imagination? Choose a favorite from writers past and change the name to protect me, the guilty? The answer is ‘yes’ and more.

And the ‘more’ is people watching.

I recently flew into Denver. Those of you familiar with our area know that the airport is out-of-town. My way home includes I-70 which during rush hour resembles a parking lot. To avoid driving in that mess I ride a city bus into downtown and transfer to the light rail. Public transport is a treasure trove for people watchers.

At the airport the bus driver stowed my suitcase along with that of a young woman, probably not more than early twenties and possibly younger than that. I was prepared with correct money for my fare. She was not. The bus driver does not give change. He waited patiently while we passengers got together the right change for the young woman. 

I carried my laptop bag and the tiny young woman carried a guitar case. She was well and truly tattooed and had found-art materials woven into her multi-colored hair. She asked the driver if there were hotels near downtown where she could stay the night. The bus driver suggested that she probably would be better off staying in a hotel away from the center of town because those downtown tend to be pricey. (I’m not the only one who makes up stories about people I don’t know.) I watched and listened as the driver and my fellow riders gave her advice about where to stay .

And my mind was off and racing with stories for this potential heroine who would survive great difficulties.

Then we parted ways, I to my train into the ‘burbs and she to another bus to become a rock star or a super spy.

But, like one of my favorite songs, ‘That’s not what I come here to talk about.’

The train was not very full when I got on. In my car there was a forty-ish woman dressed for office, a middle-aged couple with their bicycles, and me. At various stops more people got on and the bicyclists got off. A man also dressed for office work carried his briefcase. Some young people probably not old enough to drive—the boys in baggy shorts and the girls dressed for the sun. A college-age young man, dressed nicely, stood near the door too cool to hold the pole for balance.

Then a group of men fresh from a day of physical labor boarded and one of them sat across from me. He carried a back pack with a plastic tyrannosaurus rex sticking out its front pocket. He was missing some teeth (the man not the dinosaur,) his hair was unkempt, and he smelled..

The college-aged young man derisively commented about the man being ‘pungent.’ The man acknowledged his odoriferous state but credited his day at hard labor and took no offense. He talked about working in building demolition and how dangerous it was. He said his brother died doing the same work.

At the next stop a young father got on with his toddler, leaving her to stand in the aisle while he parked the stroller. The train started and the child fell. The office lady, the snaggle-toothed man, and I all tried to catch her. Our efforts served only to frighten the little girl who cried to break your heart.

She sat sobbing in her daddy’s lap until the man across from me asked if she liked dinosaurs. She quieted, tears pooling in her big blue eyes. He offered her his T-Rex. And she smiled. She accepted the toy and listened while he explained what kind of dinosaur it was and gave her a short natural history lesson.

When the clean, well-dressed, college-aged man left the train, the little girl paid no attention. She had eyes only for the ‘pungent’ man. When he left the train, she waved to him and watched out the window as he walked away.

And I had material for a hero.

Star Trek into Darkness

Star Trek into Darkness, the latest iteration of Gene Roddenberry’s creation, hit the screens last Wednesday. Finally a rollicking good movie in 3D, albeit a post-production conversion.  Ah, well. Maybe next time. And IMAX which I have not yet seen.

It opens with a chase scene—Kirk and another member of the Enterprise crew being chased by spear-chucking aboriginals intent on doing our boys harm, while Spock is busy trying to save these self-same natives from the destructive forces of nature on their undeveloped world.

Chris Pine does an excellent job of Kirk. Gung-ho flyboy, arrogant with a touch of innocence that comes across as vulnerability and caring.

Zachary Quinto is a commendable Spock, much better looking than the real Spock (Leonard Nimoy.) But I miss the voice.

Zoe Saldana as Uhura speaks volumes with those flashing eyes when her significant other, Mr. Spock, behaves irrationally. What kind of Vulcan behaves irrationally?

The rest of the cast is fine. They interact with each other in spot-on Trek fashion. Argumentively independent, yet always loyal and supportive in the end.

And Benedict Cumberbatch. I’ve saved the best for last. He has the looks, the voice, the bad guy role. Or is he the bad guy?

I liked the movie. I will see it again. So visually stunning, in fact, that I am seriously toying with paying the extra money to see the IMAX version.

IF YOU HAVE NOT YET SEEN THE MOVIE, STOP READING HERE AND GO SEE THE MOVIE THEN READ THE REST OF THIS POST.

