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OCC RWA April Online Class

March 26, 2013 by in category Archives

OCCRWA Proudly Presents: header


April 15 – May 12, 2013

Understanding Men

with Debra Holland

About the Class:
Do you wish you had a better understanding of men?  Now is your chance to improve your real-life relationships with men and enhance your male characters all through taking the same course.
In the four week online class, you will learn how the male brain and hormones makes a man think, feel, and behave, especially in relationships. We will review research about male sexuality. We will also discuss how men are portrayed in romance novels versus how men are in real life.
Dr. Debra will considerably expand on the workshop she has given at the 2001 and 2011 National RWA Conferences and around the country to various RWA chapters and conferences. Although this class is geared to writers, non-writers will also find the class helpful in improving their relationships with men.
Debra Holland


About the Instructor:
USA Today bestselling Author, Debra Holland, wears several hats when it comes to writing.  As a psychotherapist, she writes nonfiction books. The Essential Guide to Grief and Grieving is her first nonfiction book.  Debra also writes fiction: Historical Western Romance, Contemporary Romance and Science Fiction.  Her Montana Sky series, sweet historical Western romances, is published by Amazon’s Montlake imprint.
Debra holds a master’s degree in Marriage, Family and Child Theraby and a PhD in Counseling Psychology from the University of Southern California.  She a licensed Marriage and Family Therapist.

Enrollment Information
This is a 4-week online course that uses email and Yahoo Groups.  The class is open to anyone wishing to participate.  The cost is $30.00 per person or, if you are a member of OCCRWA, $20.00 per person.
To join the class, please click on the link.
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Placebo: it’s all in your mind….

March 24, 2013 by in category Archives

I was surprised when I examined the literature that came with my first prescription migraine drugs.  There, in minuscule print on tissue thin paper folded about 20 times, was the FDA approved statement of drug effectiveness (along with a host of other information) and a visual–a graph charting the drugs efficacy Vs a placebo, two lines heading up, one ever so slightly above the other.

In order to be endorsed as a valid medication, a drug must deliver some tiny percent greater effectiveness than a sugar pill.  This didn’t seem like a very high bar to clear!  But one look at the chart showed the unexpected, but irrefutable fact that the placebo had significantly positive impact.  The bar was in fact quite high indeed! 

Did this feed into the physician’s dismissive “its all in your head” “hysteria” “maladie imaginaire” ?  For me, it was incontrovertible evidence of what we all know, but can have difficulty acknowledging: the incredible power of our own mind.

In many–though not all–cases, we can will things to happen.  And while the power of belief is accepted in many areas, it can be scoffed at or dismissed in others. Though mankind, whose ever-present default position of being the center of the universe (!), all knowing and all controlling, can take this too far.

It’s why snake-oil salesman are able to succeed, along with faith healers, talismans, the power of positive thinking, and mind-over-matter. Change may not have a physical reason for happening, but sometimes, if there is a spiritual/emotional reason, that in itself may create an opportunity, a pathway, to open your mind and allow your body to follow.

Believing is seeing, and if we can allow ourselves to accept new things/beliefs, we will likely see new things, even as we look at the familiar.

Believing is also tasting–I remember being at a high-end conference and heading for the dessert table, where there was a large bowl of unlabelled pale yellow pudding.  I thoughts…lemon something?  Took a sample.  No, just light and blandly sweet tasting.  Our table speculated as it what it was.  Vanilla Pudding?  Seemed too plebeian for our exalted venue.  Then it clicked: white chocolate mousse.  Everyone dashed off to have some.  It’s blandness had been transformed to an elegant delicacy.

This insight has lead me to strive to ignore all warnings about the relative merit–or negatives–about all digestibles.  My understanding of what is “good” or “bad” for me has become crystal clear and easy:

  1. Whatever I like is good for me
  2. Whatever I don’t like is bad for me.

And you know, I can tell the instant I put something in my mouth whether it is good or bad for me.

This insight, of course, is coupled with the overarching truth of moderation in everything.  To which I also add the key ingredient of appreciation…

Enjoy!

Isabel Swift

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Ranting About Units of Measure and Lazy Writing

March 19, 2013 by in category Archives tagged as , ,

Monica Stoner w/a Mona Karel

When did ‘ton’ evolve into a generalized unit of measure?  At one time, a ton was 2,000 pounds. Yes, there was metric ton and no doubt some other scientific variations but it all came back to a method of stating the weight of an item.  Simple, exact, precise.

Suddenly we have a “ton” of ideas, a “ton”of fun, a “ton” of jobs to do. I might expect to see this sort of casual expression among middle school students and young people but it has become pervasive in the work of what I thought were professional writers. Which leads me to wonder if this has become standard usage. Whatever happened to such wonderful words as ‘plethora?’ ([n.] excess) Granted we might not encounter the word in common usage but should that mean we choose an inappropriate word instead?

