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.
Happy New Year from all of us here at the Sand in Our Shorts blog! We thank you for your continued support and wish you many blessings for 2024!
Up until now all of the information I have shared with you is from Lucy Worsley’s Agatha Christie: An Elusive Woman. Today I’m going to take you on a bit of an adventure. Actually this adventure is going to be led by someone who is another huge Christie fan. Today’s post will come from the BritBox special television series, Alan Carr’s Adventure with Agatha Christie. In this three part series, Carr takes us on a true adventure learning more about Christie. It should be on every Christie fan’s list of must watch. While I will not give all of the surprises away, I will share with you some of the top most fascinating things that I learned in this wonderful series. Won’t you come along with Alan Carr and me to learn some shocking things about Christie!
Itinerary #1. The British Museum
Wait, what? Why are we stoping here for Christie? I’m ever so glad that you asked. Christie’s second husband, Max was an archeologist. Ok, I know what you’re thinking. Yeah, you knew that, right? But did you know that while Agatha was with Max at his work, that “Christie is very connected to the early days of British archeology,” said Rakesha Dave, British Museum archeologist. Yes, it is true, I was surprised to learn that Christie has ‘a gallery of objects that she, herself, conserved and found,’ Dave continued.
Dave explained that ‘Christie was very intrigued by the conservation process.’ In fact Dave points out in the gallery that there are two pieces of ivory, one light and one darker in pigment. Dave advises that the one that is darker is because Christie used her own face cream to clean it which left it darker in appearance than the one next to it.
Itinerary #2. Barts Pathology Museum
Come on in, don’t be afraid.
This pathology museum holds over 5000 specimens of the human bodies used for medical teaching. Sadly, it includes many specimens from victims of violent crimes. The reason we are here is because Carr introduces us to Carla Valentine who is an author, and a qualified Anatomical Pathology Technologist. It also happens that she is another huge fan of Agatha Christie. It is here with her pathology work that Valentine realizes the depth of Christie’s knowledge of pathology by her continued contributions.
“She’s contributed to the forensic landscape as we know it today. She’s the person that coined the phrase the ‘scene of the crime’ before anybody else ever used it. She even invented a crime scene examiners kit and she gave it to Hercule Poirot in The Mysterious Affair at Styles. It didn’t even get invented in real life until 1924. So she was way ahead of the curve with that,” Carla Valentine explains.
Conclusion
I hope that you have enjoyed this short exploration of some interesting and I think, little known facts about Christie. I have left it short for two reasons. One, I don’t want to give you too many spoilers. You need to watch Alan Carr’s Adventures with Agatha Christie. Please do and tell me what you think. The second reason is that I’m still not feeling 100% well. Anyways, take care and best wishes for a wonderful new year!
“Mighty oaks from tiny acorns grow.” This proverb is often
attributed to 14th Century England. But I suspect the sentiment is
of a much more ancient origin. And its message to never give up, regardless of
how “small” you are, is universal..jpg)
Rear Admiral Grace Hopper
Perhaps there’s no better example of this than Grace
Hopper. Grace Brewster Murray Hopper (December 9, 1906 to January 1, 1992)
was a computer pioneer and naval officer. She earned a master’s degree (1930)
and a Ph.D. (1934) in mathematics from Yale. Hopper is best known for her
trailblazing contributions to computer programming, software development, and
the design and implementation of programming languages. A maverick and an
innovator, she enjoyed long and influential careers in the U.S. Navy and the
computer industry.
And she was stubborn as a mule, some might say, and determined
to leave her mark on the United States Navy, whether that often-hidebound
organization cared to acknowledge it or not.
After the bombing of Pearl Harbor and the United States’
entry into World War II, Hopper decided to join the war effort. She was
initially rejected because of her age and diminutive size, but she persisted
and eventually received a waiver to join the U.S. Naval Reserve (Women’s
Reserve). In December 1943, she took a leave of absence from Vassar, where she
was an associate professor, and completed sixty days of intensive training at
the Midshipmen’s School for Women at Smith College in Northampton, Massachusetts.
