Saturday, June 25, 2016

TOP HAT


THE JOY OF STORY
John M. Daniel’s Blog
June 25, 2016



Greetings, writers and readers. Welcome to my blog, which is my way to cheer for and egg on writing and reading, especially of stories. But this week I’m going to take a departure from the written word to celebrate another way, a non-verbal way, of telling stories.
It came to my attention a few days ago that Ella Fitzgerald died twenty years ago this month. No, I’m not going to talk about jazz or singing in my weekly essay about storytelling, although there’s no doubt that Ella could sell a story beautifully in song.
But in the account I’m about to tell, Ella’s death led to a conversation about dancing. Dancing can be a storytelling art. Anyone who enjoys watching ballet would agree that a large part of the magic is in the narration of a tale.
But telling a story in the form of a dance isn’t limited to ballet.
Note: the following essay first appeared in Black Lamb magazine.


§§§


A TIP OF THE TOP HAT

Sometime shortly after Ella Fitzgerald died in 1996, while Susan and I were having dinner at the home of our friends Mort and Liz, I happened to assert what I thought was an incontrovertible fact: “Ella was the greatest female vocalist ever.”
“No she wasn’t,” Mort said.
“Oh? Who was, then? In your opinion?”
“Billie Holiday,” Mort answered. “That’s not an opinion. It’s fact.”
“Oh? Billie Holiday was good, I suppose—”
“Great, you mean. The best, no question.”
“Except in departments where Ella excelled, like vocal range, intonation, timing, enunciation, improvisation—”
“Now you’re just talking about technical skill. Billie bared her soul.”
I let it drop. Otherwise the dinner was delightful.

A few months later, Susan and I returned the gesture and invited Mort and Liz to our home for dinner, during which I made the mistake of saying what I thought was so true it was almost a cliché: “Fred Astaire was the greatest dancer of all time.”
“No he wasn’t.”
“Oh? Who was?”
“Gene Kelly, by far.”
Out of respect for Gene Kelly, I kept my mouth shut. I’ve been waiting for twenty years to reply (Mort, are you reading this?), “Now you’re just talking about athletic skill. Fred Astaire had elegance. And he was sexier, too.”

I first fell for Fred one Tuesday evening in the fall of 1969. That was a dark period for me. I was living in a rented room in Menlo Park, and feeling lower than whale shit, which doesn’t float. One thing that kept my will to live alive was a Tuesday evening film class at Stanford, which I audited. This wasn’t legal, because I wasn’t a student, but I showed up every week for a free movie and never got busted. The class always started with a short lecture by the teacher, Clive Miller, a film nut. Clive would tell us why we were going to like the movie we were about to see. Then he’d get out of the way, switch off the lights, and the screen would light up. On one such evening:
A steel tower sending out sparks and what sounds like Morse Code.


Radio Pictures Presents
TOP HAT

Credits accompanied by an unseen orchestra playing “Dancing Cheek to Cheek,” interrupted by “Alexander’s Ragtime Band” when the songwriter’s name appears on screen: IRVING BERLIN.
Then the movie, a movie that made me a temporarily happy man, and has delighted me time after time ever since. Susan and I own the DVD and we never get tired of it.



Okay, I admit it: the plot stinks. Fred meets Ginger and Ginger takes an immediate disliking to Fred, whereas Fred falls immediately in love and tells his best friend, Edward Everett Horton, he’s going to marry the girl. Fred pursues Ginger, who  becomes more and more annoyed by him, until they dance together, and that changes her mind, and she’s in love with him, too. Then things get weird. Ginger thinks Fred is somebody he’s not and that he’s done something he hasn’t, and Fred doesn’t know why he’s in the doghouse because Ginger won’t tell him.
This is the part that drives Susan bats. “Why don’t they just talk to each other?”
But that’s the way it is, in all the Fred and Ginger movies. We also own Swing Time, Shall We Dance, and The Gay Divorcee, and it’s the same in all of them: Ginger misunderstands Fred and must hate the man she loves until the facts are revealed.
This is not to say Top Hat doesn’t have an engaging plot about a delightful relationship, but that plot and that relationship concern the secondary characters, Horace Hardwick, an impresario played by Edward Everett Horton, and Eric Blore, who plays the part of Bates, his unctuous valet. These two have a hilarious love-hate relationship full of double-takes, wordplay, and sly gay innuendoes. More comedy is provided by Erik Rhodes, who plays Alberto Beddini, a foppish banty-rooster dress designer, who loves Ginger too, but loves himself more, and loves his dresses most of all.
But as funny as the secondary characters are, we don’t watch and rewatch Top Hat for the subplot. Nor do we refuse to watch Top Hat because it has a corny, frustrating main plot.

