Haunted Places In Ireland

Tired, A Little Overwhelmed, and It's Raining...

Ever have one of those nights where your brain just won't settle down? Well, I've had two, back to back.

Packed day, on call this weekend with one assignment to cover, and pining for time in the nineteenth century. Hoping the pouring rain slows to respectable trickles so I can drag my weary body outside for a brisk walk.

Pardon me while I refill my coffee cup...

BryonySeries Throwback Thursday: "Wigtraption" is Now a Word

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

"Wigtraption" is now a word

 Or so says my publicist DulcineaHawksworth who, armed with photos, has been shopping 'round for the appropriate long locks to transform an ordinary twenty-first century mortal into the nineteenth century immortal John Simons, for book trailer purposes of course.

Yesterday, Dulcinea met me at the P. Seth Magosky Museum of Victorian Life in Joliet and helped me piece together men's period clothing for James Onohan and "John Simons" for Wednesday's shooting of the Bryony music video and trailers.

Dulcinea is full of modification tips and hopes to attend the filming where, with "pins and needles" she can give my pseudo-vampires the right late 1890s look. I sure hope she can make it, because I don't have her "nip and tuck" talent. I can tell if an outfit's right only after assembly.

Joining us were two of my sons, Christopher and Daniel, who received their first tour of the museum, including the awesome view of Joliet from the top floor. Daniel, who fancies himself the reincarnation of Henry Matthews, my dandy vampire, finally had his chance to don some real Victorian clothes.

Pictures to follow from Bryony's web administrator Sarah Stegall, as the author is technologically disadvantaged and hasn't learned (yet) how to do it.

I wouldn't say Daniel's garb is quite as impressive as past Bryony blog guest Sir Frederick Chook (http://www.frillyshirt.org/salon/portraits-of-the-editor/), but I must say he cuts quite the dashing figure. He may just be Henry yet.

As I write this blog, I'm reading a post from my dressmaker regarding my walking suits. One has red shimmer fabric; the other, blue. She has modified the pattern to make them appear "vampire-y" (whatever that means; can't wait to find out), and is currently ruffling twenty yards of satin.

Oh yeah, I'm as excited as Melissa approaching Halloween night!

podge and rodge series 1 episode 14-the vampire leprechaun

Opening Lines

Although most readers, writers, and editors would agree that hooking the reader right from the start is important, not everyone "hooks" in the same way. Lines that may grab one person may only elicit yawns from another.

Still, writers do - and should - strive for openers that keep the reader reading. Here are some of mine:

The autumn rain splashed against the patio glass and trickled in silent streams to muddy pools near the sliding door. I stood unblinking and watched it, relieved for dry, cozy shelter, and yet wistful for the future my haughty recklessness had prematurely extinguished.

As the fog rolled inland off the lake, the approaching dusk grew uncommonly gloomy. 

The old man huddled into the corner of the building and buried his shriveled head into the snarled fur of the sleeping dog. 

The rain that shrouded the gray listless skies all afternoon now pattered onto the classroom roof with monotonous steadiness.

 “Snap!”

The shrunken man sat behind the counter smoking his clay pipe.

Seventeen-year-old John-Peter Simotes poured the bucket of black water down the drain of the old porcelain sink, careful not to splash it onto the wood floor and create another mess he would have to clean. 

I love stories, and my entire life has revolved around that love.

“Hurry, sir, oh please, hurry!”

The man in the long frock coat and extra-wide cravat had stared at her with peculiar steadiness all night, almost as if goading her to notice him

Walking

No, this post isn't meant to extol the health benefits of physical exercise, as they can be found anywhere ad nauseum. Rather, as I finish my morning postings and sip coffee to the hum of the background fan (as Rebekah needs white noise to sleep), I'm anticipating the fact that, in less than half an hour, I'll be walking for ninety minutes at top speed.

Ahhhhhh...

The weather has to be extremely inclement for me to miss the ever-so-important aspect of my daily routine. Treadmills won't do. I need to feel the elements around me - there's something almost magical about forcing myself forward in strong winds or feeling my mind roam in softly falling snow - and the surge of quickly pumping limbs being part of the changing seasons in order to free my thoughts for better ones and unravel the tangled snarls in my brain.

It's a stress-reliever, energy-producer, and sure-cure for writer's block, all rolled up in one good-for-your-health (yeah, I had to sneak that in somewhere, sorry) package. In fact, walking is one advantage living at Ellis Island has over Channahon.

