A Ramble About Cooking ....

from Jacqueline

I know this might seem mildly controversial, after all, with cooking shows running from noon until night on TV and an abundance of celebrity chefs, I have come to believe that the ability to dish up a good meal is overrated.  I’m with Princess Grace of Monaco.  “If you can read, you can cook,” she apparently commented, though I am a bit pushed to imagine Grace Kelly getting to grips with a good old fry up.

It’s not that I can’t cook – I am told I’m a pretty good cook, which is all very nice – but I have realized that I don’t get a heck of a lot out of it.  Now, if you love to potter in your kitchen, that’s fine – invite me over anytime, if you think you can deal with my list of food intolerances.  Really, I never used to be like that – had a cast iron stomach from Crete to Jeddah, and from Rabat to Algiers – but a bad stomach bug, picked up while on book tour a few years ago, has left me “delicate” in the digestive department.  I like to keep it simple – no fancy sauces (my Dad was right – they cover up the flavor of good produce), and nothing with more than five ingredients.  Any more than five ingredients, and I know one of them will keep me up at night.  But back to cooking.

I’ve always been able to cook. I came from a household where both parents worked - pretty much all of my peers at school were in the same boat - so my first job upon arriving home from school was to “start the dinner.”  That meant preparing vegetables.  So, off came the school uniform, on went the jeans and t-shirt – and apron.  Before starting my culinary chores, I’d make a quick tea for my brother (he was my job, when I was a kid) and any pals he brought home – his friend, Pete, still remembers me bossing a little gang of 6-year-old boys around, making them sit nicely at the table while I put cups of tea and slices of bread and jam in front of them, plus a chocolate cake I’d made the day before.  That would tide everyone over until dinner. 

It was therefore strange, at age 11, to go to a girls’ high school where “Domestic Science” was part of the curriculum – most of the girls knew how to cook an entire roast dinner before they even left primary school!  Yet there was Miss Chapman – who had it in for me from Day One – trying to teach us how to make cheese on toast in the first lesson.  Cheese on toast?  My friend Anne-Marie looked at me and rolled her eyes – she could make the best risotto bar none by the time she was ten, and was known for being able to rustle up a great meal for twenty, if the occasion demanded.  I still love her risotto!  But back to Miss Chapman.  She loved to hover near my “station” in Domestic Science, hoping to catch me doing something wrong. I remember the day she leaned over me as I was chopping onion.  “I’ve caught you!” she said.  That was a giveaway, wasn’t it?  “You’re not using your vegetable knife!” She pointed to the offending large knife in my hand.  “Well,” I said, “I prefer this knife because I can really get going with some speed and cut finer slices.”  She reddened, as if to explode.  I might as well have said, “Who gives a flying you-know-what whether it’s a vegetable knife or not?”  Which is what I was thinking.

Back to the main point of all this. I think cooking is overrated.  I don’t enjoy it, though I love to have people over to dinner. I love setting the table with linen and silver, my best crystal glasses, and the little cruet set I’ve had for years.  But all that messing with pots and pans – heck, you can keep it.  I’m always a bit taken aback when I’m asked for the recipe for a dish, because I can’t remember how I’ve cooked something half the time – slap a bit of this or that on the salmon or chicken and hope for the best.  And always roast the potatoes.  I have to tell you, I make great roast potatoes – always have done.  But you see, I don’t know how people don’t make good roast potatoes. A friend even asked me around to her house to cook them in front of her in her kitchen, so she could watch – and she still can’t cook roast potatoes.  She can do everything else far better than I ever will be able to, and she loves – just loves – to cook.  Just not roast potatoes.

