Saylor's Goodreads Bookshelf

Saylor's books

Animal Farm
Where the Sidewalk Ends
The Great Gatsby
To Kill a Mockingbird
The Catcher in the Rye
Of Mice and Men
The Alchemist
Me Talk Pretty One Day
Lord of the Flies
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
Little Women
A Tale of Two Cities
The Count of Monte Cristo
Les Misérables
Moby-Dick or, The Whale
The Joy Luck Club
The Memory Keeper's Daughter

Saylor's favorite books »


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Monday, January 30, 2012

NEW Page added

To your left of this blog entry you'll see the new page I added, called Podcast Show Script. I added The Art Show script (#14), which was eventually called Robbed by Numbers in the podcast. It is close to verbatim to the show that aired (except where the actors took welcomed liberties from the written word). SO if you have a the page opened parents beware the bad words are bleeped in the show but written out in the script.

I chose to use this particular script because was a challenging show to edit. If you read through it you will see in Act 2 Scene 4, Lorna returns to the art class and except for one line she doesn't speak. But the challenge was to "show" Lorna's presence without having her speak. If you listen to the show, you'll hear how this was done. Using this sound effect I was able not only to "show" Lorna but I could also give her "reactions" to what was being said to her.

In the coming weeks I'm going to be writing that show into a short story, which I will add as another page on the blog. I chose this script again, this time because of the varied characters involved and because it falls almost perfectly into the definition of the "cozy" genre. I don't think it is the funniest script by far or the easiest to "translate" over into a short story, but it can give a lot of examples for the script to page.

As a matter of fact, I don't completely remember writing the show in the first place. But I do remember it was getting close to Christmas time and I was very much looking forward to a break in the production. I can only imagine that I was having a little burn out in the script writing and probably thought, "I have an idea. I just won't have the main character talk at all!" Then in the editing I probably sat there at 3 am wondering what the heck I was thinking in the first place, not having the main character speak! Now what do I do?

Funny, how things turn out.

Monday, January 23, 2012

Follow up to New York Times

I was really glad to see Jennifer Weiner follow up on this 2010 revelation. You can read the whole article here

The basic run down is this: back in the summer of 2010 Ms. Weiner and several other female writers lifted the veil on the inequality (male vs. female) of the New York Times in their coverage of reviewing books. They did this, I might add, at their own peril. Just like so many whistle blowers who've come before them, they faced a horrific backlash of ire towards female writers. How dare they point out the obvious?

Now in January of 2012 she is looking back on the coverage of 2011. And to no ones surprise the New York Times has barely budged toward equality in their coverage. But bless her heart, she's still there pointing out the obvious. I give Jennifer and the other writers full on kudo's and stand behind them in their pursuit.

So now that they have pointed out the obvious and watched the full year reaction. (which was nominal) What do you do about that? Why keep giving the New York Times book review so much weight? What if everyone said, 'No thanks, I'd rather you didn't print my review'; what if we stopped blurbing them on the back of the books; what if we stopped buying into their book review; what if we stopped getting their newspaper; what if we give our audience an alternative to their reviews. Perhaps start a syndicated column for local newspapers. I'm not talking about The Minneapolis Star Tribune, but the real local: Crawley Hole, California's Pea Pecker Tribune.

The other REAL problem I have is with the reaction to the results reported. The reaction that was ignited back in 2010 said more about, no, it screamed more about the people screaming then the actual numbers reported. Obviously the Times doesn't give a rat's dingy what their content creator's (the female writers who provide them with books to review) think. With their marginal betterment of reviews they are basically saying, 'Shut up and sit down'. These woman who ignited this shit storm reaction weren't asking for 75% of the reviews, they weren't even asking for 55%. But the problem was they were asking and they had numbers to back it up.

Now then, another question we might ask is can women stick together and organize themselves enough to bring about a change? (The Times obviously aren't going to do it.) Can these whistle blowers, whom, make no mistake, I support fully, be pioneers? Now that they've faced the worst, blowing the whistle, can they make the next logical step?

Tuesday, January 17, 2012

Ahhh input days

This is my favorite time. When I give myself a break from the writing and relax with some good books. I'm not one of those writers who can compartmentalize what they read and what they write. If I were to read, say, Alexander McCall Smith and then try to write my own characters dialogue I'd end up with Annie sounding like Precious from The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency and Lorna sounding like someone from 44 Scotland Street. This would be a frustrating disaster so I have my "input" days. Before I start outlining book 3 The Rot is Deep I've chose 4 books for myself.