After receiving her commission (lieutenant junior grade),
Hopper was assigned to the Bureau of Ships Computation Project at Harvard
University. There, she joined a team working on the IBM Automatic Sequence
Controlled Calculator, better known as the MARK I. Hopper's
work on the Harvard Mark I computer, an early electromechanical computer, led
her to realize the need for a more user-friendly programming language. This
insight drove her to develop the first compiler, known as A-0, which enabled
programmers to write code using more human-readable language instead of machine
code or assembly language.
The origin of the term "debugging" in computer programming is often
attributed to Grace Hopper during her work on the Harvard Mark II computer in
1947. While troubleshooting a malfunction, Hopper and her team discovered a
moth trapped in one of the computer's relays, causing the issue. After removing
the moth, Hopper logged the incident in the computer's logbook, noting that
they had "first actual case of a bug being found" and that they had
"debugged" the computer.
In the late 1950s, Grace Hopper played a key role in the development of COBOL
(Common Business-Oriented Language), one of the first high-level programming
languages designed for business applications. COBOL became widely adopted and
is still in use today. Hopper's work in computer programming and her
contributions to the development of compilers and COBOL have left a lasting
impact on the field, earning her the nicknames "Amazing Grace" and
"Grandma COBOL."
Throughout her career in the computer industry, Hopper
remained a Navy reservist. In 1966, age restrictions forced her to retire from
the Navy as a commander. She later called it “the saddest day of my life.” Just
months later, however, she was recalled to active service to help standardize
the Navy’s multiple computer languages and programs. She retired from UNIVAC, a
division of Sperry Rand, in 1971.
An optimist as well as a visionary, Hopper celebrated the
potential of computers. “I think we consistently…underestimate what we can do
with computers if we really try,” she once said. In a 1983 interview on
“60 Minutes,” host Morely Safer asked if the computer revolution was over.
Hopper replied, “No, we’re only at the beginning…We’ve got the Model-T.” Until
the end of her life, Rear Admiral Grace Hopper looked forward with confidence
to new technologies and their problem-solving capabilities.
Hopper remained on active duty for nineteen years. She
retired from the Navy as a rear admiral at the age of 79—the oldest serving
officer in the U.S. armed forces. That same year she went to work as a senior
consultant in public relations at the Digital Equipment Corporation, where she
worked until her death in 1992. Hopper was buried with full military honors in
Arlington National Cemetery.
So, as writers, just think where we'd be without Amazing Grace's contributions to computer science and, ultimately, the word processing programs we depend on today.
(Sources: Biography
of Grace Murray Hopper | Office of the President (yale.edu) and Grace Hopper (Computer
Scientist and Admiral) - On This Day.)
As the Philly-centric
title suggests, the starting point for our discussion is the 2006 film, Invincible,
featuring Mark Wahlberg and Greg Kinnear. The movie is based on the true story
of Vince Papale, who played with the Philadelphia Eagles from 1976 to 1978. Wahlberg
plays Vince. Greg Kinnear is Coach Dick Vermeil.
Desperate to turn the Eagles into winners, new head
coach Dick Vermeil (Kinnear) will try just about anything. He announces that
the Eagles will host open tryouts for anyone, and everyone, who thinks they have
the stuff to be a professional football player. Urged by his family and
friends, thirty-year-old unemployed teacher Vince Papale, who plays a mean game of sandlot
football and whose girlfriend just left him because he was a "loser," gives it a
go. Vermeil, impressed by Papale's
performance, invites him to training camp. As training camp ends, the final
roster spot is down to Papale and a veteran. Against his assistants' advice,
Vermeil hands the final spot to Papale.
As Papale's career with the Eagles begins, the team loses
all six preseason games and their regular season opener against the Dallas Cowboys. Papale plays poorly against the Cowboys, and
Vermeil faces pressure from the fans and media. In the midst of Papale’s
attempt to make the team, he meets, and falls in love with, Janet.
