These words are coming to you from Anaheim, California. Mr. Ashbury and I flew in to LAX on Sunday last, and will fly home again next Sunday.
One thing I can say is that I now fully understand the concept of jetlag.
I don’t recall it being so difficult to adjust to Pacific Time when we went to San Francisco in 2008. I’m hoping the difference isn’t due to the fact that I’m four years older than I was then.
Seriously, I went to bed Sunday night at 5:30 pm Pacific time, and slept until 6 am the next morning. I figured that was simply a sign that I had exhausted myself more I’d realized, in the days before we left.
But Monday wasn’t much better. I laid down for an hour or so at 7, feeling totally wiped.
Mr. Ashbury pointed out that the reason for my Monday exhaustion was that we had spent a great deal of the day outside. He could be right. Between the time we spent by the pool—him reading and me writing—and the three plus hours we were out and about—him walking and me on the scooter—most of our day was spent in the sun and breeze of this city not far from the ocean.
That’s a lot of fresh air and sunshine for someone who sometimes doesn’t go out of doors all day.
Today the real business of the conference gets underway. From 5 to 8 pm there’s a book signing event at the Anaheim Convention Center. All of the proceeds of this sale benefit literacy programs in this area.
RWA typically raises thousands of dollars every year to benefit literacy. Local chapters, across the United States and Canada also donate money every year to this worthy cause.
On Thursday, the conference itself gets underway. I’ve chosen a few seminars to attend this year. I do love to learn new things. But I haven’t made a full schedule for myself. I prefer to tread lightly, and of course, I do need my writing time.
Mr. Ashbury and I have explored this area together over the last few days. Although I have rented scooters at previous conventions, the venues didn’t have many attractions close by to encourage me to go out and explore. Here, we’re only a ten minute walk from a couple of very busy tourist areas: Anaheim’s Garden Walk, and Disneyland.
The Garden Walk is definitely aimed at the tourist, with restaurants like Bubba Gump’s, clothing boutiques, and a very large movie theatre. Arranged in a park-like setting, it’s typical of what I love to visit when I’m in “vacation mode”.
Ah, Disneyland. The original. The theme park that changed theme parks forever. No, Morgan didn’t, nor will she, actually go to Disneyland.
We did, however, visit the commercial area right outside the park called “Downtown Disney”. It’s packed with places to eat and lots of stores. They had a Lego Store, and a store where you could build your own bear. There were t-shirts and jewelry, purses and hats, and souvenirs of every style and shape and description.
At home, I’m not much of a shopper, that’s true. But I do love to look when we’re away, especially at all the shiny and sparkly bits of stuff offered at these sorts of places.
Also within easy walking/scootering distance of our hotel were places like I-HOP and a 7/11, a Chinese Food restaurant, a pizza place, and a Subway restaurant. There are plenty of what we used to call “motor inns”, all with pools. This area is definitely geared toward the family. The prices range from the mildly irritating to the truly stunningly painful.
Being frugal sorts we purchased only one bottle of water from the hotel. The rest we got and will continue to get at the 7/11. And we ate breakfast yesterday at the I-HOP.
Mr. Ashbury has to be on his own for a couple of days now as I attend to the business of writing and being a member of the Romance Writers of America. And he has decided, for good or ill, that tomorrow he is going to go, on his own, to Disneyland.
When he told me that I just shook my head and wished him luck. And yes, I did wonder, just for a moment, if maybe the poor man isn’t losing his mind.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
For the second time in our lives, Mr. Ashbury and I are preparing to get on board a plane and fly to California.
A few years ago, we visited San Francisco, so that I could attend the Romance Writers of America National Conference being held in that city.
This occasion is for the same conference, but a different city: we’ll be landing at LAX and then taking the Super Shuttle to Anaheim.
I’m a member of not only my own local RWA chapter, Toronto Romance Writers, but also of two “online” chapters—Passionate Ink, and Kiss of Death.
The first is devoted to what we’ll call the writing of steamier romance, and the second to mystery/suspense authors. Most of my novels have suspense sub-plots, and I strive to hone my skills in this sub-genre with each new story written.
One major reason I’m excited about going to the RWA National Conference is that I will finally get to meet, face to face, with a member of my online writing group: D. B. Reynolds, author of the excellent paranormal series, Vampires In America.
D. B. and I have “known” each other online for a number of years. She and I share moderator duties of the Online Writers Group that is hosted by the website of New York Times bestselling author, Kelley Armstrong.
If you are a fan of a well crafted plot and compelling characters, then I recommend the series. Published by Imajinn Books, they’re available in e-book and print, at Amazon as well as Barnes & Noble.
Whenever we travel for a conference or convention, I always make an effort to do some sightseeing and research in the area. As an author, having a variety of places you’ve visited is golden. It is, of course, possible to set a story in a city you’ve never visited—especially today with all of the research available on the Internet. There are virtual tours and local newspapers, Google Earth, and all manner of photographs and videos available so that a person can get a pretty good sense of a place without even leaving their chair.
