Category Archives: writing

Day Four: Capri

Photo by j a-b
Fancy dinner calls for a fancy couple. Photo by j a-b

In the spirit of mixing things up, we take a lazier day after the day of The Big Hike.

This doesn’t mean skipping the morning workout, and Kat’s got some Piyo DVDs. They aren’t for weenies! A forty-something minute session gets the blood moving and the muscles stretched. Then it’s time for my three companions to get their massages. I opt to do a cardio workout as I’m getting TWO spa treatments.

By the time I get out of the shower, everyone’s back and blissed out. It’s handy I can just wear my robe to go down a couple flights of stairs to the spa. Which is lovely and quiet and friendly. Clearly everyone there wants you to have a perfect time. My hot stone massage was a perfect time. All those muscles I challenged on the hike, and in the morning’s workout get a good, deep rub, and that heat? Ahhhh.

I’m pretty blissed myself by the time I walk back to the room. And there, my fam is preparing to take a trip on the chair lift that runs beside the hotel–and way, way up. The way, way up has already answered the question of whether I’d want to go. I settle down to work for the hour or so before my facial. The minute I start I’m back into it and realize I wouldn’t mind a solid three or four hour session at the keyboard. But I have the spa calling.

It literally flies by, that hour, so I’m surprised when I check on the time and see I have to leave right now! So still in my robe–and it’s an added bonus to spend the bulk of a day in a robe–I head down again. I’ve chosen a facial that involves oxygen being blown onto (into?) your skin. Not sure how it works, but it feels like your face is being quietly airbrushed. It’s lovely and relaxing. It also involves a neck and shoulder massage, a soothing mask, hand massage. All together, more bliss. And after my skin looks and feels amazing.

I can see why celebs come here for a week just for the spa treatments.

My gang had a great time riding high above Capri, have the photos to prove it–and had some gelato to cap it off.

Photo by j-ab
Reason # 1 why Nora is not on the lift. Photo by j-ab
Reason #2 why Nora's not on the chair lift. Photo by J a-b
Photo by J a-b
Photo by Kat
…but you have to admit the view are worth the ride. Photo by Kat
Photo by j a-b
The intrepid exploriers, very high above the water. Photo by j a-b
View of Naples from Anacapri. Photo by BW
View of Naples from Anacapri. Photo by BW
The daily gelato. Photo by j a-b
The gelato reward. Photo by j a-b

Housekeeping’s here, and one of the ladies apologizes for not speaking English. Then speaks it perfectly in a conversational way–to ask if we’re enjoying our stay, to tell us we’ll love Sorrento and so on. My Italian’s pretty limited to hello, goodbye, good day, evening, night. And various foods. It always impresses me how Europeans have at least a conversational command of so many languages. Americans should do better there.

I’ll add everyone in our hotel has been a delight–friendly, personable, accommodating. Just as the shopkeepers, the waitstaffs around the island have given off that happy, welcoming vibe. More than making a sale, providing a meal, making the bed, checking you in or out, it’s service. Lovely, competent and cheerful service. It makes all the difference.

But now it’s time for me to actually get dressed. We’re going to take ourselves a walk down a quieter area–still shops to play in. A few more gifts to select and friendly shopkeepers to chat with as the light softens toward evening. We can hardly leave Capri without buying a pretty bottle of limoncello. It would just be wrong.

We wind our way back to the restaurant where we ate our first night. I want nothing more in this world than their pizza. Well, maybe some wine to go with it. It’s all as cheerful and delicious as before. Honestly, nobody prepares food like the Italians, or sees to pretty details as flawlessly. We have our easy, fun, yummy meal–pizza for me and my boy, eggplant parm for Kat, a tuna dish for BW. A little dessert. Nobody walked home hungry.

Photo by j a-b
Photo by j a-b
IMG_0158
Salad, pizza, eggplant parm. Photo by Kat.
IMG_0160
Laura’s guess: BW’s tuna dish. Photo by Kat.

Today, post workout, we have to gather our things, organize, repack what we unpacked. We’ll say goodbye to our amazing home here, and the beautiful island of Capri.

