Witch!

In honor of Halloween I decided to explore the subject of witches/bitches, depending on your viewpoint. I suppose I should start off by saying, I do have my own inner bitch, most women do, don’t they? She comes out when I’m overtired, stressed, or just plain mad. She’s not an in your face bitch, but more grumpy and sulky. If you try to hurt a member of my family, she transforms into the-mother-bear-variety. That said—I do have empathy for other women when their inner bitch materializes, just as long as that inner bitch isn’t predominant and unrestrained.

My mother had trouble keeping her bitch under control. She had an argumentative streak. Her need to be right was ubiquitous. Anyone foolish enough to get in the way of Mom’s delusion of importance would become ready fodder for spiteful retaliation. If you didn’t appreciate her vision of the world—look out—step back. Better yet, make a run for it.

I know an award-winning bitch, one that deserves the-bitch-of-the-decade award. She’s sneaky, underhanded, and diabolical. I’ve witnessed the way she ruined many lives over the years. I have absolutely nothing to do with her anymore. Wouldn’t be caught in her sphere, not for love nor money. Uh-uh. I won’t name her, hat’s not necessary. But, suffice it to say, if I ever decided to base a character on the bitch, that character would be deemed too one-dimensional. I can hear it now, the criticism would sound like something like this: Elizabeth Bradley’s villain, a woman with long dark hair and eyes and an even darker heart, is so hell-bent on wreaking havoc on loved ones, you can’t help but wonder why she hasn’t been expelled from their lives. It’s hard to believe anybody would put up with such a heartless self-centered woman. Although not quite evil enough to be imprisoned, the vile creature is not good enough to be deserving of the reader’s pity or attention.

Do you know a bitch? Are you a bitch? Has a bitch/witch ever put a spell on you?


My youngest daughter carved the pumpkin in the picture above. Won’t it make a spooky Jack-o-lantern?





All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Free Stuff Rocks!

I won a book over at Kirti's blog!

Karma and other Stories by Rishi Reddi came in the mail today and I'm so excited to read it. Go over and check out Kirti's blog when you get the chance.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Where Am I? And What Do You Look Like?

Does your protagonist have blonde, black, red, or brown hair? Is he/she tall or short, fat or skinny, pimply or clear skinned? What a plethora of choices: athletic, sickly, handicapped, bull-headed, clumsy, elegant—oh the possibilities! How does an author choose?

Varied genres handle the task of portraying characters in differing ways. Chick lit is big on meticulous description—right down to depicting outfits and shoes and hairstyles and the like. I don’t read YA, but imagine description must play an important role, as adolescents and teenagers tend to be obsessed with appearance. When it comes to more literary fare, some schools of thought recommend a light-handed approach when it comes to portraying the main character. Don’t bog the reader down with limitations, they say, let the mind's eye supply necessary details. Save in-depth depictions for villains or secondary characters. Do you follow these rules? Or are rules meant to be broken?

And then there’s the setting, or settings. You’ve got the country, the city, the suburbs, uptown, downtown, under the bridge, skyscraper penthouses, tenements, golf course condos, farmhouses. Are we in a foreign country, local, staying put, or on the road? Don’t start off in one locale and then halfway through the book switch gears—that’s a big no, no. If we’re on the move, make that clear from the beginning, or end the book with a change of scene. Don’t confuse the reader. Change of scene must be intricately tied to the story, don’t put your protagonist on the move for no good reason. More rules. More to think about.

Below are some fine examples of description by authors one can only hope to aspire to one day.

John Irving describes Garp's mother in The World According To Garp:

Jenny was twenty-two. She had dropped out of college almost as soon as she'd begun, but she had finished her nursing-school program at the head of her class and she enjoyed being a nurse. She was an athletic-looking young woman who always had high color in her cheeks; she had dark, glossy hair and what her mother called a mannish way of walking (she swung her arms), and her rump and hips were so slender and hard that, from behind, she resembled a young boy. In Jenny's opinion, her breasts were too large; she thought the ostentation of her bust made her look "cheap and easy."

And, can you imagine putting the reader into a mind of a dog while also preparing the reader for the far north setting of the story with any better skill than Jack London displays in The Call of the Wild? I sure can't.

