Thank You

 

Each of us is one, but together we are many.

While we were attending the No King’s March on Saturday, the dogs kept the home fires burning. Of course, if we had left a fire in the fireplace, they would have been sleeping in front of it. However, they kept to their job of guarding, sleeping, and greeting us when we came home, excited as though we had been gone for 6 months. Don’t you love enthusiastic greetings?

 

 The treats came from our visiting daughter. Her dog is in the middle. 

   

Hey, I’m as happy to see you here as fifteen otters using a muddy creek bank as a slip and slide.💗💗💗💗💗

 

When my spirit grows weary, I remind myself of Margaret Mead’s quote:

“Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it's the only thing that ever has.”

—Margaret Mead

 

Last Saturday, thousands gathered peacefully in Springfield, Oregon, for a No Kings March. I even heard strains of the 60’s “This land you land, this land is our land, from California to the New York I- land…”.”

We gathered to state our case and to tell the establishment that this is what Democracy looks like—

 

And to remind everyone who will listen that what Abraham Lincoln said in a two-minute speech in Gettysburg still rings with the force of angels singing: “That the government of the people and by the people shall not perish from the earth.”

                                                              From my perspective

 

There I am by the Public House that looks like a church in the upper left-hand corner of the picture.

 

I left carrying HOPE. She doesn’t weigh much, and she is sweet and generous.

 

(Well, after the previous No Kings March, the President published a meme that showed him Crowned as a King flying a plane over the marchers and dumping excrement on them. (Oh, there is an entire AI-generated video—that’s totally gross.) That’s what he thinks of his constituents and anyone who dares oppose him. And, this man was somehow given the position of CEO of this country. What an opportunity to do good, to bring “we the people” together, and to guide honestly and honorably. He could have built a laudable legacy for himself and a future we could be proud of. Well, folks, he blew it!)

But we came back stronger on the second march. Eight Million of us! And I have gotten the message that Freedoms unless constantly guarded can and will, if given the opportunity, be taken away from us.

 

 

 

 

Something

 

 

I thought I would make you hungry. This doesn’t have much to do with the story I’m telling, except that I mention the Carnegie Deli in New York, and at the time I was writing about it, it was closed. I wondered if it still is. It is open, and here is a picture of their Rubin sandwich.

 I should have sent this blog four days ago when I was hyped, tickled, and excited.

For some reason, I’m not today.

Maybe I’m scared. Maybe I’m tired. Maybe it’s a completion let-down. Maybe that our washing machine broke down and I need to clear the space for the delivery man to bring in the new one. - Life happens.

Maybe it's not knowing if this novel I’ve had in the works for over thirty years will go anywhere. Yet, yet, I love my characters. They deserve a life, not to sit languishing in my computer.

In my novel,  Song of Africa: Miss Sara Rose wrote at the beginning of her journal:

“There is an old saying that once we start weaving, the gods will provide the skein.”

It turned out to be true for Sara and for me. I did not know when I began writing this story where it was going or where it would end. But the ending came.  A second Sara, a young Sara, entered the picture and completed the story.

I did not see that coming.

When I began this novel, I heard that a protagonist needed to be young and beautiful. So, out of rebellion, I choose to write about an unmarried 65-year-old schoolteacher who retires on the first page. She is beautiful, I couldn’t resist.

“A spinster school teacher?” said a friend. “That will never fly.”

“Oh yes, it will. You don’t know what happens in the story.”

Also, at the beginning of this writing, I didn’t know how a 65-year-old woman would feel.

What a difference 30 years makes.

Of course, I haven’t been working on this story for all of those 30 years. I have done other things, but I kept going back to it. I have aged. My story has evolved. I figured it was my learning story. At first, I wrote by hand, then I learned to compose on the computer. And when I tried to add dialogue, exposition, and description all wrapped together as true novelists do, I felt like the carnival performer spinning plates on vertical poles. The performer runs from one pole to another to keep the plates spinning, if one gets wobbly, it is likely to fall.

Five days ago, I was about ready to chuck the whole thing, for I couldn’t get the beginning right, and after tearing the chapters apart to have time jumps, I put them all back together in chronological order.

Miss Sara Rose leaves her little town of King’s Valley, Kansas, and embarks on her lifelong dream—to ride a river in Africa. And there enters The Rocinante, not the river boat of her dreams but a broken-down old launch (named after Don Quixote’s horse) that takes tourists up and down the Gambia River. The Rocinante has a skipper, a Caucasian engineer from Los Angeles, California. Thus enters a new life for Sara, a romance, a granddaughter, and when another Sara, Miss Sara Rose’s namesake, arrives, well…how much should I tell?

Surprise, I unintentionally ended up with a beautiful young protagonist.

It is the story of three women, Miss Sara Rose, her granddaughter, Patrice DeShane, and Sara Andrews, Aunt Sara’s namesake, their lives and loves. At the present time, it isn’t so outrageous to write about older people falling in love. See, if you wait long enough, your idea will become common. Better get with it to be on the leading edge.

I love hearing about work in progress, so I thought I would tell you a little about what I am doing. And that it is important to complete a project.

When I read the Introduction to Rosamunde Pilscher’s, novel, the NY Times bestseller, The Shell Seekers, where her publisher tells her he would love to make her rich and famous, but so far, she hadn’t produced the goods, she asked what that might be. “A story that spans your life,” he said. “a big fat novel for women.” She took the challenge and in her 60’s wrote The Shell Seekers. When she heard the news that it was a best seller, she was home alone in Scotland, so she shared a celebratory whiskey with the dogs.

I took that as a directive for a novel that spans some 80 years.

Song of Africa, a novel of 96,326 words.

Working cover by me: