I suppose it is a cliché to report that Paul Newman was even more handsome in real life, but it is true.  And, yes, his eyes were that blue.

Mr. Newman always said he hated his first movie, The Silver Chalice, a Biblical costume film he so despised that he took out an ad in Variety magazine, apologizing for it.  He once said he wished he could buy up all the copies of the movie and burn them.  By coincidence, I recently purchased a VHS tape of the movie (it's hard to find, I got it on eBay).  I am about to begin the research for my next book, The Divining, which is the sequel to Soul Flame (which takes place in ancient Rome, the same years and setting as The Silver Chalice), and I find it helpful to watch movies on the subject I am about to write about to get me into the atmosphere.

I hope Mr. Newman will forgive me.

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The equinox has always been celebrated in various ways (besides putting out a pumpkin collection).  In ancient Britain, the mysterious Megalithic peoples who pre-dated the Celts, Romans and Saxons, created Stonehenge and other stone structures to be so precisely aligned that the exact moment of the equinox could be determined. The early Christian Church replaced the pagan fall festival with Michaelmas, the feast of the Archangel Michael.  Teutonic tribes in Europe called the fall equinox "The Winter Finding."  The Chumash Indians of Southern California celebrated the fall equinox with spiritual thoughts on the importance of unity in the face of winter confinement, death and rebirth. 

In astrology, the day of the fall equinox is when the sun enters the sign of Libra, the constellation of scales and balance, which perhaps gave rise to an old wives' tale tells us that on the day of the equinox, which is a time of balance where the daylight hours and nighttime hours are equal, one can balance an egg on its end without it falling over.

Of course, having the autumn equinox in September is a phenomenon of the Northern Hemisphere.  When I was doing research for The Dreaming, I was in Australia for the summer celebration of Christmas, and when I went back to do more research for the book I am currently writing, Black Opal, I helped my family in Tasmania celebrate Easter in the fall!  It was quite confusing to be "upside down" in the seasons.  

But today is September 22nd, the first day of fall in Riverside, California, and if you will pardon me, I have to bring my elegant pumpkin collection out of storage.  

Personal to Dorothy S. - the book I was trying to think of is "Breaking the Maya Code" by Michael D. Coe.  While it is non-fiction, the book is written in such an engaging style, and the subject so fascinating, that it reads like a novel.  I highly recommend it.

My answer would be that, while I occasionally do use symbolism in my books, usually in themes or events, my characters do not symbolize anything.  They are simply ordinary people who find themselves in extraordinary circumstances.  As I said in a previous blog, I like to put myself in my heroine's shoes.  I create problems and obstacles for that heroine, and then I ask myself: what would I do in this situation?  I suppose this is where Barbara Wood the author sometimes enters the story.  Most writers will tell you that fiction is autobiographical.  The writer cannot help but put a little of herself or himself into the story, because, let's face it, although we are crafting an invented tale, we are drawing upon our own real life experience, as well as our own personal well of emotions, memories, and conditioned responses.

I had not set out to make Joanna and Pauline two halves of a super-woman, just two women who seemed realistic and alive, and who would reasonably, in real life, become friends - ordinary women whom we already know, or would like to know.  I think this is what makes a story good, and interesting.  I enjoy reading novels that feature characters who are believable and, above all, likeable.  

But, you might ask, what about thoroughly detestable characters whom we also seem to like?  Those would be called "villains," and a topic for another blog.

The first thing to strike the visitor, of course, is the size and majesty of the pyramid itself, rising out of dense jungle as it does, and built by a people who were at the peak of advanced culture and civilization while Europe was muddling through the Dark Ages.  But on that special day of the vernal equinox, we were there for more than mere admiration of a pyramid.  We were there to see magic happen.

