Author Archives:

Ken Follett, Jodi Picoult and Phillipa Gregory

Cynthia Kraack Posted on by

Under my desk a hardbound copy of Ken Follett’s Edge of Eternity acts as the perfect footrest. The first two volumes of The Century Trilogy were placed in the hands of other readers, but the Edge of Eternity replaced Bill Clinton’s My Life when a friend asked for that biography.

Jodi Picoult dominated one of the seven shelves of books in my office until some of her titles were rotated to guest rooms or the basement bookcase. Phillipa Gregory had been sent to my mother-in-law to be shared among her Indiana reading group.

Some authors are like Facebook friends who post about a puppy, a grandchild, a new writing project, a spectacular vacation then disappear for months. I trust a short list of these writers with my time and attention without a lot more expectations. When they have a new release I’ll invest in the real thing, a hardcover or paperback, not an e-book. If I’m disappointed I’ll give them another chance to regain their favorite reads position. And if one of them passes, I feel sad that their voice is gone.

At this time of the year when purging season is high I admit that books by these three have been shuffled into a bag for recycling at The Peninsula Bookman. Peter Sloma has customers who look for these popular names. It’s a fair trade. I get store credit to shop and my books go home with happy readers.

Except for Edge of Eternity, which is just the right height for when I’m sitting up straight and working on my own writing. It might be time for Fall of Giants to give up its shelf space, but not its nice hardbound friend under my feet.

Local Author Fair 2017

Cynthia Kraack Posted on by

What could be more fun than holiday gift or winter reading shopping at event featuring 30 local authors chosen by librarians and readers? Please come join us at the Local Author Fair 2017 on Saturday, November 18, noon to 4 p.m. at the Galaxie Library in Apple Valley, MN.

Laurie Hertzel, book journalist and editor at the Minneapolis Star Tribune, is the keynote speaker. The Loft Literary Center will conduct two free workshops.

Books, speakers, networking….a grand afternoon.

Kindle topping pile of books

Kindle topping pile of books

Revisionism III

Cynthia Kraack Posted on by

On a sunny, genuine Door County fall morning the house is filled with six writers on retreat. Outside trees are rustling in a definite breeze while inside the furnace and the dog provide the noise. It is a wonderful gift to be surrounded by writers and given two solid days to work.

Everyone in this group is in a committed relationship and our spouses or partners are supportive of our creative work. But here we can indulge in a twenty-minute discussion of word count without feeling kind of dorky. And we can be supportive of a writer who is so eager to finish a work that he started before six this morning. Sitting right in the middle of people making coffee, getting a little breakfast, watching an amazing sunrise, he kept his fingers on the keys and his eyes on the screen as the words flowed. Awesome.

There is a smooth energy under the quiet like the subtle chocolate hints in Door County Brewing’s Polka King Porter. One or two of those were consumed last night while watching The Packers beat the Bears. That’s rowdy behavior for a mature group of creative introverts.

I’ve put Inky aside this morning to concentrate on a final review of a short story bound for competition. In the arts rejection is the norm and one came in via email as I began working. A handful of successful writers I consider mentors have told me that they do over one hundred submissions a quarter for a handful of published stories. My counts are puny on that scale.

Today or tomorrow I’ll begin working my novel’s revision plan. Wednesday I shared the work’s graphic and background information produced in the first days of work to a person interested in starting his first novel. Being a part of Write On, Door County has opened the gates for these kind of discussions at the most unexpected times.

This is community. Six writers working on an unknown number of stories in the parts of a house made for this kind of gathering.

Revisionism II

Cynthia Kraack Posted on by

The Autumn Equinox began in Door County with high temperatures. One month ago eighty-five degrees would have lured us to a beach, a farmers’ market, a family outing. Sunday I carried cold water and a first draft of the new book to the deck and began reading and making notes. Revision launched.

I like my protagonist. A new working title is needed, but her name is fine. With that done there is no reason to delete subtle references that generated the existing title. A new working title is brewing.

The read through is going well and the next steps are coming into vision. By end of today clean manuscript needs to be produced with prior revisions inserted, a few sections moved and basic fixes handled like correcting names or locations. When that is done, a twenty-word blurb about why this book is important is the next key assignment.

Heading back to the deck. As the last day of heat makes work outside possible that is where I’ll be. What’s the big deal about working outside? For many years I felt tethered to my desk. I couldn’t write without music, without a footrest, without a whole lot of false comforts. It’s great to be beyond that set of restrictions.

Leaves are falling, the breeze is increasing and wasps come out in the afternoon. No time to goof off. Four days remaining in solo time.

Revisionism

Cynthia Kraack Posted on by

Two days ago I wrestled the very rough first draft of my next speculative fiction work into a set of graphs. It’s hard to know if the book has been playing in my subconscious since, or if I’m merely procrastinating about printing the entire manuscript, grabbing sticky notes and markers, and getting to work.

