Deborah LeBlanc

RETURN TO THE STORYTELLERS HOMEPAGE

Occasionally I’m asked, “Do the ideas for your characters come from people you know?”

Now usually the question is asked by someone I know, so I’m figuring what they are really wanting to know is, “Am I in the book?”

In truth, the answer is, “Umm . . .well . . .yes and no.” I might use your facial tick but his mustache, her eyes, and my neighbor’s Aunt Betty’s speech pattern to create a character. It’s a lot more fun for me to take bits and pieces from people I know, have met, or have seen and create a character than it is for me to copy the exact profile of one particular person. (Hmm, I wonder if that was Dr. Frankenstein’s logic…) The key to this piecemeal method is to always have a fresh supply of bits and pieces.

One supply source for me comes from people watching. No matter where I go, I’m always on the lookout for a unique face, unconscious habits, speech patterns, interactions with objects (rushed shopper gets last cart, and it has a wobbly wheel), or other people (bored husband shopping with bargain hunting wife…actually, I’d find it more interesting to watch a bored wife with bargain hunting husband!) and body language. To me, these things are the true communicators when it comes to ‘knowing’ a person, so the same should be considered when creating a character.

Along with people watching, I keep an eye on certain magazines and the obituaries in the newspaper, looking for unusual faces and names. If I find any, I cut them out, then sort them by category and age range…Caucasian children, Asian children, African American male, Indonesian female, Old Caucasian male, etc. The names are just sorted by male and female (first and last names separated). Now most of the time when I’m starting a story, I’ll already have a main character’s gender, age, and certain traits in mind, so all I have to do is go to the age group/gender file and find a face that fits. Once that’s done, I’ll dump out the appropriate first name file, the last name file, then piece together a name that fits the face I’ve just chosen.  

Here’s an example of how this whole process works….

People Watching:  I was in a neighborhood grocery store one day, standing in line at the checkout counter, when a young African American woman comes into the store. She grabs a pack of gum, then pushes her way to the front of the line, all the while talking to herself. When she reaches the counter, she throws the gum at the register, then starts rocking in place and plucking at a button on her blouse. Everyone in line got pretty nervous and sort of backed away en masse.  

Story Idea (Family Inheritance): In one scene, I have one of the main characters visiting the commons area in a mental institution. While trying to visualize what might be going on in there during her visit, I thought of the woman in the grocery store. With her in mind, I went to my African American female folder and started looking at faces. Nothing seemed to fit, even though in real life, the woman had in fact been African American. I knew the female character in this particular scene had to have a certain ‘look’ about her—something in her eyes that would carry to the rest of her face. I couldn’t put my finger on what that something was, but I knew I’d know it when I saw it. Sure enough, I found her in the Caucasian female folder. Now I had the scene, the character traits, and the face, all I needed was a name. Out comes the female, first names folder, and within a minute or two, Terri was born. (Oh, and I used the reaction from the people in line in that scene, too.) 

Okay, I realize that all this cutting, sorting, matching sounds like a lot of work, but for me, having a clear picture of all the players, helps the flow of the story. 

Then again, I have to confess there are times I take the easy way out, especially with nasty, pompous, arrogant, egotistical characters. I just visualize one or two of my relatives.

When I woke up this morning, I experienced an epiphany (with a small letter “e”).  Now usually, I would write, “When I woke up this morning, I suffered an epiphany,” because epiphanies, at least in my life, are things rather to be suffered than enjoyed.  Or at best, they can be endured, which is kind of like suffering except enduring presumably has an end, and if you endure, you make it to that end without suffering too much.  

An epiphany is defined as a “sudden intuitive perception or insight” in the paperback dictionary published by Mrs. Merriam and Mr. Webster (who I believe spend a lot of time together publishing happily and other stuff) that I dug out of the dumpster behind Walgreens, which, although stripped of its cover (which was sent back to the happy couple as proof of non-sales, which is something Mrs. Walgreens, a very unhappily married woman and, it is rumored, quite envious of the Merriam-Websters, does at every opportunity to claim a credit for her $6.50), um, where was I . . .?

