Music Monday: Dusty Springfield

From now on, I'm going to try to dedicate my blog to a music act every Monday. As you know, I'm a musician as well as writer, and draw inspiration from many sources. Probably my biggest influence has been Dusty Springfield, owner of one of the most soulful female voices in modern music history. Although some would compare her vocal strength to that of her contemporaries Aretha Franklin and Tina Turner, Dusty's real strength lay in her ability to tell a story, and the southern style she produced despite a predominantly British background.

From "Son of a preacher Man," to "You Don't Have to Say You Love Me," Dusty Springfield's voice came without pretense, speaking of the raw truths of love and society. Her whisper could leave you haunted, her wails, inspired. She knew how to deliver, and never forgot how to speak to the listener.

Dusty in Memphis is her most acclaimed album, packed with songs speaking of relationships, lost love and hunger, each sung in the sensual style no one else has ever been able to replicate before or since. In many ways, I think of her as the May West of the music world. All of her songs have that, "Why don't you come up and see me sometime," sort of feel.

After her untimely death in 1999, Dusty's music made a comeback with artists such as Shelby Lynne and Joss Stone who both admit to being highly influenced by the soul matriarch's store of musical songbook. I think most listeners would agree, Dusty wasn't just a vocalist, she was music perfection, forming not just the notes of a song, but every intent of every feeling meant to go along with it. You cannot listen to her sing and walk away unmoved.

Here's a taste of that sweet Memphis style. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dp4339EbVn8

Rest in Peace Dusty.

What's Your Writing Security Blanket?

What gets you in the mood to write? What conditions have to be in place before you can create?

I have a certain list of songs that go with every part of my book, so I play that while working. Not too loud though.

I have to have a glass of water nearby because somehow I get dehydrated while writing. I think I bite my lip a lot. Also, it could be all the cussing.

The TV is hardly ever on—that is way too distracting for me, mostly because I'll turn to watch it and lose my train of thought.

No snacks. I will go and take a snack break—just nothing by the computer.

People can't come in and talk to me. That will make me nuttier than a Babe Ruth candy bar.

I will not sit down to write when I know I'll get inturrupted by anyone or anything. The cat and dog can't be hungry, I'll make sure the kids are busy . . . but you know, they always come in with some problem the second I sit down. "Mom, Liam ripped Sleeping Beauty's head off!" or "Mom, I wanna cookie!" or "Meow!" This is why I get up so darn early to write. It's dark, it's cold and only vampires are awake. But getting up early makes me just wackadoo enough to write some really neat sentences.

I think that's it. I surf the net a lot. It's like a tick or something.

What are your little security blankets?

My Unfinished Painting

This thing has been sitting up on an easel in my kitchen for about a year now. I just need to finish the flowers and the hair—clean up all the lines, etc. Its part of a whole set of similar paintings set around nature and the female form.

Everyone that comes over calls it the, "Fat Butt," painting. They even posed by it for Christmas pictures. Oh, gotta love family.

How's the writing been going lately, my blogger friends? I hope life is good for you today and the words flow free!

Writer's Quicksand

Whew. That was a tough one. I spent all of yesterday struggling to get a few pages out. Don't you just love it when that happens? I'd sit down and have a mental freeze, type something, erase it, type something else, stare, get up and agonize. I took to carrying a notebook around and writing down whatever passages might work to bridge scenes, and finally, finally something worked out.

So, now that I got through that, I'm in a scene that is flowing quite nicely. Yay!

I think yesterday was one of those days where, years ago, I would have quit as a writer and shelved the whole thing. Needless to say, I'm proud of myself and happy that things can progress onward.

Now, just because you read this and have taken on a little of my pain, I'll give you a treat.

I'll leave it to you to figure this one out. Is it about bras, balloons or watermelon? Or sand? Or phones?

Basement Days

I grew up in a split level home of the 1970's. My siblings and I used to spend a lot of time in the basement pretending it was our own little house apart from the main thing just a few stairs above. Here's a list of the the contents which made up our dusty, pre-adolsecent world:

A big blue-flowered couch to jump on. Shaggy green carpet that looked like grass after a nuclear explosion. Our cat thought it was grass as well. A big radio-tv-record player cabinet combo that belonged to Dad. It didn't work anymore, but he was going to fix it someday to play all his Elvis records on.

Books. Washer—sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't. We spent a lot of evenings at the laundromat so it must not have worked that often. Did anything work in our house? Water heater and furnace. Magazines. Boxes of old negatives showing Dad's army days. We'd hold them up to the light and laugh at how everything was the opposite of how it should be; faces, clouds, guns . . .

Hat boxes from Mom's time in New York as an airline ticket agent. She had cocktail gowns, pumps, even a fur stole. Now she wore a bright yellow t-shirt with the words, "I'm Poor and Live in Johnson County" with no bra on underneath. Some sense of humor that woman had. Johnson County is one of the most affluent areas in Kansas City. She was making a statement, unfortunately people at the baseball park didn't get it, or the grocery store, or . . . anywhere. I got it. It still makes me laugh.

Bible. This was the big focus of the room. The sun of our surroundings, and source of great fear. If we got dust on the bible, Dad spanked us. If we got fingerprints on the bible, Dad spanked us. We got spanked every day. Too bad Mom didn't have a t-shirt for that.