There are excuses. My left thumb hurts. I had a board meeting that required prep. The weather is wrong. My desk is messy. Our President is in a name calling spat with an unstable nuclear player.

Reality is I’m having difficulty nailing down one descriptive paragraph about the book. I have a Joan of Arc character battling power brokers in a not so distant future to restore individual’s right to determine their life direction. And there are gender issues and socio economic issues and geographical challenges.

Then there is a sneaking sense that the title may have political correction challenges. I like the title. The book grew out of a short story with the same title and is reflective of the protagonist’s struggle. If I change the title the protagonist’s name and part of her story needs revision. I place naming a book as somewhere between the importance of naming a baby and a family pet. Since publishers like to change book titles, my time fretting about this concern falls behind my sore left thumb.

Blogging is as good distraction. Away from family and friends for a week I am doing what I said was important—writing. Check back for reports on the revision work. Maybe the thumb will improve.

Redemption

Cynthia Kraack Posted on by

I’ve been revising a story about a military drone designer’s gradual decision to leave his job. Themes of redemption play through the second half of the narrative.

Rē’ dem(p)SH(e)n/  noun
  1. the action of saving or being saved from sin, error, or evil.
  2. the action of regaining or gaining possession of something in exchange for payment, or clearing a debt.

On a spectacular summer morning redemption at many levels could be possible. The country will come back from the brink of constitutional mayhem and inexcusable narcissism. I’ll reconnect a relationship that has faltered. The dog will stop chewing his toenails. Kiss and make up. A gift to right a slight. A hug to heal separation. A simple prayer of thanksgiving.

Every student attending Marquette University was required to take a course called “God and Man” when I was a student. The Jesuits demanded we think about the bigger question of why we exist as well as complete a degree. I don’t remember a lot of guidelines in pushing beyond vacation bible school or confirmation preparation. The course was tough.

In an increasingly secular country we shy away from mention of believing in a force more powerful than those created by people. I believe that there is some central spiritual source that provides me with freedom and responsibility to make decisions. I am a complex human being, far more than a Social Security number or data point

The character in this short story does not exist by my terms. For three years his existential crisis has not had found a sound fictional answer that I am willing to accept. So I’ve given myself a deadline to finish the relationship and call the story complete. No kiss and make up. More of a figure it out buddy or kiss off. This character may not experience sweet redemption, but he has been interesting to have in my fictional neighborhood.

 

 

 

 

Of What We Remember

Cynthia Kraack Posted on by

In decades past, around ten in the morning on Memorial Day, the veterans of foreign wars marched down Main Street in our small town with the high school band, tractors from the local implement dealer, the mayor in a convertible, the Knights of Columbus and enough other groups to call the gathering a parade. Many came in from the surrounding farms to line the streets then follow the marchers to the fairgrounds for a town picnic.

That’s the belief system I in which grew up. The Vietnam War tested Memorial Day. Vietnam vets weren’t welcome in the feel good ceremonies. VFW posts frequently didn’t allow Vietnam vets membership for all kinds of sad reasons. Vietnam vets changed from their uniforms to street clothes before leaving the airport at discharge, were spat at on the street by anti-war protesters who confused fellow citizens with policy makers, were let go from jobs by ignorant folks who called them wicked names.

One Memorial Day weekend my employer sent me to a national editorial association meeting in New Orleans. I was young and excited about the trip, but also sad about missing our traditional holiday gathering. I asked another attendee why the conference had been scheduled on this weekend. Southern born she gave me a sixty- second history of how her family considered Memorial Day a Yankee holiday to rub defeat in the faces of Confederate states.

There have always been divisions in this large nation. Sometimes the schism is about human rights, sometimes about policies too onerous for one large group of people to accept, often about disparity in the quality of the illusive American Experience. Television was blamed for delivering the Vietnam War to families’ living rooms and for pushing the curtains back on civil injustice. Social media has the praise or curses for changing the tone of political discourse today.

What do we remember on Memorial Day?

When veterans were asked to stand during the St. Paul Saints baseball game yesterday I felt the same quiet tears begin that I’ve experienced since September 11, 2001. Old and young, male and female, they raised a hand. Shoulders were set, chests puffed, heads held proud. Rightfully so.

It would be comforting to believe these brave citizens could continue to protect our country against divisiveness within, sinking respect abroad, and the powerful war weapons of nuclear devices, digital mayhem, and men greedy for their own power.

“Life played a giant joke on those of us living unassuming lifestyles twenty years ago. When the men who played with power ordered those who played with destruction to send out their weapons, billions suffered.” — Minnesota Cold

I say that I write speculative fiction to deal with what I fear about the future. Minnesota Cold was written ten years ago about a time ten years from now.

