8/1/08
Son is visiting with long-time girlfriend from New Zealand. He landed a new job as an editor there for a tv station; she's finishing a master's in documentary filmmaking and interning at a station that's producing a series on New Zealand's worst crimes. (Check out the New Zealand film "Out of the Blue" if you think that's a funny thought.) We've been on the ferry to a Sausalito lunch, walked the Santa Cruz boardwalk and even flew above it on the gondola ride. They revisited their favorite fast food joints and were disappointed when memory fell short. They also spent an inordinate amount of time at City Lights Bookshop on Columbus Avenue, which continues to be the ideal bookstore.
I woke yesterday with the worst feeling of dread. They leave tomorrow night.
Meantime, on the happy news front, youngest daughter returned last night from a month in Spain, all A's in her courses. She will be made responsible for keeping Mom happy when older brother leaves. She's here for a few weeks--attending surf camp, facing jury duty, then goes back to Boston to finish her senior year in college. Of course, she's majoring in Spanish and seems well on her way.
Oldest daughter hosted her brother and girlfriend for a few days in San Diego. She works for a software company that specializes in creating programs for biols and biotechies. They came back saying, "She ought to go for her PhD. She doesn't feel she's living up to her potential."
Pam and I had a lovely lunch yesterday at my house with our editor, Nancy Yost, and her associate/asst. Natanya Wheeler. Nancy, dripping pearls over a red and white print jacket and shoes so pointed you would not believe, is the perfect example of a fantastically successful New York agent. Natanya, who hails from Wisconsin, said it took her nine months to land a decent job in publishing in NYC. However, after a mere two years, she's already handling some highly lauded talents. We ate at a table overlooking the city of SF, then retired outside beneath the oaks to savor our coffee, fruit, and whipped cream desserts.
Today, Friday, we met with Maggie Crawford, surely the publishing industry's most industrious and amazing editorial talent. She browsed City Lights Bookshop with us, wandered through Chinatown and picked out a kimono, then sipped diet Coke at the Fairmont Hotel, interested in absorbing our thoughts on a future project and gently suggesting.
Then she decided to walk all the way from Nob Hill to her hotel. Jet-lagged, besieged by confused authors, she forges onward.
4/12/08
Just got off a long silly phone call with JB. We met when we were twelve. JB lives in Redondo Beach in a house overlooking a dog park. She knows me better than anyone and nevertheless, still speaks to me.
Got a call from Brisbane, Australia late Thursday night from wayward spouse. No plane crash, an easier mind.
Spouse/Podner is such a good sport. When I announced we were going to the movies at ten in the morning last Saturday, he said, "Sure." (You have to picture a California morning in April--sweet yellow sunshine, late daffodils, warm waters) The Aquarius was hosting the end of a series called "talkcinema" where you basically gamble. You don't know what film they will preview, but you go because you are crazy for film and love talking about it with other fanatics. The film turned out to be the upcoming Uma Thurman film, "The Life Before Her Eyes." This film is directed by the same man who directed "The House of Sand and Fog." I can't tell you how annoying I found this novel, which I felt was pretentiously, calculatedly intended to be a masterpiece. Sheesh. However, good movie, worth seeing.
I would never have gone to see this preview, had I read a review of "The Life Before Her Eyes" beforehand. I'm not revealing anything more than any other reviewer when I tell you it involves a Columbine-style school slaying.
Harsh, relentless, and painful to watch. However, what happens after the film at talkcinema is that a film expert gets up to lead a discussion. In this case, we were lucky to get Professor Marilyn Fabe from UC Berkeley's film school. (Oddly, we had met her at our son's graduation a year before. She liked him. We liked her, too.) She had previewed the film three times and knew its every nuance. Also enjoyed hearing from several astute audience members. One said, "Now that this movie is over, I can like it so much better." A few others found the violence at its heart unsettling. Maybe this kind of entertainment inures us to things that we should continue to cringe about, and hide from, and never accept. I mean, nothing good comes of random violence. It's not exactly an earth-shaking revelation.
