Gertie

Gertie is an African bird, so we aren’t quite sure how she got here. Perhaps she escaped from a breeder. She doesn’t fly very well, so this seems unlikely. Perhaps she was dumped in the neighborhood. This, unfortunately, does seem likely. People who don’t live here in our hills think it is a public dumping ground, and we spend a lot of time and energy cleaning up other people’s messes. But how do you clean up a guineafowl?

She seems to have appeared as if by magic, and now, we’ve kind of fallen in love with her. She makes very strange noises, sounding alternately like a very squeaky bed and a goose being attacked by a hawk or something. And if you’ve ever doubted birds descended from dinosaurs, one look at Gertie is all it’ll take to convince you. She looks like a cross between a very large chicken and a blue Velociraptor.

All sorts of Gerties have popped up in my Work In Progress (WIP), The Storyteller’s Bracelet. Not guineafowl, these Gerties, but surprises that seem to have materialized out of nowhere. This shouldn’t surprise me as much as it does; the same thing happened when I wrote On the Choptank Shores and The Cabin.

But for some reason, these surprises are different. They are taking me into the realm of magical realism, something I experimented with in The Cabin, but which now has gone far beyond the experimental stage. And, quite frankly, I wasn’t sure I wanted this book to be classified as magical realism. I was aiming for historical romance. It contains a classic love triangle, one man and two women. He loves them both, they both love him. Both end up in serious trouble. He has to choose which one to save, and live the rest of his life dealing with the consequences.

My Storyteller's Bracelet

But then there was that pesky title item, the storyteller’s bracelet. I have one; it is what inspired me to write this book. And the bracelets—both the one in the book and the one I wear on my wrist every day as I write—seem to have magical properties I never imagined when I embarked on this writing adventure. My bracelet urges me on, makes me want to sit down and write each day. The bracelet in the story does the same thing, in a different way, to our hero.

Magic is everywhere in our world, if you just have the eyes to see it. I’m not talking illusions, which is what “magicians” like David Copperfield perform. Illusions are just that—a trick of the mind. Magic is what happens when an African bird appears out of nowhere in your Southern California yard. Magic is when bees pollinate your peach blossoms, and a few weeks later, fruit appears. As Malcolm Campbell wrote yesterday in his blog, Meditations on Seeds and Their Immense Journey, every single seed contains magic. Magic is when two People (and I capitalize that because I mean not only Humans, but Bear People, Otter People, Tree People, Lizard People, every Living Thing) come together, and a few months later, their offspring are born. Magic is when your best friend calls or emails you out of the blue just when you are feeling low and wishing she were there to comfort you. And, if you’re a writer like me, magic is when something unexpected pops up in your WIP, leading you down paths you did not expect to explore with your characters.

I’ve learned when magic enters your life, be it through an unexpected visitor from another continent or through your words, it is best to go with it. Magic is strong and best not be ignored.

And on that note, I think I best heed the magical call of my WIP. It is waiting to take me down a new path. I cannot wait to see what my characters and I discover today.

While all the stories were good, the winners struck a particular chord with me. Here are the winners and honorable mentions:

First Place: Banaadiziwin, by Melinda Clayton

Melinda’s story takes the grand prize of a print copy of Smoky’s Writer’s Workshop Combo Set because of the wonderful way she wove setting description into such a short tale. It also leaves the reader with food for thought; it teaches a lesson. To be able to accomplish so much in a mere 100 words is astounding. Here is her fabulous, winning story:

Grasshopper pulls herself further back under the leaves of peppermint and milkweed, careful to hide from Osprey, who watches from high above in the branches of Black Spruce, and from Shrew, who rustles in the cattails beside the Big Water. Grasshopper listens to the sounds of Mishigamaa:  the gentle lapping of water against shore, the quiet swish of wind through grasses, the croak of Frog as he calls to his mate. And to other sounds, not of Mishigamaa:  rumbles and booms.  Grasshopper does not know these noisemakers by their names, bulldozer and jackhammer.  She only knows them as banaadiziwin.  Destruction.

Second Place: READY, by Christina Carson

The element of surprise Christina wove into her story delighted me. Christina wins an eBook copy of Smoky’s Writer’s Workshop Combo Set for her story:

“Ah, my little Grasshopper, what have you learned since we last met?”

