Hello and Have a happy holiday if you’re into it,
I learned a few days ago I can hold a book signing at the New York Police Museum in Manhattan, on 100 Slip near Staten Island on tentatively October, 29. I am of course thrilled and so far not too nervous, I'm excited; for one, to get the chance to visit New York after all these years, to be alive in that great city. I have an itinerary of three excursions I hope I can do which includes not only the signing at the museum but to get to tour it as well, I have a feeling their police museum is terrific(Cleveland has one too and its a good one) filled with so much of the departments phenomenal history; I hope there’s an exhibit on Frank Serpico and the Knapp Commission.
I also hope to do a Ride-Along out of the 1-9 precinct, this would be terrific though I’m hoping it won’t taint my ideas of police life in the precincts for my novels—it probably will--I’ll just have to keep a rein on it because I’m satisfied with how I depict the police in my novels.
Lastly, I want to meet Mayor Bloomberg, this is not a weird request. I admire him and know he's done a wonder job for the city I'm in love with; so to meet him would be a terrific experience.
That’s my New York trip; unfinalized, but getting there. The most important reason for going there is in reality to get my novel and the next two known in the city they’re set and to also get the real feel, taste and smell of the place I imagine each and every day. I’ll keep you posted if and when I get the okay for parts of my itinerary; I’m going to do what’s necessary to make my trip a success because it’ll help make my novels that much better.
I hope you got to watch Barack Obama’s acceptance speech, it was awe-inspiring and one of the most important things I came away with from the experience was the fact that he or his team had to write it, face that blank sheet and come up with the best words, the sweetest historical references, the here and now experiences of us Americans and put it down on paper; it was an amazing undertaking. Yet, through the miraculous power of putting words and sentences together he's able to inspire the world.
If you have any comments or suggestions please e-mail me at my new address: shabazzl@adasbcc.org.
Until next time, God willing,
Lori
Friday, August 29, 2008
Friday, August 22, 2008
Hello and Happy Friday,
I know I do a lot of talking about writing, I say I write but who knows if I do? I do; so here's a short story, flash fiction I think and I hope you like it:
ICE CREAM AND CHRISTMAS TREES
Gerald shivered beside the rows of spruces, firs and pines, smelling their sharp tang as they glowed dark green under the string of Christmas lights. It was twenty degrees but felt colder, maybe because it was Colorado in December or because he’d been standing there for four hours watching people dressed in parkas, snow boots and ski hats eating all manner of ice cream; single, double and triple scooped cones, banana splits, sundaes, parfaits and frosty milkshakes as he tried to sell Christmas trees and watch for Sherry.
He stamped his feet and rubbed together his gloved hands as he watched car headlights come off the highway ramp and down the street toward him either to pass by or stop at Romeo’s Ice Cream Emporium where he sold the trees. He’d always thought it funny-strange how the place did a brisk business in winter where you would think the idea of having ice cream would be horrible. But Marvin Pile, the old man who owned the ice cream stand along with half the commercial strip, said folks seemed to love it even more in winter than in summer so that was one reason he kept it open year round.
“Some of my best business done in the winter,” said Marvin, a pock marked, skinny man who looked like he never ate a thing let alone ice cream. “People love the frozen cow’s milk whatever the time of year.”
Romeo’s was little more than a stand with a neon ice-cream cone tilted helter-skelter on its roof and was only large enough for two people to work inside at one time. A drive-through sized window was cut out its front with a lip attached; customer’s walked up, ordered and the order was pushed out on to the lip for pick up. A couple of picnic tables sat on the tarmac off to the side for anyone brave enough to risk a frozen rear for their frozen treat. Marvin, partial to entrepreneurs, had for the last three years kindly let him sell holiday trees on the small lot next to the stand for two percent of the take and it had worked out pretty well too; it seemed eating ice cream put a lot of people in a good mood to buy Christmas trees. There was a line even now at the stand though it was close to eight
Where was she? Did something happen? He looked at the cars coming toward him all passing by. A guy wearing a black down-filled coat and an orange hunting cap and eating two large scoops of what looked like to Gerald Rocky Road ice cream, walked over. Pointing to a balsam fir over seven feet tall, full from top to bottom and the silvery blue of a deep, clean lake asked, “How much is that one?”
“Its forty dollars,” Gerald glanced over the man’s shoulder at the passing cars.
