Category Archives: Writing

Ken Follett and John Lee: Master Storytellers

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It finally hit me, beyond a shadow of a doubt.  I’m in love with Ken Follett.  And, for that matter, John Rafter Lee, too. So, consider me the Number One member of their fan club. In fact, I am officially declaring myself a Ken Follett/John Rafter Lee groupie.

Ken Follett

Ken Follett (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Yes, I’m obsessed! Though, you may be thinking, why? Why swoon over the likes of Ken Follett, an author who describes himself on his website as a, “Master Storyteller and Best-selling Author?”  And, who the heck is John Lee, anyway?? Well, more about him in a moment.

First, Ken Follett really is a master storyteller. He spins a darn good yarn. Clearly, the man does his research, whether writing about five families whose lives are intertwined during World War I and World War II, or the building of a cathedral in 12th century England.  Do you have any idea how long it took those guys back then to build one cathedral? We’re talking decades. Maybe even centuries!

So far, I have read two of Follett’s books and am halfway through a third. Though technically, I haven’t really read any of his books at all. It’s because I listen to them on audio! On average, the number of pages in each of his novels ranges from 1,000 to infinity. Talk about epic! There are only so many hours in a day, which is why, without the audiobook, I would be missing out on Follett’s tomes.

These are the ones I’ve listened to: Fall of Giants and Winter of the World, Books One and Two of his Century Trilogy (which, if I interpret this correctly, means that there is one more book in the series that I can look forward to!).

And, the book I’m currently listening to is Pillars of the Earth, which Follett wrote way back when. It’s a riveting account, detailing all the drama, politics and double-crossing involved in building a cathedral. I mean, really. Who thought building a cathedral could be so intriguing, and so enthralling?

John Rafter Lee, actor and professional narrator.

John Rafter Lee, actor and professional narrator.

In audio form, each of these books is between 30 and 40 hours long. Goodness. I’d lose my voice if I had to read aloud just one chapter! Which brings me back to John Rafter Lee.

I love Lee!  And I only know him by his voice! You could say, he had me at, “Hello.” I have listened to many an audio book, but none has kept me as rapt as Lee. He narrates all of Follett’s books, and while Follett might write the books, it is Lee who truly brings them to life. I cannot say enough good things about this man’s voice. It’s clear and crisp. Best of all, Lee, who has recorded the audio for other books as well (Doctor Zhivago by Boris Pasternak and Tai-Pan by James Clavell), is able to capture every accent and nuance of the gazillion characters or so that are to be found in a Follett saga.

Take his most recent, Winter of the World. The main characters are Russian, British German, American, and Welsh. He does all the accents pitch perfect, as far as I’m concerned. Sure, Lee is an actor first, but he’s made a solid career out of recording audio books, and now I’m determined to listen to them all.

By the way, if you happen to run into either of them, please let them know they shouldn’t be frightened of me. Not in the least. True, I’m obsessed enough to stalk them, if not for the fact that they’re in England and I’m on this side of the pond.   So, let them know they can relax. For now, that is. One of these days, they might spot a crazed woman peering at them from behind a tree, in a very clandestine sort of way. You just never know.

Finally, I want to thank Anne and Don, a very sweet couple who were kind enough to introduce me to Ken Follett. After all, if not for them, I wouldn’t be hanging on to every word he writes and Lee utters.

Now, what are you reading?

Flailing

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I didn’t always live in Queens. Just before sixth grade, we moved out to Long Island, and before you knew it, I was hitting those awkward teen years.

My high school yearbook photo

If you want to know the truth, I was a teenager with no direction, and no ambition whatsoever. A lousy student with even crummier study habits. I was painfully shy and mortified by speech class, where I had to step up to the podium and debate on an issue I didn’t give a hoot about. In geometry and algebra, I was one of the few who managed to turn, what should each have been a year-long course, into 18-month-long ones. What can I say? I needed the extra time for the math to sink in.

My future looked bleak. I was flailing.

Even Mr. Meissner, my science teacher was baffled at the thought of my prospects. He talked me into enrolling in his General Science class which actually proved to be one of my favorite classes because the only thing we didn’t study in that class was science. We were a class of misfits. My “lab” partner was on his third year of being left back. He’d boast that he knew a lot about nothing, and it was true. Everyday, he’d regale us with his breadth of knowledge about the most mundane things. I never knew anyone who knew so much about so little.

Frankly, there was little hope for me. Mrs. McHale, the Home-Economics teacher nearly twisted my arm to get me to take her class so she could teach me how to sew. She literally yanked me out of the hallway one day, and the next thing I knew I was enrolled in her class (much to my chagrin). I hated sewing. I took the class but I never sewed a stitch. My mother, who was a master with the sewing machine, ended up doing it for me. To this day, I can’t even sew a button on a shirt.

The computer teacher practically twisted my other arm to get me to take his class as no other girls had signed up for it. So I did, but these were the computers of the past, pre-Apple and pre-PC’s. There was no internet access. Nothing, but mysterious codes for enormous computers that I was sure would never amount to anything of significance in my lifetime. Those binary numbers just swam over my head and dive-bombed on any future I might have as a computer analyst.

And then two things happened to change my life. And by things, I mean two people: Miss Stern and Lynn.

Miss Stern taught Creative Writing. Up until then, the extent of my writing was limited to assorted diaries I’d kept throughout the years, and the copious notes I’d write in class and pass to my friends, when I should’ve been paying attention to classwork.

And then I took Creative Writing and the world was transformed. It was as if my life had gone from black and white to brilliant Technicolor. My heart became infused with joy. Suddenly, I was turning in assignments on time and raising my hand with record speed–excited to read my work aloud, whether it was an essay describing the contents of my bedroom or  a poem in the style of Ben Johnson. It was in her class that I learned the line, “Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practise to deceive.”  Oh, how I loved Miss Stern, and how I loved her class. To me, there was nothing better!

Except maybe my friend, Lynn. If you ask me, Lynn had one of those intensely bright minds that left me in awe. She took AP honors classes, and barely needed to blink to get an A. Yep, she was smart as a whip, with a biting sense of humor, much like Dorothy Parker.

Lynn and I traveled in different circles. You could find me with the potheads, the delinquents, and the ones who prided themselves on knowing much about nothing. Whereas, Lynn was with the intellectual crowd, the ones who knew their life plans, and had dreams of going to Princeton, Columbia, or Dartmouth.

And, then one day, by chance, we became friends. Which evolved to good friends. Whereupon, we embarked on a series of fabulous adventures. Just me and Lynn. And, in the process, Lynn changed my life.

Oh, and I suppose this would be as good a time as any, to make a formal apology to the country of India. As you requested, we never returned to your embassy.

But I’ll save these stories–the tales of our sometimes wild adventures–for another day.

So, how about you? Can you remember someone who may have helped change the course of your life?

The Race 2012 Blogging Project Begins

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Race was an issue during the Civil Rights era. Is it still an issue today?

If you ask me, with 40 days left to the election, the best reality show around just kicked it up a notch.

I’m talking, of course, about the 2012 run for the presidency. I mean, just think about it. There’s enough drama here—machinations,  angst, he said/he said accusations, secret tapes, backstabbing, blunders, greed, politicos being thrown under the bus, backroom meetings, not to mention out-and-out brawls—to spice up at least a dozen reality shows.

And, while everyone’s wondering who’ll end up with the rose, or be thrown off the island–there can only be one president, after all–the real question to consider, is:

Is race a factor in this year’s election?

On the surface, this may seem like a yes or no question, but, really, it’s one that begs an explanation. Closer examination, if you will. And the answer, no doubt, will be influenced by your race, your religion or lack thereof, your class, and other key markers that make you, well, you.

For, these factors form the prism through which you see the world, including politics. And, there is no one way to answer this question. There are countless ways.

I have voted in nine presidential elections. This upcoming one will be my tenth. And, while the question of race didn’t really occur to me the first eight times I voted, I started thinking about it in the 2008 election when, for the first time, we had an African-American presidential candidate running for office. And, it’s an issue that continues to pervade my thoughts today.

