Can a writer run out of ideas? Probably. I haven’t yet, and I’m working on the fifteenth Betsy Devonshire novel. But the remaining ideas aren’t stored in my brain or on a computer file. In fact, I don’t know more than vaguely what the book to follow Threadbare is about -- though I have the title: And Then You Dye.
When I got really serious about writing as a profession, when the ideas would grip me in a relentless fashion, sometimes I was surprised at a plot twist. “Wow, where did that come from?” I’d murmur. I developed a strange theory to explain it. Writers, I said, are born with invisible antennae sticking up out of their heads. Remember Uncle Martin on the old “My Favorite Martian” television show? Like that. Except invisible. And all the stories ever written or to be written are circling the earth in a kind of invisible Van Allen Belt. And these stories broadcast themselves down to the surface of the earth, but can only be heard by writers through their antennae. Not every writer can hear every story. Depending on how their antennae are tuned, they can write science fiction, or mysteries, or love stories, or thrillers, or mainstream stories. That’s why every writer I have known will agree they have had the experience of reading the words as they are beamed out of space, pass through the brain, and pour out onto the paper or onto the screen, and saying, “I didn’t know that!”
On her blog entry yesterday, Camille wrote about her sources for the Miniatures background of her novels. It’s wonderful that she does a lot of research and practices the skills her sleuth has. I’m getting more and more serious about needlework. I subscribe to four needlework magazines, and study closely or even try out some of the patterns or techniques described in their pages. The ads often give me something to mention Betsy is carrying in her shop. One magazine is not aimed at the stitchers, but at the owners of the stitchery shops. I was very pleased to discover there is such a magazine, which I came across at a needlework market, where shop owners gather to buy the latest products for their shops. (I was permitted to become an associate member of a guild of needlework shopowners.)
I attend regional and national needlework conventions. I am finally about to become a member of the local chapter of Embroiders Guild of America, which meets monthly and where members take classes, show off projects, eat, and talk. This month the class is on drawn-thread bookmarks. I haven’t tried drawn-thread, so this should be interesting.
We have organized a weekly stitching and jigsaw-puzzle group in the co-op where I live. (I don’t know how the jigsaw women ended up meeting at the same time the stitchers do, but they are every bit as dedicated to their projects as we are to ours.) We learn from one another and offer support as we work on individual projects.
I have drawers full of projects, very few completed, many more unfinished. I’m a slow stitcher so I often don’t finish a project before I have finished writing about it, and it too-often ends up in a drawer, a threaded needle stuck in a corner. Some I would really like to get back to. Maybe some day, when I run out of ideas . . .
Showing posts with label needlework. Show all posts
Showing posts with label needlework. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
A NEW CONTEST!
Betsy needs a boyfriend. She has had two romances in the course of this series. The first was Morrie Steffans, a retired police detective who wanted Betsy to sell her shop and move with him to Florida. When she refused, he moved away alone. Down there, he found a new girlfriend. But he could move back. He is tall, with a lantern jaw and jug ears. He admires her talent for detective work, and has gentle manners. A widower, compassionate and decent. (I really liked him, I don’t know why I let him get away.)
The second was Stan Omernic, a hard-working police detective. Good looking in an Eastern European way, very competent. In Sins and Needles he is married (but he could get or already be divorced) with children. Honest, not too cynical, tolerant.
Neither of them does needlework.
The third? Well, invent someone, one of you. Or tell me why to bring back one of the above two.
Betsy is fifty-six, short, plump, intelligent, hard-working, funny, open-minded, a church-going Episcopalian. She is independently wealthy (though that may change if the economy keeps sliding). She owns her own business and sleuths on the side. She keeps a cat. She needs a boyfriend she can keep!
Because of my wide readership, I am offering a choice of prizes to the winner:
1) A hand-painted canvas by Peter Ashe called Winter Cottage, not stitched.
2) A sampler pattern called "A Sampler for Merry Pat" from Blue Ribbon Designs.
