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Posted on September 14th, 2007 by Ginger Rodgers
Filed under: General | No Comments »

A lot of people ask me how I develop my characters for my books. I always start with people I know and clip them into shape for what I need. I also start with incidents from my own life, then stretch to what my character might feel. I capsolize the events around my characters. So to better explain how I put together ‘Snap Me a Future’ and ‘A Mouthful of Shell,’ for DLSIJ Press, I present the following story Training. It is autobiographical. But the events didn’t happen as arranged. The incident on the train happened a good year before I went not to France but to Austria as an exchange student. I never wanted to be a secretary, and my mother was constantly taking privileges away if I said the wrong thing. Very much like Claire, I learned the power of the social fib on her, but over a much longer time. Enjoy.

Training

The 9:55 from New York slowed down. “Princeton Junction,” the conductor sang.
Claire Munson stood, glad to stretch after an hour-and-a-half sitting, and reached into the overhead rack for the Lord and Taylor bags she and her mother had collected on the preflight shopping trip.
Kathryn Munson rose almost at the same moment Claire did. “Careful, honey, don’t drop anything.” She was tired, and didn’t feel like picking blouses and belts off the dirty car floor, if her daughter dropped them.
Claire let out a low sigh. “I’ve got the small stuff. Give Dad the big one.”
Watching the girl out of the corner of one eye, Kathryn pulled down a suit box. “Ed, can you grab this?”
Her husband guided the package down. Claire began opening her bags and carefully tucking smaller ones inside larger ones. “What are you doing,” Kathryn asked, wrinkling her brow.
“Consolidating stuff,” Claire kept her voice even.
Her mother’s green eyes lighted. “Well, aren’t you a smartie. I never thought of doing that.” With a slender hand, she chucked Claire under the chin.
Edward Munson scowled. Good grief, Claire was seventeen years old. When was Kat going to stop treating her like she was five?
The train jolted to a halt. Mrs. Muson staggered in her high heels. Edward stood, and grabbed her elbow. Claire rested one palm on the back of a seat to keep he balance. Edward steered his wife toward the door at the end of the car.
Several passengers beat the Munsons to the exit. Kathryn eyed them. business men arriving home late, rumpled, and shoulder-hunching weary. One looked downright glassy-eyed. Drunk, she thought. And– Oh, God, looking at Claire. At sixteen–no seventeen–Kathryn swallowed –Claire had the slim waist, well-proportioned breast, and hips of a woman, a figure bound to cause trouble: until she matured emotionally Kathryn gently shoved a broad shoulder through the crowd, until she could place her tall frame between Claire and the drunk. Then, she tried to catch Edward’s eye, to warn him to stay near their daughter
Eyes on the exit, he thought only of a cold shower after a long day of meetings. Kathryn gritted her teeth.
The business men began disembarking. One carried a “New York Times’ folded to the political section. Claire caught a glimpse of an article–Lyndon Bains Johnson on the campaign trail for the Democrats.
The drunk squeezed path Katheryn, eyes on Claire. Katheryn gulped, but feeling someone too close to her, Claire stepped into a free space behind her father. The drunk lurched past her and stumbled off the train. Edward followed. Then, the only other woman in that car stepped in front of Claire and held her hand out to the conductor. Claire watched him guide her to the platform. She was dressed in a gray silk suit with a pink blouse, and carried a black brief case. Claire tried to imagine what the woman did. Executive secretary for a company with international connections? That’s what Claire wanted to be, so she could use her French. No teacher or nurse stuff for her. And certainly no housewife. Kathryn’s life of coffee klatches was boring, suffocating.
The woman stepped to the platform. Feeling a rush of sticky night time heat, Claire started down the car’s steep steps. The conductor reached a hand to her. He was a young man of medium build. In the flare from the train’s lights, she could see his brown eyes, and wavy dark hair under his cap.
‘Careful getting off with the packages, ” Kathryn called.
Mother, please. Closing her fingers over the conductor’s, Claire bent one knee, and with a leap befitting the top of ballet class, sailed off the car’s first step, over a foot stool, and onto the brick pavement.