And lastly, my favorite item: Grandmother Marion's old manual typewriter. It was black iron, with the circular key pads jutting out in long arms. You'd push one down and watch its corresponding unit hammer forward then spring back with a release of the finger. Of course, there was no longer a ribbon inside, so we had to use our imagination, typing away whole books against the black roll.

I can't recall any other items. Only the vision of us at play; dust blizzards falling around through the light coming out of high windows.

Picky Readers

I can be kind of persnickety about the books I read, and quite often get bored with modern fiction. It has to have an element of time travel, romance, history, reality, humor. I love to hear about ghosts and all that spooky paranormal stuff. I really love relationships. If the back cover says something about a love twist, I'm in.

Perhaps I feel I've met my quota after working at the library and having access to every book known to man. I can honestly say I've read just about everything, and now have settled into stubborn reader land.

Are you picky? Or do you try to expand your horizons as a writer?

Write Despite

Writing is a lonely art. Our finished work will rarely be accepted with the enthusiasm we dreamed of while putting down that perfect chapter, or detailed fight scene. Accolades won't come easily. There's always going to be a better writer, a luckier writer, a more popular writer, a more decorated writer. Always. But if you love what you do, so much that you spend every minute thinking of it—staying up late or getting up early—then keep on and write despite. Believe in your work, perfect it. Someday, others will believe in it as well.

Man will surely fall into the abyss of judgement, hatred, vanity, gluttony, ignorance . . . without the written word. We have a great job to do, and are privileged. Blessed. So, when you get up early or stay up late, have to tell your family you're going to go rewrite that chapter again, miss parties, movies, sunlight—well, remember that it is a noble thing you do, and the world is better for it.

Almost There

I'm getting closer to the end or rewrites. Yay! I'm really proud of the work I've done and super happy about how the book has progressed.

Springtime is almost here, and you can really feel it in the air. Oh, sweet Heaven. I'm going to a friend's show tonight and then get to bed so I can get up and write—5 am is my special wake up time now. The old me would have never even fathomed doing such a thing, but the me me realizes it's important.

Blessings and peace. Have a good week-end!

The sun is out, whoop!

The sun is out, whoop!

That is all.

No, I do have a few things to blog about. First, I'm getting closer to the end of my rewrites and to a full-out edit. Then it's query city baby. Oh crap, I have to rewrite the synopsis. BOOOOOOO. Sigh, gotta get on that. It might actually be fun, since I love all the new changes in the story. Yeah, that's how I gotta look at it. Synopsis. Fun.

The sun is out, WHOOP!

Synchronicity

I finally watched The Time Traveller's Wife last night, and have mixed reviews. I thought the concept was fantastic. I loved how devoted she was to him because that was the thread allowing him to have some sort of normalcy in his frantic and unstable existence. The dialogue is what threw me off. Some of it sounded forced, or just mundane really. I also hate it when movies try too hard to be perfect with beautiful houses, and little kids in Gap clothes, etc. Just a pet peeve of mine.

I haven't read The Time Traveller's Wife, just a few pages from the first chapter (after I'd already written the first draft of my book, mind you). When the movie was coming out last summer, I thought to myself, "OH NOES!" this sounds a lot like my book. And I was right, there are quite a few similarities. My MC, Emma, is an artist, just like Clare. My other MC, William, fades at night, but does not jump time. He can use his stored memories to visit past time, though—something which happens more in my second book. What else was there . . . oh, Emma works at a library, and William is the half-ghost sitting in the back corner all day. As you all might know, Henry in TTW is a reference librarian. Sooooooo . . . kind of frustrating, but what can you do? I believe some writers and artists are on the same type of brain current, call it synchronicity if you will. Look at all the claims that Rowling or Meyers nicked their plots from unknown authors. There are always going to be similarities in the arts, in life. Have you ever had the weird, out of the blue idea to suddenly visit your local corner shop and when you get there, everyone and their mother is trying to find a parking space? Ain't it frustrating?

Over time I've come to believe synchronicity begs to be followed, not fought. Our reflex is to change everything in order to stand apart, but if you look past what's the same, you see how different our ideas really are. The approach is different, the execution is different. Most importantly, our intent is different. So, the healthy way to look at it is this: if someone loved it there, they'll love it here. Let them decide if they love it, not you. And if you get slapped with a lawsuit saying you stole someone else's idea, just tell them Amy Saia said it was okay. I might be in jail at the time, but who cares?

Radiate Me

Spring is just around the corner, I can feel it. Although, I'm guessing we have a few more snowstorms, ice, down-to-freezing weather to get through before any of that sweet Chinook comes sauntering in. I was born in the spring, and so have always felt akin to the flowers poking through the hard, frozen shavings of clay. There's something in us that must, despite. Just to feel the sun, that beautiful platinum orb, radiating over our skin.

It's been too long.

I still have that cold, and a bit of laryngitis, which isn't that great as a friend asked me to go audition for Theater in the Park today. I'd love to be in Jesus Christ Superstar—we'll see what happens. I hope I break a leg or knock someone dead, or something like that. Theater is so violent.