Shabbat Shalom to those who see the potential in everything!
Let me know in the comments section how you reached your potential this past week.
Tuesday Tea – Philosopher
Every writer has a favorite beverage he or she imbibes while working through the creative process. Some are famous for partaking of large quantities of their preferred poison. But whether you enjoy coffee, tea, wine, or a stronger spirit, I’m sure you would admit that you’re not at your best until a cup, mug, glass, or tumbler of your chosen libation is coursing through your veins.
For me, that magic elixir is a large cup of tea. I’ve become a fan of loose-leaf teas and purchased stainless steel tea balls in single cup size and teapot size. I’m always on the lookout for my next favorite tea, and Philosopher from Gnat and Bee is the latest winner.
I love black tea, and as a black tea blend, Philosopher instantly caught my eye. What drew me in was the description: dark and earthy with chaga mushrooms for pensive mornings or afternoons. Isn’t that perfectly charming! It’s as if it was made for writers who stare out the window, seeing nothing before their eyes but everything about the scene taking place in their mind.
The specific ingredients are Yunnan black tea, Assam black tea, chaga mushrooms, toasted barley, and black peppercorns. The teas, mushrooms, and peppercorns are certified organic, and the packaging is eco-friendly. What’s not to love?
Dry in the bag, the initial aroma is sweet and slightly woody. Don’t inhale too deeply or you’ll set off a round of sneezing from the black peppercorns, although they finish the fragrance with a pleasant zestiness. You won’t taste the peppercorns as much as you’ll experience them as warmth on the backend of your sip. It’s much the same as when you’ve eaten something with a spicy ingredient that you feel in your mouth instead of taste as an individual flavor.
And speaking of flavor, Philosopher tastes like the quintessential tea. It’s what tea is supposed to taste like. It is the pinnacle of teas as far as I’m concerned. I know that sounds vague, so let me see if I can expound upon that description.
It’s smooth and silky, rich and earthy, elegant and unpretentious on the palate. It evokes images a hawk flying on a cloudy day, the sun burning through fog, dew on the grass, and slipping into a warm, dry barn to escape a sudden shower.
Please do not be put off by the presence of the chaga mushrooms, toasted barley, or black peppercorns. If you do not care for any one of these, I promise you will not taste them individually. Gnat and Bee have created a balanced blend that works in perfect harmony.
Water should be hot but not boiling, and brew time is perfect at four minutes of steeping and one minute of swirling the tea ball around my mug. This is, of course, adjustable based on the size of your cup and desired strength. I prefer mine without cream or sugar because I want to taste the tea itself. If you try it with one or both, please let me know in the comments how that worked for you.
Once brewed, the aroma becomes mild tobacco and sweet leather, the color is deep mahogany.
I hope you try Philosopher by Gnat and Bee. Let me know in the comments how their marvelous tea influenced your own pensive morning or afternoon.
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Goodbye to Sandra Dee
One of the highlights of my young life in the summer of 1978 was when my mother took me to see Grease at the theater inside Chapel Hill Mall. Only one other friend on my street had seen the movie, and it was due to her review that I begged my mother to take me.
I remember Mom embarrassed me in front of the young girl at the ticket counter when she asked if there was anything inappropriate for a child to see. The girl said there was a scene where some boys mooned everyone, but since I had no idea what that even meant, I turned pleading eyes on my mother.
A quick purchase of tickets and popcorn occurred, and the next thing I knew, Mom and I were sitting in a darkened theater where movie magic was about to take place.
Fast forward to August 8, 2022, and all my summer dreams are ripped at the seams. When I heard that Olivia Newton-John had passed away, I felt a small piece of my childhood slip from my grasp. Obviously, I never knew Olivia Newton-John, but what a shock that someone from my era had died. I actually missed this talented lady who I never met.
The first opportunity I had, I rewatched Grease. Great memories resurfaced, and I’ve had the songs stuck in my head for days now and enjoyed many of the dance scenes on YouTube.
In 1978, all I remember about the movie was that Sandy and Danny liked each other, hit some bumps along the way, and eventually got together, which is all that really mattered to me. One of my biggest joys was to relive this happily-ever-after scenario every time my cousin and I listened to her two-record copy of the original soundtrack.
Also, I made my husband watch the made-for-TV version every time it came on. I knew it was edited, but I didn’t realize how much until I took him to the theater to watch the 25th Anniversary re-release. Like a good sport, he had accepted that it was our movie, but boy did I get a surprise! It was as if I saw Grease for the first time.
All the bawdy comments and innuendo, the issue of teen pregnancy, and the drinking and smoking that had flown right over the head of the dance scene-loving grade-schooler I used to be was painfully apparent. I did pick up a titch of these things in the TV versions, but wow . . . And I understand the live stage version is even raunchier.