I get to walk to work and back.

Midday, I get to walk home and cook (God, I love cooking)...and then walk back.

When I had an attic office, I dashed up and down that ladder all day, mentally writing as I moved. At first, I felt freedom working in an office, as there's little reason to wander from my desk, i.e. no laundry to move, no bread to start, no floor to sweep, no bathroom to tidy, but I soon found ways to take little breaks: reheat coffee (which is only good to the point of boiling) and toss a water bottle into the freezer (which is only good if cold to the point of slush), peel an orange, throw away an apple core, etc. etc.

You get the point.

And that brings me to the end of the post. If I hurry, I can walk Rebekah partway to the bus stop.

Haluski

Probably every Slavic family has a variation. We made ours as part of dinner tonight, while remembering Mary Minarch, Amerika's grandmother, who first prepared it for our familiy many years ago. 

Haluski:

By Amerika Adamowski

1 pound bow tie noodles, cooked

1 pound butter or margarine

1 large yellow onion, cut into small pieces

Fresh cabbage, thinly sliced (optional)

3 large brown potatoes, peeled, cut into pieces and boiled until soft

Salt and pepper to taste

Cottage cheese or sour cream to top

Simmer butter, optional cabbage and onions until onions are caramelized. Add bow ties, potatoes, salt and pepper, and mix. Serve topped with cottage cheese or sour cream.

From "Memories in the Kitchen: Bites and Nibbles From 'Bryony'"

All proceeds benefit Big Brothers Big Sisters of Will and Grundy Counties. www.bbbswillgrundy.org

Order the cookbook at www.bryonyseries.com/Dalton_s_Dry_Goods.html

Giving Canines Their Due

At first glance, this appears an odd theme for day reserved for the Steward of Tara and all things Irish, but needed to balance out all the recent cat posts.

In reality, this post is nothing about dogs in general, less about my covering a dog shelter's grand opening today for The Herald-News and more about the "Fido" fact I quite by chance discovered today while searching the origins of another idiom.

It seems that the aged line of "seeing a man about a dog," was in the 1866 play Flying Scud by Dion Boucicault. This Irish playwright, you may recall, is the author of Robert Emmet, an actual play that was actually performed at the actual (and former) McVickers theater in Chicago, and which is featured in Bryony.

“So,” Melissa said, hoping to sidetrack him. “What are we seeing tonight?”

“Dion Boucicault’s ‘Robert Emmet.’”

Melissa looked blank.

“The play revolves around the leader of an Irish rebellion against the British in 1803,” Henry said.

“Oh,” Melissa said. “Does he win?”

“No, he is convicted and hung.”

Melissa fell silent. It didn’t sound very interesting, but she wouldn’t tell him. After all, Henry arranged this night for her at her request. Again, he read her mind.

“I am rather in the mood for Boucicault tonight,” Henry said. “Perhaps you would prefer, ‘The Vampire, A Phantasm in Three Dramas’? Say the word, Melissa. It’s your night.”

She looked up at Henry. The corner of his eyes barely crinkled. Vampires, again! Was he making fun of her?

He leaned close to Melissa’s ear. “Robert Emmett has quite a nice love story to it, which you might find poetic. He was so passionately in love with Sarah Curran that, although he was in jail and at the expense of her safety, he wrote onefinal letter to her. The authorities intercepted it.”

Henry grinned and raised an eyebrow. Melissa relaxed into her seat and decided whatever else happened this evening, it would not be boring.

Holding Onto Hope

I had to drive to Morris yesterday to take some photos of Hope's foster owner for Monday's microchipping success story for The Herald-News...and he returned the favor by taking some of me. Isn't she beautiful?

Of course, I then stopped at Gypsy Soul in Morris to cuddle Frances, but, because I smelled like Hope (the two are archenemies), Frances bolted.

Throwback Thursday: Where's the Chocolate?

Thursday, August 18, 2011

Where's the Chocolate?

While locating recipes for the "Bryony" cookbook: "Memories in the Kitchen: Bites and Nibbles from 'Bryony,'" it occured to me that I hadn't found any chocolate recipes.

Oh, I saw recipes for chocolate drinks, but none for cookies, pies, cakes, pastries, etc. Sure, I didn't expect chocolate chip cookies and brownies, but I'm wondering when DID the Victorians start to prepare chocolate desserts? I can't believe John Simons, with all his clout, couldn't devise a way to serve chocolate at Simons Mansion.