There's an element of redemption for the main character, the school "slut" in the movie. If you check out the original book, there's no redemption. Is that how the filmmaker lured so many talented people into making this film?
Criticism of its heart aside, the craft is fantastic. Telling such a complicated story in a compelling, complicated way is something to admire. (In flashbacks, flash-forwards) f you look back at the details, after you realize what is really going on, you understand how careful every single set element, every comment, every character trait is appropriate and true to the conceit.
So--I recommend this to anyone looking into sophisticated structure in film, not to anyone who goes to a movie hoping to enhance his/her understanding of the world.
I do recommend this film series. Check out whether there's one near you at www.talkcinema.com
4/11/08
Spouse is in Australia as of this morning, or is it tomorrow? There's a one day plus a seven hour difference. I'm afraid to make sure his Air New Zealand flight made it, but nothing on the main news suggests otherwise. Or possibly Air New Zealand is so obscure with its weird animals and awkward accent, I might not hear about that story until much later as a throwaway on CNN? Maybe it won't rate, this disaster at sea, hundreds dead, but hell, they are mostly New Zealand nobodies? Do you know a single person from New Zealand?
We do. Guess what? Those people in New Zealand live the good life, and they are generous and friendly. It's California maybe sixty years ago, with calm, uncrowded spectacular ocean beaches, a mellow climate, cool cafés, wine touring, places to hang out and plenty of parking. See for yourself. Start in Auckland, not skipping the historical town, Howick, learning along the way about one of its illustrious benefactors, Vicesimus Lush, hit Lake Taupo with the black swans, then Milford Sound, and somehow scramble toward Dunedin. These people are the sweetest hosts you'll ever meet anywhere.
Meantime, Pam and I have come up with some great twists on our current effort, Show No Fear. We've been so showing fear, not meeting deadlines, loving the book, hating the book, so our next effort poses a discordant challenge for us. We're trying for brave but are basically cowards. Pam writes poetry to avoid responsibility. Mary slinks around reading bestsellers and surfing animation sites on the net, hence new links on our links page.
Then we have a brilliant conversation with tons of progress. That happens once a month.
We work every day to make our next book fantastic. We study the pages, the plot holes, the character difficulties, wrinkle our foreheads and eyes, thinking we've got some idea that will make it all so clear, as if.
Set yourself down at the desk. Jump up to pour another cup of coffee. Browse the net, feeling guilty every second that ticks by. Answer a pile of e-mails. Make new connections, feeling oh, so productive. Answer the contractor who will be ripping out the indoor barbeque and rock wall next week. Chastise the window washer who wishes to arrive at 8 a. m. on Monday morning. Ruminate upon unpaid bills, but do not pay them. Call a few friends, leaving messages. They are busy. They are productive. They are superior .
And I'm off to Australia to discover my hopefully living spouse in a few days along with daughter and her partner. After stops on the Great Barrier Reef and wine tours of the Sydney area, we'll hook up with our wayward son who stubbornly hangs out in Auckland on the way back, just to say, hi, where's the nearest fast food.
Life is hell, a lá Matt Groenig. So good you can taste it. So bad, you're checking out sturdy ropes.
3/30/08:
I meant to shut this thing down some time ago, but couldn't. I don't know how to delete my blogsite so may as well go on like a charged battery, wishing to deplete my power but batteries have become so sophisticated, they just go on and on. Plus, the habit of revealing is all too deeply ingrained at this point in my life.
If you are a sloppy reader you won't care but all others might be amazed to hear that everything I write gets revised many times. However the program inevitably crashes long before it occurs to me to save these sensitive refinements, therefore much of what you read here remains a first draft, and therefore, by its nature, crude. Consult writer Ann Lamott in her wonderful book on writing, Bird by Bird, on the topic of first drafts. She says, give yourself permission to write a sh***y first draft. Might as well, since you always will unless you are Elmore Leonard.
I had a good idea for a short story recently. The title would be "I Dream of Wild Animals."
