I have been uncertain about writing that phrase ever since it came to my mind just hours after Wednesday’s horrific murder of twelve satirists in Paris.
I fear I may be opening myself to attack from friends and acquaintances – potentially from all sorts of strangers on the globe-circling Internet.
But it is the truth. I am not anything like Charlie Hebdo.
I do not ridicule or insult others’ heartfelt beliefs. I would no more draw Mohammed with his genitals hanging out than I would paint Jesus having sex with Mary Magdelen or a Jewish man with a humpback and an exaggerated hook nose (as the Nazis did).
I believe in building bridges between people, not throwing up unnecessary walls.
On the other hand, my faith rests not only in freedom of speech but also in the sanctity of expressing differing, even diametrically opposing opinions and ideas. Without that essential debate, our lauded freedoms are built on hollow ground.Read More
What a year 2014 was, filled with adventures, new books, and some very nice honors, including for our Dad. If you’d like to read a bit about what we’ve been up to over the past year, please click here to view our annual New Year’s Lookback Letter. Best wishes, Daniel & Sally
For the BookGoodies.com spotlight on my novel Jo Joe, I was asked “What inspired you to write your book?” Here’s the answer I gave them:
“To some extent … [Jo Joe is]… about a boy I once knew, who worked for us part-time after school, doing odd jobs around the house — when it wasn’t football season. Bob wasn’t very bright, at least not in those things I had been taught to measure intelligence. But once I explained to him what I needed or wanted, with clear step by step instructions, he would absorb those directions within himself. And even though Bob was taciturn — apparently not trusting in his ability to form the words to explain himself — after he thought a while about what I had said, he would tell me his ideas about how to make the work easier, better. Then, he did whatever it was I needed. Quite well.
“As long as it was something physical that needed doing, something he could see in his mind as involving his hands and body, Bob was quite competent. That’s why, while he did poorly in school, barely passing, he was the high school’s star halfback.
“Bob dreamed of avoiding the rut of a life that loomed before him. Read More
In an interview for Ivory Owl Reviews, the first question Rhiannon asked was about my writing routine. Here’s the answer I gave her:
“Whenever possible, I try to devote my mornings to writing, though life often intervenes.
“The first draft of any novel or short story is me telling myself a story, listening carefully to the characters who become my constant companions. I am often surprised by a plot twist or sudden veering within the dialog, but I hold tight and enjoy the ride.
“In the second draft, I start to take control over the story and the characters. Often, this is when I introduce sharper, more delineated tension, and fill out the details that give depth.
“In the third draft – well, I usually lose count of the number of rewrites; it’s often in the dozens, if not scores. I work and rework the prose and plot, sculpting the personalities and histories, refining and polishing the story, while making sure every word I use is the one I really meant.
Writers are often divided into two camps:Read More
In an interview for her blog What is that Book About, Michelle Bowles asked Sally, “You have a very distinguished writing portfolio, what inspired you to become a writer?”
Here’s Sally’s answer:
“I don’t remember a time when I didn’t love stories – both listening and creating. I wouldn’t go to bed unless my mother told me a story first. Often, I would fall asleep in the middle, and continue the tale in my dreams.
“When I was about 12 years old, my older sister gave me a notebook and told me that I should keep all my poems and stories in one place. I filled up that notebook rather quickly, and she bought me another. Over the years, the poetry got better, the stories more intricate and fully developed, and the notebooks piled up though I’m not sure where they are at this point.
Our field is peppered with wildflowers, poking their heads through the grass and weeds, pushing upward and outward. Seeking. As buds, they are merely promises of what might be. Only when they spread wide their petals, so that they might attract and absorb sun, rain, the caress of a breeze, the attention of bees; only when they have every pore open to receive, do they become their full selves. A glory of colors, synthesizing all that comes their way into something that is uniquely their own.
Sometimes, I feel a bit like a vampire, because I take bites of everything I see and feel, of every person I meet, and mash them up into ideas that are new, or at least in new forms, and spew them out as story. But recently, I’ve been feeling like a wildflower.
The more I open myself to stimulation, to others’ ideas and laughter, to being touched by tears or a loving caress; the more I taste through the pores of my skin or inhale divergent currents, the richer my work becomes….
