New Book, New Look: Vote for Best Author Photo

Read on for the gallery of options, how to vote, an update on novel #2 and the latest news.

Hey, followers and friends (I consider you the same). You were great in helping me come up with the title of my second novel, when I had to forgo my beloved La Querencia for an English version of the same concept. My current working title, Last Sunset in San Miguel is due to the great suggestions of so many of you. You were wonderful.

So, I’ve come back to the trough to ask again. Please help me select my new Author Photo. I recently had a session with the incredible photographer Michele Marie, and have great choices, though I know I’m missing the serious profile shot (my nose is simply not “important,” enough).  I need your help because I can’t personally see the forest of a good photo through the trees of the fading red in my hair, the Mr. Ed toothiness of my smile and the fact that I haven’t completely gotten over being told by a former employee that I’ll always look like a cheerleader (which btw, I never actually was.)

Help me pick the shot you think works best to demonstrate a degree of gravitas that says “I’ve written an important book!” for media and reviewers, yet with an openness and approachability that invites readers to feel they’d love to have a book chat with me. Here are the choices. Vote by their number. Pick your favorite one, or top two or three, rank them all, whatever your fancy, and let me know in the comments below. Note, the photos with scenic backgrounds will probably end up being cropped. I’ll share the “winning” shot.

Basic: The little-black-dress shots

Color Coordinated

Palette Perfect: So, if you were an art director casting my hair you’d pick this outfit, right? Two choices:

Update on Last Sunset in San Miguel

Though this book has been underway for the past five years (or net three, since I couldn’t write during COVID), this past year has really been intense and I’ve been nose-to-computer screen with the manuscript since March, which pretty much wiped out my summer social life. However, I’m now down to the wire. At this moment I’m cleaning up final comments from my developmental editor who tells me the manuscript is now “Submission Ready!” After my proofreader signs off I’ll be starting the process of sending it out to see if anyone bites. I do have three agents who’ve asked to read it! Fingers crossed, but the likelihood is that I’ll need to eventually send it out farther and wider.🤞 

It’s a long road to publication. I’ll keep you posted.

Latest News & Updates

Here’s what’s been out in the universe since my last newsletter. It’s been surprisingly busy. I’m gratified that The Fourteenth of September continues to get attention as I toil on with novel #2.

There Are Two Sides to the Story of Women During the Vietnam War. Now You Can Read Them Both.

A few weeks ago I got a lovely email from a new acquaintance who had just finished my novel The Fourteenth of September. Yes, she did like it, but added that she’d never before read fiction from the Vietnam era, and that made it a particularly “unusual and very interesting read.” I was surprised since she’s only a generation behind the characters in the story.

It reminded me of a presentation I made during the novel's launch about the dearth of fiction about the war, but especially by and about women. I commented that in the 75+ years since WWII there had been a consistent run of new novels and movies about that war that featured unique slices of female experience, i.e., The Zookeeper’s Wife, The Lilac Girls, All the Light We Cannot See and, of course, The Nightingale by Kristin Hannah. However, in the 50+ years after Vietnam, after an initial burst of male-centered, combat-related stories and movies, there has been nowhere near the attention.

I made the case that we writers had barely scratched the surface of the war in general, but particularly the experience of women during that time, and we needed to catch up.

Yes, there had been reasons to skirt the subject (we lost the war, we behaved badly to our vets, there were atrocities). However, if you agree with the point of view that though we learn our history from facts we understand it from narratives, avoiding the subject has left a hole in our history, one I’ve learned subsequent generations often don’t even know enough to ask about. 

So I’m thrilled that Kristen Hannah's new novel The Women topped the New York Times bestseller list for weeks and is creating the type of curiosity and interest this complicated era—with strong echoes to today’s world—deserves. As a writer, Hannah has nailed the relatable female voice that takes readers into the action of many of history's untold stories and gives them fresh blood. I'm delighted at her success with the story, and also how closely a companion it is to my own, and how the incidents and attitudes of the changing war impacted our two fictional nurses. There has always been more to the story, as illustrated by our main characters who come from "opposing " perspectives yet arrive in similar places.

Women Can Be Heroes,Too

Hannah's character Frankie comes from a privileged background in 1965, when the war was patriotic, our cause (stopping the domino effect of communism) was righteous, and the assumption that the US would win was absolute. Her coming of age as a combat nurse where she navigates life and death situations by the second, convinced that women can also be heroes, is complicated by the sexism of the times and an unsupportive family that doesn’t understand why a girl would even consider going to Vietnam. When Frankie comes home it's to a country divided, a family confused. Her story of being marginalized as both a vet and a woman leads to a powerful portrait of post traumatic stress disorder as vivid as that of any man's. Hannah wins her point: Women are heroes, however unsung. They deserve an equal spotlight.

Women Don’t Need to be In Country to Be Heros

In 1969 my character Judy is in college on a military nursing scholarship. It’s the only way she can afford the education required to live the independent life she wants, a choice championed by her mother, a former WWII combat nurse. When she graduates, she’ll be off to Vietnam, if it’s still going on.

But by this time the war had changed: patriotism had waned, “progress” had descended into body counts reported on the evening news, and the country was dividing as it grappled with how long it should continue when the objective was no longer clear.

 Judy's career decision becomes challenged daily as the escalating war comes to campus. When the first birthdate drawn in the new Draft Lottery is September 14, her own birthday, she realizes that with a flip of a chromosome she’d be off to the front lines at a time when it had become a death sentence. She goes “underground” into the antiwar movement trying to save both her future and her conscience by helping stop the war before she has to join it. Being a nurse is noble and needed, but does it also mean she’s complicit in supporting a war that is killing off her generation? Does true integrity mean she should give up her scholarship, her ticket to the life she needs and wants? She faces pushback on both sides—from her military family who doesn’t understand why this war is different from their war, to fellow protestors who don’t listen to her because she’s a girl and the enemy won’t be shooting at her. No one understands why she should care. Judy’s coming of age becomes her coming-of-conscience choice, as ultimately she is forced to make a decision as fraught as the one faced by any male lottery draftee.  Point made: women have equal agency whatever their contribution.

A Story That Still Needs Telling

Two women with the same need to make a difference with their lives, the same calling, facing the same sexism and incredulity over their principles and patriotism. One on one side of the war, one on the other. It's two sides of an eternal story in a divided country. Another story idea springs to mind—how would we tell it today, with so much at stake and women’s rights in jeopardy? 

I remember my mother, a combat nurse in WWII who saw much more action than my father, was consistently marginalized when no one wanted to hear her story because she was "just a nurse." Telling Judy's story was a way to give her standing, to show that her experiences and choices were as significant as those of any male soldier. The experiences of men and women in war (as in life, right?) are equally patriotic, heroic, horrific, and complicated. They may be different but should be valued equally. That's why I wrote The Fourteenth of September, and it appears why Hannah wrote The Women. I hope you'll read them both. as they tell a robust story of women in war.

Book Club Opportunity

I can’t help but think that reading these two books together would be an irresistible book club experience. Just imagine the discussions you’ll have. Read The Women first, The Fourteenth of September second. As one avid reader of both recently told me, back to back “they continue the story.” I’d been happy to zoom in. 

Update on Last Sunset in San Miguel

Ragdale. If only…sigh

The latest news is that I’m finishing up what I hope are final edits on the manuscript for this second novel of mine. I’ve gone through many drafts, as you can imagine, and credit my wonderful first editor, Barb Shoup, and copyeditor, Linda Naslund, for helping me get it all on the page. I’m now working closely with my terrific developmental editor, Andrea Robinson. I’ve also been verbally pitching the story idea to agents at recent conferences, and it’s been well received. So for the next six-eight weeks I’ll have my nose on the grindstone getting the manuscript ready to send out. It’s a long process, as many of you know. I could use another stint at Ragdale, that magical place of inspiration and productivity, but my old neck injury talks to me and the Bod Squad I’ve assembled to keep my spine in order has convinced me I can no longer take a three-week retreat with that much relentless at-the-computer intensity. Instead, I will try to recreate the retreat atmosphere in my own home office, with many breaks and visits from Bod Squad members (massage therapist, trainer, movement expert). 

Wish me luck.

The Second Annual List of Holiday Recommendations from The Irrepressible Book Gifter... And a Huge Book Sale!

This was a big hit with followers last year, so I thought I’d again share my personally curated list of books I’ll be giving as holiday presents. Perhaps something for many on your own list. I hope it saves you shopping time you can then use to read them yourself. 

My reading patterns were different this year. I read a lot of very popular books (and was disappointed by quite a few) and sampled a lot of genres I don’t normally read, but I did find these gems.

From Dust to Stardust, by Kathleen Rooney

A star is born and born again in this historical fiction story of one of Hollywood’s biggest silent film stars (Colleen Moore) on whom the original story of A Star is Born was based. This is my major gift book for this year for females of any age and film buffs. 

It’s about a determined teenager who follows her dream and makes it to the top, but who also sees the writing on the wall with the transition to talkies. And of her love story with a publicity genius who makes her a star but can’t keep up with her.

In the process Rooney reveals fascinating details about the making of silent films—how actors and directors grew up with the industry, learning as they went, not always knowing what they were doing, little fish often surpassing big fish. Even for a film nut like me, I learned a lot. The parallel narrative is how her love of miniatures and for her Irish grandmother who yes, does believe in fairies—leads her to create a gigantic Fairy Castle that makes her as influential in the 1930s as she was in the Jazz Age.

A delightful read. You’ll want to gift this widely and then take everyone to Chicago’s Museum of Science and Industry to see the actual castle. Make a day of it. Note: I saw the castle when I was a Brownie, and never forgot it.

King: A Life, by Jonathan Eig

I’m sure you’ve already heard of this new masterpiece. As the most exhaustive biography yet of Dr. Martin Luther King, including information from FBI files only recently released, this book more than deserves all its accolades as one of the best nonfiction books of the year. It makes a fabulous gift. I’d recommend the hardcover as an impressive keepsake. I’ve actually already given it as a housewarming gift, where it’s found a home on a tabletop in between being passed around. For anyone. 

The Left Over Woman, by Jean Kwok

This is my third Jean Kwok novel, and I admire her ability to tap into stories that are part thriller and part domestic drama, while dealing with fascinating issues about immigrant lives, in this case transracial adoption. The novel is told alternatively from the perspectives of an immigrant who has lost her daughter as a result of China’s one-child policy and an American woman successful in everything but fertility who adopts a Chinese girl. 

The characters are brought together in a surprisingly suspenseful, page-turning ending when both mothers instincts are brought into violent play. The last third of the novel needs to be read in one gulp, so warn your giftees.

NOTE: Kwok’s first book was the wonderful Girl in Translation (which ridiculously, is in danger of being banned from sources who’ve obviously never read it). Support it. Love it. Consider a two-volume gift.

I Have Some Questions for You, by Rebecca Makkai

The guilt-racked star of a popular podcast returns to her high school after 20 years to teach a class. Her students decide to make the questionably resolved murder of her long-ago roommate their class project. That’s the simplest recap possible of this incredibly intricate literary mystery which has rightfully been compared to Donna Tartt’s The Secret History. For your friends who like to chew on their mysteries, this book is chockablock with, well, everything: plot, social relevance, timeliness, timelines, you name it. Of note is that it has a huge cast, so I recommend the hardcopy or paperback. Readers will want to page back. 

Havana Hangover, by Randy Richardson

This is a fun romp with serious meat to it. A perfectly titled tale of a bucket-list trip that ends up down a very deep rabbit hole delivers on its promise. Even for a non-thriller/suspense reader, it kept me up late turning pages-there was simply no pause in the action and continually side-switching intrigue. It will leave the readers dizzy, enthralled, and either dying to hightail it to Cuba to fill themselves with rum or definitely scratching both off their own bucket lists. It will also leave them surprisingly touched as the narrator, a self-described loser in life, gets his sea-legs in both love and life. The ending is, well, let your giftee tell you, and then you’ll want to borrow the book back. This is a great choice for the guys on your list, but not exclusively. 

Hello Beautiful, by Anna Napolitano

Okay, so Oprah found this one first. For me, it was part of my experimental best-seller reading. And, in a year of so much revisionist feminism, it was refreshing to come across it. The novel, which starts as well-written women’s fiction (a familiar family story with a nod to Little Women) about halfway in becomes something remarkable, as the key male character becomes the unexpected focal point. It's longish, but stay with it, say all the reviews, and I have to agree. The audiobook is narrated by Maura Tierney, who is perfect.

Direct Sunlight, by Christine Sneed /For Those Who Favor Fire, by Gary Wilson

I like to give short story collections to friends who tell you they would love to have the time to read more, if only. The rationale is obvious.

These two new collections should tantalize, and even encourage readers to pursue the authors’ longer works. Both are what I’d call impressionistic, complete in a few pages, in terms of leaving you with not exactly a wrapped-up ending but instead, a definite tone. 

I adore the titles of books from the ever-prolific Sneed (The Virginity of Famous Men, Portraits of a Few of the People I’ve Made Cry—seriously, aren’t you now dying to read those?). With Direct Sunlight she’s done it again. This new collection focuses on what she calls the “memorable strangeness” of everyday life, whether it be a childless couple who adopts a monkey or an advice columnist who replies to his own mother about family issues. 

Wilson’s characters are cut from a similar cloth but come from a bleaker landscape. They are desperate to connect, whether they know it or not. They are presented with opportunities to do so, some as obvious as the need to deal with a newly discovered corpse, others as subtle as words that must be said in a fleeting instant. Will they act? Will they even notice they should? 

For each, readers will be touched, laugh at the wry and poignant humor, and perhaps shudder at the blazing truth of the human condition. Consider including a story collection with one of the novels I’ve mentioned as a great gift for fiction readers.

Hot off the Presses. For Those Who Favor Fire just won the Book of the Year Award in Indie Fiction from the Chicago Writers Association.

Like Love, by Michele Morano

This appears to be the moment for essays. Though it’s not an obvious gift choice, more and more writers are turning to this form to comment on the world, and the subjects that move them. And they are assembled in wonderfully themed collections. 

I was introduced to Like Love in a Valentine’s Day zoom reading during COVID, and the piece blew me away. It read like fiction. And, what a concept. Stories of every type of love except what you’d assume.  

Previous “criteria” for romance, such as consummation, are sidelined in these stories, revealing new dimensions of intense longing and bonding that also pierce the heart, often with both agony and ecstasy—or simply wonderful delight and warmth.

If there is such a thing as a page-turning essay, this collection is full of them. Not one a who-done-it, but each an I-wonder-if-they could/should will stay/go. If there’s no one on your list this seems to speak to at present, wait till February and consider giving it as a Valentine to your best friend.

How to Write Compelling Stories from Family History, by Annette Gendler

There is someone in every generation who is (or needs to become) the keeper of the family story, so there will be answers to all the questions of all the relatives moving forward--including those not yet born. In my family, it's me. And part of that designation is that at some point I will need to turn the baton over to someone a generation younger.

The holiday, when family is gathered and top of mind, is a great time for this and I plan to send this how-to guide to a second cousin as a gift that will alert her to this honored status and how we will work together to keep the heritage safe--and fresh, with new information. The task can be daunting and Gendler's book tells you how it can be managed with love and curiosity. A must gift for the person charged with the heritage in your family. 

And Now, The Plug for the Author

I always say my novel becomes more relevant with each day, given the world situation. Now, it seems this is also a new era for stories about women during the Vietnam War. Check out Absolution by Alice McDermott and watch for Kristin Hannah’s The Women, coming out in February. It’s a hot topic.

Please scan your list and consider gifting The Fourteenth of September, a book that checks many boxes for many readers: historical fiction, coming of age, women’s and war fiction. Available in all formats including paperback. E-book and audiobook formats are both on sale for the month of December, so I’ve made it cost-effective as well as easy.

BOOK SALE!

Today, September 14, is the Fifth Anniversary of the Publication of my First Novel, The Fourteenth of September

It’s been a wild ride teetering between my initial aspirations, which were as grandiose as those of Christo, of course, but often crashed into a reality which was more Matisse-like: I still can’t fold a fitted sheet, but I no longer just ball it up and shove it into the linen closet. I’ve learned it takes way more than two hands, and to master one corner at a time. Ah, metaphors. And yes, I’ve squeezed the life out of this one. Stay with me.

I’m happy to say the novel has done well and is still plugging away, with new interest—from younger book club readers to an upcoming release by a major author that should build readership for my book as well. It’s all good and has been fun—funny “ha, ha” as well as funny peculiar. And today, for your amusement, I’m sharing some of my favorite lessons and “curiosities” that have occurred over the past five years. Enjoy.

Book Marketing is Murder on Your looks

Like most authors, I spent a hefty amount of time and money on perfectly fashioned author portraits that combined aspects of attractiveness (as possible) and (not too) serious artist, with an attitude both approachable and friendly—someone you’d like to chat with for an hour over lunch, or better yet, think about for the twenty hours you’re reading my book. However, I find the photos that end up in the newsletters and social media posts are the exact opposite—top of the reject line, if I’d had a say in it. Please appreciate how brave I am to share these with you.

Kristin Hannah is Writing the Mirror Image of my Story  

I’m pretty excited that Kristin Hannah, best-selling author of The Nightingale and many other books, will come out with The Women in February. 

Her story is about a young woman who volunteers as a nurse in Vietnam and has a crisis of conscience. Her theme is that “women can be heroes, too.”

The story of The Fourteenth of September is about a young woman on a military scholarship to become a nurse and go to Vietnam who has a crisis of conscience. My theme is that women in war are faced with life-altering decisions as tough as men.

If I were an instructor, I’d teach the books side by side. A great project for a book club as well, right?

I’m selfishly hoping the release of The Women will give my book a bump, but most of all, further help to make the subject of Vietnam as attention worthy as the ubiquitous World War II.

