What's that you say?

Something very surprising happened to me just over a year ago.  I began to lose all my hearing in one ear.  And I made the discovery that the 'good' ear was also pretty bad.  Well, crap.  As I've moved through this process I've learned some things.  Chances are that you aren't going deaf, which is awesome!  Go you!  But ... being in the world, you might have to deal with people like me, who are.  So here's a short little list about how to deal with hearing loss on both sides.

Talking:

• It's hard for us to ask you to repeat something.  When we do, please don't say 'nevermind' and refuse our request. We know we missed out on something and when you do this it isolates us further and makes us feel as if we don't count as much as 'normal' people.
• We may have difficulty hearing you, but we didn't suddenly drop fifty IQ points.  You don't have to dumb something down for us.  Simply repeat it.
• Louder isn't always better!  This one surprised me.  Often times I can hear the volume of what you're saying, but I can't distinguish the sounds you're making.  Enunciating helps me more than dialing it up a notch.
• Finally, look at me when you're talking to me. For one, the sound simply carries better. For another, I can pick up a lot of cues by watching your lips.

Listening:

• One of the hardest things I've had to learn is when to tell people I'm partially deaf. Who wants to announce a hearing issue when they first meet someone? You need to suck it up and do that to help avoid awkward moments like the time the hostess of the party had been yammering in my ear for who knows how long while I'd been happily ignoring her.
• Add value!  I've learned sign to a few fun phrases. So after I explain that I have a hearing issue, I can teach them something useful, like how to say "Die in a fire!" and "You make baby Jesus cry" in ASL. It's an ice-breaker at any rate.
• Reduce background noise.  Sometimes this one isn't on you, but when you can, go for one-on-ones with people. Turn off the tv, the music, find a quiet room.  Less sound filtering is better!
• Take it with as much humor as you can. The people you love are adjusting to this new you as well. If you accept it with good grace, those around you will as well. 

'

Very Hip Tea with Ellen Harger and Channing Tatum

So I read this fantastic book called "The Anonymous Blog of Mrs. Jones" by Ellen Harger. There are a so many things to love about Ellen and her book that its almost impossible to pick only a few.  Her main character, Gillian, is struggling in life, but maintains such a wonderful (and realistic) sense of humor that you can't help but root for her. In addition, Ellen's writing style is just a joy to read. She manages to conjure up with words such clear and clever mental images that I almost hate her a little for not having thought of it myself!
I asked Ellen a few questions.  And though in reality our interview was via email, it would be fine if you pictured us having tea at a really hip spot. And let's say Channing Tatum was our waiter. (Why not?) He was very impressed with our sparkling wit. He was so drawn to us, in fact, that the other customers may have felt a teensy bit neglected.

A quick excerpt from "The Anonymous Blog of Mrs. Jones."

My fictitious man taunts me during work. He wants to know more. It’s intoxicating to feel interesting. I’m so addicted, I sneak a little blog time at lunch. This leads to making notes about our story. Do I write posts for him? Or just write letters to my mysterious man? The project has moved beyond journal and into a full fledge fantasy.

Plus, the silliness encourages my desire for divorce, but I can’t shake doubts because I can’t answer why with any satisfaction. My only concrete reason to end my marriage is a compass-like pull in my gut pointing toward release. I’m certain there’s no checkbox for that on divorce forms.

“Gillian?”

I can only hope my jump wasn’t noticed. “Yes, Joyce?”

“Be sure to have all the new payroll files finished today.”

Assurances made, I make labels and enter data for the five forms per file. It’s drone work, allowing me to blank back out to my only concern. Since the blog is fictitious, a place for release, I won’t give my mystery lover an identity. That way he can conform to my every whim. He’s just an expression of wanting, of wanting me. He has no face, no voice, no birthday or job dissatisfaction. He’s not bound to the daily grind of mercilessly boring reality.

