Writing Styles Have Changed

I’m reading a book right now by Patricia Wentworth, published in 1953. Although I’m very much enjoying this book, I’m finding the going slower than in the novels of today, which started me thinking. Patricia Wentworth was English, which partially accounts for her writing style, and she was from another generation of writers. Born in India in 1878 and privately educated, she was most famous for her Miss Maud Silver mystery series, although her career as an author spanned many decades with varied series and stand alone novels.

Her language is more literary than works of today and she uses larger, more obscure words, which I’m finding fascinating. I love to learn new words and have been consulting the dictionary for each one I’m not familiar with. She never would have ended the previous sentence with a preposition, by the way!

When I was writing my book, SHE HAD TO KNOW, my first drafts had “bigger” words, ones I thought described the situation or setting much better than any others I might have used in ordinary conversation, but I was discouraged from doing much of that in today’s market. Interesting, huh? I was encouraged to write simply and plainly so the reader’s experience would be smooth and rapid. I have to admit, I was a bit disappointed with that advice. In my humble opinion, some words are better than others and I had spent countless hours finding just the perfect words to explain my meaning.  However, I wanted to be published and I was confident editors certainly knew more than I, so I cut out many of the lovely words I had so painstakingly inserted.

Perhaps this situation is a generational one since, by some, I am now considered a senior . My reading experiences started earlier than that of many readers today, but I keep hearing phrases like, “Books today are being dumbed down.” Is that actually true? Is it true only in genre fiction? It definitely isn’t true with all the books I read, but many on the market are meant to be fast reads. Could that be considered dumbing down? People today have busy lives and they don’t want to spend time looking up words in a dictionary in order to understand what an author is saying. Is that true?

I guess, for me, I like a mixture of reading material. Sometimes I don’t want to have to think too hard. I just want to escape into someone else’s world for a short time. And sometimes I want to learn something that takes a bit more time and effort.

What is your opinion? How do you like to read? Am I completely off base?

Inspirations for Wraithmoor Castle

My readers have asked me to tell them what inspired the appearance and mood, both inside and out, of the fictitious Wraithmoor Castle Inn  in my book, SHE HAD TO KNOW. Having been fortunate enough to stay in and visit many castles and manor homes during my travels, I drew upon their various attributes. My photographs were a great help and luckily, to aid my memory, I saved all brochures collected along the way.

Since my story is set in Scotland, I needed to capture the Scottish architecture of the period or periods in which it was built, so the exterior reflects mainly the Scots Baronial style mixed with some English Tudor. I then created a drawing of my perception of what the castle would look like. Later, when I was looking for ideas for the book’s cover for my publisher, I was fortunate in finding a photo which was very similar to my concept and drawing.

Wraithmoor Castle Inn

To complete the exterior, I needed an elaborate iron gate at the entrance to the parklands of the estate. I already had an idea for that. Chirk Castle in Wales had the perfect gate, although I altered its description.

Chirk Castle Gate

I needed spiral steps leading from the residence wing to the scullery, and also to the lower regions of the castle. I found them at Dover Castle in England. (My son populates this picture.)

Spiral Stairway

The rose room that Arran stays in was inspired by The Italian Room at Great Fosters, a manor home in England. I changed it as well, but kept the beautiful mullioned windows.

Italian Room-Great Fosters

Hever Castle in England and Ruthin Castle in Wales provided lots of inspiration for paintings, the library, drawing room and suits of armor.

Anne Boleyn at Hever Castle

Suit of Armor

Elk Antlers in Entrance Hall

Library at Hever Castle

Ceiling at Ruthin

My imagination took hold from there, which certainly wasn’t difficult after seeing so many beautiful sights. For those of you who write, have you combined sites in your stories?

Goodbye

Several months ago, a dear friend called to say goodbye. Like in… forever. I was shocked when she told me why she was calling. I was something else, too. Grateful.

I knew she wasn’t well and hadn’t been for quite some time. Congestive heart failure was one of the ailments on her long list along with others I couldn’t begin to pronounce. She said she was calling because she wanted me know how much our friendship meant to her and she wanted to thank me before she became too ill. Wow.