To wrap this up – and I am amazed you’ve got this far – I remember reading that author Sue Grafton has a personal chef.  Personal chef!  I’ve met authors who have their own jets (yes, really, though I had better not tell you who it was – he told me about the jet when we were on panel together.  His wife was also there, head to toe in Chanel), and I have met authors who have made it really big and have large properties and – get this – bodyguards.  Now, you can keep your private jets, and your bodyguards, and your big compounds and luxury apartments. I have a small bungalow, and that’s just fine – but I would give anything, almost anything, to have my own, private, personal chef.  Someone who can do gluten free, no dairy, no soy, only fish and fowl, and never shellfish.   Wine would be nice. 

I should probably add that I really love making jams and chutneys. My Summer 2013 Mixed Berry is the best yet, to say nothing of my Spicy Tomato & Apple.  Making some more this weekend.

Enjoy your weekend - I hope you've not been landed with the cooking, unless you really, really love slaving over a hot stove.

How Does a Woman Write Men So Well...and Vice Versa?

From the messy desk of Paul Levine...

I greatly admire writers who seem to effortlessly create fully-developed characters of the opposite sex.  Stephen King comes to mind with "Carrie," "Dolores Claiborne," "Misery," and many others. 

(And you thought I was gonna say Leo Tolstoy and "Anna Karenina."  I might have, except there's never been a more fraudulent line in fiction than: "All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.")

Anyway, back to my thesis.  It's damn hard to write realistic characters of the opposite sex.  Which brings me to my favorite television drama, Showtime's "Ray Donovan."

On the surface, it's about a "fixer" (a troubled Liev Schreiber) for an L.A. law firm who cleans up celebrities' problems by various illegal means, including wiretapping, extortion, and torture.  But what the show is really about is a father's relationship with his four sons.  And the show's creator/executive producer/chief writer/showrunner is a woman:  Ann Biderman.

Now, Ms. Biderman has some experience writing tough guys.  She created "Southland" and wrote for "NYPD Blue."  But "Ray Donovan" is a special case, and I'm blown away by Ms. Biderman's ability to create such a complex cast of conflicted, totally real male characters.

(Now, I hope my pals Patty Smiley, Jackie Winspear and Cornelia Read don't think I'm being misogynistic.  Same for Jim Born, well known for his feminine side when he's not handcuffing suspects or bashing them with his truncheon). 

I mean all of this as a great compliment to Ms. Biderman.  I'm not the Jack Nicholson character in "As Good As It Gets."  Do you remember the fawning receptionist who asks: "How do you write women so well?"  And the dyspeptic author replies: "I think of a man, and I take away reason and accountability." 

Anyway, the linchpin of the show is Ray Donovan's father Mickey, played chillingly by the underappreciated Jon Voight. 

 

Mickey is a low-life Irish-American gangster who just did 20 years in prison for a crime he did not commit.  His relationships with each son is different and complex, and he's perhaps the most interesting character on television today.  (And here I include all the "Real Housewives of New Jersey").  Mickey can be cruel and thoughtless, but he has a sentimental streak that is not contrived or saccharine. 

 

In sum, I am in awe of the writing...and the portrayal by Voight. 

 

(It took me nine novels until I wrote what I considered was a fully developed female character: Victoria Lord in "Solomon vs. Lord").  Tolstoy, I'm not.) 

 

So, let me ask: Do you have any favorite authors who are really adept at creating characters of the opposite sex?

 

****************************************

 

Three weeks from today is the official publication date of "State vs. Lassiter," the tenth and possibly last of my series featuring the linebacker-turned-lawyer.  Why possibly the last?  Well, Jake Lassiter is in a jam...charged with first degree murder.

Readers of Naked Authors:  You can have a FREE copy of the e-book version now.  What's the catch?  Ha, there are two.  You have to visit and "like" my new Facebook Author Page.  And then, on your honor, please post a review -- good or bad -- on the book's Amazon page.  You can leave me a message on the Facebook Author Page with your email address and specify if you want a regular .pdf copy or a Kindle copy or an epub version.

Thanks...

Paul Levine


On finishing a novel

Patty here…

On Friday, at around 3:30 p.m. I finished the draft of my work-in-progress. There were many days I thought that would never happen. To me, writing this fifth book looked like a long dusty road to nowhere.