Certainly, I understand Melissa's squeamishness about sampling the ancient fare set before her. You won't find me first in line for the boiled calves head.

Still, I think once Melissa realized that chocolate was not part of her bargain with vampire John Simons, she should have told him all bets were off.

When a vampire doesn't return your affections, a gal should at least have some chocolate for sorrow-drowning, instead of relying on an antique music box and an undead chaperone.

The young Jim Carrey sucks (literally) in vampire comedy Once Bitten (1985)

Setting and POV or What my Architect Father Inadvertently Taught My About World-Building

Years ago, when my first husband and I were in the process of buying our first house, I brought my architect father with me to check out each possibility, well, the ones my husband and I both agreed were possibilities. For him, the more modern, the more trendy, the better. For me, the more vintage and within our price range, the better.

I learned a lot about fiction that way.

While I noted high ceilings, large rooms, sufficient bedrooms for our current brood (three at the time) with room to grow that family, whether or not such and such a room would need redecorating, and the size of the yard so the kids would have room to play, my father was checking out other things: the number of outlets in a room (should be one to each wall), amps or breakers and their number (breakers preferred), if the electric was up to current code, the amount of insulation in the attic, the heat source (He sternly advised against gravity heat in a three-story house), the last well test, and the location of the septic field. He'd even want to get up on the roof.

Creating a plausible setting for your story is more than simply describing the landscape. Setting has everything to do with your characters. Most of us, perhaps without realizing it, do not just notice our settings, we filter them, AND we react to them.

Suppose two of my sons - Christopher and Timothy - take me to a cell phone store to buy a cell phone for me. Since I dont't understand the technology (even when it's explained to me), I usually let them do the sorting out of possiblities, while I wander around.

Both boys have a solid understanding of current products and can discuss cell phones for hours (Literally). Christopher, like his father, veers towards the newest, the lastest, the whistles and bells - the obtaining of the most options for his money - and he will negotiate anything and everything in order to get as much free stuff as possible. He will also zero in on the sales person he will be most likely to "persuade" into those things. Timothy wants to discuss battery life, memory storage, the pros and cons of each brand and the specs of company that produces those phones, the contract terms.

Both boys will agree on free upgrades and the necessity of my phone fitting into pockets of chick jeans, which are notoriously teeny. Apparently, clothing designers can't undertand some women like their clothing to be functional, as well as decorative.

So when describing a room, a landscape, a town, a person, remember that it's usually from the point view from the character noticing it. This will help you add the details and the ruminations particular to that character.

Some examples:


            Her mother parked in front of a dingy, squat-looking building, Sue’s Diner. Brian turned and rolled his eyes. Melissa mouthed back, probably get food poisoning.

She fretted about the report all the way past Main Street, which now split in two. One road led into the deeper part of the woods; the other wound up the hill toward their new home. Brian wiggled and bounced to see everything at once. The tops of the lush, profuse trees touched each other, but the sun filtered through the leaves and formed lacy patterns on the asphalt. Lake Munson, full of ducks and geese, rippled a clear blue-green.

Big deal, she thought, catching herself watching them, determined to find nothing redeeming about her new home. Who cares about a bunch of old birds?

The box-shaped cottage was too flat, too old, too gray, too small, and most of all, too ugly. The Grover’s Park ranch, with grey-blue siding, black shutters, and a manicured yard with a few perennials and tomato plants, had been home. This could never be home.

She took three steps down the creaking stairs and glimpsed an old furnace and a washer and drier. Melissa couldn’t imagine doing laundry in that musty place, where snakes might lurk. She’d let Brian do it. He’d probably find it fun. 

A wrought iron sign hanging from a small one-story building advertised homemade soaps, while the wood sign posted on the two-story home next door promoted its hand-dipped candles, which reminded Melissa of the candelabra on John’s desk inside Simons Mansion’s library.

One step inside Rudy’s, a large Queen Anne of reddish-brown stone, and Melissa knew Jenny had understated its elegance. To one side of the main lobby sat a concert grand piano, although not, Melissa thought smugly, a Schwechten.

 Two boys shouldering matching blue-gray vinyl bags soon joined them. The taller boy had neatly combed sandy hair, gold-wire glasses, bow-shaped lips, and a serious face. His much thinner companion, with wispy brown hair and a scrawny mustache, winked at Tracy, and she blushed, the first time Melissa had seen her even slightly flustered. The boys unzipped their bags and removed shoes, several balls of different styles and weights, wrist braces, and monogrammed hand towels.