The conductor grinned. “Good one.” With a wink and a slight tilt of his head toward Kathryn, he let go of Claire. “Good night.”
Kathryn’s slanting eyes narrowed, taking on the look of an annoyed feline.
Claire joined her father, struggling to keep her face straight, as he waited a few paces from the train. In two steps, Kathryn caught up to them and grabbed Claire’s arm. “Watch it, Kiddo.”
She pulled free. “I am a thinking human being. I know how to get off a train.” She shouldn’t have annoyed her mother by springing off. But what ought she do? Be Mommy’s Little Lamb all her life?
Edward frowned The evening had started out fun. He’d met his wife and daughter for dinner, and while they dined at La Groceria Spanish restaurant in Greenwich Village, Kat and Claire told him about the dresses, skirts, and blouses they bought for Claire’s trip. But on the way home, Kathryn didn’t like how Claire put packages in the overhead, and criticized the girl for not smoothing her skirt when she sat down. Claire adjusted her clothes and parcels, but Edward knew she hated Kathryn’s nagging, and would eventually retaliate with a minor rebellion like jumping off the train. Kathryn that behavior. An explosion between them wasn’t far away.
Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out a slip of yellow paper. “Hey, Claire, you want to ride the Dinky home?” He glanced at a spur track a few yards from the platform. The business men were meandering toward it, to catch a shuttle into Princeton.
“Sure, Dad,” she laughed. “Where’d you get the ticket?”
“I left from town this morning. Your mother hadn’t decided whether to drive to Princeton Junction or not So I brought a round-trip. Use it up. We’ll take the car and meet you.”
Claire glanced at her mother. “Is it okay with you?”
Kathryn scrutinized the business men. The woman with the brief case stood among them. So did a couple of guys who looked like Princeton students, and the drunk. Claire had seen bums on the New York streets, but she’d never handled one. When June Hargrove staggered over from next door full of gin, Katheryn always moved her to a part of the house away from Claire. Her baby had plenty of time to learn about life’s ugly moments. Suddenly, Kathryn wished Claire weren’t leaving, that Ed hadn’t given her permission to go. “Some other time, Claire. I’m tired Let’s just go home.”
“Okay,” the girl gave in with a sigh. “I’m sure I’ll get to ride plenty of trains between Niece and the town I’ll be living in.”
Kathryn’s stomach turned upside down. France was so far away. Ed spoke. “Oh, come on, Kat. It won’t take long. The Dinky’s here. Look.” He pointed at a single headlight piercing the thick darkness. An ancient pair of Pennsylvania Railroad electric cars clattered into view, lumbering like an arthritic dinosaur, compared to the sleek commuter train, now pulling out of the main station. Smiling, he handed his daughter the ticket. She gave her mother a beseeching look.
“All right,.” Kathryn said. “Go.” Then as Claire turned toward the spur, she leaned close to Edward. “What about that drunk?
“She’ll be safe with the conductor there. Besides, she had to learn to handle people like that. You cannot be with her forever.”
“But she’s a girl. My only baby.”
“She’s not a baby. It’s time you stopped treating her like one.” He took her arm and led her toward the parking lot beyond the station. “Let’s get the car.”
Claire heard none of her parents’ conversation. The night suddenly felt cool, the air light. Perfumes filled it: the hay-like aroma of late-summer grass, roses around the station. Even the exhaust from cars leaving the lot, and greasy train wheels smelled like exotic oil. She was free. Free to walk by herself with her packages like an adult. Free to let the Dinky’s yellow-lit windows remind her of glowing diamonds.
“Hurry up,” a conductor called, this time, a potbellied man who reminded her of Grandpa Munson. “All aboard the PJ&B–Princeton Junction and Back.”
Letting her laugh float softly into the night, Claire quickened her pace and reached the spur.
“Come on,” he yelled at someone else.
Looking around, she spotted a man shambling along the platform. He looked like a TV portrayal of a used car salesman, in white shirt, plaid coat and slacks. His white shoes gleamed like a walking snow bank . Then she realized he wasn’t headed toward the train, but toward her.
“Hey, baby,” he whispered. Opening and closing his lips, he chirped.