Buck did not read the newspapers, or he would have known that trouble was brewing, not alone for himself, but for every tide- water dog, strong of muscle and with warm, long hair, from Puget Sound to San Diego. Because men, groping in the Arctic darkness, had found a yellow metal, and because steamship and transportation companies were booming the find, thousands of men were rushing into the Northland. These men wanted dogs, and the dogs they wanted were heavy dogs, with strong muscles by which to toil, and furry coats to protect them from the frost.

One of my favorite authors of all time, Anne Tyler, sets the scene in the main character's family home in The Accidental Tourist, with a light touch, yet establishing a strong sense of purpose.

When his brothers came home from work, the house took on a relaxed, relieved atmosphere. Rose drew the living room curtains and lit a few soft lamps. Charles and Porter changed into sweaters. Macon started mixing his special salad dressing. He believed that if you pulverized the spices first with a marble mortar and pestle, it made all the difference. The others agreed that no one else's dressing tasted as good as Macon's. "Since you've been gone," Charles told him, "we've had to buy that bottled stuff from the grocery store." He made it sound as if Macon had been gone a few weeks or so - as if his entire marriage had been just a brief trip elsewhere.

Here's the great Willa Cather's opening for O Pioneers. Places you right smack dab down in Nebraska.

One January day, thirty years ago, the little town of Hanover, anchored on a windy Nebraska tableland, was trying not to be blown away. A mist of fine snowflakes was curling and eddying about the cluster of low drab buildings huddled on the gray prairie, under a gray sky. The dwelling-houses were set about haphazard on the tough prairie sod; some of them looked as if they had been moved in overnight, and others as if they were straying off by themselves, headed straight for the open plain. None of them had any appearance of permanence, and the howling wind blew under them as well as over them. The main street was a deeply rutted road, now frozen hard, which ran from the squat red railway station and the grain "elevator" at the north end of the town to the lumber yard and the horse pond at the south end. On either side of this road straggled two uneven rows of wooden buildings; the general merchandise stores, the two banks, the drug store, the feed store, the saloon, the post-office. The board sidewalks were gray with trampled snow, but at two o'clock in the afternoon the shopkeepers, having come back from dinner, were keeping well behind their frosty windows. The children were all in school, and there was nobody abroad in the streets but a few rough-looking countrymen in coarse overcoats, with their long caps pulled down to their noses. Some of them had brought their wives to town, and now and then a red or a plaid shawl flashed out of one store into the shelter of another. At the hitch-bars along the street a few heavy work-horses, harnessed to farm wagons, shivered under their blankets. About the station everything was quiet, for there would not be another train in until night.

I'd love to hear what descriptions in fiction you find most memorable or totally blew you away.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Conflict

The Husband is pissing me off. We argue once in a blue moon. Currently we're having a disagreement and the resulting discord is causing me to draw back. I’m letting him have his way, even though he’s wrong. No. Really. He is wrong. But I am no mood to push back. I’ve been pushing back all my life in one way or another, and I’m weary. For some reason having my way just isn’t all that important to me anymore. A blaze that once burned bright is reduced to a little campfire. Encircling stones to protect the endangered flames, I sit quiet and wait for my spirit to return, searching the dancing colors well into the night, under the blue moon.

Conflict—there will be no story without it.

Do you enjoy a good fight?

Are you a pussycat?

Would you ever back down even if you felt you were right?

Do your characters act like you, or are they stronger/weaker?

Is it a conscious decision on your part to add conflict to your stories, or does conflict just appear organically?






All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

LIGHT BULB MOMENT

It’s Sunday, so let’s talk about inspiration. Here’s Webster’s definition of the word:

in·spi·ra·tion
- a breathing in, as of air into the lungs: inhaling
- an inspiring or being inspired mentally or emotionally
- an inspiring influence; any stimulus to creative thought or action
- an inspired idea, action, etc...
- a prompting of something to be written or said
THEO—a divine influence upon human beings, as that resulting in the writing of the scriptures.

Two great Jack London quotes:

~~ You can’t wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club.

~~ I wrote a thousand words every day.


