Name the Baby

As you know, I've been busily writing my new novel and everything was going smoothly until. . . .

Hmmm . . . well, let me start from the beginning. 

Part I

With the exception of Dead Bird in the Weeds, every piece of fiction I've written has had a working title before the first word hit the page. Why? A piece of fiction without a title is like a newborn baby without a name. How are you going to point out your screeching bundle of joy to other parents (readers and writers), if it doesn't have a nametag on its crib? Will you say, "Oh, yeah, that's mine over there, 103 rows from the left, 500 cribs down"?  The reply will be "You mean the bald one with no name who's bawling and has its finger stuck in its mouth?"

Sound familiar? It shouldn't.

Without a title, your work is going to be lost in an imaginary garbage heap like the other million no-name works being written.  The time to interest readers is before the book is available. Give them time to wade in the waters of your creativity before asking them to cut off an appendage to read the work in its entirety. 

To clarify, consider the example below.

Which sounds better?

1. The new book I'm working on is about a lost girl who finds her way home through the help of a stranger.
2.  I'm writing a book about a lost girl named Marsha who finds her way home through the help of a ghost.
3. Mystic Journey is about Marsha, a lost young woman who hitches a ride with a foul-mouthed supernatural being named Roger.

See what I mean? The more concrete you are with your description, the more interesting your idea becomes to readers.

Part II

Notice the name I've given this fictitious book: Mystic Journey. I created this title just now, but upon further investigation at the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office,¹ I've discovered that "Mystic Journey" is the name of a bookstore. OK, so now I need to change the name of my book before I get so attached to it that it becomes nearly impossible to think of something else. After Henry has been Henry (possibly for years) can you call him Henrietta without feeling as if you've damaged him in some way?

And that, folks, is the reason for my dilemma this weekend. I didn't check the availability of my working title until I had become so attached to it that I now feel as if I'm murdering my own child.

My advice: name that baby before it's born, but make sure that another prospective parent hasn't beaten you to mailing the Social Security application.

1. On the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office home page, click option 2 "Search Marks," then click "New User Form Search (Basic)." Type keywords in the "Search Term" box.

***

As always, I love to hear from you.

If you’re in the cyber-neighborhood, drop me a line.

In the meantime, keep writing, reading, and smiling.
It’s contagious.

The Apple Pie Is in the Oven

As we celebrate our independence on this hot, humid Sunday, I think of the many people who risked their homes and their lives to seize the right to be free of tyranny. I'm grateful to all of our soldiers at home and abroad, remembering the sacrifices of my grandfather and great-uncles in WWII and my own father during the Vietnam War.

I think of my own carefree childhood and recall water-gun fights and pop-drinking contests. If I listen closely, I can hear the hum of mosquitoes as I stand on my great-uncle's porch and watch a blaze of fireworks bombard the night sky. I taste potato salad and see cakes decorated as flags. I smell coconut pie in my grandmother's kitchen and hear my grandfather's soft voice as he tells tales of fighting in the Pacific.

I remember all of these things and more. Yes, the apple pie is in the oven and everything is good.

***

As always, I love to hear from you.

If you’re in the cyber-neighborhood, drop me a line.

In the meantime, keep writing, reading, and smiling.
It’s contagious.

 

Walking Barefoot with Crows

As I awaited my turn in the dentist's chair on Thursday, my eyes wandered to the streaked window above the magazine rack. On the grassy hill overlooking the parking lot was a large flock of crows searching for worms. When the birds spotted their prey, their glossy black heads jackknifed and their sharp beaks stabbed the moist earth.

I often think of myself as wandering over a large field. Whether I'm writing fiction or nonfiction, I hunt for truth along the way. I'm also searching for something new to sprinkle upon the tasty morsel I stumble upon. Whether it be a way to alter style, format, or voice, I consider the newfound understanding to be an hors d'oeuvre that supplements the meal I present to my readers.

Sometimes these hors d'oeuvres alter "the truth" of a piece. When I affix the tag "nonfiction" to a post I often add "creative writing" and "short story" as companions because all writing is a discovery and an adventure. Whether or not I have a fact-based beginning is insignificant. It may give me a point of reference, but it also sparks my creativity and where I'll end up is unknown to me until the last word has been crafted.

Does the writer have a responsibility to readers? Absolutely. My job is to take your hand and guide you through an old idea in a new way. I don't want to lose you or confuse you along the way and I don't want you to feel as if I'm the last word. I want to stir your beliefs, your memories, and your notions of reality and illusion.