At the precise moment of the spring equinox, at 1.31pm GMT, a giant serpent appeared magically on the steps of the pyramid and slithered its way down to the bottom where it appeared, people say, to be heading for the famous Well of Sacrifice.  Our modern and scientific minds told us that the illusion was caused by the sun's rays hitting a corner of the pyramid, thereby casting seven golden triangles along the edge of the stairway.  As the sun moved, so did the triangles, riding on six points of shadow, so that our eyes were tricking into seeing a giant snake descending the pyramid, with the final sunlight falling upon the giant serpent's head at the foot of the stairs.  

An illusion, we told ourselves.  And yet another part of us - there were thousands of celebrants there that day - believed that something more than modern science could explain was afoot.  We were in the presence of the Supernatural.  At first there was silence and awe in the crowd, but when the serpent appeared and began his descent down the pyramid, people began to chant and sing, they raised their arms heavenward.  Many wept openly with joy and religious awe.
 
And then the most amazing thing happened.  At the precise moment the serpent reached the bottom step and his giant snake head was illuminated, the moon became visible in the eastern sky, hanging in balance with the sun in the west.  Cheers erupted then as those seven golden triangles riding on six points of shadow - producing the sacred Mayan number of thirteen - heralded the moment of the god Kukulcan arriving to bless the world with cosmic energy.

I was awestruck.

And I was dizzy with questions.  How had they done it?  How could an ancient people, who did not have metal tools, or the wheel or beasts of burden, build such a monumental structure, and do it so precisely that on only two days of the year - very significant days - a golden serpent appears on its steps?  And why did they do it, what was the purpose of the serpent-illusion?  What did it mean?  Who were the Maya?  Where did they come from?  Where did they go?  Why did they build such vast and fabulous cities only to abandon them in what seems to be abrupt exoduses?

My questions led me to exploration and research, and the answers then led me to the story that I ultimately had to tell - of the incredible civilization that archaeologists and historians have only recently begun to explain and shed light upon.  Woman Of A Thousand Secrets, my 23rd novel and officially published today (available now at Amazon.com, Barnes&Noble.com, and booksellers everywhere) is the result of my personal odyssey into the rich culture and mysteries of the ancient Maya.

It is indeed a book about a thousand secrets.

For example, prior to the twentieth century, it was difficult for a woman to find employment (other than sweatshop labor or domestic work), and certainly no employment that would enable her to live on her own and perhaps support a child or two.  Unmarried women without financial resources were at the mercy of their families (the unwanted maiden aunt was a pitied creature throughout history), and if there was no one to take care of them, women were forced into terrible situations in order to survive.  Many chose marriage to men they didn't even like.  And once in an unhappy marriage, there was no way out.  Divorce is a phenomenon of the modern age.  A woman in an abusive marriage was trapped. 

And of course there was always the issue of pregnancy outside of marriage.  Until the very recent modern age (post 1960's), this was a terrible stigma that forced women to seek ways of avoiding becoming the pariah known as the "unwed mother."  And then there are the struggles of women who attempted to break out of the traditional woman's role of wife and mother, who dared to enter professions restricted to men and who suffered greatly for their attempts. 

Throughout history, while men have ruled and have had, let's face it, a fairly easy time of it relative to how women fared, the gentler sex has had to be very resourceful, courageous, resilient and spiritual in order to survive, or to guarantee the survival of her babies.  

This is why I write about women in history, why they are the stars of my books - it is a challenge for me as a writer to put myself in their peculiar shoes (and women have worn some mighty strange shoes through the centuries) and see how we manage to survive against all odds.

But for those of you who like male protagonists, my latest novel, Woman Of A Thousand Secrets, features a star soccer player who is as much the hero of the book as is Tonina, whose story it is.

The photo's caption explained that she was the Singapura breed.  One of the smallest breeds of cats, the Singapura is noted for its large eyes and ears, brown ticked coat and shortened and blunt tail.  The name comes from the traditional name for Singapore, singapura, which means "lion city" in Malay.  The calendar described her as a wild cat of Singapore's streets, beautiful but homeless, a survivor against all odds.  And I started thinking of the cat in the picture in terms of a person.  Gradually she morphed from four-legged feline into a lovely two legged human being who, over the weeks, eventually became Mei-ling, the heroine of my novel, PERFECT HARMONY.  (As an aside: "Singapura" was the working title of that book until we all agreed that the translation of Mei-ling, "perfect harmony," would suit the story more.)