Pam and I are working on rewrites on our fourteenth novel--anyone who ever wanted to be a writer ought to start here, during this, the hardest phase. Show your macho. Rewrites are inevitable, important, and must of necessity represent popular plus private criticism. The reality is, every day you wake up challenged, full of dread, hoping it will all go away. And then you talk to your partner. Pam's latest motto is "If it doesn't terrify you, it isn't fun."
Mine is, "Holy crap. Get me out of here."
That is the way a partnership works, right? We complement each other.
Last spring, I attended the Mendocino Film Festival and absolutely loved a film that was all about me, master doll player, lustful dollhouse owner. I loved this ten minute short animated film. Please tell the filmmaker if this speaks to you:
http://vids.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=vids.individual&videoid=2060899105
It's also on our links page.
I'm sure many obsessed doll-players (like me) become writers or filmmakers. Hey, what's more fun than moving bodies around and messing with emotions?
7/01/07: Every time a new law is passed, an old law needs expunging . Spring cleaning.
During a teeth-cleaning moment today, while the hygienist explained why she would be disinheriting her sister-in-law and leaving her best things to a friend's children, I understood, metal scraping between my teeth to make the point, most emphatically, that Americans reveal too much vulnerability to strangers.
8/10/07
Brad, Mary and Meg hit road this morning from North Lake Tahoe, heading southwest toward Homewood for a “juried” arts and crafts exhibition which, sadly, failed to live up to its hype. It’s dead, dry August and the ski hill, scraped clear of its regal snow looked--vacuumed. The ladies liked a blue and purple salad bowl (microwavable even though stoneware--what’s with that?) but decided the eighty-five bucks the artist wanted for it and probably deserved might better serve needy people or a small, irresponsible group seeking a rowdy evening out.
The man took one minute to peruse and decide against multiple objet. Something across the roadway beckoned, and he succumbed. Several minutes later, so did Mary and Meg, following a sign that said “patio dining.”
This lovely venue is called the West Shore Café and Inn, and it is the nicest place we’ve found to eat lakeside in years. In fact, if you decide on a table on the dock, you hover above the lake, staring down through its clear waters into white sand with various mysterious items blurring back at you. B had started on crab cakes. Meg had the shrimp. Mary and B ordered the lobster special. Beyond, boats of all sizes bobbed. A baby gurgled in the seat behind Meg, utterly content, féted by Mom, Dad, and the grandfolk. A couple sat on the stern of their motorboat drinking beer, up and down, up and down, rhythmically slurping with the sway of the lake.
Back in the car, Mary took the helm while the others closed eyes and smiled to themselves, mentally napping. Instead of returning to the northshore, she headed south.
Notable things along the way: Meeks Bay is run by the Washoe tribe, thanks to former President Clinton. At this time of year, when the mood is good and the money is raring to be spent, the campers and jaunters populated the campground and store in full-force.
Beyond that, the overlook at Emerald Bay appears crowded. Mary decides not to stop, and her passengers nod groggy agreement. Not too soon afterwards, the narrow road narrows further. You cross a ridge with a sheer drop of hundreds or maybe even thousands of feet on each side. Naturally, we faced an enormous logging truck on that small road. You can get nervous or exhilarated depending on your temperament on this stretch. I believe Nina Reilly and her client, Misty Patterson, had a bad experience along this lane in our first novel, Motion to Suppress, although Pam might have had a different place in mind when she worked on that scene.
By now, Meg perked up, noticing we were low on gas. From the back seat, Brad claimed an eighth of a tank was plenty for anything, which not even he could believe, were he entirely sober. Far from a station, we gave in to anxiety then happily filling up at the “Y” in South Lake Tahoe. Instead of turning right on Highway 50 toward the Starlake Building (Nina Reilly’s office) and the casinos, we went left, up Gardner Mountain, toward Meyers.
We drove for a mile or two, marveling at the dryness of the trees, remarking upon the draught of this summer. It wasn’t until we got near the top that we realized these “dry” trees, a lovely orange-ochre, were, in fact, burned trees.
