Nothing's original, but is that bad?

Music, inspiration and madness produced this piece of artwork in one evening of hard driving coffee house action. Fascinated by the spirit of its creation and the fervor of the artist, I snapped a photo before he carted it off to his vehicle.

A few days later I clicked on a Twitter link and discovered the picture below. The original I'd seen in its living, breathing essence, seemed somehow tainted. Not as pleasing. Even though the first was created using a brush and oils, and the one below is merely a manipulated photograph.


The experience reminded me of discovering a local author, and exploring her work only to be disappointed that each book copied the identical concepts, down to at least one character in each work having clever, whiskey eye color. I felt quite critical, smug even, although she had reached the NY Times Bestseller list multiple times.

How unoriginal.

After listening to my rant, my sister reminded me writers don't pump out several books a year. If you enjoy an author you usually wait a year for the next release. You forget their idiosyncrasies. I, however, forget little and tend to start with an author's first work and read one right after the other in an effort to determine how their writing style has evolved, and most of all I don't want every story to include:

Female protagonist who pep-talks self out-loud, saying things like ‘get yourself together, with more attractive siblings and one developmentally delayed or socially-underdeveloped one; she lives in a small town near a large city, and drives a jeep, rides horses bareback (ever tried it? Give me a saddle, geez), is from a wealthy, influential family, with a domineering father, makes bad choices in men, then suddenly makes a good one (?!), hooks her thumb at her chest and hitches her chin, has a sickly stomach and tends to throw up a lot.

A male character who sires a child with someone other than his wife and child is hidden, speaks basely about women, thinks about sex a lot and its not pretty, nor is it love, has a sex slave who is willing to do anything to keep him, which doesn’t seem to work out so well for her and ultimately is not appreciated by him, practices a sexual deviancy: brother to sister, father-daughter, or husband caught with under-aged girl…

Another male character who is a social outcast, as a youth has a trouble with the law, and who pines over the girl for years, and somehow was either misunderstood or magically got his life together.

Somewhere I read, perhaps on Nathan Bransford blog (wish I could find it), what sells, sells. The author had found a writing niche readers enjoyed and had exploited it.

I don't want to be a copy, or imitate. That's so uninspiring, I still can't quite embrace it. Perhaps that was my inspiration to be first, as in The First Carol. Someone else can be next or last, and I hope they have a grand time trying to imitate me. Sure. Let's run with that.

If given the chance (or talent), which author would you want to imitate and why?

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Boring until the gunshot

Air damp with the night’s rain whipped through the cracked window. I took my foot off the gas to exit I-5 and rode the 179th Street off ramp down, not slowing, hoping to make the green light that gleamed at its base. I grabbed a hard left, straightened the car in the unusual August morning fog, and allowed stanchions and flags to ease me along the familiar route to the county fair grounds.

My fluorescent orange credential parking pass dangled from the rear-view mirror of my white Chevy Malibu. I flicked it with my finger until I got the attention of the safety-vested kid inside the gate. Mid yawn he waved me through.

I took the circle drive around the grounds at a steady five miles an hour above the posted limit and pulled into the parking area closest to the commercial building that housed the office. Avoiding the loose gravel, I steered the car onto the over-sized asphalt sidewalk and peered down each aisle gawking for the first row not roped off. Easy in and out access seemed to be my solitary purpose for this three-year, ego boosting, volunteer position on the county fair board.

Can't wait for it to be over.

After shifting into park, I glanced in the mirror and mussed my wet hair. Lemon verbena wafted into the space and I closed the window, grabbed my bag, and strode toward my early morning appointment: fair safety meeting.

Boring.

Nearing the commercial building I passed a handful of carnival workers whose conversations grew silent as the sound of my clicking Ferragamo’s overtook them. What secrets could they have, I wondered, and smiled at my own. Nordstrom Rack coup, clearly a return and deeply discounted. I enjoyed the little flash of toe-buckle with each swish of my cotton cream slacks.

Inside the building I slipped past the rows of canned goods. I slung through the four-foot gate, built to keep the public at bay, and closed in on the bad coffee brewing in the break room. Last year, I’d brought fragrant gourmet grounds for our ten-consecutive day morning meetings, but I had not managed it this year. Bad economy, real job churning in constant crisis, overseeing the active social schedule of a teenager involved with boys, 4-H, and dogs sucked up all available mom brain cells and any extra time.

The round robin report on non-events had already begun. I grabbed a chair at the end of one of the scattered tables and plopped my steaming white Styrofoam cup in front of me. The previous night’s demolition derby had failed to incite any bad behavior, grand stands full, but aggressive competitors failed to pitch the cheering crowd into overload. Next. Vendor heaven after the show. Next. Volunteer Horse Patrol rode a quiet evening, no smuggled in booze. No nothing.

This has got to be the safest place in the state. I sipped the dastardly brew.

Yesterday, largest day in the carnival area, today and Sunday should go gangbusters. Next. Thirty kids participated in the Special Olympics, big thanks to Funtastic Shows for the stuffed animal prizes…

I gazed out the conference room window. I’d have nothing to add when they came to me. The fair scholarships had been awarded, and the account had not been replenished, as I knew they’d hoped. The rich cousins remained on the east coast. The outlaw cousins, my branch of the family, had fled to the wild west and never gained foothold in the lucrative trade that flourished when Fort Vancouver organized commerce in this area.

Welcome to the middle class.

My eyes skimmed over the dock dog set up. A black lab swam circles in the pool nipping at the waves he created. Paddle. Nip. Paddle. Nip. He climbed up the ramp, paused, and flung himself back into the oasis of blue.

“We lost…” I tuned back into the meeting. A lime clad Coast-to-Coast security representative said, “About 150 parking spaces due to tonight’s tough trucks and pro AM. Thirty rigs were here when I arrived at six, and they’re still pulling in.” His voice betrayed his exhilaration for the upcoming big-noise event.