Will we encounter the same spreading misuse as we did when a well known author applied ‘laconic’ ([adj.] brief statement, concise explanation) to her hero’s raised eyebrow. Granted eyebrows aren’t capable of extensive speech but this usage is far beyond the definition. Sadly I find she has established a trend of lazy writing when a quick perusal of the thesaurus might suggest, well, a plethora of more correct adjectives.

To exacerbate the situation, I just received a message about a FREE GIVEAWAY book. Is this phrasing supposed to make me want the book more? To be honest, I figure if the promotional notices show such disrespect for our language I’m not likely to check out the book itself. Free is too expensive when I waste time on poorly written books.

Then you have the brilliant new idea that word usage isn’t as important as story telling and content. According to this theory if a writer can’t remember the difference between your and you’re it doesn’t matter as long as their characters have appeal. And here I wondered how we devolved to using ‘ton’ to identify something other than a large unit of weight.
Maybe I’m just in a crabby mode. Words do have an exact meaning and we write for the joy of sharing those words with others.  Unless of course we’re writing to silence the voices in our heads.
Is there anything that rubs your writerly self the wrong way?

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Mal, Mertiz, My Kid and Me

March 15, 2013 by in category Archives

My youngest son is a Peace Corps volunteer in Albania.  If you don’t know where Albania is, no worries.  I didn’t either. Once he was assigned, though, our family became experts on this Eastern European country half a world away. He’s been gone two years now and still has a year and will serve another two months. Over the years, our Skype talks, IMs and emails are filled with interesting information. These conversations go something like this:
Me: Are you warm?
Eric: It’s below freezing. There’s a hole in the wall of my apartment where the chimney for a heating stove is supposed to go, but birds are living there.  The landlord doesn’t want to disturb the birds.
Me: He’d rather you freeze to death?
Eric: I put a piece of cardboard over the hole and turn on my cooking stove to keep warm. I moved the couch to the kitchen, and I sleep on it. With my clothes on.  And my hat. It’s only a little below freezing.
Me: But are you warm?
At that point the conversation veers away from the topic of how a California boy survived two brutal Albanian winters.  He’s 26, this is his adventure, and he doesn’t need mom to remind him to put on his galoshes. He also doesn’t want to waste precious time discussing the temperature. When the intermittent electricity and Internet connection allow, our conversations are peppered with pictures of the scorpions he finds in his boots and bed in the summer, the gunfire he hears that no one pays attention to, and the cows he chases down the street simply because they are there and he is young and hungry for all experiences. I hear about the ‘grandmothers’ in his town who have adopted him, the students who want to learn English, and the kindness of people who share what they have.
Then there are those personal conversations between my playwright son and me. We cross the miles with talk of family, futures, writing, disappointments, happy times and revelations. Sometimes words fail us, and that is not unusual for those who make their living writing them.  The enormity of a thought is hard to express in pixels or through jerky images on a screen; it needs hands and facial expressions and the intensity of real proximity to make a thought understood.  Often words escape us because what we are thinking seems insignificant, too small to waste precious time on. English, for all its energy, can be limiting; Albanian, for all its convolution is not.
Which brings me to the new words I learned: mal and mertiz. In this intricate language that my son attacked and conquered with relish, all words have many meanings. Mal translates to both nostalgia and mountain. That seemed so right to me. We all have a mountain of nostalgia that has pushed through the ground of our lives and built upon itself.  There are crevices where regret is caught and great bold faces slick with the memories of life-changing events; there are crags and fissures of reminiscences covered with clouds of wistfulness and longing. One day that mountain of memories can be comforting and the next overwhelming – it all depends on the light in which we view it and the place on which we stand at any given moment.
Mertiz is the Albanian word for upset, lonely and bored. That, too, seems just right.  If we are at odds-and-ends, uncomfortable in our own skin with boredom or loneliness, are we not upset and anxious? It is really kind of neat to tie so much turmoil together in one word.  Mertizis not to be confused with anger or frustration; it is much more subtle than that and infinitely more dramatic. 
I am grateful to know that this feeling I have been harboring for the last two years is simply mertiz, a loneliness for my far-away son, a restlessness that he is not here to talk to me about our shared passion for writing, a twinge of disappointment that he is not sitting at my table eating food I made for him. But I see that mertiz leads to mal.   If I am upset and anxious that my child is freezing, if I am bored because I miss the talks late into the night, the hugs he never failed to give, that only means my mountain has grown. See that new foothold up near the peak? It is mal for the boy who once needed me to keep him warm and now simply needs me to talk to him in a new vocabulary that really just says we miss one another.
Eric continues to inspire me to use my words in the best possible way. I can’t thank him enough for expanding my vocabulary and my imagination.

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The Case of the Missing Blue Parasol by Jina Bacarr

March 11, 2013 by in category Archives tagged as , , , , , , , , , , ,

I can’t find my blue parasol.

