Chemistry 101

Take seven women writers who have never met. Isolate them for four days and three nights. Provide them with comfortable accommodations, abundant good food, a bit of wine, and a goal. Watch what happens. 

     For the first hour they “make nice.” Then they begin to share their stories—fictional, non-fictional, and poetic. They have retreated to lovely Ossabaw Island, Georgia, to hone their skills and serve as each others’ sounding boards. Most already have publishing credits.  All are passionate about their craft. All have at least one manuscript in progress.

     They gather for work sessions, then withdraw to their rooms, to the porch, to the forest, where they can think and absorb and revise. As the days progress, egos are set aside and friendships blossom. A camera appears, and they pose for group photographs. A guitar appears, and someone starts to sing.

     On the afternoon of the last day, email addresses are exchanged. And plans for future get-togethers. And hugs. 
     The full moon of the night before delays the rising tide, so the boat trip home must wait an extra half-hour. All the better. No one wants to leave anyway.
     Who says women aren’t good at chemistry?

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Ossabaw Island Paradise

Beautiful Georgia knows how to protect her barrier islands, and Ossabaw is one of the loveliest.

     Pottery shards unearthed there confirm that it was inhabited at least 4,000 years ago. Eventually, it passed from the Guale Indians to the Creeks, who sold it to King George II in 1758.

     The island was purchased in 1924 by the Torrey family of Grosse Pointe, Michigan. Their daughter, Eleanor “Sandy” Torrey West, inherited life estate in 1960, and since 1978 has been the only permanent resident. That same year the island was sold to the State of Georgia as its first “heritage preserve,” set aside in perpetuity for scientific, educational, and cultural uses only.

     One of the largest of Georgia’s barrier islands, Ossabaw has wooded uplands with freshwater ponds, marshlands threaded by tidal creeks, and a long stretch of pristine, white sand beach. It is accessible only by boat, a half-hour trip I have made a number of times.

Click to enlarge.

     I’ll be making that trip again next week to participate in the island’s first four-day Writers’ Retreat. Can’t wait to sleep with the whisper of wind in the pines and awaken to the sight of free-range donkeys, wild hogs, and maybe an alligator or two.

Click to enlarge.

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Pardon My Rant

Some grammatical blunders shouldn't be forgiven. For instance, "rise up."  When was the last time you noticed a balloon "rising down"? Ditto "raise," "lift," and "hoist."

If you're not careful, you'll commit "a myriad of mistakes." Well, I hope not. "Myriad" is an adjective. Used correctly it should directly precede the noun it modifies: "myriad mistakes." Think of "myriad" as an upscale substitute for "many," and you'll get it right every time.

When you work on a tan, you don't "lay on the beach," you "lie on the beach." "Lie" means "to rest or recline." Its principal parts are "lie" (present tense), "lay" (past tense), and "lain" (past participle). "Lay" means "to put or place." Its principle parts are "lay," "laid," and "laid."  The confusion happens because "lay" plays two roles--as the present tense of one and the past tense of the other. I know it's confusing--but you're not a dummy. You can learn this!

Doesn't everyone love their mother?  No, everyone loves his (or her) mother. Forget the "every" part and concentrate on "one." That way you'll remember that "everyone" is singular, requiring a singular pronoun referring to it.  I know, I know, "anyone" sounds singular, and "everyone" sounds plural. But both are singular, as are anybody, everybody, someone, and somebody.

Class dismissed.

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A Simple Proposal

     In the wake of last week's tragic shooting in Tucson, Arizona, much finger-pointing and name-calling concerning culpability has taken place, yet on the playground we all learned--or should have--that such tactics accomplish nothing positive. I suspect you feel as I do--that it is "others" who are indulging in inflammatory invective, not us, and we sigh and step back prepared wait until "they" get over themselves. This, I am realizing, also accomplishes nothing of lasting value. Meanwhile, during this period of back-and-forth negative rhetoric, a terrific opportunity is being squandered.
     One very astute person named Elizabeth Lesser has come up with a simple way to begin a dialog that can elevate the way we treat each other. I commend to you her short video, which you can find here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AsSd2nmoKNA

