Pride & Prejudice & Snickering

empty chair

An empty chair awaits readers of the Duluth, Minn., public rendition of Pride and Prejudice.

Last weekend, I took part in a marathon public reading of “Pride and Prejudice,” by Jane Austen. The event, hosted by a local writers group, was a celebration of the novel’s publication two-hundred years ago. The reading began on a Friday evening, stopped for the night, and spanned the next day from 9 a.m. to 9 p.m.

The sanctuary of a local church provided a great venue for the event.

The sanctuary of a local church provided a great venue for the event.

You might think that the atmosphere would have been staid, literary, and slightly pompous, but there was actually a lot of snickering – at least when I read. While that could have been the result of my poor attempts at voicing characters with English accents, I’d like to think it was from the subtle humor employed by Austen two centuries ago, which still resonates today.

The sanctuary of a quaint stone church served as an atmospheric venue. For those requiring refreshment, tea and cucumber sandwiches were served in the basement. About twenty-five readers each took turns reading aloud for twenty-five to thirty-five minutes. They were a diverse group — ranging from the Mayor of Duluth, actresses, poets, English teachers, Jane Austen-lovers, and me – who had never read the book, but I’d seen the movie.

I hadn’t read aloud from someone else’s writing in many years – since reading bedtime stories to my sons. And I was amazed at just how funny Austen’s writing is. It didn’t strike me that way when I read my section silently. But when I practiced it aloud at home, the irony of the passages was clear. It made me wonder if Austen wrote the book to be read aloud as entertainment on long evenings before the invention of television.

A respectable crowd gathered for the reading.

A respectable crowd gathered for the reading.

The section I read featured a clergyman who had originally wanted to marry Elizabeth — the narrator of the story (played by Winona Ryder in the movie version). Elizabeth visits him and his new wife, who was Elizabeth’s best friend, and who won the minister by “default” after Elizabeth turned him down. The scenes are set in their home and then move to the mansion where the minister’s patroness, the condescending and imposing (to everyone but Elizabeth), Lady Catherine de Bourgh (played by Judith Dench).

I was heartened that the irony of Austen’s portrayal of the clergyman and Lady de Bourgh was not lost on the small audience gathered to listen. My reading was punctuated by quiet laughter in several appropriate places. It just goes to show that although many years have passed and our lives are very different from those who lived when the story was written, human nature is similar enough that we can still relate.

Me reading (amid snickers).

Me reading (amid snickers).

The Rachel Files: Weeks 8-9, anger management and the electrical poltergeist

Angry Talk (Comic Style)

Angry Talk (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Rachel indirectly asked me the other day if I was angry with her. Her question was perfectly reasonable, given the plumbing issue, the food issue, and her general invasion of my personal space. My answer surprised me. No, I’m not angry. In this case, anger would serve no purpose. It would be like being angry at the wind for blowing. It’s not like Rachel is doing any of these behaviors on purpose – they are a consequence of her condition. Being angry at her isn’t going to change her behavior or make her condition go away. It would only make our living situation even more uncomfortable.

On the other hand, if I discovered she WAS doing her actions on purpose, I would be angry. But I really don’t think that’s the case. I may vent to friends and co-workers (and this blog) about her issues, but I don’t hold any lingering grudges. It is what it is.

Last week, I returned from my second trip during her stay to find the house in good order, except for a few electrical things that Rachel had no control over. For instance, I arrived home at midnight to the annoying low-battery beep of a smoke detector. Rachel spends most of her time downstairs, and the smoke detector was upstairs, so she didn’t hear it very well. And what sounds she did hear, she mistook for the chirping of our guinea pig.

After one false start figuring out which of the seven detectors it could be, I changed the battery so that I could fall into bed and sleep uninterrupted. My trip occurred during the changeover in daylight savings time, so before finally closing my eyes, I needed to adjust the time on my digital clock. Right after I did so, the clock’s numeral display mysteriously disappeared. Granted, the device was seven years old, but I was beginning to feel jinxed – like my return was draining the life out of all things electrical.