 Oh yes. This paperback dictionary, even with the front cover stripped off, still contains more than 75,000 easy-to-understand concise definitions, and is replete with usage guidance, word origins, and more than 5,000 usage examples, and (as if this were not enough to justify dumpster-diving, if not an outright purchase of the book) includes up-to-date coverage of new words like identity theft (actually two new words for the price of one), webcam (a new word not even recognized by the apparently less-than-up-to-date spell checker on my computer – which also doesn’t recognize “Walgreens” as a word and stubbornly insists on underlining it with a wavy red line in spite of the fact that it is capitalized as a proper noun, no matter how many times I retype it), outsource, and props (both of these apparently being unheard-of newfangled words as late as 2004, when Mary Merriam  and Dennis Webster published this excellent reference and resource book, which has sold over 45 million, or so the back cover (which is still intact) boasts.

Well, they didn’t sell this one, so I’m eager to see if the Merriam-Websters are honest enough to say on the next paperback version of their dictionary (perfect for home, school, or office) that over 44,999,999 have been sold, and if not, then perhaps Mrs. Walgreens’ dislike for the happy couple isn’t envy at all, but an absolutely well-deserved loathing of their flagrant and blatant dishonesty.

To me, sudden intuitive perceptions or insights are always bothersome, and often require some sort of soul-searching, hand-wringing, breast-beating, heart-breaking self-examination.  At least in my own personal experience.  I assume this is not the same for everyone.  I can imagine that one day a German guy with perpetually fuzzy white hair named Einstein woke up with a sudden intuitive perception or insight that turned out to be the Theory of Relatives, which I believe is the idea that you really don’t have to spend time with any of those odd people you are related to by marriage if you don’t like them, and so founded a chain of coffee-and-bagel shops where you can go instead to talk to people who really interest you.  It could happen, and good for Larry Einstein, but in my experience, epiphanies are almost always something I want to avoid like the plaque.  

Usually these sudden intuitive perceptions or insights go something like: you are a stubborn, impatient, workaholic, good to no one and good for nothing.  To which I usually reply, “So?”  Then it occurs to me (also quite suddenly, intuitively, perceptively, and insightfully) that this is what nearly everyone says about me (and not quietly behind my back or even tactfully to my face either), so then I reply, “So?” 

That’s when my conscience kicks in, a very active, overworked, frustrated, and exhausted organ somewhere between my big toe and whatever that toe is called next to the big toe, and I start feeling bad about myself, which is always a bad feeling.  Happily, feeling bad about yourself is only a short step away from feeling bad for yourself, so I can usually travel from the theological concept of guilt to the self-centered concept of self-pity, which is always a good feeling, in no time at all.  

People, normally (or so I read) always grovel in self-pity, or they find themselves mired in self-pity, or they flounder in self-pity, or they wallow in self-pity (making me wonder if pigs and hippopotami, which are the only animals I know that wallow, are self-pitying creatures, and if they are, it is, of course, completely understandable, but I doubt it because they seem so well-adjusted to their world of mud, muck, and wallow).  Anyway, instead of groveling or miring or floundering or wallowing, I tend to luxuriate in self-pity.  And why not?  There is hardly any other experience outside of self-pity in which a person can be so wholly self-absorbed. 

Self pity is also very versatile.  You can pity yourself for a minute or an hour or for several hours, or even days.  You can’t pity yourself for months, however, as by then self-pity has transformed somehow into depression, another delightful experience, but different.  The bad thing about self-pity is that it gets you the attention of people you dislike immensely, you know, the ones who sincerely believe they have a divine calling to make the world a happy place (and to be a happy place, everyone in the world must be happy), and so, seeing your pitiful demeanor and pained expressions, and hearing your audible sighs, and noting the way you curl up on the floor in a fetal position under the sink, they will begin by asking, “Is there anything wrong?”  And with that brilliant question, they start to cheer you up. 

