Josie Lynn Books: Imagine the Possibilities

Tag: the writer’s life

  • Literary Allusions…Not Illusions

    I have blogged quite a bit about Pride and Prejudice for the simple reason that I happen to love Pride and Prejudice. I love the characters. I love the story. I love the writing.

    However, lest I give the impression that my obsession with appreciation of Jane Austen’s writings begins and ends with Pride and Prejudice, I would like to take this opportunity to say a few things about Northanger Abbey.

    For the longest time, I regarded Northanger Abbey as a throwaway Jane Austen novel, the one you could skip reading and simply watch the movie, if that. Perhaps this was because I saw the 1987 BBC movie first and found it dull, dreary, and dismal, giving one the impression that one was watching it on television set that was in the process of dying a slow, painful death, whether or not this was the case.

    I couldn’t get into the story. I couldn’t get behind any of the characters. I thought the whole idea was implausible and I simply didn’t care about any of it. At all.

    However, when Masterpiece Theater was rebranded as Masterpiece all of those years ago and all of the hopelessly dated 1970s and 1980s versions of Jane Austen movies (except for Pride and Prejudice) were revamped, I watched them all and, for the first time, Northanger Abbey piqued my interest. Prompting another, this time successful, attempt to read the novel.

    The curious thing, however, is how much it reminded me of my middle-grade novel, Maxwell Parker, P.I.,1 in that:

    1. The heroines are both avid readers
    2. Both heroines have overly active imaginations
    3. Both heroines have an unnatural interest in guts, gore and gruesomeness
    4. Both heroines suspect someone of an atrocity and then take steps to investigate

    My novel Maxwell Parker, Love Doctor, the sequel to Maxwell Parker, P.I., seems to be loosely based on Emma, another Jane Austen novel I came to late in my Jane Austen reading experience. Ironically enough, I started to/attempted to read Emma when I was about ten or eleven years old. I picked it up off the shelf at the library and opened up to the first chapter and read the first line: “Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever and rich, with a comfortable home and happy disposition seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence and had lived nearly twenty-one years in the world with very little to distress or vex her.”

    Miss Austen, I regret to inform you that this first line did not speak to ten-year-old me. Bratty, over-privileged Emma Woodhouse did not seem like a kindred spirit and I had no desire to spend any time with her, so on the library shelf she remained, and I did not become an Austen fan until I was sixteen-years-old and met kindred spirit, Elizabeth Bennet, whose opening line I much preferred. No matter. I like the book now, although, like my heroine, Maxwell, I still find Emma to be “so annoying.”2

    Just for the record, neither of my two Maxwell Parker books were intended to be reimagined Jane Austen books. Any resemblance is entirely a happy coincidence. However, I am in the process of writing a third Maxwell Parker book, and which, if any, Jane Austen book will end up inspiring it is anybody’s guess right now. As they used to say, back in the days before streaming and on-demand programming, stay tuned.

    1. Maxwell Parker, P.I. was published in 2014, but it was written long before I watched the 2007 version of Northanger Abbey. ↩︎
    2. Maxwell Parker, Love Doctor, p. 262 ↩︎

     

  • Where the Sidewalk Ends

    Where the Sidewalk Ends

    Yes we’ll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
    And we’ll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
    For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
    The place where the sidewalk ends.

    Shel Silverstein

    IMG_6941

    In my latest book, I’m the Greatest Star, my protagonist, Star Franklin recites the poem Where the Sidewalk Ends in front of her sixth grade class.

    This poem got me thinking about a few things. Like…what other things do children know that we adults seem to have forgotten?…which leads me to my latest blog post…

    I’ve been thinking a lot about chalkboard art because…well…it’s everywhere these days. The other day, I was reading a tutorial about how to create great chalkboard art and I learned that it’s important to “season” the chalkboard before you begin by rubbing a piece of chalk across the board and then gently erasing it. Ideally, this will leave a little bit of chalk dust behind on the surface, a faint chalky residue (and then you can go about creating your masterpiece).

    Sometimes I think we forget the beauty of something in its pristine condition. So little in today’s world is pristine anymore. Most everything is fairly used up. Everything else seems to be recycled, and if it’s not, it’s seasoned and distressed to give the appearance of not being new.

    This makes me think about childhood—a time when just about everything is new, when there is magic afoot—not the Harry Potter type of magic—but the magic of discovery. That magical time when you are finding things out for the very first time, when you are not too embarrassed or too ashamed to not know something before everyone else, and when you feel free to be yourself and have the audacity to think you’re good enough because the world of advertising hasn’t started its campaign to convince you otherwise.