Which is why, I’m pleased to launch the Race 2012 blogging project.  From now through the election season, Race 2012 bloggers will be posting about this very subject. And, all the views conveyed in their posts are, most definitely and unequivocally, their own. But, they’ll be speaking from the heart and sharing their personal feelings about race and the election.

Some of the bloggers have already posted, and I am including links to their posts on the new Race 2012 page, which I’ve set up right here on this site.  Please visit the page and keep coming back to check for updates.  I encourage you to read these posts and then add your own comment, for we want you to be part of the  conversation.

If you’re interested in blogging with our team, just let me know and I’ll send you some information.

The Race 2012 blogging project is conducted in conjunction with a new PBS documentary, Race 2012: A Conversation About Race & Politics in America. This one-hour election special, which airs Tuesday, October 16 (please check your local listings), uses the presidential election as a lens through which to examine America’s increasingly complex racial landscape.

Race 2012 navigates the high-stakes world of racial pollsters, strategists, spin doctors and candidates as they compete for voters of many ethnic and racial groups. The election will serve as an important indicator of the role race will play in our nation’s political future. How will today’s immigrants shape our electoral landscape? What effect will the economic differences have on America’s political future? Race 2012 offers a fresh view of the shifts that are transforming our nation.

I, for one, am looking forward to having a thought-provoking exchange of ideas and beliefs. And, who knows? Maybe, together, we can get to the bottom of this, and thus solve all our economic and social problems in one fell swoop.

Too much to hope for? Perhaps. But, keeping the conversation going is a good place to start. Your thoughts?

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The Road Taken Returns: The Forgotten Diaries

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Brace yourself. The Road Taken is back. For now, anyway. For those of you who’ve been asking, this one’s for you.

Yeah, that thorny path to love, marriage, joy, despair, and finally, the growing-apart thing. Maybe it’s like watching a train wreck. Seeing how I gave up the life I had carved for myself, to join a man who was so far away from me, in more ways than just distance. How we lived together, and then married, and somewhere in those 12 years, “wedded bliss” crumbled into bits of clay and dust, launching me into the hellish ride of my life.

And yet, from these ruins I found something better:  Myself.

Turns out, I kept a journal then, and recently rediscovered it. It begins at a time when the two paths were still before me, and I had a choice to make. (Read chapter one, Broken Hearts, for more on that).

We know how it turned out, but this is how it starts. On a short trip to Seattle, in order to determine if G and I could make a go of it. Listen to the troubled heart of this young woman, and tell me, what advice would you have given her?

First Week:  I have arrived in Seattle! I feel comfortable with G, but I can’t help but wonder if we’re capable of having a different type of relationship this time, without reverting to old, childish roles. G says I make his life pleasant. But is that all there is? While he is kind, he has no desire to make himself appealing to me. He says he loves me, but his heart just doesn’t seem to be in it. I think, like, me, he just doesn’t want to be lonely. But doesn’t that tell me something?

Maybe it would be better for me to start with someone new—a clean slate. I have changed, and the way he sees me and the way I am, are not one. The me who wants emotional ties, attachments, dependence, wants things to work out. The new, self-reliant me has trouble accepting that. I ought to forget him, start my life in D.C.

The Next Night:  I can’t sleep. It’s after 2 am and I can’t sleep. A million and one worries that always seem worse late at night. I am jealous. I am jealous of all the women G’s had. I am jealous of Marigold, who told him it was okay for roommates to sleep together. I am mad that G told me. I am mad that I’d already guessed it.

A Week Later: My trip is halfway over. But the question remains, where do I stand with G? Last night, I confronted him with my feelings. He listened and finally, said that it seems I’m just looking at the negative points, exaggerating them, using them as a weapon for wanting out of the relationship. I’m the one with the doubts, who is too damned scared to stay and work things out. Let it go, he tells me.

I want to cry but tears do not come. Nor will sleep come. I am restless, anxious, tense—tormented. I must leave this madness. He makes me happy but he makes me sad. Since I’ve been here, I’ve gone through a spectrum of emotions.

