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Chipping Sparrows Bless Our Home

Each spring, a chipping sparrow arrives at my door. She builds a nest in our mailbasket. Having our loggia selected as prime real estate by nature makes me feel like blessings are sent to our home, as if angels are reminding us to enjoy nature’s miracles.

Our chipping sparrow becomes a member of our family during the time she sits on her eggs. Our busy lifestyle doesn’t interfere with her tranquil setting. When my family and I go in and out of our home, she pokes her head up from her leafy cave to greet us. We each slow down and take a moment to make sure she’s satisfied with her bed. From behind her black mask, she watches us admire her russet coloring. In the late afternoons, she stands at the lip of the basket and sings a short song like a call for nature to give her nourishment. Then she hops to the ground and forages for seeds and insects.

Eventually, instead of finding her sleek head peeking from her cozy home, there will be four pale blue eggs with chocolate specks dashed on them. They are always the same size and leaning on each other. It’s as if we worked together to create the right setting. A sense of accomplishment and satisfaction fills us.

Finally, the serene mood is replaced with chirping. Four hungry mouths branch out from the nest every time we walk by. I worry about the little fellows. Their mother spends most of her time nearby, singing lullabies at the Venetian wall fountain and gathering snacks for her newborns. She leaves for such long periods, I start searching the yard to make sure she hasn’t been killed. Certain the chicks will starve to death, I wonder if I’m capable of feeding their beaks.

But then, the chirping moves to the ground. When I turn quickly as I step outside, I’ll glimpse the chicks racing through the ground cover. Are they happy? Is their mother close by?

The first several years, our mailman ignored the sacred place and stuffed letters on her nest. Once the eggs hatched and the darlings moved out, I’d throw away the tangle of Spanish moss, Laurel oak leaves, and palm tree netting.

But every year, a new nest would be built in our basket mailbox. I don’t know if it’s the same mother or if her chicks grow up and remember their birthplace, but I stopped throwing out her old nest. We bought a copper mailbox and leave the basket for our extended family to enjoy.

Waking each day to such a magical expression of nature excites my family and joins us together as we gather to check on the chipping sparrows’ progress. Look around you. How has nature blessed your home?

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Wise Wood Elves Save the Planet

There are many names for the playful elements living in woodlands. The handsome human-like spirits thrived during the golden era on earth, and they are making a comeback under the name, magical elves. They originally lived in the forests located in British Isles and Iceland. As developers destroyed woodlands, communities of wood nymphs relocated to uninhabited areas throughout the world but most joined other fantastical creatures in an elemental realm. Wood elves possess qualities similar in guardian angels and are from the angelic realm.

Due to the large variety of elves, one species is as small as six inches while what man considers to be the traditional elves have a height over five feet. They are athletic, able to climb the tallest trees and outrun a jackrabbit. It is difficult to see elves because they are shape-shifters.

When they aren’t visiting a hidden realm, elves reside in trunks of trees. The woodland elves, who are the tiniest breed, prefer moist furrows off the ground. Human sized elves rely on narrow furrows that stretch to a little taller than their height as entryways to their elemental realm.

Elves are wise, spiritual beings who love music, art and creativity. They celebrate and perform rituals for pretty much every occasion. They are frugal with using their magic, limiting their talents to those with an intention to care for and improve nature. If elves used their magic when the energy around them isn’t peaceful, their powers might harm nature, humans, or even themselves.

In this millennia, wood nymphs and elves are making themselves known by reaching out and communicating with an intention to re-educate people about how to care for Earth. By responding to the desire of people who wish to expand their spiritual awareness, elves are aiding man in his spiritual growth.

According to gurus around the world, man’s evolving consciousness has resulted in greater respect for nature. The Go Green mindset has modified man’s destructive habits. Angelic elves predict the end of the world has been pushed back, thanks to eco-friendly conduct. The world will provide man a safe and comfortable environment for fifty additional years, giving man time to reverse the previous ill-fated acts. In 2062, the elves intend to reevaluate how man treats nature and possibly save the planet.

Learn more about elves and their magic in my fantasy, Elf Book of Enchantments, where elf spirits stop evil from destroying the world.

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The Birth of Elvis Presley

I often wonder how a man grows into a genius. Is the path of a legendary artist predestined? Did his environment steer him toward the desire to escape?

Winner of the Rock’n’Roll Hall of Fame, the Country Music Hall of Fame, Golden Apple Awards, Laurel Awards and a few Grammy’s Elvis Presley qualified as a creative genius.  He was born in Tupelo, Mississippi on January 8, 1935. I’ve noticed in my studying successful leaders’ lives that many soulful people who made a dynamic change in the way others think were born at the beginning of January. According to astrology, the peak period for Capricorns made Elvis ambitious and disciplined, patient and careful, practical and wise, while also at a low-moment acting pessimistic and stingy.

At his birth, Elvis’ twin brother, Jesse, was stillborn. Even though they were separate people, the personalities of twins often seemed to have been divided. Perhaps a part of Elvis died with his brother and he always felt incomplete.

When Elvis was almost three, his father was imprisoned for forgery and his mother  lost the house where he was born. He and his mother rotated between living with family and friends for a year.

Elvis attended the Assembly of God, a church focused on values and searching for the truth. Despite having a modest standard of living, Elvis often gave away his toys to children he felt had less. He continued to give generous gifts to his family, staff and even strangers during adulthood. Elvis paid people’s hospital bills, he bought Cadillac’s and Rolex watches as spontaneous gifts and covered people’s debts.

Elvis relied on music as an escape when he was young. By fifth grade, he won fifth place for singing at a county fair. Recognized as a gifted vocalist, Elvis sang prayers in class throughout his elementary school years. His main inspiration at that point was from his church and the courthouse radio. Before his death, Elvis planned to establish a meditative chapel at the sight of his birthplace. His idea was conceived and became a popular setting for weddings.

After years of dislocation while his father followed work around the state, Elvis and his parents sold their few belongs and moved to Memphis in search of a better life. His performances expanded outside the classroom and he began singing in night clubs and record stores. It wasn’t until July 18, 1953, that Elvis recorded his first song, “My Happiness,” as a birthday gift for his mother. Interestingly, the last two numbers of the year are the inverted numbers of his birth year. Elvis hadn’t perfected how to play the guitar when his career took off but he shook his tail-feathers while strumming rubberbands.

For a feel of his childhood environment, you can visit Elvis’ birthplace, see his chapel, and get to know the experiences of a child who grew into a legend.  http://www.elvispresleybirthplace.com/

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Python Prank

Guest author and avid sailor, Pierre van Rooyen, shares a snazzy story from Saturdays Are Gold.

Children are insane. This happened in 1947 in Kensington, Johannesburg. Maudie, my sister, was seven, Amos, our Zulu playmate, was eight, Tadpole (me) was nine, and Hobo was a mongrel. We were in a cave on the koppies when a python tried to constrict Amos. In desperation, he managed to get his mouth over the reptile’s throat and chewed through, making the python bleed to death.

‘I taking it home to show my mama,’ he grinned weakly.

‘Yah, good thinking, Amos,’ Maudie agreed.

We knotted the sash cord around the reptile’s neck and climbed onto the ledge, hauling the python up.

Below, the candle dwindled to a smudge of wax.

On the koppie, the sun burned brightly and for the first time we had a proper look at our prize.

‘You didn’t horse around, Amos,’ Maudie chirped. ‘I never seen anything like it. Not even in a circus.’

‘I was fagged out,’ Amos grinned.

The python was so long and heavy, we traipsed in single file with it draped over our shoulders. Amos strode in front with the reptile’s head dangling down his chest. I followed with the fat middle section of the body over my shoulder and Maudie took up the rear, supporting the tail which hung down over her back. Hobo trotted at her heels, excited at the trophy we were taking back to the suburbs.

It was like that, in bizarre procession, that we marched up the dirt driveway of the house next door where Amos’s mama worked. The owners were on holiday. Selina wasn’t in the backyard and as we noticed the kitchen door was open, we tramped up the back stairs in single file with the python over our shoulders and went into the house.

Selina was cleaning windows when we found her. She was in the bathroom with her back to us. She had opened the burglar proofing so she could reach the glass and had the sash window slid up. She was stooped, rinsing her cleaning cloth in a bucket of water when we marched in behind her.

‘Look, mama,’ Amos announced proudly. ‘Look what terrible thing tried to take your umfaan away from you. If it wasn’t for Maudie and Tadpole here, your little umfaan would be no more.’

