Posts

Posted on by Ellen Seaton - No Comments on On The Road To A Writer’s Conference

On The Road To A Writer’s Conference

I was in one of my favorite Texas cities recently (one of my favorites other than Houston, of course). The Writer’s League of Texas held their annual Agents & Editors Conference in Austin. Here is the handy cloth bag everyone was given during registration. Not sure where the idea for the bird came from, but we also received a nice pair of blue sunglasses in our welcome packet. This was my first state-wide writer’s conference. It was everything I had hoped for and more.

The location for this event was the Hyatt Regency that overlooks Lady Bird Lake. Service was good, food was good, beds were comfy, and everything was in one place. Since this took place in June, you were never required to leave the hotel with the fully functioning air conditioning system. However, there was a hike and bike trail right outside the hotel and we were within a block of the Congress Street Bridge where one could view bats flying on a nightly basis. In between conference sessions I could watch as the kayaks and canoes floated down the river. This particular view was taken from the 17th floor outside of areas where the meetings took place with a large group of agents and editors. More about that later.

One of the many perks of this conference were the keynote speakers who distributed copies of their books. For the Saturday luncheon, we heard an inspiring talk by Naomi Shihab Nye and received her most recent book of poetry, Voices in the Air: Poems for Listeners.

There were also break out sections on the craft of writing; such as, Crafting Irresistible Opening Pages. Always a good skill for a writer. Then there were the sessions on what to expect from an agent, what questions to ask an agent, and self-promotion for the indie writer. There were genre specific sessions on memoir, historical fiction, mystery/thriller, etc. I never knew there were so many writers in the Picture Book/Middle Grade/Young Adult genre. I met many authors who were working towards their first publication and those who have published many books.

During the opening reception I ran into Sean who works with Typewriter Rodeo. This means he sat behind a typewriter and I gave him the subject of a writer writing a book about Memphis and here is the custom poem he wrote:

Let me tell you a bit

About me—

I was raised

On the music-streaming streets

Of Memphis

I’ve got rhythm and blues

In my blood

I have seen and heard things

That will inspire you

To sing

Will inspire you to get up and dance

And things that will also haunt you

To the drumbeat core

Want to know

All about it?

Well look for the greatest story

Soon to hit the shelves…

This is what my cat, Hannah, looked like when I got home and shared the poem with her. She’s a tough audience!

Finally, I met several agents while I was there and am pleased to report that three are interested in my book. Now I am writing myself silly, working on a book proposal, polishing and workshoping two chapters and finishing the whole first draft. That’s really good news and a heck of a lot of work to do. I better go get busy!

Until next week.….

Posted on by Melanie Ormand - 1 Comment on Never too Old to Watch…and Play

Never too Old to Watch…and Play

I became old—officially—on July 4th.

Blame our neighborhood park, where DH and I celebrated Uncle Sam’s 243rd birthday. After 27 years living here, it was past time.

We walked onto the long expanse of green grass and eyeballed the park’s passel of playground equipment.

I recognized only one of the thinga-ma-jigs that surrounded us. 

And that understanding came only with the arrival of two energetic boys.

The pair scrambled atop either end of the long pole then immediately began to pump their legs and feet hard into the ground.

See-saw! 

I looked again, staring and remembering.

Images of childhood see-saw rides flooded. Austin Elementary School and a little girl trying to ride a thick, wide wood plank, the boards themselves mirrors of a homebuilder’s two-by-four. What followed those rides, inevitably, were the curses of splinters left behind. Pun intended. 

But this century’s log-saw comes sweetly repurposed, offering redemption for old recess injuries.

A long piece of wood—either a skinny tree trunk or a thick oak branch—lays balanced and centered, atop a funky H‑frame lever device (sorry, an engineering lexicon never married my vocabulary). There’s a metal disc for sitting so today’s riders suffer no more splinters. A recycled steel bar and tire remnants support hands and feet.

Then there’s this gizmo.