 The road from Cat Harbor to the Isthmus, Santa Catalina Island

The word count is too short but I’m not worried about that. It will get longer as I add texture and the scenes I’m sure I’ve left out along the way. For now, all of the elements of the story are written on the page.

I used to print copies of my work willy-nilly but I’ve stopped doing that because too many trees died for the cause. I edit on the screen, which I don’t like much. Now that I am “finished” I will give myself permission to print out the manuscript and begin editing by hand—my favorite thing. I use a different color paper for each draft. It’s a silly ritual because there is no rhyme or reason to the color scheme. Someday I’ll write down the order so I don’t forget: 1st draft pink, 2nd draft blue. For now, I have a fresh ream of lovely green paper waiting to be inked.

I know why it took me so long to finish. This book is a departure from my other four novels and it feels more personal. I started it around the time my mother died, which set off a chain reaction of heartbreaking events for me. Plumbing the depths of my pain in a novel wasn’t easy. For a long time, I felt too vulnerable to allow people to read my words much less write cruel things about them. As Erica Jong once said: “I went for years not finishing anything. Because, of course, when you finish something you can be judged.”

 An osprey AKA fish hawk perched on a mast, waiting to pounce, Santa Catalina Island

I’ve never suffered from writer’s block, just writer’s rebellion. I’m not going to finish and you can’t make me. A week or so ago, I called my friend Karen Olson. Our first novels were published around the same time with the same publisher and the same editor. We first met at BoucherCon at one of the wonderful dinners hosted by Mysterious Press and have been friends ever since. We don’t see each other very often—we live at opposite corners of the U.S.—so our typical phone conversations last for 2 hours or so.

Both of us are working on manuscripts that have been particularly difficult for us to complete. Karen works best with a deadline. I’ve never missed a deadline but I hate them. They stress me out. I prefer dawdling. Why hurry? Wisdom grows with age. Right? Toward the end of our marathon conversation, Karen and I made a pact that we would finish a draft of our novels by October 1st. I should have offered her a handicap because my page count was higher. But she didn’t ask for one because she’s no dawdler.

 Frankly, I didn’t think I would make the dealine, but as I mentioned in a previous post, I recently spent some time in Catalina where I have always been able to write.

 Waiting for inspiration, Isthmus Harbor, Santa Catalina Island

Of course, I’m not really “finished” with the novel. I’m just beginning. The real work starts now: editing and polishing. As Anton Chekhov once said. “My own experience is that once a story has been written, one has to cross out the beginning and the end. It is there that we authors do most of our lying.”

Write on!

My Sara

from Jacqueline

“And God took a breath of southerly wind, blew his breath upon it, and created the horse.”  Bedouin legend.

 I remember, years ago, someone telling me that when you are the guardian of a four-legged one, it is sad but true that, in general, the bigger they are, the more difficult, physically, it is when it’s time for them to go.  This is probably never more true than with the horse.  Horses are very big animals, and unless they’re in the wild, or being ill-treated in a country where they can die on the streets working (hang on a minute – doesn’t that happen in New York?) – then the owner/guardian has to make the decision to have them humanely euthanized.  While this is often a decision made easier by the fact that it is, for the most part, glaringly obvious that the decision to end suffering is the right one, it is still hard.  And it hurts. 

Many of you will remember me writing about my beloved mare, Sara, and her various medical issues along the way. I had brought her back from a sinus infection that would have led to the end of many horses, and had also nursed her through a few injuries - I think I have hand-walked hundreds of miles with her, all told.  We fought on together because that horse had a spirit like fire, and she wasn’t a quitter – and neither am I. 

