I will be hosting the American Historical Novels Facebook group page this week! Join me for discussion of the topics that inspired Real Estate. Giveaways for participation. Check out the site. I have discovered new works by several amazing women authors there. Interview with Jess Neal Woods, page administrator:
Rebecca Rosenberg: Hello Kathryn & thank you for hosting this week! What inspired you to write Real Estate? Kathryn: Real Estate was my first Nanowrimo novel. I set the novel in the Santa Clara Valley where I was raised. Grounded in familiar territory, I followed characters based on people I knew and the by-now-familiar story of Silicon Valley. I tried to convey the Valley’s evolution from a wide expanse of apricot orchards to the center of the Tech universe, through the eyes of two next-door neighbors, each from a very different family. Rebecca: Can you give us insight into your writing process? Kathryn: I start with an outline. I write five days a week, usually following my characters chronologically, stopping to do research as necessary. Although I have met the Nanowrimo goal of writing 50000 words in a month three times, the initial draft is followed by revisions and editing that have taken several years. Rebecca: What type of research did you do for writing Real Estate? Kathryn: For this novel, I was already familiar with the landscape. I did however do extensive reading on the developments in the tech industry, as well on issues that affected my characters, one of whom is a Japanese war bride, and another an Aikido instructor. I (very loosely) based the tech whiz in the story on Steve Wozniak, a classmate of my brother, so I also researched his life and career. Rebecca: Did you find anything in your research that was particularly fascinating or that helped shaped the novel? Kathryn: Silicon Valley was fueled by both the military (the Moffett Air Force Base) and the engineering industry. The discipline required by both fascinated me, thus my research into the role of the military and aikido in shaping my characters, as well as the class-based differences between the families that shaped their arcs. Rebecca: What was your favorite scene to write? Kathryn: Steve Wozniak was a Star Trek Aficionado who plowed some of his initial wealth into pursuing this. I had fun writing the scene where he reunited with the character based on Steve Jobs at a Star Trek convention. Rebecca: What was the most difficult scene to write? Kathryn: My protagonist is the daughter of an Air Force pilot and his Japanese war bride. Her father asks her to be his eyes and ears. In exploring the price she pays for his reliance on her, I needed to show a character denied a childhood. When a family tragedy occurs and he holds her responsible, I struggled to make her plight believable, and yet keep her a sympathetic character. Rebecca: When did you know you wanted to be a writer? Kathryn: This was always the plan, although like for so many, for a while there, life got in the way. Rebecca: What has been your greatest challenge as a writer? Have you been able to overcome it? Kathryn: I find myself constantly walking the tightrope between writing as a passion and writing as a business. For a while, my profession took priority. Even though I always wanted to nurture my passion, the business end of things is a necessity I still cannot ignore. Rebecca: Who are your writing inspirations and why? Kathryn: Ann Tyler, Ann Padgett, and Elizabeth Strout. I am in awe of their ability to make ordinary people’s stories riveting. Rebecca: What was the first historical novel you read? Kathryn: Probably Hawaii. I read a lot of Michener as an adolescent. Rebecca: What is the last historical novel you read? Kathryn: Hamnet Rebecca: What are three things people may not know about you? Kathryn: As an administrator, I’ve worked with poets, public inebriates, dentists, urologists, and cardiologists. I love Vermont, stacking wood, and sitting in front of the fire. Guess that’s more than three, but these things offer different facets of what makes me me. Rebecca: What appeals to you most about your chosen genre? Kathryn: I love immersing myself in another time and finding the commonalities. Digging through old newspapers and discovering the keys to another’s life. Rebecca: What do you like to do when you aren't writing? Kathryn: Hike, kayak, spend time with family, cook, read, read, read. Rebecca: Lastly, will you have more projects in the future? I am in the process of signing a contract for my second novel, the Cost of Electricity. Number three, Granted, is out to beta readers now. Stay tuned to American Historical Novels this week for more from Kathryn Holzman!
