Nervous About Your Year Ahead? by Judy Fowler

 

 

 

I was paying rent on a place no one would want to live in an area of the country with long, winding roads.

I’d found low-paid temp work with an entertainment agency.

I was training in a small group when the owner got a phone call.

 “What? She tap-danced over a dog and killed it? Okay, I’ll send somebody else right away.” He hung up the phone and looked at me. “Come over here,” he said.

I walked toward him.

“Do you tap dance?”

I couldn’t remember whether I had put it on my skill list when I applied for work.

He explained that a tap dancer had tripped and killed a small dog, and that he needed to replace the performer.

“I can tap dance, but not exactly like a dancer,” I said. “I practiced in my dorm room. I tapped out the routines to Bonnie Raitt singing ‘I Ain’t Blue.’”

“That’ll do, “the owner said.

 He said the gig had already started. I left, with scant time to digest his driving directions. I was wearing a red jumpsuit from the year I weighed my perfect weight.

He had said the gig was for Wounded Warriors.

In my red Volkswagen bug, I made my way “over hill and dale.” I arrived sweaty and distressingly late.

The venue was a rundown library. “Wounded Warriors” was posted on the door to one room, and I went inside.

One man waited in the room. He was the only person attending. Or who had stayed.  

Someone had written “Tap Dancing for Bulimia” on a blackboard. The tall man sat in his chair, and I began tap dancing. To make more of a performance out of it, I sang letters along to my taps: “B, U, L…”. I sweated, worried that when I got to “A,” I would not know what to do next, since I had no idea why I or anyone would be tap dancing for bulimia.

My audience of one waited for me to connect it all up, so I transitioned from dancing to conversation.   

I assumed he was a wounded warrior seeking information. I did what bad lecturers do: I fished for him to tell me about my subject.

“Are you bulimic?” I asked.

           “No.”

“Do you know what bulimia is?”

“No.”

“Okay, well, it’s throwing up after you eat. To avoid digesting calories.” Beneath the thin red fabric, my underarms were manufacturing a visible stain.

“Oh,” he said.

          Why on earth had this assignment fallen to an entertainment temp agency rather than a mental health professional?

“Obviously, I don’t have bulimia,” I said, and indicated my girth. How insensitive! To him, and to sufferers of bulimia. What did he care about my problems? Several times, I looked past him to the corner of the room where the walls joined as I hunted for a word to connect tap dancing and bulimia, with no luck.

After a minute or two, he left.

Back in my car, I realized the word I wanted was “control.”

“For control,” the man might have pondered. “Ah-ha.”   

And maybe he wouldn’t have left as wounded as when he arrived. He might have looked for a book on the subject before he left the library.

I got back to the agency before it closed. My employer, who was also my landlord, asked how it went. “No more animals were hurt?”

“No. There were no animals. You neglected to tell me why I was tap dancing for bulimia.”

He chomped on a cigar and closed his cash register.

“And for Wounded Warriors, yet,” I prompted.  

But he said nothing.

My jumpsuit was soaked with performance sweat. I sighed. “It would have been good if you had told me what outcome we were going for.”

He was writing in a ledger. Everything was about money for him.

But I was an entertainer. “And just one man in the audience. Maybe if I hadn’t been worried about arriving late—if I hadn’t had to tap dance—I might have thought of a way to link an eating disorder with PTSD,” I said.

 “Only one person?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Awkward.” 

That’s how much he cared. I walked out of his office and returned to the basement apartment with its cracked walls and its peeling paint.

Then I woke up.

It was 4:26 a.m. I’d been dreaming. I was in my townhouse in Virginia Beach, and it was the day of the annual Hampton Roads Writers’ Conference.

I made coffee. By the second cup, I saw how the dream covered every anxiety I had about attending the conference. I’d signed up to pitch a book to a real agent, my first pitch. I’d opened myself up with a contest entry about my Dad’s military service in WWII and its impact on the family. I had given up control of what people knew about my life. Was it too personal?

I felt unprepared. I feared the agent would stare me down during my two-minute pitch and leave before I could provide helpful information about my book. My only attempt at preparation was a diet I’d started after Labor Day. I’d gained fifteen pounds.  

The genius of the dream? It used my worst performance experience as its backdrop. Years ago, I drove a children’s theatre troupe to a school. We got there too late to perform because I’d gotten lost on a winding road in Vermont, in the days before cell phones. My cousin had recommended us to all his friends. 

As I drove to the conference, I recalled Dad telling me years ago to “tap dance”—i.e., make something up —when I didn’t know what to do next. 

The conference turned out better than the dream. “Dad’s” essay won first prize, and I “tap-danced” through the pitch for an agent who asked me to submit some pages.