Can you explain what this is?

How do you play with it?

The green topper reminds me of what sits in my kitchen sink.

What the…? My mind races through all sorts of possibilities. Zilch. Nada. What the…? When I repeat myself, trouble looms.

I walk closer, zooming in the camera. Then I notice no children are playing here, a comforting thought for this oldster.

Less than a handful of youngsters ventured close. Fewer still stepped up and touched the pole. We all figured out, from brave demonstration, the thing swings around but none could reach Green Sponge‑y. I didn’t care to try.

Eventually, even I turned away.

This round swing-a-thingy elicited belly mounts and familiar cries.

Higher-higher-higher! came the youngest voices as parents and older siblings obeyed commands.

At last, I smiled. It felt nice to understand.

Throughout the afternoon, my neck craned then ached from watching endless activity throughout the park. I counted eight permanent pieces of playground equipment, recognizing only three. See-saw/Log-saw, the swing set, and a kiddie tunnel.

I’d post pictures of the other five structures for you but then I’d have nothing to report next week.

I’m going back. Gonna ride all eight of these and figure them out.

After all, playgrounds are for adults, too.

Posted on by Ellen Seaton - No Comments on The Road To Relaxation

The Road To Relaxation

I heard some news reporter on television talk about how the July 4th weekend was turning into a big sales day. Not quite as big as Black Friday, but it could get there in a couple of years. Do we really need another shopping day extravaganza? Do we need to start our holiday shopping in July?

Not me. Nor did I go out to sit in the sun to attend an all-day concert. What did I do? I rested and relaxed.

Yesterday I went to see Men In Black: International. It’s a good movie. I wasn’t sure how I would like all the new characters, but it worked for me. I laughed and was quite entertained. Afterwards my friend and I went out to dinner. A good day.

Today I went to my new favorite spot in Houston. The Greenhouse Day Spa. This is a new spa, but the people who work there are great. I started getting massages and facials years ago when I had stressful jobs. Now I continue the habit just because it is a good thing to do. And it’s relaxing. And I enjoy it. You get the picture. Also it is a great way to relax when it is in the middle of summer and the temperature outside feels like 110 degrees (literally, I’m not making that up).

At Greenhouse Day Spa you start out in this cool reception room where the atmosphere alone helps you to begin the relaxation process. A few minutes in that space and I am ready to completely relax. Annie, who is both an esthetician and massage therapist, is wonderful to have working on my aging face and creaky old joints.

Self-care is important for all of us. When was the last time you had a massage? Since mine was today, I am so relaxed that I am thinking of going to bed early and getting a good night’s rest.

Until next week.….

Posted on by Melanie Ormand - No Comments on Do all Roads Lead to Texas?

Do all Roads Lead to Texas?

Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org

Sam Houston, that mean-looking dude with the funky bow tie, remains a revered soul where I live.

He served as president of the Republic of Texas and later, U.S. senator and governor.

Before holding those positions in Texas, Houston served as governor of Tennessee. The only American to be elected governor of two U.S. states.

Who cares? you ask.

Houston popped up, in all places, near Nashville, my most recent road trip.

What I thought was Music City turned out to be horse country. 

As in big league, prized racehorses. 

Belle Meade plantation sits eight miles west of Nashville. Besides raising thoroughbreds, the plantation housed Sam Houston’s horses when the Tennessee governor quit his job and headed west to Texas.

DH and I knew none of this history when we strolled down the lane toward the Big House. We admired the gentle hills and landscape of the perfectly named Belle Meade, meaning beautiful meadow.

We both assumed old cotton fields lay near. Instead, we spied this photo montage near the wide front porch.

Docents confirmed that Belle Meade served as a working stud farm. The only crops grown fattened the horses and fed the family.

The plantation became world famous for its thoroughbred stable. Its horses won races across Europe then sired horses who did the same.

Secretariat, Sea Biscuit, and Barbarro all emerged from what’s called “the foundational line” at Belle Meade. In addition, every Kentucky Derby horse since 2003 is directly related to Belle Meade studs.