I am a walking light bulb. Ideas, I got a million of ‘em. What comes first though, does the inspiration spur the work, or visa-versa? For me—it happens both ways. If I’m not inspired I make myself sit down anyway. I usually find that my motor kicks in and I’m off. It’s a rare occurrence when I don’t kick into gear. Not that I haven’t been sidetracked. The blogging gig, it’s a time-consuming enterprise, to be sure. I’ve got to come up with an idea, write my own blog, and visit other blogs, then there’s the links and so on and so forth. Pretty soon a couple/three hours have gone by. I can hardly believe how the time flies online.

It’s a cold hard fact, learning about writing won’t make someone a good writer—writing makes a good writer. You’ve got to make the time. You’ve got to write your guts out. Then you have to throw most of what you’ve written away. And then you have to sit your weary self down and write some more.

It’s not lost on me, certain skeptical people out in the real world think I’m nuts because I spend so much time in front of this computer screen. For me it’s a portal to other worlds, not only the world of my own over-active imagination, but other's worlds too. I get to connect with other writers and readers. What an honor! That you come and read what I've written is always a source of great joy. I value your visits more than you will ever know. And, I learn something everyday from visiting all your blogs. Every single day. Like breathing out and breathing in. Thanks for being there. Know this, you are all are a constant source of inspiration, varied and nuanced.



All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

You Scream I Scream

My nineteen year old son has been staying with us while he works on clearing out the mess of ugly overgrown plants so we can put down some sod in the backyard. He decided he wanted to make ice cream, (it got hot again and he was out there dreaming of milkshakes while he toiled away in the hot sun), so we went to Kitchen Fantasy, (a nifty store if ever there was one), and purchased an ice cream maker. He's become a mad scientist! The first batch was chocolate hazelnut, made with Nutella, and roasted hazelnuts, yummy. Last night we went over to his brother's house and he made coffee ice cream, (he used Starbucks new Via microground coffee for flavoring), with brownie bits, (gluten free so I could eat them), and slivered almond sprinkles. Next on the menu: pomagranate sorbet! Have a fabulous weekend I know we will!

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Coffee House People

For those of you that don’t already know, (I’ve written a bit about it here), I used to own a coffee house in Southern California. I sold the business though, and the new proprietor ran it into the ground. Now, it’s a Starbucks.

Owning such an establishment suited me to a “T”. I loved everything about running and operating the place, especially the cast of characters that flocked to the long bar I had built. I hired my two nieces and other family members and friends. We literally had a full on European-style espresso bar where clientele could watch the barista at work.

Today I’ll tell you about a strange ranger named Paul; he used to come in at least three times a week for breakfast. I knew to make his hash browns extra-extra crispy. He drank our JOLT! Blend coffee straight up, cup after cup, with no sugar and no cream. As time went by Paul grew comfortable and became more outgoing. One day he surprised my niece when he dropped by in the afternoon and ordered a smoothie. More talkative than usual, he informed her that he had been in the CIA, but was now retired. His name wasn’t Paul at all. He had been sworn to secrecy by the powers that be, he must keep his true identity under wraps, and consequently hadn’t seen a single-family member in over thirty years. He had no friends. No people. It was a lonely life.

When my niece told me what he’d said, including the revelation that he’d been responsible for the deaths of many an evildoer out to do our country harm, I told her he was surely nothing but a crackpot. “He’s just an old guy trying to impress a pretty young girl,” I insisted. “I think old Paul’s read too many spy thrillers.”

“I don’t think so,” she said. “I think he’s telling the truth.”

Paul, I suspected, knew that I would have presented a more skeptical audience, because in the morning when I was within earshot he never talked about the CIA, or mercenaries, or Russian spies, or any sort of subterfuge. He saved his tales of intrigue and terror for the afternoons, after I had left to pick my kids up from school. My two nieces and their friends made for rapt and gullible listeners.

“Auntie,” my niece divulged, in the most concerned voice, “Paul has stomach cancer. It’s spreading too.”

“No way!” I blurted out. “He wouldn’t be able to drink all that coffee or eat those extra-extra crispy hash browns the way he does.”

“Why are you always putting him down? Why don’t you like him?” I’d hurt her feelings and I hadn’t meant to.