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In a picturesque inn in rural Vermont, a roomful of writers discuss why we write. We have gathered for our annual conference, an event that has taken place for twenty years, cancelled only once, the prior year when pandemic precautions prevented mass gatherings. The conference’s founder, Yvonne Daly, a vivacious ex-hippie and investigative reporter, has gathered her flock for a mid-summer celebration. They are mostly women, among them a few hand-picked young Vermonters whom she has inspired and mentored. A time-tested faculty of poets and authors, teachers and ministers assist her. It hasn’t been an easy year. During the pandemic lockdown, Yvonne’s partner suffered a brain aneurysm. Now, he sits in the front row, miraculously recovered, and smiling broadly despite slightly halting speech and an unsteady gait. Yvonne invites him to tell his story, calling him Mr. Lucky. As the audience listens to him describes his ordeal, their affection is obvious. An all-day blood transfusion has returned the pink to Yvonne's once lovely face. “Back in my hippie clothes,” she says, alluding to her recent weight loss. “Why do we write?” She discusses what writing has meant to her: celebration, communion, community, witnessing, and investigation. She speaks of her early career as a reporter, her determination to chase down a story, her refusal to cut corners before revealing the truth. Over the next four days, the participants answer her question over and over. Novelists discuss their journey from inspiration to manuscript. Poets share heartbreaking odes to a year of quarantine. The conference leaders keep the tone upbeat. When a young writer breaks down in tears describing how it felt to be the child of a felon, when an army chaplain recounts breaking the news of a soldier’s death to his parents, when a long-time participant discusses how to frame her memoir about sponsoring a school for the children of workers in her Mexican retirement town, the audience greets each story with applause and encouragement. If there is an underlying sense of mortality, it is framed by laughter, libations, and even a few post-pandemic (we hope) cautious hugs. One of the seminar leaders is a much-published writer with a formula that works. In her workshop, we scribble down notes, starring the actions we need to take to transform our chaotic manuscripts into novels that will engage a reader we have never met, catch a publisher’s eye. The seminar leader is young and confident, efficient in her instruction, which she has honed into a salable commodity. She leaves after her final workshop, having sold out her stock of autographed books. I chuckle, wondering how she might portray this conference in one of her carefully constructed novels, this ragtag collection of poets and unpublished writers, graying and grizzled, chunky and chatty. Seated in our folding chairs, we exchange tips on the best medications to combat sleepless nights, planning next year’s conference despite all the obvious alarms. And the music! And the food! None of these, of course, are the reason we write, but it is writing that has brought us together. Amid the acknowledgements of regulars who could not attend, is the reality of those in the room whose future is tenuous. Even the pandemic rears its ugly head as a new variant spreads into our idyllic Vermont. By week’s end, a few participants have re-donned their masks. In the evenings, we celebrate. A musical duo arranges a tribute to Yvonne, listing her quirky but loveable traits. A poet captures the essence of her generosity in a few unsentimental lines. If their voices crack, it’s for less than a millisecond, followed by hardy laughter and bright, hope-filled smiles. On the last day, Yvonne announces she is passing the baton. Goodbyes are short, socially distanced, and heartbreaking. Grab a few cookies as you go. Why do I write? Because the world is a scary place, and I have an irrational need to make sense of it. Because people are complicated and hard to keep close. Because I crave the connection that artistic communities create. I lay awake at night and wonder what will become of me. Like the poets and writers who surround me, I want to find words to bridge this senseless world. Three desserts a day, we marvel, as we climb into our cars. Best conference yet.
The audio isn't great, but the discussion is lively. Thanks to Maggie and the Womens Fiction Writers Association for a great podcast. Did your characters hijack your book?
June 8, 2021 - ONE DAY ONLY! Flatlanders, short fiction from Vermont, is available without charge. Just click here: Women’s Fiction Day was established by WFWA in 2019. It is a day to celebrate the authors, stories, readers, bookstores, and fans of the women’s fiction genre. Women's Fiction Day Schedule -
To participate, go to https://www.womensfictionwriters.org/womens-fiction-day-2021