My mother battled with terminal cancer for many years before she died. During that time, she and I had the opportunity to set up the closure we both needed, but when my father died, it was sudden. He had a heart attack and was gone before I got to him. I remember the feelings of shock, disbelief, awareness of unanswered questions and great loss, that stayed with me. There was no closure and that still haunts me. But parents are different, aren’t they?

A couple years ago one of my best friends succumbed to prostate cancer. He had been treated successfully for several years and then the disease was back with a vengeance. We e-mailed back and forth occasionally, but I didn’t realize how quickly his illness had progressed and before I knew it, he was in the hospital and his brother wasn’t allowing any visitors or phone calls. He died and I never got to say, goodbye.

Another best friend was an artist and we shared our great love of art in many forms. We didn’t call or write often, but when we did contact one another, we just picked up where we had left off from the previous conversation.

I was working on a project and decided to run some ideas by her so I picked up the phone and dialed her number. Her husband answered. When I asked to speak with her, he told me she’d had a rapid-growing brain tumor and had passed away three months before. I couldn’t believe it! We were best friends. How could I not know she was ill, much less that she had died?

Again I was sick with shock and grief. As I sat stunned with sorrow, I recalled the news of another friend who had committed suicide. Each death was different, but my feelings about them were the same; profound sadness and the realization of the permanency of my sense of loss. I felt disappointment, even anger that I didn’t have the chance to say, goodbye. I didn’t have closure. Loss was loss. Whether it related to parents or friends, it was the same heart-wrenching pain.

In my first paragraph, I spoke of a friend who called to say, goodbye. She’s still living and she and I call each other every other week or so to reiterate our feelings of friendship and camaraderie. As time goes by, I can sense in her voice the progression of her disease and sometimes she hasn’t the strength to talk for long, but I appreciate her even more and I’m  grateful for this opportunity. If  her time is up before mine, I will have closure. I’ll be sad, of course, but I will also have the comfort of knowing we made the most of our friendship in the time we had left. I think she feels the same way.

This whole experience has changed how I relate to other friends and to my relatives. Since my stroke last summer, I realize my existence here on Earth could be shortened or ended at any second, so I’ve decided to be like my friend and let people know now how dear they are to me, and do it often. I’ve also decided not to fret over people who disappoint me or who don’t value me. I’ve decided to be influenced by more positive things than negative ones and to truly be grateful for and rejoice in each day.

As a result, I’ve found dealing with thoughts of end-of-life has given me a renewed lease-on-life replete with love and gratitude.

Belly Dancing…Dangerous?

My twenty year career as a Middle Eastern belly dancer was fun and exciting, but who would have thought it could be dangerous? In the Bible Belt, no less? A version of the following story first appeared in Lelia Taylor’s Buried Under Books Blog over a year ago, but I recently was asked to tell it again.

Part of my job as a belly dancer was to help people celebrate birthdays, anniversaries, farewells, get wells, office parties, etc., in what was called a belly gram. You know, instead of sending balloons or flowers, people hired me to dance a ten-minute routine as a surprise for their guest of honor on his or her special occasion. In the account below I have changed the names to protect the “guilty.”

One day, my friend, Tom, a sergeant in the nearby Air National Guard, called and asked me to dance for Captain Sanders, head of security. The plan was Tom would smuggle me on base in his van, hide me in the clinic, and then he’d call and report a break-in. When Captain Sanders arrived to check it out, we’d all jump out and surprise him. I was told the base commander was in on it, so I agreed.

That day at the clinic, Tom led me into a room where folding screens were set up to hide me and my boom box, the beverages, and the cake. Co-workers helped move gurneys aside to provide an open space for me to dance and then they took their places hiding in an adjacent office.

While Tom walkie-talkied Captain Sanders, I warmed up my fingers, did body stretches and concealed myself. Within a few minutes, I could hear a commotion down the hall. Voices and footfalls were coming closer. Hurriedly jamming my fingers into the elastic bands of my finger cymbals, I awaited my cue to come merrily out of my hiding place –– hips in action.

Captain Sanders, accompanied by an indeterminate few who were all talking at once, was apparently conducting a systematic search in case the “perpetrator” was still present. As I strained to hear the conversation, I saw a disembodied hand slide through the edge of the fabric screen next to me and punch the start button on my stereo. I hadn’t expected the hand just then and as I was muffling a yelp, my music started. Swallowing my heart, I took a big breath, put on my most alluring smile, wrenched aside the screen, and propelled myself forward with cymbals madly clattering to the lively Arabic tune.