Please click here to read the rest of this essay which was recently published in When Women Waken, a Journal of Poetry, Prose and Images.
When Lawrence Schoen asked me to write about my most memorable meal for his Eating Authors feature on his blog, I could have chosen any number of spectacular culinary experiences I’ve had. That’s because one of the things that I share with Lawrence’s fictional character the Amazing Conroy is a love of experiencing new, wondrous foods wherever I travel. (Okay, Conroy’s travels are intergalactic; mine have been limited — so far — to our small birth world, Earth.)
Daniel and I have traveled on assignment for various glossy magazine and other clients to all seven continents (including Antarctica three times) and many exotic islands (such as Papua New Guinea). Along the way, our research always included discovering the local delicacies and great chefs. So, in answer to Lawrence’s question, I could have written about the finest vegetarian meal I ever had in at a Buddhist monastery on a Hong Kong out-island, or the Kobe beef dinner with a couple of drunk Toyko business executives, or maybe the 6-star midnight catered supper in Paris. But they all pale in my memories to a weekend that Daniel and I spent in the Amazon Jungle. (We titled the resulting story , which was syndicated to numerous regional/city magazines and newspapers, A Weekend in the Stone Age.)
To read the story of my most memorable meal with a newly discovered Amazon Indian clan, click here.
In early August, a yellow jacket hitched a ride on our windshield. I’m sure it was entirely by accident. He had landed on the glass, as a rest stop in his flight to and fro (from and to where, I’ll never know). Of course, we were parked at the time – at the vet’s picking up medicine for our dog Watson as the last stop in an afternoon of errands. So, you can imagine the wasp’s disconcertion when his resting place suddenly growled to life and started moving at the speed of wind. He hugged the glass, splaying his six legs as wide as possible, maximizing contact with the surface, holding on for dear life. (Why he didn’t just let go and fly away is another mystery to me.) We didn’t stop again, until we arrived home, about 15 miles over the mountain from where he first touched down. He remained on the windshield, while we unloaded the car. I didn’t see when he flew away.
I’ve been wondering ever since about that yellow jacket. Did he ever get back to his home turf? Could he survive away from his nest? Was he so traumatized by the experience that he no longer could function as a normal everyday, workaday wasp? Or do modern wasps take such disruptions in their routine in stride? (Or, should I say, in flight?) After all, our yard, cemeteries, field and stream are rich hunting grounds for wasps, bees, birds and all kinds of critters. Was the trip on our windshield therefore an easy relocation for him? If so, did he ever find a new nest, a new family, new friends, to help him redefine his sense of self within a place?Read More
Way back in the day, when most people had never heard of or seen a digital camera, I was on assignment at Comdex (the big daddy of computer trade shows) in Atlanta. And, there, walking through the halls, surrounded by his entourage was Bill Gates. So, I went up to him and asked if I could take his picture without film.
He smiled and said, “That’s okay, I’ll wait until you load.”
Paul Allen who was with Bill leaned over to him and explained what I was holding in my hands (one of the very first Kodak DCS cameras — a 200). They both laughed, and I took my pictures of him. For the rest of the week, whenever Bill saw me, he called me “the Digital Lady.”
Sometime between then and now, he has obviously gotten more skittish about cameras. Here’s a story from our friend Dan Rosenbaum:
“Bill Gates was awarded a patent recently for a device that detects cameras near you and keeps them from taking a clear picture of you. Used to be that only The Shadow has the power to cloud men’s minds.” Please click to read Dan’s piece.
In an interview for “Book Reader Magazine,” Sally was asked, “Who are your favorite authors to read? What is your favorite genre to read. Who inspires you in your writings?”
Here is her answer:
“My favorite authors span such a wide range: Jorge Luis Borges, Michael Swanwick, Margaret Atwood, William Shakespeare, Daniel Grotta, Viktor Frankl, William Faulkner, Ursula K. LeGuin, Samuel Delany, Gabriel Garcí a Márquez, Charles Kuralt, Jean-Paul Sartre, Tennessee Williams — so many others.
“Regardless of the genre, I love being swept upRead More