But there is something to be said for knowing the scent of a city, the sight and the sound and the rhythm of it. And of course, nothing beats meeting and chatting with the people who live there.
As I have done for the last few conferences, I have arranged to have a scooter available at the hotel when I arrive. Despite wearing a step counter daily, and often managing to take between 5000 and 8000 steps each day, I simply cannot walk long distances without ending up in complete agony. Having a scooter means I’m not confined to the conference site, but can sample some of the neighborhood, too.
I’ve been told there is a wealth of eateries and shops, a virtual treasure-trove of tourist spots—within a five minute scooter ride of the hotel.
I’ll be signing books at the Literacy Autographing event—where all of the proceeds from the books sold go to fund literacy programs both locally and nationally. If you’re there, come by and say hi.
You doubtless recall all the teasing I’ve received from practically every member of my family—as well as several friends—about my proclivity for making lists before I travel. Well, I am pleased to report that my beloved has adopted this habit. Of course, he makes his list on a tiny note pad, from which he also crosses items off once they are in the suitcase. He says he uses the note pad for convenience but I believe he uses it because it is so easy to conceal. I think I’m the only one in the family—or anywhere else, for that matter—who knows that my beloved has adopted my ‘anal’ habit.
Or rather, I suppose I should say, I was.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
A few years ago, we visited San Francisco, so that I could attend the Romance Writers of America National Conference being held in that city.
This occasion is for the same conference, but a different city: we’ll be landing at LAX and then taking the Super Shuttle to Anaheim.
I’m a member of not only my own local RWA chapter, Toronto Romance Writers, but also of two “online” chapters—Passionate Ink, and Kiss of Death.
The first is devoted to what we’ll call the writing of steamier romance, and the second to mystery/suspense authors. Most of my novels have suspense sub-plots, and I strive to hone my skills in this sub-genre with each new story written.
One major reason I’m excited about going to the RWA National Conference is that I will finally get to meet, face to face, with a member of my online writing group: D. B. Reynolds, author of the excellent paranormal series, Vampires In America.
D. B. and I have “known” each other online for a number of years. She and I share moderator duties of the Online Writers Group that is hosted by the website of New York Times bestselling author, Kelley Armstrong.
If you are a fan of a well crafted plot and compelling characters, then I recommend the series. Published by Imajinn Books, they’re available in e-book and print, at Amazon as well as Barnes & Noble.
Whenever we travel for a conference or convention, I always make an effort to do some sightseeing and research in the area. As an author, having a variety of places you’ve visited is golden. It is, of course, possible to set a story in a city you’ve never visited—especially today with all of the research available on the Internet. There are virtual tours and local newspapers, Google Earth, and all manner of photographs and videos available so that a person can get a pretty good sense of a place without even leaving their chair.
But there is something to be said for knowing the scent of a city, the sight and the sound and the rhythm of it. And of course, nothing beats meeting and chatting with the people who live there.
As I have done for the last few conferences, I have arranged to have a scooter available at the hotel when I arrive. Despite wearing a step counter daily, and often managing to take between 5000 and 8000 steps each day, I simply cannot walk long distances without ending up in complete agony. Having a scooter means I’m not confined to the conference site, but can sample some of the neighborhood, too.
I’ve been told there is a wealth of eateries and shops, a virtual treasure-trove of tourist spots—within a five minute scooter ride of the hotel.
I’ll be signing books at the Literacy Autographing event—where all of the proceeds from the books sold go to fund literacy programs both locally and nationally. If you’re there, come by and say hi.
You doubtless recall all the teasing I’ve received from practically every member of my family—as well as several friends—about my proclivity for making lists before I travel. Well, I am pleased to report that my beloved has adopted this habit. Of course, he makes his list on a tiny note pad, from which he also crosses items off once they are in the suitcase. He says he uses the note pad for convenience but I believe he uses it because it is so easy to conceal. I think I’m the only one in the family—or anywhere else, for that matter—who knows that my beloved has adopted my ‘anal’ habit.
Or rather, I suppose I should say, I was.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Mr. Ashbury has a “lucky vacation travel shirt”. I kid you not, he does, and it is beyond a doubt the ugliest thing I have ever seen.
I’ve very nearly thrown that shirt out several times, as he never saw fit to explain to me, before this most recent vacation, that this particular garment held significance for him.
It’s a collared, polo shirt. That’s about the only good thing I can say about the thing. It is red, with red “squares” interspersed with red and black squares, the latter which are tiny red squares with black stripes inside them. The whole thing is sort of like something you might see if someone zapped a checkerboard with a “shrink-me” ray gun.
If you look at it too closely while he is wearing it and moving, you’ll get dizzy.
I was trying to recall just how old this short sleeved, polyester-blend shirt is. If I am not mistaken, he wore it on the first ever trip we took—the first time we boarded a plane when we finally took our honeymoon after 17 years of marriage, back in 1989.
Yes, that shirt is old enough to get drunk in a bar, and vote.