Ginger, wearing riding clothes, climbs into a horse-drawn carriage and tells the driver to take her to the stables. When she realizes the cab driver is Fred, she’s steamed, although there’s a quick flicker of amusement on her face. In the next scene she’s sitting in a gazebo out in the woods, sheltered from the rain. Fred shows up with his horse and carriage, offering her a ride, which she declines. He gets out of the cab and joins her in the gazebo, where he explains the weather conditions, what causes raindrops, lighting, and thunder. BOOM! Hearing thunder, Ginger rushes into Fred’s arms. Fred sings to her: “Isn’t it a lovely day to be caught in the rain?”
Granted, Fred’s no Frank. (By the way, Mort, don’t even try to tell me Frank Sinatra wasn’t the greatest.) But Fred has a pleasant and persuasive voice. And we don’t go to the movies just to hear Fred Astaire sing.
He starts to move.
Ginger’s face lights up: Hey, this guy can dance!
He does a few steps, she does a few steps.
He does a few more, she does a few more
He goes forward and she goes back, he steps back and she comes forward.
Side by side they shuffle-ball-change.
Then they’re in each other’s arms. Foreplay is done, for now.
They move together, apart, together, apart, together, together, together.
Again, with variations. They’re having fun!
This goes on a long time, and you should see the smiles on their faces…
Faster, now, and faster, and whirl and whirl.
The seduction is complete. The dancers sit side by side, and they shake hands. They’re in love. We’ve just watched one of the most erotic scenes in film history.
So there. Fred Astaire was the sexiest dancer alive. Gene Kelly, for all his splendid choreography, his testosterone, and his grinning good looks, was great, but only second best.
Which ain’t bad.


§§§


Calling all published authors—

I feature a guest author the third Saturday (and week following) of each month. If you’re interested in posting an essay on my blog—it’s also a chance to promote a published book—email me directly at jmd@danielpublishing.com.


§§§


Call for submissions: Your 99-Word Stories

The deadline for July’s 99-word story submissions is July 1. The stories will appear on my blog post for July 9

note: this 99-word story feature is a game, not a contest. Obey the rules and I’ll include your story. I may edit the story to make it stronger, and it’s understood that you will submit to my editing willingly. That’s an unwritten rule.

Rules for the 99-word story feature are as follows:

1. Your story must be 99 words long, exactly.
2. One story per writer, per month.
3. The story must be a story. That means it needs plot (something or somebody has to change), characters, and conflict.
4. The story must be inspired by the prompt I assign.
5. The deadline: the first of the month. Stories will appear on this blog the second Saturday of the month.
6. I will copy edit the story. The author of the story retains all rights.
7. Email me your story (in the body of your email, or as a Word attachment) to: jmd@danielpublishing.com

THIS MONTH’S PROMPT FOR NEXT MONTH’S 99-WORD STORY: Write a story inspired by this sentiment: “Yes, I love you, but you’re going to have to choose between me and that animal.”

§§§

That’ll do it for this week. I hope you’ll return next week, by which time we’ll be celebrating July, summer, fireworks, and watermelon. Meanwhile, if you are a writer, may your fingers dance nimbly across your keyboard as your stories take flight on your screen.








Saturday, June 18, 2016

AMATEUR SLEUTHS ARE PASSIONATE ABOUT THEIR JOB


THE JOY OF STORY
John M. Daniel’s Blog
June 18, 2016



Greetings, writers and readers, storytellers and avid listeners. This week I’m pleased to have as my guest mystery writer Sally Carpenter, author of the Sandy Fairfax Teen Idol series.
Sandy Fairfax is an amateur sleuth. That means he’s not a cop or a private investigator, just somebody who has a habit of stumbling over dead bodies (figuratively speaking) and getting caught up the risky business of figuring out whodunit, chasing down the killer, and seeing that the villain is brought to justice.
Sometimes in the amateur sleuth subgenre, this adventure happens entirely against the poor protagonist’s will, but it goes with the territory that the amateur sleuth is nosy enough, and has a conviction about right being better than wrong, to overcome fear and pick up the gauntlet fate has thrown down.
The chase is on, and our hero is one to root for, a sleuth whose final advantages are bravado, honor, and a good set of wits.
Sally Carpenter’s amateur Sandy Fairfax has just what it takes.


