True Life Romance

I have recently met a new friend who had the most romantic story to tell me about how she and her husband eventually found new love together. It made me realize that sometimes real life can be as good as a novel. 

My friend, Cindy, first met Dave in grade school. "He was Zorro for Halloween and my girlfriend and I were trying to figure out who was in the costume. This was back when kids wore their costumes to school and had parties for Halloween. "We had pretty well guessed who everybody was, except for Zorro. Then  we finally figured out it was the new boy, Dave, and I told my girlfriend that I thought he was the cutest thing." 

That was in fourth grade and by fifth grade Dave must have thought Cindy was pretty cute, too, because he asked her out on a date. "He was the first boy to ever ask me out," Cindy said.

"You went out on a date in fifth grade?" I asked.

Cindy laughed. "No. The teacher found out and told our parents who put the kabosh on it."

Even though her mother didn't let the date happen, she must have thought it was special because she wrote in her journal, "Asked out on her first date by Dave."  Cindy didn't know that until much later when she got her mother's journal after her mother died.

Cindy never dated Dave in high school, but  he dated her best  friend they were part of a large group of young people who bonded and formed a social circle that stayed close through the years and the miles that eventually separated them. Cindy married someone else and lived in the Chicago area where she taught school and raised her family. Dave was in Springfield,  Illinois. They reconnected later and the couples became good friends and socialized  for a number of years. There was no romantic stuff going on but later Dave said that he thought her first husband thought he had feelings for her. She asked him how her husband could suspect something when nothing was happening, and Dave said, "A man knows when another man has the hots for his wife."

Cindy laughed again in the telling of the story. "I never knew. Dave was respectful enough of my marriage never to make his feelings known."

Eventually both Dave and Cindy became victims of divorce. "I say victims because neither of us wanted it, but our partners decided the marriages were over."

Years later they got in contact again. Dave had moved to Texas and had been divorced for about 11 years. Cindy had been divorced for six. "Our first conversation was about how happy we were as bachelor and bachelorette and we did not want to get involved again. We both had been burned pretty badly."

Cindy and Dave stayed in touch as friends and were planning a get together for the old gang. The reunion was set for some time in June, but about mid-April Dave told her he didn't want to wait until June to see her. He had come up to Illinois to help plan the reunion, and he told her he didn't want to wait until June to see her again. "He stayed the weekend and my daughter had planned a big dinner so friends and family could meet him." Cindy said. "I woke up the next morning to find him on my computer.  I asked him what he was doing and he said he was making plane reservations to come back again."

He did go back two weeks later. They were sitting at the breakfast bar in her house and he said,  "What do you think? Would you be willing to give it a go again?"

"Yeah I think I would."

Dave went in to call his mother and asked, "Mom am I old enough now to date her?"

The couple got married July 7, 2001 on a lovely garden on the lake in Austin.  On their second anniversary Dave gave Cindy a card with the inscription, "Grow old along with me, the best is yet to be."

The quote is from Robert Browning and it meant so much to Cindy that she framed the card along with the class picture from fourth grade and gave it to Dave for their fourth anniversary.

I love stories of new-found love. That's what my novel, Play it Again, Sam is about, and it was inspired by a true story that another friend shared with me.

What about you? Do you know a story about a new-found love? I'd love to hear about it.

Cats, Cats, Everywhere

I came into my office to write this blog article and one of my cats, Little John, who has definitely outgrown his name, was sprawled on my desk in front of my monitor. This has become one of his favorite places of late, and he sprawls with his tummy open to the breeze from the overhead fan. Sometimes he reaches out and puts his paws on the keyboard, or his tail slowly swishes back and forth across it, and I get to try to type in between passes. 

Would he consider moving his tail?

No.

John is just one of three cats we own. Oops, I mean that live here. Usually, they like to be outside during the day where they might catch a gopher or mole for a snack and then find a nice place in the shade for a nap, but the recent heatwave in Texas has driven them inside. I'm never sure where I am going to find one of them sprawled, and they definitely like a hard surface that is much cooler than the carpeting. Although I have never seen a cat curl up on a rug like a dog, anyway.

Misty, known as Mama Cat, and her son, Orca like to hang out on the ledge of the half-wall between the living room and the entryway. The way the cats are posed there with their paws hanging down reminds me of those ornaments that are made to perch on the edge of a fireplace mantle. We have three of those half-walls in our living room, and I never know on which one I will find Orca sprawled.

Mama only joins him occasionally. More often she prefers the counter in our bathroom. That has been her favorite place now for almost two weeks, and she really finds it interesting to watch all the things these humans do by the sinks.

She helps me wash my face and brush my teeth. She helps my husband count his pills and fill pill holders. And she loves it when I get out hair clips and combs. She's convinced that they are there just for her to play with and knock on the floor.