Birthdays Bring Big Bucks 

At live events, one of the most popular reasons people stop to look at my novel is that September 14 happens to be their own birthday, or that of a husband, mother, boyfriend . . . you get it. And I respond, “Then of course the book will make a perfect birthday present,” which as a sales pitch is almost always successful. I used to feel guilty, since they had no idea what they were in for. But then, more than half the time we discuss the story behind the date of the title and their eyes widen, glad there is more to their purchase than coincidence, and they tell me a story from their own lives about the Vietnam era we’ve all been touched by whether we realize it or not. As for the guilt, not so much if the purchaser originally asked if the novel was a mystery or thriller (apparently titles with dates are often these genres).  Bottom line, you never know what will spur a sale. (I also get sales because of the pretty cover!) 

A Birthday to Die For

Though I didn’t anticipate the appeal, the book was initially sent to media reviewers wrapped in birthday paper with a card indicating the Fourteenth of September was “A Birthday to Die For.” Audacious but effective, and on point for this story of a young woman whose birthday is is same as the #1 in the Vietnam Draft Lottery. I did brace myself for pushback, which didn’t happen. Whew! Thanks to Books Forward for the idea and creative genius Cathleen Johnson for the line. 

Catch 22 in Vietnam

At my book launch my brother-in-law told me his birthday was September 14 and he had therefore been #1 in the Lottery. This was a fact I hadn’t known during the entire writing process of the novel, but you’d think I would have remembered from birthday parties over the years. He was immediately drafted back in 1970, one of the most dangerous times in the Vietnam War. He was twenty-five at the time. The Army put him through all the paperwork, got him into a uniform, and sent him to basic training. Then, just as he was ready to be shipped to Vietnam, his actual birthday occurred and he turned twenty-six, which made him too old for duty. They took back the uniform and sent him home. A close call for him (though he’d been willing to go). But a genuine Joseph Heller moment of military absurdity. It was also one of the many bizarre-but-true stories shared by quite a few of my readers who were drafted at the time, but through some slip up in the universe didn’t actually go to Vietnam. They were amazed at how fate . . . and f---ups were on their side. 

Tip for Audiobook Listeners

Listen to audiobook here

I can’t believe I made the narrator of the audio book of The Fourteenth of September pronounce the dew do do da dews in “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes,” the era-specific Crosby, Stills & Nash song that led to my main character being named Judy Blue Eyes. That should have been left to David Crosby, Graham Nash, and/or Stephen Stills and no others. But if you set the speed faster you’ll enjoy her interpretation. Please sing along.

I knew you’d ask. I’m killing myself to get the full revision of my next novel to my editor before the end of September, when I will be off to Morocco on a trip that’s been delayed for three years because of COVID, unless it will be delayed again due to the earthquake. I’m also planning a trip to San Miguel in November for the Day of the Dead fiesta, which is the setting for the final third of the novel. I’ll be completing bits of remaining research so I can begin the process of sending the manuscript out to find a publishing home. Stay tuned for updates.

Latest News & Updates

This September marks the fifth anniversary of publication and there's no better time than now to grab your copy of The Fourteenth of September. Available wherever books are sold.

I’ve Been Hacked By The New Yorker!

“It’s a terrifically gripping story about aging hippies in San Miguel, but could you make it in Swedish?”

For those of you sending messages asking when my next book will come out, this cartoon of theirs should make it obvious I’m busy translating the manuscript into Swedish, and it’s . . . challenging: All those umlauts! Endless episodes of YouTube’s Say it in Swedish. 

Seriously, I think this “plagiarism” may be yet another data breach or an AI imitation of another novel that just wants to be mine. It doesn’t have a chance, using words like “hippie” (when anyone who read my first novel, The Fourteenth of September knows the proper word is “freak”). It’s irrelevant anyway, my book is about “expats,” (a very particular species of hippies.) And what’s with the “aging” reference? I mean, okay, they’ve got some time on them, but my characters are up for a big Querencia of a life change, that takes vitality!

Stay scrolling for awesome recommendations at the end.

As for news of my writing vitality—which we all know has been ebbing more than than flowing—well…it’s a book itself.

Chapter One: Mea Culpa

January 3 (it was a long New Year’s weekend) to February 28.

I’ve been thwarted by the effects of an old neck injury I seriously aggravated while spending 8–12 hours a day at my computer during a 26-day artist residency at Ragdale Foundation last year. All I can say is it’s a bitch to try to finish a novel-length manuscript when you can only manage ten-minute increments of computer time. (But otherwise, the residency was lovely.)

The Ragdale House: Room of productivity and pain is top left.

I apologize to those of you who may think I bushwhacked them into thinking my book was finished and ready to go last fall when I asked for your help in coming up with a title. I seriously thought it would take longer to turn La Querencia into Last Sunset in San Miguel, and I admit I was buying time. I also understand not offering continuing status when you’ve gone public with a book is a bit like trying to date back in the day without revealing your astrological sign—conversation stopping. Let’s just say I use the word “painstaking” quite a bit when describing my process and I think “pain” is an apt root word for my condition.

Chapter Two:  Humpty Dumpty Gets Reassembled

March 1 to March 30 

Let’s just say pain is not conducive to creativity until after the fact. My Bod Squad (physical and massage therapists and trainer assembled to put Humpty Dumpty back together again) suggested I give up the computer and just dictate. I explained it isn’t quite as easy as in The Queen’s Gambit when Beth Harmon visualized her chess moves on the ceiling each night. You have to be able to relentlessly fidget with your words. Enough said. 

Chapter Three: Back Up on the Wall 

April 1 to present 

But I’m happy to announce that the months-long course of dry needling to my trap muscles (as awful as it sounds) has come to an end and by God it worked. So, Hallelujah! I’m back at it, writing flowing like crazy, with new deadlines. (No, I’m not sharing).

Since so many of you have asked, publication specifics remain in limbo because I haven’t completed a final draft, after which I must await the verdict of my editor to decide if that draft is, in fact, final. And then of course, there is all the usual find-an-agent/publisher frivolity one must endure. So, hang in there with me and I’ll strive to be entertaining in the interim.

Interim Diversions

About that interim. I’ve met a number of awesome writers who blow my mind not only with their work—but also with their volume of work. They somehow achieve this despite leading very busy lives and would probably never use a pathetic neck-injury excuse. They are literary Energizer Bunnies who turn new books out like crazy while racking up awards, running organizations, blanketing the media, raising families, teaching, baking (you know who you are), etc. I love/hate them. They are my “get your money’s worth out of your time on earth” aspirational models. Their latest works alone will give you hours of enjoyment as you continue to await my book. 🤣 Take your time.

Latest News & Updates

Happy to Have Hosted a terrifically fun fundraiser at my place on 2/11/23. With a little magic we raised many glasses and many $$ for CLHF.

By Demand: The Irrepressible Book Gifter’s Holiday Recommendations

I like to give books as presents, there’s nothing unique about that. And I spend a fair amount of time selecting the right book for the right reader, because when someone gives me one I’m always interested in why they made that particular selection. I think most people who give books do the same, but for some reason (probably because I published a book in this third career of mine), there are a lot of questions each holiday season about not only what I’m buying, but for whom and why. 

So, this year I thought I’d consolidate and share. It’s not like there aren’t plenty of lists for best holiday gift books out there. But the questions come, so here goes. They aren’t all the latest titles, just the best suited for particular friends, perhaps some of yours as well.

The Candy House / The Many Daughters of Afong Moy

These mind-bending books include glimpses of a plausible near future and grapple with tricky concepts: What if we could sell our memories on the cloud for anyone to download? What if epigenetics was a reality and trauma passes through DNA for generations? These novels are for readers who love to engage with intellectually challenging, as well as page-turning material. They don’t have to have read "Goon Squad" before “Candy House,” but if not, they’ll want to go back to it, so maybe a two-volume gift? I recommend the audio for “Daughters,” the actors are incredible and help keep the time-shifting clear.

Please be Advised

Pure, side-splitting pleasure. I’m giving this hilarious “novel in memos” to everyone I know who has experienced the absurdity of a corporate environment. They will all relate. I’m also using it as a hostess gift for holiday parties. The gift of a belly-laugh.

Coco at the Ritz

An irresistible title for a story of war and fashion colliding for Paris elite under the WWII Occupation, and a plausible answer to one of the era’s still unsolved mysteries. For the reader who always wants a war story, with a new twist--it’s told from the point of view of the irascible Coco Chanel, who may or may not have been a German spy.

Suspect

Turow’s (perhaps first) female narrator, Pinky is an unpredictable hoot. The story twists, of course, but so does this millennial, tattooed, hard-drinking, drug-taking, bi-sexual cub investigator who gets in WAY over her head. Give this, for the sheer fun of it, for those readers who must have a mystery/thriller. Gift the audio book, the voice is a delight. 

The Women of Troy / The Silence of the Girls

I was preoccupied for weeks with this propulsive saga. I picked up the second book first and immediately went back to the first once I finished. For anyone who loves historical fiction, the wonderful Pat Barker retells the Iliad and its aftermath from a women’s point of view. It's deeply insightful and realistic with a contemporary feeling. If you adore the person you give this to, make it a two-volume gift. And, when they resurface, you can make plans for giving them Barker’s Regeneration trilogy of WWI. I’m giving this to a dedicated historical fiction reader still mourning the end of The Outlander series. She’s in for a ride.

Oh, William

My favorite of all the Strout books since Olive Kitteridge. It’s amazing to see how she crafts a compelling narrative out of what you could only call a character sketch. A clear-eyed story of an "unlikeable" man, who happens to be her ex-husband, a connection the author seems unwilling to break, and neither does the reader. This novel saved my life during a failed, overnight sleep study. For anyone who loves women’s fiction (though that’s a reductive description of potential readers) and a great voice.

Klara and the Sun

Someone on your list will love/only read science fiction. I typically do not (except for select Ray Bradbury). But this exquisite tale of an android who becomes the artificial friend of a dying girl and exhibits such innocent powers of observation that she comes to understand humans much better than they do themselves, was addictive. Give it to anyone, then wait for the call when they finish—note the word they use to describe it. Perhaps it will be the one your searching for, besides “awesome.”

Where are the Snows / A Necessary Explosion

Blow the minds of those who love literature, but think they can no longer be surprised. These two books of poetry are wildly experimental but totally accessible. At first your head will spin over Rooney’s daily musings as you try to decide just what they are, but as it goes on you get it. It’s what a poet with a strong sense of the absurd, access to the internet, and endless time to contemplate does during COVID lock-down. Ridiculously quotable. You’ll be taking notes and wishing you could respond to every line she writes. Give to friends with whom you want to crack a bottle of wine, sit back and discuss.

Similarly, in A Necessary Explosion, Dan Burns shares the results of his warm-up process—the poems he generates as he gears up for the writing work of the day. Send either of these to someone you want to inspire into deeper creativity.

Sandman, a Golf Tale

Someone on your gift list will want a sports book, others a wonderful parable of life. If you’re finding it hard to chose gifts for a man, this will do it in particular, though not exclusively. A beautifully written, quiet book that will appeal to virtually any reader--just be sure to warn them it isn’t really about golf.

How to Walk on Water

I’ve frequently given this book for many reasons, but mostly to avid novel readers to get them equally addicted to short story collections where, in the time it takes to read a chapter, they will be able to savor a complete tale. These stories are full of danger and, perhaps, the supernatural. Caution your gift recipients not to read them in the dark.

Last Summer on State Street

I always give a copy of my favorite book of the year to my niece. This one is already wrapped and under the tree. When we say books allow us to experience lives we could never imagine, we mean stories like this. It’s a novel of coming of age under the worst possible circumstances that’s as hopeful and funny as it is shocking and tragic. This is due to a 12-year-old narrator who tells the tale of what happens to four jump-roping girlfriends, their pastime a stark contrast to the racism, poverty and violence of the world falling apart around them. Yes, it’s a book for those looking for a more diverse reading experience, but also for any reader who wants to expand their universe with an excellent story. 

And Now For The Plug (You knew it was coming).

Please scan your list and consider gifting The Fourteenth of September, a novel that checks many boxes for many readers: historical fiction, coming of age, women’s and war fiction (Putin and his conscription/draft have made it newly relevant). Available in paperback, e-book and audio formats.

Trumpet Blast: The New Title for My Second Novel Revealed. Thank You, my Collaborators

Whew! Despite a few leaks in response to persistent pleas, I’ve waited to reveal the new title for my second book until today, my birthday, since this is such a huge gift to me. Thank you all for participating in the “game” to help me replace my perfect but rejected La Querencia with something equally “transcendent” but more accessible. And what a process it was. Every single suggestion sent led, step by step, to the final (by then obvious) selection.  

You may recognize the new title (you may have recommended something close to it). There was a lot of consensus, so you may not be surprised. I actually thought a final title might be more “out there,” and require multiple rounds of dueling options, but as I pared down the (nearly 330-option) list for the reveal, my new perfect title simply emerged. Here it is with place-holding artwork. 

It’s the Total Package. 

According to agent/friend April Eberhardt, this choice “seems to have all of the subjects.” You’ll recognize it as one of the combo titles mentioned in the last blog, where I also indicated that the elements of the name San Miguel, a sunset (the English-language stand-in for Querencia), dreams and the concept of “last” were common to most of your suggestions and seemed to best resonate with the theme and tone of the novel. With “dream” already in the tag line, it’s the whole package.

Titles can take a while to  “sink in,” but this one does a lot for the story.

The sunsets in San Miguel are breathtaking. As Rachel says in the book, “La Querencia is the perfect time before the end of life. A sunset is the most beautiful, last hurrah of the day.”

Shout Outs: Final Round 

Thanks to Lynda Woodworth  (a former colleague at Dragonette,Inc./GCI Dragonette) for indicating potential readers would be intrigued if the location of San Miguel was in the title. It “sounds exotic, enticing and would make me want to find out more.” Certainly, the setting is a major element of the story—it couldn’t take place anywhere else. And, when you say “San Miguel” eyes do glaze over and smiles begin—"I’ve always wanted to go there.” “ I almost bought a house there.” “San Miguel” was in at least a third of all title suggestions.

A big nod to fellow writer Ruth Chatlein, whose book, Katie Bar the Door, came out around this time last year. She strongly championed the idea of “Last Call. ” “The combination of a bar and a group of people trying to realize their final dreams.” This was also in at least another third of overall suggestions. It puts “Sunset in San Miguel” into a narrative, begging the question- why is it the last?

Kudos to Lainey for suggesting I try pairing the emotion with the location. “The Last Mexican Sunset, Hope and Sunset Dreams in San Miguel-kind of thing.” I did, in fact, throw everything into the title line and subtracted the essence. It was fun.

And I thank artist  Ken Probst  who told me (quite vigorously) to stop overthinking and use my own words, “The Last Best Part of Life.” This title tops my alternates list for its irony. A huge part of the story is about the viability of the last dreams of the five characters. They probably don’t all come true. At least a quarter of you agree.

"Third Date," by Ken Probst. It exemplifies some of the antics of the characters in my novel.

And I still really love “The Sunset Dreamers," which is also on the alternate list. Thank you Lynda Naslund. Both of these phrases will no doubt end up in the book in some form or another.

Will the Sun Set on this Title, is the Question.  

I know it’s just a “working title,” subject to the whims and tastes of a future publisher. Though working titles have a way of settling in and becoming inevitable . . . if not predictable, I say with a nod to the great Jacqueline Mitchard. And I am unconcerned. I have nearly 330 alternates—a helluva backup list.

Above all, I am so thrilled you engaged in the process and, I hope, enjoyed it. You helped me break down my hoity-toity concept into something simple and powerful—or rather, simply powerful. It works. As evidence, I no longer mourn the loss of La Querencia. It remains the name of the bar in the story so I don’t have to give it up. And it may just be more appropriate in that capacity.

You guys are great. Count me in on your creative teams for your own projects. 

Best birthday present EVER! 

My New Novel—aka La Querencia—Now Has 306 Potential Titles. THANK YOU ALL!

What a response! My call for title help received more responses than any blog post I’ve sent out in five years. All I can say is to repeat something I learned back when I was still buying 45s; the Beatles were right, duh. I did need a little help from my friends and boy did you come through. I’ve been playing with all the titles, falling in love with each and following the riff of possibilities it sent me through. Just yesterday I thought I had it with The Dream Chasers. I was fantasizing about possible covers and where in the manuscript I could seed in language to make it transcendent. Then I discovered it had been the title of a 1984 two-star modern day western as well as two documentaries.

I guess that means it was a good, if not unique, idea. But alas, not for me. So, I don’t have a finalist yet, but the winnowing has been enlightening. Read on to see where I am in the process.

I Promised to Make the “Author” of the Final Title Famous. Round One.

PHOTOGRAPH BY SUSAN AURINKO

All 306 possibilities have been great, and they are still coming in, from many sources including some people I haven’t connected with since pre-Covid and longer. I’m delighted. My Excel spreadsheet is now on page ten. Some of you have shared the process of your entire creative burst and others have sent a single carefully curated option.

The leader in quantity with 38 suggestions is master designer/identity expert Greg Samata, who designed the look of my website (and in full disclosure was also my eighth-grade boyfriend). Within seconds of sending his ideas he texted to indicate that he could come up with more if I’d just tell him the ending of the novel. Ha! Nice ploy, Greg. I differed. But then we know that endings are as changeable as titles, yes?

Coming in the twenties was poet Nolan Chambers with 26, many based on some fascinating research into the origin and meaning of potential Spanish words. Writer John Poplett follows with 21. I met John when I browbeat him into buying my first novel at the Printers Row Lit Fest a while back. He threw it on his TBR (to be read) file and didn’t crack it open for a year, after which he sent a fan email.

Some other seriously great writers also sent double-digit lists of seriously great options including 17 from Maggie Smith, who is currently basking in the glow of the successful launch of her debut novel Truth and Other Lies. At 16, networking buddy Brenda Butler tied with fabulous photographer and supporter of all writers Susan Aurinko, who took my first author photo. Alice Early, author of the award-winning The Moon Always Rising, sent 15, including the one currently stuck in my head that truly sings. Alice and I share a publisher (She Writes Press) and a consultant-to-author background. Bob Carr, former communications colleague and writer sent 11, as well as some wonderful research on the Day of the Dead Fiesta, which figures prominently in the novel.

