5. February 2010 by Marie Pinschmidt.

Stephen King, prior to becoming famous for his writing, worked at a gas station, and in a laundramat. His wife worked at Dunkin’ Donuts. His writing office was the furnace room of his trailer home. “CARRIE” was published in 1973, “THE SHINING” in 1977.  Paperback rights for CARRIE sold for $400,000 and the only thing he could think of to buy was a hair dryer for his wife!

THREE KEYS TO SUCCESS, according to U. S. International University Prof. Robert Epstein, are:

1. MODIFY YOUR  ENVIRONMENT. 2. MONITOR YOUR BEHAVIOR, 3. MAKE COMMITMENTS.

Today, choose one thing you’d like to change about yourself,  choose which one of the above would most help you make the change, and then use it.

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5. February 2010 by Marie Pinschmidt.

Since my books are about LOVE, for Valentine’s Day I’m sharing a scene from my latest book. I admit I’m a hopeless romantic and offer no apology.

Maggie is being given a tour of Jack’s home:

Page 174: Jack was pleased at how she moved about his things, studying the house with genuine interest. His gaze followed her from room to room; his imaginization seeing her waiting when he came home at night. Steady, Jack, don’t get carried away.

At the back of the house, a rectangular-shaped window-filled room overlooked a large secluded garden. Two towering magnolia trees stood like sentinels at each back corner of the yard. Pink and white oleanders softened an enclosing brick fence. A seemingly abandoned guest cottage with a front porch sat intimately between the magnolias.

      “I think your house has great possibilities, Jack. It has charm and more than adequate space to work with. What more could you want?”

     They walked out onto a covered porch. Jack watched as Megan wandered into the yrd alone, observing the various azalea bushes, gardenias, and a bed of neglected amaryllis.

     She continued around to the side of the charming cottage, wondering what stories it held within its walls. Against the brick fence an overgrown passion vine crept up the wall and attached itself to the back of the cottage. She picked one of the colorful blossoms, remembering they lasted only three days, representing the three years of Christ’s ministry on earth.

     She looked back toward the porch and stopped dead in her tracks. Jack leaned against a column, his legs crossed at the ankles like he’s just stepped out of a romance novel. Black jeans and black polo shirt did nothing to conceal his marvelous physique. The only thing missing was a long, cool, mint julep in his hand.

     This near perfect man, a vision of contentment and masculinity removed what appeared to be a white meerschaum pipe from his pocket and placed it between his lips. Megan watched as he filled it with tobacco, tapped it down with his forefinger, brought forth a lighter and held it over the bowl while he took deep puffs until it was satisfactorily lit.

     “Jack, what are you doing?” A heart doctor smoking? So, he wasn’t perfect after all.

     “What do you mean? I’m standing here watching a very fetching wood nymph explore my garden.”

     “That pipe.”

     Jack laughed. “Do you mind? It’s my one vice. You women console yourselves with chocolates; I occasionally relax with my pipe.”

     Megan smelled the familiar sweet aroma as she drew closer. Grandfather smoked a pipe and he lived to be ninety-three.

     “Does it offend you?”

     “Not at all; I like it, in fact.” What was not to like.

     She joined him on the porch, breathed deeply of the fragrance, and told him about her grandfather. “I’m just surprised that you would smoke.”

     “Only occasionally.” He held the bowl in his nicely sculptured hand and studied it like an old friend. “I follow the same advice I give my patients - don’t smoke cigarettes.” His eyes twinkled as he added, “And I don’t inhale.”

     If smoking a pipe was his only vice, how could she object? Besides, it added one more aspect to his masculinity profile. Also, a pipe was a perfect prop for a writer. Good Lord - a physician, a pianist, a singer, unparalleled charm, as well as a would-be writer. Her heart didn’t stand a chance.

     “What have we here?” he asked as he took the red flower and placed it above her ear.

     “It’s called a passionflower,” she told him, with emphasis on passion. She knew she was flirting but couldn’t have cared less.

     “Really; and why is that?”