My beloved has informed me that he intends to wear this shirt when we fly to California on the 22nd of this month, and again when we fly to Dallas in August. I have tried to reason with him that these ‘trips’ are not vacations, and therefore, they do not require the presence of this talisman.
The man looked at me as if I wasn’t quite “all there”. And then he asked me, in a most serious tone, if I really wanted to “tempt fate”.
Since we will be celebrating our 40th anniversary on Saturday, I suppose it’s rather late for me to lament his general lack of fashion sense. This is no slur against him, as he would be the first to agree that when it comes to taste in clothing, he doesn’t have any.
I think my first clue to this unfortunate reality was when, in our first year of marriage, he bought me a black and pumpkin-orange night gown. His desire to please me and to gift me with “sexy and fetching apparel” knew no bounds in those early years. I was always very appreciative of his efforts, of course—after all it really is the thought that counts. Please don’t ask me to list some of the other items he bought for me. I seem to have a black hole in my memory about these things.
They say the sub-conscious works to conceal traumas from the conscious mind as a means of “protecting” the psyche. I believe them.
These days, of course, Mr. Ashbury either takes our daughter shopping with him, or he does the modern thing and gives me a gift card.
I return the favor by not giving him gift cards, but instead going to the mall and purchasing him the clothing he needs. While the fact that he always likes what I pick out for him doesn’t really mean much—he really doesn’t have enough clothing sense to know if the clothes I buy him are right for him or not—on those occasions when we go out, his family always compliments him on his apparel.
Now, I know that the astute among you will be left wondering, well, Morgan, where then did that ugly-ass red shirt come from in the first place?
Friends, I tell you honestly, I have no clue. I really don’t recall how that shirt came to be in my beloved’s possession, let alone how it became such an integral part of his wardrobe.
I can only surmise it was a gift from one of my in-laws.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
I’ve very nearly thrown that shirt out several times, as he never saw fit to explain to me, before this most recent vacation, that this particular garment held significance for him.
It’s a collared, polo shirt. That’s about the only good thing I can say about the thing. It is red, with red “squares” interspersed with red and black squares, the latter which are tiny red squares with black stripes inside them. The whole thing is sort of like something you might see if someone zapped a checkerboard with a “shrink-me” ray gun.
If you look at it too closely while he is wearing it and moving, you’ll get dizzy.
I was trying to recall just how old this short sleeved, polyester-blend shirt is. If I am not mistaken, he wore it on the first ever trip we took—the first time we boarded a plane when we finally took our honeymoon after 17 years of marriage, back in 1989.
Yes, that shirt is old enough to get drunk in a bar, and vote.
My beloved has informed me that he intends to wear this shirt when we fly to California on the 22nd of this month, and again when we fly to Dallas in August. I have tried to reason with him that these ‘trips’ are not vacations, and therefore, they do not require the presence of this talisman.
The man looked at me as if I wasn’t quite “all there”. And then he asked me, in a most serious tone, if I really wanted to “tempt fate”.
Since we will be celebrating our 40th anniversary on Saturday, I suppose it’s rather late for me to lament his general lack of fashion sense. This is no slur against him, as he would be the first to agree that when it comes to taste in clothing, he doesn’t have any.
I think my first clue to this unfortunate reality was when, in our first year of marriage, he bought me a black and pumpkin-orange night gown. His desire to please me and to gift me with “sexy and fetching apparel” knew no bounds in those early years. I was always very appreciative of his efforts, of course—after all it really is the thought that counts. Please don’t ask me to list some of the other items he bought for me. I seem to have a black hole in my memory about these things.
They say the sub-conscious works to conceal traumas from the conscious mind as a means of “protecting” the psyche. I believe them.
These days, of course, Mr. Ashbury either takes our daughter shopping with him, or he does the modern thing and gives me a gift card.
I return the favor by not giving him gift cards, but instead going to the mall and purchasing him the clothing he needs. While the fact that he always likes what I pick out for him doesn’t really mean much—he really doesn’t have enough clothing sense to know if the clothes I buy him are right for him or not—on those occasions when we go out, his family always compliments him on his apparel.
Now, I know that the astute among you will be left wondering, well, Morgan, where then did that ugly-ass red shirt come from in the first place?
Friends, I tell you honestly, I have no clue. I really don’t recall how that shirt came to be in my beloved’s possession, let alone how it became such an integral part of his wardrobe.
I can only surmise it was a gift from one of my in-laws.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
Happy Fourth of July!
I’m pleased to report that we are in the United States for this historic holiday. A couple of years ago we were blest to be present in Philadelphia, at Independence Hall, attending the ceremonies held there to commemorate Independence Day. It was an experience we’ll never forget.
We later stood in line to see the Liberty Bell. For two history buffs visiting from Canada it was a wondrous day of celebration, and we very much felt the sanctity of the occasion.
Anniversaries are important, for they bring us back, however briefly, to the beginning. They remind us of what it’s all about.
We’re here on vacation for a few days, visiting our friends in Hazleton, Pennsylvania. This time we used my spiffy new TomTom to get us here and seriously, we’ve never made the trip faster.