The man looked at the tree, licked his ice cream, shrugged, “Its nice enough and a good size; I’ll take it.” He fished around in his coat pocket, told Gerald, “Hold this,” handed him the cone, took out a wad of bills and pulled off two twenties.
Gerald took the money and handed the guy back his ice cream. He cut a half-inch off the tree’s trunk, hauled it to the guy’s Ford pick-up and laid it carefully in the truck’s bed.
“Merry Christmas,” he called out to the guy just as Sherry’s red Corolla came off the ramp, down the street and pulled up beside him. Gerald felt the knots of fear in his stomach loosen a little at the sight of her.
She got quickly out the car looking at once beautiful, terrified and eager but mostly beautiful; they stared at each other, then met holding on to each other next to a set of decorative wreaths with red bows.
“I thought he wouldn’t let you get away.”
She stuck a strand of soft black hair underneath her cap, the plume of her cold breath smelled like fresh peppermint, “I didn’t think he’d buy my story but he didn’t give me any trouble this time; he usually has a fit if I got out without him.” The violet eyes in her slim face took hold of mines, “Do you have the money?”
“Cleaned out my bank account,” he said. I’ll never complain again about working day construction. You?”
She opened her purse, took out a white envelope and opened to the to the bills packed inside, “That’s everything. You think it’ll be enough to get us started?” Her glorious eyes looked again into mine and I nodded.
If we’d had ten dollars between us I would’ve still nodded; the money didn’t matter only that they were together and could get away together was his only concern and had been the first time he’d laid eyes on her; to have her, to make her his any way he had to.
“Have you sold a lot of trees?” she looked around.
“Not many, my mind hasn’t been on it tonight. You ready to go? There’s nothing else keeping us here is it?”
She shook her head and smiled, “I’m scared but ready. I love you.” She took his hand, “Can we have a last one to go?”
“Anything. I love you.”
They started for Romeo’s as her husband Jimmy came off the ramp, down the street in his green Cadillac STS, hitting a Fraser fir and tumbling it over to knock down six other firs before he stopped and jumped out of the car pointing a pistol at them; he was crying.
“I thought it was me you loved,” he waved the gun at them. The people buying ice cream had frozen as they stared at the three of them.
“Not anymore,” Sherry’s right hand went to my chest. “I’m Gerald’s now.”
“She loves me,” I said, “It can’t be helped, Jimmy.” My eyes went from his wet face to the gun, “There’s nothing you can do about it.”
Jimmy’s face sucked in as if he’d been forced fed a sack of lemons;, his eyes closing “You sure; that damn sure?” He pulled back the trigger.
Sherry and Gerald glanced at each other and nodded; their eyes only for each other. Jimmy opened his and saw it under the hanging Christmas tree lights and neon helter-skelter ice cream cone. He released the trigger, his arm sinking down from the weight of the gun and lost love. “I can’t leave here with nothing?” he said.
Sherry moved toward him, took the gun and tossed it into the front seat of the car, “How about an ice cream and a Christmas tree.”
The End
Send me a story if you want; the reading is almost as important as the writing.
If you have any comments or suggestions please e-mail me at my new address: shabazzl@adasbcc.org.
Until next time, God willing
Lori
I know I do a lot of talking about writing, I say I write but who knows if I do? I do; so here's a short story, flash fiction I think and I hope you like it:
ICE CREAM AND CHRISTMAS TREES
Gerald shivered beside the rows of spruces, firs and pines, smelling their sharp tang as they glowed dark green under the string of Christmas lights. It was twenty degrees but felt colder, maybe because it was Colorado in December or because he’d been standing there for four hours watching people dressed in parkas, snow boots and ski hats eating all manner of ice cream; single, double and triple scooped cones, banana splits, sundaes, parfaits and frosty milkshakes as he tried to sell Christmas trees and watch for Sherry.
He stamped his feet and rubbed together his gloved hands as he watched car headlights come off the highway ramp and down the street toward him either to pass by or stop at Romeo’s Ice Cream Emporium where he sold the trees. He’d always thought it funny-strange how the place did a brisk business in winter where you would think the idea of having ice cream would be horrible. But Marvin Pile, the old man who owned the ice cream stand along with half the commercial strip, said folks seemed to love it even more in winter than in summer so that was one reason he kept it open year round.
