Sunday, May 23, 2010

The Itsy-Bitsy Spider



They skirted the edge of the pond. Dragonflies flirted with water lilies, while a fountain stippled the surface with silver-dollar memories. College students drowsed on benches, backpacks wedged under their heads, arms draped over hangovers.

The day was summer warm on the couple’s arms, their necks. That pale, surprised flesh behind the knees.

“I’m sorry.”

“Alright.”

A helicopter seed rained on her head.  She brushed it away. 

“Do you know how much?”

“I can hear it in your voice.”

“Good.” She swallowed. “Because I don’t know how to explain everything. Not now. The words won't—”

She pulled her sandal heel from a squelchy spot.

Crap.”

He took her elbow, while she lifted a foot to scrape off the mud with a leaf.

“We can talk about it later, then.”

She put her foot on the ground.  And looked at him. 

“So ‘later’ is still a . . . thing?”

He smiled and shook his head.

A duck led her little ones from the pond. The ducklings shook the water from their feathers. Waddling with a tender faith behind the mother, who charted a steady uphill course.

The couple followed.

She stepped over some goose shit. It splotched the flattened grass at regular intervals. Or maybe it was the ducks’ mess. At any rate—

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

At their approach, frogs popped like a chorus line into the murky water. She laughed and twined her fingers through his.

“Like there could be anything to fear on a day like this.”

He squeezed her hand in return.

“No,” he said, lifting his face to the sky. “Not on a day like this.”


Sunday, May 9, 2010

Interview with Author Stephen Parrish


I'm very pleased to welcome Stephen Parrish, author of The Tavernier Stones, as my guinea pig guest today.  It's my first interview on Murmurs!  So just imagine that ticking clock from 60 Minutes and me as Morley Safer (love that guy), and let's get started . . .

A couple of weeks ago now, I finished Steve's remarkable book about a global race to find the lost, legendary Tavernier stones.  Having enjoyed every minute of this intelligent, compelling adventure (completed it in just two days!), I jumped at the chance to ask Steve some questions during his whirlwind blog tour. 

For those of you who don't know him, Steve's worked hard to come by the title of "author."  How hard?  Well, check this out (if you don't click, just imagine The Odyssey and substitute a 16th rewrite in lieu of the six-headed monster).  But now that he is an author, Steve's not satisfied with just putting his book out there, and watching it sink or swim.  Nope, Steve is doing something truly incredible--he's giving away a diamond.  Be the first person to find an image of this diamond hidden on the internet, and you'll win your very own precious stone.  The details of this armchair treasure hunt--including instructions and clues--can be found on his website.  But you need to read the book to have a chance! 

Now onto those questions . . . 

So c'mon, Steve.  How about that first clue?

Have a look:


 






It's called a rail fence cipher, for reasons that will soon be obvious.  Start with the first letter in the top row.  Then move down to the first letter in the second row.  Then back up to the second letter in the first row.  Then back down again.  And so on.  You'll have to figure out the word breaks yourself.

What you extract is a phrase.  All of the clues, when solved, yield letters, words, phrases, or even substantial blocks of text that, when assembled in the right order, comprise a coherent little essay.  Embedded in the essay, in a way that itself is clearly (if diabolically) illustrated on the website, is the web location of the image of a diamond.  Be the first to find that image, and you win.
 

Ohhh . . . right.  I had it all along! 

THE TAVERNIER STONES is so successful at drawing together elements of cryptology, gemology, and cartography in a satisfying, compelling way.  Did you have a plan to extend that intrigue into an armchair treasure hunt even while writing the book?
 

No, the idea to do a treasure hunt based on the book came after the book was written.  In general I'm dissatisfied with, and even suspicious of, conventional book promotion methods and truisms.  I believe in the Ries/Trout Theorem: "History teaches that the only thing that works in marketing is the single, bold stroke."  I sought a single, bold stroke to promote my novel, and it was only natural, given the substance of the story, that it would have something to do with diamonds and codes. 

Mmm...diamonds.  I know that your experience as a jewelry salesman informs the novel, particularly the sections with David Freeman, who's as passionate about gems as he is unscrupulous.  Which of the legendary Tavernier stones would inspire you to risk life and limb to obtain it?    

Let's inventory a few: The Great Mogul Diamond weighed 280 carats when examined and sketched by Tavernier.  The Great Table Diamond weighed 242 carats.  Neither has been seen since.  The Mirror of Portugal was a 30 carat table-cut diamond stolen from the French Crown Jewels during the revolution, and missing since.  The whereabouts of the Pigot, a 49 carat oval-shaped diamond, has been a mystery since the 19th century.  Likewise the Florentine, a 137.25 carat yellow double-rose, first described by Tavernier.  And the Nizam, a dome-shaped stone of 277 carats.  Would I risk life and limb to unearth any of these?  Take your pick: 

1.  Nah, they're just rocks. 

2.  If you happen to be standing between them and me, I hope you like maple syrup, because you're about to become a pancake. 

