Upon Seeing the Play Hamlet, an Elizabethan's Tale

My most honored friends, I share with you this day of our Lord the 23 of January a most felicitous event of yestereve. When with our own dear cousin and the right honorable Lord Mayor I assayed to frequent the Globe Theatre during a performance of William Shakespeare's Hamlet, a happier time I have not spent. The performance was nigh unto four hours, yet willingly I could waste my time there on another occasion. Having seen Kyd's Spanish Tragedy a fortnight ago, I anticipated a tale of revenge and tragedy that would make my pulse, yea, my very heart, race. But what happened in Act the Third could not have surprised me more. The character of the new king did not die in the midst of the “Murder of Gonzago.” Aye, murder most foul, it was, for in the story’s glass playgoers all saw the selfsame tale that fretted and strutted itself upon the stage—a tale not of bawdry but of a king bereft of life by one closest to himself.

My friends and I thought the character of Hamlet one of exquisite introspection, such that he would fain have contemplated that most heinous of acts and that which the Almighty has fix’d His canon against, even self-slaughter. Indeed, Hamlet did himself agonize over this very thought in a speech beginning “To be or not to be” with such piteous dolor as would make one cry “Woe!” Our happy group did find the presentation of the ghost most frightening (more real and more ominous than that of Don Andrea or Revenge), Ophelia’s drowning most tragical (more so than the fearful end of Isabella and of Bel-Imperia in Kyd’s tale), Hamlet’s woeful end most regrettable (far surpassing any sorrow at Hieronimo’s death), and indeed the entrance of Fortinbras most heroical and hopeful for the state (beyond what lay in store for that wretched Spain).

For me the high point of the drama was the woeful moment in the final Act when Hamlet and his wretched mother realize too late that her husband, the wicked king, has murthered them both alike. The envenomed tip, the poisoned cup, the knowledge betwixt them both did force mine eyes and the eyes of all around me weep to look upon the sight. The actors did make us every one believe that they were in verity the persons whose grand story they represented so that we Fortinbras did say “Go, bid the soldiers shoot,” we looked around to spy the regulars discharge the guns.

The Rice Method

Rain outside my office window

It's raining. It rained yesterday. And maybe the day before that. I'm not really sure at this point because the soggy, boggy days are all running together (pun mostly intended).

During a break in the clouds yesterday, I went for a 5-miler. Steps from my house, the heavens opened and rain deluged down in big, hard, plopping drops that soaked me cap-à-pie. I embraced the raindrops and kept slogging.

Sadly, my iPhone also embraced the rain . . . right in its top speaker, so when I returned home an hour later, I could receive calls but could not hear the other person talking at all. Sadness.

So I did what any responsible reader of Internet wisdom would do: I put my phone in rice. Brown rice in a Rubbermaid container. I waited five minutes for the rice to work its magical rice powers before I asked my son to call me to see if I could hear anything yet. I couldn't. I waited 30 more minutes and had him try again. Still nothing. At this point this darling teenager said, "Ya know, Mom, you could maybe wait overnight or something." Right.

So I carried my little Rubbermaid with me to a friend's house later that evening. I checked on my phone often. Sure, I could receive texts, a strange glow would emanate from the brown rice and the bowl would buzz. But then, dear reader (not to be whatever the antithesis of a spoiler is—an anti-spoiler?), the sun broke through: Some 10 hours after placing my phone in brown rice, I successfully took a call. Ta-da! I now have firsthand, conclusive, empirical data confirming this method of iPhone resuscitation using brown rice. Next time I'm gonna try Basmati.

Graduation 2013

Here's a word from my Word-a-Day calendar 2013 that describes my relationship with high school graduation (our daughter is graduating)this year:

And that about sums it up.

And Jeff & I are loving every second of it. Don't let us tell you otherwise.

Determination

Out for a 5-mile run the other day with my husband. It was hot and humid, and we were sweating it up a fairly steep hill.

I'm not saying we were outright complaining. But we probably were on the inside. Then we saw this tough little violet growing through the asphalt. Now that's perseverance—made the rest of our climb seem a little easier.