The next day I whipped up Paul’s breakfast, and after serving him I took a seat on the next stool over. He told me that he was preparing to travel to Mexico, to a spa where they cured seriously ill people with great success and regularity. For a man with stomach cancer he didn’t look all that sick. He was thin, but not gaunt. His coloring was fine. I felt certain he was full of baloney and making stuff up to gain sympathy and attention.

Meanwhile, the girls were growing closer and closer to their new friend. They went over to his little house for dinner, where he served them lobster lasagna and homemade garlic bread. At the end of the evening, as they were preparing to depart, he informed them that he was leaving for Mexico the next day, and…if he didn’t come back he had left a will with his lawyer stipulating that he was leaving the two of them everything he owned. Naturally, they broke out in tears and assured Paul that they just knew he would get better.

When my nieces told me about what he’d said, I kept my reservations about the credulity of his trip and the reasons for it. Positive he was merely going on a vacation and playing the sympathy card to the hilt.

Paul returned a month later. Pronounced he was cured and cancer free. He kept right on eating crispy hash browns and drinking black coffee and telling his tales. All these years later I hear he’s still alive and well.







All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Ladders

See the red picture? That's how your non-writing family and friends live their lives. They face a ladder leading where they want to go and simply climb up rung by rung.

See the yellow Picture? You writers reach that much-sought-after summit, after you've begun the book, introduced your characters, added in the spice of complications, action, conflict. Now you reach the climax at at long last! You stand at the precipice, feeling high on power and accomplishment.

But, you haven't written the hardest part yet kiddo. You face that final descent, the reader must encounter an engaging but believable turning point. And, you absolutely must create that crucial final suspense before bringing them home to a satisfying ending.

(I won't even bother going into the fact that you must re-climb the ladder for re-writes and editing, God knows how many times. That goes without saying.)

When, at last you've finished, it's whew-I-did-it-jubilation-time! Yay! But hold on now, look ahead, you face another daunting ladder leading up. You must find readers. That's the point, finding willing souls to read what you've written. Mercy, now that's another whole ball of wax. Hope you have strong legs.

I want to let you know I am a guess blogger over at K.'s place. She's a wonderful person, a doctor, a mother, and she finds time to write and post Fine Art Fridays on top of the bargain. Here's the link, K.'s Blog.

Link Alert: to full explanation of plot in fiction, if you're interested in that kind of thing, a refresher course never hurts. :-)

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

For The Love of McCorkle

I can't imagine how it happened, or should I say didn't happen? But, I had never heard of Jill McCorkle until I was in bed a few nights ago, (where I do the majority of my reading), poking through Amazon on my Kindle, looking for a short story collection of interest. I found Ms. McCorkle's Going Away Shoes and promptly downloaded the first chapter for free. (My favorite part of owning a Kindle.) After reading that incredible first paragraph I thought, who is amazing Jill McCorkle, and why don't I know about her? I bought Going Away Shoes and read it in two nights. Then I bought, Creatures of Habit, and the second book was as good as the first. Yay! I just bought her novel, Ferris Beach, and I'll start reading that one tonight. Have you ever done this? Discovered an author and fallen head over heels, so much so, that you read everything they'd written that you could get your hands on?

ABOUT JILL MCCORKLE
Jill McCorkle is the author of eight previous books—three story collections and five novels—five of which have been selected as New York Times Notable Books. She is the winner of the New England Book Award, the John Dos Passos Prize for Excellence in Literature, and the North Carolina Award for Literature. She teaches writing at North Carolina State University and lives with her husband in Hillsborough, North Carolina.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

The World According to Flexible Old Me

I was listening to a woman this weekend and was struck by how adamantly she voiced her fervent preferences to a room full of strangers. Opinions flowed from her mouth in a steady stream without any constraint. Opinions, such as: she would only EVER drink red wine—never white! Huh? While I will admit, there are many lovely reds; I could never discount a nice glass of chilled Chardonnay, or a crisp glass of Pinot Grigio on a summer day, no way.

Nobody could EVER convince her to travel outside The United States of America. EVER. For any reason. Huh? Not even Canada? And she’d deny herself The British Isles, France, Italy, Africa, Australia, and the Far East? Just because she wouldn’t feel safe? Hey, I don’t feel that all-fired safe in certain parts of L.A., and I still venture there. Isn’t playing it safe an illusion anyway?