I’m not a horse girl but all these factoids fascinate: a southern plantation raising horses, not cotton; boarding a stable-full of animals owned by my home state’s founding hero, and still producing champion racehorses more than a century later.

The experience reminds me: no telling what the road will deliver.

Final note, racehorses made the Belle Meade owners wealthy and famous. Three U.S. presidents stayed at the Big House.

The family’s children played in the Little House.

But it’s not so little, is it?

It’s big enough for big girls, too.

Posted on by Ellen Seaton - No Comments on Tintype Field Trip

Tintype Field Trip

Remember when you were a kid in school and went on field trips? Weren’t they exciting? As an adult I have perfected the art of the field trip.

Enter Laura Burlton and Houston Tintype Studio.

Who is Laura Burlton? A very talented photographer here in the Houston area. She does all of your basic types of photography. However she also has developed crazy mad skills when it comes to Tintype Photography.

What you may ask is Tintype Photography? Think about all of the photos that were taken during the mid to late 1800’s. (Yes, including the Civil War.) A Google search told me that the photograph is made by “…creating a direct positive on a thin sheet of metal coated.….dark lacquer or enamel.….photographic emulsion.….”. Better yet, here are some examples of work by Laura Burlton.

For those of us who are not technologically inclined, this is a fun way to have your picture taken.

These are not your run-of-the-mill digital photos. These are not selfies. The pictures are taken one at a time. With a camera. Not taken with a phone. There is skill and artistry involved in these pictures. To have my picture taken, I sat on a stool in front of the camera. I posed. Laura Burlton put a metal plate into the camera. There was a bright flash of light and a mild puff of warm air. Then Laura took the plate into her darkroom and re-emerged with one photo.

The trickiest part of this whole process had nothing to do with the artist or the photography process. It had do to with me. For many years I have hated to have my picture taken. I have never liked any picture ever taken of me. Yet, I have recently undergone gastric sleeve surgery and have lost a bunch of weight. What the heck do I look like? Other people see a difference, but I don’t always feel any different. Pictures are good for comparisons.

Here is my favorite picture. Why yes, I am wearing a Bowler hat. Why? Does anyone need to give a serious answer when wearing a Bowler hat? Obviously, I am still exploring this surrealistic phase of life that I have entered. It’s fun. I really don’t understand why more people don’t wear Bowler hats. I’m pretty sure it would help lead to world peace if more people would just wear Bowler hats. What do you think?

I like the fact that these are black and white photos. Black and white photos are developed in a dark room. This involves time and patience. A dramatic play between light and dark and shadows that cannot be found in color digital pictures.

Here is another fun picture from the Tuesday field trip. I think this one makes me look mysterious. This is the one I should bring out at Halloween and use to scare small children. Boo! I don’t know about you, but I don’t think I would mess with this woman. Yes, I am still wearing the Bowler hat; however, I could throw this hat at you and it just might hurt you. Who knows? As always, I am really looking forward to Halloween. Here in Houston my favorite holiday is just one hurricane season away.

Many thanks to Laura Burlton and Houston Tintype Studio for allowing me to have such a fun time Tuesday morning. Here is Laura talking to me from her dark room. This was towards the end of our session when all of the magic of the darkroom was finished. I can highly recommend this experience and will definitely go back myself for more fun and frolic.

Until next week.….

Posted on by Melanie Ormand - No Comments on A Labyrinth Speaks

A Labyrinth Speaks

Friday’s first e‑mail, the “Message of the Day,” began “Open to the New…”.

It closed with “See things with a beginner’s attitude of wonder.”

Those words buzzed in my head as I drove before sunrise to Rothko Chapel’s Summer Solstice observance.Two key differences this season:

1) Because the chapel is under renovation, the event moved to the Gueymard Meditation Garden at the University of St. Thomas, and

2) Because that garden includes a labyrinth, we—60 strong—walked the Chartres-based path together.