She’d heard that noise in New York from guys loitering on the sidewalk. Even as a kid, she hadn’t needed Kathryn’s grimace, quickening step, and protective arm to know they weren’t thinking nice thoughts. When she finally got her period, Katheryn explained what leers and noises meant. Now, they made Claire furious. Lengthening her strides, she bounded to the train.
The drunk quickened his pace as well She was a ripe little strawberry, a sweet-cream filled cupcake, probably inexperienced enough to frighten into letting him have a fondle.
Claire assessed the Dinky’s cars. The diamond glow emitted mostly from the first. People filled it. The second looked darker, and almost empty. She headed for the bright one and scrambled up its high steps. The drunk thumped behind her. Stepping inside, she scanned faded plush seats, once red. Where to sit?
“Hey, cutie,” the man mumbled. “C’mon over here.” Reaching her, he touched her shoulder, then slid his fingers toward her breast. His breath smelled like Mrs. Hargrove’s in the evening when she came over and Claire answered the door. This could be a nasty trip if–what had she learned in the street safety class at the Y? Oh, of course. Turning to the drunk, she hissed, “Scram.”
His leer just got bigger, and his hand stayed where it was. All right, next step, find people and ask for help. Where was the conductor? She glanced around. No place in sight. Who else might help? How about the woman? She sat talking to the business man with the newspaper. The drunk began rubbing Claire’s behind. Ah–there was a spot, next to a guy in Levis and a sport shirt. He had a knapsack beside him, but she could ask him to move it.
Slithering away from the drunk, she headed for the young man. “Excuse me, ” she whispered. “There’s a nut case following me. May I sit with you?”
He looked up from the book he was reading, took a quick glance around the car, and spotted the drunk. “Of course, Miss.” Grabbing his belongings he stood up. “Come. Sit on the inside.”
She recognized an Irish lilt in his voice, then smiled at his freckled face and thick red hair that looked as if it didn’t like staying combed. “Thank you.”
The drunk muttered and sat down in an empty spot. Her evasion made her all the more desirable. He’d get another rub when she got off.
The Dinky’s whistle peeped twice like an asthmatic bird, and the cars lurched and clattered forward. The young man grabbed the back of the seat in front of him. “Well, will we be stayin’ on the tracks now?”
“It’ll be an interesting ride. The joke ‘round town is that George Washington used the Dinky to move his cavalry to the Battle of Princeton.”
“I believe it.” With a smile, he held out his hand. “Kevin McCarthy.’
“Claire Munson.” They shook. Taking a close look at him, she decided he was perhaps in his late 20s. “Are you studying at the University?”
“Yes. At the Woodrow Wilson School of International Affairs.”
“I want to go to a place like that when I finish college. You’re from Ireland, aren’t you?”
“I can’t deny it.” He smiled again.
“I’d also like to go there.”
The train was rocking along the roadbed by now. A breeze rushed into the open windows. Kevin McCarthy leaned closer to her. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.”
“I’d like to go to Ireland,” she shouted.
“You’d love it,” he yelled back.
The cars crashed over a trestle. The whistle croaked. Realizing that conversation was impossible, they leaned against their seats, and bounced over the rough roadbed. Claire looked out the window. Kevin balanced his knapsack on his lap. The breeze tickled her neck. Breathing deep, she enjoyed the wind, the speed, and sitting next to him. He watched her enjoy herself. The world might disconcert her, but it didn’t scare her. She was pretty, too, with an oval face and shoulder-length wavy blond hair. He found himself hoping she’d one day study at the Woodrow Wilson School. He’d be long gone, and that would be too bad.
The Dinky slowed. Moaning and squealing, it pulled into the Princeton station. The passengers began to stand. The drunk waited, mouth slack as if drooling, red-eyed gaze on Claire. Kevin McCarthy sized him up. “Is someone meetin’ you, Miss Munson?”
“Yes, Mr. McCarthy. My parents are waiting.”
“Then I’ll see you off the train.” He placed himself between her and the drunk. Scowling, the drunk joined the crowd disembarking. When he disappeared, Kevin beckoned Claire out of her seat. Then he walked beside her to the door. “There are my folks.” She waved at a car parked near the platform. “Thanks for all your help.”
He stepped aside. “Good evenin,’ then.’

