a trip to Toronto
January/12/2012 Filed in: flashes of the extraordinary
A few years ago, I had signed up for a one-day workshop (nothing to do with writing). I drove through the fog, along the lakeshore, headlights turned on. Somehow, I missed the high-pitched beep-beeping which would have warned me of my forgetfulness.
Off I went, scurrying along through the underground parking lot, up into the daylight, and over to the hotel to find the location of the classroom. By that time, I was a few minutes late. I abhor being late. For anything. I’m also disinclined to drive on superhighways. The ones with four lanes or more, going in the same direction. Given the two options, I’d decided on the scenic route, hence the fog along the shoreline.
Anyway, back to the classroom. I enjoyed the day, totally oblivious of my draining car battery.
Already dreading the drive back home, imagine my surprise (and dismay) when the engine would not start. I did not have a cell phone. I did not carry booster cables in my car.
Back to the hotel I went, searching for help.
The young receptionist introduced me to one of the housekeepers--a middle-aged woman, who barely spoke English, but gesticulated with her hands in a well-meaning Italian grandmother kind of way. She had a car, but no booster cables.
A few minutes later, the housekeeper returned after locating a young man who had a set of booster cables, but no car.
Both of my “rescuers” met me in the lower level parking, arriving in a butter-toffee-coloured Mercedes, the housekeeper sitting behind the wheel.
You can’t always judge a book by its cover...
Off I went, scurrying along through the underground parking lot, up into the daylight, and over to the hotel to find the location of the classroom. By that time, I was a few minutes late. I abhor being late. For anything. I’m also disinclined to drive on superhighways. The ones with four lanes or more, going in the same direction. Given the two options, I’d decided on the scenic route, hence the fog along the shoreline.
Anyway, back to the classroom. I enjoyed the day, totally oblivious of my draining car battery.
Already dreading the drive back home, imagine my surprise (and dismay) when the engine would not start. I did not have a cell phone. I did not carry booster cables in my car.
Back to the hotel I went, searching for help.
The young receptionist introduced me to one of the housekeepers--a middle-aged woman, who barely spoke English, but gesticulated with her hands in a well-meaning Italian grandmother kind of way. She had a car, but no booster cables.
A few minutes later, the housekeeper returned after locating a young man who had a set of booster cables, but no car.
Both of my “rescuers” met me in the lower level parking, arriving in a butter-toffee-coloured Mercedes, the housekeeper sitting behind the wheel.
You can’t always judge a book by its cover...
violin player, cleaning, airport
January/03/2012 Filed in: writing exercises
“What if we get on the wrong one?” I asked, looking down into my daughter’s one-year old eyes.
Her fuzzy blonde hair curled up and around, intermingling with the white fur of her hood. She smiled, baring her two top teeth. A stream of drool dribbled down, disappearing into the soft material of her coat collar.
“Do you think anyone else will notice that my hands won’t stop shaking?”
A saliva bubble appeared on her lips, then popped and disbursed.
“I’ve never been on a plane before.”
She scrunched up her face and placed a finger on my chin.
“Ouch. Remind me to trim your fingernails.”
I glanced around the airport’s lounge area, seeking a distraction.
Pushing a cleaning cart towards the nearest washroom, a woman dragged her feet along the tiled floor. The thump-thump sound of her work boots made themselves heard beyond the continuous buzz of mingled conversation. She pushed the door open with her backside and pulled the cart in with her muscular arms.
A few minutes later, a woman exited the washroom, wearing a long dress, violin and bow in hand. She stood beside a previously ignored chair. With the grace of a ballerina, she cradled the instrument beneath her chin and drew the bow across the strings. After birthing the first few notes, the annoying chatter died.
Upon finishing her makeshift recital, and without making eye contact with her amateur audience, she grasped at the folds of her dress, pulled up the fabric and let the heavy folds fall back where they may. The scuffed toe of a work boot showed itself to those of us paying attention.
