Category Archives: Writing

September 13, 2012 · 0:00

Eye on the “Booker” Prize!

I am awesome.  Yup.  It’s true.  You see, well, I have a new prize.  A new award!

Yes, just the other day, I got A Booker Award!  Seriously!  Me!

What does that mean?  Well, it is awarded to a novelist of great achievement from the United Kingdom or from Ireland.  Cool!  I’ve been to both places.  I’m sure that qualifies.

The Man Booker Foundation awards the Booker Prize! But not to me.

Here is what it says on the Man Booker Award site:

Winning the Man Booker Prize is the ultimate accolade for many writers. As 1996 winner Graham Swift commented, “Prizes don’t make writers and writers don’t write to win prizes, but in the near-glut of literary awards now on offer, the Booker remains special. It’s the one which, if we’re completely honest, we most covet.”

Every year the Man Booker Prize winner is guaranteed a huge increase in sales, firstly in hardback and then in paperback. There is spin-off too in global sales of books, in future publishing contracts and in film and TV rights. Besides the fortune, the winner of the Man Booker Prize can also be sure of fame. The announcement of the winner is covered by television, radio and press worldwide.

Isn’t that cool?  Won’t it look great on my resume?

Janice, of Aurora Borealis actually nominated me for a Booker Award.  Pretty neat huh?  Especially since I will be the only novelist to win such a coveted award who has not, um, actually written a novel.  But hey, I won two Oscars without ever working on a movie.  Apparently I am multi-talented.

Oh wait.  I just looked at Janice’s post a little more closely.  Oh.  My bad.  I didn’t win the Man Booker Prize.  I won this one:

I got THIS one!

Cool!  Sorry for the confusion.  (But if you think I’m changing my resume, you’d better think again!)

I am delighted to accept it this award.  To do so, I need to

  1. Thank Janice for the nod.  Thanks so much for thinking of me, Janice.  For those of you who don’t know her, Janice is an amazingly good person, a writer of poetry, prose, of pieces that make your heart break, and your heart sing.  Of pieces that make you question the humanity of some humans, and soar at the gifts others can bring.  So thank you Janice.  You were one of my first followers.  And one of my first and best blogging buddies.
  2. I need to put a picture of the award on my blog – there it is!
  3. I need to tell y’all about five books I love.  That’s the hard part, because I love books.  I read two or three books a week.  Whichever one is in my hand is usually high on the list of my favorites – otherwise I would put it down and not bother with it.  But I will try to narrow my list.  Here are some of my favorites:

Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stephenson  is the first book I remember.  My sister Beth used to read it to my brother Fred and me every night for years.  When I found the old copy of Treasure Island that Beth read from years later, the book fell open to the “Apple Barrel Chapter,” the one we begged for every night.  It was through the reading of this that Beth taught Fred and me to love books.  Good books.  She taught us to love stories and the magic you can always find in them.

Forever by Pete Hamill.  A young Irish man travels to America in colonial days.  Through an act of kindness, he is granted eternal life as long as he never leaves Manhattan.  The story traces the his and the city’s journey from colonial days to the present.  Magical.  When my sister Beth, who gave me books, was dying, this was the book I read to her in her last hours.  It is a beautiful story.  I wish I could have read her the whole book.

 

The Woman in White by Wilke Collins.  I’m a sucker for the classics.  Wilke Collins was a contemporary of Dickens.  He wrote beautifully about different problems in Victorian society, many of which we grapple with today.  The Woman in White deals with mental illness.  Poor Miss Finch is a blind woman whose life and disability is presented with dignity in a time when that wasn’t often the case in life or in novels.  No Name presents two upper class sisters who suddenly learn that by a trick of fate, their parents were somehow not legally married; The Moonstone set the stage for modern mystery stories.  He is a writer to check out if you love classic literature.  Collins’ protagonists are women and they are true heroines, all.