The First Cut

Going through so many potential titles has helped me reach a few early conclusions. As much as I love the truly wonderful titles featuring “bull,” I realize I shouldn’t have that word in the title. The novel is already an homage to The Sun Also Rises, with a single bullfighting scene, the prospect of either of which is off-putting to some who are squeamish or Hemingway adverse (sad but true). I’m always explaining that the book is not about bullfighting, that it’s just the metaphor, so putting bull in the title is going to make that hill harder to climb. As a result, I have to give up wonderful options like Twilight of the Bulls, The Place in the Ring, The Season of the Bull, Last Stand in the Ring, In the Bull’s Eye.

Also, the concept of “safety” doesn’t seem to work as well as I’d envisioned to communicate what the story is about. Although I do like Safe Dreams.

What I have learned on the “what does work” side is:

1) San Miguel is a setting that really resonates, so having it in the title would be a bonus.

2) Sunset or “twilight” seems to combine the wonderful-but-temporary concept of querencia. And it’s already in the manuscript. As Rachel, the main character, explains: “La Querencia is the perfect time before the end of life, a sunset is the most beautiful, last hurrah of the day.”

3) Dream works in many of the titles and clearly represents what all the characters are after. Wounded Dreams, A Rage of Dreams.

4) Last or “final” offers the concept of a last shot or opportunity for that dream. Last Call, Last Stop, Last/Final Dream, Finale, Last Call at La Querencia (the Spanish word could work in this sense).

Many of the title options use or combine these elements, such as:

Last Sunset in San Miguel Twilight in San Miguel

Sundown in San Miguel The Sunset Dreamers

Last Stand at San Miguel This Last Dream

I’m still going through many more from the categories above as well as those related to the Querencia time frame, i.e., The Last Best Part of Life (though that won’t necessarily be true. After all, there are five characters, each with a dream, what are the odds?)  So, if you have any thoughts or additional ideas, or want to make a case for something I’m passing on, I’d love to hear from you. Meanwhile I’m clearing off my bulletin board so I can whiteboard this process and come to a conclusion or at least identify final candidates by my next post. Thank you all so much.

It’s Anniversary Day—The Fourteenth of September published on September 14, 2018. Or did it?

I still remember the conversation with my publisher when we knew publication would be September 12. “Marketing me” said that of course we should hold it two days—“Fourteenth on the 14th.” Genius, right? Logical, of course?  She laughed. Apparently the 14th that year was not on a sacred Tuesday, the only day of the week when books are launched. This was one of many critical factoids about the publishing world I was to learn. The first year I was peppered with many questions: Why didn’t it just come out on the 14th? I finally took to rounding it off and just telling people it WAS published on the 14th.  Which is where the story is today and will stay.

It has been quite a four years. I still have an approach/avoidance relationship with the good/bad situation of history that continues to make The Fourteenth of September evergreen historical fiction. Though set in 1969-1970 (from the first Vietnam Draft Lottery through the Kent State Massacre), the world continues to deal with similar issues. I take pride in the fact that the lessons of what we encountered ending the Vietnam Draft are currently giving Putin pause in starting one of his own. Hopefully, it will help to accelerate a badly needed conclusion. There will never be a good way to sacrifice lives without a worthy objective.

On the positive side, I’ve met and worked with amazing people and partners. We had a ton of parties and events, won more than a few awards and schlepped many pounds of books to and from independent bookstores, festivals, and book clubs. I’m amazed that the book continues to sell after all this time, though I know if I take my foot off the marketing machine it stops cold. (As if I would do that. You all know me better). I’m very grateful to the masses that helped me launch as well as to my current team of Kaitlyn Kennedy on publicity and Zerina Mehmedovic on social media (she actually had a baby and moved across the country in the middle of all of this!). Both of them agree with the adage of author Ann Patchett, “If You Haven’t Read It, It Is a New Book to You.” I thank all those readers in all those enthusiast social media sites who press on beyond the recent best-seller lists to prove that to be true every day.

To celebrate the anniversary, we’ve lowered the ebook price to $1.99 through the month of September only.

So, act fast if (despite all my nagging) you haven’t yet read the book, or if you have friends you think would like it.

Thanks for being with me.

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Urgent: I Have to Break Up with My New Novel’s Perfect Title, and I Need a Little Help from My Friends.

The split is neither of our faults but is being forced by wiser, more experienced (editor/agent/authoritarian-type) sources who have my best interests at heart and assure me that in the long run we will not be compatible for either broad readership or decent sales.

I’m bereft. I thought I could make it work.

But the novel draft is approaching completion, and I’m running out of time. I have to start title creation all over again and . . . well . . .  breaking up is hard to do. I’m having trouble. My perfect, but rejected title is etched in my brain. I need an outside perspective. I need a little help from you—writers, readers, observers, supporters, friends—to come up with a new title. Are you game?

I’ll lay out everything you need to know, and hopefully you’ll see ever so clearly what I cannot and help me replace my perfect book title with another perfectly wonderful, no doubt, better one. And I’ll reward you for your efforts, really.

Here is the Problem.

La Querencia

 My rejected title is in Spanish: La Querencia. It’s a bullfighting term, though my story is not about bullfighting. Thematically, it’s ideal as you will read below, but no, it does not easily trip off the tongue. In fact, even my iPhone can’t cope with it. It keeps “correcting” querencia into various irrelevant words and phrases—quince, queer congrats, quest, queen. So, I have to agree that a difficult-to-pronounce word in another language is a recipe for the discount bin.

My new title needs to be in English, period. Simple, right? Not so much. La Querencia is idiomatic, so a direct translation doesn’t really work and there are variations about what it means.

My preferred definition refers to “the place in the ring where the bull feels safe.” It is a moment of transcendence for the bull—where he thinks he’s won. Though we know the bull will soon die, in the moment of his Querencia he lives the last, best part of his life.

This is a perfect metaphor for my story of a group of expats, each of whom have come to beautiful San Miguel de Allende, with their last dream. The generational story is informed by Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises. Click here for the full synopsis.

Like the moment it describes, La Querencia as a title is also transcendent, which is another reason why it’s hard to give it up.

Why a Transcendent Title?

I never felt I had the perfect title for my last book. My working title started out as September 14, but it was too close to the very loaded date of September 11th.  My writing instructor, the marvelous Gary Wilson, suggested The Fourteenth of September and it stayed like that for its entire development. I always thought I’d come up with something more lyrical, an elegant brushstroke of my theme.

My model for a great title has always been The Adulterous Woman by Albert Camus, the famous story of a woman whose brief, misunderstood flirtatious encounter plunges her into a review of her life and a “sensuous” visit to an Algerian fortress where she engages in her “adultery.” The title is so apt and necessary that without it you don’t fully understand what you think is happening is actually “true.” If you haven’t read it, you must.

I’ve also been drawn to titles like Starting Out in the Evening, about a writer starting over well past his prime, and Old Joy, about long-time friends on a camping trip, “coming to grips with the changes in their lives.” I feel each of these titles elevated their stories in beautiful and profoundly impactful ways.

I had wanted the title of my debut novel to sing like that. However, despite many brainstorming sessions, it remained “working” until my publisher pronounced it “strong.” Who knew? I admit in retrospect, The Fourteenth of September is well-suited for the story of a young woman with that birthdate who realizes that if she’d been a man, she would have been Number One in the Vietnam Draft Lottery. I just couldn’t see it myself. I needed a friend to help me. Thank you, Gary.

 This Novel Has Already Had More Than a Little Help from My Friends.

This time the title came first and was my source of inspiration for the entire story. La Querencia had worked in my mind for nearly 15 years. The wonderful photographer Karen Thompson had given me one of her pieces with that title and its safe-place-for-the-bull definition. The photograph depicted a place where she, herself, felt safe. I loved the concept. I knew it had potential for a metaphor. But at the time I didn’t know for what. Thank you, Karen.

Flash forward almost ten years, when a friend told me she wintered in a beautiful place, popular with expats—San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. She regularly shared amusing, sometimes absurd stories of these visitors who straddled the line between their home lives and their expat adventures, giddy with plans to become painters, writers, or restauranteurs. I noted the setting and the expats had great potential for some story, though I had no idea what it would be. Thank you, Cathleen.

In 2016, during a visit to Paris, I introduced a friend from Quebec to Shakespeare and Company, the famous bookstore that published so many of the American expats after the First World War, including Hemingway. I realized she’d never read anything by the author and bought her a copy of The Sun Also Rises.  Thank you, Aimée.

La Querencia, by Karen Thompson

Once home, during a massage (head rubbing makes me very creative. Thank you, Sarah.) all these pieces started to come together. I had the beginning of a story—an homage to the Hemingway novel, but contemporary, with world-worn expats looking for their final chapter in this Mexican paradise.

Armed with this story idea I was off to San Miguel for research. I was invited to a bullfight. Thank you, Phyllis. I wasn’t looking forward to it, having seen one before—a bad one in Acapulco, with inept matadors, from way high in the top of the bleachers.  

For this bullfight our seats were close. And a relative of the friend who invited me turned out to be an aficionada who talked us through each of the afternoon’s six fights, giving me a completely different perspective—from the bull’s point of view. Thank you, Karen #2.

There was one bull who wouldn’t move, another hugged the ring wall. In those moments their postures seem to transform them. I realized that “being safe” in the ring was also this precious moment of time before the end. Suddenly, I saw La Querencia as a potential title: a metaphor for a time in life paralleling that of the older expats in my story. The “moment” you could miss or make the best, a last opportunity for a generation to fulfill its early promise.  It worked. And I had a story with a title and a tag line.

La Querencia

For a Generation of Dreamers, this Last One Really Has to Come True

But alas, the beautiful La Querencia, which is still the name of a bar in my story, can no longer serve as the title.

My personal dream would be for a new title that would describe the querencia moment in English and to keep the tag line. That may or may not be possible, or even advisable. I fully disclose that I can only see trees in this forest.

San Miguel Also Rises. Thank you, Nolan.

So now you know everything. And yes, I’m really sticking my neck out by going public with so much, and potentially so much that could change.

But I am more than ready to just move on with a new title.  And I’m a little tired of working on this all alone.

Continuing the tradition of this novel’s progress, I’m in serious need of help from, well, anyone reading this blog. The titles I come up with all sound soapy. I can literally hear the organ music as I say them out loud.

The pathetic brainstorming list on my bulletin board has only a few potentials: 

    The Last Hurrah (a Spencer Tracy film?)

    The Last Dream, Last Dreams (a romance?)

    Sunset over San Miguel, The Sun Also Sets (a Hemingway Pastiche?)

Please engage. Just send any ideas through the comment section of this blog post. It doesn’t matter how farfetched. This is an online brainstorming and each idea will spur other thoughts. Or you can email me directly through the website.

In return I promise to report on progress towards a new title and offer fame (if you want it) to anyone who comes up with a winner. This would begin with immortality via the acknowledgments section of the eventual 🤞🏼 published novel and continue with all kinds of early-read opportunities, giveaways, special invites, and other goodies. If your suggestion really sings, I may adopt you.

It’s my Working Title. Okay?

And yes, after all this, I know the publisher will probably change it anyway. Possibly to something quite simple.  That doesn’t mean we can’t play and have some fun. I say game on. I look forward to hearing from you.  Thank you all in advance.

whatdayamean what's it about? It's a book? What else do you need to know.

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The Reluctant Matador: Meet my Bullfighting Consultant.

With my WIP (work-in-progress) second novel, I’m running up hot and heavy against the “write what you know” adage. The book is set in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. As such there are a lot of references to restaurants and food (I don’t cook, am not a foodie, and prefer others pick where to dine), many Spanish words (my second language is pitiful French), and a bit of bullfighting (please!). So, I need a lot of help. Fortunately, having been a consultant in a previous life, I have no trouble asking for it.

In my last blog post, I shared how I’ve purloined required foodie intel to date and my plans for a culinary consultant. In this edition I’ll introduce the professional everyone needs in their rolodex—a personal bullfighting consultant.

And, I’ll also show the result of what I learned in a unique video performance at the end.

The Genesis of My Need for Bullfighting Expertise

I got the idea for the setting of my WIP from anecdotes a friend had shared over the years about the lively expat community in San Miguel. I realized this could offer a framework for the generational story I wanted to tell and embarked upon a series of trips to familiarize myself with the place. In addition to the fiestas, the food, the art, and all the other wonderful aspects of the city, I learned San Miguel also has a bullring. Though hardly my cup of tea, I did feel that if I wanted to really understand the culture of the city that is the setting for my story, I needed to steel myself and attend one—but only one—bullfight.

  When I went down for Easter about three years ago to see the magnificent Holy Week celebrations, it was also bullfighting season. I was invited to tag along with an enthusiast, who transformed my trepidation about the experience by interpreting the fight from a point of view I would never have considered—the bull’s. This anthropomorphic perspective was fascinating and, through the bull’s journey in the ring, I found the metaphor for my story: the wonderful moment of safety and satisfaction some bulls find before the end—the querencia.

Bringing it to the page was trickier. Bullfighting is a very complicated, ritualistic art form, with elements both pagan and reminiscent of aspects of the Catholic mass. Though it is only depicted in a single scene in my entire novel, it still had to be believable. After an early reading, I realized I couldn’t coast on my rookie observations in my hurry to skip to my thematic “moment” without getting the many details absolutely right. The enthusiast gave me books and pointed me in the right direction, but it was tough to understand the translated texts, and I longed for an “interpreter” closer to home that I could nag at will until I got it right.

And then, as they say, the Universe presented me with what I needed.

How Did I Luck Out?

Todd Behrend

It turns out, in the oddest of circumstances, I had a resource just one degree of separation away. Abby, my massage therapist, an avid reader and fan of my first book, one day asked about my WIP while unhinging my frozen neck muscles.  Lo and behold she is married to a Renaissance man with an unusual set of skills and interests, that include bullfighting.

Before I know it, I’ve sent along my problematic scene to this man I’ve never met, and he suggests we do get together—there is so much I’m getting wrong and have to learn and he’s delighted to share.  

And so, at an outside restaurant during the first break in the COVID lock down I meet Todd Behrend, a true aficionado--one who deeply understands and appreciates the art of bullfighting. And, at one point in his life actually trained to become a bullfighter.

What are the odds?

A Renaissance Aficionado from the National Theater to the Plaza de Toros

todd, THE MATADOR

How? Why? Yes, I know the first question you have. It’s the one I asked as well. How does one even fathom becoming a bullfighter in the modern world?

Though when I met Todd, he was winding up a long and successful career in the hospitality industry, I learned he’d previously been a Chicago actor. In his twenties he’d taken advantage of an opportunity for serious study at the National Theater in London and elsewhere in Europe, which of course led to a lot of recreational travelling throughout the continent. While in Spain, though he originally had no interest in bullfighting—too bloody—he finally relented and made what he thought was to be his only visit. Instead, he found it to be one of the most compelling things he’d ever seen. “Everything I thought I was doing in theater was in bullfighting,” he realized. “But it was actual, not fictional, risk.”

He quit acting and spent the next three years training with former professionals in Chicago, traveling to Ecuador and Mexico, honing his skills and training to become a matador. Secretly, however, part of him was reluctant, constantly grappling with the fact that as much as he loved the art form of bullfighting, he hated the idea of killing an animal. He was enthralled but…reluctant.

todd IN ACTION

Eventually, an encounter with a particular two-year-old bull settled the dilemma. As he puts it, he “had his ass handed to him,” which was “a very large pill to swallow” and a wakeup call that he was unlikely to achieve the personal goals he’d set for himself and that he’d started too late in the game.

At the same time, he no longer had to wrestle with committing to the understanding of all serious bullfighting professionals—that they won’t take the bull’s life unless they are willing to give up theirs.

He wasn’t, and my story and I are the beneficiaries of his unique experience as well as his relatable struggle.

The Universe done good.

And so has Todd.

After his sojourn with bullfighting, Todd returned to acting, appearing in network television shows including Chicago P.D. Today, he has moved to another phase of his Renaissance life, to which he’s committed with equal gusto and less personal peril. He is a Certified Sommelier | Court of Master Sommeliers and Wine Consultant, a position from which I confess I’ve also benefited in terms of recommendations for excellent holiday gifts for my wine connoisseur friends.

Oh and when we meet to discuss my story, he brings wine.

You Say “Potato,” I say “Pomme de Terre,” but Should Say “ Patata”

Though this headline doesn’t work exactly, it does set up another consulting need that I roped Todd into with his fluent Spanish.

In another early reading of my bullfighting scene, in which there are quite a few Spanish words, I sounded them out with the only knowledge I had—high school romance language (French) and phonics—as well as what I’d gleaned from a freshman year Spanish dialogue I’d memorized while my best friend was practicing it out loud.

I thought I sounded pretty good. Until someone from the audience asked me if I was referring to San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. She pronounced it differently, I had apparently used my French accent.

Shortly after that disgrace, I was invited by my friend, Isabelle Olivier, a master harpist from Paris, to perform with her during her autumn tour. It was to be a reading from my WIP accompanied by her original music at a concert onstage at Pianoforte in Chicago. We’d done this before with an excerpt from my first novel, to great success. However, I realized that had all been in my native tongue. This new excerpt had TEN Spanish words and phrases, some repeated. 

Desperate, I sent the list to Todd. Could he give me idiot-proof, syllable-by-syllable phonetic pronunciations of each word? As a result, I had a ball learning to say San Miguel i- yend- day, and la keh-wren-see-ah, even though I could hardly master the critical tongue flick at the back of my teeth or, heavens, roll my Rs in the week I had to rehearse. But I could handle it, except for one tongue-twisting word: Banderillero.

