DEBORAH PRUM

PODCAST-NICK & MIKE, NICK & ALICE MOVIE REVIEW I loved James Marsden’s performance in the TV series Dead to Me. He did an excellent job playing identical twins who had completely different personalities. The series was dark and wickedly funny. It’s worth checking out, if you don’t mind quirky and sometimes shocking material. I also enjoyed Vince Vaughn’s performance in Bad Monkey, a TV series based on Carl Hiassen’s novel. The humor wasn’t quite as sharp as I’d have liked, but I found it entertaining. When I noticed Marsden and Vaughn were starring together in the new movie Mike & Nick, Nick & Alice, I decided to watch it. Bruce happened to be knee-deep in March Madness so I watched it alone. The movie starts out with a bang, figuratively and literally. Ben Schwartz, playing a science nerd named Symon, is in his gadget-filled lab dancing and singing to Billy Joel’s song, Why Should I Worry? He’s celebrating having put the final touches on a time machine. Turns out, Symon has plenty of reasons to worry, but so as not to spoil the plot, let’s just leave it at that. Symon’s singing is awful, but his performance is spectacular and he draws me right in. I wish we’d seen more of him in the movie. The next scene takes place in a cocktail lounge full of gangsters and other shady characters.  They’re at a Welcome Home from Prison party for young Jimmy Boy, the boss’s son. After warmly greeting his scary guests, Sosa the mob boss, announces he will find and kill the rat who caused his dear son’s incarceration. Nick (Vaughn) and Quick Draw Mike (Marsden) are at the party. Nick works for Sosa. Quick Draw Mike works for Nick. Mike is having an affair with Nick’s wife, Alice. Hence, the reason for the long and somewhat clunky, movie title: Nick & Mike, Nick & Alice. The first half of the movie is great, quirky humor, inside jokes, and interesting time travel conundrums. This movie is dripping in satire; it is a gangster movie making fun of gangster movies. The jokes are nuanced. For example, when a bunch of nefarious bad guys show up at Nick’s house, in a non-ironical way, he offers them Capri Suns to drink. Now I am realizing that my description of this scene does not seem all that funny. I guess you’d have to be there. I had to stop watching the movie about two-thirds of the way through. I liked the first part so much that I persuaded Bruce to join me, which he did not want to do. To be fair, who likes to start watching a move in the middle? But I wore him down and he agreed. Unfortunately, the last third of the movie lost its momentum. It felt as if someone else had written it. The screenwriter included a couple surprises, but mostly we watched many slow-motion fights during which combatants smashed couches, shelves, tables, glass objects, and each other’s heads. You’d think the altercations might have increased the narrative tension, but no. Even though, the movie fell off the tracks for the last half hour or so, I enjoyed the heartwarming ending. Should you watch it? If you are in the mood for an arthouse film, this is not it. However, James Marsden and Vince Vaughn give high energy performances, and the gangster satire is funny. If you take snack breaks during the fight scenes, this movie could be fun to watch. ### Interested in other movie reviews? Check out: Hamnet’s Jessie Buckley in: Wicked Little Letters. Or, Olivia Coleman in: Joyride. Or, James Marsden in: Dead to Me. 0:00 / 0:00 Mike & Nick Nick & Mike (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum’s fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

PODCAST-DECONSTRUCTING UNICORNS & MERMAIDS Photo Courtesy of Alexander Grey 0:00 / 0:00 Deconstructing Unicorns & Mermaids Streetlight Magazine just published this essay. You can read it HERE. Longer version below: My four-year-old granddaughter, Zoe, and her seven-year-old brother, Henry, (names changed) live out-of-state. We often meet via Zoom. We share a screen and explore their burning questions by searching YouTube videos.             Henry is interested in science, sort of. For a while, he wanted to watch presentations about black holes, natural disasters, and the multiverse. Now he’s moved on to the human body. He has questions like, what happens if you eat a worm? Or the latest, what happens if you never cut your fingernails? Diana Armstrong holds the record for the longest fingernails, 21 feet per hand. She can’t pick up items from the floor or open her refrigerator. Now Henry is convinced that trimming his nails is in his best interest.             Last Saturday morning, Zoe wanted to know:  Do unicorns exist? Are mermaids real?             I believed the answers we’d find might shift her taste in clothing, movies, music, and even inform the choice of stuffed animal she snuggles with at night. We discovered that unicorn sightings might have been skinny rhinoceros or possibly rare Italian one-horned deer. We also learned that mermaids likely were manatees basking on boulders, or the wishful thinking of sailors who had been at sea too long.             This news didn’t crush the child. A week later, when I asked Zoe what she wanted to be when older, she said, “A unicorn.” When I raised my eyebrows, she responded, “Okay, maybe a mermaid princess.”             I felt surprised that Zoe continued to believe in the existence of unicorns and mermaids despite watching videos that made a strong case that neither creature exists. However, she not only still believed unicorns and mermaids were real, but Zoe also thought they were viable career choices. This led me to google: Why do people persist in clinging to convictions that clearly are not true? Folks tend to believe both what they’ve been told and what they have experienced. In the face of indisputable facts, it’s difficult to let go of long held beliefs. All the adults in Zoe’s life supported her view that these magical creatures are real. All the books she’s read, movies she’s watched and songs she’s listened to confirm that these beings live rich and varied lives, lives filled with romance and adventure.             My not-so-scholarly internet search also revealed that emotionally charged lies can be more convincing than facts. They evoke strong feelings which impede critical thinking. Zoe possesses great affection for unicorns and mermaids. For now, she’s likely to ignore the obvious. Lastly, I read about motivated thinking which is when people forgo rational thinking and cling to an erroneous belief, if it benefits them in a tangible way.  Unlike unicorns and mermaids, Zoe has never questioned the existence of the Tooth Fairy. This pragmatic child probably wouldn’t want to endanger her primary source of income. Why mess with success?  I’ve been blind to my own false assumptions. Often, it takes a close friend or relative to point out what I’m missing. Years ago, I was convinced that I treated my two sons equally. However, a friend pointed out that whenever my three-year-old pitched a fit, I’d do anything to appease him. I appreciated her input, but believed she was wrong.             Later, at a family event, my father filmed me grabbing a tambourine out of my five-year-old’s hand and giving it to my screaming three-year-old who wanted it. A few weeks later, when we were watching the video, I realized my friend had given me accurate feedback. I’d made the false assumption that since I was trying hard to be a good parent, I’d never make the rooky mistake of favoring one boy over the other. Until I watched the video, I couldn’t see what was right before my eyes.             Zoe’s belief in the existence of mermaids and unicorns isn’t hurting anyone. I’m happy she still can picture a rosy future for herself as a mermaid princess.             However, the stakes of ignoring the truth are higher for us adults. The assumptions we make affect our perception of reality. False assumptions have consequences. When we adults get our facts wrong, people can suffer and die. Democracy can collapse.             One trait that Zoe and Henry share is their curiosity. Like many children, they ask questions and take nothing for granted. Being curious requires an admission that you don’t know everything and that you are willing to explore in all directions for an answer.             Einstein advised, “Never lose a holy curiosity.” Einstein meant one should approach the world in a spirit of humility and in an open-minded search for truth.             I want so badly to state that maintaining a childlike curiosity will result in world peace, but I know there’s no quick fix. However, Einstein was no slacker, so maybe we should follow his lead.  What if we approach our assumptions with a holy curiosity and thereby take an ever-so-tiny step in the right direction. (Names of children changed.) ### Read at STREETLIGHT.   (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum’s fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

PODCAST-SON OF A BIRD-BOOK REVIEW Writers are often advised to leave out the boring parts. Nin Andrews did just that with her memoir in prose poems called Son of a Bird. I couldn’t put the book down.             In the first poem of her collection, Andrews describes her childhood home, a stone farmhouse with a barn where the horses and chickens slept, and where the kittens and foals were born each spring. This sounds bucolic, but not all was well. One night when a horse named Ella dies, Andrews runs from the barn back to her bed where she can’t fall asleep. She writes a letter entitled, Dear Future Me, in which she says she would like to grow up to be a horse. (Later, she practices by eating grass, whinnying, and trotting. She cantors and gallops and tries to make the horse jumps, often falling and skinning her knees.)             In the letter, Andrews tells her future self not to forget her, to write about her, but when she writes about her, to make her prettier and fast. Then, at the end of this poem, adult Andrews observes what I believe to be the thesis statement of this memoir. Andrews says about herself as a child, “Back then you didn’t love you very much and hoped I’d make you better after the fact. Which is strange, I think, for a child.” This sentiment sets the stage for the rest of the volume.             The youngest of six children, Nin was born to parents who wanted a son, a fact she knew from a young age. Her father was an architect and a complicated man. Her mother had Asperger Syndrome. The woman has an aversion to showing physical affection, which is hard on Nin. Miss Mary, a nanny, provides Nin with nurturing and physical care for the first five years of her life. The nanny defends and protects Nin, too. At one point, Miss Mary is so angry with how the child’s parents treat her, she says, “Damn white folks—don’t even know how to raise their own chillens.”             I lost track of how many times Nin is hospitalized with eye surgeries, respiratory infections, and suicidal depression. In one poem, she describes her mother as shrugging as Nin stands at the edge of a stone ledge. Her mother doesn’t move to help, assuming Nin won’t fall. But, of course, Nin tumbles off the precipice and is injured. Another time, one morning, a truck driver finds Nin by the side of the road, unconscious and lying next to her bike. He drives her to the ER. Later in the afternoon, a doctor from the hospital calls and asks her father if he is missing a daughter, which he was, although he and no one else in the family had noticed.             All these stories are told without  self-pity and are interwoven with gorgeous images of farm life and wise observations about the complexity of marriage and sibling relationships. Because Andrews tells these stories in a lyrical way, with a generous dollop of humor, the sadness is bearable and the prose is uplifting. For example, Nin nearly dies during sinus surgery because of a bad reaction to anesthesia. She wakes up gagging, with the doctor sobbing by her side. The doctor says, “We thought we lost you…Anesthesia is not your friend.” Andrews ends the poem by saying, “Anesthesia, I thought then, was a Russian princess or evil stepmother who poisoned me again and again.”             The pacing in this collection is brisk. The poems are not necessarily in chronological order, but the flow from poem to poem makes emotional sense, thereby creating a satisfying narrative arc. The prose is spare and succinct. Andrews never uses one word more than she needs to convey her life story, which is filled with beauty, courage, and resilience. I plan to re-read the volume soon. It’s that good. ### Interested in reading more book reviews? Check out:  The Caretaker, Time of the Child, and Without You Here.   0:00 / 0:00 Son of a Bird Add Text here… (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum’s fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

PODCAST-HOW TO GET TO HEAVEN FROM BELFAST-MOVIE REVIEW               Elle Magazine describes the Netflix series, How to Get to Heaven from Belfast, as “Derry Girls meets Bad Sisters.” I liked Derry Girls so much that I used many clips from it for a humor writing workshop I facilitated a few years ago. I loved Bad Sisters, too. The series is a perfectly structured mystery with the best ensemble cast ever. I watched it three times twice for pure enjoyment and a third time to study plot structure and comic timing. Lisa McGee created both Derry Girls and How to Get to Heaven from Belfast, so I looked forward to watching the new series. Here’s the basic plot: Four best friends experience a traumatic event as teens. Three of them stay in touch, but because of the event, they estrange themselves from the fourth. Later, as adults, the three are summoned back to their hometown to attend the wake of that fourth friend. Perhaps out of curiosity or guilt, they decide to travel home to pay their respects. Not only do they discover that their friend may not be dead, but they also believe she might be in danger. Mayhem and hijinks ensue during the next eight episodes. Each of the three women is dissatisfied with her life, which may be why they decide to task on the dangerous and complicated task of trying to unravel the disappearance. One is the head writer for a highly popular murder mystery series that she has come to hate. She is engaged to a man who can think of only himself. The second woman has three children whom she loves but drive her crazy. In our introduction to her, we see her imagining smashing her head on the steering wheel of her car as her kids bicker in the back seat. Out of shame and fear, the third woman gives up the love of her life and instead lives with her mother in her hometown. She has few outlets other than attending church, which she doesn’t seem to enjoy. The shots of the Irish countryside are beautiful. All four of the women actors deliver high energy performances and they seem to have fun while doing so. The humor is dark and absurd, which I like. The story moves along at a pretty good pace, but there were so many twists and turns, I had difficulty keeping track of the plot. The setting, especially the spooky parts, was great. Interesting fact–while working on Derry Girls, McGee visited the ruins of the convent where she attended elementary school. The visit brought her back to her school days. Some of the filming of How to Get to Heaven from Belfast took place in at the abandoned school. What I loved about Derry Girls and didn’t quite see here, was an ensemble of distinctly different characters. Yes, the How to Get to Heaven from Belfast women all made different life choices in terms of career and marriage, but all three had a similar tone: bitter, angry, regretful, unsure if their lives had meaning. The truth is probably many women feel that way at this age but having all three of them be relentlessly negative felt exhausting. The movie has lots of funny spots. Some of the cultural references went over my head, but that’s on me. If I decide to watch this a second time, I will read up on Derry, Belfast and Donegal. Even though How to Get to Heaven from Belfast wasn’t as crisp and punchy as Derry Girls, I’m glad I watched it. ### More viewing possibilities: WICKED LITTLE LETTERS GHOSTLIGHTING TASK LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT SMOKE 0:00 / 0:00 How to Get to Heaven from Belfast (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum’s fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

HOPING NOT TO HAVE TO SLEEP NEXT TO MYSELF Jim & Eva’s Sunday School Class Led By Gaetano Boccaccio, Eva’s Father 0:00 / 0:00 Hoping Not to Have to Sleep Next to Myself (This essay was just published by Otherwise Engaged An Literature & Arts Journal. Reprinted with permission.) I watch a herd of disaffected teens ignore a traffic light near the high school. They slow-walk across the busy intersection. Some wear black hoodies, some wear camo hoodies, a few are bare headed in the drizzling rain. Most stare down at cellphones; all grimly cocooned in separate universes.             Later, on a city road, I watch two young teachers stop traffic, then ferry a flock of four-year-olds to safety. Wearing bright rain slickers, laden with backpacks covered with stickers, the children poke each other, giggle, laugh out loud. They wobble, they skip, they gallop, airborne with glee.             Finally, I arrive at Hospice House, a hundred-year-old, three-story Victorian home. I trudge up the winding staircase. My ninety-five-year-old mother is asleep, her expression placid. I choose to believe her mind is filled with moonbeams and music. In truth, though, when she’s awake, sometimes she believes she’s forty and late for work. She’s frantic because she can’t find her keys. No moonbeams. No music.             My mind flashes to some thirty years ago. Late at night, she and I are standing in the dark in the kitchen of our family home in Connecticut. My smart, vibrant, always impeccably dressed mother is about sixty. I am microwaving a cup of Sleepy Time tea. We stare at the bright numbers counting down on the microwave pane. My mother who is neither introspective nor philosophical, says to me, “With the tick of each second, I am that much closer to death.”             A few weeks ago, I’m trying to persuade my granddaughter (four) to stay in bed and go to sleep. She is a genius at stalling: One more book. A bowl of blueberries, please. A glass of water. One more trip to the potty. Her bottom itches. And finally, “Please…. I don’t want to sleep next to myself.”  I sigh.             My parents belonged to the same church when they were children. I have a picture of them together, one row apart, in a Sunday school class. She’s five and he’s nine. My father died over seven years ago. Since right after his death and even now at Hospice House, my mother senses my father’s presence, snuggled next to her at night. Not only that, but in the morning, she reports hearing him in the next room, making coffee. I realize that the tender universe is making sure that my mother is not having to sleep next to herself.             On another day, a sunny one this time, I set up an iPad in front of my mother. She is a person who loves musicals. For years, she and my father watched many shows at the Schubert in New Haven. Today, I position an iPad on the bedside tray. I search for video clips from various productions, then settle on Oklahoma. She harmonizes with Gordon McRae: “Oh, what a beautiful morning, oh what a beautiful day, I have a wonderful feeling, everything’s going my way…”             And at this exact moment, which is all we really have, all is well in the world. ### (Note:  My mother, Eva Mazzotta, passed away on December 3, 2025.)   Interested in reading more essays? Check out: *MONKEY BUSINESS *MAISON MAGIQUE *GANGSTER GRANNY (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum’s fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

LOOKING FOR SOMETHING TO WATCH? LOOKING FOR SOMETHING TO WATCH? Here are four possibilities: Doc: a TV series A life shattering event plunges Dr. Amy Larsen into bitterness and cynicism. Played by Molly Parker, the physician becomes chief of staff at a busy hospital. For the next eight years, her acid tongue and aggressive behavior make everyone’s life hell, colleagues, family members, and even patients. Then, she’s in a car crash that results in a brain injury. The extensive damage erases eight years of her life, including memory of the terrible event. After the crash, Amy Larsen emerges from the accident as her old self, kind and humble. As she re-enters her world, she is bewildered to discover that people hate and fear her. The premise, the screenplay and the acting makes this series worth watching. The writers deliver an insightful portrayal of how our attitudes and actions can affect others for both good and bad.  Unfortunately, to create a hook for season two, writers came up with  an episode that  would have worked better in a soap opera. That decision diminished the power of the preceding nuanced exposition of plot. Despite the telenovella twist, the series is still entertaining. I probably will watch Season Two. One Battle After Another:  A Movie Bruce and I did not like this movie. Critics loved it and so did audiences, so we are probably wrong. We got off to a bad start. My husband and I are not computer geniuses.   We inadvertently rented the movie twice ($14.00) while trying to figure out how to get the captions to work. Then, a heated discussion occurred because had differing opinions as to who was at fault. (Him.) So, we had a grumpy start to the movie. The grumpiness deepened when we realized the movie ran 2 hours and 41 minutes, which included about 41 minutes of chase scenes. Leonardo DiCaprio (who plays Bob) is a splendid actor. He delivered a pitch perfect performance of a whacked-out drug and alcohol addicted ex-revolutionary. The tone of the film is ironic with lots of tongue-in-cheek humor, especially regarding character names: Lockjaw, Toejam, Mae West, Perfidia Beverly Hills, and Ghetto Pat. Despite being on the run and trying to evade the law, DiCaprio spent a lot of the movie dressed in a long, plaid bathrobe. I felt irrationally obsessed by the impracticality and improbability of his continuing to wear the bathrobe during all the crazy events of the last hour of the movie. I kept mentioning the bathrobe to Bruce, which irritated him no end. Later, I realized I’d missed the point; the writers intended for viewers to enjoy the absurdity. My bad. Sean Penn should get an Oscar for playing Colonel Lockjaw, a despicable racist and supremely creepy man who is out to destroy Bob (DiCaprio) and his daughter Willa (Chase Infiniti). Willa is kidnapped by a good guy, then by a couple of bad guys, and later by a bad guy who turns out to be a good-ish guy. Bob remains one step behind the kidnappers. Willa’s simmering intensity keeps the tension high. One hot-tempered decision by Willa’s mother set off a tragic chain of events that badly affected her daughter’s life. By the end of the movie, the violent acts of the revolutionaries hadn’t engendered the change they’d envisioned. However, that didn’t seem to inspire them to change their strategy or behavior. But maybe that was the writer’s point, that we continued to be mired in the mess. On second thought, I like this movie better now that I’ve written the review. Relay: A Movie Reminiscent of John Grisham books and movies, in its first few minutes, this film lets the viewer know where the screenwriter stands regarding corporate greed. Ash, played by Riz Ahmed, is a virtuous man who defends whistleblowers who are hounded by their powerful employers. Sarah Grant (played by Lily James of Downton Abbey fame) is a whistleblower who hires Ash. She tells him she is terrified by the scare tactics of her former employers and wants to return incriminating documents to them. Ash agrees to facilitate the process. There is a tenderness in Ahmed’s portrayal of his character which makes this movie a pleasure to watch. Lily James delivers a great performance of a woman who is running for her life. I didn’t like the curve ball the writers threw at us viewers in the end. For a curve ball to be credible, the writer needs to have incorporated a hint at the onset. Maybe I missed the hint? All in all, I thought the movie was well-acted, kept a nice brisk pace, was not overly violent, and showed the lengths corporations will go to keep making money. Last Christmas:  A Movie             I am not a fan of Christmas movies. That being said, Last Christmas is not your normal Christmas movie. Emma Thompson who co-wrote the screenplay, gave a memorable, but slightly over-the-top performance of Petra, a Slavic mother. I love Emma Thompson and wanted to love this movie. But the emotional landscape did not quite make sense, and the plot made some confusing leaps. However, I admired the commitment of the actors—Emilia Clarke’s rendition of the feisty and erratic Kate, Henry Golding’s portrayal of the compassionate, yet ethereal Tom, and Emma Thompson’s robust delivery of the in-your-face mother, Petra. This movie did support the plot twist at the end. Film critics didn’t like the movie, but audiences were more forgiving of its flaws and gave it an 81% on Rotten Tomatoes and I would agree. ### More viewing possibilities: WICKED LITTLE LETTERS GHOSTLIGHTING TASK LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT SMOKE 0:00 / 0:00 Looking for Something to Watch? (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum’s fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

PODCAST-MONKEY BUSINESS Photo Courtesy of Jamie Haughton 0:00 / 0:00 Monkey Business (First appeared in Brevity.) I am not a monkey, but sometimes I act like one.             Over the past couple years, I’ve had to put my writing and teaching career on hold as I’ve dealt with non-negotiable demands on my life. Those events knocked the stuffing out of me and trashed my self-esteem. I wondered if I still possessed the confidence, organizational skills, and knowledge I needed to continue in my profession.             Despite being filled with self-doubt, I pitched a creative writing retreat idea to a group I’d worked with in the past. They’d always responded to my proposals with enthusiasm. Within a day, I received a warm email from the director saying she liked the concept but wanted me to expand the description section. I realized she was right. My proposal lacked substance. Normally, I welcome revision suggestions. I’d calmly flesh out the ideas and hit send. However, this reasonable feedback sent my fragile psyche into a death spiral. Had I lost my mojo? Why did I email such an ill-prepared document? I paused to relive many of my past failures, including losing the citywide spelling bee in third grade by misspelling “rhythm.” Once the self-flagellation petered out, I decided to scour the nether regions of my home. I stooped so far as to clean under the bathroom sink in the basement, a space that still contained hygiene artifacts from twenty-five years ago. After my zeal for scrubbing waned, I vowed to craft the perfect revision. But the pursuit of perfection paralyzed me. I stared at a blinking cursor for hours as I wrote and deleted many imperfect drafts. I knew what the director wanted but my self-doubt was messing with my ability to articulate it. While I am not a monkey, the embarrassing truth is that my unhinged behavior bore a striking resemblance to a group of lab monkeys that once flipped out over a banana in a basket. Years ago, researchers had taught these monkeys how to open a straw basket by pulling a latch and lifting the lid. All the monkeys became expert lid-lifters. Next, they divided the monkeys into two groups. Monkeys in one room observed someone putting a banana in each of their baskets. The other group was asked to unlatch and lift the lid but without the bananas—which they did, no problem. However, the banana-in-the-basket monkeys forgot how to open the lids. They jumped on baskets, chewed on baskets, and smashed baskets against the wall. Overwhelmed by their desire for those bananas, not one of them remembered a simple task they’d already mastered. Researchers found that the prospect of an enticing reward had interfered with the brain signals that enabled the monkeys to complete a simple task. Much like those lab monkeys, I felt so desperate for the director’s blessing that I couldn’t form a few simple, descriptive sentences. My fixation on receiving her affirmation made me forget how to unlatch my lid. Disgusted by my lack of progress, I decided to procrastinate in a non-housecleaning way. I took out my trumpet, an instrument I’d stared playing at nine, and practiced the St. Louis Blues, a syncopated tune with grace notes, slurs, and the nemesis of my musical existence, dotted eighth notes. I’ve been butchering this song for years. But this time, I focused on counting beats, remembering the sharps, and making the slurs work, despite my shot lip. I didn’t experience performance anxiety because I didn’t care about anyone’s opinion. I played for the joy of it. As my performance improved, I loosened up and lightened up—and gained the courage needed to go back to revising. St. Louis Blues had distracted me from anxiety and the drive for perfection. I added a little verve to the tone of the proposal and wrote one hundred words of what I hoped approximated a persuasive description.  The upshot? A nightclub owner invited me to perform St. Louis Blues on stage in NYC. Just kidding. However, the director did like the revision and accepted the proposal, which ended my existential crisis.             In retrospect, I wish I could have skipped the drama queen stage. After receiving the revision suggestion, I wish I had poured myself a cup of Good Earth tea, watched the sunset, then calmly written the requisite words. However, my bruised soul didn’t possess the bandwidth for rational thinking and a little self-care. I didn’t realize I had all I needed to complete the task. Like my simian counterparts, my overwhelming desire to achieve a specific outcome interfered with the brain signals that, without fanfare, would have enabled me to complete the simple task.             What reassured me that my brain still worked was picking up an old friend, my trumpet, and mastering St. Louis Blues—a low-stakes, complex task that led to a small success. Music worked for me; maybe painting, solving a puzzle, or practicing a tennis serve would work for you. The lesson I learned: Find a way to stop obsessing about the banana! ### Interested in other writing tips? Check out:   Surviving Rejection All About That Bass Celestial Vault Don’t Arrive Before You Get There (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum’s fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