The Weird Sisters by ­­­­­­ Eleanor Brown.  Weird Sisters is the author’s first novel and it is so incredibly brilliantly (and differently) written.  The three sisters are complex and humorous and absolutely delightful, when you don’t want to kill them.  Just like real sisters.  The book is a gift to anyone with sisters.  Or anyone who likes to read.  Or maybe just a gift to me.

A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini.  A complex look at the lives of two women in Afghanistan before and during the Taliban’s rule of Kabul.

 

Ask me again tomorrow and, well, I’ll likely come up with a different group.  Because I love books.  I just can’t get enough of them.

Lastly, now I need to nominate five bloggers who can lie on their resumes, too.  It’s always hard because folks love or hate these awards, or fall somewhere in between, like me.  I tried to find folks who like awards and who haven’t yet received this one.  This is a challenge, you know!

Speaker 7 of Speaker7

Val of QBG Tilted Tiara

Frank of A Frank Angle

Cooper of Security is for Cadavers

Twin Daddy of Stuph Blog

Lorna of Lorna’s Voice

Totsymae of Totsymae

OK, so I can’t count.  Do not feel obligated to accept this award.  But I’d love to hear what you all like to read too!

42 Comments

Filed under Awards, Books, Humor, Writing

Tagged as , ,

August 4, 2012 · 0:00

Don’t hang up!

As you can probably tell, there is little I like more than humiliating myself.  Repeatedly.  It makes for great stories.

So today I’m going to up the ante.  Go deep into ritual humiliation.  Voluntarily.  With my eyes and my ego open.

Yup, I’m going to phone bank for political candidates.  Barak Obama, Tim Kaine (VA Senate) and Kristin Cabral (VA-House).

I expect a lot of this:

“Hi, my name is Ely …” click.

But sometimes I’ll get through.  And when I do, well, it’s a great feeling.  I am participating in Democracy.  Helping to make my country a better place.  I am convincing folks that they should vote for the people I think are best for that office.  And I am pretty good at it.

Some people won’t want to listen.  Some will have gotten a zillion calls already.  Some will be in the bathroom.  Some will hang up.

Others will be disillusioned.  Or disappointed.

So why do I do it?  You know why if you read my blog.  I am a bit opinionated, you see.  But the thing I believe in most strongly is our democracy.  Our right to vote.  Because, as I keep saying

ELECTIONS MATTER

And if I can help get a few more votes for candidates I believe in, get folks who need to register, registered, transport folks to the polls who couldn’t otherwise get there, then I’m making a difference.  ME!  I’m taking an active part in the process of making things better in our country.  Because I have done my best to help make my vision of what kind of a country we should have become a reality.

But I really do it for the stories.  I always come away with great stories.

There was the time in 2006 when I was working on Jim Webb’s Senate primary.

The man said “I just want to beat George Allen, but I think both candidates are the same.  I’m just going to flip a coin when I get to the polls.”

“Well then,” I responded, “you’d better take a two-headed coin, with Jim Webb’s head on both sides.  Because Webb is only the one of these two guys who has a chance to beat incumbent Senator George Allen.  If you want to get rid of Allen, vote for Webb.  Now and in November.”

He promised me his vote, both times, of course.  And it was entirely due to my phone call and my coin flip line.  I put Jim Webb in the Senate.  You’re welcome.

I’m sure it had nothing to do with the fact that George Allen showed himself to be a bigot.  (George Allen is running for Senate in Virginia again.  He is still a bigot.)

 

There was also the call in 2008 when I was working on Obama’s presidential campaign.  I was calling registered voters:

“Hi, my name is Elyse and I’m calling from Obama for President HQ.  Do you have a second to talk with me.”

“Sure,” said the man on the other end.

“Thanks, I appreciate your time. I just have a couple of questions.  First, are you planning to vote Tuesday?”

“I always vote.”

“Me too.  May I ask if you’ll be supporting Barak Obama for President?”

“I’d like to, but I was a mid-shipman with John McCain at the Naval Academy in Annapolis.  I have to give him my vote,” he said.