The next day was no better. The display on my home thermostat started blinking “low battery.” I made a special trip to the store to get a pack of double-As, but alas, they were low on power, too. The thermostat won’t work without power, and I was too busy for another trip to the store, so we suffered through a cold day until I could get another pack. This time, I made sure to get the kind that can hold a charge for ten years. We now have heat again – a handy thing when outside temps are only 20 degrees F.

Anyway, this post finds Rachel still living with me. She has not had any luck finding another place. And it’s not like I can really be mad about that either, since her moving is dependent on the willingness of others. She’s been advertising and soliciting other people. It’s just that nothing has worked yet. Rachel was getting stressed about it, but I assured her I understood she was doing what she could. And it’s not like I’m going to throw her out into the frigid outdoors on a certain date.

But I long to have my house back to myself, especially with the Holidays approaching, and I know my son does, too. We’ll just have to muddle through a while longer, deal with issues as they arise, and go with the flow.

Anyone want a roommate? (Grin)

Who Knew Science Writing was Such a Hotbed of Intrigue?

Light Bulb

Light Bulb (Photo credit: CraftyGoat)

I recently returned from a National Association of Science Writers (NASW) Conference. I’m not sure of the exact count, but my guess is that it drew about 300 writers from across the country, and even a few from overseas.

An example of the kind of people who attend these annual conferences: on the short leg of my trip from Orlando to Gainesville, FL, there were only three of us on the plane. The flight attendant made us sit in the tail section, “to balance things out,” since the crew was in the front. We all sat together and got to talking. I was in the company of a co-founder of the online science magazine, “Matter,” who was flying in from London, and an editor for a new magazine in New York City called “Nautilus.” Myself, I write about Wisconsin water science for my day job. In the evenings, I write eco-mystic romance novels that are science-inspired.

The conference was great and informative, but it was overshadowed by a scandal, of which I was blissfully ignorant until the final session, which was entitled, “The XX Question.” The description made it sound like the session was about the role of women in science writing – how influential are they even though they are a prominent part of the profession compared to the past, how does their pay and recognition compare to that of male science writers?

While the standing-room-only session touched on those things, it was really about sexual harassment of women in the profession by sources and editors, and it offered an opportunity for discussion of the aforementioned “scandal.”

The scandal was that the blog editor for “Scientific American” magazine, and a prominent speaker at past NASW conferences, was accused of harassing several women who wrote for him. No overt details were given during the presentation, but from later research, I learned the accusations consisted of sexual conversations and unsolicited touching. Basically, his shtick was that he was in an asexual marriage and he wanted these women to take pity on him and have sex with him — never mind that he was in a position to publish or decline their work.

The ironic thing was that the issue came to light indirectly, when a woman biologist claimed harassment by an editor of another publication on Scientific American’s blog. The magazine’s treatment of the blog post prompted some women writers to name people involved in other instances of perceived harassment.

Now I realize the following might sound really insensitive and crass, but I found myself wondering why the Scientific American blog editor targeted science writers instead of prostitutes. I suppose the draw was that the science writers were legal and cheaper, plus maybe he knew he had some power over them, whether he consciously acknowledged it or not.

The discussion panel featured four female writers and editors, most of whom described experiences they’ve had with sexual harassment on the job. Their experiences ranged from men being mean and dismissive of them, presumably because of their gender, to men being WAY too friendly and imaginative. Most of the harassment seemed aimed at freelance writers, since they are in the vulnerable position of begging for work from multiple (often male) sources. The panelists and audience members did a good job of venting and not ranting, and it was heartening to see some metaphorical light bulbs turning on over many male heads in the audience.

After hearing the panelists’ experiences, I felt fortunate that I have not been harassed in my work as a science writer. However, I’ve mainly worked for organizations that are funding researchers, and, if I am to think crassly again, the researchers didn’t want to piss off the organization that is funding them. But I have experienced harassment as a member of a Forest Service trail crew and as a wildland fire fighter. So it is not unknown to me, and I found some creative (and highly effective) ways to deal with it, that I will perhaps get into in a different post.

