Earth to J

from Jacqueline

Oh, it’s been a fine old week I must say. I finally began my travels on Sunday, jetting off to Houston, where Murder By The Book hosted the first event of my book tour. And what a great evening it was too! Funny thing happened, though, that I have to recount. Following my talk about AN INCOMPLETE REVENGE, the audience lined up to have yours truly sign their books. About half-way through, a very nice lady explained that she had promised her husband she’d come along as he was a big fan of my books, in fact, they were both fans of my books. I said it was a shame he couldn’t come himself, at which point she plonked down an impressive cloth patch with space shuttle embroidered on it. This was not something you bought at the Discovery store. “Well,” she said, “he couldn’t come because he’s landing the space shuttle.” This being Houston, I imagined an Ed Harris at mission control kind of guy in front of a computer screen barking instructions such as, “Clear to land, Atlantis. Welcome Home.” So I thanked her for the lovely patch and looked at it again. Then the light-bulb in my befuddled brain went on.
“So, where is your husband exactly?”
“On the space shuttle.”
“Up there?” (pointing at Murder By The Book’s ceiling)
“Yes.”
“And he sent you here to get my book?”
Nods head.
“WOW!”

I’m sending the patch to my dad, who loves anything to do with space. Fancy that. A bloke up there (well, down here now) reads my books.

On to Phoenix, where Our Cornelia and I did a mystery duet on Tuesday evening at Poisoned Pen. Barbara Peters was in fine form as she directed questions at us, and of course we had a blast. And it was great seeing fellow mystery writer, Rhys Bowen in the audience. Cornelia had us all riveted with her tales of the real crazy school, and as we retired to sign books, I saw our dear ministering angel with her arm around a young woman who could barely control her tears - another former student of that terrible school had come to listen to Cornelia, and the painful memories had become too much. It broke my heart just to see the poor girl. You’ve done a good thing in writing that book Cornelia, something that goes beyond a contribution to literature.

In any case, here’s a shot of Cornelia and me after the event.



Travel has brought its share of interesting encounters, however, it was something of a lesson to observe and reflect today, as my flight from Phoenix to San Francisco was delayed due to the ever-predictable fog at SFO. I just sat back to read this month’s copy of Outside magazine (it was the special feature on eco-resorts that tempted me) until the flight was called. However the guy next to me was beside himself. Talk about grumble! On and on and on. He stuck his bluetooth thing in his ear (and I’m sorry, those things are just too silly), and made phone call after ‘phone call, complaining to whoever was stuck on the end of the line. This is why one has to be able to slip into Zen mode in airports. Ommmmmmm. Every time I glanced sideways at him, his face had become more florid. That could be me, I thought. That could be me if I let the travel get to me. Angioplasty waiting to happen. Now, something I’ve done, ever since I was a kid, is say out loud the thing I’m thinking in my mind. And I don’t mean sharing one’s beliefs, or something like that. I mean those thoughts that really should be kept to yourself. And no, I don’t do it all the time, just occasionally. So I promise, I really didn’t mean to say, out loud, “Oh, do stop bloody moaning!” Wish I’d’ve said it sooner, because he piped down.

At Changing Hands bookstore in Tempe, I was invited to choose a book after I’d given my talk and signed books. Oh, isn’t it nice when that happens? The bookaholic's equivalent of being  let loose in a candy store. I leaped at the chance to acquire Natalie Goldberg’s new book, “Old Friend From Far Away,” about writing memoir. I think I have learned more about writing by studying memoir and the techniques of first-person writing, than from any other endeavor, save just reading and writing, so I like to dip into the odd memoir-writing book now and again. Here’s what I love about Goldberg’s books – she gives you an assignment, and then says, “Go.” And that sums up a lot of what getting your writing going is all about: Go. In one exercise, she asked the reader, “If you could have only one memory, what would it be?” And I was surprised by what I very quickly noted, as I waited for that ‘plane:

My dad keeps an old plastic ice-cream container on the counter for table scraps and odds and ends of leftover food. He is very careful about what kind of food goes into that container, because he feeds the fox who lives in the wood. In truth, he feeds more than one fox, but it is always the same fox who claims the offering. And he doesn’t leave food every day, because a wild animal shouldn’t be encouraged to depend on man, but leftovers now and then won’t hurt. My dad and this fox have never met, not in the way that friends meet. They acknowledge each other across the no-man’s land of a trail between the edge of the field at the back of the house, and the wood. Dad empties the food close to the trees, and when he has retreated to the field, the fox comes out to see what’s on the menu. One morning last year, while staying with my parents, I went out for a walk just as the mist was rising to meet the day. I walked for a couple of miles, then circled back across the old railway bridge to approach the house through a neighboring farm. I clambered over a fence just in time to see my dad leave the garden by the back gate and begin to walk towards the wood. At the same time, I turned and saw the fox, red with diamond eyes and coal-black nose, slinking across a field on the south side of the wood, towards my father. Neither knew I was there, though the fox stopped for just a second with his nose to the air, as if he knew an interloper was present. The fox went on, into the wood, and I watched him watching my father as he knelt down to empty the scraps. Dad stood up and began to walk back to the house, and the fox approached. Then my father turned around, and their eyes met. Dad smiled, lifted his hand and touched the peak of his cap, as if he were greeting a friend on the street. Then he waved and went on his way, the fox watching his every move.



I think I love that memory, because my dad taught me to respect nature. I will never forget the way he raised his hand and touched his cap, as if recognizing an equal.

So .... if you could have only one memory, what would it be? GO!