3)"The Long Thistle" cross stitch chart from Landmark Tapestries.
4) An autographed ARC (Advance Review Copy – bound galleys) of Thai Die.
5) An antique (around 1912) toy typewriter from Simplex.
6) A skein of fuzzy yarn (mohair, wool, nylon blend, 50 grams, 122 yards) in fall colors from The Gourmet Collection, suitable for knit or crochet.
The rules of the contest: You have until November 15 to invent a fictional male boyfriend for my sleuth, Betsy Devonshire. He needs a name, a physical description, and a solid outline of his character. Add any details you like, including how they meet – though that’s not necessary. Oh, I do need to like him, too. Winner gets his/her choice of one of the five prizes – oh, and a copy of Blackwork (in which the new boyfriend will appear), suitably autographed.
It’s possible no one will win, if I don’t like any of the entries.
Go to my web site, Monica-Ferris.com, and contact me through there. Thank you, and good luck!
The second was Stan Omernic, a hard-working police detective. Good looking in an Eastern European way, very competent. In Sins and Needles he is married (but he could get or already be divorced) with children. Honest, not too cynical, tolerant.
Neither of them does needlework.
The third? Well, invent someone, one of you. Or tell me why to bring back one of the above two.
Betsy is fifty-six, short, plump, intelligent, hard-working, funny, open-minded, a church-going Episcopalian. She is independently wealthy (though that may change if the economy keeps sliding). She owns her own business and sleuths on the side. She keeps a cat. She needs a boyfriend she can keep!
Because of my wide readership, I am offering a choice of prizes to the winner:
1) A hand-painted canvas by Peter Ashe called Winter Cottage, not stitched.
2) A sampler pattern called "A Sampler for Merry Pat" from Blue Ribbon Designs.
3)"The Long Thistle" cross stitch chart from Landmark Tapestries.
4) An autographed ARC (Advance Review Copy – bound galleys) of Thai Die.
5) An antique (around 1912) toy typewriter from Simplex.
6) A skein of fuzzy yarn (mohair, wool, nylon blend, 50 grams, 122 yards) in fall colors from The Gourmet Collection, suitable for knit or crochet.
The rules of the contest: You have until November 15 to invent a fictional male boyfriend for my sleuth, Betsy Devonshire. He needs a name, a physical description, and a solid outline of his character. Add any details you like, including how they meet – though that’s not necessary. Oh, I do need to like him, too. Winner gets his/her choice of one of the five prizes – oh, and a copy of Blackwork (in which the new boyfriend will appear), suitably autographed.
It’s possible no one will win, if I don’t like any of the entries.
Go to my web site, Monica-Ferris.com, and contact me through there. Thank you, and good luck!
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Kinship
Minnesotans like to think they’re special when it comes to winter. Our winters are harsh and we have learned to adapt. We laugh when we read about a southern state that closes down when an inch of snow falls. That’s why it’s so pathetic when we have a mild winter. Where’s the fun of living in Minnesota when the winter is like one in Tennessee? Last year we had a thin dusting of snow a couple of days before Christmas and were disappointed.
This year I think one or two too many people were singing "I'm dreaming of a white Christmas" around here, because we got pretty well clobbered. There was already snow on the ground when it started in again on Sunday. It didn't seem to be snowing very hard, especially at first. Just those little tiny flakes we sometimes get. (A few days before that, the temperatures were in the upper twenties, and we had a very quiet, windless snowfall of huge flakes that put about two inches on the ground. It was the stuff they show on television when they want us to think snow is beautiful.) But on Sunday it just kept on snowing, all day. And it was windy, so there were drifts. And the temperature was falling as if someone had broken the bottom out of the thermometer. We were to go to my husband's sister's house to exchange presents and have a Christmas dinner. There was seven or eight inches of new snow on the ground when we set off about five o'clock -- it was dark by then, of course. There was not much traffic and everyone was moving slowly, going about forty mph on the freeway. We’re Minnesotans, but we’re not crazy. A snowplow had made a pass, but the road was still covered with packed-down snow that was very slippery. The wind was blowing hard enough to rock the car and send thin little drifts of snow ("snow snakes" we call them) wriggling across the road in twisty waves. The exit ramps and the side street we went down to Margaret and Steve's house was deep with snow, and slippery. But we made it all right. And once inside, divested of six layers of coats, sweaters and scarves, we were laughing and proud of ourselves. Other members of the family arrived soon after, all laughing and proud to make little of the drive over. Snow – ha! We're Minnesotans!
