NaNoWriMo Interrupted

Photo by Mona Eendra on Unsplash

Happy Thanksgiving to all my friends! 

Today I am furiously trying to write a few thousand words of my next novel while my darling husband is baking pumpkin pie. Why? Because this is National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). The month when about a half-a-million people try to write 50,000 words of a novel in 30 days. (1,667 words per day if the writer is disciplined, which I'm not.)

If you've wondered why I haven't updated my blog in awhile—well, this is why. In October, I diligently plotted out the entire story, a sequel to Guardians of Grace, with intersecting plot lines and character arcs for four main characters. I even drafted a 'hook': At the age of fifteen, Grace saved the world by killing a demon. Now, fifteen years later, she has to save the world again—this time from itself.

Photo by Amador Loureiro on Unsplash

I should have known better. 2020 is the year the world went to hell, after all. I don't know about you, but my bingo card isn't big enough for all the crazy. Between the election drama and Covid in the family, I'll be lucky to have my 50,000 words by the end of December, let alone November. But who knows what fresh hell 2020 has in store, huh?

I'm not going to sweat it today. Instead, I'm going to think about how blessed I am to have such a wonderful husband, two adorable dogs, and great friends. I'm thankful that my Dad got Covid after doctors figured out how to better deal with it. I'm thankful my brother is still laughing. I'm thankful for FaceTime and Zoom. 

I'll write a scene, play with the dogs, peel some potatoes, call a friend, eat too much (even though it's just two of us), sip some whiskey, watch Christmas Chronicles II on Netflix, and knit a few rows. And that, my friends, is a day to be thankful for.

Love you all!

Nancy

Tangled Skeins

 I owe my newfound interest in writing fiction to the 2016 election. I was stunned, depressed, furious—and spurred to activism from that day on. After countless calls and letters to State and Federal elected officials, attendance at town halls, and participation in various protests and marches, isn’t the next step to write a book?

I drafted, but never finished, a novel called Her Yarn Is Organized, about three friends, comfortably middle-aged, and the different paths each take in response to the election. Julie breaks out of her introverted shell to embrace activist organizing; Maeve resists involvement, but ends up finding love; and Lyndsay (not in this scene) runs for state senator. The following excerpt from the book captures the evening that triggers it all.

Excerpt from Her Yarn Is Organized

Maeve was out the door before Julie even came to a complete stop. Tonight was the monthly meeting of the Knitwits and it was Julie’s turn to drive. Maeve opened the passenger door and tossed in her overflowing knitting basket and then stiffly lowered herself into the passenger seat of Julie’s orange SUV. She was still dressed in her work clothes—dark tights, a navy wool pencil skirt and a fuchsia-pink boiled-wool blazer with matching pink turtleneck sweater underneath. She sported an “I Voted” sticker on the blazer’s lapel. The only other accessories were her favorite owl-shaped Cloisonné earrings dangling from her earlobes.

“You look nice,” Julie said, wearing her usual black jeans topped by a handknit raglan sweater and a fleece jacket. She also wore the “I Voted” sticker. “But then you always do. How’s your ankle? You’re moving a bit stiff there.”

Julie put the car in reverse and backed down the long narrow plant-lined driveway, blessing whoever invented backup cameras.

“We had a special event yesterday at the university for the international students,” Maeve responded, “and I swear I was on my feet for eight straight hours. I didn’t get home until 10:00 last night. So I’m a little achy. When I get home tonight, it’s the warm castor oil and flannel poultice treatment for me. I don’t know why you won’t try that for your knees. It may be an old home remedy, but it really works.”

“I know, I know. I’m just perfectly fine with the muscle rub and ibuprofen.” Julie shrugged and changed the subject. “So how are you feeling about tonight? I’m a little nervous, to tell you the truth. I was reading Nate Silver’s Five-Thirty-Eight blog this morning and he dropped Lockhart’s chances to something like 70%. Kinda late for a wake up call, but I got the message—it’s not a sure thing.”