A few years ago, when we still had Sally, our black Labrador, my husband, John and I made a decision following her surgery for a type of mouth cancer – we decided that every day had to be a banner day for Sal, and if it wasn’t, well, a conversation about her quality of life would be in order.  From then on we made sure that every day was a banner day – a walk along the beach, a drive in the car, a get-together with her pals at the park around the corner – and in doing so, hey, every day became a banner day for us, too.  Then one day Sally’s banner days began to diminish, and by the time we took her to the vet, she was failing.  “Not a second too soon, or too late, he said.”  She slipped easily from this world at the age of fifteen, with us telling her how beloved she was.

I retired Sara two years ago having not been able to ride her for some time.  I had a major ultrasound investigation carried out, along with radiographs, and they confirmed for me that retirement was in order.  A month of treatments and therapies followed, so I felt confident she could be retired pain free.  But Sara did not take to retirement easily – she’d loved her work - though eventually she settled into lazy days spent in fields, standing under live oaks or munching on sweet hay.  Yet there was one thing that had always bothered me – I firmly believe she suffered bad headaches due to her sinus issues, despite the fact that they seemed “under control.”  I explained this to the vet, and I am sure I was believed, but there’s no measure, no test, to confirm that a horse has a headache.  But I could see it in her eyes and when I rested my hand on her forehead, I know she was soothed. It was as if she were saying, “Oh good, you know.” 

I thought I’d come to my decision at the end of last year – winters are so hard on Sara – but winter came early and fizzled out in California, so she made it through.  However, Sara’s pain – and I know it’s her pain – has now led to behavioral problems and she has become a significant danger to herself and others, humans and horses.  When I visited her at her retirement ranch last week – equine assisted living at its best – I took one look at her and I knew the corner had been turned.  I looked at John.  “She’s had enough,” I said.  There were other indicators too, which I won’t go into, but it was clear that, for Sara, the banner days were few and far between, now.

On Monday I will be seeing Sara for the last time.  I know I can't be there for the vet's visit because I would be the one posing a significant danger - but she will be with people she knows and trusts, and I am assured of the humanity of the process.  I won’t say goodbye to my Sara, but I will tell her that she was the best horse in the world, that to have the privilege of being carried by her was to feel as if I had been borne aloft by Pegasus.  I will tell her I love her and she will be forever in my heart.  Then I will walk away and I will do my very best not to look back at her - Sara, my beloved breath of southerly wind.

Parental Wifi Management (Mac home networks) - Ridley

Today's tech tidbit has to do with parental management of the Internet (a constant concern for Marcelle and me). For Mac users who work with the variety of Mac wifi devices like Time Capsule and Base Station, there is a nifty little tool that is basically hidden. (or it was to me).

Applications/Utilities/Airport Utility is likely a place any Mac WiFi network user/administrator is familiar with. Go there now...

Marcelle and I were looking for a way control the time of the Internet for our kids, but still allow Netflix streaming, etc. and our own internet use. This, as a way to encourage the kids to go to bed instead of wasting hours late night on social media, etc. (sometimes behind our backs! imagine that!)

Here's an easy solution. First, find the MAC address of the laptop or machine (PC or MAC) you're concerned about. (Usually on a permanent tag on the machine; also can be found in the software)

Open AirPort Utility and select the Apple device that sends your wireless or ethernet signal.

Go to the NETWORK banner across the top.

Click ENABLE ACCESS CONTROL and click on TIMED ACCESS CONTROL

Under Wireless Clients hit the plus key, name the device and enter the MAC code for that device

When that is OK and entered up above, select it and, under Wireless Access Times click on how you want that device to be managed. (We turn our kids off at 11:30PM until 5AM)

Voila. Bedtime, and peace of mind for the parents.

There are MANY products out there that help manage Parental Control as well. Take your time determining which is the best for you -- a search engine can help with that.

I hope to write more about "the cloud" in future posts. Here's an Times blog I found interesting that deals with cloud use: 

http://bits.blogs.nytimes.com/2013/09/04/how-tech-remakes-space-food-and-urgency/?src=twr&_r=0

Happy computing!