This word, describing the colorful men who both rev up and wear down the bull for the matador throughout the stages of the fight, is challenging even with the phonetic spelling. It’s five syllables, all of which need to be said of a piece, without stopping. I, of course, had a tendency to hesitate after the third, which annihilated any possibility of making it to a coherent end. I could do it once or twice, if I could say it very fast and keep my head out of it. But I knew that would not be so easy during a reading before an audience that would be live streaming internationally from the stage of Pianoforte.

Todd was supportive, pointing out that Ernest Hemingway had found banderillero to be the most difficult word to pronounce in Spanish. I tell everyone this, so they’ll have sympathy.

I practiced like crazy, but I had to say the word EIGHT TIMES in my seven-minute reading, and the morning of the performance I was a basket case. I finally realized that I’d ruin the entire reading if I worried about this, and decided on a bastardized plan that would get me through. I’d say the full read the first time, then shorten it to “yeros,” for the next five mentions, then return with a rousing full, nearly tongue-rolling finale for the last.

How did I do? Please see for yourself in the video presented here. Listen to the prelude of Isabelle’s wonderful music, or advance directly to 22:48 where the reading starts.

Enjoy…and be kind.

Thank God, bullfighting is only in the one scene.

Todd has yet to weigh in.

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I'm Putting a New Act Together and Taking it on the Virtual Road... to Mexico.

Okay, I get it. Enough with the witty whining about the pandemic. It’s endless and though we’re all still dealing with the re-entry part of it, it’s more than time for a new point of view. Certainly, there are other interesting topics to share.

First of all, this week is the third anniversary of the publication of my debut novel The Fourteenth of September and I’m celebrating with an ebook sale. So, if you haven’t already checked it out, it’s a great time to get or gift this coming-of-age in wartime story of a young woman who makes a fateful choice.

I have a massive approach/avoidance attitude about how relevant the Vietnam-era time frame of the novel is to what we’re seeing today in Afghanistan. And yet, I look forward to a parallel story in the future by an Afghani girl, who like Judy in my book, will also be making choices of conscience in a world that no longer makes sense.

The 💥 EBOOK, as an anniversary special, will be available for $1.99 until September 25th only. So grab it fast.

Second, now that I’m past my BLOCK, it’s exciting to share more about the novel I’m working on now—the one that was stuck for the full pandemic year+ at the halfway point—and is now chugging forward, flowing and even, on some days, starting to “sing” a bit.

I know it’s supposed to be bad luck to be too specific about a work in progress. Maybe not quite as bad as calling The Scottish Play, MacBeth, but still. I’m knocking wood as I write this, hoping I don’t curse it.

In its simplest description, the novel is about a group of expats, each of whom have come to beautiful San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, with their last dream, the one that really has to come true.

My writing journey with this story has taken me to some unfamiliar places, involving among other things, food and larceny. Allow me to share a bit.

When You’ve Given Your Character a Job You Don’t Really Approve Of

There are two occupations I always swore I wouldn’t give any of my female characters, certainly not a protagonist. That of a writer (too obvious), or that of the owner of a restaurant/bakery/little gourmet shop or anything centered around food (too cliché). And, though I admit that such stories can be more juicy than, say, the life of a corporate executive, it has always seemed to me not enough of a leap. Just too close to the kitchen I’ve personally always tried to stay away from, you know?  I’ve felt that part of my responsibility, as a woman writer, is that I should be offering my admirably independent characters more surprising/breakthrough occupations.

I know this isn’t an absolute (so don’t ridicule me in the comments section), but you have to admit that women and food— well, it’s a well-trod trend.

And yet, here I am in my own next novel, “feeding” that trend. Somehow, against my original intention, my main character has become a former business woman, who, in “retirement” is an entrepreneur running a bar that serves food. And not just any food, mind you, but innovative, crowd-pleasing aperitivos. So, it’s cooking and Spanish: two languages I do not speak.  I’m having quite a wonderful yet frightening time trying to manage that in my tale.

When You’ve Made Your Character a Gourmand, While Setting Your Own Stove on Fire

OLD

It is true. I will not give the old “I can’t boil water” description, but I actually did start a fire in my broiler so bad that part of the controls melted (in a stove, really?) and the soot permanently stained the finish to the point where I had to do a complete appliance redo. Fortunately, this was mid-pandemic and I got a deal when no one else was buying.

Cooking is simply not my skill or calling. I mean, all that work and then it’s gone…nothing to show for it. And, I’m just not all that interested in food. I’m a picky eater, comfortable with my limited range of choices, who always orders the same thing at restaurants. This was very disappointing to an ex-boyfriend who was a super foodie. But what can I say?

NEW

It does become a challenge when you’re creating a story set in one of the gastronomic centers of Mexico and your character needs to know what she’s talking about. So I had to fake it, in the first draft, including having a ball one afternoon “cooking up” an appetizer menu featuring—are you ready for it?

Polenta-crusted sweet potato quarters with “grass skirts” of bright-green edible moss, white squares of sea bass with black caviar arranged to resemble pairs of dice, and mini “sunflowers” with petals of mango and avocado slices circling a pistil of steak tartare.

I have no idea how these would taste or if the ingredients are even available in San Miguel. It was fun but did fully tax my limited resources.

To continue further, I had to turn to larceny.

Steal Like an Artist

TZUCO

The food at my character’s bar had to fit within the competitive culinary environment of San Miguel. To pat myself on the back, I did “invent” the idea of a Mexican/French infusion, at least in my own head. I think now it was in a dream where I assimilated something I’d heard of, like a would-be composer who hums a tune only to find out it was written by Bach.

At around this time I was fortunately introduced to an incredible venue offering just such a fusion— Tzuco, a wonderful Chicago restaurant where Carlos Gaytan (the only Mexican chef to have won a Michelin star) combines Mexican food with French techniques. Bingo!

I took the advice of Austin Kleon, in his bestselling, Steal Like an Artist: “Nothing is completely original” and “Everything is up for grabs.”  Whew, I no longer had to invent. While writing up the details for a fictional tasting menu, I just stole from the Tzuco website. I could only pilfer the items I could understand (versus those too mystifying. I mean, “blue corn masa, black bean puree, haricots verts, salsa cruda, queso fresco?” What is that, really, a soup? Something served on top of a tortilla?)

In a bold move, I asked for a printed menu, stuck it in my purse and filched liberally.  Traditional French onion soup with poblano peppers and Gruyere cheese! And that was just the first appetizer. How could I resist?  On a subsequent visit I pushed it a bit far, admitting to the waiter I was a writer, peppering him with questions. Is there a Mexican “version” of a light, Campari-like drink?  He gave me a taste of Raicilla, (a tequila), and was disappointed I was asking more than ordering.

But I persist.  And I have ordered the masa mixture noted above—it was indescribable but delicious and will be served in my character’s bar.  At some point, I’m looking forward to meeting Chef Gaytan.  I will confess to the theft, throw myself on his mercy, hope he’ll be flattered and ask him to serve as my culinary consultant for the novel. I’ll let you know how it goes.

Next blog, I’ll tell you about my bullfighting consultant.

Meanwhile, send me any menu suggestions, and by all means let me know if you try to make the sweet potatoes with grass skirts, and if you had to be hospitalized. ❤️

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PLAGUE ENDS: Sleeping Beauty Awakes, but With More Heft and No Prince. RE-ENTRY Can Be a Slippery Slope for the Pandemic Underachiever. Are You Ready?

I know many of you are boldly running outside, arms outstretched, gulping in freedom, communal drinking, hugs and… kisses. (Can we kiss yet?) You’re waving the synopses of the three novels you finished during lockdown, the reams of poems and short stories that have sprung from your morning pages. I see you out there through the same windows I wanted to jump through last winter. I seethe. But, of course, am extraordinarily happy for you, really… REALLY!

Others of us (even if naturally extroverted) are emerging more cautiously, peeking out, weighed down with guilt about nothing to show from the lockdown but atrophied conversational skills, split ends, pandemic pounds, and fragments of still-in-progress projects littered over every available surface. It’s embarrassing, you know? On behalf of us wastrels, I’m tempted to ask for another month of stretchy clothes, meals and naps at whim, no consequences for blown deadlines. If granted, I promise I’ll get me and my eternally unfinished novel all cleaned up and ready for prime time.

I know, it’s hard to believe that after a year of caterwauling about the confines of the pandemic in these posts, I’d be facing an approach/avoidance conflict about it ending. But there is no turning back. With the blessed vaccine we are reentering the time of no excuses. We will get questions. They will all sound like “How’s the book (enter the name of your project here) going? Which really means. “You’ve had so much time I assume it’s done, right?”

Are You Ready? (i.e., to even begin to think about how to explain how the book is doing.)

My pandemic catch-all answer to people who relentlessly ask how I have been is, “I’m bored.” For a year, responses have been sympathetic nods of agreement, end of conversation. Today, this answer shocks. The questioners quickly tell me how busy they are with work restarting, “consuming content,” renewing their walking, biking, (nada-nada) programs. When they’ve finished unleashing their activity bona fides, I quietly add (through my teeth) that I am also “busy,” that I am in fact still writing a novel—I leave out the “could be/should be” part—but still bored. The sameness, you know? (Expecting another nod that doesn’t come.) They back up, as if I’m a refugee from a prison camp from which they have escaped. End of conversation.

And, now that we’re coming out of the woodwork, I’m also hearing from more and more people who are looking back at the “time off” (how can they say that about more than a year?). They are all smug about how they were able to jazz up that lake house, decide to seal or break up, squeeze in that minor cosmetic surgery, make real estate decisions. So it’s begun. Have you noticed? The competition. Words like appreciate, gratitude, mindful, evolutionary, transforming. There is a giddiness not only about the future, but their new, improved selves, the product of their sequester suffering.

I do not begrudge those who have developed deeper relationships with partners, or learned to find their Zen space, but they are driving me crazy and probably you as well, so I’ve developed some sure fire language to enable you to appear to have emerged from the pandemic triumphant and productive. It works, trust me.

I’m happy to share.

Languish is the New "L" Word. (i.e., how’s the book REALLY doing? How are YOU doing with the book?)

I love that there is finally a cool word for what I experienced during the past year. You, too, I bet. And the word, according to the New York Times, is languishing. Check out “There’s a Name for the Blah You’re Feeling.” I adore the definition: “the neglected middle child of mental health.” In a nutshell, it means “dulled motivation and focus. To feel joyless, aimless, with a sense of muddling through your days.” Yes! That’s it. So much better than the word I’ve been using, malaise, which sounds like an icky, possibly terminal, skin disease.  Languish is clearly temporary. It also characterizes all the hope I can muster some days, really. And, I must admit, even with masks off, I have not yet shaken the feeling. 

However, I’ve learned if you’re stuck in the cycle of the past year you will no longer get any sympathy. It’s become boring to say you’re bored. It’s so much sexier and unexpected to say you languished. Let the word trip leisurely off your tongue. “How’s the book going?” “Languishing” is a perfect response. Say it slowly. Laaaaaaanguish. Try it.

It’s very Tennessee Williams, your psyche a loose flowered dress/white linen suit (take your pick) laying full out in a porch swing with a crystal flute of sweet tea, perhaps mulling the velocity of the sweat beads on the side of the glass as they dissipate and flow into a water ring. Your muse, hovering behind you like a waiter holding a tray with a pitcher, willing to refill but also straining to catch your eye and give you that look of “haven’t we had enough of this and now isn’t it time to get back to work?”

“Not quite yet, I want to languish a bit more.” Those who query either again nod in empathy or don’t really know what you mean but are impressed that something interesting is going on.

“Are you happy with how your novel is going.” “It’s lovely. I’m just taking some time to languish a bit with the plot, you know?” “Oh yes, that’s so smart of you. Don’t rush it.”

“What has been the best/worst part of the pandemic for you?” The languishing. “I KNOW.”

It’s a great word, use it liberally.

You’re welcome.

Practice Positioning. (i.e., diverting - but not actually untrue - ways to talk about how the book is doing.)

My PR roots are showing. Whether or not people think you’ve been productive is all about context. Let’s take the Zoom call as an example.

Very quickly the tone of these calls has shifted, right? People only want to hear good things when they ask presumptuously “Tell us what fun things you did this week?” They don’t want to hear, “I do the same FIVE THINGS every week and you’ve heard them all before.” This would reveal you as the loser you are, and make everyone else nervous. Believe me, they don’t want to feel bad for you just as they are beginning to feel really great about themselves.

I’ve lately taken to pre-planning three things that vary from the week before so I don’t reveal what a complete productivity loser I really am. I expound upon the article I just read, the nonfiction book I finished reading last night, in the tub, the Amazon review I wrote, the novel that gave me an idea about how to handle the overlong introduction of one of my secondary characters. Tell your Zoom callers as much as you can about each of your three phantom “fun things” and use a lot of detail. It will appear that your mind is still operational and will provide the verisimilitude of things really happening. Do not use a Netflix series as an example, you will give yourself away—stick to print.

You can do this. If you were raised Catholic, remember you did this before in weekly confession. You were too young to do any serious sinning unless you are a sociopath so you came up with a mental list of things you must have done: lied to you mother, talked in church, and the most intriguing, thought impure thoughts. Still engage in the latter, but refrain from details over Zoom. Just hint. Again, verisimilitude.

I recommend picking an exaggeration milestone about which you can sound very excited. l now tell people that I have NEARLY 100 PAGES of the manuscript of my novel done, pretty sure they won’t remember that I told them it was 90 pages in the last call, and the call before, and the one before that all the way back to late February when I hit THAT scene, the one from which I haven’t progressed, the one that shall not be named, the one that made me realize I was cheating and may have to (dare I say it) start over, thereby shrinking my true manuscript length to single digits.

By using this advice you are positioning how you want them to feel about you and your project. You will get applause and lots of atta’s on the back, right through the Zoom screen. Again verisimilitude. You will appear to be fun, exciting and successful with a book handily steaming towards the finish line, and they will feel good enough for you not to feel guilty about how good they feel about their new fresh-out-of-lockdown active selves.

Mission accomplished.

Cutting off UnWanted Advice. (i.e., she doesn't want us to know how the book is doing.)

Let’s face it. Your friends love you and want you to feel as happy and fulfilled as they hope to be, and they want it to happen on a matching time frame. So if you give too many details about, say, how the book is doing, you will, without really noticing until it’s too late, cross the Rubicon and open yourself to suggestions. Lots of suggestions, most unapplicable, virtually all previously considered.

I get it. My friends are type A like me and wired for fixing things and offering solutions. I used to be a consultant, therefore most of my life has been as a fixer. As such, I KNOW what to do, I just haven’t been able to rise to the level of my own suggestions, or my book would be, you know, done. The pandemic has shown me how annoying the endless list of all the things you should do, try, put into practice, etc., really is. My advice to avoid the list without actually hurting any of these friends is simple.

When you start to get suggestions, don’t try to justify yourself by explaining why they won’t work, haven’t worked, etc., (they’ll think you’re in denial), just say,

“I’m comfortable.”

When they persist with details of the downside of not doing all they recommend, just repeat, “I’m comfortable.” They will stop after you’ve said it three times. If not, they are not your friends. Or, rather, they are too dense to deserve to be one of your friends. They may act a bit annoyed, but really, they’ll be impressed that you’ve drawn a line in the sand. And, they know they are on the record if in fact later it turns out they were right.

Easy-peasy.

Offer One Authentic Answer. How Did You Fare During All of This? (i.e., level with me, how's the book really doing?)

Despite all the recommended subterfuge of the suggestions above, there is one instance in which you can and should feel free to just let it all out and say the only reasonable response to the past year and how it affected you.

“It sucked.”

This is the only true answer to all questions resembling “How’s it been for you?” Be authentic and just say it. Don’t try to dress it up with fancy language (i.e., “I’ve misplaced my joie de vivre.”)

“It sucked,” is exquisitely concise. This response will shut down all further questions about the details of your ordeal (which are too boring to endlessly recount and would send you and the questioner into an eternal rabbit hole of “yeah, but” and “if only”). The questioner will be slightly taken aback, or laugh. My “research” has shown that at least 50 percent of people will drop all the woo-woo, higher-self stuff and just release their own pent-up frustrations in a single matching phrase.

“Didn’t it?”

They will possibly use a saltier version of the same phrase. All bonding efficiently achieved. This is best followed by a clink of glasses. Since it can’t yet be a showstopping kiss or recommended twenty-second hug. We always and forever will have shared this. Enough said.

And, no one will be thinking about how your book is doing.

One Genuine Answer to the Author. Fess Up. (How’s the book really going?)

It’s name would be “Nemesis”

It’s going. I’m 127 pages in and have halted to languish a bit (or, a bit more than a bit) over how to arrange the various arcs of my ensemble cast. I’m sure you agree I shouldn’t rush it.

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Listen to the fourteenth of september on chirp audible here! discounted price for a limited time only (june 7 - july 5).

Northern Now, April

Interview with Bloom, February

The Fourteenth of September chosen for impactful reads, March

Recommended Read

A major blast that disrupted my mind and helped open up my writing. This memoir is like nothing you’ve ever read before. honest, brave, naked, in your face and can’t be put down. fasten your seatbelts and give it a read. a throughly authentic work.

Thrive Global, May

Thrive Global, January

Novel Network, February

Featured book by Dartfrog, May

Fan Selfie

This is Arthur, absorbing my novel via Vulcan mind meld--even easier than an audiobook.

Pandemic Phase III: Extrovert in Captivity. Murder on my Mind. And STOP Asking if the Second Novel is Done, or I Will Bite YOU.

You’ll notice I did not send a Christmas message through my blog this year. I just couldn’t summon up that peace-on-earth, kumbaya, this-too-will-pass optimism in any way that was distinctive enough to weigh in. Don’t feel slighted, I didn’t send Christmas cards either. I’m privileged in all things, it seems, except motivation. In the time of COVID and seriously horrible politics, I’m in a writing slump. Insult to injury.

Please don’t ask me what I’m doing: MSNBC, Netflix, trying to write, failing to write. Repeat.

