Trigger warning: this blog for mature audiences

I've been doing a lot of writing about writing lately. I'm starting a podcast series soon, and I have an upcoming talk at the VSRA (virginia state reading association) yearly conference in Richmond on March 13 on writing the 'tween novel you wanted to read as a child.

Both highly lucrative engagements (can you sense the subtle sarcasm here?), but somehow I don't think even a series of such jobs is going to keep me in the style of printer ink and paper to which I would like to become accustomed.

So I'm looking at the phenomenon (yeah, you guessed it) of Fifty Shades of Gray. I mean, I admit I was a little pissed off at J.K. Rowling, but at least that woman put in the work. And she could write. 

But badly written soft "porn" that isn't even really porn but is abusive and degrading to women but that's ok because it was written by a woman?  Admit it, don't we all secretly (or not so secretly) hate her for making that kind of money off this kind of crap? And don't we all wish we could make millions selling badly written drivel?

Do not despair, my friends. I don't think our gold ring has passed us by for good. Remember how many parodies sprung up from just a couple of songs from Frozen? And that wasn't even that bad a movie, for a Disney film.

I've already seen several fine parodies of the trailer for Fifty Shades. (Can you believe you don't even have to use the whole title and people know what you mean? It's like she's Beyonce, for heaven's sake) 
My personal favorite is the Lego parody,https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S7AvZPTT4kU altho Fifty Shades of Ayehttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T-oQYCse8xw is close behind. But there's just something about two Lego figurines clawing at each other's painted clothes in an elevator . . .

You see where I'm going? There's a market here, I'm sure of it. We just have to specialize, narrow our sights a bit. We don't have to make it into every airport  bookstall in the country. There's a ton of niche markets out there, filled with well-read book buyers looking for something that's a little more up their alley.

Niche markets. E.L. James made it ok to read this stuff on the subway, Why not hardcover coffee table books?

I've already got the horsey set covered with my soon to be bestseller Fifty Snorts of Neigh.
And for sequels I'm taking on the Christmas market with Fifty Seats in Sleigh, then I'm gonna hit the farming community with Fifty Rolls in Hay .

Don't worry. There's plenty to go around. I'll be busy writing those for at least 5 days, then while I'm figuring out how to spend the millions I'm raking in, you guys can take over.

Imagine the possibilities . . .
Then send them to me in the comments section below. I've already got a publisher or two in mind.

Old age and treachery

I sold my big old four-wheel-drive Dodge Ram truck today,

it doesn't really fit here on preston st.

and bought a little, white, used Ford Ranger. 

Oddly enough, a black Ford Ranger was the first vehicle I ever bought for myself.

circa 1981

Henry took me across the country twice, and through most of the area east of the Mississippi. We traveled to and from three to six-month theater gigs in Ohio, Rhode Island, Massachusetts, Alabama, and we toured through Virginia and West Virginia, North and South Carolina, Georgia and Florida.

After 120,000 miles and a change of careers, I brought Henry the Ranger onto Cuttyhunk Island. We needed a delivery truck for the Allen House after Hunter died. The truck served us well, then we passed it on, and it went from hand to hand for 10 more years on the island, finally rusting away to nothing.

The next vehicle I bought was another black Ranger.  George (I will love him and pet him and feed him and call him George)  

extended cab. before camper. look at him. he was a brute, or so it seemed.

took me across country three times on three different routes. I spent many nights on a foam mattress in the back, ostensibly safe under the camper top.  Occasionally I paid for actual campground slots, but more often I slept in motel parking lots or tucked away in a corner of a truck stop.

I don’t know if times actually were safer then. More likely I was just younger and invincible. And of course, stupid. But I never got hassled on any of these trips, and Jesse the dog only came along on the last one. Otherwise, it was just me and  Ranger George.

I traded that truck in for a down payment on a brand new Dodge in 1996, when my brother-in-law had finally convinced me to get a “real” truck.  The Dodge Ram never had a nickname. It never needed one. It was always The Dodge, or The Ram, or simply The Truck.  Gasoline was cheap then, and I had still not developed a sense of connection to the world around me, or really thought about the environment. I was a late bloomer, having spent 10 years in the make-believe world of the theater , then transitioned immediately onto a tiny island which at that point seemed unconnected in any way to the real world.