They try to get you to tell them what it is that is bothering you, the very thing you least wish to be reminded of, much less talk about.  “Nothing,” you say, but the self-pitying tone gives you away.  Here is where it is your own fault.  Instead of talking to these do-gooders, you should crawl out from under the sink, and slink away to the closet without saying a word.  In my experience, although they will think you rude, it is unlikely they will follow you into a dark closet, because they cannot know if you are just a little bit self-pitying or some sort of dangerous psychotic, delusional cannibal.  But if you make the mistake of answering their question, “Is there anything wrong?” they will marshal a million-billion follow-up questions to determine exactly what it is that is bothering you in order to solve your problem and heal your heart with their milk of human kindness and superior wisdom.  Or, they’ll tell you about a billion-million times when they felt bad, and what they did to pull themselves out of it, being much brighter and stronger than you are.  Or, they’ll talk about their friends who felt bad, and whose spirits they lifted by talking it all out, using their milk of human kindness, superior wisdom, strength, and brightness.  

Or, and this is the worst of it, they’ll try to tell you jokes.  Lame jokes.  Jokes which are decidedly unfunny, even to someone who isn’t self-pitying and borderline depressed.  Jokes off the back panels of cereal boxes from the 1950’s.  Jokes from the tiny unreadable comic strips in Double Bubble Bubble Gum.  Jokes one of their children brought home from Kindergarten recently.  The kind of jokes the President of the United States tries to tell when he tries his hand at levity.  Jokes that make you run from the room screaming, with your hands clapped over your ears and a wild look in your eyes, proving, naturally, that you are a dangerous psychotic, delusional cannibal, just as they thought all these years. 

This is why epiphanies, in my experience at least, are always to be suffered.  This morning’s epiphany (small letter “e”), however, was one I enjoyed, but I’ll have to tell you about that in the next essay, because I’ve run out of room in this one.

I sort my writing distractions into two basic categories: controllable and uncontrollable. If I’m on a deadline, but the right words for a particular scene seem locked away in some obscure vault in my brain that I can’t open, the controllable distractions usually arrive. Things like… 

–Dust bunnies in the corner of the room that have to be swept up NOW.

–The sweater that needs to be hand-washed NOW.

–Emails that have to be answered NOW

–The dog that has to be fed NOW (although I fed him two hours ago)

–The Google search for a premise I’m considering for a future book that has to be done NOW

–The paperwork on my desk that needs straightening NOW

–The search for a new ink pen (that fits better in my hand than the 30 others on my desk) that has to be done NOW.

Normally I don’t have a problem dealing with these distractions. I simply use them for the excuses they are, then wanna kick my ass that evening for having given into them. Uncontrollable distractions, however, are different. They usually just piss me off because they most often come when I’m cranking out words at a pretty decent pace, my brain solidly planted in a scene. And they usually come from people…

The phone rings—one of my daughter’s has a flat tire, and she’s frantic. If the tire isn’t fixed NOW, she’ll be late for her workout at the gym. And since she doesn’t know how to fix a flat, (and has suddenly lost the ability to search for a tire repair service in the phone book) needs me to find someone to fix it NOW. 

A knock on my office door—one of my managers sticks his/her head in to let me know both bathrooms are out of toilet paper, and they’re heading to the store to get more. Of course they preempt the announcement of this catastrophic event with, “Are you busy?”

Within minutes of the toilet paper notification, the intercom on my phone bleeps—new secretary announces I have a call on line four…

”Who is it?”

“Uh . . .hold on.” Ten seconds later, the intercom bleeps again. “He said his name is Jim.”

This prompts an eye roll.  “And Jim is with . . .?”

“He didn’t say.”

I clinch my teeth, prayed for patience. “Find out what company he’s with, please. If it’s a solicitor, I’m not available.” (She’s only been told this a gazillion times.)

“Okay.” Seconds pass, then another intercom bleep. “He says he’s returning your call.”

Frowning because I don’t remember calling any Jim, much less asking one for a return call, I enunciate…..“Would—you—please—find—out—what—company—he’s—with?”