    I’m talking about that early state of existence when you truly are a blank slate, before you get seasoned and distressed (being a blank slate is something chalkboard art is apparently not about).

    Thinking back to childhood made me want to try to remember some of the things children seem to know, but grownups have forgotten. So, I made a list. Oh…how I love making lists…

    1. It’s important to look down. Little things, like ants and snails and lady bugs and tiny flowers growing in the grass, are important, too. These are masterpieces in miniature, but as adults, we tend to pass over them, thinking such things are beneath our notice. Little kids are good at stooping down.
    2. It’s also important to look up. Look up, for instance, at the daytime sky. What do you see? Fluffy white sheep moving across a beautiful blue meadow. Ah, the power of seeing what’s not there. At night, it’s the Man in the Moon. He’s up there, really. I’ve seen him watching over me. It’s good to believe in something bigger than yourself. It’s good to realize you’re not the center of the universe. It’s also good to find role models. Look up to them. It’s all about elevation. If you run with turkeys, you can’t soar with eagles.
    3. Keep wonder alive. Ask things like ‘what if?’ and ‘how?’ These are powerful words that keep you from getting too comfortable with the mundane, boring, or ordinary. Sometimes it pays to color outside the lines. Open things up. Find out how they’re put together. Learn what makes them tick.
    4. Ask, “Can I play?” It’s a simple, direct question. There are no politics involved, no hidden agendas. Just a plain request that lets people know what you want and need. You might get your feelings hurt, but at least you’ll know you have them. Wearing your heart on your sleeve is more fashionable than a chip on your shoulder. Be proactive, not reactive.
    5. Sometimes the answer is no. If one group says you can’t play with them on the monkey bars, go ask the group playing four square. Maybe you’ll like that game better anyway. Rejection is not always a bad thing. Oftentimes, it’s not even personal. Maybe it’s completely random (…like only four people can play four square and you’re person number five).
    6. Sometimes the answer is yes. You’ll never know if you don’t ask. The Rolling Stones said, “You can’t always get what you want.” But sometimes you do. When you think about it, your odds are pretty even.
    7. Speaking of asking, ask the big questions because they matter. Aside from taking things apart, that’s how you find out stuff. Kids know ignorance isn’t anything akin to bliss. And by the way, ask “unqualified” questions. Don’t ask “quick questions” or apologize for “stupid questions.” When I was a kid, my father used to say, “The only stupid question is the one you didn’t ask.” So, ask away. Dr. Seuss said, “Sometimes the questions are complicated, and the answers are simple.” If you don’t ask, you won’t know.
    8. Get lost in the moment. That’s what moments are for. Stare blankly into space. Dream (dreams are good). Brainstorm (also good). Take a moment to forget about schedules, forget time. It’s arbitrary anyway and takes no prisoners as it marches along.
    9. Open your eyes, they are the windows to the soul after all. Take things in. Explore this beautiful world that we’re fortunate to live in. When you see something amazing, say, “Wow!!!”
    10. Know when it’s time to cover your eyes. The first time I saw a Jurassic Park movie in the theater, I heard a little kid in one of the rows behind me say, “Tell me when the scary part’s over.” When the scary monsters are on the screen, look away. Don’t watch train wrecks. Remember that there are some things you can’t un-see. Some things are going to give you nightmares. Every self-respecting kid knows that nightmares are not good things.

    Now it’s your turn. What are some of the things you remember that you forgot? I’d love to hear your thoughts.

  • Whatchamacallit…Part One

    Whatchamacallit…Part One

    Meerkat Misidentified

    I’m somewhat ashamed to admit that the first time I ever saw a meerkat was in The Lion King. Shocking…but true.

    Suricate family standing in the early morning sun looking for po
    What’s this called?

    In fact, the first time I saw The Lion King I had no idea what Timon was. Embarrassingly enough, I thought he was a poorly executed rat, but then someone kindly explained to me that he was a meerkat. And at first, I thought they were saying he was just a cat, or simply a cat, but then they patiently explained that there is an entire species of animals called meerkats that are not related to cats…or rats, but to mongooses, which I was familiar with because of Rikki-Tikki-Tavi. So having that all cleared up, I still didn’t exactly appreciate meerkats because the cartoon version still resembled a rat that walked around on its hind legs (as cartoon mammals are prone to do regardless of how they get around in real life, e.g., Mickey, Minnie, Pluto, Bugs, and Remy from Ratatouille, to name but a few), and because the name still sounded to me like someone was trying to disparage my beloved cats, the way someone might dismiss another’s suitability, saying, “He’s a mere child…”