An area that previously held some modest homes, some stately homes, and many estates, appeared strangely forested. We began to look more closely. In fact, these meadows, these empty spaces, were former homesteads, and the forest--it was dead. We stopped the car to stare. Fancy and humble chimneys created out of brick, stone, and mortar, stood above small, crushed piles of ashes. Swathes of twisted metal may have marked appliances, a metal roof--it was so hard to say. All was dust, ashes, nothingness. Where we saw open space at first, we now realized, people’s homes once stood.
All the family photographs--gone. We saw a kids’ treehouse in one backyard, intact. No house to go along with it. A swingset, a bench, a few plastic yard chairs, a burned “for rent” sign lay amid the rubble.
But here’s the hard part: so little debris. An entire home and its contents went up in flames here, a standing chimney showed or a subtle announcement stated--maybe it was the insurance sign, saying, “All-State Disaster Center,” followed by an address and phone number. But the memories of picnics in the backyard, new grandchildren having fun at the primitive amusement park along Highway 50, candlelight in winter, barbecues in summer, family photos, memories of frisky black bears breaking into the garage freezer...all gone in a poof of smoke. The scraps are no more than a few feet deep. There’s nothing left.
The good news: many, many of the home sites have already been cleared by the local agencies, which seem to be doing a fantastic job. We saw people, orange-clad, swinging axes. Dead trees have been chopped and removed, as witness the stumps. The remaining homes, with their “Thank you” signs to the firefighters, live together in friendly clumps, awaiting the return of their neighbors. On sad nearby sites, so dead as to be sterile piles of dirt, signs say, “We will rebuild.”
An article in the local paper has stated that the gone-homes will be rebuilt according to brand new California codes. That means they will never be the same. The newer ones might not change so much but those that were built in the old days, the knotty pine ones with low ceilings and leaky insulation, are gone for good.
Interviews with those whose houses continue to stand have pointed out a few useful facts: they built with fireproof cement siding. Their decks were not wood but man-made composites (Trex? Don’t the fumes cause problems when these products do burn?). Shingled roofs did not survive. Products on the market are far more fireproof, if consumers would just check them out.
Of course, there’s always luck, and the energy and dedication of the local firefighters. If you look at pictures of the event, you have got to be amazed. Miles burned. Charred trees. Piles of ashes signifying entire lives. Scorched trees. Yet nobody died.
Probably the strangest thing was that we drove for so long before realizing the trees had burned, and below them lay whole lives reduced to ash. The forest seemed normal and untouched.
Humbled and struck by what we’d seen, we repaired to the Alpen Sierra Coffee Shop, roughly at the intersection of Pioneer Trail and Hwy 50, South Lake Tahoe. Bring your airport connection and computer along for a lazy few minutes in a traditionally-built Tahoe coffee place. The enthusiastic guy announcing orders sounded much like the thin-voiced guy in “Hair” who sang, “Don’t let me down, best one around. Praise be to the blue white and red...”
“Skinny decaf with whips!” he shrieked.
Brad had a double espresso; Mary the current special, okay, it was called a “Mr. Toad” an iced chocolate drink that socked a ground espresso punch. Skinny Meg indulged in one of those things people who cleave to Starbucks demand: a “skinny decaf 16 oz latte extra hot.”
Yes, we felt lucky, so lucky. Nobody escapes all the crap in life but we could not help feeling pain for people who lost so very much in an instant. When we left, heading home, driving excruciatingly slowly along the highway toward the state line, we passed “disaster” insurance company sites, brightly advertised, proud of stepping up. We couldn’t help hoping they really are taking care of their clients. (Locals: let us know your story please? perri@perrio.com.)
I used to take great pix. The digital age destroyed that illusion. I took several photos and my camera crashed. For more on the fires, consult sites at MSNBC, CNN, and the local Tahoe newspapers. I've included some here, not mine, from some other websites.