“I think I’m in the wrong place,” Melissa said.

Julie set her own ball on the return and grinned. “You’ll do fine. Let’s go find you a ball.”

An angry clicking sounded from the pond’s edge, and a cloud of monarch butterflies shot from the purple milkweed, hotly pursuing the flower sprites that preyed on their nectar. A hearty laugh broke through John-Peter’s lips and fluttered away into the woods. Although reluctant to leave such serenity, he stood, hungry now for something more than dandelions and ground beetles. He chuckled to himself. Those butterflies would never catch the fairy pack, especially with Aodhan leading it. 

The oak trees surrounding him moaned his name, and the cool breeze rippled their leaves, as well as the tender grasses, causing them to dance about his feet. John-Peter,  the oaks' national hero, acknowledged their greeting with a detached nod. From here, the earth sloped downward, but John-Peter saw the top of the thatched roof of the tiny mud and grass cottage he forsook centuries ago. Even before he reached his home, he spied the overgrown weeds of what used to be his garden and decided he might have to hoe and plant before he brought the princess here, just in case she didn’t hunt for her food. Still, he waded through the tall greenery and stumbled upon a few cabbages and potatoes, entirely inappropriate for an ancient, abandoned, Irish garden, but this wasn’t his fantasy, and, besides, he was plenty thankful for their existence. He gathered an armful of food and trotted back to the cottage. Today’s breakfast, at least, was assured, thanks to the steward’s benevolence. He noted the cord of wood, as he pushed through the grassy, rear doorway. What a surprise. That wood should have rotted eons ago. 

On Sundays and Holy Days of Obligation when Abbot was in town, father and son attended High Mass at St. Patrick's Cathedral, its Federal-style architecture and plaster ceiling and walls resembling home: hard, beautiful, and cold. As erect and immobile as the marble statues, but not nearly so tall, Abbot stood beside his son, and, to the accompaniment of the Erben organ, sang those majestic Latin hymns in a strong and powerful tenor voice.

The outline of buildings came into view. John slowed his pace. He couldn't avoid spending his summer as a chore boy, but he could delay it. The white farmhouse, trimmed in dark gray, looked fresh and inviting in the early morning light. The shutters were still closed, a sign that the aged mistress of the farm, bound in the distance ancient sycamores, hadn't yet stirred. He rode straight back to the barns. Despite their age, they, too, appeared sturdy and well maintained, almost as if recently built. John hitched the horse and went inside the first one, meandering through the large building, gazing from side to side at the sleek thoroughbreds. The condition of the barn was impeccable. How had a single, elderly woman managed it, and did the widow really require his services? 

Surprise! Some Fiction Accomplished, After All

We missed church yesterday due to lack of transportion, which opened up the day in a way that was not wholly pleasant to me, as Divine Liturgy, the reception of the sacraments, standing in a holy place, and fellowship with people with hearts of gold feed me in a way that is impossible to adequately describe.

Still, I used that time to (somewhat) catch up on editing features briefs, finish chapter seven with the exception of two scenes, and outline chapter eight so I can spend my walk time this week mentally working out scenes - as opposed to waiting for my muse to get with the program come Friday night.

Oh, yeah, and I even took a two-hour nap.

During this time, Sarah kept texting me with page numbers. I could only assume she was working on Staked! formatting, although any pointed questions only had the response of either another number or "taking notes." Eventually, she quit responding.

I'm behind an entire week of posting story links for The Herald-News (the writing and editing I do when I'm not hanging around nineteenth century vampires), which I'm hoping to add Wednesday.

I hear a set of headphones and a walk calling my name. Have a great day, vampire fans! :)

Snag with "Staked!", Very Litttle Fiction This Weekend

So yesterday, while in the midst of dealing with a family medical issue, Sarah Stegall calls me and said, "I have bad news."

While working on the formatting for Staked! the manuscript decided - because, apparently, that's what manuscripts do - to revert to an earlier save.

Except Sarah dosen't know which "save."

I reassured her that deducing it should be relatively easy, as I have growing collection of very different Staked! proof copies. We only need compare and fix.

Compare is easy. Refixing what she has already fixed hurts.

Especially since Sarah is uncommonly busy with work these days. It means she has to re-do work she has already done, in eeked-out amounts of time, when she has it.