PODCAST-TASK-TV SERIES If you’ve read very many of my movie reviews, you’ll know that I love dark movies with redemptive underpinnings. The seven-episode TV series, Task, fits the bill. This crime procedural was written by Brad Inglesby, who also penned Mare of Eastown. Both series do a brilliant job of capturing gritty blue-collar life. Mare of Eastown is a mystery that keeps viewers in suspense, eager to discover the big reveal at season’s finale. The plot of Task is character driven; there’s no mystery to be solved. Instead, Inglesby creates narrative tension by exploration of the inner workings of his characters via back story and dialogue. For me, this worked. By episode one, I felt great empathy for several individuals and cared about what happened to them.             The plot: unknown men commit a string of violent robberies that target drug houses of a fierce and powerful gang. As the violence escalates, police and FBI officials worry that an all-out gang war will ensue, endangering the public. The FBI chief, played by Martha Plimpton, insists that Tom Brandis (Mark Ruffalo) head up a task force comprised of three newbies to find the perps.             In the middle of trying to deal with his own unspeakable tragedy, Tom begs the chief to find someone else. He’d rather be spending his time day drinking and bird watching, his current methods of coping. But the chief prevails. Tom is stuck with organizing a ragtag team of newbies: Grasso (Fabien Frankel), is a brash guy with mobster vibes, not anybody I’d let babysit my goldfish. Alison Oliver plays Stover, a young state trooper who hasn’t gotten over the trauma of a past incident. Her own colleagues ridicule her on a regular basis. The third is Aleah Clinton, played by Thuso Mbedu. This investigator knows what she is doing and is good at it, but is underestimated and unappreciated by just about everyone, including her law enforcement associates and the criminals.             Tom Pelphrey, delivers a powerful performance as Robbie, a man with a good heart who can’t help himself from making awful, terrible, forehead-slappingly bad choices. I found myself yelling, “DON’T DO THAT!” at the screen  quite a few times.             I am a fan of Mark Ruffalo and have watched most of his movies. His nuanced and multi-faceted rendering of Tom Brandis is his best performance to date. Brandis is an ex-priest who went into law enforcement. In addition to fighting his own demons, he’s walked alongside his parishioners and members of the community as they struggle with grief and loss. Brandis is a wounded healer who approaches the world with enormous compassion.             The chemistry among the actors in this ensemble cast is among the best I’ve seen. They portray both intense love and soul-scorching hatred in an understated way. No overacting was allowed on this set. Despite being nuanced, some scenes just plain sizzle.             I wish the movie had spent more time unpacking the character of Maeve (played by Emilia Jones). She is Robbie’s niece, a twenty-something woman who is saddled with the care of Robbie’s small children. All she ever wants to do is live a quiet life. But Robbie’s erratic behavior de-stabilizes and endangers her every day. Albeit damaged, Maeve is the moral compass of the story. She resists Robbie’s pressure to engage in criminal activities, faces down the bad guys who are after Robbie, and puts herself at great risk while trying to protect Robbie’s kids. Her uncle’s chaos lands Maeve in the crosshairs of the FBI investigators, who don’t offer her support or protection, but instead threaten to put her behind bars.             Just a warning, there’s lots of violence in this film. I walked out of the room on several scenes. And, as you might expect, there’s enough profanity to set your hair on fire.             Even though I have difficulty engaging with slower paced movies, one situation captured my heart so completely that I looked forward to each episode to dropping.                   The pace does pick up at the end. There are several plot twists and more gun fights. The tragic beauty of one of the last scenes made me weep. Despite leaving a few issues unresolved, the end felt satisfying. I wonder if there will be a season two. I hope so. I’d love to spend more time with the amazing cast and watch whatever else Brad Inglesby comes up with for them to portray. ### Interested in other movie and TV reviews? Check out:  SMOKE, THE PERFECT COUPLE, or HIGH POTENTIAL. 0:00 / 0:00 TASK (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum’s fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

PODCAST-JOYRIDE-MOVIE REVIEW I saw a snippet of Joyride on a long airplane flight. I found the film intriguing and always wanted to watch the whole movie, which I did last night with my fellow members of The Quirky Movie Club. The plot: Twelve-year-old Mully (played by Charlie Reid) is singing in a pub to raise money for a charity that benefits cancer patients, the disease that recently has taken his mother. While singing, Mully notices his reprobate father making off with the collected cash. He chases his father, grabs the money, and hops into the driver’s seat of a cab idling outside of the pub. As Mully peels off, he notices Joy, (played by Oliva Colman) and a newborn in the backseat. Clearly inebriated, Joy tells Mully to keep driving. She confesses that she’s going to give her baby to a friend. Mully is horrified. But Joy tells him, “People give babies away all the time! To Romanian orphanages, to child traffickers, to Chinese gymnastic academies.” The two are already familiar with each other. It’s a small town and everyone gathers at the pub. Mully refers to Joy as “Vodka and Tonic” because of her drinking proclivities. Joy knows him as the boy who lost his sweet mother (a schoolmate of hers) to cancer. They start off on a road trip that involves busting through police barriers, stealing two vehicles, and hitching a ride with an offbeat farmer.  At times, the screenplay feels contrived and predictable. To enjoy this movie, you need to suspend your disbelief and relax into the improbable storyline. I encourage you to do so, even if it’s just to see the sparkly chemistry between Colman and Reid. Colman has won an Academy Award, an Emmy, a Golden Globe award and has stayed happily married to the same man for twenty-four years, all admirable achievements. Her acting range is impressive—the queen of England, an intrepid detective, and in this movie, an alcoholic woman who is about to give up her baby. She fully embodies the role of Joy, which made for a great viewing experience. Charlie Reid is mesmerizing on screen. In the opening scene, he sings a very silly song with such conviction and style, I wanted to pause and replay it. His acting is both nuanced and robust, providing a balanced counterpoint for Colman’s portrayal of Joy’s forceful character. The soundtrack complemented the film well. I especially enjoyed some of the upbeat tunes. Shots of the Kerry countryside made me want to hop on a plane and spend a few weeks exploring. I’d love to see Charlie Reid in another movie, but I couldn’t find much about him online, other than his appearing in a few plays. If you want to get to know Olivia Colman better, check Amy Poehler’s interview of her on the podcast, A Good Hang. Near the end of the movie, a street person refers to Mully and Joy as “Reckless Joy and the Half-Orphan,” which is an apt summation of the story. Is the movie worth seeing? My fellow members of The Quirky Movie Club couldn’t quite get past the farfetched plot. However, I loved the acting and the overall spirit of the movie so much I could easily watch it a second time. ### Interested in other movie reviews? Check out:  NINE DAYS, DADDIO, or GHOSTLIGHT. 0:00 / 0:00 Joyride (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum’s fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

PODCAST-SMOKE-TV SERIES Smoke is a nine-episode Apple TV series based on Dennis Lehane’s book, Firebug. This thriller is dark and gritty, with its main theme being no one can escape the negative effects of a traumatic childhood. All the primary characters have backstories that have left them flawed. The writing is good and is often laced with a cynical and biting humor.             As the story opens, we viewers learn that a serial arsonist has set more than twenty fires in the city. The investigators are under great pressure to find the perpetrator. The plot is comprised of a series of twists and turns, so many, that you can predict another is just about to happen, which is not optimal. That being said, the story kept my interest.             The acting is terrific and that alone makes the show worth watching. Jurnee Smollett does an amazing job capturing the complexity of her character, a detective who’s survived terrible abuse. Taron Eagerton delivers an stellar performance as an arson specialist who seems charismatic and charming in a twitchy and almost maniacal way. I felt a special affection for the character, Ezra Esposito, played convincingly by John Leguizamo. Ezra is a fired cop, despised by everyone because of his past failures. Yet, this guy, whose behavior can be described as amoral at best, is the one person who wants to find the truth, whatever the cost. This skilled ensemble has great chemistry. In fact, I might call it phenomenal negative chemistry, in that many of the characters have contempt for one another or histories that entangle them in unhealthy ways. Their interactions felt genuine, and the dialogue felt authentic. This thought-provoking series would be great to discuss with others.             Writers included a subplot that I found riveting—true to life and thoroughly moving. Ntare Guma Mbaho Mwine’s performance as Freddy is amazing. I don’t want to say any more about this, except that the segment is worthy of your close attention.             The pacing felt slow at times. I think the narrative tension would have been higher if they’d condensed the series into six episodes. My husband lost interest at episode three, but I hung in through episode nine. I found the last episode annoying. Lehane decided that he wanted to “go big or go home.” Up until that point, I appreciated the nuance of the material. The choices the main character made at the end strained credulity and did not fit with her street-smart way of handling crisises. At the very end, they portrayed an unrelated fire, maybe to entice viewers to show up for a possible season two? I found this confusing and thought that it diluted the intensity of emotion viewers might have felt at the conclusion of the series.             If you like watching flames, little fires and big conflagrations, this movie is for you. The ethereal shots of collapsing buildings and blazing forests are mesmerizing. All these gorgeous scenes are complemented by a topnotch soundtrack.             What I liked most about this series is the complex portrayal of each of the main characters, how we can’t escape our pasts and how no one is completely good nor completely evil. This show may be too grim for some viewers. However, I feel it’s worth watching based on the superb acting, engaging soundtrack, and beautiful (but terrifying) cinematography. ### Interested in watching other TV series? Check out: THE PERFECT COUPLE and HIGH POTENTIAL . 0:00 / 0:00 SMOKE (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum’s fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

PODCAST-NINE DAYS MOVIE REVIEW I watched Nine Days a week ago. I’ve been thinking about it ever since. Written and directed by Edson Oda, this surreal film is set in a clapboard house in the middle of a bleak desert. In this house, over the span of nine days, Will (Winston Duke) decides if a soul will be given the gift of life. If the answer is yes, that soul will be born on Earth with all the attributes they already possess. If they are not chosen, they cease to exist. The souls traverse the desert in batches of five, arriving one after the other. Will interviews the individuals separately, sometimes with the aid of Kyo (Benedict Wong). Will’s questions differ for each candidate; his interrogation style ranges from tender to shockingly aggressive. All along, Will insists there are no right or wrong answers. But it’s clear that some answers will lead to the gift of life and others to permanent extinction. Once souls are born on Earth, Will observes each of their lives on a 1950’s style TV, a separate screen for each person. A small room contains a bank of televisions running concurrently. The entirety of each life is recorded on a VCR tape(!) and stored in file cabinet (!)—all of which adds to the quirkiness of the film. As the story opens, Will is dressed in a bow tie and suit jacket. He and Kyo are looking forward to watching one of their charges experience a celebratory milestone in her life. Instead, something shocking happens to this person whom they deeply value. This shakes Will to the core and makes him second guess his ability to accurately choose a soul who can thrive on earth. Soon after the unsettling event, one by one, members from a new cohort arrive. They are a diverse group, differing in appearance, responses to the questions, and attitudes about the selection process and their prospects. The actors include Tony Hale, Bill Skarsgard, Ariana Ortiz, David Rhysdal and Zazie Beetz. Beetz plays Emma, a vibrant soul who doesn’t play by the rules. She answers Will’s questions with her own questions and surreptitiously observes what happens to the other candidates. Emma’s behavior challenges Will’s rigid perspective on life. Nine Days is a visual treat. I loved the grim desert shots, which were filmed at Bonneville Flats in Utah. I also like the stuffy, claustrophobic interview scenes that take place in a house that my grandma might have furnished. Both spaces contrasted with the grainy, yet gloriously sensual scenes on earth that are portrayed on the televisions. The cinematographer’s use of color creates a dreamy, intense tone evocative of the tone Edward Hopper achieves with his painting, Nighthawks, a depiction of late-night clientele at a city diner. The film moves in a non-linear fashion. Oda builds his story slowly, with every detail laden with significance. The structure is much like a hawk circling over its prey, at each turn swooping closer, until a final dive toward its target. Narrative tension builds as the viewer becomes emotionally invested in each character and at the same time realizes only one of them will receive the gift of life. Will offers a consolation prize to those souls who are not chosen. He creates a simulation of an experience  they would have liked to have had on earth. Of course, it is an imperfect facsimile. Oda’s superb storytelling and directing led me to feel deep empathy for each character, even the ones I didn’t like that much. Viewing these consolation scenes just about eviscerated me emotionally. The film leaves many questions unanswered. Will describes himself as “only a cog in the machine.” We never find out who operates the machine or why they put Will in charge, a man who is so damaged by his own past life on earth. Oda intentionally leaves the questions unanswered, which he says reflects “the gaps” we experience in our lives.  Oda is a Japanese Brazilian man who grew up in Sao Paulo, Brazil and later received a master’s degree film in California. In an interview he says that he wrote the script himself, despite English not being his first language. I found his writing to be nuanced and poetic.  The story is autobiographical. When Oda was twelve, his fifty-year-old uncle died by suicide. As a young adult, Oda identified with his uncle’s depression. He says that this film rose out of his fear of following his uncle’s path. Drawing on his experience with his uncle, Oda explores these themes: To ensure survival on Earth, must you become a self-protective and cynical person? Given that life is inevitably filled with pain and suffering, is it worth living? Oda slowly and skillfully builds toward an end that is both tragic and redemptive. The last scene puts Winston Duke’s prodigious acting skills on full display. Will’s riveting speech brought me to tears. Although, I wanted this movie to resolve differently, the ending Oda wrote helped me change my perspective on how to survive the hard patches in my life. ### Interested in other movie and series reviews? Check out:  DADDIO, GHOSTLIGHT, or HIS THREE DAUGHTERS. 0:00 / 0:00 NINE DAYS (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum’s fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

PODCAST-SLOW WALKING OUT OF BABYLON *This originally appeared in Literally Stories, an international literary journal. One day, I meet Beelzebub standing ahead of me in line at the To God Be the Glory Soup Kitchen. Bathed in the glare of the fluorescent lights that flicker above us, the man glistens. Shards of hard white light reflect off his glimmering jacket, obscuring my view. But that one glimpse gives me the shivers. Our line inches closer to the table and away from the dazzle-splattering tubes. I notice the expanse of him, almost seven feet stretching toward the ceiling. Tuxedo jacket with wide lapels, crisp white shirt with tiny black buttons, tux pants with a satin stripe and the crease ironed in, patent leather shoes. Pretty glamorous for a soup kitchen. Looking closer, I notice the too shiny jacket, frayed shirtsleeves, a missing onyx cufflink, highwater pants, and significant lifts on the heels of his shoes. I hear a familiar whisper. “Run, child!”  It’s the same voice I sense when I attend a Sing Loud and Pray Hard meeting at the soup kitchen. My heart, that duplicitous muscle, quivers. Shall I run? If so, in which direction? Toward or away? I lean my ear toward God’s lips, waiting for instruction. But the man steps between me and God, catching my eye. He sparkles in my direction, reeling me in. I lower my gaze. Why? Am I flirting or terrified? Inches between us now.  I inhale. I smell sulfur and bug spray with notes of Old Spice and cookies baking. You wouldn’t know it now, but I used to be a sommelier of men, not that I ever had the willpower to heed warnings. I don’t lift my head. He turns back to the full table. After he piles food onto his plate, the glittery guy whips around. With a warm smile, or maybe a hot leer, he says, “Join me for lunch.”  A command more than an invitation. I freeze. I gasp. Usually, when people get a full look at my face, they turn away in horror. I realize that he’s not repulsed. I barely tip my chin in assent. Beelzebub beams and bows. Like a magnificent prince of darkness, he takes my elbow. He leads me, his damaged princess to a rickety card table onto which he slides his paper plate. With a flourish, he pulls out the folding chair, “For you, my lady.” Of late, I’ve been called Whatever Your Name Is, Hey You, and Girlie plenty of times, but never anything like, “my lady.” At least not since the beginning of my ending. Now, hand on my shoulder, he guides me into the seat. At his light touch, the hair on my neck bristles. He removes his jacket, rolls his sleeves and tucks into his heaping plate. We talk. Specifically, he talks. Beelzebub comes at me all end times and Armageddon and the beauty of a Texas cactus and swing dancing in a barn, the benefits of ivermectin and the perils of vaccines. Now and then, he lures me into his word tornado with an alluring image, like the sweet taste of that first ear of summer corn, especially when you pick it straight from the stalk then toss it into boiling water. He spouts paragraphs without taking a breath. All the while he’s inching his arm along the back of my chair, until the flesh of his arm rests heavy on the flesh of my neck. I feel hard muscles, icy knots.  At first, I edge away from his intrusion.  But then the rush of his words beguiles me, entices me into his world. I re-frame my experience. I give new labels to these feelings I’m not even sure I’m feeling. I relax into his protection, enjoy being surrounded by his strength. We dine on juicy franks, dripping with mustard, ketchup and relish, heaps of sugary brown beans, crisp Doritos that cover our fingers with orange dust, and a dessert of Mott’s Applesauce in a foil cup. He proposes a cranberry juice toast. We raise our plastic ups, touch rims. He declares, “You are special, my dear. Let no man, no misplaced morals, no selfless thoughts impede your path to the pursuit of pleasure, no matter who or what must be set on fire along the way.” I don’t know what he means or what he intends, but I am luxuriating in the attention, the visibility. I believe he sees me, embraces me. His pronouncements offer me a palace, unlike the hovel I live in now. We lean in toward each other on our loveseat of rusty metal chairs. So close, I let myself believe that Beelzebub smells more like Old Spice and cookies than sulfur and bug spray. He smooth talks me into a date, dinner out on Saturday, the next night.  I walk home to my one-room studio apartment, a grubby dump with a fold-out couch, a microwave, a sink, a shared hall bathroom, and roaches for roommates. As I drift off to sleep, I realize that Beelzebub never asked my name. Saturday night, we meet out front of the To God Be the Glory Soup Kitchen. He pulls up in a swirling cloud of smoke, engine backfiring, muffler rattling. To my hopeful ears, the rhythms sound like fanfare, a drum roll announcing his regal entrance rather than a death rattle. The air clears, the setting sun creates a warm red glow on his Cadillac.             Beelzebub unfolds himself from the driver’s seat, gangly, long arms and legs, leaps onto the sidewalk and opens the car door for me. He’s all zippity doo dah. Barely corporeal, bordering on surreal. A vibrating string of energy. Close to the car now, I see that the passenger side is crushed, partially repaired with Bondo and painted the shade of an orange emergency cone. Should I worry about what happened to the last passenger? I dismiss the thought. Instead, the words, royal coach enter my mind.             As my dark prince opens the door, it creaks or sighs or possibly groans. I perch on the gray vinyl seat, trying to avoid the glue on the curling duct tape that crisscrosses the torn fabric.             A pine tree air freshener hangs from his rearview mirror. The scent doesn’t cover the stench of sorrow that fills the interior–notes of sour milk, old shoes, not quite empty cartons of Chinese food. Perhaps I am a sommelier of cars now.  I try to lower my window, but it doesn’t budge.  He smiles, beneficence oozing from his pores. “No worries. I’ll turn up the air.” He does and the car fills with the odor of wet cardboard. “Ready?” “Where are we going?” “Olympia Diner on the Babylon Turnpike.” “Don’t you mean Berlin Turnpike?” “Ha! Broaden your mind.”  He shifts gears then smashes the gas pedal. We go from zero to sixty as we cruise onto the entrance ramp of the turnpike.  I stare at the rusted floorboard beneath my feet. Through giant holes, I view my bleak life rushing past:  My dad dying of kidney failure when I was five. Losing my twenty-year-old twin brother to an IED in Fallujah. MBA in hand, starting my dream job in marketing at twenty-four—my new boss saying I would be the face of the company. A head-on collision with a drunk driver at twenty-five that killed my mother but left me alive with a re-arranged face and blinding headaches. Losing my job, the family home and now scraping by with money earned by walking dogs. We’re on the throughway now, flying past the brick tenements and old factories. He revs the engine and yells, “This baby’s got power. I’m going to take you places.”  He darts around cars, forcing his way through the middle of two lanes. I grip the armrest, panicking, re-living the accident that changed my life. The man opens his mouth and out floats glowing word bubbles that wrap around my soul, “You’re safe with me, Babe. Trust me.” I take a deep breath, tamp down my fear, dare to dream. I envision exchanging my space heater for the sun’s warmth, snuggled in a comfy beach chair, waves dancing along a white, sandy beach.             But then, I look ahead at the road on which he is careening. Fear ripples down my neck, spine and out my arms, until I feel tingling to my fingertips. “Please slow down.” Sweet voice, dripping with the promise of pleasure, Beelzebub oozes, “Stick with me, dearest and you’ll never feel the ache of hunger. I’ll feed you sweet cinnamon rolls straight out of a blazing oven.”             I am starving, my stomach hollow and aching, my spirit spirals into an abyss.  His nostrils flare and his smile widens, exposing his incisors, teeth that can cut through flesh. “We’ll get us a house. Make babies. Live off the fat of the land.” I see now we are inches from rear-ending a tractor-trailer. Louder, I yell, “Slow down!” The man accelerates. We barely miss the truck, but now we are taking a sharp curve on two wheels. I scream.             He screams back. Only louder and wilder.             I hear sirens. Wonk, wonk, wonk. Oooeeee. Oooeeee! I look through the rear window and see no one coming to my rescue.             We ascend into space or maybe we descend. We are surrounded by color, red, orange, black. Shafts of cobalt-blue lightning rip through the space. I am suffocated by the heat, yet my heart and limbs feel icy, numb. Time passes. Hours, maybe decades. Engulfed in the chaos, I lose my sense of self. I struggle to remember anything. Who am I? What is my name? Finally, I sigh the words, oh god. I take four deep breaths, wait, then take another four breaths, then I lean my ear toward God’s lips and listen. From everywhere and nowhere, a light breeze sweeps through, causing the pine tree freshener to flutter. Barely audible, as if spoken from a great distance, I hear a whisper. “That creature will suck the joy out of your soul then spit out your dreams, one by one.” I turn to Beelzebub. “Stop the car!” “We are almost there, my dear. Why stop now?” He reaches to pat my shoulder. I push away his hand which I now see is scaly.              “What is my name? Do you even know my name?” I am crying now.             Silence.             I see a neon sign ahead, OLYMPIA in pink and DINER in orange.             I ask again, “WHAT AM I CALLED?”             Beelzebub leans back, “To me, you are food for thought, a trifle to be consumed. You are an extinguished star. You are yellow snow. You are dead meat, literally and figuratively.” He laughs hard enough to make the car shimmy and swerve.             “Let me out! Now!”             He slows but doesn’t pull over.             I pop the lock, tumble onto the road, rolling twice before stopping.             Beelzebub evaporates into the Stygian gloom.             My forehead and right arm bear the brunt of the fall. I lie still, in shock.             I take stock.  My face and arms are scraped and bruised, but nothing worse than what already is.             I see the garish pink neon sign: OLYMPIA DINER. But the inside lights are dimmed. I sit up. Only one car in the parking lot.             From behind me, I hear a voice, neither kind nor unkind. A stocky, older man in a white apron, carrying a full bag of garbage. “Hey, what’s this, now?”             He helps me up and I begin to cry.             The man starts when he sees my face in the light of the flickering sign. He recovers his composure and says, “We’re closing, but the boss, my wife, is inside.” He laughs when he says, “the boss, my wife.”             He leaves the overfull bag in the parking lot. With one arm, he steadies me, as we walk in.             Although the overhead lights are off, I see a counter with stools, tables with the chairs up, a juke box, and several booths. The man eases me into one. I lay my head on the table, too tired and weak to move or think.             A large woman slides into the other side of the booth. “Need me to call the police?”             “No. Just scratched up.” I look at her. Curly, salt and pepper hair, tied back by a blue bandana, but unruly sprigs springing out from under. She doesn’t recoil when she sees my face. Her husband must have warned her. She brings me Band-Aids and hydrogen peroxide.             As I tend to my scrapes, she asks, “Want a late supper or early breakfast?”             “I don’t have money.”             “That’s not an answer to my question.” Rough voice, like she’d grown up in the Bronx. Big, bold eyes, nose, mouth. Sturdy, not the least bit delicate.             “Breakfast, please.”             She brings a large tray: hash browns, scrambled eggs, bacon, buttered toast, orange juice. After I eat, she returns. She says, “What’s your story?”             Little by little, I unroll my scroll of grief, seeing my father’s empty brown leather slippers by the door, crying when my mother said he would never come home, holding a folded American flag at my twin brother’s funeral as grief billowed over me, regaining consciousness in the hospital after the car crash, trying to make sense of the words the grim doctor spoke, “I’m sorry. Your mother didn’t make it.” Looking in the mirror and seeing a long, jagged scar that crossed from forehead to chin. The crushing headaches that arrive without warning, kneecapping me. After six months of not being able to be at the office, my boss says, “We all love you dearly, but you are not working out as the face of this company.”  My life now:  the roach hotel, struggling with unruly dogs and rude owners, the only bright spot, To God Be the Glory Soup Kitchen, the eating, the singing and praying–although I’m not sure to whom. Then I describe my hope of finding a home in Beelzebub. I weep.             She covers my hand with hers. I feel both calluses and warmth. “My name is Mary, like half the girls at Mother of God Catholic School.” She rolls her eyes. “What’s your name?”             I’m startled by her question. “Amia.”             “Amia?” Mary laughs. “You know that means beloved, right? I paid attention in Latin class at Mother of Monsters, which was what we called the place.”             As Mary clears away the dishes, she says, “I got to be honest. I think your Beelzebub story is looney tunes. You on drugs?” I say, “No drugs. None.” “Well, I have met guys who fit that creep’s description except maybe not that high energy vibrating string thing.” Mary stood. “Look, Louie and I got to close the place. Mass at nine-thirty tomorrow morning. Want a ride home?”             I sit in the front seat of their Pontiac Tempest, squished between Louie and Mary, their back seat being full of boxes, napkins, vegetables, and who knows what. I can’t tell in the dark. The car smells of garlic and over-ripe bananas, with notes of oregano and lemon. I guess I am a car sommelier now.  I don’t mind being squished between them.             When we pull up in front of the decrepit boarding house, Mary says, “Your landlord ought to go to jail.” She and Louie get out and walk me to the door, which is only twelve feet from where their car is parked. “Hey, tomorrow is Sunday lunch. Noon at my house—pasta and meatballs. My daughters, their useless husbands and their barbarian boys always come over. Louie, he’ll pick you up at 11:30 after mass.” As he walks away, Louie makes a gesture as if he’s tipping his hat, though he’s not wearing one. Mary acts like she might hug me, then reconsiders. Instead, she gives a little punch to my scraped-up shoulder, which hurts. She looks me in the eye. “Amia, everybody’s always wicked hungry after church. Don’t nobody like to wait to eat. So, you be ready.” “I will,” I said. And I was. *** Note:  As a high school student in Connecticut, without parental permission, I’d occasionally visit the Olympia Diner late at night with friend. All characters in this story are fictional, with the exception of Beelzebub, but I’d advise steering clear of him. *Interested in reading more of my short stories? Check out the FICTION section of my website. *Photo courtesy of Hans Vivek. 0:00 / 0:00 Walking Out of Babylon (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum’s fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