Her most outlandish statement—the one that I couldn’t help but respond to—she made mention of visiting a friend of a friend’s house in Pasadena, a Mid-Century home above the Arroyo Seco. “Why,” she said, scowling as if she were discussing decomposing garbage, “anyone with so much money would buy THAT monstrosity is beyond me. I mean those people could afford any number of the historical homes available in the area, like a Spanish stucco, or a nice craftsman, a Victorian, anything but that modern, boring, stark, cold box.

I took a breath, considered keeping my nose out of the conversation, but wouldn’t you know it, I ignored my inner Miss Manners and said, “But…I could see why they’d choose Mid-Century. In fact, I know The Husband and I would have a hard time making our minds up. We have such a great appreciation of so many differing types of architecture. I guess we’d have to make our decision based on setting, location, and personal fit, rather than what particular style the house was. Well…that is…I’m going with the premise that cost would not present such limitations. Wouldn’t that be something?”

She looked at me as if I had said I might move into a trailer park, (and what if I had?) “The thing is,” I said, continuing on, in an attempt to drive my point home, “I wouldn’t EVER say never about moving anywhere. The older I get, the more open-minded I’ve become. I’m more flexible.”

“Not me,” she said adamantly, her mouth reduced to a tight, thin, albeit glossy line. I felt kind of bad. I could have kept my thoughts to myself. I could have let her hold court and keep her illusion of how it should be intact. My response had triggered a deluge of emotion. She threw her head back in defiance and declared, “Sorry. But, I know exactly what I want and I won’t take anything less. I know what I like and I’m not about to waste any time. I stay focused. It’s important to be focused! That’s how I see it.”

Perhaps her use of the word focused was inappropriate? Maybe she meant fixed? If anything, I am a focused human being, but ultimately flexible. I remain open to re-interpretation when it comes to pursuing and bringing to fruition goals and desires. My objectives aren’t set in stone.

This applies to writing too. I begin with an outline. I almost always know exactly who my main character, or secondary characters are, and what the events necessary to set the story in motion will be, and I usually know the outcome, but I’m willing to let events unfold that I didn’t anticipate. I won’t hold the plot or characters to my previous vision just because I am too fixed to see beyond my original framework. I have to say—some of my best stuff materializes when I least expect it. Why fight the feeling? The best part about writing, (especially with a computer), is that delete key. Just because I come up with something doesn’t mean I have to keep it. In fact, sometimes the unexpected leads me somewhere I wouldn’t have ventured otherwise. The story is a journey, and I’m willing to travel down side roads, just as long as I get to a desirable, if not stupendous destination.

(That’s a picture of my eyeball at the top of the page, sans make-up (sorry guys), taken way up close with my cell phone just now, because I knew it would come out all blurry. I wanted to illustrate the focus/fixed theme with a picture. You know, the world as I see it kind of a thing? All imperfect and ambiguous, liquid and full of possibilities.)






All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Breakfast in Bed -- Not for me!

I wish I'd lingered amongst the pillows and covers to enjoy a luxurious breakfast in bed. But, instead it's time to clean the joint. And then, on to cooking. Got family and friends coming for the weekend, so must hop to it. Polish everything up, get out the tablecloths and candlesticks, whip up some delectable delectables.

Hope you all have the loveliest of weekends. I know I will.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Fall?

The picture of the palm trees is what it looked like outside here today. The other two photos fit my idealized vision of what fall is supposed to look like.

I toiled away on my WIP today. Now it's time to get busy reading all your blogs. Thanks for following me by the way. Every comment you leave matters greatly.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Paragraphs and Figs

I entered literary agent Nathan Bransford's first paragraph contest today after reading about it on Twitter. I fretted over which first paragraph from the file on my desktop might be catchy enough to gain attention. Then I rewrote the one I chose, over and over and over again. What do you think of writing contests? Do you enter them? Did you enter this one? Last I checked, Nathan Bransford had over 2000 entries. Imagine that. 4:00 p.m. tomorrow is the deadline. He says he's going to read all the entries. I sat and read through them for about two hours, and my eyes were beyond bleary.

I made baked figs with toasted pecans and vanilla bean organic blue agave syrup for desert tonight. Yummy, but rich. The Husband relaxed in his favorite chair and sipped a bit of cognac with his figs, I washed mine down with Sleepytime tea. Hope you had a good evening too!