During the home opener against the New York Giants, Papale opens
the game by solo-tackling the kickoff returner inside the fifteen-yard line.
After an up-and-down game, Papale gets downfield during an Eagles' fourth
quarter punt to tackle the returner, forcing a fumble that he recovers and
takes into the end zone for a touchdown, giving the Eagles their first win in
Papale's career. Eagles’ fans go wild with joy. It’s a victory for an everyday guy—the
typical “Iggles” fan. Papale plays for the team for three seasons and
eventually marries Janet, while Vermeil subsequently succeeds in turning the
Eagles into a winning team, culminating in an appearance in Super Bowl XV.
So, do you have a favorite football-themed novel or movie? What is it? In addition to Invincible, here are some candidates, in alphabetical order:
· Any Given Sunday
· Brian’s Song
·
Draft Day
·
Everybody’s All-American
·
Heaven Can Wait
·
Leatherheads
·
Remember the Titans
·
Rudy
·
The Blind Side
·
The Longest Yard
·
The Replacements
·
The Waterboy
·
We Are Marshall
And, no doubt, there are many more. Tell us your favorite—and
why it is your favorite. Inquiring minds want to know.
The dog days of August are
upon us. My urge to plot out crime stories has temporarily abated. In the lull,
there’s always time to kill an ice cream cone.
My friend Nikki kills hers
by biting the bottom out first. I use my mother's technique. Bite off the peak
of the ice cream first. Catch the drippy parts near the top of the cone.
Another bite off the top and you're ready to relax and lick away the ice cream
that remains.
After that? Dispose of the evidence in whatever’s left of
your napkin supply after deciding what to do with what's left in the
bottom of the cone.
For celebratory
memory-making, Proust’s famous cookie has nothing on recalling moments shared
doing in a couple of ice cream cones.
Yesterday after a swim in
the Chesapeake Bay, my thoughts (followed by my feet) wandered over to Dairy
Queen. As I attacked the top of my cone, I had a memory of running along the
hot sand at Jones Beach as a kid. In my sticky bathing suit, I hopped from foot
to foot hoping I wouldn't drop the change I'd been given to buy a paper
cylinder of Neapolitan ice cream—so I could return to our blanket with a sticky
grin.
After my chiropractic
appointment recently, I pulled into a shopping center to see if my Weight
Watchers location was still there. It wasn't, but the Carvel store was. For
$4.50, that first taste of a soft-serve vanilla cone transported me back to
Glen Cove, Long Island in the 1960’s. In those years Mom celebrated our mutual
survival of my dental appointments by nosing her car into the parking lot of a
Carvel stand to share a cup or cone with me. She’d brand the little wooden
spoon or the swirl at the top before we finished it off with a smile.
On summer visits to
upstate New York, Mom introduced us to homemade ice cream from deep containers
at a store near where she grew up. I discovered vanilla fudge. Mom bit into
maple walnut. Sisters, Dad, and brother chose butter pecan, real strawberry,
and pistachio. That half hour spent ordering and devouring ice cream cones
while standing around the over-stuffed car was a time-out from packing,
driving, and arguing—and it switched each of us into "We're on vacation!”
mode.
My grandfather loved ice
cream in summer—especially someone else’s. I was six and had barely dipped my
spoon into the junior-sized hot fudge sundae he’d bought me when he pointed to
something I just had to see. By the time I got turned around in my chair again,
most of my sundae was gone.
Such a crime is shocking.
“Pop!” I cried. “You ate my ice cream!” The adults and children near us made
faces at him but he never apologized.
Dogs are usually prime
suspects when ice cream is missing. To ensure a good time is had by all in
Montreal, its summer ice cream stands offer each pet an ice cream-covered dog
bone—on the house.
Memory-making moments with
family grow fewer as I get older. But I had one last great one in
August, 2019. Mom and I took one of her “let’s just drive and see
where it leads” road trips between New Hampshire and Vermont.
We spotted the ice cream
stand near Quechee Gorge.