Only a few years after some very old mountainsides burned on Highway 50 en route to South Lake Tahoe, the forest appeared fresh and renewed. We hope nature comes again, and the people get their energy-efficient, re-created for the modern-era homes back again.
8/26/07
Courtesy of our double cousin, Marc O'Shaughnessy, after a recent trip to Ireland:
"Here's a shot of one of the Ó Seachnasaigh castles, called Fidduan
(Fidd-oon). It's south of Gort a little ways, and hard to get to. You
have to go on back roads and find the 250-year-old Fidduan House, where
85-year-old Mary Forde holds the key. If she gives her permission (and
how could she not, with my charmin' ways?), you have to climb two
gates, unlock two others, and walk about a mile through pastures (with
cows) to get to the outer wall, called a bawn. This is one of the best
preserved bawns in all Ireland." Photo by Marc:
8/28/07
In homage to the publication of the paperback publication of Keeper of the Keys today , I hereby present an essay written for the Mystery Writers of America's annual Edgar issue, April 2007. It does exist elsewhere on this site:
Martinis and Steak: Celebrating with the Greats
by Perri O’Shaughnessy
Nothing can be written about the field of legal suspense fiction without paying homage to the late, great Erle Stanley Gardner.
Edgar winner, prolific author, attorney, mad adventurer, the man teased and entertained his readers with over one hundred novels. Like any writer, like us, he suffered from occasional bouts of doubt about his series, and would vow to continue the “smash-bang action,” without resorting too heavily on a formula.
However, a study of Gardner’s novels by critic Russel B. Nye (The Unembarrassed Muse, Dial 1970) did expose a pattern. Nye called Gardner’s novels as formal as Japanese Noh drama. He described fairly rigid plot points: Attorney Perry Mason’s case is introduced. Mason and his crew investigate. Mason’s client is accused of a crime. Further investigations ensue. Then the trial begins. In a courtroom coup, Mason introduces new evidence and often elicits a confession from the lawbreaker.
And then came the so enjoyable celebratory moment : Della, Paul and Perry went out for martinis and steak.
When Pam and I began our legal-suspense series, our primary goal was to get to that mythical moment, where the drinks got poured, and the beef and salad showed up looking tasty after the adjournment of yet another successful case.
But unfortunately, we agonize over plot. We have never stumbled upon a formula we can’t destroy, kind of like recipes, which neither one of us can follow. Wrung out by the process, we even forget to celebrate finishing sometimes.
However, our protagonist, Nina Reilly, shares certain Perry Mason characteristics. She takes risks for her clients. She looks for justice in some of the wrong places. If only all her clients, like Perry’s, were innocent.
Like Erle Stanley Gardner, we’ve fielded complaints about the foul language some of our characters use. When he wrote as A. A. Fair, Bertha Cool got pretty salty. When we write certain characters, they talk rough and act tough, too. How else can you bring in a contemporary tone? Some may object. Some may always object.
We’ve incorporated some of Pam’s experiences as an attorney/sole-practitioner up in South Lake Tahoe. Gardner stole from his own life, too. He took more literally from some of his cases; we steal carefully and fancifully, aware that these days anything too closely resembling a real event might come back to haunt in civil court.
But some moments insist on inserting themselves into our fiction: the time one of Pam’s clients stuck a shotgun through the door and waved it around the reception area without revealing his/her face, the time her client, a skier, wrapped himself around a tree at a major ski resort and blamed the resort for a badly-situated tree.
Yep. We wrote about those times.
We’ve incorporated our real-life children, using incidents from their lives to mess-up Nina’s son’s life. We’ve used Pam’s old office, her past house up at Tahoe, our own gambling, skiing, boating mishaps, etcetera. We’ve also exploited our shared experiences as parents, mistake-makers, silent judges, and ambitious writers.
Mom collected ever novel written by Gardner. She also collected every novel by Rex Stout, Agatha Christie, and perhaps most telling in terms of our own writing experience, the cousins who were Ellery Queen.
We were raised to admire collaboration and stories with mystery, crime, and questions about how justice will out.
