 For Authors: July 27, 2016 Issue [#7771] |
  For Authors
This week: Observations Over a HOT Sticky Weekend Edited by: Fyn  
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“Louisiana in September was like an obscene phone call from nature. The air - moist, sultry, secretive, and far from fresh - felt as if it were being exhaled into one's face. Sometimes it even sounded like heavy breathing.” ~~Tom Robbins, Jitterbug Perfume
“Walking the streets of Charleston in the late afternoons of August was like walking through gauze or inhaling damaged silk.” ~~Pat Conroy
“God, it was hot! Forget about frying an egg on the sidewalk; this kind of heat would fry an egg inside the chicken.” ~~Rachel Caine
“The most obnoxious thing in the world is to listen to others drone on about how much they love the heat.
I leaned over to one woman at the café, who was professing how at home she was in the sweltering rot of hell, and said, “If you enjoy the heat so much, marry it, honeymoon with it, and throw it off a cliff, to spare the rest of us the agony of having to listen to the joy of your wretched matrimony.”
She laughed.
I was completely serious.” ~~Michelle Franklin |
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98 degrees in the shade. Humidity hovering at the century mark. Everything is curled and wilted or excessively damp with that cloying mugginess of old, dead sneakers or gym clothes left too long in a pile on the laundry room floor. Walking out into the sauna of 'outside' makes one feel as if one should swim to the car. If only, for that would, indeed, 'feel' cooler if that could be done. Inside, cold air blasts, but after a bit of acclimation time, it too feels hot and sticky. And airless. Several days of a closed up house, with the air conditioner running, sucking the bank account dry, the air becomes airless, as if we have breathed it all up and carbon dioxide is all that's left. The plants are thriving, we, are shriveling away. Energy levels bottom out and the thoughts of cooking dinner, doing laundry or doing anything, for that matter, becomes an exercise in futility. Emotions become frazzled. Tempers soar to match triple degree temps. Gator-aid bottles collect in the garage. Burnt out. Even sleep becomes restless as sheets twist into uncomfortable ropes, pillows become sweaty and hair lies damp and hot on one's neck.
Welcome to a summer heat wave where forecast storms wither, evaporate away and no rain hits the ground. Where far off rumbles of thunder raise hopes, only to have them dashed when storms edge north or south, anywhere but here. When age rears its head affecting the adults whilst the kids fly by creating their own breezes on their bikes and until, red-faced, they whine and cry, their soggy voices rising in counterpoint to that tipsy edge everyone feels they stand next to. When ice cream cones melt at record rates and even a walk in the woods doesn't bring relief. The dog hogs the cool air vent and brains melt.
High school graduation party. The grown-up sit, withered. The horse shoe game is played in slow motion as the trek between stakes becomes an arduous journey. The pretty cake, sitting in an ice bath melts none-the-less and the words, once nicely scripted out in red icing, melt to run down the edges, looking for all the world like dripping blood where someone has cut into it. Parents give up corralling their children because it is simply too hot to hold their wriggling bodies on a lap. Conversations wilted beneath the oppressive weight of the weather.Teens sit, slumped, working their ever-present phones. To hot to talk, but not, apparently, to text. We flee as soon as it is acceptable back to the truck and back roads, tree-edged, and not so blazingly hot. Even the corn, pulls into itself, leaves rolled spears conserving moisture. It was nice to see folks one normally only sees at funerals, but the atmosphere was little different. I found that to be an odd comparison, but there it was.
Curled up in bed, reading, expending as little energy as possible, I read of folks sipping lemonade, long dresses not clinging damply but as if freshly starched. They weren't wiping dripping sweat (ah, but ladies didn't sweat, they perspired delicately) and a game of croquet was enthusiastically approached. Seriously? No air conditioning, no breeze. Stoic? Certainly unaffected by air so thick it could be cut with a knife. I put the book down, (perhaps unreasonably - but I don't think so) bothered by unrealistic scenario. I was uncomfortably hot. No two ways around it. Watching the weather channel story of the 'Top 10 Worst Blizzards' didn't help either. I am reconfirming my desire to have a house on a lake. Won't happen, but it did make me smile.
Hubby and I sit playing endless, mindless computer games. Little movement aside from shifting in cloth or leather computer chairs. His makes slickery, squelching noises as he stands up, tugs down shorts and sits again. Salad, perhaps, for dinner; no cooking required. Barely fifteen minutes fridge to bowl, yet already, lettuce is wilting and tomatoes are shriveling, looking amazingly raison-like. I want to break something. Even a cool shower lasts mere seconds post-towel. Two-thirty in the morning, I get up to let the pooch out. O-dark-thirty and still, the heat weighs heavy. No breeze. The dog slumps to the edge of the patio, does her business and comes back inside, uninterested in her post-business treat. Flops on the air vent, refusing to budge. I consider finding my own air vent; she just might have a good idea. I opt for water getting ice cubes from the freezer, basking in the cool air wafting forth and realize I cannot stand there all night. Drop two in my glass, one in the dog's water bowl. She stands and slurps before retreating to the air vent. I wander back to bed to find my hubby has decided my side is more comfy. I give up and head to my computer; perhaps I can get my newsletter written. I fall asleep at my desk.
The shades are drawn against the morning sun blazing in my window, in hopes the white shade will reflect the heat back outside. It is a positive thought. Untrue, but I convince myself it is fact. Picking up a different book, I read of marathon runners racing a thirty-six hour, triple marathon in Death Valley. I put that book down as well. Hubby texts that it is 115 degrees in the shop, he is on his fifth bottle of water. (It is 9:30 am.) It is going to be a long, long day. The pooch follows me, immediately plopping on whatever vent is near where I am. I tell her to share. She ignores me.
I shall think of these days next winter when the air leaving my body turns to minute ice crystals and drops as I breathe. As I scrape ice off my windshield and shovel unrelenting snow. No, I shall probably be complaining about that too. There's a reason I love the spring and fall!!!
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bubblegrum says: I agree completely about the need for research. In particular, if you're going to write historical novels, you can't go back. You need to do some extensive research to get the facts straight, and then graft on some fictional elements. And the research itself is exciting. If you don't find it that way, you're in the wrong business.
DB Cooper  writes: WOW!!!! I will check out some of these stories. I wrote a story on a different site that intersects Holocaust history with a local traffic fatality.
chopstixd comments: Write first, research later. Stephen King warns writers not to get hung up in the details. Let your characters romp over your imagined land/city/sea scape as characters are apt to do. After the first draft is complete, then research. Correct or delete details which conflict with reality. My second story, "Invalid Item" is set in Los Angeles Courts behind the scenes hallways, offices and conference rooms. I’ve never been there. I simple imagined it like any other office setting. Many reviewers, some claiming legal experience, remarked on how accurate the settings were. I’ve visited several cities on vacation. Walking down one city street is very much like walking down another. Many blocks in Seoul could be replaced by blocks in Lima and Los Angeles. San Francisco is different, but it, itself, is similar to Paris. Yes, particular features of some famous streets need to be researched, but most city streets are alike. Research can add flavor, but it’s risky. Readers who live there may call foul.
Lyn's a Witchy Woman  adds: Even some of the published artists get lazy and don't do their homework which saddens me immensely. I agree with you research and research some more until you have the flavor perfect. I was told by several writers to take a setting and write about it without ever saying where and have a group of friends read and if they can say where it is or can make a connection than you're getting close. Do more research to seal the deal.
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