At age ninety-nine, Mom
looked terribly small sitting in my passenger seat. I figured she'd want a
small cup. I assumed she’d worry about dripping on her skirt and blazer.
Never assume. She’d grown
bolder with age. And she didn't give a hoot about her weight. She asked
for a double scoop chocolate cone. That was Dad and my brother’s
territory.
A few minutes later, I warily
passed her one of the two I’d ordered. We began to lick them to
death.
It was hot outside so we
stayed in the air-conditioned car but left the doors open in case the dripping
cones overwhelmed us. Mom's left a chocolate stain that's still on my passenger-side
floormat.
Her technique didn’t fail
her. We ate, laughed, got serious about our task, and then she beat me to the
bottom. Little evidence remained to be disposed of. We were giddy all the way
back to her senior residence.
Better ways may exist to
do in an ice cream cone. No one was more fun to share that experience with than
my Mom, who once had the novel idea of capping off a cavity-laden dental visit
with a trip to the soft serve stand.
 |
| The throne room |
The island of Crete, Greece, sits in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea, and is huge in comparison to the other Greek isles. Crete measures 160 miles wide from west to east, and varies in width from 7.5 to 37 miles from north to south, making its area 3,218 square miles. Crete was an independent nation from 1898 until 1913, when it joined modern Greece.
 |
| Rejection Has Many Facets |
That simplicity belies something notorious, something
to leave a hopeful author spellbound by the negativity and unable to cope. That
something lies in the terms this well-known and respected periodical uses to
describe the status of your submission.
Received. That’s understandable
enough. They have received your magnum opus, the lifeboat to which your fragile
ego clings, hoping soon to read the joyful status: Accepted. (I assume
that’s what it is. None of my submissions have been chosen for publication—yet.)
But then, there’s that word they use to describe stories
not selected for publication: REJECTED.
Rejection—it’s something most, perhaps all, writers
have experienced. What a horrible word, rejection—in any form. What a mean-spirited,
ghastly thing, rejection, a word, many-faceted, each aspect more horrific that
the last.
According to the Cambridge English Dictionary (Cambridge
English Dictionary: Definitions & Meanings), rejection refers to:
-the act of refusing to accept, use, or believe someone or something;
-a letter, etc. that tells you that you have been unsuccessful in getting a job, a place on a course of study, etc.; or
-the act of not giving someone the love and attention they want and expect.
With one hurtful word, the writer’s repulsed, like a
lice-ridden enemy hoard scaling the castle walls. Like a seething bacterial
infection struck down by the miracle of penicillin. Despondency reigns, emotions
ripped apart, like a torn curtain. That damnable magazine and its editor. They
aren’t giving us the love and attention we want and expect. Barbarians all,
those who inflict rejection on us!
I confess. I don’t understand why the editor of this
esteemed periodical insists on being such a psycho, a saboteur of young and
innocent writers who put their faith and trust in this publishing powerhouse that
their hard work will be recognized and rewarded.
But the solution is simple, elegant perhaps. Were I a
secret agent, able to enter quietly through a rear window into the periodical’s
inner sanctum, I’d scurry about in a surreptitious frenzy and plant this idea:
Replace the word rejected with the word DECLINED.
What a pleasant way to be told ‘No.’ “We received your
submission, reviewed it with glee, and decline to publish it at this time.
Warmest regards and best wishes for a successful writing career.” Certainly, it’s
kinder and gentler that the current “Eff Off, you unworthy, spineless
mendicant. Your story stinks and we REJECTED it, just as we reject YOU.”
So please, kind editor, switch to using Declined. Where you lead, other editors (and agents) will follow! After all, wouldn’t you agree that Rejected is for the birds?
So for writers, "Reading is Fundamental." But there are so many books and so little time. How can we possibly fit them all into our busy schedules? The answer, of course, is that we can't. But we try. Oh, how we try. Some writers keep a list. Some writers have e-books filling the "cloud." And some writers have a physical location for their "To Be Read" pile. A bookshelf, maybe. Or a plastic bin filled with books we're going to get to, as soon as humanly possible. There are probably as many approaches to the "TBR Challenge" as there are writers.