This month the Knitwits gathering fell on election night. The members briefly considered rescheduling it, since Elaine was an election judge and wouldn’t be able to join them, but then decided it would be fun to be able to celebrate together when the first woman President of the United States was elected.

Maeve thought for a moment before replying. “All the other predictions have her at better than 90%. I just cannot believe Temple can win. Surely, surely more voters will see through the rhetoric and reject him for decency’s sake if anything.”

“Then it comes down to voter turnout,” Julie remarked. “And what the undecided people do. If they don't vote or they vote third party because they don't like either candidate, then we could be in big trouble.”

They both lapsed into silence. Julie concentrated on the road, since this was hunting season and the deer were riled up and liable to leap out of the roadside vegetation and onto the highway.

Maeve broke the silence first, changing the subject to change the mood. “Owen did the cutest thing this morning when we were FaceTiming.”

“What was that?”

“Nicole positioned her iPhone so I could also see Oliver while I was talking to Owen. Anyway, Owen didn’t like that. So he deliberately moved the phone to where I could only see him. Just reached out with one finger and nudged it, plain as day.”

“Cute. Doesn’t want to share his grandma with the new kid, huh?”

“Nope. Guess it wasn’t part of the deal when Oliver was born. I have to say, I really struggled not to laugh. But I didn’t rat him out to Nicole, who wasn’t paying attention.”

“So the question is if he’ll share you with the baby when you go out there at Christmas.”

“I’ll manage. I love that boy to death and I just don’t feel the connection with Oliver yet. I probably won’t until I hold him in my arms. I remember it was love at first sight with Owen. But Nicole and Brad were in Chicago and it was so easy to go there on weekends.”

“Yeah. How dare they move to San Francisco to pursue their dreams!”

“Not funny. You’re an Air Force brat. You wouldn’t understand.”

Julie just laughed. “Here we are. Looks like somebody’s here already.”

They pulled into Claire’s driveway, where a car was already parked. They could see Katy and Shelly through the front window as they walked up the sidewalk. After letting them in the front door, Claire took their jackets and ushered them into the living room before heading back to the kitchen to get the wine and snacks.

The television in the living room was tuned to CNN with the volume barely audible. Maeve claimed the upholstered chair next to the lamp table, and Julie plopped on the sofa perpendicular to it. Both had a good view of the television. Katy and Shelly were on the loveseat on the other side of the coffee table, trying to sort out some hopelessly tangled yarn. Janet hadn’t yet arrived, but then she was always late and would most likely come bustling in later with tales of the crazy day she had. Sonya, the newest member, wasn’t feeling well and had stayed home.

Claire’s home was sophisticated and elegant, reflecting Claire herself. She took an ordinary townhome with ugly carpet and a very outdated kitchen and bath, and gradually converted it to a modern, contemporary home with the feeling of being in a big city loft. The kitchen cabinets were glass-fronted and creamy white instead of the original country oak. The backsplash was a mosaic of small tiles in shades of black, gray and cream; and the countertops were dark gray granite with speckles that gave it a lovely depth. On the counter was the wine and glasses, but not much else.

"What happened?" Maeve asked the two women on the couch.

"Oh, I was pulling the yarn from the center and it all came out in a big glump," Katy answered.

"Your yarn barfed, huh?" Julie teased.

"Well, it's pretty—once we get it untangled and she can work with it, that is," Shelly added without looking up. "It would help if we could find the other end."

Maeve busied herself with digging through her knitting basket and came up with a partially finished object that was still unrecognizeable.

"What are you working on, Maeve?" Claire asked, coming back into the room with a plate of assorted cheeses and crackers. She looked quizzically at the object in question.

"It's a stuffie for Oliver—a little hippo if I can get the head right." Maeve held up the pattern so they could see the picture.

"Cute. Who wants red and who wants white wine?" Orders taken, Claire went back to the kitchen to fetch the drinks.

