I once heard the famed actor, James Dean, said he wanted to experience everything life had to offer. From what we know of him today, he packed moe life into twentyy-four years than most people do in a full lifetime. Thus, my exuberance for experiencing a "book signing" of my own today.
As previously reported in this blog, my novel "Sofie, the Queen of Oakland" is on the bookshelves in one of the local Hastings. The book manager is sponsoring a "local author book signing" event this month and today was my first day.
I had resigned myself early on that there would not be a large crowd of readers in attendance to listen intently to any planned comments I might have for them. I didn't have any; and the readers didn't show. However, I did happen upon a lady who once taught a water-color class I took, and just as I was picking up my "stuff," she told me she was going to read my book.
So I signed one copy today. I still await the excitement that must come when one sells a book to someone unknown. Move over J. K. Rowling; I'm moving in on ya.
Saturday, May 12, 2007
This Blog Copied and Pasted
Due to a glitch in an email change, I can no longer access the first Grayshoe blog; so I created this one. All posts prior to this were copied and pasted today from the old blog. I titled them as they were for ease in location, and I dated each according to the date of the original posting.
"Sofie" Lands Spot in Local Bookstore
February 28, 2007
Went into the local Hastings Bookstore yesterday and talked to the book manager. She gave me a form to fill out and told me to bring in three copies of "my book" and she'll place it on the "Local Authors" shelf. It will sell for $14.50.
There is another Hastings in our area, so after I talk with them I'll place an order for a few of the books and we'll see what happens. I do not expect to sell my book so much as I anticipate the adrenaline rush from seeing it on a shelf in a real bookstore.
The fame and glory I so richly anticipate will come later when one of my later pieces is published by one of the big boys in New York City. Yeah, that's right.
Went into the local Hastings Bookstore yesterday and talked to the book manager. She gave me a form to fill out and told me to bring in three copies of "my book" and she'll place it on the "Local Authors" shelf. It will sell for $14.50.
There is another Hastings in our area, so after I talk with them I'll place an order for a few of the books and we'll see what happens. I do not expect to sell my book so much as I anticipate the adrenaline rush from seeing it on a shelf in a real bookstore.
The fame and glory I so richly anticipate will come later when one of my later pieces is published by one of the big boys in New York City. Yeah, that's right.
Agents, Work, and Delays in the Edit
February 24, 2007
I know little of anything about how to find an agent. I bought a book, the title escapes me right now and the book is in another part of the house and I'm too lazy to go find it, but I think it's titled, "Literary Agents: How to," or something similar.
After having read through the book; it seems the task of finding an agent isdaunting - and I don't know if any of my stuff is worth the effort that would be required. Still, how nice it would be to "have an agent;" someone working for me, to get my words out into the world. I wouldn't really care too much about any money; just the thrill of being able to say, "Yes, at Simon Schuster," when people ask if I've published anything. Of course, I did "publish" my first bokk with a POD; but I'm not convinced that is "real" publishing - is it?
I have one more week of full time work; then I'm back at editing The Marker. Can't wait to get it in final form!!!
I know little of anything about how to find an agent. I bought a book, the title escapes me right now and the book is in another part of the house and I'm too lazy to go find it, but I think it's titled, "Literary Agents: How to," or something similar.
After having read through the book; it seems the task of finding an agent isdaunting - and I don't know if any of my stuff is worth the effort that would be required. Still, how nice it would be to "have an agent;" someone working for me, to get my words out into the world. I wouldn't really care too much about any money; just the thrill of being able to say, "Yes, at Simon Schuster," when people ask if I've published anything. Of course, I did "publish" my first bokk with a POD; but I'm not convinced that is "real" publishing - is it?
I have one more week of full time work; then I'm back at editing The Marker. Can't wait to get it in final form!!!
A Most Recent Update
February 13, 2007
Odd how "work" can get in the way of one's creative expressions. Four weeks ago I was called in to work for six weeks; this is week number four, so the end is within view.
Once the "work" is completed, The Marker will be adjusted back up to the top of the list of things needing completion. Excitement looms in the air; Sofie, the Queen of Oakland, was delivered, in final format, just yesterday at my front door. After close to thirty edits, it is done, kaput, over. Finally.