Movement outside caught the corner of my eye and my attention reverted to the open stretch near the swimming dog. A fair Carney in a dirty gray t-shirt spoke with force, fists opening and closing, a dark charcoal, triangle patch visible in his arm pit area when he flapped his limbs. He glanced toward the conference room, gestured my direction.

Is he signaling me? I straightened. No, Carol Jo, it’s not always about you.

I flicked my eyes over the room. The gentle buzz of the reports continued. I twisted my pen, pretended to write and peered through the sparkling window to the glistening outdoors. The gray-shirted Carney muscled in on someone. His scuffed brown boots bit into the grass as he drug his foe into range. The younger, twenty-something kid, yanked off balance, lurched forward and pushed the Carney’s grimy hands off his shirt. He regained composure and jammed his hands deep in the pockets of his ragged jeans. Both men appeared aged by wear and tear, no evidence of the natural progression of comfortable lives. The heated, mostly one-sided conversation continued. The younger pulled his hands out and ran them over his thighs.

Sweaty palms?

“Someone loaded their four-horse trailer through the yellow gate,” chuckled the parking supervisor. “He wound through the back and ended up on the mid-way. We’re marking that as a new path to the horse barn.” The group chortled. Outside the muted shouting of the Carney ramped up. The younger man looked away, rolled his neck, twisted his head, eyes flitting over the grounds, pain or something else. He looked directly at me.

Fear.

Inside, a fresh scrubbed fireman spoke. I peered at the uniformed man's bland face, not even a freckle. I looked at my half bare arms, my spattering of freckles had developed into age spots.

Goodbye thirties. Hello forties.

“Three calls yesterday,” the fireman reported, then as an after thought, “Aspirin, band-aid, wrong number.”

Next.

The announcements droned. 4-H heifer sale successful, our average price per pound beat out Chehalis’ top price.

Outside the younger man sputtered and shook. His chest heaved. He inhaled a deep breath.

Is he going to cry?

The veterinarian's voice cracked. “Sent a sick bull cow home. Received a 4 AM call on a crashing goat.” He cleared his throat.

I wondered aloud what ‘crashing goat’ meant, imagined small hooves kicking the slats of the pen until the wood cracked and splintered, a goat crashing out onto the mid-way heading straight for the misdirected horse trailer, and spearing it with its tiny goat horns.

“Dying,” the woman to my right answered.

“Oh.” I said

Back outside, the younger man exploded, shouted lip readable obscenities exposing a huge gap between his teeth. He puffed his cheeks and pounded his hands on his thighs. His head bobbed between me and the Carney.

The Carney glanced my way and stepped back. The kid jumped forward and pushed the gray shirted man in the chest. They scuffled out of sight. I signaled the security guy across the room. Danny, the captain. He smiled, waved back, made a motion as if writing, and moved his right hand to his ear as if holding a phone.

Shit. He wants my number.

“Down hill from here,” the marketing manager wrapped up.

“Let’s hope not,” replied the executive director.

Group chuckle.

Meeting over, I moved quickly out the side door directly into the break room. I dumped the remnants of my bad brew into the sink, not bothering to rinse the tinted brown stream down the drain, tossed the cup, and ran to the door leading into the hall. The handle twisted in my hand. The door opened. I stared straight into the name tag: Danny Stevens, Security Captain. My eyes crept up his barrel chest to his slow grin.

“Gotta run,” I stammered. “Catch you later.”

“Where you headed?” he asked, a lazy smile stretched his chubby cheeks. His shirt microphone crackled. He plucked at it and pressed a button on the mic. “Be right there.” He clicked the switch off. “I’ll see you in the dog barn.” I groaned, covered it with a cough and rushed the front door. “What color do you call that?” He said, pointing to his head. “Your hair color.”

“Auburn,” I said, and then to myself, flecked with gray.

I dodged the growing flood of incoming vendors and two slow moving electric wheel chairs. The disabled pair squeezed hands, and I felt a pang of jealousy. What the hell's wrong with me? I sighed took a breath and relaxed to a normal pace. A crash to my right startled me. Too much coffee makes a jittery morning at the county fair. My ankle twisted on the gravel path when the metal cracked against metal a second time. My eyes tore through the carnival area as the non-rhythmic clanging continued. I searched for where it reverberated.

There.

The Carney stood with his back to me and swung a shovel between the Ferris wheel and the Tilt-A-Whirl, sinewy arms slicing through the air, more muscle than I imagined. The younger man dodged the make shift weapon, screamed, and thrust his arm my direction. The Carney turned and stared. Twenty-something cracked Carney's jaw just then. The Carney crumpled into himself and the shovel thunked on the ground. The kid retreated hopping and flipping his hand.

Must have hurt.

The crowd, who had hovered on the edges while the shovel swung, drew close, a growing murmur. I heard heavy boots pounding behind me. A county sheriff crashed past. His protruding elbow hit my shoulder and knocked me to the ground. My arms flew out and my bag flipped out of my hand. An angry ‘hey,’ stuck in my throat. I swallowed when I noticed the officer’s hand reaching to his holster and unsnapping the clasp.

The two fighting men were at it again, grunting, wrestling, pulling apart, panting. I surveyed the contents of my bag strewn about, moaned and brushed at the dirt and grass smudges on my slacks. I stood, shook my pants only to be knocked down by the next officer to run past.

What am I? Invisible?

Shouts. Commands. Escalating orders. I crouched, gathered my spiraled contents, rolled my feet under me and rose. The Carney stilled with his hands in the air. The young man lay on his chest. He held a dark... walkie-talkie? His hands shook. He pointed it my direction.

That’s odd.

I noted the flash of the camera and thought the noise that followed bizarre. A burning split me sharp as any migraine, creased my hip, and pitched me into a spin. My head jerked. My knees buckled. For a third time I thumped to the ground. Fireplay of flashes blinged. Pop. Pop. Pop. Dazed, I watched with curiosity a spurt of leaping blood. Whose is that? I reached for where my side stung. My hand felt sticky, warm.