I happen to love maple syrup.  But not as much as carats.  So, basically . . . you're toast.  (alright, so Morley wouldn't have gone there)

You know what I liked most about your book?  The Amish stuff.  Your protagonist, John Graf, has been kicked out of his Amish family, partly due to his curiosity about the world outside the community, and becomes obsessed with the Tavernier stones. For me, this internal struggle he has between his integrity and his quest is the heart of the novel.  Tell me something interesting you learned about the Amish while researching the book.   

I spent 18 months in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, the heart of Amish country.  People there still can direct interested parties to locations for the movie "Witness," starring Harrison Ford.  The setting is very much like the movie depicted it: semi tractor trailers waiting behind horse-drawn buggies stopped at traffic lights.  I was personally drawn to several aspects of Amish culture, especially simplicity (which I consider the underrated virtue), conviction to ideals, and a powerful sense of community.  This last aspect--the Amish don't pay into social security because they don't need it--is one the rest of society would do well to study. 

If there's one stereotype to dispel, it's that Amish people are isolationist.  It's true they don't like tourists wandering into their yards (who does?), but I was never treated with anything but open and frank courtesy. 

You had to cut a lot of this book to please the powers-that-be.  I know you cut characters you really loved.   Which one do you miss the most?  And does he/she haunt your dreams and/or threaten to kick your ass unless resurrected in another book?    
      
Her name was Lola, she was a showgirl.  Seriously, one prominent agent offered to represent the novel, but told me I'd have to cut a character named Lola, a professor of history at the University of Salamanca, Spain.  For that and similar reasons, I didn't sign with the agent.  Another agent, one who also offered to represent, told me Lola was her favorite character.  You figure it out. 

Ultimately Lola returned to Character Land to await a new role.  And I regret the deportation.  My instincts tell me I made a mistake by listening too trustingly to criticism.  Sometimes you're going to be in the minority, but nevertheless right.  Follow your instincts. 

Well said.  Ultimately, we have to believe in the story we tell.    

Alright, now for the lightning round, in which the questions go from frivolously frothy to shockingly shallow in the blink of an eye: 

Monet or Manet? 

Monet.  He was the best representative of the only truly valuable movement in modern art.  I never could understand Manet. 

Teddy or Franklin Roosevelt? 

No preference.  I have mixed feelings about both.  Oh, hell, Teddy, because of the bear. 

Katharine or Audrey Hepburn?   

These are hard questions!  I'll go with Katharine, because of all the rejections she faced early in her career (her autobio, ME, is very inspiring). 

James Joyce or A Sharp Stick in The Eye? 

A sharp stick in the eye, if you please.  And some rocks to chew.  And while you're at it, I've always wondered what it would feel like to be racked.  When you're done with all that, burn me at the stake, and take your time about it. 

Spin-the-bottle or Two Minutes in the Closet?   

The closet, naturally.  But I thought it was seven minutes.  There's something in Deuteronomy 28 about groping in the dark, but I don't think they had this context in mind. 

God or Being-unto-nothingness (nah, just pulling your leg)? 

What?  You're not going to ask about my tattoo?  

One last question to redeem myself: on your wonderful blog, you bring up your lovely daughter from time to time.  And there is a very touching dedication to her at the front of the book. How has she shared in this journey with you?  And what do you think it means to her to see her dad’s novel in print? 

I think if you'd asked me this question fourteen years ago, when she was born, I'd have predicted there'd be a permanent glow in her eyes and she'd wear the book on her head.  She did take it to school to show everyone, otherwise its publication met with little fanfare.  Because she was there during every stage; inking the pages was just the last step on the journey. 

A journey she's making herself.  It's probably inevitable that she would want to be a writer, having grown up in a house full of books and watching her dad go clickety-clack all day.  We often pitch plots to each other, sometimes just for fun, sometimes because we need help with one.  The pitch always begins with "What if  . . . ?" and the response, or criticism, with "Yeah, but how about if . . . ?" 

That's how you plot.  Work with beta readers you trust, make your story structurally sound before committing too many words, and ask the question "What if . . . ?" over and over, a thousand times if necessary, to pace the scenes and arc the gaps.  And if you're smart, you do it with your children, so they become famous authors, hopefully famouser than you, and support you in your old age.
  