“Some of my best business done in the winter,” said Marvin, a pock marked, skinny man who looked like he never ate a thing let alone ice cream. “People love the frozen cow’s milk whatever the time of year.”
Romeo’s was little more than a stand with a neon ice-cream cone tilted helter-skelter on its roof and was only large enough for two people to work inside at one time. A drive-through sized window was cut out its front with a lip attached; customer’s walked up, ordered and the order was pushed out on to the lip for pick up. A couple of picnic tables sat on the tarmac off to the side for anyone brave enough to risk a frozen rear for their frozen treat. Marvin, partial to entrepreneurs, had for the last three years kindly let him sell holiday trees on the small lot next to the stand for two percent of the take and it had worked out pretty well too; it seemed eating ice cream put a lot of people in a good mood to buy Christmas trees. There was a line even now at the stand though it was close to eight
Where was she? Did something happen? He looked at the cars coming toward him all passing by. A guy wearing a black down-filled coat and an orange hunting cap and eating two large scoops of what looked like to Gerald Rocky Road ice cream, walked over. Pointing to a balsam fir over seven feet tall, full from top to bottom and the silvery blue of a deep, clean lake asked, “How much is that one?”
“Its forty dollars,” Gerald glanced over the man’s shoulder at the passing cars.
The man looked at the tree, licked his ice cream, shrugged, “Its nice enough and a good size; I’ll take it.” He fished around in his coat pocket, told Gerald, “Hold this,” handed him the cone, took out a wad of bills and pulled off two twenties.
Gerald took the money and handed the guy back his ice cream. He cut a half-inch off the tree’s trunk, hauled it to the guy’s Ford pick-up and laid it carefully in the truck’s bed.
“Merry Christmas,” he called out to the guy just as Sherry’s red Corolla came off the ramp, down the street and pulled up beside him. Gerald felt the knots of fear in his stomach loosen a little at the sight of her.
She got quickly out the car looking at once beautiful, terrified and eager but mostly beautiful; they stared at each other, then met holding on to each other next to a set of decorative wreaths with red bows.
“I thought he wouldn’t let you get away.”
She stuck a strand of soft black hair underneath her cap, the plume of her cold breath smelled like fresh peppermint, “I didn’t think he’d buy my story but he didn’t give me any trouble this time; he usually has a fit if I got out without him.” The violet eyes in her slim face took hold of mines, “Do you have the money?”
“Cleaned out my bank account,” he said. I’ll never complain again about working day construction. You?”
She opened her purse, took out a white envelope and opened to the to the bills packed inside, “That’s everything. You think it’ll be enough to get us started?” Her glorious eyes looked again into mine and I nodded.
If we’d had ten dollars between us I would’ve still nodded; the money didn’t matter only that they were together and could get away together was his only concern and had been the first time he’d laid eyes on her; to have her, to make her his any way he had to.
“Have you sold a lot of trees?” she looked around.
“Not many, my mind hasn’t been on it tonight. You ready to go? There’s nothing else keeping us here is it?”
She shook her head and smiled, “I’m scared but ready. I love you.” She took his hand, “Can we have a last one to go?”
“Anything. I love you.”
They started for Romeo’s as her husband Jimmy came off the ramp, down the street in his green Cadillac STS, hitting a Fraser fir and tumbling it over to knock down six other firs before he stopped and jumped out of the car pointing a pistol at them; he was crying.
“I thought it was me you loved,” he waved the gun at them. The people buying ice cream had frozen as they stared at the three of them.
“Not anymore,” Sherry’s right hand went to my chest. “I’m Gerald’s now.”
“She loves me,” I said, “It can’t be helped, Jimmy.” My eyes went from his wet face to the gun, “There’s nothing you can do about it.”
Jimmy’s face sucked in as if he’d been forced fed a sack of lemons;, his eyes closing “You sure; that damn sure?” He pulled back the trigger.
Sherry and Gerald glanced at each other and nodded; their eyes only for each other. Jimmy opened his and saw it under the hanging Christmas tree lights and neon helter-skelter ice cream cone. He released the trigger, his arm sinking down from the weight of the gun and lost love. “I can’t leave here with nothing?” he said.
Sherry moved toward him, took the gun and tossed it into the front seat of the car, “How about an ice cream and a Christmas tree.”