I said that two of my novels were inspired by felines.  So what is the second one?  Well, it hasn't been written yet (it is in fact next in the line-up after I have finished BLACK OPAL) and I never like to divulge what a book is going to be about while I am still developing it.  But I can give you a hint: the breed of cat that inspires my next book is the Egyptian Mau.

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I enjoy book events because they are opportunities to make new friends and meet fellow book lovers.  I also find it such a pleasure to meet the people behind the names that I see in my blog comments, my website Guestbook, the Readers' Lounge and in emails.  I have had the great fortune to meet readers in other countries.  In Germany I was thrilled to meet many of the ladies from my Reader's Lounge at the Frankfurt Book fair.  What a pleasure to put faces to the personalities I had come to know.  In Argentina and Chile I was thrilled to meet people with whom I had corresponded, to shake their hands and exchange a few words.  In Santiago I was moved by how kind everyone was, and that so many people traveled a great distance to come and say hello.  I spent a few exciting days in Mexico and signed many books at the Guadalajara Book Fair, making more new friends.

These are always fun occasions in which to share opinions, some laughs, schmooze about books and have our pictures taken.  Plus, I am always impressed by the questions readers have for me about my books.  It keeps me on my toes as I never know what will come up! So if you live in Southern California, or plan to be visiting the area around that date, please drop in, I would love to see you!

I know from research that these spiders are not harmful to humans and will leave you alone if you leave them alone, but I guess I have seen too many B-grade science fiction movies.  When a spider as big as a saucer stands in my path, I go the long way around.

I believe that the one I am looking at is a male and most likely cruising for a girlfriend.  The ladies hide in their burrows until a suitable hunk comes along, then they have a brief honeymoon and the bachelor moves on, usually not to live much longer.  Female tarantulas enjoy a much longer lifespan than the males.  Why does that sound familiar?

I found out that fried tarantulas are a delicacy in Cambodia, and certain tribes in Venezuela eat them as well.  I wonder if they're low in carbs.

Okay, he's gone now, wandered off into the dogwood bushes.  It's safe to go out onto my patio again.  But I think I'll wait.  Maybe until October.

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And here is what two famous English authors have to say about cats: P.G. Wodehouse - "The trouble with cats is that they've got no tact."  Aldous Huxley - "If you want to be a psychological novelist and write about human beings, the best thing you can do is keep a pair of cats."

But European authors are not the only cat fanciers.  Hank Ketchum, the American cartoonist who gives us Dennis the Menace, made the observation that "Meow" is like "Aloha" - it can mean anything.  And Jim Davis, another American cartoonist (Garfield) said, "Way down deep, we're all motivated by the same urges.  Cats have the courage to live by them."  And Mark Twain, one of American's greatest writers, said that if man were to be crossed with the cat, it would improve man but deteriorate the cat.

One of my favorite author-cat quotes is from American writer Henry David Thorough: "A kitten is so flexible that she is almost double; the hind parts are equivalent to another kitten with which the forepart plays.  She does not discover that her tail belongs to her until you tread on it."

But the best quote of all comes from Leonardo da Vinci who, although not a writer per se, was nonetheless an artist and a genius, and he wrote, "The smallest feline is a masterpiece."

Bucky would agree.

Image Source: animals.howstuffworks.com/pets

The interviews were fascinating, often taking place in intriguing environs such as grand colonial houses or native huts made of cow dung, but one interview stands out.  Hugh Baker was an older gentleman who had been in Africa since nearly the beginnings of colonial settlement, and had even served for a time as the provisional governor of Uganda.  At his home near the town of Nyeri, he regaled us with stories of elephant hunting, exploration, native taboos and even some interesting curses.

We sat on the verandah of his plantation house, going through old photo albums and newspapers, all the memorabilia of one man's lifetime, and when it came noon, Mr. Baker asked us if we would like something to drink.  We said yes we would.  He disappeared into the house and returned with three tall glasses of gin.  No ice, no lime, no water or juice.  Just straight, warm gin.