     She ignored his teasing, removed the flower from her hair and held it up to show why the flower was so named. “Seriously, the red symbolizes the blood of Christ shed on the cross. See, it has ten petals and sepals that represent the ten apostles present at the crucifixion; the five stamens represent the five wounds, and three styles represent the three nails. These tendrils represent the ropes and scourges; and three secondary leaf bracts - the holy trinity.”

     “That’s amazing. So you’re not only an artist, you’re also an horticulturist and a student of divinity?”

     Megan turned and looked out over the yard. “No, not really, but I do enjoy gardening and the study of flora and fauna. With a little attention, this yard could be lovely.”

     “You can dig in my garden anytime you wish.” He took the flower and gently placed it back in her hair.   Etc.

 Please leave a comment, ask a question, or otherwise inquire about my painting and writing. And, may love be good to you.

Marie

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5. February 2010 by Marie Pinschmidt.

Remember when you were a kid and spent hours making valentine cards, and how excited you were to receive the red heart with a cupid’s arrow from the cutest boy or girl in class, and the giggles and teasing that went along with it? Then, so quickly, we were grown up and the emphasis was on the red cellophane-covered box of chocolates, or a bouquet of red roses if we were abundantly cherished.

Regardless of age, we recall things as they used to be, the endless possibilities for a life filled with love - that one perfect love. In my youth, I don’t recall there was much ado about the fact that it all began with a Saint? Even today, we seldom hear the word associated with Valentine’s Day. Allow me to remind you of the origin of this special love-filled day of celebration. 

And so the legend goes: Long ago, a man named Saint Valentine died for his beliefs. He was a prisoner of an evil king because of his belief in God. He refused to deny it; but then God sent a miracle.

Saint Valentine had a great love for his wife and wanted her to know of his love one last time before his execution. One day a pigeon appeared at the prison window - a pigeon he recognized as one from his home. Before his imprisonment, he and his children loved to feed the birds and this special one would eat right out of their hand. The appearance of his little friend brought him much comfort. He shared bits of food with the spotted creature and wondered about his problem - how he could prove his love.

A rosebush also grew near the prison window and on it bloomed one beautiful red rose. It was so close he could touch it and smell its fragrance. It reminded him of the love he felt for his wife. Since he had neither paper or pen, he wondered how he might get a message to her. Then an idea came to him; he could share the rose with his wife. He reached through the bars and carefully plucked the rose from the stem. Thorns pricked his fingers until they bled, but he didn’t feel the pain.

He decided to write words of love on the rose petals and give them to the pigeon, and hoped the bird would take the petals and fly away to his house. He held onto the hope that his wife would find them and know that he still loved her.

His prison bed was a lowly pile of straw. He plucked a piece of straw and used the sharp end to press the words, “I love you” on the petals of the rose. The bird would take the petals from his hand and quickly fly away. He continued this every day until all the petals were gone. 

On the appointed day for his execution, emissaries of the king asked him again if he would renounce his belief in God. He refused to do so. Guards removed Saint Valentine from his cell and cut off his head. He had been true and faithful, true to his love for his wife, true to his love for his God. True love demanded a price and he paid it.

Great iron bars at the window kept the prisoner in, but the bars did not keep Saint Valentine from sending out his love. Saint Valentine was free.

 You might ask, “If he were in prison with bars at the window, how could he be free?”

The ansswer is: When you love, and when you believe in something as strongly as did Saint Valentine, no one can lock away your love. A jailor can imprison you, but not your feelings; they remain safe in your heart.

When bad things happen, if a person feels love for someone and believes in something, his belief sets him free. The Valentine card is a symbol of love for others and the rose is a symbol of hope and the sharing of that love.

When you see a rose, think of how Saint Valentine loved his wife and family, then look for someone you can love in the same way. Every rose will then have a special meaning. Bleeding from thorns shouldn’t hurt; they are an important part of life. Love is more meaningful and grows stronger if one can overcome the thorns.

To quote James Michael Pratt, the author of  THE LAST VALENTINE, “As long as love is alive, the dead never die. It’s not in the end alone that we love, but along the way. A love that endures the thorns of life calls out to us. When we listen, it lights the ground on which we walk and we know that we’re not alone. When the flame of life flickers out and is no more, the love you showed to others will light the ground for them to walk upon.” 