The End
Send me a story if you want; the reading is almost as important as the writing.
If you have any comments or suggestions please e-mail me at my new address: shabazzl@adasbcc.org.
Until next time, God willing
Lori
Friday, August 15, 2008
Hello,
I’m writing my second Owen Story novel as you know; I’m finishing the first draft to move into the long—but not too long—rewrite process which is the REAL process. My first step though is not to pick up the pen and get to it, I have to organize first. I don’t mean create an outline so I know where I’m going; I already know this for the most part, I mean putting all my notes, my snatches of information, my short story lines, my scribbled passages all together in front of me like a person opening a large box of chocolates a la Forest Gump and choosing the ones that best fit the story, the novel.
When I’m collecting these pieces written down on the backs of store receipts, in one of the small notebooks I carry around or on a stickem, I of course don’t know exactly where they may fit; only that they might. So when I gather them I try and fit most into the books storyline like working a puzzle where sometimes the pieces are large and give you an idea of the picture you’re creating and at other times, small and are needed just to help the picture develop while some you don’t need.
I enjoy this part of working my book because I find once I’m here, the book is alive and all I’m there to do is keep it breathing and healthy by feeding it the right words and taking out the useless, unnecessary ones; keeping it moving by throwing in a fast paced storyline ; filling it with excitement and adventure and with characters you want to know and love. It’s a pleasure to get to this phase though I have a ways to go until I’m done, but the fact I have gotten there lets me know I have a story worth finishing, that I enjoy and look forward to adding to it until it’s the way I want it to be and hope the end result will be a novel loved not only by me but my readers too.
Keep writing your novels, movie scripts, short stories, poems, because you love it.
If you have any comments or suggestions please e-mail me at my new address: shabazzl@adasbcc.org.
Until next time, God willing,
Lori
I’m writing my second Owen Story novel as you know; I’m finishing the first draft to move into the long—but not too long—rewrite process which is the REAL process. My first step though is not to pick up the pen and get to it, I have to organize first. I don’t mean create an outline so I know where I’m going; I already know this for the most part, I mean putting all my notes, my snatches of information, my short story lines, my scribbled passages all together in front of me like a person opening a large box of chocolates a la Forest Gump and choosing the ones that best fit the story, the novel.
When I’m collecting these pieces written down on the backs of store receipts, in one of the small notebooks I carry around or on a stickem, I of course don’t know exactly where they may fit; only that they might. So when I gather them I try and fit most into the books storyline like working a puzzle where sometimes the pieces are large and give you an idea of the picture you’re creating and at other times, small and are needed just to help the picture develop while some you don’t need.
I enjoy this part of working my book because I find once I’m here, the book is alive and all I’m there to do is keep it breathing and healthy by feeding it the right words and taking out the useless, unnecessary ones; keeping it moving by throwing in a fast paced storyline ; filling it with excitement and adventure and with characters you want to know and love. It’s a pleasure to get to this phase though I have a ways to go until I’m done, but the fact I have gotten there lets me know I have a story worth finishing, that I enjoy and look forward to adding to it until it’s the way I want it to be and hope the end result will be a novel loved not only by me but my readers too.
Keep writing your novels, movie scripts, short stories, poems, because you love it.
If you have any comments or suggestions please e-mail me at my new address: shabazzl@adasbcc.org.
Until next time, God willing,
Lori
Friday, August 08, 2008
Hello,
As writers we write for our selves and for other reasons of course; from hoping for a successful career—whatever you define as success; a prolific career, able to write a book or two a year a la James Patterson or because you feel you have something really important to convey; the list is long. One of the reasons I write is because of my sons; they’re happy when they see my book in the world. The other day my son thought he saw a woman carrying it in a store and he told me about it, smiling all the time. I don’t believe she had my book yet was happy he thought someone was reading it. My sons help me defy that blank page because they see in the book, the results of working hard, not giving up and bypassing roadblocks to create something positive. I feel it helps them understand they can do what they choose to do and pursue their life goals no matter what they are and as long as it’s a good—a great—choice.
I write for my self but my sons help me keep at it and write better.
Keep writing.
If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com
Until next time, God willing.
