Equal Opportunity: Part III

Gelsey watched the little leprechaun disappear over the other side of the rainbow. Once she knew he couldn't hear her, she buried her face in the gold. She took off her leaf shoes and danced on the shining pot of gold. This was the life! She couldn't wait to be able to grant wishes.

In her joy, she didn't hear the human approach.

"I knew it! A pot of gold at the end of a rainbow!" she heard a little girl say.

Gelsey turned in shock to see a red-headed ten-year-old staring at her with eyes as wide as the gold coins.

"What are you doing here?" Gelsey asked.

The little red-head came closer. "My mother is very sick and we can't afford a doctor. Please, can you give me just one gold piece? I have been chasing this rainbow all day hoping for a pot of gold. But you're not a leprechaun."

"Not yet. If I give you a gold piece, I'll never be a leprechaun."

"What do you mean?"

Gelsey didn't answer as she saw tears well in big green eyes. How could she deny the little girl one gold piece to save her mother? And surely the leprechaun wouldn't notice one piece missing.

"Okay, but tell no one where you got it. I'm trusting you!"

She handed the little girl a piece of gold, regretting it even as she did it. The girl's eyes shown with gratitude. "I'll never forget the kind fairy who gave me my mother's cure." And off she ran.

It was night time when Shamrock returned, his breath reeking of whiskey. He'd had a fine time in town, changing his appearance so he could mingle with the humans. Gelsey was sound asleep on the pot of gold, one piece clasped in her hand.

He woke her with a shake. "Now I count my gold," he slurred.

Gelsey looked nervous and kept twiddling her thumbs as Shamrock fingers his treasure. It took him less than a minute to count, some magic of his.

"One piece missing! I never should have trusted you. You will never be a leprechaun." He lit his pipe and smoked furiously.

"There was this little girl. Her mother was sick. She just needed one piece, that's all. I'll work it off. I'll make shoes to work it off if you show me how."

"Shoes, Harumph. Do you know how long it takes to learn how to make perfect leprechaun shoes?"

"Then teach me. Would you have turned the little girl away?"

Shamrock shook his head. "Pesky fairy with your conscience. You know anything about making shoes?"

"I made these leaf shoes. They are good; look at them."

He examined the shoes. "Not bad, but unstable. Leprechaun shoes last forever."

"Just one more chance. Please. And I will make the shoes. Oh, how I want to make the shoes!"

Shamrock eyed her carefully, put his pipe down. Being around the humans has been fun, but he had been so lonely, he admitted to himself. "Okay, but you are not to be turned into a leprechaun until you master a pair of shoes. I'll sell them for three gold pieces and you'll have made up what you gave of mine today."

They looked at each other, then Gelsey let out a squeal of delight. Fairy dust flew everywhere as she spun higher and higher in the air. In time, she knew her wish would come true.

When to End a Book or Story

How do you know when you've reached the end? Do you look for that perfect, sum-up sentence? Do you just get a feeling it's finished?

When I write a story, I usually know when the end will come and what it will be in the first few chapters. The end may change, but basically the same thing will happen. I tend to write more along the lines of finishing when it feels done. When all the ends have been tied up. When my characters quit bugging me to complete their tales. When I feel like they are satisfied that I have explained their story.

Characters and story go hand-in-hand, but I tend to listen to my characters when deciding when a story is finished. It's almost as though I can hear them complain that I forgot something or that they are not quite done talking. I have many half-finished manuscripts and each time I read over them or work on them, the characters start whispering in my ear again, telling me where they want me to go with the story. I write until the characters have met a logical, if not fantastical, end.

Kindle Forums to Get Work Noticed and Learn about Good Reads

Posting this early, instead of tomorrow, because I'll be really busy tomorrow.

I've spent some time on the Amazon Kindle Discussion Forums. There is so much to learn, and I'm a Kindle addict. I've gotten some response to my books posting on the forum. Many indie writers make posts with their books as links at the bottom of their posts. Some do over-the-top promotion. There are lively debates between readers and authors as to whether or not self-promoting on the Kindle Forums is a good thing. Some readers like finding out about new books this way. Some readers hate the spam promotions. Overall, I think there is a balance. Readers like writers who engage in conversations and don't just spam their books. Writers have met other writers and made friends and read each others' books. It's worth checking out if you have a book on Kindle, or just have a Kindle and want to learn about more books and Kindle-related topics.