Oh, yes, I know. Unoriginal, predictable, completely lacking in any hint of the next big thing. I don’t care. I enjoyed it. Star Trek is my generation’s fairy tale. Fairy tales retold, must always be recognizable, therefore, originality and surprising turns of event are not only unnecessary, done to excess they can be disturbing.

Oh, dear. But wasn’t that the point of the original Star Trek? That it be original and disturbing? In a time when sixteen of these United States still enforced anti-miscegenation laws and women weren’t allowed to wear pants in most schools and work places, didn’t the Enterprise crew include members without regard to race, gender, or specie? Of course the women didn’t wear pants. Perhaps that would have been too disturbing.

That original Star Trek dealt with two opposing super powers, The Federation and the Klingons. Not unlike Earth during the late sixties. In later TV series, the Federation and the Klingons found ways to work together. It seems America’s relationship with the former Soviet Union has not yet reached that level. Although this production is set prior to that kinder gentler time in Federation/Klingon relations, these Klingons seem more like pests on the periphery than real threats. Harrison/Kahn is the true ‘other’ super power.

I’ve read statements from cast members and PR flekkers who say what they think the overarching themes of Into the Dark are. Terrorism. The danger from within. Kirk’s crisis of faith in the hallowed concept of leadership.

Perhaps, had they spent time developing any one of these themes it would have been more than a fun afternoon at the movies. But the overarching themes were chase scenes, battles, noise, flashing lights, and ACTION. Certainly fills the time and probably less expensively than the additional writing necessary to give this excellent cast more story to work with.

I want another Star Trek. I want new communicators, not the old flip phones. I want tomorrow’s music in the night clubs and bedrooms. 3D from the get-go. If some fool mentions the loss of gravity on the ship, I don’t want to see folks falling all over the place. I want to come home thinking about the universe and humanity’s place in it in a new way.

Children's Book Week

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"Books erase bias, they make the uncommon everyday, and the mundane exotic. A book makes all cultures universal."  Grace Lin is the author and illustrator 2010 Newbery Honor book Where the Mountain Meets the Moon.

May 13 – 16 is Children’s Book Week. If it is not one of the most important weeks to celebrate at your house, it should be. For those of us who read and for those of us who write and for those of us who think we do neither, Children’s Books open the world to us.

Some of us were lucky enough to listen to our elders tell stories of our families’ histories. About the old country, or when they first came to this country, or this city.

But somehow, if the story or one very like it was in a book, it seemed more real. We got better acquainted with the family down the block and across town and over the ocean because their stories were written in books.

How old were you when you first read, or had read to you, or saw an adaptation on television or in the movies Goodnight Moon, The Tale of Peter Rabbit? Where the Wild Things Are? Charlotte’s Web? Black Beauty? The Diary of Anne Frank? Harry Potter?

Most of the children’s books on today’s Best Of lists, I didn’t read until I was an adult. Of course most of them weren’t written when I was a child. But the significant thing about these newer children’s books is that I enjoyed them as an adult. Not in the same way my children and grandchildren enjoyed and do enjoy them as children. But a good book is good no matter the recommended age of the reader.

When I was a child reading was a part of our bedtime ritual. Bath, pajamas, and a book. We started with books that my brother and I could not yet read. Books my mother had loved as a child. As our reading skills improved we became participants. Mother would read a bit, then I would, then my younger brother. Heidi and Black Beauty are the ones I best remember from those bedtime readings.

It was a time to talk about the story. How it related to us, to our family. We learned to pronounce the words we saw and what exactly they meant. We explored ideas back and forth each on our own level and challenged to understand as the older ones did.

Gradually, the time came when each of us read too well to share a book like that. Reading to ourselves got us through the stories so much more quickly. We could read more than one chapter a night. We didn’t have to wait to find out what happened.

And we could read a book that neither of the others was interested in. Then instead of discovering things with family, we were discovering stories and ideas with our friends at school. And then we were grown and comparing our discoveries with other grown-ups and critics and their reviews in the paper.

Then, like magic, we had children. Sons and daughters, or nieces and nephews, or children of friends. And we were reading to them and with them. Books we’d loved when we were children. New books. Old ideas and new ideas.

We journeyed from sharing our parents’ past into sharing what was our present into our imagined future. And now we have the opportunity to share our past and the many pasts before us into our children’s and grandchildren’s present into their imagined future.

Read to your children and talk about what you are reading. And when they are too old for that, read something your children are reading and talk to them about that. And when we are too old to read for ourselves, if we are lucky and they have time, our children will read to us and talk to us about everything.