White lace ruffle, long white handle.

I’ve looked high and low, in closets, in the garage behind old lawn tools, everywhere.

Oh, fiddle de dee, as Scarlett would say. This charming piece of Southern femininity is an important symbol to me as I work on my Civil War romance time travel, “The Bride Wore Gray.” It’s a prop I’ve had for years when I worked in the theatre. A symbol of the attitudes and mores of ladies in a time gone by.

Can you imagine maneuvering your parasol over your shoulder while trying to text on your smart phone?

Not a pretty sight.

But don’t the dismiss the uses of a parasol too easily. These ladies knew what they were doing. A parasol can be used for:

Flirting.

Protecting your skin from the sun.

Whacking a gent over the head if he makes an unwelcome advance.

A quick cover in a rain emergency.

And certainly, a parasol is at its best if you’re Mary Poppins.

No, that was an umbrella, but you get the idea. But I believe a parasol has the same magic as Mary Poppins’ brolly when you pop it open and sling it over your shoulder in a sexy manner. It gives that provocative Southern charm to any woman. And makes flirting more fun.

That’s why I need my blue parasol. When I’m writing the character of Pauletta Sue Buckingham, the Southern spy in “The Bride Wore Gray,” it evokes that era and the slow, easy living of the time, as well as the seductive nature of her character.

Last time, I posted the beginning of the Prologue for “The Bride Wore Gray” with Pauletta Sue trying to out ride the Yankees hot on her tail. She remembers her first night with her beloved, Captain Colton Trent:

Here is the next installment of “The Bride Wore Gray:”

A lone bird creased the early morning sky with its silent wings, soaring upward and out of sight. She [Pauletta Sue] watched it disappear into the heavens. Like a soul in flight.

His soul.

A humid breeze kissed the back of her neck as she breathed in the dawn so deeply her lungs hurt. Tears welled in her eyes. Was it only a fortnight ago she had trembled at his touch?

Holding her so close to him, the heat of their bodies stripped away the heavy cottons, whalebone and silk ribbons of her garments separating them, the hardness of his chest crushing her soft breasts.

Two weeks? Or a lifetime?

“I cannot send you on your mission without telling you how much I love you, my darling,” she’d whispered in his ear, leading his hand to her breast. Daring, unladylike, but Pauletta Sue was beyond acting like a lady.

Brazen as a cheeky farmer’s daughter, she’d slipped past the sentries down to the river, where the Confederate troops were camped, defying all authority to meet him. They’d planned to be married next spring when the roses bloomed again and the fields were thick with plump cotton. The war would be over by then, everyone said, but Pauletta Sue couldn’t wait. They were married in a secret ceremony by the magistrate, the paper not yet filed. They’d had no time for a wedding night.

Then she started thinking. What if something happened to her beloved? No, Pauletta Sue swore. She couldn’t bear to live. Something told her to come to him now.

Her hair blowing free as a restless wind, she didn’t care what anyone thought.

Only him.

“You crazy female,” he‘d said. “You’re as soft as a magnolia petal, Pauletta Sue, but as strong as an oak tree planted in Southern soil. Let me see your beautiful face.”

She lifted her wide‑brimmed straw bonnet with a big, black sash tied under her chin and smiled. She was proud of her small waist set off by a black cummerbund, her full skirts floating up around her in a sheer, filmy flower‑dotted pattern, her breasts outlined by her tight bodice. She winced as he squeezed her soft, womanly flesh, then swallowed hard when she heard him moan.

“Colton, I had to see you…touch you…love you.” She bit down on her lower lip, trying to make him understand what she wanted from him, needed, if she was going to get through this war.

“You must go, my love,” he said, the blazing look in his eyes telling her that he understood. “Before I do something to harm your reputation.”

“You do me more harm, sir, by leaving me unfulfilled,” she whispered, this time with an urgency he couldn’t deny. “We are married, in case it slipped your mind.”

He grinned. “I must have been a fool not to take you to my bed that night.”

“How could you when you were ordered back to your regiment before you even kissed your bride?”

“My bride…I want to love you as you should be loved, but not here in a dirt field with the smell of death still settling upon the ground.”

“It’s hallowed ground, my love,” she whispered. “We have but a few hours to live a lifetime.”

“Even a lifetime wouldn’t be long enough to love you, my darling.” He pulled up her skirt. The rounded hoops underneath bounced up around her, the fine French lace of her underskirts flitting through his eager fingers like frightened butterflies.

She felt no embarrassment. No silly school girl blush tinted her cheeks as she watched him pull his dirty muslin shirt up over his head, the broadness of his shoulders ripping apart the hastily-sewn seams.
She had given herself to no other.

Why must she wait for the war to be over to be with the man she loved? 
————-

I’ll keep looking for my blue parasol.

After all, in Scarlett’s words, tomorrow is another day.

Best,
Jina

Jina’s website


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