PODCAST-DON’T ARRIVE BEFORE YOU GET THERE You can read this essay in Streetlight Magazine where it first appeared or down below. *** My writing mantra used to be, Fine is good enough. I made sure whatever I sent out was the best it could be. However, I worked fulltime and was the primary caretaker for three children. When I finished a manuscript, I checked for issues, then hit “send” before anyone came down with croup, required a ride to music lessons, or needed four zillion forms signed. I never lingered at the finish line, which meant some manuscripts went out not quite fully polished. You’ve heard of the tyranny of the urgent? Those years, I happened to be the tyrant’s loyal subject. The process worked, sort of. It may have taken up to thirty submissions, but most of my stories and essays found a home. When my children were young, a scarcity mentality fueled my anxiety. I felt driven to send out my work as quickly as possible. Given my tenuous circumstances, this strategy seemed both practical and reasonable. Now, that the kids are grown, I’ve learned to let my writing simmer. My mantra has changed to, “Don’t arrive before you get there.”   It helps that I’ve created a Repository of Random Ideas notebook. In it, I record character sketches, story concepts, essay topics, weird phrases, silly words that tickle my ears.  When I first jot down an idea, I’m convinced that it’s hysterically funny and/or amazingly brilliant. I wind up using about 10 percent of these “amazingly brilliant ideas.” However, just knowing this resource exists tamps down my drive to send out a project before it’s fully ready.             Here’s an example of how the repository works. One hot afternoon, as I walked up a steep hill in my neighborhood, I experienced significant chest pain. A normal person would have called for help. But my mind went to how dying by the side of the road might an interesting way to start a story.  Back home, I swallowed antacids, took out the notebook, then dashed off thoughts about a young woman who experiences chest pain followed by a heart attack. She’s a quirky accountant who’s led a solitary and quiet life. That’s as far as I got. A year later, an extremely cautious 65-year-old friend of mine went sky diving. My friend’s surprising decision inspired the second half to my quirky accountant story. After my character’s heart attack, the young woman throws caution to the wind, goes skydiving, then experiences an epiphany. Called Gravity, the story appeared in Across the Margin.             When I take the time to record the world around me— parent-child interactions in an airport, glimpsing a shooting star, an elderly woman struggling to put on an earring—any of these observations could be material for a story or essay. The trick is to relax and trust that the whole piece will ultimately materialize.             Currently, I am waiting for the rest of a short story to arrive. So far, I only have the title, Slow Walking Out of Babylon and the first line, “He comes at me all Jesus and pancake breakfasts and pine tree air fresheners….” Beyond that, I find myself peering at the edge of a black abyss. As fog swirls around me, I glimpse a flicker of light in the distance. My space is not yet illuminated, but I know it will be, and I will wait. ### Note: Slow Walking Out of Babylon was just accepted by Literally Stories and will be published in June 2025. 0:00 / 0:00 Don't Arrive Before You Get There Photo appears  courtesy of Alessio Lin. INTERESTED IN MORE CRAFT ESSAYS? CHECK OUT: THE CELESTIAL VAULT EFFECT OF FORGIVENESS ON CREATIVITY ALL ABOUT THAT BASS WHEN TO CARE AND WHEN NOT TO (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum’s fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

PODCAST-INSTANT FAMILY-MOVIE REVIEW Straight out of college, I took a job that gave me a year to “de-institutionalize” a group of 17-year-old kids who had spent their lives bouncing from one placement to another. My task was to equip them with the survival skills they hadn’t learned during their formative years. I was supposed to accomplish this before they turned 18, at which point the state would dump them on the curb.             These kids had heartbreaking histories. Angie lost her parents and siblings in a car crash. Lenny spent his early childhood chained to a radiator. My favorite was Jimmy, a lanky man-child with unkempt shoulder-length hair and the saddest face you could imagine. All he wanted was a two-hour home visit with his family. I spent weeks arranging the trip. I helped Jimmy practice how to how to interact with his family. I found clean clothes that fit him. I made sure he showered on the day of the trip. Giddy with excitement, Jimmy could barely sit still during the one-hour drive. No one came to the door of the apartment when we knocked. A neighbor told us the family had left for the day. Jimmy cried all the way home. I could barely keep from crying myself. To this day get weepy when I think about the depth of his grief. At the end of that year, I felt so distraught about the plight of my charges, I wrote a grant asking for funds to finance a halfway house that I wanted to establish. I didn’t find a single donor.             Because of that experience, I was interested in seeing Instant Family, a movie about the foster care system and adoption. The film is based on a true story about a couple who decide to adopt three siblings.             The main characters in the movie, Pete and Ellie, had never thought much about whether to have children. Even when they join a foster care discussion/training group, they seem ambivalent about proceeding with the process. However, they do wind up taking in three siblings, two elementary-aged children and a feisty teen. Early on, they seem to regret their decision, not quite anticipating all the challenges the traumatized kids would present. Later, when the bio mother of the children is released from jail and re-enters her children’s lives, they also weren’t prepared for the heart wrenching situation they found themselves in.             You couldn’t ask for a better cast and good performances overall. Mark Wahlberg and Rose Byrne play the adoptive parents. Octavia Spencer and Tig Notaro portray case workers, who act more like a comedy duo, with Spencer interjecting unfiltered opinions and Notaro trying to keep her colleague in check. About halfway into the movie, Grandma Sandy (played by Margo Martindale) shows up and adds a burst of energy to the plot as she expresses lavish love and plenty of no-nonsense direction for her new grandkids.             The film seems mostly true to life, not that my one year of post-college work makes me a big expert. They don’t cover up the flaws in the foster system nor do they sugarcoat difficulties in caring for traumatized children. I’m glad they include plenty of laughs in the depiction of daily life. This is a difficult topic, and we viewers need the comedic breaks. But I would have appreciated less slapstick and more nuanced humor. Some of the over-the-top scenes (similar in style to Cheaper by the Dozen) did not seem authentic and detracted from the film. One example is the scene where Pete and Ellie arrive at their teen’s high school and start threatening and chasing various people. If you are interested in viewing a slightly different take on foster kids, check out Short Term-12 which stars Brie Larsen. I like this movie, although it’s not for everyone, especially not for a friend I invited over to watch it one time. He felt it was too grim and hated it.             All in all, I’m glad I watched Instant Family. I especially loved seeing all the real-life photos of adoptive families at the end of the movie—they made me cry. I hope the film will persuade more folks to consider fostering and adoption. ### Interested in more movie reviews? Check out: Ghostlight, Wicked Little Letters, or The Last Repair Shop.           0:00 / 0:00 Instant Family Movie Review (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum’s fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

PODCAST-PISTOL PACKIN’ MAMA Photo Courtesy of Taylor Brandon 0:00 / 0:00 Pistol Packin' Mama   Ninety-five years ago, my grandfather, Gaetano Boccaccio named my mother after his favorite Longfellow poem, Evangeline. Despite raising five children on a barber’s salary during the Great Depression, Gaetano made sure my mother took ballet, tap, and had French horn lessons. In high school, she played the French horn so well that she won a place in the All New England Orchestra. Eva loved classical music, over the years becoming an expert of sorts. After listening to a few measures of even the most obscure work, she usually could identify the genre, composer and name of the piece. My parents shared a love for musical theater and were devoted attendees of all the latest productions at the Schubert Theater in New Haven, CT. Back home in our tiny apartment, they’d gather with friends and sing show tunes: The Bells are Ringing, Summertime, Some Enchanted Evening. After my father died seven years ago, Eva moved to a retirement community near us in Charlottesville. She took full advantage of the place: exercising three times weekly, reading to her heart’s content, and blasting her classical music like a teenager. Often, I could hear it from the hallway as I approached her apartment. This winter, my mother’s Parkinson’s symptoms worsened, causing memory issues and several falls, resulting in her entering hospice care at her retirement community. In January, Covid and another bad fall put her into Hospice House, an eight-bed facility in a lovely old Victorian home. My mother is in her fourth month at Hospice House and is continuing to fade, experiencing many indignities of old age which I will not enumerate. Suffice it to say, she is enduring them without complaint. (I did not inherit that attribute. Recently, I had minor foot surgery for a hangnail and have been whining about it ever since.) These days are hard on my mother. They are also hard on all of us family members who are watching a once vibrant person suffer and slowly disappear before our eyes. On a whim, I picked up a collection of 1,000 old show tunes at a library book sale. I read song titles to her. Whenever she recognized a title, she accurately sang the first verse and chorus of each song, which is remarkable, given that she’s now forgotten much of the past fifteen years. Now, a week later, she’s confusing some of the tunes, but one song has stuck with her, Pistol Packin’ Mama I find this fascinating because the song is neither classical nor from a musical but instead is based on the true-life experience of Al Dexter who saw a pistol-packin’ woman chase her philandering husband through his tavern. My respectable, tee-totaling mother sings the song in a deadpan manner and will perform for aides on cue. Here are the illustrious lyrics: Drinkin’ beer in a cabaret, And, I was havin’ fun! Until one night she caught me right, And now I’m on the run. Lay that pistol down, Babe, Lay that pistol down. PISTOL PACKIN’ MAMA, Lay that pistol down!             At the end of the ditty, Eva always pauses dramatically to hit the low “D” note on the word “down”, which makes me giggle every time. Despite her anguish and all her terrible losses, I believe my pistol packin’ Mama is telling me that her pistol packin’ self is somehow still in there, alive and well.  And furthermore, she’s letting me know that she has no intention of going gently into her good night but will continue to make music, perhaps a little raucously, at the dying of the light. ###   Check out Bing Crosby’s rendition of PISTOL PACKIN’ MAMA. Want to read another essay? Check out CODE RED. (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum’s fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

PODCAST-THE GOD OF THE WOODS BOOK REVIEW Liz Moore’s literary mystery is set in 1975 at a prestigious summer camp in the Adirondacks. This place requires coed campers (aged eight through teens) to participate in a minimally supervised survival exercise. They are placed in small groups, given scant supplies, then are sent into the deep forest overnight to fend for themselves. The last instructions they hear are, “Do not get in touch unless someone is dying.” What possibly could go wrong?             In this case, the campers capture and roast a squirrel for supper. Prior to the gruesome dinner, a stabbing wound occurs. Within a few hours, the situation becomes bad enough to legitimately call for help.             This camp attracts bad luck. Soon after the squirrel supper and knife wound debacle, back at the cabin, a camper goes missing. Not any camper, but 13-year-old Barbara Van Laar, rebellious daughter of Peter and Alice Van Laar, fabulously wealthy owners of Camp Emerson (named for Ralph Waldo).  Furthermore, the Van Laar’s 8-year-old son had disappeared from the campground fourteen years before.             Despite the Van Laars being blessed with vast generational wealth, the family is not one to envy: two missing children, a least one unhappy marriage, one grumpy grandfather, a person with serious addiction issues, and a collection of family secrets that figuratively and literally destroy lives.             The first Peter Van Laars founded the camp decades before. He intended to welcome children of all backgrounds, giving them an appreciation for nature and teaching them outdoor survival skills. By the time Peter III (father of Barbara and Bear) becomes director of the camp, most attendees are from rich, well-connected families. Workers from town manage the camp. Since area factories shut down, these folks depend on camp work to survive, barely scraping by. Each summer, Peter III and Alice leave their mansion in Albany, New York to live on grounds in large house which Peter I named, Self-Reliance. Of course, the current inhabitants are anything but self-reliant. In fact, the ill-paid townies perform all the menial labor and are expected rally at a moment’s notice to do additional work.             A prominent theme in this book is the ongoing tension between the elite flatlanders and the downtrodden townies. We readers learn that no matter who commits the crime and no matter how irrational the logic, the townspeople are the first to be blamed. For the most part, law enforcement is complicit in this process, letting the imperious ruling class off the hook and detaining and blaming poor folks based on little or no evidence.             Another theme in the book is sexism/chauvinism, both of which are prevalent in 1961 and sadly still in 1975. The Van Laars family treats Alice like a complete idiot, barely concealing their contempt. When disturbing events occur, they lie to her, over medicate her, and hide her away. Another example of sexism is how everyone treats, twenty-six-year-old Judyta Luptack, the first female investigator in the state of New York. Despite her achievements and multiple awards, Judyta contends with disrespectful, condescending treatment from all but one of her colleagues. They dismiss her suggestions, take credit for her successes, and consign her to meaningless tasks. Her family provides zero support, her own brother mocking her on a regular basis. However, Judyta is my hero. Throughout the investigation, Judyta resists the braindead allegiance her law enforcement superiors have pledged to the Van Laar family.             The God of the Woods is well-worth reading, however, the structure of this book is daunting. Moore told her tale via several points of view, which required me to re-read prior sections in order to figure out what was happening. Also, she switched between two time periods, Bear’s disappearance in 1961, and Barbara’s disappearance in 1975, and not necessarily in chronological order. Along the way, Moore tosses the reader barrels of red herrings, which is great, but also muddies the water.             I’m not complaining. Only a skilled writer could pull off this complex structure. Moore does so masterfully. However, I recommend creating a character/event chart from the start. I did not and regret it. By mid-novel, when I became fully oriented in space and time, I flew through the pages, eager to see what would happen next.             Moore made me care about each of her point of view characters. I especially loved Judyta, the moral compass of this story. Despite the lack of support and even ridicule from colleagues and strong pressure to blame a townie, any townie, Judyta stayed true to her goal—to find the culprit or culprits.             Remember those red herrings I mentioned? They worked. The conclusion of this whodunnit surprised me, which I love. Moore came up with an ending I hadn’t anticipated. Yet, the resolution made sense considering the clues Moore had snuck into the story. This was a good tale, well told. Moore delivers an excellent depiction of class struggle, sexism, the destructive nature of generational secrets, and how one lowly person can make a difference. ### Interested in reading more book reviews? Check out:  The Caretaker, Time of the Child, and Without You Here. 0:00 / 0:00 The God of the Woods (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum’s fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

PODCAST-CODE RED Photo courtesy of Jason Leung 0:00 / 0:00 Code Red Have you ever seen Das Boot (1981), the movie about a German submarine? I don’t recommend it. I don’t remember much about it except a terrifying few moments of sirens blaring, lights flashing, and Germans screaming, “ALARM!” This scene convinced me I’d never want to set foot on a submarine.             Sad to say, I feel as if I am in a Code Red Das Boot moment every time I turn on the news. So, these days I’ve been searching for ways to lower my level of stress and increase my emotional wellbeing. I read that the scent of lavender is calming so I bought a three-pound bag of lavender-scented Epsom salts. One evening, I dimmed the lights and drew a warm bath. I poured half the bag into the water, figuring I’d use an amount lavender proportionate to my gloom. More lavender less existential despair, right?             After five minutes, my head ached as waves of nausea hit me. I felt faint and dizzy as I struggled to haul myself out of the tub. The sad truth: I had lavender-poisoned my body, which in no way decreased my feeling of angst.             When my life feels out of control, I de-clutter. Right now, my life feels out of control. So, I organized my desk, kitchen, and car. Next, I non-gently persuaded my husband to clean out his study, an 8” by 10” room filled floor to ceiling with books, papers, photographs, and doodads from all eras of his life. My spouse is not one to throw anything out. He tossed only .01% of the items in the room. Then, he boxed the remaining books and papers, pulled down the rickety ceiling ladder, and began lugging them up into the attic.  My fear of heights and the sketchy ladder had dissuaded me from ever checking out what my husband had been squirreling away over the past twenty years. However, my feeling of dread overtook my fear of heights. So, I white-knuckled my way up the ladder and joined my husband. I discovered hundreds of household goods I’d believed we’d tossed but still existed in various states of disfunction. At the center, I saw three disintegrating cot mattresses made of foam. A giant military-style board game sat atop them. Both the game and mattresses looked as if they’d had been eaten by attic trolls and/or mice. I pushed the mattresses toward the open stairwell, which jostled the broken-down cardboard box. Tiny pieces scattered everywhere, including into the insulation below. As I tried to catch the box, I lost my balance. I grabbed hold of the edge of the rotting mattress, which was anchored to nothing. As I slid toward the eaves, pulling the grody mattress with me, I realized no floor existed beneath the insulation. I screamed for help, although not loudly because my husband stood only eight feet away, watching my ill-conceived efforts. My significant other didn’t budge, instead he fixated on small bits of plastic. A stickler for keeping belongings intact, he yelled, “Oh no, you’ve lost the game pieces. We’ll never be able to find them!” Trying to inspire my hubby to enter rescue mode, I shouted motivational words that involved swearing. Lucky for him, my husband chose me over the game parts, walked the eight feet, then yanked me away from the mounds of insulation. My conclusion: both the lavender and the de-cluttering proved ineffectual in ushering me out of CODE RED status. This is the current plan:  I am taking life slowly, trying not to borrow trouble from each day ahead. I am a planner, so staying in the present is challenging but I am attempting to build resilience for the long haul. My goal is to remain in my lane, figuring out what is mine to do. Right now, additional coping strategies include having dinner with dear friends, filling my house with the orderly sounds of Bach, and trying not to squirm while listening to mindfulness clips on YouTube. So far, those activities have not resulted in life-threatening events, so maybe I’m on a roll. Dear friends: good luck and godspeed. See you on the other side. Let me re-word that: I’m hoping there will be another side to see you on. Blessings all around. ### Interested in reading more essays? Check out, GRANNY GANGSTER, MY BRIEF LIFE OF CRIME or IRRESPONSIBLY GROWN POTATOES.   (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum’s fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

PODCAST-TIME OF THE CHILD-BOOK REVIEW The first half of Time of the Child by Niall Williams moves ever so slowly, taking its time to build a solid framework for the captivating events of the second half. By the middle of this novel, we readers are intimately acquainted with the village of Faha, its topography, history, climate, culture, spiritual leanings, its people and the fascinating ways they are connected.             Even though there’s not a lot of action for the first 130 pages, Williams builds narrative tension by making sure we readers care about the characters, both main and minor. He writes about the villagers with such humor and affection that as a reader I felt drawn in, eager to hear what life had in store for them. Another way Williams bumps up narrative tension is to make liberal use of foreshadowing. The book starts out, “This is what happened in Faha over the Christmas of 1962, in what was known in the parish as the time of the child….To those who lived there, Faha was perhaps the last place on earth to expect a miracle.” Then, just in case the child slipped our minds, the beginning of chapter three starts, “Before dawn on the day Jude Quinlan would find the child, a rough hand shook him awake.” That line alone kept me reading through the next sixty or so pages until Jude finally discovers the infant. Normally, I stay away for slow books and movies. It’s a flaw, I know. However, the writing in this book is so mesmerizingly gorgeous, I forgot about the plot. I loved the syntax, the clever humor, the descriptions of setting, and the sage observations about humanity and God. Regarding word choices, I saw words I hadn’t read since SAT prep years ago: lumpen, perspicacious, wodge, susurrus, and many more. The author’s writing is elegant without being pretentious. E.B. White would be proud. There are many well-drawn characters in the book, but for me three stand out. Dr. Jack Troy is the physician who serves the villagers, people show up at his house at all hours with all sorts of ailments, some of which are pretty gross. If a patient is not mobile, he drives to their homes in the countryside, no small feat. His work is more of a mission than a business, with payment often being in the form of cabbages and piles of wood. Jack experiences two great losses, his wife and a woman he loved after his wife’s death. He emerges from these losses with his faith battered, doubting God’s love, and often, God’s existence.  Jack’s daughter, Ronnie, is the only one of his three children who chose to remain in Faha. She is his faithful assistant in the clinic, but otherwise keeps to herself, conversations between them rarely straying beyond the superficial. Yet, we readers learner that she is a writer who thinks deep thoughts, not that anyone seems to care.  All this changes quickly once twelve-year-old Jude Quinlan finds the infant. Jude lives in harsh circumstances and has endured terrible suffering, but his response is to behave tenderly toward others. Jude Quinlan is the heart of the story and is by far my favorite character. The last half of the book is a page turner. I felt so invested in the characters that I couldn’t wait to see what happened. Williams did a great job of throwing curve balls into the plot. I found myself arguing with Williams over what I thought were some bad plot choices, but then as I read on, I realized that rascally author had tricked me.  I wept through the last few pages of the book, all the way to the redemptive, but unexpected (by me) ending. It was wonderful. Do yourself a favor and read this book. ###     0:00 / 0:00 TIME OF THE CHILD (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum’s fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

PODCAST-HIGH POTENTIAL-TV SERIES Lately, I’ve been seeking low key, stress-free entertainment to keep my mind off reality. The television series High Potential fits the bill. Single mom, Morgan Gillory (played by Kaitlin Olson), is an exuberantly inappropriate savant whose antics get her in trouble with employers, past husbands, and the law, most specifically the LAPD, where she works as a janitor. The opening episode shows Morgan, music blasting into her air buds, wielding a dust brush, and dancing through empty offices. As she prances around swinging cleaning tools, she upends a stack of papers that are part of a murder case. Morgan possesses a photographic memory and can read a dense document at a glance. So, as she re-stacks the files, she gleans the salient info, and writes her opinion about a suspect on the case board, “Victim, not suspect,” she declares. Apparently, messing with the board is a crime, which the LAPD catches on film. When she arrives at work the next morning, they promptly arrest Morgan. Uncowed by her precarious legal situation, Morgan is mouthy and disrespectful as she describes her theory about the case to police officers. They throw her into a cell, while they check out her ideas, all of which turn out to be true. When they release her, her attitude is still so insolent that she is almost re-arrested. However, the chief (Judy Reyes, from Scrubs) recognizes that Morgan made headway on a case that had stumped her officers, so she hires the cleaning lady as a consultant, which is a good move, because Morgan goes on to solve the case. Lots of elements make this TV series fun. Kaitlin Olson’s high-energy portrayal of Morgan’s zany character is a joy to watch. If you love trivia, this show provides plenty of opportunities to learn about esoteric subjects like why many churches face in a specific direction, what kind of gun powder flashes white, and what direction the wind blows in during each season in LA. Both the presentation of trivia and Morgan’s theories are portrayed in amusing asides with cool graphics. Morgan Gillory is a multidimensional character. At work, despite her brashness, she has a soft spot for underdogs she encounters. At home, she is a wise and tender mother and a kind ex-wife. Daniel Sunjata plays Adam Karadec, the lead detective who is appalled by Morgan’s lack of regard for the actual law and is undone by her quirkiness. Although there is tension in their relationship, it’s nuanced, not cartoonish. I like that the two develop respect for one another over time. If you are a true crime aficionado, you will spend time muttering, “That would never, ever happen.” Yep, the show strains credulity. I do not have a background in police work, yet, several times, I found myself shouting at the screen: “Put gloves on before you touch that evidence!” Fun fact:  the show is based on a popular French series called, Haut Potentiel Intellectual. Apparently, you can stream the show on Hulu. Kaitlin Olson is no stranger to comedy. She performed with The Groundlings Theater in Hollywood. You might recognize her from Curb Your Enthusiasm, The Drew Carey Show, and It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia. The cast members have wonderful chemistry with Olson serving as the rug that pulls the room together. If you want to take a break from reality, I highly recommend this show. ### 0:00 / 0:00 High Potential (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum’s fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

PODCAST-IF I EVER DIE My father often started his sentences with the phrase, “If I ever die…”             I never corrected him. I didn’t say, “Don’t you mean, when you die? You understand that dying is inevitable, right?” Instead, I wondered how he thought his life might play out. Did he believe he’d be carried off to heaven in a fiery chariot like Elijah in the Bible? Probably not. My father’s pronouncement didn’t seem to be influenced by any theological theories. The man simply disregarded his mortality, which resulted in his making risky choices, choices that evidenced questionable judgment. A man of irrational optimism and mesmerizing confidence, my father possessed great skills of persuasion. In his eighties, he convinced seven fellow octogenarians to help him detach then carry a wrought iron porch from our home to the back of our one-acre lot. He wanted to create a clubhouse for his horseshoe buddies. So, during a raging thunderstorm, as lightning crisscrossed the sky, these old guys with shoulder, knee, and heart problems, staggered down the yard with the intact porch. All I could think about was how many ambulances we’d need to call and the lawsuits the stunt would engender.             Another time, my father visited me in Virginia the week before he was scheduled for cardiac bypass surgery. Our neighbor invited us to go to a horse stable to pick up manure for her garden. We were to follow her truck, then help her shovel. She wanted the freshest manure, so she steered into a steaming mountain of droppings. Her pick-up sank several inches. As she spun her wheels, horse poo splattered in all directions. Despite my protests, Dad stepped into the equine doody, leaned his shoulder against the two-ton truck and pushed hard, to no avail. Fearing my father’s heart would fail, I flagged down a farmer who used a tractor to haul the pick-up out of the pit.             When my father was ninety-one, I flew to Florida for a visit. I hadn’t been a passenger in his car for a while. As he drove down a highway in Ocala, Dad looked at an overhead sign. “What do you think that says?” The tone of his query indicated that he believed there could be more than one correct answer.             I gasped. The letters were about the same size as that HOLLYWOOD sign in California. I told my father he needed to give up driving. After three attempts, my mom finally hid the keys in a place my father couldn’t find. So, my dad used his golf cart to get around, a cart with faulty brakes and a broken headlight. After a couple mishaps, my mother hid those keys. One night, my father hot wired the cart, then headed for a neighborhood pinochle game. Soon after, my cousins made the golf cart disappear.             At ninety-two, my father’s health declined rapidly. He asked to come to Virginia, where I live. He felt too ill to fly. So, my intrepid cousins decided to drive my parents to Charlottesville. We wondered if we might find ourselves in a Little Miss Sunshine situation—the movie where on a family road trip, the feisty grandpa quietly passes to the Great Beyond in the back seat of a van. We discussed what to do if my dad died on the way. We all agreed—they’d just keep driving. Sick as he was, right before they left, my father tried to convince my cousins to bring him to one last neighborhood pinochle game.             Upon arrival in Charlottesville, my father entered hospice care and passed away two weeks later. Even though, he’d been ill for months and I watched him become weak and disoriented, I felt shocked when he died. He had spent his life taking risks and beating the odds.  At a subconscious level, I’d bought into his, “IF I ever die…” perspective. To this day, I still expect a phone call from him, telling me about his latest ridiculous exploit. I do feel relieved that I no longer have to worry about him endangering himself or some innocent bystander. But the truth is, I miss him. That wild man brought life to every party.             Not long ago, when discussing the future with a friend, I inadvertently said, “IF I ever die…”  She looked surprised. I’ll admit, I’d surprised myself.             Why did I say that? Clearly, I am aware that I will die someday.             Perhaps, six years after my father’s death, I am finally realizing the unspoken sentiment underlying that phrase he often used. Regardless how his body failed him, the man intended to pursue joy right to the end. These days, our nation feels as if it’s on fire. And, come January, our country will re-visit the chaos created by our past and future president.  I’ll admit, after the election, my inclination was to retreat to a cozy bunker for four years.  But, why waste this precious life?  Despite my despondency being deep and wide, I hope to channel my father and Dylan Thomas by raging against the dying of the light. (Above photo is of my father, Jimmy Mazzotta, in his Model T car.) 0:00 / 0:00 If I Ever Die (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum’s fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