Another site I found from reading the Amazon forums is Kindle Boards. This place is more receptive to author promotion and there are tons of threads about cheap books that are good reads. I received a warm welcome when I joined a few days ago. You can make links to your books that are on Kindle in your signature. They have a Link-Maker program that allows you to find your book on Amazon, copy the URL for either a text or image of your book cover link. The discussions are great. I spent well over an hour just reading threads. So many books, so little time.

Many people talk and blog about the changes of Kindle's letting authors publish their books without a publisher. People with Kindles have so much more variety to choose from. Will this indie book trend start taking over publishing as we know it? The only problem I see when I read indie books is the editing. For me, the best bonus of having a publisher is the professional editing. I've given some thought to offering editing services for a low price to these indie authors, but I don't know how to go about that exactly. I'm moving in the direction of editing rather than writing (although I want to still write) and wonder if a Kindle Publishing Company is possible. I read a post on one of my freelance writing sites that I check every day that someone is putting something like this together.

What are your thoughts on all this?

Ideas

Alabama had a winter snowstorm this weekend and in the excitement, I forgot that yesterday was my post day. Whoops!

The snow started around nine PM and was quiet. In about three hours, we had three to four inches of snow and my doors were snowed shut. I was up until around two that night and I kept peeking out at the snow. I went to bed and my husband, who had taken a nap around 7 and not gotten up, awoke and went to the living room.

The next day I looked out my front window and saw human foot prints in the snow. They came from the street and up to our porch, then veered to the right as though the person was coming to our side door. I pointed them out to my husband. They weren't fresh; the person must have walked through during the storm. He said they were there when he was up at three AM.

After my coffee, I slipped on tennis shoes and went outside. The tracks led around the side of the house and skipped by the side door. I followed them. The went to the back screen porch door and stopped. There were none leading out.

Is that weird or what? This is the kind of thing that gives me ideas. Some stranger walked up to my front porch in a snowstorm, went around back and did... what? Why were there no tracks leading out? Is there a madman in my house who came in through the large cat door? It certainly is big enough for a small person to fit through. Thing is, it didn't scare me, but it did make me want to write a short story.

Writers get ideas from all over. I would love to hear some of your stories of where you get ideas from.

Finding Characters' Personalities

My favorite part of writing is developing my characters. Who are they? What do they want? Why do they do the things they do? And where the heck do they come from?

A lot of times, I've been told people see me in the books or stories I write. I find that surprising. The more I've thought about it, I think it's a matter of characters. I can only write them based on what I think makes people, real or fake, tick. That would be the ever-elusive to understand personal perception.

Usually, I get a feel for characters I write like I get a feel for people in line at the store who I might strike up a conversation with. My characters surprise me with a physical characteristic. I wonder how they feel about it. They tell me what they want more than anything - it's usually, in fiction, pretty extreme. They make rules for themselves in my head that cannot be broken, but most certainly should be bent. Somehow, I get to know them and they get more complicated, like how I see real people.

Sometimes I hate my characters. Their weaknesses certainly can't be overcome. But then, the characters' strengths take over mid-plot, and I'm surprised. They write the story by interacting and challenging each other. I base all this on what I perceive as happening with people for real. Not that I base my characters on people I know, not that, it's more like dynamics that occur in social situations.

There are lots of ways to get to know the characters. Some writers make character sheets where they list the characters' likes and dislikes, stories from their pasts, that sort of thing. Some writers let the characters bloom right on the page, making their own way. I think at the heart of every story is a character or two who shine above the rest. As a writer, getting to know those characters can be the hardest and most thrilling part of the process.

Rare Thursday Post - Book Review of A Bitch Named Karma by Stephanie Haefner

This book I just finished was a fun read. Had to post about it today! Here's my review:






Review of A Bitch Named Karma by Stephanie Haefner

When Stephanie Haefner posted on her blog she was offering review copies of A Bitch Named Karma, I had to have the book based on the title alone. I don’t usually read chick lit, but found myself thoroughly enjoying this one.

