Bookworm

August 30, 2013 / roughwighting / 29 Comments

I lust for well-written, fast-paced, fabulously thought-out novels.

After a long week of work, with early morning risings, daily walks with the dog, constant work challenges (have you made a postcard, on-line, lately?), a week that is lengthened by attending night-time board meetings and teaching writing classes, baking homemade cookies for sick friends, and creating scrumptious dinners for my man (I say with tongue in cheek) — after a week like that, I adore an empty weekend ahead, with no plans but to sit down with a good book.

Even now, with a day left to the week, I pine for the beginning of the long Labor Day weekend, which will bring me to my soft burgundy chair (or sunny deck chair), dog at my feet, sunny gorgeous view of the SF bay (a view I ignore once engrossed), and a tome of fiction on my lap – in hardback, softback, or Kindle format.

I hold back the urge to escape until Saturday afternoon, after I’ve taken my long weekend walk, meditated through my yoga class, picked up groceries for the weekend, and begun a load of laundry.

Then, then the need for a good read is as palpable as a strong, urgent, irritating itch.

I brew a cup of chamomile, sling on my soft comfy sweatshirt, plop down on my chair, and sigh with passionate desire to enter a new world.

Magic Book © Mariia Pazhyna

How about you? Are you a lusty, dreamy, passionate bookworm too?

(In the past month, I’ve chortled over Where’d You Go, Bernadette?, held my breath during the entire 940 pages of Winter of the World, and now, am chewing my nails over The Ophelia Cut. Next up? The Language of Flowers.)

reading time, books, children's books, grandmothering

Oh, and how can I forget the funny saga of The Pirates Next Door, by Jonny Duddle?

LETTER TO THE AGENT from My Major Character

August 23, 2013August 23, 2013 / roughwighting / 20 Comments

TO: Ms. Rosie, Agent, Publishers Row, NY, NY

Dear Ms. Rosie

I understand from my author that you wouldn’t pick up her book because the synopsis didn’t sound “interesting” to you, and that if you’re not interested in it, it would be difficult for you to sell the book to a publishing company.

Well, I must admit, I find your admission cold and thought-provoking. Co-authors Pamela Wight and Ashley Brandt worked many long, arduous hours to bring my character to life. They were both raising families and working at challenging jobs, but telling my story became their passion. I can’t tell you how gratifying it was for me at 5 p.m. every afternoon, the witching hour for the Wight and Brandt family, to see them working hard on my plot and characterization while ignoring the whines of husbands and children droning on in the background: “When are you going to fix dinner? There’s nothing in the house!!”

But these authors were true to their calling. They worked at fleshing me out, telling my story of a motherless upbringing and a depressed father who drank to forget his loss. For you to carelessly send a one-paragraph page stating that you found my story “uninteresting” was about as cold and uncompassionate as anyone can be, whether she is a heartless murderer, a bratty 16-year-old bully, or a clueless agent.

I found your remarks thought-provoking because they made me wonder, what kind of agent are you anyway, and what kind of book are you looking for? In riveting detail, Wight and Brandt tell the tale of me surviving my difficult childhood, excelling in school, and scoring a high-prestige job in a San Francisco investment firm. Beautiful but unsure of myself, I tackle my job with everything I have, unaware of the thicket of trouble I get in when the boss’ twin tries to destroy his brother and pin the blame of the bomb on me. This is uninteresting?

Then the handsome boss, Blake Sinclair, a man I despise because he seems arrogant and too wealthy to even notice a low-level employee like me, basically kidnaps me and keeps me locked up in a gorgeous Stinson Beach cottage. Against all odds, we discover we like each other, and yes, soon in the dark of night, love each other, and our hearts bloom with happiness. This is uninteresting?

And finally, Blake’s cruel, twisted brother tries to murder me during a wintry California storm. Can Black arrive in time to rescue me? And this is all uninteresting to you?

Fortunately for my two authors, the people who have read our book have found it a fun, fascinating romantic suspense. In fact, many readers have claimed that they were unable to put it down, and stayed up late at night to find out how/if Blake and I survive a sibling gone wild. These people all found Twin Desires extraordinarily interesting. I’m sorry you never gave my story the chance it deserves. When it’s picked up by a major publishing house, I’ll be sure Wight and Brandt send you a signed copy.

Til then,

Sandra Eastman

Twin Desires, romantic suspense, self-publishing

Sandra Eastman invites you to read about her romantic suspense. Click on the cover to visit her Amazon page.

Job Security

August 16, 2013 / roughwighting / 15 Comments

At the end of my vacation, as I gather my belongings, stuff my sandy clothes in a suddenly too small suitcase, and stress about getting to the airport, I decide to check in and get my boarding pass on my “smart phone.”