Time for a boat ride. At least, for my shaky system, it’s a short one. And by mid-afternoon we’ll be on Sorrento.

New adventures await!

Nora

The Road to Discovery

The keyboard and the stove are both major tools in my world. I literally burn through multiple keyboards a year. Fortunately the stove holds up a lot longer.
 
However, I approach both pretty much the same way.
 
There’s a reason I don’t teach writing. Well, first, I don’t wanna. But over and above? I can’t tell you. I can’t analyze the process, break it down into parts and steps because I run on instinct.
 
I don’t write from an outline, or have a board filled with sticky notes, character points, photographs. I don’t have a notebook where I sketch out the ebb and flow of a story in chapter blocks. I don’t use colored index cards to track plot, setting, dialogue. And seriously, I can’t tell you about POV shifts, scene transitions, pace and rhythm. They just happen. I do scribble notes along the way, then often go back and scratch my head over them.
 
What the hell does that MEAN?
 
I start with a basic concept, a setting, character types. I ask myself who are these people anyway? If she’s a photographer like the female protagonist in the upcoming The Obsession, I know I’m going to be researching that area, and in researching (which is why I do my own) I’m going to discover something that ends up weaving into the story, often in a major way. But I also need to know–or find out–why she chose that profession. Why isn’t she a lawyer instead, or a musician? WHY photography?
 
I have to give her a name, have a mental sketch of what she looks like, how she speaks. I need to know why she lives where she lives–and what it looks like there. Smells like there, feels like. And in researching the where, I’m going to stumble on something else that ends up being important to the story.
 
I only know the bare bones when I begin, so I sit down with those bones and start writing. I discover as I go. That’s why the first draft of a story is called the discovery draft. It’s a process that works well for me–my temperament, my skill sets, my instincts.
 
Other’s mileage not only may but does vary. No right way, no wrong way to approach the art and science and mystery of storytelling. What works for any individual writer is absolutely correct for that individual writer. Anyone says otherwise? Bullshit. And arrogant bullshit at that.
 
I cook pretty much as I write, which is why I not only don’t but can’t answer the calls for recipes after I post a blog on cooking. Please, please, don’t ask me!
 
When I cook, I generally have a baseline. Yesterday my Kayla and I spent a long day in the kitchen. She wanted to make pretzel bread, ham and potato soup, and my mother’s famed pound cake. Okay, kid, let’s see what we’ve got.
 
I have a launch point for the bread and soup, but I spring off that. It’s more fun, more creative. And I like to think it teaches a young girl to be creative, that everything doesn’t have to be precise and exact and set in stone. I substitute. Don’t have any of that, use this. Or I don’t like that anyway, we’ll use this.
 
Like writing, some is trial and error, some is layer as you go, then go back and tweak. Some is experience.
 
For the bread, Kayla uses the baseline recipe with the tweaks or changes or the what-the-hells I’ve added in or taken out. And I watch her learn, enjoy. I loved showing her how to knead the dough, watching her discover how it changes texture under her hands. How she gets the feel, rather than the precise recipe direction of ‘knead for ten minutes.’IMG_1339
 
Then, while the dough rises, it’s onto the cake batter. How long do you mix the butter and sugar together? Until it looks right–and since she’s been learning under my process, she gets this. A little vanilla, a little lemon extract–and she’s pleased with the scent, notices, comments. This is no whimpy cake, so I’ll tell you recipe hounds it calls for a half pound of butter and three cups of sugar. I think the extracts were a teaspoon each. Maybe there’s two of the vanilla. Then it’s six eggs–one at a time–which she likes cracking (and no shells in the batter). It might be three cups of flour–unsifted. My mother called for cake flour, but I didn’t have any, so I used standard. Some salt, some baking soda, mixed together. And a cup of sour cream.IMG_1340
 
Kayla diligently alternates adding the dry mix with the sour cream, and mixing, mixing, mixing. How long? Until it looks right.
 
She’s charmed by the angel food cake pan. I don’t know if that tool is standard for pound cake, but it’s what my mother used. So we use it. Spraying it with Pam, lining the bottom (again, fascinating my girl) with waxed paper. It bakes at 325 for thirty minutes, then at 300 for another 60 or in our case about 65 until a toothpick comes out clean. That’s the closest I can tell you. I’m marginally more precise with baking than cooking.
 