I think…it’s…my blood.

I wobbled and attempted to stand. A shooting stab blinded my vision. I sank. My forehead hit something solid. Earth. I rolled on my back. Someone spoke. My eyes fluttered. Danny knelt beside me and stared all color drained from his cherubic cheeks, his hands reaching toward my arm. I was twenty pounds overweight and didn’t want him to figure that out when he pulled me up, so I pushed his groping paws away. I heard the cart before I saw it. A wheel of the stretcher came into view along with the paramedic’s boots. Someone behind him stumbled, the cart plowed into the paramedic, he fell into Danny, who thundered on top of me.

Ooof.

My head lolled to one side. I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed I'd be able to breath again. The pain was horrific. I struggled to refill my lungs and caught a glimpse of the great beyond past Danny's ear. Heaven? The blue of the sky steered into focus and wisps of clouds drifted. No, heaven would be a man in Danny's position, except it would feel good.

Our eyes locked. He stuttered, but I understood his sentence. “Why was the guy aiming at you?”

The paramedic’s hand twitched and grabbed my wrist.

“Get off,” I said to Danny, and I wasn’t polite. I heard the splash at the dock dogs pool, coughed and then the real pain started. I grimaced.

I'm going down in fair history as the director who took a bullet, if that's not a reason to quit, I don't know what is.

Danny fondled my hand. I wanted to pull away but lacked the strength. I wished I could have spit when he ran his fingers through my hair. “You're going to need to wash it again,” he said. “What is that fragrance?”

I started to speak, but another odor hit my olfactory, and a cold muzzle snorted over my cheek. “Dog shit.” I whispered, and passed out.

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Celebrities who've met ME! Author Geronimo Tagatac

Last summer, intent on wooing Ooligan Press into my orbit, I surfed into the library and put all of Ooligan's published works on hold. After waiting months, the library shot back an email alerting The Weight of the Sun stood ready.

From the first paragraph I was hooked. A year later I was haunted. The short stories of Geronimo Tagatac hid deep in the recesses of thoughts and whispered, ‘Embrace this language, touch these stories...’ When the apparitions appeared I would hunt online for Tagatac, and would come up empty handed.

Last week everything changed. I stumbled on a connection, secured an email and shot out a quick request. Crazy guy that he is, Tagatac agreed to a meeting. Coffee. Friday. 10 AM.

At first blush it might seem inevitable that Geronimo Tagatac would meet me. Sure, let’s run with that. He was born on the East Coast. I was born in the Wild West. He grew up in California. I did not. He wrote a book, I wrote a manuscript. He entertained as a folk singer, I as classical pianist. He did graduate work in Asia, undergraduate study for me in Europe. He taught in Hong Kong for a year. I spent one sleepless night under Hong Kong's heaven. He has one daughter (closing in here), I have one daughter! His daughter studies journalism. I work with journalists!

So much *cough* in common. Completely foreseeable our paths should cross.

He arrived late and appeared stressed he’d mixed up the meeting place, but relaxed into our conversation, opened up and shared a world that encompassed writing, travel, the Vietnam war, study of Asia, teaching, coaching body builders, folk music--an array of topics that left me spellbound.

As a dirt poor college student he hung out with others of the same ilk, as well as some dropouts, and they taught each other what they really loved: music. “We jammed together playing late into the night and lived for that. We played folk music in coffee houses for half the cover charge and all the coffee we could drink.” He worked the circuit with Peter Grant who later became a television studio musician and Jorma Kaukonen who formed San Francisco’s Jefferson Airplane. Tagatac grinned as he listed where he’d performed: Cotangent, Brass Knocker in Saratoga, The Shelter and The Offstage Theatre in Sante Fe, the Other Side in Fort Bragg, The Crows Toe in Washington D.C, stops in Myrtle Beach, Greensboro. Some of those gigs depended on hitchhiking and upon arrival supplied free drinks, and not always coffee.

The next delivery exacted a higher price. “Crazy. Got my draft notice and volunteered, otherwise they placed Filipinos as cooks, mess boys, or stewards.” He landed in special forces for the Navy.

I asked if he experienced prejudice. “I did,” he said. “When I was younger. People make assumptions based on your looks how well educated you are, how well off you are, what kind of a job you have. I found California was really, really diverse. I worked for Willie Brown, the first African-American Speaker [of the California Assembly], the second most powerful person in office. There you’re accustomed to people of color. When I first came to Oregon, I worked for an agency as a budget analyst for one budget session. People in those days, early 90's, weren't really used to seeing a person of color, in a professional setting.” Perhaps a polite way of saying the unspoken he noted, “Had some pretty funny incidents.”

Education wove itself through all seasons of Tagatac's life and propelled him to work towards a doctorate. “When I was in Vietnam, there was so much Chinese influence. I promised myself I would learn it more, and maybe even go and visit China. In those days it was a really revolutionary society.” He did visit and his study encompassed many Chinese themes, Chinese Communist revolution, Chinese foreign policy, Mandarin, he immersed himself in research and even taught in Taiwan.

I wondered what pushed him towards his writing career. “I didn’t really start writing until very late. It was always a direction. After the war, at Sante Fe State, I was a pretty restless guy, a ski bum, wrote letters to friends, descriptions of what was going on. I hitchhiked to Boulder, Colorado to climb and write to friends just anything that was on my mind.”

He married, lived in the Bay Area and in the late 1980’s started taking writing seriously. “I took classes in creative writing. Then in 1989, came to Salem and took classes at Chemeketa from Dwayne Atkinson and from Portland State University-Salem Extension studying with Martha Gies. Gies really got me serious about writing.”

His first acceptance for publication came from Writers Forum a literary journal published out of Colorado. “After that I started getting more acceptances to different places, and I just kept writing stories and sending them out, writing, and writing. I applied for and got a fellowship from Oregon Literary Arts, received a fellowship at Fish Trap, and the next year got invited to back to Fish Trap to teach.”