Amos’ mama, bending over the bucket, didn’t need to straighten or turn around. She moved her head slightly and caught an upside down view of us standing behind her with the gaping jaws of the dead python hanging over her son’s shoulder.

She jumped through the open window.

There was no word of greeting to her son, no maternal concern for the danger he had been in and no farewell as she departed. When we walked into the bathroom, she was rinsing her cleaning cloth. Approximately one second after Amos spoke to his mama, she was sprawled in a bed of squashed dahlias beneath the window. Her cleaning cloth had only got as far as the windowsill which it now straddled, dripping water onto the floor and into the garden.

We followed Amos to the sash and looked down.

‘But mama,’ he pleaded, leaning over the sill. ‘Aren’t you pleased to see your umfaan alive and well?’

Although Selina’s mouth was open, she had not so much as uttered a word. Surrounded by bent dahlias, she struggled to get to her feet and at the same time pluck the bottom of her dress over her knees. Her eyes, twice their normal size, were fixed on the python.

‘It’s okay mama, it’s dead. Look, I can show you,’ Amos said, trying to reassure her. With that, he began working the python’s jaws open and closed.

Perhaps an animated dead python is more frightening than one that does what it’s supposed to do: lie still. I don’t know.

Then the unthinkable happened. The python started sliding over our shoulders, down Amos’s chest and out, over the sill.

Selina’s legs jerked straight, driving her body away from the snake coming out of the window. She went backward through the dahlias and landed on the edge of the dirt drive. She still hadn’t said anything. Then she was on her feet and disappeared up the drive like an arrow shot from a bow. I heard her locking herself inside her room, bolting the door top and bottom and jamming a chair under the handle.

‘I don’t think my mama loves me,’ Amos sighed, wiping a tear from his cheek, ‘else she woulda take me in her arms. She don’t care about that earthworm having her umfaan for supper.’

The python caused a bit of a stir in our neighbourhood and a few people came to look at it. Moses and Sampson wanted to see the corpse but only from the safety of the other side of the backyard fence. There was a lot of superstition about snakes.

‘Sis, how we gonna get rid of the body?’ I queried. ‘Smell’s getting bad.’

‘Easy-peezy,’ she replied. ‘Hide it in our dustbin.’

“Reckon it’ll fit?’

‘Squash it inside and cover it with rubbish.’

That was a mistake.

The dustmen danced up our street, whistling and singing and chanting. I heard them coming, flinging off  lids, banging the bins against the side of their cart as they emptied them and banging the empty bins back on the pavement. The python lay hidden. So when our zealous dustman snatched off the lid, the contents in the bin appeared normal.

He hefted the dustbin onto his shoulder and chased after the dust cart. Unfortunately, as he was pouring the contents from shoulder level into the cart, the python came sliding past his face. I don’t suppose he was expecting this, especially at such close quarters.

‘Hauauauyeowee …’ His cry of anguish was one I had never heard before. It provoked the entire neighbourhood of dogs to break into a cacophony of barking and wailing. He flung the bin, spewing refuse and the twelve foot snake, into the gutter.

Seeing what had happened, the rest of the crew dropped their dustbins in the street in case they had pythons in them too.. They piled onto the dust-cart and drove away, refusing to service our street until we got rid of our own pythons.

My sister, Amos and I were made to clean up the street. We spent an afternoon sweeping up the mess and shovelling it back into people’s dustbins. The python’s corpse was a problem. Maudie hit on the idea of dragging it down the gutter and stuffing it into a storm water drain.

That January was dry and the python decomposed in the drain for three weeks before there were only its bones left.

Check out his books on Amazon. http://www.amazon.com/Pierre-Van-Rooyen/e/B006UNGYM4

Today’s feature:  Sailing Senta Across Coral. http://www.amazon.com/Sailing-Senta-Across-Coral-ebook/dp/B007KFKCHO/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1331907125&sr=1-1

 

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Unsettled Sins in Savannah

Reverend John Wesley stands as a statue in Reynolds Square with the same commanding presence he had when he used to clutch his bible under his arm and preach to his flock in the very same spot. After growing up and receiving his religious training in England, Reverend Wesley undertook a mission to spread the word in Savannah which lasted from 1735–1738. He started the Methodist church and established the first Sunday school class in America.

Reverend Wesley stood outside his home which was located at his statue when addressing Native Americans in the great outdoors. This practice cause controversy within the church because the custom was to deliver the Gospel within the church.

Reverend Wesley began seeing a young woman in his congregation, but refused to marry her. His mistress would go to the square and stand under a tree to listen to him preach even though he heartlessly shamed her. During the conservative period, once he ruined her reputation, the community rebuked her. The woman fled Savannah and never returned.

However, her spirit still haunts Reynold’s Square. There is a blue spirit orb in the tree that looks over the statue.

Poor indentured servant, Annie, wanders the Oglethorpe Square where she hanged to death. Early teen, which was marriageable material for the times, Annie was physically and emotionally abused by her influential owner. Like any other young lady, she yearned for love and acceptance. She found her soul mate in a boy who also worked for the man.

When she discovered she was pregnant, Annie asked for freedom but her cruel employer refused. Determined to give her child a better life, Annie and her soul mate sliced her employer’s neck while she washed his hair.

The authorities found her guilty of murder and hanged her. Her spirit lingers in the square. Above her execution spot, Spanish moss never grows, even though the rest of the trees remain covered. Visitors regularly report speaking to a hysterical woman in search of her lost baby. There are ghost orbs in the above photo.


Oftentimes, visitors of the DAR cemetery have seen a child dressed in a white dress sitting on a bench, crying her heart out. Those who walked over to comfort her witness her transform into a white light and vanished as soon as she noticed them getting close to her. She was a victim of the Bay Street killer.

In the late 1800s, a teenage boy named Renee had been accused of snapping the necks of numerous children and animals, and then tossing their dead bodies into the graveyard and alleyways. The community arrested Renee and placed him behind bars. The killings ceased. Renee managed to escape during a city fire and the deaths increased, once again.

Outraged, a mob attacked Renee and strung him by the neck from a tree along the river on Bay Street. Alas, the townspeople made a mistake. Within days, the bodies of additional animals and children were discovered with broken necks. Unless, the folklore is true and Renee’s ghost continues to kill. The only way to ward away his spirit is with iron since it held him captive during his life.

Renee ‘s red spirit is visible at the DAR cemetery. He hovers over the unmarked spot where his body was tossed after his execution.

Ghosts love being alive in stories. In my novel, Surfer Murder, when a surfer returns to the water after her sister’s death, she is confronted by spirits that lead her to a murder.

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Groundhog’s Day, Best Holiday of the Year

Okay, I don’t have a photograph of a groundhog. That’s a picture of a citrus rat and he chased me after I took it.

The rat sets the mood, just as well as any other puffball. Like the groundhog, rats at my house let me know what to expect from the weather. I’m not the only person who improvises with the German tradition of relying on a rodent’s reaction to sunlight on February 2 before making plans for February and March.

In the old country, farmers relied on the instincts of hedgehogs and badgers. If the critters saw their shadows at the harvest celebration, it meant winter still lingered in the air. Then again, if the badger eagerly dashed out of his home, it meant the cold season was over. The intense sunlight at the end of winter was too bright to cast a shadow in the morning. Sunny skies heated the ground and melted the reflective snow.

Why was this significant to farmers? Timing how long to ration saved grains and vegetables meant survival. The warmer weather signaled the farm animals to start smooching. The earth thawed and farmers could churn the soil for the next crop.

With the threat of global warming, understanding our environment is as critical to our survival today as it was for our primitive ancestors. You don’t have to travel to Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania and stand in a crowd with tens of thousands of frozen tourists at six in the morning so you can witness a man in a top hat toss Phil, the one hundred year old groundhog, through a hole with electric heat in order to read nature’s hints about the coming months.

Go outside, right now and look around. Is there any critter activity? Are you sure? Study the trees and any other manmade structure suitable for tiny claws to climb up or perch on. Are there birds, aside from pigeons and crows, flying overhead? Are insects buzzing around your head?

If the coast is clear, expect six more weeks of inconvenience. Plan to spend time at home, stuffing your face with your favorite desserts and hot drinks. Maybe use the extra chilly weekends as a motivation to snuggle.

If you hear birds chirping and rats scampering to hide, head straight to the gym. Bikini season will be early this year.

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Twinkle, Twinkle, Fairy Light

Where’s a gal supposed to go in order to find a good fairy?

