Blog posts about the Rabbi Aviva Cohen Mysteries and their author Rabbi Ilene Schneider

WHY I MAY NOT GO TO THE PHILADELPHIA FLOWER SHOW THIS YEAR

February 22, 2012

In the past forty years, since I moved to the Philadelphia area, I only missed attending the Philadelphia Flower Show once. It was in 1978, and I had a good reason – Gary and I were living in Jerusalem for the year.

This year may be the second time.

It’s a major decision for me not to go. I even went once when a major blizzard was forecast. The snow had already begun when I caught the PATCO train from New Jersey to Philadelphia, was deep by the time I got home. The next day, the show was canceled for the remainder of the week. It was one of the best experiences I’ve had at the show – no crowds.

For the last several years, I have thought about not going. Every year, I go. Every year, I am disappointed.

It’s not that the show isn’t beautiful. It’s not that I’ve gotten tired of gardens (although my body has gotten tired of gardening). It’s not that I don’t come home inspired and broke from having bought too many plants I have nowhere to put.

It’s that I never look at one of the exhibits and think, “I could do that in my garden.” Every year, there are fewer and fewer native plants or replicable ideas. Instead, there are more and more exotics. Ireland, Paris, Italy, New Orleans, and, this year, Hawaii, have all been featured. None of those places have native plants that thrive in South Jersey, except in greenhouses or indoors with a lot of humidity and light. (Well, maybe Ireland is the exception.)

My philosophy of plant care, indoors or out, is best described as benign neglect. If it’s outdoors, I let Mom Nature take care of the watering (except the container plants); if it’s indoors, it gets watered weekly, whether or not it needs it. I believe that with enough time, a dead plant will come back to life, which is why my outside garden contains a lot of bare-branched bushes and my indoor plants includes pots of dirt. (Some of them actually do recover; the others eventually are replaced, with hardy outdoor native plants or with hardy indoor ones that thrive on being watered weekly. Or even weakly.)

I miss the former Flower Show venue in West Philadelphia. It was on a lower level, reached by a long, steep escalator. As you went down, the entrance to the Show would slowly appear. There was always a “wow” moment as the full panorama was revealed.

Now, you go up an escalator, down a long hallway, through a door, and . . . well, it’s impressive, but not “wow.”

Over the years, too, the vendors have stopped offering as many tools, seeds, plants, or cut flowers (there are still some, of course) in favor of items that only tangentially have to do with gardens – decks, outdoor furniture, water features – plus even more that have nothing to do with gardening – jewelry, mops, replacement windows, condiments. It doesn’t stop me from buying, but I liked it better when I struggled home on the train (or, at an earlier time when I lived in Philadelphia, the bus) under the weight of unwieldy spider plants, pussy willow cuttings, and bags of bulbs, rather than . . . I can’t remember what I’ve bought besides plants.

Another deciding factor was discovering the New Jersey Flower Show, in Edison, about 60 miles from Marlton. It took me under 90 minutes (including parking and walking from the remote spot) to get there on a Sunday with no traffic on the NJ Turnpike. The 12 miles to Philadelphia can take as long, especially as I usually miss the train and have to wait for the next one. Then I have to walk several blocks. Or, I could drive, get caught in the traffic heading to the show on the one-way narrow streets, then pay $20-$30 to park in an outdoor lot even further away than the train station.

The NJ show was crowded, but manageable; there was free parking; there were chairs to sit on when you got tired. There were not nearly as many exhibitors as in Philadelphia, but the ones there were “accessible.” There may not have been any “wow” factors, but I hadn’t expected any. I looked at the exhibits and thought, “Yeah, that could work.” Okay, not the waterfall or the tree house, but many of the plants and layouts. I even confirmed the identity of a bush in the front of the house (I never save the plant sticks with the names): a mahonia. (It’s hard to search on-line when you’ve no idea what you’re looking for.)

My biggest complaint is the vendors had even fewer plants for sale than in Philadelphia, and even more irrelevant items. But at the end of the show, many of the vendors were selling the plants from their exhibits.

I even had a nice chat with a master gardener from Rutgers, who confirmed what I had suspected: the only way to get rid of a groundhog is with a .22, although he didn’t recommend it as a method. Basically, he just shook his head and wished me luck.

So, will I go to the Philadelphia Flower Show again? Probably. But maybe not.

Category:

NATURE

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CLERICAL MYSTERIES: WHAT AND WHY?

February 9, 2012

And now for something completely (well, somewhat) different. I’ve given my space to author Donna Fletcher Crow. And she’s given her space to me. You can read my thoughts at: http://www.donnafletchercrow.com/articles.php?id=107.

Donna Fletcher Crow among the tombstones, Wales

Donna Fletcher Crow is the author of 38 books, mostly novels dealing with British history. The award-winning Glastonbury, an Arthurian grail search epic covering 15 centuries of English history, is her best-known work. Donna and her husband live in Boise, Idaho. They have 4 adult children and 11 grandchildren. She is an enthusiastic gardener.

Her newest release is A Darkly Hidden Truth, book 2 in her clerical mystery series The Monastery Murders. She also writes the Lord Danvers series of Victorian true-crime novels and the romantic suspense series The Elizabeth & Richard Mysteries. To read more about these books and to see book videos for A Darkly Hidden Truth and for A Very Private Grave, Monastery Murders 1, as well as pictures from Donna’s garden and research trips go to: www.DonnaFletcherCrow.com.

Clerical Mysteries: What and Why?

I’m so delighted to be doing a blog exchange today with Rabbi Ilene Schneider because we both write in the somewhat esoteric subgenre of Clerical Mysteries and I think it’s going to be great fun sharing our perspectives. So, when you finish reading this article, please come on over to “Deeds of Darkness; Deeds of Light” http://www.donnafletchercrow.com/articles.php  and see what Ilene has to say about her Rabbi Aviva Cohen mysteries.

When A Very Private Grave the first of my Monastery Murders was published in 2010 I found myself scrambling to explain just what a clerical mystery is, so I turned to my friends on GoodReads for help. One reader said, “I’d say all that’s required is that the church (or synagogue, monastery or convent) or clergy, rabbi, nuns, or monks should be prominent in the story.”

That seems like a good start, although I think the ecclesiastical setting needs to be more than just background. The religious element actually needs to form the thoughts and actions of the main characters. They need to be more than simply photographed against an interesting Gothic background. Or as the Clerical Detectives website puts it, “characters whose lives really were influenced by their faiths.” Julia Spencer-Fleming’s Clare Ferguson stories are an excellent example of this where everything Clare does and thinks is formed by the fact that she is a priest.