His book lay on the table between us, my talisman for him to find me. I fingered the bright sun-kissed cover and asked how it came to be. “Luck.” I had him repeat that. “Luck. Someone from Confluence Press asked if I had a manuscript, he took it and wanted to publish it, but Confluence was tied to Idaho College, they had budget cuts and the contract was cancelled.”

The gentleman forwarded the manuscript to Dennis Stovall at Ooligan Press in Portland, Oregon and months later Tagatac received an email asking for permission to publish it. “Interesting way to go, never had an agent, never been able to find an agent,” Tagatac noted with a wry smile. Who does your marketing I mused. He confessed, “That’s the thing I’m really terrible at. I’ve done readings, but I don’t have a web-site. I’m so focused on the writing, I want to write and I know I should be doing this other stuff, and more than willing, but marketing is probably the thing I’m weakest at.”

His writing felt very personal to me and I inquired how much it reflected his life. “There is a piece of me in every story, probably in the first book a lot of me in the stories.” Some of his stories were assignments he gave himself, making a bland office cubicle interesting, or challenges with themes. “I’d never found a story that dealt with a body builder, and I’d always wanted a scene in the weight room that would work. I’d been weight training, running, was a personal coach and doing all this stuff. ‘Gosh you really know this world, know how body builders think, how they work out. There’s a story in there.’” There’s also a whole technical language that accompanies that world. “I had to make it authentic without drowning people with technicalities. I wound up being able to put a love story together, demonstrating class differences, racial differences, and just put them all into one, and it worked.”

Is there a book in the wings?

“I’m in the middle of a novel right now, and just completed another collection of seventeen short stories of people trying to live two lives at the same time.” He gave an overview. “Way of the Snake is about a man with a very bureaucratic job dreaming he’s a rattle snake. Then the two worlds collide. Streak is the story of a guy working as a hair dresser. He’s lived all over the world, can’t stay away from trouble. He comes to a very quiet job in Oregon to live a very ordinary life.” Little is ordinary in Tagatac’s fictional worlds, and the thump-thump of heartbeats echoed across the table when he spoke of Who’s Counting, the barista obsessed with the number of heart beats after his transplant. I want to read that, I asserted. Tagatac grinned, “As soon it’s published.”

I asked how his writing style had changed. “I don’t know that my style has changed that much, I learned about character and about point of view and tense. You have to be consistent, who’s point of view is it in, otherwise you come up with clinkers. Clinkers break the forward motion of your story and force your reader to go back to figure it out. It stops everything.”

So willing to meet, so willing to share, it was easy to sense the teacher in his spirit. I inquired what he liked about teaching. He thought about that for a moment, and answered, “Figuring out ways to get people’s interest in anything from history, politics or fiction writing. For writing: breaking creative writing down to its basics, how to work with those basics, how to work with settings, how you create a character, how you work with plot, where you use dialogue, when to use dialogue, when to use narrative, and how to turn the story. You’re just exposing people to those things,” he noted, and fumbled his hat. “I remember before I started writing it was a mystery, something other people did.”

My burning question came towards the end—where do the words come from? “I don’t know, I always felt that they were floating around. I was writing as though I were speaking, and they were just there, and it was a really great discovery.”

I began to shut the lap top off and ventured in the last subject: Vietnam. “When you’re 22-years-old it’s exciting to be sent overseas, but it’s only when you’re over there you realize you could get killed." He faced death twice, knew within ten minutes he would be dead, then the balance of life altered. “The hardest thing in the war: you can do everything right and still die. Survival becomes a matter of luck, doesn't have anything to do with how strong you are, or how brave.”

Two weeks before he was to return home he volunteered for a mission. I couldn’t imagine why. “I think survivors guilt,” he explained.

The images he shared appeared with such clarity I could touch the broken pieces, see the man who returned self-contained, one who chose writing to survive, saved fragments of paper and then when he moved on threw them all away, time and time again, discarding the baggage of recovery. I glanced at his book, knowing I would ask him to autograph it, but unwilling to have something ordinary from this extraordinary man. I wanted to know which was his favorite story.

“My favorite story…whew…” He blew air out of his cheeks, “Hm…I’d have to say, it’s The Orchard, a coming of age story, and it’s really a story based on my relationship with my father. It’s about the kid who has always hated having to work in the field and suddenly realizes that this one last autumn in the orchard is the last time he’s really going to be part of the father. The story doesn’t really romanticize the father much; he’s a man with a sharp temper, but their lives are about to diverge and it only comes to the son at the very end of the story where we see him wearing the clothes that he bought from his earnings. He understands he’s never going to have the same relationship with his father that he did.”

Tagatac and I were at the end of our hour and I wondered if our paths would cross again, or if with a simple hand shake everything concluded. As I gathered up my things and stuffed away, I asked if he would consider an invitation to one of my local book store haunts for an author event. “Absolutely. I’ve gone all over the place, love going to different places. With small presses you really have to do a lot of the work yourself. You have to sell your book.”

On the way home, I reached into the back of the car, grabbed the book out of my bag, and read what he wrote. A simple extraordinary wish.

Thank you, Mr. Tagatac, for sharing your journey. I’m so glad you became part of mine.

Additional information: The Asian Reporter, V16, #22 (May 30, 2006), page 13.

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Gift delivery, winner of Ooligan book

Melanie joined me bright and early at Starbucks. She carefully timed the meeting to coincide precisely prior to my daughter's saxophone lesson. You know, The First Carol would be on deadline and would not be able to go on-and-on, per usual.

Melanie is worthy of a Monday post, "Celebrities who've met ME!" She is a finalist in a literary contest which drew entries from around the globe. More on that later. First, my agenda: book delivery.

"Take it!" said The First Carol.

"No, I told you I didn't want it. Keep it," replied Melanie.

"No, you dork, take the coffee."

"I paid for my coffee, I paid for YOUR coffee. Keep your re-write. I'm sick of reading your stuff."

"The book, Melanie, we're meeting so I can give you the book."