“Well, did you have fun,” Edward asked a few minutes later as he drove onto Nassau Street, Princeton’s main drag.
“I ran into a drunk,” Claire said cheerfully. “And–”
“Oh, he wasn’t drunk,” Kathryn’s voice sounded like fake honey.
“I know a drunk when I see one,” Claire retorted. “You think I’ve missed Mrs. Hargrove all these years?”
Kathryn heaved a long sigh, as if she had to give up something she wanted to keep.
“What did you do,” Edward interrupted.
Claire explained. Edward said nothing, but smiled to himself. He’d known his daughter could think. Kathryn didn’t speak either. The darkness hid the frown she shot a him. But he felt it. Holy cats, what was the matter now?
Claire looked out the window at the dark, stone buildings of Princeton University, wondering where Kevin McCarthy would live.
When they arrived home she contentedly carried her packages upstairs. Her parents followed, her father with the big box, and her mother empty handed. Edward set the suit box on the bed. “I’m going to take a shower.”
Kathryn sat down beside the package. “You need to be careful who you talk to when you’re on trains and buses.”
“What do you mean?” Claire began sorting her packages.
“That young man could have misunderstood you. What if he had said ‘hmmmm, here’s a friendly girl?’”
“Mother, there wasn’t anything like that. It was a nice encounter.”
Kathryn said nothing. Her silence radiated disapproval. Claire didn’t know how to respond. Her intuition, and now experience, trusted what the cops at the Y told her. Her spirit wilted because she’d displeased her mother. “What should I have done?”
“You should have found that conductor.”
“But I had no idea where to look. I’d have had to go into that darker car where there were fewer people. The jerk would have stuck right with me.”
“But, but,” mimicked Kathryn.
Claire had understood that signal since childhood. “All right, I should have hunted down the conductor. Meantime, I might as well just lay these clothes right in my suitcase.”
Her mother didn’t answer.
Claire withdrew a blouse from a bag. Then, sensing Kathryn’s displeasure, looked at her. “That’s all right, isn’t it? Why unfold and hang them?”
“You’re not going to Europe,” Kathryn said. She knew it was an unreasonable statement, but fury and fear made her say it–fury at Ed for putting Claire on that train, and fear of what might have happened if this Kevin McCarthy had been as difficult as the drunk.
“What?” She nearly dropped the blouse.
“You can’t even handle yourself in the United States. How do you expect to survive in France?”
“But–but I’m supposed to leave Thursday.”
“But, but. Putt, putt. I’ll call tomorrow and cancel your trip. You can use your new clothes when school starts in a couple of weeks. I’m sorry, that’s the way it is going to be.” Her mouth snapped shut. She stared at the ceiling.
“That’s not fair,” Claire exploded. “The cops told us that it’s a small risk to ask a person on the street for help. What is your problem?”
“I should never have allowed you to sign up for that exchange program.”
“You’re being stupid.”
“Ohhh, that sort of statement will really make me change my mind. It’s sooo grownup.
Steps padded. Edward appeared in the door, bathrobe flapping at his ankles. “What is going on in here?”
“Mom just said I can’t go to Europe.”
Edward took his wife’s elbow and propelled her out of the room. She looked over her shoulder at Claire. “Unpack your bag.”
Claire dropped onto her bed. For a moment, she thought she’d throw up. Her hands shook. Her heart pounded. Why had she accepted the ride on that stupid Dinky? If she’d been a good girl when Mama said ‘no,’ none of this would have happened. Or–why didn’t she just lie? Say she found the conductor? No, that would have been wrong.
Edward marched Kathryn into their bedroom and shut the door. “All right, now what’s brought all this on?”
“Edward, what if something happened to her tonight?”
“She worked it out, Kat. She was fine.”
“Aren’t you scared? We don’t know the people she’ll be living with in France. What if she gets sick or breaks her leg? What if they abuse her?”
“She’ll be supervised by people running the program–”
“No. She’s not going. I cannot let her go.”
“Kathryn–”
“No.” Voice rising, she clutched her stomach. “She was attached to my body. She is physically part of me. I don’t know how else to explain it. I can’t let her go.”
“We are not canceling the trip. I paid thirteen-hundred dollars to send her, and it’ll be good for her.” He drew a breath. “If she’s furious with you right now, I’m not sure I blame her. Although she might have handled it better.”
Kathryn began to cry. He put an arm around her. She pushed him away. “You’re not c-c-concerned a-about h-her w-w-welfare, are you? Not one bit.”
“That’s not true.”
“Get out of here. ” She grabbed a throw pillow off their bed and threw it at him. “Go sleep on the couch.”
He batted the missile onto a chair. “Fine. Let me know when you’re ready to be reasonable I’ll come back and talk to you. Claire will go to France.”