Today he’s scruffy like the hero in the movie “Once.” It’s an odd choice because the stars don’t end up together. The leading lady remains faithful to her husband, determined to make it work. The hero goes on and the possibility, the potential, is never tested. The sexuality is so tempered that its absence induces longing in the audience. It’s that connection, even with the sacrifice, that digs through the bullshit. It’s about a deeper connection than mere sex.

Sex. Sex is a once a month ritual I check off the calendar like scrubbing the toilet. My husband doesn’t ask for it, so I’m allowed to maintain the minimum necessary to differentiate between spouse and siblings. My desire deflated pretty quickly after we said I do. Sex in marriage is like an all-you-can-eat buffet - you pay once and don’t go back for seconds.

After the fire, my desire flat-lined completely.

I held children at bay, too. I like kids but the cost scares me. Everyone says you can’t plan for it, a family, but I like checklists. So I required a baby line in our monthly expenses, and no taking it from savings. How could we afford college when we couldn’t save more than a few hundred dollars a month?

I’ve always been responsible, trying desperately to stave off catastrophe. The fire was free. It cost everything.

~~*~~

Questions for Ellen (by me, with Fictional Channing Tatum looking on in admiration)

1. Fire is a purifying agent in this book.  What did it burn away in Gillian’s life?

I love this question and the simplest answer is excuses.

Before the fire, the memories of who Evan and Gillian were as a couple surrounded them: photographs, merged collections, and furniture picked out together. Even if unhappiness tapped at the window, memories encouraged Gillian to close the shades by gently rubbing her neck with “Remember when?” Fire burned away all the baggage that bound them together.

It also purified her mixed emotions into concentrated sadness. The loss of belongings revealed a deeper loss of dreams and identity, forcing Gillian to climb out of her depression by asking difficult questions. Her questions weren’t perfect. In fact, they’re often selfish--the ashy residue she must clean off.

2. Mr. Write is a difficult to get a bead on, for both the reader and Gillian.  There is something very magnetic about ‘the unknown’.  What is the most compelling aspect of him according to Gillian? 
She’s definitely attracted to his unknown, but also to his interest in her. When she creates the blog, no time is spent on her imaginary lover’s physical details. Her desire is to share thoughts she’s scared to say.

When a stranger responds, two things happen. First, her fantasy is potentially threatened by a prankster, making Gillian protective. Her blog is important because she’s already healing before he asks to dream about her. Second, by returning, Mr. Write transforms blog as therapy into physical desire. It begs the question, was Gillian angry or lonely in her marriage? Which came first, the lack of talking, or touching?

Ultimately, what I learned from Gillian was that blog was about communing with herself. She stopped appreciating her own individuality and doubted her value.

3. Swag!  What’s not to love about little giveaways that authors do.  Tell me all about your swag, won’t you?

We all want fun but practical ideas. While brainstorming with a friend who’s a born party planner, she got a funny look and said, “Matchbooks.” The pros and cons popped like firecrackers: matchbooks promote the theme of fire perfectly as well as being practical, look like tiny books, and are collectible. The cons exploded as: where, how, how much? A little internet search and I found a budget friendly approach: print custom stickers and buy white matchboxes off of ebay. The assembly was easier than I hoped and they’re a big hit.

4. Books change a lot between the first conception of the story and the final draft.  What is one of the biggest shifts that this tale took?
Originally, Mr. Write looked up Mrs. Jones on the internet. He was a guy she wanted to date years before, but he was married. The blog was a place where they wrote love letters as two fictitious characters.

5. Do you ever suffer from writer’s block?  If so, what pushes you past the wall?

I have no fingernails because when writer’s block hits, I worry the weak spots with my thumbnail until the nails tear. I search for imperfections as I try out different words. In fact, writing answers to these questions, I lost the nail of my ring finger on my right hand as I struggled to express my thoughts.

I’d say writer’s block is part of the job, but the fact is, its fear. We all worry about capturing a new phrase, corralling words, and using creative alchemy to unfurl a moment like a magic carpet that suspends a reader beyond disbelief. We agonize over word placement until a sentence snaps with the zip of a tightly wound towel.

