Natalie Goldberg in her wonderful resource for writers, Writing Down the Bones, calls this part of us our  “monkey mind.”  She claims, and I agree with her, that our best, most original writing comes when we are in touch with thoughts in the realm of my butterflies doing somersaults. These are also “morning thoughts.” Therefore, doing writing exercises first thing in the morning, spilling out your monkey mind  into your exercise notebook will often lead to a completely fresh take on the book you are writing. Your characters will grow in complexity and freshness.

When I am writing and become stalled, I know this: I need to go deeper into character. That is always the answer that yields a breakthrough. It often changes the direction of my book completely, but that is good if you write character-driven fiction.

In order to go deeper into character, I must access the subconscious thoughts of those who people my books. Getting into their monkey minds—the intuitive leaps that they make—is exciting and refreshing. It is the serendipity in the writing process. I love to be surprised by my characters.

For this reason, some of my best writing occurs at midnight after I have shed the days’ concerns and schedules. My mind is most creative when I am just on the edge of sleep—either first thing in the morning or last thing at night.

Be sure to check out my latest book, The Duke’s Undoing, on my home page!

By Mandi Slack, Author of Best-Selling Romantic Suspense: Alias

I have been reading of the Regency period and its shibboleths since in my teens, and its rules bring comfort to the chaos of modern life. Not that I wish I lived in those times! Far from it. But I found great delight in creating characters who managed to live with (and around) those rules. My fingers fairly danced across my keyboard as I composed The Duke’s Undoing!

I now fancy writing a trilogy of Regencies, my second being well under way. The characters in Book Two will be loosely connected to the Duke and his bride by way of the eccentric chaperons in Book One–Lady Clarice (a mezzo soprano who is composing an opera about cats) and the award winning expert on the beetles of the British Isles, Miss Sukey Braithwaite. Of course their pets, a fat Siamese named Queen Elizabeth and a Tortoise known as Henry Five, will also grace the second volume.

So, when life is frenetic, kick back with something chocolate, and read about my duke and his authoress heroine, and all the trouble she brings upon his far from blameless life! Experience romance in the Regency.

Buy The Duke’s Undoing for your Kindle  Here

Buy The Duke’s Undoing for your Nook  Here

Buy the Duke’s Undoing in paperback  Here

Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto in D Major was the inspiration behind my women’s fiction: Pieces of Paris. My heroine, Annalisse, is stuck in the Missouri Ozarks with her Quixotic husband who thinks he has found the Garden of Eden. However, she grew up on a farm and knows that a farm is just a farm. She is overcome by PTSD and finds herself immersed in flashbacks of another life her husband knows nothing about. Before that life ended tragically (thus causing her to bury the memories deeply), she was a concert pianist (Rachmaninoff’s Second Piano Concerto and Chopin’s etudes figure here). More importantly, she was passionately in love with a brilliant violinist consumed by the Tchaikovsky. In creating that character, I also became consumed—both with him and with that amazingly complex composition. I played it as I wrote, and Jules became one of my most memorable characters. The concerto is vastly yearning, longing for resolution. Jules’s character development traced the concerto’s. In the same way, as I wrote this book during my twenty-five year apprenticeship, I was yearning for the completion that only writing could give me. I was stretching, as the violinist stretches in this composition. It was plainly the soundtrack for my literary life.

In my most recent book, The Only Way to Paradise, a tale of four women who find hope and healing in Italy, two of my “crazy ladies” are violinists. Arthritis has stricken Georgia, ending her career as a violin sensation. The Mendelssohn Violin Concerto was her signature piece, and she played it “like silk.” As I wrote of Georgia and her memories, I played the concerto as my “soundtrack.” When she thinks she wants to end her life, she hears through her window in Florence, the sound of the Dvorak violin concerto played by an anonymous virtuoso. The Slavic melody of the music echoes her mood, but saves her life. The violinist turns out to be one of her companions, whom she undertakes to mentor.

It is one of life’s great ironies that I understand music, but cannot play a note, nor even read it! However, I cannot live without it. Now, as I write a frothy romance, I am listening to a lot of Bach and Puccini arias. Except for the duel scene—that is accompanied by Shostakovich’s uber-dramatic Fifth Symphony!

1.) One of the following e-books (you specify):

Cankered Roots, Of Deadly Descent, Tangled Roots, Poisoned Pedigree, Hidden Branch

The Arthurian Omen, The Last Waltz: A Novel of Love and War. (See “Books” on this site for synopses)

2.) A jigsaw puzzle of the ceiling of the Sistene Chapel in Rome, painted by Michelangelo.