Take a close look around your plants. Even indoor potted plants can be infested with the playful spirits. They appear in many forms, one of which is a fairy light. Expect to find the loving spirits around unique natural settings, like trees that have grown together as if they are kissing.

Fairies seek out areas where there are tree stumps and even miniature manmade houses. Anywhere they can quickly hide from intruders pleases them.

Fairies are peaceful, nature spirits charged with inspiring beauty and abundance for plants. They are specifically responsible for encouraging fragrant flowers.

Any colorful grouping of flowers can become an enchanted garden. Fairies gravitate to bright yellows, deep purples, and hot pinks. Shiny surfaces, dangling mirrors, glass marbles, and prisms hung in the sunlight increase fairy energy.

Fairies have a sweet tooth. They are attracted to sweet smelling plants. Rosemary, licorice and peppermint entice them to stay around. Sniff your flower selections before planting them to make sure they remind you of cupcakes and honey.

Fairies love a good party and anything that reminds them of festivities. Look for wind chimes, wood pipes, and bells to add to their play land. Hang them away from the wind so you’ll know their chimes are caused by fairy activity.

If you haven’t noticed a fairy population around your houseplants and on your property, keep an eye out for any fairy doors they use as portals. Unlike entryways for other garden spirits, fairy doors have are similar to a Gothic keystone where the tip of the archway is more narrow than the bottom. Also, the edges will have the precision of having been cut with a sharp blade. Most importantly, make sure you have a pure heart when trying to connect with the cheerful spirits. No need attracting the wrong sorts. They can be mischievous, causing mishaps in your garden, and those are the nice ones.

Don’t expect a fairy to show herself in a human body the first time you meet. As angelic spirits, fairies exist in the form of light. Anyone paying attention can spot a fairy light. They tend to fly at the human eye level. If they want to make contact, fairies will twinkle in hopes of grabbing your attention.

 

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Roaming Gnomes Surround Your Home

A furrow in the base of a tree near your house might not be a random hole. It might belong to your local gnome population.

Gnomes are earth dwelling spirits with the tough job of protecting plants and minerals in the ground. As vegetarians, they adore animals and are always on the lookout to save them. Since people are the number one offenders of abusing the planet, the six inch tall gnomes tend to stay away from humans.

If you happen to glimpse the shadowy figure of a gnome, check out his feet. Gnome legs rotate inward, causing his toes to point to each other. This effect allows him to run as fast as a tiger. His keen vision give him detailed sight a couple of miles in the distance.

If you are thinking your landscaping could use some improvements by the peaceful gnomes, try making your outdoor environment more desirable to them. Gnomes gravitate toward nut bearing trees, mushrooms, vegetable gardens and berry bushes.

The two natural predators of gnomes are cats and trolls. Gnomes won’t live around your house if you have either.

Check out your yard for any gnome homes. They live at the base of trees in furrows between exposed roots. Of course, you won’t see their real home, but only the entryway to their other world. If you want to capture a photograph of a gnome, you don’t have to wait until dark. Simply approach the tree with good intentions and if they are receptive to you, they will greet you in the archway.

Gnome characters play a major role in my novel, The Elf Book of Enchantments, when they interfere with a teenage girl’s quest to right her wrongs that are destroying her family.

Good luck!

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What Good are Heroes?

Without heroes and heroines, fantasy worlds fall flat.  Heroes put the oomph into enchanted settings and heighten emotions in everyday relationships.

Men and women build stories, but what qualities create a heroic figure?

The hero evolved hundreds of years ago, well before stories of survival were written down.  Initial storylines portrayed heroes with superhuman characteristics capable of overpowering the gods.  As storytelling progressed, the hero became humanized.  His special quality became his courage to confront danger.  His personal sacrifices aided mankind.  Over time, heroes expanded from possessing exceptional combat skills to holding high morals.  Military leaders and politicians represented heroic geniuses who improved civilizations.

Fantasy heroes speak for the reader and respond on behalf of the reader.  Therefore, the hero’s persona resembles a regular, down-to-earth guy, yet, he holds a unique outlook on life with extraordinary abilities.  Heroes are attractive and sensitive to other’s feelings.  Readers prefer heroes wise enough to accumulate and manage wealth.

In the opening chapters of a story, heroes reveal their strengths and reasons for going out into the world.  Even if he begins his journey for personal reasons, the hero realizes all of mankind relies upon him.  Readers respond to heroes with special skills and outstanding inner-strength capable of overcoming negative odds.

Eventually, the hero’s strengths bring about his weaknesses.  The hero acts inappropriately but then justifies his behavior after completing his purpose. His fatal flaws inspire introspection while his strengths prevent him from becoming overpowered by emotional pain.

No hero can survive without a cast of characters.  Fantasies must supply civilians to save and enemies to fight.  Relationships with others establish the hero’s character.  His survival depends upon his interactions with others.

The main purpose of a hero in the fantastical world is to fight evil forces.  Heroes must overcome their fears in order to acquire empowerment.  Readers relate to the hero’s universal fear of suffering as a result of making sacrifices to gain divine knowledge.

A critical element of a hero is his separation from his tribe.  Abandoning his tribe grants him the opportunity to explore his inner self and discover life’s truth.

Readers yearn to watch heroes evolve spiritually.  On his journey, the hero’s intelligence awakens and he develops wisdom.  Doubting his abilities and questioning the concept of a higher source of power, the hero confronts his demons alone.  His recurring flaws surface throughout the story until he overcomes his defect.  The hero returns to his tribe to share his new gifts of truth and expanded awareness.

Critical to fantasies, heroes represent mankind’s desire to find unconditional love.  The hero persistently destroys forces in opposition to mankind experiencing love, regardless of what he loses in the process.

Heroes instill hope for the reader that the gods haven’t abandoned mankind.  Like the hero, man must learn to listen to his inner voice and rely upon his intuition when making life decisions.  Discovering personal power prevents man from being vulnerable to life’s influences.  Through the hero, the reader awakens an inner knowing and spiritual power wherein he realizes his true purpose and improves his life.  Heroes and heroines reveal the ultimate life lesson for readers.

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David McCullough is Fishy

Winner of the Pulitzer Prize multiple times, David McCullough knows how to tell a good story by putting together all the forgotten scraps of letters and records no one else is patient enough to read. He breathes history.

At a lecture he gave at Rollins College, David discussed his craft on writing. “Look at the fish,” he kept repeating to stress the importance of noticing every beautiful detail. He said the secret of writing effective prose was in drawing out your emotions about minute characteristics of the subject matter.

According to David, history and art are the most significant school subjects because they feed off one another and teach man how to live rightly. For every person, there is at least one teacher who changed his life. He asked each of us to recall the teacher who inspired us to push ourselves farther than we thought we could go.

And for me, there was one. We will refer to her as, Ms. SciWi because she had a black mole sitting at least a fourth of an inch high on her chin. Two long hairs, that curled at their tips claimed domain of the mound.  Ms. SciWi didn’t approve of my wearing three-inch Candies with sundresses. She was probably right about it being inappropriate for an eighth grader but those moments when my red-headed, brainiac friend – oh, excuse me: strawberry blonde (wink wink) – would throw back her head, cackling so hard tears ran down her cheeks whenever the teacher leered at my shoes was so precious, I couldn’t give them up.

Science was always my best subject. I scored in the ninety-ninth percentile on standardized tests, but in our class, no matter how high my grade was, Strawberry Girl outscored me by one point. After the teacher passed out our graded tests, Strawberry Girl would lean over and ask, “What you get?” I’d proudly hold up a test showing where I earned 107, or maybe 110, and other scores I didn’t even know existed above 100. Every single time, Strawberry Girl would hold out her paper to show me it had one number greater than mine. And then she would bust out laughing, her eyes rolling into the back of her head and her feet flying off the floor.

I sat in the back of the class next to a girl we shall refer to as Sunny because she put Sun-In on her hair. She played soccer so much, her whole body was like a piece of steel. Beautiful as she was, flawless even, she walked around with a scowl on her face. On days when the class passed forward their assignments, she would turn to me and ask, “Will you draw a picture for me?”

Well, it was a science class and I never drew pictures with my multiple-choice answers and essays. So, “Sure.” It wasn’t like it was cheating if it didn’t have anything to do with dissecting live rats, or the chemical reaction when a person digests drugs, or reasons why a person looses her mind.

Our elementary school didn’t have an art class. Anyone interested in pursuing art had to wait until high school. The art program wasn’t available to just anyone, either. Students had to follow strict guidelines for preparing three still-lifes and complete a questionnaire.