So, what’s my takeaway as I rewatch Grease this time around? First, I understand why my mother sat beside me quite stiffly if not exactly squirming. Second, I’m still picking up on the quickly delivered one-liners that I wouldn’t want an eight-year-old to hear.
This time, however, what really jumped out at me was the scene where Sandy has just watched Danny win the car race at Thunder Road. It’s evident that she wants to be part of the fun but doesn’t know how to join in. The lyrics of “wholesome and pure/oh so scared and unsure” don’t exactly go together except for the fact that the last words rhyme. What I mean is, the qualities of being wholesome and pure don’t lead to fear and insecurity, and it doesn’t mean your ignorant or boring.
Knowing that Sandy’s transformation to a sultry bad girl was about to take place made the lines somewhat awkward, especially since I’ve read some commentaries and reviews suggesting that Sandy was nothing more than a pathetic people pleaser who sacrificed herself, her desires, and any happiness just to maintain an unrealistic image. Now that’s pathetic.
Being kind and truthful without compromising your morals is never the wrong thing to do. Hopefully, Sandy’s wardrobe change doesn’t lead one to believe that to have fun, you must take up bad habits and look promiscuous. Notice during the “Summer Nights” routine that Sandy was quite happy and having a ball. True, Danny deceived her by not representing himself accurately at the beach, but this was no excuse for her to abandon common decency in appearance and actions.
What bothered me more was that once Sandy was in her Spandex-clad, off-the-shoulder top, high-heeled sandals ensemble, she never took a moment to recognize that Danny made the effort to change for her by lettering in track. Was a moment of compromise missed?
Let’s not forget that Rizzo, who did play fast and loose, longed for the same things Sandy did and ended up almost wrecking her life by pursuing her passions in the wrong way. I also believe it’s because Rizzo didn’t know how to handle her envious nature that she attempted to undermine Sandy at every turn. Only when she confronted her own actions in the song “There Are Worse Things I Could Do” did she begin to change.
But I’m still a little troubled that Sandy getting in touch with her inner vixen is the last thing a young person would remember. Are we to assume that being a bad-girl greaser is preferable? It’s as if the movie is saying, “If you want to be accepted by the popular kids, you’re going to have to be a little naughty.” Sadly, this is true but only if your ultimate goal in school is to hang out with the cool kids.
Unfortunately, it’s also true in society in general. More than ever, we live in a world that wants you to accept whatever is being pushed. If you chose not to, woe unto you, O Intolerant One. Stay strong and don’t buy into the lie that you must compromise your morals, kindness, or truthfulness just to be accepted and have fun. Please note that happiness isn’t even an offer on that table.
Sound a little heavy? Perhaps. Will I still watch Grease and enjoy it? Yes. How is this possible? Because I can view it through physically and spiritually mature eyes. I have lived this situation several times in my life. I excelled sometimes, and other times I had to readjust. The important thing is to keep learning.
So, thank you, Sandy, for giving me a lot to think about through the years. We’ll always be together.
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Quotation Station
Shabbat Shalom to my fellow creatives!
Let me know in the comments section what you created this past week.
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Writing Exercises
Writing books are replete with exercises meant to jumpstart your creativity. Even authors who write their memoirs can’t seem to resist mentioning the exercise that helped them. Whether the exercise is meant to focus your concentration or crowbar you out of a slump, I find writing exercises to be, well . . . tedious and annoying.
I remember a daily exercise where for one minute I wrote down the first ten things that came to mind. Then, no matter what the third thing was (or maybe it was the seventh), I spent another ten minutes writing about it.
I don’t know about you, but first thing in the morning my mind is creating a to-do list for the rest of the day, sometimes the week. My list often included thoughts such as take something out of the freezer for dinner, clean the litter box, and wash a load of jeans. Not exactly ideas worthy of ten minutes elucidation.
Needless to say, and yet I’m going to, I quickly tired of the exercise and abandoned it faster than a Spanx bodysuit in the women’s dressing room.
Now this isn’t to say that you shouldn’t try an exercise or two, and maybe they really have worked for someone, in which case I’d love to hear from you about the exercise and who suggested it. Don’t forget to include your results.
I have chosen a different approach to keep myself writing while larger works, like my novels and blog posts, swirl about my mind waiting to crystalize into something I can put on the page. For example, yesterday I left the laptop, pencils, and notebooks behind to spend the day with my grandbaby, Jacob. My writing flourished from the exercise.
I started by creating memories that don’t have to be edited because they’re already perfect, and now I can accurately describe a four-year-old’s laughter. It is pure sunshine. Then there are his little hands, more delicate than a bird’s wing and softer than a baby rabbit. Don’t forget his rubber band arms that he throws around my neck and noodle legs that he uses to run like a frisky colt.
