Lynn Raye Harris

It’s been a busy week! Two of my writer pals and I went to dinner last night to celebrate our birthdays. Shauna is the 16th, I’m the 18th, and Leslee is the 20th. We decided to cancel the Wednesday meeting at Borders and head for dinner instead. Shauna found a place called Formaggio Wine and Cheese Bar. It’s a hidden treasure, so far off the beaten path that even people who’ve lived in Hawaii for 20+ years (like Leslee and Shauna) had trouble finding it.

The atmosphere is like being in a European tasting cellar. It’s a small, dark place with good food and excellent wines that you can order by the taste (2 oz) or the glass (6 oz). A man with a grey, braided beard played classical guitar at one end of the room. I didn’t count the tables, but they were all taken. It’s not a dinner place so much as a tapas and wine tasting place. People swirled and sniffed and chewed their wine. I loved it. I’m a wanna-be wine snob. I know what I like and I know how to swirl, sniff, and chew, but other than strong flavors like oak or cherry or blackberry, I can’t breakdown all the nuances of a wine. I don’t know the origin by taste, and I can’t give you the history of the vineyard in question. I wish I could.

First, I ordered a taste of a Petite Syrah. Can’t remember what year or vineyard or country. Bad wine snob, bad. Next, I ordered a glass of a California Cabernet, 2001. I had a second glass of that I liked it so much. I am a full-bodied red drinker. Whites have too much acid for me, and delicate reds are too fussy. I like flavor.

Anyway, we dished on Leslee’s love life and on writing. Leslee is working on the 6th rewrite of a novel. Shauna is working on the second rewrite. We agreed that lately it hadn’t been easy to write for any of us for a variety of reasons. Shauna and I are both full-time writers with supportive husbands. Leslee has a day job. Still, we keep at it, that elusive dream of publishing contracts refusing to fizzle away and die for good.

Ultimately, however, you take life a day at a time. A friend of ours has been given 2 to 5 months to live. We decided to count our blessings and to live in the moment. I can’t give up writing. I don’t want to. But I’m going to try not to beat myself up when I don’t get the pages done. I’m going to be thankful for each day. God gave me a desire and a talent, however small. Perhaps He only intends that we use what He gives us, not that we achieve what is ultimately a human standard of success.

But I still want the contracts.

My birthday started out great and stayed great all day. First, Mike informed me that he was taking me to the Polynesian Cultural Center in Laie (la-ee-ay) on Monday for the full luau treatment. He also bought me flowers and managed to present me with a card that contained the word “farting.” He was very proud of himself. We spent the afternoon going to see a movie (The Constant Gardener, which I liked and he didn’t), and then we went to Waikiki for sunset and dinner.

The bar at the Hale Koa was crowded, as is typical for nearly sunset. Still, we managed to find a table. There really are no bad tables, so we had a nice view. The bar is a hopping place. Men and women in swimwear, sarongs, shorts, and full dinner regalia throng the area. Some folks look really good, like the tan girl in the bikini top, cutoffs and a cowboy hat. Others don’t, like the shrink-wrapped woman with fake boobs or the pot-bellied guy with a rug and a leer.

I kind of envy the bar staff. They get to work in this beautiful environment and they get a human show that probably has some hilarious moments. I even had a brief fantasy, while sitting there, that I’d go apply for a job. And then I’d serve cocktails to tourists all day and grumble over tips and get sick of sunsets and human drama. Ah well, it was a thought.

Prices are good here, much better than the Hilton Hawaiian next door (or any other Waikiki beach location). For $3.75, you can get a Bloody Mary and a view. When I considered a Bloody Mary earlier in Dave and Buster’s in the Ward Center, it was $7.00 and no view. Needless to say, I passed on the D&B drink. Mai Tais, by far the most popular Waikiki drink, are $5.50. I think the Hilton wants about $8.

By the time sunset rolled around, I’d had two Bloody Marys and I was feeling good. People stood up, jockeyed for position to take pictures, oohed and aahed their way through the sinking sun and golden orange sky. After the sun slipped beneath the horizon, the people began to slip out of the bar in twos and fours, heading for dinner or back to their rooms for bedtime since many of them are still operating on eastern time zones.