It’s exciting when I’m doing research and find a new angle on something that fits perfectly into the plot. For example, I’m writing about a piece of silk embroidery that is very, very old. I'm using an actual piece of silk. It was found in a Chinese tomb that belonged to a woman of noble, but not royal birth. A photograph of it was very intriguing and I'm using some details from it in the story I’m writing. But recently I stumbled across an article that gave more information about the tomb. Sometimes it only takes a couple of facts to give a story a new and better angle. The woman’s tomb was small but she was wrapped in layers of exquisite silk, of a quality higher than that to which she was entitled -- sumptuary laws are not only European. More, she held rolls of silk in both hands. One article describes it thus:
The Mashan lady was from a lower aristocratic class, yet she was buried in patterned silk garments that normally would have been restricted to the upper nobility. In addition to her clothing, her face was covered with cloth, and she held rolls of silk in each hand. Like Zenghou Yi (see More About Excavations at the Tomb of Marquis Yi), this woman was apparently intent, despite the rules governing dress, on displaying her taste and wealth through the objects she chose to be buried with. [http://www.nga.gov/education/chinatp_sl14.shtm]
It seems to me that this woman might well have been the supplier of silk to the upper classes. She owned a shop or factory that spun, dyed and wove the silk and hired workers to do the exquisite stitchery – that’s why she had all that silk on hand to cover her body; that’s why she was holding rolls of silk in her hands! A woman proud of her occupation, and willing to show off her accomplishments. And since my sleuth owns a needlework shop, she would feel a kinship with this woman.
Did I mention that the tomb was built in the second century BC? A feeling of kinship, a sympathy of feeling, across cultures and centuries -- there's a story worth telling!
Sometimes I feel that kinship when I’m making bread. I stand at the table kneading dough, pushing with the heels of my hands, feeling the dough come warm and alive – pleasantly aware that I’m standing at the head of a line of women making these identical movements, a line that reaches, unbroken, back to the earliest human civilizations.
Life is good.
This year I think one or two too many people were singing "I'm dreaming of a white Christmas" around here, because we got pretty well clobbered. There was already snow on the ground when it started in again on Sunday. It didn't seem to be snowing very hard, especially at first. Just those little tiny flakes we sometimes get. (A few days before that, the temperatures were in the upper twenties, and we had a very quiet, windless snowfall of huge flakes that put about two inches on the ground. It was the stuff they show on television when they want us to think snow is beautiful.) But on Sunday it just kept on snowing, all day. And it was windy, so there were drifts. And the temperature was falling as if someone had broken the bottom out of the thermometer. We were to go to my husband's sister's house to exchange presents and have a Christmas dinner. There was seven or eight inches of new snow on the ground when we set off about five o'clock -- it was dark by then, of course. There was not much traffic and everyone was moving slowly, going about forty mph on the freeway. We’re Minnesotans, but we’re not crazy. A snowplow had made a pass, but the road was still covered with packed-down snow that was very slippery. The wind was blowing hard enough to rock the car and send thin little drifts of snow ("snow snakes" we call them) wriggling across the road in twisty waves. The exit ramps and the side street we went down to Margaret and Steve's house was deep with snow, and slippery. But we made it all right. And once inside, divested of six layers of coats, sweaters and scarves, we were laughing and proud of ourselves. Other members of the family arrived soon after, all laughing and proud to make little of the drive over. Snow – ha! We're Minnesotans!