When the heat wave breaks, and I hope it does soon, the cats will start spending more time outdoors, but until then, we never know where we might find one of them snoozing away.

I want to be a cat.

Service dogs never stop serving

When I was just out of high school, I worked for a veterinarian and had many occasions to see service dogs. The very first time I saw a golden retriever was when his owner brought him in for shots, and I was so impressed with the noble dignity of these dogs trained to assist humans in so many ways.

 

I lived and worked in Michigan just north of Detroit, and found out that Leader Dogs for the Blind were trained in Rochester, not too far from where I worked. I made it a point to go there whenever I could to watch the training and pick up some tips for training my dogs. I still use some of their methods, which are based on positive rewards and repetition. There are no choke collars or harsh treatment used. It was incredible to watch those dogs change from rambunctious young pups to mature, dependable leader dogs.    

What I never thought about at the time was what happens to those service dogs when the master or mistress dies. And I only thought about it recently because a friend shared a touching story with me about the devotion of one of those dogs. She had just attended the memorial service for one of her friends who had a dog trained to be a companion for someone with emotional issues. The dog had lived with this family for five years and had formed a close bond with the man who suffered from post-traumatic stress. At the gathering after the memorial service, the family kept noticing how the dog was pacing and softly whining. The dog would walk to the front door, then back to a chair where his master used to sit, then back to the door.

After watching this for a little while, one of the daughters had the idea to put the dog in his "uniform." So they got the saddlebag and harness and put them on him. According to my friend, the minute the dog was in the uniform, he jumped to attention like a Marine coming on duty. Then the dog walked over and put his head on the widow's feet. He stayed near her for the rest of the afternoon.

My friend said that watching the dog was one of the most poignant experiences she had had in a long time, and it brought tears to my eyes as she related the story.

I asked my friend what was going to happen to the dog now, and she said that her friend will be able to keep the dog. She has been taking him out for daily walks with his "uniform" on, hoping that soon he will realize that his job now is to be with her and share the memory of the man they both miss.

 Since we all love a good story, I thought this one was worth sharing.

Writing Tools Evolve

On a writer's list I belong to, we have been sharing stories about the things we used when we first started writing. The thread evolved into the subject heading of "Geezer Stories" as it turned out many of us started writing longhand and then typing manuscripts on old manual typewriters. My first one was a 1940's vintage Royal, and I still have it displayed in my office. (I wrote about that on my first post here on the blog)  I was a terrible typist so it took forever to type even a short story, let along 3 or 4 hundred pages of a book.

I soon found a typist who was reasonably priced.

From there, I graduated to a small PC and a gigantic printer that weighed about 30 pounds and was about 4 feet long. It used the continuous roll computer paper and printed about a page every ten minutes. It took all day to print out a book - but, hey, I didn't have to type it or pay someone to type it and I could get my kids to help me separate the pages.

Now I have a powerful PC and two printers, neither of which weigh more than 10 pounds, and I also have a eeePC Notebook, so I am truly into the latest technology. Even so, I still like to have various notebooks on hand. I have several  in use - maybe because I have been a journalist for so long. No self-respecting newspaperwoman is caught without one.

I have one notebook that goes with me to interviews. Yes, I still do it the old-fashioned way. It is a small, Steno-type notebook that is easy to flip open and take notes during the interview. I tend to keep those notebooks. I don't know why, but I think it was a habit that started because most of us who worked at a newspaper hung on to them in case anyone ever questioned the facts of a story we wrote.

I have another notebook on my desk that I use to jot notes about things to do or whatever needs jotting. It is small, about 4 by 7 and fits nicely beside my monitor.

I have another big notebook with five sections that has notes for each of the major projects I am working on. It also has pockets where I stash newspaper clippings I'm using for research and anything else that I find interesting. People keep telling me I can do all this with computer programs that organize all your stuff, but I like my system. Not only is it a routine that I am comfortable with, there is something about putting words on paper that makes me feel so much like a writer. I don't get that same feeling when words appear on my monitor screen.


What about you? What tools do you have to write with? Have you embraced the technology that helps keep you organized?

Where's the Beef? - Contrast in Writing

Drama is all about contrasts.

I thought about that when considering the fact that two weeks ago we had several inches of snow here in East Texas, and this past week spring has sprung. The daffodils are popping up all over in pastures and along the side of the roads, and people are tilling the soil for spring gardens.

Talk about extremes.

And maybe that is what works best in fiction.

I've never been much for extremes. I've always been a middle of the road kind of person and for the longest time I didn't realize how much that affected my writing. For instance, I have never been comfortable with anger or violence, so it has always been hard for me to let a character really go to an extreme.

