Has anyone seen the new show HORDERS? At the suggestion of a friend, I watched it for the first time last Monday evening on A&E. Frankly, it made me cry. And made me a bit queasy. The crying part because it was hard to believe people actually lived this way and queasy because it takes a stiff stomach to see the filth these families live in. I thought of all the children who grew up and are still growing up with a parent or parents with obsessive cravings to collect and horde junk, to the point of floors and ceilings sagging with mountains of trash. Families literally backed into corners with bottles, papers, clothes and junk. Stuff, mind you. These children don’t have friends over for sleepovers. They grow up not knowing where anything is.

Mom is not in the kitchen baking cookies because if she could still find the oven she wouldn’t be able to locate the ingredients. Did you know three million people live this way? Like pack rats on steroids. The people depicted on the show are at a turning point, a divorce, no contact with family members, being evicted, etc. In some cases their homes must be condemned.

Like those with addictions, a horders drug of choice is possessions. They put things before anything else, including those they love. Not only is it a harsh way to live but it’s costly too, in money and relationships. Because they can’t find what they’ve previously purchased, they buy the same things over and over and over again.

You know what I did after watching that show? I cleaned like a scrappy mad woman. I thought of garage sales and simplicity. I like things as well as the next person but my rule of thumb is this: if I see something I want for the house, if I can’t mentally place it, on a shelf, the wall, a nightstand, I don’t buy it. The only exception would be books. Don’t get me started there.

Ma Ingalls from Little House on the Prairie comes to mind; her simplistic cabin in the woods, smoke twirling from the chimney and the little curio on her mantle. The cheese-ball in me loved Ma. Oh I know she was fictional, but a solid, homemade character. I have to wonder if the good ole days were healthier for people. There was no extra money for hording.

Now I love Christmas as much as the next gal but I really can’t think of one thing I need after watching that show. Okay, maybe a bottle of cologne. My Chanel No. 5 is running on E. Oh, and a pair of multi-colored toe socks. Yep, those would be charming. Meanwhile I’m going through what extra stuff I have and giving it away. Anyone need a dried sunflower arrangement?

Tis the season for the tinkle tinkle of bells. And ringing cell phones. Regarding cell phones, I resisted having one, fought it nail and tooth, but finally caved in a few years back when the kids got so busy with activities I couldn’t keep track of them anymore. It did make my life easier, although I once called my oldest daughter when I woke on a Sunday morning, sleepy-eyed at 3:00 a.m. and didn’t see her car out front.

She picked up and in a gravelly voice said, “What?”

“Where are you? It’s three a.m.!”

“I’m upstairs in bed, mom. Why the heck are you calling me?”

She was mad.

“Sorry.” I hung up before she could sting me with her sleepy words. I then peered out the front window again and spotted her car, winking in the moonlight. The bushes had obstructed the view. My eyes had been a bit blurry when I’d checked.

Okay, so first you go through the baby stage, waking at all hours to rock and feed the soft sweeties warm bottles. Then the toddler stage, when they are out of the crib and sometimes wander about the house at odd hours. I once found my front door wide open in the middle of the night, my OLDEST (once again) across the street in the neighbor’s bushes, sitting and staring at the stars. She was a sleepwalker.

After years of sleep deprivation, parents get a slight break, a reprieve to rest back up for those teenage years. As those of you with kids who drive know, you get very little shut eye until you’re sure they are safe at home in warm beds. Even when they do text or call, a mother still sleeps with one eye open until they’re home. Now the two oldest are out the door, living their own lives, and I don’t worry what time they get in, because if I did, I’d be a walking zombie. But our youngest will get her drivers license soon, and the hoopla will begin all over again.

Joy to the world.

But really, thank God for cell phones. They’ve saved me time and worry, but certainly not money. Really though, can you put a price tag on piece of mind? Just ask a mother.

Here’s another thing I like about cell phones: the ring tones. You can pick something totally original and annoying. My first ring tone was Michael Jackson’s, Thriller, which inspired me to break out in the moonwalk whenever someone called me. I did that once and got it out of my system. Because I like dancing way too much, I changed it. Let’s see, I’ve had Kiss From A Rose, by Seal, Don’t Stop Believing, by Journey and Clocks, by Coldplay.