“Ophelia, there’s something really special about that washroom over there,” I said, smiling at my daughter. “You go in as a cleaning lady and come out a violin player.”
Her fuzzy blonde hair curled up and around, intermingling with the white fur of her hood. She smiled, baring her two top teeth. A stream of drool dribbled down, disappearing into the soft material of her coat collar.
“Do you think anyone else will notice that my hands won’t stop shaking?”
A saliva bubble appeared on her lips, then popped and disbursed.
“I’ve never been on a plane before.”
She scrunched up her face and placed a finger on my chin.
“Ouch. Remind me to trim your fingernails.”
I glanced around the airport’s lounge area, seeking a distraction.
Pushing a cleaning cart towards the nearest washroom, a woman dragged her feet along the tiled floor. The thump-thump sound of her work boots made themselves heard beyond the continuous buzz of mingled conversation. She pushed the door open with her backside and pulled the cart in with her muscular arms.
A few minutes later, a woman exited the washroom, wearing a long dress, violin and bow in hand. She stood beside a previously ignored chair. With the grace of a ballerina, she cradled the instrument beneath her chin and drew the bow across the strings. After birthing the first few notes, the annoying chatter died.
Upon finishing her makeshift recital, and without making eye contact with her amateur audience, she grasped at the folds of her dress, pulled up the fabric and let the heavy folds fall back where they may. The scuffed toe of a work boot showed itself to those of us paying attention.
“Ophelia, there’s something really special about that washroom over there,” I said, smiling at my daughter. “You go in as a cleaning lady and come out a violin player.”
art: a trio of sunflowers
December/17/2011 Filed in: art
Painted with acrylics on a piece of canvas board, dimensions: 9” x 12”
My intention is to use this art on the cover of my work-in-progress novel, In Search of Iridescence, a story which includes diarized snapshots regarding the life of Vincent Van Gogh.
Sunflowers are mandatory.
graphic granny square afghan: finished!
December/11/2011 Filed in: handmade
Completed in time for Christmas! Version number two of a pattern I came up with earlier in the year. When working on a project of this scale, it is so important to get the colour combination right. By creating a mock up using spreadsheet software, I was able to envision the overall pattern of the completed blanket, sparing me the frustration of trial and error.
Yarn: Patons® Classic Wool - 100 grams/210 yards
black - 6 balls
ivory- 6 balls
red - 5 balls
grey - 4 balls
Size 6.00 mm crochet hook (J10)
Dimensions of completed project: 53.5” x 68.5”
book covers: it's an evolution
December/07/2011 Filed in: my novels
Just as the actual writing of a novel is an evolutionary process, so follows the creation of its bookcover.
I’m nearing the home stretch, tweaking the story here and there, challenging myself to craft an entertaining and satisfying read.
All I can think about is creating the cover.
I plead guilty to putting the cart before the horse. By the way, this horse is still in the barn!
Confident that the visualization of the finished product will give me the push I need to complete the editing process, it’s necessary for me to follow this creative tangent for just a bit. Call it incentive.
Do we all judge a book by its cover? Of course we do! Be it colour, illustrations, title or typography, a book’s cover is an author’s first and perhaps, only opportunity to make an impression, especially in the case of target audiences.
I plan on publishing my novel, Augusta Louise, as an e-book. With so much competition lining up on those virtual store shelves, it’s crucial that I create a design that will stand out, even at thumbnail dimensions.
Farm Animal Images - Text Dingbats: “Barnyard” by Carol Brooksbank, available via dafont.com
Versions which did not make it to the number one spot:
It’s quite obvious from looking at my previous endeavours, I’d been sort of fixated on the “fire” theme. The flames had succeeded in drowning the quirky tone of my story.
In the final version, I chose to extinguish the flames and placed my characters’ small town way of life, front and centre. The overall design looks much more professional, but that’s just my opinion. You know what they say about beauty, eyes and beholding.