That was first pointed out to me when I was writing a film script with a director in New York and there was a scene where two people had to get into a verbal fight. This was a pivotal scene in the couple's relationship, and I took them to the brink, but then backed them off. When I turned those pages over to the director, he looked at me and said, "You call this a fight?"

He then goaded me into a verbal sparring match, and when we were finished, he smiled and said, "Now that's  a fight.."

I learned a lot working with that director. Whenever I would be pulling back in a scene, he would always ask me "Where's the beef?" That was my cue to ratchet it up a notch or two, or three, or four.

I hear his voice when I'm working now, but it still isn't easy for me to let those extremes happen. In my current work in progress, I have a scene where a killer attacks a young woman, and my first attempt to write it was... well, pathetic. So right after I plant my spring garden - which should have been in the ground already - I will go and find the beef.

What do you struggle with most in your writing?

What do you do when...

... you don't know what to write about?

I totally forgot until five minutes ago that it was my day to post here. Since we started doing this blog, I have tried to plan ahead for my day and at least get something in rough draft, so I am not caught up short on the 21st of the month.

That didn't happen this month because I am busy finishing a book and editing another for a client. Hardly leaves times to breathe. But I didn't want to  leave this space blank today, so I will share an excerpt from my humorous memoir, A Dead Tomato Plant and a Paycheck. 

This is from the chapter: Yes, I Really am Doing Something Important. Enjoy...

Years ago when I first started writing professionally – getting paid for what I did -- my children were all young and the formidable task of writing around them was daunting.

 I remember one time in particular when one of the twins, Danielle, lovingly known then  as Chicky, had just settled down beside me to help or hinder my writing.  She was two at the time and contributed a few words of dialogue to my effort, consisting mainly of a few well-placed “Mommys,” spiced with a few unintelligible words or praise or criticism.

When she left the room, I breathed a sigh of relief and raced to get a few thoughts on paper before she came back. But alas, she’d gone into the kitchen to get the box of cereal I left on the counter and was off sharing it with her brother.

Should I have been delighted she was sharing for a change? Or angry because she snitched the cereal and hid in the laundry room? If I hadn’t beaten our dog with my child-psychology book years before that, I could have looked for the answer. (A note to all the dog-lovers who are about to call the Humane Society. This was Ruffy, and he was much larger and harder bound than the book. Plus, he loved the extra attention.)

That’s the way my writing life went for years. The moment I thought I had the most subtle, cynically amusing thought, matching the excellence of an Erma Bombeck or a Dave Barry mapped out in my head, I was interrupted.

I remember thinking that if it weren’t for my kids, I would’ve been famous years ago. I could’ve sat beside Johnny Carson when he was still doing the Tonight Show and chatted amicably about my latest thought-provoking novel or my charming little anecdotes on life, If it wasn’t for the endless “MOMMYS”.

“Mommy, Mommy, Mommy…”
“Mom, what is…?”
“Mom, can I have a snack?”
“Mom, would you tie my shoe?”
“Mother, if you don’t keep those twins out of my room…”
“Mom, why is it raining outside?”
 “Mom, where is my homework…my lunch…my shoes…my coat?”
 “Mom, if you’re not doing anything important, will you…”

And, believe it or not, I was a lot more prolific back then.

The Birth of a Writer

At age ten I decided to be a writer. My friend and I were in our favorite reading spot, a small clearing in a wooded area with a blanket between us and a colony of ants. I hugged my just-finished book to my chest, watched wisps of clouds drift across the blue expanse of sky, and relived every precious moment of the story.

“I’d love to do this,” I said.

“What?” Karen continued to read and munch on a cookie.

“Write stories. Books.”

I watched for her reaction and it took about three seconds for the words to sink in. Then she closed her book and sat up. “Then let’s do it. We’ll be famous.”

Fueled by mutual enthusiasm we started putting words on paper in simplistic efforts to create our own essence of the books we loved so much. My fantasy was to write a story so wonderful it would inspire some future ten-year-old girl to spend an entire afternoon sprawled in a wooded hideaway savoring my book. Maybe she’d even decide to perpetuate the species.

We carried our dream through high school and into college, where we tried to adopt a Bohemian attitude that seemed fitting for “future famous writers.” I went to a boring Community College, but Karen went to Wayne State University in Detroit, a creative oasis inhabited by artists, dancers, musicians, and WRITERS. When I visited her, we’d put together some “appropriate” outfits and join a party where people loudly debated the merits of Joyce in one room and read original poetry in another. We were both so naïve, we had no idea that the blue haze hanging over these rooms was NOT from the incense.

What I didn’t know then, and took me too many years to learn, was that there’s nothing magical about establishing a writing career. I wasn’t going to become a better writer by absorbing that funky atmosphere. (Or the blue haze) No publisher was ever going to be there to discover me. And I’d never write a single thing if I didn’t stay home now and then and ratchet a piece of paper into my old Underwood manual.