So there I was with my hulking red and black Dodge Ram 4 x 4 crew cab V-8 turbo. It was a monster – a powerful monster. The first trip I took cross-country with it was a real eye-opener. On I 10 between Texas and Arizona I got up to 90 without even realizing it and looked at the fuel gauge to find I could actually follow the level of gas as it went down. The truck’s advertised 10 miles to the gallon was a fantasy at 90 mph with a headwind.

But man, that truck rode smooth, even with heavy-duty tires.  It was a two-toned brute that turned heads everywhere I went, especially when people saw me swing down out of the cab. 

 I  remember stopping by the side of the road to clear ice off the wipers on a trip that carried me up and over the mountains between California and Oregon … and that humiliating moment when I realized I couldn’t reach the wipers, couldn’t even clear snow off the windshield unless I stood with one foot on the seat and literally hauled myself out and over the open door onto the hood itself.

I must’ve been a pretty amusing sight. And in the 14 years I’ve owned that truck I’ve never figured out a way to deal with the wipers without climbing onto the hood. Just a little something you might take into consideration if you are almost 5’2” and planning to buy a very large truck.

The Dodge was relegated to the status of work truck a couple of years after I came to Virginia. Although I could park it in any space with an inch to spare in front and in back, my rapidly degenerating spine made it harder to haul that huge wheel around quickly, a necessity on twisty county roads. And even though when new it was touted as the most comfortable truck on the road, that comfort was relative. 

dog started tearing at underside trying to get mice nesting inside. not fair to fence dog. fenced truck.

Plus, the price of gas was rising fast. And with 68 acres to steward, I was finally beginning to understand my connection to the world around me … a connection which included the realization that fossil fuels were just that – a fossil of the exploitative attitude toward our planet’s diminishing resources.

So I bought a used Subaru Outback,

and after 6 years jimmy painted flames on it for my 50th birthday

and was amazed at the wagon’s comfort and convenience.

this is the grownup used subaru we bought in 2010. dr. d drives it.

The trusty Truck became a mulch hauler, a log carrier, a stone mover. Over the years it has also hauled dogs, straw and leaves for the garden, gravel, trash and recycling, deer and goat heads and hides and hoofs. That truck has mulched a dozen local gardens year after year, moved at least six people, hauled trailers and wood chippers and served as an emergency vehicle for half the town.

a bit bloody and beaten but unbowed.

It’s been to more music festivals than I have. It has taken large families on trips (it can seat six people if four of them have short legs) and it’s been slept in and under, although not by me.

And now it’s going off with someone else for good, to a different part of the county, to do some other work for some other people. The little white Ford Ranger, which has already been named Bob, will do just fine on the land. And it will still be available for those who need to haul mulch in the spring.

People tell me it will be strange not to see me with that truck. The Dodge brought me to this town, and it’s how most people met me.  We were hard to miss, coming down these narrow Lexington streets, taking no prisoners and hogging the road whether we wanted to or not.  No one will miss it more than I will, although I’ve rarely driven it last few years. It’s more than just a beat up old behemoth. It’s a symbol of a freer, easier time of life. But it’s also a constant reminder of what I’ve lost as my spine continues to deteriorate.

What is that saying?  “Old age and treachery will win out over youth and exuberance”?  
So hello, Bob. 

Welcome to the family.

Locked in like prisoners . . .

they were forced to read until they could read no more. And why could they read no more? 
Not because they had given up the will to read, but because-

they had come to the end of the book.

Obviously this headline was a clever ploy to grab your attention. However, the facts happen to be true. This last friday at the Staunton library a group of sixth grade girls and their teacher Becky McKenzie allowed themselves to be locked into the library overnight for a read-in. Of my tween novel Coyote Summer.

I couldn't be more proud. In fact, if family matters had not necessitated my going out of state I would have locked myself in with them. 

A read-in. What a great idea. How I would have loved that as a young girl. In fact, I can picture the exact space we could have used in the Morristown TN library. The new one, that is; there wasn't even room for all the books in the old library, And besides, it was kind of creepy.

I had another great encounter with a young reader this month. While I was up north, one of my 10 year old first readers  brought me her edited version of my next book. 

I must admit, I had not expected her mother to print it out in its final mark-up state. Nor had I expected a line by line edit and critique from a 10 year old. I kind of thought she was going to read it as a PDF and tell me if she liked it or not. 

But my cousin's daughter's daughter (I have no idea what that makes her) Natalie doesn't do anything half-way. Not only did she comment, she commented on the comments. My personal favorites were a comment she made to me while we were going over her suggestions, "I don't think that comment is right. You might do it that way if this was a YA book, but not for kids my age," and of course my personal favorite,"I think the way Margo did it was better."