Mike and I continued to sit there, him drinking beer and me quaffing Bloody Marys, until it got dark and we began to think about food. First, however, I wanted to put my toes in the ocean. I don’t like to go to Waikiki without dipping my feet into the water. Often, we’ll walk down the beach, make the trek in front of the hotels until we pop up near the Duke Kahanamoku statue and rinse our sand-caked feet in the showers there. This night, however, we walked out to the water and played around before heading back to Biba’s for dinner. A few people were walking by when Mike was taking my picture and one asked if we wanted our picture together. Mike said thank you, but no, it was okay. They looked at us strangely before continuing down the beach.

For so many people, Hawaii is an amazing vacation of warm sand and blue water. We tend to forget that until we’re immersed in Waikiki and its tourists. And tourists we appeared, taking pictures of ourselves standing in the water. Who could blame them for thinking we’d want our photo together, not knowing we’ve already got dozens?

After the obligatory foot drenching, we went to Biba’s and requested a table outside. While we were waiting, we saw someone we knew who was there for a girls’ night out. Liz came over to talk to us for a few moments and then our table was ready and we said good night.

We both ordered the Island-style Mahi. I don’t know what Island-style means, but the fish was broiled and served with a light peanut sauce, vegetables, and rice. I had wine, but Mike had to drive so he switched to diet coke. After dinner, we decided to go home instead of walk the beach. It was only about 8PM, but we needed to let Nimitz out of his room for a while. Nimitz provided plenty of after dinner entertainment, bouncing off walls and doing acrobatics in pursuit of his toys. I got exhausted just watching him. Sleep came quickly when I finally climbed in bed.

It was a good birthday.

Last night, we went to St. Andrew’s Cathedral downtown and had gumbo, salad, bread, and Bananas Foster, all while listening to New Orleans-style jazz. The benefit, put on by the Episcopal Diocese of Hawaii, was to raise money for Katrina victims. The food was good. I was surprised, really, because I have family from New Orleans and I know gumbo. The people here did an excellent job.

But the icing on the cake, so to speak, was the dessert. A chef, complete with spotless white chef’s tunic embroidered with his name and awards, and military-style ribbons hanging from his chest, presided over the flaming bananas with a Germanic-like authority that dictated you wouldn’t dare to ask him for an extra ladle of sauce. The warm sauce and cool ice cream melted in your mouth like all the best desserts you’ve ever had in your life combined into one supremely sweet dish. (I was motivated to dig out my favorite Cajun-Creole cookbook for the recipe when I got home.)

Typically, Mike managed to sit next to a guy who gave Mike his dessert ticket. So, as Mark and I sit there concocting a way to get another ticket, Mike trots off for seconds. He quite nicely shared with us, whether from pity or a sense of duty I don’t know. Hell, I’m not complaining, since I did get a few extra spoonfuls.

I was enjoying the plan Mark and I were concocting though. It involved Mike distracting the ticket lady, me peeling off a strip of neon pink tickets, and Mark giving absolution for the crime. One of the advantages of hanging out with a priest is having absolution on tap, I’ve decided, though I suppose when it came right down to it, he’d have prevented the crime and forgone the extra dessert.

When we left, we had to walk a couple of blocks back to the parking garage off of Punchbowl and Beretania. A low stone wall fronts the cathedral grounds and we began to cut across the parking lot as a short cut. But I was wearing a skirt and no way could I get over that wall. Besides, the wall connects with the governor’s property. Her mansion sits next to the cathedral, and her yard looks strangely unguarded, like it’s just another house. There’s no gate with guards either, though the property is fenced. I had visions of us hopping the cathedral wall to get back to the street and setting off some sort of high-tech intrusion alert.

And there we’d be, two sinners and a priest, hauled down to the HPD headquarters half a mile away and interrogated beneath bright spotlights until we broke down and ratted each other out in a typical game of prisoner’s dilemma.

Mike and I saw the governor at dinner one night. We were in Compadre’s in the Victoria Ward Centre one Saturday night not long ago when she stopped at a table beside ours to talk to a family she knew. She was flanked by several women with very short hair, all in their 50s or older. Compadre’s is okay, not great, and I remember thinking, “Wow, the Governor of Hawaii eats here?”

She looks different in person, not so big and masculine. On TV, she looks like a bear of a woman. But that night, she looked feminine. Her edges were softened, and her hair, which always looks so severe on television, seemed to suit her. It must be tough, being the first elected woman and the first elected Republican governor in a blue state.

Probably, though, she wouldn’t have been very sympathetic had we set off her alarm system. So, Mike and I went around to the gate while Mark hopped the wall somewhat farther from her property. Thus ended another adventurous night.