After a year of quarantine, I receive my second dose of vaccine. My husband and I watch a Mae West marathon, counting down the days until we’ll reach maximum immunity. The world we see on the screen, as portrayed by the luscious, idiosyncratic sex icon, is riddled with casual sexism, blatant racism, even animal abuse, always dismissed with a languid puff on a cigarette, more dramatic if held in a holder. The costumes are elaborate, fur and feathers, long and revealing. Baby doll, I know what you need. When I’m good I’m good. When I’m bad I’m better. On the evening news, maskless naysayers crowd Florida’s beaches in a drunken frenzy, defying the evening curfew. The Governor says: “you can’t tell people what to do. We’re not going to have the government dictate everyday life. If you want to come, come; if you don’t, don’t come.” Mae West resembles a cat, a calico with a black eye. Full-figured and fluffy, she leads her admirers on, always on her own terms. She struts with a lumbering gait, tickles them with a flirtatious wiggle of her tail. Her deep-throated purr evokes her leonine origins. The numbers of new cases of virus go up, fueled by the variants. The number of deaths plateau, thanks to the vaccines. By April, by May, maybe by September, we will return to some sense of normalcy. The Nationals prepare to throw out the first pitch, but opening day is cancelled due to Covid protocol. All those wide-eyed men can’t get enough. Any one of them would lose their senate seat the minute the camera turned on. Mae cracks her whip and puts her head in the lion’s mouth. Governor Cuomo insists he is just a touchy guy. The black maids giggle at her audacity. Don’t cut my nails too short, Mae says, they’ll think I bite them. And the mass shootings begin again, to a backdrop of a trial of the policeman with his knee on the throat of a dying black man. This is my country. ‘Tis of thee. Mae West wrote, produced, and starred in her films. Was married but never shared her husband’s bedroom, was not married, lied about her marriages while screwing other men. Played a male impersonator. Was infertile after her abortion. Didn’t let the censors stop her for a minute. A supreme court judge in Minnesota rules a rapist is not guilty because his victim willingly drank alcohol. The movie always ends with the lovers in an embrace. Cary Grant is such a nice guy; you know he’ll never hurt her. I lay in bed waiting for the side effects to kick in. They say its hits you like a truck. In 1995, I bought Bryan Kest’s Power Yoga video. As a working mother who commuted daily from the suburbs of New Jersey to mid-town Manhattan, I had limited time for exercise. But with discipline and resolution, I squeezed the 50-minute workout into my morning routine. The long-haired, southern-California yogi performed his demanding routine shirtless. An added incentive. On my living room carpet, I stretched muscles I hadn’t touched in years of jogging and aerobics as my cat bumped against my shins and squeezed herself under my arched bridge. Buoyed because I was no longer sore after the yoga routine, I bought the next two tapes in the series. I still hadn’t ventured into a yoga studio. Instead, I joined neighborhood women two nights a week in step class, hoping that combining yoga and aerobics would compensate for long days in the office. Eventually my son left for college, and CDs replaced video tapes. Luckily, all three of Bryan’s routines were available on CD. I was getting older. But Bryan froze in time, gently nudging his audience to raise their feet above their head and let their nutrient-rich blood flood their hearts and brains. Even before I retired, I added a weekly visit to a local yoga studio to my routine. One on one instructors helped me identify postures I hadn’t quite mastered, but I continued to supplement my weekly practice with the Power Yoga CDs. Bryan remained the young stud (his words not mine) as my hair slowly turned gray. In this new century, the internet entered the equation. Bryan now had a subscription website, with streaming classes recorded in his Santa Monica studio. After a decade of promotional emails from Bryan—now teaching in Hawaii, now touring the world!—I ponied up and paid my dues. Now Bryan, live or close to it, joined me in the aging process. His long hair gone, his temples almost as gray as mine. I had a choice of instructors, but regularly chose Bryan who had mellowed with time, regularly reminding me that my practice should adapt with age. In my sixties, I watched Bryan mature in Santa Monica while maximizing my flexibility and following his call for moderation, a routine that held me in good stead. Then the pandemic hit, and all hell broke loose. My local studio closed but, hey, that was okay. I had Power Yoga. Or did until the day I booted up my computer and the program wouldn’t load. The governor declared a lockdown. I was hiding out in a cabin in Vermont with my husband, and NO YOGA to keep me sane. Unbeknownst to me, Bryan’s studio had already closed, but in my virtual world I depended on it. In desperation, I signed up for one of the corporation yoga sites, where flawless instructors taught robotic routines against idyllic backgrounds. I missed Bryan desperately. He was funky and human and considerate of my aches and pains. You broke my yoga!!! I wrote his website. To my relief, I received a prompt response. After several weeks of fiddling, a new, more personalized website, with LIVE classes, returned to my device. I’ve never met Bryan and don’t expect to do so, but I am approaching 70 and have just completed week 2 of his most recent yoga challenge. I’m half vaccinated, and the Vermont winter ice is cracking. Bryan reminds me regularly to meditate on those things I am grateful for. So, here’s my meditation: I am grateful for growing old with Bryan Kest. Dialog, one year into the pandemic Why would anyone move away from California? The overhead light flickers. The electric wires outside the bedroom window glisten in a transparent coat of ice. Earthquakes? Fires? In my case, a crazy mother. Besides, I love the seasons. I’d be happy if it were seventy degrees every single day of my life. Winter sucks. You’ll never be happy. She nudges him with her toe. Who is? Still, after this is over, if you