“Oh, okay.” Another couple of seconds. Another bleep. “He says he’s with AIC.”

“What’s AIC?”

“Uh—he didn’t say.”

Exasperated, I finally surrender and answer the blinking line.

“This is Deborah.”

“Hello, Deborah.  How are you today?”

I immediately go back to teeth-clinching mode. The pitch intro is all too familiar—it’s a damn solicitor. Honestly, somebody should open a cold-callers’ training camp to teach these guys a better opening line. “Fine. May I help you?”

“Actually, I may be able to help you. My name is Jim, and I’m with Aflac Insurance Company. By the way, is it hot down in Louisiana today?”

CLICK—

Yes, I hung up on the guy. I don’t want to talk about the weather nor listen to him rattle off three pages of script without taking a breath. Besides, a new distraction has taken precedence—I have to go find the manager responsible for training the new secretary—NOW!

Until next time, keep writing!
deb

I’ve never been a big jewelry person. Take pearls for example. I’ve probably used the word associated with the oystery-gems more times than I’ve worn them. In fact, if memory serves me right, I think I’ve only worn a strand of pearls twice. And both times I was forced into it by my daughters who didn’t want to be embarrassed.

Anyway, one of my favorite ‘pearl’ references is that whole ‘do not throw your pearls before swine’ thing, and another is ‘pearls of wisdom,’ which I consider to be quite a gift. I wish I had a few pearls of wisdom to share today, but I don’t. What I came up with are more like faux facts. Just something to consider should you find yourself in a similar situation. 

I was in Manhattan a few weeks ago, meeting with a few key publishing folks, and I picked up a lesson or two before, during, and after that meeting… 

BEFORE

1. Never take a cab from LaGuardia airport that doesn’t have the word CAB written on the side of the doors and doesn’t have a meter on the dash. I did, along with a woman from Memphis. Not only did this guy do 80 mph in a 40 zone, straddle the left sidewalk on two occasions when traffic came to a crawl, then nearly run over a group of pedestrians at the corner of Madison and 36th, he charged me $65 bucks when the cost should have been half that amount.

2. It is not ‘in-trend’ to walk down Madison Avenue on a hot day in a new pair of shoes—that has green gum stuck to the bottom of the left heel.

3. Dos Caminos serves the best guacamole on the planet, but they don’t take kindly to Southern hicks pointing into the large stone serving bowl and asking, “What’re the chunks for?”

 DURING

1. The VP of sales is always right…even when they’re wrong. You’ve just got to make them think the right thing was their idea in the first place.

2. Persistence pays off. So does all the damn touring because they’re going to quadruple next year’s publicity budget.

3. Role playing works, even over a table covered with Mexican food. We came up with two new, brilliant ideas for promotions, and it came about when we made the national sales manager an independent book buyer. 

AFTER

1. If a publisher offers to put you up in a hotel in New York for the evening, plus dinner and a show, screw the responsibilities at home. Take the offer!

2. When Delta Airlines insists you take an earlier flight because storms may cause you to miss a connection, thus not getting you ‘home’ on time, take the earlier flight.

3. When the man sitting next to you on the airplane coughs up a loogie—in his hand–change seats!

So there you have ‘em . . .  faux facts. Not as fancy or grand as pearls, but they do make you wonder, don’t they?

Have you ever had a WOW! moment? You know, one of those rare times when the fullness of something you thought you knew and understood really comes to life inside you. Kind of like knowing there’s a recliner in a dark living room. You know it’s there because you’ve busted your shin against it a time or two. Then all of a sudden someone turns on a light, and the chair you knew was always there is now in full color and view. You can confidently walk towards it, sit in it if you want to, or walk around it if you choose because the path to it and the shape, colors, and texture of that chair are crystal clear.

 

Well, as fate and luck would have it, I experienced a WOW! moment recently. Here’s what happened . . .

 

A high school teacher contacted me and asked if I’d be interested in allowing his students to interview me. I agreed, of course, but since time schedules were tight on both ends, we decided to do the interview over the phone. So, on the agreed upon day, he called from his classroom and put me on a speaker phone.