The software used? Keynote, a MAC program, similar to Powerpoint. Individual slides of a ‘presentation’ are easily exported to an image file format. I used the TIFF option to obtain the best resolution possible. All you have to do is reset your slide dimensions to match your intended book cover size. Keep adding new slides to create different versions. Design away!
graphic granny squares
October/30/2011 Filed in: handmade
Essentially, there are two different types of “squares” - one with a round centre, one totally square.
A sampling of the repeating pattern:
iguana sighting
September/15/2011 Filed in: flashes of the extraordinary
A couple of weeks ago, my sister and I drove out to Port Stanley. Nice little lakeside town. For lunch, we stopped in at The Kettle Creek Inn. They served the best fish and chips I’ve ever tasted.
On our way out, we ended up going down a no-exit street, thinking we’d found a scenic route. Just as I steered the car around the curve of a cul-de-sac, I noticed something moving amongst the leaves on the ground.
Something neon green, with spiky bits, a long tongue and tail, sunbathing in a puddle of light. Three feet long from nose to toes, so to speak.
I pointed at the beastie, trying to get my sister’s attention. “Isn’t that an iguana?”
Iguanas running amok in Southwestern Ontario just isn’t done.
Photo courtesy of www.123rf.com
The hunt was on to find the owner or a reasonable substitute. My sister ran down the road, her arms waving in the air above her head as if she was trying to find aid for someone requiring urgent medical care.
Turns out, a couple walking along the street knew all about the escaped reptile.
We tried to catch it in a milk crate, but it jumped down from the branch it’d been climbing and scurried up the hill, right under the bared roots of a mature tree.
By this time, the sister of the reptile’s owner knew of our dilemma. She followed the iguana’s trail, wearing an old plaid shirt. Apparently, she’d been able to catch the beastie a short time ago, but not before it had left some awful scratches on her arms.
She couldn’t find him.
Meanwhile, their family cat had been slinking around the plateau of the hill, doing what cats do, while we were trying to find the beastie. The cat led the girl straight to the base of the tree which turned out to be the newest hiding place for the escapee.
What are the odds that some out-of-towners driving down a ‘no exit’ road would turn their car around in a cul-de-sac at the precise moment an iguana-in-the-wild (almost invisible, camouflaged by green leaves) decided to make a move?
I should have bought a lottery ticket.
Strange things happen in small towns. It’s why I enjoy writing about them and the people who live there.
On our way out, we ended up going down a no-exit street, thinking we’d found a scenic route. Just as I steered the car around the curve of a cul-de-sac, I noticed something moving amongst the leaves on the ground.
Something neon green, with spiky bits, a long tongue and tail, sunbathing in a puddle of light. Three feet long from nose to toes, so to speak.
I pointed at the beastie, trying to get my sister’s attention. “Isn’t that an iguana?”
Iguanas running amok in Southwestern Ontario just isn’t done.
Photo courtesy of www.123rf.com
The hunt was on to find the owner or a reasonable substitute. My sister ran down the road, her arms waving in the air above her head as if she was trying to find aid for someone requiring urgent medical care.
Turns out, a couple walking along the street knew all about the escaped reptile.
We tried to catch it in a milk crate, but it jumped down from the branch it’d been climbing and scurried up the hill, right under the bared roots of a mature tree.
By this time, the sister of the reptile’s owner knew of our dilemma. She followed the iguana’s trail, wearing an old plaid shirt. Apparently, she’d been able to catch the beastie a short time ago, but not before it had left some awful scratches on her arms.
She couldn’t find him.
Meanwhile, their family cat had been slinking around the plateau of the hill, doing what cats do, while we were trying to find the beastie. The cat led the girl straight to the base of the tree which turned out to be the newest hiding place for the escapee.