"Oh, oh, right. Okay, thank you."

"You're welcome. See you Thursday."

FULL DISCLOSURE: I made all that up, (except for the picture, that's real). Melanie is a very congenial woman, great writer and excellent critique group member. She is the one who identifies when we 'tell' instead of 'show.' In addition, there are passages in my manuscript which greatly improved through her concise counsel, subtle suggestions, and tough questions.

I could claim the results of her advice were all my ideas, because she quickly forgets her best input, but I'd never take credit for that. <-- quite possibly a lie, but we'll pretend it's true.

If you'd like to visit Melanie's blog, surf over to Melanie's Meanderings. I convinced her to start blogging. She keeps asking me why. I say, just do it, but I say it in a really nice voice.

Looking forward to meeting up with our other two winners!

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And the winner of the Ooligan book is...

Thank you Dale Chumbley, Melanie, helen and Anita for your comments on the Ooligan three-part series regarding the state of the publishing industry. For the three of you who requested, you were entered in the drawing for the mini-book, RETHINKING PAPER & INK, The Sustainable Publishing Revolution, published by Ooligan Press, Portland State University.

Due to the high credibility of this blog and desire to sustain that enviable status, the drawing was held at a neutral place (my place of employment), in a neutral spot (the lunchroom), was conducted by a neutral party (credit assistant), was witnessed by people who didn't care, and has been authenticated as COMPLETELY LEGIT. Signed affadavits will be provided upon request.

Cue drum roll:

Thank you, Barbara, for drawing the winners and stopping to get that perfect manicure just in time for the picture shoot.


Congratulations:

DALE CHUMBLEY

MELANIE

HELEN

YOU WON.

(enthusiastic applause!!!)

Why three? I know, confusing when I only promised two. Well, I prefer everyone to win, and while I only announced two books, I had one in my back pocket (literally, they're small). It is my pleasure to award all three volumes, as I have enjoyed each of your blogs, and bounded estactic through the room at each of your comments. Furthermore, I am looking forward to sharing more of your wit, thoughtful commentary, and any blather you'd like to post. You may consider your book in every way a bribe. Oh, and its way okay to invite your friends on over to the Pearl of Carol.

To receive your copy, please email me: pearlofcarol (at) gmail (dot) com, and since you are all within a tank of gas, I'd be happy to deliver in person and buy you a cup of coffee. I'll also talk your head off as you sip politely and glance furtively at your watch wondering, how long can this woman talk? To be honest, as long as the audience's patience endures.

In conclusion, I'll let Dennis Stovall have the last word and respond to Helen's curiosity about where the name Ooligan originated:

"The name Ooligan is adopted from a Native American word for a smelt otherwise known as the candlefish. The ooligan was an abundant natural resource in Pacific Northwest rivers. It may well be the word from which the name Oregon was derived. During the trade of the valuable fish oil to tribes east of the Rockies, the L in Ooligan was replaced with an R, giving us the sound Ooregon. Gradually, this usage became the name of a place and assumed its current spelling of Oregon in the course of history. The anthropology on this was in the Oregon Historical Society Quarterly in 2001. ds"

Thanks for participating!

(You didn't really think I'd let someone else really have the last word, did you?)

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Coyote in the City

I stepped into the street gripping two wild—yet fluffy—white dogs. They tugged at the end of two tattered leashes, gnawing their teeth, ripping up handfuls of grass as we entered the park. Movement down the blacktop caught my attention. It didn’t look like a dog. Bigger, different rhythm to its gait. I'd left my walking glasses inside and didn't have my reading glasses. I squinted, what is that?

From across the street, Kathy came flying out of her house. “Coyote, coyote!” she yelped. Rod whipped past on his 22-speed ready to take on anything, but mostly to get a closer view with immediate plans for a quick get-away. Joyce cornered a couple coming out of the schoolyard with their black dogs and filled them in on the commotion. Her arms waved wilding as she worried over whether to work in her garden. "He ran into the woods behind my house."

As biker Bob rolled up on his motorcycle she ran into the street and stopped his progress towards home. "Coyote, come see!" she encouraged. Bob shook his head overdue for breakfast and putted his Yamaha two doors down. Joyce blinked; baffled at her next step she turned towards me.

Never to be deterred from adventure I took her elbow and guided her towards her house. "I'll check it out with you," I assured. She opened the door and I followed, pulling out my camera. I fingered the steel button as we traversed through the house watching for the green dot to indicate: prepared. Yes, I purred, we're ready.

Hardened adventurer though I am, I did take a deep breath. Something wafted through the room, an aroma. I sniffed the air. I liked that smell. I flicked my eyes around and spied a hefty coffee mug neglected on her kitchen table and wondered briefly where the pot was and whether I could just mainline the brown liquid.

Joyce softly slid the slider open. Without making a sound we stepped out onto her broad deck, and I offered a silent, poignant prayer there would be java at the end of this detour through my carefully planned day.

I stayed safely on the deck. Feet firmly planted. Snapped a few photos and threw a worried glance as Joyce skipped off, slowed and crept through the grass. "Nothing scares me," she noted, whispering over her shoulder, "Except your barking dogs."

I nodded. "Yes, those little beasts sound big, and admittedly badly behaved when out, but darling in the house," I offered.

She narrowed her eyes on me. "Sure," she agreed, not agreeing at all.

Photo session ended without sight of our new undomesticated 'neighbor.' "Hey, thanks," I noted snapping my camera back into its holster. "Maybe I'll come back for coffee."

"How about beer?" she suggested, and knew we'd be close friends for a long time.

Saxophone lessons on life

It occurs to me occassionally, I should save my current manuscript-in-process on a jump drive. That thought flutters marginally prior to another fleeting butterfly, jump drive should be stored separate from laptop.

Loss of an expensive piece of equipment I could shrug off, in a teeth gnawing sort of way, but lose current manuscript? That would be cause for major eruption of emotion.