And then there are his eyes, the color of melted chocolate; his eyebrows, pencil-thin and able to move independently of each other to express an array of emotions; or his knees, dappled blue and purple with a plethora of bruises.
His voice babbles like a little stream and makes about as much sense, his toes look like pink corn niblets, and his sweet head smells like warm grass.
So you see, I did write yesterday. I worked on description because there was way too much dialog to capture and most of it was delivered between fits of giggles and squealing. We do love a good game of tickle. Maybe I’ll recall this and use it in a story someday, maybe not. It really doesn’t matter as long as I keep at my writing.
Today, when Jacob is en route to his home in another state, I’ll return to the laptop, pencils, and notebooks. If I’m lucky, what I write then will be as perfect as what I wrote when I was with him.
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Quotation Station
Shabbat Shalom to all the intelligent
creatives out there having fun!
Let me know in the comments how your intelligence had fun this past week.
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Welcome Back
It’s been a while since I posted, but please don’t believe that I haven’t been busy because I have. I took the plunge some time ago and pulled back from social media. What an amazing advantage that proved to be when I shook off the fear of walking away. I realized quite quickly that my life wouldn’t implode if I wasn’t connected to social media twenty-four hours a day. Furthermore, my value as a person and a writer didn’t diminish in the least. The best part about that whole endeavor was when I connected with real people in real time. Go figure.
I may sound as if I’m welcoming you back, which I am, but I’m hopeful this will be an opportunity for you to welcome me back into your life. There’s a lot out there on the Internet and choosing to read what I create and post is appreciated more than words can say. But I’ll say it anyhow. Thank you!
However, this post is not an apology. As mentioned above, I needed the time away to craft better fiction of which I am extremely proud. I trust you will be, too, as I work to get it into the hands of my followers, whether I publish traditionally or independently.
As you come to know me better through my blog, one thing you’ll probably notice is that it’s different from other writing blogs out there. There’s a heavy personal touch to my posts. I did this in an effort to create openness and honesty. You’ll see the real me.
I’ve left everything intact since I started my blog, so please don’t hesitate to poke around. The first reason I did so is because I haven’t discounted the other novels I’ve written. They may still be published someday.
The second reason is because I’m not afraid to show a progression of growth in all aspects of my life on my blog. There are some things I posted that make me cringe but being vulnerable doesn’t compromise my strength. I’m open to discussion, so let’s have a conversation.
I’d love to hear from you in the comments about the creative endeavors are you pursuing. All artists are welcome here but kindly refrain from marketing and selling.
~HL Gibson
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Kings of the Earth by John Clinch
Well, there are the three Proctor brothers, and a sister and two parents, a well-meaning yet slightly nosy neighbor and his wife, the state trooper, the nephew, the brother-in-law, and throw in a couple drug dealers, a girlfriend, a waitress, and the narrator, and it makes for quite a few points of view, but such is John Clinch’s Kings of the Earth, and I haven’t read Clinch since his debut novel, Finn, which I absolutely loved and will try not to review here because this is about Vernon, Audie, and Creed Proctor, and everyone attached to the mystery that is their lives as well as the mystery of how Vernon actually died, so you must understand that what you have here is a slowly unfolding tale told through different perspectives and eras, but as you piece together the Proctor brothers’ existence you’ll begin to comprehend why they are like they are—maybe—but I couldn’t believe anyone, even fictional, could live as they do with years of grime worked into their very pores until it colors them and everything they touch a shade of wretched yellow to downright repulsive brown, and try as you might, the smell of them, which takes on a life of its own like another voice, comes right off the pages of the book with Clinch’s frequent reminders in the form of well-written description that you really could do without because you’ll find yourself wrinkling your nose and holding your mouth open the way you do when they’re trying not to smell something bad, but now you’ve gone and made it worse because you can taste it, and Lord knows you don’t want to taste it, but like looking at a bad car accident, you just can’t tear your eyes away from the pages because you need to know what happened, how, and why, and Clinch certainly delivers as he discards the ridiculous writing rule being taught to writers today about choosing one point of view and sticking with it, and let me tell you he brilliantly breaks that one and many others in such a way as to give close-up views and sweeping panoramas, so you find yourself drawn in like one of those visitors who comes to see Audie’s whirligigs, but now you don’t know who you’re rooting for, and then all too soon the writing stops but the story never does.
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Anya by Susan Fromberg Schaeffer
Don’t read Anya by Susan Fromberg Schaeffer if all you want is a quick read about the Holocaust. Today’s writers are cranking out enough of those complete with prescribed character arcs and inciting incidents occurring within the first three pages guaranteed to keep you hooked. If, however, you’re willing to be stitched into the fabric of life of the protagonist, if you are willing to invest yourself in details and description, if you are interested in conversation that reads like it takes place at a large family gathering, then Anya just might be your novel.
