Category: writing

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Woman of Mystery

Modern Muse Feb 20 04
Woman of Mystery
By Julia Park
I waited till I got out the door, across the parking lot and into my car before screaming. I had just left the book-signing from hell, held, appropriately, on Friday the 13th.  I was supposed to participate in a “romance tableau” in honor of Valentine’s Day and was looking forward to reading a short, evocative excerpt from my contemporary novel at the event. Alas, it was not to be.
Despite the foul weather and appalling traffic, I arrived on time at the bookstore, where the manager said they were expecting a big crowd. The other reader was a romance novelist who has written about 24 books in less than 10 years. The writer asked if this was my first book, and when I said yes, she gave me a lecture about how I should always bring freebies to give away to the audience and my publisher should provide those. Then she looked at my photo on the back of the book and said, “That’s not very good.” She flipped through the pages and criticized my writing. She was also not thrilled to have to share the spotlight with the likes of me. By this time I felt we were on the road to a solid friendship and I took my seat.
Fabulous Romance Writer apparently has a big fan base, as the entire audience came out to see her, not me. No one knew who I was or why I was there except the owner, and she was late. When the owner arrived, she introduced us to the audience, first, Fabulous, who the owner said would tell about the joys of being published by a major house, and then she pointed at me and said — and I quote, “This is Julie Parker and she wrote a mystery and published it herself. Now they’re going to tell about their very different experiences…”
I was, um, speechless, to say the least. Which to correct first? My name? The fact that I don’t even read mysteries, much less write them? That the book is at least under the auspices of a small publisher? That I came prepared to read my novel, not compare my miserable existence to that of the Fabulous One? But there was no time for that; it was time to hear what Fabulous had to say.
She talked for a good half hour about herself and her books and herself and her editor and publisher and herself and herself, mildly interesting to me though clearly exciting to all her fans. Since I was sitting with her in front, I smiled and nodded and looked interested the whole time while feeling like the fifth wheel. I wondered, if I had written a mystery, what it would be about. I toyed with the notion of legally changing my name to Julie Parker, in hopes of hearing it pronounced, “Julia Park.” And I thought about my novel — which takes on some contemporary issues in the Catholic Church: the nun who wants to be ordained, the priests with celibacy issues, the power struggles, the politics — and thought, “I’m at the wrong reading. I’m at the wrong bookstore. These people don’t want to hear what I have to say. They are lighting pitchforks and sharpening torches as we speak.”
When I got to speak, I skirted the story itself and instead gave a little background, then just talked about writing and the difficulty I had with finding an agent with the controversial subject matter. A woman from the audience offered a comment. “I read your book,” she said. “And you’re right. The Catholic Church does hate you.” She said she thought the book was “interesting.” We all know what that means.
Then a minister at the back of the room said he thought I was brave and he admired my courage. Later on, he bought my book, asked me to sign it, slipped me his card and asked me to call him. For a date. “Send me an e-mail and we’ll talk,” he said with a smile. I am going to have some new business cards made up that say, “Julie Parker, Woman of Mystery,” just for these occasions.
But wait – there’s more. Turns out there was an editor for a romance magazine in attendance. I offered my book to the editor and asked if she might like to review it. She looked at me and said, “Oh. Well. I don’t think so. No.”
After I left the bookstore, I reflected back on a past book-signing event, where I had sat for two hours and received more compliments on my shoes than sales of my book. I was wearing those same lucky shoes for Friday the 13th.  When I got to the restaurant where I was meeting a friend for dinner, the hostess stopped me to gush over my shoes.
Per the advice of Fabulous, I am planning to give a pair of free shoes with the purchase of one of my books.
Julie Parker, Woman of Mystery, can be reached at julia.editrix@gmail.com.
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beyond the house

Doris, age 16, in 1926, with her Aunt Mae, left.

Hey, loyal followers — just wanted to post a link to my current project. Since my Great Aunt Doris passed away in March 2011, I inherited her journals, and have since been transcribing and compiling them for posterity. Fabulous funny stuff from a rebellious teenager in the Roaring 20s, spirited entries from a stubborn college girl in the Great Depression, and delicious posts from an independent young woman arriving in San Francisco on the eve of World War II.