For the above reason, I sit in the cool, dimly lit interior of Ape Over Music while daughter receives her first saxophone lesson. Why saxophone? Good question. I have NO idea.

At age five I began piano lessons and continued through college. Somewhere in-between I took accordion lessons, and still love the blast of the bellows every few years or so, (whether anyone needs it or not). I tried to teach myself the recorder and the ukulele, and I’ll admit to picking up the guitar and the violin with intense longing, but no perseverance. My musical taste is quite eclectic. My talent is not.

Saxophone. Hm. Assembling fragments of ideas suggest my daughter was drawn to the saxophone because cute guys inhabit band. This idea scattered at the first concert. All the really cute guys are in the advanced class, including ‘The Magician,’ the blond boy everyone has a crush on, except my daughter.

I carefully download part one and part two of the current manuscript and store on the jump drive that's been bouncing around my laptop bag. I consider wearing the jump as jewelry, then pause and listen for the sound of the sax.

My daughter took piano lessons for a year and a half. No break. I usually took summers off. She wanted to keep going. Unfortunately, she hit the wall of burn-out, plunked the cover down on the piano keys, and took a year and a half off. Her desire to receive instruction from a different teacher has not met with success. I can’t find one!

Enter saxophone lessons. At first meeting the teacher, Mr. Gregorio, spent five minutes talking to me about the student who had just left, five more minutes on my kid’s school and their over emphasis on jazz. I blew out a breath and eyed my watch. A third of the lesson gone, I jostled check book, coffee and pen in an effort to move this forward. Check in hand, he showed no signs of slowing the chit chat, so I interjected a formal introduction to my daughter, and extracted myself to laptop-land.

I tap my fingers around the keyboard, piddle-play with words, moving sentence parts, piecing, re-threading. Five minutes before the predicted end of the lesson, I hear the sound of the sax. Hmm. I think we have a talker here. I hope we also have an avid listener.

My mother dropped me off for umpteen-thousand lessons. Shelled out cash for good teachers, one bad-smelling, but well dressed old lady, and a few exceptional professors who drove me toward muddy goals. First stop for me was to look pretty playing the piano, just like mom. Next stop: to play better than my sister. Third: to play better than anyone I knew. That worked well until higher education. Some of my co-keyboardists make a living at performing, composing and recording. They were tough competitors. (The First Carol waves at Michael and Jim).

The guys behind the counter serenade my keyboard tepid clicks with a mix-tape from a friend’s band. It wafts over gently tugging and pulling out feathers of feelings and mixed images.

Music-and-men. In my twenties, I chased many musical crushes and thankfully never landed one. Artists should be admired not married. I spent a long summer on the road as a singer in a group. That grueling experience insured I would never be lured by a career in the music entertainment industry. Not everyone is nice climbing a career. It’s not the glamour we fantasize. You can get really sick of restaurant food when that’s the only choice you have.

The coffee is not kicking in, and Moonrat’s challenge to write your @$$ off is drowned in reminiscing instead of productive effort. Sigh.

The lesson continued past the allotted half hour, sneaking up on the hour. Quality sound intermixed with sophomoric pulses burst past the less than sound-proof teaching rooms. Teacher and student emerged. Triumphant. Smiles. New plan.

“Your daughter will progress quickly,” Mr. Gregorio, predicts, and I notice his right eye waters and appears cloudy. “I’ll help her skip a year and advance to the next level.”

Ahhh, I comprehend. Skip forward and sit next to those cute guys in advanced band. So, that was the push for saxophone lessons.

It’s not always easy to be a parent, but sometimes it’s kinda fun, like playing a grand detective game, and I think I may have figured this one out.

So what's your gig: musician, misplacer of valuable assests, detective, or prying parent?

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Flirting mirror

A laptop lay unopened at one end of the sofa at River Maiden the little coffee shop I frequent. Doesn't bother me, I can share, I thought, and scooted to the end farthest away and set up shop: plugged in, opened HP clam shell, booted up. I checked the coffee line. Long. I'd get the laptop warmed up and grab the end when it shortened.

The guy who'd left the laptop—only it wasn't his, it was brother's and he didn't know how to operate it to get online (Mac)—returned with his mocha and made big noise "Oh. You're going to sit there." He ahemed a few times, and believe me, it didn't matter, so I moved to the chair. Well, it wasn't having the sofa all to himself that he desired, it was the stool. "This laptop gets hot," he explained, asserting his needs over mine. He needed help of course, had to tell me his Mac issues, his background, scientist, biologist, carbon monoxide conversion mission, etc. Just kept warming up to me with all those questions. "Do you hang out here every Saturday?"
" Yeah."
" What are you doing?"
" Writing."
"Oh, you're a writer. If I heard your name would I recognize it?"
" Nope," I answered, with all confidence and slightly amused. He's flirting with me.

His friend showed up, knew about Macs, helped him get online, after I shared the clever code. Mr. Inept-Mac-Guy kept eyeballing me, talking loud, throwing out a conversation net large enough to drag me in, went so far as to ask if he could read out loud to me.

"Sure," I said, turning the situation over in my head, wondering how this innocuous encounter with a Colorado clown could be morphed into a blog post. He droned about the swine flu, told me why he assessed it wasn't as bad as everyone believed, gave the numbers on reported vs. confirmed cases.

"I see," I said, with an upward curving of the lips. "So only 45% are actually confirmed."

He stared at me as if he'd never encountered a woman who could actually calculate in her head. Rapid eye movement flew as numbers fought behind his chestnut irises to figure out a little comeuppance. His eyes flicked over his Mac screen and came up with new info. "Yes, and that gives you a sixteen percent death rate."

I nodded, gazed deeply into his soulless, scientist browns and saw my reflection, school teacher ingénue, whispers of chalk blushing my cheeks as I toyed with a difficult equation, one he'd like to help me with.

Smitten beyond belief with my good looks and intelligence he stuffed his muffin in my face and said, "Here try this, it's good."