Another reader said, “It seems to me that all the mysteries I think of as [clerical] do more or less have a spiritual theme.” And here it seems that we are getting close to the heart of the matter. Until I begin trying to define more sharply and realize that all mysteries are about the clash of good versus evil and strive for the triumph of right over wrong— What P. D. James calls “bringing order out of chaos.”

Perhaps Phil Rickman, one of my all-time favorites, is wise when he refuses to label his Merrily Watkins books. He says, “I absolutely did not want to go there. Too cosy, too safe, and too… well, too religious, I suppose.”

And perhaps the fluidity of the subgenre is one of the things that appeals to me. I guess it comes down to the fact of novels in this category being as wide— and as endlessly engrossing— as the whole matter of faith itself.

Then, as to the “Why” of going there, that was a question that much perplexed my heroine, too. Felicity, a very modern young American woman, who found she hated teaching Latin and didn’t know what else to do with her classics degree, went off to study theology in a monastery in Yorkshire “in a fit of madness” as she says, and then wonders what she’s gotten herself into:

What was the right term to describe how she was living? Counter-cultural existence? Alternate lifestyle? She pondered for a moment,

A DARKLY HIDDEN TRUTH: Book 2 of the Monastery Murders

then smiled. Parallel universe. That was it. She was definitely living in a parallel universe. The rest of the world was out there, going about its everyday life, with no idea that this world existed alongside of it.

It was a wonderful, cozy, secretive feeling as she thought of bankers and shopkeepers rushing home after a busy day, mothers preparing dinner for hungry school children, farmers milking their cows— all over this little green island the workaday world hummed along to the pace of modern life. And here she was on a verdant hillside in Yorkshire living a life hardly anyone knew even existed. Harry Potter. It was a very Harry Potter experience.

Therein, I think, lies much of answer to why I write what I do: This is a world — parallel universe— I have become acquainted with through my own research of English history, my own spiritual journey, and my daughter’s decision to— yes— study theology in a remote monastery in Yorkshire after finding she really, really hated teaching school in London. (Well, literature follows life.) And I found myself wanting to share this world and some of the amazing adventures I had tromping over ancient holy sites.

Background is always one of the most important factors in a novel for me— perhaps even the most important factor— so my books have to be set in places I love to visit, both for the research and for living there mentally while I write. My Clerical mysteries The Monastery Murders give me the opportunity to do just that.

I realize, of course, that all that still doesn’t answer the question of why I am so drawn to this esoteric world I reflect in my Monastery Murders series. But I wonder how many of us can define the source of our passions? I always tell beginning writers, “Write from your passion.” The most fortunate people are those whose passion has found them. And I do believe that’s the way it works. Does anyone ever get up in the morning and say, “Today I’m going to decide on my passion?” Or when making out new year’s resolutions put “Find passion” on their list? Surely it’s more of a realization, sudden or gradual, that “This is what I love. Here is something worth spending my time on.”

At the end of the day, what could possibly be better than getting paid (at least a little bit) to do the thing I love doing most and still taking time out to drink tea, prune my roses and eat chocolate?

Category:

WRITING

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LAWFULLY JOINED IF NOT WEDDED

February 8, 2012

In honor of the overturning of the Defense of Marriage Act, I’m reposting this article from my previous website/blog.

Philadelphia Inquirer, March 8, 2004

Friends of mine, after several years living together, decided it was time to announce publicly their commitment to each other and to celebrate the permanence of their relationship. They met with a rabbi for premarital counseling. They set a date. They reserved a hall, hired a caterer, ordered flowers, mailed out invitations.

The ceremony was, as they always are, touching and sentimental and moving. It was an all-white wedding, with one of them in a formal gown and veil, and the other in a beautifully fitted suit. They stood under a chuppah, a canopy made from a large prayer shawl suspended on poles held by four of those closest to them. They shared wine from the same cup, exchanged rings and promises. The rabbi read from the Ketubah, the contract setting out their promises to each other. They broke the wineglass, and everyone shouted “Mazal Tov!”

It was a scene repeated thousands of times every week all over the world for millennia. But there was one major difference – both members of this couple were women. The ceremony did not take place on the steps of the San Francisco City Hall, or in Vermont, or in Massachusetts. It was right here in South Jersey just over two years ago. Today, they live just like their neighbors in their typical Marlton subdivision, mowing the lawn, paying their taxes, raising their baby girl, attending and volunteering at their synagogue. There was only one major difference between their commitment ceremony and a wedding between a man and a woman: their marriage is not registered or sanctioned by the state.

Religious leaders of various faiths and denominations have been conducting such ceremonies for years. The first one I can recall, between a woman I know and her partner, was held about 20 years ago. I am sure there were earlier ones as well.

For many of us, the religious ceremony takes precedence over the secular. In fact, except for applying for a marriage license and taking a blood test, there is no separate secular ceremony. It’s almost like getting a dog license: you show a medical affidavit (blood test for humans, rabies shots for dogs), fill out a form, pay a fee, get a signature (religious leader or judge for humans, clerk for dogs), and then put the certificate in a safe place in case you need it some day.

When my husband and I married, almost 28 years ago, we wrote our own Ketubah. It is that document which we had a calligrapher hand-copy and illustrate and which hangs on our living room wall. Our marriage license from Philadelphia, embossed with the Liberty Bell in honor of the Bicentennial year, is in our safe deposit box, along with our insurance policies and wills and passports.

It has been suggested that same-sex couples be registered after ceremonies called civil unions, while opposite-sex couples will continued to be registered after being married. In this way, say the proponents of the proposal, same-sex couples can receive the same civil guarantees – life insurance, inheritance, etc. – as married couples without using the word “marriage.”

I propose a different suggestion. Any two consenting adults, whether of the same or opposite sex, who wish to commit themselves to living their lives together, can be registered by the state as domestic partners. Marriage, which is considered a sacred bond, will remain within the boundaries of religion. In that way, those who wish to consecrate their love for each other can continue to do so, as they have for at least 20 years, by finding a religious leader whom they respect and who respects them; those that do not care about a religious ceremony can still receive the civil protections which are now given only to opposite-sex “legally married” couples.

As for that couple who got married in a Jewish ceremony 20 years ago, they are still together. How many opposite-sex couples who married that year can say the same?

Category:

Personal Reflection

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MY BATTLE WITH THE WHISTLING PIG

February 1, 2012

Ah, yes. February 2. Groundhog Day.