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An Inauspicious Beginning

What a way to start the new year!
     I’m sure you knew about the 5,000 red wing blackbirds that fell to their deaths in Arkansas on New Year’s Eve, but did you know about the 100,000 Drum fish that went belly-up in the Arkansas River at the same time? How about the 500 blackbirds, starlings, and sparrows that dropped dead in Kentucky? Or the 450 red wing blackbirds and brown-headed cowbirds that died in Louisiana? Or the millions of spot fish that carpeted the Chesapeake Bay?
     You were mistaken if you thought the carnage was an American phenomenon. During the same first few days of the new year, 100 tons of sardines came ashore in Brazil, 40,000 Devil Crabs washed up in Britain, 50 jackdaws bit the dust in Sweden, 1500 endangered and protected Sooty Shearwater birds died in Chile, and hundreds of (eyeless) snapper littered the beaches of New Zealand.
     The blame has alternately been assigned to fireworks, an atmospheric disturbance, a microburst, high altitude hail, Nostradamus, and the Antichrist. The scientific community has promised a definitive answer in February. Or maybe August.
     I’m glad I’m a prose-titute and not an apocalyptician.

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Check It Out

Set in the sultry, moss-draped South, Spirit Willing: A Savannah Haunting offers a tale of conniving and greed. It concerns the extremes to which Charlotte Horner will go to oust her aging Aunt Olivia from her historic Savannah home, not only "to put it to better use" but also to exact revenge.
     With the help of Great Great Grandfather Cyrus (dead for 100 years and motivated by an agenda of his own), Olivia sets about to foil Charlotte's plans. In time this unconventional alliance causes Olivia's staunchest supporters--even the lady herself--to question her mental stability, a complication that plays neatly into Charlotte's devious hands.
     The love between Charlotte's brother, a struggling artist and his British model ultimately helps to resolve the conflict, but not before his avaricious sister has done her worst.
     Does Cyrus exist? Or does he live merely in Olivia's imagination? In this ghost story for non-believers, only the reader know for sure.

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New Literary Journal

Today's Savannah Morning News announces the launch of Literary Savannah, a new online journal "designed for readers and writers in Savannah and the Tidewater."  It features prose and poetry by area writers--of which I am one.  Other contributors to the first edition are Thomas A. Williams, Manly Heidt, Henry Precht, Kevin McCrary, Maryanne Stahl, Lisbeth Thom, Judy Trout, and Phil Linz.  It is published bi-monthly by Williams & Company, Book Publishers of Savannah and can be viewed at www.publishingentrepreneur.com.

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Tough Love

We're finding it difficult to celebrate the holiday season while mourning the loss of a much loved family member.
     One spring afternoon in 1995, a white kitten with a black eye patch crawled into my lap and looked up at me as if to say, "Here I am. Take me home." So of course I did.
     She was true trailer trash, born beneath the single-wide of a good ol' Georgia boy. But we never told her that. Instead we named her Calliope (after the muse of epic poetry), and she grew into a blue-eyed beauty. She charmed us with her quirky habits, such as sleeping in a shoe box or leaping to the bowl of the fountain in the garden and drinking from the spout.
     After a period of dramatic disdain, Callie condescended to accept Sam (named for Samuel Johnson, poet and essayist), a marmalade stray who came over the board fence one day and decided to set up housekeeping. Eventually, they became buddies and bedmates, sharing the wicker basket in front of the fire.
     In this, her fifteenth year, Callie's beauty faded, and she grew blind, arthritic, senile, and incontinent--despite all our efforts to the contrary. Parting with her just before Christmas was our most difficult--and kindest--act of love.

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A Christmas Surprise

U.P.S. just delivered my complementary copy of Warren Adler Short Story Contest Winners, one of which is my story "Caprice." Mr. Adler, author of thirty novels (Random Hearts, The War of the Roses) has anthologized the work of twenty winning authors from all over the globe who participated in his annual competitions during the last five years. I'm thrilled to have been selected and can't wait to read it from cover to cover. If you would like to own a copy, the paperback is available at Amazon.com for about $9.

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