PODCAST-DADDIO MOVIE REVIEW Daddio is shot in the interior of a yellow taxicab on its way from JFK Airport to an apartment in Manhattan, a trip that normally takes forty minutes, with traffic. However, on this late night, the trip stretches to one hour and forty minutes because of a car accident. Not only does the movie take place in the cab, but most of the shots are of Clark (Sean Penn) and his passenger whom he calls Girlie, (Dakota Johnson).  A few times, Clark turns to address Girlie, however, for the most part, viewers see their faces side-by-side, both looking forward.             You might think this is the set up for a boring movie. Not so. I never felt claustrophobic or bored. The chemistry between the two performers was mesmerizing because of their great acting skills, and because of the talented Christy Hall who is both the writer and director of the movie. Against all odds, narrative tension is high throughout the film. Hall builds tension in three ways: by the micro expressions and gestures of the two actors, by building anxiety as to whether Clark presents an imminent danger to Girlie, and by the dialogue Hall has written, which starts out with mundane exchanges but slowly intensifies into more intimate revelations.  Hall shot the scenes in chronological order, which is unusual. The film unfolds in a way that feels like real time, with no flashbacks, no inclusion of other settings–nothing except for what we see and hear right before us in that tiny cab.  Initially, Clark and Girlie share gripes about cell phone use, credit cards, and self-driving cars. But soon, crusty and foulmouthed Clark is making crude comments about past wives and is asking Girlie intrusive questions. Listening to him made the dials on my creep-o-meter start spinning. What are Clark’s intentions toward Girlie? At one point, Clark states Girlie seems like a person who can take care of herself. In fact, she says so herself. She doesn’t wilt when he makes his crass remarks. Girlie names them for what they are, responding with appropriate disgust. Interestingly, she doesn’t retreat from engaging with him. Their conversation morphs into a truth or dare game, each person taking turns one upping each other with true stories. The revelations become surprising and intense, dispelling any assumptions viewers might have held about Clark or Girlie. Christy Hall’s impressive writing and directing is on full display in this film. Her prose is sharp and economical, each word of the dialogue hits its mark. Both characters shift regarding vulnerability and world view. The tone of the dialogue modifies to reflect that shift, which makes the character changes both credible and deeply moving. In the hands of an inept director, this movie would have been unbearably dull. Fortunately, Hall conveys volumes with nuanced facial expressions, hand motions, (like Clark incessantly drumming on the steering wheel), and perfectly timed texts from Girlie’s yucky boyfriend. Even the occasional shots of the exterior of the car, especially the car crash scene, complements what’s happening inside the cab. This movie contains rough language and some gross texts from Girlie’s reprobate boyfriend. So, it’s probably not the best choice for family movie night. I had hoped for a different ending. However, what I had envisioned wouldn’t have been as true and deeply satisfying as the ending that Hall wrote.  All in all, this movie turned out to be 140 minutes well spent. ### Check out more reviews:  His Three Daughters, The Perfect Couple, Presumed Innocent.   0:00 / 0:00 DADDIO MOVIE REVIEW (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum’s fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

PODCAST-IRRESPONSIBLY GROWN POTATOES 0:00 / 0:00 Irresponsibly Grown Potatoes Recently, as I walked through the produce section of a grocery store, I passed a sign that said, “Responsibly Grown Potatoes.” Naturally, I began to imagine “Irresponsibly Grown Potatoes.” Would they be grown by a chain-smoking farmer, one who flicks his carcinogenic ashes on the crop? Or, maybe they’d be raised by a tipsy fellow who stashes a hip flask in his farmer jeans. Every day, he’d stagger around the fields dousing the nascent plants with a little hooch. Worse yet, that same man might drink and drive. All at once, my brain was flooded with disturbing images of cows, chickens and goats fleeing for their lives from the Irresponsible Farmer rampaging on his tractor. These thoughts rattled me, so I let my mind drift. What about irresponsibly grown children? What would those parents look like? Had we ever been irresponsible parents? Oh yeah…that time when Ian was eight. Our youngest child, Ian, was born seven years after his older brothers. And by the time Ian was eight, we’d been child wrangling for eighteen years. We felt worn down and mildly confused. Ian happened to be an easy-going, quiet child. So, we relaxed our parenting style. One Saturday morning, my husband, Bruce, and I met at Ian’s basketball game. We arrived in two cars, then gathered up Ian and headed, separately, to an electronics store to shop for a television. Bored, I went home after five minutes of shopping. Bruce, on the other hand, spent the next two hours checking out TVs in that store and other places. When Bruce returned home, I didn’t see him walk in. A few minutes later, a friend phoned asking if Ian wanted to go to a production of Peter and the Wolf. I asked Bruce where Ian was. He looked at me blankly. “I thought you had him.” Remember, Ian is eight, old enough to know his name, address and phone number, old enough to ask for help when left or lost. It’s been over two hours since we’ve seen him. We began dialing stores. At the first, a man answered. “Nope, no small boy here.” We received the same response at the second, third and fourth store. By this point, I stood in the driveway, hysterical. Then I heard a still small sexist voice in my panicking brain, “Wait. A man answered at that first store. That guy responded so fast, he probably didn’t even look.” So I called back that first place and asked for a woman, any woman. After I described our situation, she checked a side lounge of the store where she found Ian snoozing on a couch in front of a television that was looping The Pirates of the Caribbean. When we asked Ian if he’d been worried, he said no because he knew that “Dad was a very slow shopper.” Back to those potatoes. I’m not sure how Irresponsibly Grown Potatoes turn out. To be honest, I’m all for eating healthy food and protecting the environment. So, thank you to farmers who care enough to grow potatoes responsibly. I’m also for responsibly grown children, but sometimes raising a child is more of an art than a science. And, years later, as we now have discovered, a somewhat irresponsibly raised child can turn out just fine. (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum’s fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

PODCAST-WHEN TO CARE AND WHEN NOT TO Photo Courtesy of Omar Salom 0:00 / 0:00 When to Care and When Not To (This essay originally appeared in Brevity.) My vocation is writing, but my avocation is painting, mostly portraits. I belong to a Facebook group dedicated to showing the work of artists who are trying to create loose watercolor paintings. Members range from people whose pieces could be displayed at a prestigious museum to beginners who are asking for comments and helpful tips on their first attempts. A self-avowed beginner posted several portraits online. Using vivid colors and bold strokes, her paintings portrayed purple bruises, blood flowing, and anguished expressions. Each portrait revealed the artist’s compassion for the difficult lives of her subjects, but not in a gratuitous way. Her work evoked a strong, affirming response from group members, except one person. That member found the work disturbing and said so in an unkind way. She demanded the woman’s entries be banned from the forum. The novice artist felt crushed and expressed her distress online. She received many responses, including mine, which was something like, “Don’t accept harsh criticism from anyone you wouldn’t normally choose to go to for advice, someone who doesn’t necessarily care about you or understand your work.” I wish I’d included, don’t let her comments break your creative heart. My advice received lots of “likes,” clearly striking a chord among group members. It harkened back to a lesson I’d learned the hard way, when, early in my writing life, an esteemed author had delivered a withering and global assessment of my work—before rejecting me from her writing workshop. My first two years of writing, I had enjoyed beginner’s luck. Without much effort, I placed several essays and three short stories. One story won first prize in a statewide contest. Those small successes cheered me, but at my core, I felt like an imposter.  Despite my self-doubt, I gathered the courage to apply to a ten-session fiction workshop led by the well-known author. She had a stellar publishing history that included novels, short story collections, and individual stories landing in impressive places, like The New Yorker. As requested, I submitted a writing sample, a short story that just had been published by a literary journal at a local university. The workshop was limited to five participants. Given my lack of experience, I expected to be rejected. What I didn’t expect was a phone call from the writer saying that not only was I not accepted, but also that I didn’t grasp the basics of short story writing. She delivered her pronouncement in a neutral tone, then hung up. I cried for a couple days, so devastated by her assessment that I vowed to give up writing entirely.  A week later, the writer phoned again. Cool as ever, she invited me to join the workshop. I found the call so stunning that I cannot remember the reason she gave for changing her mind. I was terrified but said yes anyway. Turned out, I enjoyed the weekly sessions and my fellow attendees, who were warm and welcoming. They gave kind and beneficial insights on my work and on one another’s work. Our teacher facilitated the workshop well and gave good guidance. At the last session, she took me aside and said, “You have the most publishable writing that’s come through this workshop in a while.” She gave no further explanation. I accepted her words as a compliment. But later, I wondered if she meant them as a passive-aggressive dig, that my work had commercial but not literary appeal. (For the record, I am happy producing work that has both commercial and literary appeal.)  I decided I didn’t care.  My life’s calling is to write. I couldn’t stop myself from writing if I tried–evident by the random thoughts jotted on old envelopes, on the backs of grocery receipts, and in the margins of crumpled newspapers strewn in my car, in my gym locker, and on my bedside table.  It is my clear sense of calling, of knowing why I write, that gives me the fortitude to face both rejection and the rare harsh comments from individuals who don’t care about me or the body of my work. Of course, this quiet assurance can be rattled—the truth is I’ve just barely survived some brutal knockdowns—but my central conviction remains constant.  I’m also grateful for the kind of feedback from colleagues and professionals that helps me shape and polish my work and enjoy a happy and productive writing life. As for that writing teacher from years ago? I appreciate all she taught me, including the hard lesson, the one that helped me gain the confidence to embrace my vocation, no matter what. Blessings all around! P.S. To read other essays or listen to other podcasts about the craft of writing, check out THE KEY TO FINDING INSPIRATION, ALL ABOUT THAT BASS—PERFECTIONISM IS ENEMY OF CREATIVITY, POINT OF VIEW, WHERE DOES ART EXIST BEFORE YOU CREATE IT?, or THE VALUE OF A GOOD CRITIQUE GROUP. (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum’s fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

PODCAST-GHOSTLIGHT-MOVIE REVIEW On the recommendation of my friend, I watched the Sundance, indie film, Ghostlight. Released in the summer of 2024, this movie hasn’t enjoyed a lot of buzz, which is unfortunate because it’s a gem.             I’m not going to say much about the plot because it unfolds in a nuanced way. I don’t want to reveal anything that would spoil the process. The film is an excellent depiction of a family processing a difficult loss. However, it’s not a downer. One of the characters, the dad, gets lured into a community theater production of Romeo and Juliet, a plot point that introduces plenty of comic relief into the movie.             The screenwriting feels raw and authentic. The plot unfolds slowly, but in a thoroughly engaging way. The director creates an emotional landscape around the three family members that is deeply moving.             The community theater piece of the story provides an excellent vehicle for working through difficult issues in a meaningful way. The themes in Romeo and Juliet happen to coincide with much of what the family is enduring.             After I watched the film, I learned two interesting facts. The actors who play the construction worker (father), the elementary school teacher, (mother) and the rebellious teenage daughter, are in fact related. Keith Kupferer and and Katherine Mallen Kupferer are parents to Tara Mallen. In addition, writer and director, Kelly O’Sullivan is married to co-director Alex Thompson.             I wept through the ending, in a good way. Rotten Tomatoes gave this movie a 99% critic score. And, I’ll have to say, I agree.   0:00 / 0:00 Ghostlight Movie Review (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum’s fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

PODCAST-MY LIFE IN CARS My father gave me my first car, a 1965 Ford Fairlane. Although I had my driver’s license, I didn’t know out how to back up, park, or merge. To be honest, I couldn’t even start the car.  I’d always flood the engine. How did I get a license? The day of the exam, I aced the written section, but failed the road part. I couldn’t parallel park; nor could I negotiate a K-turn. For some reason, the examiner said, “Oh hell,” and passed me anyway. That first winter, the floor beneath the Fairlane passenger seat had rusted out so badly, you could see the road under your feet. One day, the front of the steering wheel fell into my lap. The final straw was when the top of the gas pedal snapped off while I was driving. Next, I inherited a Pontiac Tempest, which spent most of its time broken down. A plumber offered to take the car in trade for a wringer washing machine–a very bad deal.  You have to feed your clothing through an actual wringer, a task that requires attentiveness, manual dexterity, and durable garments. I routinely wound up with mashed fingers and mangled clothes. Moreover, I didn’t know that the washer needed a ground wire. On a particularly shocking morning, I placed one hand on the washer and my other on the utility sink, thereby completing an electrical circuit.  I experienced a remarkable jolt and that’s why I have curly hair to this day. I don’t know what possessed me to buy my next car, a Dodge Colt Hatchback, bright yellow with a black racing stripe. This car had a stick shift. I could barely drive an automatic car. What made me think I could manage a manual? I couldn’t. My kind roommate volunteered to teach me, a decision she deeply regretted. One memory stands out. She screamed, “The clutch. Hit the clutch! Get into FIRST!”  as we slowly slipped backwards down a hill, heading straight for the Quinebaug River. Several years later, I’d moved to Hanover, New Hampshire where the punishing winter weather had corroded the Dodge Colt. The Motor Vehicle people insisted that I repair the spots. Being cash-free, I decided to do the bodywork myself. These were pre-Google days, when a person just had to guess how to do things. I borrowed a rotary sander, bought Bondo then chose yellow spray paint.   Turned out, my zealous sanding created huge craters that the Bondo couldn’t fill.  The “yellow” paint I bought appeared puke green when applied, causing the car to resemble a giant bumble bee in camo. Two minutes after we married, Bruce listed the Dodge Colt in the local want ads. A few days later, a man arrived with the requisite cash.  He hadn’t driven 50 feet before the muffler fell off. For the next year, we saw the car all over town, stuffed with the man’s possessions. We believe he was living in it, but we didn’t ask. We were just relieved it was still working. Now I own a Toyota Highlander, perhaps my last car. I assumed we’d buy a smaller vehicle after the kids left. However, sometimes, all eight seats of the Highlander are filled with four generations of Prums. Usually, one of my children takes the wheel, which is just fine by me since they all are reasonably good at parking, backing up and most importantly, starting the car. 0:00 / 0:00 My Life in Cars-Podcast Version (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum’s fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

PODCAST-WE ARE ALL IN IT TOGETHER Photo Courtesy of Ryan Ledbetter-Unsplash 0:00 / 0:00 We Are All In It Together One morning, as I drove down a narrow country lane in Charlottesville, I spotted an African-American child, about eleven, perched on a small pink bike. He sat in the middle of the road, precisely at the center of a blind curve. I thought, If a driver speeds around that curve, the child will be killed. I need to tell him to get out of the way. Over the years, racial tensions in our town have been high. A millisecond later, that fact informed my second thought: Wait! He’s black. I’m white. Maybe he’ll think I’m harassing him. But then, my third: Doesn’t matter. He’s in danger. I pulled over to the right, off on my side of the road, and said, “Move! You’re going to get hit!” The child smiled then dashed onto a lawn on the left, away from my side of the road. Instantly, a car charged around that curve, then zoomed past us. I drove off, thinking, “That was close. I probably saved a life today.” The next day, as I headed past that same stretch, I re-played the incident, this time from the other driver’s vantage point. If I were coming around that curve fast and had a tree on my right, a child in the middle of the road, and a car facing me off to my left, I’d have swerved left to avoid the child. I’d have crashed head-on into the vehicle on the other side—the car with me sitting in it. In retrospect, the life I may have saved was my own. The incident got me thinking. Straight out of college, I served as a Peace Corps/VISTA volunteer. My job was to “deinstitutionalize” teenage wards of the state. These kids were not able to be adopted and had spent their first seventeen years bouncing around: foster homes, mental health facilities, detention centers. When they turned eighteen, they would be placed on the curb by the state. My job was to equip them with the life skills they’d missed the previous seventeen years. Informed by ignorance and idealism, I attempted the task. By the end of my stint, I realized my job was impossible. So, I sent around a proposal, asking for donations to fund a halfway house, run by me, a twenty-three-year old. No one gave me money. The kids wound up on the street. They didn’t stand a chance. A couple died within a year or two. A few wound up in jail. I don’t remember what happened to the other kids. Nothing good. Back then, the state I lived in did not invest much into their wards. Yes, a few people in power cared about the teens, but some did not, enacting policies that reflected that lack of regard. We failed them. Some came to great harm, and some caused great harm. We in the community, one way or another, paid for our collective negligence. We are all connected. What I do affects you. What you do affects me. That August morning, I chose to stop and warn a child. Most likely, my stopping shielded me from great harm. Working to improve the lives of others will cost us in time, money and personal comfort. Yet those actions enrich our own lives and ultimately will create a better world for all of us to share. (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum’s fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

THE KEY TO FINDING INSPIRATION–CONVERSATION WITH SUE CUNNINGHAM ON LIVING POETRY Recently, poet and therapist, Susan Cunningham, interviewed me on her podcast, Living Poetry. We talked about how to find inspiration by paying attention, everywhere and all the time! In addition to sharing lots of good laughs, we touched on these topics: *Redeeming the pain of grief by channeling the energy of the emotion into creative endeavors.  *Realizing that failing to forgive can block creativity. *Using dark humor to lighten the tone when writing about difficult topics. *Knowing when to stop revising and release your creation into the world. *At other times, letting a project simmer, allowing life experiences to inform your perspective. Waiting can provide the missing piece to your creation. *Imagining celestial vault where a person’s creations exist in perpetuity, meaning that they also exist before we create them, a concept that can take the pressure off us as we write. You can listen to the interview at LIVING POETRY, on Apple or Spotify. During our conversation, we refer to my stories. Head to the fiction section of my website to read HELP, IN DARKNESS AS IN LIGHT, GRAVITY, OUR LADY OF PERPETUAL MOLD, SPIDER, and THE DAY THE VIRGIN MARY APPEARED ON MY CAFETERIA WALL. Thank you for visiting. If you haven’t already, please subscribe to my blog and follow my podcast. If you really want to brighten my day, please give the podcast a five-star review. Thank you. 0:00 / 0:00 Living Poetry Here is Abyss, the watercolor painting I mentioned in the interview. (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum’s fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

PODCAST-HIS THREE DAUGHTERS-MOVIE REVIEW Looking for a good movie? Check out His Three Daughters. Just after its release, the film received a 99% approval score. I am one of the 99%. I watched it on a Monday, then again, a day later. That’s how much I liked it.             Expertly written and directed by Azazel Jacobs, the film has a small, but outstanding cast. The oldest sister, Katie, played by Carrie Coons, is rigid and fierce—and that’s on her good days. The middle sister, Rachel, (Natasha Lyonne) is brash, tenderhearted, and can’t get through a sentence without including obscenities, even when she’s being affectionate. The youngest sister, Christina, (Elizabeth Olsen) is a lot younger than her siblings. She is an anxiously cheerful peacemaker. Her intention is to bring the family together but is unwilling or unable to honest about her own feelings.             The three estranged sisters gather at their father’s NYC apartment as he lay dying.  Rachel shares the apartment with him and is the one who’s been taking care of him for a while. Katie resides in Brooklyn with her husband, son, and a teenage daughter, with whom she fights constantly. Christina lives on the West coast in a large house with her husband and three-year-old daughter. At the beginning of the film, one of the characters observes that movies never portray death and dying accurately. Jacobs wrote the screenplay, including that line.  He must have decided that the movie he made would be an exception. And, it was. Based on my limited experience, this film was true to life. The screenplay managed to portray a credible combination of raw, painful scenes and dark humor that provided comic relief.             The movie opens to Katie sitting in a straight-backed chair against a blank wall. In a clipped voice smoldering with fury, she speaks straight at the camera, dictating her expectations regarding the experience that lies ahead.  She decrees how her sisters should relate to each other and the protocol they all must follow as their father dies. Katie works hard to convince herself that she can take control of an uncontrollable event. She obsesses over obtaining a do not resuscitate order, ostensibly to ensure that her father does not experience undue suffering. Yet, even after the DNR is in place, her rage and anxiety don’t diminish. Tragically, Katie is unaware of how her rigid, passive-aggressive behavior repels everyone.             Katie and Christina don’t seem to keep in touch with Rachel, the one who’s borne the brunt of their father’s care. Despite Katie’s comments about wanting to get along, it’s a hot minute before she attacks Rachel for smoking pot in the apartment. Her words drip with contempt. Rachel doesn’t defend herself. Instead, from then on, she smokes on a bench, in the cold, outside her apartment.             The sisters categorize and judge each other As a viewer, you will be inclined to do so, too. However, the beauty of this movie is in its exposition, how as we learn more, we see the characters in a new light.             Each woman copes differently with their father’s dying. Katie makes irate calls about the DNR, scrubs floors, forces food on everyone, talks about the hospice staff in a snarky way, but doesn’t spend time interacting with her father. Rachel avoids her father’s room completely. Her grief consumes and paralyzes her. At one point, she stands in the doorway of her father’s room and shouts in the statistics of a basketball game she’s bet on. The father is either deeply asleep or unconscious. Christina spends the most time in her father’s room, reading to him or singing Grateful Dead songs. Both Rachel and Katie ridicule Christina for being a Deadhead.             This movie nailed the tension between not wanting your loved one to die and at the same time, desperately wanting the horrible limbo state between life and death to end. Although Katie demands that a DNR be in place, when her father’s breathing becomes ragged, she tells her sisters to call an ambulance. After their father recovers from the breathing episode, the sisters rejoice, even though the day before, each in her own way, seemed to be more than ready for their father to pass. The acting in this movie is brilliant. Jacobs pays meticulous attention to detail. The micro expressions on each women’s face–rolled eyes, slightly raised eyebrow, turned head—all communicate volumes. The fight scenes are orchestrated masterfully. Most of them consist of restrained passive-aggressive exchanges. But near the end, all three women explode in anger and their interactions become physical, which shocks them. I found the ending unexpected and moving. Seeing it helped me reconceptualize specific events in my own life. His Three Daughters is a compelling treatment of death, grief, and complicated family dynamics. Many people might find comfort and/or guidance from it, including those who are grieving and those who support the bereaved. I hope you consider viewing it. If you are looking for more movie reviews, please check out Wicked Little Letters, The Wonderful Story of Harry Sugar, and The Last Repair Shop.             0:00 / 0:00 His Three Daughters (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum’s fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

PODCAST-WITHOUT YOU HERE-BOOK REVIEW Strange, though, how joy rides on the back of sorrow. You have to feel both to feel either. And no amount of best intentions can keep you from hurting what you love. These sentences are an example of the beautiful, soul-nourishing prose one can expect to find in Jody Hobbs Hesler’s debut novel, Without You Here. Her descriptions are fresh and interesting. Check out this, for example:  Silence continues to pump up the stairs like smoke. For me, the mark of a good book is the number of sentences you underline while reading. I found plenty in this novel. The story is about twenty-seven-year-old Noreen whose beloved aunt, Nonie died by suicide at the same age. The two are similar in personality and appearance, a fact that keeps Noreen and her family on high alert, all parties worried about Noreen’s mental health and behavior. Noreen has difficulty navigating relationships with family, friends, and most of all, her husband George. Filled with self-doubt. Noreen rarely mounts a defense when accused and often blames herself for the bad actions of others. Nonie loved Noreen unconditionally. This meant a lot to Noreen, who received little affirmation in life.  When Noreen’s elementary school teacher described her as a quirky loner who reads too much, her own mother didn’t defend her. But Nonie thought Noreen was perfect as is. Saturday mornings, Nonie brought her niece special gifts and sugary cereal. But, more importantly, she brought spontaneity and joy into the child’s life. Nonie’s death devastated Noreen. Even though she was only a small child at the time, Noreen found a way to blame herself for the suicide. The novel is not told in chronological order, which can be a risky choice for a writer. However, Hesler met the challenge. The story flowed well, had excellent pacing, and plenty of narrative tension. Hesler’s words fully engaged me right from the first page. I read the book in a just few sittings. Each chapter has a title that orients the reader in time. The reference point for each section is the chapter called August 1980 During, which is the month Nonie died by suicide. Chapter titles have descriptors like, Weeks Before, Six Weeks After, or Nineteen Years Later. This might sound confusing, but it’s not. As you begin reading, the order makes sense. Despite bouncing around in time, the flow works well. Hesler places chapters adjacent to each other by virtue of their emotional content. Hesler’s close attention to the emotional landscape of her scenes allows her to create natural connections between chapters even though the events taking place in them are separated by decades. For example, we’ll see chapter written about Noreen’s childhood which is followed by a chapter set when Noreen is an adult. The side-by-side chapters complement each other by revealing much about the innerworkings of Noreen’s character during different stages of her life. Hesler uses this approach for all her main characters, which gives the reader deep empathy for them. Hesler’s acknowledgement page is evidence of her extensive research on suicide. She writes her story with respecet, authority, and confidence, paying close attention to both Nonie’s struggle and family dynamics. I imagine her empathic and nuanced treatment of this complex topic will be a comfort to those who have lost a loved one to suicide. Told in an order that makes emotional sense, the sum of these story parts adds up to a satisfying ending—an impressive achievement. If you are interested in other book recommendations, check out my reviews of The Caretaker, Wrong Place, Wrong Time, and The Sentence. 0:00 / 0:00 Without You Here (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum’s fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