Reality and illusion. Different, yet the same. Two people can observe the same situation or scene (the reality) and retell it in two or more different ways (the illusion of the reality).

I wrote a haiku earlier this week that was based upon a dream I had. I dreamed that I got out of bed in the middle of the night, looked through the window, and saw a crater-like hole in the moon. This dream, though fantasy, actually happened. Therefore it is reality. The next morning I was haunted by the phrase "a hole in the moon." After struggling with words, rhyming scheme, voice, and other techniques, I came up with the following:

crooning in the night

closes his eyes and hammers

a hole in the moon

Why "crooning"? Because it gives "moon" some balance. It can also stand for "dream." Why "his"? It sounds better with "hammers" than "her" because of the final S. Anyhow, what I ended up with was a perception of the reality. Although this piece stands for a dream that I had, it can mean many other things depending on who is reading it and the life experiences brought to the reading. A friend of mine asked me if he was hammering a hole in the moon or hammering a hole in his head. My answer: whichever you prefer. My thought: I'm glad I inspired another interpretation. I have encouraged this reader to pierce that hilltop field and pull out a unique morsel or "worm."

So, with all of that said and after the questioning I arouse in readers with each weekly blog post, I can truthfully answer the following:

Who is the real J.E.?

The answer is easy:

Look closely. I'm the one walking barefoot with crows. 


***

As always, I love to hear from you.
If you're in the cyber-neighborhood, drop me a line.

In the meantime, keep writing, reading, and smiling.
It's contagious.

"The Making of a J.e.raffe"

A wise friend suggested that I make a giraffe. I'm not artistic, so I made one the only way I know how.

"The Making of a J.e.raffe"

Poppy was looking for something and Chip thought he knew what it was. Five years later they were married and waited out a January blizzard in an apartment that smelled like old fish. The offspring was born two years later in August. It had black hair and yellow flesh and was allergic to milk. It roared as a lion and had the neck of a giraffe.

The giraffe grew quickly from all those sliced hot dogs smothered with ketchup. After its repast it would laze beneath an orange zoo quilt, tracing other jungle beasts with its curious, stained fingers. No one could make the jeraffe go to sleep without its consent. The tiny beast was given spots.

The creature came of age and was sent to a hated school. It tried to hide its long neck and ugly brown spots but was often misunderstood by the social, short-necked beasts who had stacks of printed green paper cut into rectangles. Once the jeraffe won a pink Jesus pencil free of charge. Now it's lost. The jeraffe is lost. The world is lost.

When the jeraffe became an adult, a wolf found it. The jeraffe played along until the wolf saw the spots and long neck. Now the wolf is gone. Where is the choral exaltation?

J.e.raffe gave up hot dogs, masks, and scarves and found a blue typewriter. Now it writes every day about things that don't matter, hoping that other wandering beasts will pick up the forage and find a part of themselves that has been mislaid. 

J.e.raffe sits alone in the jungle and occasionally stumbles upon other nomadic animals. Sometimes they hold hands as they comb the undergrowth, searching for an escape. 

Despite the futility, the key is understanding that no one eludes the snare beneath the tree. Just don't stick your neck in it. That's what hooves are for.

***

As always, I love to hear from you.

If you're in the cyber-neighborhood, drop me a line.

In the meantime, keep writing, reading, and smiling.
It's contagious.

 

A Special Sunday

Every day is a gift, but for me this Sunday is special.

Today, both of my novels, Dead Bird in the Weeds and Haunted Voices from My Past have been rereleased and are now available. Not only that, but my colleague's children's books, The Mysterious House and Turtles and Shells and Things, are also available. Click on any of the titles to read excerpts, watch book trailers, and order. Also, be sure to check out Sunflower Footsteps' great new website at www.sunflowerfootsteps.com.

As a special treat, Dead Bird in the Weeds' new book trailer was also released today. Enjoy!

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As always, I love to hear from you. If you’re in the cyber-neighborhood, drop me a line.

In the meantime, keep writing, reading, and smiling.
It’s contagious.

Haunted Voices from My Past: A Sneak Peek

Last week the new cover for Dead Bird in the Weeds was released. This week, Haunted Voices from My Past: True Narratives of an Ohio Family makes its debut. . . .

