I did it! Exactly 5 years after the intial inspiration for the Asparagus Revival while sitting in the airport in Seoul, South Korea, I have a complete first draft of both the inner and outer stories! I am determined that the second draft won't take nearly as long, due to my new found discipline for writing every day for at least 15 minutes. I haven't missed a day since January - even on vacation, and being sick enough to draft a will - except for Halloween. But I worked on the book at 8:00 the next morning after only 4 hours of sleep, so that's gotta count for something.
Well, here's to fleshing the story out and getting it to a point where I am happy to let others see it.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Regular People
So sorry for the long absence. I have been: road tripping to both grandma's, working and working, making Bee Bags, going to weddings, working, trying to be social, making more bags, working, and going to seminars on starting up websites - for the Bee Bags. Coming soon!
During all of that hubbub, I have been thinking about regular people. I don't consider myself a people person, I get frustrated easily with general idiocy and rudeness, and the crazy nasty things that regular people seem to do to each other on a regular basis - as the news would have us believe. But then, on the road trip home from my Indiana Grandma's, my dad and I were listening to The Unthinkable, Who Survives And Why When Disaster Strikes, which is a fascinating book all about the mindsets of people in disasters, and how it's the regular people in crises that turn out to be heroes while we're all waiting for the professionals.
In the website seminar this morning, one of the speakers was talking about the blogger who cooked through Julia Child's recipe book, and the speaker mentioned in passing that someone mentioned Julia to a writer at the New York Times. A regular person set a huge ball rolling. How many times does that happen with regular people, and half the time, no one is able to track the motion back. Who fired the shot that started the civil war? A regular, trigger happy guy whose name is lost to the history books.
And this morning I was sitting in City O' City, a neat little cafe/bar/restaurant in Denver, and their walls have tasteful collections of photo portraits of what looks like a random mix of people from all over the city. Looking from face to face, it's fascinating to see how much personality shows through in one small shot, how much their hair, hat, makeup or piercings can tell about a person. Regular people. I think there might have been 5 in the whole place that a talent agent MIGHT have picked out for modeling or film. But there were numbers of interesting looking people, with interesting stories.
And I realized regular people aren't so bad. I write about them. And - go figure - I'm one of them!
I want to go back to City O' City to see those photos, and get another mocha like the one I had this morning. And so that I can take a picture of the heart-shape in my mocha foam that inspired the following:
Signs
Mocha this morning,
topped with foamy white love
crowning the cup of
steamy, rich, inspiration.
The passion cooled, the cup
drained
and I saw
the shape had changed.
Two large white cheeks,
a long dark crack
riding the dregs,
unmistakable.
"Butt, I thought it was love!"
KEH
During all of that hubbub, I have been thinking about regular people. I don't consider myself a people person, I get frustrated easily with general idiocy and rudeness, and the crazy nasty things that regular people seem to do to each other on a regular basis - as the news would have us believe. But then, on the road trip home from my Indiana Grandma's, my dad and I were listening to The Unthinkable, Who Survives And Why When Disaster Strikes, which is a fascinating book all about the mindsets of people in disasters, and how it's the regular people in crises that turn out to be heroes while we're all waiting for the professionals.
In the website seminar this morning, one of the speakers was talking about the blogger who cooked through Julia Child's recipe book, and the speaker mentioned in passing that someone mentioned Julia to a writer at the New York Times. A regular person set a huge ball rolling. How many times does that happen with regular people, and half the time, no one is able to track the motion back. Who fired the shot that started the civil war? A regular, trigger happy guy whose name is lost to the history books.
And this morning I was sitting in City O' City, a neat little cafe/bar/restaurant in Denver, and their walls have tasteful collections of photo portraits of what looks like a random mix of people from all over the city. Looking from face to face, it's fascinating to see how much personality shows through in one small shot, how much their hair, hat, makeup or piercings can tell about a person. Regular people. I think there might have been 5 in the whole place that a talent agent MIGHT have picked out for modeling or film. But there were numbers of interesting looking people, with interesting stories.
And I realized regular people aren't so bad. I write about them. And - go figure - I'm one of them!
I want to go back to City O' City to see those photos, and get another mocha like the one I had this morning. And so that I can take a picture of the heart-shape in my mocha foam that inspired the following:
Signs
Mocha this morning,
topped with foamy white love
crowning the cup of
steamy, rich, inspiration.
The passion cooled, the cup
drained
and I saw
the shape had changed.
Two large white cheeks,
a long dark crack
riding the dregs,
unmistakable.
"Butt, I thought it was love!"
KEH
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Full Moons
Just a little whimsy I got while driving home one night under the full moon.
Full Moon Tonight
(Howl.)
He's hiding in the clouds
like a child with a flashlight
under the covers.
That doesn't diminish the pull he has,
the ruckus he's causing,
all inner turmoil
verging on meltdown.
The days are really not
that bad.
But when he comes out,
in full dress,
looking to cause trouble,
my optimistic front
dissolves.
I am tired.