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Happy Tuesday!

I'm working today, no time to blog. But check out the info below, you won't be sorry.

(I posted a picture of my granddaughter, just a little eye candy.)

You are cordially invited to attend an "open house" beginning Wednesday, October 14, in honor of the newly renovated Rose &Thorn Journal: http://www.roseandthornjournal.com

Drop by, sign up for the newsletter, check out the new digs (and blog!), follow us on Twitter and Facebook, leave us your comments/thoughts, and wish us well!

Rose &Thorn is a quarterly literary journal featuring the voices of emerging and established authors, poets and artists.

Now...go enjoy the open bar and appetizer spread!

Angie Ledbetter & Kathryn Magendie
Co-Editor/Publishers
Rose & Thorn Journal


All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

The Listener

Something's weighing heavy on my mind. On Saturday we went to Janice's memorial service. I have written a bit about her here on my blog, go on over and check out her website, and you will see what a remarkable person has just left this earth. After the service we drove down to San Diego to have dinner with friends. We spent the night and on Sunday went to visit my cousin, (I don't see her nearly enough).

I'm struck by how important connections are. So many people showed for Janice they spilled out of the church and onto the sidewalk. Me and The Husband drove a good distance to get there and ended up standing just outside the doorway. Many people spoke. A thread ran through each person's observations, Janice was a woman that connected: with her own family, her artist friends, the entire community. She had an unusual gift for connecting with just about everyone she met. How many of us do? Especially writers. I think most of us are introverts. We stay at home and type away much of the time.

Think about it. Do you go out of your way for people? Are you genuine? Will they remember you?

Maybe blogging presents a more comfortable way for us to connect with others. Face it, when you decide to be a writer, you are reaching out, but you're saying what you've got to say with words on paper. There's a separation right there, so the added separation of the Internet isn't a stretch, not really. It's just one more way to get your words, (brought to life sometimes by difficult means), read by others. We are connecting! Yay! Why, we wouldn't have started a blog if we were out and out hermits. I feel better.

It's not that I don't love people. But I'm not one of those that spends lots of time out and about. I'm a homebody, and so is The Husband. We're busy working on our craft, you can here the clickity click of the computer keys. I'm sure my dogs think all humans hunker over glowing monitors. Oh, they see us take breaks, after all we have to eat, go shopping, and we do walk them. Got to get the exercise in.

My point is, I am going to work harder at enriching all my connections. It's time to ditch insecurities, calm the frantic back chatter of the mind, to be in the moment and really see and feel one another. When someone is talking to me, I will not be thinking about how my car needs to be washed, I will stop and listen to them. What they have to say is important. I refuse to ignore a child. How many times has one of your kids been talking to you and you're busy wondering if the chicken you took out of the freezer too late will be thawed out enough to make dinner, (or some equally mundane detail), and you didn't fool them one little bit, did you? They knew. They weren't heard. Janice was a listener. How much better would the world be if we all became listeners?

If you visit Janice's website you'll see her art. People from all over the world buy her pieces to treasure. Her journals are in the Smithsonian. She left bits and pieces of herself behind. She created and created and created. Will you leave bits and pieces of yourself behind? Do you think anybody cares? Make them care. Give them good reason.

(Oh, I know I promised pictures from our short weekend trip, but I was too busy connecting to take any. This is one I did take, of my cousin's little daughter taking a picture of me taking a picture of her. If you saw the movie Little Miss Sunshine, this little girl is a dead ringer for the girl in the movie, sans the chubbiness. And I'm happy to report, we connected.)

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Mini Vacations Rock!

I’m leaving for the weekend. No computers for me, or The Husband! We’re heading for San Diego. Here are some pictures off the Internet, this is where we’ll be staying. And I’ll try to take some pics of my own. I doubt I could capture a torrey pine better than what I've posted though. Hope you all have a great weekend. I know we will!!!

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Enough With the Pumpkins Already!

When autumn arrives all we hear about are pumpkins, pumpkins, pumpkins! Hey, I love pumpkins and squash and Indian corn as much as the next gal, but let's consider pomegranates.