I’ve recently come up with something new, mainly to entertain myself. If you can guess what it is, I’ll send you a little gift from Texas. No armadillo’s, I swear.

Here are two little clues in the song: COLD and STAY. Good luck!

Btw…what’s your ring tone?

Thanksgiving will be here soon and Christmas won’t lag far behind. It’s the hap, happiest season of all. That is, if you’re not half-dead from shopping, decorating, entertaining, Christmas card writing and baking by the time it arrives. Oh, never mind. It’s the happiest time of the year, dang it! I’ve learned to trim and not stress. Get an early start.

Yes, I say this every year, but this time I really mean it.  The older I get, the more sense this makes.  They didn’t call the wise men wise for nothing.  I’m actually very thankful I can shop and bake and share.  So many this year will need all the extra everything we can give due to the economy.

Here’s something cheap and lovely. Ribbon candy. Not only is it yummy, but I love its jazzy looks. I’ve been known to dangle the candy on our tree branches, which mysteriously disappears, one piece at a time.  It’s also dazzling in a glass bowl. If you don’t snatch it early, you’re not likely to have it, though.  Hint: you can find it at Wally World, that colorful, shiny candy in pretty little boxes.

Now, I don’t make the stuff. It looks like a job for Martha S. She could not only whip that candy up, but sell the heck out of it, too.  Thankfully, people expect a lot less from me, and I’m quite charmed with that.  Christmas cookies are easy.

These pumpkin cookies with ginger cream cheese frosting are one of my Christmas favorites.  I make them every year, giving them to neighbors, friends, the mail man, and on and on.  One year the waste management guys even left me a new trash can lid the day I left the cookies out for them. It might sound stupid, but I was so excited to get that lid. I really needed one.  Anyway, the cookies look right special wrapped in clear cellophane and dolled up with curly ribbon.

Homemade gifts are the best kind.  Please raise your hand if you’d prefer a lovely package of homemade goodies over something you don’t need or want, let alone remember what you received a month later?  Me, me, over here!

Okay, then. Tis the season to share.

This recipe calls for raisins and just in case you don’t know how to plump them, it’s easy. They do add pizazz.  Here’s how: Boil two cups of water and add however many raisins you want to add to your recipe. Boil for about three minutes then drain with cold water. The raisins will be so soft they’ll melt on your tongue. Promise.

Now to the cookies.

Pumpkin Cookies with Ginger Cream Cheese Frosting

This recipe makes 4 dozen cookies.

2 ½ cups flour, ½ tsp. baking soda, ¼ tsp. salt, 2 tsp. pumpkin pie spice 1 cup dark brown sugar, firmly packed, ½ cup granulated sugar, ¾ cup butter, softened, 1 large egg, 1 cup canned pumpkin, 1 tsp. vanilla and 1 cup raisins

In medium bowl, combine first 4 ingredients.  In mixer bowl, combine and mix sugars, then add butter and beat well. Scrape down sides of bowl and mix again. Add egg, pumpkin and vanilla. Mix until light and fluffy. At low speed, blend in the flour mixture.  Add raisins, mixing only until well blended. Drop by tablespoonfuls onto ungreased cookie sheet, about 2 inches apart.  Bake at 350 degrees for 20 minutes, or until cookies test done when touched in center. Cool before frosting.

Ginger Cream Cheese Frosting

3 ounces cream cheese, at room temp 4 tablespoons butter, room temp 1/8 tsp. ground ginger 2 to 2 ½ cups powdered sugar 2 tablespoons- or more- milk

Beat cream cheese, butter and ginger together until light and fluffy. Add the powdered sugar and thin with milk to proper spreading consistency. Spread on cookies and eat!

And the sign said long-haired freaky people need not apply, so I tucked my hair up under my  hat and went in to ask him why. He said you look like fine, upstanding young man, I think you’ll do. So I took off my hat and said imagine that, ha, me working for you. Sign, sign everywhere a sign, blocking up the scenery, breaking my mind, do this, don’t do that, can’t you read the sign?

watch?v=Z1Q7cP3ij5g

Remember this song? Just in case you’ve forgotten, I’ll jolt your memory. Signs, by the Five Man Electrical Band.

This is the time of year when we get pinched with nostalgia, or NOS-TA-LODGE-Ah, as my daughter used to pronounce it.  Old pictures are good for that, and so are the holidays.  Oh, the luck, or not, to have stumbled onto these pictures right now, tucked in a dusty book, put together by my mom long ago.  My daughters said I looked like a hippie in this one. Yeah, I see it. Slap a ring of daises round my head and deck me out in bell-bottoms and you could have tossed me smack into Woodstock. My name might have been Milky Way or Sunshine Rose. I still can’t believe I missed that. Man, I shoulda been there. Cool bands. Flower power. A bad moon rising. The whole she-bang.

I would have been a fab hippie. Peace out.

No psychedelic drugs for me. I’m partial to natural highs. It’s cool, man, it’s all cool. Most likely I would have been the hippie making sure all other hippies were well fed and didn’t wander off looking for Alice in Wonderland. “Nice fro, dude, nice fro. Now get the heck back over here, you’re missing Purple Haze.” I would have said something like that.

Okay, so I was too young to go. And my parents certainly didn’t drag us there.  I really do love them for that. I hated getting dirty even at a young age.  Woodstock rain and mud would have given me fits.  My white vinyl Go-Go Boots would have never survived it. I shined those suckers every night and propped them next to my bed, sparkle, sparkle, pretty.

Even though I wouldn’t have won any beauty contests, it’s fun going back in time, yes?  Somewhere in your closet, or under your bed is your own box or book of memories.  Maybe it’s time to blow the dust off and tip-toe back.

Meanwhile, I must go get my membership card to get inside...Hu!

As writers we take our shots where and when we can get them. A recent adventure to the Austin Film Festival proved to be just the inspiration I needed. If you are an aspiring screen writer, or writer in general, this was the place to be. First I must mention one of the classes I took was called A Shot of Inspiration, and as the class was in session, Daniel Petrie, Jr., writer of Beverly Hills Cop, The Big Easy, and Shoot to Kill, passed around  shots of whiskey. Liquid inspiration, he said. Of course we had our own cups. No swigging from the bottle. Being notorious for giving myself away with facial expression alone, I must have done an eye pop, combined with gape-jawed surprise, because the next day a fellow writer found me and said my expression at the mention of free whiskey was priceless. I really don’t drink much. And just so you know, that whiskey scorched all the way down.

Seriously though, the four day event was nothing short of amazing. Not only did I meet other splendid writers, but plenty of directors, producers, etc… Here’s a few I got to take panels with and also meet: Marcia Nasatir, Tom Skerritt, Herchel Weingrod, Pat Hazell, Cheryl Hines, Gayla Nethercott and Peter Hodges, author of What’s Eating Gilbert Grape, a personal favorite. Like I said, these were just a few.

Ron Howard was there, and I especially enjoyed his tennis shoe style. He is the original nice guy who just happens to be extremely talented and well known. Watching Apollo Thirteen, the movie he directed, with him and astronaut Jim Lovell in the audience was a real treat as well.

Classes, or panels ran from 9:00 a.m. to 4:30 p.m. and then there were plenty of independent movie screenings to watch. And if you were still fired up, parties to attend. We saw Serious Moonlight, directed by Cheryl Hines, Precious, Apollo Thirteen and several others.

The best part for me though was spending time with my oldest daughter, a screenwriter, and watching her get such a kick out of the events and movies. If you haven’t attended this event, please put it on your must do list.

As writers we ride many trains over the course of careers. As Deanna, from across the holler at The Life of a Working Writer Mommy can attest, sometimes we just need to switch it up and try something fresh. She never believed she was suited for fiction, but here she is, writing great fiction. Go, Deanna! We never know exactly what we can do or what we’ll enjoy until we give it a shot. In writing there are so many different trains yet many times we end up taking the same one over and over, not knowing which might serve us better. And lets face it, learning something new can be exciting.