One day, Ms. SciWi asked Sunny and me to go with her into the hallway to cut construction paper. I had no cutting experience. My dad was an eye surgeon and the kids in our house weren’t allowed to walk across the room with scissors because they might suddenly fly from our hands and poke out an eyeball. He’d seen it happen many times. Plus, whenever I used a knife, I cut myself. My mother devised a rule for only me: I wasn’t allowed to use sharp objects.

As the three of us were cutting paper, Ms. SciWi said to Sunny, “Are you going to try out for art in high school? You are extremely gifted.”

I looked up, laughing. Sunny’s eyes grew round and she shook her head, begging me not to tell the teacher I drew all those pictures.

“Do you think I should try out for the art program?” I asked, still laughing. The moment was too priceless for me to tell the teacher I was the genius she had complimented.

Ms. SciWi said, “You don’t have any artistic talent. You can’t even cut a straight line.”

Based on our conversation, I applied for the art program and was accepted. I won so many awards during high school, I automatically qualified for partial scholarships at numerous colleges. Two times, my art portfolios were stolen. A professor said my drawings were so good, whoever did it probably planned to pass my work off as his own in a job interview. My first job out of college was rendering buildings and preparing complex drawings at an international architectural firm. I designed hospitals and banks. Although I took hiatuses from the art world, whenever I returned, I won additional awards. At the International Fabric Exhibition in New York, out of four hundred designers, I was one of ten featured at their show. Fashion designers introduced themselves to me and  praised my success, and later used my designs. I’ve been featured in several newspapers and magazines.

David McCullough was absolutely right. There was a teacher in my life whose belief in my talent gave me the confidence to explore avenues I never would’ve considered. It’s been a fun ride I wouldn’t have had without her encouragement.

Art reflects man’s thinking at the time, which includes political views, scientific advancements, the economy and religious beliefs. Pottery, paintings, tools not only are history, they provide details about man’s past.

According to David, the study of art and history are critical for developing man’s intellect. And teachers are the most valuable servants in our society. Despite all our teasing, I thought Ms. SciWi was adorable and I knew she liked and respected me, as well. She changed my life for the better. Her giving me the high scores boosted my self-esteem and expectations for my future. I intend to follow David’s advice: To find the story within a man’s life, all a person needs to do is look at the fish. How does the man feel about his experiences and what did he do as a result of them?

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Don’t be such a drama queen…Actually, please do

Ready for an emotion-packed, high-drama read? Introducing one of my dearest friends, Cheri Lasota, author of the turbulent fantasy, Artemis Rising. One of her gifts is sharing her vast knowledge about writing with others, which I am thrilled to pass on to you.

Every comment left, whether via twitter, facebook, or within my comment section, will be entered into a drawing for a free e-publication of Artemis Rising. For additional information about my guest author, check out her website at www.cherilasota.com.

Don’t be such a drama queen…Actually, please do: How to put the drama back into your chapters

writing craft advice by Cheri Lasota

I won’t mince words. My novel, Artemis Rising, was a pain in the butt to write. Took me ten tortuous years to whip that finicky diva into shape. Essentially, the plot involves three intertwining stories: my main plot, which focuses on a young Azorean girl choosing between two boys and two faiths (poor girl); the myth of Alpheus and Arethusa, and the legend of Tristan and Isolde. Somehow all these seemingly disparate stories flow as one in the novel (don’t ask me how…that’s where the ten years come in).

That said, the lovely Janie Bill has asked me to talk a little bit about how I created a sense of drama in a scene that inherently doesn’t have a lot of forward motion. I’ve chosen the chapter that focuses on the Azorean religious festival Festa do Espírito Santo. For years, this chapter plagued me, and yet I couldn’t bear to cut it. The festival was one of the cultural aspects of the Azores Islands that I wanted to highlight and work into my plot.

Seems like it would be easy to do, right? I can just put my main character front and center in the middle of the festival and build my scene from there.

“The orphans would dance the Chamarrita and São Macaio and Arethusa herself would be named a special queen due to her bravery and hardship.”

See? I did that. But basically the scene then consisted of my main character being the queen of the festival and performing certain rituals in a very solemn mass and procession. Not exactly edge-of-your-seat action.

Well, at some point, I had a colossal breakthrough moment. There was a powerful scene that I had deleted from chapter one (because it divulged something shocking about my bad guy that I didn’t want revealed so early on). It had lingered quietly in my periphery for a couple of years. And then! I realized I could just dump that scene into the middle of my festa chapter and that would completely throw a wrench in the seemingly benign flow of the festival.

There are my characters, dancing away toward the end of the festival, and then here is the moment where the shocking news is revealed…

“The horror in her face made him let go but not before Irmã Fátima caught sight of them and began her walk across the courtyard. But Arethusa did not think of the nun. She grasped her throat and pointed an accusing finger at Diogo, but the words she ached to say would not come.

It was you.

Amusement tugged at the corners of his mouth and his eyes spoke of secrets they both knew, secrets she had no voice to tell. On his lips, she recognized the distinct curve of his malice. The memory came back to her in a flood-rush.”

Every chapter needs:

  • A beginning, middle, and end
  • Rising action
  • A purpose—either character development or plot movement (preferably both)

This chapter had a purpose: to highlight a critical element of Azorean culture and to give my character (and the reader) a reprieve from a horrific experience in the previous chapter. But it was missing a rising action to a big ending. This huge reveal (it’s actually my character having a flashback to that earlier scene from chapter one) gave me both of those necessary items.

This is something each writer needs to analyze. One edit of your novel should be devoted to holistic examination of chapter structure. Does each chapter pull it’s weight and add something new to the story–information, character development, plot reversals, calls to action, etc.? Do the chapters end on a cliffhanger or big reveal? If a chapter doesn’t build to something, you might need to restructure it so that it does.

And of course this isn’t just for whole chapters. This goes down to scenes within chapters and paragraphs within scenes. Every element that goes into a novel is a microcosm unto itself. And each requires the writer’s attention to ensure it’s being useful and pulling its weight.

Create and sustain drama through classic chapter structure and you’ll be sure to keep your readers on the edge of their seats. Case in point: I was sitting next to my friend as she read this revised scene. When it came to the moment of the big reveal, she turned to me eyes-wide and nearly shouted, “Oh, no you didn’t!” That put a huge smile on my face, as you can imagine. At last, I had fixed the problem of my wayward chapter: drama.

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Dial 911 for 311 Hauntings

 

While visiting Chattanooga, Tennessee for Zip’s annual gun show, we stayed at the Sheraton Read House. The National Register of Historic Places recognized the hotel for its Georgian architecture. The hotel brags about its Drexel Furniture and Sheraton Sweet Sleeper Beds, and I am here to tell you, the sleeping situation is outstanding. There is a rumor about the hotel being haunted and seeing as how I love a good mystery, I had to check it out. The hauntings are so well known, the locals believe them full-heartedly and even use the room to their advantage. As a joke, they put Al Capone in room 311 on the night he was taken into custody before being tried and convicted for his unlawful gangster related tax evasion.

Site History

The hotel site has had several names beginning in the 1847 when the Western and Atlantic Union train station was built across the street. During Civil War days when it was referred to as the Crutchfield House, the location thrived with politics, social events and boomed economically, acting as the Union occupied headquarters and hospital during the war. In 1861, Jefferson Davis and William Crutchfield argued vehemently about whether or not Jefferson was a traitor and military despot, drawing guns and firing into the crowd. After a fire, the hotel was reinvented as the Read House in 1872, with Georgian Revival additions in 1926. The impressive guest list includes, Winston Churchill, Richard Nixon, Ronald Reagan, Bob Hope, William McKinley, Eleanor Roosevelt, Margaret Truman, Charles Laughton, Tallulah Bankhead, Eddie Rickenbacker, and along with the many other famous folks, of course, Al Capone.

Likely Spirits

During the Civil War in 1863, a prostitute was taken to room 311 and heartlessly murdered by a soldier. Coincidentally, in the late 1920s, after the Crutchfield House burned to the ground and was rebuilt as the Read House, a woman named Analise Netterly died in the new room 311. There are several versions of her story. 1) She was a kept woman and once she realized her male suitor was dishonorable, she unexpectedly died, some believe due to a broken heart, others say suicide and still more claim murder. 2) She was a wife who cheated on her husband and was cast off at the hotel. Determined to get even with him, she intended to live a lavish lifestyle on his dime, but days before the divorce was final, she was found in the bathtub with a slashed throat.