CHUCK

Oh, I can figure out why it’s in early February. Groundhogs or woodchucks or whistling pigs – there’s no cultural, geographic, or linguistic reason why different people call them by different names, at least none I could find – are “light” hibernators. If the winter weather warms up for a day or so, as happens during “normal” winters unlike this one, when the weather has been unusually warm all season, they’ll pop out of their burrows to have a snack. Judging by their summer eating habits, the snack will probably be one of my favorite plants rather than poison ivy or pokeweed or Jimsonweed or some other noxious, invasive weed. Before they return to their solitary burrows to go back to sleep, though, they’ll also engage in a bit of amatory reproductive activity. In that way, by the time the kits (or are they pups?) are born, it will be spring and food, aka my favorite plants, will be in abundance. Deer do the same thing, which is why they run amok trying to mate with cars during the early winter.

Here’s what I can’t figure out: If Punxsatawney Phil or another local celebrity groundhog sees his shadow, there will be six more weeks of winter. If it’s cloudy out, there will be an early spring.

Huh? Six weeks from February 2 is March 16, which is pretty early for the winter to be over. In fact, it’s a few days before the Spring Equinox, which is the astronomical spring but not the meteorological one. In this area, the frost-free date used to be May 15 – it’s now closer to May 1 – so anything before, let’s say, mid-April is already an early spring.

In other words, it doesn’t matter whether or not Phil sees his shadow.

CHUCK, CHUCKLES, AND CHUCKLET

Why my fascination with groundhogs/woodchucks/whistling pigs? I have an on-going battle with them. Or, rather, with it. There’s only one at a time in my yard – they’re solitary creatures, except during mating season, as they’re not into parthenogenesis – but I can’t tell if it’s the same one all the time or several different ones. The only time I could tell one was a female was when Mommy came with her two babies, Chuckles and Chucklet, to show them the free salad bar.

Why am I at war with it? It digs holes. Deep holes. The exit holes from its burrow aren’t too noticeable – just a nice, neat round hole, exactly the right size for me to put my foot into. This time of year, the holes are filled with leaves, making them effectively camouflaged. I don’t fill them with stones to block Chuck from using them, because it will just dig another one. At least I know where the current ones are. I still step in them, but I know where they are. The entrance holes, on the other hand, are surrounded by piles of excavated dirt and easy to see. I’m thinking of using the hillocks as raised flower beds. But the plants will undoubtedly get eaten.

That’s my other problem with Chuck. It eats my plants. I no longer grow veggies. It’s an exercise in futility. Containers aren’t the answer, as Chuck climbs the steps onto the deck, pulls itself into the container, and sits there munching away. Coneflowers are beheaded within hours of going into the ground, although to be fair, it may be the chipmunks eating them.

One year, at the Philadelphia Flower Show, I asked someone at the Rodale exhibit how to get rid of woodchucks. “You mean non-lethally?” he asked. He went on to say that if I could find a way, I’d become a millionaire. Even that incentive wasn’t enough to help me come up with a technique.

So I live with Chuck. I watch it emerge in the spring, sleek and hungry, and gradually become plumper, as my plants dwindle in number. By the end of summer, Chuck can barely waddle across the yard. But it has no problem digging holes.

Category:

NATURE

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BOOKS VS. READING

January 17, 2012

I have noticed the monthly circulation figures for my local library have been declining for the past eighteen months or so. I bought a Kindle around eighteen months ago. Coincidence? Hmm . . .

A lot of people tell me they won’t buy an e-reader. They love books – the feel of them, the heft of them, the smell of them, the whole gestalt of them. I love books, too, as the eleven floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in our study, one in each boy’s bedroom, two in the second floor hallway, three in our bedroom, and one in the family room, plus the books piled on the floor on the study, on the bed-side tables in the bedroom, under the boys’ beds, on (and under) the family room table, and in all three bathrooms will attest. But I recently realized something important: it’s not books I love. It’s reading.

I bought the Kindle a few weeks before we left on a two-week trip to LA and Wisconsin (you can read about it further down on this site). I have a pathological fear of being stuck in an airport, or, worse, on a plane, with nothing to read. Needing to pack for what we had expected to be two entirely different weather conditions, our suitcases were just under the weight limit. Even one book would have tipped it over. And putting the dozen or so books I’d have needed for a two-week trip into my carry-on was just not practical, unless I had started pumping iron six months earlier. The Kindle was the answer to a reader’s prayers. Light weight. Easy to put in my purse. Holds the virtual equivalent of tons of books.

My biggest problem with the Kindle is its ease of use. Or, rather, its ease of downloading books. I have to remind myself not to buy a book unless I would buy it in hard copy; if it’s a book I would normally borrow from the library, I should still borrow it from the library. I haven’t listened to myself.

I’ve always loved to read. Anything. Anywhere. Any time. I remember being thoroughly bored on some car trip or other with my parents when I was quite young. I had nothing to read. So I picked up the telephone book (remember those?) on the floor of the back seat of the car (I’ve no idea why it was there) and read it.

I never minded being sent to my room. To me, it wasn’t punishment, because it meant I could read. It’s not that I couldn’t have gone to my room and read without misbehaving first, but chances are I would have been watching TV or talking to my friends on the phone instead. I wonder sometimes if the need to read overcame my common sense when it came to doing things like talking back. I never told my mother the punishments didn’t work.

What is it about reading that I love so much? I could go into a whole psychoanalytic mode and talk about being a lonely only child and finding companionship in books, except I always seemed to understand that being alone did not equal being lonely.

There’s something about a book that transports me, not just into a world of imagination (cue song from “Willy Wonka” – the Gene Wilder version), but into other people’s lives. Call it curiosity, call it escapism, call it laziness. I call it heaven.

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3 Comments

  2. jennymilch said,

  3. January 18, 2012 at 6:59 pm  · Edit

  4. I agree that it’s about reading, it’s about story–but I have to say, I really love the smell, look, weight, and feel of a book :)  I also love the whole bookstore experience. For me they are a part of that heaven you describe. I’m glad for the many readers who find their joy with e readers as well, though. The more people reading, the better, right?

  7. Mary Ellen Jankosky Hill said,

  8. January 20, 2012 at 4:15 pm  · Edit

  9. Ilene, do you ever re-read the books you have at home?

    • Rabbi Ilene Schneider said,

    • January 20, 2012 at 9:09 pm  · Edit

    • Not too often, which is why I really should clear out some of the bookcases before the next “gently read” book sale at the library.