Today, we’ll remember to celebrate. We raise our pens, and our martini glasses, in homage to the greats, and in honor of this year’s Edgar Allan Poe Award nominees and winners.
Edgar winner, prolific author, attorney, mad adventurer, the man teased and entertained his readers with over one hundred novels. Like any writer, like us, he suffered from occasional bouts of doubt about his series, and would vow to continue the “smash-bang action,” without resorting too heavily on a formula.
However, a study of Gardner’s novels by critic Russel B. Nye (The Unembarrassed Muse, Dial 1970) did expose a pattern. Nye called Gardner’s novels as formal as Japanese Noh drama. He described fairly rigid plot points: Attorney Perry Mason’s case is introduced. Mason and his crew investigate. Mason’s client is accused of a crime. Further investigations ensue. Then the trial begins. In a courtroom coup, Mason introduces new evidence and often elicits a confession from the lawbreaker.
And then came the so enjoyable celebratory moment : Della, Paul and Perry went out for martinis and steak.
When Pam and I began our legal-suspense series, our primary goal was to get to that mythical moment, where the drinks got poured, and the beef and salad showed up looking tasty after the adjournment of yet another successful case.
But unfortunately, we agonize over plot. We have never stumbled upon a formula we can’t destroy, kind of like recipes, which neither one of us can follow. Wrung out by the process, we even forget to celebrate finishing sometimes.
However, our protagonist, Nina Reilly, shares certain Perry Mason characteristics. She takes risks for her clients. She looks for justice in some of the wrong places. If only all her clients, like Perry’s, were innocent.
Like Erle Stanley Gardner, we’ve fielded complaints about the foul language some of our characters use. When he wrote as A. A. Fair, Bertha Cool got pretty salty. When we write certain characters, they talk rough and act tough, too. How else can you bring in a contemporary tone? Some may object. Some may always object.
We’ve incorporated some of Pam’s experiences as an attorney/sole-practitioner up in South Lake Tahoe. Gardner stole from his own life, too. He took more literally from some of his cases; we steal carefully and fancifully, aware that these days anything too closely resembling a real event might come back to haunt in civil court.
But some moments insist on inserting themselves into our fiction: the time one of Pam’s clients stuck a shotgun through the door and waved it around the reception area without revealing his/her face, the time her client, a skier, wrapped himself around a tree at a major ski resort and blamed the resort for a badly-situated tree.
Yep. We wrote about those times.
We’ve incorporated our real-life children, using incidents from their lives to mess-up Nina’s son’s life. We’ve used Pam’s old office, her past house up at Tahoe, our own gambling, skiing, boating mishaps, etcetera. We’ve also exploited our shared experiences as parents, mistake-makers, silent judges, and ambitious writers.
Mom collected ever novel written by Gardner. She also collected every novel by Rex Stout, Agatha Christie, and perhaps most telling in terms of our own writing experience, the cousins who were Ellery Queen.
We were raised to admire collaboration and stories with mystery, crime, and questions about how justice will out.
Today, we’ll remember to celebrate. We raise our pens, and our martini glasses, in homage to the greats, and in honor of this year’s Edgar Allan Poe Award nominees and winners.
August 28.2007 addendum:
Anyone who has ever considered traveling to New Zealand ought to see this bird (photographed in January, 2007). His name is Gus, and he lives on an island bird sanctuary called Tiritiri Matangi not too far from Auckland. You are warned not to leave food around. He saunters around, stealing backpacks from the unwary. He's bigger than he looks, a real dino-bird.
August 29, 2007Anyone who has ever considered traveling to New Zealand ought to see this bird (photographed in January, 2007). His name is Gus, and he lives on an island bird sanctuary called Tiritiri Matangi not too far from Auckland. You are warned not to leave food around. He saunters around, stealing backpacks from the unwary. He's bigger than he looks, a real dino-bird.