Odd how "work" can get in the way of one's creative expressions. Four weeks ago I was called in to work for six weeks; this is week number four, so the end is within view.
Once the "work" is completed, The Marker will be adjusted back up to the top of the list of things needing completion. Excitement looms in the air; Sofie, the Queen of Oakland, was delivered, in final format, just yesterday at my front door. After close to thirty edits, it is done, kaput, over. Finally.
Goal for Completion Set
January 23, 2007
The most recent edit of The Marker was completed yesterday. Corrections to the manuscript, located on my hard drive, also commenced yesterday. The is hard, tough, re-writing. I'm not inclined to think I have enough endurance to push my way through another 230 some pages to complete the novel before the end of the month.
Perhaps a plan such as that of writer friend, John Steinbeck, should be employed. Before writing The Grapes of Wrath, he had planned out the novel's journey and plotted it against a calendar of events in the writing to the degree that he knew within a few weeks time, the completion date. With 8 days left in January and 230 pages to go, the daily average is 30 pages per day. This is 'doable' but probably more, unlikely than 'doable.' A more realistic goal would be 15 pages per day which would need an addtional 16 to 17 days, bringing February, 8-9, 2007, as the date of completion.
This, then, is the goal for completion: February 9, 2007.
The most recent edit of The Marker was completed yesterday. Corrections to the manuscript, located on my hard drive, also commenced yesterday. The is hard, tough, re-writing. I'm not inclined to think I have enough endurance to push my way through another 230 some pages to complete the novel before the end of the month.
Perhaps a plan such as that of writer friend, John Steinbeck, should be employed. Before writing The Grapes of Wrath, he had planned out the novel's journey and plotted it against a calendar of events in the writing to the degree that he knew within a few weeks time, the completion date. With 8 days left in January and 230 pages to go, the daily average is 30 pages per day. This is 'doable' but probably more, unlikely than 'doable.' A more realistic goal would be 15 pages per day which would need an addtional 16 to 17 days, bringing February, 8-9, 2007, as the date of completion.
This, then, is the goal for completion: February 9, 2007.
Internally Conflicted
January 19, 2007
The second edit of The Marker is moving along. Today I completed 216 of the 253 page manuscript. I like this story; it's actually many storied in one, all tied together by the Marker which runs through each vignette. Like I said earler, somewhere, to someone, it's like the movie, The Red Violin.
I'm experiencing internal conflict. There's a couple people, from my past years, that I have phone numbers for that I want to contact; but there's that ol' lazy-headedness that keeps me from picking up the phone. Chris M. and Larry. P., I think of you everyday.
Chris P., I met in an art class when I lived on the other side of the state. We used to have deep discussions about liberalism and conservativism (he the former, me the latter); we used to go out into the environment and draw and paint old barns, and trees, and mountains, and cows; and we used to pray together.
Larry P., once when we were walking back from class, I asked you this question, "What color is it?" And you replied, "Blue." I was thinking about the carpet we had discussed a week or two earlier that you said you could bring to the room the next quarter, and spontaneously asked the question. We laughed hard at the coincedental nature of our discourse because, as it turned out, you were thinking about the carpet, too.
So, anyway, while writing the paragraph above, a lady came to our front door. She volunteers her time for a small organization that helps low income folks and the elderly with bills, house cleaning, rides to doctor's offices, etc., and she was door belling for funds. Ordinarily I would donate the minimal amount, $20. But, due to the internal conflict I was, and still am, experiencing, we wrote her a check for $50.
My conflict is much reduced.
The second edit of The Marker is moving along. Today I completed 216 of the 253 page manuscript. I like this story; it's actually many storied in one, all tied together by the Marker which runs through each vignette. Like I said earler, somewhere, to someone, it's like the movie, The Red Violin.
I'm experiencing internal conflict. There's a couple people, from my past years, that I have phone numbers for that I want to contact; but there's that ol' lazy-headedness that keeps me from picking up the phone. Chris M. and Larry. P., I think of you everyday.