The next thing I knew, I was skidding to a dead stop. My field of vision was reduced solely to the big black muzzle of a rifle, four inches away, aimed at a spot directly between my eyes. When I could think again, I figured my expression was probably much like the one displayed by my opponent holding the rifle. We both stood frozen, like ice sculptures, mouths gaping open. He had on green battle fatigues that, oddly enough, matched the color of his face, and probably mine, too.

I don’t remember who broke the spell first, but I discovered the saying, “your life flashes before your eyes when you think you’re going to die,” wasn’t a myth. I became aware my fingers had restarted clicking the cymbals. It was probably a nervous reaction, but we’ll say it was my…um…professionalism kicking in. Anyway, the sound of music and cymbals brought everyone out of their hiding places and Captain Sanders, rifle and all, was whisked away to his sultan’s chair to star in his role as victim…er…Guest of Honor.

Surprisingly, my routine went better than usual. There’s something to be said for adrenaline, and Captain Sanders actually got up and danced with me to the accompaniment of tambourines I’d given some of the audience members. We ended in a “ta-da” pose to explosive applause. Well, that may not be the best choice of words, but I think you get my drift.

I had cake in my mouth when Captain Sanders apologized profusely for pointing his weapon at me. Can you believe, when I finally managed to get the cake down my throat, I actually told him it was okay? I said I was just glad he or his gun hadn’t had a hair trigger.

Word spread and my apparent bravery “in the line of duty” earned me an abundance of dance jobs for various military events after that. Who’d ‘a thunk it?

My Tale of Traveling With a Medical Mask

In recent years, I’ve seen on television, people traveling through airports wearing medical masks, but I hadn’t actually encountered anyone doing so, much less a person such as me!

Well, after thoroughly ruining Christmas and New Years for myself, my sister and her husband by getting sick only a couple days after arriving from Florida to the Adirondacks for said holidays, I then needed nursing back to some semblance of strength  so I could return home. My poor sister was the designated “nurse.” Scratch that! The word is Saint!

She provided all the ingredients a dying person needs, warm blankets, plenty of fluids, nourishment in the form of soup, grilled cheese mini-sandwiches, eggs, (as much as a weak patient could handle) and later slightly more hefty meals. For two weeks, she helped me stay with the living.

The clinic treating me provided medical masks for my trip home. I was over my contagion stage by then, but I didn’t want to relapse by re-catching anything or being exposed to something new.

Upon arrival at the airport, I hooked the elastic from either side of the mask to my ears, fluffed my hair a bit and dragged my luggage up to the ticket counter. The agent behind the counter checked me in and then said the conveyor belt wasn’t working and I’d have to lug my checked-in bag down the corridor to another conveyor belt that did work.

It wasn’t a long distance, but in my weakened state, even a few feet was a long way for me. Trying to breathe through the mask felt like trying to suck a blanket through my lungs. By the time I delivered my bag to the working conveyor, I was exhausted and had to step out of the way to rest before making my way to security.

Trying to organize my coat, shoes, inhaler, medicine bottles, purse, and a carry-on bag into the plastic trays at security felt like trying to handle an octopus since it all overflowed the containers. And, of course, I neglected to spot and transfer the one more than 3 oz. container of mouth wash  from my carry-on to my checked bag, so it had to be discarded. I didn’t care. I just wanted to get home, take off the mask and breathe again.

Finally I made it to my gate where I sat for one hour and a half past my original departing time which meant a total time of a little more than 3 hours. Passengers were encouraged not to leave the gate area in case updates to our delayed flight came in. We were also assured connecting flights would be waiting for us after the next leg of the trip.

During this waiting time, people walked by, found a place to sit and generally created little islands of anonymity as they settled down with their Smartphones. Some actually made calls. Others, did whatever Smartphone users do. I have a dumbphone, so I wouldn’t know this.

Anyway, my countenance  never created even a glance from anyone as I sat trying to concentrate on a book I’d brought along. But when our flight was called and it was time to line up for boarding, the dynamics changed.

