Month: December 2021

Changes

It’s the time of year when I finalize my reassessment of my life goals. I’m making major changes come January 1. I revealed one in last week’s post: no more RWA local chapter. That one saddens me, but I’m also looking forward to being a part of revitalizing a once vibrant community.

The major change is that I am retiring from my day job and becoming a full-time author.

Another big one is putting this blog on hiatus. I have been blogging for years. The time is right for me to take a breather.

I am also revamping my newsletter. Instead of publishing only when I have news to share, “MJ’s Musings” will be emailed on the second Tuesday of every month. The newsletter will have a new look in addition to the new title.  You can sign up to receive the newsletter right here on the blog/website. The sign-up form is at the top of the right-hand column.  There will also be links on my social media sites.

Thank you for following me here. Have a wonderful 2022.

 

 

Farewells are Difficult

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Back in 1998, I gifted myself a membership in Romance Writers of America. Several months later, I joined my local chapter and found my “home”. My people were there. I found the women who are my closest friends there. We’ve seen each other through ups and downs in our personal lives as well as our writing lives. Most importantly, they “get” me.

Over the years, I’ve obtained additional friends through the local writing community.  New relationships. Wonderful people.

So my decision to leave the RWA community was difficult. My national membership expires at the end of February. RWA itself made the decision easy. The organization, IMHO, has been on a downward slide for a long time, even before the very public meltdowns of the past several years. I stayed only for my local chapter.

My local chapter, however, has burned out. A person can only volunteer so much before the well evaporates. We have evaporated.

Thank goodness for the magic of the Internet, where we plan to continue to be together, without the drama, trauma, and stress of the national organizations woes. Hopefully some former members will rejoin our community because we won’t be after their wallets or their time.

 

MJ’s Manuscript: The Next Project


Many years ago, my husband was on the board of a local 1920s movie palace that had been saved from the wrecking ball in the 1970s. He purchased a book about old theaters that had been resuscitated. The book, filled with photos, obsessed me. I had the glimmer of an idea for a story.

Fast forward a decade or so. My husband got involved with another 1920s movie theater in a nearby city. They had started a film festival highlighting silent films and early talkies.  That theater had been built in 1928 and still had its original installation Moeller Theater organ. Several years into the festival, I started attending with him. The glimmer from years earlier grew brighter. I started making notes. Thumbnail character sketches. Lists of relevant things.

In 2016, the festival included a rarely seen “race film”, Richard Maurice’s 1926 release 11 P.M. This was my introduction to something I’d never before thought about: Black people making and starring in their own motions pictures. Now I was getting sparks on my idea. More notes. Research. So. Much. Research.

I took a class in which the instructor suggested I read Wild Women and the Blues. I did. Thank goodness it wasn’t what my plot was shaping into, although there are similar elements. My husband purchased a box set of “race films” for me for my birthday. He took a day off from  work so we could travel to another nearby city to visit a museum with relevant materials.

I’m very excited about the story. I’m still trying to shape the characters in my head. I’m not quite sure what it is–it’s not baseball, it’s not werewolves, but there is a paranormal aspect. It may be a mystery, probably a murder mystery. All I know is that It’s what’s next.

 

The Mean Mommy

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I will admit I was sometimes “mean” to my kids. Sometimes it was funny. Oh, I don’t mean I physically abused them, or even (I hope) mentally tortured them. But once in a while . . .

One morning when X-Chromo was about 6-years old, she asked me, “What does no Pablo espanol  mean?”

Without missing a beat, I answered her. Literally. “No Spanish Paul.”

She did not like that answer. At all.

I could have asked, “Do you mean no hablo espanol?”  and translated that for her. (I don’t speak Spanish.)  But I didn’t. Because Mean Mommy was alive and well that morning.

But the beautiful part was when my husband came downstairs to join us for breakfast, unaware of the ongoing drama.

“Daddy! Mommy won’t tell me what no Pablo espanol means. What does it mean?”

My husband, without missing a beat, replied: “No Spanish Paul.”