You know how men tend to be a little clueless about the women in their lives? How you can speak in monosyllables for an entire day and he’ll never connect that to the fact you’re mad because he put his socks beside the hamper rather than in it again?

Last night, I got proof that my husband pays attention to the stuff that matters (who cares about socks, after all?). We’re watching Nimitz play and Mike says to me, “Why haven’t you been writing lately?”

I hadn’t told him I’d been in a slump, so I was a bit surprised. And I know he doesn’t read my blog, at least not with any regularity to speak of. I said, “What makes you think I haven’t been writing?”

“You’re not yourself.”

Whoa. Not myself. After some discussion and clarification of what he meant, I understood he was right. He says, “You’re a writer. You’re meant to be writing and you’re happiest when you are. So get writing.”

Oh dear. Am I that transparent? Apparently so. When I’m writing, when the novel is clicking along at some sort of pace, I feel like I’m doing something useful. Lately, I feel like a lazy lay-around-the-house sort of person who really ought to be pounding the pavement in search of a job. I feel guilty because I’m home and Mike goes to work every day. He swears he doesn’t mind this and most of the time I believe it. But when I’m in a slump, I feel guilty for this freedom. I am supposed to be writing, producing, getting my work sold, and when the muse is off on a beach somewhere, I feel useless. I guess it shows in the way I behave. I didn’t realize that, but he sure did.

I may be in a writing slump at the moment, but I’m sure lucky to have a husband who knows me so well. Maybe I’ll open up the novel today and see what happens……

I admit it, I google people. When someone tells me something about himself, I google him to see what comes up. I hate it when someone tells me things, wonderful things, and I type in a name and get–nothing. This happened recently. I googled myself to double check the accuracy of the method. Yep, I get things on me, though there are some things (my romantic suspense novella) that don’t appear, so I know the method isn’t foolproof. But I thought I’d get something on this person. Nope, nothing. Did he fib? Maybe.

But, if you follow Miss Snark at all, you know that she will google you if you query her and say wonderful things about yourself. She will check for accuracy, and if those wonderful things don’t appear, she’ll cross you off as a desperate, dishonest writer. And she ain’t the only one. Apparently, this is somewhat common in New York, especially if you claim fantastical things that can be checked out with ease.

Never say you were once shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize if you aren’t a) Irish or a citizen of the Commonwealth (whatever that means), and b) it ain’t true. Don’t say I didn’t tell you.

Last night was writers’ group at Borders. I haven’t been in three weeks (or is it two?) for various reasons. It’s always refreshing, though, to meet up with other writers and realize again that you aren’t the only one who toils away, who has bad days and good days, or bad months and good months as the case may be. I am in a bad month. Don’t know why, precisely, but I’ve found that often you just have to let the muse be for a while. She doesn’t want to work, but she’s always paying attention and gathering stuff for later use.

I finally broke down and bought Donald Maass’s Writing the Breakout Novel. As if I don’t have enough writing books. I also bought The Resilient Writer by Catherine Wald, creator of rejectioncollection.com. I can always use a book that tells me how [Insert Famous Writer] got rejected 1200 times before selling that first novel that went on to win a Nobel Prize and sell a gazillion copies (it’s my fantasy, don’t argue with it).

I barely have time to read the books I already own, but that doesn’t stop me from buying more. I am currently reading Ann Patchett’s Bel Canto in between thesis reading. I’m going through a literary phase at the moment, probably because of the saturation with Virginia Woolf.

Another thought I’ve had lately, as I make the rounds, is whether the people who consistently appear on certain blogs (I mean innumerable times over the course of a day) ever write anything or if they just wish they did. Then again, maybe they are like me and the muse is on hiatus for a while. One day, they’ll stop appearing and then I’ll wonder if they’ve been hit by a car or if they’ve had the one-in-a-million idea that won’t let them go until they finish the book. And then a year or two later they’ll pop back in and announce that they just landed a big agent and their book went to auction. That’s what’s so cool about being a writer: you always have a chance to write and sell THE ONE, the book that makes all the difference, the book that makes the umpteen manuscripts under your bed into the University of Writing and makes it all worthwhile. Too cool.

I’m not late on purpose. I thought I wouldn’t talk about this, but then I’ve seen a few posts on various blogs, and it made me think that I ought to give my own thoughts on that day. I was living in Germany when it happened. Mike was deployed to Italy, working some sort of Bosnian air operation that I forget the name of at the moment. On Sep 10, I took a train from Vicenza, Italy, back to Landstuhl, Germany. I got home around 9PM, visited with the kitties, turned on the heat (Germany was pretty cold compared to Italy!), and got in bed with a book. Miss Kitty and Thumper joined me and we went to sleep happy.