There’s only one real secret to writing and that’s to write. You push past writer’s block by not letting it bully you. Writer’s block is the brute muscle for fear, doing its dirty work. It shows up and glowers at you until you say, “I can’t tonight. I’m not feeling it.”

As my editor, Becky Dickson says, “Writing something bad is better than writing nothing at all.”

Even though I know this, deadlines are fantastic motivation for me. I also like to block out the sounds of home by listening to music with giant headphones. 

 ~~*~~

Now, the question is - how hard do you want to read Ellen's book?  I know Fictional Channing Tatum has already run out for his copy! Go fast! You might not catch him, but you can enjoy the view running behind him.

Ellen's website is here.

Her book trailer is here. 
Her bio is here (literally):

ELLEN HARGER 

I'm a word gypsy and emotion sifter, writing about broken condoms, unhappy marriages and women's issues at the chick-lit end of women's fiction and the women's fiction end of chick-lit.
     I believe great storytelling asks readers to confront what they've stuffed deep down. We all get blinded by emotion and stuck in ruts. In June 2005, I woke up to a wall of fire. Watching the flames eat away my life was my biggest turning point in life.
     My first novel, Strong Enough, released February 20113.  My sophomore work, The Anonymous Blog of Mrs. Jones, debuts this July.



Disclaimer: As far as I know, Ellen doesn't have a thing for Fictional Channing.  He just inserted himself into my Tea Room of the Mind and neither of us had much to say about it.  Mr. Tatum does not go quietly, as it turns out.  My apologies to Ellen.

Do you have questions for Ellen?  Comments?  Channing complaints?  Leave below!

Big Bar of Soap

I needed some swag to give out to promote my soon-to-be-released first book, NOT QUITE DARCY.  I hit upon the idea of making little Victorian style soaps, in bright pink to match the cover.

Somehow, 25 pounds of soap is much bigger and heavier than it seemed to be on the website! Banana for scale.

Naturally, my son began to claim it as his project and found a saw...

Once it was in reasonably-sized chunks, I got to play Walter White and get all measurey.

Then I carefully parsed the color block dye with a very precise scientific instrument cheese grater.

After I had the right amount of soap and dye, I melted that stuff up.

Then added the raspberry scent

And poured it into the molds.

Authentic plastic!  Just like Victorians used to use!

Pop them out of the molds to see sweet, little Victorian style hearts.

All ready to give out for book release!  I only wish there'd been enough room to include jokes about naked Queen Victoria - dammit.

Bad Ass War Women

Elsie Knocker (and how great is that name) and her bff Mairie Chisholm.  Even before World War I, they were kind of badass. They got to know each other through their hobby, stripping down and racing motorcycles in a culture where women riding bicycles was seen as scandalous.

When England entered the war in 1914, Knocker wrote to Chisholm that there was "work to be done." Chisholm hopped on her bike in in Dorset and popped off to London with the intent of being dispatch riders for the Women's Emergency Corps. Although initially the women were frustrated at not being allowed the front lines. While Chisholm was riding as a courier, she was spotted making hairpin turns around a city by Dr. Hector Munro. He was setting up a Flying Ambulance Corps to help the Belgians who had been caught in the German invasion. Munro invited the women to join his team.

Chisholm said, "Munro was deeply impressed with my ability to ride throught traffic. He traced me to the Women's Emergency Corps and said, 'Would you like to go out to Flanders?' and I say 'Yes, I'd love to'."

The women were stationed well behind the lines and quickly grew frustrated by the loss of life due to delayed treatment at the front. In November they left the corps and set up their own aid station right on the front lines in a little town called Pervyse. It was 100 yards from the trenches. They spent the next three and a half years tending to the wounded. Since they weren't affiliated with the Red Cross, they had to raise all their own funds - for bandages, food, etc.

They ended up saving thousands of lives and only stopped when forced to due to injuries suffered in a gas attack.

