What Are You Reading?

We are both still reading Blood Born by Linda Howard and Linda Winstead Jones. It is FABULOUS, but we are slow because we're in first draft?

What are you reading?

Write What You Know or What I Learned About The Prom

Write what you know. We've all heard it. Some believe it. I do not. If people only wrote what they knew, there would be no books about vampires, space aliens, and zombies. There would be no Lord of the Rings, Charlotte's Web, or Winnie the Pooh. No Peter Pan. I could go on but I should probably stop. I'm trying to work on stopping after I've made my point. It's not working too well.

Anyway. I believe: Write what you know, what you can research, or what you can make up and make believable. I'm not scared of any of that. But this weekend I had myself a little epiphany: What's scary is what I just think I know.

Though she hasn't plotted anything and I haven't pantsed anything (much) about our next story, Plotter and I know the characters, the setting, and the basic premise. Do not tell her I've been running some scenes in my head. She wouldn't like it. One of those scenes involves a football coach who is forced to chaperon a high school prom.

I thought I knew about proms—until this past weekend. I shudder to think what I would have written. Before you jump to conclusions, let me assure you I did not actually attend a prom. I did, however, go to a fairly new (at least where I come from) prom ritual known as Lead Out. This is where the young lady and her escort are announced and they walk arm-in-arm across a stage in front of an audience. They, then, have their picture taken and move on.

I would like to claim that I had the good sense to attend this event because I realized that the two proms I attended many years ago would not have much bearing on what goes on today. But, alas, no. It was all about my godson, Precious Angel. Though sophomore boys do not usually attend the prom, Precious Angel was invited by a beautiful young lady who is a junior. Precious Angel enjoyed this rare honor because he is sweet, kind-hearted, well-mannered, and gets excellent grades. Okay. That's a lie. Those things are true of him but, let's face it, he was invited because he plays football, is built like a brick outhouse, and—thanks to years of Junior Cotillion—dances like he could be on Dancing with the Stars if he didn't drip so much testosterone.

Prom has changed. No corsages. Nosegays. A few of the young ladies had obviously consulted Bjork for fashion advice, but, for the most part, they were lovely, fresh, and dressed age appropriately. There was a girl wearing a cammo gown and couple in matching Converse tennis shoes. I don't know what they were thinking, but I'm sure they thought it through because they looked pretty happy about it.

It was the male attire that really surprised me. Even Precious Angel who, thanks again to years of Junior Cotillion, understands that correct male formal attire is black and white, (do not pass go, do not collect any colors) got with the prom program and wore a tie and vest that matched his date. And who knew there were no many white tuxedos in the whole of the world? I could almost hear the ice cream truck bell and taste an Eskimo Pie. And did you know you can rent white top hats and canes? I might have been at Almack's. I was a little jealous on Precious Angel's behalf that he had no props. Maybe next year. Maybe I'll see about getting him a chariot.

All in all, it was wonderful. Two young ladies were escorted by their fathers and one brave beautiful girl walked proudly on that stage alone with her head held high. I suspect my eyes were not the only ones that filled when a gallant young gentleman wheeled his date onto the stage in a wheelchair. It was easy to see the chair was not temporary.

I love a rule. The only thing I love better than a rule is an etiquette rule. But it was great to see rules broken in the name of fun and youth. I think they are better than my generation. I'm glad I learned that before I write my prom scene.

Which really, Plotter, won't be for a long time. Way after conference. Probably even next year, or the year after.

Have you learned anything by accident?

Genre Hopping

It occurred to me this weekend that I am a Genre Hopper. I know this phrase is usually used to describe a writer who goes from genre to genre to genre writing different books, but in this case I am applying it to myself as a reader. Anyone who has read even just one of our Wednesday blogs where Pantster and I list what we are reading can see that I am very eclectic in my reading habits. I already knew this. What I realized this weekend is that even within the genre of romance I am a Genre Hopper.