Please don’t ask me how I’m doing: I know you want me to say the novel is done, let me read a bit for you. It will be published on Thursday. I’m finishing up four more. Clearly, the pandemic has provided sufficient writing time for me to surpass War and Peace.

It’s not that I haven’t been searching desperately for my writing mojo as we continue to wait for life to resume. In fact, the literary blogosphere has been exploding with advice for how to tickle the muse and keep her talking. I’ve been quite busy assembling a running list of tips, meditations, prompts, etc., to get over the hump. I’ve been using them all, giving each the college try, really, I have. Are they useful? Or, are they, as a friend used to say, “cheap psychological tricks?” Either way, they make me snarky. 

For example, if it’s in fact true that one can focus on any task for a 25-minute span and that a kitchen timer would be useful to keep you at your desk, writing away, I posit what we used to call a “story problem.” 

GIVEN that Leo Tolstoy took seven years to write the 1,200+ pages of War and Peace to become the blockbuster bestseller of 1869. AND, that as an aristocrat, he no doubt had as much free and aimless time as we might have, you know, during a pandemic. AND, that though a literary god, he was human, and probably had writer’s block lasting, let’s say, a week, approximately once per month during that time (a total of 87 weeks). AND, that he had set what passed for a kitchen timer in his era (a gong hit by a serf?) once per day during each blocked week. WHAT would the publication date have been for the more rapidly written tome and, as a result, how many more copies would he have sold throughout the critical first 150 years since release? You have fifteen minutes.

This is where my mind goes these days rather than to my novel which stands, blocked firmly at 90 pages, though I’ve planned out everything that will happen, seriously. It’s just a mind fart. I know, just slap myself in the face and get on with it.  Or, consider the more logical advice on my list of motivational tips by . . . WRITING SOMETHING ELSE!

How About a Murder Mystery?

I have notes for a short story that sprung into my head a few years ago about a normal person, with a complicated life—many roles, the number of tasks on her plate so demanding they required platters— who had taken multitasking to the limit. The demands on her were so monumental she could no longer stand the sound of her own name, Lisa, as it was always accompanied by “could you, would you, you need to,” along with its whining vowels. LEEEEEsAAA.  You can relate, right?

Her remedy to manage the chaos is to become obsessively (soon manically) organized by making lists, herculean in both number and proportion. Soon her efficiency becomes her drug of choice, delivering near orgasmic highs when she crosses off an ever-expanding litany of to-do’s. And it works. Her career, home, etc., become blazing examples of extreme efficiency—results rack up in record time. She changes her name to Gretchen—just try and whine that one!

Kristin Scott Thomas

Soon, she has vast amounts of actual free time she begins to fill by imagining increasingly more complex projects that could be turnkeyed with the massive organization, perfect scheduling, and exquisite prioritization strategy of a good list. She is certain there is nothing that can’t be accomplished— constructing a building, leading a Fortune 100 company, even running a country. But these options would require long stretches of time before they’d reach the satisfying cross-off climax. She decides the ultimate test of her list theory will be to plan a nice little, beautifully managed murder.

Not to actually do it of course, but ensure it would be perfect by considering all steps, the proper timeline, etc. Start with an easy victim, then graduate up. You see where this was going. It was to be called—wait for it— The List Maker. You’d read it, right? I could see it as a movie starring someone impeccable like Kristin Scott Thomas, with attention to detail so quirky that on her list “trimming eyebrows” would be weighted equally to “identifying the perfect poison.”

I even envisioned the cover: a fountain pen poised over paper with a single drop at its tip—of blood instead of ink—all references to Hemingway’s definition of writing intended. Too much?

If I pursue this, I’m actually a bit afraid I’ll use my annoyingly conscientious neighbor click here for details as my sample victim and get so far down the list there may be no turning back.

Failed Strategies; Behavioral Regression. It’s still spring of 2020, right?

You can see why the untouched List Maker notes still sit on top of a cabinet in my office, its pages slightly curling at the corners. I’m looking at it as I type this, sitting at my desk which is covered by many pieces of paper carrying notes, arranged in messy piles that stare at me, demanding to be shuffled into shape and incorporated into the eternally “working” manuscript of my novel.

I sigh, thinking it just might take the murderously efficient effort of The List Maker to pull myself out of the paralysis of this phase of the pandemic, or at least to make it through the dark winter ahead. A debilitating malaise keeps me from finishing this ever-so-uncooperative second novel, my incomplete essay (let alone the planned collection), my LinkedIn update, my discarded Christmas letter, the answers to most of my emails—anything more consequential than viewing all back episodes of the five-year span of Breaking Bad within three days. Is it too late to catch up with others who’ve found closet cleaning and puzzles to be beneficial?

I, who in normal times do not even cook or play board games because I don’t see the point of putting that much effort into something that is immediately eaten or otherwise concluded, without a tangible “product” I can see, admire, or pet. I, who have nothing to show for my dedicated five+ hours of evening television watching.  I, who in these times have lost my achievement moorings. 

So, I admit to having regressed to the early behaviors of the spring. Click for details of that tragedy. And I am well aware that’s not even distinctive—or funny—after ten months, with at least half again that amount of sequester time yet in front of us. Why am I having such a hard time finding a new normal, or at least responding to the weekly kicks from my writing partner that worked so effectively until they lost their oomph sometime during the nonholiday season? This is perhaps no longer only a writing slump. It is possibly deeper. I would call my analyst, but like so many COVID couples we broke up. Which is probably why this post sounds like therapy.

Puzzling Symptoms

Okay, I admit there has been some additional, troubling, non-writing behavior.

About a month ago, just when it was clear Christmas would be cancelled, I entered the elevator of my building to see a woman carrying a squirming toddler who reached for me. Without a word I grabbed it from her arms and hugged it all over, rubbing its tummy and relishing the sheer relief of feeling the skin of an actual warm body. And then I noticed the woman’s look of horror, and waited a critical several seconds before sheepishly handing it back.

It didn’t matter that it was a puppy, a labradoodle with curly auburn fur about five shades darker than my own hair. We could have been in the opening scenes of the original cartoon version of 101 Dalmatians. We belonged together. The fact remains that I instinctively yanked it from its “mother” and didn’t want to give it back. If the door had opened on my floor just a few seconds earlier, she’d probably have had to call the cops.

I scared myself, realizing that I hadn’t touched a living thing since March. That I could be adding kidnapping to my potential murder charge.

I’ve also had vengeful thoughts involving sharp scissors about a hair stylist who recently “trimmed” my pandemic mane of hair—which admittedly made me look like a country-western singer—back to a Buster Brown bob that resembles my emoji, but not in a good way. I don’t want to say it was bad, exactly, but my writing partner did recommend temporary hair extensions. Once 3-4 months of growth return, we will have a talk about what “shoulder-length” means. Or we will have to break up as well. 

And, now that my television watching fills the length of a full working day, I tell myself its honing my sense of story. I can sharply zero in on plot holes, one-note characters, cliché dialogue, and more. I’ve become an unofficial critic of . . . well, nearly everything. Netflix series represent one of the few non-political conversation topics with my Zoom friends, but I feel those relationships may be in jeopardy. I’ve been relentlessly KO-ing their enjoyment of beloved programs by overanalyzing Outlander (gratuitous boobs and butts), or the latest season of The Crown (the characters, for whom up until now we had an odd affection, have ossified into repulsive whiners and seriously mean girls and boys). 

Perhaps I’ve also become a repulsive person. You know, a critic.

What is wrong with me?

Diagnosis: An Extravert in Isolation

A few months ago, my analyst, a Jungian, encouraged me to finally take the Myers-Briggs test. Somehow, in my past I’d escaped this, like most other evaluation tools. Consequently, I have never known my specific IQ or, apparently, personality. But I have surmised them, based upon qualitative evidence of my own experience. A basic introvert with strong extravert tendencies. A pull to be solitary, yet talks a LOT and, though a writer, thinks marketing is fun.

I believe she wanted me to take the test to better understand why I was climbing the pandemic walls to such an extreme extent. Or, she was tired of listening to me ramble on about how bored I was and wanted to give me a diverting task.

So I took the test. And the test talked back to me. It actually asked me, in a final question, what I thought. I chose “introvert.” It said I was wrong. And so I have to admit that I am absolutely a full-blooded extravert—a super-dooper one, a Commander! That answered so many questions. I get my energy from other people and living alone for the better part of 2020, there just aren’t any. It’s clear why I have or could become a loony, repulsive, non-writing critic with criminal tendencies.

I needed to sit with this information for a while and suggested to my analyst we take a break. She told me to reflect . . . I got nada. That’s when she broke up with me.  People are so touchy these days.

Three quarters of a year into a pandemic is a bitch of a time to realize you’re an extrovert. I mean, seriously, what can you do about it?

To Each Their Own Coping Techniques

I really don’t believe my friend who tells me he’s perfectly happy solo doing nothing but long-distance bike rides, trips to Whole Foods, and watching sports 24/7 on his gargantuan flat screen. Or anyone who is gleeful while deep into meditation, closets (though that’s pretty close to The List Maker, I’ll give you that), or mindful.  Even The Economist thinks it’s ridiculous to focus on the moment of the confines of the walls closing in on you rather than your fantasy trip to Tuscany. Click “Mindfulness is Useless in a Pandemic: Living in the Present has Never Felt More Overrated.” I am, however glad they . . . and you? . . . have found peace.

Writing in Captivity

Meanwhile, since I’ve been “diagnosed” as an extravert in isolation, I will take inspiration from other writers who’ve been able to churn it out in captivity. Cervantes (Don Quixote) and Sir Thomas Mallory (Le Morte d’Arthur). Or, The Marquis de Sade, Nelson Mandela, Jean Genet, and Ghandi himself (speaking of mindfulness).  I’ll even be inspired by my old buddy Leo T, racking up impressive word counts in the tundra of Russian winters. I see that I must make it all a welcome challenge rather than a daily objective I’m failing to meet.

My writing partner keeps trying to hold me to task and just switched strategies with a new text. “The universe is telling you to hunker down and dig into that glorious manuscript.”

Sometimes you don’t need all the tips. Sometimes a girl just needs the right encouragement at the right time. I wrote for three hours today. There will be a manuscript in my future. Stand by.

I can do this for another five months or more. I can, I know I can. I will embrace the creativity of captivity. I think everyone will be relieved. They may even send mouth gags that match my masks.

And so we beat on.

But maybe I should also get a puppy?

Latest News & Updates

Interview with Diane Dewey, December

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AMERICAN HISTORICAL NOVELS, HOST, OCTOBER

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April 2021

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Celebrating the Second Anniversary of a Book That "Becomes More Relevant by the Hour"

Yes, writers kill to stay relevant, so when a reader contacted me recently with the “by the hour” phrase about my nearly two-year-old book, I was happy to hear it. If it brings additional readers to my story of young people making fateful choices of conscience in a world that no longer made sense, I’m all for it. That’s why I wrote it. But I am conflicted that the story increasingly reads more like current than historical fiction.

I also want to mark the anniversary by celebrating this toddler of mine, thank you for all your support, and tell you what’s new—from the surprising career choice of the Coming of Conscience scholarship winner to new ways to get and share the book.

Relevance or Repetition?

Over the past two years, I’ve talked a lot about the parallels and déjà vu between the Vietnam era time frame of The Fourteenth of September and today, so I’ll stick to the broad strokes.

There wasn’t a pandemic, but there was a war—both overwhelmingly destructive events that were poorly handled. We did have an impeachable president with a loose relationship with the truth and the rule of law, a polarized country, and massive inequality. Let’s just say the situation was so bad that when we saw our peers murdered on television at Kent State, we didn’t think it could get worse.

We were sure there would be a revolution. It’s impossible not to be reminded of it when watching the real-time assaults on George Floyd, Jacob Blake, and others. I hear “complicit,” “revolution,” and the phrase “it won’t be quiet,” and my lips remember how to yell those words. I still feel the rage, but also such sadness that after all this time problems we thought were so close to being solved are here before us, all over again, and far worse for having been swept under the rug for so many years. Similarly, the effects of the Vietnam War didn’t go away because we refused to talk about it—but the lessons did: the fatiguing, draining hamster wheel of history.

And let’s admit the remedy has always been hard. Activism is and has always been complicated. When you hit the streets it’s because you’ve tried all the proper channels to no avail and found yourself powerless, and rage and reason need to balance. There are always differences about how to turn message into action to where the point can get lost, and the only thing that’s heard is the sound of breaking glass.

Recently, the interviews I’ve given have been all about how The Fourteenth of September resonates with what is happening today. Check out the Storey Time Interview (adjust to 11:06-13:48) and the recent guest post on the San Miguel Writers’ Conference site, which is about how being caught in a BLM protest brought up vivid and insanely parallel memories of a key event in the novel.

I hope readers will continue to come to the book for relevance and stay for the rest—a coming of age story of college life, feminism, first love, bad boys, best friends, teacher worship, mother/daughter conflict, generation gaps—the Sturm und Drang of growing up under the umbrella of a terrifying world situation while lacking the experience or maturity to understand how to navigate: in short, young people who represented the generation whose parents so worried they were about to leave their children a world they had messed up. Yup, kind of like today.

I always knew the story was and would be relevant; I just didn’t realize it would be so on the nose this very second-anniversary minute. 

A New Career Path for Our Coming of Conscience Scholarship Winner

The tag line for The Fourteenth of September is A Coming of Conscience Novel. I define a Coming of Conscience decision as one where integrity trumps consequences. You do the right thing even if it costs you. The world is currently in a massive Coming of Conscience time as we decide who we are, moving forward as Americans. It’s full of people making bold Coming of Conscience decisions, whether it’s Mitt Romney voting for impeachment;  Brett Crozier, commanding officer of the Theodore Roosevelt, making a career-ending move to protect his men from COVID exposure; the thousands of health care workers putting their lives on the line to save others sickened by the virus; or the many people crossing party lines in the next election. It couldn’t be more relevant.

In the spirit of Judy’s journey in the novel, as part of the initial book launch, a scholarship was funded through your efforts—donations were made in response to your enthusiastic posting of photos and videos of you with your copy of the book.

As a result, a record number of over 200 college students engaged in an essay contest to describe a Coming of Conscience moment in their own lives and how this scholarship would allow them to choose a path that would help change the world through meaningful activism and bold personal responsibility.

Our winner, Isabel Odom-Flores, had a compelling story giving up the athletic scholarship that funded her education because the coach was a predator—a #METOO moment at eighteen. I was pleased to learn that Isabel graduated this past December from Northern Illinois University with a BS in Rehabilitation Services. She was accepted in a graduate program to earn her MS Ed., specializing in learning behavior. What a choice at a time when it’s so clear that all voices need to be heard and valued. I’m so proud of her and all of you who participated in this program.

With efforts like this, we can still change the world.

Celebrating with a Sale

At the two-year point, I’m pleased The Fourteenth of September has “legs” and continues to be of interest to a wider and broader range of readers. Parents (mostly mothers, but a few dads) are passing it on to their daughters, and interesting conversations leading to new understanding are taking place. Teachers are sharing it with students who have heard little about the Vietnam era and are curious. Book clubs are finding the book’s multiple themes offer fodder for intriguing discussions (from its distinctive female POV to the attraction of the activist leader/bad boy, David). Many readers who previously bought the book are just getting around to reading it now because of the world situation, the awards it continues to secure, or simply because it’s risen to the top of their TBR file or they’re tired of seeing my face in their social media feeds and want to get to it already. I’m hearing from all of them and am pretty tickled.

In honor of the anniversary, I’ve made a few moves to make the novel easier to read in any form and to share:

The 💥 EBOOK, as an anniversary special, will be available for 99¢ from now until September 19 only. So grab it fast.

· The audiobook is now being distributed through Findaway Voices, the world’s largest audiobook distributor, which will make it available through most retail and library sources that offer audiobooks at a range of prices. It will still be offered through Amazon Audible but also through Apple, Google, Audiobooks, Kobo, and more.

· The paperback is going into its third printing with She Writes Press, the 2019 Indie Publisher of the Year. It remains available through your local bookstore (they’ll be happy to order if it’s not in stock). And, on online through Bookshop (support our independent bookstores!), as well as Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Indie Bound and others.

Happy Anniversary

The Fourteenth of September is and hopefully will always be for readers who want to understand the historical roots of some of what we’re still facing today, step into the shoes of a character who has to make choices of an earlier time and wonder what they’d have done, and think about how those choices aren’t so different today. We still have the power for change . . . maybe this time it will last.

And, of course, we also enjoy a rollicking tale of sex, drugs, and rock and roll . . . the novel even has its own soundtrack.

Thanks for being along on the journey, and here’s to a saner, safer, and more equitable world by the third anniversary: September 14, 2021.

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LATEST UPDATES & NEWS

Readers’ favorite, finalist, historical fiction.

guest blog - Dartfrog.

Novel network, featured author.

book bingo - november 5, 2020 @ 6pm cst.

Watch it on youtube.

Guest Blog - san miguel writers’ conference.

storey time interview.

diane dewey podcast - december 11, 2020 @ 10am cst.

zestful aging - October 10, 2020

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Confessions of a Sequester Wastrel: Yes, My Second Novel Should Be Done, But It Isn’t. Bite Me

Forgive me, novel #2, there is much that I have squandered. I had three months of unobligated, totally empty pandemic time I should have been devoting to you, and instead, I wasted it. I don’t know where it went (but calories and television were involved). I promise it wasn’t even fun (they were stupid wine-and-pizza calories; hypnotizing, beyond-my-control Netflix and news programs). The empty hours just disappeared (I promise it wasn’t puzzles, baking, or closet cleaning). They are just…gone. And I know you remain partially written, spread out across the desk I keep passing on the way to the television… and the refrigerator. I understand how pissed off you must be. Mea culpa. You may never forgive me, but, perhaps, I can make you understand.