He prods, what else?
So the list gets longer
the burdens bigger
the trials so much more
tumultous,
and I am reduced
to that child under the bed clothes
hiding with my flashlight,
murmuring I want, I want, I want -
and trying to decide just what.
-KEH
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Cookie Monsters
It has taken me so long to get on here because there is something going on with my computer cookies. Apparently they are taken care of now...who knows, I sure don't, and now I can post. So...
New purses!One is Bee Wild and the other was...Bee Classy, I think. Pictures of Bee Green and Bee Bright are coming soon. And I have a new customer - she's 11. I said I'd be thrilled to make her a purse as long as she has her parent's permission to spend all her allowance on a purse. As soon as I finish posting here, down I'll go to start working away.
And I have a new poem for you.
My Book
has wine stains on it,
dye on the bottom,
a muddy hue
seeping up yellow
reaching for the words
like a sunrise.
My book
was wading in wine,
something I long to do.
Feel the grapes pulse
and burst
under the balls of my feet,
the juice washes up between
my toes, flossing
and rinsing the grit and grime
collected in my days
away from grapes.
Bathing in sweet dark juices,
grown to please.
My book has pages
soaked in pleasure.
KEH
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Camera One, or Camera Two
I thought I was done with the rough draft of Wild Aspargus, the inner story to The Asparagus Revival that I've been working on. But I realized that I wasn't so passionate about the story any more, so how could I expect anyone else to get jazzed about the book either? Rather than trying to patch it up in a crazed editing spree, I decided to just start all over, completely from scratch and rewrite the thing. And that's what I've been doing and I like it SO much better. Now I want to see what you think. Here's the first page of the first version:
In a small house that smelled of beeswax, earth and baked sugar, a plump old woman sang to herself while she worked on a pie crust, creasing the edges into heart shapes.
Out the back door, the creek rippled out a rhythm, the birds in the willow tree sang in harmony, and the scandalous red sheets on the line between the willow and the house danced a flamenco. Granny Bea creased and pressed the dough into curves and hearts along the edge of the pie plate. She laughed wholeheartedly at some memory that flitted through her memory like a butterfly on vacation, smiling lovingly as she worked the memory into the crease, and then slowly, with a concentration that stilled her fingers and the breeze from the willow, Granny Bea dripped three tears into the center of the pie crust. She sprinkled sugar over the moist spot and continued to sing:
Granny Bea’s infamous wild asparagus pies had smoothed over many lover’s tiffs, warmed countless cold feet before the wedding day, and rekindled bonfires out of the cold, dusty ashes of her neighbor’s marriages. Her pies were also outstanding for cheering up the occasional gloomy mood, temper or common cold. Granny Bea had fixed all sorts of ailments, but few were willing to chalk up the magic concoction to asparagus pie of all things. Perhaps it was just Granny Bea’s magic ways, or something in the milk she’d serve with the pie. They’d sit in her cozy kitchen at her giant table and scour the room for any hint of a cauldron, unusual herbs or jars of strange powders. They scanned the tiles she had sealed in the splashboard behind her countertops, in which she’d etched her best recipes, poems and bits of wisdom, looking for a recipe with any hint of a dragonfly wing, or frog’s tongue. None of them seemed to notice that the recipe for wild asparagus pie wasn’t up there, but then who would look for magic in wild asparagus?
And the second, rewritten - both unedited.
There was a willow. And a line that stretched from the great grandmother tree to the house with red sheets dancing a flamenco. The top half of the Dutch door opened wide into a kitchedn that smelled of gingersnaps out of the oven. And the old woman at the counter hummed as she made a pie. Her hair was combed back into a French twist, and there were flour handprints on the behind of her navy blue skirt. To watch her, one might think this was any old woman, making any old pie, in any old kitchen.
But this was Granny Bea, making her special wild asparagus pie, in her kitchen where magic was known to reside.
Granny Bea had a bakery in town which she stocked with brownies and pastries, tarts and breads and buns that had the town salivating just moving in the shop’s general direction, which was on the north end of Main Street. But customers and friends could not get her wild asparagus pies in the bakery. Those pies were served up by invitation only, reserved for special causes.
The brownies were good for hay fever. The tarts for tiresome temperaments of all sorts. The peach pastries usually preceded a small wish coming true. And the glazed donuts worked wonders on bunions, warts and corns.
But the asparagus pies - their specialty was love. Whether it was love lost, love worn out, too much love or not enough, unrequited or unrealized, the wild asparagus pies were cupid’s own pastry of choice.
Thoughts?
In a small house that smelled of beeswax, earth and baked sugar, a plump old woman sang to herself while she worked on a pie crust, creasing the edges into heart shapes.