Joining us before/during the observance were persistent Southwest Airlines jets and a receding full moon.

Sweet and sour — both unexpected company.

But the noise and the vision reminded me: we’re all on a journey of some kind.

Every day. We’re either coming or going but j‑o-u-r-n-e-y-i-n‑g all the same. Am I too much the Pollyanna, suggesting we must all remember this?

The music of flutist Laura Lucas and guitarist John Edward Ross muted traffic passing by on West Alabama. All the color sang, too.

As only red roses and orange dresses can. 

A trio of water fountains bubbled to life at eight a‑m.

A blanket of comfort fluttered down: water’s best offering when it springs forth in such peaceful solace.

With a crowd this large, we bumped, turned, reversed, and paused our way along the four quadrants of the labyrinth.

Even so, we disappeared into our internal worlds as we traveled. No words spoken anywhere. None needed on this circular path.

Amid steady turns along the single-lane path, we progressed toward the labyrinth’s center point. There, we each paused, reflected, then headed back out to where we each had started.

Before we began, our walk facilitator, Jay Stailey, had suggested using the words release-receive-return as touchstones. One word for each phase of the three-part labyrinth journey. 

The notion intrigued: that’s how we’ve been programmed to think of our lives. Three parts. Beginning-middle-end. I wonder: have I been using using the wrong words for 62 years?

Truth is, there’s no ‘wrong way’ to live — or labyrinth. How can there be when both still confuse so many?

Labyrinths exist globally, crossing cultures and centuries, religions and governments. They’ve survived because these pathways offer a universal place for meaning and healing.

Scholars such as Jean Houston consider the labyrinth a powerful tool for suspending left-brain activity (logic, analysis, structured thinking) in favor of tapping our right-brain gifts of intuition, creativity, and imagination.

That concept roared in my ear after I finished my labyrinth walk.

Heading to the car, I walked by the Chapel of St. Basil and a burst of sunlight beamed right onto my face.

With it came the words — “good walk, messages received, new season, better days.” 

That green dot of light?

You tell me. It’s not a laser because no one was around. The labyrinth stands on the opposite side of this building. The campus is closed for the summer.

Woo-woo, indeed. 

A solstice to remember.

Posted on by Ellen Seaton - No Comments on What Language Is Spoken On This Road?

What Language Is Spoken On This Road?

First the good news.

A good time was had by all at the art exhibition called Midsummer Light. It was presented by the Women In The Visual and Literary Arts. I really enjoyed being a part of this experience and exhibiting my photographs. If you did not get to the opening reception, the exhibition will remain up for your viewing pleasure until July 19th at the Christ Church Cathedral’s Cloister Gallery, 1117 Texas Avenue. The venue is open from 11 am to 2 pm Monday through Friday while Treebeards serves lunch.

In other news:

Sometimes I just have to laugh at myself. Sometimes I do things that just go a slight bit awry. Nothing huge. I’ve never killed anyone.….that I know about. If I did it was certainly a mistake. But sometimes all of the technology.….phones.….computers.….televisions.…..can just be a bit much.

For instance, let’s consider Amazon. I order things from Amazon. Mostly books, but sometimes other things. I have been buying things — especially books — all my life. Here is my most recent acquisition that I received on Tuesday. It is a book about Vincent Van Gogh.

First, I apologize for blogging one more time about Vincent. I know I have blogged about him quite a bit lately. However, it does involve my latest acquisition from Amazon and the reason for this blog will soon be made clear. Remember that patience is a virtue.

This book had been highly recommended to me. I was looking forward to receiving it. When I had it in my hot little hands, I sat down in my most comfy reading chair and opened the envelope. I liked the cover. I like a lot of Vincent’s self portraits. He did quite a few of them. I sat back and began to open the book ready to learn more about this artist.