But those were situations where I was basically outnumbered and living with men, out in the wilderness where civilized modes of conduct often seem distant and a bit silly. That harassment occurred was not that surprising to me. But these were women working in cities and offices, meeting with men in suits and ties. I guess it goes to show that respectful modes of conduct can disintegrate anywhere, and also that science writing has many more challenges than simply figuring out the right word to use in a story.

The Rachel Files: Week 7 and the real cost of toilet paper

Photo credit: Heather Cowper

Photo credit: Heather Cowper

So I mentioned at the end of my last entry that my house suffered under the care of my temporary roommate, Rachel, while I was gone for four days to a conference. I’m not even going to get into what happened with my dog, son, and elderly parents while I was gone, because none of these are connected to her. Suffice it to say that lately, my little world seems to fall apart if I’m not around, temporary roommate or not.

Shortly upon my return from the conference, the basement toilet overflowed after I took a shower in the first floor bathroom. Not good. I called a plumber – the kind with a machine that jets water into clogged sewer lines with laser-like intensity. You all probably remember Rachel’s fondness for toilet paper. I’m sure you can all make the connection. The plumber guessed that a tree root caught the toilet paper and clogged the line.

Well, it’s clear now, and I’m several hundred dollars lighter. Bless her heart, Rachel is going to help pay for the high-tech sewer enema, but still . . . If I hadn’t already decided she needed to live somewhere else, this would have clinched it.

We had that discussion a few days before I left on my trip. I explained that I felt she needed to live somewhere where people are home more often and can keep track of her more, and that it would be good for her to live with someone who has a better understanding of her condition(s). Also, my son has not adjusted to her presence very well. Just before Rachel moved in, my situation changed (or more like my ex-husband’s situation changed) and the amount of time my son stays with me increased. If I had known that was going to happen, I doubt I would have agreed to the arrangement. But it was too late by that point.

The good news is, I am TOTALLY cured of my half-empty nest syndrome. In fact, I may never let anyone stay in my house again (smirk). Plus, I am learning first-hand about the ravages of mental illness and how crappy some of the medications are.

Word is out now to other members of my church that Rachel needs another place to stay (that’s how I found out about her plight in the first place), so I hope the situation will change in a few weeks.

But, guess who has another work trip coming up in a few days? It just never ends. . . .

The Rachel Files: Weeks 4-6 and the black eye

Black eye (orbicular bruise). Crop and Rotatio...

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

No, I did not give her the black eye!

As I mentioned in my previous post about my temporary roommate, Rachel had apparently been making inroads into my son’s snacks even though we talked about separation of our food. Now, I don’t mind so much when someone messes with me. But when my son approached me, shaking an empty package of cashews with a look of sad hunger in his eyes, I decided the woman had to go.

We had another small summit meeting (similar to the one we had about her excessive toilet paper use) and discussed the importance of keeping to our own food. It went well, but the mother lion in me was stirred, so I decided to take a few days to figure out how to tell Rachel that I could not keep her for the full time until a housing unit opens up. We had never set a specific amount of time for her stay, but I had been hoping to do that for her.

I do want to say that it has been great having Rachel walk my dog during the day, and hearing her tips about cooking and cleaning. She is a pleasant person on a difficult journey. But she is crossing lines that are too hard for me (and my son) to adjust to, especially since I have a choice in the matter.

While I was considering how to tell her she had to find another place to stay, Rachel, who has more serious mental health issues than I realized at first, started taking new medications that pretty much zonked her out and upset her balance. One morning, at 2:30 a.m., I heard a crash downstairs where she stays. Because she sometimes does things at odd hours, I didn’t think much of it. Plus, it sounded like something had just fallen off a shelf. I was too sleepy to get up and investigate. It wasn’t until the next day when I came home from work in the evening that I discovered the cause of the sound. Apparently, Rachel had fainted in the bathroom and fallen flat on her face on the linoleum. When I entered, she sat on the couch with a bag of ice on her eye, which sported a HUGE shiner.