In case you can't see that it's: Left Hand of Darkness. To Kill a Mockingbird. The Mandelbaum Gate. and F is for Fugitive. (Okay you shut up. I like Sue Grafton.)
It's quite a variety. But all very well written. I wasn't always very conscious about my input days, I read as much of anything and everything I could get my hands on. But as I get less and less of these days I'm more careful. I think maybe my input days are directly correlated to my output days (days spent writing and rewriting). And I no longer want to read things that are not as close to perfect in syntax, grammar, and story arc as they can be. It is an experiment, so we'll see.

Friday, January 13, 2012

A Friday the 13th Mystery of the Dead Opossum.

Whenever a Friday the 13th rolls around it always reminds me that there were some things my mom got right raising me. One of those things was not allowing me to watch horror films because I had an over active imagination. On that list of horror films was anything R rated and any Disney film where they’d kill off the parents like Dumbo and Bambi. Which I still haven’t seen and probably won’t now. But Mom always took me to Hitchcock films, I think I was probably too young and fell asleep a lot. Rear Window, To Catch a Thief, Pyscho.
Brrpt! What?
Yes, she took me to Psycho. It was part of a double feature and I think she was hoping I’d fall asleep after The Man Who Knew Too Much. But just in case I didn’t, she explained the movie to me before hand. “It’s about a man whose mom dies and he goes crazy and dresses up in her clothes and kills people.”
“I guess because he was so lonely and turned mean and he pretended to hear her talking to him. There is a part of the film where the actress takes a shower and he stabs her while she’s in the shower and it’s really scary.” Then she made her pretend ‘scary face’ and screamed.
I could see ‘the scary’ was part was of the fun.
“Janet Lee plays the woman who pretends to get stabbed and she’s really good at it.” Again with the ‘scary face’ and she screamed. Hey, ‘fun’ was my middle name! I was excited.
“Her daughter is the woman who’s in that scary film ‘Halloween’. Jamie Curtis. Jamie Lee Curtis.”
…I still can’t shower without a see through shower curtain. Thanks Mom.

Fast-forward a few years. Now I’m able to stay home without a baby sitter. It’s a typical Friday night. Parents out, sister on a date, and at home - just me and the Great Dane. But it’s a Friday the 13th and cable was all of the scary movies. Halloween to be exact, the original with Jamie Lee Curtis. Now, I know the rule. No horror movies. But there was nothing else on, remember these were the early days of cable. Mtv was barely poking on with weird techno videos I didn’t understand and dam’it I was too old for Hee Haw. So, Halloween it was.
…What the hell is wrong with these Lee Curtis women!
I couldn’t finish the movie. I just shut off the TV and sat there. Absolutely, shaken to the wick, scared out of my wits. Alone. Grateful to have the Dane – family pet, best friend, protector. But the Dane was pawing at the door. She had to go out. And when a Great Dane has to go. They HAVE to go OUT. There are no wee wee pads for Great Danes. But I was scared.
Now, just one caveat here - we lived on a farm and as any person from a rural upbringing will tell you there are TWO things you DO NOT mess with and one of those things is the opossum. They have teeth like razors and I’ve seen them tear off legs and rip gaping holes in the throats of some beloved pets. They are not to be messed with nor cornered. And we had an opossum problem, which was one of the reason’s the Dane was in the house with me in the first place.
Anyway, I was scared and the Dane had to take a dump. I let her out the front porch, turned on all the porch lights and watched. But, sure enough, she goes over to the side of the house, out of my view. So I slip on my boots (it must have been summer, I wore boots in the summer’s because of all the snakes. Yeah- that rural.) and went over to the side. The Dane started to growl. Holy Crap. I saw two glowing beady eyes shining at me from out of the dark. The Dane poised to attack.
“Dane. NO! Come here. Heel! Dane NO!”
She lowered her head to attack.
I ran back inside, I could hear the Dane’s echoing bark as leapt up the stairs. I ran to my father’s closet, grabbed his shotgun, threw open his dresser drawer and pawed through his unmentionables. Ew. ew. ew. Grabbed two shells, stuffed them into the chamber while running back through the house to the front door, and stopped. It was silent, no barking. I carefully made my way over to the side of the house. The Dane and the opossum were circling. I could see the opossum open it’s mouth and bare its razor’s at my dog. The Dane made a jab toward the opossum and barked. I could see the opossum rise up. I don’t remember aiming or pulling the trigger. I don’t remember landing on my back. But there I was. My ears ringing and there was a sharp pain in my shoulder. It took me a second to shake it off and my marbles to reassemble in my brain. The gun lay next to me. What have I done?
I got up and looked around. I could see the Dane, she was back in the front now, taking a big dump. I picked up the gun, careful to keep my balance, the ringing in my ears was so intense. The gun was hot and my arms felt like Jell-O with its weight. I looked around for the opossum, but I didn’t see anything. The Dane did her galloping ‘after poop’ dance toward me. She halted, looking at the gun and admonished me with a heavy bark and whine. I put the gun back down, grabbed her collar and ushered her back into the house. I hadn’t shot the dog. But maybe I hadn’t shot the opossum either. I walked back out carefully lifting the gun back up and looking around.
I finished wiping the gun down and put it back. Hiding the spent shell in the rags, I stuffed them way down into the garbage outside. Everything smelled like sulfur. I brought the Dane into the bathroom with me and took a shower. I stuffed my pajamas deep into the hamper in the basement, covering them with my father’s dirty underwear. Ew. ew. ew.
Even on holidays the Dane was not allowed in the upstairs with the bedrooms, kitchen, and dining room. I brought the Dane into my bedroom, where she fell asleep on the floor next to my bed. So far tonight, I thought, I have broken every possible law. I’ve watched a horror movie, shot my father’s gun, walked in the house with my boots on, and used the stove. (I left out the popcorn part – for brevities sake.) What’s one more desecrated law? I could have killed our beloved Dane!