Okay, today at the coffee klatsch (the Plantation Café, where I hang with friends once a week or so), I talked with Ruth D. and Jim N. and suddenly Jim Plunkett, the football star, showed up. He knew Jim N. well, who played football at Santa Clara dozens of years ago. Jim P. leaned heavily on the table as he chatted with us for a few minutes. After he left, Jim N. said he had bragged one time about his three knee surgeries, but Jim Plunklett said, hey, I've had 33 surgeries. Don't give me no flak. Or something like that.
November 5, 2007
Today I read several months of e-mails to Perrio.com--many fans of the Nina Reilly series hated Keeper of the Keys. Some new readers liked it, coming at Perri's writing without preconceptions. I understand how loyal readers so much want to enjoy a new story in an old genre. We all love Nina. Hey, we made her up! We want her to have every opportunity as a character but as writers, and I do believe many readers understand this, you gotta move on.
Now here's a hint that should make your hair stand on end: we're thinking of a new Nina story, an old Nina story: that's right, a Nina Reilly you have never seen before.
I went down to visit Pam last week in Santa Cruz, and we both lost our minds when it came to a certain concept.
Don't know if we will pull this off, but I'm thinking it might be great fun for all.
December 28th, 2007
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Driving home from Tahoe, a red tow truck as big as a semi tows a broken down Winnebago...bad ending to the holiday for someone. The orange snow plows on the left browsing along the soft snowfall. Two voices on the CD singing sweet harmonies, the snow blowing into the windshield and settling on the pine boughs. Pass a Jeep. A Honda Ridgeline, Suburban, Pathfinder, Grand Cherokee. Chevy pick up, Toyota Rav4. Empty car carrier swinging past “Dutch Flat” happy to have unloaded, no doubt. Mostly, SUVs brave this road in winter.
“Cars Loose Gravel Keep Out”
Brown slush heaped on the sides of the road glazed with sugary fresh snow.
“Drum Forebay Road” next exit.
Trees a hundred feet high on the right side. Opposite, heading east the headlights mostly a warm gold but now and then an eerie blue.
The Weepies sing...”A river of tangled skin...you are unravelling.”
In the backseat, the cockatiel, poor Zeke, white feathered, red-eyed, tweets disconsolately, trying to hang onto his perch. Good times, however: he is warm and outside it is very cold.
Cori hugs her soft bear, even though she is far too old for a stuffy.
We do not have chains. We do not have four wheel drive like every other clever soul on this road.
At Gold Run, snow continues to blow but the brown creeps in. Everything in black and white except the blood red brake lights. We make it home, amazed and pleased.
March 1, 2008:
Mary now has an all wheel drive car, a compromise. She wanted a smaller car. She no longer needed to carpool athletic groups, since her youngest child was in college, and two older ones were also out and about. Her choice was: buy a small vehicle. However, her spouse wanted her to keep the ever-useful minivan that she loved with 82,000 miles and perfect maintenance or buy something bigger.
Her now grown and opinionated kids loathed, hated, and vilified SUVs.
So arrived a compromise after many agonizing internet hours of study: a hybrid SUV. This car gets six to eight more miles per gallon than the old minivan. It's big enough to replace the minivan for hauling (hence a trade-in, hence no extra, mostly useless car).
Then there's that problem of technology. Spouse, after watching the informative quick DVD, said, "Call them, apologize, and explain we are not smart enough to own this car. We'll have to return it." BTW, he's an engineer with a PhD from M.I.T.
It's a wonderful car, with decent power, decent gas-mileage, and a decent possibility of making it up to Tahoe without requiring chains. We were able to trade-in the minivan (with sobs). At stoplights, the new car goes dead, not spewing fumes, only quietly recharging. When you turn it on, you await a video message: ready. The car is silent, such a scamp, ready to roll in spite of sounding exactly like a stalled vehicle. The dealer provides stickers that explain all for those who sometimes require the assistance of valets.
Okay, so here's another view of John Patrick Shaughnessy's grave at the Mount Rosecrans National Cemetery in San Diego, CA. In the distance, you will note the ocean.