Specify which prize you would like in your comment

Good Luck !

I love fires in the fireplace when the nights draw in, snuggling under my quilts, drinking hot chocolate, the Holidays, warm winter clothes, and most of all the chance to just snuggle down and recharge. After the Holidays begins my fallow season. I recharge spiritually reading my scriptures under my quilt in the mornings when it’s still dark. Because I live on a mountain bench, when there is a lot of snow, we can’t get down the hill, and so I love the days when I don’t have to go anywhere but can spend long stretches writing.

Historically, winter has been a productive time for me. I am more introverted and tend to live in my head. Because nothing is going on outside, lots is going on inside (my head). I really get inside my stories, inside my characters. They are with me all the time. They are my best friends. They get quirky and want their own way. They have a party in my head and take over my life.  Here is a little snatch of MacKenzie, one of my crazy ladies from The Only Way To Paradise, that I wrote last winter while I was hunkering down in Florence:

THE LESSON OF THE DOME

            After she awakened from her morning nap, MacKenzie felt guilty and out of sorts.  What was she doing, wasting even one day of Georgia’s precious gift to her?  True, the museums were closed today, but the churches were open, and so was the Duomo museum.

She had seen Michelangelo’s first great work.  Despite the rain, she was determined to see his last, created when he was over ninety.  Donning a trenchcoat, and grabbing an umbrella, MacKenzie tapped on the door to Sara’s room where Georgia said she would be reading.

But Georgia hated rain, and said she wanted to be there when Sara woke up.  What was going on there, anyway?  Georgia seemed unnecessarily anxious.  Sara was an ob-gyn.  She probably had a sleep deficit at least a year long.

After a short bus ride, and a bit of a walk, spent studying the ancient streets to avoid puddles, she arrived at the Duomo.  It was massive and startling with its green, pink, gray and white marble inlaid exterior.  Standing before it for a moment, she was struck as ever by the life lessons that the artists of the Renaissance taught.  For over a hundred years this building had had an enormous hole in its roof, where a confident architect intended a grand dome to be built.  He seemed to have the Italian’s great faith in their creative genius.  He knew that someday an architect far more talented than he would come along and be inspired with the knowledge needed to build such a dome, even though no one had ever successfully accomplished such a feat.  What if he had to wait a hundred years?  From the perspective of a Renaissance man, a hundred years was next to nothing.

Another life lesson, this one MacKenzie knew she needed to internalize, was the “lesson of the dome.”  Opening her canvas carryall, she drew out her student journal from her stay in Italy.  A nearby café was still serving outside under a canvas canopy.  It wasn’t cold or windy, so she decided to sit and read rather than expose her precious pages to the elements.

There were few other patrons.  A couple next to her table spoke in phlegmatic German.  The corner table was taken by a solitary woman, older than MacKenzie who was sipping a latte and reading The International Herald Tribune.  She ordered the bitter Italian hot chocolate, and opened her journal, anxious to reacquaint herself with “Florence MacKenzie’s” thoughts on Brunelleschi, the brilliant innovator, architect, and engineer of the dome.

“A poet we studied in Freshman English, Theodore Roethke, wrote, “We learn by going where we need to go.”  That line has always reminded me of Moses and the courage we must have when we are penned in by figurative Egyptians.  No one had ever crossed the Red Sea on dry ground, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t be done.  I imagine that Moses had to prove his faith by getting his toes wet before the sea parted.

Everyone who has visited Florence has seen the Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore, more commonly known as the Duomo.  This Cathedral is capped by the first large dome to be built ever.  Its construction, brick by brick with no preconception of how it was to be accomplished required an almost unbelievable amount of faith by its architect.  I think we can draw lessons on faith and hope from it.  No one knew how to build such a huge dome when construction was begun.  It is so Italian to “fly by the seat of your pants”—to begin without knowing the end or how it is to be accomplished.  In my mind, it is the secret of the Renaissance.  It is like the artistic concept or finished project is there in the air somewhere, and if you exercise faith, and put your toes in the water, bit by bit a miracle will occur and it will be revealed to you.

