READ, CLEAN, WRITE, REPEAT

***Please note that this article previously appeared as my contribution to the Girl Who Reads blog****


Most authors I know are also voracious readers.  We love beautifully crafted words that paint rich tapestries.  Yet life intrudes, in the form of jobs, families, and the day-to-day minutia that consumes us, leaving little time for us to pursue our own writing much less enjoy that of others.

I tend to get involved in books that are series, most recently Diana Gabaldon's Outlander (2004, Dell, Amazon).  After devouring roughly ten thousand pages, I felt lost when the most recent book ended.  Stories on a grand scale are what I want most, and my next reading project is Winston Graham's Poldark (2009, Sourcebooks Landmark, Amazon).  I'll let you know when I resurface from the complete 12-book narrative.

Needing a short fix while waiting for the Amazon Stork to Prime-drop Poldark, I discovered an unlikely candidate:  Marie Kondo's The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up: The Japanese Art of Decluttering and Organizing (2014, Ten Speed Press, Amazon).  How on earth could a cleaning book make the New York Times' best seller list?  Why would anyone want to spend more time than necessary on cleaning, much less read about how someone else does?  There had to be a reason.

I have not finished testing her methods yet, but Kondo's weird little ideas are resonating with readers who have adopted her mantra that the things you own must give you happiness.  If they don't, you should get rid of them.  As I begin my journey of shedding decades of accumulated "stuff", I find myself happier.  Gone are the categories of clothing that were jammed in my closet...the fat clothing, the perfect size clothing (which is never quite achieved), and the sentimental items that haven't been worn since college.

Kondo's description of her younger self sounds downright obsessive-compulsive, as she searched to fine-tune her skills.  Her near-desperation feels foreign to the possession-loving Western world.  Yet it is these very things that make us dread the cleaning and organizing that those ever-growing amounts require.  It made me think of comedian George Carlin's routine about organizing our "stuff" so that we could make enough room to go out and buy more "stuff".

As a cleaning consultant in Japan, Ms. Kondo has lists of clients who wait breathlessly for their turn to secure her guidance in their own homes.  I WILL eventually reach my goal of possessions that spark joy, but I cannot do it all in one fell swoop as she recommends.  A dark 18th century Englishman from Cornwall beckons, promising his own sort of joy, and I'm answering his call first.  

BURIED ALIVE!

I've often wondered if the love of reading is a result of genetics or environment.  As the daughter of a woman who never read for pleasure and a man who made weekly treks to a public library, hauling home multiple books each trip, I landed squarely in the read-to-excess group. Still, I'm not sure it just happened out of the clear blue.  In addition to seeing Dad sitting on the couch, reading every night, I also attended schools with rigorous, year-round reading lists.  What began as an annoying academic requirement soon blossomed into a love affair.

My father knew the importance of good grades, so he gave me a quarter for every "A" I brought home on periodic report cards (yes, I am that old). Of course, twenty-five cents is unlikely to incentivize many students today, but researchers found long ago that avid readers develop superior skills that far surpass good spelling and larger vocabularies. Grammar, writing and speaking ability, general knowledge and I.Q. all expand with reading.

Curling up on my sofa with a book is such a deep pleasure that the seat cushion has developed Dad's telltale depression that my brother and I once snickered at.  Yet where my father's stack of library books was quite modest, I have a coffee table with multiple sloping piles, patiently waiting their turn.  My to-read Everest is out of control.  Magazines are relegated to in-flight reading to spare myself the agony of tossing unread print material into the trash.

Those of you who are yelling at this page, telling me to get a Kindle...yeah, I have one, and it only exacerbates the problem.  Towers of books can, at least, physically rebuke me by their visual presence.  Downloaded ebooks are imprisoned in a thin, black orphanage, emitting no sense of urgency.

For decades at my house, spring cleaning did not apply to books.  Until Hurricane Katrina.  Although my treasured books were not damaged, I decided to move from a four bedroom house with two large attics to a townhouse with no attic.  It became clear that I must learn to survive without my textbooks and anthologies from college at the very least.   Potential loading and unloading friends could be enticed with the promise of no 100-pound boxes of books to lift.