The Sentence: Solitary Confinement

Okay, I acknowledge my privilege. I’m fortunate that during this time I have not been trying to keep a business going (it wouldn’t have made it), preventing a sick spouse or a mother in senior living from getting the virus (neither would have made it), home schooling (God forbid), or dealing with the waxing and waning of the anxiety of another (’nuff said). When isolating alone, and taking all precautions, I truly have only risked cabin fever . . . but that is not to be discounted entirely. I have profoundly missed having a pod of fellow prisoners with whom I could have shared safe cooties and conversation—even more than I missed not having outside space (A balcony? My kingdom for a balcony!). This has been 100% solo, Han, and it has. . . well . . . sucked.

Lockdown. Month One. The Early Days

The first few weeks, when it seemed more of a staycation, before we realized it was an actual sentence (even with food delivered, very nearly, through a slot in the door), I did what most did—descended into the malaise of a vast immediate future without deadlines. What was the hurry? I had sixty whole days to get to my book. I wore an indentation in the couch watching ALL episodes of a single Netflix Original within the same day or two (and often until 2 a.m.), emptying ALL bottles in the wine rack (often within the same day or two), and pushing the edge of the envelope with my existing food delivery vendors—”surprise me,” I said about my pizza, anything but pineapples. I got ripe olives. Hmm . . .

It was dull, but not without its pleasures. The demented family of Ozark became strangely relatable, the Broadchurch bunch somehow more virtuous. But by season three of The Last Kingdom, when I was deeply relating to my Scandinavian kinsmen (marauding Danes in Alfred’s England), their adventures were taking over my own life and finding me wanting. If they had been in lockdown in my living room, would they not attack it with relish, blasting through my computer with sword slashes of inspiration, machine-gun flurries of gut-punching scenes, daggers of witty dialogue, and bloody backstory? What a story sissy, they’d call me with disgust.

As the month went on and I’d get messages from people about how they’d finally cleaned their basements, organized their digital photos, and could begin to see the light of the end of their story, novel, memoir, I felt truly ashamed of myself. I lurked in the dust of my uncleaned condo cave. I was weak. I was worthless. This was not sustainable. And yet, when guilt overcame me, I changed the channel to Amazon Prime.

Lockdown: Month Two. Boredom

By this time the deprivation of no health club, lakefront, or parks in which to escape outside my condo walls for a precious hour of exercise was approaching tragic. There was perpetual gunk in my throat that gave a scouring-powder quality to my voice when I answered the phone at 2 or 3 p.m., the first time I’d talked out loud all day. Zoom calls descended into verbal combat—and in my desperation for discourse I took unfair advantage of the speaker-delay, leaving others pouting because they didn’t get their turn. I noticed an absence of recall, incomprehension of information that previously was reliable—names of people . . . or book titles . . . entire countries, the inability to add in my head. In the absence of a village, everything was taking a moment or more (I know, I know. It’s because I refuse to do puzzles). I researched to find out if isolation can lead to early dementia. Alarmingly, I find it’s possible. Still, it’s another excuse. I can hardly write if I’m losing my mind. Right?

Easter in lock down: tp instead of chocolate eggs.

Sequester wardrobe, ready for incineration.

My sequester wardrobe descended into unmistakable rag-tag. Five pairs of ancient Lululemon yoga pants and three oversized t-shirts: one with a symbol of The Year of the Dog from Tsingtao Beer; one threadbare to the point of see-through, left over from the swag bag of the opening of Chicago’s Bloomingdales back in the ’80s; and a nearly-to-my-knees, overwashed-into-baby-softness, official Dragonette, Inc. shirt from my entrepreneurial years, the dragon logo peeled away except for a few fiery curves. They were on their last legs anyway, why not just finish them off? I will burn them at the end of the pandemic, I promise myself. Meanwhile, wearing them is a symbol of survival.

I was appalled to find that my many packages–my lifeline—were displayed on a “safe” table, next to the doorman, fully exposed to the legions of visitors to the high-traffic building to which my condo tower belongs: the wine (is anyone counting?), the supplies for all three juice fasts (the first worked so well; the other two, not so much), the attempts at pre-made, week-at-a-time delivery meals. The latter made me think of the comment by humorist Dave Barry about frozen entrees: “So convenient they are even partially digested for you.”

Month Two Interlude: Encounter with a Human

Garbage Room: Scene of the Potential Crime

Six weeks in, I contemplated severely maiming my neighbor in the garbage room on our floor. Here I was, carrying a trash bag weighed down by wine bottles and foam food containers, in my sequester rags. He was dressed as if fresh for golf, depositing a tiny bag and a broken-down, neatly folded cardboard box (who does that?). We were having a mask-and-glove conversation in response to the question, “How are you doing with all this?” I answered with a shrug, holding up my bag, the ponytail of my Pebbles pandemic hairstyle ascending to the ceiling.

“I figured I had a binary choice,” he said, oozing discipline and—did I catch it?—a whiff of judgment. “I could go the junk food route and sit around or I could make it work for me.” He went on to recount his hours of exercise—biking, walking, running—he even bought a contraption he could put on the back wheel of his bike and pedal inside if it was raining. And, in fact, I’d often hear him clomping away while I waited near his door for a pandemically appropriate empty elevator. Nice to have the mystery of that rhythmic huffing sound cleared up. He had lost twenty-two pounds.

Did I mention he’d also used the time to edit his third medical thriller and has begun a fourth? There must be a can with a ragged edge in my bag, I thought. Or, I could just drop the bag on one of those athletic feet to hobble all that achievement. You know the feeling?

Every time he sees me, he asks how my book is coming along. Grrr . . .

Month Two: Interlude: Breakdown

By the end of the month, the weather had warmed up to the point where I could no longer zip my three-quarter-length parka over my slept-in clothes and pull the hood tight, allowing me to venture out for quick trips to Walgreens, 7-Eleven, or the mailbox incognito and without foundation garments.

I found myself regularly going bat-shit for about five minutes every other day, symbolically pounding on my picture windows here in Planet Condo, desperate to escape, then talking myself down by realizing there wasn’t a single place on the globe to go, not to mention the petri dish of any vehicle of transportation.

When the governor extended the lockdown into a third month, I LOST IT. Click here to read the ugly details.

Lockdown: Month Three. It’s Becoming a Way of life

The Relentless 90-Day View from Planet Condo

Alas, I must be an adult, put one house-shoe-encased foot in front of the other, and make the most of my tiny environment, even if it feels like No Exit. If Matt Damon can do it on Mars, I can do it here on Planet Condo.

I saw my neighbor again, he asked me how my book was going . . . again. It cut to the quick of my guilt. I had already begun to get kick-in-the-butt messages on social media from other writers: This time has been a gift, no distractions, like a retreat where you can get three months of work done in one. I’ve gained appreciation for the simple pleasures of life. I meditate, write in my journal, map out my projects for the rest of my life. Above all, I have FINISHED my novel, memoir, essay collection and am rewarding myself with quiet time, sitting here in my garden with brie and a lovely glass of Chablis.

Bite me again. My community had passed me up while I was still mired here in inertia. I guilted myself into developing lists: finish the first draft of this damn novel, an essay that is near the finish line, a blog post, clean out my writing space and dump all the detritus from my last novel. It didn’t stop there.

It was also a great time to end my coffee/wine/carb/MSNBC addictions, lose the six pounds that have been hanging around since the holidays (it used to be five), sit still long enough to listen to my meditation app, finally buy that Scriveners writing software and learn it (though I lack access to the recommended millennial guide), get through the TBR file of friends’ books that I need to review/blurb. I was ambitious. Who doesn’t love a list? Cross those puppies off, one by one, and this sequester time will have been fruitful after all, a gift.

What I did instead:

—A lot of research. Of greatest interest were stories in legit publications (Forbes! The New York Times!) about recommended sexual practices for now and the foreseeable future, most likely forever: your best partner is yourself, you need to be unabashedly creative on Zoom—pretend only your intended is watching—consider practices that are so bizarre, even the article had to include the line “Yes, we did just say that?” Check it out. “Masks, No Kissing and ‘a Little Kinky’: Dating and Sex in a Pandemic.” Celibacy will allow me to free up a great deal of time for writing. You know, in the future.

sent myself flowers since there was no spring.

—I replaced my social-media person. Actually, she replaced me. With the pandemic, she needed a full-time job. I hired a part-time publicist who had been laid off from her full-time job. My karma has been fulfilled 🙏🏻Whew! Now my conscience will be free for . . . writing.

—I broke two wine glasses, 🥂 and wore a hole in my sequester sweater. They are in my lockdown debris pile, ready for the fire (though realistically, in my high-rise, for the garbage chute). Nothing to get in the way of . . . you know.

—I switched out my closet. Winter to summer street clothes. I visit the latter occasionally, apologizing for neglect. I will be switching them back soon. Déjà vu. It will be as if spring and summer didn’t even happen, and therefore there were no weeks in which I didn’t write.

—I made a to-do list: find a resource to restuff my couch, buy new leisure wear, join Weight Watchers/AA/a meditation group/a hands-free dating site, buy sex toys designed for solitary use that will be delivered in plain packaging, buy a new TV with a sound system that will pick up the dialogue of mumbling English actors, get a new sweater, cancel all delivery services, look up the address of the nearest grocery store, open old dust-covered cookbooks, and see if I can remember the basics, donate wine rack. Clear the decks from distractions so I will be able to write.

Phase Four: Reentry and a Do-over

I had big plans for this year, the countdown to a major birthday on November 4. They were all dashed. But some wise person posted a hopeful message on FaceBook that resonates.

“I’m not counting this year. After all, nothing happened.”

Words to live by. So I have another year . . . a do-over, in my mind, that I will use more wisely.

Libby Wheeler, author of The Asher Trilogy, has been my Lockdown Lifeline, Helping me turn the corner from malaise to manuscript.

What did save me, seriously, is that midway through Month Two, I reconnected with a writer who lives hours away. Our three-hour weekly calls have been my lifeline, and we are both making more progress on our novels than we have in a year. We text each other daily at dawn to verify we’re sitting at our desks. And we’re kind to each other if we miss. Someday soon, when we’ve completed the first drafts we’ve promised ourselves will be done by Labor Day, we will meet with our masks in the outside garden of a café for brie and Chablis.

I may bring some home for my neighbor. He’s really a nice guy. He doesn’t know I wanted to kill him.

And what do you have to confess?

Final Thought: The Japanese have been forbidden to scream while on roller coasters because it spreads the coronavirus. Instead, they have been encouraged to do what I think defines the entire sequester:

Scream inside your heart.

That’s what we’ve really all been doing, right? Let’s keep it up. Make it loud enough to be heard on the page.

What I DID Do During Lockdown

Deborah Kalb - @Deborahkalb

Held two virtual Book Club Meetings in chicago and Evanston for The Fourteenth of September.

Coming Up July 30th.

Coming Up: July/August TBD

A reading for The Chicago Literary Hall of Fame. Lighting so bad I look like a newscaster taping from her basement.

Joined.

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The Final 50th Anniversary Post: Remembering the Kent State Shootings of May 4, 1970

On this date in the year 2070, someone will be writing about how the Great Coronavirus Pandemic of fifty years earlier changed the world and why we are better off for it in some ways, worse off in others, and how mystifying it is that there are still those lingering issues that haven’t yet been settled. And, isn’t it about time we finished the job and stopped repeating history?

Anniversaries are important to make sure we ask those questions. It’s why, over the past two years, I’ve written posts about the anniversaries of so many events that shaped the world during the time frame of my novel The Fourteenth of September and still resonate today: the Bobby Kennedy Assassination, the 1968 Democratic Convention, the Moratoriums to End the War in Vietnam: October 15, 1969 & November 15, 1969, the First Draft Lottery and the Kent State Shootings.

This will be the last anniversary post on the history behind my novel; the cycle is done. The story takes place roughly between the first Vietnam Draft Lottery and the Kent State Shootings, two seminal events that book-ended a six-month period wherein I’ve always felt the character of my generation was formed, including its early feminism. The novel ends shortly after Kent State when the country fired on its children, the turning point incident in support of the war when the country went too far and knew it.

Fifty years sounds so long, but in many ways has gone by so fast. What we haven’t learned in that time frame is legion. Just this past December, the Washington Post published a report, “At War With The Truth,” about the war in Afghanistan, that sounded like the playbook for Vietnam: falsified data to show we were “winning,” admissions that the strategy wasn’t working, and the objective unclear. On the positive side, we learned to treat our vets with respect, to never have another draft, and we keep coming close to electing a woman president. Two steps back, one step forward, another we just can’t seem to get quite right.

We are still so in the thick of this pandemic that, yes, it’s difficult to focus on anything else. But it’s illustrative, on today’s anniversary, to consider how we might try to learn the lessons of how to be the admirable country we consider ourselves to be, the first—or the fifth—or the fiftieth—try instead of so often falling back into the hamster wheel of history.

A high school friend of my vintage found this recently among his late mother's things. He had no idea she'd been a protester.

"RIGHT ON, Mrs. Gustafson," It worked.

Following is a post I wrote on this day two years ago, that includes the story of what happened at Kent State University on May 4, 1970, and why it still matters today. In rereading it, I see that we were only thirteen months into the new administration, dealing acutely with school shootings and already hearing about alternative facts and incredible re-interpretations of reality. I asked readers to look ahead and think about what would be on the conscience of the country on this fiftieth-anniversary date to which we should also be saying “No, that’s not who we are.”

The issues have changed, but not the question. How we’re dealing with acceptable percentages of pandemic deaths and knee-jerk 180 turns in policy that impact lives and livelihoods. I ask again. Haven’t we learned how to be better than this. Are we ready again to stop and say, “No, that’s not who we are?”

The following published on May 4, 2018 under the title:

Remember Kent State, May 4, 1970: An Iconic Moment For A Generation... A Coming of Conscience for a Country

The Iconic Kent State Photo

Recently, while promoting the fall publication of my novel, The Fourteenth of September, which takes place during the pivotal 1969-1970 years of the Vietnam War, I was asked if—of the many iconic moments in American history that happened during that time period— one had impacted me more than any other.

I paused to consider the word iconic... icon — a symbol. No question. It was the Kent State Massacre, a symbol at the time of the total chasm between the government and the youth it was supposed to be protecting: the bridge too far that blew away most of the remaining support for the war, though it’s death throes dragged on another five years. 

48 Years and We Still Remember

Every May fourth since 1970 there has been media coverage of the shootings, always featuring the Pulitzer Prize-winning photograph of fourteen-year-old Mary Ann Vecchio with arms outstretched in agony and disbelief, kneeling above the body of twenty-year-old Jeffrey Miller. An iconic image of how we felt. Agony and disbelief. This is America? How had it come to this?

We know the facts: The National Guard fired into a crowd of students protesting the war’s expansion into Cambodia. Sixty-seven rounds over thirteen seconds killing four, wounding nine, permanently paralyzing one. The massive national student strike after. A turning point in how the country viewed the war. It was just too much to kill kids. 

Early Alternative Facts

It all began with a lie—and it was bald-faced. Nixon was elected because he said he'd end the war—something his predecessor, Johnson, hadn't been able to do. His Administration said we were winding down. Hard as it may be to believe from the vantage point of today, media was limited. We only heard one side and assumed what we were told was true—though obviously that was disavowed later on many levels, most recently in the Ken Burns documentary The Vietnam War.

But, suddenly, on April 30, 1970, it's announced we just bombed Cambodia. It was earth-shattering. The war was being accelerated, not contained. Of course, there were protests; of course, they were full of anger; of course, those protests would be on a campus where the populations of draft-age men were among the largest. We had just been through the roulette of the Draft Lottery and the news about My Lai. Nerves were raw, the rage was high.  Above all, trust was waning, and this Cambodia lie just wiped it out. How could we believe anything the government told us ever again?

And then, to top it off, unbelievably, students were shot dead at one of those protests. It was the very definition of a word we were just beginning to use to describe what we thought were mind-expanding experiences: surreal. 

The Memorial to Jeffrey Miller, Bordering Where He Fell, on the Kent State Campus

Where Were You When You Heard?

I think many people of my generation can tell you where they were and what they were doing when they first heard about Kent State, just like all the assassinations that punctuated that time—King, the two Kennedys. I remember walking into the Student Union with a few others and being shocked to hear my friend, Tommy Aubry, screaming from the top of the stairs, “They’re Shooting Us! They’re Shooting Us!” We didn’t know what he was talking about. He pointed to the only television set in the Union and ran past us to shout the news to others.

We didn’t believe it at first. Who would? They must have shot over their heads. It had to be an accident. Surely no one was actually dead. It was too fantastic to comprehend... until we had to. The truth of it was horrible. It wasn’t enough that we could be sent to Vietnam to die; we could die here.

They Could Shoot Us, Too!

I came across a quote by the survivor, Gerald Casale, that summed up a student’s point of view. “It completely and utterly changed my life. I was a white hippie boy and then I saw exit wounds from M1 rifles out of the backs of people I knew...”

Abraham and Isaac Sculpture in Commemoration of the KENT STATE Shootings, at Princeton University

In an era of embryonic diversity awareness, it was astounding that supposedly the most cherished of us all were now being killed just outside a quiet Midwestern town. Anything could happen next. Casale founded the band Devo, creating music and a movement as a result of his experience.

I have a chapter in my book you can read here that’s based on what happened at the campus I was on. It was not something I had to research. I still remember every second.

Within days after the shootings, the National Guard actually did arrive on my campus, and we thought we were also going to be killed—another chapter, another iconic situation. We were still teenagers and most of us had been pretty sheltered, but now we understood what it must be like for those fighting for civil rights in the south, for anyone living day in and day out in any country at war. It was a sobering lesson. We were truly in what we called "the war at home."

According to the final report on the Kent State Massacre by the President’s Commission on Campus Unrest: “It was unnecessary, unwarranted, inexcusable”—an iconic symbol of the war that caused it.

A Coming of Conscience Moment. America Said No!