Category:

WRITING

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2012 NON-RESOLUTION RESOLUTIONS

January 1, 2012

The ubiquitous they always say we should not make resolutions, as it just sets us up for failure. I generally don’t follow most popular advice, but I do in this case. I don’t make resolutions.

Weight loss? Forty years of futility have taught me that it if I want to have a better BMI, it would be easier for me to grow taller. Exercise more? I suppose it’s possible, as there’s no way I could exercise less. De-clutter and reorganize the house? Only if I win the lottery and hire someone to do it, and the chances of my winning the lottery are the same as the chances I’ll become a professional singer.

But, for some unfathomable reason, I decided this year to come up with a list of 12 probably attainable resolutions. I’m sure there are a lot of others I could list, but you’ll note that “stop being so lazy” is not included. Neither is “stop procrastinating,” so I’ll add more at another time. If I feel like it.

  1. Update this blog weekly. Okay, monthly. Well, more often than every six months. I’m already off to a good start, as today’s Jan. 1.
  2. Work regularly on the third Rabbi Aviva Cohen mystery, Yom Killer. Then, when Unleavened Dead is published (from my mouth to God’s ears; kenahora;tu-tu-tu), the next book will be ready to go into production.
  3. Go birding more often. I’m already off to a good start on this resolution, too, as I spent the day at the Forsythe NWR (aka Brig). And I plan to take a detour to Corkscrew Swamp and Ding Darling NWR on Sanibel Island when I drive from my parents’ house in Boynton Beach to Orlando for Sleuthfest in February.
  4. Don’t buy any more books about birding until I read the ones I’ve already bought.
  5. Don’t buy any more Kindle books until I read all the ones on my to-be-read list.
  6. Don’t buy any more DVDs until I watch all the ones that are still shrink-wrapped.
  7. Don’t TiVo any shows or movies unless I am really going to watch them within the next six months.
  8. Place resolutions 4, 5, 6, and 7 into the unrealistic category.
  9. Watch season 2 of “Homeland” and “Game of Thrones.”  (Try and stop me!)
  10. Read Game of Thrones. All 5 volumes. Or 6 or 7 or how many are published by the time I get through the ones already in print.
  11. Get to Israel this year. It’s been too long. And try to go during the height of the bird migration.  I’ve already started googling “birding tours in Israel.”
  12. Stop obsessing about my ranking on Amazon. It’s meaningless. Except when it’s a high ranking.

Writing, birding, reading, traveling. Yup. I can do all of those.

Happy 2012. May all your resolutions be easy ones to fulfill.

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  1. sunnyfrazier said,

    January 4, 2012 at 1:07 pm  · Edit

    I loved #8. Good to know when goals are unrealistic. But, isn’t life all about breaking our resolutions to get to the fun stuff? And, there’s always a chance you’ll catch up on reading, watching DVD’s and clearing your TiVo. A remote chance, but who knows?

Category:

WRITING

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WHY I WRITE ABOUT NJ

September 5, 2011

Here’s a blog I wrote last September for Jerseywise Fiction.

Why do I set my mystery series (one book published*, one making the rounds** qualifies as a series, right?) in New Jersey? Well, for one thing, I live here. In fact, I’ve lived here for 30 years, after my first 21 years in Boston, followed by 9 years in Philadelphia and 2 years in Jerusalem. In other words, almost half my life has been in the Garden State, a place I denigrated as much as anyone else who knew of New Jersey as this dirty, crowded, crime-ridden, polluted hyphen plunked between New York and Philadelphia. Then I moved here and discovered how great it is to live in a place where I am within 40 minutes of five large malls (15 minutes from three of them – too bad I hate shopping in general and malls in particular); 15 minutes of fresh produce you can buy from the back of a farm truck; 60 minutes of the Shore; 30 minutes of Philadelphia; two hours of Manhattan; 90 minutes of Cape May; twenty minutes of several 24-hour diners; a few minutes of some of the cheapest gas prices in the country (and no self-service allowed);  and no minutes of terrific bird watching (I just look out the windows into my backyard).

Free associate the words “New Jersey.” What comes to mind? In no particular order:

The Sopranos

Real Housewives of NJ

Jersey Shore (the show, not the real thing)

Big hair

Garden State Parkway, where you do feel as though you are parked

Newark Airport

Newark

Camden

Trenton

Janet Evanovich (who lives in NH)

Bruce Springsteen

Asbury Park

Atlantic City casinos

The highest density population in the US

Taxes

Traffic jams

Malls

Discount stores

Jimmy Hoffa’s grave under the end zone in the Meadowlands

(Okay, I admit this last item is an urban myth, but it gained popularity because it’s so plausible.)

And what do I think of?

Pine Barrens

Best birding spots anywhere

Cape May

Cape May-Lewes Ferry

Delaware Bay Shore

Jewish chicken farmers

Sugar sand roads

Salt water taffy

A major bridge named for poet Walt Whitman (who is buried in Camden)

Wineries

Cranberries right from the bogs

Corn right from the fields

Pick-your-own blueberries

The pre-casino Atlantic City

And what is the major feature that defines each list? The first one describes North Jersey, while the second one describes South Jersey.

Ten years ago, on June 25, 2001 to be precise, a column I wrote about the differences between North and South Jersey was published in the Burlington County Times. If it’s possible to plagiarize from one’s self, I’ve just done so. But so much of what I wrote then still applies.

Poor New Jersey. It’s bad enough that we have the reputation of being a dweeb, that we’re the butt of jokes not just in this country, but internationally, that we have the ugliest Turnpike in the Boston-D.C. corridor, but we have a split personality, too.

Whenever someone asks me where I live, I explain that there are two New Jerseys-Philadelphia, NJ, and New York, NJ-and that I live in the former. I don’t want to be associated with the part of the state that has inspired such “quips” as “Dump the garbage in New Jersey. No one will notice the smell.”

Yes, they are two different states, with the dividing line somewhere around Trenton. Or maybe Princeton. Those two towns are in a sort of limbo state (so to speak). Forget about demographics. Forget about political affiliations. Forget about the cost of living and real estate values. The defining characteristic is sports. In Trenton and Princeton, some residents are fans of New York sports teams and some root for Philadelphia teams. As you go further north or south of the center section of the state, the team loyalties become more solidified.