It’s interesting when you get with friends after the absence of a year. It doesn’t seem as if anything has changed at all. You come in to a great welcome, and it’s just as if you were never really gone.
Our friend is a cop, and he always has great stories to tell, of course. In years past it is he who taught me how to handle and fire different styles of guns. My interest in weapons is tied to my desire, as an author, to get things right.
Our friend’s mother has her birthday today, and so we’re pleased to be here to help her celebrate.
My beloved and I have an anniversary coming up in a couple of weeks—our fortieth. 40 years – and they said it wouldn’t last. He and I are, in many ways, complete opposites. One of the ways in which we’re different is that he doesn’t like parties at all – and I do. As a consequence, you can count the number of parties we’ve attended, over the course of our marriage, on one hand. Seriously.
The only birthday party I’ve been the recipient of as an adult was the one I threw for myself on my 50th birthday. I had to take action myself, because, after being promised by my husband and kids that they’d throw one for me when I turned 40, they not only forgot to give me the party, they actually forgot my birthday that year.
I don’t have to learn my lessons twice. My beloved agreed that we could host a dinner at a restaurant to mark the occasion of our anniversary this year. I drew up a list and the girls—my daughter and second daughter—volunteered to send out the invitations and co-ordinate the responses.
We chose a Chinese Buffet restaurant that’s popular with so many of the family. The guest list had about 40 names on it; we decided that we’d pay for the meal, but leave ‘drinks’ up to the individual guests. The other point on which we were both fairly insistent was that on the invitations, we wanted the words, “best wishes only” to be written. We truly don’t want any gifts. We’ll have a wonderful evening surrounded by family and a friend or two, and count ourselves very rich indeed.
We had the names of our friends here in Hazleton added to the list, even though we know they won’t be able to make the trip north for a dinner. But we wanted them to know that, since they are close friends, we were thinking of them.
This is how we found out that our girls forgot to put that tiny, heartfelt message—“best wishes only”—on the invites. I’m not completely certain how I feel about that.
Friends, my first response wasn’t a pretty one. I know I should be taking the high road, here. I should just consider that they were acting out of love. I know they can’t necessarily see the value in hosting an evening at a restaurant without getting something back in return. I saw the looks on their faces when I said we were paying for dinner and didn’t want gifts. They both thought it was way too much money to simply “give” an evening to a lot of people we don’t often see.
A part of me counts that as a failure on my part. I obviously didn’t successfully impart to my daughter that there is value to be had in life far beyond the material. The best things in life really can’t be measured in dollars and cents. They are of the heart and from the heart.
Not often do I find myself in a catch-22 of my own making; I have to make myself accept what the girls have done as an act of love on their part, while simultaneously reconciling myself to the fact that, like it or not, there are going to be gifts at this dinner.
Proof positive that you never get too old to have life throw you a moral curve-ball.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
I’m pleased to report that we are in the United States for this historic holiday. A couple of years ago we were blest to be present in Philadelphia, at Independence Hall, attending the ceremonies held there to commemorate Independence Day. It was an experience we’ll never forget.
We later stood in line to see the Liberty Bell. For two history buffs visiting from Canada it was a wondrous day of celebration, and we very much felt the sanctity of the occasion.
Anniversaries are important, for they bring us back, however briefly, to the beginning. They remind us of what it’s all about.
We’re here on vacation for a few days, visiting our friends in Hazleton, Pennsylvania. This time we used my spiffy new TomTom to get us here and seriously, we’ve never made the trip faster.
It’s interesting when you get with friends after the absence of a year. It doesn’t seem as if anything has changed at all. You come in to a great welcome, and it’s just as if you were never really gone.
Our friend is a cop, and he always has great stories to tell, of course. In years past it is he who taught me how to handle and fire different styles of guns. My interest in weapons is tied to my desire, as an author, to get things right.
Our friend’s mother has her birthday today, and so we’re pleased to be here to help her celebrate.
My beloved and I have an anniversary coming up in a couple of weeks—our fortieth. 40 years – and they said it wouldn’t last. He and I are, in many ways, complete opposites. One of the ways in which we’re different is that he doesn’t like parties at all – and I do. As a consequence, you can count the number of parties we’ve attended, over the course of our marriage, on one hand. Seriously.
The only birthday party I’ve been the recipient of as an adult was the one I threw for myself on my 50th birthday. I had to take action myself, because, after being promised by my husband and kids that they’d throw one for me when I turned 40, they not only forgot to give me the party, they actually forgot my birthday that year.
I don’t have to learn my lessons twice. My beloved agreed that we could host a dinner at a restaurant to mark the occasion of our anniversary this year. I drew up a list and the girls—my daughter and second daughter—volunteered to send out the invitations and co-ordinate the responses.
We chose a Chinese Buffet restaurant that’s popular with so many of the family. The guest list had about 40 names on it; we decided that we’d pay for the meal, but leave ‘drinks’ up to the individual guests. The other point on which we were both fairly insistent was that on the invitations, we wanted the words, “best wishes only” to be written. We truly don’t want any gifts. We’ll have a wonderful evening surrounded by family and a friend or two, and count ourselves very rich indeed.