The generation that began the dome, spearheaded by architect Filippo Brunelleschi, had no idea how it was to be done, but they started it, using the locally manufactured terra cotta brick.  By the standards of that time, a dome of such great size would collapse under its own weight and some large medieval cathedrals had collapsed during construction.  The builders went as far as they could using conventional techniques, then contemplated alternatives.  Brunelleschi finally conceived of building a smaller dome first to support the structure of the larger dome.  This and many other unknown and unorthodox methods were developed and the great dome was completed in 1436.  The Duomo has become the most prominent symbol of the beginning of the great Renaissance.”

MacKenzie marveled at the wisdom of her twenty year old self.  No wonder she had retained the impression that the artists of the Renaissance had the “answers to the hard questions.”  Here was priceless wisdom.  It was not unlike the wisdom Michelangelo had imparted to her upon arrival.  Patience. Gentleness.  She was such a controller, such a planner.  She ought to throw out her calendar, at least while she was here, and just be..  Just see what each day brings.   Do not be so impatient.  Remember the chisel.  Put your faith in the Artist.  Believe that you can become what he wants you to be.  Quit wondering who that is.  Look, listen, respond with all your senses. Don’t be a Martha.   You used to know, when you were twenty, how to live “in the moment.”  Regain that skill.

MacKenzie took inventory of her senses at that moment.  Her eyes saw a fog arising from the pavement around the Duomo.  A little girl in a red raincoat attempting to eat a chocolate  gelato while holding her umbrella.  Reaching inside her bag, she grabbed her cell phone and snapped a photo of the moment.  Then she took one of her waiter-who smiled blindingly at the attention, blowing her a kiss.

She listened as the bell tolled in the tower near the Palazzo Vecchio, not a half mile distant. A Chinese group of young women had entered and were now seated near her.  She listened to the harsh sounds of that language, and then switched channels in her head and listened to the music of the Italian language as the waiter of her photo shared a funny story with another waiter.  How much did language affect your world view?  Were racial stereotypes valid by that measure? She couldn’t imagine any vocal sound more beautiful than Italian Opera.  Were Italians emotional and creative because of their language, or was it the other way around?

She smelled the sweetness of the last roses of the departed summer, planted in the barrel next to her chair.  The rain.  Rain in Florence smelled different than the rain in Ohio.  There were a thousand scents that it gathered from its surroundings as it descended—wet wool, cigarette smoke, asphalt, and a memory of where it had been—just a hint of the olive groves and wet grass of the countryside.

 order or borrow

The Only Way to Paradise

HERE

Am I masochistic? No. Just accustomed to the fact that life teaches us to know sweetness from its contrast to the bitter. True victories are hard won. True success emerges from failure. True love grows in the rocky soil of mortality. Peace is the golden reprieve from adversity.

My readers will not be surprised to learn of my chocolate preference. My happiness has been hard won. My books all have an edge, for my characters have grown from an imagination that has fought through darkness to come into the light. For all this, my works are ultimately hopeful. The sweetness wins the battle in the end, because there is something in all of us that craves it, that will fight for it. When given a choice, only the most depraved will favor darkness and bitterness at the expense of honey and light.

Grace is a gift from God. It is granted to us freely, but like the sweetness in dark chocolate, it takes a special taste to detect it. Grace comes in the midst of trial. Trials take us to extremes, and it is in extremes that we are most acutely grateful for relief.

Every trial, if ultimately faced with courage and fortitude, offers knowledge and intimacy with our Savior. In life, as well as in chocolate, there is sweetness to be had amid the bitterness. But as long as we are mortal, the two tastes will exist co-mingled.

Tolstoy said that the object of life is to learn to submit to God. From reading his masterful novels, I would bet you anything that Tolstoy loved dark chocolate, too.

 Click On Book Covers to Buy

Excerpt from Last Waltz:

The activity towards which Amalia’s entire day built was her late afternoon ride.  She hurried into her riding habit after her chores were completed and hastened to the stables where her mare, Elisabeth, was saddled and awaiting her. As soon as they were out of view of the Schloss, she spurred her mare into an unrestrained gallop, as satisfying to Elisabeth as to herself, and she would allow her thoughts to tumble out.  She allowed herself to mourn for Andrzej and what they had lost.  She knew this was important.  She couldn’t just cut off her emotions and pretend they weren’t there, she had to go through the process of grieving and then letting go.