"Is that the sweater you were working on last time?" asked Janet, who had just breezed in and was settling into the last vacant chair. "It's gorgeous!"

"Thank you," answered Julie, smiling brightly. She stood up and twirled around for all to see. "I just finished blocking it yesterday. I may have to knit this pattern again, it was so easy."

"Looks like I could even knit it," commented Katy, as she wound the free end of her yarn into a ball. "I'll have to get a copy of that pattern."

"So Shelly," began Maeve. "Are you going to make it to Antarctica this year?"

"I am!" Shelly answered with an ear to ear grin. "Two weeks from now. A friend and I are taking a tour that starts in Buenos Aires, goes through the Falkland Islands, then Antarctica, and finally back up the Chilean coast. I'm so excited!"

"Any chance it goes to Uraguay? That's where Malibrigo yarn comes from. I would love to visit their operation," Julie asked with longing in her voice.

“Turn up the volume,” Katy suggested. “It looks like some results are coming in.”

The time was around 7:30 and a number of states had been called already. The electoral vote was close at 68 for Lockhart and 66 for Temple.

"That's ok," Julie said. "Those states have all gone as expected. It's the swing states to watch. Like Florida and some of the big rust belt states."

"Anybody want some apple cake?" Claire asked. "Elaine made it."

The women put down their knitting as Maeve got up and helped pass the plates of dessert around. They were emptied quickly.

By 9:00, Temple had pulled ahead to 140 electoral votes compared to Lockhart’s 104. Katy inhaled sharply and looked worried.

"It's ok, she can still do it," Maeve commented. "There's still plenty of votes to go."

Virginia and Colorado were called for Lockhart just before 9:30, but as soon as the knitters started to relax, Ohio was called for Temple.

"Jeez Louise," Julie exclaimed. "This is tense. It wasn't supposed to be this close."

Claire brought the bottles of wine into the room and refilled glasses.

California and Hawaii was called for Lockhart and she made up lost ground electorally, for just a minute. Then, a little after 10:00, North Carolina went to Temple and it was 190 for Lockhart versus 187 for Temple.

"Now what?" Katy asked, looking at Julie who seemed to know the most about it all.

"Well, I read some articles online today that talked about the various paths to victory for Temple. There's some key states where Lockhart can't afford to lose more than three, I think. Ohio was one, and she just lost another with North Carolina, but she got Colorado and Virginia. Now she needs Florida, Wisconsin, Michigan and Pennsylvania. She can't afford to lose any one of them and they're awfully close—too close to call if I'm hearing it right."

They watched, the knitting and noshing ceasing altogether as Florida went to Temple twenty minutes later. The room was deadly quiet.

With a small voice, Shelly asked, "Is that it?"

“Temple just won," Julie clarified with disbelief in her voice. "Temple won."

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph. I think I need something stronger than wine,” Maeve said, breaking the silence. “Do you have any Jack Daniels, Claire?”

“I think I’d like to head home instead,” Julie said before Claire could respond. “While I still have some wits about me and all my brain cells haven’t gone into shock yet.”

The meeting broke up. There weren’t the usual happy goodbyes or plans being made for the next month. This wasn’t normal. There was a sense that nothing was normal anymore. Could there have been a huge mistake?

The Banana Disease

I love baking (and eating) banana bread. So does my husband, and even my two dogs. The recipe I rely on is the same one my mother used, passed down from her mother. It might go further back, but it's too late to ask. I've shared the recipe at the bottom of this post if you're interested. The secret is to use bananas that have previously been frozen so they turn really brown, and to let the batter sit in the pans for 20 minutes before baking. But that's not really what this blog post is about.

In my book, Guardians of Grace, banana bread becomes a bit of a trading commodity in the small off-grid community where the family finds refuge. It's not just that the bread tastes so good, it's because bananas are hard to come by. Unfortunately, the potential for this to happen isn't fiction. Bananas are at risk.