It’s exciting when I’m doing research and find a new angle on something that fits perfectly into the plot. For example, I’m writing about a piece of silk embroidery that is very, very old. I'm using an actual piece of silk. It was found in a Chinese tomb that belonged to a woman of noble, but not royal birth. A photograph of it was very intriguing and I'm using some details from it in the story I’m writing. But recently I stumbled across an article that gave more information about the tomb. Sometimes it only takes a couple of facts to give a story a new and better angle. The woman’s tomb was small but she was wrapped in layers of exquisite silk, of a quality higher than that to which she was entitled -- sumptuary laws are not only European. More, she held rolls of silk in both hands. One article describes it thus:
The Mashan lady was from a lower aristocratic class, yet she was buried in patterned silk garments that normally would have been restricted to the upper nobility. In addition to her clothing, her face was covered with cloth, and she held rolls of silk in each hand. Like Zenghou Yi (see More About Excavations at the Tomb of Marquis Yi), this woman was apparently intent, despite the rules governing dress, on displaying her taste and wealth through the objects she chose to be buried with. [http://www.nga.gov/education/chinatp_sl14.shtm]
It seems to me that this woman might well have been the supplier of silk to the upper classes. She owned a shop or factory that spun, dyed and wove the silk and hired workers to do the exquisite stitchery – that’s why she had all that silk on hand to cover her body; that’s why she was holding rolls of silk in her hands! A woman proud of her occupation, and willing to show off her accomplishments. And since my sleuth owns a needlework shop, she would feel a kinship with this woman.
Did I mention that the tomb was built in the second century BC? A feeling of kinship, a sympathy of feeling, across cultures and centuries -- there's a story worth telling!
Sometimes I feel that kinship when I’m making bread. I stand at the table kneading dough, pushing with the heels of my hands, feeling the dough come warm and alive – pleasantly aware that I’m standing at the head of a line of women making these identical movements, a line that reaches, unbroken, back to the earliest human civilizations.
Life is good.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Random Thoughts on Writing
What helps improve sales? Everyone trying to sell a book, whether a publisher or an author only hopes they know. Or that there are instructions out there somewhere, waiting to be found and downloaded. I do what I can. I do signings and interviews, I wear a fancy hat to create interest and stand out from the crowd without (I hope) looking like an idiot. I have a web site and I am part of this daily blog. I make my own bookmarks and carry a supply in my purse at all times, and will whip one out faster than an innocent passer-by can get out of range. I go to mystery conventions and speak on panels if invited. I subscribe to needlework magazines and catalogs. I read needlework news groups to keep up with what’s new and occasionally can make a contribution or ask an intelligent question. I try to be pleasant to people I meet. I take showers and brush my teeth and try not to use too much perfume. If anyone has any other helpful suggestions, please let me know.
I'm going to try something a little different this weekend. I'm going to a book event that is not centered on mystery fiction. It's just for one day, Saturday, and it's called Deep Valley Book Festival. It takes place in Mankato, MN. I'm bringing along copies of my books to sell. I hope I bring just enough, not too many or too few -- I don't know which would be worse. I will also bring along a immense poster of the cover of my next book, Knitting Bones, a gift from my publisher. I will have a couple of pieces of needlework, including a work in progress, to show off. I’ll be easy to spot, I’m wearing a fancy hat. Come too close and you’ll walk away with a bookmark.
Speaking of covers, I’ve seen a preliminary sketch for the cover of Thai Die. They got the depiction of the hand-woven silk panel I brought back from Thailand perfectly – the colors are rich and bold, the patterns are exactly right. There is a statue of the Buddha standing amidst the folds that is . . . well, it’s all right. But that’s all there is to it right now. There’s no drops of blood or a shimmery-bladed dagger or any of the other things that tell the casual browser that here be (cue scary voice effect) murder. My editor asked for suggestions, and I had one. I e-mailed the picture out and around and Ellen had one. Denise had one. My agent had one. We’ll see which one gets chosen. Or if they come up with another all their own. So far my covers have been wonderful, so I’m not worried.