I'm taking notes.  Thanks, Steve.  This was fun.  

Would it be too annoying if I linked to Amazon again?  Oops. 

In all honesty, Steve is the most supportive and generous of blogging buddies.  The reason so many of us are eager to help him promote his book has less to do with the book itself (though I genuinely loved it), than with the kind of person he is--warm, authentic, and always willing to step up for his friends.  So even if you don't buy his novel, I hope I've helped you make a new connection in our little community here.

Thanks for reading this far.  Now go get that diamond!!  

Sunday, April 4, 2010

About the Town



I have a new vignette titled "Sanatorium" to share with you all.  Only, it's not here.  Nope, you'll have to click on over to this new, super-terrific site, started by our good friend, Aniket Thakkar.  He has a cool idea for a community blog, in which all of us can take inspiration from a photo prompt, and work some magic via poetry or flash fiction.  Sounds like a good time, right?  Aniket is better than anyone I know at sharing his spark with others and embracing a true community of friends and writers.  I'm honored to take part.  So check it out. 

I'm not the first to take the plunge at Aniket's.  Joaquin Carvel already posted a poem over there.  I know that most of you are familiar with Joaquin's poetry.  But if, by chance, you aren't, then you're going to want to remedy that.  Like fast.  You can check out his blog, but I'd also highly recommend buying a copy of his poetry collection, Blood & Irony, either in book form or for the Kindle ($0.99? Really??).  Treat yourself.  Spring deserves some beautiful poetry.     

On the fiction front, Stephen Parrish's debut novel, The Tavernier Stones, can be pre-ordered before its May 1st publication date.  And now I'm going to let the reviewer from Library Journal take it away, because if I say anything nice about Steve, he'll just become more insufferable than he already is. 

L.J.: A reader wouldn't expect to find an Amish protagonist in an artifact adventure/thriller, but Parrish gives us exactly that in his debut novel. Cartographer John Graf, shunned by his Amish community for pursuing higher education, becomes embroiled in a mystery when the remains of 17th-century mapmaker Cellarius, the subject of centuries-old conjecture, emerge from a German bog. The discovery of his corpse and a ruby clutched in his death grip gives credence to the existence of the fabled Tavernier Stones, a cache of the world's most prized missing jewels. Graf joins forces with a gemologist-turned-grifter to solve a puzzle Cellarius encoded into his final and most famous map. As Graf approaches the solution, his life seems to unravel. Of course, Team Graf is not alone in its pursuit, and each treasure hunter has a story. VERDICT Parrish offers enough detail concerning cartography, cryptography, gemology, and Amish culture to satisfy the most rapacious fact junkie, and the puzzle is clever and the action plausible. If his subsequent novels are researched to the same degree, he could claim a legitimate position among the notables of this genre.

Kidding aside, Steve is a great writer and a natural storyteller.  It's tough to be both, but he's got it.  I can't wait to read this book.  And the next dozen or so, too.     

Okay.  Stay with me.  My long-time blogging buddy, Jaye Wells, is enjoying release week for the second book in her Sabina Kane vampire series.  This one's titled The Mage in Black and, from what I hear, is even awesomer than Red-Headed Stepchild, a novel that earned her many accolades, award nominations and slavish devotees. She's so big, she doesn't even really need me pushing her book.  But I like bringing up Jaye, so I can sigh sort of wistfully and say, "Yeah, I knew her back when . . ."

And finally, my husband, Paul, has gotten a head start on the e-book revolution presently shaking up the industry.  His three novels--Inexplicably, Love: Three Stories of Love in Real Time (my favorite), Haven, and In the Satchel, On the Train, Selling Dreams to Nancy--and his poetry collection, Such Deliberate Loveliness, are all available on the Kindle.  And for those of you lucky enough to have it, on the iPad, too.  You can also look for Such Deliberate Loveliness and In The Satchel, On The Train, Selling Dreams to Nancy in paperback.  For us old-fashioned types.   

And I know.  He's my husband.  So you can't believe a word I say about any of them.  But check them out, anyway.  

That's it!  Actually . . . that was a lot.  :)  But I think that the most rewarding parts of blogging are the friendships we make, and the support we can offer one another.  I belong to a vibrant and talented community that inspires me daily.  Thanks for being here.

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

Jewel



Our daughter turns 7 tomorrow.  This is a picture she drew a few months ago.  She likes cats.  A lot.  But I'm allergic to them.  To the point that my eyes have swelled shut on a couple occasions.  This is a sore reality for our daughter.  At one time, she weighed the pros and cons of trading me in for a kitten.  I won by a whisker.  