Opportunity

Another author visit last week—this time a class of high school seniors who are in the middle of writing their own children's books for a creative writing class. They were a fairly attentive bunch during my PowerPoint-directed ramblings about lessons learned along the publication pathway. They really seemed to perk up, however, when I read Mumsi Meets a Lion. I think they enjoyed it—at least as much as high schoolers can enjoy a children's picture book. Or should I say "as much as high schoolers will allow themselves to enjoy a children's picture book."

One sweet girl asked to meet with me about her hopes of becoming an author. I look forward to trying to mentor an aspiring writer!

Maundy Thursday

The Easter season is upon us.

Around this time each year I'm reacquainted with the strange word maundy, as in "Maundy Thursday." I like the way it sounds, especially when one pronounces the "day" part with a long e sound. Maundy is from the Latin mandatum ("mandate") and referring to Christ's command about washing the feet. (See below.) Or it may perhaps be derived from an old English word, maund, which meant "to beg" and referred to a small basket held by beggars (maunders). I also found references to "maundy money," which was a coin specially minted by the monarch around Easter. In contemporary usage and when combined with the day of the week as it is at Easter, maundy refers to the religious ordinance of foot washing.

Now my husband's being raised a Free Will Baptist means, among other things, that he is familiar with this tradition. John 13 talks about Jesus' washing His disciples' feet and exhorts them to wash one another's. I've heard my husband say many times what a humbling experience it was—not to have an older man wash his pre-teen feet but rather experiencing one of God's choice men kneel down in front of him and wash his smelly feet. I've never participated in a religious maundy myself. Perhaps some time I'll have that privilege.

I'm contemplating Christ's death and burial today and looking forward to resurrection day (Sunday), when Christians rejoice with a resounding, "Hallelujah! He is risen!"

Walk with a View

Here's one of the lovely views I get to take in on most of my daily walks (or runs).  Morning is the best time to stroll by this nearby lake—the hazy air, the reflection of trees and sunrise in the silvered water. It inspired me this particular morning to write a haiku. Now I don't pretend to know all the ins and outs of kigo and kireji and all that. . . . I'm mostly a 5-7-5 syllables gal. But here goes:

Spring morning mist clings
To rosy sun-glow blushing—
I breathe the new air.

Mother-Daughter Road Race Blues

Me, Marg, Cole during a Saturday Fun Run

So I ran a half marathon with my daughter in October—my ninth, her first. I did not prepare well for this effort. I did the requisite long runs, but there was no speed work, no tempo training, no weight loss (grrrr). And so it was a less-than-fulfilling experience.

Marg did well. She left me at 11.5 miles and galloped, gazelle-like, to the finish line while I lumbered along, adding walk breaks freely and inwardly kicking myself for my sorry training regimen. Still, I finished only 2 minutes behind her, which makes me wish I'd just sucked it up and kept going. As soon as I crossed the finish line, I realized I had blisters, bad ones, on my left foot. I had to take my shoe off and walk sock-footed to the car. (I tried to get my husband to carry my sweaty carcass there, but he declined. Smart man.)

Now I'm considering doing the Swamp Rabbit Half Marathon in March. But this time I will do better. I will train. I will lose five pounds. I will remember that moment of regret and push myself to finish strong.

Who am I kidding?

So Much to Love About Winter

Crisp nights beneath a toasty electric blanket,
visible breath expelled from cold-shocked lungs,
thick tights and wooly pullovers,
and running faster, farther than in dead of summer.

Bikes on a winter trek
to coffee and scones trailside.
My husband asks
doesn't my face hurt in this cold.
Yes, it hurts.

So much to love about winter.

Come, Ye Thankful

Giving thanks for grace evidenced in family

While focusing on thankfulness at this season of the year, I find myself halting between two opinions: the first being a wondering at why we so often relegate thankfulness to this lone season of the year. Are we not grateful in spring/summer/winter? Do we not relish beaches and barbecues as much as pumpkins and turkey? The flip side of that same thought is joyfulness that our hurry-up world takes the time to stop and smell the burning leaf piles and enjoy the bounty of the season.

This year my thankfulness has been refocused on the grace of God and how the many pleasures and pains we enjoy reflect Him (Ephesians 5:20). So I look around me and I see . . .