The subtitle of my novel is “A Coming of Conscience,” because it was a time when we weren’t just growing up and Coming of Age. In addition—by the way we chose or were forced to cope with the situations presented by the Vietnam War—we were each defining our own character. We were each faced with decisions where integrity could—or should—trump consequences (pun intended). Would I go to Vietnam or to Canada?  If I join ROTC (Reserve Officers' Training Corps) am I being realistic or complicit? If I put my head in the sand and try to ignore it all am I being apathetic, cowardly or just understandably self-preserving?

We’re in a period now where we’re questioning our leadership and taking our positions on matters to the streets in massive marches. It’s our right and our privilege, and they don't fire on us—we feel safe. One reason is that on May 4, 1970, the country looked aghast at the bodies of those dead children and decided that this was not who we were. This was not our character. It was a coming-of-conscience moment for the country.

It all reminds me of watching Apocalypse Now, a brilliant film that I admired greatly but could never see a second time. Viewing it made me feel I’d personally been through the war. It told the Heart-of-Darkness story of Colonel Kurtz, who embodied "the horror," as he put it, of how we would actually have to behave to win such a war. In the movie, the government has sent an assassin to eliminate him, because as a people we couldn’t accept that Krutz is what we’d have to become to do what Washington considered so essential—continue as the country that had never lost a war.

With Kent State, the horror rang through every level of America. Is this what it’s come to? We answered, “No.”

 May 4, 2020, will mark the fiftieth anniversary of the massacre. Over the coming years, let’s remember and honor what happened at Kent State. And, in this current moment of dubious facts, incredible re-interpretations of truth and Never Again, let’s think of what else is on the conscience of the country to which we should also be saying, “No, that’s not who we are.”

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A Tale of Watergate: Straight From the Source and Still Spellbinding

The Watergate Girl, My Fight for Truth and Justice Against a Criminal President

by Jill Wine-Banks

THE book to read as we shelter in place

My regular series of Literary Salons had been put on hold during my own book launch and I wanted to restart it with a flourish this spring. My “get” was MSNBC legal analyst and former Watergate prosecutor Jill Wine-Banks introducing her new book. We held the salon on March 12, virtually on the cusp of having to sequester ourselves in the face of the coronavirus. The series is back on hold, just like the rest of life right now, but we went out with a big blockbuster of a bang, and I highly recommend the book.

I first wrote about Jill in this blog back in the summer of 2017 as part of a Re-Radicalized series, focusing on individuals newly recharged as activists. She’d just made her debut on MSNBC on the strength of an explosive op-ed comparing the current political environment to that of Watergate, “Comey’s Firing Is as Bad as the Saturday Night Massacre.” It turned out that this move was just the latest step in an amazing career, one that began with Richard Nixon and, as she put it, was “re-invented by Trump.”

At the time she’d also been working on a memoir about her role as the only woman prosecutor on the Watergate team, a story that would offer a different lens on the familiar tale, as well as how she was able to soar in a once-in-a-lifetime career spotlight, despite being routinely undermined as a “woman lawyer.” At the time, Jill had been worried that Watergate would no longer be of sufficient interest or relevance to support her book. Instead, events surrounding the current presidential administration have actually launched her back onto the national stage under a light as bright as it was in the Watergate courtroom. She’s become our interpreter for how history has been repeating itself, down to the astounding details.

The timing for her book launch is now perfect.  And, with the virus shut down, we can all use a spellbinding diversion.

At the salon, I had the honor of leading an “in conversation” interview with Jill. It was a thrill to listen as she gave us the skinny on behind-the-scenes intrigue and insights about what we may have thought we knew. Salon participants also peppered her with additional questions we’d always wanted to ask. Here are a few tidbits to whet your appetite for this amazing book.

The “Lady Lawyer”

the mini-skirted prosecutor

The challenge of taking on an entire presidential administration was formidable enough, yet as the only woman on the team, Jill also had to contend with 1973 attitudes, where she was regularly singled out and undermined. The daily scrutiny of her apparel and hairstyles led to some relatively benign monikers including “the mini-skirted prosecutor” and “the leggiest Watergate lawyer,” though she took umbrage at being called a “lady lawyer.” There’s no such thing, she said. “I was a lawyer, period.”

The condescension of the times also more seriously impacted her role as a trial lawyer in the case. Watergate Judge John Sirica would regularly interrupt with comments he thought would be useful, like telling a combative witness, “Now, you never gain arguing with a woman,” and stopping an interrogation of a female witness with “we can’t have two ladies getting into an argument in the courtroom.” 

“I couldn’t say anything in those days. I had to just stand and take it,” Jill said. Imagine what she would do today.

A Legal Version of All the President’s Men

During the interview, I admitted I had been a Watergate junkie, and had initially approached her book assuming it would be interesting, but not new. After all, we all know the story, right? I was so wrong. The page-turning book is both fascinating and revelatory. I offered up my layperson’s interpretation, comparing it to All the President’s Men. That book was the story of the journalists who found out what happened; The Watergate Girl is the story of the legal team who had to figure out how to prove it. Both stories are equally absorbing: Woodward and Bernstein may have had Deep Throat, but Jill had Nixon’s secret tapes. A few highlights:

• The team was very young. Instead of staffing up with seasoned specialists with decades of credentials, as you might expect, Special Prosecutor Archibald Cox “was looking for smart, talented lawyers with good judgment, who were young and vigorous enough to endure crushingly long days and high-stakes pressure.” Though Jill had a track record as a tough and winning trial lawyer at the Department of Justice, she was only still barely thirty. . . a kid.

• Jill may have been the only female on the legal team, but contrary to what some had thought she was not brought on strictly to interrogate Rose Mary Woods, Nixon’s secretary, woman to woman. She was brought onto the team early, and assigned to Woods only as part of the regular witness rotation order.

• The team developed a road map for how to proceed with the investigation, but the trajectory was continuously changed by a series of “surprises,” some welcome and some not. One of the worst was the Saturday Night Massacre, when Nixon wanted Cox, Jill’s boss, removed. Both Attorney General Elliot Richardson and Deputy AG William Ruckelshaus refused and were fired on the spot. But Cox was ultimately out after Bork assumed the task. After that, the team knew Nixon could shut them down any second. They kept working furiously, sometimes squirreling away evidence so it wouldn’t be found, other times not knowing from day to day if they were even still officially employed.

• The best surprise was the discovery of the tapes. No one knew that Nixon had regularly, and secretly, taped Oval Office conversations, but John Dean had suspicions. Only when reluctant witness Alexander Butterfield, Haldeman’s assistant, felt compelled to answer a direct question and testified this was true, was this evidence revealed. The case broke wide open.

• The team had also been able to subpoena the calendars of the various White House officials involved in the suspected cover-up, including Nixon. By checking the calendars against witness testimony and the tapes, they were able to find out the truth. Haldeman, for example, had testified that Nixon had said  “it would be wrong” to pay off the Watergate burglars for their silence, but the tape of the meeting showed that was a lie. Nixon supported the crime. Game on.

• Without the tapes, Jill said, they would never have been able to convict Nixon.

The Perry Mason Moment

Arguably, the most famous moment of the entire impeachment trial was the dramatic exposure of the lie that proved that the missing eighteen-and-a-half minutes of tape were intentionally erased.

The story was that when Nixon’s long-time devoted secretary, Rose Mary Woods, was transcribing the tapes, a telephone call caused her to perform a complicated combination of manoeuvers on a recording machine that included keeping her foot on a pedal while leaning back to answer the phone. This caused an accidental gap.

Woods Demonstrating the “Rose Mary” Stretch

Jill was suspicious about how that could physically happen, pressing a combative Woods during questioning to the point where she nearly incriminated the president right on the stand, but not quite. Jill was convinced Woods had been thrown under the bus by Nixon to cover up his own role in erasing the tapes. But how to prove it?  

In a brave and audacious move, Jill suggested they adjourn to Woods’s White House office, where Woods could demonstrate the actions she claimed had happened.

By performing what came to be called “The Rose Mary Stretch,” her foot came off the pedal, a moment memorialized in the famous photo. The lie was proved as Woods was caught in the act. As Jill put it, “it was the powerfully dramatic moment that is commonplace in trials on TV, but almost never happens in real courtrooms.”

It was the beginning of the end for Nixon.

The Hamster Wheel of History

As anyone who follows Jill on MSNBC knows, she has been very effective in pointing out the parallels between Richard Nixon and Donald Trump over the past three years, in an effort to help us better understand what is going on today and what can and should be done about it. She’s often discussed their similar personalities and ultimate impeachments. Our conversation dug in on the details.

• Each president referred to their impeachment as “a witch hunt” and “a hoax.”

• Both presidents had a similarly expansive view of executive privilege. They both refused to honor subpoenas. They both stalled on vital documents. Nixon refused to produce the tapes; Trump to allow either documents or witnesses.

• Nixon was forced to comply when the court ordered that “executive privilege did not exempt the president from honoring a subpoena. He had to obey the law like everyone else.”

• Despite that precedent, Trump was able to obstruct. Why? According to Jill, here’s where the parallel breaks down.

  • Nixon, as complicated as he was, still believed in the rule of law.

  • In 1973, the three branches of government operated more clearly as separate and independent checks and balances on the Executive Branch than they do today.

  • It was his own party that confronted Nixon and told him he had to resign. As one of the senators said during that fateful meeting in the White House, “There is a certain amount of immorality that almost all politicians will tolerate, but there is a threshold.” Nixon crossed it and his party turned against him. Today’s Republican-controlled Senate is a very different animal.

This was one of our best literary salons to date with a great speaker introducing a great book. I hope this recap will inspire you to get the book and relive or hear the story for the first time. You can purchase The Watergate Girl in all formats (paperback, eBook, and audiobook) through regular channels. However, in this shelter-in-place time, we ask you to consider supporting independent bookstores who are struggling. Volumes Books, who has been with Jill’s book tour, ships nationally. Also, BookShop supports all independent bookstores nationwide. Check out more about Jill at her website.

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The 50th Anniversary of December 1, 1969, A Painful Moment of History in Danger of Repeating Itself.

December 1, 1969, was arguably one of the worst days of the entire Vietnam conflict. It was the date of the first draft lottery to determine the order of the men who would be going to Vietnam at a time when to do so was considered to be a death sentence. 

It has been a black date for a generation. Your number was considered fateful, your birthday your destiny.  Richard Russo’s bestselling Chances Are is about three men whose lives are determined by their lottery numbers. Ask any boomer about their number and they’ll say it was not OK. It's important we remember and understand what we learned from the experience of it, and why not having another draft has been virtually the sole positive legacy of Vietnam.

Remembering is not about nostalgia. At a time when we’re knee-deep in another impeachment, and history seems to be repeating itself without the benefit of lessons learned in previous incarnations, we need to proceed with extreme caution.

The October 28, 2019, issue of Time magazine, in its cover story on “America’s Forever War,” calls for reinstating the draft. Though it makes a reasoned case for a “reverse-engineered” draft to address exhausted volunteer armed forces that disproportionately represent the population, our hackles should be up . . . there should be a chill going down our collective spine. Before we go any farther, we need to assemble the history of the time, examine the impact, challenge any potential structure, really make sure we understand what we would be getting ourselves into. 

Following is the blog post I wrote this time last year about this fateful day. I can’t say anything that puts it any better than I did then. Hopefully, it will help explain why we must be clear-eyed before we consider tunneling back down this particular black hole . . . yet again. The future cannot look like the world we have already changed.

The following appeared November 30, 2018 under the title:

December 1, 1969: A Date Which Will Live in Irony.

Forty-nine years ago tomorrow was the date of the first Vietnam Draft Lottery, the day the phrase “to win the lottery” became, not a prize, but a death sentence. It was also a marker for a generation not unlike December 7, 1941, the date of the Pearl Harbor attack, characterized by then president Franklin D. Roosevelt as a “Date Which Will Live in Infamy,” a phrase which itself featured an ironic word referring to the dark side of famous. Perhaps that’s what war does to us? Keeps us mired in subtext, unable to talk straight.

I titled my debut novel The Fourteenth of September, the birth date of the Number One lottery “winner” drawn on 12/1/69—straightforward, and crystal clear. All irony upfront and intended.

When Your Birthday Became Your Destiny

December 1, 1969 was the date a new program was implemented to determine the order of the draft-age men who would go to Vietnam at a time when the life expectancy under fire could be as low as six seconds. Pieces of paper with each of the 365 days of the year were placed into individual plastic capsules, mixed together in a giant container and pulled out, one by one. If your birthday was the first date pulled, you were Number One, and so on. If your number was 100 or under, you were most likely a dead man walking, on your way Vietnam. If your number was 300 or higher, you were considered safe, and could feel free to “live your life as you’d planned,” and also, according to President Nixon, stop protesting the war, which was the whole point. If you were in the 200s, you were in limbo. The new system would be “fair,” they said. And, in fact, the definition of a lottery is “an event with an outcome governed by chance.” And chance is always fair, right? Just like destiny.

But it’s also something you can’t hide or protect yourself from. All you could do was hold your breath and pray as you waited to hear your birthday, a date once so joyous, to be called in fateful order. You’d never think of it the same way again.

A Real-Life Horror Story 

CLICK TO READ SHIRLEY JACKSON’S “THE LOTTERY”

I’d already learned not to trust the word lottery. The first horror story I’d ever read was “The Lottery,” Shirley Jackson’s Twilight Zone-like story of a drawing where the “winner” is stoned to death. It was magnificent and terrifying. I read it in school, as so many of us did. The New Yorker just ran it again for Halloween and I shared it, netting an angry comment from a Facebook friend who’d had the wits scared out of her by being forced to read it in sixth grade by a teacher she still can’t forgive. 

That’s how I’ve always felt about the actual Draft Lottery. It scattered our wits to smithereens. And, though people with high numbers felt they were “lucky,” and if pressed you’d had to concede it was “fair,” no one thought it was humane. Even today, it’s still impossible to forgive.

All those capsules with “winning” birth dates, mixed up really good, chosen, opened, and pinned in order to a bulletin board. Seriously? Regardless of how it worked out in the end, on December 1, 1969, the Draft Lottery presented as a sick game show to determine who would die first—and on television! This was a formal government program being administered as a spectacle. Not quite Wheel of Fortune, but right up there. Hunger Games without the panache. How had this already surreal war come to this? I was astonished at the time, wondering if Jackson would demand royalties for having her concept usurped by the military. The last line of “The Lottery,” sums it up best. “It isn’t fair, it isn’t right.”

The Stories We Still Carry

MILO VENTIMIGLIA IN VIETNAM ARC OF NBC'S THIS IS US

During this fall’s launch of my novel, which coincides with the time frame of the build up to first Draft Lottery, I’ve had many audience members share their lottery numbers, or those of their fathers or other relatives. I get emails with only a number in the subject line: 151…263…319… and from a surprising number of people who were born on September 14. Those of the time still want to share their stories of chance won or lost, survivor guilt, close calls, friendly doctors, fortunate injuries, mixed-up records, turning the upper age limit of 26 just in time, being thankful for once in their lives for being too short, too tall, too fat, too thin. All are touching, surprising, different. Many comments are about the generation gap between patriotic WWII parents and Vietnam-era children, who knew this war was very different but not how to articulate it to be understood by mom and dad. Some are terrible: a friend called his father with his 300+ number and instead of rejoicing was told he should now be a man and enlist. Some are wonderful: a business leader’s father told him later in life that he’d had it all planned that if his son was drafted, the entire family would move with him to Canada. 

Those of one generation want to share; those of another have questions. Younger audience members are curious. They want to know the details; they can’t believe the details. They can’t believe no one talks about this. Lots of them saw the lottery episode on The NBC television program This Is Us back in October. The show features a story arc where a son is seeking to learn about his father’s experiences in Vietnam so he can better understand himself and the dynamics of his own family. That’s it in a nutshell—why it’s important to remember and understand history. It teaches us, if we confront it unafraid, from the lessons it holds. It also shows us we still don’t have the answers we didn’t have back then. 

The Stories We Have Yet to Tell

Lottery Night from a women's POV, as read by the author 10/4/2018

The story I tell in The Fourteenth of September is a rare female point-of-view of that time, specifically of women on college campuses. There, the largest concentration of draft-age men in the country were their classmates—frantic and furious—waiting for their lottery numbers, and for the long war to end before they graduated or flunked out and their numbers would kick in.

I spent December 1, 1969, being nudged out of the communal television room in my co-ed dorm. The Lottery drawing would be telecast that evening. The room was small, with limited seating. No room for the girls who’d gathered there for support. We couldn’t possibly understand what the guys were going through, or so we’d been repeatedly told. That wasn’t fair either.

I vividly remember the day I came up with the idea for the female protagonist of my novel to have the same birthday as the Number One. Read the chapter here. I’d long been seeking a dilemma for my main character that would be as emotionally intense as what the men of the time were going through—a way to exemplify how deeply, and equally, women were involved, not because their lives were on the line like the men, but because their generation was on the line. We were all “in it” together, side by side.

I don’t recall the sequence of events that led to the aha! moment, but I do remember thinking the title idea was good. I had dinner with a friend that night and told her. The shudder that went through her was all I needed to see. That shudder is what I want every reader to feel. That with the flip of the chromosome coin, anyone could be Number One. On December 1, 1969, we were all Number One. 

But that’s still only one story of women of the time. At a recent book event I met the daughter of Curtis Tarr, the government official charged with revamping the selective service system which, until it became the Draft Lottery, had been insufficiently random. Tarr had been vilified back in the day, the target of many of the people I wrote about inThe Fourteenth of September. She remembers suffering through it as a teenager, about it being unfair. There are so many stories we’ve been afraid to tell. The Fourteenth of September is one; perhaps hers will be next. 

The Lessons of the Lottery: It’s Time for Another Coming of Conscience

In a famous Star Trek episode, the population of a planet in a future world took pride in the fact that they’d eliminated war. Instead, after times of political conflict when war would be inevitable, it was simulated by computer. Individuals identified as those who would have been casualties had the war been “real”would get notices to report to extermination centers, where they would obediently submit to painless and efficient deaths. They were so proud they’d come up with such a civilized way to conduct war without damage to their fine cities.