§§§

Inside the Mind of a Teen Idol
by Sally Carpenter
 Thanks for hosting me today, John. I’m going to illustrate character development by describing my series protagonist Sandy Fairfax, a 28-year-old former teen idol and star of the ’70s TV show “Buddy Brave, Boy Sleuth.” This in itself is unique, because I’m not aware of any other mystery protagonist with this job description.
I have four books in the series. In book one, Sandy’s been out of circulation for many years and is attempting to launch a comeback. This is where fiction meets reality. All real-life teen idols experience an explosive but short-lived career in their early twenties and then fall into obscurity. However, when the idol is in his late thirties, nostalgia kicks in for the older fans, and he’s discovered by a younger generation, and his career is renewed.
Sandy is passionate. He admits that he follows his heart instead of his head. If he wants something, he goes full tilt for it. When he gets his teeth into a murder case, he won’t let go.
He loves classic cars and guitars as well as all types of music. He used to love drinking until he realized that was really an addiction; now he’s clean and sober. He loves performing, not just for the acclaim but he truly enjoys making people happy. He couldn’t go into another line of work because he’d rather be on a stage.
Sandy has a strong sense of justice. He’s a “reluctant hero” as he was thrust into amateur sleuthing against his will and better judgment. However, now that he’s solved several crimes he finds it rewarding. He’s determined to bring in the killer, even if he doesn’t like or even know the victim.
Sandy’s a “speed freak.” He drives fast and he craves excitement. He likes the mental challenge of finding the killer and the thrill of the chase. Solving crimes helps him feel worthwhile and needed; he’s more than just a pretty face on a lunchbox.
As for flaws, in book one he’s a mess. He’s just quit drinking cold turkey and as a result he’s cranky and moody. He has a short temper and lashes out when provoked. As a result of having people gush over him, Sandy possesses a monster-size ego.
Like every real idol except for Donny Osmond, Sandy’s divorced. Sandy was an idol during the years when a man’s libido is at its strongest. As a result, he doesn’t have a mature attitude about women or sexuality. He was promiscuous in his youth, although that’s tapered off. Over the years he’s had a number of neurotic girlfriends. Now he’s found a lovely, emotionally secure woman and he wants to remain true to her. But don’t expect any graphic sex, as cozy mysteries are PG.
In the first book Sandy had a bad attitude about Buddy Brave, the character he played on TV. He’s permanently typecast, and even now the character continues to dog him. However, by book four he’s learned to accept Buddy as an important part of his life. By book four Sandy regains a sense of pride about the boy sleuth—and for his own detective work.

Sally Carpenter is native Hoosier now living in Moorpark, Calif. She has a master’s degree in theater from Indiana State University. While in school her plays Star Collector and Common Ground were finalists in the American College Theater Festival One-Act Playwriting Competition. Common Ground also earned a college creative writing award, and Star Collector was produced in New York City.
Sally also has a master’s degree in theology and a black belt in tae kwon do. She’s worked as an actress, college writing instructor, theater critic, jail chaplain, and tour guide/page for Paramount Pictures. She’s now employed at a community newspaper.
She writes the Sandy Fairfax Teen Idol series: The Baffled Beatlemaniac Caper (2012 Eureka! Award finalist for best first mystery novel), The Sinister Sitcom Caper, The Cunning Cruise Ship Caper and The Quirky Quiz Show Caper.
She has short stories in two anthologies: “Dark Nights at the Deluxe Drive-In” in Last Exit to Murder and “Faster Than a Speeding Bullet” in Plan B: Omnibus. She also wrote chapter three in the Cozy Cat Press group mystery Chasing the Codex.
She’s a member of Sisters in Crime/Los Angeles. Reach her at Facebook or scwriter@earthlink.net.