As soon as I open the book I see another self portrait. I am happy. I am relaxed. It still looks like a really nice book doesn’t it? Look closely. Closer. Do you notice anything? At this point I was still happy and relaxed. I hadn’t noticed anything. But wait!

I turned a few more pages and began reading the content. Here is the content that talks about the painting of the potato eaters. I think that’s what it says. Yet, I don’t really know for sure, do I? Why don’t I know? Because I don’t read French! My book is printed in French. How did this happen?

I wasn’t looking for a French book. I spent 5 years studying Spanish. I have never spoken a word of French. Quickly I looked back at the confirmation I received from Amazon when I ordered this book. I look and look and keep looking. Finally down, down, down the email confirmation I go. I look very carefully at the very small print. Language: French.

EGAD! Lesson learned. I still like the pictures in this book. I will keep it and may use some of the photos for collage work. Who knows?

Maybe one day I’ll meet a new friend who reads French and likes books about Vincent Van Gogh.

I remain forever hopeful.

Until next week.….

Posted on by Melanie Ormand - No Comments on Chattanooga: Cemeteries, not Choo-Choo’s

Chattanooga: Cemeteries, not Choo-Choo’s

I stand stunned.

The Tennessee River at sunset brings Chattanooga and its hills to unexpected life.

Another surprise awaits on that opposite spit of land.

It’s a peninsula called Moccasin Bend, home to America’s very first Americans.

Twelve. Thousand. Years. Ago.

Can you comprehend that number better than I cannot?

These natives planted maize and corn, fished the river, and hunted small animals. Later came the Cherokee then Spanish explorers. The latter bore disease that decimated the original settlers.

Nowadays, Moccasin Bend holds title as the nation’s first and only National Archaeological District, maintained by the National Park Service. 

The site, called “our most unique offering” by park rangers, remains under excavation for both its ancient burial mounds and artifacts from antiquity. Arrowheads are only the tip of this iceberg. 

Make that peninsula, and yes, pun intended.

Site excavation work continues today. Neighbors include private homes, a golf course, police firing range, water treatment plant, and the state’s largest mental hospital.

Only in America do homeowners, golf balls, live bullets, stinky water, and the mentally ill romp among ancient arrowheads and old cemeteries.

From here, though, turn east to see another burial ground. It’s what delivered DH and me to Choo-Choo-Ville.

At the Chattanooga National Cemetery, we buried DH’s college roommate. Mike joins 50-thousand other soldiers, and some prisoners of war, buried here. 

These graves represent only a fraction of America’s war dead across 150+ years of armed conflict.

Holy ground:  consider that the picture captures only one hill of a rolling 121-acre site. Even non-patriots gasp at this view.

This Union cemetery came to life in Confederate territory because, as the site superintendent explained to us, “34,000 bodies after a single fight — the Battle of Chattanooga in 1863 — means you find land where you can. And fast.”

As the Civil War raged, survivors buried soldiers wherever cemetery space could be located.

That’s how Anthony Osterdock landed in Chattanooga National Cemetery. 

A native Frenchman who enlisted from Indiana, Osterdock died in Virginia’s Battle of Piedmont. 

We say we’re well-traveled and living globally?

Osterdock’s was one of a long row of graves that carried the same date of death. A pattern repeated across too many rows of this cemetery.

A few rows later, I spotted this one-name tombstone.

Desperate for a break from the afternoon drumbeat of intense emotions, I whispered to myself: so, girl, who’s buried in Grant’s tomb?

I laughed then remembered where I stood. Hand clapped over my mouth, another voice whispered.

Mike would understand. 

A soft smile filled my lips.

Levity heals on hard days.

Posted on by Ellen Seaton - 4 Comments on On The Road With Vincent

On The Road With Vincent

Every morning this week I have found myself in very familiar surroundings. I am back at the Glassell School of Art. Sitting in the auditorium listening to Dr. Anna Tahinci talk about art while she shares a PowerPoint presentation.