I'm still clutching my enterprising spirit, but I have a growing respect for traditional publishing. It's challenging trying to meet traditional publishing professional standards when one is learning the basics of self-publishing.

If we weren't so picky and trying to releas a pristine book, Staked! could have been available long ago.

And there's the rub.

Throwback Steward Saturday: Abridged "Bryony" Comments from Ed Calkins

Saturday, January 14, 2012

Abridged "Bryony" Comments from Ed Calkins

It's not everyday one is featured in a novel series, but for Ed Calkins, the Steward of Tara, who hopes the Bryony legacy will further his own, the story is an intersting read, since his identity, thoughts, and sometimes actual words, are very present in my vampire story.

When I had last spoken to Ed, he was recovering from a bad cold that had settled into his throat and larynx, but he did offer a few comments, along with a promise to submit a full review at a later date, when he had completed the entire book.

Ed said:

   *  His wife really liked it, read it in two days, and can't see where a sequel will come in.

   *  He felt quite a number of men could relate to John Simons, the main vampire.

   *  He thought the writing style and vocabulary was beautifully tailored to young adults.

   * Mostly, though, he was eagerly awaiting his appearance.

Stay tuned to the Bryony fan page for more reader comments next week. Not yet a fan? Find the page at www.facebook.com/BryonySeries.

Stalled

So the great plans for Friday's page are stalled, mostly due to lack of time to pursue (for now). I may return to story links, simply because there's nowhere else to post them, and, quite honestly, I forget to post them on the other days. Strange how the various components of my writing world stay separate and distinct in my mind.

At last check-in with Sarah, she had redone the formatting for Staked! up to page 164. I used to wonder why a traditional publishing house needed a year and a half to two years to publish a book once it's accepted. I wonder no more.

The first book of The Adventures of Cornell Dyer, as well as the first Bertrand book are also in limbo, both due to art. Three artists expressed interest in Cornell. but nothing tangible came of it, despite some initial images last fall.

I've considered skipping the art, but Sarah insists we need it - for consistency with the other books, if nothing else - and I suppose she is correct. Furthermore, I can't forgo cover art, so...

The art for Bertrand was supposed to be photographic images, but I lost Bertrand in the move, although I'm sure he's somewhere.

So what's a writer to do? Keep writing, of course. The weekend is almost here, which means I'll be pecking away at the prequel.

And mentally considering how to move the other titles forward.

Throwback Thursday: Be Still

Thursday, May 24, 2012

Be Still

Crazy, awful, busy day, especially with a holiday weekend (and early deadlines) along with an editor going on vacation (so more early deadlines), and a heavy sprinkling of life drama to make executing those deadlines a daunting challenge.

In the midst of the above activity, I've had some interesting things happen over the last twenty-four hours that has surprisingly dispelled the tension, renewed cautious hope, and breathed fresh life into some rather grim circumstances.

So as I struggle to meet the expectations of the day, and failing in the attempt, I suddenly remembered I had not posted a blog yet today. As I contemplated all the things I wished to communicated, I found myself basking instead in a rather delightful serenity, and that, to me, seems the best message today.

Go ahead. Take five. Chill. Breathe. Count your blessings. Life is sweet. Enjoy a moment of it before returning to whatever duties you must face today. Still is good. Cherish a moment of it.

Monty Python Victorian Poetry

The Power of Similes and Metaphors

sim·i·le: a phrase that uses the words like or as to describe someone or something by comparing it with someone or something else that is similar.

met·a·phor: a word or phrase for one thing that is used to refer to another thing in order to show or suggest that they are similar

So says Merriam-Webster Dictionary. Nothing quite conjures up a mental image than comparing it to another mental image. Here's a few from Before the Blood:


Barrels of ice stood guard like evil henchmen.

Sitting on a stool at the foot of the casket and resting his head against its edge was Papa Everett, cane lying beside him like a loyal hound.

The words fluttered around John's head like moths around a kerosene lamp during a middle of the night trip to the outhouse.

John snapped the case shut. Mortimer slid off the desk and traipsed behind him, down the halls and into the main lobby, his shoes squeaking like a nest of mice across the waxed floor.

He stepped into the waiting carriage, leaving Mortimer to gape and stare like a hooked trout.

Head high, she turned on her heel and stalked out of the room. Herbert's mustache had a seizure.