This airline had open seating, so within a certain number of seats, passengers could pick their seats. I was near the back of the group so by the time I walked into the cabin, only middle seats were available.

It was interesting to note the expressions on people’s faces when they spotted the bemasked me. Some people looked away, very obviously uncomfortable as they imagined what the mask was for. Others didn’t seem to notice. I weighed my choices and settled on sitting between two men.

The middle-aged man next to the window, turned his face away from me and remained there for the whole flight. The other man was young and had a hint of Goth about him. He smiled and very kindly helped me with my carry -on. I found out he was a freshman with very good grades at a college near the town in which I live. My mask didn’t seem to phase him at all.

At the start of this journey, I was curious about how wearing a mask would effect my flying experience and that of others. Although there was some reaction from other people, I was surprised there was not more. As for me, now that I’m home, thank goodness I can breathe again without something in front of my face!

Christmas With My Sister For The Second Time by Coco Ihle

Joanie & Coco

Next week I’ll be traveling to spend Christmas for the second time with my sister Joanie. Our first Christmas together was when we were in our fifties. We’d searched for one another for over fifty years after having been separated as small children, sent into foster care and later separately adopted.

Our reunion in 1994 was a fairy tale filled with exquisite joy and discovery. Two Christmases later we went to the Mall and sat on Santa’s knee for the first time together. Instead of asking for material possessions, we told him how grateful we were for the gift of each other. We’d missed many years of sharing this special holiday and many others, but we intended to make up for lost time. And we have.

My sister has two married daughters who have children of their own, so I have an extended family, something I thought I’d never have. Just think, I have two nieces with wonderful spouses, three great nieces and a great nephew, and I must not forget, even dogs and cats. I feel as though I should hum the tune to “A Partridge in a Pear Tree.” I’m sure the kids have grown quite a bit since I saw them last and I look forward to their hugs.

Joanie and her husband live in a Hansel and Gretel log cabin in a forest in the Adirondacks. It’s a magical place that looks like a scene from a Thomas Kincade painting. The warm glow of light shining through the windows onto the glistening snow outside. The sound of total silence, save the sighing of the pines in the breeze. The crisp smell of winter and stars brighter than I’ve ever seen them.

Inside the aroma of dinner, the chatter of family, the warm snugness of a throw over the legs in front of the fire, and prominent splashes of red make the rooms cozy and inviting. The glow of candlelight setting off the shining golden color of the logs as they climb up to the rafters of the cathedral ceiling. And the gentle sound of  Christmas carols floating down from the balcony.

All these memories I’ll be able to re-live soon, and I can’t wait!

Tough Birthdays

My birthday is tomorrow the 12th, and it’s a big one. The one after “middle age” and the beginning of  “elderly.” It’s difficult to fathom I’m there already. I don’t feel elderly. I’m told I don’t look elderly. However, the calendar says I am. During the last several years when my birthday rolled around, I said it was just a number. I still felt young and vital and physically fit, so it didn’t have any effect on me. This one is different. I’m feeling my mortality, as a being who must eventually die, the dictionary says. Ye gads! This is the first time my age seems connected to a time schedule.

I remember thirty was difficult for me. Was I where I was supposed to be, I wondered? I reviewed my accomplishments and goals and soon became absorbed in just living and forgot all about time passing. There were too many things yet to do, places to visit, people to meet. I had a child to educate, nurture, train, and wifely duties, and responsibilities to my community. The concept of age was too remote to be concerned about.

This past August I had a stroke and barely a month later I was a passenger in a potentially fatal car crash. Wow, what a wake up call. For the first time in my days on this Earth, I realized I was actually mortal, that I wouldn’t be here forever. Of course, I knew the Grim Reaper would eventually claim me, but I didn’t think it could be this soon. The aftereffects of the stroke are about gone now, but the impact of what it did to my psyche is on-going. I’m also healing from the injuries incurred in the car crash, and now I have this urgent need to get my life in order, just in case. I’ve never felt like this before.

After the stroke, shock gave way to relief that I was still here. I can’t say I was afraid per se. It was more like incredulous. How could this have happened to me? Disbelief became a desire to educate myself so I could make changes to lifestyle, diet, exercise. Then gratefulness settled in that I was “warned” and had time to learn what to do to survive. An author friend e-mailed me about her stroke and offered encouragement and guidance, which helped tremendously. It gave me the comfort of knowing I wasn’t alone and it gave me a course of action to take.