Chris P., I met in an art class when I lived on the other side of the state. We used to have deep discussions about liberalism and conservativism (he the former, me the latter); we used to go out into the environment and draw and paint old barns, and trees, and mountains, and cows; and we used to pray together.
Larry P., once when we were walking back from class, I asked you this question, "What color is it?" And you replied, "Blue." I was thinking about the carpet we had discussed a week or two earlier that you said you could bring to the room the next quarter, and spontaneously asked the question. We laughed hard at the coincedental nature of our discourse because, as it turned out, you were thinking about the carpet, too.
So, anyway, while writing the paragraph above, a lady came to our front door. She volunteers her time for a small organization that helps low income folks and the elderly with bills, house cleaning, rides to doctor's offices, etc., and she was door belling for funds. Ordinarily I would donate the minimal amount, $20. But, due to the internal conflict I was, and still am, experiencing, we wrote her a check for $50.
My conflict is much reduced.
Trip to Camelot
January 12, 2007
Was it mentioned that as soon as the previous edit of The Marker was completed, another was started? At the first read, the novel appeared to be in need of minimal editing; the more it's reviewed the larger the job grows. Another forty, or so, pages were edited this afternoon in a Mexican restaurant; and there are miles to go before this sucker sleeps, miles to go.
Went with old friend, Tom Callahan, back to Camelot this morning to join a group of previous movers and shakers in the little town. Eighteen, or nineteen, people were in Elfer's/Lyon's Rexall for coffee, conversation, and dice tossing. Folks from many years ago were collected in this most reminiscent of places and it was like going home to mama. After coffee, Tom and I drove over to the old school and walked through the hallways during lunch. With almost double the number of students nowdays, the school seemed small, full, and tight. They're thinking about building a new one; it will be sad to see the old one closed, but it's worn out.
We drove up to visit Uncle Melvin before leaving town. Uncle Melvin lost his wife, Joyce, seven months ago and he's struggling with a ton of grief. Everyone in Camelot is worried about him, but after our visit I think he will emerge successfully.
Here's a drawing I did yesterday. I like it!
Was it mentioned that as soon as the previous edit of The Marker was completed, another was started? At the first read, the novel appeared to be in need of minimal editing; the more it's reviewed the larger the job grows. Another forty, or so, pages were edited this afternoon in a Mexican restaurant; and there are miles to go before this sucker sleeps, miles to go.
Went with old friend, Tom Callahan, back to Camelot this morning to join a group of previous movers and shakers in the little town. Eighteen, or nineteen, people were in Elfer's/Lyon's Rexall for coffee, conversation, and dice tossing. Folks from many years ago were collected in this most reminiscent of places and it was like going home to mama. After coffee, Tom and I drove over to the old school and walked through the hallways during lunch. With almost double the number of students nowdays, the school seemed small, full, and tight. They're thinking about building a new one; it will be sad to see the old one closed, but it's worn out.
We drove up to visit Uncle Melvin before leaving town. Uncle Melvin lost his wife, Joyce, seven months ago and he's struggling with a ton of grief. Everyone in Camelot is worried about him, but after our visit I think he will emerge successfully.
Here's a drawing I did yesterday. I like it!
The Marker First Edit Compete
January 9, 2007
The Marker's first full edit was completed today. The manuscript runs 253 pages, and the word count, according to Word's word counter, is 50,813. At first glance, once the first draft was completed, the manuscript looked good; but in this first edit, there were many problems needing attention. The discouraging thing about it is during the next read/edit, there will be many more modifications needed.
Our side of the hill is in shade this time of the day, this time of the year. In the distance, from my upstairs window, right now, sunshine lights and sparkles across the city, river, and far side of the valley. Maybe we should take a ride into the light.
In conversation with a young man who formerly lived on Anderson Island, which is the closest island to MacNeil Island in the south Puget Sound, I learned the prison is not a monumental and imposing castle-like fortress sitting on a rock cliff as it is in Sofie, the Queen of Oakland; but does it matter?