The book’s about chick lit writer Lexi Marshall as she faces her alter-ego persona Karma, who she thinks is the embodiment of all the horrible things she made happen to her characters in her books. I don’t want to give too much away, but Lexi has a ton of bad things happen to her. So they seem bad at the time…

I loved the writing style in this book. The voice was fresh and engaging and there were a lot of humorous parts. I found it really interesting how the text would occasionally be broken up into a paragraph of italics throughout the book. It seems like that would be distracting, but it was rather engaging.

I recommend this book to anyone who likes a well-paced chick lit book with fun characters and interactions. Good job, Ms. Haefner!

Chasing the Dark - From Idea to Print

I was left alone for a week in 2003 and decided to write. I hadn't written a novel since 1999, and I had an idea after seeing an ambulance a few days before. I sat down and wrote for six days. I named the book The Blessed Ones. The manuscript was a mess and I didn't like the book, but I sent a few queries out to agents and publishers anyway.

There was no interest in it, so I set in aside. A few years later, I read it and edited it again, changing a lot of things. I had other people read it and tell me what they thought. Most people didn't like it.

A few years after that, in 2009, I edited it again and changed it some more. I sent out a few queries. No takers

In 2010, I started proofreading for a publishing company called Passionate Writer Publishing. After working on several manuscripts, I thought The Blessed Ones might fit the kinds of books they publish, so I submitted it.

The book was accepted and I was psyched. The editor I work under took on the MS and made it much stronger. I was sent revisions and did those in a couple of days. She suggested changing the title to Chasing the Dark and that's what we went with.

The book will be released October 25, 2010, in both print and electronic versions. Here's a synopsis from the publisher's Web site:

Melanie’s a budding artist always looking for the next high. She finds it one night when Sora and Josh take her on an ambulance-chasing ride. They watch a gruesome scene as the bodies are removed from the wreckage. Melanie doesn’t know why, but she is both attracted to this new pursuit and afraid of where it will take her.

The chasing brings Melanie closer to the mysterious Sora, his secret past, and the darker things that happen in the city at night. Along the way Melanie must face her own demons while escaping the drug dealing business.

Join Melanie and her friends Shara, Manny, Max, Sora and Josh as they confront and chase away their own personal demons.

Buttercup by Lisa Rusczyk

Buttercup hasn’t started meowing yet. That means I’m still close to home. She hates to go to far.

Leaves crunch beneath my feet and her paws. I look up. The sky is starting to show through the orange and yellow leaves. I had to put on a long-sleeved shirt today.

The quarry can’t be too far. Buttercup hates the quarry. I’m going there anyway. She may or may not follow.

Second grade started this year. I have a hard time with my spelling words. Written words don’t spell anything like they sound. I wish I could stay home every day and play in the woods.

The trails are hard to find. It’s getting darker out and I should probably go home, but instead I go a little farther. Buttercup is at my heels.

There’s a clearing up ahead. The grass has turned dry and whitish. We head that way. The quarry must be around here somewhere. How could I forget how to get there? I blame it on the change in colors here in the woods. Everything looks different and I haven’t been here in the fall yet.

We sit on some rocks in the clearing. Buttercup crawls into my lap and rams her head into my chest and chin. She’s happy we’re taking a break.

I look up into the trees. One tree is the same orange as Buttercup. I try to show it to her but she just wants to be petted.

The sky is orange too. I need to get home, but I don’t know the way. I’m worried. I don’t want to be out here in the dark.

I stand up and look all around. I don’t remember which way we came in. Buttercup looks up at me and meows.

"Do you know the way home?"

"Meow." She looks off.

Tears fill my eyes. I shouldn’t have come out here without permissions. I only wanted to see the quarry and think about spelling words.

"Meow."

I look down at her through my blurry eyes. Her orange tail it straight up, and she’s heading to the trees. She looks back at me. I take a step forward.

She keeps walking and goes into the dying brush. I step into it and wipe leaves off my pants. She keeps going, looking back every few minutes. I follow. I am totally lost until I see a shape through the dying trees. Is that my house?

Buttercup sits down, looks up at me. "Meow!" I go ahead of her and sure enough, there’s my house. Mom is in the backyard sweeping leaves off the patio.

"Hi, Sweetie." She smiles after calling out to me. "Did you go out there by yourself?"

I walk to her. She isn’t mad. Why isn’t she mad? I’m not supposed to go wandering in the woods. I start to cry again.

"What’s wrong?" she says, putting down her broom and wrapping her arms around me. A cool breeze picks up and swirls some of her leaf pile around.