She watched the door slam behind him. In the morning, he’d be in bed beside her. He never paid attention to her blowups. Fine. That would give her time to accept the reality of Thursday when an Air France jet took off with Claire aboard. Deep inside, Kat knew she didn’t want her daughter to miss the experience. What would her folks think of that, if they were still alive? She hadn’t been allowed to leave the house unchaperoned until she was eighteen and working. Even then, she could only go with boys whose families her father knew. When she met Ed at a dance, she sneaked out to meet him. He opened a new world to her, showing her life beyond church socials, Wednesday choir practice, and Sunday service. She didn’t want Claire to have to escape such a narrow hell, yet to raise her, Kathryn clung to her own upbringing for guidance. Somehow, she had to stop.
In the hall, Edward let out a sharp breath. Kat had a powerful mothering instinct, and usually a good one. But not this time. He must talk to Claire. But how? He and Kat had always presented a united front to her when giving privileges and meting out punishments. Now the time had come to override Kat to Claire’s face, and he wanted the girl to keep respecting her mother.
Padding down the corridor, he tapped on her door. She opened it, tears at the corners of her eyes. He should just be honest with her. She was old enough to understand her mother had frailties, like everyone else. He put his arms around her. “Don’t worry. Your mother’s just scared. Fear can make a person unreasonable.”
She gaped. Mother unreasonable? He had never said anything negative about her. In fact, he usually took her side in arguments.
“Look,“ Edward said, “ You can’t blame her for being afraid for you. She’s sending you into an experience she’s never had. You’re going to have to slip out the door gently. It’s the kindest thing you can do.”
“I don’t understand.” Claire shook her head. “Are you saying I’m going to have to sneak out of the house to go to France? How can I do that?”
“Not literally– “ He saw her frown grow deeper. “Just, the next time you solve a problem the way you did tonight, tell her you turned to a conductor, or a door man, or an usher, or a cop. What you really must do is your own business.”
Claire’s mouth dropped open. “You want me to lie to her?”
“When people are unreasonable, sometimes you have to tell a fib or two. It’s not wrong. In fact it makes the world a more pleasant place” His smiled.
She considered. “You mean like–when Mrs. Hargrove comes blasting over here and tells Mother to vote Republican and Mother agrees to do it, and then has coffee with the Republicans for Johnson?”
“Well, yes. Like that. And remember that your mother will always be your mother. She’ll never stop telling you how to think. Never stop worrying about you. Your grandmother still tells me what to do.”
“You! The head of the physics department at one of America’s best universities. That’s horrible.”
He couldn’t expect her to understand. He hadn’t known how parents felt until he became one. “Do yourself a favor: if you know something upsets your mother, don’t talk about it. You don’t have to tell everybody everything.”
She pondered. “Do you do that with her?’
“All the time. There are a lot of good things about your mother: she’s loyal, she honest, and her sense of propriety is a big help at those social-professional parties I have to attend at the university. But, sometimes, she’s inflexible. And if you’re going to survive around her, you have to find a way to deal with that. Fibbing just a little has worked for me. Arguing won’t. Reasoning won’t. And–defiance certainly won’t.” He stressed the final words.
“But what if she’s right in my face, like tonight?”
”Move out of her way. Come up here and listen to records or practice your violin, or go outside, until she’s ready to be sensible.”
It seemed strange, and wrong– to dare to fib to Mother and to dodge her, but when she was inflexible, maybe she deserved it. Hadn’t Claire wished she’d said nothing about Kevin McCarthy? And what had Mr. Botcher said in sociology class last year? Every culture has some form of the white lie for social settings? She nodded to her father. “I’ll keep my head down ‘til Thursday. On the flight, I’ll drink champagne.”
“If they serve it, I hope you taste it.” He kissed her cheek. “And now, you need to get your sleep. And I need a shower.”
“You think I did okay tonight?”
“You did better than okay. I’m very proud of the way you handled that situation. Your mother will be too, believe me.”
“I’ll have to take your word for that.”
“Do it, and you’ll manage her. One day you will grow up and have your own life.” He sighed. “Then things will get easier after that. Good night.”
“Good night.” When he had left the room, she shut her door and unpacked the rest of shopping bags. Slowly, gently she laid her clothes into her suitcase. He was a great dad. Kevin McCarthy was a nice guy, too. She’d meet nice people in France, in college, and where ever she went. Together, they’d deal with the nasty or difficult ones. It would be like when Mr. Hargrove came over and marched Mrs. Hargrove home. In a way Mother was no different than her. One had a drinking problem. One had a stubborn streak. Claire would manage her, like she learned tonight. Putting the last garment into the suitcase, she went to her window and opened it wider. Night sounds filled the room: a rumbling truck, a barking dog, a banging garbage can lid followed by a slamming door. A jet whistling and roaring. The Dinky hooting. Smiling, she shut her window.