She often rode with tears streaming down her face.  It had been years since she had indulged herself this way.  She was nearly forty.  Shouldn’t she be putting all this type of behavior behind her?  She was deeply fond of Rudolf, and became more so the longer she spent at the Schloss.  But those old treacherously sweet memories remained and it seemed there was nothing she could do to censor them.  It had been so long since she had felt any passion in a life that had become so prosaic.  The intimacy she had shared in Vienna with Andrzej had never been part of her life with Rudolf.  They kept to their own rooms for the most part, and he had always kept his ardor restrained, as though vaguely embarrassed of it.  She knew he hid in the “cobwebby rooms” in his mind for days at a time, sometimes a whole week.  Though she had grown deeply fond of him, she had never dared to let him know it for fear she would frighten him off.  And now, just as he had always feared, Andrzej had returned for her.

And so she prayed as she rode.  She prayed that she would learn to live without passion, or at least passion for Andrzej.  She prayed that her feelings for Rudolf would deepen and that she would be able to fill this aching sorrow with kind and gentle love.  She prayed she could be more understanding of the problems facing him in the government and that he could still be a force for good.  As the days passed, she could feel herself grow in spiritual substance.  Wild emotions quieted, a peaceful feeling grew in her breast as she thought of her little family and all they meant to her.  But still, the grief remained.

February 11th, 2012 | Author: Mistress Anya

Where were you born and where do you call home?

I was born in California and have called many places home (Stanford, Boston, Washington, D.C., Chicago, Southern Cal., Southwest Missouri, Oakwood, Ohio) but I am happiest here on the bench of the Wasatch Mountains with a splendid view of Utah Valley, Utah Lake, and the Oquirrh Mountain Range—all of which I see from my office window!

What or who inspired you to write?  And how long have you been writing?

I write the way most people read.  To escape to the worlds in my imagination.  I have been writing (or at least drawing stories) since I could hold a crayon. So, virtually all my life. As a child I wrote endless tales of the adventures of Sandy O’Hara.  I studied writing at Stanford and was inspired to write my award winning epic The Last Waltz: A Novel of Love and War when I lived and studied in Austria.  I worked in finance to put my husband through law school, but when I quit to become a Mom, I took up my writing in earnest.  It was a long apprenticeship.

When did you first consider yourself a writer?

When I had half a dozen books out, probably, and was writing a magazine column.  I have never thought of myself as anything else, vocation wise.  I certainly wasn’t a very good International Banker!

What is the name of your most recent book and if you had to sum it up in 30 or less words, what would you say?

The Only Way to Paradise is the tale of four women who ditch their therapist and journey to Florence to try to heal themselves.  With the help of one another and the love of the Italian people, they finally find themselves swathed in agape (charity) and on the road to Paradise.

I love reading the warnings on the blurbs for many books. If you could write a warning label for yourself as a person or an author, what would it say? 

That’s easy!  Do not read this book if you don’t want to find yourself jetting to Florence the first chance you get!

If you gave some of your characters an opportunity to speak for themselves, what would they say?

Great question! MacKenzie would say:  I was a control freak and it nearly cost me my family.  Staring at the David sculpture, it was as though I heard him say, “I used the be a block of marble.  The chisel was slow and painful, but I became this beautiful statue.  Give up your chisel, MacKenzie.  Then you may find God.”  Roxie would show you the red Vespa scooter she rented and say, “If you don’t want to fall in love, don’t buy a lycra cycle suit and ride your scooter up to the Piazzale Michelangelo at sunset.”  Sara would say, “If you have any secrets to hide, don’t go to Florence!”  And lastly, Georgia did say, “In Italy there are always men. Fascinating men.”

What does your protagonist think about you? Would he or she want to hang out with you, the author?

Since there is a good deal of me in all my characters, I am sure we would be fast friends.  They were with me constantly the two months I lived there, researching and visiting all the places they would find enchanting.

Which character speaks the loudest, to you? Do any of them clamour to be heard over the others?

I think Roxie speaks the loudest.  She appears to be an extrovert, but every time she feels anxiety, she does something outrageous—like singing and soft-shoeing in the rain, or doing cartwheels down the hallowed Vasari Corridor.  In reality, Roxie has a huge and dangerous secret that even she doesn’t know.

Do your characters try to make like bunnies and create ever more convoluted plots for you? Or do you have to coax them out of your characters?

I am a discovery writer and write completely from character.  It takes me a long time to winkle out all their secrets.  I start with who I think they are (these four came to me in the night), but they always, in every book, become extremely complex.  I lost count of how many drafts of this book I wrote, because my characters weren’t finished telling their stories.