§§§

Calling all published authors—
I feature a guest author the third Saturday (and week following) of each month. If you’re interested in posting an essay on my blog—it’s also a chance to promote a published book—email me directly at jmd@danielpublishing.com.

§§§

Call for submissions: Your 99-Word Stories

The deadline for July’s 99-word story submissions is July 1. The stories will appear on my blog post for July 9

note: this 99-word story feature is a game, not a contest. Obey the rules and I’ll include your story. I may edit the story to make it stronger, and it’s understood that you will submit to my editing willingly. That’s an unwritten rule.

Rules for the 99-word story feature are as follows:

1. Your story must be 99 words long, exactly.
2. One story per writer, per month.
3. The story must be a story. That means it needs plot (something or somebody has to change), characters, and conflict.
4. The story must be inspired by the prompt I assign.
5. The deadline: the first of the month. Stories will appear on this blog the second Saturday of the month.
6. I will copy edit the story. The author of the story retains all rights.
7. Email me your story (in the body of your email, or as a Word attachment) to: jmd@danielpublishing.com

THIS MONTH’S PROMPT FOR NEXT MONTH’S 99-WORD STORY: Write a story inspired by this sentiment: “Yes, I love you, but you’re going to have to choose between me and that animal.”


§§§


 So much for this week. Thank you for stopping by, and thanks especially to Sally Carpenter for introducing us to Sandy Fairfax, a former teen idol with a passion for adventure and justice. Let Sandy be an inspiration to us writers: be brave, take chances, and stay on course when it comes to right and wrong. That’s the way to solve thorny mysteries, and it’s also the way to find the joy of story.
See you next week, I hope!




Saturday, June 11, 2016

COMING HOME


THE JOY OF STORY
John M. Daniel’s Blog
June 11, 2016



Greetings! This week, beginning on the second Saturday in June, I am pleased to showcase a dozen writers who have contributed 99-word stories about going home. In some cases the term home is a metaphor for a state of being; in others it’s a home town, a childhood residence, a house or an apartment. Built into the stories is a common element of surprise. Some warm and pleasant surprises, others more like nightmares. 

§§§

I  spent most of my childhood in the home of my Uncle Neil. My father died when I was two years old, leaving my mother virtually penniless, with four children to raise. Her older brother, my Uncle Neil, came to her rescue. He was a wealthy businessman, a bachelor, and he persuaded my mother to bring her family and move in with him, first in Bradford, Pennsylvania, then to Cleveland, Ohio, and in 1950, to a house in Farmers Branch, on the rural outskirts of Dallas, Texas. By that time my siblings were all away at college most of the time. I was eight years old.

Farmers Branch, as we called my new home, was a glorious estate. A fine place to grow up.

Well, a few years ago I wrote a novel about an eight-year-old boy named Davy, who moved to Texas with his mother to live in Elephant Lake, the country estate of Davy’s Uncle Fergus. The place in my novel was modeled closely on Farmers Branch. The people were exaggerated versions of my mother and my uncle. The story was completely fictitious. But it helped me to better understand my childhood fantasies, my mother’s alcoholism, and my uncle’s mysterious magic.

Writing my novel Elephant Lake was how I came home to a place I’d never been before.

§§§

I Came Home to a Place I’d Never Been Before

a collection of 99-word stories



HOME OF MY ANCESTORS
by June Kozier

A few years ago, while doing genealogical research to join the Daughters of the American Revolution, I discovered one of my great, great grandmothers was a Bronk.
The Bronk home, built in 1663, is the headquarters of the Green County Historical Society. The Coxsackie Declaration of Independence was signed there more than a year before the Declaration of Independence was signed.
Of course, I had to visit the site. When I entered the original stone one-room dwelling, it did not feel like other historic houses that I had visited.
It felt strangely like home.

•••

I CAME HOME TO A PLACE I’D NEVER BEEN BEFORE
by John Hellen

 Our plane was approaching Shannon Airport in Ireland; I couldn’t contain my excitement. My parents had always told me stories of their childhood days in Shannon, where they first met in high school.
My father’s sister, Maureen McNally, met me at the airport and took me to their cottage outside of Shannon. I was greeted by many aunts, uncles and cousins I have never met before. They gave me Guinness Stout and toasted their newest family member.
I was being welcomed in such a way that I felt I had come home to a place I’ve never been before.