PODCAST-THE PERFECT COUPLE-TV SERIES   Last week, as I searched Netflix, I came across a trailer for The Perfect Couple, a six-episode murder mystery starring Nicole Kidman, Liv Schreiber, and Eve Hewson. Even though the trailer hooked me with its quick succession of funny one-liners, I wondered if the show would be just a stale re-telling of an over-used trope: how rich people, literally and figuratively, get away with murder. I didn’t have to worry. The acting, including the minor characters, is excellent. The pacing kept me so engaged that I didn’t scroll on my cellphone or leave the couch for a snack. The plot twists intrigued me enough to binge watch the last two episodes, even though it meant staying up quite late. I loved the structure of the series, how the story unfolded from episode to episode. Most of all, I liked the sardonic humor.             The tale opens on the night of a fabulous rehearsal dinner at a lovely Nantucket beachside mansion. Eve Hewson plays Amelia, a middle-class woman, who is about to marry Benji,a son in the wealthy Winbury family, owners of said mansion. Merritt, the maid of honor, is Amelia’s best friend. The morning after the rehearsal dinner, Merritt’s bruised body washes up on the sand behind the family estate.                    The police are convinced that Merritt has been murdered, but the family tries to pass off the event as a tragic suicide or if not that, merely an accident. Amelia knows this is a lie. But the iron-fisted family matriarch, Greer (played  by Kidman), is a world-famous author who cares only about avoiding bad publicity and making sure her imminent book launch goes swimmingly. Not the least bit concerned about the murdered maid of honor, Greer pressures her future daughter-in-law to sign an NDA, which Amelia does. The story is structured such that at beginning of each episode, convincing new evidence points to a suspect. That suspect is dragged down to the station and is interrogated by the police, followed by the viewer getting to see what really happened. Gullible as I am, after each bit of new evidence emerged, I half-believed the culprit had been discovered. By episode six, when the perp finally gets caught, I didn’t see it coming. In retrospect, it made sense that the perp would have been motivated to commit the crime. However, the portrayal of how that person managed to accomplish the deed strained credulity.             The point of view of the narrative differentiated the show from many other depictions of corrupt and entitled wealthy families. Much of the tale unfolds as the police interrogate the family and their support staff. So, we viewers tend to see the story through the viewpoint of the law enforcement folks. Michael Beach plays Dan Carter, the town police chief and Donna Lynne Champlin, plays an investigator from the state. Their funny, understated performances alone make the series worth watching. Their characters possess an intelligence and integrity that provide a dramatic counterpoint and an incisive commentary regarding the corruption and absurdities of the Winbury family. Once of their best interrogations is with Gosia, the Polish maid. She provides revealing observations of family behavior that are laugh out loud funny. But what makes Gosia’s testimony even more humorous is that is she sees the family’s actions as perfectly acceptable behavior.             Will this series exercise your brain cells? No. But, if you are in the mood for clever lines, good ensemble acting, lovely shots of Nantucket, and an entertaining plot, this might be the movie for you.             Interested in more film recommendations? Check out my reviews of WICKED LITTLE LETTERS, PRESUMED INNOCENT, or PERFECT DAYS. 0:00 / 0:00 The Perfect Couple (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum’s fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

PODCAST-GANGSTER GRANNY Photo Courtesy of Pexels 0:00 / 0:00 Gangster Granny GANGSTER GRANNY first appeared in Medium. One morning, I wake up to an accusatory and largely inaccurate email. I haven’t recovered from that smackdown when I’m on the phone negotiating with a healthcare provider on behalf of my elderly mother. The “provider” gaslights me and refuses to help in any way. Hoping to reduce my stress, I book an end lane at the pool. I choose the end lane because of my poor technique. I learned to swim in my thirties. “Learned” is a generous way of describing my signature stroke, frantic thrashing while keeping my head as far out of the water as possible. I slide into my empty lane, relieved to start a thirty-minute respite from reality. Ten minutes in, I reach a flow state of swimming bliss. Well, as much of a flow state as anyone can achieve while thrashing. With my head up out of the water, I spot a woman climbing into the pool. I often see her in the locker room. In her nineties, she reminds me of a no-nonsense Katherine Hepburn:  stylish, sun-wrecked, gray hair and wrinkled fair skin that evidences a lifetime of little or no sunscreen. She speaks with a clipped, high-pitched fake British accent, like American actresses in 1940s movies. The nonagenarian wears her jewelry into the water: thick gold bracelet, earrings, and a jumbo-sized necklace. When I first saw her, the proliferation of bling inspired me to dub her the Gangster Granny. I assume she’ll enter the adjacent empty lane. But no, she straps yellow paddles onto her hands, slips into flippers, then swims the backstroke, down the middle, coming straight at me. Treading water is not within my skill set.  I cling to the side, yelling, “Ma’am, I’m in this lane.”             She whacks me hard with her yellow paddle. The foam paddle doesn’t hurt, but the insult stings. I force myself to believe the whack is unintentional. My fragile psyche can’t entertain the possibility of a third negative encounter that day. However, at our next side-by-side meeting, she thunks me harder and means it.             I wait at the shallow end. When the aged scofflaw senses my presence, she flips her backstroke early then cruises away. I shout, “Hey, you’re taking up both sides.”             Gangster Granny ignores me. I walk as fast as I can in the water. “Stop!” My voice sounds feeble. Pitiful, even.             She doesn’t stop. Instead, she declares, “My friend gave me this whole lane. I can swim here any time I want. You need to leave!” She doesn’t say the word “peasant,” but I hear it in her tone.             I want to scream, “That’s not a thing!” But clearly, Gangster Granny does not comprehend that you must reserve one half of a lane in your own name prior to swimming.             The woman has now stolen my last fifteen minutes of happy time. I consider asking the lifeguard to intervene. Doubtless, high drama would ensue, so I skulk off to the warm pool, otherwise known as the Pee Pee Pool. Surrounded by toddlers, I grab a noodle and float limply. I enter a zone, not bliss this time, more a Dante’s Inferno zone. My mind relives the indignities of the day. I’ve seen Gangster Granny twice since that encounter. Once when she flies through a three-way stop in her top-down convertible at the entrance of our gym parking lot. Sporting black sunglasses and a Jackie Kennedy scarf wrapped around her head, she comes within inches of T-boning me. The last time I saw Gangster Granny, I’m at the back of a long checkout line at a grocery store next to the gym. She runs in as fast as a ninety-year-old can run, then shouts at the cash register guy. “Help! There’s a bird trapped in your foyer.” She points to the entry. Almost every time I visit the store, the same young clerk sits there, exuding misery. He communicates in low energy nods, unless he deigns to mutter a brief sentence dripping with irony, like responding to “Have a nice day,” by saying, “Yeah, YOU try and have a nice day.”  All Gangster Granny’s pleas don’t inspire him to glance her way. She realizes this world-weary malcontent is not going to budge. She grabs a box, traps the bird without crushing it, then releases it, all within a minute. Very impressive. She returns the container then declares in her Kathryn Hepburn voice, “I’ve released the bird to the wild.” By which she meant into the asphalt parking lot of the mostly abandoned mall.             After the bird incident, I revise my thinking.              Maybe I should give Gangster Granny a break. She’s had to put up with a lot in her younger days. For a good stretch of her life, she couldn’t get a loan or credit card in her name and had limited education and career opportunities. Given what she’s had to endure, no wonder she behaves in a manner one might generously describe as assertive. At least Gangster Granny seems to care about the environment.             Remember that Dylan Thomas poem, Do Not Go Gentle Into that Good Night? perhaps this woman has chosen “not to go gentle” into her last years and instead is energetically “raging against the dying of the light.” I think I’ll extend Gangster Granny a little grace. However, whenever I spot her behind the wheel or in a bathing suit, I definitely will duck for cover. (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum’s fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

PODCAST-HELP-SHORT FICTION Photo Courtesy of Austin Chan 0:00 / 0:00 HELP-Short Fiction This short story first appeared in the Virginia Writers Project Journal. It is reprinted here with permission. Every morning, she shapes the word “HELP” in the steam on her glass shower door. She leaves it there for no one to see. She understands the grim futility of her gesture. Regardless, she admires her tenacity, her daily attempt to call for the calvary to show up, but not the actual calvary. Not real people. She desires celestial involvement, an ethereal not corporeal intervention, some cosmic shift that would render life bearable again.             She doesn’t cry right after it happens. Not when the cop arrives at her front door. Not when half the town, including his former co-workers and her current colleagues, shows up at the wake. Not as they lower his steel casket into the gaping red earth on that brutally sunny day. He had worked over the mountain, an hour away. On his way home, he’d call and leave a message.  Since the day of his death, each night before trying to sleep, she listens to voicemails from the days before he died, the ones she hadn’t yet erased:             Monday February 4–Claire, I’m at Kroger. Got your Calcium for the leg cramps. And Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. Anything else?             Tuesday February 5–Check out the sunset! Sky’s on fire!             Thursday February 7–What’s that Wendell Berry quote? The one about hope and what? Despair? Friday February 8–I’m leaving the office early to beat the storm.             This week, high winds from another storm knock down power lines. No phone for three days. When the company restores her service, she notices his voicemails have vanished. She calls the company, but the tech says, “That file is gone.” She weeps—a feral howl so frightening that she swears she will never cry again. Six Months Later             Tonight, she’s heading for the on-campus pool, just as she does every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday nights. She arrives an hour before closing time when the pool is almost always empty. That way she can avoid any colleagues or former students. She’s finagled an extended leave from the university and wants to stay invisible, away from stares and fumbled condolences.             Often, at that time, there’s only a front-desk attendant and a few trainers in the gym but no guard, only a sign:  NO LIFEGUARD. SWIM AT YOUR OWN RISK. She always swims at her own risk. The past two weeks, though, a scrawny kid fidgets in the chair, an orange rescue float across his lap. She thinks he’s probably a high schooler. When she arrives, he glances up from fiddling with his walkie talkie, tips his chin in her direction. A vee-shaped hank of blue-black hair hangs down his forehead and across one eye. She wonders how he can even see.             Ugh. All those piercings:  nose, ears, lips, and even one eyebrow. And, if that isn’t enough, the boy sports thick rings on eight of his ten fingers.             She swims, thinking of the cheap ring she’d won at the Hanover County Fair years ago. The brittle metal left a green circle around her finger. Her friend, Dessie, said she’d die of blood poisoning. She didn’t die. She realizes that if she’d died then, she wouldn’t have to be living through these grim days.             She makes the turn at the end of her lane, wondering what would happen if the boy ever had to dive into the saltwater pool. Would the cheap metal turn his fingers green? Does she care? No.             She swims for fifteen minutes, trying to think about nothing. In the deep end, the arch of her left foot cramps, then the spasm rips through the calf. Her muscles have cramped before, but these contractions are the worst. She swims to the side but as she tries to haul herself out, pain slams into her chest. Her heart. Feels crushed.             The boy yells.  Blows his whistle three times.             In a flash, the man-child runs toward the lane, an orange tube under his arms.  He tries to lift her out. She groans in pain. He jumps into the water and faces her. “What’s happening?”             “Cramps. Chest pain…” She’s breathless.  All ache, in and out. Can’t tell where from or why.             He slips behind her. His arms slide under hers. He tries to recline her onto the tube. She panics and pushes away.             He inches forward, pressing his cheek against the side of her head. “What’s your name?”             She turns; finds his eyes. Hazel and calm. “Claire.”             “Claire, just breathe. One deep breath.”              She resists the urge to fight. She breathes the one deep breath, then allows his arms to encircle her shoulders. She leans into him and onto the tube.             “I’ve called for help. Someone will be here any minute.” His steady voice belies his pounding heart which she can feel against her back.             Excruciating pain wraps her soul, tightening with each breath. She gasps.             The boy eases in, holding her closer. “Breathe with me. In for four, out for four.”             She breathes. One-two-three-four.             At the far end of the pool, as a man approaches with a rescue board, she experiences an enormous pressure on her chest. She wonders what her husband, Samuel, felt during his last minutes.             She weeps, not because of the pain, which is still overwhelming, but because this boy seems to care whether she lives or dies. His lavish expenditure of effort brings her to tears. As the attendant arrives with the board, she experiences vivid sensations: tastes that first tomato of summer, feels the warmth of cotton towels straight out of the dryer, hears Samuel’s off-key voice, in the shower, singing Ain’t No Mountain High Enough. Inexplicably, despite the pain, or more precisely, in addition to that exquisite pain, she feels enveloped by the bountiful tenderness of the universe. *** The Virginia Writers Project anthology is available on Amazon. Artwork Courtesy of John Nicolay (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum’s fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS. APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

/*! elementor - v3.23.0 - 05-08-2024 */ .elementor-heading-title{padding:0;margin:0;line-height:1}.elementor-widget-heading .elementor-heading-title[class*=elementor-size-]>a{color:inherit;font-size:inherit;line-height:inherit}.elementor-widget-heading .elementor-heading-title.elementor-size-small{font-size:15px}.elementor-widget-heading .elementor-heading-title.elementor-size-medium{font-size:19px}.elementor-widget-heading .elementor-heading-title.elementor-size-large{font-size:29px}.elementor-widget-heading .elementor-heading-title.elementor-size-xl{font-size:39px}.elementor-widget-heading .elementor-heading-title.elementor-size-xxl{font-size:59px} PODCAST-TV REVIEW-PRESUMED INNOCENT /*! elementor - v3.23.0 - 05-08-2024 */ .elementor-widget-image{text-align:center}.elementor-widget-image a{display:inline-block}.elementor-widget-image a img[src$=".svg"]{width:48px}.elementor-widget-image img{vertical-align:middle;display:inline-block} Years ago, I read Scott Turow’s book, Presumed Innocent. Later, I saw the movie starring Harrison Ford. I liked both, so when Apple released David Kelley’s television adaptation, I decided to watch it. I vaguely remembered the plot. But, as it turned out, that didn’t matter. David Kelley made significant changes to the story, including a new location, bringing the story into the present, and adding two children to the main character’s family. All these changes brought much more complexity to this version of the story. Rusty Sabich (Jake Gyllenhaal) is a prosecutor accused of the brutal murder of his colleague, Carolyn Polhemus, with whom he is having an affair. A fellow prosecutor, Tommy Molto, detests Rusty. An opening scene shows Rusty mercilessly mocking the man. Tommy, a socially awkward guy whose best friend is his cat, provides plenty of material for Rusty to ridicule. After Carolyn’s murder, Rusty is asked to head up the investigation. He neglects to mention his affair to the other prosecutors. When the information comes out, Rusty becomes the lead suspect in the case. News of the affair further infuriates Tommy. In addition to his cat, over the years, Tommy secretly has been obsessed with Carolyn. However, Carolyn rejected Tommy’s romantic overtures. Instead, she had an affair with Rusty, Tommy’s arch enemy. To make matters worse, Carolyn reported Tommy’s inappropriate behavior toward her. Tommy, a jilted man, makes it his mission to put away Rusty for life.   Tommy’s boss, Nico Della Guardia is an elected official whose main concern is to slam somebody, really anybody, behind bars to appease the public. Nico Della Guardia is smarminess personified. My skin crawled every time he spoke. Tommy Molto becomes increasingly unglued as the story progresses. Molto rabidly goes after Rusty, even to the point of neglecting to pursue other leads. Throughout, Della Guardia has qualms about Tommy’s approach, mostly because the man is coming off like a lunatic to those around him, not because he’s concerned that Rusty is innocent.  Della Guardia doesn’t care if justice is being served. He just wants to protect his political career. I fear this might be an accurate portrayal what can happen in our legal system. This series kept my attention. From week to week, I couldn’t wait for the next episode to drop. However, at one point, I almost stopped watching. Throughout, they flash back to the same scene, a horrific image of the murder victim. One glimpse was more than enough for me, multiple views felt disturbing and gratuitous. Jake Gyllenhaal does a wonderful job of playing an enigmatic character. You want to believe him—he’s so tender and kind to his children and so appropriately apologetic to his longsuffering wife. But then, he goes all Rambo more than once, beating up and/or threatening people. In addition, while trying to defend himself, he takes legal shortcuts that caused my eyebrows to raise. Did I trust Rusty Sabich? Not so much. Multiple red herrings swim through this plot. Suspects abound, including, but not limited to a convict who hates Carolyn, Rusty and his family, Tommy Molto, and Carolyn’s own former husband and estranged son. At the very end, when we find out whodunit and why, I’ll have to say, I didn’t see it coming. However, when I re-considered all the clues, the plot choice made sense. Should you watch this eight-part TV series? I loved the moral quandaries, plot twists and the suspense. If you can handle the recurrence of that horrific murder scene, I’d say, go for it.             0:00 / 0:00 Presumed Innocent (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum’s fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

PODCAST-MOVIE REVIEW-WICKED LITTLE LETTERS I just watched a gem of a movie called Wicked Little Letters. The film is based on a true story about a hate mail scandal that occurred in the 1920’s in Littlehampton, England. A pious English woman named Edith Swan accuses her foul-mouthed Irish neighbor, Rose Gooding, of sending her obscene mail. Olivia Colman expertly plays the holier-than-thou Edith. Jessie Buckley, as Rose, provides a feisty counterpoint to Edith’s piety. Anjana Vasan plays Gladys Mosby. Her official title is “Woman Police Inspector.” To no avail, Mosby insists that everyone just call her “Police Inspector,” but they never do.  Of all the law enforcement folks, she is the only one who cares about finding the real perpetrator.  Vasan’s comedic timing is a joy to observe. Her contemptuous eye rolling occurs at precisely the right moments. Timothy Spall plays the despicable Mr. Swan, Edith’s crotchety father. The man’s face is comprised of a thousand wrinkles, each one forming a frown. He appears not to have one redeemable quality.             The chief inspector of Littlehampton, his minions, and most of the townspeople do not care whether Rose is guilty of sending lewd letters. They hate the raucous way Rose speaks and behaves. She doesn’t conform to their social norms and that’s crime enough for them. Although she’s the single parent of a young child, they’re all happy enough to send her off to prison.             Plenty of sparks fly on screen in the form of the scathing missives sent to Edith and verbal forays between Rose and any other human she comes across. If you hate hearing naughty words, this may not be the movie for you. However, the swearing is creatively weird and is written/spoken in British slang, so it seems more benign than awful. Of course, I might have a different reaction if I knew what the words meant.             This cast has great chemistry. I loved scenes between Edith and her father, Edith and Rose, the Woman Police Inspector and her moronic superiors, and three quirky townswomen who cook up a scheme to help Rose. You can tell the actors are having a great time. And, as a viewer, I felt invited to the party. Given the language, this is not a good candidate for family movie night with the little ones, unless you want them to learn how to master swearing in a different dialect. However, grownups would find this film both entertaining and thought-provoking. 0:00 / 0:00 Wicked Little Letters (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum’s fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

PODCAST-MOVIE REVIEW-PERFECT DAYS 0:00 / 0:00 Perfect Days Recently, I watched Perfect Days. Released in 2023, it’s a film directed by Wim Winders. I’ll have to admit, I had a hard time sitting through the first hour of this movie, but then it grew on me. On the surface, nothing much happens. We follow Hirayama (played by Koji Yakusho) through each of his days, one after the other. He wakes up in a small room that contains little other than a row of books neatly stacked on the floor along the perimeter. He washes and shaves, climbs to a small attic and mists tree seedlings growing under a light. Then he gathers several sets of keys which are kept in an orderly row on a shelf by his doorway. As he steps out of his door into a grimy urban setting, he gazes at the skyline where he can see a tree in the distance. He beams at the sight. Hirayama buys coffee at a vending machine, then starts his day cleaning the public toilets of Tokyo. He approaches the task with respect and dedication, at the ending of each cleaning, using a mirror to check the underside of every surface. Hirayama sees the same people every day—an unhoused person who camps under a tree, a young woman who eats lunch on a bench adjacent to the bench where Hirayama pauses for lunch. The two sit silently and look at the same tree as they eat.  Before leaving, Hirayama always takes a photo of the tree. Later, he grabs a beer at a bar where every evening the server brings out the beverage with great gusto, proclaiming, “For all your hard work!”  Then Hirayama heads to a restaurant owned by a woman named Mama. Even though Hirayama and Mama keep their conversation to a minimum, their facial expressions and body language reveal that the two have strong feelings for each other. Hirayama’s day always ends the same way: he rolls out his sleeping mat, then reads. When he closes the book, we can see that it is a William Faulkner novel. He turns off his light, and dreams. Each night Hirayama’s dream sequences are portrayed, some seeming to incorporate bits of his day. Winders takes his time establishing Hirayama’s routine before introducing a couple of blips in the plot line. Hirayama’s unscrupulous assistant borrows money from him, steals one of his precious music tapes, then quits unexpectedly, leaving Hirayama in the lurch. This bumps up the narrative tension a tad. How he handles the situation reveals both Hirayama’s values and how he manages conflict. Hirayama’s teenage niece, Niko, runs away from home then shows up at Hirayama’s apartment. It’s been so long since he’s seen her, he doesn’t recognize her at first. For a few days, Niko shadows him as he works on the toilets of Tokyo. Neither one judges the other. When Hirayama takes his daily picture of that tree. Niko pulls out an identical camera, one that he gave her years ago. Ultimately, something happens with Niko that reveals some of Hirayama’s complex backstory. For the first time, we see him weeping. In another scene, Hirayama is approaching Mama’s restaurant. Through the large window, he sees Mama hugging another man. Distraught, he heads to the river and smokes a cigarette. I don’t want to reveal too much, but what happens next is quite moving. After feeling as if I’d been Hirayama’s close companion for many days, I resonated with the character and experienced those emotions alongside him. The last few minutes of the movie brought me to tears—a testament to Koji Yakusho’s phenomenal acting and Wim Winder’s nuanced directing.             The lush and soulful soundtrack adds an engaging texture to this film. Hirayama owns a collection of old cassette tapes and plays one on his way to work each morning. The film’s title comes from the Lou Reed song, Perfect Day. He listens to other classics such as Van Morrison’s Brown-eyed Girl and Nina Simone’s Feeling Good. This Faulkner-reading guy who listens to American classics erases any stereotypical view you may have had regarding people who clean toilets for a living.             Once I relaxed into the rhythm of the film, I became thoroughly engaged by the great acting, gorgeous cinematography, and the moving soundtrack. Most of all, the central message of the movie has had a lasting effect on me:  to be happy with what is given to you. Almost daily, I’ve been reminded of the film. I think of a line, an image, a bit of dialogue, and especially Hirayama’s joyful embrace of mundane aspects of his life. Originally, Wim Winders intended to make a documentary about the splendid and innovative public toilets of Japan, but somewhere along the line, he decided to create this film instead. I am very glad that he did.                 Recently, I watched Perfect Days. Released in 2023, it’s a film directed by Wim Wenders. I’ll have to admit, I had a hard time sitting through the first hour of this movie, but then it grew on me. On the surface, nothing much happens. We follow Hirayama (played by Koji Yakusho) through each of his days, one after the other. He wakes up in a small room that contains little other than a row of books neatly stacked on the floor along the perimeter. He washes and shaves, climbs to a small attic and mists tree seedlings growing under a light. Then he gathers several sets of keys which are kept in an orderly row on a shelf by his doorway. As he steps out of his door into a grimy urban setting, he gazes at the skyline where he can see a tree in the distance. He beams at the sight. Hirayama buys coffee at a vending machine, then starts his day cleaning the public toilets of Tokyo. He approaches the task with respect and dedication, at the ending of each cleaning, using a mirror to check the underside of every surface. Hirayama sees the same people every day—an unhoused person who camps under a tree, a young woman who eats lunch on a bench adjacent to the bench where Hirayama pauses for lunch. The two sit silently and look at the same tree as they eat.  Before leaving, Hirayama always takes a photo of the tree. Later, he grabs a beer at a bar where every evening the server brings out the beverage with great gusto, proclaiming, “For all your hard work!”  Then Hirayama heads to a restaurant owned by a woman named Mama. Even though Hirayama and Mama keep their conversation to a minimum, their facial expressions and body language reveal that the two have strong feelings for each other. Hirayama’s day always ends the same way: he rolls out his sleeping mat, then reads. When he closes the book, we can see that it is a William Faulkner novel. He turns off his light, and dreams. Each night Hirayama’s dream sequences are portrayed, some seeming to incorporate bits of his day. Winders takes his time establishing Hirayama’s routine before introducing a couple of blips in the plot line. Hirayama’s unscrupulous assistant borrows money from him, steals one of his precious music tapes, then quits unexpectedly, leaving Hirayama in the lurch. This bumps up the narrative tension a tad. How he handles the situation reveals both Hirayama’s values and how he manages conflict. Hirayama’s teenage niece, Niko, runs away from home then shows up at Hirayama’s apartment. It’s been so long since he’s seen her, he doesn’t recognize her at first. For a few days, Niko shadows him as he works on the toilets of Tokyo. Neither one judges the other. When Hirayama takes his daily picture of that tree. Niko pulls out an identical camera, one that he gave her years ago. Ultimately, something happens with Niko that reveals some of Hirayama’s complex backstory. For the first time, we see him weeping. In another scene, Hirayama is approaching Mama’s restaurant. Through the large window, he sees Mama hugging another man. Distraught, he heads to the river and smokes a cigarette. I don’t want to reveal too much, but what happens next is quite moving. After feeling as if I’d been Hirayama’s close companion for many days, I resonated with the character and experienced those emotions alongside him. The last few minutes of the movie brought me to tears—a testament to Koji Yakusho’s phenomenal acting and Wim Winder’s nuanced directing.             The lush and soulful soundtrack adds an engaging texture to this film. Hirayama owns a collection of old cassette tapes and plays one on his way to work each morning. The film’s title comes from the Lou Reed song, Perfect Day. He listens to other classics such as Van Morrison’s Brown-eyed Girl and Nina Simone’s Feeling Good. This Faulkner-reading guy who listens to American classics erases any stereotypical view you may have had regarding people who clean toilets for a living.             Once I relaxed into the rhythm of the film, I became thoroughly engaged by the great acting, gorgeous cinematography, and the moving soundtrack. Most of all, the central message of the movie has had a lasting effect on me:  to be happy with what is given to you. Almost daily, I’ve been reminded of the film. I think of a line, an image, a bit of dialogue, and especially Hirayama’s joyful embrace of mundane aspects of his life. Originally, Wim Wenders intended to make a documentary about the splendid and innovative public toilets of Japan, but somewhere along the line, he decided to create this film instead. I am very glad that he did. (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum’s fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

PODCAST-THE WONDERFUL STORY OF HENRY SUGAR-MOVIE REVIEW 0:00 / 0:00 Wonderful World of Henry Sugar Last week, I decided to hold my own Wes Anderson Film Festival. I had a little time on my hands because I was stuck home with a respiratory bug, so I watched four of his short live action films: The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar (37 minutes), followed by three 17-minute films, The Rat Catcher, The Swan, and Poison. The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar turned out to be my favorite. Based on a Roald Dahl book of the same name, the movie won an Oscar in 2024. Benedict Cumberbatch plays the title character. Ralph Fiennes, Dev Patel, and Ben Kingsley make appearances in various roles, doctor, policeman, financial advisor, member of a traveling circus. Henry Sugar is a selfish young man who inherited his wealth from his father. All he cares about is gaining more wealth and has no qualms about cheating to do so. He’s not interested in marrying because he doesn’t want to share his money with a wife. One day he visits an English country estate where his friends are indoors playing games because it is “pelting rain outside.” Bored, Henry wanders into the library, picks up a slim blue volume and reads about a circus performer in India who learns how to see without using his eyes. Henry practices the man’s technique, which is to stare at your favorite image until your mind is emptied of all thoughts. Not surprisingly, Henry’s favorite image is a picture of his own face. After a few years of staring, Henry can see through solid matter, including through the backs of playing cards. One night he shows up at a casino, uses his newfound skill, then walks out with 30 thousand pounds in winnings. Somehow, he does not find success as thrilling as he’d expected. So, instead of banking the money, Henry stands on the balcony of his tony London apartment and tosses the cash over the railing, causing chaos on the street below. After a police officer chastises him, Henry changes his ways. You’ll have to watch the movie to find out how. I assure you that this is an amusing story with a satisfying ending. The visual aspects of the movie captivated me. Most frames contained flamboyant color palettes which created an aura of magical realism. I loved the muted oranges and greens in the writer’s cottage and in the jungle scenes at the yogi’s stone hut. The composition of each scene was symmetrical, usually with the speaker located in the center of the frame. The placement of objects, like trees, buildings, windows, doors, was also symmetrical. These balanced vistas created a feeling of both harmony and nostalgia, a sense that all was well with the world. Although we view The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar on a screen, the piece seems more like an onstage production. A make-up person glides in to remove a wig, to add a mustache, or help with a costume change. A stage manager, dressed in a cap and overalls, moves the set behind the characters, removes a prop, or helps with a costume change.  The background in each frame looks flat, much like a painted back wall in a play. This portrayal often made me feel as if I were viewing a tableau vivant, a static scene with multiple characters pictured in motion. Of course, Anderson’s characters really are in motion. Watching the film reminded me of Harry Potter books where the portraits hanging on castle walls come to life and chat with people who pass by. I also watched the other three films. The Swan is gorgeous, profoundly sad, and redemptive in its own way. I admired the acting in The Rat Catcher and Poison, but neither film drew me in as much as The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar, which I highly recommend. ### (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum’s fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