Before I discovered how much easier it is to fly into Providence, RI, and rent a car to go to Boston, I used to drive the 500 miles myself. It was during those drives that I discovered just how unattractive the New Jersey Turnpike is, especially north of Exit 7. The road side is lined with factories, oil refineries, airports, megastores. New York City shimmers and wavers in the distance, the outlines of its buildings blurred by pollution. Yet after I would finally cross the George Washington Bridge and maneuver through the maze of highway connections into Connecticut, all I would see until I reached Boston were trees on both sides of the road. (Not that Connecticut is perfect – there were plenty of trees, but no rest stops. And every time I drove through that state, no matter what route I took, there was road construction.)

Several years ago, the weekend after I returned from a trip to Boston, I went to Cape May for the annual Spring Birding Weekend from the New Jersey State Audubon Society. There’s no Turnpike down there, but there is the Garden State Parkway. What a difference from the GSP in North Jersey, which I had taken on my way home from Boston. I much prefer looking at trees instead of concrete.

One exception is the Tappan Zee Bridge area, which I often took on the way back from Boston, mainly because I could never find the entrance ramp to the GW Bridge back into NJ. The view across the Hudson River is breath-taking. (Of course, it may just be that I was holding my breath while trying to dodge the huge semis and maniacal New York drivers.) And there are some areas of northwest New Jersey, in the mountains it shares with New York and Pennsylvania, as well as the corridor along the Delaware River from Washington Crossing north that rival South Jersey for rural calm and beautiful scenery.

I remember that years ago there was a movement to encourage South Jersey to secede from North Jersey. I don’t know what happened, but the idea seems to have lost momentum. It may be time to revive the concept.

Instead of drawing a line across the state to separate north from south, though, I would carve out a semicircle surrounding New York City. It’s that part of the state which gives New Jersey its negative image. With one swipe of a pen, we could get rid of the area which makes New Jersey the most densely populated state in the country. We wouldn’t have to take it personally when sitcoms make jokes about big hair mall rats and Mafia strongholds. We wouldn’t become defensive when people would say disdainfully, “You live in New Jersey – voluntarily?” We’d could proudly point to the gardens that give New Jersey its motto. We’d no longer have to explain that we come from Philadelphia, New Jersey, but could proudly say, “New Jersey.”

*CHANUKAH GUILT

**UNLEAVENED DEAD

Category:

NEW JERSEY

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SELF-PUBLISH OR PERISH?

March 23, 2011

Jeff Cohen, a fellow writer, who is not a top bestselling author but, in a fair world, would be (in a fair world, so would I!), posted on Facebook: “I’ve turned down a $500,000 offer to self-publish in favor of a contract with a traditional publisher.” My first reaction was, “Ah, one of his typical off-the-wall comments written in what someone (Jeff?) refers to as ‘the native language of New Jersey: sarcasm.’”

Then I read that Barry Eisler, who is often (always?) on the bestseller lists, refused a $500,000 contract with a traditional publisher in order to self-publish. My first reactions were, in no particular order, since they were simultaneous:

1. Is he off his gourd?
2. Can he transfer the contract to me?
3. What is he drinking/inhaling/injecting?
4. I hope he lives a long, healthy life. If anything
suspicious happens to him, his agent will be the
prime suspect.
5. Is he off his gourd?

According to the interview, he was discussing with his family what he should ask for in his next contract, and his eleven-year-old daughter said, “Daddy, why don’t you self publish?” He ran the math, and came to the conclusion, “Why not?”

His exact words in the interview were: “I know it’ll seem crazy to a lot of people, but based on what’s happening in the industry, and based on the kind of experience writers like you [J A Kornrath, author, blogger, and interviewer] are having in self-publishing, I think I can do better in the long term on my own.” (You can read the full interview at http://jakonrath.blogspot.com/2011/03/ebooks-and-self-publishing-dialog.html)

(In the interest of disclosing both sides of the issue, I should note that Amanda Hocking, an author who is a legend among self-published writers for her success, has been wooing traditional publishers, some of whom have reportedly offered her in excess of seven figures.)

As I shop around UNLEAVENED DEAD, and wait for a phone call or email offering me a three-figure contract, or maybe a free trip to a writers’ conference or at least a drink at the hotel bar, I wonder, “Hmm, maybe I should look into self-publishing my work.”

I have already decided that I don’t want to do e-publishing only. I have nothing against e-publishing. Both my published books are also on Kindle, and doing well there. But if I should release a book as an e-book, I would also self-publish it as a hard copy, mainly because my biggest fan base – my parents and their friends – generally don’t have e-readers, don’t want e-readers, and want me to inscribe their copy of my books. (Although my father-in-law, who doesn’t even use a computer, is thinking seriously about buying a Kindle after seeing mine.)

So I began to make a list, not so much of pros and cons, but of “on-the-one-hands” (hereafter known as OTOH) and “on-the-other-other-hands” (OTOOH). Here are my random thoughts:

OTOH, as a self-publisher, I wouldn’t have to share any profits with an agent.

OTOOH, I don’t have an agent.

OTOH, as the rules are right now, I could not apply to be a full member of the Mystery Writers of America.

OTOOH, CHANUKAH GUILT was published by a small, independent press (now sadly defunct) that was not approved by the MWA, so I can be only an affiliate member anyway.

OTOH, with a traditional publisher, I’d have a PR staff to market the book.

OTOOH, yeah, right.

OTOH, with a traditional publisher, even a small, independent press, defunct or not, I am able to boast with false pride, “I just got my royalty statement.”

OTOOH, it might be nice to earn more than a couple of dollars per quarter. (Or is it a couple of quarters per book?)

OTOH, UNLEAVENED DEAD would be published by now. (I know I finished writing it less than three months ago, but I’m the impatient type.)

OTOOH, I need someone to edit out my overly enthusiastic verbosity. Not to mention find the typos my parents may have missed.

OTOH, I cannot edit myself.

OTOOH, I hate when someone else edits me. (“You can’t cut that scene! I had too much fun writing it!” Ah, but will the reader have fun reading it? I can’t judge my own work.)

So, bottom line, there is no bottom line. I’ll give the traditional publishers and the mainstream agents a few more months before they reject the manuscript. Then I’ll revisit the issue.

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12 Comments

Larriane aka Larion Wills said,

March 23, 2011 at 7:56 pm · Edit

yep, I agree. lol

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Dad said,

March 23, 2011 at 9:06 pm · Edit

Try your mother. She does a pretty good job editing my memoirs. She doesn’t miss a misspelled word, wrong date or contradiction. And you don’t have to pay her. On the other hand, I would do it but you can be sure that I will not find a single error unless spell check flags it.