•••

YOU CAN’T GO HOME AGAIN
by Phyllis Povell

He was writing a novel with NYU as its backdrop. “Will you accompany me to your old stomping grounds?”
A chance to go home to my Alma Mater.
Came out of the subway, walked in the wrong direction. Oriented myself, but couldn’t recognize my former home. All the new construction; buildings rising up where they never were. Stores, cafés, theatres. Where did they come from?
Students with purple and green hair carrying books and chatting in a variety of languages still there.
Security guards at every building. “You can’t come in without student ID.”
You can’t come home again.

•••

I DON’T NEED A MAP
by Frank Thayer

“I don’t need a map,” Al told the Hertz guy at DFW. “I grew up in Dallas.”
Coming out of the Hertz lot, Al had to turn onto a freeway he didn’t remember. Hmm, he thought. This airport used to be called Love Field, too. Well, I’ll be fine.
Twenty minutes later he was pulled over for driving too slow. The cop read his driver’s license. “What brings you to Texas?” he asked.
 “My granddaughter’s wedding.”
“Where?”
“In Dallas. Obviously.”
“Anybody expecting you?”
“It’ll be a surprise.”
“That it will, sir. You’ve just entered the city of Fort Worth.”

•••

NEW MEMORIES
by Tim Hershberger

 The woman, pleasant enough in manner and looks, keeps running her fingers over my brow and through my hair while she drives.
 “We’ll be home soon, Hon,” she says.
 I study her features, every line and curve of her face.
 “I should know her,” I think to myself, and then my thoughts drift to where I had woken up.
“A coma,” they said at the hospital. “Three years.”
 Strange to remember so little; my name I have only from what this woman has called me. Now we are driving “home,” home to a place I’ve never been before.

•••

UNCONDITIONAL
by Cathy Mayrides

I met you when we were kids, but didn’t see you again until I was almost out of my twenties and newly divorced. My marriage to the abuser was thankfully over, but I looked at the world with trepidation: what if every man was the same?
Then, suddenly, I met you again.
I found something I never had, and that was unconditional love. It eluded me in childhood and it was never part of my life until you wandered back into it.
I came home to a place I’d never been before, and I never wanted to leave.

•••

PEACE OF MIND
by Jerry Giammatteo

Anxiety roiled in every fiber of his being. Since he was a child, the smallest conflict or inconvenience was always magnified.
Relax, his mother, wife, even children told him. He would try, but it was useless. Inner peace eluded him. He accepted it, even joking about being a type B personality and that was that.
Well into his fifties, he tried meditation at the urging of his wife. Reluctantly. This won’t work for me, he thought. But after a few sessions, he felt better.
It’s funny. He felt like he’d come home to a place he’d never been to.

•••

SEASON TO SEASON
by Ryan Matthews

I opened the door to my apartment, finding red wine had left a Jackson Pollack image staining my shag. Blinds hung askew, obnoxiously blocking my ocean view. The kitchen sink adorned by dirty dishes stacked, rivaling any frat party, awaiting another’s soapy hands. Someone has been sleeping in my bed—soiled sheets tossed along with the spread. Wet towels left on the bathroom floor.
Evidence intruders left their mark on my space. Yet the vistas and sunshine beckons for my return, entranced am I as a sailboat floats along the horizon.
Ring, ring, it’s my broker, my oasis rented again.

•••

THE RIPPLE THAT ROARED

by Pat Shevlin

Sandy loved the Cramptons but did not think an aging “chubbette” was cool enough to live among the rich and famous.
Notwithstanding her insecurity, Sandy’s love of the water fueled her confidence at a time when Cramptons real estate was approachable during the sinking economy of 2008. “Timing may be right for this older and wiser beach wannabee.” 
Just like Goldilocks, her search was challenging until that morning, when she was greeted at the door by the owner. “Shhhh. If you are quiet, you can hear the water.”
Sandy had come home to a place she’d never been before.

•••

THIRTY DAYS AWAY
by Diane S. Morelli

I left for thirty days. I came home to a place I'd never been before.
When my journey began, I turned my keys over to my best friend. He owned a housecleaning service. I said, “You’ve got a month. Do the best you can.”
His crew earned enough extra money to pay for lunch for several weeks after they cashed in the beer cans I’d left everywhere. They deserved it. Their work was awesome; they even removed the Malbec stains from the grouting in the stall shower.
Professional treatment proved effective for purging me, and my home, of alcohol.