A few nights later:  It is the eve of my departure. Two and a half weeks seems short, but a lot was accomplished. Physically, we outdid ourselves at times; other times we took it easy. We dined out a lot, went to the movies, the symphony, a basketball game, the stores. We spent this past weekend in Vancouver, B.C. and enjoyed the view of the bay, the colorful sailboats, and the mountains. G baked two batches of brownies; one not as good as the other. I took long walks by myself, around the university district. We shopped for records and books, blankets and mints. We saw the full moon dip behind Mt. Baker. We kissed incessantly, made love, got high and listened to Bruce Springsteen. I danced, swayed, moved—and caught his eye.

We laughed, sighed, yawned, whispered, touched, talked, joked and cried. On Thursday, I wanted out of the relationship. By Friday night all doubts were tossed aside as I gave my heart and wondered how I had ever thought of living without him. 

G spoke honestly and truthfully. His matter-of-factness compelled me to do the same. There is no holding back. I am affected by him, his moods, his anger, his fears and pleasures. It makes me happy just to be with him.

To watch him move. To watch him in his true form. Reading. Engrossed in a mystery, all other life stops. He bites his fingers, his lips. All other functions cease until the book is done.

Working. Flipping slide after slide, making illegible notations on indecipherable charts. Peering into a microscope, examining, inventing theories. Worrying, and studying journals. He is engrossed and often talks about losing sight of time. Whatever he gives his attention to, it is with the same zeal that he applies himself. It is all or nothing with him.

And he is handsome. Maybe not to all, but certainly to me. He is tall, lean with strong features. His skin is clear and smooth. His mouth, inviting. His eyes tell all—when he loves me, when he’s confused or hurt or bitter. His eyes chart his moods, his passions.

We are bound by words, sentences, comments that we have shared. I have revealed my bleakest self to him and I have seen his. We are not scared away. Our quirks, bad habits and our secrets have been revealed. We accept that in us. We are real to each other.

He has called me his love and his curse, all in the same breath. I accept that. It’s natural. But when he calls me by the special name he’s given me, I want to melt and hug him. I feel vulnerable, and cannot think of a life without him. Tomorrow I leave. I am ready.

I am not ready. I’m preparing myself and should be used to it, but I’m not. Every time we part the pain is alive, intense. We are uncertain what will happen.

Do we have a future together?

And so, I returned to school, and the battle continues in my head, whether to give G another chance, or stay put. During this time, I write the following poem:

“When we are apart,

I remember the hugs,

the warm bed, the jokes,

Your laughter,

Your smile and eyes,

I think about how wonderful you are,

When we are together—

Ah, that’s something else!

When we are united, I see how

Painfully clear are the differences.

The differences kill us.”

And then I write this:

 ”A hunch tells me that I could never realize myself with G, and that when the day came that I wanted to become a whole (full of life) person, I would have to leave him, and it would hurt more than it would now.”

So, after writing this, why did I do it? Just more proof that I wasn’t reading the writing on the wall.

And so it begins, and so it continues.

Ship of Fools: Our Excellent Adventure Revealed

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Or, Exactly Who Did Kill Lupita Davenport?

A HUMONGOUS thank you to all of you who participated in Bella’s and my Excellent Adventure!

Here’s a sampling of mysteries set on the high seas. See below for more.

Thank you, too, to those of you who read it and kept coming back to see it develop! We loved you for hanging in there while the story unfolded before your eyes.

Most of all, thank you to my fellow blogger, my friend and partner-in-crime, Bella.  She is so amazing, and has a not-to-be-missed blog, One Sister’s Rant. Bella is witty and enormously creative, too. Undertaking this Adventure on the High Seas project was her brilliant idea. So, kudos to you, Bella!

