Toy Boat

We're sailing along the middle bookshelf, making fair for the dictionary with a postage-stamp sail flying astern. Jack and I, or at least our photo, are nestled between the masts.
Of all the Christmas gifts opened, this one holds a special place.
My father has a downsized workshop behind his home, a shed where his reduced collection of tools, his fishing gear and gardening materials and beloved bluegrass music have converged. It was there some time before Christmas that he decided to build us a sailboat.
Now, Jack and I had been joking that all we wanted for Christmas was a sailboat. So he provided one, crafted from white vinyl siding and dowels and scrap wood. It has a 2005 NC registration and a name on the stern, Ja-Va, from the first letters of our first names. (Not a bad idea - I've been hoping that a sold novel would provide the cash for "Advance Payment.")
Dad calls it a gag gift. I call it part of that tradition of the lovingly, and beloved, handmade - the stick pony he made for me when I was three, the embroidery kit that a hopeful but misguided grandmother gave, the still life of plastic bird, dried grass and modeling clay that I created for my mother in a half-pint Mason jar.
It's a great boat.
Thanks, Dad.

Remembering to Walk

It's the fear of falling that gets you.
The fear that the ground won't be solid, that your feet will slide, your knees buckle.
It keeps you sitting down, maybe lying down.
Metaphorically.
I've been hunting around the outside of a new novel for some time. The plot arc is there, the characters, but it just wouldn't start.
Oh, yeah, I've been busy with a new job. With planning two major conferences. With travel writing and case study writing and all sorts of stuff. But after writing five-plus novels and seeing two of them into print, it seemingly should get easier to start, easier to enter the dark forest with the assurance that the twisting path will emerge on the far side.
It isn't. The alchemy of experience and creation is no less mysterious now than it was 15 years ago.
I wrote journal entries from my characters, made a stab at the first chapter. It's there. Somewhere. But right now where I can start is in the middle.
Damon is walking into the car dealership...
The ground is far from certain, but at least my feet are back on the path.

All that glitters?

Hey, a comment! Not so often seen outside the political blogs. I think the one to my previous post may have wandered in from that region.
I enjoy sharing travel stories with other people. Must be because I didn't get travel much until I was past 40.
Jack and I (we were on our honeymoon in 2003) choose a nice destination to visit once a year rather than spending on a big house or an SUV. But any mention of France seems to bring out the freedom fries crowd and charges of elitism. I therefore establish my "credentials" ... grew up blue-collar, a child of factory workers and dirt farmers. Worked my way through a cow college and was a newspaper reporter on a small daily most of my life.
Appearances are not all what they seem.
It's American elitism to think that traveling outside our national boundaries is either a)too difficult or b) too expensive. We spent less visiting France than most folks spend at Disneyland, by going off-season and eating and staying the places local people would.
The French people were very kind and accommodating, perhaps because we used our bit of French and always said hello and please and thank you.
Politeness goes a long way.

A different kind of Christmas

I was waiting on lunch at a booth in the Christmas market at Monte Carlo - cream of asparagus soup and an interesting sandwich of fried potato cakes around a ham center. Not the usual fare, although chestnuts were roasting nearby on an open hearth.
This was 2003, the day sunny and cool, the flocked pine trees showing off their best imitation of snow while the blue Mediterranean sparkled past the megayachts in the harbor. A giant Santa and his mechanized reindeer presided over a landscape of wooden huts with gifts and goodies. Especially goodies - we topped off lunch with skewers of fresh tropical fruit dipped in white and dark chocolate.
Christmas in Paris and Nice - and Monaco - was a great break from the wearying holiday crush of the United States. The streets were adorned with strings of lights, and each city had its own offerings, from the trucked-in snow at Menton to the huge outdoor ice rink in the heart of Paris to the child-centered market in Nice. Christmas music was present but muted, Santa the same. "Joyeaux Noel!" shopkeepers sang out.
The shops were active but not frantic, except for Monoprix, which is a French amalgam of Wal-Mart and Woolworth's and Sears. Many people shopped at the stalls along the streets. Jack bought a black cap and I bought a white lambswool scarf from a street vendor on the Champs Elysee. I tossed the scarf around my throat the other day when the air was raw, and remembered it all.

Karma, not instant

Writers are prey to all sorts of schemes, scams, ill-advised plans, well-intentioned offers and more. We need someone to watch out for our best interests. We look for agents to represent our work and guide us through the arcane business of publishing, distribution and promotion.
That desire/need for help can cost the unwary.
Alan Wechsler of the Albany Times-Union reported on Dec. 6:
"Six months after being accused of taking thousands of dollars from unpublished authors who desperately wanted a book, Catskill resident Martha Ivery pleaded guilty to all charges Monday.
"Ivery admitted guilt to 15 counts of mail fraud in connection with taking money from would-be authors. She also pleaded guilty to one count of credit card fraud and one count of bankruptcy fraud, all felonies, in U.S. District Court in Albany...
"Ivery defrauded prospective authors from 1997 to 2002, prosecutors said. She presented two different identities: publisher of Press-TIGE Publishing Co., and Kelly O'Donnell Literary Agency Inc.
"After hooking authors by advertising in Writer's Digest magazine and on the Internet, the O'Donnell agency represented the authors and led them to the publishing company. Fee requests kept coming, but books were rarely published."
The full-text story is available here.
I encountered this agent/publishing house setup years back and didn't bite, but I know that some people aching to publish saw this as a way into print.
Ivery faces up to 20 years in prison for the fraud charges, but I don't think a jail sentence does much to heal wounded vanity and emptied bank accounts.
Be careful walking through those big woods ....