Throw birth dates into a container, draw lots from a box, computerize casualties, create volunteer armies of those with few other opportunities. Civilized? You’d think we’d have figured it out by now.

War may be pointless, as the Ken Burns documentary The Vietnam War illustrated so well, but it’s apparently also irresistible, as evidenced by the rapidly multiplying hot spots around the globe. It’s also ever random. Anyone can be in it. With a blink of an eye, one less chromosome, or an emotional tweet, we—or someone we love—can become a soldier deployed to a war zone, a refugee fleeing civil strife in Syria or gang wars in Honduras, or their mothers facing loss. All of us casualties of chance.

How we choose to confront war/conflict shows who we are—our character, our conscience. Do we unite or separate? Sacrifice our young or disadvantaged, or find a better way? Chance is the lottery of life. As long as someone is in a war, we’re all in it.

The subtitle of The Fourteenth of September is “A Coming of Conscience Novel.” It’s about the development of character. My female protagonist’s journey of self-discovery mirrors what the country was debating at the time. Who are we if we stay in Vietnam? What are we if we leave?

On this anniversary day of the Vietnam Draft Lottery, the country is in another Coming of Conscience moment. We’re again fighting for our character, on many fronts. What do we stand for today? What are we to be relied upon for and by whom? When does integrity trump consequences? We’ve come full circle in the hamster wheel of history. How ironic.

Back on December 1, 1969, I’d never considered what my own number would have been had chance dictated I’d been born a boy. I looked it up as I was considering the title for my novel, hoping it would be a single digit, for optimum dramatic effect. I was born on November 4. I would have been #266…

I would have been in limbo…

With no more control over my life than a Central American mother fleeing certain death for her children, a poor inner city kid who enlisted for college money stationed in the Middle East, or a war orphan in Yemen.

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On this Day in History: November 15, 1969. The Moratorium March on Washington. A Million Reasons to End the War. . . Or So We Thought.

The First Time the Size of the Crowd on the DC Mall Really Mattered

On this day fifty years ago, the second phase of the hopeful Moratorium to End the War in Vietnam took place. Unlike the previous month’s event, it wasn’t a quiet series of strikes by students or others. It was to be a million marchers in Washington, D.C., right outside President Richard Nixon’s White House window. The portion of the divided country convinced it was time to stop this seemingly endless and pointless conflict was ebullient. We were confident that with numbers like these showing up, it would be impossible for the president to dismiss the will of the majority: the war had lost its objective; it was unwinnable; it was time to Bring the Troops Home NOW!

Like the first Moratorium that October, the march was to be inclusive of as many subsections of the country as possible—an unprecedentedly huge aggregate of voices all asking for the same thing. And, it was to be peaceful, to make a point without becoming who we were not, and without alienating those who’d like to join, but feared to in the shadow of the violence that began with the Democratic Convention in 1968. The Chicago Conspiracy Trial had just begun that September and was still going on. We were changing the image: There are so many of us; lots of us look like you; it’s safe to join us. You know we’re right.

We Had to Be There. And to Be Counted.

Young people were particularly activated and ended up comprising the majority of the marching crowd. The war affected them most, after all—they were the fuel for the new draft lottery, coming in just three weeks, that was to determine who would go to Vietnam at a time when that meant a death sentence.

College campuses, representing the largest concentration of draft-age men, mobilized. Across the country, buses and other transportation were arranged to bring flocks of students to the event. Preparations covered the scope of the guerilla marketing options of the day: posters were painted, banners made for display by marchers, armbands and pins created for every message out there, from the remaining vestiges of flower power, “War is hazardous for children and other living things,” to the clenched-fist yelp of the day, “Hell No, We Won’t Go.” 

We had to be there, somehow, we told ourselves. The numbers were important. A million marchers!  We had to be counted. That was the galvanizing cry—and so close to the December 1 lottery date that it was worth risking all. Like the main character in The Fourteenth of September, I was on a military scholarship, the only way I could afford to go to college. I was deep into plotting how to get out of it by this time, but I couldn’t risk losing it, which I surely would if I got caught traveling to Washington, thereby going AWOL (which I’d technically be, away from my “duty station” at school). But I felt certain this was a pivotal moment in history, and I had to be a part of it, or I’d never forgive myself.

And it was the most exciting thing to be happening so far in my teenage life: Genuine action, people from all over the country, a city I’d never been to. Above all, I was going to make a difference. It’s hard to describe how certain we were that we would be heard at last and that this would work. A million marchers!  We’d stop the war that was eating up our generation. It was easy, Kool-Aid, and I drank it down like so many others in the guilelessness of late adolescence. After all, we were right: people were dying without purpose; the war was bad; it had to end. Who could quibble with that?

Even my mid-size school, Northern Illinois University, was going to send three buses to Washington. It would cost $40 a head, which was stiff for students in those days. I got such a secret kick out of using my army pay to finance my rebellion. I couldn’t tell anyone, but I’d know. I made my plans. I left my army ID in the only locked drawer in my dorm desk, joined in making dozens of PB&J sandwiches for the bus ride, and set out to change the world.

Off on a Fateful Adventure with a Million Marchers

It was a long night’s drive, and we arrived late, after the famous “March Against Death” that took place the night before Saturday’s big event. Thousands of people had walked in single file down Pennsylvania Avenue to the White House, each carrying a placard with the name of a dead American soldier, presaging the eventual form of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall. The placards were placed in coffins, and we saw them lying in front of the Capitol Building as our bus pulled into the city and dropped us off.

We hastily joined the other marchers, lined up for the main event. We jumped around to stay warm in the bone-chilling November cold, none of us dressed for the weather. We’d been more concerned about the message of the imitation fatigues we were wearing under our protest buttons—olive drab and khaki jackets we’d picked up at the army surplus store in our campus hometown. We wanted to look the part. We waited. . . and waited, only to be ultimately frustrated when city officials stopped the march on the stroke of the three-hour parade permit time limit, despite the thousands of us who had not yet put one foot in front of the other to make our involvement official.

We swallowed our disappointment and followed the crowd down the Mall, amazed at the sheer numbers of people, a moving swarm of protestors filling up every space between the white buildings we’d heretofore only seen in pictures or on television: the Capitol, the National Gallery of Art, and ahead of us the grand obelisk of The National Monument. We met people from all over, from pacifists to anarchists, but mostly just kids like us, totally psyched that we’d choked the streets and shut down the capital of the United States. Rumor was we’d pulled off the biggest protest ever. Of course, this would end the war. How could it not?

We were tired, hungry, and on the hunt for bathrooms but also riding high, eagerly joining in singing along with those ahead of us, who in turn were singing along with performers we knew were ahead of them but we couldn’t possibly see or hear ourselves—Peter, Paul and Mary, Arlo Guthrie, Country Joe and the Fish.

When we filed onto the buses after only six hours in the city and headed back to campus, we were exhausted but elated. We’d been counted, we were sure. The war would end. We gave them a million reasons why. This is what it was to be a responsible citizen. This is what it was to join the long tradition of activism in our country. This is what it was to be an American.

Read the excerpt about the day from The Fourteenth of September.

“Young Marchers Ask Rapid Withdrawal from Vietnam,” The New York Times

Media coverage and access to information was so slow back then. There were many “no-news” hours between boarding the buses and arriving back on campus, leaving us blind and deaf to the national reaction to the March.

By the time we returned, the newspapers were out, but the number was wrong— they were saying only 250,000 people had been in Washington. That number didn’t make sense if you’d been there. No one could imagine how they’d arrived at it. Someone suggested it was possible they’d only counted the ones who actually marched before the permit ended. It was the only reasonable explanation. Or was it an intentional plot—purposeful misinformation to show that though we boasted of having a majority we could only deliver a fraction of it?

And then there was the devastating caption that told us Nixon hadn’t been looking at a million marchers from his window. . . he had been watching a football game.

Dreams dashed.

“It Remains the Largest Political Rally in the Nation’s History,” Time Magazine

The numbers were revised with time to 500,000, but the damage had been done. We’d been so excited; I’d personally risked so much, and we were dismissed. To Nixon, we were a few thousand kids versus his great silent majority. His contempt for the concerns of our entire generation oozed over us. There were tens of thousands of faces who’d traveled from across the country over which he presided, beckoning for his attention in the freezing cold and he hadn’t even looked up from the television screen, or so he boasted.

We learned much later that this march had been historic, that it had had an impact, that it had been significant in the sequence of resistance that eventually led to the end of the war. In retrospect, we’d been an important part of the story of our country. Today, we smile and feel proud to read the fifty-year-old news accounts. 

But it sure didn’t feel like it at the time.

The war went on for another six years. Thousands more died. We felt the power we thought we had heading into the march begin to dissipate, sifting through our fingers. We were too young to know change was that hard, and would take that long. We thought we’d failed.

A few years later, that president, who finagled crowd numbers on the Mall, would become so cocky he’d push it to the point of breaking the law. He got his comeuppance with Watergate. 

We didn’t think it could ever happen again. We didn’t imagine we were in the first cycle of the hamster wheel of history.

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LATEST UPDATES & NEWS

When Integrity Trumps Consequences

“Consideration will change the world, and I’m ready for it. It’s time for change, and it’s the time to start being brave.”

— Coming of Conscience Scholarship Applicant

Each person coming forward in the impeachment process has made a Coming of Conscience decision.

BOOMERS ARE OK

Two authors were pitted against each other at the Louisiana Book Festival on November 2nd—a military wife and an anti-war activist. Fireworks were assumed as Bev Marshall and I recounted our stories in Back Home: A Vietnam Veteran’s Wife’s Short Memoir about a Long War and The Fourteenth of September. But this “Yankee” and this southerner found common ground and became fast friends.

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October 15, 1969: The Moratorium to End the War in Vietnam. A Pause for Reflection in a Polarized America.

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The anniversaries of seminal events that rocked our world fifty years ago are coming hot and heavy this fall. Today, we remember a time when we tried a reasoned strategy to attempt to deal with a generation-defining issue in a country as divided then as we are now.

TIME Magazine Cover: Vietnam Moratorium — Oct. 17, 1969

By the time of the Moratorium, America had been involved in Vietnam, in one way or another, for nearly ten years. Any initial objectives for the war were long gone, the domino theory relegated back to the game it was named after, the war’s progress descended into body counts, the goal now so incrementally small that there was no big picture left or possible. Our defense secretary was telling us that if we killed more Vietnamese than they killed Americans, it was a good week. Period. The Killed in Action Numbers came out on Thursdays.

It was pretty universally agreed that the war was a disaster. What wasn’t agreed upon was what we were going to do about it. Half the country felt we should stay in Vietnam until we “won,” because America had never lost a war. The other half felt that we should cut our losses and get out—those losses being so obvious in the form of body bags containing young adults (many just teenagers) we were seeing each night for the first time on television, on the nightly news, just before dinner, when the numbers of killed and wounded on both sides were announced with a chart, like sports scores. No one could not know—or pretend not to know—what was going on.

On October 15, 1969, America was stuck in an existential dilemma. Who were we if we stayed in Vietnam? What were we if we left? Lines were drawn at the dinner table; people couldn’t talk to their own relatives; friendships were made or lost depending upon which side of the argument you were on. The country was at a loud and strident impasse—no one was budging. And the policies of our new president, Richard Nixon, despite campaign promises, were alarmingly close to those of his predecessor, Lyndon Johnson, who’d abdicated the presidency because he couldn’t figure it out.

One Day in October, Two Days in November, Three Days in December. . . A Strategy That Should Have Worked

THE NORTHERN STAR, NORTHERN ILLINOIS UNIVERSITY, OCTOBER 1969

A moratorium is defined as a delay, a postponement, to give time for reflection. The plan for the Moratorium that October was to apply this concept to ensure the country didn’t stumble blindly ahead in a direction that might be wrong. It was to be peaceful: to put the war on pause, while we reflected about how we had arrived at this point. How did the war begin? What were we trying to do? How could we bring it to an end? The theme was grief, sorrow, and solidarity, rather than anger and rage. It was important to demonstrate that a war protest didn’t have to be violent and destructive like the one at the Democratic Convention. Instead, the tent was wide and had room for anyone with doubts about the war and the direction of the country, knowing this cut across all segments of age, race, and economic status. The concept was to build a groundswell—to engage the widest representation of all groups and factions. You didn’t need to be a radical to be against the war. Your desire to end a war that had lost its way was the common thread.

And it worked—huge groups gathered in Washington (250,000), and cities across the country. The idea was to expand it month by month, to increase participation and demonstrate the widespread support across all subsets in the country—civil rights organizations, churches, business groups, universities, unions—to end this war that affected everyone. After all, who didn’t have a connection: a child, a boyfriend, a student, a brother, a cousin—some family, some connection, anywhere. A war experience enters the DNA of a country, our DNA. Our lack of power over its escalation gripped us all: it was time to build our side of the argument. What were Communist dominoes and saving the world for democracy, versus the loss of actual lives? Did we need new ways of looking at conflicts—of considering more carefully how we got into them, and the points at which we needed to get out? Just what were the ethics of unwinnable wars?

Students Went on Strike

The way this played out on college campuses—which represented the largest concentration of draft-age men—was in the form of “strikes.” Students were encouraged to skip classes and attend informal education sessions about the roots of the war, the options for protest, how they could regain power over their lives. Since Vietnam had been around through most of the students’ childhoods, they had grown up with it, and now were in it, without really understanding how the country had ended up where it was. It was time to revisit the Gulf of Tonkin, the French involvement, the anti-communist fear that ensnared John F. Kennedy. Or, to learn about them for the first time.

Ken Burns traces all this beautifully in his PBS series The Vietnam War, but back on October 15, 1969, no one was piecing it together, talking about what it all meant, what was really at stake, perhaps, versus what had previously been wagered in other wars. We needed new comparators.

Teachers were encouraged to suspend their syllabus of the day and discuss the war with students. The chemistry teachers balked, but the history and political science professors were in heaven. Students came, the straight (in the old definition of representing the norm) and the freaks. People were talking. Check out the excerpt from The Fourteenth of September that takes place on that date, and you’ll see that it was an opportunity for people to talk about what they felt, to finally ask their questions, to face their fears, to begin to understand rather than just react.

Time magazine said the Moratorium had brought “new respectability and popularity” to the antiwar movement.

The Aftermath

The Moratorium was a huge pearl in the string of events that eventually led to the demise of this long national ordeal, that would take until 1975—six more years—to conclude. Though the administration retaliated with Nixon publicly stating that “under no circumstances will I be affected,” he was. The event led to Vice President Spiro Agnew’s infamous speech when he called anyone against the war “effete corps of impudent snobs who characterize themselves as intellectuals” (which would have made an exquisite tweet in today’s world). Significantly, it also resulted in Nixon’s defining “silent majority” address, asking for the support of what he assumed was the vast heretofore quiet bulk of Americans for his Vietnam policy—that we had to stay and win. Peace with Honor, he called it. He conceded the point that South Vietnam wasn’t important, the real issue was that America would lose face. This was startling. From then on, the country knew what it was in for, what side he was on. And each of us had to decide what was more important—an escalating number of soldiers killed with no objective or end in sight, or maintenance of a perfect victory record?  As a young person with your life or that of your friends on the line, you had to wonder if it was worth it when some old guy said it would hit us in our pride. We did not think this was a compelling case for the carnage, not a decade into this war, with a possible additional decade ahead.

Conversations were stirred up, assumptions were being challenged. It was a brief illuminating moment. We learned a lot. It was a start.

Power to the People

We all looked forward to the next phase of the Moratorium on November 15, 1969, which was to be the biggest March on Washington ever. We were empowered and activated to change the world. It felt so good, finally, to think that we could be heard. Illusions about this would be shattered as events progressed rapidly through the end of 1969/1970, but it’s instructive to remember that there are moments when progress did happen, and that it takes so painfully long. We paid a price for not listening to each other back then.

March at night to the White House, led by Coretta Scott King, part of the Moratorium to End the War in Vietnam

It makes you wonder if we need a Moratorium today—a time for reflection, to really think about the character of the country. Who are we if we continue on our current path? What are we if we choose another, hopefully better, one? We lose all when we stonewall and stop talking to each other. Perhaps our Moratorium is the impeachment process? It could be. Let’s be open. The sin of what happened fifty years ago was that we took so long to do what was inevitable in ending the war. The horrible price was in loss of life and damage to our national integrity. Our DNA is still frayed. There are echoes of what is at risk at present today in our country. There is a war going for our integrity. But there could be hope.

 Like Judy in The Fourteenth of September who went through a Coming of Conscience journey to a decision where integrity trumped consequences, there are a lot of people today who are or who need to make a similar Coming of Conscience decision. Whether you agree with them or not, you have to admire their willingness to risk personal consequences for doing the right thing. We need so many more of them. The country awaits how this current Coming of Conscience moment will resolve—not just how it will be written about in the history books, but how will happen right now.

We can still change the world. . . if we listen.

All power to the people.

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LATEST UPDATES & NEWS

Integrity Trumps Consequence

“I have learned that I am not afraid to stand up for others, even if that means standing alone.”

— Coming of Conscience Scholarship Applicant

"I have visited nations ravaged by civil war. ... I have never imagined such a quote to be repeated by a President. This is beyond repugnant."

— Rep. Adam Kinzinger, R-Ill.

Carl Sandburg Literary Awards Dinner

As I was about to cross the stage at last week's Carl Sandburg Literary Awards Dinner I realized I should have provided period-specific music from The Fourteenth of September as background. Turns out I didn't need to—watch and see what they came up with.

Limited Time Only! If You Haven't Had a Chance to Get a Copy, Stock up Now for Yourself or Gifts.

She Writes Press has teamed up with NewInBooks and BargainBooksy in celebration of #NationalBookMonth. For a limited time only, from October 18-27 the eBook version of The Fourteenth of September price will drop to $0.99.

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