From the back cover:

 I Don’t Believe That Anybody’s Soul

Stays in a Graveyard

    A presence crept through the leaves blanketing the earth, lingering behind the man and woman. The couple paused. Scarischle. The presence halted behind them.
    The man looked wildly around the cemetery. Chest heaving, he grabbed his wife’s arm. “Is it my dad?” the presence heard him ask the woman.
    “I don’t know who it is or what it is,” the woman whispered.
    The presence left the couple and slipped silently from the cemetery.

***

Haunted Voices from My Past: True Narratives of an Ohio Family will torment its readers long before the nightly moon has risen and the bedside lamps are switched off. Join J.E. Seanachaí on a chilling procession through one hundred years of true family narratives that delve into the supernatural, macabre, and unexplained.

***

As always, I love to hear from you. If you’re in the cyber-neighborhood, drop me a line.

In the meantime, keep writing, reading, and smiling.
It’s contagious.

A Tribute to Ace, Part II

On December 7, 1941, a key nation secured membership to the World War II Club.  The inductee was the U.S. and the admission requirement was met through the sinking of its fleet at Pearl Harbor.

The attack on the naval base had been executed in a process similar to the means employed by a pack of hungry sharks.  The Japanese banded together, targeted their prey, and achieved their objective by swallowing an entire fleet whole.  Fours years of war followed and thousands of Americans were called upon to defend a nation and a world.  A small man with black hair and silver eyes was one such recruit.  To soldiers, he was known as “Ace.”  To me, he was known as “Pa.”

My grandfather survived the war, and though he has been dead thirteen years, I still smell the aroma of the cup of coffee that never left his side.  If I squint and think of yesterday, I see the haze of smoke that always arose from a half-burnt cigarette.  When I close my eyes and listen, I hear myself asking him to tell that shark story one more time.  When asked to retell the encounter, Ace would grin, chuckle softly, and sip his coffee before beginning.  Though worthy opponents, the sharks in his story were not the Japanese.

***

In the midst of the war-ravaged Pacific, Ace and several friends were atop a cliff, daring one another to dive into the ocean to rescue their small boat that had drifted from the desolate island.  Ace was resolved to volunteer for the task, but before he made a verbal statement or decision, he always took a long drag on his cigarette and sipped from his bottomless coffee cup.  Coffee was not available, so he settled for a cigarette.  As the rolled addiction ignited by way of a hastily struck match, Ace was shoved over the edge of the cliff.  

Neither the fall nor the fear of being unable to swim is reason to revere this story.  Ace  survived the premature dive, and he was an excellent swimmer.  He had a way of surging through the water like a bobbing frog, and if one were not careful, one would drown in the water parted by his strong, jutting chin.  

“Ace,” one of the men shouted from the cliff.  “Ace, hurry up, there’s sharks down there.”

The human frog stopped swimming and looked back at the island.  Three grey fins seared through the waves near the rocks several yards behind him.  Determined to thwart his friends’ cruel joke, Ace shot through the water and headed for the boat.   

Despite his speed and agility, one might doubt the presence of sharks or the tale itself.  Yet, Ace was indeed a fast swimmer.  He was four times my age when we raced and swam together with our arms linked.  In the first scenario I never won and in the second he usually ended up tugging me along because I was unable to keep up with him.  

To conclude, Ace eluded his ravenous pursuers and reached the boat before it drifted into deep water.  Was Ace quivering with fear when he reached the boat?  Was he able to avoid the sharks when paddling to his friends waiting for him on the shore?  To answer the first question, Ace was laughing when he reached the boat which is not typical of someone afraid of being eaten by sharks.  Why would he laugh?  The explanation is found in the answer to the second question which can be summarized by stating I hope Ace’s friends could swim because that is what he made them do.

*** 

If you enjoyed this tale about my grandfather, you can read more about his life in my latest book, Haunted Voices from My Past:  True Narratives of an Ohio Family.  Within its cover are the chilling stories: “Railway Nightmare,” “Another Hitchhiker from Hell,” and the most terrifying incident he experienced, entitled “Ace and the Devil.”  Each of these accounts awakens the supernatural and macabre.

After ordering, be sure to read “A Tribute to Ace,” the blog that inspired this latest entry.

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For more information on Sunflower Footsteps, authors, and titles, visit:

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As always, I love to hear from you. If you’re in the cyber-neighbourhood, drop me a line. In the meantime, keep writing, reading, and smiling. It’s contagious.

My Name is Dorothy

Toto had glass eyes and smelled like instant coffee.

