My Little Crooked House

It all began last September with the simple wiggle of a fence picket.  Snap! 

“Oops,” my next door neighbor offered with an unrepentant smile.  “I guess we have to tear the fence down now.  Darn.”

We had hated the warped and twisted gray fence that encircled our backyard ever since we had moved into our house three years earlier.  Every time we went outside the conversation would always turn to our ugly fence and what we could do to fix it.  Over these discussions of what could be, what might be, what would be nice and what we could afford, we built a lifelong friendship with our neighbors.  The fence became our joke and our gathering place for chit chat.  We leaned against it to talk about our children, our families, our work and our plans for the day.  So, that September day when the first picket was ruthlessly ripped off, (Just kidding Dave) we took great joy in tearing down the fence.  Only, when it came time to remove the last post, there was a distinct air of sadness that filled the backyard.  Nobody was ready to say goodbye to that last post, the most crooked and warped post of the entire fence.  After all, it had been the post that brought us together as friends. 

It’s my belief that all places of happiness in life can only be reached by crooked paths.  We weave through dark forests, bright meadows and narrowly avoid the occasional pit of quick sand to finally reach our goals.  And I think the same adage can be said of friendship.  Deeper bonds are forged in hardship and over twisted, gnarled wood, than over perfect fences with perfect landscaping.  So, we left the crooked post standing as a reminder of the crooked paths that have led us to this happy place of friendship. 

As I was walking past the crooked post this week watering my flowers, I couldn’t help but feel thankful.  I’m thankful for the past, for how far my backyard makeover and how far my life has come over the last year.  The forty-one bushes we planted are beginning to grow.  The bulbs we planted are beginning to sprout.  And the grass seed…well, it still just looks like dirt, but that gives us something else to discuss in the backyard this spring. 

 Celebrate your imperfect and beautiful crooked path today.  You never know where an ugly fence could lead you.  Do you have something crooked and ugly in your backyard?

There was a crooked man and he walked a crooked mile,
He found a crooked sixpence upon a crooked stile.
He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse.
And they all lived together in a little crooked house.

Happy Spring Everyone!

Cead Mile Failte!

Since yesterday was St. Patrick’s Day (Happy belated St. Patrick's Day to ye!), I feel like rambling about the Irish hero in my first novel and about the Irish in general.

It’s said that the Irish have a uniquely self deprecating and dark sense of humor.  This is true.  There’s a thread of sadness that runs through their well known love of “the craic” (pronounced “crack”).  My hero, Cian, is no exception.  If you ask someone from Ireland why they’re so known for their humor, most of them will tell you it has to do with Irish history.  Years and years of oppression followed by more years and years of economic and political strife created a people that laugh in order to simply remain sane.  One man simplified it for me: “It’s either laugh or pop yourself, so ‘tis better to laugh, yeah?”

I have to agree.  You’ll be hard pressed to meet anyone more demonstrative, talkative, and humorous than the Irish, but it’s not all “Top of the mornin’ to ya!”  As a matter of fact, the Irish don’t use that phrase at all.  They’ll get a “right laugh” off you if you assume they do. They also don’t worry about wearing green on March 17^th, lest they get pinched.  My husband’s family looked at me like I was a “feckin’ eejit” when I asked them that. 

Cian might say, “Ah, jaysus no.  Whoever heard of such carrying on?  The cheek of it!  You’ll get a dig into the face you try it 'round here.  And that’d be from the women!”

The Irish also have this wonderful way of throwing in extra words when they speak.  It not only draws out what they’re saying (so the Irish are literally using more words, but saying the same thing as we cut & dry Yanks) it also makes conversations lilt along like a pub song.  They’re little, throw away words, but they make me smile when I hear them in use:

 Sure. So. Now.

“You won’t. Sure, you can’t.”  “I told you I’d be home, sure.”  “Sure, you know how she’s always carrying on.”

“It’s whatever you want, so.” “It’s like that, so?”  “You know yourself, so.”

“Ah, now.”  “Don’t be like that, now.”  “C’mere to me now.” 

“Now, now. Sure you can’t be doing that, so.”

I keep the dialect toned down a bit in my dialogue, but even using a few Irish-isms makes Cian a joy to write.  Most Irish have the gift of the gab anyway and they sound so lovely gabbing!  I smile to myself, even as I write Cian, because the man knows he shouldn’t chat up the heroine.  He knows he ought to remain distant and cool, but he can’t!  Asking an Irishman NOT to talk or make someone laugh, not to charm or inadvertently flirt with a lady, is like asking a snake to use its strong arm. 

“Yeah, sure.  Good luck with that so!”

The Tartan

Here’s to it!

The fighting sheen of it.

The yellow, the green of it.

The white, the blue of it.

The swing, the hue of it.

The dark, the red of it.

Every thread of it!

The fair have sighed for it.

The brave have died for it.

Foemen sought for it.