We had the names of our friends here in Hazleton added to the list, even though we know they won’t be able to make the trip north for a dinner. But we wanted them to know that, since they are close friends, we were thinking of them.
This is how we found out that our girls forgot to put that tiny, heartfelt message—“best wishes only”—on the invites. I’m not completely certain how I feel about that.
Friends, my first response wasn’t a pretty one. I know I should be taking the high road, here. I should just consider that they were acting out of love. I know they can’t necessarily see the value in hosting an evening at a restaurant without getting something back in return. I saw the looks on their faces when I said we were paying for dinner and didn’t want gifts. They both thought it was way too much money to simply “give” an evening to a lot of people we don’t often see.
A part of me counts that as a failure on my part. I obviously didn’t successfully impart to my daughter that there is value to be had in life far beyond the material. The best things in life really can’t be measured in dollars and cents. They are of the heart and from the heart.
Not often do I find myself in a catch-22 of my own making; I have to make myself accept what the girls have done as an act of love on their part, while simultaneously reconciling myself to the fact that, like it or not, there are going to be gifts at this dinner.
Proof positive that you never get too old to have life throw you a moral curve-ball.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
For just the second time in 17 years, I went to a movie theatre Monday night. I had yet to see a “3D” movie, and although we have that new television and it does have that technology, my daughter and husband swore the experience was different in the theatre, and they were right.
There were six of us for this outing—my beloved and our daughter [I guess you could say the rest of us infringed on their usual Monday night excursion] our second daughter, and her two kids, who are the grandchildren I take care of. The movie: Pixar’s Brave.
I can’t tell you why I stopped being a movie fan. We used to go to the cinema from time to time, but when VCRs became all the rage in the 1970s and 80s [oh my God, I am getting old!] we used to not only rent movies every weekend; we rented a lot of them.
Sometimes we’d watch 3 movies on Friday night and 3 movies on Saturday night. This was a family activity, with all five of us in our living room, enjoying the entertainment together. We watched all different genres of films—except, of course, horror movies, or films that had tragically sad endings. I absolutely refused to watch them, period. It just wasn’t ever going to happen.
One incident in particular sticks out in my memory as I look back on those days, but I have to kind of qualify this story first.
As parents, my beloved and I took an unusual stance: we would both rather our children see a movie that had a bare modicum (pardon the pun) of nudity than have them watch a movie with extreme violence or where people got hacked to pieces. Now obviously, we generally didn’t go out of our way rent movies with nudity in them. But once in a while we would get “flashed”.
The year after it came out, we rented The Sword and the Sorcerer with Lee Horsley. In this movie there was one scene when the hero swung through the “harem” on a rope. For the span of about four or five seconds, while the camera ‘followed’ the hero’s swing, the viewer was treated to a background scene of several sets of naked, female breasts.
We were neither of us expecting this; we looked at each other, said nothing, and the movie played on. And, I thought, okay, no harm, no foul as not a one of our three children said a word about it. Christopher was nearly 11 at the time, Anthony 6, and Jennifer 5. I thought: whew, bullet dodged.
The next morning I awoke early to a strange sound. It was click, click, silence for about five seconds then click, click again. Coming from the living room, which was just outside our bedroom, it happened more than a dozen times, and I decided to get up to investigate.
There was my six year old son, Anthony, on the floor in front of the television, remote control in one hand, thumb of the other in his mouth, as he ran that harem shot on the screen over, and over again.
I kind of think my drifting away from watching movies—and television too, because I really don’t watch more than a hand full of hours of that a week—is tied to my reading and writing. At some point after my heart surgery, my interests changed, and I found that, given the choice, I’d rater either read or write than watch a movie.
Through our cable company, we’re able to rent movies on a “pay per view” basis without leaving the house, and if by chance I am in the mood to see a movie, then that is generally what I do. In the past couple of years, I’ve seen The Social Network, The King’s Speech, and The Iron Lady. My sister-in-law (my beloved’s sister) has made it her personal mission to see to it that every couple of months I’m subjected…er, treated to a “girls night”. She brings a couple of movies, “chick flicks”, usually, and she and I and my daughter commandeer the living room to indulge in this female bonding ritual. Hence, I’ve also seen Fried Green Tomatoes, Love Actually, and The Lake House. On the most recent of these evenings, we watched “It’s Complicated” starring Meryl Streep and Alec Baldwin.
There are often margaritas involved in these rituals, so I guess they’re okay.
Ironically it’s my role as author that has prompted me to try and fit in a few more movies recently. Our film media does, after all, reflect our lives, and our collective consciousness. We can take our “social temperature” by looking at the movies we create and watch. It can be argued that it’s difficult to be current with the world if one is ignorant of the art, and art forms, being produced and celebrated by it.
Films and television shows draw the largest audience of all the arts.
While that is true, and I don’t want my books to begin to sound as if they are novels written by a woman not in tune with her times, one thing remains non-negotiable.