He erupted like an unstable volcano as his fist banged the desk

Abbott stood as erect and immobile as the marble statues, but not nearly so tall.

In move reminiscent of St. Francis of Assisi, John stripped his garments, kicked them to his father's feet, and strode out of the room to a shocked Bryga, who quickly wrapped John in his cloak. No canticle of that great saint compared with the joyful song breaking forth in John's spirit as the carriage pulled out into the street, ready to embrace a leprous world.

Jackson, looking more like an overinflated air ship than a man approaching middle-age, removed the flask from inside his pocket and took a large gulp. 

Guest Post by Sir Frederick Chook: Conversations Held From Top-Floor Windows, Part Three

A bit of word fun for a Monday morning, from one of my favorite bloggers.

Conversations Held From Top-Floor Windows, Part Three by Sir Frederick Chook

Penned upon the 23rd of May, 2014  

Mr Paternoster, the Ulster Patter Knockerupper,

 With his kepi cap and his figure like a bannister,

 Looking slim and dapper as he rapped upon the shutter

 Of the private chamber of the carpetbagger, Cannister.

“Good morning, Mr Cannister!,” quoth Mr Paternoster,

“I am the knockerupper of your upper neighbour, Foster,

 I’ve knocked up tinkers, thinkers, ministers and spinsters

 In Worcester, Chester, Leicester, Pinner and Westminster.”

“For a little silver, I can take my sturdy tapper,

 And rap upon your boudoir to wake you from your slumber.

 I draw it from its wrapper and produce a lovely clatter,

 A stimulating clamor not unlike a church-bell’s clapper.”

“Mr Paternoster,” replied the carpetbagger,

“You are a dratted bother and shall not get a copper.

 Your patter is but chatter without wit or tact or meter.

 Now kindly bugger off or I shall become improper.”

“And, further, if I ever hear again the pitter-patter

 Of your filthy slippers beneath my stately louver,

 You’ll share the fate and plight of the late Mrs Miter,

 The frightfully flighty East Brighton lamplighter.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Sir Frederick Chook is a foppish, transcendentalistic historian who lives variously by his wits, hand to mouth, la vie bohème, and in Melbourne with his wife, Lady Tanah Merah.

When not reading Milton and eating Stilton, he writes, ponders, models, delves into dusty archives, and gads about town. He has dabbled in student radio and in national politics, and is presently studying the ways of the shirt-sleeved archivist. He is a longhair, aspiring to one day be a greybeard. He has, once or twice, been described as “as mad as a bicycle.”

FrillyShirt is a compilation of articles, essays, reviews, photographs, artworks, question-and-answers, promotions, travelogues, diatribes, spirit journeys, cartoons, ululations and celebrations by Sir Frederick, his friends and contributing readers. Irregularly regular features include Teacup in a Storm, an etiquette column, and How to be Lovely, advanced speculations on the aesthetics of the self.

Other topics that pop up include fun things in and around Melbourne, art, nature, history, politics and schnauzers. Sir Frederick’s favorite color is all of them. Enjoy his writing? Drop him a telegram at fredchook@frillyshirt.org.

Formatting Fun with Sarah Stegall :)

So despite being on call this weekend, I made some rather decent progress on chapter seven in John's story of Before the Blood.

Today, was a catching up of sorts, including sifting through a backlog of over four hundred emails (GROAN). I whittled ye olde inbox to a respectable twenty-seven until I was sidetracked in a perfectly lovely way.

Sarah Stegall called, and we began the process of fixing the formatting errors in Staked! During the process, said oldest daughter and web administrator emeritus chastised the author for improper tabbing, which contribued to some of the issues. The fact that I'm accustomed to and LIKE writing this way didn't impress her.

Especially since Sarah found waaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyy more errors once we began. This means, we didn't finish, but it also means we made a decent dent in the work and took a huge leap toward an ultimate release.

Stay tuned, vampire fans.

While Ed Calkins is Recovering, A Backward Glace at the Steward's "Visage" Book Signing

Saturday, December 15, 2012

The Official Ed Calkins, Steward of Tara, "Visage" Book Signing, in Pictures

 

Copies of the 2012 holiday edition of Visage patiently wait for Ed Calkins, Steward of Tara, to attach his signatures to them. Ed had overslept this morning and was running late to his own signing.

 

 

Despite the hurried start to his day, Ed did not forget his traditional Santa Claus hat.