Have you based any of your characters on someone you know, or real events in your own life?

There are real people in my book—the owner of the B & B where they stay in Florence, her son and daughter-in-law have become my Italian family.  The characters are all based on parts of my character, except Sara.  She is a Vietnamese immigrant whose story is based on that of my son’s best friend.  It took me three trips to Florence to discover the  “agape piece” which turned out to be the theme of the book, the ultimate healing balm.  All the crazy experiences that the “crazy ladies” have, really happened to me.

Do you have a specific writing style?

My style is probably different for every book.  I genre hop.  I have written 12 books, two of which are non-fiction.  My 5 mysteries are witty and sometimes slapstick, but also have a serious side and are interlarded with a long romantic tangle.  This book is written in a literary style, but still has humor.  My most literary book is Pieces of Paris.  There every word, every syllable was chosen with care.  My historical epic is written in the “voice”of the period (only in English).

How did you come up with the title?

Actually, the original title was “The Crazy Ladies of Oakwood,” but in the middle of the night, when I was sleeping, I woke up, grabbed at that agape piece, and realized the title was meant to be The Only Way to Paradise, because ultimately love is our ticket.

Is there a message in your novel that you want readers to grasp?

Several.  All these women are masquerading as people they have sort of “dropped into being.”  None of them realize the richness, the love, and the talents they have hidden.  Italy is wonderful that way—it changes you into who you really are, if you let it.  But you have to live in the moment and listen, see, and most of all feel what it’s telling you.  Each woman learns the lesson most important for her happiness.  And then, there is agape—that love which comes so naturally to the Italians that I feel would change the world if we could all emulate it.  I go to Florence yearly in order to get recharged.

Do you have plans for a new book?   Is this book part of a series? 

If this book really takes off, I would like to write three more.  This is primarily about MacKenzie.  I would like to write one focusing more specifically on each character.  I am now writing another historical romance—this one set in Regency England.  I am at the exciting stage where the characters are revealing themselves to me and I am doing massive rewrites.

How did you come up with the title and cover design?

I think I answered the one about the title above.  The cover design was done by my exceedingly talented photographer husband.  The picture was actually taken in Amalfi, not Florence.  The door is from a photo taken in Mykonos, Greece.  He used photoshop to give it the feel of a painting.  To go with the title, I wanted a “passage.”

Where do you see yourself in five (5) years?

Hopefully, still traveling and writing.  Fans have been screaming for a sequel to: The Last Waltz (which will necessitate trips to Provence and Poland), my last genealogy novel (which I have already outlined and researched—it will be set in Florence).  I also want to write some more historical romances.  I am a passionate lady.

If you could live anywhere in the world, where would it be?

If they had a decent healthcare system, I think I would love to live in Lucca—a little town in Tuscany, not far from Florence.  It is the birthplace of Puccini, and they have a Puccini concert every night.  It is a walled town with no cars allowed inside.

Is there an Author that you would really like to meet?

I would love to meet Marisa de los Santos, who wrote my favorite contemporary novel: Love Walked In.  Like my novel, hers is a  treatment of all different sorts of love.

What books have most influenced your writing most and why?

Writing Down the Bones, by Natalie Goldberg, opened my creative floodgates.  I recommend it highly!  Morally, I am most influenced by the great nineteenth century writers: Tolstoy, Gaskill, Charlotte Bronte, and Austen.  I also treasure critic John Gardner’s book: On Moral Fiction—especially the parts where he quotes Tolstoy as saying that art should be a moral act, and as such should affirm life and not trivialize it, tear it down, or cause it to appear random or meaningless.

Do you prefer ebooks, paperbacks or hardcover?

I like trade paperbacks or e-books.  I’m becoming more and more a fan of e-books for fiction, but for research I need the trade paperbacks.  Also, for my most beloved Classical authors,I like sturdy hardbacks.

Are you a self published (Indie) Author or big trad published?

I am both.  My first eleven books were traditionally published by three different publishers.  I wanted to self-publish this one, hopefully to gain a wider readership.  All my publishers were niche publishers.  I want to be more generally known.  I am pleased that I am finding readers all over the world now.  My trad. Pubishers priced my e-books too high.  Now, my e-books are outselling my paperbacks.  Since I see that as the future of publishing, I wanted to get on the bandwagon early and get my books known.  Amazon has been terrific to me, for some reason.  They are currently doing two special offers with this book, have published my bio on my book page (not just my author page), as well as a special “Note to the Readers” that appears at the front of my book. 

