I took a walk around my neighborhood. Here's what the storm looks like at the Jersey shore.
Yes. I almost did go for a swim..accidentally.
Waiting tables...
The Barnegat Bay.
Note to self: Next time, get the shovel from the shed before the storm starts
I bet you were expecting Santa Claus. This scarecrow should have been put away weeks ago. But I like him so I couldn't do it. I'm going to find him a red hat and let him stay out for the season.
I have this odd holiday ritual. At some point during the day, I slip away from the festivities, find a quiet place, then close my eyes and try to take in every single detail of the celebration: The people. The voices. The laughter. The music. The food (I pay special attention to the food). Who and where my friends are. The clothes I’m wearing. What my hair looks like (even if it’s a bad hair day). The weather. The conversations. Everything.
Of course, I take in all those joyful moments, but if there are times of stress, I think about that too. Good or bad. Ordinary or remarkable. Whatever is happening during the day, I let it sink inside me.
This year, I noted that seemingly arbitrary sentences caused my older brother to break out in song, that my sister’s homemade gluten-free pizza is getting better and better, that my niece seems like she’s at a great place in her life and that those super cute shoes I found in the back of my closet were way too tight (btw, there’s always a very good reason why you stopped wearing shoes stored in the back of your closet. It’s best not to put them on ever again.)
I’m not sure how this started, but I’ve been doing it ever since I was a child. I wonder if it came from a book I read. Some of my best ideas came from those middle grade books.
After I’m convinced that I’ve taken in every detail, I tell myself to remember. Then I imagine all those holiday images wrapped up and stored somewhere in my mind. I hope I’ll be able to retrieve them in the future. After all, you never know when you’ll need a memory.
So let’s say your main character’s parents own a funeral home and a single engine prop Cessna airplane. They just learned that the body of dearly departed Great Aunt Wilma is 500 miles away. Poor Wilma died while dancing the tango at the Professional Elvis Impersonator’s Convention. Even though the weather looks grim, Mom is going to hop in the plane to bring Aunt Wilma home. (Of course she promises to be back in time for your main character’s big soccer game).
Sound plausible? Well, I have a few questions. First does a body fit into a single prop engine Cessna? Would a mortician fly a plane with an impending storm? Would Aunt Wilma really get one last airplane ride? And would she still be dressed as Elvis?
If someone came into my library with these questions, I’d tell them to contact the Flying Funeral Directors of America. This is an association for licensed airplane pilots who are also in the funeral industry. According to their blurb, the organization enables members “to participate in two activities which are very much a part of their lives: funeral services and aviation.” I suspect that one of the 100 members of this group would have some answers.
I’ve found answers to some of my most challenging reference questions by contacting associations, like the Flying Funeral Directors of America. I’m amazed at how generous people are with their time and knowledge.
There’s an association for everything. They exist for professions, hobbies, fan clubs, medical problems, trades, sports, unions, governments, religious affiliations, ethnic groups, patriotic groups, veteran’s organizations, cultural groups..the list goes on. You can find over 150,000 of them in The Encyclopedia of Associations (Gale Publishing Group, Detroit). This multi-volume treasure is available in many libraries and is a favorite of librarians.
As a writer, I use the Encyclopedia of Associations as a starting point for my research. When I needed to know what jails were like in the Mississippi Delta in 1926, I made a phone call to American Jails Association. In one twenty-minute conversation, I learned about jails in the twenties, about the current size of the jail in my own county and about a sheriff in the 1800’s who believed that his prisoners could exist solely on a diet of tomato juice. I also received a few complementary issues of American Jails magazine. For another story, I needed to know what could make a pet squid sick. A quick email to the American Malacological Society and I had an answer.
Here are a few hints when contacting associations:
*Be respectful of the person’s time. I write down my questions beforehand to try to keep them brief.
*When you call an association, try to get past the receptionist. Introduce yourself, tell him what you’re looking for and ask if there’s someone who can answer a few quick questions.
*If the association specialist doesn’t have the answers, ask for suggestions about where else you can look. A knowledgeable person in an association can often point you in the right direction.
Next time you’re in your library, take a look at the Encyclopedia of Associations. It's a great resource for writers.
Oh and regarding Aunt Wilma, I have one more question. Do they really dance the tango at Elvis Conventions? Let's check with the Association of Elvis Impersonators.
This is the first of a series. Every Wednesday, there will be a post about fun, quirky, useful resources for writers. Look for future posts on databases vs Google (trust me, it's more interesting than it sounds), the invisible web and very cool reference books. Hope you'll check back.
This is a category of writing distractions (albeit beloved writing distractions). They include family members and friends (sometimes I let them into my space), my dog (who lives underneath my chair), the telephone (even now, it's right next to me), the tbr pile (it should never be this close to your desk). Oh sure, I know that everything here is necessary for a healthy balanced life, but sometimes all that health and balance can take a toll on your writing. That's my dog, Chi, and part of the tbr pile. The book on the bottom is Libba Bray's Going Bovine and Chi can't take her eyes off the cow on the spine.
Halloween has me thinking about all the things that make me anxious or just sort of creep me out. Once you get going on a list like this, it’s hard to stop.
Here are only a few of the things that scare me:
My list could go on and on…Happy Halloween
I went to a trade show in Atlantic City this week so of course I stopped by to visit Lucy the Elephant on my way home. I didn’t know she existed until a few years ago. My husband and I found her on a day we decided to do some sightseeing in our new state. We were driving through Margate, New Jersey about 2 miles south of Atlantic City when we saw her nestled among the houses in this quiet beach town. Six story elephant buildings are hard to miss.