—a well-tended lawn, and I'm thankful for the grace of God in giving me a husband willing to work hard (even at things he does not enjoy); for God's grace in giving mankind dominion over the earth; for the genius of a God Who created boxwood plants, Bermuda grass, dogwood trees, purple cabbages, and endless summer hydrangeas and for His infinite goodness in making me to enjoy the bounty and beauty of them.
—a family that at this moment enjoys health and harmony, and I'm thankful for God's never-ending love that allows four very different people to laugh and cry and work, and—yes, even disagree at times—but in the end make choices that build each other up.
—a Empire chest covered with dust, and I give thanks for that greyish, silty reminder that we are temporal beings who will be planted in earth, God tarrying.

In this time of thanks, I rest thankful that "in Him we live and move and have our being" (Acts 17:28).

Too Much

I don't do very well with debates. Just ask my debater-mock trialer daughter. I have to leave during closing arguments. I can only make it through one round of Lincoln-Douglas. It's just too much embarrassment for me to absorb.

So here I am listening—from afar—to the first presidential debate between Obama and Romney. I say "from afar" because my son has C-SPAN on in the next room from where my office is. I can't help but overhear some of the talking. And frankly, it's awful. There is smugness. There is animosity. There is bloviation. These things are mostly on one side.

The President looks annoyed to be there. He looks down at the podium or his notes or something and makes very little eye contact—except an occasional glare at moderator Jim Lehrer as if to say, "Would you please stop him?" Romney seems a little more open and comfortable, I think. He does have a certain "You gotta be kidding me" air about him. No, sadly, Mr. Romney, the President's not kidding. I think he really believes what he's saying.

And that's embarrassing.

Kvelling in Words

I am a word lover. A logophile. I like the way certain words sound on the ear and taste in the mouth. I like seeing them on a page and rearranging them to make new meanings or clarifications. I like the challenge of analyzing grammatical intricacies. (I tried explaining this to my 15-year-old son last night when I was looking over his English homework. He wasn't convinced that how words work together in sentence patterns was at all beguiling.)

My English-teacher parents nourished this love of words by giving me each Christmas a Word-a-Day calendar. You know the kind—you rip the pages off every day to reveal a new word. (I still get one at Christmas, only now it's from my husband.)

Often the words are somewhat lackluster. (Witness quail, belfry, and enjoin which come later this year. [I peek ahead sometimes. But that's another post.]) But yesterday's was one I'd not heard before: kvell \'kvel\ v: to be extraordinarily proud; to rejoice; from the Yiddish kveln, meaning "to  be delighted." And that word kvelled my heart.

Shakespeare and Elections and Laundry—Oh, My!

As You Like It laundry pile

The title says it all. I'm in the thick of those three big entities right now. Our non-profit Shakespeare company (Greenville Shakespeare Co.) has just finished a 16-performance run of As You Like It. My director/designer/actor husband and I just hauled 15 ginormous Rubbermaid containers full of costume pieces, jewelry, props, and paraphernalia up to the attic for storage til next spring. Now we begin full tilt toward a November production of Richard III: The Terrible Reign, a Richard of epic proportions. (See my husband's blog for more info on this fab project.)

As for elections, it's post-national convention season, and I'm having to summon all of my strength to stomach the polling, advertising, speculating, and general bloviating that accompanies this time of year. I have to remind myself that my hope lies not in man.

And last, but certainly not least, the laundry. Sometimes I believe laundry to be my profession. I am a laundress. Today has been especially laundry-ing as I added my son's bedspread (why the Southern red mud stains?), a bathroom rug, and several loads of post-AYLI (see first paragraph) stinky washing. (If you think actors don't work hard, you should smell their garments after a weekend of shows.)

In between all of that, I have been able to squeeze some editing of the October issue of Trak magazine, which is due to the printer's this week.

Author Visit

Well, it's been a long while since I posted. I'm still here and still writing—mostly for Trak magazine these days but writing. This spring I had the great opportunity to read both of my children's books to a wonderful group of K5-4th graders at Greenville Classical Academy. We had a lot of fun, and the kids enjoyed interacting with Mumsi and Rodney. They had a number of questions about Kenya, lions, and the animals mentioned in Mumsi Meets a Lion. Once again I got choked up with pride at Mumsi's reaction to the trouble he finds himself in. The picture is of the K5 class with me after the reading and q-&-a time.