Seven garage sales followed over a two month period.   The ten-cent books flew off the table.

As I continue to downsize, it's become easier to part with things. I was actually doing quite well...very well indeed...until I started to write books as well as read them.

So, just let me know if you'd like a German 101 book from 1968.

(Note that this is a repost from my recent contribution to the GIRL WHO READS blog).

BOOK vs MOVIE

When a new movie that is based upon a book hits the big screen, do you watch the movie or read the book first?  The chicken-or-egg process of a good story likely evokes a moment's hesitation. My own answer? It depends.

Unlike many of my bookaholic friends, I do not keep an eagle eye on the New York Times bestseller list. My never-ending to-read list comes from a select group of guinea pig acquaintances who have given a book a big thumbs up.

Don't get me wrong. I love a good movie too, but it's rare to find one that captures the images that my mind has conjured from the book that it is based on. Usually films have difficulty compressing the story satisfactorily into the 90-120 minute attention span of the average movie audience.

Recently, I had two completely different book vs. movie experiences. The first evolved from a former classmate and Facebook friend who raved about a book that involved a historical romance AND time travel. Normally I hate time travel tales, but she carried on so that I bought the book just to shut her up. How good could it be if it had been written over 22 years ago and I'd never heard of it? I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

As I became more entangled in the story of Jamie Fraser and Claire Randall, I dreaded reaching the end of Diana Gabaldon's Outlander. Yet I need not have worried...there are 8 books in the series that range from 848 to 1488 pages each. I plowed through them all at a record pace. Much to my delight, I discovered that a television series began last fall on the STARZ channel. I quickly added it to see how disappointed I would be at the small screen version of such a tale. I have watched these first eight shows several times in anticipation of the next new installments that start April 4th. Reading these books has enriched my appreciation for the televised series, which is done very well, indeed. In fact, I plan to read all 8 of the books again, more slowly, to appreciate what I devoured quickly in the first go-round.

This scenario is not always the case.

Not too long ago, I watched the movie Gone Girl.  It was so entertaining and smartly made, that I felt sure the book by Gillian Flynn would be terrific. SO wrong (cue the Debbie Downer music here). After nearly 100 pages - and hating every paragraph - I'm not sure I'll finish it. All I can do is wonder how the book was ever a bestseller. Clearly, I am in the minority here as there are over 37,000 reviews on Amazon with an average rating of 4 out of 5 stars.

A great book won't always be a great movie, and a mediocre book can be a very good movie. Where do you stand: book or movie first?

(Note that this is a repost from a guest blog on "Girl Who Reads")

THE LITTLE FILM THAT COULD....AND DID!

 

Nearly two years ago, I posted a blog (link: http://kateinla51.blogspot.com/2013/05/good-ol-freda-yeah-yeah-yeah.html) about a high school friend of mine whose teen obsession with music and all-things-Beatle resulted in her production of "Good Ol' Freda", an acclaimed documentary film about the Fab Four's long-time, faithful secretary, Freda Kelly.

The film premiered at the famous SXSW (South x Southwest) Film Festival on March 9, 2013.  Since then, Kathy McCabe, her nephew-director Ryan White and Freda Kelly have been touring worldwide to over 100 film festivals and Beatles fests.  You may have heard of Ryan in the meantime if you watched HBO's presentation of "The Case Against Eight".  He and Ben Cotner were the directors and writers of this look at the aftermath and events that led up to California's Proposition 8, which added a new provision to the state's Declaration of Rights that defined marriage as only "between a man and a woman".  They won the Best Director Award at the Sundance Film Festival in 2014 and, more recently, the prestigious Humanitas Award in January 2015 for this film.

From its Kickstarter fundraising campaign beginnings, "Good Ol' Freda" has grown from claiming multiple Best Documentary awards at its many screenings to mainstream Netflix status.  Television stations in the U.S., Europe, Japan, Canada, Australia and South America have featured this amazing film.  This special part of Beatles history was the first independent documentary to receive permission to license The Beatles' music from the master recordings.  Kathy and Freda can't help but laugh when they exit an airplane restroom, only to see Freda's face on the video screens of passenger seat backs during their travels.