That was what I needed. I found out what a wonderful family and great friends I have. I mean, I already knew that, but in this time of crisis, knowing they were there, ready with their love and support gave me the fuel I needed to keep on keepin’ on. As one gets older, relationships become more and more important. I am truly blessed to have deep and meaningful relationships with both my family and my friends.

So, when it finally comes my time to shuffle off this mortal coil, I’ll go in peace.

Excerpt From “She Had to Know” by Coco Ihle

After the deaths of her adopted parents, Arran discovers her long lost sister’s name and, despite a terrifying premonitory dream, embarks on a quest to find Sheena. After reuniting in Scotland, the sisters search for the reason their birth father and his housekeeper mysteriously died and why Sheena’s life is being threatened. Led to a cryptic rhyme rumored to map the way to an ancient hidden treasure buried deep in the bowels of Wraithmoor Castle, the sisters follow the clues. A murderer follows the sisters. Will the secret passages lead them to discovery and triumph, or death and eternal entombment?

EXCERPT:

Hours of compiling, arranging, rearranging and packing had left Sheena’s body fatigued, but her brain wouldn’t rest. She kept thinking about her father’s unknown cause of death. Something distracting would help, perhaps a book to read. Several were on the nightstand, and she looked through them. The Magus, by John Fowles, she’d already read. The next was Barbarians at the Gate, by Bryan Burrough and John Helyar. No, not in the mood. The third book was most curious. The aged volume of The Nature Library on Birds, by Neltje Blanchan, seemed especially heavy for such a small size. Sheena was immediately intrigued. The front cover had an illustration of a bluebird family: male, female and chick. How odd. This hardly seemed the kind of book her father would read.

The shock came when she opened the front cover. Inserted in a precisely cutout hole in the pages was a gun. Carefully, she extracted the weapon by the wooden grip and held it in the palm of her hand under the bedside lamp to get a better look. “MADE BERETTA USA CORP” was etched on one side of the blue-black metal barrel. The .22-caliber semi-automatic, just like the one she had learned to shoot a few years ago, was loaded.

As she was carefully returning the gun to the hiding place, she noticed a folded piece of yellowed paper tucked in the bottom of the hole. Laying the gun on the bed, she reached in to retrieve it and noticed the edges of the folds were weak and brittle. As she was carefully unfolding them, she felt a firm lump between her finger and thumb. A cracked piece of cellophane tape was stuck to one side of the paper, and under that, a key. A safe-deposit key. Stamped into the flat surface, were the initials, “CMB.” Chase Manhattan Bank on Madison Avenue, a few blocks away, was the bank on her father’s monthly statements. Why wasn’t this key in Father’s study with his other papers?

Turning the book over, she discovered another surprise. Inside this cover was another cut out section containing a small leather notebook, underneath which, a thick piece of cardboard separated the two compartments. She opened the notebook to the first page. In the upper right corner was written, “Oct./Nov.” Centered below was “This Book Belongs To: J.W.B.,” her father’s initials.

She plumped up two pillows and leaned back against the headboard, excited by this new discovery which appeared to be a journal. The entries were sporadically dated, and the writing, in her father’s hand, was scribbled and barely legible, as though written in a hurry. He had used initials rather than full names throughout. She read aloud the last entry dated the week before he died:

“Have the feeling I’m being followed. Yesterday, a car almost hit me outside the hotel. Driver didn’t stop, too dark to see license plate. Wonder if it has something to do with running into P.S. last week? Never liked that greedy snake.”

Sheena’s intake of breath was followed by an icy chill shivering through her body. With pounding heart she looked across the room at the photograph of her parents, singling out her father’s image and said, “What in the world happened to you? Did you die naturally? Or were you murdered?”

***

Coco, a product of foster care and adoption, spent over fifty years searching for her sister, whom she found in 1994. Thus the idea for SHE HAD TO KNOW was born. She discovered Scottish roots and plays harp and bagpipes, along with piano and cello. The Florida Writer’s Association published a short story of hers in 2009 in their first anthology. Coco is a member of MWA; SinC; FWA; The Alma Society, which aids in family searches; the DorothyL Digest and the Scottish St. Andrew’s Society.