Sep 11 was a Tuesday. I went to meet my friend Cynthia at Ramstein Air Base for coffee. We typically had our coffee, browsed the books, and either went grocery shopping together or split up. That day, when we left the bookstore, a group of people were gathered around the television in the coffee shop. Cynthia and I parted ways outside the store and I went to the commissary for groceries. Twenty minutes later, Cyn calls me from her house and tells me that a plane has flown into the World Trade Center.

As the phone calls begin–Mom, Cyn again, me trying to call Mike in Italy–I manuever the shopping cart to a spot where I can hear the news on the speakers in the bread aisle. I don’t remember what I heard, but I remember turning to another person there, a guy in uniform, and saying the first thing that came to mind (I am ashamed of this, but it’s true): “We need to turn Afghanistan into a parking lot.”

“Damn straight,” he said.

See, those of us who are military (active duty, spouses, civilians, contractors, etc) knew who did it. When I talk to friends here in Hawaii about that day, they all say they had no idea who could have done such a thing when it happened. But the military knew. Why? Khobar Towers, the USS Cole, the Kenyan Embassy. We knew it and we knew where he was and our gut reaction was to hit him hard and right that instant. Makes me sound like a right-wing hawk, doesn’t it? And I am so NOT right-wing or a hawk. In fact, I was glad that Bush took his time to strike once I got over the initial shock. He didn’t take his time because they were trying to find out who did it, either, which is what folks thought then, but he took his time because they had to get the assets to the theater. It took three or four weeks (forget exactly the timeline) to move the military and equipment into place to launch a strike. You not only have to be able to launch, but to sustain, which is why Navy ships and cruise missiles weren’t going to be enough. We periodically bombed Baghdad throughout the 90s, but the assets were in place to do so. Operation Northern Watch and all that.

I finished my shopping and left the base. Just in time, it turned out, because the base went to Threatcon Delta. That means nothing gets on or off the base. By the time I got home, a drive of 20 minutes, Ramstein was in lockdown. I remained in my house for the next few days, glued to CNN and on the phone with my mother (who lived 60 miles away and worked at another base). I don’t remember how long it took me to find Mike, but I know I barely heard from him for days, maybe a week or two. He was at a NATO base, but even they were locked down and working hard. (The Threatcon eased to Charlie Plus, which meant traffic could come and go, but security measures were time consuming and lines were loooooong.)

The next time I went to the base, the gate looked like Princess Di’s funeral. Flowers and candles were piled against the brick, offerings of support and sympathy from the Germans. The local paper had a headline that literally translated to “It Hurts the Heart.” The days and weeks after changed the world. We can never go back to that almost-innocent world that existed before the planes hit the towers and the Pentagon and the PA field. We’ve had to come to grips with the fact that there are people in this world who will sacrifice their lives to achieve a goal, people who believe that in taking others with them, they are fighting for justice for their fellow Muslims. Fortunately, most Muslims do not feel this way. They are not represented by the fanatics who perpetrate evil acts, though it is easy to think so. I try to always remember that the acts of a few should not condemn the many and so I feel ashamed of my initial reaction, my words about Afghanistan.

T.E. Lawrence said, in Seven Pillars of Wisdom (1926), about the Wahabis (Bin Laden and the Saudis are followers of Wahabism):

The Wahabis [...] had imposed their strict rules on easy Kasim. In Kasim there was but little coffee-hospitality, much prayer and fasting, no tobacco, no artistic dalliance with women, no silk clothes, no gold and silver head-ropes or ornaments. Everything was forcibly pious or forcibly puritanical.

It was a natural phenomenon, this periodic rise at intervals of little more than a century, of ascetic creeds in Central Arabia. Always the votaries found their neighbours’ beliefs cluttered with inessential things, which became impious in the hot imagination of their preachers. Again and again they had arisen, had taken possession, soul and body, of the tribes, and had dashed themselves to pieces on the urban Semites, merchants and concupiscent men of the world. About their comfortable possessions the new creeds ebbed and flowed like the tides of the changing seasons, each movement with the seeds of early death in its excess of rightness. Doubtless they must recur so long as the causes–sun, moon, wind, acting in the emptiness of open spaces, weigh without check on the unhurried and uncumbered minds of the desert-dwellers. (148)

Ultimately, however, the people who died that day did not deserve to do so, and certainly not at the hands of fanatics. I hope Lawrence was right and that the seeds of its own destruction are contained in fanatical interpretations of Islam. Islam is a decent religion, with decent people and decent traditions. I hope they can exorcise the evil element from their midst.