Our dad, Roger Charles O'Shaughnessy, was buried at sea not too many miles away, off Newport Harbor.
We're thinking there was some ineluctable pull toward the ocean. Ultimately, we all expect to end up there.
November 5, 2007
Today I read several months of e-mails to Perrio.com--many fans of the Nina Reilly series hated Keeper of the Keys. Some new readers liked it, coming at Perri's writing without preconceptions. I understand how loyal readers so much want to enjoy a new story in an old genre. We all love Nina. Hey, we made her up! We want her to have every opportunity as a character but as writers, and I do believe many readers understand this, you gotta move on.
Now here's a hint that should make your hair stand on end: we're thinking of a new Nina story, an old Nina story: that's right, a Nina Reilly you have never seen before.
I went down to visit Pam last week in Santa Cruz, and we both lost our minds when it came to a certain concept.
Don't know if we will pull this off, but I'm thinking it might be great fun for all.
December 28th, 2007
Driving home from Tahoe, a red tow truck as big as a semi tows a broken down Winnebago...bad ending to the holiday for someone. The orange snow plows on the left browsing along the soft snowfall. Two voices on the CD singing sweet harmonies, the snow blowing into the windshield and settling on the pine boughs. Pass a Jeep. A Honda Ridgeline, Suburban, Pathfinder, Grand Cherokee. Chevy pick up, Toyota Rav4. Empty car carrier swinging past “Dutch Flat” happy to have unloaded, no doubt. Mostly, SUVs brave this road in winter.
“Cars Loose Gravel Keep Out”
Brown slush heaped on the sides of the road glazed with sugary fresh snow.
“Drum Forebay Road” next exit.
Trees a hundred feet high on the right side. Opposite, heading east the headlights mostly a warm gold but now and then an eerie blue.
The Weepies sing...”A river of tangled skin...you are unravelling.”
In the backseat, the cockatiel, poor Zeke, white feathered, red-eyed, tweets disconsolately, trying to hang onto his perch. Good times, however: he is warm and outside it is very cold.
Cori hugs her soft bear, even though she is far too old for a stuffy.
We do not have chains. We do not have four wheel drive like every other clever soul on this road.
At Gold Run, snow continues to blow but the brown creeps in. Everything in black and white except the blood red brake lights. We make it home, amazed and pleased.
March 1, 2008:
Mary now has an all wheel drive car, a compromise. She wanted a smaller car. She no longer needed to carpool athletic groups, since her youngest child was in college, and two older ones were also out and about. Her choice was: buy a small vehicle. However, her spouse wanted her to keep the ever-useful minivan that she loved with 82,000 miles and perfect maintenance or buy something bigger.
Her now grown and opinionated kids loathed, hated, and vilified SUVs.
So arrived a compromise after many agonizing internet hours of study: a hybrid SUV. This car gets six to eight more miles per gallon than the old minivan. It's big enough to replace the minivan for hauling (hence a trade-in, hence no extra, mostly useless car).
Then there's that problem of technology. Spouse, after watching the informative quick DVD, said, "Call them, apologize, and explain we are not smart enough to own this car. We'll have to return it." BTW, he's an engineer with a PhD from M.I.T.
It's a wonderful car, with decent power, decent gas-mileage, and a decent possibility of making it up to Tahoe without requiring chains. We were able to trade-in the minivan (with sobs). At stoplights, the new car goes dead, not spewing fumes, only quietly recharging. When you turn it on, you await a video message: ready. The car is silent, such a scamp, ready to roll in spite of sounding exactly like a stalled vehicle. The dealer provides stickers that explain all for those who sometimes require the assistance of valets.
Okay, so here's another view of John Patrick Shaughnessy's grave at the Mount Rosecrans National Cemetery in San Diego, CA. In the distance, you will note the ocean.
Our dad, Roger Charles O'Shaughnessy, was buried at sea not too many miles away, off Newport Harbor.
We're thinking there was some ineluctable pull toward the ocean. Ultimately, we all expect to end up there.