I've seen several names for the disease attacking banana plants: fusarium wilt, Panama disease, TR4. The cause is a fungus that isn't new, but is spreading rapidly around the globe. According to one article I read, the banana disease was first identified in Taiwan some two decades ago, then spread throughout Asia to the Middle East and Africa before its arrival in Colombia late last year. Colombia is trying to slow the outbreak before it spreads to the rest of Latin America and the Caribbean. The Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations considers TR4 to be among the most destructive of all plant diseases. 

It spreads stealthily via spores in the soil on boots, plants, machines, or animals. A diseased plant might look healthy for a year while its vascular system is being ravaged. By the time the yellow, wilting leaves appear, it's too late. The soil is contaminated. Since there is no treatment, the only recourse is to abandon the land and move elsewhere. Infected farms are quarantined, and biosecurity measures are put into place to prevent spread. 

For my book, I use Panama disease as yet another subtle warning of climate change, although my research tells me the root cause is greed. As the burgeoning banana industry developed decades ago, a single cultivar was chosen for its consistency in size and taste, and the ease of mass production. The potential to make money superseded any concern that limited genetic diversity could lead to disease susceptibility. 

Of course, scientists and researchers are working hard at developing new varieties of disease-resistant bananas as well as changes to farming methods to address soil health. And so I expect to be baking banana bread for a long time to come.  

Grandma's Banana Bread

I double the recipe for two large loaves:
One to eat and One to freeze

1c Sugar

1/2 c Butter, softened

2 eggs

2 c. flour

1 tsp baking soda

1 tsp baking powder

1/2 tsp salt

3 mashed ripe bananas

2 T sour milk (either buttermilk, or add a little lemon juice to milk)

Cream the butter and sugar together. Add eggs and blend. Stir in bananas and milk alternately with dry ingredients sifted together. Batter will be very stiff. Pour into greased bread pan. Let stand 20 minutes. Bake 50-60 minutes at 350 degrees.

For additional reading:
https://www.bbc.com/future/bespoke/follow-the-food/the-pandemic-threatening-bananas.html
https://www.bloomberg.com/news/features/2020-05-22/the-25-billion-banana-industry-is-being-ravaged-by-disease.html

When Characters Rebel

Recently, I was looking over my original, haphazardly scribbled notes for Guardians of Grace as I began plotting out the sequel. I was a bit surprised to see how much I veered from the original plan. Mostly this happened because a character refused to follow the outline. These are the characters who were very demanding and made me rewrite entire scenes until satisfied. Some scenes just wouldn’t be wrestled into submission until I gave up control to the character with the main Point of View for that scene.

Usually, the first rebellion comes if my characters don’t like their name. I may have carefully selected a name, building in lots of symbolism and meaning, and then the character makes me change it. My main character takes on a new identity as Faith Sparrow. I totally forgot that my original intention was to name her Faith Nightingale until I looked back at my notes. Nightingales are a symbol of love and longing, after all. But no. I found myself typing Sparrow. Sparrows, you see, are a symbol of hope, fertility and resurrection. Faith was right, of course. 

Or a character refuses the nickname I give them. Obsidian is the dragon demon in the story. I named her after Obyzouth, a fallen angel who kills newborns and causes stillbirths. Really. There are entire websites devoted to the origins of angels and demons and gods from many cultures and religions. I found Obyzouth in one of these. Of course, I planned on shortening her name to Dian. I couldn’t imagine typing out that long name all the way through the book. But she had other ideas. You see, Obsidian turned out to be a rather formidable character. She let me know pretty early on that a nickname just wasn’t appropriate for a demon of her standing. And then she insisted on upstaging the main demon/antagonist in the book (her lover) every chance she got. 

 And don’t get me started on the minor characters that refuse to sit on the sidelines after their big moment (I’m looking at you Ms. Black. You made me give you a first name, Helen, and then you kept showing up in my scenes).