The Marker's first full edit was completed today. The manuscript runs 253 pages, and the word count, according to Word's word counter, is 50,813. At first glance, once the first draft was completed, the manuscript looked good; but in this first edit, there were many problems needing attention. The discouraging thing about it is during the next read/edit, there will be many more modifications needed.
Our side of the hill is in shade this time of the day, this time of the year. In the distance, from my upstairs window, right now, sunshine lights and sparkles across the city, river, and far side of the valley. Maybe we should take a ride into the light.
In conversation with a young man who formerly lived on Anderson Island, which is the closest island to MacNeil Island in the south Puget Sound, I learned the prison is not a monumental and imposing castle-like fortress sitting on a rock cliff as it is in Sofie, the Queen of Oakland; but does it matter?
I'm No Writer
January 8, 2007
I'm no writer. I wish I didn't want to write. The suffering and exasperation regarding the quality and general 'readership' of my writing is as unknown to me as a whore's beauty is to her. Got almost 40 pages re-edited today. The story moves along; I must admit there's parts of this story that intrigue me. The way it flows along and the way the multiple characters appear and disappear while the knife continues moving forward into the present is what keeps me dipping into the story and working to get it as good as I am able. Lois is reading/proofing it as I go. She seems to like it, says she does, and she's staying with it.
I'm no writer. I wish I didn't want to write. The suffering and exasperation regarding the quality and general 'readership' of my writing is as unknown to me as a whore's beauty is to her. Got almost 40 pages re-edited today. The story moves along; I must admit there's parts of this story that intrigue me. The way it flows along and the way the multiple characters appear and disappear while the knife continues moving forward into the present is what keeps me dipping into the story and working to get it as good as I am able. Lois is reading/proofing it as I go. She seems to like it, says she does, and she's staying with it.
More Procrastination
January 6, 2007
Another day lost to procrastination. The weather forecaster predicted Arctic air would drop our temperatures to single digits in a few days; and that today there would be wind. The temperature remains in the balmy 40's today; however, the wispy winds feels cold enough to freeze water at a hundred yards. Not sure what that means; it just sounds good, metphoric maybe: freezing water at a hundred yards.
A small flock of magpies, three or four, and a couple of red-shafted flickers have been scouring the mummified grape arbor today for the tiny morsels that used to be grapes. It is good to know we are providing some nourishment for our neighbors from nature that visit the grape arbor here in the winter. The robin's nest on the corner nearest the kitchen, harbors no refugees; it's builders and prior residents left for warm, summer climes, months ago. Too bad others can't do the same. Cold, dry weather wreaks havoc on dry skin.
One new project came to mind today: the posting of a page in honor of a posthumous friend, Ruby Fisher, who was Miss Oakland in 1927. Certain bits of information regarding her are available online; and conversations with her daughter summer before last have provided enough documented, and documentable information, to create such a posting. Ruby would have enjoyed knowing she still has a positive impact on the world!
Not much else for today. The Seahawks play the Cowboys in Seattle late this afternoon in the first round of the play-offs which, of course, leads to this year's Super Bowl. The odds of Seattle winning this game are about as good as the team winning the Super Bowl this year; and those odds are about the same as the cat on the couch finishing the edit of The Marker for me this month.
Yes, it will be completed this month - the editing.
Another day lost to procrastination. The weather forecaster predicted Arctic air would drop our temperatures to single digits in a few days; and that today there would be wind. The temperature remains in the balmy 40's today; however, the wispy winds feels cold enough to freeze water at a hundred yards. Not sure what that means; it just sounds good, metphoric maybe: freezing water at a hundred yards.
A small flock of magpies, three or four, and a couple of red-shafted flickers have been scouring the mummified grape arbor today for the tiny morsels that used to be grapes. It is good to know we are providing some nourishment for our neighbors from nature that visit the grape arbor here in the winter. The robin's nest on the corner nearest the kitchen, harbors no refugees; it's builders and prior residents left for warm, summer climes, months ago. Too bad others can't do the same. Cold, dry weather wreaks havoc on dry skin.
One new project came to mind today: the posting of a page in honor of a posthumous friend, Ruby Fisher, who was Miss Oakland in 1927. Certain bits of information regarding her are available online; and conversations with her daughter summer before last have provided enough documented, and documentable information, to create such a posting. Ruby would have enjoyed knowing she still has a positive impact on the world!