Click here to buy:
She Had to Know

My Aggravating Microsoft Word 2010

When I started writing, I used Microsoft Word 1998 and then graduated to 2000 and 2003. No problem. The 2003 version was the one I used while writing my mystery novel and the articles I wrote for the magazine for which I was a staff writer. So, naturally I got to be pretty knowledgeable about that version. I was happy as a lark, as the old cliché goes.

Then I bought a new computer with Word 2010. What was I thinking? You know the saying, “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it?” So why did I have to ruin a good thing by getting a whole new program? I don’t know. I thought it would be a smooth transition like the previous ones. I thought programs became MORE user-friendly with each version. Where did I ever get that idea? Silly me.

When it comes to 2010, I feel like a kindergartener once more. Where is everything? When I first bought 2003’s version, I was still able to refer to print books I had for previous versions so I could read along as I explored the new one, step by step. What a help that was! After trying to find in the 2010  version what I already knew how to find on the previous version and wasting vast amounts of time in the process, I’ve given up, broken down, and resorted to searching for and purchasing a new printed book again. This time for Word 2010.

Of course, there is online help, but reading the help suggestions at the same time I’m trying to experiment on the new Word is terribly confusing and frustrating switching back and forth between the two. Okay, I even have to admit to being a tiny bit techy challenged. Grrrrrr!

Am I the only idiot on the planet with this problem? Maybe my difficulty is my age. Young people don’t seem to have this trouble. I have unfortunately reached dinosaur status, but I prefer calling it life #7 of my kitty cat lives. Somehow that sounds a bit gentler, a little less old and antiquated.

So, my new Word 2010 step-by-step printed manual will be delivered in a few days. Let’s hope it will open up the elusive wonders that have been so cunningly eluding me. By George! I think I’ve got it! The answer to my aggravating Microsoft Word 2010. Yeaaaaaay!

A Picture = A Thousand Words

It may seem clichéd or elementary, but how many times have we heard, “A picture is worth a thousand words?” Writers often can’t use pictures in our work; we have to create them with words. In order to do that, we must draw forth a mental image for our readers to better understand what we are trying to say. For me, eliciting emotion is one way to accomplish that goal.

Many years ago, I worked for a company that sold bottled water and rented water coolers to deliver that water to their business clients. The coolers were able to provide cold water and hot water for different beverages and soups. We sales personnel were urged to use certain words that would conjure pictures in the customers’ minds to encourage them to want our products for their business customers. Hot water became “piping hot water” and cold water became “ice cold water.” We were even told to emphasize the “p” in piping and the “c” in ice to make it even easier to imagine.

As writers, we can do basically the same thing. In my book SHE HAD TO KNOW, I describe a castle in Scotland. The building is early-seventeenth-century, sits off the main road on the edge of a cliff overlooking a body of water, is on a moor with trees spotted about, and the castle is often surrounded by fog. I wanted to create an atmosphere of quaintness, mystery, a hauntingly gothic feel rather than just describe it literally.

This is how I created the picture of it:

Off the Corniche Road amidst vast desolate moorland and gnarled groves of trees stood the often fog shrouded Wraithmoor Castle, an early-seventeenth-century Scots Baronial manor house. Perched on a rocky cliff overlooking the Firth of Clyde, it lay dreamlike, as if a product of Morpheus, a few miles south of the village of Ballantrae.

Another example describes a character who is a famous and elegant mystery writer:

With shiny, blue-black chin-length hair and prominent angular nose, she posed a striking but elegant image. One was reminded of a raven seeking sustenance as her black eyes darted from guest to guest while peering over the rim of her brandy snifter.

The third example describes a trip from the Glasgow airport to the castle:

They skirted Ayr and Alloway, the birthplace of the poet Robert Burns, and continued south toward Maybole and Girvan. The road paralleled the Firth of Clyde that flowed to the Atlantic Ocean. High above, sea birds floated on invisible currants like terpsichorean ballerinas, their distant cries—music for the dance.

These examples use emotion to create the mood of the building, person and scenery in my story.

Have you different ways of using words to describe the pictures in your stories? I’d love to hear your methods or examples.