I wondered if I should. He hadn't stuck it in his mouth only picked parts off. I hadn't had breakfast. Why the heck not? I plucked a strawberry sized-piece off and popped it in my mouth. Yummed and hummed and said thank you.

The realization gained momentum that my life had changed. I might as well admit it. The guys who now flirt with me—pretty much act the same as they always have, kinda self-centered—but now they look like this:

Of course the guys I WANT to flirt with look something like this:

But to those guys I kinda look like this:

Yeah, gotta love my smile.

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Like most writers, odd but not original

“This will either make me sound completely odd, or terribly interesting,” I wrote as a comment on Nathan Bransford blog answering the question, 'You Tell Me: Where Do You Write?'

“I love the hospital,” I chattered. “The new tower they built hosts state of art wi-fi, a three-sided glass fireplace, a tumbling rock fountain right outside soaring 100 ft high windows, comfortable chairs, plugs in the floor, and if you’re a clod, free coffee from the surgery waiting room, or if more civic minded an espresso bar. I hope this wins me a prize! I would love to say, I got an award for being the most peculiar…”

I've never wanted to be normal, normal is boring. Now, I’ve discovered I'm not even weird, at least two of the 441+ commenters write in cemeteries.

My comment, short of clever, good voice and humor—and there were some dandies: closet writers, those burrowed in basement corners, Ulysses orchestrating scantily-clad Hegelians—only served to shout, I WANT ATTENTION. Why, oh why, do I continue to embarrass myself on an AGENT'S blog?

In the heat of the moment while crafting that careless tidbit, I did consider Bransford's fans might offer interesting fodder, and I chose the comment forwarding option. THAT was a mistake. Made my gmail crash. Several times. I obviously can’t handle the onslaught of a Nathan-Bransford-stampede, and gads, sometimes I wish I were both talented and brave, instead of merely fearless. I’m rethinking all online presence strategy. Let me repeat that, and say it like I mean it, “I'M RETHINKING ALL ONLINE PRESENCE STRATEGY.” This is where I pretend.

Before I slink off into anonymity, I'd like to give a go at compiling the data, and for the briefest moment, this moment, I would like to bask in the comfort of belonging, and mirror our shared places.

Places I write (and edit) in common with commenters on Nathan Bransford's blog:

• At home
• Bookstore
  
• Butt in chair
• Classroom (writing class, duh)
  
• Closet, with the best description and quote coming from Eric Rohr, “Because, really, if you're going to write in a closet, best to do it like you mean it.”
• Cracks of the day
• During meetings
  
• In bed
• In my head, but nothing like Laurel
• In the setting
  
• In my sleep
• In the shower
• Into handheld recorder
• In church
  
• Kitchen table or counter
• Library
• Lunch break at work (and work was generously supplied--hello? Does your boss read?)
• Middle of a family gathering
• Office with French doors, aka den, study
• On a long walk
• Orthodontist, or in any number of places waiting for kids
• Outside on the grass, in a park, on the porch
• Places that serve coffee
• Places that serve food
• Places that serve free wi-fi
• Places with pen and paper, when laptop or desktop not within reach
• Room with a view, any room without a view
  
• Vehicle parked
• Vehicle moving
  

Are writers in control of said moving vehicles?
No comment.

Writing places I do not have in common with Nathan Bransford blog commenters:

• 1929 bungalow in the middle of Kansas
• 1959 Airstream trailer using a 1924 Underwood (thought my 23' Gulfstream would be original, but Chuck H I'll match you Underwood for Underwood)
• 36' sailboat
• Art studio
• Bathroom wall
• Business class, first class cabin, or any other seat in an airplane, haven't flown since...it'll come to me
• Canning room
• Cemetery
• Conservatory in a suburb of Edinburgh near the zoo
• Dark confines of a prison as a correctional officer
• Dealership during the night shift
• Deck (my deck is attached to back of house with no access from house or yard, kinda floats out there, used to have a door from the garage, but that was partially reduced by kicking out the bedroom, and really, that's a REMODELING story for a future post, and then there's the deck I want to build off the den, but that requires taking a window out, sawing through the brick to fit in a slider....requiring not only a skilled laborer, but an iron constitution on my part to venture into any future remodeling projects)
• Dining room (all eight chairs on top of my table, I’ll explain future post. Haha, you really think I will, don't you?)
• Etherpad
• Family room, play room (I try not to go downstairs)
• Gym (?! Sure, I've heard of those)
  
• Hotel room in Saigon (unless you count Guangzhou, Hangzhou, Hong Kong)
• In front of TV (have 'em, don't watch 'em)
• Living room floor, sofa, recliner, comfy chair, or coffee table (living room forbidden zone)
• Living room of terminally ill patient, living room of best friend--may or may not be home
  
• Looking at bamboo, or other numerous land or seascapes
• Near any power plug
  
• Old barn
• Places with cats, homes without dogs
• Pub, tavern, or noisy crowded biker bar (are there quiet biker bars?)
• Streetcar
• Train
• Vacation house
• While getting a pedicure
• Writing studios at the Loft Literary Center in Minneapolis
• Zee-zus, who's going to admit they write on the potty? Carey_Corp and Ceadrick, of course. Or at the bowling alley like kaseee? Come on, you know who you are.
  

What no one mentioned:

• Dark alleys
  
• And speaking of dark places, my latest discovery, a far corner of the warehouse vicinity of the commercial printing press, but admittedly, Jared's correctional facility thrumps all dark zones.

Other influences...
Jury's still out for me on this one, but PurpleClover had some provocative thoughts on why music should be tuned out, “Silence makes you work harder at evoking an emotion.”

Loved Jannette Johnson's ineedalaptopineedalaptopineedalaptop...” a helpful writing mantra. And Jill Lynn's poetic rendition of, “In a small town, in my small home, in a small room, on a small desk.” Had to read Yunaleska's twice, 'asus?' Okay, sure.