If only everyone from Washington, D.C. to the people living in our neighborhoods can remember what we hold in common, find our way to shaking hands, and talking about a common future over a plate of picnic foods. On Memorial Day, we could honor the sacrifices of the past by building for a better future.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

More Baby Goats!

Cynthia Kraack Posted on by

Sometimes news stories reach resolution. Bad storms end, a small airplane crash results in no fatalities, a child is returned to family. But the big stories involving a certain cast of Washington D.C. personalities have no immediate resolution. The bells they ring reverberate night and day in our lives.

What we need on social media and television now are more baby goats in pajamas, more baby otters nursing from tiny bottles, ducklings climbing out of fountains. More emotional cowbells to cover Washington D.C.’s discordant sounds for at least a few minutes.

Let’s go out and buy puppies or tiny mice that will eat off spoons. Let’s get together with friends and teach each other how to play banjo or drums. Maybe during the summer we should bring back the Macarena and hold neighborhood dance parties.

Prolonged stress doesn’t do the body any good. Let’s make a pact to stop recording TRMS and watch only the early evening national news before gathering with others to practice our stress relievers. For fifteen minutes let’s give control over to a three year old doing the hokey pokey followed by graham crackers and apple juice. Or vodka and tonic for the adults.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Aldo Leopold Weekend

Cynthia Kraack Posted on by

March 4, 2017, sixty-nine years after Aldo Leopold penned his final contribution to A Sand County Almanac, a marathon reading of his work begins in a small building called The Schoolhouse in the Clearings Folk School in Door County, Wisconsin. Pine trees can be seen through every window. A few birds flitter past during the ninety minutes. Eight inches of snow dumped during a nasty storm earlier in the week glistens outside with puddles beginning to form where the day’s sun and temps clear out cold stuff one more time. Leopold, the man known as the father of wildlife ecology, would appreciate the setting for this local event celebrating Aldo Leopold Weekend.

Young and old, writers and environmentalists, students and philanthropic retirees, wait their turn to read selected pieces. Everyone willingly hands their attention and time to listening one more time to Leopold’s insights about the ways of nature as highways and manufacturing were changing America in the 1930s and 40s. No one checks cell phones or watches. Stories about fishing, about birds, about snow melt, about prairie flowers lost to road construction written near The Shack in Baraboo, Wisconsin by a wise man. Humor, detailed description, a few lessons tucked into each about caring for the land because it is ours communally.

A Sand County Almanac would be a good read for any person who thinks about the land, or to nurture awareness of our environment. It could be a nice present for Ryan Zinke or even Mr. Trump, who might prefer the audio format.

 

 

Washington, D.C. 2017

Cynthia Kraack Posted on by

Visiting Washington, D.C. can startle me. People empty the Metro to fill the streets. They carry briefcases, messenger bags, purses, paper bags and wear suits, ties, jeans, short skirts, tall boots, torn sneakers. Many are quiet, some heads move to songs or voices piped into ears slightly deafened by the volume needed to cover city sounds. Some debate public policy in terse, political terms. And others just move with the flow of cars and buses and their fellow commuters.

Each trip I stand in front of the White House like a poor relative who will never be asked inside. It’s enough to know that 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue belongs to the big family called America, but I want to walk through its doors. We almost made it this time except transition logistics of a new dweller cancelled all unimportant visitors.

For the first time the Vietnam Memorial Wall did not rip away the healing bandage of decades. Maybe it was school children moving respectfully along the path. Even their teachers were too young to feel how this war tore apart America, but their steps become quieter, their eyes looking for the end of this list of thousands of names of men and women lost in a small country far away.

On this February day that felt like June, kind strangers gifted us with tickets for the National Museum of African American History and Culture. Beginning below ground we walked one mile through the history of slavery, reconstruction, segregation and civil rights. It was a walk heavy with emotions. Like the National Museum of the American Indian, truth stares back at visitors about others have denied their part of the American dream. What is there to celebrate about the largest forced migration of a people, the eradication of tribal nations, the shameful denial of freedom because of skin color?

Schoolbooks don’t really texturize colonization, treaties, wars, slavery, Western expansion, the building of railroads, the internment of citizens, the gulf between those who own the wealth and the majority who work hard for their daily bread. We all need to see the chains, manacles, bars, whips used by our founders and hear the words of those who suffered. Who still suffer.

I never return home from here quite the same. The art galleries are filled with portraits of the privileged. The memorials and national museums tell the stories of the rest of us. Words of President Obama’s final speech whisper in a city where legislators fight around the clock: “It falls to each of us to be those anxious, jealous guardians of our democracy. To embrace the joyous task we’ve been given to continually try to improve this great nation of ours.”