While the cake’s in the oven, we start on the soup. Though there was a break in there for a pb&j for a hungry girl. And a beater and bowl to lick. I had a lick myself, and my mother was right there with us. That’s as sweet and real as cake batter on the tongue.
 
Again, I have a baseline for the soup, but there’s nothing remotely precise about it once we start. How many potatoes? I don’t know. I do know I’ll be sending about half the finished product home with Kayla, so a lot of potatoes need to be peeled, washed, chopped. Some carrots. Some garlic sauted in olive oil. Some water, some bullion, some wine. How much? Until it looks right. Herbs and spices. Stir it up, let it simmer.IMG_1343
 
Years ago, when our Kat married our Jason, she asked me for a book of my recipes. I did my best, typing them out, adding little notes, compiling them in a pretty book. One day shortly after, she sat in my kitchen and said she didn’t get it. She’d wanted to make my deviled eggs (a crowd favorite) but it didn’t say how much mustard, mayo, various herbs and spices. And neither, she’d discovered, did the vast majority of the other recipes (using the term loosely) have precise measurements. How much???? she asked.
 
I don’t know, I told her.
 
Her solution, as Kat is a very clever girl, was to watch me make deviled eggs, and to figure out it’s–for me–about how it looks, smells, tastes. And so she can (and does) use my recipes as her baseline, to make them her own. It’s how I taught both my boys to cook. It’s how I’m teaching Kayla.
 
Kayla’s interest and enthusiasm are strong right now, so I’m taking full advantage.
 
When it’s time to punch down the dough, I let her go for it. I show her how to pull some off, make it into a tight ball, then let her go for that. She’s a little bummed the dough has to rise yet again, but we have more to do elsewhere.
 
The ham has to be diced and added to the soup, and given some time to cook. The cake’s looking like a cake in the oven, and it smells fabulous. Butter needs melting, then flour added to thicken it, then milk to that. Whisked, whisked, whisked until it thickens enough to add to the soup. Precise measurements? Nope. And you know I think more wine wouldn’t hurt that soup at all.
 
A glass wouldn’t hurt me either.
 
The cake comes out to cool. The dough balls have risen. It’s time for more fun. Boiling water, baking soda. I give her my big slotted spoon, so we can drop the balls in–and Grandda, who’s joined us, sits at the counter and times them with his phone. About thirty seconds, flip the balls over, another thirty, take them out, put them on the parchment-lined baking sheet, drop in the next batch.IMG_1349
 
Stir the soup, drop the balls.
 
We first, use our knife sharpener to get our blade perfectly sharp, then we make crosses on the puffy balls with the knife, sprinkle on some sesame seeds, some sea salt, and pop them in the oven. It’s about 12-15 minutes mostly. I set a timer, but I keep an eye. They’re done when they look done, when they’re a nice golden brown.
 
And the smells in the kitchen are incredible. Fresh bread, creamy soup, lemony cake. The top of the cake’s crackly, and Kayla and Grandda decide they should sort of peel that off and eat it. After all, when we take it out of the pan, turning it over, shouldn’t it be more even on what will be the bottom?
 IMG_1348
Why would I argue when they’re having such a good time? And making yummy noises? Plus, the kid baked the cake. She baked it by following her great-grandmother’s baseline, learning, discovering, and making it her own.
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She baked the bread–I was barely sous chef on that–the same way. And the soup was a partnership of whatever works.IMG_1350
 
I know the bread worked as she snagged a roll off the cooling rack so quickly I worried she’d burn her tongue. She didn’t. And had a second one.
 
I sent her home with a tub of soup, a bag of rolls, and half a pound cake. Her family will enjoy the bounty of her labor. More, she spent the day learning, creating, experimenting. As she goes, she may decide her process works better with the precise. But I have a feeling she’ll continue on the road, discovering as she goes.
 
Like the first draft of a book, it’s the joy and effort of that discovery that draws the–we’ll say organic–writer and what’s-in-the-pantry cook to create the unique to them with the hope it pleases others.
 
