It has been quite a while since I last posted a blog as I have been busy putting the final touches on my new novel, Celilo's Shadow. The mystery will be available for purchase on June 1, 2017. You can read more about it by clicking on Celilo's Shadow on the above menu bar.
Thank you for your interest in my writing and blog posts. Please feel free to contact me if you have any questions or comments.
Cemeteries and Me
When I tell people that Dave and I live next door to a cemetery the reaction is mixed. Some are amused and joke, "at least your neighbors are quiet" while others cringe and mutter words like "creepy, spooky, or weird." Rare is the peprson who equates living next door to a cemetery as a serene, tranquil, or peaceful experience. But that's exactly how I feel whenever I look out my kitchen window. I am calmed by the quiet beauty of the carefully tended, park-like grounds. Green grass, colorful flowering plants, and the variety of leafy shade trees provide a pleasant resting place for the departed souls. The setting encourages visitors to linger a while to mourn and remember their loved ones.
A confession here: I'm fond of visiting cemeteries, whether right next door or wherever I happen to spot one that looks interesting. I like to read the inscriptions on the markers and wonder about the story of the people's lives--their families, their voices, their laughter, their sorrows, their joys, and their hopes and dreams. Sometimes there are clues about their lives written on the headstones--a Christian cross or Jewish star or symbols noting their membership in the Eagles, Elks, or Masons. Nowadays, it is common to see a photo or etching of the deceased, including an activity they enjoyed such as sky diving or fishing. Most often, though, the markers indicate how the person died--a mother and newborn with matching death dates tell the story of a tragic childbirth; several family members who all died in 1918 suggest they might have succumbed to the world-wide flu epidemic of that year; veterans whose deaths correspond to dates when our country was at war remind us of the ultimate sacrifice they made for our freedom.
The inscriptions that intrigue me the most are poetic remembrances. When I was a volunteer at the Clark County Historical Society, my job was to record the names, dates, and other writings on the tombstones in Vancouver's oldest pioneer cemetery. Here are several inscriptions that spoke to me:
"Precious one from us has gone, a voice we loved is stilled. A place is vacant in our home which never can be filled."
"Sleep on sweet darling and take thy rest, God called thee home. He thought it best."
"Here is one who is sleeping in faith and love. With hope that is treasured in Heaven above."
"Shed not for them the bitter tear
Nor give your hearts to vain regret
Tis but the caskets that lie here,
The gems that filled them sparkle yet."
When Dave and I were first married we took a road trip to California. Whenever I spotted an old cemetery I'd beg him to stop so that I could go exploring. Being the good guy that Dave is, he would pull over to the side of the road and follow me as I traipsed through what most often was a run-down, neglected graveyard. He didn't question my odd obsession but I could tell he wondered who this woman was that he'd just married. I suppose some may find my attraction to cemeteries as more than merely odd.
If I had to explain my strange fascination, I'd say it probably has to do with my love of history, genealogy, and most of all, story. I believe our lives are stories and cemeteries are the physical record of the men, women, and children who've gone before--some far too early and others whose stories were long and hopefully, happy and satisfying. As a writer, I cherish story wherever I find it. If that's in a cemetery, then so be it.
A confession here: I'm fond of visiting cemeteries, whether right next door or wherever I happen to spot one that looks interesting. I like to read the inscriptions on the markers and wonder about the story of the people's lives--their families, their voices, their laughter, their sorrows, their joys, and their hopes and dreams. Sometimes there are clues about their lives written on the headstones--a Christian cross or Jewish star or symbols noting their membership in the Eagles, Elks, or Masons. Nowadays, it is common to see a photo or etching of the deceased, including an activity they enjoyed such as sky diving or fishing. Most often, though, the markers indicate how the person died--a mother and newborn with matching death dates tell the story of a tragic childbirth; several family members who all died in 1918 suggest they might have succumbed to the world-wide flu epidemic of that year; veterans whose deaths correspond to dates when our country was at war remind us of the ultimate sacrifice they made for our freedom.
The inscriptions that intrigue me the most are poetic remembrances. When I was a volunteer at the Clark County Historical Society, my job was to record the names, dates, and other writings on the tombstones in Vancouver's oldest pioneer cemetery. Here are several inscriptions that spoke to me:
"Precious one from us has gone, a voice we loved is stilled. A place is vacant in our home which never can be filled."
"Sleep on sweet darling and take thy rest, God called thee home. He thought it best."