Love, laughter, cocktails and lovers — it’s all there.

I may not be posting at the Muse for a while as the Doris Diaries gets on its feet as a project, so do check in at the following sites:

The Doris Diaries: Complete diary entries with photos and history

Daily tweets in Doris’s own words on Twitter

Funny Facebook posts on her own fan page

Want to chat? Drop me a line at my own email address (posted in my profile at right).
Thanks for the love and I’ll be back here in a little while — with more house photos and green stuff.

Doris in her 80s with me and my daughters, Occidental, CA.

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An aside, and then prep for the PP

Dude, look what I found… my novel, years of blood, sweat, toil, angst and actual lived history: available used for $3.28. *sigh* It’s better than when I found it used on the discard pile at the Alameda Friends of the Library sale last year (I know who you are — I saw the inscription…). Anyway — fame and infamy. It’s everything it’s cracked up to be. *facepalm*

But never mind that. We’re working on the Plastic Purge, or getting ready for it. And everywhere I look, there’s plastic. Plastic! My magazine came wrapped in plastic. My vitamins are sealed in plastic. My shampoo bottle is plastic. My fish fillets are vacuum-packed in plastic, inside a plastic bag. My mayonnaise is in a plastic jar. My ketchup, too. My eBay packages come in plastic. My meat comes in plastic. My new clothes have plastic tags on them that I have to snip and discard. Is it just me, or are we drowning in plastic?

I always think it’s just me. But it’s not; plastic is really everywhere.

The Plastic Purge begins Wednesday. And I will start fresh on that day, June 1. I’ve had to tread carefully beforehand, because I don’t want to have had my purge before the official time. But the more I look, the worse it is. It’s in my car, it’s in my mail, it’s in my coming in and going out. Stepping off the plastic bus is going to take an entire revise of how we’ve lived til now. Shopping, cooking, storing, eating, shipping, gifting, sharing, bathing. It’s all fraught with the use of plastic, and changing that will be a trial.

Good thing I’m ready for a challenge. Are you?

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Modern Muse = Green Scene

We (Modern Muse) went live this week on Alameda Patch, a local online “newspaper” that is part of the much larger AOL-Huffington Post media family. Doesn’t family sound so cozy? It’s a business — what can I say? — to which I contribute mostly voluntarily, and occasionally on a paying basis.

Mostly I just wanted to let ya know that I’m cross-posting and you’ll see the same posts on Alameda Patch as Green Scene, although I will also post on non-green stuff here as well. Clear as mud? Yeah!

In the meantime, today I’m doing about 6 things at once. Some guys from the rental company came to fix the bathroom wall where the roof had leaked behind the tiles and turned all the grout rust-colored. They just finished. I wanted to look busy while they were here, because who wants the hired help of your landlord to think that you are lazy? So I vacuumed. I know — call the press! And washed all the bathroom rugs and shower curtain because they had to get moved anyway for the painting guys. I wore my apron all morning. I am wearing it still. See? [twirls]

I had some lemons and blueberries and the lemons were looking a little sad, so it was time to make blueberry muffins. Ding! Just heard the timer… Mini-muffins are fun to eat. I don’t usually make them mini-size, but then I discovered some mini-muffin papers that I must have bought? some time? for the holidays, maybe? These are a good clean-out-the-fridge food — I used up the two sad half-lemons, the rest of the package of blueberries (they were a BOGO), and I also used a half cup of plain yogurt in place of some of the milk, to finish that up. They smell good.

Although my Plastic Purge doesn’t start until June 1, I am looking at my house and life with new eyes. Through plastic lenses, maybe. I started a mental list that will soon have to jump to paper or pixels as it grows and grows — what I buy or use now that includes plastic, and what will change in the future. I can’t wait for the challenge to begin. I’m ready now. Alas for such things as calendars and commitments. Let’s see if I can keep my mojo going for 30 whole days.