I’m here to tell you, when it was time for me to sample the day’s labor, it pleased me.
 
Tomorrow, I go back to the keyboard and my scribbled notes to see what’s cooking there.
Nora

On Readers, Writers and Ghosts

From Laura:  I’ve been working on a recap of RWA with photos, but a post on Facebook caught our attention and we thought it important to address on the blog.  Photos/recap by tomorrow afternoon.  Promise!

A note from Nora:

Respect isn’t always a two-way street. In a perfect world, it would be. In a perfect world, every book written would satisfy every reader. Also no one would be allergic to chocolate or puppies, and shoes would always be buy a pair, get a pair free.

Since it isn’t a perfect world, we have to pay for that second pair of shoes, not everyone can embrace the joys of chocolate and puppies, and not every reader will be satisfied with every book.

Respect, however, is a different matter because respect is, at the base, a choice. We can all choose to show respect.

I choose to respect my readers, and those who may become my readers by first, writing the best book I can. That’s also a matter of respecting myself, the work and my publisher. Happily, I find most readers also choose respect. I’ve met countless readers over the years of touring, signings and events. Routinely when I toured booksellers would tell me I had the best readers they’d ever dealt with. Happy, enthusiastic, polite, patient. I always loved hearing it, and loved experiencing the truth of it.

 I choose to respect my readers when I meet them, by trying to give them a little time, a little conversation even over a six-hour signing as we just experienced last month at Turn The Page. They’ve come to see me, and I’m incredibly flattered by that, seriously delighted (even after six hours) to have a moment with someone who’s read my books and enjoyed them enough to take their time, make the effort (even after six hours) to meet me.

 I choose to respect my readers on-line. I don’t comment often on Facebook, because I’m writing, but I often skim through the comments, and occasionally respond. The amazing Laura speaks for me there, most often.

 But here, on-line, is where that two-way street often turns into a sudden and surprising one-way path.

 We all know it, we’ve all experienced or read stunningly rude and personal comments posted on-line. Something about the lack of face-to-face can eliminate basic manners and courtesy. I often say nothing or little about this because life’s just too short to have on-line conversations with the rude.

 But sometimes a comment will push my buttons, and I’m compelled to respond. Again, it’s a matter of respect–for myself and my work.

 I honestly don’t give a rat’s tail about Amazon reviews. I don’t read Amazon reviews. Anybody can go on there, anonymously, and praise or defame a book. I’d rather be writing than reading Amazon reviews. However, when readers come on my Facebook page, intimating I use a ghost writer because, hey, they read this rumor on Amazon reviews, I’m not going to let it stand.

 The latest case of this is a reader who hasn’t read the book itself, only the reviews. And based on them feels the book must be bad, I don’t respect my readers because of this lousy book, and thinks I should come out and be honest about using a ghost.

 That’s crap. Every bit of it, rude and pretty stupid crap.

 Respectfully here, and wherever this post may end up, I write my own books. I always have, always will. I do not, and never will use a ghost writer. I may write a book that doesn’t hit a chord with all my readers–and that’s a shame for me and for the reader who isn’t happy with the story. But I will have written it.

 While it’s difficult to hear a book I’ve worked on and sweated over didn’t hit the mark with some readers, that’s part of living in an imperfect world. It’s part of the job of being a writer, and I accept it.

 Having someone state, allude, question or accuse me of using a ghost writer, particularly after I’ve categorically stated I don’t and won’t repeatedly, is offensive. I don’t accept it, and I will go head-to-head with anyone who insults me and my work by spreading rumors–or in some cases stating they know I use ghost writers.

 I spent all last week in San Antonio at The Romance Writers of America conference. Fun, yes, and work, too. I got home this past Monday afternoon. Tuesday morning I was back at my keyboard, writing. My choice. I chose to write, I chose to write hard. The result of that work, good or bad in any reader’s opinion, is on me and me alone.

 I’ll end by saying I not only respect my readers, but value and appreciate them, tremendously. If I write a book that doesn’t sing for you, I hope the next one does. That’s really the best I can do.