 

At first the kids were a bit shy, hesitantly asking stock questions like, “Where do you get your ideas? How long does it take you to write a book?” While I’m answering the questions, I’m thinking, “Man, if I had a choice between sitting in a classroom and listening to some old broad blabber over a speaker phone about how long she’d been writing or me doing something else, I’d choose doing something else . . . like getting a root canal.” No, really, it’s true, I was boring myself.

 

I knew the teacher had prepared questions beforehand to make sure the kids participated in the interview, but I also knew that as soon as we hung up the phone, they’d forget 98% of what was said. And who could blame them? In truth, when you push aside the curtain of social niceties, 97% of the human population wants to talk about themselves, their issues, their accomplishments, their dreams. They’ll listen to you because it’s the polite thing to do, but few really ‘hear’ what you have to say. Why? Because all we’re yakking about is ourselves. –My book—My tour—My life—My kids—My this—My that. Blah—who gives a flip, really? Folks will hear you talk about these things, though, if what you have to say on the subject gives them something, like laughter, motivation, encouragement or hope. In the same vein, if your words stoke any of their emotional embers, be it anger, pride, fear, happiness, etc, you’ll usually find yourself with more ‘hearers’ than not. All that said, though, I knew I faced an even greater challenge here because I was talking to teens, and most of them have the attention span of a gnat. So I decided to gamble….

 

As soon as the next question was asked… “How old were you when you started writing?” I threw that slow-moving, boring train off the track with this answer…. “I started playing around with words when I was a kid, but I really didn’t start writing until the day I saw my first dead body.”

 

There was dead silence on the other end of the phone.

 

The teacher cleared his throat. “Did you say dead body?”

 

I confirmed and gave a short summary of the first autopsy I’d helped with and how that changed the way I wrote. Truly, that’s when I really started ‘writing’ because I went from imagining what it was like (even with research) to hold a person’s brains, heart, liver, etc., in my hands, to knowing what if felt like, smelled like, looked like.

 

As I suspected, this opened a flood gate, and the kids couldn’t ask questions fast enough. Before I knew it we were all over the place, jumping from crime scenes to embalming rooms, to ghost hunts, and how all of these experiences fit into writing. Time flew by, making the hour-long interview seem like five minutes. When the teacher finally told the kids it was time to end the interview, I heard a loud collective groan. They didn’t want it to end.

 

Later that day, the teacher called to let me know that since the interview, his students had been hounding him for copies of my books, and he wanted to surprise them with autographed copies. Needless to say, I was thrilled. I had him send me the names of all the students who’d been in the class, along with a box of books, so I could personalize each copy.

 

My WOW! moment came when I signed the first book:

 

For Ana—remember to always keep it real—

 

As soon as I wrote those words, I flashed back to the sound of the kids’ excited chatter over the phone, their hunger to hear more, to understand more, their disappointment when we had to hang up. Thinking about that, I realized I had told them very little about Deborah or her writing process. Instead, I’d shared my adventures with them, fleshing out the stories with details of sights and sounds and smells, bringing the kids as up-close and personal as possible so each of them felt like they were standing beside me, experiencing those same adventures. I did it without the aid of hand gestures, facial expressions, or eye contact, and they heard.

 

So did I.

 

I’m a storyteller. I just happen to write my stories on paper more often than I verbalize them, which makes it all the more important for me to pay attention to every word I put on a page. The words have to have life—they need to breathe.

 

And I’m the one who needs to remember to always keep it real.

 

Welcome to Storytellers Unplugged. This is your first post. Edit or delete it, then start blogging!

There’s a huge difference between writing a novel and creating a short story. I have a tendency to be verbose, so the structure of a novel fits me well. In it I feel I get more opportunities to bring my characters to life. I can add in a bit of their background and more of their mannerisms to give the reader a true flavor of what the character’s about. Doing the same thing, bringing a character to life I mean, in a short story takes pure damn genius in my opinion. And a genius I’m not.  At the moment, I’m working on rewrites for two shorts that will appear in an anthology next year. ALL of the contributors are excellent storytellers and can make a short story sing like Whitney Houston on her best vocals day. Mine sounds like somebody’s Uncle Charles singing in the shower with a bad case of laryngitis.