Have any of my fellow writers had the “dieseling” effect? That is, you’re tired, you shut down the computer for the night, you brush your teeth . . . and the story keeps rumbling along. You get into bed . . . rumble, rumble, rumble. You know what dieseling really is, it’s when you shut off your car and it keeps running in a clumsy way for a little while. When I’m in full writing mode – as I am right now – it’s hard to get it shut off when the day is done. I have to get up early tomorrow morning (I’m writing this Tuesday evening), and I know that when I get into bed the story will continue unfolding. Less clearly both because I’m tired and because I don’t have my fingers on the keys to turn the notions into real English and make corrections as I go along. I keep a note pad and pencil (not a pen, a pen may not write and in the dark I won’t know that) by my bed so if an idea strikes me as particularly fine, I can write it down. For example, I came up with “dieseling” last night as I waited for sleep to come.
I'm going to try something a little different this weekend. I'm going to a book event that is not centered on mystery fiction. It's just for one day, Saturday, and it's called Deep Valley Book Festival. It takes place in Mankato, MN. I'm bringing along copies of my books to sell. I hope I bring just enough, not too many or too few -- I don't know which would be worse. I will also bring along a immense poster of the cover of my next book, Knitting Bones, a gift from my publisher. I will have a couple of pieces of needlework, including a work in progress, to show off. I’ll be easy to spot, I’m wearing a fancy hat. Come too close and you’ll walk away with a bookmark.
Speaking of covers, I’ve seen a preliminary sketch for the cover of Thai Die. They got the depiction of the hand-woven silk panel I brought back from Thailand perfectly – the colors are rich and bold, the patterns are exactly right. There is a statue of the Buddha standing amidst the folds that is . . . well, it’s all right. But that’s all there is to it right now. There’s no drops of blood or a shimmery-bladed dagger or any of the other things that tell the casual browser that here be (cue scary voice effect) murder. My editor asked for suggestions, and I had one. I e-mailed the picture out and around and Ellen had one. Denise had one. My agent had one. We’ll see which one gets chosen. Or if they come up with another all their own. So far my covers have been wonderful, so I’m not worried.
Have any of my fellow writers had the “dieseling” effect? That is, you’re tired, you shut down the computer for the night, you brush your teeth . . . and the story keeps rumbling along. You get into bed . . . rumble, rumble, rumble. You know what dieseling really is, it’s when you shut off your car and it keeps running in a clumsy way for a little while. When I’m in full writing mode – as I am right now – it’s hard to get it shut off when the day is done. I have to get up early tomorrow morning (I’m writing this Tuesday evening), and I know that when I get into bed the story will continue unfolding. Less clearly both because I’m tired and because I don’t have my fingers on the keys to turn the notions into real English and make corrections as I go along. I keep a note pad and pencil (not a pen, a pen may not write and in the dark I won’t know that) by my bed so if an idea strikes me as particularly fine, I can write it down. For example, I came up with “dieseling” last night as I waited for sleep to come.
Friday, November 2, 2007
Cozying up to Killer Hobbies
I recently took it upon myself (along with co-blogger, Linda O. Johnston) to do a bit of research into hobby-oriented mystery series. We came up with some interesting information--in fact, we've prepared an entire discussion/presentation on the subject of hobby-oriented mysteries that we are taking "on the road" in the Southern Califonia area. If you would like us to appear at your book club, library, bookstore or discussion group, please contact one of us through our web sites. (We can also teleconference in to groups that meet in other locations).
But here's a little preview of some of what we talk about:
What’s a “hobbyist’s” cozy mystery?
· By a conservative estimate, about 60-65% of Berkley/NAL Prime Crime imprints are based on hobbies.
· Most cozies are geared toward a female audience.
· The story stars an amateur sleuth, usually a well-educated female.