Yo, WW2?  Elsie and Mairie called.  What’s all this rot about the “greatest’ generation?  (That’s right!  I just did a women in war sacrifice throw down.)

Torn Between Two Covers

Hi.

"Don't post this shit about book covers on your blog," they said.  "People don't DO that," they said. Or they would if I had voices that talked to me.  Luckily, I am sane, so I don't hear those voices and am posting this anyway.

Right now I'm torn between two choices for "Not Quite Darcy".  Do you have a preference?

My editor wants me to ... as she said on the art form she gave me ... "This story is BIG on humor, so something whimsical, light-hearted, with a play on time-travel. The setting is nineteenth century England, but it’s hardly your typical historical, so we’re better playing up the humor than the historical bent."

Without going pie in the face (and ignoring any pudding that might go in faces, ahem!) which of these two choices do you like?

Choice A (Or Silhouette):

Have two silhouettes, with their backs to one another, male and female.  The male would look traditionally Victorian.  Either in profile or full view.

The female would look more like this:

Or a full body version.  Carefully avoiding any copyright infringement and getting rid of the ipod, sadly. (Publisher has a legal department, right?)  If the image is profiles, Eliza could be blowing a bubble.  If it's full body, figures would still be back to back. She would be in modern dress - dancing with a feather duster or we could swap that for a broom if  you like. William could be holding out a book, ever so politely.  Key would be juxtaposing the ipod manic girl with the standard rigid Victorian silhouette and I think full body does that most effectively.

Background to be hot pink.

I feel this one captures the feel of the book the best and answers my editor's wish for it not to look like a typical historical.

CHOICE B (or Fuzzy Focus)

How about this?

Since the title would lend itself to such a cover.  But instead of a fugly guy with a disturbing collar, a handsome guy just out of focus.  Like this one.

Also, to lighten this one, it could be done as a blurry photo with a bright 'wash' of yellow or pink.  So it doesn't look like Deadly Serious Literature.

So?  You there?

Which one do you like better?  

If you like choice one, full body or profile?

WE WILL BE SENDING A THANK YOU GIFT! A VOUCHER FOR A DISNEY RESORT FOR 5 DAYS!  FREE PARKING!  PLUS A FRUIT BASKET!! WE'LL BE GETTING BACK TO YOU REAL SOON ON THAT.

But really, thank you.  I owe you pie.  Or a fruit basket.

My World War One Thing

I don't know when it began. 8th grade? Somewhere around then. Seeing the photos of the men quivering with shell shock. Listening to the poems of the lost generation. It might have simply been the staggering statistics. "How could a MILLION die in one single battle?" My preteen self was hooked.

 I don't want to say it's been the love that has lasted a lifetime, because 'love' is a strange word to use with war. Let's try obsession instead. :)

When I went to college, I majored in History and when I was to student teach, somehow I managed to get a position with the Department of Defense. In Belgium. Big surprise - right where the brave boys of Europe had bled out on the battlefields of "The Great War."

So my clueless, Junior Year of College self is riding on a train in Belgium, en route to her destination, and I settle myself down in a train compartment. Think Hogwarts Express but with fewer steam engines and way more bodily odors.

As soon as I'm seated an elderly gentleman joins me. Just he and I in the car. I give him a polite nod. He returns my insincere gesture and the train chugs out of the station. Except ... we begin to talk. He could sense my obvious excitement at being in the place that, up til now, I'd only read about in my textbooks.

 "Have you been to Belgium before?" he asks, politely.

"Never. But I've studied it. You know."

"I don't know. You've studied...Belgium?"

"I'm a History teacher. Well, on my way to becoming one. And Belgium. World War One. It's kind of exciting."

He didn't say anything for a while. Then, eventually, "I fought in World War One."

Me, "No way!" Ok, in retrospect, I could have been more refined. But it was better than "Get out!" Or "You're shitting me!"

As I remember, he nodded and smiled.

"Ypres? Ypres fascinates me."

His eyes took on a distant look. "I was there."

"For the first battle, or the second?"

"The first, thank God."