Posted on September 3rd, 2007 by Connie Gotsch
Filed under: Mainstream Fiction | 2 Comments »

Every year I have a sort of tough job. I motivate myself to get on with it because somebody’s got to do it. For one week, each July I go to Santa Fe, the capitol of New Mexico, for nights of opera, chamber music, choral singing, and museum hopping. But that’s just the frosting on the cake. Because I work for an arts-oriented public radio station, KSJE-FM in Farmington, N. M., I get to interview the curators, musicians, singers, and theater techies who make the art happen. The fact that I’m dealing with superior minds doesn’t escape me when I talk to these people. It’s a “tough” job all right. I love every minute of it.

I love it for several reasons. First, I’m getting to be old enough to see trends. When I was a kid in art school in New York, I darned near got myself shot for suggesting that word and image could coexist in the same space.

Racing out of the range of bullets—well okay derisive laughs that felt like bullets–made me keep my opinions to myself for the rest of my school career, and question my sanity for suggesting artistic ideas could blend. Of course I was too young to realize that in the 1950s, while I was playing with the first fashion dolls with high heels–Revlon Dolls that pre-dated Barbie by several years–grownup artists were busy separating themselves into little boxes. (Little Boxes on the Hillside–like the old song goes?) Painters went in one container. Composers popped into another. Journalists hid out far away from novelists.

I still haven’t figured out why this happened, and if anyone has any idea, I’d like to hear. Anyway by the time I was 19, words were words and pictures were pictures. Never the twain would meet. No more could a Debussy be influenced by a Renoir, as happened early in the 20th Century.

Since then, I’ve–thank goodness–seen change. Words and images live together in museums now, right on the same canvas sometimes, or in wonderful wall text beside a painting. Maybe Gertrude Stein was right. We live in circles–and circle around, not only on earth, but in our collective and individual minds, thoughts, and ideas. We begin in one spot, leave, and come back.

The second reason I love Santa Fe is the level of art going on there–well actually in the whole state. Some people tend to think of New Mexico as the wild west. Well, okay, it was for a time–from about 1870 to 1890. But even at its western wildest, New Mexico was connected to the rest of the world. From Santa Fe south, one could ride the El Camino Real all the way to Mexico City. The royal highway followed Indian trails existing for thousands of years previous to anyone on this side of the world hearing of the Spanish.

A few generations later, a busted wagon wheel prompted painter Bert Phillips to start the Taos Society of Artists, after he trained at the Acadamie Julienne in Paris. He, his classmates, and their followers painted Native American Pueblos, buttes and mesas, and cattlemen rounding up mustangs in the latest Cubist, Expressionist, Modernist, or Impressionist styles.

The Native Americans added their lines, colors, and forms to the mix. Pablita Velarde blended the sense of design she inherited from her native Santa Clara Pueblo with point perspective in the 1930s.

The Spanish brought in their Moorish influence, carved and painted saints, and filigree jewelry, then added tin work, snatching lard cans the U. S. Cavalry cast off, and making mirror frames, candle sticks, and whatever else they could think of. Today the tradition passes through families.

As of 2007, New Mexico has artists who happen to be Indians, Hispanics, Germans, or–turtles, and who create things they love unrelated to their origins. New Mexico also has Indians, Hispanics, Germans, or–turtles who happen to be artists, and recreate the richness of their ethnic, racial, and cultural experiences, on canvas, in orchestra pits, and on stages.

The music is another whole story. Internationally-known artists and composers work at the Santa Fe Opera, and perform with the Santa Fe Desert Chorale and the Santa Fe Chamber Festival. All scale systems and theories are fair game, Native American to Chinese.

The diversity of expression creates an energy that radiates around the state. The contrasting ideas also forge public characters. That’s the final reason I love Santa Fe. As a writer, all I have to do is stroll downtown to the plaza that’s been around since 1610, and I’ll find someone who might eventually end up in a book. This summer, I discovered a tall man in faded jeans and tee shirt, with a bushy beard and thick gray hair, lounding on the sidewalk on San Francisco Street, the original narrow main drag that starts at the plaza, and in a sense, ends up in Mexico City, by hooking up with the Camino Real.

At the lounger’s feet sprawled a large, black, white, brown, and orange-flecked mutt with heavy fur. I have no idea what sort of canine he was, except to say he was big boned, massive, and probably a blend of several breeds, with no distinct features of any. He flopped, head on paws, watching the world from relaxed, brown eyes.

On his back, stretched a gorgeous, fluffy gray-and-white cat with a green, translucent, gaze that stared into mine. I stared right back, like I’d found the bottom of her soul through the luminicent globes of her eyes. I had the feeling she’d found the bottom of my spirit as well. In an instant, we checked each other out, and engaged in the cross-species communication of a gentle look.

On top of the cat, nestled a white rat. With nose a-wiggle, she surveyed the street from merry red-dot eyes, and seemed to be laughing at the whole situation, her round belly, all but bursting with babies, and shaking like Santa Claus’s.

Everybody on the sidewalk–including me–stopped dead in their tracks when they saw that combination. The fellow made a few bucks for his show.