Sometimes I am in love with the paranormal. I mean when you think about having a lover who has had hundreds of years to perfect his skills, what’s not to love about that??? Other times nothing will get me through the night but a soldier book. I do so love a man in uniform story! (A man out of the uniform story is often even better!) This type of romance tends to be contemporary and is often full of suspense and danger. So there’s really another genre – suspense. Of course, sometimes-said man is in a different century. So there I am smack dab in the historical genre. I am especially fond of those British Red-Coats and the gallant men of Confederate States of America. And one of my favorite genres of all time is the Cowboy Story. I love a well written Cowboy or Western Romance whether it is a historical about “how the west was won” or a contemporary like Linda Howard’s Mackenzie’s Mountain, possibility the best Cowboy story ever written!

I guess at the end of the day the important truth is that I love to read almost all of the genres of romance. I love the idea that across all times and cultures everyone deserves a Happily Ever After.

Are you a Genre Hopper?
Do you read in multiple genres even within romance?

How Do You Spell Priss?

I knew spell check didn't know all the words but I didn't know it had no soul until earlier this week. Imagine my surprise when it did not recognize priss, as in, "Lou Anne prissed away. She was known for her prissing."

What? Priss is one of the best words in the English language. They wanted me to use pressed and pressing. Not even close. Not only that but, while my online dictionary recognizes prissy, it does not like priss or its variants so much. How can you be prissy if you can't priss? I also consulted the 1961 edition of Funk and Wagnalls Standard Dictionary, International Edition, Volume 2, Lobate-Z. (It was handy. I put my feet on it while at my desk to keep my legs from going to sleep.) Same result. It liked prissy but nothing else.

I can understand why it might not be in the thesaurus, as it knows no peer. I discussed this very matter with Oldest Friend and Plotter. Oldest Friend suggested that sashay might a synonym for priss, but I say no. Sashay is kind of a lazy sexy saunter. Prissing is all about attitude. In the end, she agreed, as did Plotter.

Everybody knows what it means. Several years ago, I happened to be complaining to one of the Grand Dames of my small town that I had been summoned for federal jury duty at the same time I had a vacation to Puerto Rico planned. The Guy had spent a fortune on scuba lessons and gear and we had some plane tickets. She regaled me with the story of how she got out of jury duty once. It had nothing to do with my situation, but I enjoyed it, nonetheless. It was something about her daddy going to prep school with the judge. (I can assure you that, of all the things my daddy did, going to prep school was not one of them.) Anyway, she ended with saying, "If I were you, I'd priss myself down to that Federal Courthouse in Birmingham and have a talk with them."

Well, I did not priss myself down there. At the time, I was too busy working full time and running the Junior League. But we both knew what she meant and we didn't need a dictionary to help us out with it.

I hate loose ends so, for those of you who might wonder, I did write a letter, photocopy my reservations, and priss myself to the post office to mail it. I did not have to go to jury duty until a year later. But that's another blog.

We've all been surprised by spell check. What's your story?
And, if you have no spell check story (or even if you do), feel free to comment anyway. Maybe you've got a prissing story.

Mother's Day Rituals

Last night I went shopping for my mother a Mother’s Day present. In my family, what really matters is getting my mother a gift she wants. We don’t suffer from any of this “it’s the thought that counts” crap. This is often a problem because my mother changes her mind about everything and gift requests are no different. She told me weeks ago that flowers would be a nice treat. Then she wanted money to spend on something for her garden, and just last night she called me with instructions to go to the mall and get her some “mint green towels.” So this afternoon I followed her directive and purchased her some green towels. I hope she doesn’t change her mind again because I put the towels in the post today.

This experience caused me to think about the varied rituals Mother’s Day. Some families get together for a big meal. Others go out to eat; in fact, it is traditionally the Sunday of the year that the most people eat out on. One of my friends refused to participate in the holiday because he said that a card company invented it to sell more cards-perhaps he is right.