It was difficult to hear the old man through the jackhammer throb of Hong Kong traffic. Worse yet, I had nothing to offer. Rather than train, I’d read books about Kung Fu while sipping peppermint tea and eating lotus-seed-filled buns. The old man waited; I knew he knew. If the teacher appears when the student is ready, what was wrong with me?

His open hand shot out like lightning, stopping just at my throat. “You think you live forever. You wrong. Ready now?”

I was more than ready.

HONORABLE MENTIONS

The following three stories win honorable mentions. No prizes, but the writers get bragging rights. None of these stories had titles.

By Kat Anderson: What I love about Kat’s story is the delightful twist that takes us from the he-man world of construction work in the big city to a kinder, gentler world when the character retreats to his home after a hard day’s work. Kat lost a point, though, for using the word mint instead of peppermint. (I know, picky picky. My contest; my rules!). Here is Kat’s fabulous story:

After a long day fighting the jackhammer in the middle of a busy city street, all Carlisle wanted was a nice, cold, smooth drink. From his place at the granite-topped kitchen island, he scanned the trail of grimy clothes that marked his path to the fridge. Sighing, he hit the blender to crush the ice, muddled the fresh mint he’d grabbed from the door garden, and poured in heavy cream and Hershey’s chocolate syrup; his version of a Grasshopper.

Flipping the stereo to Etta James, he settled into the hot tub. And there was peace once more in his world.

Joyce Norman submitted this delightfully humorous 100 worder. Joyce did a wonderful job of putting the reader inside the child’s head:

I sat on the curb, sucking on a peppermint candy. The sun was high and little rivers of perspiration made their way from under my Giants baseball cap. My dad had brought me to his job site earlier that morning but when I asked to touch the jackhammer he sent me to the curb – throwing a peppermint out in front of me, like he was saying, “Fetch ’es.”

Jackhammers stopped. Dad called my name. “Here. Hold tight onto this thing now or you’ll take off like a grasshopper, jumping all over the place.”

Oh, shit. I swallowed my candy whole.

Finally, Morgen Bailey gets an honorable mention (or since she’s British, an honourable mention!) for the humor in her short tale that sounds like it’s a tragedy. She lost a point, though, for using writing Jack Hammer as a name rather than jackhammer, one word. It was clever, true—but it sort of broke the rules. Here’s Morgen’s story:

I guess my favourite of my characters, protagonists anyway, would be Jack Hammer. Yes, as you can guess it’s a crime comedy. Take it while you can, I usually go ‘dark’. Children’s very occasionally – the latest was about a blue grasshopper called Graham. Liked peppermint tea. Write what they know, or so they say. So I shall do just that. Create a character from my hospital bed. Broken arms … broken legs … broken just about everything. Cute nurse says she’ll write it down. That’ll teach me to climb ivy, pretending to be Romeo. But what’s the fun in learning your lessons?

Many thanks to everyone who participated in this contest! I hope you’ll check out the other contest I have running currently, a reading contest. You can check out the rules here.

I don’t think there is a firm definition of what constitutes flash fiction. Wikipedia describes it as being of “extreme brevity.” Other definitions on the Internet call it fiction of less than 1,000 words, or between 300–1,000 words.

I like Wiki’s definition; the other definitions seem long to me. I’ve been writing, and teaching, flash fiction long before it became so fashionable. And when I teach (and write) it, the stories are a mere 100 words long. Not around 100 words long; not about 100 words long. They are exactly 100 words. Not counting things like a title or the words, “The End.”

When I was teaching in a classroom, it always amazed me that I got some of my best stories out of my students in this exercise at brevity. When you’re writing a complete story in 100 words, you have to make each one count. There’s no room for extraneous adverbs, so verbs become stronger. Adjectives become a luxury, so writers must think hard to come up with a precise, perfect noun that needs to adjective to convey to the reader the picture the writer wishes to convey.

In short, a flash fiction story of 100 words is as much an exercise in editing as it is in writing. In fact, that is how I taught my students to write these stories. Write until your story is complete, without bothering to keep a precise word count, while remaining vaguely aware that 100 words is about the length of a seven- or eight-line paragraph. Then, go back and edit, edit edit! It’s far better to cut extra words than to pad a thin story.

In my book, Smoky’s Writer’s Workshop Combo Set, I have a dozen different exercises that have the reader write 100-word stories. Only, I make it a bit more challenging for them: I give them three words they must use. For example, “Write a short story in 100 words exactly, where peppermint, jackhammer, and grasshopper are three of those words.”