How do you market/promote your books?

That’s a good question.  I do absolutely everything I can from blog tours to giveaways.  This book will be free on Amazon for three days starting Jan 27.  This really boosted sales of my whole mystery series when I offered the first volume free.  I have done radio interviews.  I write columns for an on-line magazine which brings a lot of traffic to my blog and website.  I have fan pages on Amazon, Goodreads, and several different ones on Facebook.  I send out a monthly e-mail newsletter.  I try to keep a weekly blog.  I offer writing samples on my website, as well a photos of Florence.  I watch the bookblogs site for bloggers (like you, bless you)

What do you think makes a book a really good/bestseller ?

A really good bestseller is a book that makes people think and maybe changes them for the better, or informs them about something important.  Unfortunately, these days sex and sensationalism usually make a bestseller, although I am cheered by the success of such books as The Help, and the two latest bestsellers by Emily Giffin, and other writers of women’s fiction.

What was your favourite chapter (or part) to write and why?

I think I loved most MacKenzie’s chapters of self-discovery, because she grew up in an oppressive household like my family of orgin’s, and she’d lost her way in her own marriage, turning into someone she really wasn’t.   Feeling her coming alive in Florence was a parallel experience for me.  I loved to see the Renaissance and the rest of Tuscany through her new eyes.

What has been the toughest criticism you’ve been given as an author?  What has been the best component?

The worst criticism was from my freshman English t.a.  From his store of great wisdom he informed me that I had great promise as a writer, but I needed to give up my religion. That kept me from writing anything for years, and made me tremendously insecure when I did write.  I don’t write overtly religious books, but I do write books about truth.  I never preach. 

The best component is when I win awards!  I don’t know why.  Probably because I secretly fear I’m not good.  But Max Perkins (editor to Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Thomas Wolfe, and Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings)says all of them had the same problem, as does any writer “worth his salt,” so I guess I’m in good company.

What do you do to unwind and relax?

Since we got our home theater two years ago, I collapse into my zero grav chair and watch TV.  My tastes vary from Burn Notice to Blue Bloods, to TV versions of the classics.  My all time favorite movie is the four hour dramatization of Elizabeth Gaskill’s North and South.  It illustrates the upheaval in England with the rise of industrialization and the middle class.  Margaret Hale is my favorite heroine,andRichard Armitage is to die for.

Have you ever read a book more than once?

Definitely.  Over and over.  I’ve lost count of the times I’ve read the classics, particularly Jane Eyre.  I keep hoping that I will absorb the author’s wisdom and creativity by osmosis.

Is there a particular movie that you preferred over the book version?

North and South.

What book are you currently reading and in what format (ebook/paperback/hardcover)?

I have been ill, and am writing a romance set in Regency England, and I dearly need a laugh.  So I’m rereading all of Georgette Heyer and laughing outloud.

Are there any new Authors that have seized your interest and why?

An author who is new to me is Caroline (?) Leavitt, author of Pictures of You.  I love her style of writing, her characters, and the way she successfully portrays emotion.  Also love   Emily Giffin—The Heart of the Matter, and Love the One You’re With.

Do you have any advice for other writers?

Do writing practice every day until you find your voice (Natalie Goldberg has great tips on this).  Once you find your voice be true to it.  Be true to yourself and what your believe.  Read On Moral Fiction.  The better stuff you read, the better stuff you will write.

What is the best advice that you have ever been given when it comes to writing?

To write from deep down inside where all my conflicts and wisdom lie

Cats or dogs?

Dachshunds

Favourite food?

Gelato

Vanilla or chocolate ice cream?

Chocolate

What are 4 things you never leave home without?

Lip gloss
Sunglasses
Wallet
A picture of my grandchildren

Laptop or desktop for writing?

Both.  Laptop while lying in my zero grav chair for composition. Desktop for editing and blogging and e-mail

Where and when do you prefer to do your writing?

My favorite place of all time is the Café Robiglio at the end of my street in Florence.  It had the most fantastic bitter-sweet hot chocolate and delectable pastries and I love to hear the emotional Italian all around me at any time of day.  I set up my laptop by the window and Italy is my backdrop.

One of your favourite quotes

Work without Vision is Drudgery.  Vision without Work is Dreaming.  Work and Vision—That is Destiny.-

List 3 of your all time favourite books?