The subject this time is the current exhibition at the Museum of Fine Arts Houston called Vincent Van Gogh: His Life in Art. I have strolled through the exhibition twice so far, but I knew I wanted to get more in depth with the subject.

Vincent Van Gogh, the person and the artist, has fascinated me for years. I remember the song, Vincent (Starry, starry night) by Don McLean that was popular back in 1971 (Yes, I am old enough to remember this. I was in Junior High School which was just the right time to sit in my room, playing records, and feeling dramatically impassioned in a way only possible for an impressionable teenager.)

I am now learning about the journey that Vincent took through his life and how that was reflected in his art. He started out learning about lines and drawing. Then when he started painting many of his works were similarly monochrome.

Gradually, working with color theory, Vincent’s paintings became more and more colorful. He dabbed some red next to a green background that stands out and continues to communicate to the viewer to this day. He painted a great deal with yellow. He even painted yellow on yellow which is no small trick. In several pictures he showed us his pipe and tobacco, and his hat. He even showed us a letter from his brother Theo. It is as if these still life paintings are a variation of the self portraits he also left for us. We can see what he thought of as important and how he saw himself.

Quite paradoxically, the brighter and more vivid the colors became in his paintings; the more Vincent struggled. It was while he was living in the now famous yellow house that he decorated with bright yellows, blues and oranges. This was the spot where he also quarreled with friends and cut off part of his ear. Still he showed us everything he had inside him by painting a self portrait while his ear was still wrapped in bandages.

Realism, Impressionism, Neo-Impressionism, Impasto, and Pointillism are just a few words used to describe Vincent’s work. He only spent the last 10 years of his life as a painter, yet he completed approximately 2100 artworks. He was most prolific during the last two years of his life. He had so much to share and to show us in such a small amount of time.

As Don McLean sang in 1971:

Now I understand, what you tried to say to me, and how you suffered for your sanity, and how you tried to set them free. They would not listen, they did not know how. Perhaps they’ll listen now.

Until next week.….

Posted on by Melanie Ormand - No Comments on Oops! When Gadgets Crash Good Intentions

Oops! When Gadgets Crash Good Intentions

On the flight home from Nashville, I outlined today’s blog post.

It included somber details from a military funeral in Chattanooga followed by a pescaterian adventure with pulled pork, Moon Pies, and Tennessee kale.

A rowdy swing at the Grand Old Opry collapsed in comparison to the quiet intimacy of The Bluebird Café and a Sealy-bred guitar player named Jamie Lin Wilson.

Touring a Southern plantation presupposed cotton fields and grim living conditions for African-Americans. But, now it’s a museum honoring its differences: raising thoroughbred horses (as in Secretariat’s dad) and distilling Tennessee whiskey. Another frame of reference blown apart.

Seventy-two hours in Tennessee ended with more life learnings. But you’ll have to wait to read them.

My iPhone—the brand new one that I bought a week ago today—crashed into blackest black yesterday. Ergo—no pictures to share.

Who in today’s on-line world wants to read a blog sans images or sound? Our eyes and brains operate differently now, thanks to successful rewiring from small screens. Thank you, techies.

A black screen also means no texting or calling or news-surfing. Forced LOMO offers opportunity, always a good reframing for antiquated habits.

The hardest learning centers on my encounters with the phone’s creator. Dealing with Apple feels like stumbling around blindfolded at three in the morning. From deep inside the Rocky Mountains.

Between recent RoadBroad excursions to New York City and Nashville, I’ve met Apple staff six times via telephone, online, and in-person.

It began as my familiar iPhone 6s began to crap out in Manhattan. Constant battery pack offers its only survival. I called Apple from DH’s device.

During the twelve-hour, H‑Town spend-over, I bought the new unit. It’s a fancy Xr: “our latest and greatest! ” the millennial teen vowed.

Now, I’m awaiting Tuesday’s Genius Bar appointment. In the dark.

Meantime, I’m drafting a report for Mr. Tim Cook.

A writer always has a Story.