“You were at school with Senator McCain?”  I couldn’t resist, I had to ask.   “I bet you did better academically than he did!”

The man got a little less chatty just then.  “Well, I was actually a few years ahead of McCain.  I graduated fifth from the bottom, too.”

Political work can be fun and fulfilling.  And the stories are the bonus. I will be telling these and other stories to my grandchildren.  Of course if the Republicans continue destroying the education system, I will also have to teach them history.

*     *     *

Have you ever done political calls?  Canvassing?  Worked the polls?  Got a story?  Send it to me at fifty.four.and.a.half@gmail.com.  I will collect and post stories throughout the campaign season.  And if you get a fun call from someone, send that to me too.

And remember — Elections matter.  VOTE.

71 Comments

Filed under Campaigning, Elections, History, Humor, Law, Politics, Voting, Writing

Tagged as , , , ,

August 1, 2012 · 0:00

All the Cool Kids Are Doing It

It’s Angie’s fault.  Or Darla’s.  Maybe it’s Peg’s.  Or all three.  Mostly, I blame Angie for pulling this memory out of my subconscious when she entered this post, An Epic Adventure in Babysitting in Darla’s Psst! Hey…Wanna Hear Something Really Embarrassing? contest.  Then Peg threw her story in too, with The Substitute Babysitter.

Since all the cool kids are doing it, well, here is mine.  Don’t hate me.

 *     *     *     *     *

Unlike my cooler blogger sisters, I loved to babysit.  I was born to babysit.  And I had the best job on the planet.

Mr. and Mrs. F went out every single Saturday night, from 7 to 11 or so.  They had two really nice kids, a huge colonial house and a swimming pool.  At about 12 I started supervising kids in that pool, in spite of the fact that I bear no resemblance at all to Michael Phelps.

These folks were rich, but incredibly nice.  And they loved me.

Their house was huge, and quite old, which meant it squeaked and made all kinds of noises at night.  My much smaller house was old, too, so I was pretty much used to the noises.

But it was 9th Grade that year.  I was reading In Cold Blood by Truman Capote for English class.  Yup.  Reading about the slaughter of an entire family in their home.

To make matters worse the F’s house was being renovated.  So after the kids went to bed, I hung out with the terrifying book in a part of the house I was unfamiliar with.

There were noises.  Of course there were noises.

There were footsteps.  Upstairs.

Was it in Hadley’s room, at the top of the stairs?

Or was it in Scotty’s room, a few footsteps down the hall?

I knew it was in one of the two.  I could hear it.  Clear as a bell, on the hardwood floor upstairs.

So I did what any dedicated babysitter sitting next to a fireplace would do.  I picked up the poker.

I don’t want to kill anybody, I thought.  So I put it back.

I picked up the little shovel.  The spade.  I was ready to protect those kids no matter what.  And I crept up the carpeted steps.

I looked down the long, hallway.  I didn’t want to alert the killer to my presence, so I didn’t turn on the light.  The carpeted hallway was lit only with one measly nightlight.  But the thick white carpeting helped me see that there was no burglar/murder there.

But there was plenty of space for the burglar/murder to hide.

I walked into Hadley’s room.  She was sleeping soundly, still alive, because I could hear her calm breathing.

I had just walked into Scotty’s room when I heard true, distinct footsteps downstairs.

This time I knew it wasn’t my imagination.  Because I realized that I wouldn’t actually have heard footsteps upstairs because the carpeting was thick and luxurious and the kids were always getting out of bed and sneaking up on me.  (It would have been helpful had I remembered that earlier.)

But the footsteps downstairs were on hard wood.  They were real.

“Elyse?  We’re home!”  Mr. and Mrs. F had come home.

And there I stood in their son’s bedroom, with a shovel in my hand.