My mother crocheted a small grey and white blanket from leftover yarn with the aid of the dim light over the kitchen sink. She then unearthed a scruffy white poodle from my closet and dyed its shaggy coat with three cups of her favorite instant coffee. After a night spent by the heater and a quick blast from the hair dryer, the stuffed dog was crammed into a wicker Easter basket and covered with the grey blanket. Toto was ready for school, but Dorothy failed to appear. Instead of partaking in my school's "Storybook Day," I stayed at home nursing the flu with the hundredth viewing of The Wizard of Oz.

Since that fateful day, I have been resolved to miss nothing more. Now I rejoice in the simplicity of summer's end, the diligence of the autumn woolly worm, and the magic of the first snow. I applaud the plight of those who never give up and marvel at the pear tree that retains its leaves until winter's winds wipe away summer's decay. I wonder about the package delivered to the house across the road and remember the clear brackets glued onto the mail carrier's blue-white teeth. I think of Christmas and BB guns and the setting of the low winter's sun. I remember fireworks, blueberry tongues, and paper cartons filled with ice cream. I recall the stories of Ace and the smell of rich coconut. I sing with the Lollipop Guild and chuckle. I never noticed the multitude of flowers growing from all those tiny shoes.

My name is Dorothy, and I'll never stop exploring and remembering.

***

As always, I love to hear from you. If you’re in the cyber-neighbourhood, drop me a line. In the meantime, keep writing, reading, and smiling. It’s contagious.

A Spooky Autumn Recipe

Those of you enjoying my new book, Haunted Voices from My Past, know that my garden grows not only an abundance of tasty vegetables but also harbors a roguish ghost. Try my homegrown recipe for a taste of autumn, and, if you're lucky, a sampling of the paranormal.

Seanachaí's Spooky Spaghetti Squash



Serves 2 HUNGRY Ghosthunters

What you'll need...

• 1 medium-sized spaghetti squash [about 8" long and weighing 5 lbs.]
• tomatoes
• green peppers
• cheddar cheese [the liquefied cheese in a jar]
  
• spaghetti sauce [optional]
• salt, pepper
  

1. Begin by washing the squash. After drying, cut lengthwise [from stem to opposite end]. You'll need a sturdy knife because spaghetti squash are quite tough when uncooked. They're a bit like a pumpkin or cantaloupe. Make sure you cut away from yourself, and don't worry about removing the stem. Whatever doesn't break off at picking time, stays.

2. After cutting, the squash can be a little resistant. I usually sneak my thumbs into the cut and pull the halves apart. What will greet you is a mess of innards. Again, it's going to resemble a cantaloupe. Use a large spoon to remove the seeds and membrane in the center. Leave the outer flesh. It will be in a ring just beneath the rind and is usually 1" thick. This is the part you'll eat. Remember, it's just like a cantaloupe.

3. After digging out the innards, you'll have two halves with holes in the center. Fill these holes with diced tomatoes and green peppers. Don't be stingy. Fill the holes completely! Vegetables shrink when cooked because they're mostly water. Also, spaghetti squash has a mild taste resembling that of spaghetti. The addition of green pepper will sweeten the flesh.

4. Top the vegetables with 1 tbsp. of cheddar cheese. Add salt and pepper [as much as you would for spaghetti]. Place both finished halves [faceup] in a microwave-safe baking dish. Fill bottom of dish with 1/8 cup of water [to help steam the vegetables] and cover with plastic wrap. Cut a tiny hole in the center of the plastic to allow steam to escape. For a medium-sized squash, baking time is about 25 min. on high power [adjust cooking time to your microwave's wattage].

5. Squash is done when the rind is papery and the flesh can be pulled away easily. Use a fork and gently pull the flesh from the rind. Notice how the squash comes off the rind in long strands, hence, the name "spaghetti squash."

6. Add another tbsp. of cheddar cheese to the squash, tomatoes, and green peppers. If you prefer tomato sauce over extra cheese, add sauce to taste. Stir ingredients and microwave an additional 3 min.

7. Serve! I enjoy eating my squash directly out of the peeling rather than scraping it into a dish. The peeling, though inedible, serves as an eye-catching, bright yellow bowl. If you choose to eat it this way, put it atop a dish because it's a little too flimsy [and HOT] to stand alone.

8. What to serve with your spaghetti squash? I enjoy a crisp garden salad and breadsticks with mine.

Let me know if you enjoy my ghostly recipe!