This week's guest blogger, Curious George, PHD, wants to know about YOU. What books are on your TBR list? Where do you keep your books? How do you figure out what to read next? George is, well, curious! (And by the way, PHD stands for "Piled Higher and Deeper," which describes George's TBR stack.)
Take a few minutes and give us some feedback about your TBR preferences and practices. Inquiring minds want to know.
 |
| 2022 Mardi Gras: Krewe of King Arthur Locked & Loaded & Ready to Roll! |
If all goes according to plan, when this post publishes in the wee hours of Saturday, February 11, 2023, I’ll be in New Orleans winding down from participating in two Mardi Gras parades yesterday (Friday) and preparing for a third, tomorrow (Sunday). And getting psyched about watching several more, as they thunder down Canal Street all day Saturday.
I write stories set, mostly, in either the Virginia Beach/Tidewater area or New Orleans. So, this is a research trip! (I’m still trying to convince my tax accountant that these junkets should be a business deduction, though. What a stick-in-the-mud, right?)
Using Tidewater seems self-explanatory. That’s where I
live. “But why New Orleans?” you ask. “Why not?” I respond. What an interesting
place—the Crescent City, the City That Care Forgot, the Big Easy. “NOLA,” has a
lot of nicknames. My personal favorite (and one I think I invented) is “The Chameleon
City.” New Orleans presents a different identity and soul to each person it
touches. It’s like a “shape-shifter,” only not as foreboding, and with much
better food.
And what a more hands-on way for a writer to learn about New
Orleans than participate in its world-renowned Mardi Gras festivities?
“But I thought Mardi Gras, “Fat Tuesday,” was just one
day,” you assert. And you’d be technically correct. Carnival season starts each year on January 6th,
the “Twelfth Night” after Christmas. But
Fat Tuesday—the last day of the Carnival season—varies from year to year, because
it depends on the start of Lent—Ash Wednesday—which is calculated based on when
Easter occurs.
Regardless of the exact date of Fat Tuesday, New
Orleans and the surrounding area have been celebrating Mardi Gras since January
6th. By the time Fat Tuesday
rolls around, there’s already been a “whole lot of partying going on.”
Mardi Gras is rich with history and tradition. For
example, purple, green, and gold are the colors most associated with Mardi Gras
in New Orleans. As the story goes, Rex, the King of Carnival, selected the colors
and assigned a meaning to them in 1892.
Purple stands for justice, green for faith, and gold for power. If you
want to learn more about Mardi Gras, its history, traditions, and, most
importantly, the parade schedules, check out this website: Mardi Gras New Orleans.
Few would argue that parades are the beating heart of
Mardi Gras. And people in New Orleans know how to parade! Parades usually center
around a “Krewe,” such as the Krewe of ALLA (www.kreweofalla.net) or the Krewe of King Arthur (www.kreweofkingarthur.com).
Some people belong to more that one Krewe. There are walking parades (like the
Krewe of Cork, www.kreweofcork.com), “float” parades (the vast majority), and even parades where
the members ride on streetcars (like the Phunny Phorty Phellows, www.phunnyphortyphellows). All told, there are over ninety different
parades in the New Orleans area from January 6th until Fat Tuesday.
The majority of the parades occur during the last two
weeks before Fat Tuesday. Parades are massive affairs, from Krewes with a few
hundred members to “Super Krewes,” usually any Krewe with over one-thousand
members. This year, for example, Krewe of ALLA has eighteen floats carrying 500 riders. Krewe of King Arthur has seventy-one floats with 2,400 riders. (For more on Krewe size, and for comprehensive
information about Mardi Gras in general, check out Arthur Hardy's Mardi Gras Guide.)
And that doesn’t count for the number of high school
and college bands and marching units or the many “adult” walking/dancing groups,
like the Muff-a-lottas (www.muffalottas.com), the 610 Stompers (www.610stompers.com), or the Pussyfooters (where you have
to be at least thirty years of age to join, www.pussyfooters.com ), interspersed between the floats.