The Haunting

Regardless of which woman remains attached to the property, men who smoke cigars or cigarettes have reported being harassed by a female spirit. For many years, the third floor of the hotel was the smoking floor but with so many guests checking out during the middle of the night, demanding a refund because they woke with a woman sitting on their chest, or slamming the bathroom door, or staring at them inches from their faces, the hotel came up with some strategies. 1) The hotel switched the room number with 313, thinking people fabricated the sensations, but the hauntings never left the original 311. 2) After switching the rooms back, all guests were responsible for the hotel fee regardless of what time they checked out. 3) When hauntings continued after the smoking floor was removed, room 311 was removed from the guest room list. It is no longer available for lodging and has been converted into a broom closet.

Why Al Capone?

Chattanooga was once referred to as the Dynamo of Dixie because the town relied on manufacturing for its revenues and with that, was a strong supporter of unions. Al Capone was incarcerated nearby and spent his last night as a free man in room 311 during the early 1930s. The guards stayed with their ears against the door, laughing amongst themselves, expecting to hear Capone cry out in fear any minute. Instead, all they heard was loud, rattled snoring. A new legend was born. The discontented spirit in room 311 recognized Capone as being more evil than she was, and hid from him that night.

Al Capone in Chattanooga 

My photos suggested to me that an evil spirit looms in room 311 as opposed to a woman with a broken heart. Could it possibly be the intense personality of Al Capone? I wondered if the gangster leader would have close enough ties to the hotel for him to remain there in his afterlife.

He owned property on top of a mountain forty-five minutes west of town. Today, it is called High Point, a restaurant voted as having the Best Gourmet Meal in Tennessee. Capone financed the stone house for John Dillenger as a hideout for booze transported across the country during the prohibition years. The building has underground tunnels and escape hatches and sand under the floorboards to stop bullets, plus numerous bullet holes in the walls. On December 30, 1941, his son, Albert Francis “Sonny” Capone, married his sweetheart Diane Ruth Casey who was from Chattanooga. Apparently, Capone spent quite a bit of time in the area.

Haunting Encounter

Once I heard the stories about the 311 hauntings, I rallied my children to investigate the third floor with me. My husband, Zip, who doesn’t believe in such rubbish, couldn’t resist joining us, just in case something interesting happened. The hallway was empty and just as the story said, all the rooms on the floor were numbered except for 311.

I took photos from different angles, at first finding an orb beside the door, which grew smaller. As we stood outside the room discussing whether or not the hotel brochure would mention the story of Ms. Netterly being afraid of Al Capone, I noticed a black image, a reddish smokey figure shaped like splattered blood, move across the door. I asked everyone to step back and took another shot. We ordered the ghost to return to its home, i.e., not follow us back to our place. The figure slipped under the door frame and was gone.

I’d never photographed a sinister image before and all of us were a little spooked. Even skeptical Zip flinched when he saw the figure move around us. In unison, we all said it must’ve been Al Capone, maybe attached to his last great night of sleep. He might’ve been curious what we had to say about him, or wanted to protect his property. This haunting resembles the ghostly character in my novel, Under a Full Moon, by interacting with others on the material plane.

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Inspirational Manatees Make Dreams Come True

Years ago, soon after I first saw manatees, several appeared in my dreams. They saved me from drowning in the ocean when the dolphins were too busy playing. A gentle sea cow carried me to safety, far away from the alligators and sharks, and deep into a cavern through an entrance under sea level. Books covered the walls of numerous alcoves inside the cave, with plush seating clustered in all the nooks. I woke with a great sense of peace, a feeling of new beginnings, and an appreciation toward the mystical looking creatures.

I’d never seen anything like them before, with their tiny, eternally sleepy eyes and their silly mouths puckering into sloppy kisses. They have short flippers, like a seal, but with their enormous bellies, they can hardly do more than push each other aside when I bend over the stern of the sailboat to say, “hello.” As vegetarians, they love greens, cabbages and leafy vegetables, and will cross the filthiness rivers for a taste of fresh water whether it is running out from  my sailboat when the air conditioners are cooling or flowing from a hose while I swab the deck. Manatees always travel in pairs, like lovers languishing in the heat. Other times, they arrive with a third calf for an afternoon family outing.

Even the busiest sailors and children stop what they are doing to watch the manatees argue over which gets the longest drag of fresh water. They captivate attention not only because they are so charming and endearing, but also because of their resistance to the environment.

Their backs are covered in algae, giving them shimmers of turquoise and metallic greens on their tough skin, making them seem all the more magical, like wizened mermen. Deep gouges in their backs reveal how careless man is, charging through the No Wake Zones full speed without warning to the manatees that their lives are in danger, that they must submerge their sluggish bodies before their heads become lobbed off.

I remembered my dream when writing my fantasy, Evangabella, and shared their hidden world in the opening chapter. It is because of their secretive serenity that the protagonist causes an accident that thrusts her into a mystical world where she must right her ancestors’ wrongs. No matter how many times manatees visit me while I’m on the water, I’m always overcome by their magical presence. Surely, they are related to mermaids.

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Savannah Savors Spirits

Savannah, Georgia is one of the three most haunted cities in the United States. Ghosts throughout the town squares are so active, their stories are told with the same enthusiasm as nasty gossip, spoken without hesitation or question as to the likelihood spirits savor the old houses and historical town squares.

For instance, at the 17 Hundred 90 Hotel, an unfortunately poor child named Anna was forced into a servitude marriage with an old, abusive man. She performed into hard labor in addition to having almost no food and too many beatings. After a few years, she fell in love with a sailor who promised to return and free her from her enslavement. When the boy returned, her husband beat her to death, then tossed her out the upstairs window. There in the window, her spirits remains, waiting for her one true love.

At a quaint house around the corner, a black cat once lived and played with the local children in the courtyard. So attached to the fun and energy of happy kids, after his death, the cat makes himself visible to children in the form of yellow streaks.

Ah yes, the famed most haunted home in Savannah is the Hampton Lillibridge house that survived the 1820 town fire. The spirits love this home so much they refused to leave when the house was relocated, which incidentally resulted in an accidental death. The then owner, Jim Williams stood trial three times for murder and the word on the street was that in addition to a crypt found in the basement, Jim placed his victim there as well. During the 1960s, the hauntings were so outrageous, the neighbors accused him of having loud parties every night. The community insisted the local bishop perform an exorcism, however the paranormal activity continued.

The orb in my above picture belongs to a boarder who hanged himself. The below picture shows three white orbs and at the edge of the picture is a blue orb, all probably there for the nightly party.

In Reynolds Square at the previous site of the naughty pastor John Wesley’s home, there is a haunted tree beside his statue. Wesley arrived from England as a missionary for establishing the Methodist church in Savannah and creating the first Sunday school class in the country. His practice of preaching outdoors caused controversy, as well as his love for a young woman who didn’t return his advances. As punishment to her, he ruined her reputation and ran her out of town.
Bars have always been the favorite hotspots in Savannah. Despite the communities strong religious roots, pirates crowded the streets, swindlers looked to get rich quickly, Native Americans scalped citizens, men fled the law and cruel soldiers settled in the town after an invasion. At this particular bar, the owner never left. He still carries trays and sits down to have a drink while chatting with the late nighters.
The residents of Savannah have so many ghosts, they love them the same way a neighbor loves the noisy kids living beside him. The weather tends to be either sticky or wet, adding to the ghostly atmosphere and making it difficult to capture clear images. The town history is intriguing with its founders sharing their decadent behavior and gallons of tears while joining together for survival.
Actually, my first vision for writing my fantasy, Evangabella, came in 1997 when I photographed a ghost in a Savannah graveyard. I had certainly felt spooked before that but never realized spirits posed for photos. My later fantasy, Under a Full Moon, incorporates paranormal happenings I’ve experienced over the years.
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Dubrovnik, Croatia Stole My Heart

An impressive entrance into the fortified community of Dubrovnik, Croatia is to arrive by cruise ship in Split and take a bus ride over an unblemished, coastal mountainside to the impressive City Walls, known by locals as the Gradske Zidine.  The massive walls contrast with the fluid ocean surrounding the Southern half of the Old City.  The Gothic and Renaissance archways and palaces are fitting for a Shakespearean theatrical setting.

You enter through one of two gates.  The smaller stone bridge entrance is located at the northeast tip of the wall and named the Ploce Gate.  Guards dressed in striking uniforms stand attention at this gateway and also at the main entrance, the Pile Gate.

The Pile Gate opens its wooden drawbridge with chain pulleys at the western side of the wall.  You follow the Placa to reach the tour guided walk around the wall.  The Placa was a shallow sea channel that divided the city both physically and socially until it was filled during the 12th century.