 

 

 

After greeting his constituents and passing out candy canes (each and every carrier, manager, and helper in the distribution center always receives a candy cane from Ed each and every day leading up to Christmas), Ed assumes his best book-signing position.

 

 

 

A close-up view of Ed Calkins' official candy canes.

 

 

Before Ed's immortalization, he had dubbed Denise "paper goddess" because she had the largest route in the distribution center at the time (nearly one thousand newspapers on a Sunday, not counting her husband's papers). Ed therefore dubbed her "paper goddess" and assumed this position when hand-delivering her daily route book. For nostalgia's sake, Ed and Denise recreate this classic pose, substituting candy canes for paperwork.

 

 

 

Denise is so delighted with receiving an official Ed Calkins candy cane, she forgot to give Ed permission to rise.

 

 

The Steward of Tara poses with Dan Yates, his prime minister.

 

 

The Steward poses with Christopher Baran, owner of Channahon Computer Repair and the author's official "limo" ride for the night.

 

 

 

Ed signing a copy of Bryony, the first book in the BryonySeries.

 

 

The Steward admires the cover for the holiday edition of Visage.

 

 

 

 

Ed prepares to affix his signature to a copy of Visage.

 

 

Ed signs a copy of the official Bryony cookbook: Memories in the Kitchen: Bites and Nibbles from "Bryony."

 

 

The Steward poses with Bryony and Visage, while reminding one and all that the storyline is really only about him.

 

 

A farwell photo until next year's signing, the best part of the night for Denise, since it's not often she's photographed with someone who does not exist. Correspondence for the next twelve months will consist mostly of email telegrams, with an occasional phone call for more personal, ruthless updates.

 

 

 

As a parting gesture, Ed leaves a few candy canes behind, so Denise can share them with other members of her household.

 

Mostly Catching Up

So I've been sick all week and a bit remiss in posting stories. If you're wondering what's had my attention (other than aches, sneezes, and a sore throat), take a look at the following links.

Also, no updated formatting from Sarah yet on Staked!. I messagd her last night, and she replied with "M,T, or W" and she even added a smiley face, grrrr, grumble...

In the meantime, I am on call this weekend, but since last night's re-reading of the progress I made on Chapter 7 during my free Tuesday after Labor Day weekend (yeah, that's a convoluted sentence, more coffee, GULP), I am rearin' and ready to go - in between social media postings for two newspapers, addressing any breaking news, church on Sunday, navigating the 400 plus emails begging for attention in my former work account, and digging through some more boxes in the living room (my new storage shed, LOL).

Seriously, I AM planning on writing.


One lucky couple: Romeoville man shares how he and his wife built a legacy

It all started with a bike ride...

http://www.theherald-news.com/2014/08/23/one-lucky-couple/axd6vl7/


An Extraordinary Life: Former Wilmington man shared his knowledge of cars

Jim Purrachio influenced many, many kids in the process, a gift that will continue growing in the pass of years.

http://www.theherald-news.com/2014/08/27/an-extraordinary-life-former-wilmington-man-shared-his-knowledge-of-cars/a4qcui3/


Joliet area pet owners share insight on when to treat, when to let go

The answers are as varied as the owners, the pets, and the ailments, but one common theme prevails.

http://www.theherald-news.com/2014/09/04/joliet-area-pet-owners-share-insight-on-when-to-treat-when-to-let-go/a50nrbe/


Young NASCAR racer promotes organ and tissue donation on behalf of his mother]'
By Jeanne Millsap

When Joey Gase's mother suddenly died of an undiagnosed aneurism when he was eighteen, Gase was determined to give meaning to that death.

http://www.theherald-news.com/2014/09/04/young-nascar-racer-promotes-organ-and-tissue-donation-on-behalf-of-his-mother/axlg4u6/


Former Plainfield woman bakes and sells vegan wares

A tragedy inspired the change, but her goals are live-giving.

http://www.theherald-news.com/2014/09/04/former-plainfield-woman-bakes-and-sells-vegan-wares/a3h99ym/


Renowned speed painter featured at Frankfort Franciscans' annual fundraiser

He's a master artist for Disney, Star Wars, Pixar and the Muppets, and, yet, this man doesn't call himself an artist. Read on to learn why.

http://www.theherald-news.com/2014/09/04/renowned-speed-painter-featured-at-frankfort-franciscans-annual-fundraiser/an7zr5d/


Wheaton glass artist teaches jewelry-making to Romeoville senior living group

Armed with a solid reason for picking this group for his first senior class, Larry Cimaglio even brought with a NASA-developed metallic as one of his supplies.

http://www.theherald-news.com/2014/09/09/wheaton-glass-artist-teaches-jewelry-making-to-romeoville-senior-living-group/avi3qt1/

Throwback Thursday: On The Receiving End...Again

Monday, September 19, 2011

On The Receiving End...Again

The August 28th entry of an author friend's blog (www.jenamorrow.blogspot.com), "Receiving Graciously 101," hit home stronger with me than anything I've recently read.