Don’t worry that you
can’t be here. You can still experience the thrill of Mardi Gras parades from
the comfort of your La-Z-Boy. Beginning Friday,
Feb. 10 through Fat Tuesday, on Feb. 21, The Times-Picayune newspaper and its
online affiliate, NOLA.com, will livestream every parade that rolls by its
St. Charles Avenue newsroom (about thirty-two parades) via nola.com, Facebook, YouTube and Twitter. There are even Mardi Gras trackers
(using GPS) you can download. Check out Mardi Gras Parade Tracker and Download
WDSU Parade Tracker for iPhone, Android.
Wish me luck! Two down, one to go. And “Send me a
comment, Mister!” Let me know what kind of Mardi Gras experiences you’ve had.
 |
| Abraham Lincoln's mother, Nancy Hanks |
I kicked off January by spending way too many hours watching televised souls struggle for power in D.C. Eventually, I looked away and visited friends, and promptly picked up Covid.
Post-quarantine, I squeaked through a medical clearance exam for cataract surgery. In the days before it, I've used my bad eyes to drive a senior friend to appointments after his family took his car and left me to sort out his cognitive challenges day by day.
I was listening to too much news and building up revenge fantasies. Life in the new year felt like an airless room.
I went on an empathy quest. The quickest way to find it? Read.
Even as a child, I picked up a book to find out how others felt when they went through things. I could be with someone else in ways childhood had yet to afford me. I got relief from the pressure of self-consciousness.
Whether the struggling character was Abe Lincoln's mother (that's her, Nancy Hanks, Kentucky Girl, in the portrait above), or the starch-capped Sue Barton, Student Nurse, their journeys and how they felt about them gave me access to another person's point of view. I could ponder how I'd handle their challenges. I appreciated their innate resources and thought about my own.
I lived in a 'don't talk about your feelings' world. Stories allowed me to sort out my feelings.
Empathic authors took time to draw characters for me. I felt loved and cared for the more I loved and cared for those characters.
My father lived with us, but I admired how Pippi Longstocking, who survived alone with just a horse and a monkey, handled the arrival of a truant officer. What would I have done? The Five Little Peppers lived with their widowed mother. Teamwork allowed them to preserve the fun of childhood.
When The Borrowers lost their home in the wall of a house and had to live in a field, it scared me. My heart went out to them. They were indoor people. So was I.
But they made it.
I learned, one slow or fast page at a time, how others perceive Which resources they do or don't have. Storytellers opened a window to different perspectives.
Empathy was the air in the room.
Now, whether I'm reading how Things Fall Apart for people drawn by Chinua Achebe, or Going Rogue with Janet Evanovich's Stephanie Plum, I connect with a character, experience their perspective, and feel what they feel.
In just moments, we meet where it matters. I relax into compassion for us both.
They see things through. They don't quit. It's all about the three acts for them, and not just the moment at hand.
Thanks to the thoughtfulness of writers, I can see someone else's story arc and know my own.
Why do you read?
 |
Anonymous author learns about firearm safety during a recent Writers' Police Academy. |
Greetings! We’re working through some technical issues. So, we thought we might interrupt our regular blogger rotation this week to discuss a topic near and dear to many of us: writing conferences, seminars, and workshops. And, to let our readers know that many “writers” events welcome (and encourage) non-writers, i.e., readers a/k/a “kind, intelligent people who buy our books.”Writing, at its essence, is not a group activity, right? No doubt we’ve all seen the acronym: BICFOK—Butt in chair, fingers on keyboard. We’re pounded with the adjuration “That novel’s not going to write itself, is it?”
Yet, just as no person “… is an island entire of itself,” a writer depends on many others—editors, beta readers, proofreaders, publishers, and, ultimately, readers. So maybe writing is, indeed, a group activity. After all, it takes a village, doesn’t it?