Before walking around the top of the wall, you enter the Pomorski Muzej, the Maritime Museum on the upper level of St. John’s Fortress.  Fantastic models reveal the evolution of sailing vessels in Croatia and present the increasing fortification of the city walls by adding bastions and towers during the 400 years following its completion in the 13th century.

It is a long walk around the top, and I do not recommend carrying an infant while wearing two inch sandals.  The views are phenomenal and you get a sense of the desperate desire for survival that encompasses the Croatian history.  Even though the temperature is climate within the Old City, the top of the wall is hot.  Vendors and cafes are available with water and snacks so make sure you bring some spending money.

If you opt out of walking the full distance and decide to spend time in the Old Town below, you can descend narrow, open stairs which are crumbling and without any handrails – again, don’t recommend carrying a baby on this tour.  Within the town, it seems gypsies and noblemen live side by side.  The narrow alleyways have small shops, but the items are not notable.  There is a bookstore with a selection of English text; however, once I returned home I realized I could have purchased the same books at my local store at a lower price.  Travel size goods include wine and cheese.

History is the theme of the Old Town and there are unique museums.  A War Photo Limited museum displays the horrendous disadvantages of enduring war.  The Muzej Provoslavne Crkve, the Orthodox Church Museum, presents Balkan and Russian religious icons in addition to contemporary work by Vlaho Bukovac.  The Katedrala Velika Gospa, the Cathedral of Our Lady, is full of religious paintings and relics of saints that are decorated with gold, silver, and jewels.  A Jewish Synagogue is also open for view.    The Crkva Svetog Vhaha, is the 18th century Church of St. Blaise.  The Dominikanski Samostan, the Dominican Monastery is constructed with gothic cloisters and holds a religious paintings from the 15th and 16th centuries.

My favorite aspect of the Old Town is the Knezev Dvor, the Bishops Palace.  Expect to see festivities.  Russian dancers kick and stomp in front of a seated crowd of tourists dining and drinking from silver mugs.  Military guards move in formation as if they too are putting on a dancing performance.

I recommend this trip for families because it is safe and a true medieval town well worth the education and excitement of being exposed to something new.  I also recommend this as a stop for couples who love an amorous setting.

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Blackmer Has Dragon Stones

If you’ve ever wondered what a dragon stone is, then you haven’t read the book, yet. In Draegnstoen, Jeff Blackmer, covers a unique period in history: the era of the Picts in England. Blackmer gives real life energy to the lost civilization by incorporating their behaviors, their lifestyles and their superstitions into his adventure featuring political intrigue and passionate betrayals.

Dragons once roamed the earth alongside the Picts, testing their survival skills and engaging them in violent battles. Despite their limited weapons, the Picts were trained warriors, using mental strategies and sexual energies to defeat the mighty beasts as well as disarm off their enemies.

Draegnstoen provides an excellent personification of a heroine, fearless and enticing, brutal and protective. Blackmer manages to validate the violence of the period with knowledge of their customs and the witchery in the air that interfered with man’s desire for peace.

Blackmer incorporates the complex relationships during the dark ages between men and women, brothers and sisters, as well as kings and servants. In his gutsy tale, survivors rely upon their wits, their physical strengths, and primitive instincts to live through the following day.

How does he create such vivid heroes and heroines? Blackmer is the quintessential hero and if you are wondering what that is exactly in modern times, then you must find him on Facebook and twitter and get to know him yourself.

If you are a historical fiction buff or fantasy lover, check out Draegnstoen at www.amazon.com.

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Mother Was Right about Being Polite

When I was a young adult living in Memphis, the city with the highest per capita per person crime rate on the planet, I learned a lesson while attending the World Champion Barbecue Cooking Contest. It took place every year during the month-long celebration called, Memphis in May. Hundreds of  teams, some huge corporations, others home-town cooks, lined the mighty Mississippi River, building elaborate two-story restaurants where two-hundred thousand people gathered to taste everyone’s barbecue. Professional chefs selected the winners, the crowd determined the best Ms. Piggie Idol costume and tee-shirt awards. There was so much socializing, the ground becomes saturated with beer and wine, turning to mud on some of the paths. Music jammed, bands rocked and crowds interlocked arms, singing Ol’ Man River, dozens of times.

Each year, the city honored a different country and my most memorable one was the year they invited craftsmen from Kenya. As the festival was winding down, a few friends and I walked toward our car, headed under a railway bridge with the river on the other side. Without realizing I broke away from them, I stopped at a table full of jewelry and bought a pair of earrings. When I ran to catch up with my friends, I soon found myself alone with hills on both sides of the road. I didn’t even see the vender’s stands.

All at once, I was surrounded by six large guys, dark as the night who slipped out from the shadows. The largest one, young but intimidating, pointed to the bottle in my hand as said, “Give me some of your drink.”

“No, you may not,” sprang out of my mouth. I hadn’t even thought about what was best for me to say and it didn’t even fit his demand. It was a silly sentence my mother engrained into my brain when I was hardly old enough to talk. In my family, we weren’t allowed to share our drinks. It was germy, according to my mother and I totally agreed with her on that one. All my life, when someone wanted a sip, I always told them, “no,” using the same grammar my mother had taught me. I could even hear her voice inside my head as the words escape my mouth, stern with having to remind me not to share drinks with others.

If I’d thought about it even for a second, I am sure I would’ve handed over the drink. I didn’t really care about finishing a hot fruity beverage that had lost its flavor. There wasn’t even a real threat of my catching his germs since he probably wasn’t going to give it back to me.

In unison, the guys raised their hands like claws and took a step closer to me. Six inches away, they were practically growling and all I could think was, “something very unpleasant is about to happen to my body.”

“Wait.” The leader raised his arm and his gang froze, their faces still in fighting mode, their hands ready to pull off my limbs. ”No one has ever been polite to me before. I’m not going to mess with you because you are the only person in my life who has been polite to me.”

All his boys stepped back, nodding approval with his ruling. I appreciated how much they valued his judgment. Hoorah for gang leaders. Not until they backed off did I register how dangerous my situation was. In Memphis, crime was violent. Victims weren’t simply mugged at gunpoint. They were cut into pieces and thrown in the trunks of cars, driven over the state line and run over repeated.

“Thank you.” I meant it too.

When I looked at the leader, relieved he was a reasonable person after all, he seemed sad but gratified by my answer. I felt terrible for him. Really, no one had ever been polite to him, at all, not even his mother? With my disciplinary tone and the way I stiffened my back, I wouldn’t say I acted overly friendly in refusing to share my drink; yet, by mocking my mother’s stern voice, I gave him a sense of respect. How horribly he must’ve been treated in the past in order to attack defenseless girls as a way to feel better. Maybe he was really trying to let others see how it felt to be treated poorly so they would learn to be nicer. Don’t get me wrong, until there’s a better solution, I understand the concept behind removing felons from society as a deterrent for violent behavior.

I never wear them and don’t particularly love them, but whenever I hold my earrings, light and simple with an African flare, I think of how wise my mother was in teaching me to speak correctly. It very well might’ve saved my life. My mother was right about being polite.

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Florida Island Hopping for Sunny Adventures

Needing a breather from wearing layers of corduroy and wool during the harsh winter, we traveled to the Southwest tail of Florida for a long weekend of island hopping.  Admittedly, the weather along the Gulf of Mexico drops during January and February, but tourists, mainly from the Mid-West with a sprinkling of Europeans, pull out their linens and fashionable sweat-suits to absorb the fully developed resort communities nestled within lush tropical vegetation.  If your goal is to relax and decompress your brain, you will be in paradise.

Finding the wide road that leads to the toll bridge onto the first island is a bit hairy after a day of traveling.  You must pass through a crass city and desolate subdivisions.  In some areas, skip stopping to ask for directions, just in case it’s not safe.  Once you maneuver through the zigzagging highways, you suddenly happen upon a sun-washed coastline.  I rolled down my window to take in the euphoric scents and mesmeric sounds.  Houses on stilts line the waterways and boats parade merrily from sunrise until well after sunset.

Sanibel Island’s main attraction is to collect shells from the beach.  Sanibel faces the Gulf of Mexico and is blessed with high tides depositing assortments of shells twice a day.  You are permitted to arrive with a bucket and haul as many shells from their natural environment as you like, as long as you do not remove any that house a living creature.  For those who are not familiar with how to recognize a living creature within a shell, have no fear.  There is no policing; however, please consider the value of every life no matter how small.  Pets are allowed on the beaches in Sanibel, but do take a bag and scoop any contributions your favorite companion deposits on the ground.  Bathrooms are provided so you can change clothes or spend all day in the sun without taking a break.