***

As always, I love to hear from you. If you’re in the cyber-neighbourhood, drop me a line. In the meantime, keep writing, reading, and smiling. It’s contagious.

Collecting Acorns

Halloween is a time of ghosts and burning leaves, vampires and dying trees, and unwrapped candies accompanying creepy stories.

I remember three distinct details from my childhood. The first two are homework and snow days. Oddly, they complement one another in that one always intends to catch up on homework during a snow day. However inclined, the snow beckons and while one is creating angels in the cold, white winter dust, the dreaded schoolwork is not only pushed aside but forgotten until the sun sets and signals the migration to the house and the restoration of the memory.

The third thing I remember from childhood is akin to the world of endless snow days. It has nothing to do with hot cocoa, television, or the internet. It comes from the history of Beowulf and the bard. This third memory is that of the oral storyteller.

I come from a family tree laden with storytellers who drop acorns upon unsuspecting relatives. These "acorns" or "stories" are always told in the first person and relate true narratives of the supernatural, macabre, and unexplained.

As a child I remember sitting by the wood stove and listening to the ghoulish tales of my grandfather being confronted by an evil hitchhiker and my grandmother's home being guarded by more than one dead individual. I recall my mother telling of her escape from a flying entity, my cousin relating her firsthand experiences with the supernatural, and my aunt sharing her cerebral storehouse of family lore.

Intrigued by these stories as a child and later as an adult, I set about collecting the acorns of my family that dangle from a tree of half-forgotten memory. After emptying the sack of acorns, I ground them into a fine powder of daunting yarns entitled Haunted Voices from My Past: True Narratives of an Ohio Family. My new book is a tribute to my ancestors and their lives, a look at my own fragile experiences with the unknown, and an echo of the haunted voices that once shared their stories with the hope that they would be respected, retold, and preserved.

Thanks to all of the readers who made my new book a success last week, my family's ghost stories have been heard. Take a moment to shake your family tree and tell me some of your true ghost stories in the comments section below.

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As always, I love to hear from you. If you’re in the cyber-neighbourhood, drop me a line. In the meantime, keep writing, reading, and smiling. It’s contagious.

A Tribute to Ace

Monday was Labor Day for those of us residing in the U.S. Despite its connotation, it does not denote a day set aside for work. Rather, the day celebrates the ability to laze about and feed one’s face, preferably with one’s fingers accommodating in rapid, shovel-like gestures. While participating in this yearly ritual, I snuffled over half-cooked coconut pie filling, remembering a man who died thirteen Septembers ago.

Why was I crying? Each holiday my grandmother made a coconut pie for Pa and me. She always cooked the homemade masterpieces over her gas oven the night prior to the big day. Before the filling had set, Pa would slice through the gooey custard and warm crust. Between mouthfuls, he would dial my phone number to taunt me about his sneaking the first piece. This man was my grandfather, and he was known as “Ace.”

In tribute to Pa’s memory, I wrote the following short piece about one of the tales he told during a warm day like this and after an empty pie pan like now.

***

      Ace returned from the Second World War a changed, hardened man though he eventually confronted his problems and altered his life. Before this metamorphosis, he was a rabble-rousing young man with a cigarette in one hand and a homemade blackjack in the other.

***

      Ace’s car swerved around the deserted town like a child’s toy car spinning on linoleum. The drunken young man jerked the steering wheel again, determined to elude the blaring police car chasing him down the darkened road. He stomped harder on the gas pedal and whizzed around the corner past a gas station. His grey eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. The police car had fallen behind during the last maneuver but continued its pursuit. Ace glanced at the gas gauge and grimaced. He was nearly out of town, and if he were to lead the police into the countryside, he would soon run out of gas. He threw his spent cigarette to the floor as he reached the last intersection. The car engine whined as the accelerator furthered the distance between him and his pursuer. Grinning, Ace fumbled in the dark for his cigarettes. He glanced one last time at the rearview mirror and flipped off the headlights.

***

      The police car raced through the intersection and rounded the corner into an alley. It roared down the gravel road past the cars parked alongside a series of crumbling brick buildings. After stopping briefly for the traffic sign at the end of the road, the car headed west.
      A tiny orange light bloomed and faded in the alley. Ace was lounging on the hood of his car, smoking the remainder of his cigarette and laughing.

***

As always, I love to hear from you. If you’re in the cyber-neighbourhood, drop me a line. In the meantime, keep writing, reading, and smiling. It’s contagious.