"Here is one who is sleeping in faith and love. With hope that is treasured in Heaven above."
"Shed not for them the bitter tear
Nor give your hearts to vain regret
Tis but the caskets that lie here,
The gems that filled them sparkle yet."
When Dave and I were first married we took a road trip to California. Whenever I spotted an old cemetery I'd beg him to stop so that I could go exploring. Being the good guy that Dave is, he would pull over to the side of the road and follow me as I traipsed through what most often was a run-down, neglected graveyard. He didn't question my odd obsession but I could tell he wondered who this woman was that he'd just married. I suppose some may find my attraction to cemeteries as more than merely odd.
If I had to explain my strange fascination, I'd say it probably has to do with my love of history, genealogy, and most of all, story. I believe our lives are stories and cemeteries are the physical record of the men, women, and children who've gone before--some far too early and others whose stories were long and hopefully, happy and satisfying. As a writer, I cherish story wherever I find it. If that's in a cemetery, then so be it.
And Then What Happened?
Storytelling is in my genes. My father was a great storyteller and I like to think I got some of my talent from him. Although he never put any of his stories down on paper, he spun the most fascinating tales that I still remember to this day. Unlike Dad, my own stories have been published in print and digitally over the last several years. In the beginning, I wrote for my own amusement and to entertain my children. When I began to get serious about the writing craft, I realized that I had a lot to learn if I were to ever become a published author.
I set a goal to learn as much as I could by attending writing classes, workshops and conferences. I've always been an avid reader, but I started reading novels to understand how the author wrote his or her story structurally. I read a lot of "how to write" books to understand plot, theme, characterization, setting, etc. I quickly discovered that there is a ton of advice out there and it's up to the would-be author to determine what works best for him or her. The quest for knowledge about how to write a damn good story is a never-ending process. And sometimes, the knowledge comes from the most unexpected sources.
The best advice I ever got wasn't technically advice at all. It was just what I overheard a five-year-old boy say to his mother. I'd taken my granddaughter to her ice skating lesson and sat in the observaction area next to a mother and her little boy. He had no interest in watching his older brother skate so his mother entertained him by telling a story. It was quite an adventurous tale that lasted the entire thirty minute ice skating lesson. The mother had made her son the pilot of a rocket ship to Mars and he was riveted to every word she spoke. I even found myself interested in the story. After each exciting episode in which her boy had heroically saved the day, his mother would pause for dramatic effect. Her son would then eagerly ask, "And then what happened?"
As I thought about this experience later, I realized that the five-year-old had captured the essence of storytelling: Something must happen. Then something else must happen. And then something else. On and on it must go until you reach the end of the story (or the end of the ice skating lesson). A character sitting around thinking about how miserable his life is, won't make the cut. But a character finding himself caught up in a miserable situation in which he must do something about it, will have the reader quickly turning the page to find out what happened next. I believe my father and the mother of the little boy knew this truth intuitively. It's a truth worth striving for.
I set a goal to learn as much as I could by attending writing classes, workshops and conferences. I've always been an avid reader, but I started reading novels to understand how the author wrote his or her story structurally. I read a lot of "how to write" books to understand plot, theme, characterization, setting, etc. I quickly discovered that there is a ton of advice out there and it's up to the would-be author to determine what works best for him or her. The quest for knowledge about how to write a damn good story is a never-ending process. And sometimes, the knowledge comes from the most unexpected sources.
The best advice I ever got wasn't technically advice at all. It was just what I overheard a five-year-old boy say to his mother. I'd taken my granddaughter to her ice skating lesson and sat in the observaction area next to a mother and her little boy. He had no interest in watching his older brother skate so his mother entertained him by telling a story. It was quite an adventurous tale that lasted the entire thirty minute ice skating lesson. The mother had made her son the pilot of a rocket ship to Mars and he was riveted to every word she spoke. I even found myself interested in the story. After each exciting episode in which her boy had heroically saved the day, his mother would pause for dramatic effect. Her son would then eagerly ask, "And then what happened?"
As I thought about this experience later, I realized that the five-year-old had captured the essence of storytelling: Something must happen. Then something else must happen. And then something else. On and on it must go until you reach the end of the story (or the end of the ice skating lesson). A character sitting around thinking about how miserable his life is, won't make the cut. But a character finding himself caught up in a miserable situation in which he must do something about it, will have the reader quickly turning the page to find out what happened next. I believe my father and the mother of the little boy knew this truth intuitively. It's a truth worth striving for.
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