What are the odds that some out-of-towners driving down a ‘no exit’ road would turn their car around in a cul-de-sac at the precise moment an iguana-in-the-wild (almost invisible, camouflaged by green leaves) decided to make a move?
I should have bought a lottery ticket.
Strange things happen in small towns. It’s why I enjoy writing about them and the people who live there.
working with 'unknown' fibres
August/28/2011 Filed in: handmade
I picked out two skeins from a discount bin during Mary Maxim’s Tent Sale. Marked as “unknown fibres,” I’d have to say it’s a blend of wool/acrylic. Soft and warm, the chunky yarn worked up fairly quickly using a 9 mm hook. I started with 175 chain stitches and worked back and forth in half double crochet, using the back loop only.
oil pastels: visions of a bird's nest
August/01/2011 Filed in: art
As part of my home redesign, I will be putting thrift shop picture frames to good use--either as motivation to start something new, or to frame completed pieces.
oil pastel on paper - 22” wide x 30” high
teenaged boy, reading, cliffside
July/31/2011 Filed in: writing exercises
I’d been following the descent of the sun on the horizon when I noticed a silhouette squatting along the edge of the cliffside. Wishing to announce my approach, I ground my hiking boots into the loose gravel of the narrow pathway leading to the cliff’s barricade.
The silhouette turned, holding a book between his hands. Lips pouting, long hair hanging down over most of his face, the too-slim body of a teen-aged boy would not be hidden under his tight-fitting sweater.
“Are you okay?” I asked. “You should be back here, behind the barricade.” Once a mother, always a mother.
“I’m fine,” he answered, turning back to his book. “Just reading.”
“I’d feel better if you came over to this side.”
“Look lady. I appreciate your concern, but I’m not a jumper, okay?”
“That’s not what I meant to imply. Simply that it’s not safe for you to sit so close to the edge.”
“I’ve been sitting here for ten years. Nothing’s happened to me yet.”
“Sorry to have interrupted you,” I said, making my way back down the pathway.
“I’m reading Catcher in the Rye,” the boy said. “My mother gave it to me, just before she died of cancer, ten years ago. Would you believe she named me Holden?”
I returned, gripping the barricade with my hands. “Is your last name Caulfield by any chance?”
“Williams.”
“I used to have a crush on William Holden when I was your age.”
“Who is that?” he asked, flicking his hair from his eyes.
I gazed out over the fire-streaked water. “My son drove his car over the edge of a cliff. On purpose.”
The boy placed his book inside his backpack, got up and climbed over the metal barricade to stand beside me.
“My mother had a strange sense of humour.”
“My son didn’t know how to laugh.”
The silhouette turned, holding a book between his hands. Lips pouting, long hair hanging down over most of his face, the too-slim body of a teen-aged boy would not be hidden under his tight-fitting sweater.
“Are you okay?” I asked. “You should be back here, behind the barricade.” Once a mother, always a mother.
“I’m fine,” he answered, turning back to his book. “Just reading.”
“I’d feel better if you came over to this side.”
“Look lady. I appreciate your concern, but I’m not a jumper, okay?”
“That’s not what I meant to imply. Simply that it’s not safe for you to sit so close to the edge.”
“I’ve been sitting here for ten years. Nothing’s happened to me yet.”
“Sorry to have interrupted you,” I said, making my way back down the pathway.
“I’m reading Catcher in the Rye,” the boy said. “My mother gave it to me, just before she died of cancer, ten years ago. Would you believe she named me Holden?”
I returned, gripping the barricade with my hands. “Is your last name Caulfield by any chance?”
“Williams.”
“I used to have a crush on William Holden when I was your age.”
“Who is that?” he asked, flicking his hair from his eyes.
I gazed out over the fire-streaked water. “My son drove his car over the edge of a cliff. On purpose.”
The boy placed his book inside his backpack, got up and climbed over the metal barricade to stand beside me.
“My mother had a strange sense of humour.”
“My son didn’t know how to laugh.”