If the beach doesn’t keep you entertained the entire weekend, you can rent bikes, canoes, boats, and kayaks.  If you are 16 years or older, you can purchase a fishing license and throw a line either from the pier or from a deep sea vessel.  Golf and tennis is popular.  The most visible attraction is the lighthouse located on the south tip of the island.  If you stay alert, you will spot osprey and eagles nesting in the area.

Sanibel Island is more for busy tourists while its neighbor, Captiva Island, allows nature to dominate the scenery.

A bridge connects Sanibel Island to Captiva Island where development has been reluctant to clear the gorgeous jungle.  Captivating is the best description.  There is more of an old town feel to Captiva compared to Sanibel, but most everything you need can be purchased prior to 8 p.m. when the businesses close.  Plan to spend double what you are accustomed to paying for bags of chips and boxes of crackers.  Expect heavy foods with menus featuring fried fish and buttered starches.

We stayed in a rental home located at the tip of the island in Captiva.  Shops and restaurants are walking distance, but don’t wear stilettos.  The island décor includes gravel driveways and dirt paths.  Tourists prefer athletic shoes and campy sandals.  Beware the constant traffic racing to the larger resorts.  It feels safe and lazy in the isolated community but its popularity attracts lots of people in a hurry to have fun.

For a flavorful view of the sunsets, families gather at the Mucky Duck restaurant.  Live music stirs the playful atmosphere where you can pass the time by swinging a ring toward a tree to catch it on a hook or fight little old ladies for their picnic tables.  At long last, the sun kisses the horizon and a chill rises through your sleeveless dress.

Have no fear.  After a long dinner, you have an early evening walk back to your resort and timeless moments entertaining yourself in private, whether in your swimming pool, hot tub, in front of the tube or with a book.

Having exhausted the thrill of sun bathing in the rain and wishing the Jacuzzi could grow even hotter, you can visit a historic church and stroll through its old cemetery.   There are upscale clothing stores and general stores with fancy crackers.  If you are like me, shopping for merchandise you can purchase back home at a lower price does not hold your attention.  Make sure you visit the state parks for hiking, biking or even driving around the lakes and exotic foliage.  The area is superior for bird watching, even if you haven’t previously noticed the flying creatures.  Flocks of roseate spoonbills, snowy egrets, and tufted-tailed ducks cover the numerous lakes.  It is a precious sight.

For a more adventurous day, take a day cruise to the nearby islands.  The options are endless.  You can join a group picnic where there will be music on an undeveloped beach, or travel to an exclusive island for lunch at a café.  An excellent choice is Useppa Island.

Useppa Island can only be reached by boat and one must have permission to dock at its marina.  En route, you pass rustic houses on stilts where fishermen live during the season.  The homes cannot be rebuilt after being destroyed by the elements or hurricanes.

Useppa Island is a collection of white homes, all privately owned by members of the Useppa Island club.  In order for non-members to stay on the island, you must either be a guest of an owner, or sign up for a trial membership by paying a large deposit, possibly higher than the cost of your room at the inn or house rental fees.

If you take the plunge and choose to pay the monthly membership fees and purchase a home on the island, don’t sell your primary residential home.  Owners are not permitted to live on the island year round.

The name, Useppa, was derived from mispronouncing its main resident, “Joseffa,” during the late 1700s.  The Spanish pirate, Jose Gaspar, kidnapped the Spanish princess, Joseffa de Mayorga.  When Joseffa refused his advances, he imprisoned her on the island as punishment.

A boardwalk and bridges lead you across the island.  You are surrounded by blooms of snake cacti hanging from exotic trees.  The path winds amid Old Florida architecture in white wood with wide windows.  The artistic owners decorate their porches with clever signs and rare shells and turtles dig holes within a few feet from your toes.  An elegant inn serves a filling lunch and saves you enough time to swing on the beach as ships sail passed, little more than a swimmer’s distance away.  Amenities include a human-size chess board, a crystal clear swimming pool, and immaculate tennis courts.  A historic museum sells books and Native American jewelry and a lovely bait shop sells finer resort wear.

The islands located along Florida’s southwest coast are geared toward family vacations.  Hearty meals, languid days on the beaches, and light nature hikes leave plenty of time for congregating in your room at the end of the day.  Don’t anticipate any night life or zealous activities.  It is beautiful and a definite escape from a tense lifestyle and the setting of my fantasy novel, Lochness.

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Lauren Oliver Guides Reader’s Emotions

Lauren Oliver loves to make readers hate and hates to make readers love. She flavors romantic tragedies with Gothic edge. Her authentic portrayal of high school meanies causes readers to passionately love to hate in, Before I Fall. On the flipside, Lauren’s dystopian trilogy, beginning with Delirium and followed by Pandemonium, presents an overpowering hatred of love.

Lauren modestly credits her explosive success to developing her craft over twenty years. She began journaling at the age of five.

Janie: During the years of developing your craft, how did you know when you were ready for publication? Did you read a book or reach a point where you had an epiphany telling you all the elements in your manuscript fit well together?

Lauren: In terms of your question about how I knew my writing was at the right place…I’m not sure I did, per se. I think it’s more about the fact that I began attempting longer and longer projects, using the knowledge accumulated and absorbed over the years. I completed three novels before writing Before I Fall, although I had been attempting to complete novels since high school. And eventually, I managed to complete a book that was good enough to be published and read.

Janie: When journaling, do you create an arc with each journal entry, giving a beginning, middle and end to your daily thoughts? Or do you recommend random musings?

Lauren: Well, I actually never journaled, per se. I began writing at five, but I started writing fiction from the start. So yes, from the beginning I was always working on character and plot arc. In fact, I started writing basically by extending or continuing the books my mom read me or that I was starting (barely) to read myself—it was an early version of fan fiction. I still carry notebooks, and jot down thoughts, observations, characters, metaphors, and book ideas.

The first person narrative in Lauren’s novels shares the deepest secrets of the protagonist as though she is confiding to her best friend, who happens to be the reader.

Janie: What techniques unlock your captivating voice? How do you grip the reader and shape her impressions about the protagonist?

Lauren: Oh, man! I’m not sure I know how to answer that. First of all, thank you. I think the advice I strive most to follow when it comes to voice was given to me by one of my professors at NYU (where I went to get my MFA in fiction), Chuck Wachtel. He said: “Aim for truth, and beauty will follow. Aim for beauty, and truth will not necessarily follow.”

Similar to William Shakespeare’s techniques to increase tension in Romeo & Juliet, Lauren’s sarcastic wit of her protagonist serves as comedic relief during the darkest moments. She layers tension with each chapter, giving a bang to her unexpected finale.

Janie: What are your favorite methods for heightening tension in a scene? How about the novel as a whole?

Lauren: Hmm. I’m not sure I heighten tension consciously—actually, I wish I were better at it. I tend to be much more comfortable with character, and dialogue, and long, verbose descriptions (far too comfortable, actually—my drafts always run ridiculously long). But conflict and tension are often, in books, synonymous. So placing characters that want essentially opposing things in contact creates tension. And “raising the stakes” is an essential way of creating conflict in everything from movies, to improv, to novels. This means that you take something that your character already wants or is pursuing and make it more critical that she gets it. (i.e., I need this antidote, otherwise I will die becomes I need this antidote, otherwise I will die in two hours.)

According to Aristotle’s precepts for tragedy, the story must revolve around a protagonist the reader respects, and the protagonist must have a flaw the reader is willing to excuse. In Before I Fall, Lauren lures the reader into caring for a character with an unlikeable personality.

Janie: What writing techniques make people care about a character who only exists on paper as if she is a walking, breathing relative? How do you get readers to switch from dislike to admiration?

Lauren: One of the interesting things about character development is that a reader is more likely to care—or at least proceed down the road with—a character that is deeply flawed but seems real, than one who is likable but also implausible. I think that in order to evoke a sense of vibrancy and life to your characters, it’s important that you think of them all dimensionally. Real people are inconsistent and very complex, even if, for example, their complexity manifests in silly ways—like, a person who refuses to drink regular coke (only diet!) but loves fries, or someone who won’t drink but doesn’t mind smoking weed. That’s how people are. Additionally, it’s important to give your characters a goal—wants, in other words—and also to identify what their real emotional need is, which is often distinct or even in conflict with their stated want. This is also how real people are (.i.e., I want to win this championship means I need my dad to respect me.)