Every day, at the end of school, our daughter's class does something called "Roses and Thorns."  Basically, it's an opportunity to tell what they enjoyed most about their day.  As well as what they didn't like.  And every afternoon, since the first day of first grade, our daughter has rolled open her palms, as if she were presenting a gift, and told her classmates, "My day unfolded like a jewel." 

I know.  Cute, huh?  At least the first five times or so.  But it's her thing now.  She's proud of it.  And I hope that every day, there's some truth behind the line.  Her smile usually tells me that's the case, as I watch her hurrying down the hall to me.  And my heart clenches up a little every time at this ritual that's repeated millions of times across the world, with other schoolkids and parents.  Every time.  We're all bound by this intense vulnerability of parenting.  We all need to cup it in our palms.   

I wasn't prepared for the pain of childbirth, and I wasn't prepared for the greater pain of mothering.  I was naive about what it demanded.  But that's okay.  I used to give myself a lot of grief for my shortcomings.  Lately, instead, I've been trying to squeeze down on my moments with them.  To recognize that 7 will, in the blink of her long-lashed eye, double into 14.  That those smiles at seeing her mom at the end of the school day will become a little less brilliant.  That someday, it won't be there at all.  

It's a gift to see your child grow, to develop character and personality.  I loved her at 1, but it was a less personal kind of love, if that makes any sense.  I loved her because she needed me to.  Now I know who she is.  For instance, I know that she loves space, but doesn't want to be an astronaut because she might have to wear a diaper at lift-off.  I know that she hums while eating dinner.  I know that she needs me to squeeze out her bad dreams, before she can fall asleep at night.  I love her more for all of her -isms.   

And like any parent, I love the chance to get all sentimental about my kid.  So thanks for humoring me.  :)  And no, I'm not going to pull out my wallet (er, iPod actually) and make you look at pictures!

Happy Birthday, sweetie.  May your day unfold into the jewel you already are. 


(She was almost a St. Paddy's baby.  So this song seems
apt tonight.  It's from the wonderful film, "Once.")

Saturday, March 13, 2010

Surrender



She kisses him.

She kisses the tips
of his fingers,
where words
hang
like a fruit
to work
in her mouth

She kisses the sail
of his chest,
and a surge
from below
tugs at the line
with a
skip of the
beat

She kisses the notch
of his neck,
where a violence
of breath
and blood
pushes against
the bud
of her
tongue

She kisses the flesh
of his ear,
sucks on his name—
it's her favorite
song,
she plays it
again

She kisses the lid
of his eye,
so that her heat
might sink—
like a stone
kissing water,
before its
dark plunge—
deep into
dreams

She kisses his

She


He kisses her lips—
she gives them
up—
so ripe
and wet
and heavy
with love

Monday, March 1, 2010

Dr. Strange-love or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Fake Quantum Mechanics*


(These characters are from my work-in-progress. As background, here's a condensed description of the book: Anna and Colin, soulmates who have never met face-to-face, must decide whether to endure the heartbreak of remaining apart.  For the sake of others, but also to protect the transcendental relationship they've forged in the ether between them.)


I am a wave.

You are a particle.

I am a song.

You are a musician.

I am what-could-be.

You are right-now.

I am a dream?

You are illusion, and a hard reality.  You are pleasure, and pain. 

I am in love with you.

You think you know me.

I am in love with you.

You’re committed to another man.

My wavelength is long.  It stretches an ocean.

So that at any one moment, neither of us can know where you truly dwell.

Colin.

What?

You feel me now?

. . .

Colin?

Anna.

You feel me now.

I feel you now.

Where do you feel me?

All over.  I feel you all over.  

What do I feel like?

A song.

. . .

You feel like a song.

I am a wave.

Yes.  But I am also a particle.  Many millions of light years away.

We will never meet?

. . .

We will never meet.

Are you familiar with Schrödinger's cat?

Yes.

If we were to meet, the wave would collapse upon itself.  Everyone who observed it would see something defined and ugly.  Including us.  The cat would be dead inside its box. 

It might be alive.

Anything's possible.  From here.

We are cowards.

We are smart.   

Colin?

Yes.

I want to touch you.  I want to know what that's like.  

Then touch me, Anna.

My mind is an ocean locked inside its skull. And yet--

Darling.    

Our slightest momentum stirs the most magnificent waves.


-------


* Seriously. I don't know what I'm talking about. But if you're interested in wave-particle duality, Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle, or that slippery puddy-cat, check out these handy Wikipedia links. And for all you smarty-pants out there, feel free to humiliate me in the comments section. In my defense, I was a bio major. Hey, we were cuter than the physicists. Very possibly, probably. 

Tuesday, February 23, 2010