I was inspired by Lauri Kubuitsile’s photo of her struggling pomegranate tree in her garden over at her blog, Thoughts From Botswana. If you haven’t yet read her blog, pop on over, she’s a terrific writer, and a fascinating woman living in an fascinating country.

You see, I’ve always wanted a pomegranate tree of my own. Did you know that California is the only state here in the U.S. where they grow outside of greenhouses? I didn’t, I just read that today. You will find pomegranates mentioned and depicted in literature and art since ancient times, from Greece to Persia, throughout the Middle East and Asia. Some claim this unusual fruit is capable of curing infections caused by tapeworms and dysentery. The high levels of antioxidants, vitamins, and minerals stave off many illnesses.

Let’s celebrate the fall harvest of this wonderful fruit with a couple of tasty recipes:

This salad is terrific, utilizing another fall fruit available in vast quantities here in Southern California—persimmons:

3 fuyu persimmons, peeled, chopped (1/4 to 1/2 inch pieces), seeds (if any) discarded
3/4 cup pomegranate seeds
1 Granny Smith or Fuji apple, peeled, cored, chopped (1/4 to 1/2 inch pieces)
7-10 leaves fresh mint, thinly sliced crosswise (stack then, then roll them up like a cigar and take slices from the end)
2 teaspoons lemon juice
1 teaspoon honey

METHOD
Gently toss all of the ingredients together.
Serves 4.
Keeps for at least a couple of days in the refrigerator, but best eaten same day it is made.

So, now for a more decadent recipe featuring pomegranates:

Easy Pomegranate Cake

Preheat oven to 350, line 8” square pan with parchment paper

1 cup sifted cake flour
1tsp. Baking powder
2 large eggs
3/4 cup granulated sugar
1 cup pomegranate juice

Whisk together cake flour and baking powder and set aside.
In large bowl beat eggs till foamy. Add sugar 1/4 at a time and beat well after each addition until light and fluffy and stiff. Add flour mixture to egg mixture 1/4 at a time, alternating with pomegranate juice. Beat until well combined.

Pour and bake 35 to 40 minutes. Until center springs back when lightly touched. Cool to room temperature. Pull out parchment paper to remove from pan. Frost with favorite cream cheese, or butter cream frosting. Or, simply sprinkle with powdered sugar and serve.

Do you enjoy pomegranates? Were you aware of how good they are for you? Do you use them in cooking?


All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Fearless Author?

My mother was a difficult woman, to say the least. She was extremely religious, started out a Catholic, but switched over to an organization that would be considered a cult by some Christians. I won’t name her religion of choice; I’m not out to make any enemies. I was the middle child, but in a sense I was also the oldest. My sister is only two years younger than I am, but my brother is eight years older, and he was drafted into the military when I was ten years old. Dad took a job in California. Mom promised we would move south to join him when the school year ended. But, she wrote my father a Dear John letter, telling him that she intended to stay put. Dad didn’t buy into her newfound belief system, and he was put out. After that, it was just Mom and us two girls living in Oregon.

We moved out of our three-story house on a tree-lined street and into a crappy apartment in a complex full of single mom’s with troubled kids and teens. I started looking after kids and through the years became the babysitting queen of the complex. At one point, (try to understand, this was in the late sixties), I earned about ninety dollars a week. That was a lot of dough for a kid. I spent my loot on clothes and shoes. But, I did manage to save enough to fly down to see my dad in California.

When I was sixteen, Mom decided to move by her family, way up north in Canada. Once we were settled, not only did my sister and I have our religious mother breathing down our teenaged necks, we had our Aunt and Uncle, (we lived on their property), and the entire congregation of that one horse town breathing down our necks. My sister was strong and not a people pleaser. She had no problem standing up to my mother and refusing to go to the many meetings we were required to attend weekly. I tried my best to make Mom happy. I thought that if I complied with the strictness, she would finally accept me. Mom loved me, but I just grated on her nerves because she claimed I was just like my father. I guess I am like him. Born that way. Hopeless from the get go.