· Her life experiences have given her special skills that she uses in the course of solving a crime.
· Her hobby can be very diverse (scrap booker, oenophile, B&B owner, art collector, quilting).
· The location of the story is usually a small town or confined environment. This makes it believable that all the residents know each other.
· She usually has friends, relationships, or family that can get her “uncozy” police procedural information (autopsy results, investigation updates).
· Most cozies are series.
· Most of the characters in the story are fairly likable, often quirky.
· Cozies are “kinder, gentler” stories—no overt violence or overt sex (okay, well, except for my series, the Fat City Mysteries. There you get a lot of sex and violence!).
· The story is fast-paced, with lots of red herrings.
· Often, two people die before the book ends, both offstage. The first murder often takes place before the story opens. The connection between the two people is what helps the sleuth solve the crime. She is able to make that connection in a way the police fail to.
(One more disclaimer about DYING TO BE THIN—it shows the murder victims splat on the page. I think I have a few uncozy "bones" as a writer!)
· By a conservative estimate, about 60-65% of Berkley/NAL Prime Crime imprints are based on hobbies.
· Most cozies are geared toward a female audience.
· The story stars an amateur sleuth, usually a well-educated female.
· Her life experiences have given her special skills that she uses in the course of solving a crime.
· Her hobby can be very diverse (scrap booker, oenophile, B&B owner, art collector, quilting).
· The location of the story is usually a small town or confined environment. This makes it believable that all the residents know each other.
· She usually has friends, relationships, or family that can get her “uncozy” police procedural information (autopsy results, investigation updates).
· Most cozies are series.
· Most of the characters in the story are fairly likable, often quirky.
· Cozies are “kinder, gentler” stories—no overt violence or overt sex (okay, well, except for my series, the Fat City Mysteries. There you get a lot of sex and violence!).
· The story is fast-paced, with lots of red herrings.
· Often, two people die before the book ends, both offstage. The first murder often takes place before the story opens. The connection between the two people is what helps the sleuth solve the crime. She is able to make that connection in a way the police fail to.
(One more disclaimer about DYING TO BE THIN—it shows the murder victims splat on the page. I think I have a few uncozy "bones" as a writer!)
What are the current trends in cozy mysteries?
The current trend is to make cozies “educational” and include bonus information, such as patterns, diet tips, or recipes.
For example, DYING TO BE THIN has diet tips at the beginning of each chapter, like the following one:
There’s an old saying: Scratch a depression, and you’ll find an anger. Well, scratch an overweight woman, and you may find an angry one underneath. Many of us eat to repress angry feelings—over a rotten childhood, over a chintzy news budget that doesn’t cover wardrobe expenses…you name it, we’ve got plenty to be angry about. Learn to express anger in a healthy, assertive way. Which doesn’t include diving into a pint of Chunky Monkey.
—From The Little Book of Fat-busters by Mimi Morgan
The current trend is to make cozies “educational” and include bonus information, such as patterns, diet tips, or recipes.
For example, DYING TO BE THIN has diet tips at the beginning of each chapter, like the following one:
There’s an old saying: Scratch a depression, and you’ll find an anger. Well, scratch an overweight woman, and you may find an angry one underneath. Many of us eat to repress angry feelings—over a rotten childhood, over a chintzy news budget that doesn’t cover wardrobe expenses…you name it, we’ve got plenty to be angry about. Learn to express anger in a healthy, assertive way. Which doesn’t include diving into a pint of Chunky Monkey.
—From The Little Book of Fat-busters by Mimi Morgan
What about you? Are there things about hobby-oriented cozy mysteries that particularly attract you? Are there things you wish were different about the stories? We'd really love to hear your feedback. Best, Kathryn
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Galena!
Once again I am safely back at home, this time from Galena, Illinois, where one of the most amazing and humorous Halloween parades in the country takes place. It starts off with a remnant of World War II veterans forming a color guard – proud, not quite remembering the drill or unable to hear the commands from up front. It was sad to see how old they’re getting, how thin their ranks are getting. Then a couple of fire trucks, lights flashing, and once they started moving, setting off their sirens.