On the awards video, I definitely looked fat. But happy.  

BREAKING THINGS by Judy Fowler

Why was I breaking things? 

As I struggled to hang heavy curtains I'd sewn and lined, their fabric caught on the neck of a vintage pink vase and toppled that lovely heirloom to the floor. I froze. Four large pieces and smaller shards of irreplaceable glass lay near my feet. I wanted the pieces to jump up and put themselves back together. The vase had previously belonged to a grandmother I'd only known for four years before she died. 

POINT OF VIEW by Judy Fowler

In romantic fiction, opposing points of view often threaten a couple's future. Here are three real-world point-of-view obstacles. Will romance prevail? Answer key at the bottom.

1. Hanging pictures 

A widower new to dating offered to hang wall art in his ladyfriend's apartment. 

She: "I've had bad experiences with men helping me hang pictures. I'm very particular about the height of each piece."

He: Don't worry. I've brought a level and a pencil. Show me how high you want them."

She watches as picture after picture goes up. "They're all too high. I have to crane my neck to see them."

He: "I hung them at eye level." 

She: "Not my eye level." 

He: "I marked the top of each where you said to mark it."

She: (under her breath) "I'll have to paint that whole wall to cover the holes."

He (gruffly): "Don't forget to buy spackle." 

2. Purchasing power 

Two singles about to merge family lives walk on the beach in summer. The couple hold hands and stare out at boats on the water.   

"You know, at the end of the season, we could get one of those for three hundred dollars."

"Really?" the other asks. "How great would that be? We could have all the kids on it for parties. We could swim off the sides. They could invite their friends!"

"What the hell are you looking at?"

The other points to a pontoon boat.

"I'm looking at that rowboat!" 

3. Wedding day priorities

"Chris wanted a band," my balance instructor Jacqui said last week. "I thought that was great, even if it ate up a lot of our budget. I looked for things to cut back on—like flowers. I'm repurposing artificial bouquets for table arrangements."

She showed me a photo of her arrangements. "And here's a picture of Tucker trying on his tuxedo." 

I've never met Chris but have spent many hours in the Cova Church gym with the pretty bride-to-be and her Brittany spaniel. I'd just thrown Tucker a chew toy to chase. "What does Chris think of you spending money dressing Tucker for the wedding?" I asked. 

"You can't go naked to the wedding, can you, Tucker?" Jacqui cooed. "It was Chris's idea to make him Best Dog."

Jacqui worried she wouldn't get everything done, and Chris needed to be sure tablecloths were a vital line item. I worried about the dog, a pointer that's always in motion. "I doubt he can walk calmly down the aisle even on a leash, Jacqui," I said.

"No worries," she assured me. "He's practicing every day. He'll be fine."

"Does Chris have a best man?"

"Of course. He'll stand next to Tucker."

At that moment, the 'best dog' held a spit-slathered toy in his mouth. 

"He's not holding the ring, is he?" I asked.

I swear Tucker gave me a dirty look. 

Answers. Romance prevailed in all three scenarios. 1. When she realized she should tell men where she wanted the bottom of the picture rather than the top, the woman apologized. We're still dating. 2. Twenty years later, whenever financial reality testing is needed, one or the other will say, "Never mind. It's a three-hundred-dollar boat." 3. The wedding is today. I hope Tucker's ready.

 

LOOK! IT'S A BOOK! MY LIFELONG ITCH TO PUT A COVER AROUND MY WRITING By Judy Fowler

 In her book The Artist's Way, Julia Cameron wrote that every artist has their own idea of True North. That's their "I have arrived" moment. Seeing my writing between two covers with a spine has been my True North since third grade. 

That's the year my teacher tasked us with writing a report on a country. Ugh. Tedious.  Then she said our reports had to be bound in a hardcover binder. The uphill assignment suddenly took on the wonder of a trip to Disneyland. 

I could hardly wait to get home, choose a country, pull out my brother's World Book Encyclopedia and get down to some shameless cribbing.

Okay, I cared a little about the content of my report. First, I wanted a country no other eight-year-old Glen Cove student would pick to write about. Second, the nation had to be manageable in scope. Switzerland and Germany were out. 

My choice was Ruanda-Burundi, a photo of which I'd seen in a National Geographic.

In nineteen-fifty-eight, kids used two-hole ruled paper and printed neatly on sheets of it in pencil. My teacher asked for the reports to be sectioned into Customs, Culture, Social Groups, Arts, Clothing, and History. Luckily, Volume R of the World Book had those bases covered.

But I was working toward that cover. For the blissful moment when I'd place my penciled pages of paragraphs into the black hardcover binder my mother let me purchase from the school supply section of Newberry’s (yesterday's Dollar Tree).  