A Note in a Bottle Dropped in the Gulf Stream

From the messy desk of Paul Levine

Can we agree that this statement from James B. Stewart in The New York Times is inalterably true?

"A publishing contract is hardly a guarantee of critical or commercial success."

Mr. Stewart writes of the puzzling case of J.K. Rowling, who originally published her latest novel, "The Cuckoo's Calling" under the nom de plume "Robert Galbraith," where it was promptly ignored by critics and readers.  Then, Ms. Rowling's camp unveiled the truth and the book soared to the top of the lists, along with a string of glowing reviews.

Mr. Stewart poses this question:

"But if the book is as good as critics are now saying it is, why didn't it sell more copies before, especially since the rise of online publishing has supposedly made it easier than ever for first-time authors?"

Oh, give me a break!

As Mr. Stewart himself points out in "Long Odds for Authors Newly Published," it's never been easy getting your book noticed.  Not then, not now.   If your book is traditionally published, "much depends on how a new manuscript is treated by the publisher."  Will marketing and publicity dollars be put behind the endeavor?  For the overwhelming majority of debut authors, the answer was and remains "no." 

There are exceptions.  Mr. Stewart points to Grove Atlantic's gargantuan efforts at marketing Charles Frazier's "Cold Mountain," which went on to sell 11 million copies and win the National Book Award.

But by and large, first time novelists are essentially on their own in the marketplace.  What about self-publishing?  We're all familiar with those precious few for whom lightning has struck.  But for most, a self-published book has about the same chance of being a best-seller as a note in a bottle dropped in the Gulf Stream.

I've been fortunate in my life in many ways.  For the past 25 years, after giving up a partnership in a law firm, I've paid all my bills as a writer, both of novels and for a few short hectic years, in network television. 

Now, the world of traditional publishing has been turned upside down.  I've bought my backlist from my old publisher and created my own personal publishing company.  That part of the business -- designing covers, marketing, social media, publicity -- takes roughly as much time as the writing.  Meaning...don't do it unless you're willing to cut your writing time in half.

Whether you're published by Simon & Schuster or your Uncle Simon, these words ring true from the Times' article:

"A publisher can only do so much.  A book's fate is ultimately in the hands of the book gods."

*****************************************************

Now, for a bit of that personal marketing I referred to, I have a brand new Facebook Author Page.  Within the next couple weeks, I'll be posting an excerpt from "State vs. Lassiter," to be published in paperback and ebook on October 1.  So please visit and "like" the page.

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We're back from Boulder, CO where we had a summer rental.  Here's a shot of Marcia checking our mailbox for news from home.  Really.

Paul Levine

"Rescue at Sea": the latest thrilling episode of MARINE RADIO

Patty here…

Those of you who follow this blog know I’m a sailor. At the moment I’m bobbing around on a mooring in Cat Harbor at Santa Catalina Island CA. It’s rustic and remote. Labor Day weekend attracts more boats than usual and more unusual boats. When heading west from this harbor, there is nothing but open ocean all the way to Hawaii and beyond. When the sun goes down it’s as dark as Elvira’s wig. There are no city lights, no lighthouse, no beacons except for the anchor lights of sailboats in the harbor and the occasional flicker of a TV below deck. We have no TV onboard, no stereo, just books and tall tales. Occasionally we tune in to our favorite soap opera: MARINE RADIO.

Last night at about 9:30 p.m., I nestled my back into the soft pellets of my beanbag as water lapped against the hull and tuned the handheld radio to Channel 9, the designated channel for Cat Harbor. I overheard the following conversation between the harbor patrol and the skipper of a sailboat I will call the BANANA FISH to protect the clueless. The skipper was lost somewhere on the back side of Santa Catalina Island. The dramedy went something like this:

EXT. Pacific Ocean. West side of Santa Catalina Island. Night.

HARBOR PATROL 

Skipper, do you have any idea where you are? 

SKIPPER 

(slurring his words) 

Nope but you better find me quick. I’m. Losing. Strength. 