And - she changed the title. 
Thank you, Natalie. I agree with almost all of your suggestions.

Perhaps you can suggest a read-in at your local library when the next book comes out. I'm still thinking about that title.

Have you ever had a gift . . .

... just drop into your lap? 

This happened to me a few weeks ago, when I received a Cuttyhunk email with this essay. The young woman who wrote it distilled the essence of everything I'm trying to do with my Summerhood Island books into a few paragraphs. 

Here's Sophia Corona explaining why I'm writing the series, without ever having heard of my book(s). (I've added pictures to try and illustrate for those poor souls who've never been to 'our' island.)

The Gift

The greatest gift I have ever received could not be handed to me wrapped up in a box.  Have you ever heard of a small island called Cuttyhunk?  This little island has an area of about one square mile. It is located at the very western end of the Elizabeth Islands in Massachusetts. 

Cuttyhunk is a quiet, tightly-knit community where everyone knows each other.  There are many things Cuttyhunk has to offer like kind, welcoming people with warm smiles, utterly true freedom, and nature that can paint beautiful images in your memories.

Imagine waking up early in the morning, all by yourself, heading towards the beach; you don't even bother to put on your shoes.  As you head towards the beach, there is absolutely no person walking by and the excitement is almost palpable.  You turn your head east and the beautiful sunrise over the shining water with orange and pink colors wrapping themselves around the few clouds in sight.  The wind blows the ocean spray to your lips,and you just can't resist the urge to taste the salty spray.  Once you reach the beach,

the sand melts under your feet, cushioning your toes….Cuttyhunk is an amazing place to embrace the beauties of nature.  During my time at Cuttyhunk, the constant natural beauties never cease to impress me.

This Cuttyhunk gift is also an amazing location to explore by yourself.  I have walked around the entire island and found many secrets. 

At Cuttyhunk, independence can flourish because there are so many corners of the island to find and experience.  One time, I found the remains of a World War II bunker and even bones of a seagull. Most of the time, I like wandering around the island finding small pools of salt water where I stick my feet in and read a book. 

photo a. hinson

During my Cuttyhunk explorations, I do several things I don't normally do elsewhere:  I sing to myself, sometimes for hours while I walk around the island.

Moreover, everyone on Cuttyhunk is extremely kind and welcoming. Whenever I walk around the island, people say hello or wave as they pass by.  Friends may spontaneously give you a ride or invite you to go sailing with them. 

Cuttyhunk yacht club boats

There are many fun events like going to the tiny local church and freely choosing what hymns to sing. 

Once, there was a band that came and played old Elvis Presley songs.  Everyone on the island came and danced in the grass.  Children all held hands and danced in circles for at least two hours while adults were deep in conversation. 

photo a.hinson

There is also a library where I spend some of my time looking for great books that I can take to the beach and read. 

There is absolutely no place on Cuttyhunk Island where you cannot receive a warm smile.  Cuttyhunk Island is the greatest gift I have ever received.  In my opinion, the greatest gifts in life are experiences, not tangible items.

Sofia Corona

Aged 11

Thank you Sofia, for your gift to us.

The holiday season has me in a mood . . . (giveaway inside this blog!)

Actually, several moods. They pretty much change every ten minutes, from appreciative of people's generosity toward the burned-out relative of a neighbor of mine, to irritated at the constant Christmas music blaring from a huge speaker at a house up the block, back to appreciative of people shopping downtown instead of at malls an hour away, back to irritated that everyone feels the need to do so much shopping at all.

Yes, I am in the running for the Scrootch 

+

award this year.

Much like every year.

So I've been thinking hard, (and yes, it hurts) and I believe I might have come up with a way to extend the appreciative and curb the irritation. 

Hmm, that kind of sounds like a 50's song lyric.
But I digress.

So welcome to my Scrootch avoidance plan for 2014.

Either:
1. Buy small, homegrown, or local.

Buy an autographed or personalized copy of  Coyote Summer at www.margosolod.com and I will donate the profit from the sale to our local food pantry. And they could use all the help they can get.

or- B. Give gifts.

Buy 2 copies  of Coyote Summer because everyone has a child/grandchild/niece or nephew. Give one to your local library or local elementary or middle school. Actually, I have no control over this. Do what you will with them. Just remember the blood, sweat and ink that was sacrificed . . . (Oops, I digress again. Pardon.)