PODCAST-THE CARETAKER-BOOK REVIEW 0:00 / 0:00 The Caretaker-Book Review Ron Rash’s lovely novel hooked me on the first page then kept me engaged straight through to the end. He accomplished this by portraying his main characters in close point of view, which made me care about them immediately. Also, his vivid descriptions of place and actions transported me to the world of this tale. The novel is based on a true story Rash’s uncle told him about wealthy parents who vehemently disapproved of their son’s choice of a bride and went to extraordinary measures to end the relationship. The details of the true story differ from the plot of The Caretaker. However, the theme is the same: to what lengths would parents go to control the life of their adult child? Set 1951, The Caretaker is about Jacob Hampton, the son of a prominent family who own the primary businesses in town, employ most of the folks in the area, and consequently hold great sway over the community. The Hamptons intend for Jacob to go to college, marry a high school girlfriend, then run the family business. Instead, he skips college, then elopes with Naomi, a sixteen-year-old hotel maid he’s known a short while. Right after they marry, Naomi becomes pregnant. Jacob is drafted and must ship out to Korea. Before he leaves, he asks his parents to help Naomi through her pregnancy. Not only do they refuse, but they also disinherit him.  So, Jacob asks his childhood friend Blackburn Gant to watch over his wife. Blackburn agrees, but due to his young age and inexperience is worried that he may not be up to the responsibility. Blackburn lives with challenges of his own. His face had been disfigured during childhood, which causes most of the town to ostracize him. He lives a solitary life, maintaining the town cemetery. Townspeople treat him the same way as Naomi, with contempt and ridicule. The book opens with young Jacob Hampton on guard duty beside a frozen river that divides American troops from the North Korean army. The North Koreans were known to send soldiers to sneak past battle lines at night and kill one American soldier at a time. Terrified and chilled to the bone, Jacob realizes the only thing worse than being alone on guard duty is the fear that he wasn’t. Trying to keep awake, Jacob reflects on his former life in western North Carolina. As he does so, he hears a sound and looks up to see a North Korean soldier charging at him with a knife. A gruesome battle ensues. The chapter ends without the reader learning the outcome. Rash uses several characters to tell his tale. That can be a risky device, gumming up the pace and muddling the characters for readers. However, the pacing felt spot on. As Rash revealed the point of view of his characters in each chapter, he used the content to build narrative tension. The author also kept suspense high by making readers wonder not only how far the Hamptons would go to keep Jacob and Naomi apart but also how much they might get away with, using their power and prominence to shield themselves. By staying in each character’s close point of view, Rash is careful to make the voice of each of his characters distinctive. Using this technique enables readers understand the inner workings of each person and thereby avoid viewing the story in black and white. For example, Jacob’s parents make increasingly horrible decisions. It’s tempting to think of them as monsters. However, knowing their history and hearing their thoughts helped me to understand, although not excuse, what they did and why they did it. I especially loved the Blackburn Gant character. For me, he stood at the heart of the story, providing the moral compass. His facial deformation made him invisible to the town’s population, most of whom treated him as less than human, if they paid attention to him at all. When he turned sixteen, his own family moved to Florida, leaving him to fend for himself. Blackburn could have become a bitter, angry person, but he didn’t. Often at great expense to his own wellbeing, Blackburn treated others with compassion and loyalty. A benefit to reading any novel is the invitation to enter another world and to learn what it is like to exist there. Via his descriptions of setting and the activities of his characters, Rash enabled me to experience the events alongside his characters. In an interview, Rash said he set the story at his grandparent’s place. I’m not surprised. The vivid details he included made me feel as if I were sitting on the hillside by the cemetery, stepping into the hardware store, or eating at the farmhouse table. Rash made a point to describe daily tasks. He does so without impeding forward motion of the plot. His description of Blackburn digging a grave taught me how hard the work is and how tenderly Blackburn approached the task. That image will stay with me for a long time. Ron Rash shows great respect for the people and culture of Appalachia. He avoids casting characters as stereotypes. I appreciate his careful and affectionate portrayal of the country doctor and the town minister, both of whom behave admirably. I also admire his ability to convey the Appalachian dialect in a nuanced way, via word choice and syntax. In an interview, Rash said when describing the people of North Carolina, his goal was to convey that in the deepest part of these people, they are fellow humans. His goal is for people from outside the region to see his characters as such, not as exotics or objects of disdain. His intention is to celebrate their language, food, ways of thinking, highlighting what sets them apart, but also the characteristics and values that make them like all other people. For me, the novel ended too quickly. I wanted to linger with the main characters, to hear more about what came next for them. Perhaps my desire for the book to be longer is a testament to Rash’s good writing. Despite all the terrible events that occurred, this book felt wholesome, redemptive and soul nourishing to me. The Caretaker is Rash’s eighth, and by his own words, probably his last novel. I hadn’t heard of the author before my friend gave me the book. Now, I look forward to exploring more of his other work. (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum’s fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

HAZEL MOON-A SHORT STORY Photo Courtesy of Altinay Dinc 0:00 / 0:00 Hazel Moon One blistering hot day in June, eleven-year-old Hazel found herself waiting on the sagging front porch of her Grammy Moon’s ramshackle rambler. She’d never met the old woman. Furthermore, she hadn’t even known she had a grandmother until the week before when Hazel’s dying mother whispered, “Your father has a momma. Living up north, Ashburn way. Be sure to remember that now.” The night after cancer stole her mother, Hazel’s drunk father skipped town. The next morning, the mailman discovered Hazel crying by the rose bushes in the yard. He drove her to Child Welfare who wasted no time tracking down Grammy Moon. Two days later, there stood Hazel, feeling equal parts numb and glum, watching as her caseworker lifted the nicked brass knocker on Grammy’s splintery red door. The woman hadn’t made it to a second knock before a tall, skinny lady with flyaway  hair burst out. “My grandbaby! I’ve been waiting for this day!” Hazel jumped a half step back, clutching a paper sack filled with all her worldly goods: three dingy white shirts, two pairs of patched denim shorts, ragged pajamas, a long plaid dress, and a hairbrush missing most of its bristles. Grammy Moon drew Hazel toward her. She kissed the top of her head then gave her a bone crushing hug. “Come in. Come on in. Let me show you your room.” Her grandmother led Hazel to the back of the house. “Your daddy stayed here.” A cotton quilt covered a twin bed.  Each square pictured an old timey cowboy riding a horse, or herding cattle, or sitting by a fire. Nothing much on the walls except a couple of black and white photos of a small boy. The child in the picture resembled her father, his prominent ears being a giveaway. Out the window, beyond scrubby bushes, she saw train tracks. That next morning, while standing in the kitchen, Hazel discovered that when the 7:00 freight train roared by, the dishes trembled in the cupboard. When Hazel looked at the shelves with alarm, Grammy launched into a history of the plates. “My brothers and sisters gave me and your grandfather those dishes as a wedding present.” Grammy Moon paused. “They saved up green stamps from the A & P. Then when they had enough, redeemed them for a whole set.” Her grandmother showed Hazel the plates: beige with green line drawings of American patriots, images of Thomas Jefferson, George Washington, Alexander Hamilton, and other guys with pigtails. Those first few days, Hazel held her breath, waiting for what seemed inevitable:  Grammy losing her temper or taking a swat at her or drinking herself into oblivion. Even though the inevitable never happened, Hazel kept her head low. She didn’t side-eye her grandma or back talk in any way. She also never relaxed enough to read a book in the living room or jump in any puddles just for the joy of jumping. One August evening, after dinner, Hazel sat wide-eyed in front of a three-layered red velvet birthday cake decorated with hot pink roses, lime-green leaves and thirteen blazing candles, the thirteenth added for good luck. Grammy Moon slid the cake onto the table. “Surprise! Happy birthday! Make a wish, baby.”  Hazel could not muster up a wish, not even a low expectation wish, because she felt unable to imagine anything good could happen to her. Hazel’s face must have reflected that emotion because her grandmother said, “Don’t live life looking at a half-empty spoon. Live big, sweetheart. Think of it as half-full.” With great effort, Hazel did not roll her eyes. “Not a spoon, Grammy. A glass. A person sees a glass as half-full or half empty.” “You talking about glasses? My glass is overflowing. So is yours. You just don’t know it yet.” Every morning, Hazel started her day with hot cocoa and either eggs and crisp toast or oatmeal and blueberries served on the patriot plates. That September, when Hazel climbed onto the yellow bus, she realized it was the first time she’d ever attended school with a full stomach. That warm, satisfied sensation in her belly tempted her to feel almost happy and almost safe. On weekends, they both slept in, then by midmorning ate pancakes, heavy on real maple syrup. They took their meals on green stamp plates but used fancy silverware from Grammy Moon’s grandmother’s silver chest. “Makes me feel as if every meal is a celebration,” Grammy told Hazel. One day at dinner, as Grammy served Hazel a fried chicken cutlet and mashed potatoes, she said, “This was both your father and your grandfather’s favorite supper.” Bracing herself, Hazel asked questions that had been bothering her since she’d arrived months before. “Why don’t you ever talk about my grandfather? And why didn’t I know about you until now?” Grammy spooned buttered peas onto Hazel’s plate. “Your daddy walked out at eighteen. Never came back. Didn’t call. Didn’t write. Broke my heart.” She pulled up a chair and began to eat. Hazel waited for her grandmother to continue When she didn’t, Hazel asked, “Why?” “I’d rather not say. It’s not right to speak ill of the dead.” Hazel tried to keep her voice steady but didn’t succeed. “What do you mean?” Grammy Moon sighed. “Your grandfather was a complicated man. He’d spent fifteen years in the Marine Corps before we married. Your daddy and he tangled a lot.” Hazel understood that her grandmother couldn’t bear to think of her spoon as anything but half full, never wanted to admit any situation could be less than wonderful. However, she needed to know the truth. “Tangled?” “Lots of shouting and fighting. My husband believed that roughing up our boy would straighten him out.” Grammy shook her head. “I should have stepped in.” Hazel watched Grammy’s eyes brim with tears. “I begged him not to go. But on his birthday, your daddy walked out the front door and down the path, without so much as a glance back.  Two years later, your grandfather’s heart gave out.” Grammy’s face looked sad, her smile wrinkles curving downward. “Some days I miss him, but most days I don’t.” Hazel never brought up the subject again. Instead, she eased into Grammy Moon’s comfortable and comforting daily rhythm. On Fridays, they’d rent a movie, being careful to choose films that made them both laugh and cry. Grammy would say, “A good cry at the end of a movie is like somebody giving your achy soul a hug.” On those nights, Grammy Moon would pull a stainless-steel pan of brownies out of the oven eight minutes early to preserve their inner gooey-ness. She’d scoop a high-quality vanilla bean ice cream on top. Then, they’d settle in, two silver forks and a pan of warm deliciousness between them.   On weekdays, all the way through high school, Hazel would come home to a plate of saltine crackers smeared with chunky peanut butter and homemade blueberry jam, stacked on a TV tray. Grammy Moon sat in the front room, feet up on a lumpy, green hassock, sitting on a lumpier brown couch, looking at her shows. Hazel would snuggle up to her grandmother, first watching a soap opera, then a game show called Queen for a Day, Grammy’s favorite. They’d both cry when a contestant’s hard luck story won them a new washing machine or stove or a bus trip to see an ailing relative. On more than one occasion, in fact on many occasions, Grammy would say, “You see, life works out.” Hazel would nod but felt torn.  She wanted to embrace her grandmother’s theory that life always worked out, but she wondered if Grammy’s optimistic view caused her to ignore reality. Maybe Grammy’s relentlessly positive spin blinded her to her husband’s meanness. Would Hazel’s father’s life have turned out better if Grammy had stood up to her husband? Regardless, each day with Grammy Moon enticed Hazel to tamp down her own pessimism and instead lean toward the belief this world might hold good. *** At age twenty Hazel met Lonnie, some guy in her community college business math class. After their Tuesday and Thursday morning sessions, they’d sit on a wooden bench in the school lounge and eat lunch. Without varying, Lonnie brought a smelly tuna sandwich and three Hostess chocolate cupcakes, the kind with the white squiggle on the frosting. He never offered her one, which she should have taken as a bad sign but didn’t. Often, Lonnie would pull out the class homework and point to a problem. “Hazel, I don’t get this.” Hazel soon realized that his rudimentary questions were not a flirtatious ploy, he truly did not understand the basics of business math. She’d use parts of her lunch as visual aids. “Look here. Ten almonds, four pieces of cheese, and six grapes. You have a total of twenty items. What percentage of those items are almonds?” A blank stare. However, Hazel overlooked all the red and pink flags that life unfurled within plain sight. No fan of Lonnie, Grammy Moon once asked, “Do you love the man? Can you see yourself spending your life with him?” Hazel said, “He doesn’t drink, smoke or gamble. In fact, Grammy, he reminds me of you. Lonnie feels safe. Consistent.” Not wanting to offend her grandmother, she didn’t add, “He’s the opposite of your son, my deadbeat father, who abandoned me.” Lonnie took Hazel bowling on Saturday nights, they’d hug (chastely) when he dropped her home. One night, instead of bowling, he took her to Applebee’s where, after a barbequed pork chop dinner with two sides, he asked, “Will you marry me?” She said, “Why not?” Later, she decided she should have explored her own question more thoroughly. Lonnie came home from his line supervisor job at a ball bearing factory by 5:19 pm every night. He never smiled, laughed, or veered from his daily routine: work, wordless supper and then an hour of building Civil War models in the basement. Hazel realized she hadn’t married for love; she’d married Lonnie for his predictability, which, after six months of marriage, she loathed. Their passionless union produced Hazel’s one child, Jonah. Lonnie hated that the baby’s presence meant they lived on a roller coast of uncontrollable events, croup, spit up, sleepless nights, and blown out diapers. One morning, after eating his whole wheat toast (no butter, no jam), he said, “I am not a good fit for fatherhood.” He left town that day, heading to his mother’s house and another factory job in his hometown, five hundred miles away. Hazel agreed with his assessment and didn’t miss him a bit. Instead, she felt grateful that he had the minimal decency to travel by bus, leaving her their beater Pontiac Tempest. Hazel and baby Jonah moved into her old room at Grammy Moon’s, then she quickly found good paying work as a bookkeeper for several small businesses in town. Over the next four years, Hazel became a certified accountant. Unlike Lonnie, she proved to have excellent business math skills. The significant bump in salary enabled Hazel to take out a low-interest mortgage and build an addition to the house: a wing for Grammy that included a spacious bedroom and bathroom, large bay windows on all sides and large skylights over her bed and bathtub. At night, Grammy could watch the movement of the constellations and the next morning would report her sightings. At breakfast one day, she told five-year-old Jonah, “Baby boy, I saw a shower of shooting stars last night! I made a wish on every one—blessings abound, blessings all around!” *** When Grammy turned ninety and her arthritis set in, knees and hips giving out, Hazel renovated the kitchen, added another bedroom and bath, then built a wrap-around deck across the back of the house. French doors from Grammy’s room opened to the deck and to a view of the loblolly pines, yellow poplars and red maple trees that had grown over the tracks after the freight trains stopped running. Evenings, Hazel and Jonah, who was now in high school, would hear the bird report of the day: “A Carolina wren, fisher crow, mourning dove and one HERON sitting at the top of a loblolly pine for most of the morning—me staring at her and her staring at me!” From spring through fall, over the next two years, that heron or one of her heron buddies, spent mornings perched in the pine, communing with Grammy Moon. At ninety-two, the summer after Jonah’s high school graduation, Grammy Moon’s aging body betrayed her in earnest. Within weeks, she went from using a walker to a wheelchair, until, near the end, she took her meals in bed. Hazel watched with panic as Grammy shed weight, losing muscle mass and strength. One evening, hoping that Grammy would be able to eat the soft, nourishing food, Hazel made a shepherd’s pie with ground beef, mashed potatoes, carrots, and peas. Her grandmother barely touched the plate. Before she drifted off, she looked up, her brown eyes shining bright, “Baby girl, I cried myself an ocean when I thought I’d never get to meet you. Hazel Moon, you were a gift dropped down from heaven, the best blessing God ever gave me.” Hazel could only say, “Don’t go. Don’t leave me.” Hazel slept in a chair by the bed that night. The next morning when Hazel woke, she saw Grammy Moon, looking upward and smiling.  “While you were sleeping, my heron visited me, up there in the skylight. She said she’d hatched three chicks. Three chicks! Life marches on, my dear Hazel.” Hazel glanced up. No heron. Given the pitch of the roof, the heron would have had to have been a stellar acrobat to perch for even a second. The next morning, when Hazel walked into her room with a tray of hot oatmeal sprinkled with blueberries and a heavy glug of real Vermont maple syrup, her grandmother had passed, her face tilted toward the skylight. Grammy Moon’s only granddaughter curled up at the foot of the old woman’s bed and wept hard. ***             After six years, Hazel had finally gotten to where she didn’t wake up thinking about Grammy Moon. Although Hazel still missed her, the sharpness of that pain had eased into gratitude when a memory of Grammy came to mind. That didn’t mean that life had settled out for Hazel. No such luck. Jonah managed to present her with challenges on a daily basis. She loved her son. At the same time, she felt acutely aware of his deficiencies and had been for a while. When the going got rough, Jonah quit—left the cross-country team, dropped Spanish, even quit his caddying job at the golf course. Her boy lacked grit. Would it have made a difference if she’d forced him to do more chores? Probably not. One fall evening, Hazel stood by her gas stove stirring a pot of stew she’d made for dinner. Jonah had just finished a two-year degree at the community college. As far as she could figure, he majored in Nothing. He claimed he had a degree in communication, but after two years of his occasionally going to class, she saw no improvement in that area.             As she placed two chipped patriot plates on the table, Jonah burst in with a young girl in tow. “Mom, look who I just met at the car wash. This is Ariel.”             At first glance, Hazel thought the small person was a child. But no, Ariel, with her strands of purple hair, eyebrow ring and heavy mascara, happened to be a grown woman who just hadn’t grown much.             Hands in constant motion, Ariel breathlessly flung words into the air. “Pleasure to meet you, Miz Moon. Thanks for having me to dinner at the last minute. We should of called. I love your boy. He’s such a gentleman—helped me with the vacuum machine at the car wash. Got the vacuum head stuck under the back of the passenger seat—you know in those little metal bars that let the seat to go back and forth? Jonah got right under there …”             At this point, Hazel interrupted, “Let me set another plate.”             Ariel continued her word blizzard for the next hour. Although Hazel lost the thread several times, she gleaned that an aunt raised Ariel and when that aunt died, she started renting a room in the neighbor’s house downtown. She’d finished high school, barely. Selling burner phones to possible criminals made her want to become an officer of the law someday, maybe a detective. For the next week, Jonah did not come home for dinner. On Sunday, Hazel asked Jonah’s intentions regarding Ariel. Her son replied, “He who hesitates is lost.” Hazel wished that he’d said, “Look before you leap,” but he didn’t. One month after the two met, a justice of the peace married them in Hazel’s backyard.  Apparently, Jonah and Ariel also did not believe in hesitating when it came to producing children; two sons, Ben and Wally, arrived within three years. During that time, Jonah never kept a job more than a few months; his defeatist attitude sabotaged him at every turn. Hazel could predict the outcome of each venture, but each loss blindsided Jonah. Afterward, her son would spend months languishing in tide pools of paralyzing melancholy. Now, Jonah and Ariel had reached a breaking point. The night before, Jonah called her, wailing into his cellphone, “Ariel left me. Packed up the Hyundai. Said it was over. I’ve got a four o’clock appointment at unemployment. Can you pick up the kids at daycare?” Today, on her way to the daycare, Hazel sat under a red light, listening to a country song on her car radio. One verse grabbed her:  Hope is the very last leaf on that twisted tree called love. The singer’s voice carried the grit of Johnny Cash and the smooth soulfulness of Elvis—a mournful tune that filled her heart with yearning, a yearning that life would stop throwing her curveballs. Hazel imagined that Ariel got fed up with all the drama. She didn’t blame her. Regardless, she felt a mother should stay with her children. Just as her own father should have stayed with her. Tears pooled, then slipped down her cheeks. She didn’t have the energy to deal with this new disaster. No Kleenex in the car, so she blew her nose on the blue paper towels left over from washing her windshield at the Exxon. Maybe she no longer had the ability to be resilient, to bounce back. She wondered if one last leaf of hope still hung on her twisted tree of love. Her thoughts turned to her grandkids, Ben and Wally, two urchins with haircuts that looked like they were rendered by a half-blind hairdresser swinging a scythe. Her son, Jonah, with Ariel in full agreement, always went for the cheapest option, whether it be re-tread tires, day-old bread or haircuts given by subpar trainees at the local beauty school. Now, as she pulled up to a tiny rancher in Hog Waller, she shuddered. A huge, rusted oil tank sat in the front yard. Scratched into the rust were the words, “Lollypop Daycare.” Dear Lord. But she had to admit, at the end of the day, the boys rushed out the door, happy as could be. On this day, thrilled to see her, both tackled her legs, chanting, “Hazey, Hazey!” She felt like a rock star. While fastening three-year-old Wally into a car seat and five-year-old Ben into a booster, she glanced at the two boys, curly brown hair, deep brown eyes, and olive skin. Their looks favored Grammy Moon so much, she wondered if Grammy’s DNA had overwhelmed Ariel’s in utero. Hazel couldn’t count on there being any nourishing food back at Jonah’s apartment, so she headed to her home, the place she still thought of as Grammy Moon’s house. When they arrived, she phoned Jonah, told him she’d keep the kids, that he could take the evening to sort himself out. Then she turned her attention to the boys. They smelled like dirt, maple syrup and wet cardboard. Hazel drew water for a bath, then tossed in plastic spoons and measuring cups for the boys to play with. She gave them a good scrub down, including scraping grime from under their fingernails, then dressed them in clean pajamas, from her collection of yard sale kids’ clothes that she always kept on hand. As she brushed Wally’s hair, she caught the fragrance of baby shampoo. The scent calmed her in a way she could not name. She felt a deep, albeit fleeting, sense of peace, despite all evidence to the contrary. She hugged the boys and sent them on their way to the kitchen. She fed the kids sliced cucumbers, mac and cheese, leftover baked chicken, and warm brownies, with a dollop of ice cream on the top. Afterward, worn out and fighting the blues, Hazel sat in an overstuffed easy chair, watching the boys play with Jonah’s Legos. She’d deconstructed all the sets and stored them in one big tub. Ben created a scene including a cowboy, knight, dragon, and two astronauts. Wally loaded a tiny brown table with bits of plastic food to feed them all. Hazel sighed, a deep shuddering sigh. She wondered how these boys would do without a mother, even a mother as flakey as Ariel, who routinely forgot to pick them up from school, fed them junk food, and often neglected to get them to bed at a reasonable hour. That thought reminded Hazel that a reasonable hour for bedtime had arrived. “Okay, one book, then off to bed.” Hazel picked Noah’s Ark, by Pieter Spier, a book from Jonah’s childhood. The children loved to name the animals. Of course, naming the animals, also included calling out the animal sounds. Hazel: “What did the lions say?” Ben and Wally: “ROAR!” Hazel: “What did the monkeys say?” Ben and Wally: “Ooo, eee, ooo, ah, ah!” Hazel: “What did the giraffes say?” Pregnant pause. Then lots of giggling. Ben and Wally: “The giraffes said NOTHING!” The lovely images of Noah on the ark feeding the animals settled the boys, neither of whom seemed overly concerned about the terrible flood that loomed ahead. As the three of them gazed at the last page, a gorgeous image of Noah planting a vineyard under a sky-spanning rainbow, Ben nuzzled against her shoulder, and said, “My Hazey.” Within seconds, Wally snuggled up on the other side and said, “No, my Hazey,” both smiling and laughing. After tucking in the boys on the new set of twin beds in her childhood room, she placed sofa cushions on the floor to give the boys a soft landing should they roll out. She sighed, kissed each boy on the forehead and whispered, “Blessings around, blessings abound,” then slipped out to the kitchen. Hazel microwaved a large brownie. After making sure it had reached optimum gooey-ness, she added a scoop of vanilla bean ice cream. She headed to the back deck, where she settled into her cushioned rocker. In the distance, beyond the treetops, she could see five power lines stretching across the horizon. As Hazel gently rocked, the low murmur of frogs provided a bluesy back-up to a pair of hoot owls, crooning their admiration for one another. She looked upward, hoping to get a glimpse of the birds, but instead spotted a fat, yellow moon positioned like a whole note on the music staff of the five power lines. With an old silver tablespoon, one that had belonged to her great-great-grandmother, she dug into ice cream-laden brownie. In her first spoonful, she found an extra-large chunk of goopy fudge. She let the ice cream melt away in her mouth but left that chocolate on her tongue to savor for a while. ### Hazel Moon first appeared in Steam Ticket, Volume 27, Spring 2024, (Literary Journal, University of Wisconsin). Reprinted with permission. (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum’s fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