You know, that’s a great idea! Yeah, yeah, I have another contest running right now, but why not make this a contest, too? Here’s what you do: Write that flash fiction story in 100 words exactly where peppermint, jackhammer, and grasshopper are three of those words. Then, email me your stories. You have until Friday afternoon at noon Pacific Coast Time to send your stories. I’ll publish the best ones on this blog that afternoon. The person who, in my opinion, writes the best 100-word story will receive a print copy of Smoky’s Writer’s Workshop Combo Set. Yes, that’s right: I’m giving away a print copy of this book to the author of the best 100-word flash fiction submitted. Second prize: a eBook copy of Smoky’s Writer’s Workshop Combo Set, downloaded from Smashwords in any format the winner chooses. Email your stories to me at smokyzeidel@gmail.com. Write “100 Words” in the subject line.

That’s it! What are you waiting for? Remember, 100 words exactly. Peppermint, jackhammer, and grasshopper. Happy writing!

How do I enter this fabulous contest, you may be wondering. It’s simple! All you have to do is buy a copy of my Short Story Collection, Vol. 1, read the six short stories, and answer one question, posted below, about each story. Easy as pie!

I’ve had a few people ask where they can get Short Story Collection, Vol. 1 for Nook or Sony Reader; I’ve added the proper link to Smashwords below, which is where you can go to buy the book in any eBook format.

Here’s how the contest works:

1. Buy a copy of my Short Story Collection, Vol. 1. The print book is available for $8.95 from Barnes & Noble and Amazon. It is also available for Kindle for $3.95. If you have a Nook, Kobo, Sony Reader, or read your books in pdf form on your computer, you can buy it from Smashwords for $3.99.
2. Read all six stories. Answer a question about each of the stories:

• Breakfast at the Laundromat: What time did the clock read?
• Breathe: Who was Hamlette?
• Good-bye, Emily Dickinson: What did Emily carry in her shopping cart?
• In a Flash: What cartoon character was among the doctors when I regained consciousness?
• Leap: What did the sign at the end of the trail say?
• Lesser Offenses: What color was the truck?

That’s it! DO NOT POST YOUR ANSWERS HERE ON MY BLOG. Email me your answers to smokyzeidel@gmail.com.

CONTEST DEADLINE: February 26, 2012.

The first person who answers all six questions correctly wins the grand prize: a hard-cover, first edition of Redeeming Grace, original cover art by Kathi Anderson. Most people don’t know that before Vanilla Heart Publishing picked up my books, Redeeming Grace (now retitled On the Choptank Shores) was published by another press, Quiet Storm Publishing, that went out of business shortly thereafter. A hardcover, first edition of the book is a rare book indeed, as less than 200 were printed.

Second prize goes to the second person who answers all six questions correctly. Second prize is a FIRST EDITION, paperback copy of The Cabin. 

Third prize is a pdf or other eBook formatted copy of On the Choptank Shores OR The Cabin, winner’s choice.

That’s it! Have fun, and enjoy the stories!

Seven things. Hmmmm…Okay. Here we go:

1. I’m obsessed with books about Mary Magdalene, Cleopatra, and about Helen of Troy. Not together, of course. But if a book has been written about one of these fabulous women, I probably have read it. If I haven’t read it, it’s because I haven’t heard of it, so if any of you have read a great book about these three, let me know!
2. I took piano lessons for twelve years while I was growing up. Flute lessons for ten. Oboe for two. I had to quit playing piccolo in my high school band because it caused hearing loss and tinnitus in my left ear, which didn’t go away for two years.
3. Even though it nearly claimed my life at the time, and complications have nearly killed me more than a dozen times since, I consider having been struck by lightning a blessing. A gift. My life was headed down the wrong path, and this jolt from above got me traveling in the right direction. Thanks, Baby Cakes.
4. I have a hard time keeping silent when I see an injustice done, especially when I see people intentionally causing harm to our Mother Earth. I speak out. I clean up. I write about it. I rage about it. But, come to think of it, those of you who know me as the Earth Mage are probably aware of this already. I’m counting it anyway.
5. My father still visits me frequently, even though he died two and a half years ago. I felt him here with me the entire week before my dog, Chia, died last Sunday. My dad always loved my dogs; he was waiting for Chia, and let me know he was there for her. It comforts me so much to know she’s with him now.
6. It took me 17 years to get my bachelor’s degree, probably because I tried to major in everything except physics. Now that I know something about physics, I wish I had tried to major in that, too. In the end, I wound up with a psychology degree. This is probably why I ended up a writer. I get distracted easily.
7. I’m 55 years old and proud to say it. I don’t dye my hair to hide the gray coming in, and I don’t lie about my age. I’ve earned every one of those years, and I’m not going to pretend a single one of them never happened! Not even the year of my lightning accident. I feel sad that so many women fear aging. It so beats the alternative.