"I was lost."

"You made it home fine."

"Buttercup showed me the way home."

"You’re safe now."

"You’re not mad?"

"What would I be mad about?" She wipes my tears.

"I’m not allowed to go into the woods alone this late."

She squats in front of me and looks me in the eyes. "I think it’s about time you learned the trails. This is the perfect time of year. Tomorrow when you come home from school we’ll go to the quarry and I’ll teach you how to follow trails."

"Can Buttercup come?"

"Of course."

"Can we do my spelling words out there?"

She smiles at me and nods.

August Storm Part 1

The town slowed down in August. Even the animals stopped running about. Janice wished they had air conditioning. Her parents would never do it, though. It was too newfangled, they’d say. People in cities were getting it, why couldn’t everyone in Boma get it too?

Janice waited by the pond. Mel and Ted would be there soon. They were going fishing. Janice tossed a line in while she watched the trail. Off to the east the sky was dark. Thank all that be, it was going to rain today. Not only would it cool everything down, but the fish would be biting like crazy.

Mel and Ted made a lot of noise coming up to the pond, as usual. Those boys didn’t know a thing about hunting. They’d scare all the fish.

Mel used a bob and worm and cast next to Janice without saying hello. They acted weird this summer. Janice’s mom said it was their age, that boys change in sixth grade. Janice felt like a third wheel all summer.

Thunder rolled in. The sun covered up with clouds. Janice smiled at the dark sky as a raindrop hit her freckled nose.

Mel said something about Janice’s hair. It was frizzing. Ted laughed. Janice ignored them. She felt a tug on her line.

Lightening was shooting across the sky in no time and Janice’s fish got away. Ted was ankle deep in water and was holding his rod high in the sky, pulling against a fish. Janice saw the trouble before it could happen.

"Ted, put down your rod tip." A flash shot through the sky. Steam rose from the ground.

He ignored her, bent on catching his fish.

Mel watched as Janice splashed over to Ted. She ripped the rod out of his hands as another bolt lit the sky.

"What are ya doing?" Ted screamed. Janice let his line out.

"You’ll get yourself killed." Janice lowered the rod as Ted lunged for it.

"No!" she screamed against the thunder. She jerked the rod back out of Ted’s reach and it swung into the air just as another lightening bolt struck out of the sky and straight into the fishing rod Janice was holding.

Cooperative Writing

Ever written a story with someone else? My only experiences with it are doing the three-part stories here and coming up with the book plot for a middle grade novel I'm working on with my fiance Mikie. I asked him to help me with my short story for this month, which I'll be posting next Wednesday.

Writing with someone else isn't the same as playing music with someone else or making a movie. Those are the only other creative venues I'm taken. Those two are undeniably more fun for me with other people. So far writing with other people has been fun too - but it's a totally different thing than writing on my own. The challenges are different. The perks are different. When I write alone, I have to come up with everything - which can be a good and bad thing. Writing alone, I don't have to please anyone but myself. Writing with someone, if I'm blocked, I can call on the other writer to pull through the tough spot. Sometimes ideas bump heads and attitude can determine the direction of a story. All people have different story sense.

I haven't read too many books that were collaboratively written that I liked as much as the author going it alone. The series that sticks out in my head is the Dragonlance series. When I was a kid, I was amazed that two women could create books that big together. Did they fight? Did they have moments akin to the Great Jam in the Sky?

I once tried to write a novel with a friend, but we had conflicting ideas and writing styles. It didn't go far. We talked about it about ten times more than we wrote. We got into heated discussions. We had great ideas that we wallowed in. But it never got written. What went wrong?

Do any of you have experience with cooperative writing? What were your experiences? Any insights?

Writing Fellows

Fellow Raven and the Writing Desk author Aubrie edited and critiqued my novel The Message, not to mention did the cover when I self-published it. I’ve only had one other writer read my books and tell me what they thought from the standpoint of writing skills, plot holes, character deficiencies, neat stuff, “Nice wordings!” and “Never thought of thats.” Any writer who can find another writer (in my case, obviously two) who inspires her writing and teaches her is lucky. And instead of making her feel untalented or not smart enough, or telling her she’s just plain not enough, the writer friend(s) look at her work and see it not as competition, but as a great communal thing. Like being in a band. A fusion jazz band, a group of writers may be, but I have learned so much in a good way through sharing my work with fellow writers. I’d like to dedicate this post to Aubrie, who’s looking for the one “Yes” right now. Hang in there and don't give up.