Mr. Baker lifted his glass, said "Cheers!" and we were expected to drink up.  To be polite, my husband and I took a sip.  That was our limit.  I had to think of a way of dealing with the gin while not offending our host who was giving so generously of his time.  When he jumped up at one point to run into the house and fetch "something of interest," my husband and I seized the opportunity to tip a bit of our gin into a large potted plant that stood near where we were sitting.  It was a dwarf palm of some sort.  And then Mr. Baker came back.

When he again said, "Cheers!" I asked if he had any souvenirs from the days of the Mau Mau uprising, and as he did indeed, he jumped up to run into the house, and we took the opportunity to tip a bit more gin into the planter.  This went on for the rest of the afternoon, so that by the time my husband and I were collected by Abdul Saleem, our driver, I had three cassette tapes filled with interview material, tons of notes and things Mr. Baker had graciously given us.  And we left behind empty gin glasses.

To this day I wonder what happened to that poor plant.

I love the German language.  It is a challenge, fascinating and full of character.  How about those long words that go on forever?  And don't forget what Mark Twain said: "German is easy.  You just put everything at the end of the sentence."  That's why every German sentence is a mystery because you never know how it is going to end.

I studied German in high school and have tried to keep my skills up ever since.  I am a little rusty, however.  When I travel to Germany I always try to speak as much of the language as I can.  People are kind.  They smile and say they understand me.  But I am not always certain if I have just said, "Have a nice day," or, "Yes, these are my socks."

But the one most memorable for me and closest to my heart was the Big Fight, the one we ultimately lost.  I'm talking about the great protest rally of 1967 at NBC studios when they were threatening to cancel "Star Trek." the original TV series.  My poster said, "Mr. Spock Says It Is Illogical To Cancel This Show."  It was a lot to put on a sign and so the letters were small and cramped and no one could read it, but the thought was there.

The show was ultimately cancelled, but Star Trek never really left us.  A new movie (number eleven, I believe) is in the works (working title: Star Trek Zero) chronicling the early days of James T. Kirk and his fellow USS Enterprise crew members.  I like to think that my protest sign and I are responsible for this.

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But all writers agree that the ending of the book is just as important, if not more so, as the beginning.  Mickey Spillane, the great crime fiction writer, once said, "Your opening paragraph sells the book.  The final paragraph sells your next book."

Some endings can even spark a debate that lasts for centuries.  To this day, no one can agree on what Voltaire really meant when he ended his allegorical novella Candide (1759) with: "It is necessary to cultivate your garden."

For me, the endings of my books are like lighthouse beacons, guiding me to shore.  A writer friend told me she rarely knows how her books are going to end until she gets there.  I, on the other hand, need to know where I am going, which is why, for most of my books, I write the ending first.  Even today, as I work on my latest novel, Black Opal, I have the final paragraph taped to my computer monitor.  I am tempted to reveal it here in this blog, but that would be giving away the ending, and no writer likes to do that.

But I can promise you one thing: Black Opal doesn't end with the word "mayonnaise."

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When colleges fell under the pressure of  school benefactors and women's rights activists to enroll women, the male medical students, resentful of having females in their midst, would play cruel jokes on them and chant insulting verses, such as this one from 1879:

"Venus found herself a goddess
In a world controlled by gods.
So she opened up her bodice,
And evened up the odds."


What those early women doctors went through to enter the profession is astounding, and their courage nothing less than amazing.  So when I am asked who was the model for my heroine, Samantha Hargrave, I point to several pioneering ladies, but most particularly to Dr. Elizabeth Blackwell (1821-1910), the first woman to obtain a medical degree in the United States (1849).  And when no hospital would give her a post, she opened her own, the New York Infirmary for Women and Children.

If Domina piques your interest in women in medicine, and the tremendous odds they overcame to achieve their dream, I recommend any of the fine biographies of Blackwell that are available today.

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