I glued a large red and white paper label (used by Mom to mail packages) on the front cover and boldly wrote on it with red pen: 

 RUANDA-BURUNDI

by Judy Fowler

I sat cross-legged on the floor and held that covered beauty in my hands. I peeked inside to look at those penciled pages snuggled up inside it. True North. 

Holiday card-making exposed the same compulsive urge to cover the "Roses are Red" dreck I'd written for my parents and grandparents. It wasn’t a card until I'd nestled it inside a homemade envelope, even if the card never saw a mailbox and only had to go upstairs on a tray. 

A few months ago, a story of mine became downloadable in an anthology titled Rock, Roll, and Ruin, edited by Karen Pullen of North Carolina’s Triangle Chapter of Sisters in Crime. The stories are fantastic, but what I wanted to see most? The e-book cover.  

Most manuscripts I read to my colleagues leave me less than thrilled until I get them covered. I love the magic of Fiver. They take my ideas and in two days a cover appears. I can even tweak it and get it back again in a few hours. It's an itch my discretionary income allows.

So, whether my story appears alone or last or eighth in a manuscript's batting order, I’m just happy to know it's inside something.  I judge a book once it's covered.

 

 

 

ENTERTAINING CRIME by Judy Fowler

  Why do we enjoy trials and stories about murder?

  Take South Carolina v. Murdaugh, as entertaining as a great           screenplay. 

 Murdaugh—a creep who never saw a vulnerable person he wouldn't     fleece—had us on the edge of our seats when he chose to take the           stand.  He cried in the jurors' direction and offered alternative facts to     them to escape accountability.  

 In a “fun and games” moment, his attorney pointed a rifle at the prosecutor. The possibility of reasonable doubt made my adrenaline kick in. The defense's hope of winning the day was alive right up to the last two minutes of the film—I mean trial. I bit my nails and hoped Alex hadn’t fooled any jurors. 

When they found him guilty, my dopamine kicked in. Shouldn't I have felt sad?

Why did I behave as if I'd been to a show? To understand my reaction, I went to acuriosityofcrime.com and re-read their June 2022 research on nineteenth-century inquest protocols in “Murder as Entertainment.” 

The English or Welsh coroner from the 1800's "who believed a death to be suspicious” sent warrants to collect twelve to twenty-four jurors for inquest duty. "It was to occur as soon as possible after notification of death." No need to ask the boss for time off next month. Duty began in two hours.  

And where did jurors do their service? "The morgue, or often where the body had been laid out on their bed." 

Talk about an adrenaline rush. You're home—adding a lump of coal to the fire. A knock at the door results in your immediate departure for a third-floor walk-up in a dodgy neighborhood. You trudge up several flights to a tawdry bedsit where a fresh corpse lies on the bed. 

The room is packed with other jurors. Agatha Christie's A Murder is Announced comes to mind. 

I'm embellishing, but it might have happened like that. 

Inquest duty stories from older relatives may have inspired Christie to write And Then There Were None. In it, a letter from a stranger induces ten people to drop everything and travel to an isolated location where they play judge, jury, and defendant.

Back to our 1800's juror. He was required to “peruse the corpse for signs of poisoning or violence.” If a juror tried to turn away after just a "quick gander," "the inquest was voided and any investigation had to stop."

Not all jurors could take the pressure. In one case, “A drunken juryman took offense and became noisier and more difficult to control as the inquest went on.” In another “the details of a poisoning were too much for the foreman of the jury and he fainted. Everyone waited until he had recovered enough to rejoin the proceedings.”     

The body remained on public display while "the jury gathered to hear testimony from everyone who had something relevant to say." The suspects could question the witnesses without being "obliged to say anything to criminate" themselves.  

Jurors asked questions, too. Imagine the tension in the room as suspects gave their alibis in the room with their possible victim, the victim's friend and all those over-stimulated jurors. Maybe their adrenaline rush remains in our collective memory when we watch Dateline.                                                       

After completing that sort of jury duty I'd rush home for a strong cup of tea. But lots of jurors must have headed for their local pub to wind up their friends and receive free pints of ale for telling and re-telling their story. 

If high-octane story-telling lit the fire that continues to burn in us for true crime and crime fiction today, and if a spark from that fire landed on me... then I'm not to blame for staying up late reading a whodunnit or for perking up when I hear the jury is back.     

But should I forgive myself for writing murder mysteries? A journalist once asked crime fiction authors Jonathan and Faye Kellerman if they felt guilty using murder as a vehicle to amuse people. Faye said no and that their "readers find murder stories entertaining because—in the end—those who hurt us are held accountable, cases are resolved, and the law wins.”