    Then I saw a nature show on PBS about meerkats and I realized that they are much cuter and much more charming in the flesh. Unfortunately, this program was about a family of these endearing little critters who were on a collision course with destiny, in the form of (1). a famine (gasp), (2). the debilitating effects of inbreeding (wait…what?), (3). lions (boo), and (4). jackals (hiss). I cried…and wondered how it was that people who make these nature documentaries can sit there filming while living creatures are being brutalized right in front of them…and now, with the advent of camera phones, it all begins to make sense…

    Getting Closer to the Point

    But I’m not here to talk about what an adorable little, upright, ground-dwelling animal is called. I’m here to talk about what a group of adorable little, upright, ground-dwelling animals is called.

    And that leads me to the real, actual purpose of today’s post. Do you ever wonder about the specific name for a certain animal group?

    Two common, slightly generic group designations are herd or flock, as in a herd of cattle, giraffes, zebras, antelopes, elephants, etc… or a flock of sheep, goats, ducks (birds, in general), camels, etc.  It’s also interesting to note that these words also refer to the action of gathering animals or people together (as in Corgis were bred to herd cattle) or to the action of animals or people moving together as a group (as in They flocked to the Apple Store to buy the latest iPhone).

    A few more common group designations are school, pride, and pod. Who hasn’t heard of a school of fish or a pride of lions? And the term pod can refer to groups of sea mammals, like seals, walruses, and whales, and even to sea-faring birds, like pelicans.

    But some group designations are slightly more obscure. Which brings me back to the aforementioned meerkats. A recent trip to the zoo revealed that a group of meerkats is called a mob. Who knew? Not to be mistaken for a flash mob, but rather a mere mob (so don’t go envisioning a planned spontaneous assemblage of meerkats getting down to Rachel Platten’s Stand by You. That would be cute…but it’s not going to happen).

    Some group designations are fun and alliterative like a gaggle of geese, the aforementioned mob of meerkats, or the aptly named pandemonium of parrots. And if you’ve ever seen a flock of wild parrots, then you know exactly what I mean! Other group designations conjure up pretty amazing mental images: an army of frogs, a flutter of butterflies, a gang of elks (“…if they say blades, I say blades. If they say guns, I say guns…”). Or how about this one that we may have learned from Sting’s All This Time, which memorably mentions a murder of crows, leading me to wonder, who comes up with these words?!

    Ah…words. Gotta love ’em…or at any rate, use ’em!

    Happy writing!

  • Declaration of Independence

    Or Why I Became an Indie Publisher

    Once upon a time, I used to think that the only pathway to becoming a “real author” was to secure an agent who would sell my book to a “real publisher.” This would inevitably result in a call from said agent reporting the sell, which would reduce me to a sobbing mess of happy, relieved, celebratory tears. That phone call never came, because finding an agent (for me, anyway) proved to be the enormous, impossible, clichéd catch-22 that everyone says it is. I once read a quote that likened the TV business to ‘a cruel, shallow money trench, a long plastic hallway where good men die like dogs.’* The quote resonated with me; I instantly pictured my books left to die along a long plastic hallway of shattered hopes and dreams. Was I bitter? Was I hopeless? Perhaps, just a tad, but like I said in an earlier post, writing is something you can’t stop. It was just a matter of figuring out a new, different, and better approach to authorship. Or, to quote from Jurassic Park, “Life will find a way.” So I watched and I waited. Then, finally one day, seemingly out of nowhere, while I was busy poring over one of those books with lists of agents and publishers (who are currently not open to submissions or who do not accept unsolicited manuscripts or whose name and contact info is followed by any of those unfriendly, unwelcoming, disheartening phrases), there was a publishing revolution—a bloodless revolution with no visible carnage—but a revolution nonetheless—that left writers empowered to take matters into their own capable hands and stop waiting for someone on the other end of the proverbial transom to decide their fate. The time had come to remove the carcasses of dead books, dead hopes, and dead dreams from those hallowed trenches and hallways. Writers could set their books free. Writers could set themselves free. It reminds me of a commercial I once saw… [youtube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pZDUbKNiMsU?rel=0&w=420&h=315] …Plus, indie publishers have to wear lots of hats and I’m a big fan of hats. Do you have a similar story that you would be willing to share?

    *The quote, in its entirety is: “The TV business is uglier than most things. It is normally perceived as some kind of cruel and shallow money trench through the heart of the journalism industry, a long plastic hallway where thieves and pimps run free and good men die like dogs, for no good reason.”[…]

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