Mind Reader

reading my mind, Ophrah WinfreyOprah peers at me skeptically as I walk onto her new set. I hear the claps and cheers, even a whistle or two, making me glad I selected the short black skirt and cashmere soft pink sweater. Flattering, Danny told me, and he would know. He was my hairstylist before he became a fashion designer, and he always tells me what’s the best length for my hair, and my hemline.

But I digress. I silently thank Danny for his fashion tips and sashay up to the re-emerged talk show queen, who is looking glamorous and slim in black and purple today. We shake hands, but I can tell she’s a little worried about this interview.Oprah Winfrey Continue reading

Amazingly Ordinary

daylily, nursery, plantsI met an amazingly ordinary couple this week. They own their own nursery, where they grow and sell day lilies and hostas, hydrangea and roses, astilbes and lavender.

My guy and I visited their little nursery in hopes of filling in some gaps where 8-feet of snow devastated some of our flowering bushes. Although the drive was not far from our village outside of Boston, the green-hooded winding lanes, acreages of pastureland with grazing cows, a farm here, another white-spired church there, made us feel like it could just as easily be 1940, or 1840, instead of 2015.perennials, gardening Continue reading

A Wintry Flight of Fancy

I wake my daughter at 7 a.m. and exclaim: “It’s snowing. We have to go for a walk!” I’m spending the weekend with her and her young family, who are hushed into dreams. But I can’t let her sleep and miss this fun.

A best friend would turn over in bed and fall back to sleep. But a daughter rises and brushes her teeth with her eyes closed, puts on her warmest woolens, and trudges out in the air-brushed world of a winter wonderland with her mother.

The air sparkles as the soft snow cascades onto the open land. We find the path that leads to the woods and listen to the crunch of our boots on new-fallen snow atop a hard crust from past storms. I laugh and skip through the white delight; my daughter grimaces and tells me I’m crazy. She’s not awake yet, but I know she’ll appreciate all of this soon.

snow, candy, winter

I stick out my tongue and taste the snow as if it’s candy. She shakes her head in disgust and walks on. I shut my mouth and decide to wait until her soul awakens and she thanks me for this time.

The air rushes through the pine trees that are iced like a wedding cake. The sound of the wind through the branches gives me brain massagea brain massage. I am so happy I think I’ll burst into song until I remember my pledge to keep quiet. But my daughter’s head snaps up, snow sticking to her surprised face.  Muffled hoof beats get louder and louder, until the source of it is upon us. 

“Whitey!” she exclaims. I stare at the two-winged horse in utter astonishment. When my daughter was young, I’d tuck her in bed with stories of a fairy wonderland, where the snow always fell like diamonds, where elves played hopscotch with snow imps, and where Whitey, the snow-white fairy horse, flew with the wind to find little girls to ride on her back.

I look upon this mirage with awe, but my daughter is not fazed. She’s always believed that Whitey exists.white-winged horse

“Ladies,” Whitey says in a soft female tone as she lowers her head, encouraging us both to slip on her back. I hold on to her stiff white mane, while my daughter circles her arms around my waist.

“Imagination is based on reality,” the horse’s feminine voice whispers toward me as we rise into the white polka dot sky. “Imagination is a free ride toward joy.”

I close my eyes and smile as I hear my daughter’s voice ring out: “Yippee!”

Hollywood Comes Callling

Hollywood, movies, fantasy, romantic suspenseI knew it would happen, sooner or later.

When my critique group finished the third draft of my (then) unpublished romantic suspense novel, The Right Wrong Man, each of them independently concluded their final review with a list of the actors who should play my characters in a movie.

“Guys,” I responded modestly. “I need to get this published first. Then let’s dream about Jennifer Lawrence for Meredith, and Channing Tatum for Parker.”

Channing Tatum, fantasy, Hollywood, writing, creative

Gregory?

“No!” They all chimed in. “Channing should be Gregory!” I ignored them, dotted my “i’s” and wrote two more drafts before I hit “Ping.”

Amazon sold 10,000 copies by week 6.

On week 8, I received an e-mail from Julia Robert’s agent.

On week 9, Bradley Cooper phoned me directly.

The bidding war began.

On the first anniversary of my publication date, the movie was optioned, sold, and at my insistence, I had a role as 3rd screenwriter on set, which became larger as each day of shooting progressed.

Jennifer Lawrence, imagination, fantasy, Hollywood, writing, novel

Meredith?
(credit to:HRC/ WENN.com)

The chosen actress to play Meredith (and I can’t divulge that secret here), knocked on my trailer at 8:10 every morning. “Ms. Wight, the other writer says Meredith belches. Meredith would never belch. Please, please rewrite the rewritten script and fix it!”

I fixed.

Then the actor I hungered over, um, I mean, that Meredith hungered over, joined me for a glass of wine at the end of the day’s shooting. “We have a problem,” he stated in his famous deep growl. “The director is demanding I punch Carlos in the face and break his nose. You and I know that is NOT Parker’s style. Please, fix it!”

I fixed.

I taunted the producer, tweaked the direction, tamed the actors, and a year later, the movie THE RIGHT WRONG MAN was a hit.

And guess who was nominated for Best Screenwriter?

What?

Oh, yes, this is a fantasy. But you do know the definition of “fantasy,” don’t you?

That’s right:  “The creative imagination.” Or, “unrestrained fancy.”  

A writer should never be restrained, nor lack creativity OR imagination.

Because, my dear readers,  as Einstein explained;

“Imagination is everything. It is the preview of life’s coming attractions.”

Now, speaking of coming attractions, who would YOU choose to play Parker and Gregory?

Just so, you know, I’m prepared when that phone call comes in.

fantasy, author, writing, romance novel, Hollywood

“Fantasy is hardly an escape from reality. It’s a way of understanding it.” ― Lloyd Alexander

Who Am I? Who Are You?

Who Am I?I’m a curly-haired woman who loves fairytale fantasy, long walks along the water, communing silently with babies and animals, and reading for hours in a deep plush chair while sipping Tropical Green tea.

I dislike vapid vain chatter; inconsiderate drivers who turn without blinking; wayward souls who act as if they run the world; grocery carts with broken wheels; men who pinch women’s rears (yes, still!); unanswered e-mails; unplucked eyebrows; arguments; orange vests; and fruit drinks.

My heart soars with the soft, whisper-filled kisses of little ones; a sun salutation on a Hawaiian beach; a spontaneous loud laugh m&m'sfrom a coworker; a handful of M&M’s, particularly the green or blue ones; a sudden embrace from my irreplaceable guy.

The sounds I most enjoy: the swish of pens on paper (and the clack of a laptop) during one of my creative writing classes; the pounding surf on the New Jersey seashore; the beat of a Beatles tune; the bark of Henry, the dog, as he sits in front of his cookie jar,; the beginning melody of The Nutcracker Suite ballet; the soft plop of an omelet-filled plate placed in front of me at a sunny San Francisco corner café; the ‘hello Pammy’ call from my effervescent magnetic mom.

Hawaiian beach, solitude, happiness, loveLife is worthwhile because of soft classical music on a cold Sunday morning; two-hour conversations with a long-time friend; a tall diffident son who stares deeply into my eyes and says, ‘Love you, Mom’; a 2-year-old grandchild who sits quietly, attentively on my lap while listening to Good Night Moon; a foggy afternoon writing stories about people I’ve never met; a man who runs out to buy my special Earl Gray tea latte, non-fat milk with foam at 6:15 in the morning; a beautiful daughter who wears her heart on every sleeve and her love in her morning glory eyes.

That’s who I am.

Who are you?