As writers we write for our selves and for other reasons of course; from hoping for a successful career—whatever you define as success; a prolific career, able to write a book or two a year a la James Patterson or because you feel you have something really important to convey; the list is long. One of the reasons I write is because of my sons; they’re happy when they see my book in the world. The other day my son thought he saw a woman carrying it in a store and he told me about it, smiling all the time. I don’t believe she had my book yet was happy he thought someone was reading it. My sons help me defy that blank page because they see in the book, the results of working hard, not giving up and bypassing roadblocks to create something positive. I feel it helps them understand they can do what they choose to do and pursue their life goals no matter what they are and as long as it’s a good—a great—choice.
I write for my self but my sons help me keep at it and write better.
Keep writing.
If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com
Until next time, God willing.
Friday, August 01, 2008
Hello and Happy Friday,
I was reading the other day, an article about the writer Stephanie Meyer who wrote the popular novel, Twilight. The story was of course filled with all the great things happening to her: she’s the new J.K. Rowling, a terrific three book deal, an eagerly anticipated book tour and so many other wonderful details, I of course had a flash of envy, who wouldn’t? I mean she is where I want to be some day. I said-flash of envy-because I kind of got over it quickly because I thought, I’ll be where she is some day or close and I don’t doubt it. Why should I be so sure? I don’t know, because I feel it? Lame but true, yet more importantly I believe I’m working toward it though not in the usual way because I can’t; I don’t have an agent, or even a one-book-deal, I don’t have a huge audience anticipating my next novel (though a few people are; which is a great thing) I don’t have a tour scheduled; my best is a trip to New York to do a signing at the New York City Police Museum which has yet to be confirmed and I’m not a full time writer; I write when I can.
Boy, doesn’t it sound like I have reason to be envious and not so sure I’m going to get even close to where Ms. Meyer’s career has taken her. Yet, I do feel I’ll get close because despite all what I don’t have; I know—know—I have great story lines for my trilogy, a terrific character in Owen Story and I don’t stint on writing as well as I possibly can with relevant details and interesting, well-developed characters; making sure I give the reader the best possible story, one that rolls along at top speed, is exciting and not a waste of a minute of their time. I do what I can to promote my novels and try to do so every day and in all the ways available to me.
As writers and as people, we want a slice of the “good life”—the book tours, the newspaper and magazine articles, the book deals, which I’ve always defined as being a successful writer. But as time has gone by I’ve learned to define success, not by the trappings of the so called good life, but by working hard on my novel and getting it to the point I can breathe because I feel I’ve made it the best it can be, I’m done and can present it to the world pleased with it.
Just write, the rest will take care of itself.
If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com
Until next time, God willing.
I was reading the other day, an article about the writer Stephanie Meyer who wrote the popular novel, Twilight. The story was of course filled with all the great things happening to her: she’s the new J.K. Rowling, a terrific three book deal, an eagerly anticipated book tour and so many other wonderful details, I of course had a flash of envy, who wouldn’t? I mean she is where I want to be some day. I said-flash of envy-because I kind of got over it quickly because I thought, I’ll be where she is some day or close and I don’t doubt it. Why should I be so sure? I don’t know, because I feel it? Lame but true, yet more importantly I believe I’m working toward it though not in the usual way because I can’t; I don’t have an agent, or even a one-book-deal, I don’t have a huge audience anticipating my next novel (though a few people are; which is a great thing) I don’t have a tour scheduled; my best is a trip to New York to do a signing at the New York City Police Museum which has yet to be confirmed and I’m not a full time writer; I write when I can.
Boy, doesn’t it sound like I have reason to be envious and not so sure I’m going to get even close to where Ms. Meyer’s career has taken her. Yet, I do feel I’ll get close because despite all what I don’t have; I know—know—I have great story lines for my trilogy, a terrific character in Owen Story and I don’t stint on writing as well as I possibly can with relevant details and interesting, well-developed characters; making sure I give the reader the best possible story, one that rolls along at top speed, is exciting and not a waste of a minute of their time. I do what I can to promote my novels and try to do so every day and in all the ways available to me.
As writers and as people, we want a slice of the “good life”—the book tours, the newspaper and magazine articles, the book deals, which I’ve always defined as being a successful writer. But as time has gone by I’ve learned to define success, not by the trappings of the so called good life, but by working hard on my novel and getting it to the point I can breathe because I feel I’ve made it the best it can be, I’m done and can present it to the world pleased with it.
Just write, the rest will take care of itself.
If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com
Until next time, God willing.
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