Now, for the bloggers I am bestowing the Versatile Blogging Award to:

1. Malcolm’s Round Table, by Malcolm R. Campbell. His blog is brilliant and thought provoking. I never miss it.
2. Malcolm’s Book Bits and Notions, also by Malcolm R. Campbell. Malcolm must spend hours every day perusing the Internet, searching for interviews, tips, book reviews, and other news events of interest to writers. He does all this so the rest of us don’t have to. If you don’t already subscribe to this blog, I strongly urge you to do so–you don’t know what you’re missing out on!
3. Collin Kelley’s Modern Confessional. Collin is a brilliant writer, also, and talented poet as well. His blog is thoughtful and insightful.
4. Debra Brenegan, Author. Author of one of my favorite books of last year, Shame the Devil, Debra’s blog is food for thought.
5. Sharon Heath. Author of another of my favorite books of the past year, The History of My Body, Sharon is a Jungian analyst and writes from that perspective.
6. Patricia Damery. Another Jungian analyst, and author of yet another of my favorite books of the past year, Snakes. Those Jungians sure know how to write!
7. Bertram’s Blog, by Pat Bertram. Pat does author interviews, posts excerpts, and generally champions other writers on her blogs. She is fun, charming, and seems delighted to make new cyberfriends.
8. Morgen Bailey. Morgen must be the busiest blogger in the UK. She posts author interviews, excerpts, and has a fun Flash Fiction Friday post–writing for this is a real exercise in editing! Morgen is great.
9. BilltownBlueLit. This is a not-for-profit organization that promotes literary fiction and champions cross-genre promotion.
10. April Line Writing. April is the brains behind BilltownBlueLit. This is her personal blog, and she writes on all sorts of subjects. She’s thoughtful, expressive, and, often, funny as all get out.
11. Jeff Markowitz. Jeff’s the guy who got me into blogging in the first place, when we met at an author’s event years ago.  His sardonic wit will make you laugh out loud, and he writes a pretty good mystery to boot!

Okay, that’s only ten bloggers (eleven blogs; Malcolm has two). I owe all y’all another five. But I’d rather give you ten great blogs than fifteen blogs where some were, in my opinion, more self-promotion than thoughtful discussion. I promise, when I come upon five more, I’ll come back and edit this post!

Thank you, Kelley. I would list you here if you hadn’t already won!

I’ve had a few people ask where they can get Short Story Collection, Vol. 1 for Nook or Sony Reader; I’ve added the proper link to Smashwords below, which is where you can go to buy the book in any eBook format.

Here’s how the contest works:

1. Buy a copy of my Short Story Collection, Vol. 1. The print book is available for $8.95 from Barnes & Noble and Amazon. It is also available for Kindle for $3.95. If you have a Nook, Kobo, Sony Reader, or read your books in pdf form on your computer, you can buy it from Smashwords for $3.99.
2. Read all six stories. Answer a question about each of the stories:

• Breakfast at the Laundromat: What time did the clock read?
• Breathe: Who was Hamlette?
• Good-bye, Emily Dickinson: What did Emily carry in her shopping cart?
• In a Flash: What cartoon character was among the doctors when I regained consciousness?
• Leap: What did the sign at the end of the trail say?
• Lesser Offenses: What color was the truck?

That’s it! DO NOT POST YOUR ANSWERS HERE ON MY BLOG. Email me your answers to smokyzeidel@gmail.com.

CONTEST DEADLINE: February 26, 2012.

The first person who answers all six questions correctly wins the grand prize: a hard-cover, first edition of Redeeming Grace, original cover art by Kathi Anderson. Most people don’t know that before Vanilla Heart Publishing picked up my books, Redeeming Grace (now retitled On the Choptank Shores) was published by another press, Quiet Storm Publishing, that went out of business shortly thereafter. A hardcover, first edition of the book is a rare book indeed, as less than 200 were printed.