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Mike Pollock said,

March 23, 2011 at 9:48 pm · Edit

Have that publisher send me that offer. I self published my book From Death’s Door to Disney World Infinity Publishing. So far I am pleased with the publisher. I only had to invest a few hundred dollars. They are print on demand. I am having success in marketing and have two national publications doing revues. The royalty checks are nice but believe me I’m not turning down a reasonable offer. By the way Simon And Schuster asked me to send them a copy of the manuscript, kept me on hold for a year and never read it.

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Jenny Milchman said,

March 23, 2011 at 10:00 pm · Edit

1) This was very funny
2) The best post I’ve read on this subject, and it wasn’t the Barry/Joe hour/interview, was a very balanced piece saying that both self-pubbing and traditional, paying markets are viable options and it depends on the book, the time, and the writer’s goals
3) This was very funny
4) Good luck!

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CARL BROOKINS said,

March 23, 2011 at 10:08 pm · Edit

There’s nothing wrong with publishing in paper. In fact, modern technology makes it possible to get printed and bound softcover (trade paper) editions self-published often referred to as Print on Demand (POD) that are completely professional. And you can get them in really small amounts from responsible printers. The question however, is not publish or perish.

The real question is what is your purpose? Is this a career decision (As it is for Konrath and Eisler)
or is this a hobby? If you intend to make writing a career, you need to take a business-like approach to all the decisions you make. And, in the process, why not consider both epublishing and the traditional path? There are advantages and problems with both.

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Hallie Ephron said,

March 24, 2011 at 7:04 am · Edit

Oh, Ilene… I’m rooting for you to snag a great agent and then sell to a ‘real’ publisher and then, lord willing and the creek don’t rise, CASH ROYALTY CHECKS. Many of them. From my mouth to you-know-who’s ear, right? As someone who loves her publisher, adores her agent, and has the great good fortune to be well published, all I can think is those numbers Eisler cranked must be very compelling.

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Karyne Corum said,

March 24, 2011 at 11:44 am · Edit

I loved it. I think you gotta see whats truly going on in the publishing world before you say “I’d never…”. Self-publishing used to be called vanity press, I believe, because you’d have to be incredibly vain to think anyone would want to read your work. Now, I feel it’s more about recognizing, with some help with good critiques and editing, your own self-worth and talent, without the elusive socially acceptable label from Big Publishing.

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Lesley A. Diehl said,

March 24, 2011 at 12:50 pm · Edit

Hey, I walked down the hall past Barry last year at the Sleuthfest conference, so I think I have an in with him. Maybe with my great pull I could get him to transfer the contract to me and I’d share it with you. Of course, I would.

Such a funny article and so true.

Reply

Dory Stewart said,

March 24, 2011 at 3:53 pm · Edit

Ilene,
Nice to be able to mention ‘self pub’ without fear of review, LOL.

It’s a subject that needs to be addressed, especially in the wake of all the media hype surrounding it.

When you do decide to ‘re-visit’ the issue, here are some points you may wish to ponder:

Name recognition is the single most sales generator.
Patterson, King, and Roberts could dump their publishers, agents tomorrow and probably do quite well. (even when they produce an occassional ‘under par’ tome.

The person(s) they CAN’T dump are their copy ed, content/developmental eds. SOMEONE needs to be on board to ‘literally’ kick butt when it comes time to call an MS a ‘finished work’. Period. Folks I stated above are all to familiar with that fact.

Successful mid-list folks could probably make a few more bucks if their end product is of consistent quality. And they have a decent following.

Now, The NOVICE. . . ah, hmmm….well, you could take a stab at it….IF you have a large family, tons of friends – all with a lot of money….

Three key elements: EDITING, EDITING, EDITING

The down sides are: A contract with a traditonal pub makes you feel validated…and YOU WILL DO as the editor tells you, or don’t let the door hit you in the butt on your way out. If you’re difficult to get along with, news travels fast in the pub industry – about as fast as imprint change eds.

Going Self pub, you PAY and it isn’t cheap. How do you know if you’ve got someone who knows what the market will accept.
A good editor is a voracious reader and doesn’t pull punches when it comes to vetting your MS.

And you don’t have an ed hovering over your work; someone you feel you have to please.

There are no letters of rejection. For MY $$ those letters help hone a writer’s craft. It’s one of the tools that help writers to toughen up, and learn patience and humility.

It’s easy to self-pub a lesser quality MS…..Your name’s on it for perpetuity if it’s good OR bad….Either way, it will follow you.

Should you make a decision to self-pub the first thing to do is learn the different kinds of editors! Find a good one and trust them.
Wish you luck, and hope I’ve given you some thoughts to consider.

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Susan Oleksiw said,

March 24, 2011 at 4:27 pm · Edit

LOL, LOL, LOL
If we all self-publish, what will happen to the New York Times best seller list?

Reply

Marja McGraw said,

March 24, 2011 at 5:50 pm · Edit

You got my attention by starting off with Jeff Cohen’s name. I thoroughly enjoy his books. And you kept my attention with your humor. OTOH, you made some good points. , you made more good points. Wonderful article!

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Stephen Brayton said,

March 24, 2011 at 9:42 pm · Edit

I remembe the words of Jeffrey Deaver at the last conference i attended. This is a business. You create a product. You have to create a prodcut people want. if you’re writing for yourself, write a journal, publish a self promoting blog. If your’e writing for others, you have to give them what they want. Businesses are in the business of making a profit. If you don’t make a profit, you go out of business. Think about what you want, what you’re giving, and it still comes down to what is best for you.

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HOW RABBI AVIVA COHEN MET SAMMY GREENE

March 1, 2011

Last year, my fellow writers (and friends) Deborah Shlian and Linda Reid asked me to be a guest blogger on their Sammy Greene site. Sammy is the protagonist of two of their mystery novels, DEAD AIR and DEVIL WIND. I decided to write a short piece describing how Deborah’s and Linda’s ficticious character and mine could have met. Here’s the answer:

Back story (from Chanukah Guilt): “Actually I’m a throwback to some great-great whatever; I met a second cousin at my father’s funeral fifteen years ago (author’s note: 1987), and we could have been twins.”

March 1, 2011

I picked up the phone, and heard Trudy’s voice. As usual, my niece didn’t bother to say “Hello,” but launched right into her part of the conversation. “Josh has gotten into genealogy.”