Book Giveaway

Hello there, fellow readers! For my post this week, I'm offering a paperback version of A Dream of the Past to anyone who wants to enter this giveaway. All you need to do is leave your email address and name in the comments section and I'll have a random drawing - by next Monday I'll contact you.

Thanks, and good luck!

Luck in Literature

When I was in first grade, I was in a cake walk. This event meant a group of us paid for a ticket, then walked in a circle around a bunch of numbers as music played. When the music stopped, we all stopped on the number we were walking by. Then there was a random drawing and the person standing on the number drawn won a cake. I did the cake walk twice, both times landing on the number 26, and both times winning. 26 became my lucky number.

As writers, we're told there's no such thing as luck in a good story. Everything has to have a purpose and every detail has to mean something. A chance meeting may happen, but that's about it. A gambler can have a winning streak, but it has to further the story somehow.

What is luck, anyway? Most people believe in it in some form, having things like lucky number 26. I loved the use of the lucky potion in Half-Blood Prince. In that book, luck gave Harry what he wanted. Is that what good luck does? Things like lucky numbers make us feel special, like there's something else out there other than just randomness and chaos. But luck isn't convincing in books and stories.

Why is that? Unless the story is specifically about luck, a character doesn't succeed by chance alone and make the reader believe it. There has to be a mastermind plot behind every action and reaction, each event carefully placed.

Married to a Book

Investing time in a book can form a relationship with the author and characters. When I read a book cover-to-cover, I'm hearing characters' thoughts and feeling their feelings. Stephen King calls it reading the author's mind. To me, reading a book can be a lot like dating the book.

If it starts out too slow or too gruesome or too wordy, it's not going to work out in the long run. I might give it another chapter, or date. It might surprise me and I might go out on a third date. Those books would be the slow burn loves. It could start out just right, exciting, intriguing, breaking up the monotony of everyday life. Those books get read fast and are always remembered after the relationship is over.

The middle of the book is when things have cooled, but I'm completely invested in seeing it through to whatever outcome will be. Unless the book really disappoints me - my favorite character dies, for example, leaving me with no real reason to keep reading the book - I'll stick with it, even through the slow chapters that are setting up the rest of the book. Unless, of course, it's one of those books that never drags. The fast read, the not-knowing-what-time-it-is book.

Then there's the end. Every relationship ends somehow. With books, there are no more words. It can be a maudlin parting of ways or a satisfied closing of the cover. It depends on how the author finishes the story. Some books are remembered more so than others. Ideas formed during reading may make an impression that lasts longer than the plot or characters. Books influence me long after they've ended.

If only books had Life Insurance.

Character Sketch - The Toymaker

The Toymaker – A Character Sketch

He sees games in leaves falling from trees in the fall. The leaves could be caught, collected, put into piles. Counted. Someone could win this game. Someone could lose.

He notices faces in objects. Doorknobs are noses and the screws are eyes. Patterns on the tiles in the kitchen have always held personalities, faces running the length of his floor in duplicate. Wood is most expressive, and he sees ghosts and beasts and genies in the swirling patterns of wood.

A simple can is so many things. A phone, a character, something to squash and mold. The toymaker has used cans for years to entertain the young ones.

The adults are not as amused at the old man's antics as the children. They say he's wasting his time. He never did make a dime off the toys and games. Adults don't understand hobbies like the young do. If the toymaker had made a living off his toymaking, he wouldn't have liked doing it anymore. The point of games and toys is to escape the usual things in life. Making toys and games was almost as fun as playing with them once he was finished creating.

His hands are full of lumps of arthritis. Still, he creates his toys for the kids. The grandchildren. The neighborhood youth who come around to visit his toy poodle and look at his collection of toys. His wife is the only one who gives him a knowing grin when the kids come. She doesn't say a word, only watches as he shows off his newest invention. He tests it out. Later, she gives him feedback on how the children reacted. He listens thoughtfully to her observations.

His house is a collection of shelves full of knick-knacks, both made and collected over the years. Some say it's busy, but he likes busy. His wife never complained about his collection. She once commented that the house would be empty without the rows of dolls, stuffed animals, tops, boxes, tins, plastic people, tin army men, dice, board games, action figures, and seemingly random artifacts which no one could figure out what they were.