And just wondering...
Any correlation, you know, cause and affect operating here, when Kat Mayo reported... “I USED to write at work, when I still had a job.”

And for my final attempt to claim my 'peculiar prize,' I submit proof of my medical center writing adventures.

Water feature and lobby.

Pictured above, dear friends, is the girl who led me to this gorgeous retreat. Only she and I came in through another entrance, as pictured below, and I wrote all about it here..."Really, my kid's fine. Me? Well, I'm a mom." Seriously, if I could re-write that piece I would. Articulate, coherent, comprehensible? Cough. Check it out. It was a confusing, frightening morning.

My daughter went BLIND.

I went insane.

I think I captured THAT quite well.

Oh, and from their web-site the medical center states, "[redacted] is providing wireless connectivity in this facility as a public service." Which, actually, would include me, as in legally, it's okay, and that picture at the top of the post is the view from my wide bottom chair. Man, they must have been planning for some heavy weights when they purchased these. Zee-zus!

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Kicking it with the mayor

Amusing how life imitates art. In the second book of the Pearl Series (currently manuscript), Kerri Ann informs Lee she’s flying from Fresno to Vancouver for the mayor’s campaign kickoff. In real life it unfolded tonight and I trounced through the crowd to make sure I captured cool pictures for the blog. Yes, I’m perfectly capable of embarrassing myself in any social venue. Just give me a camera and two hundred toes standing too close together.

<--Me.

Falling over three people to get a good shot.

Yeah!

Got it.

Confession: life not really imitating anything here. So, let me try that again. “Amazing how life imitates existence. Here’s some amusing art with life.” (Note white blob next to mayoral candidate).

That’s right, I didn’t fly up from California, more like lead-footed-it over from library, swooped in just as the speeches drummed the crowd for support, and not that inspiring, even so plenty of time for a donation envelope to be stuffed in my hand, and wasn’t that the point, and one piece of crusty, cream-cheesed bread dotted with mushrooms. Haute cuisine is not my thing. Chicken and jo-jo’s, cheese smacked between white bread, bowl of rice with butter, umm budder. We really go for the good stuff at our house.

BTW, I bypassed the wine. Not that much of an imbiber when one glass lulls me into thinking it’s nap time, but I did grab a cup of joe to make sure I’d be able to stay up past bedtime and finish the bloggggggggggggg. Goll. Lee. Hope I get to sleep tonight. Excuse me, I’m getting that wine.

Strategy.

For a fine campaign speech...

insure everyone else is boring.

I’m kidding!

Okay, I’m not.

Highest ranking guest award goes to Mike Gregoire, the governor’s husband. Custom suit, carefully tanned, smart, snappy remarks, and heartfelt greeting from the Guvnah. Yes, our state is steered by a woman. Watch out world. Oh, right, you already heard us coming, we were that fifth state to give women the right to vote. We’re celebrating that next year, 100th anniversary and all.

Least interesting guest award goes to my neighbor Bob, prez of the community college. I can visit with him any old time. I just NEVER see him in the neighborhood. Worse, I think I tailgated him home. I truly wish I was more polite.

Interesting how ‘Pollard’ on fire fighter posse shirts makes me think of pollen and color combo makes me think of bees…

Also in attendance, a half dozen guests I dined with exactly one week ago with Kweisi Mfume (read here). I need to widen my circle, half these people are old, like twice my age. Oh, haha, that old thing, she’s me! And this wine sucks. It’s left over from my birthday. Now, that was fun. (No, it wasn’t).

Politics. Can’t see myself ever running for office, but then again, no one’s chasing me for anything but my vote, and furthermore, I think mayor’s position only pays $25k a year. That’s almost forced community service.

Therefore, to wrap this up I’d like to make a toast with the last remnants of the Pinot Gris. Cheers to those who serve, who dodge the daily bullets of criticism from all corners, who navigate hyper-vigilant reporters hovering, hoping you’ll say something stupid, to people who plunk down cash so good people can afford to run for office and starve on local politician pay. To friends who support friends.

Yes, Royce, my friend, I’m voting for you. And as soon as I finish this wine I’m pounding that sign into the yard, or better yet, I’ll get Bob to do it. He probably knows how to handle himself around a hammer. Right now I think the most I should handle is nap.

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I need coffee, then I'll think about revising…again

“Are you changing the subject?” I asked exasperated.

“Am I?”

“Do you always answer a question with a question?”

“Why?”

I laughed not knowing what else to do, and realized how much I didn’t know about this man, and wondered why it didn’t worry me. (A Single Pearl, Chapter Three).

Scene : Lee and Kerri Ann go eye-shopping in Hawaii. At coffee she shares tid-bits about island history that cover California Longhorns to Captain George Vancouver, and in-between they rush through blaming white people for taking over the islands, differ on the death penalty, and we discover Lee’s distaste for women using bad language. After a stroll they slip into an ‘interesting shop’ (to quote the manuscript prior to edits).

Late one afternoon we stumbled onto a narrow street with small shops pulsing with international undercurrents and sweltering activity. We walked into every one. The last one was a pearl shop. I knew better than to go into a jewelry store with a date. That was a sure fire way to send a man packing. I kept moving, Lee stopped, and I teetered bound by his hand.

“Missed one,” he said, and he coaxed me inside.

Ions: plus sign ‘+’ to denote good, minus ‘-’ not, and a ‘?’ for obvious.

Lisa: I like that Kerri Ann read out of a book to him, ‘tropical temperature…’ like that she wanted public transport, like the jewelry store.

Melanie: good about Montana milk-toast culture. +Bus great, good description of jewelry, stepping on foot.

Pam: good banter between the two characters, cleaver humor, ‘interesting shops’ how?

EDITS: This whole section got a complete overhaul before bringing to the group: roughed out, flushed out, enhanced, expanded then honed down, repeat the cycle. I uncovered Kerri Ann’s love for ‘tid-bits,’ little pieces of information about places and things, and her fascination of powerful women. It introduces Vancouver, Washington, which will appear later in the book.