Not much else for today. The Seahawks play the Cowboys in Seattle late this afternoon in the first round of the play-offs which, of course, leads to this year's Super Bowl. The odds of Seattle winning this game are about as good as the team winning the Super Bowl this year; and those odds are about the same as the cat on the couch finishing the edit of The Marker for me this month.
Yes, it will be completed this month - the editing.
The Marker Manuscripted
January 5, 2007
The edit of The Marker is going along as it should; most of yesterday was spent in this lofty endeavor. My wife was gone most of the day and when she called, about 5:30, I looked up from the computer to find there was not one light on in the house; other than the computer screen, I was in total darkness. However, my brandy snifter was amply supplied, so all was well.
Yesterday was also the day the entire file was put into novel manuscript form. Once pages 169 to 189 are printed later this evening, all will be "up to snuff" in terms of edit and print. My wife is reading over the edit for typo's and other problems. One more read through on my part; then put the final modifications into the manuscript and it should be done.
The goal for completion is squarely within sight.
The edit of The Marker is going along as it should; most of yesterday was spent in this lofty endeavor. My wife was gone most of the day and when she called, about 5:30, I looked up from the computer to find there was not one light on in the house; other than the computer screen, I was in total darkness. However, my brandy snifter was amply supplied, so all was well.
Yesterday was also the day the entire file was put into novel manuscript form. Once pages 169 to 189 are printed later this evening, all will be "up to snuff" in terms of edit and print. My wife is reading over the edit for typo's and other problems. One more read through on my part; then put the final modifications into the manuscript and it should be done.
The goal for completion is squarely within sight.
Skeletal Grapevine and The Marker's Beginning
January 3, 2007
Today is windy, rainy. The firewood stacked outside the back door is wet and unusable. The sky is gray, cloudy and heavy with its message of more-of-the-same. The grape arbor outside my window looks skeletal, and mummified. Small, shriveled grapes, that even the magpies don't want, lie littered about the floor of the arbor; and the wind continues to blow; and the neighbor's cat sits at the door, looking miserable and lonely.
This is a good day to continue editing the "knife" story (The Marker). This project was begun shortly after Christmas and it should be completed by the end of the month, if not before. Maybe this is the one to put in manuscript form and send off to an agent, or fifty. Word has it the rejection rate, even at the agency level, let alone the publisher level, is massive; still even a rejection of my work would raise it to the next level.
Today is windy, rainy. The firewood stacked outside the back door is wet and unusable. The sky is gray, cloudy and heavy with its message of more-of-the-same. The grape arbor outside my window looks skeletal, and mummified. Small, shriveled grapes, that even the magpies don't want, lie littered about the floor of the arbor; and the wind continues to blow; and the neighbor's cat sits at the door, looking miserable and lonely.
This is a good day to continue editing the "knife" story (The Marker). This project was begun shortly after Christmas and it should be completed by the end of the month, if not before. Maybe this is the one to put in manuscript form and send off to an agent, or fifty. Word has it the rejection rate, even at the agency level, let alone the publisher level, is massive; still even a rejection of my work would raise it to the next level.
TGW: The Grapes of Wrath
January 2, 2007
Today was a lost day. Procrastination marked every hour; there was no writing, no editing, nothing. I feel like crap at the end of days like this.
I did finish the book, "Working Days: The Journals of The Grapes of Wrath." These journals were kept by John Steinbeck during his writing of this phenomenal novel. Steinbeck's emotions ran the gamut from severe depression to over-the-top-elation while writing the novel; and his frank thoughts and opinions are expressed freely and fully throughout.
I think that's why I had a shitty day; it's almost as though Steinbeck gave me permission because he had days like this too. He even had days when he held his wriging ability in high suspicion. In one entry he tells how the man who lives next door, who spends most of his time working in his yard could have written this novel. Now, that's everyday man thinking and I love it because it's exactly how I feel about my writing. Of course, he sold TGW and made a fortune off it. It also brought him deep depression afterwards due to the negative impact it had on so many people. It's sad; his life was threatened and many of the Okies he was trying to help through exposure to their plight turned against him as well. I know I had an uncle who was "mad as hell," after watching the movie when it first came out back in the early forties.