The toymaker worked, but he didn't call it work. He called it fun.

The Matchmaker by Lisa Rusczyk

The Matchmaker

by Lisa Rusczyk

The marriage was tomorrow. Lelia had not even seen her groom, Mante. It was an arranged marriage, as all marriages were in Helack.

Lelia had her purple wedding gown on and examined herself in her full-length mirror. She hesitated to put on the heavy veil. How was she supposed to walk up as aisle and see her way there with the heavy violet lace?

Lelia’s mother and father had told her that Mante was a perfect fit. The matchmaker had seen it in the bones, even doing an extra palm reading on Lelia’s mother and father to see how their daughter had measured up to their arranged marriage.

The matchmaker had not even met with Lelia! How could she know anything about her? Lelia knew this was the custom, but she didn’t want it. She wanted to choose her own mate.

Her mother came to see her in her purple gown. “You look lovely,” she said. “Let me see the veil.”

Lelia put it on.

“I can tell something is troubling you. Do tell me.”

“How can you see anything with this masking veil? I can’t even see my own hands.”

Her mother pulled the veil back and looked into Lelia’s blue eyes. “Tell me.”

Lelia hesitated.

Her mother said, “I know you so well. You don’t want to have an arranged marriage. There is only one way to solve this. You must meet the matchmaker.”

Lelia groaned. Matchmaking was akin to mysticism, something Lelia thought was a bunch of hooey.

“I will take you to her now. Change your dress.”

***

The matchmaker Noom was a middle-aged woman with gray streaks in her black hair. Lelia was surprised that she didn't instantly dislike the woman. She seemed frail and delicate, like a flower in the snow.

Noom and Lelia sat across from each other on te floor, a tea table between them. Noom said nothing, only waited for Lelia to speak.

Minutes passed.

Finally, Lelia said, "How can you se so sure?"

Noom raised her black eyes to Lelia. "It's what I am."

"What are you? What do you mean?"

"I am matchmaker. I am not married. I would rather be matched, but I am matchmaker."

"But how can you be so sure?"

Noom gave a slight smile. "I make you promise. You go to wedding day, you look in the mirror at the alter. After honeymoon, you come see me again."

"So that's it?" Lelia sighed. She had gotten no information from the matchmaker at all.

Noom left her with, "Only through experience can you learn. I cannot tell you."

***

Lelia couldn't see a thing in her veil, but her father walked her up the aisle and kept her steady. Mante would be up front already, wearing a veil of his own. His would be red.

They reached the altar. Lelia couldn't see Mante, but she could sense him near her. Was he as frustrated by this arrangement as she was?

The ritual dancers swayed and spun around the soon-to-be-wed couple. How long would Lelia have to wait to look into the mirror?

The priest then hushed the crowd and handed Lelia and Mante their mirrors. Lelia tilted hers towards Mante and he did the same with her. Their mothers lifted the couple's veils at the same time and they looked at each other through the mirrors.

Mante had green eyes and a strong jaw, closely shaven. He was her age, thankfully. His eyes widened when he saw her and his lips twitched upwards.

Lelia felt herself blush.

***

Lelia sat across from Noom, her first child in her lap. "I still don't know how you knew."

"I like you. You speak open. Some call it gift, others call it curse. I call it being me. I like what I do, but I would still like to find my mirror match. Until then, I find for others."

Conversation Conversationalists by Lisa Rusczyk

Conversation Conversationalists
by Lisa Rusczyk



There are people in our world who have a thousand things to say and not a soul wants to listen to them. I have been a columnist for fifteen years and I’ve never been able to figure out the purpose of such people in society.

Take my sister-in-law Sandy, for prime example. Not as pretty as my wife, but not at all hard on the eyes. Well-meaning, even-tempered, married to a quiet guy named Chad. I wouldn’t say it to my wife, but he’d have to be a listener to marry her. Well, okay, I might have mentioned the observation to my lady once or twice in jest. She poked me with her pinkie and shook her head.

However, I often wonder after our weekly family dinner if Chad really does listen. You see, she’s not offensive, not opinionated. She’s a gardener. A hobby of hers. Nice back yard. She and my wife walk around while Sandy points out various buds and bushes and rambles on about sunlight, shade, water, and pruning. My wife says they have a special sisterly bond. Bonding in the vegetable patch. I just don’t see it.