Then a marching unit made up of children. There is something adorable about a group of youngsters in widely varied costumes marching behind a horizontal banner naming their school, some of them wishing they were somewhere else, others waving like experienced politicians. Then comes a high school band, its members dressed as convicts, porn stars, devils, angels, ballet dancers, and ex-presidents. Only the drummers are good musicians – but they are really good.
It was a very chilly evening, with an icy breeze blowing, so when a wicker basket big enough to hold six people, if they were good friends, came along on the back of a trailer, I smiled. I’ve been to this parade before, so I knew it was one of the baskets that rides under a hot-air balloon. The balloon wasn’t there, but the burner was – the mechanism that fills the balloon with hot air. And there was someone in the basket, one hand on a blackened pipe sticking up in the center of the basket. WHOOOSH!! A huge orange plume shot three stories up in the air. I could feel the heat clear over on the curb. I joined the cheers, which encouraged the operator to let loose another blast. WHOOOOOSH!! Ahhhhh . . . warm! There were eight or ten baskets, each with a burner. One operator was blasting flames upward in time with the music of the band in front of him. The yellow-orange flame shot upward and, when he cut it off, a rolling ball of flame continued upward just for a second. Amazing!
The Men’s Precision Folding Lawn Chair Marching Unit was closer to the center of the parade rather than bringing up the rear as it did last time I saw them. About a dozen strong, they were all in shorts and muscle shirts, though some of them wore white or black long Johns under them. They formed a straight line, did a “wave” movement down the row with their lawn chairs and back up again, turned around, snapped the chairs open, sat down, stood up, snapped them shut, right-faced, and marched on. Silly but fun.
There were floats, all done by amateurs and often showing it. A very ragged corpse rising from a coffin, a gathering of the characters from Wizard of Oz (including one of those plastic toy houses found in many back yards serving as Dorothy’s house). An ambulance came by, its pristine white sides ornamented with spider webs and posters featuring vampires. There were costumed adults carrying buckets and bags of candy which they threw to the crowd.
Now, imagine all this going on along a narrow street lined with nineteenth-century brick shops – and one hotel – while trying to find someone in that crowd. The burner in a basket flares and you catch sight of him, but the next instant the flare is gone, leaving you dazzled, and meanwhile your quary vanishes.
Then, the parade over, you are walking up a side street when a shape comes toward you. It is a woman, all in black, and her dress has a huge skirt that brushes the ground. She is carrying a lantern on a pole, a lantern with a single candle in it. A big hat is on her head, with a heavy veil draped from it. She turns as if to speak to you, and there is only a black emptiness where her face should be.
That is “Annie Wiggins,” who owns a bed and breakfast in town, and she wears that costume to conduct night-time tours of Galena, telling ghostly stories about the various old houses as you pass them. Galena has lots of ghost stories to be told. Some of them are true.
I want this to be in the book Blackwork, which I will write if ever I finish Thai Die. All I have to do is find a reason for Betsy to be chasing someone in Galena, Illinois.
So long as I was in town, I did a book signing at Timeless Needle a beautiful (and expanding) needlework shop. The part of the building they expanded into used to be a bank, and the huge, walk-in safe is still there. The door weighs a ton, but moves smoothly on its hinges -- once you get it going.
I’ve been having a sleep problem lately. I want to stay up later, and so I don’t want to get up. This morning I woke up to my clock radio, shut it off and lay there awhile, thinking about how I didn’t want to get up. Next think I knew, it was six-thirty, too late to go to water aerobics. So I’ve been puttering around the apartment, then got awake enough to realize I hadn’t posted this.
Maybe it’s daylight savings time. I hate daylight savings time. If people want more daylight in the evening, fine. Everyone reset your clocks an hour early – AND LEAVE THEM THERE! This business of going on and going off is painful and aggravating. And yes, I know we get back the hour we donated in the spring, but it's still aggravating.