Trust me, it’s scary at night. Alone. While reading In Cold Blood. (Google Image)

104 Comments

Filed under Childhood Traumas, Family, History, Humor, Stupidity, Writing

Tagged as , , , ,

July 17, 2012 · 0:00

Garbage In – Garbage Out

My bloggin’ buddie Ben Mitchell has done a series of posts that are really helpful for those awful doubts all of us who like to write have in spades.  Ben’s latest post, My Writing is of the Highest Quality made me think of this story.

*     *     *

We’ve all had them.  The Boss from Hell.  Anna was mine.

Thirty years ago I worked for a woman who was known to swallow subordinates.  People who worked for her often left the state just to get away from her.  That’s how I got away, and I started a trend, actually.

Anna was smart, dedicated, a work-a-holic.  She expected perfection.  Documents were edited by four or five people, proofread by everyone from the most senior lawyer on down to the lowliest paralegal (me).  Nothing could go out to our clients with a substantive mistake, a grammatical error, an incorrect comma or extra space between words.  Worse, Anna didn’t mince words.  She didn’t spare feelings.  Working for Anna was a daily “sink or swim” situation.  And she always seemed to want to fill your pockets with rocks.

Still, for me, the job was a gift.  I had been working as a legal secretary, a job I hated.  But, the head partner of the department thought I was funny (which as we all know correlates with being incredibly intelligent).  So he offered me a promotion, asked if I would be interested in taking a job as a paralegal, a “professional.”  I would be part of the team of professionals in the legislative and regulatory division of a law firm.  I would learn all about Washington from the inside.

I would get paid less, work longer hours, and get no overtime.  What a deal!

I snapped it up though.  Because a big part of it was learning and the rest was writing.  Writing boring, humorless stuff, yes.  But writing is writing.  And getting paid to write?  Well, it doesn’t get much better than that, does it?

But Anna was unenthusiastic.  She didn’t want me.  She didn’t want to have someone else, even her boss, choose her assistant.  But we were stuck with each other.

It took five years for her to laugh at one of my jokes.  But I digress.

So I became a legislative assistant on environmental issues.  My job was to analyze legislation, attend hearings, know what all the different Senators and Congressmen thought about legislation, predict what would happen to a bill.  And I wrote memos to our clients to enlighten them.

But first they had to get past Anna.  The clients, they were easy.  The boss?  She was damn hard.

She didn’t mince words.  She tore apart sentences, decimated analyses.  She always knew more about the issue and the Congress and what position each member was taking than I did.  It was, well, challenging.  And annoying.  It was often hard not to collapse in angry tears.

But for the most part, I understood that I was getting the best training I could get.  How many of you have had each and every word you wrote for 10 years brutally dissected?  I did.  And it was never pretty.  But I learned.

Still, even a person like me who desperately needed that job has her limits.  And I reached them when, during one period, Anna would inexplicably throw my draft memos back at me saying “WHAT IS GARBAGE???!!!”  This question was not good for my ego.

I couldn’t quit, I needed the job.  I couldn’t go over her head, because, well, I like to fight my own battles.  But clearly, I needed to do something.

So I rooted around in the files until I found a memo Anna herself had written about one of my issues.  It was years old, but the factual information was still spot on.  I needed to change a couple of little things, the Senate Bill number, the names of a few of the Senators, and voila!  Anna had written my memo for me.

When I gave it to her, Anna shouted “What is this GARBAGE?”

“Actually, Anna,” I responded, “You were so unhappy with my last memo that I got this old one out of the file.  You wrote it; I just changed the bill number.”

Anna was silent for a minute and then said,

“Well, you write better than I do; I expected more of you.”

From that day on, she was respectful and pleasant.  She learned that it was OK to laugh at my jokes and that I would still work hard, regardless.

*    *    *

The Boss from Hell.  Anna was mine.  Or was she the one that taught me the most? She certainly taught me more about writing than anyone else I’ve ever known.  She taught me to be careful, to pay attention, to look at every word.  So was she really the Boss from Hell, or the Editor from Heaven? I can never decide.  Probably both.

But she is still my friend.

52 Comments

Filed under History, Humor, Writing

Tagged as , ,