If it sounds like I’m talking badly about Sandy, I’m not. I’m just trying to find her place in the big scheme of humanity. Take last Thursday, for example, our family dinner night. I don’t know how it happened, but my wife was helping one of the kids with homework and Chad was on the phone. Suddenly it was just me and Sandy on the back porch. I held my unlit cigar in hand, Chad’s blunt waiting for him in my shirt pocket, and Sandy began talking about the dinner’s pork chops. She said the word “tasty” about six times in two minutes. I tell myself it’s all my editing experience, but I wanted to scream out so many other words for her to pick and chose from. Savory, juicy, delectable, zesty, tender, moist, flavorful, wicked, outrageously scrumptious. Ah.



My wife says I’m too sarcastic with Sandy. It might hurt her feelings. I asked if she had said that it did, and my wife said there were no complaints. I am not sarcastic with her. I’m just trying to make her life more tasty.

After she told me about the pork chops I had also eaten, she started in on the salad greens. She had, after all, grown them. I lit my cigar prematurely and listened to the fluctuations of her voice, glancing back now and then to see if Chad was still on the phone in the kitchen. He was listening to the other end. Go figure. I tried not to yawn as Sandy explained vegetable gardening insecticides and how lucky they had been this season in regards to destructive bugs. I agreed that she was very fortuitous with her edible growth. She agreed with my agreement.

Then she spoke of her son, Bobby, fourteen, who had recently found a girlfriend. I thought this a bit more interesting, but all I heard was how sweet the young woman was and how sweet Bobby behaved around her and how sweet her parents seemed to be. Without meeting the girl or her parents, I supplied new adjectives for them in my mind. How overly polite and trying-to-please the girlfriend was, how nervous as hell Bobby acted, how fake the parents seemed to be. No parent of a fourteen-year-old girl confronting her first boyfriend’s parents could be honestly… Oh, heck. I’ll say the word. Sweet.



Then she asked me a question that took me by surprise, but now that I’ve thought about it, I attribute it to worries over watching her young firstborn with his initial love.

“Cody, how old were you when you had your first girlfriend?”

I chuckled and tipped my cigar at her as though to say, now that’s conversation. “After leaving a trail of broken hearts through elementary school, I’d have to say Debbie was my first one. That was when we were both sixteen. When I look back, I often wonder if she said yes to the first date because I could drive and my dad had a nice car.”

I puffed my fat cigar and squinted my eyes to let her know more was to come and she wasn’t to resume talking yet. “She was pretty; not as nice as your sister.” I winked. She continued to smile, as she had been doing since I opened my mouth.

“We went to the movies and held hands for six months, and then she dumped me for the tallest boy in school. He was the best basketball player, as you can imagine. Had his own car. They went off to college together and I never found out what happened to them. I didn’t go to that reunion nonsense. Aw, we were all a little crazy at that age, weren’t we? My heart was broken for a while, but another girl, a sweet girl came along a few months later and I was happy as could be. Never met anyone, and I mean anyone, like your sister, though. So much fun to talk to, do things with, eat dinner with, watch the television, of all things, with—”

The door opened and the spouses joined us. My wife ruffled my thinning hair and said, “He’ll talk your ear off, won’t he, Sis?”

Chad laughed loudly. With gusto. Pounding, vibrating, ear splitting, rattling, shaking, loud laughter. True hilarity.

I thought she was funny. I really did. Sandy twittered and pat my knee. “He’s always so interesting.”

Chad lit his cigar. The evening continued in its habits.

Where is the place for such conversations as those with, or should I say, from Sandy? Plants and pork chops and observations coated in sweetness? Perhaps it is to astound the rest of us when they open their lips and utter unexpected phrases and questions. I have to admit I forget such talkers are the same species as me, though I love Sandy as a sister of my own. Her birthday is coming up and, as every year, I am contemplating buying her a thesaurus. Would she be offended? Can she be?

I’ll think about it. Talk to my wife about it again over breakfast. She gives me that sweet, evil-eye each time I bring it up. Perhaps that’s the reason I haven’t given one to Sandy yet. Besides, I’ve been giving her a rose bush every year now for eleven years. How could I break a tradition like that?