I wish all of you a love-filled Valentine’s Day. Since I write books about love, this particular celebratory day is special to me.  Cherish that special love if you have it, and don’t give up hope if you have yet to experience it. And remember, if there are no pigeons nearby, there are numerous ways you can send out the message of love to those around you.

Until next time - Marie

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28. January 2010 by Marie Pinschmidt.

I’ve stopped making them. There are too many unexpected surprises in life that can and often do change our hoped-for or planned-for destination. Instead, I take the easy way out; I resolve to daily do the best I can, be open to opportunities that fall in my path, do my bit to help others and leave the future to the universe. This works for me. Like not buying green bananas, I prefer to make bite-size decisions. I can’t recall one single outstanding New Years Eve. Why is that? Not one memorable thing. No life-changing resolutions; and no traumatic results from broken resolutions. No earth-shattering romantic encounters. If there were broken hearts, they were later mended. This makes me reassess the importance of one night out of 365.

This doesn’t mean that I don’t look backward to the accomplishments of the past year, or forward with anticipation to a more peaceful existence for the entire world. Every year holds disappointments as well as periods of encouragement and accomplishment. Thus is life. Resolutions for change often prove impossible to keep; events show up and with one sharp blow knock us to the mat. People die and new life is born. Jobs are lost and jobs are found. Friendships last and others take a different path. Lovers break their vows and others keep them. A lot of stuff can happen in a year. In youth the years drag by too slowly; in adulthood, they fly by too quickly. In old age, a year can seem like a month or even a week.  

Natural disasters interrupt our flow. How many thousands of people have had their plans altered in this, the first month of a new year? How many resolutions were forgotten in the light of reality? Our futures are perhaps more uncertain than any time in the past. It makes sense to be more cautious, more alert to negative possibilities, but at the same time we can live a rewarding life by concentrating on the “now”. The present is the only thing we can control to any degree. We all know this, yet we worry and challenge the universe by promising to do better.

Do resolutions work for you? Or do you end yet another year with regret that things haven’t gone exactly as you resolved? If the old traditions aren’t bringing the desired results, perhaps a change of technique is needed. What if you concentrated on one day at a time? One day of success encourages another, and another, and pretty soon frowns of discouragement are replaced by smiles. Whether your dream is to begin or finish a novel, lose those pounds, or beat an addiction, I wish for you a lifetime of smiles and a heart filled with love.

Let me know how you handle this topic.

“““““““

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19. December 2009 by Marie Pinschmidt.

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19. December 2009 by Marie Pinschmidt.

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19. December 2009 by Marie Pinschmidt.

I’m sharing a photograph of my first “Afternoon Tea and Book Signing” in Juno Beach. I’m the gray haired lady in plaid! Others are representatives of Merrill Lynch. Two “Teas” were held in December and another two are planned for January. The owners of the restaurant, Bentley’s, are former Londoners and know their tea. Everyone is served delicious food, I give a talk about painting (the wall behind us shows a number of my paintings) and writing. We have a Q & A, a book signing, and new friendships are made. This is a different venue for promotion, but so far is quite effective. Public speaking is not my favorite thing to do, but when you have an audience interested in learning more about what you do, the dreaded task becomes one of pleasure.

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12. December 2009 by Marie Pinschmidt.

Happy Holiday Season to everyone. I hope you’ve had a moment to review the release of my last novel, “Spanish Moss”. Details under “Books”.

An autographed copy of the book is a nice gift to give to your friends and relatives who love to read. There is still time if you e-mail me at MariePin001@comcast.net, or it can be ordered through this website. As you know, my books are suitable for all audiences.

 Thank you for visiting my site. 

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28. November 2009 by Marie Pinschmidt.

I hope everyone had a happy Thanksgiving. In spite of all the world unrest, we need to be thankful for life and all of the blessings bestowed on us every day. So, best wishes to everyone during the upcoming Holiday Season, whatever your belief or leanings. Stay safe, stay healthy, and do your best to stay happy!

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7. November 2009 by Marie Pinschmidt.