Yesterday I planted the rest of my garden, mostly squashes: watermelon, yellow zucchini, cabocha, white and orange pumpkins (2 types), Texas orange squash, acorn, and spaghetti squash. Looks like a squashy summer ahead. We finally ate the last ginormous zucchini of 2010 last night for dinner. It was huge. I mean — huge. (See photo of dishes, where giant zucchini rests on the bread box like a lizard on a rock.) The rind was thick so I cut it off, then steamed and served with olive oil and Tuscan herbs. It was — OK. Not great. Sauce or butter or I don’t know, something would have helped. It was just a little blah.

Too bad. The chickens liked it this morning, though. Ta-da. No waste.

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zucchini report #575, and news

New and noted

~My dear husband did some fixing of the plastic garbage can that the squirrels chewed, and did it in a most manly way that involved power tools and bleeding. He drilled holes, added lots of reinforcing metal and duct tape, and managed to slice open two fingers on the sharp metal edges. No stitches (I thought he needed them, but no, he preferred my home doctoring). I wonder if the smell of blood will keep the squirrels away? So far so good, three days later.

~Said squirrels are getting aggressive. Peanut addicts! They are resorting to threats and intimidation for their nuts. One nipped Patrick’s bare toe the other day (no blood) and another attacked my foot, scratching me and drawing blood (just a teeny bit). My patience is at an end. No more Mrs. Nice Peanut Lady. And btw, tree squirrels do not have rabies. They can get it, as can humans, but the instances are very rare. I do not have rabies. I just naturally froth at the mouth and fear water.

~We had hot weather — three days of glorious heat that soared into the 90s and maybe hit 100, but I can’t find our thermometer that used to hang outside. Probably stolen by a squirrel. The veggies have run riot. Finally getting a supply of tomatoes, more than the occasional red or yellow one. Big canning days to come.

~I think we are getting a German exchange student, and if so, she is arriving this very weekend, and that means I have to empty a room that was my office/art room and find a bed, and move all that stuff elsewhere, and then clean the house so it doesn’t look like all Americans are slobs. Which we are not. We just (still) have a lot of stuff from two houses smashed into one, and I have been ill and recovering so stuff doesn’t get put away, and also laundry has overtaken the living room, and one of these days I’m gonna mop, I swear. I think I may be putting too much pressure on myself. We’re American, dammit, and We Have Stuff Everywhere. [sings Glory Hallelujah] [tear trickles slowly down face]

OK, so the bedroom formerly known as my office that I never use (left) will be adorable when I finish, but it’s junk central just now. Yes, it’s embarrassing. But I haven’t been working, so it became a storeroom of sorts. Crappity crap. Well, that will make my Friday a busy one. The living room (right): laundry. Yep. Gotta fold and sort and get it out of sight. Uh huh. Gonna get right on that. [heaves big sigh]
Meanwhile, back in the kitchen, I had to deal with the zucchini that is piling up in the fridge. Today I made a zucchini relish recipe from an email friend that used up three of my ginormous mankiller-sized zucchinis, plus some red sweet peppers and onions from the farmers’ market. Turmeric and celery seed, plus white vinegar and sugar — 15 minutes to simmer, then 20 minutes in the water bath. Result: 6 pints of zucchini relish that is so freaking tasty, I regret having just the pickings in the empty pot to nibble. I will definitely make more of this. It is more like a fresh salad than pickle relish. Really delicious — sweet and tangy. Yum.
And after that, or actually as it was simmering, I shredded another zucchini (2 cups shredded) and made zucchini chocolate cake. I switched up the white flour for whole wheat, and ended up making a sheet cake instead of a Bundt or muffins, and skipped the frosting. But the nutritional value is way up there. I am not even joking. Vegetables and fiber. And fair trade chocolate. This cake may not last the day. Here it is, in the oven:

It is a crazy-early hour for me to be writing, but a certain daughter was banging around at about 2 a.m., probably rearranging her room. Because 2 a.m. is a great time for rearranging furniture, don’t you think? After asking her to stop, and getting up three more times to turn off the hall light which kept getting turned back on then forgotten by someone who was no longer restyling her room but clearly had other important business to manage, I finally got out of bed for real. And good morning, America, it is almost 5 a.m. and I have a deadline. Or two. Today. Extended from Monday, and no, I am not done writing yet, and I have a busy day ahead. Especially if I am getting a new teen-aged daughter on Saturday for five months.
Tell me again — what was I thinking?