When asked what sticks in her mind about her travels to promote the film, McCabe shakes her head and states, "What's beautiful to see as we travel is the love and respect that Beatle People give Freda.  She has been so touched by the response.  In a way, they're paying her back for all the great things she did for The Beatles, their families and fans.  People just want to hug her, tell her their little stories, and have their picture taken with her.  Many of them bring items to show her what she sent them 50 years ago from The Beatles Fan Club.  In Mexico City last December, a man brought in two sets of Beatle autographs (one set included Freda's own signature) and asked her to authenticate them.  They were the real thing...probably worth about  about $50,000. She sent things like this to fans routinely during those years and when the Beatles Fan Club ended she gave away all the leftover Beatle items to fans."   

The juggernaut that is "Good Ol' Freda" continues in 2015.  Visits to Rome, Austria, Mauritius, Italy and Chicago are already scheduled, with more to be added.

The big local news is that Freda Kelly herself will appear at a fundraising screening for the Catonsville (Maryland) Community Foundation on October 10, 2015.  Tickets are $30 and available from Joe Loverde by phoning (410) 788-2425 or by contacting him at joe@realtyconcept.com.  Don't wait - because the show is already half sold out!  

When I asked Kathy how she felt about her amazing accomplishment, she smiled.  "It's the little film that could.  We never dreamed it would take off the way it has.  We figured it would be big for Beatle fans, but never dreamed we'd be traveling for two or three years straight since the film's release.  It's really been a wonderful ride, but it wouldn't have happened without the support of family, friends, Beatle People/organizations, and many total strangers.  We're very grateful to everyone who helped us."

If you want a copy of Good Ol' Freda, you can order it on www.goodolfreda.com.

Kathy also keeps autographed copies on sale if you'd like to get one directly from her (kmccabe44@comcast.net)  If you would like to follow Freda, you can 'Like' the Good Ol' Freda Facebook page.

Viking Women DO Care - A Leif-Long Legacy

While visiting family in Summit, New Jersey this weekend, I received an email that was the equivalent of a gut-punch.  A friend from high school and college had died in an automobile accident.  Now I hadn't seen the man since our circle of friends graduated in 1969, but Facebook has enabled many of us to reconnect and catch up on each others' lives.  We had messaged back and forth after I published "Ednor Scardens".  He had been thinking along the same lines, organizing material for his own book, and we traded ideas over several weeks.

A month ago a copy of his book "Viking Women Don't Care - Vol.1, Wrestling with Baltimore" appeared  on my doorstep.  Since it was a non-fiction memoir, I enjoyed delving into it, reliving many of my own teen years and the antics I'd shared within our group.  He was coming down to Baltimore in early December to do a book-signing.  I was readying a list of interview questions to incorporate into an article to promote the event.  Now I'm paging through the book again in sadness as I read his handwritten note inside the cover:  "To Kath, my favorite critic!  Enjoy the memories.  Love, Leif." 

Lawrence Frederic "Larry" "Leif" Evans was a unique guy.  Always sports-obsessed, an activist and organizer, he was like a thousand-piece puzzle that someone put in a can, shook, and dumped out.  Friendly, crazy, and socially-conscious, he was the one who could put together an event for a good cause and make it so much fun that you wouldn't dream of missing it.  He could sell you a bag of dog crap and you'd happily pay for it...and thank him.  He organized school dances, Santa Claus Anonymous charity football events, and much, much more.  Most of us who called him friend didn't have a clue about his painfully tumultuous childhood.  He was one of us, but just crazier.  Leif joined the VISTA service corps after graduation and worked with migrant workers in Florida.  I would have paid to see that.

He labored for several years as a steelworker, and during that time he created a news magazine written by and for the men and women who worked there.   Food banks, group home counseling, community newspapers, community-access television, politics...you name it...if it helped someone, Larry was likely involved in it.