My man always urges me to PRINT OUT my boarding pass, believing that the process will go much faster once at the airport. I disagree, but usually follow his instructions for the sake of peace and understanding.

But now I’m without a printer, and I’m told by those younger than me that printed boarding passes are passé.

I never want to be passé.

So I hit the appropriate buttons on my tiny smart screen, adding my password, my flight number, my ticket number, and my credit card number (for my one bag). The only number not required, it seems, is the birthdate of my great grandmother.

Fifteen minutes later, after much angst on my part (those buttons are TINY), I am checked in and my boarding pass scan pops up on my smart screen, looking somewhat like a Borsch test.

The scan tells me something deep and uplifting:

I AM NO LONGER PASSE!

My jaunty journey to the airport becomes an ordeal, however, because when I try to locate the scan on my phone during the 1 ½-hour drive, I can’t find it. WHERE IS MY SCAN?

I frantically figure out that I need to go back to the airline site on the “smart” phone and check in again (which to me seems illegal, or at least illogical, since I’m already checked in) and then hit the Boarding Pass button again and viola, my scan returns.

But how do I keep it there?

I cross my fingers that when I approach the terminal, I’ll still be scan-able.

Two minutes before arriving at “Departures,” I check my phone. Drat. “My time has expired,” the web site tells me. So as I rush to the counter with my already-paid-for-bag, my purse, and my one carry on, I desperately hit the check-in button on my phone again and go through the entire process and…

…I shout into the stupefied face of the counter agent:

“I Am Not Passe!”

as I show him my phone boarding pass scan.

He chuckles and agrees that I am technologically efficient as he takes my suitcase and directs me to the mountain-high escalator that gets me to security.

“But don’t I need a tag proving I’ve checked in a bag?” I ask with naiveté.

“All on your smart scan,” he replies with a wink.

Yippee! I race up to the winding security line, but when I face the uniformed guard with my phone, the scan is gone.

Kabut.

I can’t even find the airline site to let me check in…again.

And the guard won’t let me in without my scan.

“But you’ve got my luggage!” I wail.

She shrugs, not impressed.

My “smart” phone says, “No server found.”

I shove this incriminating evidence toward the bland face of the security lady, who is busy allowing others in with their PAPER boarding passes. “Yeah, that happens a lot here,” she finally admits.

So I race back down the escalator, taking two steps at a time until, panting, I’m back in line for the original agent who told me I was not passé.

The tall, wide-smiled man, at least 25 years younger than me and many years wiser, asks “Is there a problem?”

I breathlessly explain my dilemma.

“ID,” he responds with a serious expression. I whip out my driver’s license, he hits a few computer keys, and a piece of paper begins to spit out of his printer.

“Ms Wight…” he begins.

I look at him questioningly.

“Do you know what I call this?” he continues while handing me the paper boarding pass.

“Um.”

“Job Security,” he deadpans.

I laugh all the way through the 2-mile long security line.

Adventures in Babysitting

August 9, 2013August 9, 2013 / roughwighting / 20 Comments

Traveling with a 5-year-old is not for the faint-at-heart.

My Boston granddaughter visits my man and me for a wonderful wacky week, but now it’s time for me to fly her back to the “right” coast.

Because of a planned 6:30 a.m. shuttle for a 9 a.m. flight, I urge my rosebud to bed early the night before and warn her that “I’ll wake you up tomorrow so we can make our flight on time!”

Every other morning, the sleepy princess slumbers past 8:30, and her devious grandmother (yes, that’s me), anxious for the day’s fun to begin, releases the button to her air mattress, deflating the bed and waking the befuddled girl.

So on flight day, I wake up at 5 a.m., figuring I have 75 minutes to shower, dress, and pack before the little one is woken.

But at 5:15, I hear a noise in the child’s room and find her dressed (including headband, shoes, and bracelet), ready to “help” her Madre.

Have you ever packed with a 5-year-old? Each item is lovingly petted, then thrown into the suitcase with wild abandon. The child practices bouncing and jumping on the said suitcase so that it closes properly.

However, her red carry-on case is cajoled to close too aggressively, and one of the side locks suddenly appears in the girl’s hand. Her wide blue eyes express the perfect sentiment:

Whoops.

We swirl to the airport and stand in line at security, me handling my suitcase, her suitcase, my carry on and her carry on, while simultaneously holding granddaughter’s hand.

The line is long, the wait interminable for a wide-awake little girl. “Mommy always lets me sit on my carry on,” she explains patiently.

Well, Mommy wasn’t missing a lock, I mumble to myself, but for the sake of happiness, I let my sweetuns sit (softly! I admonish) on her hard red case.

But the damn lock is missing, and with 10 people ahead of us, and 98 behind, the red case explodes open.

Out pops 6 My Little Ponies; 1 toothbrush; 4 headbands; 1 long-legged, pink-clad doll; 3 Fancy Nancy books; and 1 kid’s medical kit that includes a stethoscope, blood pressure cuff, 1 thermometer, and 1 reflex hammer.

The security guard barks, “Keep it moving!” as I frantically throw the items, now spread out on the airport floor like ants on a picnic table, into the red case.

“Hurry, Madre,” my granddaughter exclaims, probably hearing the exasperated sighs behind us.

Miraculously, I jam it all in and snap the case (sort of) shut, leaving out not even one little pony.

We make it to our airplane seats unimpeded, although I admit my grateful sigh is loud enough to induce some chuckles in the rows in front and behind us. I pray that the little one is as tired as I am after our early morning trials, but she proceeds to talk, and talk, and talk the entire 5 ½-hour-trip! Not that her conversation isn’t fascinating, but halfway through I suggest it’s time for us to take a nap.

I could have suggested we take a flying leap out of the airplane at 3,000 feet in the air.

“Madre! Did you forget I don’t nap anymore???!”

Two hours later I suggest we close our eyes, just to give them a rest.

“I’m not tired, Madre, but you can close your eyes.” She proceeds to examine me with her medical kit, stethoscope on my chest and thermometer on my lips, to see if there is a medical reason for my fatigue.

And then, she asks to go to the bathroom, noting that the “pilots” seem to walk to the rear of the plane often (she doesn’t understand the difference between air flight attendants and pilots, and I’m so impressed that she thinks it’s normal to have three female pilots for one plane, I don’t try to explain).

But when we make it to the back, my granddaughter is shocked and dismayed at the “pilots” sitting in their seats, facing the wrong way.

“HOW CAN THEY STEER FROM HERE???” she screams in concern.

Philosophically, I think sometimes that’s exactly how it feels in life – we steer from the wrong end of the plane.

But I ditch my ruminations, buy her a ginger ale and a box of raisins, and we read “The Night Before Kindergarten” until the plane gently lands.

Facing the right way.

Simplify, Simplify, Simplify

July 19, 2013 / roughwighting / 33 Comments

One of the pleasures of moving to New England, after 16 years in California, was learning more about our country’s history, and in particular, our literary history.

I toured the Orchard House (where Little Women was written, and where Louisa M. Alcott lived with her parents and sisters).

Orchard House, Louisa May Alcott, Concord MA

The Orchard House,
Concord MA

I breathed in the literary dust of Emerson while touring his home, just across the street from Louisa’s.

Daily walks from my own home led me pass the Old Manse, where Thoreau and Hawthorne, Fuller, Alcott and Emerson, laid plans for a garden, and a better world.

But I was most affected by my strolls around Walden Pond, just a few miles away, and the stomping grounds of Henry David Thoreau. Every time I took my guests for a hike around the “pond” (much more like a lake) and then meandered around the cabin replica and gift shop, I’d pick up a book on Thoreau’s writings or a book mark with one of his quotes.

Walden Pond
Joseph Sohm/Visions of America/Corbis

You know, Thoreau had a lot to say.

“Be true to your work, your world, your friend.”

“Aim above morality. Be not simply good, be good for something.”

Statue of Henry David with cabin.
RhythmicQuietude

The one I took to heart the most was, perhaps, the simplest one:

Simplify Simplify Simplify.

Don’t we all know the value of this thought, deep inside?

The more ‘stuff’ we surround ourselves with, the more our heads get stuffed with non-necessities.

The more we add to our lives (items, not friends), the more we lose sight of who we really are, deep down inside.

My man and I took Thoreau seriously. First, we named our new puppy, Henry (Henry David when he got in trouble).

And then we really got serious. We left our beautiful, much-loved 5-bedroom home, and downsized to a 2-bedroom condo.

To make the move, and the change, we had to get rid of a lot of “stuff.” All of my beloved books – off to the library and the thrift shops. Lamps, couches, extra rugs and dinnerware – sold. Oak headboards, mattresses, linens and towels – gone. Antique dressers, hope chests, and piano – offered to family and friends.

I never cried for any of it, and to be truthful, never missed it either. The need for those things seemed to blow away, like tiny bubbles in the wind.

I discovered that Thoreau knew it all, back in the mid-19^th century. The less we’re encumbered with possessions, the more open we are to the world around (and inside) us.

That said, I’m going to simplify a bit further for the next two weeks and not write. Gasp! Well, no, I’ll write, but I won’t share my flashes of writerly wisdom while I’m frolicking with grandchildren, swimming in the Atlantic Ocean, avoiding the East Coast jellyfish, and all around playing.

I hope your next few weeks are simply – joyous!