I still refuse to watch horror movies, or any movies that have a dreadfully tragic ending. It’s simply not going to happen.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
There were six of us for this outing—my beloved and our daughter [I guess you could say the rest of us infringed on their usual Monday night excursion] our second daughter, and her two kids, who are the grandchildren I take care of. The movie: Pixar’s Brave.
I can’t tell you why I stopped being a movie fan. We used to go to the cinema from time to time, but when VCRs became all the rage in the 1970s and 80s [oh my God, I am getting old!] we used to not only rent movies every weekend; we rented a lot of them.
Sometimes we’d watch 3 movies on Friday night and 3 movies on Saturday night. This was a family activity, with all five of us in our living room, enjoying the entertainment together. We watched all different genres of films—except, of course, horror movies, or films that had tragically sad endings. I absolutely refused to watch them, period. It just wasn’t ever going to happen.
One incident in particular sticks out in my memory as I look back on those days, but I have to kind of qualify this story first.
As parents, my beloved and I took an unusual stance: we would both rather our children see a movie that had a bare modicum (pardon the pun) of nudity than have them watch a movie with extreme violence or where people got hacked to pieces. Now obviously, we generally didn’t go out of our way rent movies with nudity in them. But once in a while we would get “flashed”.
The year after it came out, we rented The Sword and the Sorcerer with Lee Horsley. In this movie there was one scene when the hero swung through the “harem” on a rope. For the span of about four or five seconds, while the camera ‘followed’ the hero’s swing, the viewer was treated to a background scene of several sets of naked, female breasts.
We were neither of us expecting this; we looked at each other, said nothing, and the movie played on. And, I thought, okay, no harm, no foul as not a one of our three children said a word about it. Christopher was nearly 11 at the time, Anthony 6, and Jennifer 5. I thought: whew, bullet dodged.
The next morning I awoke early to a strange sound. It was click, click, silence for about five seconds then click, click again. Coming from the living room, which was just outside our bedroom, it happened more than a dozen times, and I decided to get up to investigate.
There was my six year old son, Anthony, on the floor in front of the television, remote control in one hand, thumb of the other in his mouth, as he ran that harem shot on the screen over, and over again.
I kind of think my drifting away from watching movies—and television too, because I really don’t watch more than a hand full of hours of that a week—is tied to my reading and writing. At some point after my heart surgery, my interests changed, and I found that, given the choice, I’d rater either read or write than watch a movie.
Through our cable company, we’re able to rent movies on a “pay per view” basis without leaving the house, and if by chance I am in the mood to see a movie, then that is generally what I do. In the past couple of years, I’ve seen The Social Network, The King’s Speech, and The Iron Lady. My sister-in-law (my beloved’s sister) has made it her personal mission to see to it that every couple of months I’m subjected…er, treated to a “girls night”. She brings a couple of movies, “chick flicks”, usually, and she and I and my daughter commandeer the living room to indulge in this female bonding ritual. Hence, I’ve also seen Fried Green Tomatoes, Love Actually, and The Lake House. On the most recent of these evenings, we watched “It’s Complicated” starring Meryl Streep and Alec Baldwin.
There are often margaritas involved in these rituals, so I guess they’re okay.
Ironically it’s my role as author that has prompted me to try and fit in a few more movies recently. Our film media does, after all, reflect our lives, and our collective consciousness. We can take our “social temperature” by looking at the movies we create and watch. It can be argued that it’s difficult to be current with the world if one is ignorant of the art, and art forms, being produced and celebrated by it.
Films and television shows draw the largest audience of all the arts.
While that is true, and I don’t want my books to begin to sound as if they are novels written by a woman not in tune with her times, one thing remains non-negotiable.
I still refuse to watch horror movies, or any movies that have a dreadfully tragic ending. It’s simply not going to happen.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
My mother raised me to be polite at all times. There were certain mores of behaviour that she instilled in me, and I guess they stuck pretty well, because I still cling to them today, sometimes even in the face of unbelievable circumstance.
For example, when mom and I would go to my aunt and uncle’s for dinner, I wasn’t expected to just help with the after dinner clean up. I was expected to do it all—by myself.
Likewise, growing up, if I was a guest in anyone’s home for dinner, and they served something I really didn’t like, too bad for me. I was expected to eat it and say, “yum yum, thank you.”
Maybe you could class that as a white lie, but I don’t think there’s any real sin involved in that one.
We lived out in a rural community all through my youth, the same one my beloved and I moved to after our first year of marriage. You didn’t often get any “traveling salesmen”. Oh, they came by once in a while, but not often.
Even as I kid I got a kick out of the Fuller Brush man. He always had some little do-dad he would leave behind, even if you said “no, thank you”.
As a matter of fact, I recall when it was acceptable to say “no thank you” to the peddler at the door, and their response would inevitably be, “thank you for your time, have a nice day”.
Not, apparently, anymore.
Lately there has been a new breed of “traveling salesman” prowling our neighborhood. These are young, brash, hard-sell engineers who not only don’t take “no” for an answer, they’re rude.