Sometimes I get it right, and the characters embrace their names. Layla and Aaron Daniels, for example, are the biological parents of Grace. Layla’s name is a derivation of Laylah, an angel who oversees and protects childbirth. Aaron’s name is based on Ariel, an angel of protection. Even the last name, Daniels, is based on Diniel, an angel who protects infants. They settled into their roles without any complaint whatsoever. 

One last character who rebelled is Ethan, the reincarnation of-- well, you’ll need to read the book. My notes have Ethan as a falcon, watching over Faith and Grace. Falcons, after all, are symbols of protection-- probably because they never close their eyes, even in sleep. But no. Ethan wanted to be a hawk. I had to do extra research to figure out why he was so insistent. I discovered that in Native American culture, hawks are a symbol of power, known for their strength, courage, intelligence, and intuition. A perfectly appropriate change. But I suspect that Ethan simply wanted to be called Ethan Hawk. He does have a rather dry sense of humor, after all.

I can’t wait for you to be able to read the book. I’m working hard to find an agent and get it published, but it’s pretty competitive out there. So send me positive vibes as I keep ‘querying’!

Nepeta and Bumblebees

In front of our garage is a large stone planter, about 6’X10’, stuffed full with lovely, fragrant Nepeta (Catmint). In late spring, at the height of flowering, the bumblebees are so numerous that the planter practically vibrates with the humming of little bee wings. I find myself enthralled watching the bees industriously moving from bloom to bloom and plant to plant. The urge to reach out and pet the fuzzy striped bodies is nearly irresistible. They seem completely oblivious to my presence. 

Several years ago, however, the bees weren’t there. Maybe a stray or two, but that was it. Much has been made of the decline of honeybee populations, but surely that couldn’t be the same thing as what was happening to my bumbles. Could it? I wracked my brain trying to remember if I or my husband used any of the 'bad' chemicals lately. And I glared in my neighbor's direction because I just knew he prioritized a big green lawn over a pollinator-friendly habitat.

Around that time, I began to read snippets in the news about a growing mismatch between biological events of pollinators and their favorite host plants. This was referred to as phenological mismatch. (See definition below). The general hypothesis is that climate change is contributing to this phenomenon, and related scientific research is being conducted worldwide.

The main theory is that the plant, like my Nepeta, uses mean daily temperature as its phenological cue to break dormancy and flower, while the pollinator, like my bumbles, uses day length. If these two species depend on their interaction with one another for pollination and food, the changing environment means they may end up missing each other entirely. Of course, an occasional occurrence of early spring isn’t going to decimate bumblebees. But if this is a permanent shift….

Because I love my garden and the birds, butterflies, and bees that occupy it, I worry. I worry enough that I included a reference to phenological mismatch early in my book, Guardians of Grace, as one of the subtle clues of climate chaos to come.

Of course, my characters don’t know this. They, like me, are just wondering why the Nepeta is blooming so early, and why the bumblebees are missing out on the nectar.

According to a quick internet search, Phenology is the study of the timing of the biological events in plants and animals such as flowering, leafing, hibernation, reproduction, and migration. Scientists who study phenology are interested in the timing of such biological events in relation to changes in season and climate.

The Earthen World

Photo Courtesy of Unsplash

Imagine the universe is one humongous corporation, founded by a creative genius-- the Matriarch. There’s a management hierarchy, employees, staff meetings, performance reviews, and on and on. Different worlds are the products of this great enterprise. This is the premise lurking in the background of my novel, Guardians of Grace, where Earth is only part of the Earthen world, and the Earthen world is only one of many worlds created by the Matriarch. 

Think of the Matriarch (or Matty to her friends) as an inventor, dreaming up worlds and the systems to maintain those worlds, conducting a beta test before sending them out for final release, and hiring staff to manage them. She's the first to admit that the Earthen world is her favorite-- so far. And the decay of Earth’s environment endangers the entire Earthen world.