Second prize goes to the second person who answers all six questions correctly. Second prize is a FIRST EDITION, paperback copy of The Cabin. 

Third prize is a pdf or other eBook formatted copy of On the Choptank Shores OR The Cabin, winner’s choice.

That’s it! Have fun, and enjoy the stories!

Here’s what you have to do:

1. Buy a copy of my Short Story Collection, Vol. 1. The print book is available for $8.95 from Barnes & Noble and Amazon. It is also available for Kindle  for $3.95. If you have a Nook, Kobo, Sony Reader, or read your books in pdf form on your computer, you can buy it from Smashwords for $3.99.
2. Read all six stories.Answer a question about each of the stories:

• Breakfast at the Laundromat: What time did the clock read?
• Breathe: Who was Hamlette?
• Good-bye, Emily Dickinson: What did Emily carry in her shopping cart?
• In a Flash: What cartoon character was among the doctors when I regained consciousness?
• Leap: What did the sign at the end of the trail say?
• Lesser Offenses: What color was the truck?

That’s it! DO NOT POST YOUR ANSWERS HERE ON MY BLOG. Email me your answers to smokyzeidel@gmail.com.

CONTEST DEADLINE: February 26, 2012, one month from today.

The first person who answers all six questions correctly wins the grand prize: a hard-cover, first edition of Redeeming Grace. Most people don’t know that before Vanilla Heart Publishing picked up my books, Redeeming Grace (now retitled On the Choptank Shores) was published by another press that went out of business shortly thereafter. A hardcover, first edition of the book is a rare book indeed, as less than 200 were printed.

Second prize goes to the second person who answers all six questions correctly. Second prize is a FIRST EDITION, paperback copy of The Cabin. 

Third prize is a pdf or other eBook formatted copy of On the Choptank Shores OR The Cabin, winner’s choice.

That’s it! Have fun, and enjoy the stories!

She was all of five pounds; the size of a bag of sugar. “She’s going to get big,” the vet warned when I took her in for her first puppy appointment. “She’s going to be about fifty pounds.”

How was I to know even the vet was wrong on this matter; that by the time she finished growing, my Chia would be a whopping seventy-five pounds of graceful muscle and shiny blue-black fur?

We brought her into our home as Robin’s dog, and she immediately started chewing up everything in sight. My coffee table. Robin’s favorite toys. The kitchen cabinets. If she could get her teeth around it, she chewed it. One time, she somehow got ahold of a battery, and chewed it to pieces, which required a quick trip to the vet to ensure she hadn’t ingested any battery acid. (She hadn’t.)

But as she chewed her way through our house, she also wormed her way into our hearts.

We took her camping at Mammoth Cave National Park, a four-month-old pup at this point. She spent most of her time rolling  and burying herself in a huge pile of leaves in our campsite. When the temperature unexpectedly dropped below freezing that night, I tucked her into Robin’s sleeping bag to help keep my shivering daughter warm. It worked. Chia was like a furry hot water bottle, with legs. She ended up with a tick from the leaves, a tick we didn’t notice until, a week later, it exploded all over the hall floor. Gross. Yet, Chia seemed unfazed. Another trip to the vet to test her for Lyme disease. It was negative.

Then Robin grew up and moved to Bangkok, Thailand. Chia became more and more my dog, and soon, she would not leave my side. If I moved from one side of the sofa to the other, Chia moved too. If I walked into the kitchen, she followed, hopeful a puppy biscuit was in store for her. (It usually was.)

I was alone in my house, my husband divorced, my son at college, my daughter a world away. Yet Chia was a constant in my life. Hers was the first face that greeted me in the morning, my little dog Chico and cats Beetlejuice and Po behind her. She had a goofy grin each morning that seemed to say, “Look, a new day! What will we do to make it special, Mom?” Special, to Chia, meant a sprinkle of cheese on her food, or a walk around an extra block instead of just our own. It meant a visit to my parents, who lived a block away. She adored her human granddaddy, and he adored her.

Then Robin came home, and we decided it was time for a change. We moved to Los Angeles, the city of hope and heartbreak for young women everywhere who, like Robin, dreamed of a career in Hollywood. We sold everything that wouldn’t fit in a 22-foot truck, and headed west.