want to move… I won’t. Though I have to admit, earthquakes are kinda cool. The earth moving beneath your feet and all that. If the building you’re in doesn’t collapse. In the City, there’s always cranes to worry about. True, but planes crash everywhere. Trees falls. And those are only the unintended disasters. You’re never really safe. Just saying. I’ve shoveled enough snow for a lifetime. Think how those first spring buds nose their way through the vestiges of snow. Survivors, unlike those effusive California blooms. Mud season? That’s the worse. And then there’s the issue of water. Never enough, except when there’s too much. The lights go out. Where did you put the candles? How cold is it supposed to get tonight? Do you know why they call it a three-dog night? We should adopt a dog. I don’t want to walk a dog. You never know where a rescue comes from. I forgot to unplug my computer. I hope a power surge didn’t wipe out my hard drive. The candles are in the hall closet. I stubbed my toe. If we lived in California, we’d be warm. If we lived in Sweden, the sun would never rise. Come on, admit it. Wouldn’t you rather be sunbathing on a beach right now? Drinking a margarita? I’d rather be sitting in front of a fire, sipping brandy. Did you remember to charge your phone battery? You have somebody you need to call? What if there’s an emergency? What if there’s not? I’m so tired of winter. Not to mention the pandemic. We’ll never be high enough on the list for the vaccine. This isn’t about the weather. You always want to be somewhere we’re not. That’s why people travel. Even when it puts their lives in danger. We can always wear masks. Caribbean cruises are the worst. Remember snorkeling in Cozumel, those translucent fish? I found the flashlight. What do we do now? Wait for the lights to come on. Wait to be immunized. I’m hungry. Don’t open the refrigerator. The food will go bad. If we were in New York City, we could order take out. If we were in Costa Rica, we could pick the fruit right off the trees. Last night there was almost a full moon. A waning gibbous, on the way out. The last Cold Moon of a not too cold winter. 2020 is over at last, though of course nothing has changed. The ball dropped in Times Square (or so I’m told) without a crowd to witness the arrival of the new year. I was asleep. By morning, the updated tally of new cases and deaths from the virus reached new highs and the public health officials on the morning’s new shows predicted that January and February 2021 would be brutal. Next year, they said. Next year, we will celebrate. But first… and they list all the things that need to change before life returns to normal. And all anyone keeps saying is “Good Riddance to 2020.” Via Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram, of course, because no one was supposed to gather, and if they did, it was in secret, and will inevitably have consequences. In Florida, seniors lined the streets overnight hoping to get vaccinated, and this is only because the state government refused to listen to CDC guidelines which would have them giving the available doses to front-line workers and healthcare professionals. Health professionals all over the country are in despair, unvaccinated as they hold the hand of patients, too many of whom will die on their watch. Once again, the US has bungled its response to the virus. Despite the impressive speed with which scientists developed, tested, and shipped vaccines, the lack of federal coordination and support to states and localities left millions of doses expiring in refrigerators, not yet reaching an arm. There is no use in assigning blame. So far, we learned this accomplished nothing. We are still waiting for the transition, clinging to hope that then things will change. Melania (you knew I would get there) spent December redecorating Mar-a-Lago, preparing for a life after the White House despite her husband’s refusal to accept his defeat. When the first couple arrived at their southern abode for the holidays, Trump threw a hissy fit. He HATED the renovations, disparaged the dark wood and subtle color palette Melania had chosen, and demanded they rip out the renovations at once. Instead of hosting the annual black-tie New Year’s Eve party at his resort, he returned to the White House on Air Force 1, his hand resting on Melania’s back as he guided her past the cluster of journalists on the White House lawn. No one knows what he is up to. Her hair was less than perfect, and her face (well, you know the drill) revealed nothing. So far. the only difference between 2020 and 2021 is that all of this seems normal. Who expected to be hugged at midnight, anyway? Resolutions won’t change anything. And who ever sticks to them anyhow? We are still holding our breath. Instead of celebrating the New Year, I made a list of more significant dates. January 5. The Georgia election. January 6. The validation of the electoral college vote by the joint houses of congress. January 20. The inauguration. February (or maybe March) Our turn to be vaccinated. April. My husband’s 75th birthday and my grandson’s 10th. Will we celebrate with family? Will I hug my grandson before he shakes off my approach with a precocious adolescent snarl? Spring. Summer. Longer Days. Open windows. I calculate how long before they will come. It's News Years Day, I can’t exhale. Favorite gifts missing from under your tree? No worries! Propertius Press has some great suggestions in their bookstore at www.visitourbookstore.com with free shipping to US addresses!
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