If you ask me, Bella and I have some very imaginative readers, who conjured up a cast of characters.  A proverbial ship of fools, I’d say. In other words they were, for lack of a better expression, to die for. Story contributors (besides Bella and me), include, in order of appearance:

Ellenmgregg

Jodi Aman

Robert

Karen Bidgood

Trisha Richter

Ashley Rodriguez

Clare Pister

Imelda Evans

Eloise Currie

DeBatterman

So which of these characters killed Lupita Davenport? We know she died at the hands of one—or more?—of her conniving classmates from the Gene Kelly High School of Performing Arts. Class of 1982. But who?

And, what were all of these alumni up to for the last 20 years? Who knows? But one thing’s for sure. They all seemed to suffer from major chips on their shoulders, jealousy, hangovers, hangnails, and envy, and had their own reasons for wanting to exact revenge, to right a wrong or just plain have a go with the man (of some) of their dreams: Thurston Davenport, III. Heir to the Davenport Pickle Company, and otherwise known as the Pickle King.

Seems he was a hot commodity, with looks and wealth, and devotees, such as Sally the songstress who, prior to her transformation, had once been George, Thurston’s best friend in high school; Katrina, who was thin and gorgeous, and despised Lupita; and Denise Diamond, the aging, Glock-carrying movie star who was about to star in the role of a lifetime. As herself.

To be sure, there were some red herrings. Like Kent “the Rocket” Johnson who jostled Elphie, when they first heard the maid’s blood-curdling screams. Or Lizzy Kelcher and Ryan Holden, who were having a tryst of their own. Milady Miranda Mudgeon, who seemed to have a secret agenda that involved a certain fellow named Ashley Montague, despite being married to Cur, a man who’d been found alive and shaken, lying in a pool of pickle juice.

Jane, who was now in the witness protection program—and, why she’d risk leaving it for a high school reunion with classmates she hadn’t seen in 20 years, we’ll never know. Then there’s Snidley Crumburger, who seemed to be constantly sweating bullets, and Cliff Thompson, who seemed to be rather nosy, listening in on other’s thoughts. And a few others who I’m sure I’m leaving out from this convoluted reunion on the high seas.

Finally, there was Sister Mary, the lesbian nun in love with Lupita. We knew from the outset she couldn’t do it, though we wondered why she stole Lupita’s ring. But, it was clear she was still carrying a torch for her darling Lupita.

And, let’s not forget the weapons. A cornucopia that included a Glock, a knife, a candlestick, an umbrella and a hatpin.

But, was there enough motive? Who could have been so maniacal as to end the life of Lupita Davenport? And, does it really matter?

For the life of me, this is one I couldn’t figure out myself. So, to find the answer, I turned to my friend and colleague, Bruce. He has a background in engineering, and a methodical mind as sharp as a tack. In other words, I can’t keep up with his uncanny knowledge and way of analyzing and deciphering everything so that it makes sense. Which is why, I assumed if anyone could determine the killer of this highfalutin story, it would be him. So, I asked Bruce, as a neutral, unbiased party, to read the mystery and figure out the name of the culprit.

Upon reading it, Bruce said this story reminded him of a Federico Fellini film. For those who don’t know, Fellini is the Italian director known for his surrealism and use of hallucinatory imagery, showing people at their most bizarre. Which was all I needed to hear.

He loved it! Since Fellini is highly acclaimed for his work, I’m sure what Bruce was trying to say was that this story is truly brilliant, and should be turned into a film! Now, I’ll drink to that!

I thanked Bruce profusely for the compliment, but asked him to get on with it and tell me who murdered Lupita!  After all, inquiring minds have to know!

Exasperated, Bruce looked at me, and declared,

“Only one could have done it. The one who lost her marbles and was crazier than the whole lot of her classmates put together. Who disrobed down to her Manolos, shot bullets in the ceiling with her Glock, and pulled her hair out when she couldn’t find Thurston.”

Why, that person is, none other than Denise Diamond!

So, there you have it. Another case closed.  Mystery solved!

Now, be sure to head over to Bella’s so you can learn the results of her version of the story!

Oh, and, if Bruce is right, and we ought to make a film out of this story, tell me, who do you think we should get to play each of the parts?

Thanks again to all who participated!  Let’s do it again soon!