So…tomorrow I’m getting off the fictional novel train for four days and hopping on the screenwriting train. My oldest daughter, Candice, who writes screenplays, talked me into going to the Austin Film Festival where we’ll be learning much about screenwriting during the adventure. At night we’ll be screening some pretty cool independent films, starting off with Serious Moonlight, Cowtown Ballroom, Precious, The Ugly American and The Donner Party. Now I might skip the last one depending on what kind of mood I’m in.

Award winning filmmaker Ron Howard will be speaking about The art of Storytelling. Okay, I won’t lie, I’m pumped about that. From what I understand he is a great guy, and certainly a talented producer. And who could forget him as the charming little Opie Taylor on the Andy Griffith Show? And then on to Richie Cunningham in the TV series Happy Days.

I’ll be back around next week to share the adventure, but meanwhile, by all means, go take yourself a train ride!

Ohhh…this is what came to mind when I stumbled on this picture: Romance.  I mean, they are rose petals. Thousands of them.

But then I thought of ideas, strewn along life’s path, one by one by one. Kindnesses too, and how they soften our way through hard times.

What comes to your mind when you see this picture? I would love to know!

A backyard fire pit, snappy sparks, red lit, flying. Moonlight whispering through trees, grass, skin, eyes, oh the eyes we love, sending silent messages bigger than a Texas sky. Leaves turned cinnamon and amber, quivering and curling on limbs like tiny, arthritic hands. More eyes, laser sharp, peering through woods, raccoons or possums or skunks, perhaps, noses rising in tribute to lowly hot-dogs, sizzling and blistering on sticks.  And a Cherokee fiddle. Might be all that’s missing, but no, night composes its own music.

Fall nights like these are a dozen a dime, but won’t last forever. Here in Texas we’ve only recently stepped out from hot summer shells. Four long months of broiling and we’re cooked. Ready for frosting, the frost on the pumpkin, fall frost. Time to snap out blankets, throw them on the ground, lie on backs, and wonder with dreamy eyes at the heavens, spitting out stars, swirling planets, strobe-like, suspended. I count each twinkle, never knowing how many, many, many stars, knowing never. Nights like these are a dozen a dime, but won’t last forever.

This time of year brings me back to long ago hay rides, fuzzy sweaters, snuggling, cutting through a black Mark Twain National Forest, dirt from roads settling in our hair, our smiles, carrying us right through the hard flinty winter when reflection sets in corners like mute guests.

Camp-outs too, dancing under a moon stuffed with promise, breeze in hair. And strolling beside a tinseled river with the girls, making up crap  that scares them silly. And then pulled from the tent later, dead asleep, they say, “Come on, mom, come and tell stories. Our friends haven’t heard them. Oh please! We want to hear them again.”

So I do. Spin tale after tale, sleepy-eyed yet happy that ears listen.

I remember barn dances, doing the two-step, feet moving like hot grease on the griddle of floor. Pumpkin carving too, cinnamon sprinkled under the lids, spicing up night. The kids and friends jammed into our house, costumed to high heaven, watching Charlie Brown, a blanket of candy on the floor, and still trick-or-treaters banging down the door. Wanting more.  And, yes, this yet goes on.

Fall in bloom.

What are your fall favorites?

Top secret- these words alone can perk up eyebrows. They conjure up all things unseen and unheard. Loosen the grasp on your chair because there shall be no secrets unearthed here. And if I gave you one, I swear you’d hit the snooze button on the ole alarm clock and get back to me. No doubt, though, everyone, including me, has at least one family or personal secret that’s a tad spicy or horrifying, or just plain odd. Odd, I say. But whatever they are, secrets have power over people who keep them. Decisions and behaviors tiptoe around them. They are weeds in the hearts soil.

No eyebrow hiking, please. Even though I thought of a juicy one, I’m still not sharing. Oh, you have Starbucks Breakfast Blend? Gosh, that’s my favorite. But no, I can’t, shouldn’t.  Okay then, let’s chat… wink, wink.

Now, unless you live in a cave, which some people do- I saw one for sale on the internet, but it far exceeded my price range- then you can’t miss what happens on the news. Secrets are shared on a daily basis, some exposed, others revealed.  Heck, if we’ve lived long enough, we’ve heard our share from friends and kin, which revealed just how boring  we really are. Ah, what a blessing it is to be dull.