HARBOR PATROL 

(unsure if the mariner is having a stroke or merely drunk) 

What port did you leave from this morning? 

 SKIPPER

 (after a long hesitation) 

San Pedro, Long Beach 

HARBOR PATROL 

(ignoring the fact that those are two different ports) 

What was your destination today? 

SKIPPER 

Wherever the wind blew me. 

HARBOR PATROL 

Look at your GPS and give me your coordinates. 

SKIPPER 

My what? Don’t have one of those. 

HAROR PATROL 

Do you have a cell phone with GPS capabilities? 

SKIPPER 

Yeah, I got a cell phone. No cell phone is produced. 

HARBOR PATROL 

How far are you from shore? 

SKIPPER 

I’d guess four miles. 

HARBOR PATROL 

Look at your compass and tell me in what direction you’re headed. 

SKIPPER 

Can’t see the compass. Too dark out here. 

HARBOR PATROL 

Can you turn on a light? 

SKIPPER 

Okay. Light’s on. I’m headed west. 

HARBOR PATROL 

You’re going in the wrong direction. Make a 180 turn and head east. 

 SKIPPER 

Lordy Magordy. Where in hell am I? 

V.O. A boater in the harbor breaks in. 

BOATER 

(in a heavy Booklyn accent) 

Gimme a break. Is this conversation for real? 

HARBOR PATROL 

Skipper, what is your compass reading now? 

SKIPPER

 South. 

For the next five minutes, Harbor Patrol tries but fails to point him toward the harbor. 

HARBOR PATROL 

I’m at Cat Head now. I’m shining a spotlight on the horizon to see if I can spot you. Do you see any lights? 

SKIPPER 

I see an anchor light, spreader lights and a running light. 

HARBOR PATROL 

Skipper, I’m not talking about the lights on your own vessel. I’m asking if you see my spotlight. 

SKIPPER 

Nope. Nothing like that. 

After listening to several minutes of Skipper’s rambling non sequiturs and incoherent slurred speech. 

HARBOR PATROL 

Skipper, switch to Channel 16. I’m going to have the Coast Guard pinpoint your location. 

Skipper switches to Channel 16 

COAST GUARD 

Banana Fish, this is U.S. Coast Guard Los Angeles. In order to locate you, I need you to count from 1 to 10, 1-2-3 up to 10 and then from 10 down to one, 10, 9, 8. 

SKIPPER 

(Tangling with the U.S. Coast Guard was not part of the plan. Wait! There was no plan. In a voice that he means to sound sober but merely sounds loud and wary.) 

Nine, eight, seven, six… 

COAST GUARD 

Sir, I’m using triangulation to locate your vessel. You have to count up from one 

He repeats the instructions. 

SKIPPER 

(sounding more and more suspicious) 

What’s triangulation got to do with me? 

COAST GUARD 

Sir, you do not know where you are. We do not know where you are. If you don’t follow my instructions nobody will ever know where you are. 

 SKIPPER

 (cagy)

 You know, the sea seems pretty calm tonight. I’m gonna just drop the anchor. 

COAST GUARD 

(relieved to be done with the Banana Fish and back to the latest episode of Duck Dynasty) 

Roger that. This is U.S. Coast Guard Los Angeles standing by on Channel 16. 

The only problem is the Banana Fish is four miles from shore where the depth is 1000 feet. He has only 250 feet of anchor rode and chain.

EXT. Somewhere off the coast of Guam. Night. Sixty-seven days later.

SKIPPER 

(slurring his words) 

Guam Harbor Patrol. This is sailing vessel Banana Fish. 

GUAM HARBOR PATROL

This is Guam Harbor Patrol. How can we help you? 

SKIPPER 

I’m lost somewhere off your coast. Dragging anchor. You gotta help me quick. I’m. Losing. Strength. 

At least the ship’s stores of Cutty Sark didn’t run low. Have a great Labor Day. Fair winds!