I felt bad A) For not caring enough to investigate the crash, B) That this terrible thing happened to her, C) That she didn’t let me know about it in a timely manner so I could get her some help. And I’m sure she wasn’t too comfortable, either! I asked her if she had a doctor she should be calling, and offered to take her someplace, but she assured me she had it covered. Although I wasn’t so sure, I was in the middle of moving my elderly parents to an assisted living home, so I took her word for it.

In her medicated befuddlement over the next few days, Rachel was also leaving burners and lights on. I had a work trip coming up where I would be gone for four days. Guess how confident I felt leaving her home alone for that long? Thankfully, she was open to the idea of having a network of people check on her and go out to lunch with her, which we put into place before I left.

That seemed to go well. My house suffered in my absence, however. More on that in the next installment!

The Rachel Files: Weeks 2 & 3 and the Toilet Paper Summit Meeting

English: Toilet paper, orientation "over&...

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Week two with my temporary roommate, Rachel, went all right. The awkwardness of the first week was past and we had the major things worked out. Nothing too noteworthy happened, other than some excessive cleaning. But that’s okay. My house could benefit from some OCD care. Rachel even vacuumed the heater registers, something I hadn’t touched in the 13 years I’ve lived here.

Week three brought with it the realization that Rachel uses a lot of toilet paper. We’re talking a roll-per-day habit. My son and I use a roll per week, if that. Do you know how expensive toilet paper is? I called a small summit meeting about that. It went well. Rachel agreed to buy a supply to keep up with her habit.

Rachel’s cleaning efforts started to get more over-the-top, to the point that when I brought out a decorative fall garland and was starting to playfully cover my son with it, the first thing out of her mouth was, “Do you want me to wash that?” Silly me didn’t even know such a thing was possible, but she assured me it was. I let her know she could dust it, but that washing wasn’t necessary.

We had an agreement from the start to keep our food separate unless told otherwise. This is especially important since I have food intolerances. However, my son’s snacks seem to be disappearing. These include Oreos and cashews. I suspect another summit meeting is in order.

Call Me Surprised: The Rachel Files

OrangeUnderwearIn a previous entry about my new temporary roommate “Rachel,” I said these immortal words: We both disclosed our quirks so that we shouldn’t be too surprised by each other. Hah. Just call me surprised.

Rachel is a member of my church who needs somewhere to stay for a few months until a place of her own opens up. Her move into my home was accomplished smoothly, thanks to other church members. She has been here about a month, but I am already looking forward to having my home back to myself.

The night she arrived, Rachel ended up leaving the lights on in the living/dining room because she “couldn’t find the switch.” No big deal, except for the waste of electricity. I showed her the light switch – problem dealt with. During the first week three other notable things happened:

1) Rachel scrubbed most of the sealant off my tub/shower stall. She has a “thing” about cleaning, and got a bit overzealous. Nothing is leaking yet, and I have grandiose plans to one day redo my entire bathroom, so I will leave it as is for now.

2) Rachel loves my dog – a bit too much. She is helping to earn her keep by walking him at noon most week days while I am at work. I assumed that the first time out, we would walk him together. Before I had an opportunity to explain this to her, she took him for a walk (along a busy street where I never take him because he doesn’t really like cars) while I was gone and without asking me. Ugh. We had a talk about this, and took him out the next time together.

3) Rachel presented me with a pair of underwear that I had thrown into the garbage. They were a relatively new pair – bright orange with lace trim. But I had thrown them out on purpose while doing the laundry. Rachel thought maybe they fell into the waste basket by accident. I suppose this is plausible and that she’s just trying to be helpful, but it creeped me out that she was digging through my garbage, touching my dirty underwear. Wouldn’t that creep you out? I explained their landing in the wastebasket was not an accident. She has since not rummaged through my garbage that I am aware.

I know I promised I wouldn’t turn this blog into a blow-by-blow account, but I fear I may need to in order to survive the experience.