I'll write more about TGW later. I have personal connections to that story and the plight of those people.
Today was a lost day. Procrastination marked every hour; there was no writing, no editing, nothing. I feel like crap at the end of days like this.
I did finish the book, "Working Days: The Journals of The Grapes of Wrath." These journals were kept by John Steinbeck during his writing of this phenomenal novel. Steinbeck's emotions ran the gamut from severe depression to over-the-top-elation while writing the novel; and his frank thoughts and opinions are expressed freely and fully throughout.
I think that's why I had a shitty day; it's almost as though Steinbeck gave me permission because he had days like this too. He even had days when he held his wriging ability in high suspicion. In one entry he tells how the man who lives next door, who spends most of his time working in his yard could have written this novel. Now, that's everyday man thinking and I love it because it's exactly how I feel about my writing. Of course, he sold TGW and made a fortune off it. It also brought him deep depression afterwards due to the negative impact it had on so many people. It's sad; his life was threatened and many of the Okies he was trying to help through exposure to their plight turned against him as well. I know I had an uncle who was "mad as hell," after watching the movie when it first came out back in the early forties.
I'll write more about TGW later. I have personal connections to that story and the plight of those people.
New Idea: Hap
October 27, 2006
I met Hap last night in a dream.
Standing on broad concrete stairs leading up the hill to the city library, and enjoying the still warm autumn air and the view of the streets below, I looked down across the street and saw him standing next to the kiosk in front of the opera house. He was holding a newspaper in his hands. A young boy, early teens maybe, stood attentive, listening to Hap read aloud the selections the city symphony would play later that evening. After reading each title, Hap would hum the opening few notes, I thought more for himself than the boy; but the boy eyes were glued on Hap.
Older, probably mid to late fifties, with a slight paunch, and long, straight, brown hair that extended in all directions once it escaped the boundaries of the old, blue stocking cap pulled down over his ears, Hap was enjoying himself. A comfortably worn, blue denim jacket over an old plaid shirt would keep him warm in the soon-to-be cool, evening air; and an equally worn pair of blue Levis with a brown belt rounded the man many would have thought ‘homeless.’
“Mahler’s First,” he said, reading to the boy, then he looked into the sky, closed his eyes and hummed the gentle beginning of the piece. “Listen, here come the trumpets…To-to-To-to-To-to. It’s the awakening of nature at early dawn.”
“What is?”
“The music. That’s what the master himself said, you know.”
“Who?” the boy asked.
“Gustav Mahler. He said the opening is about the 'awakening of nature at early dawn.'”
The boy looked up at Hap, and smiled. “That's weird. Do another one.”
Haps eyes scrolled down the list. “Do you know Frere Jacques?”
“Fair a what?”
“Ferair a jock a,” Hap said, teaching the boy the correct pronunciation. “It’s an old song they used to teach in the school when we were small children.” He held his head back and mimicked the tune as Mahler had written it for the third movement of his symphony. “Can you sing along?” he asked, forgetting there would be someone who didn’t know the tune, then answering his own question, said, “Of course not, they didn’t teach it to you, did they.”
“No.”
Hap folded the newspaper and leaned against the old brick façade of the opera house. “No boy should go without knowing this song,” he said, and soon they were singing, in the round, as ‘Frere Jacques’ was intended. People hurrying along on the sidewalk smiled at the old man and the boy.
I stood spellbound by this man. How did I know his name, and who was he? How did he get this knowledge? Where does he live? What has happened in his life to get him here in front of the grand opera house this morning with this young boy. I decided to follow him, but first I had to call my boss and tell her I wouldn’t be back in this afternoon. “My cold has taken a turn for the worse,” I said, wiping my nose with a handkerchief in a weak attempt to make the lie real.
I met Hap last night in a dream.
