When I spotted a deserted run-down motel on my hunt for a lakeside mansion to feature in one of my novels, I yelled (nicely) at my husband to stop the car. 

Paradise Pines was a blast out of the 1950s, with the kitschy charm of an old black and white movie–the original Psycho, perhaps.

The permanently vacant standalone cabins, scattered around the pine-cleared expanse of gravel, resembled a giant Monopoly game with abandoned pieces not correctly aligned to the board’s squares. The whole place was dilapidated to the point of being creepy-cool.

Once, this was someone’s idea of Paradise, with a capital P. Miles away from auto factories and steel mills, from the changing Detroit vibe and everyday hassles, the air was pure here, it smelled of pine with a tinge of lake water, the sounds muffled by the forest. The darkness, absolute.

I wouldn’t consider Paradise Pines a paradise now, although I have to admit, I like creepiness up to a point. Exploring abandoned houses, inactive insane asylums, abandoned motels/hotels and ruins of old civilizations gets my mind working. Who lived or visited there? What were their lives like? I like constructing stories about those strange sad places and Paradise Pines will definitely show up in a future novel.

Back to Paradise. I think it comes in many colors. Mine is the blue serenity of water–a lake, ocean, or backyard waterfall, where I can relax, think and write, with a bit of vino on the side, please.

Paradise Pines might have been ideal for me in its heyday since Lake Michigan throws its weight around on the far side of the park across the road. But not now. It’s too thought-provoking, too questioning, and my personal paradise has all the answers I need.

What color is your Paradise?

Do you have books you’d never toss no matter how book-deep and pile-high your shelves are getting? Books that aren’t necessarily your favorites, but hold some special meaning? Mine are pictured–Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte, The Hidden Staircase, a Nancy Drew Mystery by Carolyn Keene, Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte and last but not least, Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier. My  copy of Jane Eyre with wood engravings was published in 1943, Wuthering Heights has a leather cover and was published in 1923, my sentimental favorite, The Hidden Staircase, with its illustrated cardboard cover, was published in 1959.

Only one is among my favorite reads of all time, Rebecca. It pops up in most of the stories I write, as do old houses and abandoned institutions. I couldn’t tell you why Rebecca is so special to me. Maybe it’s the dark moodiness of the novel, or the naïve young Mrs. de Winter, or the creepy Mrs. Danvers, or Manderley, Max de Winter’s exquisite mansion. I can’t imagine reading Rebecca on a Kindle or in a 21st century printing. My paperback copy was printed in 1943 and carries these words on the page preceding the title, “In order to cooperate with the government’s war effort, this book has been made in strict conformity with WPB regulations restricting the use of certain materials.” I don’t know what “certain materials’ weren’t used, but I love turning the yellowing paper-thin pages which are now becoming loose from the glued backing.

Our home library is always filled to the gills with books even though we’ve donated hundreds to our local library over the years. And although I love my Kindle, I’ll always find a place in our library, and in my heart, for the physical books I cherish.

Writer or not, if you’re like me, there’s always been a story rattling around in your head you’ve told to your family or friends, but haven’t written down. Mine was about my grandmother, an unhappily married woman, who travelled from Detroit to Los Angeles, leaving behind a husband and four children, including my dad. According to family stories, her health was suffering and a doctor recommend she go to California for a month. But a few years ago I learned from a family friend she’d wanted to visit a male friend who’d recently moved there.

Six weeks later, on the way home to Detroit, her train derailed in Arizona. She considered it a sign that God wanted her to stay in California, so she caught a train back to LA.

Over the years, she played bit parts in several movies, co-owned “Moon Over Miami,’ a dining, dancing, polo club frequented by movie stars, and played housemother to UCLA students in one of the mansions she somehow managed to acquire.

When I was seven, I met her for the first time. My parents piled my sister and me into our Buick Special and drove Route 66 to California. I still remember walking into her house the day we arrived, astounded by the largest and most beautiful house I’d ever seen in my short life. In the party-size foyer, a marble powder room nestled under the grand staircase. There were rooms I’d never heard of: conservatory, maids’ sleeping rooms, a nanny’s suite, a butler’s pantry. The children’s nursery, where my sister and I slept was larger than the living room at home. Three of the six bedrooms had fireplaces, as did the living room.

I spent my twelfth summer with her and she fascinated me with stories of growing up on an estate in Russian Poland, where my grandfather would ride his horse to the balcony off her bedroom and toss roses to her. But she also scared me. She always thought someone was trying to kill her and before bed she’d padlock the refrigerator, and lock every exterior and interior door in the house. Twice while I stayed with her, she’d wander from room to room, waving a smoking sage bundle and chanting under her breath to clear away evil spirits. After two months I was ready to go home to parents I’d grown to appreciate much more than I had before.

Still, she, her stories, and her home continue to tickle my imagination. Two years ago, I drafted a mystery staring my grandmother and her granddaughter (loosely based on me). It’s fiction and flips between her crazy flapper days and me exploring the house after her death. The unedited novel is stagnating in a computer file for now, but next year I plan to resurrect it. It’s the story I’ve always wanted to write–and this time finish.

What is the story you’ve always wanted to write down in a journal so you wouldn’t forget, for your children to understand you or your family better, for others in the form of a memoir? Why haven’t you written it yet?

 

 

 

I’m about halfway through The Life We Bury by Allen Eskens. It’s about a college student who has an English assignment to interview a stranger and write his or her biography. With time running out, he hurries to a nearby nursing home and meets someone willing to talk–a dying Vietnam veteran who’s also a convicted murderer.

I didn’t expect to like this story, but was desperate for something to listen to while exercising, since I couldn’t find anything else that appealed to me. Over thirteen thousand audible.com “readers” gave it a four and a half star rating, so I thought I’d give it a shot.

The readers’ ratings proved absolutely correct. The author’s phrases are lyrical, the story heartfelt, and the narrator terrific. Even so,  I’m getting more out of this story than I’d intended.

Both the protagonist, Joe, and the murderer had buried secrets that affected their lives, and it started me thinking about the secrets we all bury.  I unexpectedly found myself soul searching for the buried secrets that affected my behaviors and shaped my interpretations of everything around me–made me the person I am. It also gave me an insight into using secrets to help me create more complex characters.

Do you have secrets that molded your life?