I awoke to the smell of bacon and eggs. My door had been shut and there was no Dane in the room.
I walked into the kitchen where the other thing that you DO NOT mess with was making pancakes.
“What happened last night?” Mom asked me.
I shrugged and yawned. “Nothin’.”
“Well, Dad is out burying a dead opossum. We drove up last night and it was laying there on the front porch.” She shuddered. “It was bloody, oh, it was awful, I was worried that the Dane had killed it and left it there. Did she go outside?”
“Yeah, she had to poop. I’ll clean it up later. I didn’t want to go out at night.”
“Well, why would an opossum crawl up to a front porch like that. Your Dad thinks someone shot it, but didn’t kill it and it just crawled up there to die.”
I nodded. “Probably.”
“Did you hear any shots last night?”
Uh oh. “Maybe, I don’t know, I was in the basement with the TV on. It wasn’t there when I let her out to poop.”
“What did you watch?”
“Hee Haw.”
Just then my hormone crazed teen-aged older sister came thundering in, “She was in my room again, MOM!”
“No, I wasn’t.” It was the only honest thing I had said in the last twenty-four hours. But then I thought about it. Had I? I mean, it’s completely possible.
“Did you see a dead opossum when you came in last night?”
“NO.” She said truculently. Such a stupid question.
“Did you hear any gun shots?”
“NO. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She looks guilty, I thought.
“Did you shoot an opossum last night?” I cross-examined her.
“Shut up!” She snapped at me and spooned eggs onto her plate.
Just then the Dane came to the back sliding glass door and stared in at me, her eyes so innocent and trusting. My hands began to shake a little, last nights events washed over me in a hot fear wave. I could have killed her. And how would I explain that exactly? Jamie Lee Curtis made me do it? This is why I'm not allowed to watch horror films. These weren’t little fibs or sneaking into my sister’s room to listen to Elton John records. These were big, hairy, bad rules that I had –
“Stay out of my room or I’m going to kill you.” My sister hissed at me through her eggs.
Pfft! I spit out some of my pancake and started laughing at her.
Mom sat down and started dishing food onto her plate. “Okay, enough. I guess it’s just a mystery then.”
I nodded in agreement. “It is. It’s a mystery. Mystery of the dead opossum.”
My sister stopped eating and looked hard at me, her eyes narrowing. I got up from my seat and cuddled up to my mom. I really needed a hug and as always, she complied.

To protect the innocent bystander, the name of The Dane was changed. Not that she ever told anyone what I almost did on Friday the 13th.

Tuesday, January 10, 2012

Book 2 is officially out!

Hello! Where have you been? Did you have good holidays? Welcome back, I’m glad you’re here. I have something I am excited to tell you about. But first let me apologize for not blogging over the holidays.
I would have blogged earlier but I was in a bad mood and I don’t like to invite others to wallow around in my emotional stink. I was grumpy, okay that’s an understatement, I was overstuffed with regret and pithy sentiment. I was lying at the bottom in the pool of self-doubt. Dark times. Marketing will do that to even the strongest of us. When I finish a project I’m dancing my happy ass around the house, buy myself a little something pretty, and take myself out to lunch. Alas, that is the lament of a self-publishing writer isn’t it? We tend to live in a vacuum. (I buy myself something-I take myself out-)
I believe there are self-publishing writers out there who really think that they don’t have to market their work, those who don’t know how, and those who refuse to learn how. Marketing is hard. You really have to gird yourself. You have to learn a new skills. Pace yourself. Have patience. Unclinch that protective bubble you lived in while writing and open yourself to a new experience. Which leads me to that thing I wanted to tell about The Disaster Relief Club – Book 2 of The O Line Mystery Series is out now! Yay! (happy dance happy dance happy dance)