Our little dog, Chico, died a couple of weeks before we moved, at the age of 17. I missed him, yet I knew he sensed something was up that he didn’t want any part of. I wished him a happy journey to the Summerlands. Chia seemed to grieve in her own, dog way, even though Chico always hated her. Chia loved everyone. Even those who did not love her.

Beautiful Chia, still healthy

Who would have thought that a year later, I would have met and married Scott, and we would be settled in our little ramshackle cottage in the hills overlooking the San Gabriel Valley? The dog took it all in stride. She loved Scott. She loved everyone, and as long as she was by my side, she was happy.

We took to taking long walks around our neighborhood, Chia in tow. She loved pouncing on mousies and ghosts in the shadowy, foggy woods on our hills. Her nose was always to the ground, taking delight in the smells of rotting vegetation and coyote scent markings. She became a little bit famous, in her own right, as one of the leading characters in my book, Observations of an Earth Mage, as she accompanied us on our wilderness adventures, and became a part of my stories. We’d tell her, Good dog, Chia. Good dog.

Good Girl, Chia.

But Chia was born with a congenital defect, hip dysplasia, and within a year or so she quit pouncing on shadows. She became wobbly on her legs, and sometimes didn’t want to walk with us at all. Her appetite declined, and her gorgeous, blue-black color began to fade to a dull gray.

She became grouchy with our cats, who had to take great care to avoid her snarling, snapping teeth if they strayed too close. The day came when she snarled and snapped at me when I was sitting next to her, petting her, and accidentally got too close to her painful hip.

Yet, despite her infirmity, every night she dragged herself up the stairs so she could sleep on the floor next to us. You could hear her gasping for breath, using only her front legs to drag her now nearly useless hind legs up the stairs. Oh, we tried blocking the stairs so she couldn’t make the tortuous climb, but she cried and whined until we let her up. Even in her worst state, she did not want to be apart from me.

Do not think we did nothing to ease her pain. We did. We tried all the medications available to dogkind, and not only did they do little ease her pain, they made her sick to her stomach. It became a daily struggle, figuring out if easing her pain even just a touch would be worth her digestive upset. It soon became evident to me she did not want the medication.

She began moaning in her sleep, while I’d lie there in my bed, tears staining my cheeks. My dog was twelve years old—old for a large breed like her. She was in pain. Her breathing was labored. But most of all, when I looked into her beautiful brown eyes, I no longer saw my beloved, active Chia. I saw only pain and pleading.

Yesterday morning, when we awakened, Chia peed what seemed like a gallon of fetid, black urine all over the beige carpet in our living room. She turned to me with her now vacant eyes, heaved a sigh, and eased her aching body onto the floor. And suddenly I knew, and Scott knew, and even Robin knew, what Chia had known for days, for weeks: it was time to say goodbye.

She died with her head on my lap. I saw the light go out in those beautiful eyes, saw her spirit rise up and out of her body. I felt her pain ease as she laid her head in my lap for the last time. I felt her relief, her peace.

And I felt something else: the spirit of my father, her beloved human granddaddy, who died two years ago. And I swear, I saw the two of them walking off together, Chia’s tail wagging, eager to begin a new adventure.

She looked back once and gave me that goofy Chia grin. “I’m okay now, Mom,” I felt her say. “I’m with Granddad. I’ll see you again some day.”

And the two of them vanished into the mists of the afterlife.

Later, Scott and I took our Chihuahua puppy, Tufa, for a walk around the block. We did not speak as we walked. Rather, we listened to the echoes of our beloved Chia, pouncing in the leaves after mousies and ghosts, just as she had on countless walks before.

That was just a day or two before I found out that, at least in my case, living by that mantra is easier said than done. Being middle-aged in Hollywood does, indeed, make you feel something less than “sexy and cute.” It can make you feel like an old f*rt. Let me explain.

When I moved to Los Angeles three-and-a-half years ago, it was to allow my daughter, Robin, to launch a career in show biz. She’s done great: attending college, studying theatre, making the Dean’s List every semester—and making independent films and doing a lot of modeling to boot. Needless to say, I’m very proud of my daughter. She is succeeding a city that so frequently chews up and spits out young women like yesterday’s chewing gum.

It didn’t occur to me that, with Robin’s growing resume, I would eventually be invited to some big gala event to see her do her thing. Oh, I’m used to attending her theatrical performances on her college stage, but a genuine, Hollywood awards ceremony? Me?