 

Fortunately, one of the tools that has aided me along the road of short story writing, has been a plot outline that a friend shared with me. It’s been invaluable in helping me get to the point of the story without a lot of fluff and/or verbosity. Wait a second, ain’t fluff and verbosity one in the same? Yeah, ok, so add redundancy to the list as well.

 

Anyway, because it’s been so useful to me, I thought I’d share it with you. Oh, and in case you’re wondering, the outline comes from the infamous, master storyteller of all times….Dr. Jack Williamson.

 

Here’s the crux of the concept….

 

In a 3,000 word (or 12 page) story, for example, the beginning is about 750 words, the body about 1500 and the ending about 750 with resolution/validation taking no more than a few sentences. Thus you have the following outline:

 

BEGINNING (3 pages)

1. Main character
2. Disturbing situation (conflict)
3. Character’s story purpose
4. Hazards or difficulties
5. Assets essential to the ending

  

BODY (6 pages)

1. Attempts to achieve purpose (usually 2-3, increasing in difficulty)
2. Results (usually 2-3, commonly failures)
3. Black (or bright) moments

  

ENDING (3 pages)

1. New stimulus
2. Final conflict (one last attempt as above, usually succeeds.)

  

RESOLUTION/VALIDATION

 

So, there ya go. The perfect formula for the perfect short story and/or novel…..happy singin’ everyone! J

Two weeks prior to 9-11, I was flying back from Seattle, Wa. The flight was turbulent-free, smoother than silk on a baby’s bottom—yet, I sat white-knuckled throughout the flight. Something just didn’t ‘feel’ right to me, so much so that by the time we landed I was damn near in full panic mode. When I got off the plane, that feeling didn’t leave me, and no matter how unfounded the fear or the fact that I’d already flown about 150,000 miles that year, I knew it would be a while before I got on another plane.

Then 9/11 happened.

Reasoning told me that the fear I’d experienced on that Seattle flight had probably been precognitive, but I still refused to get on a plane after that catastrophic event. And so it remained for the next three and a half years.

Necessity finally got me flying again. There simply was no way for me to drive from Los Angeles to Atlanta in two days, then turn around and be in San Antonio, Tx. on the third day. Oddly enough, as determined as I was not to fly all those years, I slipped right back into the plane-jumping habit with few problems. No seat gripping, no hyperventilating, no panic attacks….. But wouldn’t you know it, just when things get back on track, when flying, for me, goes back to silky smooth baby’s bottom sailing…..the airlines decided to up the price on checked luggage. At first you were allowed one “free” checked bag, but to check a second bag would cost you $25. A third, possibly up to $100. Now they’ve even taken away the one “free” checked bag! My take on that? “What the #&$%?”

The airlines claim that a heavier plane means more fuel consumption, and they need the increase to cover the rising cost of fuel. If that’s true, then I think they should go up on their tickets straight across the board. Adding an additional cost to check baggage is discriminatory in my opinion. The way I see it, when I fly, the airline takes on another 170 pounds. 120 for me, 50 for my luggage, 2 bags maximum. But what about that 350 pound man sitting beside me who only brought a brief case? Why doesn’t he have to pay extra for his 150 pounds of excess?

Needless to say, this extra cost for baggage has me fuming. So much so, I’m considering driving everywhere again. It’s the principal of the thing, you know? Precognition might have nudged me about a pending disaster, but common sense tells me that where these extra baggage charges are concerned, somebody’s getting screwed, and it sure ain’t the airlines.

deb

Heads-up–this post has little to do with writing. Then again, it has everything to do with it.

Some of you might have already heard, I lost my dad recently. July 12th, to be exact, the day after his 94th birthday.  Although he’d been sick off and on for about a year, Dad loved life and hated to let it go. We were fortunate to be at his bedside when his body finally said, “Sorry, old buddy, like it or not, we’ve gotta  go.” His passing was peaceful and quick, and for that I’ll be eternally grateful.