 DEALING WITH FEAR  Today, as I watched the news of the horrific murderous attack at Fort Hood, Texas, I thought of the many fears we face in our everyday lives. I exchange e-mails with another writer in Iraq and she talks of her constant fear for the life of her children. Car bombings in the streets and market places are an ongoing concern. Schools are unsafe and teachers are tortured in front of the students. After the news today, I can better relate to her way of life, and the lives of others in third-world countries. Horrible things happen in our country as well, but usually, and thankfully, our fears are not of such magnitude.     

 Poet, philosopher and artist, Kalil Gibran was asked the question, “For what is it to die?” His response was, “It is life in quest of life in bodies that fear the grave. There are no graves here. These mountains and plains are a cradle and a stepping stone.” Our lives are filled with fear of varying degrees, and we seldom recognize it as a cause for our mental and physical discontent. Other than fear of death, there are other fears that often paralyze us. Below are a list, Gibran’s comments, plus my own probable responses:    

  FEAR OF PAIN AND ILLNESS: “Much of your pain is self-chosen. It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self. Therefore, trust the physician, and drink his remedy in silence and tranquility.”  My fear is almost always worse than the illness or pain sent my way.      FEAR OF LOSING POSSESSIONS: We guard possessions for fear we may need them later, much like an overly prudent dog burying bones in trackless sand. Gibran says, “Give now, that the season of giving may be yours and not your inheritors.” I hang onto things for sentimental reasons, or possibly as proof that I was an active participant in some way.     

 FEAR OF “PROPER” DEMEANOR AND APPEARANCE: From THE PROFIT, by Gibran: “The earth delights to feel your bare feet and the winds long to play with your hair.”   Again from THE PROFIT: “Alone and without his nest shall an eagle fly across the sun. Ready am I to go, and my eagerness with sails full set awaits the wind.”  It sounds delightful but, alas, I fear I’ll never be eager to leave my nest and, unlike the eagle, fear of height would never allow me to soar in any literal sense.     

 A psychologist might tell us to imagine putting our fears in a container and set them assail on the ocean surf, or turn our fears over to the universe. Then, we could walk the sandy shore while fresh ocean breezes blow out to sea any remnant of self-doubt or insecurity. We could feel free to marvel at the call of the seagull or the busy sandpiper at our feet. However, if I followed that suggestion, I’m afraid my fear would wash back on the shore like a dead body, or some ghost from the past.      Or we might be advised to set our fears loose in a mountain stream. Then we could skip across to the other side; sit on the bank with a calm heart, attuned to the music of birds and the sound of dancing water over pebbles polished smooth by time. But alas, I fear I would rush down-stream to retrieve them before they could escape my possessive clutches. Perhaps we could place our fears in a bonfire; letting them burn until nothing is left but ashes, sacrificing them to the Gods. We could sit peacefully by the fire and at autumn’s first chill feel the warmth on our face. Or we could imagine sharing with someone we love the soft, sticky, sweet taste of roasted marshmallows, listen to the sound of crackling dried branches while being lulled into a sweet reverie. Chances are that I would find myself maniacally stirring the ashes with a stick, looking for any charred remnants of salvageable fear, like a CSI searching for crucial evidence.      

 We could put our fears in a boat and drown them in a lake; sit nearby and feel an early mist rise over the water and watch the vapor merge with a yellow and peach sunrise. Or we could listen to the voice of a solitary sand-hill crane as he welcomes a new day. Instead, like a child with a toy boat, I fear I would attach a string to make sure my insecurity didn’t float out too far to be retrievable. Would that I could release the tether so my vessel of fear could fall to the bottom-wet grave, become caught in quicksand, sucked under, never again to resurface.     

 Our fears, of whatever degree, are a part of us. We cling to them when we should let them fly like a kite until they disappear over a distant horizon. We should bury them forever under rocks or send them back to nature’s wilderness, forever camouflaged in the native flora and fauna. Some fears are necessary to lead us to greater realities, more possibilities. They prevent us from becoming careless with our safety or making irrational decisions, yet never paralyzing our growth or enjoyment of life.  There are no easy solutions and after yet another day of senseless violence, I fear that some fears are here to stay. I like Henry Link’s definition of fear: “Nature’s warning signal to get busy.”        “““““` 

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