Honour the name of it.

Drink to the fame of it.

The Tartan.

-Unknown

This poem hangs on the wall of a restaurant where I love to go to in the mountains of North Carolina.  Every time I eat there I think that I will someday use it at the beginning of a book about some handsome highlander that lived long ago.  However, I seem to only be dreaming in Regency England at the moment, so I thought I would share it.  I can remember eating at The Tartan Restaurant as a little girl with my family.  I come from a family that has always been very proud of its Scottish roots, so a themed restaurant at the foot of Grandfather Mountain was the logical choice when we attended the Highland Games.  It’s also not uncommon to wake up to bag pipe music at 7:30 am on Saturday mornings at my parent’s house, but that is another blog for another day.  In recent years Mr. Alpha Male and I have become regulars there mostly due to his love of country ham, my daily need for coffee and the fact that it is the only restaurant within five minutes drive of the house.  And it is the perfect place for one of my favorite pastimes, people watching.

The Tartan is one of those places where only the locals eat and most of them have blue hair.  The walls are dripping in Scottish folklore and there is plaid covering every surface lying in wait for the annual Highland Games.  Yet, filling the tables inside the restaurant on the other fifty one weekends of the year are all the simple mountain folks that stopped in for a sandwich or a cup of coffee.  Friends are hailed from across the room as neighbors and acquaintances pause to say hello.  It makes an interesting mix of foreign and local that I find irresistible.  Keep your swanky bistros and your elegant fine dining establishments, I just want to people watch from my booth at The Tartan.

“I brought you some extra country ham.  Didn’t think that servin’ they gave you in the kitchen looked like enough for ya,” Diane offered as she slid another small plate onto our table.  Mr. Alpha Male thanked her as I continued to munch on my French toast. 

“How’s that baby o’ yers?”

“Well, ya know, my chickens roost in that tree in the yard every night.”

“Is that a new shirt ya got there?”

“I hadn’t seen ya round church lately.”

Pieces of conversation swirl around me inspiring questions of who these people are and where they are going when they leave here.  What dramas have they had in their lives?  Have they loved?  Have they lost? Everyone has a back story and ultimately an impending doom, so why not weave them into fiction as I sip my coffee?  Could I ask for better inspiration than the mountain folks found in The Tartan?  I don’t think so. 

What is your favorite place to people watch?

Talking Heads

Head hopping!  It drives me crazy! It is my biggest writing and reading pet peeve.

This is not to say I’ve never been guilty of a writing sin.  I’m no grammar diva, word czar, or comma queen.  I screw up plenty.  When I wrote my first short story, even I committed the egregious error of head hopping.  However, once I learned the err of my head hopping ways; it now stands out to me like plaid on paisley.

There was much discussion lately on our Carolina Romance Writers’ yahoo loop about the practice of head hopping and if it’s ever okay.  Some had heard it’s more forgivable in today’s books and even becoming in vogue.  Others have heard it’s less forgivable.  Personally, in vogue or not, I cannot stand it.  It makes me want to bang my head against the wall/desk/palm of my hand.  I have been known to launch a book across the room in frustration (unless it’s on my Kindle of course).  I am not so passionately opposed because I’m a head hopping snob.  Quite simply, it confuses the heck out of me!

I recently ordered a book (that shall remain nameless) in which the author head hopped constantly.
Hey, at least she was consistent with her inconsistent POV.  In one scene we had three men.  We dipped into all three men’s point of view within that one scene.  When “he” thought the other “he” was suspicious looking and probably a shoe-in for the crime, I had no idea who “he” was or which “he” was probably the baddy.  The entire scene was lost on me because the head hopping negated any insight.

That’s an extreme example.  Less extreme would be an example brought up on our loop.  We are reading the heroine’s POV.  She refers (in her head) to her “beautiful, flashing blue eyes.”  Uhm … no.  Please don’t do this.  I don’t care how much you love your eyeballs; you are not going to be thinking about your flashing blue eyes locking on to Mr. Hottie’s deep brown ones.  You are going to be all about his gorgeous peepers and the soon to follow smooching.

Another example is, when in the hero’s POV, he “crossed his arms over his impressively broad and sexy chest.”  Either dude is one seriously big narcissist or … yeah, he’s pretty much just a narcissist.  The heroine would think that though.  In her POV, he’d talk to her and SHE would notice his sexy chest.  She probably wouldn’t notice her own. You see where I’m going with this?

One trick I’ve used when I’m in a particular character’s deep POV and I want her/him to comment on how they sound, look, etc., I might say something like:  “She knew how she must look. Like a (fill in the blank here).”

Something like that might work if your POV character just has to comment.

What about you?  Where do you stand on head hopping? What are your reader and writer pet peeves and sins?  Which ones have you committed?

                  (credit: Talking Heads. Oh c'mon I had to!  Psycho Killer ... qu'est ce que c'est?)