Standing on broad concrete stairs leading up the hill to the city library, and enjoying the still warm autumn air and the view of the streets below, I looked down across the street and saw him standing next to the kiosk in front of the opera house. He was holding a newspaper in his hands. A young boy, early teens maybe, stood attentive, listening to Hap read aloud the selections the city symphony would play later that evening. After reading each title, Hap would hum the opening few notes, I thought more for himself than the boy; but the boy eyes were glued on Hap.
Older, probably mid to late fifties, with a slight paunch, and long, straight, brown hair that extended in all directions once it escaped the boundaries of the old, blue stocking cap pulled down over his ears, Hap was enjoying himself. A comfortably worn, blue denim jacket over an old plaid shirt would keep him warm in the soon-to-be cool, evening air; and an equally worn pair of blue Levis with a brown belt rounded the man many would have thought ‘homeless.’
“Mahler’s First,” he said, reading to the boy, then he looked into the sky, closed his eyes and hummed the gentle beginning of the piece. “Listen, here come the trumpets…To-to-To-to-To-to. It’s the awakening of nature at early dawn.”
“What is?”
“The music. That’s what the master himself said, you know.”
“Who?” the boy asked.
“Gustav Mahler. He said the opening is about the 'awakening of nature at early dawn.'”
The boy looked up at Hap, and smiled. “That's weird. Do another one.”
Haps eyes scrolled down the list. “Do you know Frere Jacques?”
“Fair a what?”
“Ferair a jock a,” Hap said, teaching the boy the correct pronunciation. “It’s an old song they used to teach in the school when we were small children.” He held his head back and mimicked the tune as Mahler had written it for the third movement of his symphony. “Can you sing along?” he asked, forgetting there would be someone who didn’t know the tune, then answering his own question, said, “Of course not, they didn’t teach it to you, did they.”
“No.”
Hap folded the newspaper and leaned against the old brick façade of the opera house. “No boy should go without knowing this song,” he said, and soon they were singing, in the round, as ‘Frere Jacques’ was intended. People hurrying along on the sidewalk smiled at the old man and the boy.
I stood spellbound by this man. How did I know his name, and who was he? How did he get this knowledge? Where does he live? What has happened in his life to get him here in front of the grand opera house this morning with this young boy. I decided to follow him, but first I had to call my boss and tell her I wouldn’t be back in this afternoon. “My cold has taken a turn for the worse,” I said, wiping my nose with a handkerchief in a weak attempt to make the lie real.
Sofie, the Queen of Oakland
October 3, 2006
Had I known editing was this difficult, I might have simply 'thought' about writing the original draft rather than struggle through the writing. The story is about a young girl who, besides becoming Miss Oakland in 1929, struggles with the sexual abuse dished out by her step-father. The orignal draft first appeared at nanowrimo.org in 2003. It has suffered through multiple edits over the past three years.Finally, the book was published at lulu.com in September of '06, but when it was delivered, I found multiple errors and places where more editing was necessary. So I am currently involved in what I hope will be the final edit. It is scheduled for release at Lulu later this month.
Had I known editing was this difficult, I might have simply 'thought' about writing the original draft rather than struggle through the writing. The story is about a young girl who, besides becoming Miss Oakland in 1929, struggles with the sexual abuse dished out by her step-father. The orignal draft first appeared at nanowrimo.org in 2003. It has suffered through multiple edits over the past three years.Finally, the book was published at lulu.com in September of '06, but when it was delivered, I found multiple errors and places where more editing was necessary. So I am currently involved in what I hope will be the final edit. It is scheduled for release at Lulu later this month.
Grand Opening
September 17, 2006
This is the first post in this "Writing Journals" blog, and therefore one deserving champagne, caviar and a room full of gray-suited men and exquisitely coiffed women. Of course the city's finest fashionistas are here proclaiming the men's gray shoes as faux pas; therefore, the opening will be quiet, and inexpensive.
This is the first post in this "Writing Journals" blog, and therefore one deserving champagne, caviar and a room full of gray-suited men and exquisitely coiffed women. Of course the city's finest fashionistas are here proclaiming the men's gray shoes as faux pas; therefore, the opening will be quiet, and inexpensive.
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