And not only are they rude, they are pushy and try to intimate you. One man I particularly recall from a couple of years ago came to the door, wanting me to sign up with an “energy re-distributer”. Do you get them in your area?
Now, if the electricity rates had doubled when we got our “smart meters” - that is to say, if we were the kind of people to ignore the “peak periods” and use our a/c, our washer and our dryer at those times—then maybe, and I mean maybe, one of those contracts might have saved us a few dollars.
But I am leery, on principal, of anyone who wants you to sign on the dotted line right away. As if they know that if you have a moment to think things over, you’ll see reason and say: no, thank you.
So I told this gentleman, “no, thank you”, oh, probably about four or five times at least. Despite the fact that my anger was increasing I didn’t slam the door in his face or tell him to take, um, a flying leap. I was still trying, you see, to be polite.
However, this particular gentleman pulled out what he must have thought was his “big gun argument”. Now please keep in mind, I am dressed very casually around the house most days, when I am writing. My hair is caught up, haphazardly in a clip; I’m decently covered, but I am wearing jammies—long ones in the winter, short ones in the summer, but jammies for me are my “business apparel” of choice.
This would-be salesman of the year looked me up and down, and said, “Perhaps you’re just too stupid to understand what I’m saying to you.”
Now friends, there does come a moment, and I am certain my mother, rest her soul, would agree, when it is time to abandon that which clearly does not work.
So I said, “Actually, I probably would score well above you on any IQ test you’d care to name. Moreover, I’m a published author, and, congratulations, you’ve earned a spot in my next novel as the obnoxious itinerate asshole.”
Well, perhaps my mother wouldn’t quite approve of my language, but I did feel ever so much better when I then shut the door in his face.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
For example, when mom and I would go to my aunt and uncle’s for dinner, I wasn’t expected to just help with the after dinner clean up. I was expected to do it all—by myself.
Likewise, growing up, if I was a guest in anyone’s home for dinner, and they served something I really didn’t like, too bad for me. I was expected to eat it and say, “yum yum, thank you.”
Maybe you could class that as a white lie, but I don’t think there’s any real sin involved in that one.
We lived out in a rural community all through my youth, the same one my beloved and I moved to after our first year of marriage. You didn’t often get any “traveling salesmen”. Oh, they came by once in a while, but not often.
Even as I kid I got a kick out of the Fuller Brush man. He always had some little do-dad he would leave behind, even if you said “no, thank you”.
As a matter of fact, I recall when it was acceptable to say “no thank you” to the peddler at the door, and their response would inevitably be, “thank you for your time, have a nice day”.
Not, apparently, anymore.
Lately there has been a new breed of “traveling salesman” prowling our neighborhood. These are young, brash, hard-sell engineers who not only don’t take “no” for an answer, they’re rude.
And not only are they rude, they are pushy and try to intimate you. One man I particularly recall from a couple of years ago came to the door, wanting me to sign up with an “energy re-distributer”. Do you get them in your area?
Now, if the electricity rates had doubled when we got our “smart meters” - that is to say, if we were the kind of people to ignore the “peak periods” and use our a/c, our washer and our dryer at those times—then maybe, and I mean maybe, one of those contracts might have saved us a few dollars.
But I am leery, on principal, of anyone who wants you to sign on the dotted line right away. As if they know that if you have a moment to think things over, you’ll see reason and say: no, thank you.
So I told this gentleman, “no, thank you”, oh, probably about four or five times at least. Despite the fact that my anger was increasing I didn’t slam the door in his face or tell him to take, um, a flying leap. I was still trying, you see, to be polite.
However, this particular gentleman pulled out what he must have thought was his “big gun argument”. Now please keep in mind, I am dressed very casually around the house most days, when I am writing. My hair is caught up, haphazardly in a clip; I’m decently covered, but I am wearing jammies—long ones in the winter, short ones in the summer, but jammies for me are my “business apparel” of choice.
This would-be salesman of the year looked me up and down, and said, “Perhaps you’re just too stupid to understand what I’m saying to you.”
Now friends, there does come a moment, and I am certain my mother, rest her soul, would agree, when it is time to abandon that which clearly does not work.
So I said, “Actually, I probably would score well above you on any IQ test you’d care to name. Moreover, I’m a published author, and, congratulations, you’ve earned a spot in my next novel as the obnoxious itinerate asshole.”
Well, perhaps my mother wouldn’t quite approve of my language, but I did feel ever so much better when I then shut the door in his face.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Last Friday, my 26th novel became available from my publisher, this one under my second penname, Cara Covington. Considering that my debut novel came out in March of 2007, that’s a lot of books in a relatively short time. You probably surmise that I spend a lot of my time writing, and you’d be right.
The most amazing thing is, if I was still waiting for a publisher to say “yes”, I would still be writing, although probably not with as much confidence.