In 445 B.C. the Greek historian Herodotus wrote, "Whom the gods love dies young."  While many would not feel 67 years of age to be especially young, Larry had "promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep."  He wanted more time.  So did we.

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To learn more about Lawrence F. Evans, cut and paste this link to the Pittsburgh Post Gazette:  http://www.post-gazette.com/news/obituaries/2014/11/17/Journalist-activist-Lawrence-F-Evans-July-13-1947-Nov-15-2014/stories/201411170057

Funeral details:  visitation will be 2-4 p.m. and 6-8 p.m. Wednesday, with a 7:30 p.m. memorial service at William Slater II Funeral Service, 1650 Greentree Road, Green Tree (15220).

To purchase a copy of Larry's book:http://www.amazon.com/Viking-Women-Dont-Care-Wrestling/dp/0990544508/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1416276257&sr=8-1&keywords=viking+women+don%27t+care

CLOSETED CREATIVITY

Lately, I've been getting requests from the grandkids for things like costumes, capes and other make-believe apparel.  Coincidentally, I attended the Maryland Renaissance Fair and watched ten-year-old Emma drool over the long, hooded velvet capes.  They were lovely, and I drew nearer to turn over the price tag only to find they were over $100 each.  The older I get, the more easily shocked I am at the price of anything made closer to home than China.  Of course, I didn't buy the cape for her, but began thinking it couldn't be that hard to make.  I thought of my long-neglected sewing machine, gathering dust in my closet.  I'd paid the then-outrageous sum of $600 for the swiss-made Bernina 801 Sport in 1983.  When my husband asked how much it had cost, I lied and told him $150.  It doesn't have all the computerized hoopla that today's $1000+ machines have, but it falls solidly in the 'they-don't-make-them-like-that-anymore' category.

The last time I sewed, Emma was four.  She wanted a gorgeous princess outfit, so I went all-out, spending $50 on the fabric, trim and pattern.  It did turn out beautifully, a pink full-skirted satin dream with golden trim, complemented by a matching full-length cape and headdress.  She was thrilled, and the outfit still hangs in the closet with a slightly frayed hemline from the steps and sidewalks she traipsed, wanting to show it off as much as to collect Halloween candy.

Perhaps I could reclaim my magic-granting status and make the coveted velvet cape, but the last time I did some repairs to torn fabric, my machine was acting quite perverse, threads breaking with abandon until I gave up and shoved it back in its corner.  I began to search for a repair shop, finally finding one that would take on my old war horse.

Having located a store, I lugged the heavy, swiss-made machine onto the counter.  The woman smiled when she saw it, commenting on what a great machine it was.  Her smile faded a bit as she pulled the cover off and saw its dusty, neglected state.  She asked when was the last time it had been serviced.  My face reddened slightly when I murmured, "Right before I bought it, I suppose."  And yes, that was also 1983.  She stroked the metal beast as if to comfort it and retorted, "Well, no wonder....".

As I looked around the quilting store, I realized I was the youngest person in the store...the only one who didn't have gray hair.  I wondered how many people actually sew anymore.  Or knit?  Women are so busy today with jobs and families that perhaps only the wealthy, retired or childless have the time to pursue homespun crafts. 

During my own childhood, families in my parents' economic strata didn't spend money on Halloween costumes.  We wracked our brains for what we could create out of odds and ends around the house.  I remember being a gypsy one year with a long skirt, my mom's shawl, a mask and heavy makeup.  Well, it was the chance to apply makeup without restraint that sealed the deal on that one.  Another year I was a butterfly, which consisted of a black leotard, black tights, wings cut out of cardboard that I had painted and glittered, and antennae attached to a headband.

My own kids had been skeletons - a loose black suit upon which I had sewn white cut-out bones, devils - the same pattern with a red suit and appliqued yellow pitchfork, a red cape and a cap with horns, princesses, Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz, and a colonial maiden (we saved that outfit from a school play).  I've always hated the cheap store-bought costumes and, truthfully, my kids didn't like them much either, knowing I could make something much more fun.