Robin (in blue, left) and the other Meta4 Models

Last night, that dream/nightmare (depending on if you ask Robin or if you ask me) happened, when the 2011 RAWards for indie artists were handed out at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre Ballroom. Robin models for one of the fashion designers, Angela Du, who won a regional competition with her Meta4 clothing line and was asked to show her line at the awards ceremony as one of the Founder’s Favorites. Robin was very eager to have Scott and I attend and see her strutting her stuff on the runway. We were all too happy to tell her we’d be there, front and center, cheering her on.

The first hint of trouble came when we got our eTickets to the event. “Doors open at 8:30 p.m.,” the printout read. “Show begins at 9:00.”

Huh? Mayday, mayday! I’m in bed, fast asleep, by nine o’clock! In my defense, I’m an early riser, usually by five-thirty a.m. I just don’t do nine o’clock. Ever.

Second hint of trouble? Robin tells me casually, “Oh, yeah, we don’t even go on until eleven-fifty.” That’s ten minutes until midnight. Nearly three hours past my bedtime, at this point.

The day before the event, I get an email. “Cocktail attire required.” I turned to Scott. “What’s that mean, cocktail attire?” He gave me this blank stare and walked, dazed, out of the room.

I don’t do “cocktail attire,” whatever that is. I do jeans and sweatshirts. On fancy occasions, I do tweedy pants and a cable-knit sweater. When Scott and I got married two-and-a-half years ago, I didn’t even wear shoes. Or footwear of any kind. Somehow, I don’t think my normal mode of dress qualified as “cocktail attire” in Hollywood. So, I rifle through my closet and manage to find a dress I wore a few years back for some occasion I’ve forgotten. I wouldn’t call it “cocktail attire,” but at least it wasn’t denim, and it had a designer label, although at this point, perhaps Diane von Furstenburg would also be considered an old f*rt by Hollywood standards.

But it’s for my daughter, so I took a nap during the day, and drank a pot of coffee for dinner. Caffeine charged and rarin’ to go, Scott and I say goodbye to our pets—who still get to go to bed by nine o’clock—and head for Hollywood, me dressed in my old dress and Scott in a beautiful sweater and black dress pants. This, we were quite certain, also did not qualify as “cocktail attire.”

The first rule of attending a hip Hollywood party is that you can’t find the place. Oh, we had no trouble finding Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. It’s a Hollywood landmark. But the ballroom? We had to go up escalators, down stairs, around in circles, swing your partner round and round, back up more escalators, then stand in line in a dark hallway waiting for the doors to open.

Old f*rt moment: Standing in line anywhere for more than half an hour makes your back ache and your feet swell to twice their normal size.

Finally, the doors opened, and we were greeted by security guards the size of linebackers checking our names against “the list.” (Old f*rt moment: the realization that I’m on “the list” gives me an odd feeling of smug satisfaction.) As we poured into the ballroom, I turn to Scott and say, “Are we having an earthquake?” Fortunately, he couldn’t hear me, because I soon realized it was just the building shaking from the Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close speakers thump, thump, thumping out … music? Is that what that was supposed to be? (Uh oh, that was another old f*rt moment!)

We managed to find a seat—actually, a very nice seat, on a couch, near the music stage but with a clear view of the runway. It is also only about 20 feet from the bathrooms. (Yes, another old f*rt issue: never sit any place where you don’t have a clear, straight shot to the bathrooms.) We settled in, and I began studying in earnest what “cocktail attire” means to the under-thirty set. For the guys, apparently, it meant jeans and shirts that weren’t exactly tee shirts, but didn’t have buttons down the front, either. For the young women, it meant skirts so tight and short they sounded like the Alvin and the Chipmunks when they talked, and heels so high they couldn’t walk. They minced.

Then there were the painted ladies. No kidding, these girls had on NOTHING but a thong and body paint, which was, uh, interesting, to say the least. It left not a thing to the imagination, from their tight little butt cheeks to their perky little boobs that pointed toward the ceiling. (Old f*rt moment: not remembering the last time my boobs pointed up, not down, and if that’s too much information, well, deal with it.) But this is Hollywood. This is the rock ’n roll scene, the high fashion scene. Who am I to judge?

The first band came on. I’d like to tell you what their songs were about, but all I could understand of the lyrics was WHOA, WHOA, WHOA, over and over again, as the lead guitarist back-kicked so far across the stage he nearly fell off. The second band wasn’t much better.