Then a marching unit made up of children. There is something adorable about a group of youngsters in widely varied costumes marching behind a horizontal banner naming their school, some of them wishing they were somewhere else, others waving like experienced politicians. Then comes a high school band, its members dressed as convicts, porn stars, devils, angels, ballet dancers, and ex-presidents. Only the drummers are good musicians – but they are really good.
It was a very chilly evening, with an icy breeze blowing, so when a wicker basket big enough to hold six people, if they were good friends, came along on the back of a trailer, I smiled. I’ve been to this parade before, so I knew it was one of the baskets that rides under a hot-air balloon. The balloon wasn’t there, but the burner was – the mechanism that fills the balloon with hot air. And there was someone in the basket, one hand on a blackened pipe sticking up in the center of the basket. WHOOOSH!! A huge orange plume shot three stories up in the air. I could feel the heat clear over on the curb. I joined the cheers, which encouraged the operator to let loose another blast. WHOOOOOSH!! Ahhhhh . . . warm! There were eight or ten baskets, each with a burner. One operator was blasting flames upward in time with the music of the band in front of him. The yellow-orange flame shot upward and, when he cut it off, a rolling ball of flame continued upward just for a second. Amazing!
The Men’s Precision Folding Lawn Chair Marching Unit was closer to the center of the parade rather than bringing up the rear as it did last time I saw them. About a dozen strong, they were all in shorts and muscle shirts, though some of them wore white or black long Johns under them. They formed a straight line, did a “wave” movement down the row with their lawn chairs and back up again, turned around, snapped the chairs open, sat down, stood up, snapped them shut, right-faced, and marched on. Silly but fun.
There were floats, all done by amateurs and often showing it. A very ragged corpse rising from a coffin, a gathering of the characters from Wizard of Oz (including one of those plastic toy houses found in many back yards serving as Dorothy’s house). An ambulance came by, its pristine white sides ornamented with spider webs and posters featuring vampires. There were costumed adults carrying buckets and bags of candy which they threw to the crowd.
Now, imagine all this going on along a narrow street lined with nineteenth-century brick shops – and one hotel – while trying to find someone in that crowd. The burner in a basket flares and you catch sight of him, but the next instant the flare is gone, leaving you dazzled, and meanwhile your quary vanishes.
Then, the parade over, you are walking up a side street when a shape comes toward you. It is a woman, all in black, and her dress has a huge skirt that brushes the ground. She is carrying a lantern on a pole, a lantern with a single candle in it. A big hat is on her head, with a heavy veil draped from it. She turns as if to speak to you, and there is only a black emptiness where her face should be.
That is “Annie Wiggins,” who owns a bed and breakfast in town, and she wears that costume to conduct night-time tours of Galena, telling ghostly stories about the various old houses as you pass them. Galena has lots of ghost stories to be told. Some of them are true.
I want this to be in the book Blackwork, which I will write if ever I finish Thai Die. All I have to do is find a reason for Betsy to be chasing someone in Galena, Illinois.
So long as I was in town, I did a book signing at Timeless Needle a beautiful (and expanding) needlework shop. The part of the building they expanded into used to be a bank, and the huge, walk-in safe is still there. The door weighs a ton, but moves smoothly on its hinges -- once you get it going.
I’ve been having a sleep problem lately. I want to stay up later, and so I don’t want to get up. This morning I woke up to my clock radio, shut it off and lay there awhile, thinking about how I didn’t want to get up. Next think I knew, it was six-thirty, too late to go to water aerobics. So I’ve been puttering around the apartment, then got awake enough to realize I hadn’t posted this.
Maybe it’s daylight savings time. I hate daylight savings time. If people want more daylight in the evening, fine. Everyone reset your clocks an hour early – AND LEAVE THEM THERE! This business of going on and going off is painful and aggravating. And yes, I know we get back the hour we donated in the spring, but it's still aggravating.
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