A Book Signing with Heart

Eye of the Wolf, Marie ZhuikovIn contrast to my previous rant about book signings, I’d like to share the story of an unusual thing that happened at my first public signing for “Eye of the Wolf.”

My eco-mystic romance novel deals with the plight of the dwindling wolf population on Isle Royale National Park in Lake Superior. About two years ago, I had just begun sitting outside the Bookstore at Fitger’s Mall in Duluth, trying to hawk my wares to the holiday shopping crowd when a tall, thin, bearded man approached.

It soon became apparent that he was deaf and could not speak. Through a combination of gestures and lip movements, he managed to convey that he didn’t have any money to buy a book but that he liked the topic. Then he pointed to the part of the description on the back of my novel about the wolves on the island being in trouble. He put his hands over his heart and made a breaking motion. Clearly, it broke his heart that the wolves were dying out. He shook my hand twice, thanking me for writing about the issue, and left.

Thinking about the short encounter during the rest of my signing caused mixed feelings. The cynical part of me wondered if he was just trying to get a free book. The innocent part berated myself for not giving him a free book. In the end, my heart fell out of my chest and writhed around on the hallway floor in a fit of sentimentality, but it was too late to do anything about it.

I’m hoping the sequel to “Eye of the Wolf” will be published in about a year. If I see that guy again, I’m giving him a free book. Maybe one of each.

Are Book Signings Worth Risking Your Personal Safety?

I almost got attacked over this book!

I almost got attacked over this book!

My writing group met today and we got on the topic of book signings and how some big-name authors seem to dislike them. Perhaps you’ve experienced authors who barely look at you while signing your book and who seem unhappy to be doing so. My writer friends and I supposed it could get tiresome writing one’s autograph all those times, and perhaps the authors were only doing signings because it was in their contract – but come on! All the dozens of people in line are your fans. You are getting money from them. Is it too hard to give them back a bit of appreciation?

Apparently, it was too much to ask for prehistoric romance writer Jean Auel when I saw her in Minneapolis in the mid-1980s. She looked like she would rather be anywhere than the B. Dalton Bookstore downtown. I decided to go to her signing of “The Mammoth Hunters,” after work one dark winter evening even though two months before when I last left work late, I had gotten robbed at knifepoint while scraping the ice off the back window of my car.

After that incident, I had switched parking lots, but it soon proved too expensive on my student’s wages and I returned to the lot where the robbery occurred. I figured as long as I left work at 5 p.m. when everyone else did, I was less likely to be a target.

Returning to the lot at around 7 p.m. from the unsatisfactory book signing, I was vigilant. I walked purposefully and locked my car door as soon as I entered, a habit I’d gotten into after the robbery. As I started the car, I looked into the rearview mirror. A man was approaching, wearing a ski mask. Even though his face was covered this time, he looked very similar to my robber and he was wearing the same jacket.

I froze in terror. The robber had stolen my spare car key along with my wallet before. What if he remembered what my car looked like and he happened to have the key with him? I clutched the door handle, trying to keep it shut in case he had the key. The man walked up to my car, jiggled my door handle, and when it wouldn’t open, kept walking as if nothing had happened.

Relief flooded me. Then I got mad. There were no cars parked between me and him. My car was already running. I raced the engine and took off toward him. Was I going to scare him or run him over? I know I wanted to run him down for what he put me through, but at the last moment, I swerved. I couldn’t do it.

And apparently, I didn’t scare him very much either. After filing my police report, I found out later that he ended up attacking and raping another woman in the parking lot that night. A few nights later he got picked up. Eventually, there was a trial. Of half a dozen of his victims who filed police reports, I was the only one who saw his face, so I was the “star” witness. He got five years in jail.

Although almost thirty years have passed, my hands are shaking as I type this entry. See what trouble being a book fan can get you into? Seems the least an author can do is to smile and say “thank you” to their admirers. You never know what they went through to get to your signing or what might happen to them afterwards.

Stay tuned for a more pleasant book signing story coming next!