“That’s better than his last obsession. I was afraid he had moved on to Europe.” I said. My eleven-year-old great nephew has Asperger’s Syndrome and latches onto obscure interests which he fanatically shares with everyone, whether or not they’re interested. His previous hobby was memorizing the subway routes in every major city of the U.S., in case he ever visited there. I really did not care about the easiest way to get from Nob Hill to Berkeley, and was afraid I would now be subjected to a lecture on the various routes from the Eiffel Tower to the Tuileries. “At least genealogy is more socially acceptable than subway routes.”

“True. Anyway, he found out something interesting. Did you know we had a great-aunt Rose? Well, my great-great aunt, I guess, and Josh’s three times great. Her husband was Great-grandpa – your  Grandpa David’s – brother. Did he ever mention him to you?”

“The name’s familiar . . . . Let me think a minute . . . . I remember now: he once told me that when he came to the U.S. as a young man – have Josh check, but I think it was around 1919 – his parents stayed in Poland with the younger children. He told me he was the oldest and the youngest was a lot younger. There were a lot of kids in between. He felt guilty that he was able to come here before the immigration quotas stranded the rest of his family. He thought they all died in the Holocaust. But the name Aunt Rose . . . Got it! You must remember , too. It was during the shivah for Dad, Granddad to you . . .

April, 1987

It was the third day of shivah, and the house was packed. Old lefties, union organizers, new lefties turned yuppies, feminists still proud of the label, customers, neighbors, relatives . . . everyone turned out to console my Mom Ruth on the death of her husband Simon after fifty-seven years of marriage. My sister Jean and I needed consoling, too, Jean more than I did. But then she always did think I had no family loyalty, especially after I moved to the Philadelphia area and her daughter Trudy, only five years younger than I am, followed shortly thereafter.

I was looking through the cornucopia of goodies people had brought, searching for something – anything – with chocolate when I felt a draft from the open front door. I looked up and saw two unfamiliar faces, an older woman in a drab overcoat and sensible shoes holding the hand of a young girl with curly red hair. The woman had the kind of careworn face that could have belonged to anyone from age forty to eighty, although I suspected she was on the upper end of that age range. The girl, cute, eyes bright with curiosity, looking around her absorbing everything in the room, could have been a tall eight-year-old or a short prepubescent who hadn’t yet hit her hormone-fueled growth spurt.

I couldn’t help staring at the girl. I felt as though I was looking in a mirror from twenty-five years ago.

I sidled over to where my mother was arguing nuclear disarmament with a neighbor who was probably the only Republican in the neighborhood. My mother’s mission in life, among her many other purposes, was to convert him. She didn’t care that he wasn’t Jewish, but she cared deeply that he was a Reagan supporter.

“Mom, I need to ask you something.” I smiled at our neighbor who was relieved to be saved from my mother’s ravings about the perfidy of a man who had the chutzpah to go from being the president of the Screen Actors Guild – “a union, in case you don’t know” – to a dyed-in-the-wool conservative.

I scanned the room and spotted the two strangers. “Who is that older woman?”

My mother gave me a scathing look. “She’s not that old.” She peered myopically – at seventy-three, she still refused to wear glasses except for reading – and squealed. “That must be Aunt Rose. Oh, my, is that little Sammy with her? Oy, Gottenu, such a tragedy there. Thank God, you never suffered what she did.” (For an avowed atheist, my mother invokes the name of the deity a lot.)

“What do you mean?”

“The poor child. Her father ran off to LA with some kurvah.” For someone born in the US, my mother has an inordinate love of Yiddish. A kurvah is a whore, especially one who would run off with another woman’s husband. “And then the poor little girl – she couldn’t have been more than seven at the time – came home from school and found her mother dead. A suicide. The father didn’t want her, there were no other relatives, so her grandmother is raising her.”

“Why have I never heard about them? How are they related? Or did you call her ‘aunt’ out of respect, like Aunt Bella two doors down?”

“Rose’s husband was Grandpa David’s brother. He thought they were all killed in the Holocaust.  After the war, Grandpa started searching through the Red Cross and HIAS, but couldn’t find any trace of the family. Then he found out that his youngest brother Yossi and his wife had managed to leave Poland in 1939, just in time. They settled in Brooklyn. Grandpa David got in touch with him, but for some reason they weren’t really interested in keeping in touch. We tried, but Yossi – I think he was using the name Joseph by then – didn’t even remember Grandpa David, there was such an age difference between them. Even more than between you and your sister. And after Yossi died, his wife Rose sent out Rosh Hashanah cards and sent us sporadic news when something noteworthy happened, but that was all.”

“Put on your glasses, Mom, and take a good look at the girl.”

“I can see just fine, thank you very much.” She pulled down her glasses from the top of her head and put them on anyway. “Oh! She’s the spitting image of you at that age!”

“Weird, isn’t it? We must be the only two red-heads in the family. I’m going over to talk to her.”

Our two new visitors had moved deeper into the room, and Aunt Rose was looking around, probably for a familiar face. Before I got to them, though, my sister Jean waylaid me.

“Spring!” I hate my given name, and used my Hebrew one, Aviva, instead. If I had been born in the Sixties, I’d have the excuse that my parents were hippies, but I missed out on the Summer of Love by over fifteen years. The only reason for my name is that my mother is nuts.

“It’s Aviva, remember?”

“Get over here, Spring. I need to talk to you.” My sister pulled me to a corner of the room. “See that woman there?” She lifted her chin toward the general area where Aunt Rose had last been standing. “Look at the girl with her. Have you something to tell me?”

I must have looked perplexed because Jean became even more belligerent. “Don’t give me that innocent look. That girl looks just like you. Did you have a child out of wedlock and give it up for adoption?”

I wasn’t sure whether to be outraged or amused, so I went with the latter and burst out laughing. “Oh, Jean, come on. You’d love that, wouldn’t you? A nice, juicy scandal to add to your list of grievances against me, beginning with my birth fifteen years after you, when Mom and Dad shouldn’t have been shtupping.”

“Show some respect,” Jean actually hissed. “It’s our father’s shivah!”

“And he would have been the first to laugh. No, the second, after Mom.” I stopped laughing long enough to tell Jean what our mother had related to me. “I was just going over there to introduce myself.”

“No, I’ll do it. I’m the oldest.” Jean might be fifty years old, but adolescent sibling rivalry is still her favorite mode of dealing with me.