But, the third band was pretty darned good. Black Party Politics, I believe their name was, and the lead singer was not only adorable, he knew how to enunciate the lyrics. And the girl who played keyboards? Cute as a button.

Finally, eleven-fifty rolls around. We’ve managed to work our way from the safety of our couch to the front, nearer to the runway, and are delighted to see Robin’s dear friends Samantha and Larry are there to cheer her on. (Larry, I will point out, not only had on a shirt with buttons, he also had on a jacket, and looked really good. Sam is always cute as can be, and tonight was no exception.)

I’m a bit worried. Two models from other design lines had slipped and nearly fallen on the runway earlier in the evening. What if this happened to Robin? I knew she’d think that was the equivalent of The End of the World.

I shouldn’t have worried. Robin strutted onto that runway like the pro she is, end to end, twirling and showing off Angie’s beautiful, sexy outfit, then down in front of the photographers, where she posed and twirled again, winking at them before spinning and strutting off stage.

Not a slip, not a twist of the ankle. She was gorgeous. She was glowing. And she was mine. And I couldn’t help but wonder, “how did I give birth to such a being as this sylph gliding across this stage?” And that thought made me glow. I felt gorgeous, because if I weren’t, how could I have produced this gorgeous, glowing daughter?

That got me thinking. All these talented musicians, painters, jewelry designers, hair and make-up artists, and models, showing off their stuff, and being honored for it. I may not have understood half of it, but when I think back to when I was their age—Robin is 21—people of my parents’ generation didn’t understand us, either. Peace, free love, and Woodstock puzzled my mom and dad like girls whose clothes are painted on puzzled Scott and me on this night (although I think Scott may have had a different sort of appreciation for these painted ladies than I had).

Maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to be. We go from our youth to middle-age, some of us more gracefully than others. But no matter who we are—whether we’re Earth Mages who spend most of our days wearing jeans and sweatshirts and exploring the woods and mountains and deserts, or if we’re the young, hip fashionistas of the Hollywood scene who spend their days exploring the boutiques on Melrose, taking acting classes, and dreaming of becoming the next big thing—time marches on. Before they know it, these vibrant, talented young people will be the ones sitting on the couches near the back of the room, watching their children take to the stages, screaming out their music or strutting down the catwalk.

And they will wonder where the years went. They’ll wonder when they became old f*rts.

And hopefully, like me last night, they will still glow, and feel beautiful.

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. The same thing happened when I wrote Redeeming Grace, my first novel (recently re-released as On the Choptank Shores). Only in The Cabin did my characters do what I expected them to do, and even then, it was only most of the time. They threw me for a loop more than once.

I think that’s probably a good thing. Characters know where they want to go, what their true story is, better than their authors, I’ve decided. And I know more than one author who agrees with me.

When Scott and I went camping in Kings Canyon in October, I took great delight in photographing sap oozing out of a tree, and I got to thinking, when I looked at the photos for the first time, how like that tree and its sap I and my words are, when I’m working on a novel. Sometimes, the sap oozes gently from the tree, a drop at a time, like this:

Sap oozing gently from the tree.

My words, too, often are painfully slow passing from fingertip to keyboard to page. They are beautiful words. They just flow slowly.

Other times, the sap gets stuck along the way. In this tree’s case, the sap got hung up in a spider web.

Stuck

In my case, my words have gotten stuck when I’ve become seriously depressed, due to prolonged illness or injury or surgery recuperation. This has frightened me a few times, because I’ve felt like I might never finish this book; that I might never write again.

But without fail, I come out of that dark spot that lurks inside me, and eventually my words become disentangled from my inner web that has held it captive, just as the sap burst free from the spider’s web:

Free at last!

Sometimes, the sap completely dries up, forming a hard resin on the tree. It’s beautiful to look at, but it goes nowhere.

Sap dries to a hard resin, while behind it, droplets still run freely.

I’ve written some beautiful scenes for this book that ended up going nowhere, and that I’ve had to delete.

But sometimes, the sap runs like a river down the tree, just as my words flow like a river from my fingertips. It’s an exciting time, this free flow of sap, of words.

Sap running quickly, freely.

I’ve given myself six weeks to finish this book. May my words continue to flow like the sap from this tree, freely, joyfully, beautifully.