Every summer when I was a kid, my family would take the long drive from my New York home to my Great Aunt Lil’s place on the Jersey shore. She lived with my other aunts and uncles in a cottage-style house filled with surprising rooms and quirky spaces. The major attractions were the built-in pool and the pool house where my aunt cooked up amazing summer treats. No one made buttered carrots like Aunt Lil.
In her basement there were shelves filled with books left over from her teaching days. I read them all. Ballet Shoes. The Bobbsey Twins. Anne of Green Gables. On those summer days, I wolfed down stories like I wolfed down her buttered carrots.
Not sure if it’s fate or coincidence, but I now live at the Jersey shore and happen to work about a mile from Aunt Lil’s former house. Sometimes on my lunch hour I drive by.
The land is divided up. The pool is filled in. There’s a garage where Uncle Vinnie’s garden used to be. The pool house is now a rundown all-season home. But the cottage is there. If you look close, there are hints of the old days. A few trees still stand, including the big holly tree that guarded the pool gate.
I’m driving by and I see the new homeowner. Despite my shy nature, I hop out of the car and introduce myself to the woman standing outside. I tell her all about Aunt Lil and the pool and the summers. I try to remember everything I can about the cottage. “They had plastic slipcovers. And the house was immaculate.”
“Well, the house is immaculate now too” she says. “My house is always clean”
“Oh, I’m sure it is. I didn’t mean to imply… I just meant…” After a few more attempts to fix things, I give up. There’s a long pause. Since I am one of those people who feels compelled to say things during moments of uncomfortable silence, I add, “I’m a librarian here in town.”
The woman pulls out her cell phone and dials a number. “My daughter is upstairs,” she tells me. Then she talks into the phone “Remember that overdue book that I told you to return? There’s someone from the library outside who wants to speak to you. You’d better get down here.”
As soon as I see a girl look out from the second story window, I’m flooded with memories. I wonder if she ever spent some quiet time in that tiny walkway on the top floor behind the stairs.
“Been telling her for days that should return the book,” says her mom.
The girl, about 15, comes bounding outside spilling out apologies. “It’s at school. But I’ll return it. I promise.”
I start to explain that I’m not here for that, but her mother cuts me off with one of those looks. So I’m quiet. And I retain my role as the book police. A new career low.
“Would it be okay if I walked over to your holly tree? It was here when there was a pool.”
The woman nods.
As I enter into the yard I hear them behind me.
“What is she looking at the tree for?” asks the girl
“I have no idea,” says her mom.
I block out their conversation and spend a moment with my tree. I touch a leaf, and I expect there to be magic. I thought it would whisper to me of summer days and moonlight swims and buttered carrots. Instead, it gives off the same what-are-you-doing-here feeling as the teen who now believes that librarians come to your door if you have an overdue book.
I have closure now. It’s not the same type of closure I expected when I hopped out of my car and said hello. But I can drive on that road and forget to look at the house. Sometimes you have to move on.
I will not make an illegal U turn. It's not who I am. It's not what I do.
I'm not a suspect. I'm a librarian (said to a policeman who thought I was robbing my own apartment. It's a long story.)
My favorite present this year is my gift card to Home Depot.
Hurray! Congratulations on your new driveway!
This list could go on, but I have to go. There's a conversation in the next room that I want to get in on. They're talking about the 80's group Blondie and wondering if their musical contributions would be different if the lead singer was a brunette.
My favorite vacations are the ones that start with the words “North? South? East? Or West?”
My husband and I used to do this all the time. We’d get into the car, decide on a direction and head toward the open road.
With no plans and no destination, if we wanted to spend the day watching the tides come in on the Bay of Fundy or wandering through the streets of Annapolis or driving for the entire day just to see how far we could go, there was nothing stopping us.
Unplanned vacations are filled with surprises, but they are not for the faint-hearted.
But something happens on these road trips. At some point we know exactly where we want to go. Our destination becomes clear.
My husband, who is a major history buff, says that his favorite days are the ones where we visit museums, old forts or historical towns. And my one of my best vacations was when we went to Prince Edward Island. I remember standing in a souvenir shop, surrounded by Anne Shirley dolls, wondering how we accidentally ended up in a place that I dreamed of visiting ever since someone put that first Anne of Green Gables book into my hands.
I was taking a break from my W.I.P. and going through some scrapbooks today, when I realized that I write like I vacation. I can't do chapter by chapter outlines. I'm in it for the adventure. If I'm not flexible I get in trouble. And with a little luck, eventually, I'll know where I'm going.
This is Huddy Park, across the street from the library in Toms River. On Wednesdays in the summer they have a farmers market. They also have events like the annual "Wooden Boat Fesitval" and the "Art and Music Festival". Btw, I was standing on this bridge, when I got "the call".
I'm heading south now near Beachwood.
Here's the town of Ocean Gate.The population is about 2000, but I bet it swells to more than that in the summer. For a quiet walk, nothing beats the boardwalk in this town.
I love the eerie feeling of this place. Driving by, all you see are hundreds of these skeletons of electric poles in a marshland. It's a wildlife refuge, but obviously it was something else at one time. 
Still moving south, I found a new store called the Hippie House. Wish they were there when I was researching 1969. I'll be searching the place for something to bring to my school visits.
This is the main street in my home town. You know you live in a small town when the local supermarket is described as "the keystone store". But there are lots of cool places here, such as Hope Hypnosis. Hypnotherapist Mary Silvernail has done seminars at our library.
Existential crisis number 857 happened a few days ago when I picked up a book in our living room and found this quote from the 14th century poet Hafiz.