Still chuckling, I let Jean go make the introduction, while I searched out my niece Trudy. She was with a rather no-nonsense looking woman, wearing chinos and short, almost mannish hair, and with warm, brown eyes that radiated kindness. “Aunt Aviva, I want you to meet my friend, Sherry Finkel.” One look at Trudy’s face told me that Sherry was more than a “friend.” I shook her hand and almost welcomed her to the family, but I had learned a long time ago not to invest too much meaning in Trudy’s “friends.” My niece was, to put it mildly, fickle in her romantic choices. Not that I could talk – I was on husband number two, who was probably propping up the wet bar in the basement rec room. He wasn’t usually a drinker, but family gatherings – my family, in any case – sent him right to the nearest liquor bottle.

“Come, walk with me. I’m about to meet a new relative. Sherry, you come, too. I’m dying to see my sister’s face when Trudy introduces you. I’m guessing you haven’t met her mother yet. By the way, my mother – Trudy’s grandmother – will love you on sight.”

As we made our way across the room, I recited Aunt Rose’s story for a second time. We were in sight of the small group when Trudy exclaimed, “That girl looks just like you did at that age, Aviva.”

“Here are my daughter and sister,” Jean said to Rose as we got to them. “You still need to meet my son Larry. He’s probably downstairs.”

We kissed cheeks, and I excused myself as I took Sammy aside. “There’s something I want you to see. Let’s go downstairs.”

As I suspected, my husband Keith and nephew Larry had plunked themselves down in a couple of recliners, beers in hand, watching some sport or other on TV. I waved when they looked up, and took Sammy over to the couch. On the wall behind the couch were an array of family pictures, including a grouping, in chronological order, of all my school pictures from kindergarten through high school. “Take a good look, Sammy. Do you notice anything?”

“We look alike! Wait, I’ll be right back!”

True to her word, she was back in a minute or two. “Look!” She handed me a school picture. “Bubbe always carries my latest school picture with her.” She counted the pictures on the wall. “This must be you in seventh grade, right?”

I nodded and looked at the picture she’d handed me. The clothes had changed – she was wearing a v-necked t-shirt decorated with sequins; I was wearing a button-down white blouse with a Peter Pan color – and her hair was curlier and redder than mine, but we definitely looked like twins.

“I wonder if Bubbe can handle the stairs?”

I stood on the couch and took the picture off the wall. “No need. We’ll bring the mountain to Mohammed.” At her puzzled look, I explained the allusion.

Aunt Rose’s eyes lit up as she compared the two pictures. “Oy, Samele, and you thought you were alone except for me. See, I told you we have family, and a history.” She turned to me. “Do you know where the red hair and green eyes come from?”

“No, I often wondered. When I was little, I used to say, ‘From the milkman,’ and never understood why everyone laughed.”

“Your father’s father and my husband were brothers. Their father, Shimon – your father Sy was named for him, and so was Sammy – had bright red hair. I think some of his children did, too, but not your father or his uncle. But it showed up in you, and in Sammy here. See, Sammy, you do belong.”

March 1, 2011

“For several years, I kept in touch with Sammy, first as a pen pal, then through e-mail. We still write sporadically. I think she’s in LA now, or maybe San Francisco. Somewhere in California, anyway, working as a journalist. I’m going to check Facebook; I’m sure she’s on there, too.”

“I remember the incident, now. I had completely forgotten. My most vivid memory of the shivah was Mom’s reaction to Sherry. How many years did it take her – seventeen, eighteen? – to finally accept that we were a couple and not roommates? But now I’ll have an even better memory – the name Shimon was given to Zayde Simon and now to my daughter Simone. Make sure when you talk to Sammy, you let her know that she really does have a family.”

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SOURCES OF INSPIRATION

August 26, 2010

Originally posted by me on Patricia Stoltey’s blog in August, 2001.

Every author who has ever appeared in public for a reading or a signing has been asked the inevitable “Where do you get your ideas?” question.
Mine come from two main sources: the news (“Gee, that’s interesting. I wonder what would happen if . . . “); and the shower (“How am I ever going to get Aviva out of this corner I wrote her into? Oh, I know . . . “).
I can now add a third: sleep.
Many years ago, I took a graduate course on creativity (mainly because I figured it would be an easy A; I got an A, but it wasn’t easy). I had long known my creative impulses come from my unconscious or, perhaps, subconscious mind. I don’t outline. I don’t write numerous drafts, tear them up, and start over. I come up with an idea and then let it simmer for a while. By the time I sit down to write (in grad school, on a portable Selectric typewriter – yes, I remember when it was state of the art – now on whatever computer isn’t being used by my younger son to create movie videos to upload to YouTube), the words flow. Okay, they sometimes sputter, but I just type anyway, seemingly without any conscious thought. The creativity course confirmed what I had already known about my writing process.
It used to drive my undergrad math major friends crazy that I could sit at my typewriter (a manual at that time) the night before a paper was due with no outline, just a pile of books with slips of paper, and a pad of yellow legal paper with cryptic notes (some of which I couldn’t decipher) in front of me. I would then proceed to knock out the paper within a couple of hours, pass in the first draft, and get an A. But I had probably been thinking about my topic since the professor gave us the assignment, done all the reading, and made all those enigmatic notes. By the time I sat down at the typewriter, the entire paper existed in my mind. I just had to get it out of there through my fingers on the keyboard and onto the paper.
Yes, I still write that way. And, yes, I’ve written this blog entry that way.
So, back to how I have been inspired while asleep.
The other night, at about 2:00 AM, I woke up with a sentence in my head. Just one sentence. And a fairly nonsensical one, too. I’ve no idea where it came from. And I had no idea where it would lead.
For the next few hours, I tossed and turned while “what if’s” and “how about’s” filled in the blanks. By the time I fell asleep, the alarm was about to go off. I felt fairly useless at work all day, but I had a complete short story in my head.
Of course, it’s not as simple as I tell it. I plunked myself down in front of the laptop that afternoon and began typing. Fortunately, I remembered the first line. And the second. Then the rest of the story followed. Well, about half of it did anyway. At some point, I got bored, re-read what I had written, realized it wasn’t hopelessly bad, but it did need a lot of tweaking. Okay, it needed some heavy duty editing and rewriting. But at least it hadn’t gone the way of most sleep-inspired ideas, into the ether never to be retrieved again.
I haven’t looked at the story now for about a week. It needs time in the slow cooker, aka, my brain. But when I do get back to it, I know the words will be there.

 

UPDATE: Yes, I did get back to the story. Yes, the words – some of them anyway – were there. Yes, I finished the story. I even submitted it to a couple of short story competitions. It didn’t win, but the comments were encouraging. If it doesn’t win a contest or get published, I will probably post it here.

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