I’m home from Santa Fe now, and back to work, but that image stays with me. It will end up in a book, if I live long enough, I’m sure. Personal encounters have led to most of the characters for my stories.

if you pick up one of my novels, ‘A Mouthful of Shell,’ or ‘Snap Me a Future,’ you’ll find folks I ran into at some point, in some fashion. Okay, I snipped and clipped them to make them fit my fiction–to drive my plot or set my mood–but way back when I first saw them, they were real–every one. I can describe the moment I met them.

They’re not really auto-biographical. My heroines, Betsy Craig in ‘A Mouthful of Shell’ lives in the mountains of Pennsylvania, which I never did, and Shelby McCoy in ‘Snap Me a Future’ got shot. I didn’t.

But there is some of me in both. They’re arts-oriented people. With me living in New Mexico, what else could they be? Everybody’s an artist here. Not always a good one, but New Mexicans do art the way people in New Orleans do jazz–for the joy of it.

And those artists who are professional, are competing in the second or third largest art market in the country–depending on who you talk to.

So there’s a lot of good material in my wanderings around this place west of Texas, east of Arizona, south of Colorado, and north of Mexico we call The Land of Enchantment, as well as New Mexico. I hope you’ll take some time to check out dlsijpress.com and enjoy ‘A Mouthful of Shell’ and ‘Snap Me a Future.’ I hope you’ll come to New Mexico. It’s a fun place to get in touch with your inner scribbler, paint-slosher, performer, or plain ol’ people watcher.

Posted on August 4th, 2007 by Connie Gotsch
Filed under: General | 2 Comments »

I’ve been reading a collection of short stories by Lee Smith. Me and My Baby View The Eclipse. Good stuff! I read her novel, Saving Grace, while we were vacationing at the beach. I love everything by Lee Smith. She writes about real people. Not just how she thinks real people live, but how they really live. I enjoy the occasional novel about politicians, debutantes and doctors, but I find myself lured toward meaty novels about common people that could be living right next door to me. I can connect wholeheartedly with these stories–not necessarily stories with extreme plots. I just love reading a book for the writing and nothing else. I’m a sucker for descriptive language. Give me a Faulkner novel and some time to actually read it, and I’ve died and gone to heaven.

Kelly Clark Baugher is the proud mommy of a three year old and six month old, and the author of Finding Lilies, a Southern romance novel.

Visit her at www.kellyclarkbaugher.com

Finding Lilies is available at www.dlsijpress.com and www.amazon.com

Posted on August 3rd, 2007 by Kelly Clark Baugher
Filed under: General | 1 Comment »

The Romance Studio has done a very nice feature of Sunny Side Up for the month of August. If you want to check it out, go to http://theromancestudio.com/who6.php
Let me know what you think. It was a lot of fun and they’re a great bunch to work with. They also did a book giveaway and the results were fantastic — lots and lots of entries and people who want to be added to my mailing list. You can bet I’ll be keeping in touch.

Posted on August 2nd, 2007 by Ginger Rodgers
Filed under: News, Author Events | 2 Comments »

“The fairy tale journey may look like an outward trek across plains and mountains, thorough castles and forests, but the actual movement is inward, into the lands of the soul. The dark path of the fairy tale forest lies in the shadows of our imagination, the depths of our unconscious. To travel to the wood, to face its dangers, is to emerge transformed by the experience.” Terri Windling, intro to Snow White, Blood Red.  

Once upon a time –before Victorian writers and Walt Disney film producers introduced helpless princesses and happily-ever-afters — fairy tales were dark visions not meant for children. They were filled with evil hearts, dark betrayals and the dangers of journeying alone through the deep woods. They told of the price of magical transformations, of duplicitous bargains with fey folk and of greedy fools hoist on their own petards. They didn’t all end happily, but princesses in the early versions were more likely to survive by their wits than to wait idly for a knight in shining armor to rescue them.

I’ve long been a fan of these hand-me-down tales. As a child, the stories that caught my attention were the ones with the too-literal bargains, like the one about the woman who asked to live forever, but forget to mention that she wanted to be young forever. I also remember the impossible tasks, like the girl who had to remain silent for a length of time if she hoped to redeem her bewitched brothers (much as I love my brothers, I was far too chatty as a kid to even contemplate that one!). And all those stories about doors that mustn’t be opened! I am far too curious for my own good and I completely emphasized with all those unfortunates that couldn’t leave well enough alone.

Even now –decades after I first heard them — I’m intrigued by the power that these old tales hold in our psyches. Filled with representations of universal archetypes, they have a longer shelf life than many of today’s bestsellers ever will. For the last few years, I’ve been combing used books stores for the classic tales by Grimm, Andersen and Lang, as well as similar stories from other lands and cultures. I suppose it’s inevitable that – surrounded by volumes of such stories – I’ve finally decided to try my hand at writing my own book of modern fairy tales.