New Office with a View

It's happened; it's finally happened! I'm working from home. I'm drinking coffee at a teal lacquered desk ("how lovely," you say; "yes," I reply, "the legs are curved, how did you know?") while staring out huge windows into my lush backyard. I see birds and trees and grass and hydrangeas, and I am old because I'm thinking about a bird feeder. I try to ignore dust and fingerprints and laundry (my one weakness) and just write, write, write. Soon I will write whatever I wish but for now I must write blog posts for The Greenville Shakespeare Company, a weekly current events article for an online publisher, and news for a new teen magazine called Trak (more about that later). But this may be done in pajamas and slippers or running clothes or an old t-shirt with bleach on it. (Because one can never use bleach without ruining something, can one?) And so it is glorious.

Writers' Forum

Yesterday I spoke at a Writers' Forum. Here are a few things I included in the PowerPoint--lessons I have learned through the publishing process:

•1) A first draft is a first draft. (Don't consider initial output perfect.)

•2) A revision is a re-vision. (That means look at your draft again.)

•3) Your editor wants you to succeed. (He's not trying to tank your project.)

•4) Consider all suggestions. (Consider. All. Suggestions.)

•5) Collaboration usually makes a better product. (Theatre people know this. Why don't other artists get it?)

•6) Appreciate others’ strengths. (Use other people's talents. Very few people are good at everything.)

•7) Don’t forget your audience. (Unless you're waiting to be discovered posthumously, make your writing something people want to read now.)

Book Signing Blahs

So I had a book signing Monday night. It was blah. For one thing, it didn't get advertised. For another thing, we were stuck in the back of the store. And we (the authors) were too many, so I think we overwhelmed anyone who came near us. I brought my own book stands (always remembering the mantra "flat books, flat sales") and stood several books up. I also brought my big lion and sat him on the floor.

We should've been in the children's section so that folks looking there anyway would find us. At least two of the sales that were made were because I mentioned to people browsing in children's that there were authors in the back of the store. There should've been more signage, too. Oh, well, live and learn.

Greetings from Honduras and Panama!

While traveling for work, I was able to promote Mumsi Meets a Lion and Rodney Robbins and the Rainy-day Pond in Honduras and Panama. In fact, the event organizer wanted to give away copies of my books as an incentive to turn in a survey. So Mumsi and Rodney have traveled to Central America and are being introduced in at least two Honduran home--perhaps even as I write!

Tomorrow I get to speak on teaching writing, a topic I always enjoy. No doubt the books and freelancing will be part of the discussion. I just hope they don't ask me how faithful I am in my (non-work related) writing!

Celebrity Sighting

While taking an early-morning shuttle to the airport in Atlanta, my husband gave up his seat on our crowded bus to an attractive older woman. She accepted his offer and mentioned to me how kind he was. My husband then proceeded to give her husband one of his gloves to grip the freezing cold pole with. (They were both standing.) At this, the lady was amazed and again commented to me about his kindness. We began conversing, and the short of it is that she was (is) Marjolein Bastin, the well-known Dutch artist! She is known worldwide for her detailed nature paintings. She is perhaps best known for her 30-year association with Hallmark cards. Of course, I had nothing with me for her to sign or sketch on. We talked about her painting and her love of nature before we were dropped off at the airport and went our separate ways. It was a fun way to start our trip.

New Year, New Plan

Happy New Year 2011! It's a fresh new year, and I'm up early making a new yearly plan. Part of my plan will have to do with writing goals--goals for my writing, that is. Aside from a ton of free lance work (including a fairly sizable play) and of course, my part-time job of textbook writing, I haven't done much writing. Soooo, I'm considering making the goal of writing a chapter a week for this year. I have thought about a chapter a day, but I'm afraid that that will just set me up for failure right from the get-go. Even a chapter a week would net me 52 chapters in a year (in case you weren't working the math in your head), and that's way more than a YA novel. I'm thinking that these chapters will be focused on getting a story on paper (that's figurative--it'll probably be on computer) and not on final, massaged drafts.

So that's the plan. Here we go. Hang on. Can't wait to see what happens.