In the tenth grade, or grade ten, to use the Canadian term, I was chosen to enroll in a special program. My English teacher determined that I was a gifted writer. (I had been writing since the age of seven, in my mind I was going to be the next Jane Austen.) I ran home to tell Mom and met with undeniably vehement disapproval. I had to fight in order to participate in the program. My mother allowed me to enter the program, but made me take all the bookkeeping and business machine courses, because I would surely end up working in an office, just like her. My aspirations to be a writer were at best at pipe dream.

Right up until her death, her voice played in my head every time I sat down to write. What would she think about what I had written? Would she disapprove? And then she passed suddenly, in her chair, in her sleep, her beloved Bible in her lap.

Losing Mom was devastating. I know it wasn’t as heart wrenching for me as it was for my sister, (they were tied to one another emotionally and in proximity much closer), but I had no idea just how strongly I would miss her presence in my life. We talked on the phone, a lot. She would come to visit and we would go out to lunch after sightseeing. (I still get a pang when I see a daughter and her mother out to lunch.) But, I was free! I could write whatever I wanted. I know--when you get right down to it I was always free to write whatever I wanted. But somewhere deep inside I never gave up on trying to please her and would edit myself constantly. I'll go so far as to say that I couldn’t really write honestly at all, until after she was gone.

Do you worry about what others, or that certain someone will think of your material, should you write what’s in your heart? Do voices sound off in your head if you approach certain subjects, or matters that might ruffle feathers? Or, are you a fearless author? If you are one of the brave ones, did you start out that way, or did you learn to throw caution to the wind? Just curious.


All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley

San Juan Capistrano

This weekend The Husband decided to take a little detour, as we were speeding down the freeway on our way home after meeting the kids at the airport, he decided to take the Ortega Highway over to the coast. I was bare-knuckling it, I can tell you that much, as we climbed the windy road up and over.

We stopped in at San Juan Capistrano. The mission is Orange County's oldest community. We had an appetizer and a glass of wine at Sarducci's next to The Capistrano Depot, then made our way across the tracks to The Los Rios District. Forty homes remain, three are the original adobe structures that housed workers building the mission. Circa 1700-1800's. The houses are private residences, many house businesses open to the public. There's a museum, nursery, and petting zoo as well. I was intrigued by the giant pepper trees. And, naturally couldn't resist snapping pics of the quaint houses. We didn't visit the mission, as The Husband had visited before, and I've been many times. I am the official tour guide for friends and family, from, Canada, Florida, and Michigan, it seems.

I wanted to stop at the beach but we had to get home, as I'd left the dogs outside and it was getting chilly. Hope you enjoy the pictures I took.

A Little information about the Swallows:

They're on their way.

The famous cliff swallows leave town every year in a swirling mass near the Day of San Juan (October 23), are returning from their winter vacation spot 6,000 miles south in Goya, Corrientes, Argentina

They land at the mission in San Juan, California, on or around St. Joseph's Day, March 19, to the ringing bells of the old church and a crowd of visitors from all over the world who are in town awaiting their arrival and celebrating with a huge fiesta as well as a parade.

Legend has it that the swallows took refuge in the Mission San Juan Capistrano from an irate innkeeper who destroyed their muddy nests. The swallows return to the old ruined church each spring knowing they will be protected within the mission's walls. In fact, the city has taken their safety seriously passing an ordinance against destroying their nests.

So-called "scout swallows" precede the main flock each year by a few days but the majority of the small birds usually arrives on the 19th and begins rebuilding the mud nests that cling to the ruins of the old stone church and throughout the Capistrano Valley

The mission, originally built from 1776–1806, was seriously damaged in 1812 by a deadly earthquake and was never fully rebuilt. It is the seventh in a chain of 21 California Missions all supposedly separated by the distance of a day's walk. The adobe Serra Chapel section of the mission has been rebuilt and it is now the oldest building in California still in use today.

If you come to Southern California, you ought to visit Capistrano. So much to see. I'm adding this town to our list of towns we might consider retiring to!



All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Yesterday we met our oldest daughter and her husband for breakfast at the airport near their house. They had heard that they served a good breakfast. The food sucked, (the coffee was dishwater), but we all had a good time anyway. How could we go wrong with grand daughter Brynn was in attendance? The Husband was checking out this Lamborghini, I told him to pose as if it were his. (Our Chrysler was nearby, feeling totally insulted.) We're off today as well. Hope you're all having a great weekend.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.