Yesterday, my friend Mark got his new car and wanted to drive somewhere. So, he picked me and Mike up and we went to Ala Moana. Our plan was to go to dinner, and we opted for the food court of the mall. Honestly, I know that sounds bad, but you can’t believe the yummy food available in this food court. Mark and I had kalua pig with rice and salad. Mike had roasted chicken with rice, mac salad, and green beans. Amazingly good local-style food at a mall price.

After dinner, we decided to go to T&C Surf Company for Reef slippahs. Mark is still new here, but he needs Reefs. Soon. Reefs are awesome. They cost a lot for a pair of flip-flops ($25-$40), but they are great. Arch support (I need that) and comfy cushiony bottoms (unlike cheap slippers that you can get for a couple of bucks in any ABC store or K-Mart). After we finished looking at Reefs (not as big a variety as Nordstrom carries), we strolled through the mall, carried on by the scent of the Honolulu Coffee Company. They have a great big roaster in the front of the store. A guy was dumping in buckets of beans at the top and then letting them out into a big centrifuge-like thing that swept the beans around and around.

Also, in the category of small world, Mark ran into someone he knows from Pennsylvania who now lives in Honolulu and works at this store. Frank got us a couple of cups of Kona blend to sample (100% Kona is better, but more expensive than blends). Mike abstained since he wanted to fall asleep easily at bedtime. I don’t usually drink coffee in the evening, but I did this time (and I had no problem falling asleep later). We sat down near the roaster and watched the guy dump beans into the big funnel at the top, empty the roasted beans into the centrifuge, and sweep his hands through searching for twigs and other small detritus (Mike will so tease me about using this word–it’s a joke with us).

Mike is amazing in that he can strike up a conversation with anyone and they actually like talking to him. The somewhat surly man at the roaster turned out to be a very friendly Italian from Sicily once Mike got him going. We discussed Italy, the places we’d been and loved, the awesome food, the Italian friendliness, the la dolce vita of Italian life. Our new Italian friend lives in Honolulu for a combination of reasons involving marriage to an American and compulsory military service in Italy. I didn’t get the whole thing straightened out in my head before it was time to leave.

We said goodbye to the Italian and to Frank and popped back into the coolness of the night air flowing through the open-air mall. The coffee shop was hot, the roaster going at a steamy 400 degrees, and I was glad to feel the breeze again. After a trip to my favorite mall store–Williams-Sonoma–we headed to the parking lot and back home again.

Not a big adventure for a Monday night, but one that reminds me how small this world really is sometimes. You can always find a way to connect with people, whether it’s shared experience or a shared want. We are all alike. Humanity crosses borders. Nationalism does not. In the words of the Dalai Lama:

Whenever I meet people, I always approach them from the standpoint of the most basic things we have in common. We each have a physical structure, a mind, emotions. We are all born in the same way, and we all die. All of us want happiness and do not want to suffer. Looking at others from this standpoint rather than emphasizing secondary differences such as the fact I am Tibetan, or a different color, religion, or cultural background, allows me to have a feeling that I am meeting someone just the same as me.

We want to connect with others, I think. The Italian wanted us to know that he thought America was great. America has military bases around the world, he said, but Italy has the Catholic Church. There is a piece of America in many countries, and a piece of Italy too. He thought that was cool. Our two countries share an experience, though America is far greater in might. He didn’t seem to mind that thought. When we left, he was singing along with the Andrea Bocelli song coming over the speakers. Indeed, I envied him that. I can only enjoy the sound, while he can enjoy both sound and meaning.

Here it is, the famous From Here to Eternity beach! That scene was pretty racy for 1953, but heck, I’d have rolled around in the surf with Burt Lancaster too. Why they chose to film on that particular beach, I don’t know. It’s nearly impossible to get to. You have to hike down a steep trail–imagine doing that with film equipment, actors, etc. On the other hand, since they were supposed to be having an affair, this is definitely an isolated location. Her husband wasn’t about to find them here, believe me. Ha!