I guess I had to have a heart attack and then open heart surgery to get to the place where I was able to do what I love most in all of the world to do. Before my medical problems—at age 48—I worked for nearly 30 years in the field of accounting. I did accounts payable, accounts receivable, balance sheets, and payroll and benefits. I knew beyond a doubt that a credit was a debit and a debit was a credit, and just because it balanced didn’t mean it was right. I was pretty good at what I did, and I had been told by more than one boss that they’d never seen anyone work so quickly, or with so few mistakes.
A co-worker once accused me of treating my “job” like a career, a comment she thought was an insult, but which I took as a compliment. I have always believed that if you’re going to do something, you should do the best damn job at it that you can—especially if you’re being paid for it.
I carried that attitude over to my writing, of course. My beloved will tell you he shakes his head in amazement at how much time I spend looking things up, contacting experts, checking my facts...doing research to try and ensure that I get things right.
My sister-in-law once told me—and yes, I am still speaking to her—that since I was only writing porn and not The Great Canadian Novel, she didn’t see why I had to be such a perfectionist about it.
Well, aside from the fact that I don’t write porn, thank you very much, I am writing the great Canadian novel. To me, that’s what every one of my books truly is. Yes, they have graphic love scenes. But they also have compelling characters, and good plots. They often address real challenges that women, and men, face in life.
Each of my stories has more than one level to it. And even if they didn’t, there is value in simply giving your reader a few hours away from the challenges and stresses in their own lives.
If that was all that my books were about, I would still strive to write the best book I could. The thing is, I love what I do, and I’m proud of what I do. If I wasn’t getting published, I would still be doing it.
I guess that’s the definition of happiness...and passion, too.
I know how lucky I am that I can devote my days to doing what I love. I know what it’s like to go to work each day, and sometimes wonder if you’ll get through the eight or ten or twelve hours. Folks who do that, who go to work day in and day out, even though they don’t like what they’re doing are, in my opinion, the real heroes in life.
I can’t say that I had a passion for accounting the way I have a passion for writing. It was boring work at times, but I found a way to make it interesting. I don’t put up with boring. I never have. If something needs to be done and it’s dull and dry, I find a way to make it palatable, and I work as quickly as I can to be done with it.
I may never be famous, or monetarily wealthy. Those things don’t really matter to me. I’ve always said that as long as I have the makings for a good cup of coffee, and plenty of toilet paper, I can get by.
But I am enormously rich in the work that I do, and the friends I have made, and the readers who read my books and then write to me to tell me that they love them.
I am blessed, and highly favored.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
The most amazing thing is, if I was still waiting for a publisher to say “yes”, I would still be writing, although probably not with as much confidence.
I guess I had to have a heart attack and then open heart surgery to get to the place where I was able to do what I love most in all of the world to do. Before my medical problems—at age 48—I worked for nearly 30 years in the field of accounting. I did accounts payable, accounts receivable, balance sheets, and payroll and benefits. I knew beyond a doubt that a credit was a debit and a debit was a credit, and just because it balanced didn’t mean it was right. I was pretty good at what I did, and I had been told by more than one boss that they’d never seen anyone work so quickly, or with so few mistakes.
A co-worker once accused me of treating my “job” like a career, a comment she thought was an insult, but which I took as a compliment. I have always believed that if you’re going to do something, you should do the best damn job at it that you can—especially if you’re being paid for it.
I carried that attitude over to my writing, of course. My beloved will tell you he shakes his head in amazement at how much time I spend looking things up, contacting experts, checking my facts...doing research to try and ensure that I get things right.
My sister-in-law once told me—and yes, I am still speaking to her—that since I was only writing porn and not The Great Canadian Novel, she didn’t see why I had to be such a perfectionist about it.
Well, aside from the fact that I don’t write porn, thank you very much, I am writing the great Canadian novel. To me, that’s what every one of my books truly is. Yes, they have graphic love scenes. But they also have compelling characters, and good plots. They often address real challenges that women, and men, face in life.
Each of my stories has more than one level to it. And even if they didn’t, there is value in simply giving your reader a few hours away from the challenges and stresses in their own lives.
If that was all that my books were about, I would still strive to write the best book I could. The thing is, I love what I do, and I’m proud of what I do. If I wasn’t getting published, I would still be doing it.
I guess that’s the definition of happiness...and passion, too.
I know how lucky I am that I can devote my days to doing what I love. I know what it’s like to go to work each day, and sometimes wonder if you’ll get through the eight or ten or twelve hours. Folks who do that, who go to work day in and day out, even though they don’t like what they’re doing are, in my opinion, the real heroes in life.
I can’t say that I had a passion for accounting the way I have a passion for writing. It was boring work at times, but I found a way to make it interesting. I don’t put up with boring. I never have. If something needs to be done and it’s dull and dry, I find a way to make it palatable, and I work as quickly as I can to be done with it.
I may never be famous, or monetarily wealthy. Those things don’t really matter to me. I’ve always said that as long as I have the makings for a good cup of coffee, and plenty of toilet paper, I can get by.
But I am enormously rich in the work that I do, and the friends I have made, and the readers who read my books and then write to me to tell me that they love them.
I am blessed, and highly favored.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
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