In the South we have the strange ritual of “Decoration Day.” For those of you who are unfamiliar with this phenomenon it is when cemeteries are cleaned up in the days leading up to Decoration Day and subsequently on the actual Decoration Day the graves are decorated with new floral arrangements and plants. When I was a child, some families I knew even got to get new clothes and shoes for Decoration Day like it was Easter. I was always a little jealous of them because I always wanted another pair of shoes. In my family we had to go to the cemetery on Saturday to put the decorations out then go back on Sunday before church to make sure everything “still looked nice.” Finally, we went back after church to visit with everyone else who had decorated their family graves. People visited back and forth around the cemetery--oooohing and aahhing over how “nice” things looked. Needless to say as a child I HATED this ritual. Looking back on the experience now I can’t separate Decoration Day from Mother’s Day in my mind. It was always just a part of our Mother’s Day celebration. My father’s family still all meet and carry on just as they have done for their entire lives; and my sister forces her daughters to endure the process just as we did as children. Yes, it is a strange way to celebrate Mother’s Day and yet many people across the Deep South will find themselves in a cemetery Sunday.

Do you and your family have any strange Mother’s Day rituals?

Read My Truck

I have long been fascinated by people who put messages in the back windows of their trucks with press on letters that I assume they purchase at Auto Zone.

Wait. Rewind. In deference to my friend, Mr. Alpha Male, who has been known to say of me, "She speaks in superlatives. The sooner you know that about her, the more chance you'll have of understanding what she actually means," let me correct myself.

Fascinated is too strong a word; interested is too strong a word. It's fairer to say I've noticed these bits of wisdom on wheels and wondered about them.

I've been on two short road trips two weekends in a row. Last weekend on the way to visit friends in Georgia, The Guy, Oldest Friend, and I got caught up in the Talladega 500 traffic. It wasn't all that pleasant. We were all pretty disgruntled when Oldest Friend spotted a truck up ahead with "Wild Bill and Crazy Cathy" in the window. In retrospect, it wasn't all that funny but, at the time, you'd have thought Chris Rock had visited our car to do a private stand up routine for the three of us. Remember—race weekend traffic. Times were hard.

But after we calmed down, I got to wondering about Bill and Cathy. Are they a radio morning team? Did they choose these names for themselves and, if so, how much time did they put into it? Or is Bill, in fact, wild, in the sense that he was raised by wolves? If that is the case, why is he allowed to drive a truck? How did he develop marketable skills to earn money with which to buy it? And is Cathy truly sadly crazy, as in delusional? If so, why would anyone be so mean as to put that on a truck window? Or does she just get a little crazy on the dance floor? Either way, it takes both of them to equal a late seventies Saturday Night Live Steve Martin.

This past weekend, The Guy, Plotter, and I were returning from Knoxville, when The Guy started reading: "To Baby Girl. In Memory of my Precious Sister". This message was printed in gold rimmed maroon letters that matched the truck. It looked so good I'm not sure a professional sign painter didn’t do it, which would stand to reason. Surely, if someone felt led to memorialize a departed loved one on a truck window, an expert would have to be called.

But why? Did the truck originally belong to her? Or was it bought with money from a lawsuit over her accidental death? Was he driving an old unsafe vehicle before she extracted a deathbed promise from him to buy something new? I went on and on about this until I am sure The Guy and Plotter wanted to sedate me.

I finally said, "I'm blogging about this Tuesday."
"Why?" Plotter asked.
"I don't know," I told her. "I just have to."

Maybe that's the answer to messages in truck windows: Sometimes you just have to.

Ever done anything because you just had to?

Spring Fever

As most of you know I am a school teacher. This time of year is very exciting in an elementary school classroom. We have about 18 days of school remaining and there are lots of things going on like standardized tests, field trips, assemblies, and final projects. I have been reminded that even good interruptions add a lot of stress and distraction.

However, I must admit that I also suffer from Spring Fever in the rest of my life. It seems like in the spring there are always LOTS of extra curricular activities. I am working on my Master's degree and that includes final projects. There are holidays like Easter and Mother’s Day that require me to shop for new shoes and clothes--and, oh yeah, visit family and/or spend extra time at church. Another sign of spring in my life, is that my wonderful, fabulous local RWA chapter, “Heart of Dixie”, has its annual Readers' Luncheon (more shoes) and I am lucky enough to be on the Luncheon Committee. I love this event. We always have such a fun time!

Most of these things are positive experiences but distractions, nonetheless. Pantster and I were talking Monday about how we feel pulled in all different directions and that these distractions, while necessary, are taking time and energy from our writing.

Are you suffering from Spring Fever?