"No kidding!" I agree.

We continue speaking in a language meant for uber history geeks or veterans - from... well the coast of Belgium to Brussels. It must have been at least an hour. I had questions and he had insight. It was marvelous. No, it was life-changing.

When the train pulled into the Brussels station, it was with real regret that I told him I had to change trains, to Mons. We both knew the battle significance of Mons and exchanged a knowing glance.

 "I... may I...?" It was strange to see him stammer after he'd been so composed and full of details about his exciting battles.

I waited for him to continue. "It may seem abrupt, but it's been so long since I've kissed a young girl. Would you mind, terribly, if I gave you a kiss?"

"Are you kidding?" I asked. "A chance to kiss a soldier from the Great War? It's my lucky day!"

He brushed his lips against mine. They weren't creepy or clammy or old. His lips felt sweet. Genuine. Kind of heroic.

I thanked him for his time and lugged my suitcase off the overhead rack.

I never knew his name, but I've never forgotten him either. Thank you, sweet old man, for showing me there was more to you than your exterior. And for inspiring a few generations with your courage.

Nobody Likes the DMV

I had to go to the DMV recently to register all those requirements for the state I'd just moved to.  And it made me remember another time, another DMV trip, a few years back.  I managed to find myself in line wearing my husband's swim trunks, a white pump and a brown wedge shoe and holding a snake in a tupperware container.  Looking around, I had to recognize, "Most people probably wouldn't find themselves in this situation.  I should work on that."

How did I come to find myself there, wearing that, holding that?  Like anything, really.  A series of small not-so-bright decisions that added up until I found myself inadvertently scaring people at a government office.  The swim trunks?  Someone knocked on my door bright and early that morning.  I threw on the closest things around to answer the door.  Besides, I reasoned, men's swim trunks could pass for shorts, right?  (My husband assures me, wrong.)  The person at the door turned out to be my proper British friend, Jackie, who was dropping off her daughter, the equally proper Glynnis, for a play date with my daughter.  I got on with my day and pretty much forgot about the swim trunks.

Then a few surprises happened quickly.  My daughter, the nature lover, found a garter snake in our front garden.  Joy!  Glynnis was properly horrified, but it was my duty to teach her the joys of nature, so I kicked on the two handiest shoes around (pump and wedge, but hey, they were for the correct feet, so give me some credit) and armed with tupperware, went out to capture said snake, who we planned on releasing after an hour or two.

Right at that moment my husband phoned.  "You have twenty minutes to get to the DMV or we'll have to go through a huge process to reregister our cars in the state!  Please go now!"  Knowing the DMV was fifteen minutes away, there wasn't a second to spare - so I loaded up the kids and tore off.

My daughter was the one who lugged the snake into the DMV, not wanting to leave it in the car on a hot summer day.  Once she stepped into the room, she was greeted with a wall of uncomfortable stares.  (Snakes, as it turns out, do not sit quietly in tupperware, but tend to slither around in a very enthusiastic manner.)  As a six-year-old, the collective hatred of everyone in the DMV was a lot to handle so, in the grand tradition of children everywhere, she pawned the thing off on me.

And there I stood.  Two different shoes, swim trunks, and a snake who was doing his damnest to knock the lid off the tupperware.

The crowd just stared and the two men ahead of me in line, scooted as far away as they could get, casting nervous glances back at me.  "Ha, ha!"  I said.  "Lid's on tight!"  I said.  My fellow DMVers expressions subtly shifted from 'irritation' to 'we-may-have-a-looney-on-our-hands.'

Glynnis whispered loudly up to me.  "Aren't you afraid all these people are going to think you're crazy?"

"Yes, Glynnis.  Yes, I am."

When a first grader is giving you advice in how to act around others, it might be time to reconsider your decision making process.  Just perhaps.

On the plus side, that day Glynnis learned a valuable lesson: when it came to play dates, snakes might not necessarily be the biggest thing she needed to worry about!  Just passing out life-lessons to the next generation - that's me.