Soon, the whales will return to Hawaii, and this is a good location to spot them from. They swim in the channel between Oahu and Molokai, among other places. You can see their breach for miles. The first time I ever saw a whale was right after I arrived and we took a whale watching cruise on the Star of Honolulu. They guaranteed we’d see whales and we did. It was only a mama and baby, but still a great sight. I have since seen them from the top of Diamondhead too. They looked pretty little from that distance.

For ono grinds, stop at this shrimp shack across from Turtle Bay resort on the Northeast corner of Oahu. The tables are grouped under pop-up awnings, and a lazy brindle dog named Blackie wags her tail as she saunters around looking for anyone who’ll pet her. Mike and I stopped on impulse and shared a plate of garlic shrimp. The shrimp were swimming in butter, the garlic so sweet you’ll eat it even without the shrimp. For $11, you get a plate of shrimp with rice and salad. They cooked them several different ways, but we opted for garlic. Wow, amazing stuff. After we polished off the shrimp, Mike bought a carved bone necklace from a man who had set up shop under one of the awnings. He was a nice guy, very talented. Then we got back in the Jeep and continued on our way. I’d forgotten that shrimp farming goes on near Turtle Bay until we passed the low pools of water, but that certainly explained the taste. The shrimp was sweet and fresh and melted in the mouth.

I haven’t forgotten Nimitz! Here he is doing what kittens do best: getting into things. He’s turning into a handful. He pings off the walls. He flies across the furniture. He bangs into things and doesn’t even blink. He’s adorable, but he’s work. My other cat, Thumper, is old and quiet and not really happy about this turn of events. I think we’ll all be glad when Nimmy gets a bit calmer. On the other hand, he sure is a hoot.

Currently reading:

The Voyage Out by Virginia Woolf (still, and I need to finish it soon)

Music:

Sarah Brightman

Today’s agenda: laundry, grocery shopping, and coaxing the muse out of hiding.

Mike had a four day weekend. Friday, we goofed off (dinner at Jackie Chan’s and Ala Moana shopping). Saturday, we goofed off (Costco, Best Buy, Home Depot). Sunday, we goofed off (Comp USA). Sunday night, we still goofed off, but we took a Hawaii newcomer to Waikiki. He was appropriately bowled over by such sights as the sunset and the walk-through aquarium at the DFS Galleria. And, like us when we first arrived, he still can’t quite wrap his mind around the fact that he lives here now.

It’s a lot to take in when you arrive, especially since you usually end up in Waikiki at some point fairly early in the game (first night for me when Mike took me to the Hale Koa for dinner and then we walked the beach from Fort Derussy to the Duke Kahanamoku statue). In fact, you can see a live view of Duke and the surrounding beach here. Duke is the original surfer dude.

Waikiki belongs to the tourists for the most part. But you still see locals strolling the sidewalks and enjoying the views. Sometimes they even bring their pets:

I’ve seen these people before, once in front of the Hilton Hawaiian with the cat in a sling, riding like a baby strapped to its mother’s chest. I didn’t have the camera with me that day. That picture was a hundred times better than this one. The kitty is on a leash, though you can’t see that here. He didn’t seem to mind the crowds or the noise in the least bit. The best pet sight I ever saw, though, was in Paris. Mind you, I was eighteen, lit up on Beaujolais and the joy of being sans parents in the City of Light when my college friend and I saw a dog in a diaper strolling along past the Louvre. If you’ve ever been to Paris, and had to dodge the piles of dog shit on the sidewalks, you’ll know how extraordinary this sight was. I didn’t know that Parisiens let their dogs crap everywhere that day, but it didn’t matter. A dog in a diaper is hysterical to a tipsy teenager no matter what. It was almost as good as the old pervert in the trench coat who wanted to pay my friend and me to take pictures of him naked. Perhaps he wanted to take pictures of us and just got his translation wrong, but it was amusing nonetheless. He assured us he had a “very large p*nis” but, alas, we refused. (No, I am not afraid to use the word, but I’d hate to see the hits I’d get with that particular search phrase.)

As for writing? None accomplished this past week. I feel sort of like the sting ray here, pressed against the glass and wondering why I can’t move forward. I haven’t found the mindset again. The muse is gamboling in a forest far, far away. This weekend is RWA. No guest speakers, though. We’re having a Maui Writers’ Conference report from the members who attended. Should be fun, I think. Next month is Steve Goldsberry, UH professor, multi-published author, and author of a new title from Writer’s Digest called The Writer’s Book of Wisdom.