Sure, there’s magic when the words just flow and you know these last ten pages are the best you’ve ever written. There’s magic when your characters start talking to each other and the lines zing. There’s even a bit of magic in finding that one word that says so perfectly what you’re trying to convey.

But there’s no magic on the business side of writing. Sometimes there's luck – being in the right place at the right time with the right project. More often, success comes after diligently studying the marketplace, editing and rewriting your book until you never want to look at a single word again. And then learning how to promote your work.

We who put pen to paper or fingertips to keyboard, do so out of a driving need to say something. Thoughts, ideas, opinions, feelings stir around inside us seeking expression. If we never make an investment of time and effort into the ‘business’ of writing, our expression will have a severely limited audience.

I may never be as famous as that long-ago dream envisioned. And I may never earn enough money to buy a country estate and wile away my golden years in obscene luxury. But I can take comfort and pride in the fact that I did, and still do, face that blank sheet of paper everyday and make myself put words on it.

And I’d like to think that Karen is doing the same thing. I lost track of her before I ever had the chance to tell her she was much better at it than I am.

-------------------
Maryann Miller is a freelance writer and editor and her next book, Open Season, is coming out in December from Five Star, Cengage/Gale. It is a police-procedural mystery. Her romance, Play It Again, Sam, is an e-book from Uncial Press.

Hello from yet another Maryann...

One of the most fun things about this blog has been discovering all the variations of the spelling of Maryann. I think I am the only one with this spelling, which doesn't mean people have not tried to make it two words, or add an 'e' at the end. Most of the time I don't mind the liberties taken with the spelling, as long as my name is correct on my books and on my royalty checks.

For my introductory post I thought I would describe my workspace just a bit and tell you about some things that mean a lot to me.

I have an old Royal typewriter - vintage 1940 - that I bought when I discovered that I had to type manuscripts to submit short stories to magazines. Mind you, I did not buy the typewriter new, so I am not older than dirt. Just close. I bought it second hand from the drugstore where my boyfriend worked.

I had submitted a story, written out in my neatest handwriting and submitted it to Redbook Magazine. The editor there was kind enough to send it back - I didn't know about SASE's either - with a note that handwritten manuscripts were not accepted. So I bought the typewriter and got the story typed and resent, but they still didn't buy it. I really thought that was all it was going to take, so you can imagine my disappointment.

On the wall above the old typewriter, I have framed certificates from contests I have won, as well as a framed copy of the first check I earned for a short story that was published in a national magazine - not Redbook. This one was in Lady's Circle. I thought about framing the check itself, but my husband reminded me of how many groceries we could buy if I cashed it.

Just to the left of my computer monitor is a window, and I must say that can get quite distracting. We live out in the country, so all kinds of birds, bunnies, and other critters make their way through the yard. Of course, I must stop writing now and then to take a picture.

Above my monitor is an array of cards, cartoons and pictures that all have a special meaning. Some are cards I received congratulating me on a new book, others are special because of the pictures on them. I have a dear friend who is a sculptor and she sketches on small cards and sends them out to brighten someone's day.

I'm a horse lover, so I have one whole wall of my office covered with pictures and postcards of horses. I even have an emblem from an old Ford Mustang that I found on my property when I was hiking one day. It is up there with all the horses.

I work at a computer desk with a hutch to my right. The hutch is filled with knick knacks, the most prized ones being a collection of angels my husband has gifted me with over the years. The desk itself is a mess of papers, but I do kinda have some order to my disorder. Which works well until one of the cats decides the top of my desk is his or her favorite spot for today.

John, who started life with us as a kitten and was called Little John, no longer fits that moniker. He is the most frequent visitor to my office, usually when he wants to eat. He will jump up between me and the monitor screen, trying to make me stop. If that doesn't work, he will plop down on the desk and "accidentally" push a few things off. That's when I know it is time to quit and go feed the cats.

When I am not fighting with the cats for space, I work pretty much all day in my office, and I am glad it is big enough for me and all my mess, as well as the cats. I am Managing Editor of Winnsborotoday.com, an online community magazine. I blog regularly on my blog, It's Not All Gravy, and I am with a wonderful group of editors who do The Blood Red Pencil blog. We are doing a series this week on sex scenes and love scenes that is quite interesting.

And, oh, yes, now and then I work on a new book. LOL

For those of you who are dying to know more about me and my books, there is a lot of information on my Web site, and I have put the covers of two of my books up here; Play It again, Sam, and One Small Victory.

I am really thrilled to be part of this talented group of writers and look forward to getting to know them better, as well as all the romance fans out there.