•••

LIFE WITH CLUTTER
by Christine Viscuso

 “I came home to a place I’d never been before.” Sam Clutter turned, slowly, around in his living room.
 “That doesn’t make sense, dear.” Happy Clutter removed her dirty cleaning smock.
 “I’ve lived here, amongst piles of books, magazines, shoes strewn about, coats never put away, piles of unread mail. There’s our couch. Look at our beautiful kitchen table that we haven’t been able to eat on in five years. Finally, there’s a path to the kitchen. Are you sure this is our house?”
 “Yes, dear. Now get moving and haul the hundreds of garbage bags to the curb.”

•••

§§§

Calling all published authors—
I feature a guest author the third Saturday (and week following) of each month. If you’re interested in posting an essay on my blog—it’s also a chance to promote a published book—email me directly at jmd@danielpublishing.com.

§§§

Call for submissions: Your 99-Word Stories

The deadline for July’s 99-word story submissions is July 1. The stories will appear on my blog post for July 9

note: this 99-word story feature is a game, not a contest. Obey the rules and I’ll include your story. I may edit the story to make it stronger, and it’s understood that you will submit to my editing willingly. That’s an unwritten rule.

Rules for the 99-word story feature are as follows:

1. Your story must be 99 words long, exactly.
2. One story per writer, per month.
3. The story must be a story. That means it needs plot (something or somebody has to change), characters, and conflict.
4. The story must be inspired by the prompt I assign.
5. The deadline: the first of the month. Stories will appear on this blog the second Saturday of the month.
6. I will copy edit the story. The author of the story retains all rights.
7. Email me your story (in the body of your email, or as a Word attachment) to: jmd@danielpublishing.com

THIS MONTH’S PROMPT FOR NEXT MONTH’S 99-WORD STORY: Write a story inspired by this sentiment: “Yes, I love you, but you’re going to have to choose between me and that animal.”


§§§

And now a word from our sponsor:
Recently published by Daniel & Daniel, Publishers, Inc.


 ELEPHANT LAKE
a novel by
John M. Daniel

It’s a magic summer for eight-year-old Davy Llewellyn. He battles a dragon. He rides through a savannah on an elephant. He leaps from the roof and flies to the moon.

Unfortunately, he must come back to earth, where the magic is dark and there’s a skull in the attic

$4.99, Kindle Edition: www.amazon.com
$4.99, Nook Book: www.bn.com
http://www.danielpublishing.com/jmd/elephant_lake.html

What is Davy to make of his mother, who turns into “The Evening Rose” at cocktail hour; or his Uncle Fergus, a wizard who does Elephant Magic; or his Uncle Mike, whose life is a shambles? Luckily Davy has an ally, his cousin Lily. And luckily, they both can fly.

Set in the summer of 1950, Elephant Lake takes place at an elegant country estate eighty miles southest of Dallas, Texas. The story is told from the point of view of Davy Llewellyn, an eight-year-old boy who is trying to figure out the adults in his life: his mother, Rose, an alcoholic and depressed widow; his Uncle Fergus, an oil tycoon and Republican power broker who does magic for children; and his Uncle Mike, a has-been athlete and Hollywood playboy. Davy’s ally is his cousin, Lily, a self-conscious adolescent with enough sense to know her elders are fools. Davy’s escape is an eerie imagination that gives him the power of flight and leads him into encounters with a crimson dragon, a human skull, and an elephant named Boola Boola.

Much happens in the summer of 1950 at Elephant Lake. A boy jumps off a roof. A field catches fire and is saved by an elephant. A bulldog battles a dragon to the death. Geronimo’s skull is discovered in a dusty attic. A girl falls off a roof. A future president of the United States smashes the windows of an abandoned farmhouse. A drunk man dives from a roof. A boy and a girl hop onto a flying horse and fly into the stars.

Elephant Lake is a novel about alcohol, depression, and death, but it is even more about love, adventure, fantasy, and flight.

§§§

That's all, folks. I leave you with one suggestion: If you want to go home to a place you've never been before, make up a story about that place, with a character you can understand, because in some sense, you were there, and in some sense, you've done that. Adios until next week.