The book reads like one long memory, and I believe it is this quality that makes the events of Anya’s life so seamless. The transition from well-off daughter, wife, and mother to a woman scrambling to keep her family together in the ghetto and then hold herself together mentally and physically in the concentration camps is so smooth. Perhaps it’s because very little detail about the war is provided as if the reader should already know the particulars of how, why, who, when, what, and where. Rather, we are given Anya’s perspective and reaction to everything that occurs. In fact, it’s very late in the war years that Hitler is even mentioned and only then as somebody far away who somehow has power over Anya’s life.
The reader will always be right in the moment with Anya. Schaeffer creates tension that keeps the reader from holding on to Anya’s past because the danger of the situation prevents one from mourning what was lost. There is simply no time to do so. That will come later. Maybe. As for the future, don’t bother contemplating it because it is inconceivable that a future—at least a positive one—could even exist with all Anya is forced to endure and to do just to survive. The only saving grace is that this is not your story, dear reader. Unless maybe it was.
What I found to be the most chilling as I lived Anya’s story with her was the fact that I mentally collected her actions and words to fall back on in case I found myself in a similar situation. Perhaps it is the political, social, and cultural climate of today that subconsciously prompted me. I honestly cannot say. Still, for a work of fiction, Anya is one novel whose influence and impact will stay with me for a long time. I have said before that finishing a well-written book was like leaving behind great friends. The same is true for Anya. The ghosts will live on.
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The Scarlet Pimpernel
Zounds! Zooks! And maybe even a few Egads! Although I may be flashing back to Clarence Day in Life with Father. These exclamations are just one of the many things that make The Scarlet Pimpernel so adorably charming. Who knew that cozy mysteries came in a vintage version? And thank you, Baroness Orczy, for taking only five weeks to transform your well-received play into a novel that reads like it was written in only five weeks.
“This can’t be a vintage cozy mystery,” you protest. “It’s about the Reign of Terror in France.” Yes, well, gentle reader, this version is about the more swashbuckling side of those dark days in the history of France. It features a thinly veiled hero, a beauty in need of rescue, and a villain who rubs his hands in malicious glee all the while laughing, “Bwa-ha-ha-ha!” At least that’s what I heard in my head every time Chauvelin rubbed his hands together. Which he did with annoying frequency. For a more realistic, yet still fictional, rendering of the Reign of Terror, I suggest A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens.
Let’s also not forget to thank the Baroness for failing to consult her thesaurus for alternative adjectives when describing her three main characters. By the end of the novel, if you don’t know that Sir Percy Blakeney is inane, Lady Marguerite Blakeney is the most fêted woman in London, and Chauvelin is sarcastic, then you haven’t been paying attention. Then there is the gorgeous gorgeousness of life for the Blakeneys even though (SPOILER ALERT) they’re going through a bit of marital discord at the moment. In her defense, the Baroness did come from writ
ing plays to novels, and perhaps she forgot that the repetitive adjectives worked better as onstage direction rather than actual words one has to read over and over and over.
Let’s take a closer look at Baroness Orczy’s hero, Marguerite Blakeney. “Wait—Marguerite is the lady in need of rescue. She couldn’t possibly be the hero of this story,” you again protest. Yes, well, since we’re all pretending we don’t know Sir Percy is the Scarlet Pimpernel, you must admit the majority of the story is told from Marguerite’s point of view. This small detail is a pleasant surprise as the reader is treated to a transformation in Marguerite’s character. And then Lady Blakeney ruins the ride by falling back in love with her husband and needing rescue herself thus shining the last few moments of glory on Sir Percy AKA the Scarlet Pimpernel. Way to dissapoint the feminists, Baroness.
I would have thought an inane man who kept an extra set of sumptuous clothing on his yacht into which he could change after performing astounding feats of derring-do to thwart a sarcastic villain would gladly have shared the heroic limelight with his fêted wife. As for Sir Percy’s alternate identity, it’s easy to see why he chose the Scarlet Pimpernel over the Red Ninny or the Crimson Fop. Those last two certainly wouldn’t make a damsel in distress tremble with desire.
The brilliant naming schemes don’t end there, dear reader. The worst is given to Mr. Jellyband whose name is so painfully, so obviously not a real name but rather a representation of his jovial character that I’m a titch surprised we weren’t further inflicted with Sir Manly Gorgeousbod, Lady Beauty Misunderstood, and Baddy Badguy. But really, the novel is so stinking precious than one simply cannot help but laugh aloud. To hate it would be like hating kittens, puppies, and babies.
hl gibson, author 