Writers, even the most introverted of us, must seek support
from others. The group. The community. The village. And there are few better
places to seek support than at a writer-oriented conference, seminar, or
workshop. It must be the case. Just search the Internet for “Upcoming Writers
Conferences.” You’ll get list after list after list of writers conferences,
seminars, and workshops at all sorts of locations around the country and world, of every
shape, description, genre, and duration.
Ask a dozen writers about their favorite conference,
seminar, or workshop and you will likely receive two dozen answers. “I liked Conference
A. But Workshop B was great, too. They’re both my favorites.”
I’ve been to a number of writers conferences in my relative
short time as an author. I’ve learned something at each. One of my favorites is
the Writers’ Police Academy (WPA), the brainchild of Lee and Denene Lofland (Lee Lofland - The Graveyard Shift - Lee Lofland). Here's
a brief description from the WPA website (Writers' Police Academy
(writerspoliceacademy.com)):
Writers' Police Academy’s unique hands-on training takes place in Green Bay, WI., at the Public Safety Training Academy of Northeast Wisconsin Technical College (NWTC). Beyond basic certifications, the Academy offers specialized courses including SWAT, Boat Patrol, and Homicide Investigations, to name only a few. The Public Safety Academy/Writers’ Police Academy facilities include a 26-acre closed road course, defensive and arrest tactics rooms, tactical house, jail cells, indoor firing range, forced-entry structure, and a 4-story burn tower.
What a blast! Driving fast, chasing “criminals” and
making their vehicles spin out, battering down doors as part of a police “stack,”
and shooting (targets, not people). And did I mention learning about crime scene
investigations, fingerprinting, and blood spatter? Or the lecture from a
retired FBI agent who was part of the team searching the Unabomber’s
cabin? Need I go on? How about the
authors invited as each academy’s “Guest of Honor.”? People like Craig Johnson,
Heather Graham, Robert Dugoni, and Hank Philippi Ryan. Wow! Double Wow!!
Enough from me. What about other writers? What is your
favorite conference, seminar, or workshop? Why is it your favorite? Leave a
comment and tell us all about it (or them).
Readers, don’t feel left out. Many “writing” conferences embrace your involvement, like Bouchercon (https://www.bouchercon.com/) or Malice Domestic (https://www.malicedomestic.org/). They even include a “Fan Guest of Honor.” Oh, for our local readers, don't forget the Suffolk, Virginia, Mystery Author's Festival on March 11, 2023 (suffolkmysteryauthorsfestival.com). It's for writers AND readers. The "Sisters" will be there in force. We hope to see you! Stop by and say hello.
 |
| Be careful kid, "You'll shoot your eye out!" |
Seems that everyone remembers my evil big brother. Yeah. Green eyes, yellow teeth, coonskin cap. That’s who I’m talking about. (He grew up to be a police officer, you know.) But then there’s me, baby brother Charles “Chuckie” Farkus. We also lived on Cleveland Street, two houses down from Ralphie and Randy Parker, next door to the Bumpasses. I was best friends with Randy. I looked like a tick and couldn’t put my arms down on the way to school, either. But do you hear about me and my challenges? No.
And what a rotten movie it is, filled with tropes, clichés,
and stereotypes. You know, things like “You’re gonna shoot your eye out,” the
Italian word Fra-gee-lay, sticking
your tongue to a frozen flagpole, and my favorite, Christmas dinner at a
Chinese restaurant. Oh, please! The writers ought to be ashamed.
So tell me, what’s your favorite or, better yet,
least favorite, thing about A Christmas
Story? And don’t worry if you haven’t seen it. You can check your channel guide
for where to find the next marathon, 24-hours-a-day, “wash-Ralphie’s-mouth-out-with-soap” barf-o-rama.
Oh, by the
way, there’s a sequel—A Christmas
Story Christmas. I’m not in that one, either. I can hardly wait to watch it—NOT.
So, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll just sit her enjoying a piping hot cup of
Ovaltine, as I check the blog every few minutes for your comments.
Remember the soothsayer’s warning about the Ides of March? Well, history teaches us that we should be more wary about the Ides (and other da...