The grandkids' tastes are mostly the same:  both Renaissance and super-hero capes, although the three year old girl wants to be Prince Phillip from Sleeping Beauty.  His dragon-fighting role is much more appealing to her than lying on a bed, waiting for true love's kiss.  

So I wait patiently with my repair ticket in hand, wondering how frustrating it will be to reacquaint myself with my old machine.  There will be cursing...a lot...as I stop and read how to turn a particular seam or finish an edge, but there will be joy also.  Young eyes will shine with happiness to receive something crafted for them.  And I will smile, hiding the band-aids on my fingers.

Running From Helmet Head

In the 1950's, I would often sit on the front porch of my parents' row house and watch the parade of women exiting the house across the street.  The woman who owned it ran a beauty salon out of her basement.  Hair that entered that place straight and lank emerged coiffed and curled.  Most of the time REALLY curled, and wafting a chemical smell that I swore was detectable even from my concrete perch.  My grandmother got her hair permed.  My mom too.  And one day my mother ushered me into this female sanctum and I too was permed.  At first I felt very grown up, not knowing that I looked like a geek.  Within days, I stood desperately in front of the window fan, trying to brush out the kink, praying for regrowth so I could get it cut and look normal again.  The tide had turned and perms fell out of favor for anyone under 30.

 Like most fashions, permanent waves swung back into style again in the late 70's and early 80's, but they were different.  Fatter, looser curls were possible, unlike the iconic Angela Davis 'fro of yore.  So, I did it again, with much better results.  I flat-out loved it.  A more advanced version of my old window fan had been invented - the blow dryer - and with three small children as well as being part of a rabid running group, this was an answer to my prayers.  I liked it so much that I had several more over a span of 4 or 5 years, copying the Farrah Fawcett 'wings' during the height of her fame.

Today I stand on the precipice.  After nearly 30 years of straight hair, I see a much older me staring back in the mirror.  Lank, shoulder-length hair only accentuates the havoc that gravity is exerting.  I don't want short hair - yet - as I live in fear of old-lady helmet head or any version of my mom's or grandmother's. 

Susan Sarandon waits patiently on my phone's photo stream as I head to a salon, clutching craigslist and ebay earnings to forfeit in exchange for chemicals.  Would my scalp burst into flames from the toxic ingredients?  Would my hair break off and fall out?  Would I look like a freak or an 80's throwback?  Would it take my entire monthly retirement check to cope with the afternath?   I prayed as I drove to a place that I'd researched meticulously, both through Baltimore Magazine's annual "Best Of" lists and customer reviews.   The receptionist had called earlier that morning to reschedule my appointment by a few hours because the original stylist had called in sick.  Was that an omen?  Was Farrah sending me a warning from the afterlife in the only way she could?   

Pulling into the parking lot, I felt calmer as I saw the bubbling stream flowing next to the building.  I reassured myself that I had done everything possible to prepare for this...except charge my phone, which threatened to make Ms. Sarandon disappear before I could display her images to the stylist.  As I eased myself into the chair, Kim (the stylist) introduced herself.  She was attractive, in her late forties and I was thankful that I hadn't gotten a young girl who might later regale her friends with the story of this strange woman who actually asked for a perm.  I babbled nervously, flashing pictures and waving my hands around, trying to explain and expecting her to tell me she was a beautician, not a magician.  She smiled, asked a few questions for clarification and went to work.  We chatted easily as she worked, which is unusual for me.  I'm not good at small talk with strangers.

Every single employee and customer in the place had straight hair....not a curl in sight.  I warned Kim that it had been years since I'd left a salon and not gone home to put my head under a faucet.  She thanked me for the warning and laughed, assuring me that it would take time to get to know my new hair, to play with it until I was satisfied.  And no washing, styling, or pulling into a ponytail for 48 hours so the curl could set.. 

At last, after two and a half hours, I was done.  Gazing cautiously into the mirror, I smiled.  No, it wasn't twenty-year-old me staring back.  It was a softer, better-looking me with a classier look that wouldn't fall flat an hour later.  But don't ask me for pictures...my 48 hours aren't up yet!