Dad was an extraordinary man. I say that not just because I’m his daughter but because of the effect he had on everyone he met. It didn’t matter if it was a man, woman, or child, when someone left Dad’s company, they left laughing, smiling, or more confident in themselves and/or the challenges they faced. Without question, the legacy he left behind was his life and how he lived it.

Through example, Dad taught us—

– You can achieve anything in life if you’re willing to work hard enough to get  it.

– You learn a thousand times more by listening than you do from talking.

– Say what you mean and mean what you say and always look a person in the eye when you do it.

– Physical pain is just a road block in life. It’s not an impenetrable wall.

–Don’t take yourself or life too seriously–it’ll all change tomorrow anyway.

–It’s a guarantee that stuff will come about in life and knock you down, but the only thing that can keep you down is you.

–Success in life has little to do with material things. Real success is living life on your own terms.

–Life might have rules, but that doesn’t mean you have to live those rules just like everybody else.

–Stay true to yourself no matter how unconventional that may appear to the rest of the world.

–If you make a mistake, don’t keep beating yourself up over it–learn from the damn thing and move on.

–Self pity is a useless emotion that’s not worth your time.

–The cheapest thing in life is an excuse.

–Offer advice only when asked. Otherwise you’ll wind up only talking to hear yourself talk.

–Patience doesn’t mean sitting back and waiting for life to toss something good your way–unless you’re sitting in a deer stand! Patience is really a synonym for tenacity–being patient with yourself whenever you have to push past something that feels immovable, knowing one way or another, you WILL get through it.

–Loving family doesn’t mean loving them only when they conform to your way of thinking. It means loving them for who, and sometimes in spite of who, they are.

 

There were truly so many wonderful things to learn from this remarkable man’s life. My only regret is not having asked Dad for one last piece of advice– How does a daughter move on once her hero is gone?

 

I guess I’ll have to figure that one out on my own. And I have a feeling that as difficult as some of life’s lessons have been so far, this one may be the toughest of all.

deb

 

 

Last weekend’s Stoker event was, in the words of the infamous Tina Turner, “Simply the Best!” The lineup of special guests was to die for, the food at the banquet was spectacular, and the panels, workshops, and the awards ceremony were second to none.  Oh, and the parties, folks, the parties! Huge thanks go to Heather Graham and Medallion Press for sponsoring the Gory Ghoul Ball and to Dark Scribe Press for sponsoring the Unspeakable 80s Pre-Stoker banquet party!

Congratulations to all of our Stoker winners, as well as our Lifetime Achievement Award winners, F. Paul Wilson and Chelsea Quinn Yarbro. I can’t think of two more deserving writers for that prestigious award.

Throughout the weekend, I heard nothing but positive comments from people, all claiming this was the best Stoker event ever. And they were absolutely right. Everywhere you went, there was a buzz of excitement in the air. Something was different. The feeling was tangible–and wonderful.

There were so many people who helped make our Stoker weekend special that naming them all would cause this note to go on forever. Even more importantly, I fear I might forget to name someone, then I’d be guilt-ridden for a millennium.

I would, however, like to offer a special thanks to Heather Graham, HWA’s Vice President. Heather not only took on the expense of the Gory Ghoul Party, which included food, music and entertainment from her wonderful band, giveaways, and contests,  so our attendees were assured a good time, she also brought an editor from a large publishing house so our members would have the opportunity to pitch in the major leagues. Thank you, Heather, for your abundant generosity!

And what words can possibly express the gratitude we have for Lisa Morton and John Little, our Stoker coordinators. Without them, this spectacular event would not have been possible. Both worked endless hours, determined to make this the best Stokers ever, and they succeeded in spades! I offer my heartfelt thanks and gratitude to John and Lisa for all of their hard work and commitment to HWA. Our organization is fortunate to have them because, without question, John and Lisa are indeed SIMPLY THE BEST!

 deborah