Not only will I donate the profits but I will send you, ABSOLUTELY FREE an autographed copy of my memoir with recipes, Cuttyhunk: Life on the Rock. 

This is actually a triple win because now you will have an emergency gift for aunt Hilda when she brings you over an unexpected fruitcake. Or, even better, a gift for your child's school or sunday school teacher. Cookies are so old hat.

You give, I give, you give again, The food pantry gives. (and probably aunt Hilda gives the book away as well. It's the gift that keeps on giving.)

Start the ball rolling. 
(Irritation is so unattractive in a woman my age)

And we thank you.

Look what showed up in my inbox . . .

Dear Ms. Solod,

My name is Sage Cooley and I am 6th grade. You met my mom, Carol Cooley who is also an author, at the VCCA in September. She gave me a book you wrote called Coyote Summer. I just finished reading it and I thought it was really inspiring. It exampled the characters personalities strongly; it almost felt like I knew them myself. I thought Jessie’s discovery was so unique. The fact that she went out of her way to save Lancelot (that's so cute by the way) and the pups to replace a bad memory is heartbreaking. I got so involved in this book I refused to go to sleep.

I used your book for my English report. I matched all the main characters with animals that fit their nature. 

Lara = Deer

Susan = Koala

Jessie = Coyote (of course)

Mrs. Silva = German Sheppard

Susan’s Dad = Bear

Daniel = Rabbit

Amanda = Dolphin

I look forward to your upcoming books and I think you’re really talented. (Thanks for the autograph in the book 😊) 

Thank you so much for the amazing story,

Sage Cooley

Dear Sara Loewen . . .

(I have no idea why this showed back up here, when it was written a year ago. Oh, the mysteries of the internet . . .)

Why am I calling you dear?  I spoke to you for perhaps forty-five seconds at this year’s AWP conference.  You were manning the University of Alaska press table when I walked up.  I had no idea who you were, never heard of your book.  I’d attended a panel of Alaskan writers that morning and was actually there to purchase someone else’s book.  I don’t remember whose now, only that it wasn’t available and you told me I’d have to order it.  I’m sure I did, perhaps I’ve read it by now, or perhaps it’s sitting on my shelf;  in the stack of books waiting until I have more time.

But oh, my dear dear Sara Loewen.  You suggested your book, sitting on the corner of the table.  You said perhaps if I enjoyed reading about Alaska I would enjoy your book.  I liked the title, Gaining Daylight, and was taken by the subtitle Life on Two Islands.

 I spent years on an island.  I may have talked to you briefly about that.  But mostly I bought your book because you were there, and you pointed it out, and I would’ve been embarrassed not to buy it.  It would’ve felt somehow rude.  I wouldn’t have wanted someone to walk away after I’d suggested they buy my book.

I picked your book up last week, out of that pile of ‘to be gotten to’ books.  I picked it because it was small and light, because it was short essays that could be carried in my bag and read in waiting rooms.  I had no expectations.

Dear Sara Loewen,

 Your writing stuns me.  I read each essay slowly, once, and then again.  It’s been a long time since I savored a book as much as this one.  Every image is so clear, so bright.  Every word seems to be the perfect word, the only word that could possibly have been used to convey that idea, but that sentiment.  The things you write about and at the same time encompassing everything.  I don’t have the words to describe your words.  I’m not that good.

Dear, dear Sara Loewen.

 Whether you’re writing about salmon fishing, running your own skiff, substituting for second grade, whether you’re telling me about the Russians encamped on Kodiak Island, or Rose Tweed, the Bell of Kodiak during World War II, or baby humpback whales, it feels like everything you’re saying is true and right and important, and I want to know what you know, and I want to feel what you feel.  Do you know how rare this is to a reader like myself?  Do you know how good you are?

Sara Loewen, you inscribed my copy of Gaining Daylight.  You wrote “hope you visit Alaska one day soon.  You’ll love it.”

I visit Alaska.  In small, beautifully rendered, beautifully written essays.  I visit Kodiak Island and Amook Island.  I visit fish camps and beaches swept by fall winds, I visit the 1890’s Russian settlements, and the Army barracks in World War II.  I visit Rose Tweed Lake.  And it’s all because I happen to be in the right place at the right time on a snowy day in Boston.  And because of you, Sara Loewen.

Thank you.  Truly.

You can visit Alaska, too.

 saraloewen.com