So, what is the Earthen world? It’s a world consisting of multiple layers of realms, with Earth in the middle. Earth is the home of the living. When a person dies, their soul may ascend to one of the many realms in Heaven, called Halls, or they may descend to a realm in Hell, called Circles. Which realm a soul ends up in is determined by their character and actions.  But, souls have the ability to move among the Halls and Circles by proving themselves worthy so they may advance (or vice versa) and even rejoin the realm of the living. The movement of souls is what powers this world in a self-sustaining cycle of kinetic energy.

This system can get complicated, so the Matriarch charged the Archangel Gabriela and the Archangel Sataniel with directing the process for each of their territories. Gabriela relies on her organization of Guardian Angels to efficiently manage the movement of souls in the Halls of Heaven, and Sataniel has a similar organization of demons for the Circles of Hell. 

However, Sataniel's demons are a bit difficult to manage and they like to play around with the souls on Earth, maybe even snack on a few when they can. The demons aren't supposed to impact Earth directly, but they've figured out how to bend the rules by influencing the living. Human nature is ripe for such manipulation, with wealth and power being especially useful motivators in the hands of a demon who wants to push mankind in a certain direction, like wrecking Earth's environment.

This is the background behind the events in my novel. The story itself is from the human perspective, where the structure of the universe isn’t entirely known. But the prologue and epilogue provide clues. Future novels (because I’m loving this writing stuff) will explore other worlds, or the structure of this universe-- its products, customers and shareholders. Until then, I’ve got to get this thing published!

Photo courtesy of Unsplash

Dottie Part 1

“Why aren’t your two porties in the book?”

I get this question all the time. The simplest answer is my book has one dog, Dottie, and how could I possibly choose one of my porties over the other? Besides, not everybody knows what a Portuguese Water Dog looks like, but pretty much everybody recognizes a Dalmatian. And finally, porties really don't do fiercely protective very well. Snow and Boo would sell me out in an instant for a hamburger.

Just like my main character, I had a Dalmatian as a kid. We picked her up from the breeder on July 4 when I was seven and my brother was ten. We named her Independence in honor of the occasion, and called her Indy. She was a great dog-- always ready for adventure, play, or belly rubs. She stayed outdoors because Mom was concerned about my allergies. I wish with all my heart that she could have lived in the house with us. As it was, it became too easy to neglect her when the weather was bad or homework had to be done. But her wiggling butt and eager whines greeted me when I joined her outside. Dogs are pretty amazing creatures for their capacity to forgive, comfort, and entertain. Yeah, she was a great dog.

Indy and me on the day we brought her home.

Friends that are familiar with my book, Guardians of Grace, often remark that they picture the cute puppies in the movie 101 Dalmatians and can’t imagine the breed being very effective as a guardian. But Dalmatians are considered a large dog at 50-70 pounds and 19-24 inches tall at the shoulder. There are rumors that the breed includes some Great Dane in their ancestry. Indy was a bit of a runt, though. We chose her against the advice of the breeder simply because she tried to crawl into my mother’s purse. We figured the little pup chose us.

My brother and me with the new puppy.

Dalmatians are well-defined, muscular dogs with excellent endurance and stamina. According to Wikipedia, these beautiful creatures were used as dogs of war several centuries ago, guarding the borders of Dalmatia, a region of Croatia. The breed was also used to guard carriages and horses, and to clear the way through a crowd for the horse-drawn fire wagon. To this day, the breed retains a high guarding instinct. Dalmatians also have a strong hunting instinct and are an excellent exterminator of vermin. I can attest to this ability because Indy, on at least one occasion, proudly presented my mother with a dead rat. Of course, instead of praise, the poor dog was rewarded with a screech. But Dad rewarded her (the dog, not Mom) and let her know she did good.

I’ll stick to my rationale to use this friendly and loyal breed as a companion and guardian in my story. Maybe my porties, Snow and Boo, will make it into a future novel.