When I wrote Eternal Café, I delved into my Catholic childhood to re-create my peculiar version of Purgatory. As I work on my book of urban fairy tales, Sisters Odd, I have to return to my childhood and re-visit the lessons I learned from my favorite stories: Be careful what you ask for because you might get it. A true friend stands by you even after you’ve been cursed. Be careful how you treat strangers because they might not be what they seem. Always carry bread crumbs in your pocket and wear clean underwear when you venture far from home (hmm…that wisdom may not all be gleaned from fairy tales).  And never, ever, open a door when the lord of the manor tells you not to!

I still have trouble with that last one…

Posted on July 25th, 2007 by EJ McFall
Filed under: General | 5 Comments »

Thought I’d give you a heads up on the sequel to Snap Me a Future. Shelby McCoy is chasing an art thief now, and it may just be Charlie again, or it may be somebody else. Sam will be there with his Setter-Labrador energy to help her figure out who……

I’m slowly making proof prints from my Thailand trip. That’s going to be a long loving process…..

There’s a web site that makes banners and internet announcements for authors. Check out the concept at www.previewthebook.com Some of you might be interested. They’re just getting their business started. They’re not inexpensive, but you can work out a deal that won’t leave you eating beans either.

The National Federation of Press Women 2007 Contest is over, and my radio documentary Miracle in the Desert: The Story of the Santa Fe Opera took second place in the category of special radio programming. My freelance career is booming. The Durango Herald is picking up my arts articles. That’s Durango, Colorado.

Meantime enjoy Snap Me a Future and a Mouth Full of Shell, and I’ll be back to you, after a run to Santa Fe to cover the summer arts there on behalf of KSJE FM, and the Four Corners Free Press.

Posted on July 5th, 2007 by Connie Gotsch
Filed under: General | 2 Comments »

Somewhere between Heaven and Hell and San Antonio, Texas - Present Day

Sunny Acres — yes, that is her real name — is a true blue Texan girl with beauty queen looks and an infamous roller derby past behind her. So when she’s plucked from her bed and taken to Paradise by the heavenly gorgeous Jakeh and then told that she’s been chosen by God to fight demons and hold off the End of Days, Sunny thinks she’s had one too many shots of tequila. But it doesn’t take long for Sunny to accept her destiny — seeing the real Hell will do that — and accept that she’s been given a job she can’t refuse.

In that same extraordinary night, Jakeh takes her to Iraq to witness the first tear in the veil between our world and Hell and teaches Sunny how to weave it shut. He also points out the three American military men who will soon team with her to form the Armor of God. With orders to avoid showing off her new abilities lest the demons come hunt her before her men arrive, Sunny manages to stay out of trouble until Fiesta time arrives in her hometown of San Antonio.

Out partying with friends, Sunny is the only one who sees a fissure open and demons pour out in all shapes and sizes wreaking havoc all over downtown San Antonio. Knowing she can’t weave the veil shut without help, Sunny uses her newfound power to spiritually “open” her friends’ eyes and, together with a couple of biker dudes, they manage to save the day. Unfortunately, Sunny also manages to land herself on the national news. Just as she’s packing to get out of town, the cavalry arrives and Sunny is finally reunited with her team: Major Aaron “Stoney” Stone, Sergeant Jack McCleery, and Captain Daniel Troy. Talk about perfect timing since the demons and other assorted bad guys now know about her powers and want a piece of her ass. Come to think of it, so do Jakeh and Stoney. Could Sunny’s life get any more complicated? You bet.

In what will hopefully be the first of many Sunny Acres Adventures, it’s Buffy meets the Fantastic Four with a heavy dose of Old Testament thrown in. The story starts off a little slow, caught up in an excess of narrative and repetitive descriptions, but it quickly gains momentum, and the characters you meet more than make up for it. Sunny is one hell of a heroine (pun intended), funny, bold, and quite practical when she needs to be. From the swoonworthy Major Stone to the deliciously decadent Jakeh, each of the men is unique and charismatic and will leave readers wanting to know more about them. Other characters pop up here and there and are sure to make return appearances in future books.

Ginger Rodgers — yes, that is her name — has started a great new series and readers should waltz on over to DLSIJ Press and grab themselves a copy of this paranormal treat.

Reviewed by Isabelle Spencer for Romance Reviews Today

Posted on June 29th, 2007 by Ginger Rodgers
Filed under: Book Reviews | 3 Comments »