Jane Eyre
Anna Karenina
Love Walked In

List 3 of your all time favourite movies?

North and South
What about Bob?
Room With a View

An actor you have a crush on -

Richard Armitage

What is a movie or TV show that you watched recently and really enjoyed?

Burn Notice, Blue Bloods, Gifted Man, Person of Interest, NCIS, White Collar

Where can your readers stalk you?

Site | Blog | G.G. Vandagriff-Author Facebook
Fans of G.G. Vandagriff Facebook | Twitter | Goodreads
Google + | Amazon | PTSD

Works By G.G. Vandagriff

Mysteries:

• Cankered Roots
• Of Deadly Descent
• Tangled Roots
• Poisoned Pedigree
• Hidden Branch

Suspense:

• Foggy With a Chance of Murder
• The Arthurian Omen

Historical:

• The Last Waltz: A Novel of Love and War

Women’s Fiction:

• Pieces of Paris
• The Only Way to Paradise

Non-Fiction

• Deliverance from Depression’
• Voices In Your Blood

CHAPTER THIRTY

LEARNING TO SEE

MacKenzie was not prepared for the rugged beauty of Italy’s coastline, so close to the smooth Tuscan hills. Here was another world entirely, formed by separate geological forces. It reminded her more of a movie she had seen about the Greek islands, and increased her feeling that today was a day out of her world. As they stood at the top of the cliffs overlooking Monterosso, the first of the five towns that formed Cinque Terre, Roberto unpacked his camera. His long, tapered fingers examined the lenses as he considered each one. Making his selection, he locked it into place and removed the lens cap.

Roberto’s gentle hands distracted MacKenzie and she rushed into speech, “I can’t believe they grow grapes here,” she said. “How long ago did they carve out these terraces?” She forced her eyes toward the grapevines that grew along the narrow “steps” that had been carved into pure rock all the way down to the town.

“Longer ago than anyone living can remember. Italians don’t know much about farming anything other than grapes and olives. No place for an olive tree, so that left grapes.”

“Thank you for bringing me here.” She looked at the cerulean sky and then down at the water—so clear that even from here she could see the white sand beneath it. “Why have I never heard of this place?”

“It was cut off from the world, except by yacht, until a railway was built about ten years ago. It has a single connection that goes through all five villages. No cars. That’s why we have to hike in this way.”

He handed her the camera. “Photography is easy with a modern camera. It can handle all the technical details if you like. But in a way, it’s more of a challenge. It demands that the photographer be a true artist if he is going to master anything beyond the ordinary. You have to learn to see, Mac. To see beyond the surface of things.” As she looked at the world through the lens, she was again distracted, this time by his hand on the back of her neck as it gently guided her head around. It had been so long since she had felt the gentle touch of a man’s hand.

“It’s my belief that everything in this world has a spirit of its own,” he said.

“You speak a language I can understand,” MacKenzie said, excited that he was explaining something she had always known set her apart from other people. Except Kurt. She remembered now that they had often spoken of this belief in the early days of their courtship, when she was a docent at the Met. “An artist does experience the world on a deeper level. That’s why they are sometimes bipolar. Or I may have the cause and effect backwards.”

She thought of her experience with the David and warmth flooded her. “In my life, those experiences can actually be a form of revelation. About myself. Or the world.”

“You are exactly right. In this case, anyone can press a button. The artistry must come from inside the photographer. You have that depth of vision. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have reacted as you did to Michelangelo or the view from my studio.”

While she looked at different photographic possibilities through her lens, she thought how wonderful it was to be understood. Particularly, when she had been so hurtfully misunderstood by her daughter.  She was wise enough to know that much of her attraction to Roberto just now was his validation of her as a person, not just a fixer of dinners and a doer of laundry.

Roberto continued. “In Cinque Terre, the spirit of people and things is very near the surface, almost naïve, because for so many years nothing has changed. Industrialization hasn’t made it to this spot. The land, the sea, the people and their houses—they are everything. A complete microcosm. A circle.”

When MacKenzie turned her lens on the town below, she saw a riot of shapes and sizes, colors and contrasts, representing people and their lives. Their individual histories were in those houses. Not just how they arranged things—what had pride of place and what was designated to go under the bed—but the spirit one always felt when one entered a place. Residenza Betta, for instance, had a loving spirit. And her home? She didn’t know anymore.

