My vacation is over, but the words remain! It was less than three weeks total and I managed to read five novels (I’m a slow reader that’s huge for me). I spent one week dancing and another eating more chocolate, drinking more Belgian beer, seeing more fabulous art and consuming more apple cake (AKA Dutch apple pie) than in the previous three years! I also wrote. I wrote blog posts and sketched out/began four short stories. Plus, when I found out that one of my new Tango friends was a Mt. Everest/Mt. Kilimanjaro guide, I “interviewed” her and then wrote
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STUFF
Relics, souvenirs, mementoes… It all comes down to STUFF. The magic comes from what we invest in an object. It’s rarely a matter of what the object brings to the table. A locket with a photo in a sentimental novel, the perfectly balanced shaving/killing blade in Sweeney Todd’s murderous hand, a teacup from grandma’s cabinet, a vial purporting to contain a drop of a medieval saint’s blood, a towel Elvis Presley used and Archie Bunker’s chair—things can become icons, but, again they are still just stuff. It’s the dance we do with special things, as we endow them with emotional
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Steampunk Summer Moment
My friends are used to my regular museum habit, but other people ask, “Again?” with a strange look of anguished confusion. Are they concerned about my brand of escapism or do they think they are missing out? (I don’t play games on my phone and I’ve never even tried golf, so I know I’m weird.) I don’t know. Maybe there’s just a missing piece to the conversation about my art adventures? It’s true that I often recharge by revisiting familiar art collections in NYC, but I also indulge in ‘art wandering’— visiting exhibits and museums that fall outside any of
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Taking a Long Walk
Taking a long walk in a strange—or at least unfamiliar—city is a wonderful way to “discover” stories. I think I recognize a person coming toward me in the distance, but it’s just a general outline or a similar walk. Not the person I know at all. But a cascade of thoughts about that person is sparked and I recall a story. Perhaps it’s worth telling? The sign in a store window is intriguing. It seems to reach out to me. It’s in Dutch, but I seem to understand it. There’s a story behind each door. A fat orange cat stares
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Tell Me Your Story
Talk to me—go ahead and tell me your story! I rarely have to ask. I just sit there and the stories pour out. Even when I’m careful to warn people that I’m a story vampire and my “suck” the life out of their story, twisting and turning it into fiction, people still choose to talk. Only once was I required to promise I would not write/use a story before being told a compelling and fiction-worthy tale. (A dear friend knew it was catnip before she spilled the story.) There have been a few times when someone wanted to talk me
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Tell Me Your Story
Talk to me—go ahead and tell me your story! I rarely have to ask. I just sit there and the stories pour out. Even when I’m careful to warn people that I’m a story vampire and my “suck” the life out of their story, twisting and turning it into fiction, people still choose to talk. Only once was I required to promise I would not write/use a story before being told a compelling and fiction-worthy tale. (A dear friend knew it was catnip before she spilled the story.) There have been a few times when someone wanted to talk me
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Metaphors, Symbols and A Footbridge
I’m not one of those writers who go goofy over metaphors and symbols—ladling them out in big generous portions that smother everything else in a story—but they do have their place and, often in mystery fiction, they point the reader is calculated directions. I’m traveling and when I finally caught up with the time zone, I took a long walk through Nijmegen. It’s a city in the Netherlands that I’ve visited many times. In addition to it being a dynamic place that grows and changes every time I return, my natural habit of getting LOST wherever I go, enables me
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The Speed of Time
Time speeds up and time sloooooooows down—or it appears to because waiting for the jury to come back with a verdict takes “forever” and the glee at the first sight of that big, piece of chocolate cake may pass before the second bite. It’s the perception of time that counts, more than its reality. I’m on vacation right now and, as I write this, I’m sitting on a terrace watching—yes actually watching—the summer breeze turn a mobile. It slows down, it speeds up and I’m all-but-hypnotized by the circular motion. At home, I stare out the window of my favorite
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Fireworks
Yes, I’m feeling inspired by the thought of all those July 4th fireworks. I’m traveling so I missed the explosive fun on the East River in New York. Each year it’s an enormous display of color, lights and—most telling for me—thunderous sounds. The banging, crashing, jarring, stomach dropping explosions always overpower the music. Here’s my question… What is it about fireworks that entrances crowds? Yes, the carefully arranged colorful plumes are beautiful, but is it something more? Is it, in fact, that banging, crashing, jarring, stomach dropping explosive sound track? Fireworks are aggressive and demanding. They are symbolic of real
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The Moriarty Syndrome
No, you did not miss a new scientific phenomenon. This is something I’ve observed and named. So please let me know what you think of it. The “Moriarty Syndrome” (named for the Sherlock Holmes’ nemesis Moriarty) is simply the creation of an evil foil with a personal focus on the hero. This phenomenon appears in fiction on a regular basis. I’ve read countless mysteries where the killer turns out to be known to the detective—they went to school together, they were once lovers, they were rivals for a promotion, etc. Mystery series, in books and especially on TV, rely on
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