Out the back door, the creek rippled out a rhythm, the birds in the willow tree sang in harmony, and the scandalous red sheets on the line between the willow and the house danced a flamenco. Granny Bea creased and pressed the dough into curves and hearts along the edge of the pie plate. She laughed wholeheartedly at some memory that flitted through her memory like a butterfly on vacation, smiling lovingly as she worked the memory into the crease, and then slowly, with a concentration that stilled her fingers and the breeze from the willow, Granny Bea dripped three tears into the center of the pie crust. She sprinkled sugar over the moist spot and continued to sing:
Granny Bea’s infamous wild asparagus pies had smoothed over many lover’s tiffs, warmed countless cold feet before the wedding day, and rekindled bonfires out of the cold, dusty ashes of her neighbor’s marriages. Her pies were also outstanding for cheering up the occasional gloomy mood, temper or common cold. Granny Bea had fixed all sorts of ailments, but few were willing to chalk up the magic concoction to asparagus pie of all things. Perhaps it was just Granny Bea’s magic ways, or something in the milk she’d serve with the pie. They’d sit in her cozy kitchen at her giant table and scour the room for any hint of a cauldron, unusual herbs or jars of strange powders. They scanned the tiles she had sealed in the splashboard behind her countertops, in which she’d etched her best recipes, poems and bits of wisdom, looking for a recipe with any hint of a dragonfly wing, or frog’s tongue. None of them seemed to notice that the recipe for wild asparagus pie wasn’t up there, but then who would look for magic in wild asparagus?
And the second, rewritten - both unedited.
There was a willow. And a line that stretched from the great grandmother tree to the house with red sheets dancing a flamenco. The top half of the Dutch door opened wide into a kitchedn that smelled of gingersnaps out of the oven. And the old woman at the counter hummed as she made a pie. Her hair was combed back into a French twist, and there were flour handprints on the behind of her navy blue skirt. To watch her, one might think this was any old woman, making any old pie, in any old kitchen.
But this was Granny Bea, making her special wild asparagus pie, in her kitchen where magic was known to reside.
Granny Bea had a bakery in town which she stocked with brownies and pastries, tarts and breads and buns that had the town salivating just moving in the shop’s general direction, which was on the north end of Main Street. But customers and friends could not get her wild asparagus pies in the bakery. Those pies were served up by invitation only, reserved for special causes.
The brownies were good for hay fever. The tarts for tiresome temperaments of all sorts. The peach pastries usually preceded a small wish coming true. And the glazed donuts worked wonders on bunions, warts and corns.
But the asparagus pies - their specialty was love. Whether it was love lost, love worn out, too much love or not enough, unrequited or unrealized, the wild asparagus pies were cupid’s own pastry of choice.
Thoughts?
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Bee....Sophisticated
I have another purse to show...and don't get too excited, it's already spoken for. Not to worry though, more are on their way.
This morning I laid in bed for three hours finishing a book, and cryed my eyes out too. I can't remember the last time I read a book that lost track of time for me and emptied my tear ducts. And go figure - it was The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants by Ann Brashares. I don't care what age it's supposed to be for - I hope my own writing will move people of any age like that. Speaking of...
I've decided as of this morning to rewrite the inner story of the Asparagus Revival. Wild Asparagus needs to be in a different voice than the rest of the story as it's supposed to be written by a mister Sam Grady, and I decided the best way to go about that is to rewrite it. So here goes!
Monday, May 25, 2009
A Little Vacation
I've been in Indiana all week visting family and my grandmother in particular who is not doing well at all. If only we didn't need these pesky hips. When I break mine, I hope it's doing a saucy salsa or running from a mountain lion, something adventurous.
So I'm back and have another purse to show...but I'll be posting pictures later, of my purse and the sweet black kitty that befriended Mom and I while in Indiana. I'm about to sign off to finish typing the rest of the novel that I have written in longhand. I feel like the what I have now of the novel is the pencil sketch. Soon I'll be outlining it in ink, and then I'll add the color and dimensions. At least that's how I feel it's working, not necessarily how I intended it to go. This is the longest I have worked on any project, and the longest any project has been. I'm in uncharted territory and it has been an adventure figuring out how to make it into a real story. It's like raising a child (I imagine), in that I thought I knew how to do it because so many have done it before me, but turns out I don't have a clue! And I'm just bumbling along, doing the best I can and hoping it won't hate me when it's a teenager.
I am enjoying the ride though. And at least with this child, I don't have to deal with diapers.
So I'm back and have another purse to show...but I'll be posting pictures later, of my purse and the sweet black kitty that befriended Mom and I while in Indiana. I'm about to sign off to finish typing the rest of the novel that I have written in longhand. I feel like the what I have now of the novel is the pencil sketch. Soon I'll be outlining it in ink, and then I'll add the color and dimensions. At least that's how I feel it's working, not necessarily how I intended it to go. This is the longest I have worked on any project, and the longest any project has been. I'm in uncharted territory and it has been an adventure figuring out how to make it into a real story. It's like raising a child (I imagine), in that I thought I knew how to do it because so many have done it before me, but turns out I don't have a clue! And I'm just bumbling along, doing the best I can and hoping it won't hate me when it's a teenager.
I am enjoying the ride though. And at least with this child, I don't have to deal with diapers.
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