In terms of growth…I mean, that is the process, through a novel, of slowly allowing the character to perceive that what they want may not be what they need.

Lauren often references her favorite literary classics, most of which are dark comedies and have desperado coming of age themes. Lauren’s novels share their timeless appeal with social messages and peeked emotions.

Janie: Must a writer have lived the emotions of his character at some point in her life in order to invoke those feelings in the reader? Can a writer successfully explore and experience an emotion for the first time in his novel?

Lauren:  That’s a wonderful question. I think, yes, you can explore an emotion for the first time, because emotions get nuance from context. For example, the “sadness” of a person saying goodbye to her boyfriend before leaving for college is qualitatively different from the “sadness” experienced by parents saying goodbye to a child before she leaves for school—sadness is just a blanket term. I’ve always thought that the most important ability a writer must have is the ability to empathize, to imaginatively project into another person’s feeling.

Contemporary dystopian fiction is set within a repressed society that is dominated with the use of technology; however, they appreciate being protected from a greater evil, until one man evolves spiritually and discovers freedom. In Delirium, Lauren portrays a monitored society that has a sense of doom.

Janie: What elements in your setting and character perspectives raise the stakes and give a sense of oppression? How important are the character’s reactions?

Lauren: The stakes become raised for Lena when she wants to oppose the strictures and rules of the society in which she lives. That is what I referenced earlier when I said that an essential element of creating tension is setting characters at odds with one another. In this case, society can be viewed as a character, and so Lena’s emotional reaction to her plight is critical. The stakes are relatively low when she believes what society preaches—they become extremely high, however, as she rebels, and increasingly feels she’ll do anything to pursue the goals and values that are in fundamental opposition to those of her culture.

One of the interesting things about writing Delirium was the chance to explore a culture in which information is rigorously controlled. Of all the forms of oppression, this is perhaps the most terrifying—a total destabilization of reality can cause far more damage than acts of immediate violence. And, unfortunately, that is a reality in many parts of the world.

While her words are perfectly arranged, Lauren is loose with the rules of writing. She switches the point of view from first to second, she ends sentences with prepositional phrases, and she plays with the verb tense. She’ll even put backstory in her beginnings. Still, she masters prose.

Janie: When is it right to break those rules preached over and over and over?

Lauren: Well, I mean, I think it’s important to understand the “rules,” because at base rules of writing are rules of clarity and communication. What is essential to good writing is simply that you are able to convey to other people what you want to convey. And like any craft, it’s often only after you understand the rules that you can perceive their flexibility. (Picasso, as I understand it, studied the rules of draftsmanship and realism for many years before he exhibited the genius of completely disregarding them.) But there are some rules—for example, the rule that no preposition should end a sentence—that seem silly to me in many cases. Who do you know that would say in actual conversation: “In which container did you put the coffee?” It’s ridiculous! Or, as Winston Churchill allegedly said: “Ending a sentence with a preposition is something up with which I will not put.”

I deeply appreciate your sharing some writing techniques about how to guide the emotions of readers, Lauren. Excellent writing, by the way. I predict a long career with multiple smash hits in your future, which you’ve already accomplished so I know I’m right. Tres bien!

Learn more about Lauren Oliver at www.laurenoliverbooks.com.

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Fairy Sighting in Costa Rica

Have you ever felt like someone was watching you while alone in the woods? Perhaps, you had connected with nature and received a little intuitive communication from the plant spirits, also known as fairies.

I have a passion for flowering plants. My hobby is trying to magnify the captivating nature in paintings, which I sell in galleries and boutiques. My family travels often, and I always carry a camera for that lone bloom in a parking lot or growing on a wild vine. I’m always amazed by the unique magnificence of each flower.

While visiting the Coiba National Park in Costa Rica, my family and I took a tour of the landscaped garden, which included not only rare species of flowers and trees, but also a petting zoo of poisonous snakes, and other reptiles and snakes, found in the rainforest. The variety of blooms was amazing. I became so excited and took so many photos, the battery on my camera ran out and I had to borrow someone elses.

In one photo there is an orb with what appears to be the outline of wings. The image is a “shining one,” which is energy from the devic realm sometimes visible to the human eye. The energies are playful but serious about their duty to protect nature. They effectively discipline or punish humans for harming the otherwise defenseless plants. These nature spirits appear in various forms based on what the viewer expects a fairy to look like. Therefore, the customs of the area influence the species of fairies. Fairies in Costa Rica are hairy.

 

Fairy godmothers were given human dimensions, oftentimes without wings. Tinkerbell was tiny with dragonfly qualities. Puck was mischievous and emotional. At a first glance, fairies lacked a particular identity.

Many people adamantly believed in fairies. In Scotland, land developers followed restrictions to avoid disturbing fairy nests located under rocks. Many Iceland residents swore their landscapes were highly populated with fairies capable of entering solid rocks to reach their homes. The increasing credibility of people claiming to see ghosts made the likelihood of additional paranormal creatures, such as fairies, feasible.

The first account of fairies dated back to the original Word spoken by God. According to Scottish folklore, after Lucifer and the fallen angels were cast out of heaven, the gates remained open. Additional heavenly beings tumbled within in the wake of Lucifer’s downward spiral. When God realized many innocent beings had slipped from heaven, he sealed the gates permanently.

“Let those who are out stay out, and those who are in stay in,” God announced. God sent the fallen angels to hell. All other heavenly beings locked outside the gates made their homes on earth.

Thus arose different tribes and races of fairies. Some tribes lived in boisterous communities with political systems, such as a king, queen and advisors. Social fairies sang and danced and held joyful banquets. Solitary fairies preferred residing in human households. Over the years, the races disputed over territories, which created natural disasters.

Another theory as to the origin of fairies evolved from Norse folklore. Adam and Eve had many children after Cain and Abel and Seth. So many, Eve didn’t have time to bath all her children when God paid a house-call. Ashamed of her dirty children, Eve hid them.

“What man hides from God, God will hide from man,” God said. He transformed her dirty children so that they became invisible. The invisible children fled into the hills. Their descendants chose to remain invisible to humans.

Eve’s wood spirit fairies protected nature. They appreciated humans who respected the environment by cleaning waterways, picking up litter and adopting a vegan diet. As a matter of fact, modern day believers, such as Doreen Virtue, advised such actions for developing the ability to see fairies. The magical creatures revealed themselves to deserving humans.

Greeks believed fairies were spiritual beings that evolved from idols worshipped by pagans. Christians invaded cities where pagan worship was prominent and banned idolatry. Since the dead pagans were never baptized, their spirits weren’t allowed into heaven. Hell declined admittance of the pagan spirits because they weren’t evil. Thus, the pagan spirits resided in the netherworld as fairies.

Celtic lore suggested fairies were actually small humans who settled in the netherworld to hide from violent attacks. The fairies despised the iron weapons used by clans to kill their families. Helpless against the forceful warfare, the small people developed magic for defending themselves in battles. They dressed in green and camouflaged their homes which were located on the sides of hills and in caves.

Unlike traditional heavenly beings, fairies were known for being mischievous. Their most common offense was stealing babies. They replaced innocent infants with changelings. Parents became alarmed when they noticed their healthy child grew sickly. If chanting in front of a fireplace caused the baby to climb up the chimney, it was deemed to be a changeling. Many believed death resulted when fairies forced abducted persons to dance to the point of exhaustion. Fairies tangled the hair of sleeping humans and gave incorrect instructions to travelers. If a fairy sat on the back of any livestock, the animal died. Death resulted for any human who disturbed the home of a fairy. If house dwelling fairies felt humans didn’t keep up their homes well enough, they pinched them in the middle of the night.

Humans avoided entering woodlands for fear of coming across a clan of fairies. To protect themselves from harm, people wore their clothes inside out. The custom of carrying bread in one’s pocket for good-luck began with homemade bread being used to drive away fairies. Other protections against fairies included, running water and ringing bells. St. John’s wort and four leaf clovers keeps fairies at bay, also.

If a person learned the name of a particular fairy, he gained control over the magical creature. Fairies possessed the rare ability to turn gold gifted to travelers into leaves or some type of useless object after the travelers continued on their journeys.

As long as an ethereal being isn’t a ghost or human, it could be presented in a fairy-form. Whether fairies truly existed as heavenly spirits or mischievous magicians, paranormal beings lived side by side with humans. Showing respect to our environment certainly was a logical manner in which to live, particularly if fairies punish humans for damaging earth elements. Man’s imagination sprouted the spirits of the dead into something very real.