As such, let’s relate them to fictional novels we writers tell and hope to sell. Yes, we are back to fiction now, which is sometimes less weird than real life.

Our main character/character’s should have secrets. At least one. And you’re going to love this because you get to know what they are! As a matter of fact, you’d better know. Sometimes their secrets are at the heart of the story and other times they serve as a guideline to understand why your characters act the kooky ways they do. Readers don’t necessarily have to know, but we might want to clue them in if it serves the story and explains their odd or crazy behavior.

Is there a reason our protagonist hates being alone?  Does he/she avoid certain family members at all costs? Why, why, why? Do they steal, cheat or lie? When each day begins do they pop pills or swig scotch on the rocks? Does your character have premonitions about future events but is too afraid to own up to her gift? Are they plucked away nightly and whisked off to Mars?

Wow, please bring them to my next party!

Seriously though, don’t hold your characters at arms length. Let them come into the light. See them for who they are. Ask the questions, welcome the answers and, wha-la, a secret or two will appear.  They  just might be the treasure in your story.

Now back to that party.

I’m talking about writing here, so don’t get your panties in a wad. Sorry, I do enjoy that phrase. It’s a throwback to my younger years and those memories of mouth cleanings with Dove soap.

Now, the fresh fruit was posted because I needed a picture. If it makes you hungry, I apologize, which I do frequently. Go on to the grocery store. I’m not a fruit stand.

Okay, back to fresh writing. Have you ever read a book so dinged with cliches you wanted to drown yourself in your dog’s water bowl? Are we guilty of using them in our work? You bet your bottom dollar. If you can’t beat them, join them. Or as George Carlin would say, “If you can’t beat them, arrange to have them beaten.”

At least he spiked it.

Allow me to share the meaning of cliche, even though we know them better than our own children: A saying, expression, idea or element of an artistic work which has been overused to the point of losing its original meaning or effect, rendering it a stereotype, especially when at some point it was considered meaningful or novel.

Although cliches can sometimes be used in fiction for comedic effect, we should remember a key word here. SOMETIMES. And it had better be funny. A no go and your readers might be swell enough to flip the page, but if you try again and fail, they could storm over to the fireplace, book or short story in hand, and snap a match. At least their wee bones would be warmed on a cold and stormy night.

Really, if we can, and we can, don’t socialize with cliches.  They talk behind our backs, and give our readers wrinkles. Now there are loopholes, well, maybe one loophole. If a cliche can be spun around to make it zing-which, ahem..I’m guilty of- then do. But not too often.

Cliches aside, fresh prose should always be the standard. Think beyond the box. Give people thoughts for their pennies. We can always notch up our words, allowing them to sing opera, or belt out the Stones, Van Halen, Pink Floyd or Led Zeppelin. The key is throwing open the door and making an entrance.  Dress up those words in black leather pants and let them knock back a good stiff whiskey, then strut them around like a freakin’ peacock!

Bad peacock, but you get the point. Don’t be afraid to let your words glitter and leave your characters room to open wide and speak their truth. So what if your crazy Aunt Polly, who holds tea parties for her cats, stands gape-jawed at something you’ve written? All the better. Maybe you’ve awakened something dormant in her. Maybe she’ll slap on some make-up, down a margarita, and go out dancing with her husband Carl.

Or maybe she won’t like you. Gasp!

If pleasing the world is our writing goal, we’d best hang our letters this instant and go open a bakery. Cupcakes anyone? People will always love sugar. So Sugars, if we’re going to write, please let characters breathe without the Aunt Polly’s of the world peering over our shoulders. Do send them out for cheesecake at a bakery in Bora Bora. And remember to pluck and add fresh stuff and not the wilted crap.

For fun, here’s a bowl full of stale cliches.

My favorite, colored up by George W. Bush: You can fool some of the people all of the time, and those are the ones you want to concentrate on.

So true ye fiction writers!

Here’s more.

Breaking the bank

When all is said and done

Bored stiff

All hell broke lose

A wolf in sheep’s clothing

Don’t put all your eggs in one basket

Rome was not built in a day

Please feel free to add your own favorites. Maybe if we can secretly corral enough of them, and drown them in the Hudson River, we can make the world a better place.