PODCAST-HOW TO PICK UP A CHICKEN Photo Courtesy of Sahand Balabi 0:00 / 0:00 Picking Up a Chicken   Picking up a live chicken requires a certain amount of intestinal fortitude, intestinal fortitude that everyone in my family lacks. And yet that doesn’t mean some of us aren’t good with animals. My son Ian is a stellar pet sitter, great with dogs, cats, and Beta fish. He’s especially skilled at caring for ant farms and hermit crabs.  Practically a genius.  But chickens?  You can count on him to water and feed them. And, with a plastic bag wrapped around his hand, he’ll even pick up their poopy, feather-covered eggs. However, he draws the line at ever actually touching a live chicken, which can be a bit of a handicap when he’s chicken sitting.            One spring evening, we were about to sit down to dinner when my normally unflappable son came rushing into the kitchen.  Ian said, “The neighbor’s hens are loose and I can’t get them back in the coop.” Let me mention that we do not live in a chicken-friendly part of town.  Danger lurks behind every corner.  Our first fatality occurred when a free range-ish chicken crossed the road.  Only she didn’t quite make it across before encountering a large motor vehicle.  Close on the heels of that poultry tragedy, a fox snatched another neighbor’s chicken. Later in the spring, an owl swooped into my neighbor’s yard and carried away most of his flock, one by bloody one.   So, you can imagine my son’s anxiety when he couldn’t manage to usher his chicken charges into safety for the night.              Undaunted by lack of my agricultural expertise, I decided I’d march over, grab those chickens, and stick them in the coop.  I’d managed three boys’ worth of yucky diapers.  Surely, I could force myself to touch a chicken, for pity’s sake.  How hard could it be? Very hard.  For one thing, those little beasts don’t stay still. For another, they sport sharp beaks and toenails. I instantly conceded defeat. A few minutes later, my husband, Bruce, came over with an ancient droopy net on the end of an eight-foot-long handle. My guess is that the contraption had been used to trap baby pterodactyls during the Dinosaur Age.   Bruce had no hope of cornering a skittish chicken since he could barely walk while maneuvering the unwieldy pole. So, I resorted to what any 21st century woman would do, I sat down in the middle of the yard, took out my smart phone and googled “How to pick up a chick.”  In retrospect, I should have googled “How to pick up a chicken,” but I was in a hurry.  The search yielded information, some of it R-rated and none of it helpful. Next, I decided to make use of my smart phone to actually make a call—my Lifeline call, so to speak.  I dialed up my friend, a local chicken-owner.  His son answered saying his dad was off in Florida.  Hmmm…I wondered if the man was taking a break from the strain of his chicken responsibilities.  In desperation, I asked the son, “How do you pick up a chicken?” The boy sounded incredulous but managed to stay respectful.  “With your hands.” Well, not my hands.  And from the looks of it, not Ian’s or Bruce’s hands either.  The two of them still were chasing the chickens in ever-widening circles. Just as Ian was about to pitch a tent and set up guard for the night, a thought struck him, an inspiration arriving directly from his dim memory of the Hansel and Gretel story.  He decided to drop bits of feed from the edge of the yard in a straight line toward the coop.  One by one, those hens followed the food trail into their abode.  A few days later, when we described the incident to the owner of the chickens (leaving out 95% of the incriminating details), she told us that all we had to do was wait. If you gave them time, those chickens always wandered back to the coop on their own.  Who knew? (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum’s fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

PODCAST-MOVIE REVIEW-THE LAST REPAIR SHOP 0:00 / 0:00 Last Repair Shop                     The Last Repair Shop is an award-winning documentary. The film tells the story of four amazing individuals in the Los Angeles school district who repair musical instruments then put them into the hands of students who otherwise would not have the opportunity to play.                   These children find a safe haven in music. They find a new way to express themselves. Some of them even end up with successful careers in music.                   The film is moving. Each of the adults who dedicate their lives to repairing instruments gave touching testimonies about how much their work means to them. I was brought to tears listening to students who spoke about how access to a free instrument and good training changed their lives.                   The co-directors who brought this documentary into being are Kris Bowers and Ben Proudfoot. Bowers graduated from the Los Angeles Unified School District where he learned how to play piano. He went on to graduate from Juilliard, then launch his career as a musician and film composer. Proudfoot graduated from the University of Southern California’s School of Cinematic Arts. Forbes 30 under 30 recognized Proudfoot for his leadership and innovation in the creation of documentaries.                   The cinematography in this movie is lovely: gorgeous shots of musical instruments and the talented children who play them. The movie ends with the students and teachers playing a beautiful concert together.  The Last Repair Shop is a gem of a movie and well worth watching. (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum’s fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

PODCAST-MAISON MAGIQUE Photo Courtesy of  M.J. Tangonan 0:00 / 0:00 Maison Magique   MAISON MAGIQUE was published in Streetlight in April 2024.             I have a five-year-old grandchild who lives in Paris. Recently, she informed me that when she plays tag at her schoolyard, to avoid becoming “it,” all she must do is scurry to a yellow drum, touch it, and yell, “Maison Magique!” Those two words keep her safe.             “Nothing bad can happen to you in maison magique, Deb-deb.” She calls me “Deb-deb” to get around the parental edict, “You may not call an adult by her first name.” My grandchild’s voice is reassuring because she believes what she asserts. Listening to her, I longed for both her confidence and the presence of maison magique in my life.             I grew up in a nine-apartment tenement in a factory town. I lived in a sea of concrete and asphalt, but even at a young age, yearned for lush forests and fields. Our building stood across from Smalley Elementary. On a hillside behind the school, a few trees and bushes struggled to thrive. The hilly patch divided the school from Hartford Avenue below, a rough place where petty crime often occurred.             I took every opportunity to spend time in that slim swath of green. A weeping willow tree grew mid hill. If you parted the branches, you could slip under a shaded canopy. In that safe space, I’d lie back and dream big dreams.       One summer afternoon, when I was eight, just as I planned to sneak off to my retreat, an aunt pushed her two-year-old son in my direction. “Take him to the swings.”       Instead of going to the swings, I dragged the hefty cousin to my sanctuary. After we arrived, he fell asleep in the cool beneath the willow. I drifted off but awakened to sounds of someone crashing through bushes and shouting. The person’s garbled words made no sense. When I parted the willow branches, I saw an unshaven man stumbling up the hill, brown bottle in one hand and something metallic and shiny in the other.       He called out, “Hey girlie!” then lurched in my direction.       I begged my cousin to run but he wouldn’t budge. I lifted the child and staggered up the hill.  The man kept falling then righting himself, all the while working his way toward us. My cousin’s shoe snagged in a bush. When I tugged hard, his foot came loose, minus the shoe. I looked back to see the man standing only a few feet from us, so I took off, leaving the shoe behind.       The man tumbled again, which gave us time to get onto the playground. I ran back to the apartments. When I said I’d been chased, I was told to return and find the shoe. I stood my ground and refused. ***       These days, I weep when I read about the conflicts in Ukraine and the Middle East, about the endless mass shootings, and the predictions that our democracy is going to devolve into a dictatorship. When I feel overwhelmed by personal and global events, I wish I could find safety simply by touching a yellow drum and yelling, “Maison magique!” But I have no drum and even the embrace of my weeping willow did not keep me safe.       Our world is a dangerous place. When I consider current happenings and what might lie ahead, I often feel afraid, not just for myself but for future generations. However, living in a joyless state of fear is untenable. I agree with a line from a Wendell Berry poem that advises, “Be joyful though you have considered all the facts.”       My goal is to be alert to moments of joy and live at peace in the middle of chaos. Finding peace is not one and done. The pursuit of peace is an intentional leaning toward whatever light I can discover in each day.             When I take the time to shut out the noise, I find myself resonating with the optimism of my grandchild, the five-year-old who invites me to consider a different possibility, a place of safety, peace, and joy. Despite my fears, I do believe that somehow, some day, all will be well. The blessing of that slender hope lends a tremulous buoyancy to my brief stay in this broken world. ### MAISON MAGIQUE was published in Streetlight in April 2024.   (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum’s fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

PODCAST-THE DAY THE VIRGIN MARY APPEARED ON MY CAFETERIA WALL Photo Courtesy of Gaetano Cessati 0:00 / 0:00 The Day the Virgin Mary Appeared on My Cafeteria Wall The Day the Virgin Mary Appeared on My Cafeteria Wall was first published in the Blue Ridge Anthology:  Poetry and Prose of Central Virginia Writers, 2010.   THE DAY THE VIRGIN MARY APPEARED ON MY CAFETERIA WALL   The Year of Our Lord 1964               So, there were these two kids–twins–Donnie and Donna Donnatto.  Can you believe that?  Actually, he was called Little Donnie because his father was known as Big Donnie.  Somebody told me their mother was named LaDonna, but I don’t know that for sure.             Anyway, one day me and Donna and Little Donnie are sitting in our assigned seats at a green Formica table in our junior high cafeteria.  The song “It’s A Small World After All…..” is playing over the P.A. system for the second time in twenty minutes.  Mostly, the teachers pick different kinds of music to torture us with, but every once in a while, some student sneaks into the office and slips his own record onto the player.  This, of course, is a federal offence, punishable by washing off lunch tables for a week.             Donna, who is a pee-pure Catholic, says to me, “You wanna see a miracle?”             The brother Donnie chimes in.  “Don’t show her for free.  Make her pay sumfin.  You hadda pay.”             While Donna talks, I’m sitting there picking apart my warm bologna sandwich, trying to separate the wilted lettuce from the soggy bread.  I get meat in my lunch once a week, on Fridays.  Of course, Catholics aren’t supposed to eat meat on Fridays.  Sending bologna in on Fridays is Ma’s way of thumbing her nose at the Catholic Church.  She still moans about them nuns cracking rulers on her knuckles.  My mother, I’ll have to admit, she is not all sweetness and light, especially when it comes to the Church.  This week the bologna looks green and smells like wet boots.             “I’ll trade you this here sandwich.”  I offer.  Better Donna should get ptomaine poisoning than me.             Donna says “No way.  It ain’t a natural bologna color.  Besides, it’s Friday.  I’m not gonna risk hell for nasty sangwidge meat.”               But Donnie, who could eat three times his weight in a day and doesn’t care a bit about the torments of hell because he ain’t capable of thinking that far ahead, he says, “Yeah.  I’ll take it.  Show her the miracle.”             Well, Donna pulls out her ratty old alligator purse, a hand-me-down from her ratty old grandmother in St. Petersburg, Florida.  She unsnaps the latch, the latch being a real baby alligator’s head with one glass green eye missing.  Dramatically, she pulls out a beige card with lots of blue splotches on it.             “That is the miracle?  Gimme my sandwich back.”  I reach across the table to Donnie. Of course, by this time Little Donnie has already eaten most of the sandwich using his revolting method which I have to look at every school day of my miserable life.             Donnie, he folds his sandwich in two, squishes it hard, so’s it’s flattened.  Then, he chomps off one whole half and shoves it into his mouth with the pinkie of his sandwich-holding hand.  Next, he swallows, swallows hard.             You can watch the blob go down his long hairy throat like a fat mouse sliding through the belly of a skinny snake.  Then, the creep finishes off the second half in one slow gulp.             Donnie says to me, “You serious?  You want your sangwidge back?”  He opens his mouth and sticks his finger down as far as it will go.             I tell Donna, “Okay. Okay. Show me your crummy miracle.  Make it quick.  We got five minutes before fourth period.”             Too cool to be rushed, Donna tells me a big story about how she bought this card off a foreign priest for twenty-five cents.  She says, “He was from Guantannamero or some place down there where they cut off missionary heads and put ’em on sharp sticks. Sometimes, the heads don’t even stop talking for a couple minutes.”             “Like chickens.  I seen chickens do that.”  Donnie pipes up.  “Not the talking part, though.”             Finally, Donna hands me the card.  “This is what you gotta do.  Stare at the card for sixty seconds.  Think pure thoughts.  I’ll time you.  Then, look up.  Pouf!  The Virgin Mary appears on the wall holding the baby Jesus.”             “So what?”             “Stupid. Then ,you pray.  You should ask for a small nose and no pimples.”             “If it works so good, why haven’t you asked for a working brain and a decent pair of boobs?”             Donna acts hurt and puts her hand out to take the card back.  “You wanna try or not?”             “Okay.”  I look at the card while Donna times me with her Peter Pan watch.              I try to think of a wish.  How about that Donnie would choke on his next sandwich?  Or maybe that Donna’s purse would come to life and bite off her chin?             I am tempted to wish for more ten more wishes, but I know there must be some rule against that.  Catholics have a rule for everything.                Donna pokes her face in mine.  “Time’s almost up.  Got your wish ready?  It don’t work if you’re not thinking of something.”             My mind goes blank.  I wind up asking for more excitement in my dull, crummy life.  I leave it up to the Great Wish-Giver in the Sky to figure out the details.             A shrill screech comes across the loudspeaker.  Then, the opening lines of “Louie, Louie” blare into the lunchroom. Kids turn over chairs and start to dance.             Donna yells “Sixty seconds.  Sixty seconds.  It’s over.”   I look up at our chipped puke-yellow cinder block wall.      Sure enough, she shows up:  the Virgin Mary–in red.  I don’t get to gaze at it for very long because somebody yells “FOOD FIGHT!” and kids start throwing half-eaten apples, Ring Dings, and sandwich parts.              Donnie stuffs a banana peel down the back of Donna’s blouse.  She swats him in the head with her alligator purse.   I smile, duck for cover under a table, and think to myself, “There is a God.”         (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum’s fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

DAMSEL-MOVIE REVIEW 0:00 / 0:00 Damsel Movie Review Damsel is a girl-power fairy tale that will make you think twice about ever entering into an arranged marriage. The movie opens as Elodie (played by Milly Bobby Brown from Stranger Things) is promised to Prince Henry by her father, Lord Bayford. The arrangement is purely financial. Prince Henry’s kingdom is flourishing. Lord Bayford rules over a poor village that is on the verge of extinction. Robin Wright plays Queen Isabelle, mother of Prince Henry. She is the wicked ruler of that affluent kingdom. Robin Wright is an actress who has not aged a nanosecond. She does a great job of portraying the worst mother-in-law in the history of Hollywood. She forces Lord Bayard into an appalling agreement: in order obtain the resources to save his village, he must hand over Elodie in marriage, which wouldn’t have been so bad if the royal mother-in-law’s post-wedding plans didn’t happen to be horrific. After hearing the terms of the deal, Lord Bayford becomes distraught, but not distraught enough to return the money. Elodie’s nice stepmother, Lady Bayford (played by Angela Bassett) recognizes bad mischief is afoot. She begs Lord Bayford to spare Elodie and break the agreement, but he refuses.             Spoiler alert: if you enjoy being surprised by a film, don’t watch the movie trailer. Weirdly, the trailer reveals and thereby greatly reduces the shock factor of the grim event that occurs at the beginning of the film. Without revealing too much, I’ll just say that Milly Bobby Brown spends a good chunk of the movie in a cave, alternately being chased by a fire-breathing dragon and then later, chasing the fire-breathing dragon. By the end of the movie, it’s clear that Elodie’s motto is “Vengeance is mine.”             In theory, this is an action movie. However, the action did not move quickly enough for me. The film lingers too long on scenes of Elodie scaling great heights in the cave and scenes of her dodging the dastardly dragon. Even though the shots of the cave are beautiful, especially the close ups of the crystals and magic glowworms, I’d have preferred that the film move at a quicker pace.             I enjoyed the acting, especially Robin Wright, Angela Bassett, and Milly Bobby Brown. The dialogue was clever and fun, especially the scenes with Elodie’s family and also the scenes with Elodie and Prince Henry. The dragon moved well and created havoc in a convincing way.  The dragon also spoke but she delivered her lines in a hushed and flat tone. Maybe the director was going for creepy, but I needed a little more verve in the voice to be as scared as I wanted to be.             This movie might be too frightening for young children, unless you want to use it to discourage the kiddos from playing with fire. The fire scenes are graphic. Many humans and small creatures burn to a crisp. I think older children and middle school kids would be entertained by the girl-power aspect of the movie. After she discovers that her little sister is in danger, Elodie transforms into Avenger mode. Bad stuff goes down for everyone who has crossed her including the dragon and those pesky in-laws.  Even though I wished for pacing that moved more briskly, I found the movie entertaining and probably a good pick for a family movie night with the middle school crowd.       (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum’s fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

PODCAST MY BRIEF LIFE OF CRIME Photo Courtesy of Drew Taylor 0:00 / 0:00 My Brief Life in Crime Jean De La Bruyere says, “If poverty is the mother of all crimes, lack of intelligence is their father.” This was true in my case. My first brush with crime happened when I was eight years old. At the time, we lived across from my school, Smalley Elementary. Weekdays, as my classmates passed by our apartment building, they littered with abandon, dropping candy wrappers, chewed up gum and school papers. Each Saturday, my father paid me a nickel to pick up the mess. After school one day, a boy named Sammy and I were commiserating about our lack of funds to buy candy. I had very little money and he had none. We cooked up a plan to remedy the situation. Back then, you’d get a nickel for every empty soda bottle you returned to the store. We knew that people stored their return bottles in wooden crates by their porch door. We figured we’d steal the bottles and redeem them ourselves. One afternoon, Sammy and I ran from porch to porch, grabbing empty bottles from tenements on our block. In no time, we collected about twenty. As we loaded them into Sammy’s wagon, visions of Squirrel Nut Zippers and Hot Tamales danced in our heads. We hauled the loot to the corner grocery store, a tiny place run by an Armenian couple named Joseph and Mary. They immediately became suspicious. These grocers knew their customers would never willingly hand over valuable bottles to a pair of ragamuffins. Neither Mary nor Joseph spoke English well. However, on a phone call to my mother, they managed to convey the gist of our nefarious deed. My parents made us return the bottles to their rightful owners, which we did, although without much accuracy. Later, my mother tried to scare me into good behavior by reading me the Adam and Eve story. However, I did not grasp the relevance of that Bible story to Sammy and me. Our get-rich-quick scheme involved no apple, no serpent, and no tree of the knowledge of good and evil. Plus, unlike Adam and Eve, Sammy and I remained fully clothed at all times. One year later, my second brush with crime involved a direct encounter with a law enforcement officer. Our family was vacationing in upstate New York. We visited the Catskill Game Farm, Fort Ticonderoga, and a shoe factory. Midway through our shoe factory tour, the overwhelming smell of dye nauseated me. I lost my breakfast in a humiliatingly public way. As our family rushed out, the tour guide handed me a consolation prize, a tall spool of heavy string. `           Back in the car, to cheer myself up, I tied the string to my white stocking. Then I sailed my sock out the car window, kite-style, as we cruised down the highway. I felt exhilarated. From the front seat, my parents didn’t notice my attempt at self-entertainment. But later, my parents did notice the flashing red light and the blaring siren coming from a police car behind us. “License and registration,” the cop said. My father knew he hadn’t been speeding. “What’s the problem?” “Littering.” The cop scribbled out a ticket. When I realized what had happened, I yelled, “No. Not littering. See? I still have my sock.”  I managed to persuade the policeman that we technically didn’t litter because the sock had never landed. We did not get a ticket. Tragically, I did not get to keep the string. Sophocles says, “All people make mistakes, but a good person yields when she knows her course is wrong.” At nine, I pivoted. I shunned my life of crime. No more recycling scams and no more faux littering. However, these days when life gets rough and I need to cheer myself, I’m tempted to fly a sock-kite out my car window to see if I can experience that youthful exhilaration once again. (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum’s fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

This essay won first prize in the Golden Nib for non-fiction and just appeared in the 2023 edition of The Golden Nib, an anthology of the work of Virginia writers. 0:00 / 0:00 Love Is Blind-ish             Last winter, we bought a car that came with many safety features, including a blind spot monitor. Unfortunately, the monitor did not prevent someone who borrowed the car from backing into a Mercedes Benz. I’m not upset about the mishap. I have great affection for the borrower of my car which caused me to frame how I viewed the accident. I decided that the driver had been facing a Bermuda Triangle of extenuating circumstances: a drainage gulley, an impossibly narrow road, and of course, the Benz in a blind spot that our new detector did not detect. Fortunately, the Benz owner had a great attitude. She said, “Accidents happen. That’s why we have insurance.” The collision disabled many of our car’s safety features, including the blind spot monitor. Because of supply chain issues, a dearth of repair persons at the dealership, and blah blah blah, we’ve had to wait seven months for the car to be fixed. So, up until recently, whenever I started my car, a message flashed on the dashboard, “BLIND SPOT MONITOR UNAVAILABLE.” Those words sent a quiver of anxiety through my soul. My mind filled with possibilities of myriad annoying and/or lethal automotive and personal situations for which I now lacked warning. Physiologically speaking, blind spots are a fact of life for us humans. A blind spot is an area within your vision that you cannot see, an area where your view is obstructed. Our eyes possess two blind spots at the entry point of each optic nerve, places where there are no light sensitive cells. The absence of light sensitive cells means that the brain receives no messages from those two areas. We don’t notice these blind spots because our minds fill up the blank areas with information it creates apart from reality. German neuroscientist, Benedikt Ehinger, wondered if we subconsciously know that our filled-in vision is less trustworthy than real vision. He devised a study to test this question. Even when given evidence that shows the opposite, the study found that subjects trusted the information invented by their brain more than what they clearly saw in the outside world.             Ehinger observed that this information fits in with what we know about cognitive biases. He says, “When people hold strong beliefs, they are likely to ignore any evidence to the contrary.”  Years ago, when my oldest two boys were toddlers, I believed I was the paragon of parental parity. I recognized that one of my boys tended to pitch a fit to get his way, whereas his brother tended to go with the flow. Regardless, I knew I loved my five-year-old and three-year-old equally. Moreover, I felt convinced that I treated them equally. But one day, my friend, Margaret, gently told me that I often placated the fit-pitching boy to the detriment of his go-with-the-flow brother. “Thank you for your observation,” was what my mouth said while my mind protested, “You’re dead wrong.” Not long after, my father filmed the two boys and me as we banged on rhythm instruments while singing two thousand verses of She’ll Be Coming Around That Dang Mountain. At one point, the fit-pitching child declared that he wanted to switch instruments with the go-with-the-flow boy. Determined to make it to the end of the song without interruption, I grabbed the instrument from my easy-going child and handed it to the demanding child. As fit-pitching boy and I bellowed the last verses of the song, my other son looked bereft, which, of course, I didn’t notice at the time. Later, when I saw the clip, I faced visual evidence of my blind spot, me responding to one child in a way that harmed the other. Soon after, we visited a family therapist who made some great suggestions for how to change the dynamic. I listened to the advice, following it closely, which resulted in a positive shift in family dynamics and the overall keeping of peace.             People say that love is blind, meaning that when we love someone platonically or when we are in love with someone romantically, our love may blind us to certain realities, hence another blind spot to worry about. That characteristic of human love can come in handy when forgiving someone for banging up your new car, but it can have a damaging result when navigating youthful romance.             While in college, I’d met my first serious boyfriend on a camping trip with a large group of people who were training to be volunteers at a counseling center. We discovered our many multiple common interests (art, music, hiking) and clicked immediately. That first night, in the moonlight, beneath a stand of fragrant pine trees, we talked about our childhoods, our families, our hopes for the future. I had found a kindred spirit. The next few months, we’d eat supper together on weekends, mostly just warming up tomato soup with shrimp bits on my illegal two-burner hot plate. Once, we snuck into the dining hall kitchen after hours and baked brownies. Distracted by the effort it took to be stealthy, we forgot to include eggs, so the result looked like molten lava. On winter break, we hitchhiked to Vermont, planning to ride the rails north into Canada, which, thank God, turned out to be too cold to attempt. I even brought the boy home to meet my Italian American family. I should have taken it as a sign when my grandmother whispered to me in broken English, “He too tall. Should cut off at knees.” That spring, trouble arrived in Paradise. The guy lived in a coed dorm clear across campus. One of my friends said, “He is cheating on you with a girl in his dorm.” Of course, I responded, “Ha ha. Not possible. We are soulmates.” A little while later another friend said, “Your boyfriend is hooking up with that girl from Long Island. You’ve met her at his dorm.” The girl with the heavy make-up, painted nails and a thick Long Island accent? No way. However, where there is a will, there is a way. Apparently, the Long Island Lass had been lurking in the wings for weeks, perhaps months. I should have known. I’ll spare you the details, but the boyfriend’s behavior had left me plenty of hints. However, “there’s none so blind as those who will not see.” My infatuation had obscured what should have been obvious. Eventually, my kindred spirit and I parted ways.             Novelist Junot Diaz’s thoughts seem to resonate with my experiences and Ehinger’s research. He says, “We all have a blind spot and it is shaped exactly like us.” The nature of a blind spot is self-deception and lack of self-awareness. It is the filling in of a space with what we imagine and hope what might be there, instead of what is. Are we doomed? Maybe not.             Back to the car. Prior to owning a car with a faulty blind spot detector, I compensated for blind spots by adjusting my mirrors before turning on the ignition, by looking into the mirrors before making any motoring decisions and by asking a passenger for help if my view is obstructed.             Did this method achieve perfect results? Nope. While trying to learn how to drive, I tended to look in my rearview mirror so much that my instructor decided to flip up the mirror as we rode around.  And, later, after I got my license, I did manage to rip off my side mirror while backing out of a narrow garage. To be completely honest, the garage wasn’t all that narrow, I just hadn’t mastered backing up. Although I’m not great with real life mirrors, when I remember to do so, making use of metaphorical mirrors has been helpful:  routine self-evaluation, surrounding myself with wise, observant friends who care enough to give kind feedback, and being open to explore new ideas and opinions, even when they challenge what I firmly want to believe.             One last thought, some blind spots, the ones due to blinding love may belong in their own category. Blinding love is that inexplicably fierce love that empowers a person to make great sacrifices for a relative, friend or even a stranger. For example, think about the blinding, prodigious love people often feel toward their newborns, who arrive after nine months or so of a pregnancy that usually includes challenges and then labor, which almost always is painful.  Babies pee and poop prodigiously and with great regularity. In the early weeks, they may scream through the night causing parents to abandon all hope of ever sleeping again. Despite that, most of those sleep-deprived parents would leap in front of a tractor trailer truck to save their peeing, pooping, screaming offspring. Of course, there is the heroic blind love that ordinary folks extend to those around them in times of great peril, like the man who threw himself over his dance partner when the shooting began in Half Moon Bay or the young teacher in Virginia who, although grievously wounded, led her children to safety in another classroom before collapsing.             Yes, we need to beware of some blind spots, especially those that cause us to overlook danger. A solution? Consult your mirrors, both literal and metaphorical. Yet other blind spots, those blinding love blind spots just need to be appreciated and embraced. ###  (Photo by Jen Fariello) Deborah Prum’s fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

