Though quietly busy, my friend, Thad, took the time to review my book, “River of January.” More impressive when one considers his work as US Vice-Consul in China. Look what else occupied his time.
Read his remarks at http://www.river-of-january.com
Chapter heading designed by my publisher and her graphic artist daughter. Cool stuff.
Company was coming. A group of kids from school were driving up from town to visit their old teacher–me. The idea that they cared enough to make the hour-plus journey was nice. However, our house is small and very difficult to keep tidy. And the worst part of trying to apply order is my propensity for little piles of clutter.
Okay, not so little piles of clutter, and they have many brothers and sisters.
A person with a properly wired brain would probably not have allowed the paper nests to have materialized in the first place. In that same thinking, the stacks would have been sorted into some order and stored properly for later use. Yet, for me, that’s too hard. It is much more efficient to hoist the mess up, plopping the stack alongside the others in my room from earlier projects. After all, bedroom doors close nicely.
I am not a lone offender. My husband’s “office” is on our dining room table. He has important crap lying there. And if I even look like I am contemplating a drive-by hoist he nearly dives on to the tabletop to protect his domain. The combination of two clutter-ers in one little cabin equals double the upheaval and chaos.
So, as I began, company was coming. We had a stage to set. And it’s tricky to negotiate the exact re-settlement for my husband’s “important” stuff. For me, the shove and run is efficient and fast. For him, if a paper is one inch from where he left it, the poop hits the prop. “I can’t find that list of passwords. Where did you hide it this time!”
“Look over to the right,” I holler back.
“Oh. Okay. Quit moving my stuff, Gail!”
“Where we going to put plates, Chad?”
And so on. At least with my system, the formidable heap makes the hunt more exciting. Finding that precise paper far more gratifying.
I worked with a woman years ago who gave me another useful hint. The ironing moves easily from the couch to the dishwasher if there’s a knock on the door. Good to know.
Concerning the visit from town, that went well. These were my students, and they had survived the catacombs of junk in my old classroom. From our slight of hands, they most likely saw the house as clean.
We clutter-ers are misunderstood people. Unlike hoarders, we can see the mess, and are sensitive to public opinion. My guilt is ever-present. The pressure becomes so unbearable at times, that I succumb and clean something.
Oh, and one more thing–River of January is ready for pre-order. Go to http://www.river-of-january.com
Audience gathering at my first talk on “River of January” We had a nice turnout and a good time.
A former student, Allison Hawn interviewed me for her blog, Normally Surreal
Thanks Allison.
http://circusplatypus.blogspot.com/2014/03/a-bit-of-january-in-march.html
It is with great trepidation that I announce my first book presentation. In front of people. Sitting in front of me. Real people. Watching me. Yikes.
Send up good vibes, please.
http://www.river-of-january.com/
Need some good cold weather reading? Follow the link and relive the adventure of River of January
PBS ran a series called “Finding Your Roots.” It was hosted by historian Dr. Robert Louis Gates and focused on celebrities and their genealogy. Yo Yo Ma, Meryl Streep, Eva Longoria, etc . . . were featured on the program. The show quickly transitioned beyond the begats of family trees when Dr. Gates added revealing blood tests concerning ethnic group composition. One guest, an African American professor, found that she was actually Caucasian, with little African makeup. The woman looked visibly shaken as she absorbed the news, clearly at a loss to define herself in this new light. It felt almost cruel to watch her grapple with the science.
Identity can be a slippery concept. For thirty three years I was known as teacher. Along with wife and mother, teacher constituted the third leg of my reality. Family concerns and lesson plans ran equally through my thoughts. I listened to my husband’s work problems, worried about classwork my own two had to complete, and prepared for my own lectures. That was my life and my identity.
Any travel, reading, or discussion usually had a connection to history. I attended seminars at Gettysburg, along the Oregon Trail, and touring the grounds at Mt. Vernon, Virginia. After years of historic pursuits, I retired and turned to writing.
The people I am meeting now, while promoting “River of January,” think that I am a writer. A WRITER! I am not settled yet with that new moniker, it feels pretentious to presume the role of author. Does taking a story that fell into my lap, experimenting with sentences to tell the story, adding pictures and a cover make me a writer? This new definition of Gail is going to take a while to break in, like new shoes, or a pair of jeans fresh out of the dryer.
Identity is a funny concept. When exactly does it happen? When does an occupation become an identity? The professor featured on PBS taught African-American studies, considered herself black and then bloodwork betrayed her foundations of reality. What has she done with that new information? Who is she now?
And that reminds me–I hated Metaphysical Philosophy in college. I wasn’t too thrilled with Voltaire, Montesquieu, or the rest of those dudes, either
At our most essential level who are we as people? If another looks to me as a writer, am I indeed what they see? I can counter that notion with thousands of kids who passed through my classroom and see only teacher.
My computer crashed, but I have wonderful neighbors who are IT wonders. The little gadget is now up and working. Progress on all fronts with the book. Speaking engagements are lining up and books should be done by the end of the month.
Pictured is a telegram for Helen from an admirer, before she shipped off to Europe in 1932. The story appears in the book.
It’s Sunday, it’s raining, and my husband is watching golf. I have given myself credit for remaining conscious with so many reasons to go back to bed.
But I’m excited. The book talk on the radio yesterday came off smoothly.
Two days ago I spoke with the radio announcer on the phone filling her in a bit on the story. Either she was in a hurry to get back on the air or simply wasn’t impressed. That was okay. I am accustomed to impatience when I start to blather. After all, I taught school for decades.
However, despite her indifference, I decided to bring along some photos of my protagonists, Helen and Chum. Before we went on the air I shared them with the disc jockey. It was awesome. She lit up like a Christmas Tree. “I had no idea,” came out of her mouth. “I love this era, it was so glamorous,” she added. I simply replied “I know.” And the interview began.
All someone has to say is “tell me about your book,” and I am off to the races. She grew as animated as I felt, and brought up the photos a couple of times during the interview for listeners to understand. I think that it was a promising start to my book promotion. Not that everyone will like River of January mind you, but just a chance to explain the story, and how it evolved gave me heart.
My publisher, Yvonne Rousseau at Point Rider Publishing saw what I saw from the beginning. She has championed the book more than once when I was ready to abort the mission. Yvonne has proven very proficient at hand-holding when necessary. And her daughter, Brook Rousseau, the artist behind the cover design, has been nearly mystic in capturing the story in a bold image. I think many books will sell simply because of her exquisite design. A big thanks to Yvonne and Brooke–a true team of pros.
I suppose this promising start to River’s launch is exciting enough to keep my eyes open on this wet, gray day. In spite of listening to soft-spoken analysts murmuring boring commentary from the Cadillac World Golf Championship.
Gail Chumbley 