But Roberto had been right to bring her here for her first lesson. Any view she saw through her lens was charming. But charm wasn’t enough.

She wished that Roxie were here with her quirky imagination. MacKenzie wanted to tell a story with her photographs. Where should she start?

Any Italian would know that—with the grapes, of course. Without grapes, this village would not consist of three-story family houses wedged between the cliffs and the Mediterranean. It would have only a few shacks for fishermen.

“Speak to me about the grapes—what kind they are, what sort of wine they make, who harvests them, that sort of thing.”

Roberto began to discourse in smooth, musical Italian, telling her details that gave the landscape a persona, taking her back hundreds of years. “These people are pure Italian from several hundred years ago,” he concluded. “As I told you, until recently they have been influenced very little by the outside world. Even today you don’t see TV antennas or satellite dishes as you do over the rest of rural Italy. But I fear for the next generation. Your photo essay will one day reflect a world that has disappeared, I think.”

Concentrating on the difficult rocky works of terracing, she tried to convey the skill and backbreaking work it took to carve them out of the lava of the extinct volcano, but most of all the early vintner’s vision that it was even possible. It was nearing the end of the grape harvest, and she was lucky enough to use the zoom lens to capture a expressions of tenderness as they plucked the source of their worldly wealth by hand. These were no hirelings. These men loved their vines with a passion most hired harvesters would never feel.

Walking away from Roberto, she stepped with respect and care among the vines. Careful to protect his camera, she experimented with the zoom lens, finally concentrating on the individual grapes, still holding drops of the morning’s heavy dew.

“They must be irrigated by the moisture in the air.” she said to her teacher, for Roberto had joined her.

“Yes, you are right. So near to the ocean, the constant humidity makes their quality consistent and distinct. It’s unfortunate, but I’m afraid the wine from Cinque Terre is not to my taste.”

“It says a lot about your personality that you scorn simple sweetness,” she said with a grin.

They continued, MacKenzie photographing her story as Roberto fed her all the telling details. They went down to the village finally, where she photographed classical Italian faces, laundry flapping its colors in the sea breeze, and the improbable clarity of the water in its protected bay.

She was learning quickly, listening to a voice inside that had always been there, but had never had expression. A tight place in her rested. Her inner turmoil dissolved. In this place inside, she felt satisfied and relaxed, as though she were at a new home and all was well there. Little by little, the tension went from her body, and she could feel her shoulders “come down from her ears,” as her yoga instructor was always telling her. Soon she was all eye, unaware even of Roberto.

While they lunched late in the village of Corniglia, perched high above the sea, on Roberto’s wine, honey toast and creamy local goat cheese, she expressed this to him.

“You have made a new person of me.”

“No, Mac. Only brought out the person who has been waiting inside you all your life.”

Quiet, she looked at the view with her new eyes, putting off thoughts of how this day would affect decisions she had to make at its end.  It was on to Manarola and finally the largest village—Riomaggiore. As the day went on, subtitles began running through MacKenzie’s conscience at unwelcome moments.

There, that woman crocheting on her balcony with the grape terrace behind her. What would Kurt think if he could see me now with this handsome Italian teaching me to photograph? She looks like a Medici with her hooked nose, dressed in her red dress against the green. Queen of all she surveys. What was Kurt’s journey? Was it literal or figurative?  How and why did he come back so changed, ready to give our marriage another try?  Jess’s unreasonable anger hurt so much, she almost lost touch with this all important question.  And why was he keeping her waiting?  Why couldn’t he fly over here tomorrow with Josh?

Her curiosity became more and more unbearable as it simmered under her photography lesson, which on another level, she was enjoying.  It reminded her of her childhood, this thinking on two different levels.  There was the surface level where she heard her parents screaming at each other, threatening divorce, and then there was that calm place inside her where she planned what would be her own perfect life.  When she was little, she wrote stories about it.  When she was older, she buried herself in books.  Big, thick Russian novels so complex that they made her parents into cartoon figures by comparison.  She realized how foolish they were, and that quarrels had nothing to do with her.  Now, it was just the opposite.  The serene life was real here with Roberto, but she wasn’t really living it.  As the day went by, her thoughts were more and more of Kurt. She didn’t want a divorce, but she no longer wanted the life they had been living, either.  Roberto and Italy had reawakened her.  She was seeing glorious colors now.  Before, she had been living a shadow life in black and white.

Buy

The Only Way to Paradise on

Amazon