Many of us have grown up learning, "Tis Better To Give Than To Receive," and while we, in certain occasions, grumble a bit when giving is called of us (especially when it's related to a person we dislike, a distasteful task, or inconvenient timing), we are still more comfortable doing the giving than the receiving.

It's funny how God shakes that up.

Decades ago, when my oldest children were young, we were poor, "barely making the rent and relying on people sending food boxes," poor. Now I had grown up in an upper middle class home, so the concept of buying garage sales clothes or creating forty different dishes from condensed tomato soup because someone gave you a case of the stuff was foreign to me.

I remember choking down huge amounts of pride with my white bread and powdered milk until the day arrived when four items on my shopping list were packed neatly inside a box of anonymous food donations: a jar of Hellman's mayonnnaise and three child-sized Oral B toothbrushes. Only God knew I needed them, a stark reminder of who really was caring for us.

Then, a dozen years ago, ironically as a single parent, finances looked up. For the first time in my child-rearing years, I was paying all my bills on time. I had money in the bank, was remodeling my house, and didn't freak out every time a child got sick or needed a pair of shoes.

That trend continued after I married my second husband. We worked long, hard hours, but the money we made well compensated for it, enough that we invested quite a bit into our church and founding, running, and funding its youth programs.

Once the recession hit, the budget grew ugly. I thought, "I have lived through lean times. I can do this." And I cut and cut and cut until I had no place left to cut. So, instead of worrying over what I could not control, I tapped into my imagination and wrote a story that had lurked there for over twenty years, "Bryony."

A year ago, my husband lost his job and with it our health insurance. He called to tell just as I was callling him to say I was being admitted into the hospital for a yet undiagnosed disorder.

So, it's been a tough year, but for every challenge, problem, concern, crisis, emergency, we've had an unexpected blessing running parallel to it: prayers, gifts of motivational books AND chocolate, a former pastor sending monetary gifts by mail and our current pastor bring weekly bags of groceries, and new friend also going through a crisis sending a surprise gift at just the right time.

Once again pride stepped in and made the acceptance of that love hard. I shared my difficulty with my pastor, a former salesman that, when he gives a contrived compliment, I in return retort, "I don't need an insurance policy," but he is also a God-fearing man and a friend for more than thirty years. He only quietly said, "Maybe you have inspired some people along the way."

Because of the recession I wrote "Bryony," and because of "Bryony," I've learned more about writing than I ever could have gained otherwise, which sent additional paying gigs knocking at my virtual door. I've also met some kind-hearted, generous individuals that have been equally excited about the project, some of whom I know call friends.

Recently, someone volunteered some additional marketing services and a second person offered to professionally format my manuscripts, all free of charge. With the first, I'm swapping some editing for his book, but the second insists that she doesn't want to trade services; she just wants to something nice for me.

I've asked them both why they reached out to me in this fashion and both said, "Because God told me to do it." So how can I object to that?

"And this same God who takes care of me will supply all your needs from his glorious riches, which have been given to us in Christ Jesus." Philippians 4:19

Another Early Day

Stupid cold.

No walk.

Rain.

Still behind.

The combination means I'm heading out the door to work shortly (lunch box strapped over my shoulder, carrying an umbrella, and dragging my office behind me) hopefully, the last day I'll be skipping a walk, fighting the cold, and struggling to catch up. I have reason to be hopeful.

The cold is (somewhat) better.

The odds that it will rain ANOTHER day in the pre-dawn hours are slim.

I can see the light over the stack of work.

I'm assuming Sarah is feeling the same, as the formatting changes for Staked! are still sitting beside my computer, and our web administrator emeritus is rather silent these days.

Maybe both she and I will get home in a timely fashion tonight.

Crossing my fingers and making a wish over the keyboard. Where is Cornell Dyer when one needs him?

Have a great day, vampire fans! :)