Our House in the Cornfield 0:00 / 0:00 Life on Aspinook (First published in The Blue Nib Journal.  Re-printed with permission.)             For four years, I lived in a little white Cape Cod perched atop a bluff above Johnson’s Cove on Aspinook Pond, a small body of water that spilled out of the Quinnebaug River.  You can locate the exact site on any good map of Connecticut.  I had joined VISTA (Volunteers in Service to America), a branch of the Peace Corps. I’d rented the house with John and Sheila, two other VISTA volunteers.  I worked with troubled teens, wards of the state who had been committed to a psychiatric hospital.  Most of my 17-year-old patients had behavioral not mental health problems and were warehoused at the facility as they waited to turn 18, at which time the state would deposit them on the curb. My job was to “de-institutionalize” them before that sad day. Despite my optimism, passion and hard work, no one became de-institutionalized and no one was adequately prepared for emancipation day. John and Sheila worked at a legal aid office as an attorney and paralegal, respectively, advocating for clients with benefit and housing issues. All three of us staggered home at the end of the day, exhausted from our emotionally draining jobs. The Arpins, a French-Canadian family, had owned the fruit and vegetable farm before we moved there. To get to the property, you’d have to drive through Jewett City, head down route 12 for a while, then turn onto a steep gravel road.  On either side of the narrow lane stood a ten-acre cornfield. A careless farmer rented the field. Possibly, he was drunk as he sowed the seed. Raggedy stalks leaned against each other in chaotic rows. He rarely remembered to gather his harvest. The only time the fields looked impressive was the end of the summer when the dense green wall of stalks and tassels obscured the random rows. In August, we’d pick the ears and shuck them as we ran toward the house. Then, we’d plunge the corn into boiling water for exactly six minutes. My mouth still waters at the thought of their sweet deliciousness. A quarter mile down the road sat the house, dwarfed by the huge oak and maple trees growing alongside it. In the spring, the grassy field and the steep hillside behind were awash in color: first the crocuses, then narcissus and daffodils.  Later, several rows of peonies bloomed. Too bad we never remembered soon enough that peonies needed to be supported. The first stiff breeze toppled them, scattering blossoms, a crazy quilt of color.             If you walked south from the house along the ridge above the water, you’d come across a tangle of raspberry canes. Each fall, we’d tried to prune the dead cane, but never got far, our interest waning as the thorny branches shredded our wrists and hands.             Beyond the raspberries stood huge blueberry bushes, at least fifty plants, all taller than I.  Birds stole most of the raspberries, but the blueberry bushes stayed loaded with fat berries.  We made pies, jellies, jams, cobbler, poured them on our Cheerios, once threw them in salad (yuck). When I was unemployed after my VISTA stint, I sold them from a folding table set up alongside Route 12.             Adjacent to the blueberry patch, we grew a vegetable garden. After we tilled a large rectangular area, we planted tomatoes, peppers, carrots, lettuce, green onions, beets, radishes, and marigolds. Hoping to keep insects away, we sprayed the plants with a castile soap/hot pepper mixture.  The bugs did not depart, but the pepper spray burned our eyes and made our fingers red. To keep the furry pests out, we fenced off the area with posts and chicken wire.             Chicken wire did not block entry to the local groundhog, nor to a family of star-faced moles.  We never figured out how to combat the moles.We wanted that groundhog dead, but we were squeamish about doing it ourselves. So, we asked for help from our friend, Michael, who was preparing for the LSAT’s at the time.  One day, Michael sat in the hot sun, a law review book in hand, with a .22 rifle across his lap, and waited for the groundhog to appear. From the house, late in the afternoon, we heard one shot, then another. Michael came into the kitchen and reported his success. Still squeamish, we did not walk out to corroborate.             Heading further south along the ridge above the cove, a well-worn path led to a tiny cemetery.  Several gravestones lay broken at the edge of the field.  All were illegible, except for one.  You could barely make out the words, “Capt. Ambrose Pierce, 1779…” I made many visits to Captain Amby. I’d lie in the grass by his lichen-covered stone. I’d tell him my various woes, mostly concerning the terrible situations of my patients at the mental hospital.  On the backside of the cemetery, a huge chunk of land had eroded way, making a U-shaped indentation in the hillside.  Judging from the pattern of the headstones, we assumed some had wound up in the water below.  John and I once paddled a canoe to the area then poked long sticks into the muddy water, looking for broken markers. We found no gravestones but noticed a large wooden chest floating below the cliff.  We dreamed of the treasures that might be contained within. The ancient Egyptians would have envied our technique for dragging that chest up the steep incline.  First, we tied a thick rope around the handle.  Then, as well as we could from the canoe, we eased the chest onto the narrow strip of shore.  John disembarked and clambered straight up the hill with the thick rope tied around his waist. I paddled back to Johnson’s Cove, climbed the path, and ran across the field to the cemetery where John had set up a mini-pulley system.  I don’t remember the details of how we got it up the hill, but I do know we had sore backs that night. Once home, we forced open the clasp, hoping to find gold coins or at least a few soggy dollar bills.  Instead, we discovered, saddle soap, bridles, saddle oil, rags, and other small metal items we couldn’t identify—horse toenail clippers?  Do horses have toenails? Both of us being from a small city, New Britain, John and I had no idea. We found a name and address glued on a card inside the case.  When we called, a gruff man said that the previous Saturday night,  his pick-up truck had gone off the bridge over the Quinnebaug.  Heavy drinking might have been involved. He didn’t provide any details except that he managed to swim ashore.  His truck had been pulled out, minus the tack box.  Grumpy came by the next day. We were broke and hoped for a small reward.  He didn’t offer us one, so we kept the saddle soap. I’m not proud of that. One year, that same careless corn farmer planted a field of tall reed-like grass.  Once again, the man never did anything with it.  Sheila was a weaver.  Our attic was filled with her enormous loom, rows and rows of threads at one end, a beautiful, patterned cloth at the other.  She had been reading about Native American basket weaving. So, late November, she and I built a simple loom, constructed out of branches and twine. After about two days’ labor, we had woven a reed mat, about six by eight feet in size. I have it in my garage to this day. Between two large trees near the house, we’d strung a wide hammock made of rope.  In theory, it was a shady place to spend a blistering summer afternoon.  Many of our friends enjoyed resting there.  I could never get the hang of getting in and out without tipping onto the grass. Near the hammock, we kept a weather-worn picnic table with a splintery bench on either side.  Summers, we hosted huge gatherings, picnics for everyone we knew, their children, their parents, their pets.  We’d set up volleyball, croquet (minus one wooden stake and with bent clothes hangers for hoops) and rent canoes to paddle on the pond.  One time, a couple boys who were playing with lit marshmallow-making sticks, set the cornfields on field.  A guest ran into our house, pulled the cover off my bed, and tried to smother the fire.  The oversized yellow and white woven cotton blanket had been my grandmother’s.  The man only succeeded in fanning and spreading the fire as the blanket billowed up and down.  Ultimately, the Jewett City fire department came out, doused the blaze then gave us an incoherent fire safety lecture.  My blanket sustained many burn holes.  Despite many washings, the smell never left it. You could enter our home only through the back door and had to cross a long wooden walk elevated above the ground. The walk ran along steep hillside directly over the cove. All in all, it felt as if you were entering a treehouse. A front door existed but it was jammed shut. Our landlord  refused to fix the door and we lacked the both the initiative and skills to do so. The only time this mattered was a day when I was home sick from work. Dressed in my pajamas, I walked into the kitchen to see a burglar carrying our stuff up the steps from the cellar. He’d already piled many of our belongings outside on the wooden walkway—a pathetic collection of old record players and speakers. We owned little of value. My first impulse was to run, but the scraggly young man happened to be blocking my only means of egress. I briefly considered trying to push him down the stairs but wasn’t positive I possessed the heft to manage that. Instead, bizarrely, I said, “You must be from the quarry next store. You must need to use my phone. Go ahead.” Equally bizarrely, he pretended to use my phone, then quickly left. I called the police who were not interested enough to come out since he hadn’t taken anything. From the wooden walkway, we had a gorgeous view of the pond and open sky above it.  Sunsets took my breath away.  Sometimes we’d clap while watching particularly spectacular display of color.  One night at sunset, the whole sky was filled with rows of vertical blinking red lights, from the horizon straight on up. They were still and definitely not planes or jets or like anything we’d ever seen before. The hair on my arms stood up.  I phoned a policeman who lived down the road.  The sight impressed him. He called the station where his colleagues were befuddled. The next day an article discussing the phenomenon appeared in the newspaper.  Apparently, many in the northeast part of the state had seen the lights.  No one had an explanation.    I figured they were aliens. Honestly, I did. At the time, it’s what made the most sense to me. Mid-winter the pond and sometimes the river would freeze over.  One January night, well after midnight (only one of us had a day job at that point) we were skating along the river.  When ice is thoroughly frozen, it makes deep groaning sounds.  We imagined the sound was the bellowing of trapped whales begging to be rescued.  As we headed home, we noticed that the northern horizon flamed with dancing lights—blue, yellow, purple, sparks of orange.  I assumed we were viewing the beginning of a nuclear holocaust or maybe that the aliens had made a return trip. But John had paid attention in his science class.  He said, “Northern lights.” I’d never seen such celestial majesty and ever since have yearned to view them again. I’m counting on there being Northern Lights in heaven. If you walked north away from our house, you’d soon come to a quarry.  I don’t remember the kind of stone they pulled from the earth, all I remember are the high cliffs of sand.  In the summer, on Sundays, when the quarry workers were not around, we’d amuse ourselves by jumping off some of the moderately high piles into other sand piles below.  I especially loved that half-second sensation of buoyancy as I dropped.  One January, on Superbowl Sunday, we were hiking around the quarry.  Everybody else had climbed down the sand hills and they were heading back toward the house.  Kick-off would be in a couple minutes.  I don’t remember why, but I lingered on top of one of the sand hills, not the biggest one, maybe fifteen feet off the ground.  I forgot it was January.  I forgot the ground was frozen.  All I could think about was not missing the kick-off.  So, I leapt from the little cliff, thinking I’d land in nice cushy sand.  When my feet hit the frozen block of sand, I felt a sharp pain run up through both legs and into my spine.  Later, x-rays showed that I had cracked both heels. I spent the next several months on crutches. Let me take you inside the house.  The wooden walkway led to a side door which opened into a tiny sun porch.  With windows on three sides, the room offered a lovely view of the cove and the pond beyond.  Plants, in various stages of death and dying, filled the room.  Sheila loved plants, in theory.  Invariably, though, she’d forget to water them or would neglect to take them in on chilly nights.  Always the optimist, Sheila started one plant after another from seedling.  One plant stands out in my memory:  a large brown oval entity with two thick ridged shiny leaves growing out from either side.  We named it The Alien Tongue.  Amazing all of us, including Sheila, The Tongue once managed to produce a gorgeous pink blossom despite its abject living conditions. From the sunporch, you’d walk into the dining area, a little alcove with two sides of windows.  We spent many hours, laughing, talking, and eating at the round wooden table which tilted alarmingly if anyone leaned too hard. Sheila taught me to cook in our kitchen. We VISTA workers earned a tiny stipend and a monthly allotment of food stamps. Each month, soon after our paycheck and food stamps came in, we’d head to the grocery store. My stomach always growled as we walked the aisles. We’d buy food stamp food: dried beans, cheese, cereal, eggs, and milk. We’d often splurge on a pound of bologna, not waiting until we got home to eat a slice or two. For some reason, we always had an overabundance of eggs.  I grew to despise quiche:  quiche with broccoli, quiche with spinach, quiche with any leftover rotting in the recesses of our refrigerator.  I wanted steak quiche or at least bacon quiche, but our budget didn’t allow for such extravagance. On one special occasion, John attempted to make beef bourguignon using an old and, in retrospect, defective pressure cooker. John had spent a small fortune on the ingredients. He planned to feed several friends with the meal. The pressure cooker blew up, spewing chunks of pink goop on the ceiling, walls, and floors.  Clean-up took hours.  At first, the kitchen smelled like a winery, overwhelming, but not a bad fragrance.  However, after a day, the odor shifted, stinking like the bottom of a trash can at a fraternity house on a Sunday morning. An old upright piano stood in one corner of the sunken living room, a surprise present to Sheila and from John and me.  I never got beyond picking out songs one note at a time.  Sheila played a few simple tunes.  But mostly, the piano sat untouched, used as a wooden plantstand for Sheila’s expiring flora. A large brick fireplace took up the central wall of the living room.  We built a fire almost every night from late September through to the cool nights of March.  Our television, with its coat hanger antenna, pulled in two stations at best and usually only one at night. The reception was unpredictable. Late at night, we’d watch Monty Python re-runs. We’d shout, “Doctor, my brain hurts.” We’d bravely say, “It’s merely a flesh wound.”  Or we’d chant, “Spam, spam, spam, spam.” Capricious reception made television an undependable source of entertainment.  So, we mostly sat by the fire, telling stories, singing, and nodding off.  Some mornings I’d find myself chilled and achy, curled up by cold, gray ashes. My bedroom, when I bothered to go to it, was in the unheated attic which I shared with Sheila.  You entered my room through a pale green door on the left side of the stairwell, a snug space under the steep eaves of the house.  A person of normal height, standing up straight, would have to confine herself to a two-foot square area in the middle of the room. Fortunately, I am short and didn’t bonk my head as frequently as most people might.  The attic felt bitter cold all winter. I slept in a hooded sweatshirt, sweatpants, and socks. Many mornings, I awoke to see my breath hovering in the air. A village of black mice lived under the eaves, too. I’d sleep with one eye open as they scuttled through the room at night. Sheila occupied the open space above the main living area of the house.  No door, so it wasn’t exactly a room. Her ceilings were higher, and the room was larger than mine, although much of it was taken up by her loom. John had the back bedroom downstairs.  From a bay window in his room, he enjoyed a beautiful view of Aspinook Pond.  He also enjoyed another advantage, the only bathroom in the house was right outside his door. I coveted his bedroom, especially in the middle of cold nights when I’d have to make a trek to the bathroom from the icy attic. We never had much money, so sometimes we bartered goods. Sheila traded her battered VW beetle for a couple of cords of wood. The car hadn’t started for a long time and a family of squirrels had taken residence in it. So, as trades go, it wasn’t an unwise one. However, I traded my Pontiac Tempest for a wringer washing machine—the worst deal of all time because my car still worked, more or less. Plus, we didn’t know we had to ground the washer. One day, I had a hand on the machine and the other on a metal sink, completing a magic electrical circuit that delivered a jolt to my body which sent me sailing a few feet. I experienced weird aches and pains for weeks. We lived in the house four years, four years of dinners, fires, walks in the woods, huge parties, and picnics.  Eventually, John moved to a little cabin, up the road and across the river. I headed off to Dartmouth to start graduate school.  Sheila found an apartment in a nearby town. At some point, John and Sheila started dating. After a slow and steady courtship, they were married.  Although Sheila already had four of her sisters in the wedding party, she asked me to be a bridesmaid, too.  I felt grateful and honored.  In September, almost exactly a year after their wedding, Sheila was a bridesmaid at my wedding to Bruce in Hanover, New Hampshire. I tend to idealize those four years we had together, not many worries except for an extreme lack of cash.  Life was amazingly simple, no cell phones, no computers, no internet, and an undependable TV. To communicate with someone, you wrote a letter, phoned, or visited.  No entertainment in Jewett City, except for lovely woods and gorgeous waterways. We worked hard and played hard with VISTA colleagues and other friends in the area.  I learned how to cook, paddle a canoe, carve a spoon out of an apple branch, make blueberry jam, build a loom, weave a mat, chop wood, keep a fire going and boldly sing with friends regardless of how it sounded.  And, after a lovely four years, I learned how to let go and move on. But not completely. John, Sheila and I are still the best of friends to this day.    (Photo by Jen Fariello) Deborah Prum, author of many short stories, has won thirteen awards for her fiction, which has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE.  Check out her PAINTINGS.   

MOVIE REVIEW: BANK OF DAVE 0:00 / 0:00 Bank of Dave   Bank of Dave is a true-ish story about a successful van salesman named Dave Fishwick. He’s a native of Burnley, a former mill town north of London. During the global financial crisis, Dave gave low-interest loans to his fellow townspeople, all of whom had been rejected by British banks. He donated all profits to local charities.        His efforts were so successful that Dave decided to hire a tony London law firm, asking them to help him establish a local bank, run by a commoner for the benefit of commoners. He planned to continue his practice of donating the profits to local charities. The firm accepted Dave’s case, not because they thought it was winnable, but because Dave would pay well. They sent a lawyer named Hugh to Burnley. Hugh was pessimistic about the venture and felt contemptuous toward the town’s inhabitants. Actor Joel Fry does a good job of portraying Hugh. You might recognize him as Hizdar zo Loraq from Game of Thrones.       Hugh’s pessimism regarding the task was warranted. The British Financial Regulation Board (FRB) had not approved a new bank in 150 years. Worse yet, the board was a closed club of elitists who made all the banking rules.  Hugh Bonneville, (Lord Grantham in Downtown Abby), plays Sir Charles, an influential member of the FRB. When he heard about the Bank of Dave, Sir Charles declared: “Once ordinary people start thinking they can get in on the act, the floodgates will open…. The Financial Regulation Board exists to ensure that the people’s money is entrusted to the right sort of chap.” In his view, “the right sort of chap” was a high class, affluent, person who has attended all the right schools, not a commoner like Dave.      After stubbing his toe, Hugh, the lawyer, went to a hospital where he met Alexandra, Dave’s niece. She was an ER doctor there. Hugh made a bad first impression by trying to jump the line ahead of other patients who were waiting for care. Alexandra put Hugh in his place which, somehow, caused him to be smitten by her. My guess is that there was no love interest in the real story of Dave and his bank. However, in the “true-ish” film, the relationship adds spark to the tale. Alexandra is played by Phoebe Dynevor ( who is Daphne in Bridgerton.)       Director Chris Foggin makes an interesting choice regarding the portrayal of the character Dave in the movie. Real Dave is talkative, outgoing, emotive, tells a joke a minute—a guy who gives highly entertaining interviews. Actor Rory Kinnear plays Dave as a pleasant, smart, measured man who is quick with a clever retort and will give a solid karaoke performance, but overall is not a showman. Real Dave is a hoot, but I’m glad Foggin decided to portray a more moderate version of Dave in the movie.      Although the topic of banking might seem dull, the tone of the film is exuberant and has plenty of funny scenes. With humor, timing is everything. Watch for the kitchen scene when Dave is standing by the table where Alexandra and Hugh bounce clever lines from one to the other. Their timing is spot on. All the actors form a wonderful ensemble, riffing off each other from scene to scene.      If you like the rock band, Def Leppard, this is the movie for you. So as not to spoil the plot, that’s all I’ll say.      Is this feel-good movie predictable? Yes, especially if you happen to see the YouTube interview of the real Dave Fishwick before watching the film. Predictable or not, I thoroughly enjoyed the story and felt thrilled when the plot points arranged themselves in a way that made me happy. This would be a good movie to watch at the end of a stressful day. (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum, author of many short stories, has won thirteen awards for her fiction, which has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

AMERICAN SYMPHONYMOVIE REVIEW 0:00 / 0:00 American Symphony If you can watch American Symphony without crying at least once, then you might need to have your tear glands checked. The documentary is about musician, Jon Batiste, and his wife, Suleika, a bestselling author and Emmy Award-winning journalist. Around the same time Batiste decides to compose a symphony that reflects the diversity of music in America, he learns that his wife’s leukemia has returned. The opening scene showed Batiste sitting in a snowy field, staring into the distance. As the camera stayed focused on his face, I noticed a drop of “moisture” clinging to the tip of his nose. The mother in me wanted to hand him a Kleenex. How could the film editor not notice that drop? Further into the film, I realized that leaving the drop in the scene was intentional, a foreboding that the movie wasn’t going to shy away from gritty details of both triumph and tragedy in the couple’s life. In the trailer, Suleika says, “I feel like we’re living a life of contrasts.” Batiste responds, “I’m always in awe of Suleika, how she deals with hardship.” She says, “My first day of chemo, his eleven Emmy nominations were announced.” The movie follows Suleika’s grueling chemo treatments. Juxtaposed with those scenes, we view Batiste composing music, collaborating with musicians of all backgrounds, and ultimately performing the symphony. Often, Batiste plays his music in Suleika’s hospital to comfort her. I appreciated that those scenes were never saccharine or emotionally manipulative. I wept through the last hour of the film, touched by the wide range of gorgeous music, beautiful cinematography, heartbreaking suffering, and the challenges Batiste had to overcome to create the symphony. Viewing the live performance of the symphony before a packed house at Carnegie Hall took my breath away. This is a film worth watching. (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum, author of many short stories, has won thirteen awards for her fiction, which has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

DEAR SANTA 0:00 / 0:00 Dear Santa Dear Santa: As you might remember, when I was seven, all I wanted for Christmas was a live horse and a real gun. I envisioned myself patrolling our neighborhood, on the lookout for bad guys. I didn’t intend to shoot the bad guys, only brandish my firearm, telling them, “Stop picking on the little guys. Be good or else.” And Santa, you know we did have some actual bad guys in our neighborhood, two gangs similar to the Sharks and Jets, but our gangs called themselves The Earls and The Lords. They sounded like British royalty, instead of the petty criminals which they were. I’m guessing those bad guys routinely wound up at the top of your Naughty List. To be honest, the Earls and Lords bothered adults, not us. So, the bad boys I was after were the ones on the playground who knocked us off of our bikes and gave killer wedgies. Back to the horse. You’re probably wondering where I planned to keep the animal since I lived in a brick apartment building with asphalt behind and concrete out front. Neither place offered much in the way of grazing. The horse could have nibbled on the tiny square of grass by the front stoop, but that “hardly would have filled his eye tooth” as my Italian relatives like to say. And, how about that gun? How likely were my parents to allow me to ride around pointing a gun at people? My folks came from a long line of pacifists. Moreover, they were not the kind of crazy people who would consider arming a small child. Did I let those facts stop me from requesting a gun and horse each year? Ever the optimist, I’d peer out my bedroom window on Christmas morning expecting see a horse tethered to the doorknob of my father’s little upholstery shop. Santa, you never delivered the live horse and the real gun. Instead, I’d find one of my father’s white tube socks filled with onions and small change. To be fair, other presents sat under the tree, which soon made me forget about the lack of a live horse. When I was about ten, I gave up on you. I realized there was no way you could fit down the stovepipe of our gas range. Yet, that year a medium-sized box with my name on it arrived under the tree before Christmas. Could it be a gun? Dare I hope? Turned out, my grandfather had given me a Rainbow children’s Bible, the one with Jesus on the cover, peacefully sitting on a rock, teaching a large group of children who also look quite peaceful (and a little Swedish–fair skin, blond hair, blue eyes). So, my gift was a Bible, not the gun for which I’d pined. Even at that tender age, the irony was not lost on me. As disappointed as I was to receive the Bible, I’ll concede that the “Love your enemies” style of relating to people advocated in the book of Matthew is a better way to deal with folks than my “Hands up! Behave or else!” method of crowd control. However, the cover on that Rainbow Bible still gives me pause. Why would all those pale Swedish kids be sitting around Jesus right in the middle of the burning hot desert? They’re not wearing hats and likely did not apply sunscreen. It just doesn’t make sense. Regardless, at a time where there’s not much of either, here’s to peace on earth and goodwill toward men. Happy holidays, Santa! Lots of love and I really mean it. Debby (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum, author of many short stories, has won thirteen awards for her fiction, which has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

UNSTICKING A STUCK STORY 0:00 / 0:00 Unsticking a Stuck Story An idea for a great character drops into your mind. Then, you compose what you believe to be a magnificent first sentence, “Two hours before Simon’s life took a nightmarish turn for the worse, he stood in his grimy bathroom, under the dim light of a single yellow bulb, hacking away at his shaggy brown hair with his ex-wife’s dull garden shears.”             As you write the last word of that sentence, you feel triumphant.  In fact, you are so bold as to say the word, “Brilliant!” out loud. You spend the next few days, months, or maybe years finishing your first draft. Later, when you read your manuscript in its entirety, with a sinking heart, you realize your opus is more blah than brilliant. You can’t pinpoint the problem. Could it be the circuitous plot, droopy narrative tension, clunky dialogue, wonky flow, flat tone, loathsome main character, or perhaps, the limp ending? Your brain is fried. All you know is that your story is not the Great American Novel you’d envisioned. You feel stuck, sad, and too embarrassed to get input from a trusted colleague.             No worries. Give your muddled mind a break. Unstick your stuck story by using the Pixar, Indiana Jones, Jerry Seinfeld technique. With any creative endeavor, when you’re blocked, the best strategy to use is to lighten up, loosen up, and let your brain breathe. (I know that lungs are the body parts that accomplish the breathing, but I love the oxymoronic image of a brain breathing.) Watch how the Pixar folks handle story telling. Check out a clip from Indiana Jones that portrays how to gain empathy for a character. Listen to Jerry Seinfeld’s thoughts on structure and timing. For an added boost, read the book I suggest. This process will cheer you, clear your brain and re-orient perspective on your work. Best of all, watching the clips and reading the book entails little effort and no risk.  As simplistic as this seems, the process opens my eyes to problem areas in my manuscript. The links are all in this blog post: **This PIXAR video describes the “spine” of a story. Watching the description of simple story elements will help think about your own story structure. **Here’s more advice from Pixar about storytelling in general. Go through the list of twenty-two suggestions. See if any apply to your manuscript. **If your issue is an unsympathetic character, use the “save the cat” method for engaging a reader/viewer. Create a scene that leads your audience to believe that even though your character is flawed, she/he is a good person who deserves their empathy. Check out examples of this approach. **If you think your problem is pacing, story structure or timing, watch Jerry Seinfeld talk about how he writes a joke. He walks the viewer through his process, touching on each of those elements of writing. Here is a clip of his helpful suggestions **Want to delve into the topic more deeply? Lisa Cron’s book Wired for Story  discusses “what the brain craves from every tale it encounters what fuels the success of any great story and what keeps a reader transfixed.” So, when your brilliant idea devolves into a blah manuscript, give your brain a sabbatical. Watch these clips, read the book, then chill as you wait for a new perspective reveal itself to you. Bottom line, I’ll bet you get unstuck. (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum’s fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST