OLD Whidbey Life Magazine

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Sue the Screenwriter || Screenwriting, Pies and Twirling with Sheep

BY SUZANNE KELMAN
Whidbey Life Magazine Contributor
March 25, 2015

During the Whidbey Island Writers Conference, I had the good fortune to meet and interview the delightful Chantelle Aimée Osman, who took the time out from her weekend’s busy teaching schedule to share her thoughts on screenwriting.

The rain was pouring down outside as we sat shivering in a Coupeville school classroom on two tiny chairs with eight luminous green tennis balls affixed to their feet. I couldn’t help but smile as Osman enthused about the beauty of Whidbey Island.

“Everywhere you look is like a ridiculously beautiful postcard! I just want to go out into a field and twirl with sheep,” she added, pulling her thick woolen coat just a little closer.

Based in Scottsdale, Arizona, she had traveled to Whidbey especially to teach workshops at the conference, and I was interested to hear about her previous experiences in the development department for a major film production company in L.A.

Starting out in law, Osman had been invited to join the Hollywood-based film company, because it was looking for someone with both a creative and a law background. She worked her way up through the ranks from business affairs to head of story development.

I was pleased to have her elaborate on a screenplay’s journey from script to screen. The production company she worked for would receive hundreds of screenplays weekly, she said. Those screenplays would then be passed to “readers” who worked through a checklist and a coverage sheet (a short analysis of the scripts strengths and weaknesses), sifting out the wheat from the chaff. If a good screenplay made it to the top of the pile, she would then read it herself to see if it would be a good candidate for the next scheduled development meeting. She admitted that she was always looking for that great screenplay with a spark.

“There is a different skill set that goes into screenwriting as opposed to novel writing,” she admitted. “You very rarely found somebody who had a great story and the ability to write great dialogue. Very few times do those two things converge, and it’s those two things together that make a great screenplay.”

Chantelle Aimée Osman

She added encouragingly “there are always levels of things that can be fixed, and it is better to have great dialogue so the viewer and the reader can relate to the characters on the page. Writers who are good at writing dialogue tend, in my opinion, to make better screenwriters or playwrights.”

It was the frustration of reading scripts that just missed the mark that led her to a desire to work with writers. Osman offers an editing and consultation service through her company, http://www.twistofkarma.com and also provides a pitch coaching service. She added that in this day and age all writers not only need to know if their work is marketable but also need to possess the skills to pitch to potential agents and producers.

Another way a novel writer can go, she noted, is to seek a literary film agent—a person who specializes in getting books produced in Hollywood. The production company she worked for had turned many successful books into movies, reminding me about the numerous award-winning films that have started life as a book.

“You have a much better chance as a writer of being produced by writing a successful novel and having someone else write your screenplay,” Osman said. “All production companies have in-house writers that do that.”

But she admitted it could still take a long time to find the right fit for your work, encouraging writers to embrace their rejections from agents and producers along the way to help move them to the next level.

“We are all rejected and you are going to be repeatedly rejected. If you’re at the beginning of this journey and you get a ‘no,’ don’t be devastated, it’s probably not the right person for you. It has got to be a symbiotic relationship; you have to like them as well as them liking you. If you do get that ‘no,’ try and take the opportunity to find out what’s not connecting with that person. It can be very informative for your work.”

As she wound up the interview, she returned to the sheer beauty of Whidbey, talking in awe about her chat house experience the day before at the Knead and Feed Bakery in downtown Coupeville. She described the intoxicating smell of freshly baked pies, an impromptu downtown parade, even a whale sighting from the bakery window.

“Being here is a truly unique experience,” she added thoughtfully.

As we slid our chairs back onto the stack I couldn’t help thinking she was right; even on a damp cold day, Whidbey is really the sort of place that makes one feel they want to go outside and twirl with sheep.

Suzanne Kelman is the author of “The Rejected Writers Book Club” and her writing voice has been described as a perfect blend of Janet Evanovich and Debbie Macomber. She is also a multi-award winning screenwriter who can sing”Puff the
Magic Dragon” backward!

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WLM stories and blogs are copyrighted and all rights are reserved. Linking is permitted. To request permission to use or reprint content from this site, email info@whidbeylifemagazine.org.

March 25, 2015
The New Kid on the Block || Going nowhere…and loving it

BY LES McCARTHY
Whidbey Life Magazine Contributor
March 18, 2015

Anyone who knows me or has read my writing knows I’m never short on words. I write easily and can chat up a rock like nobody’s business. This week, however, I found myself stuck.

I was mired in the proverbial muck of the dreaded “Writer’s Block,” bogged down in a rut—too much work and not enough fun! Fortunately, I know the best remedy for both is a change of scenery to clear my head.

So I went for a drive.

I’ve always been one of those people who’d just get in the car and drive, heading whatever direction my car was facing, just going until I arrived somewhere worth stopping. When I lived in the Midwest and Colorado I could drive a very long way before hitting water. Here, um…not so much!

In any case, I decided to just go, packed some water and treats, and the two dogs and I drove off into the sunset, Well, actually we drove north. And it was morning.

Road trips were our necessary method of travel when I was growing up and our preferred method of travel when my kids were growing up. Nothing beats 24 hours in a hot car with ones you love, driving through seemingly endless cornfields in the Midwest and mooing at the 4,287 cows that dot the landscape between Denver and Chicago.

Unless you’re somewhere else. And then, nothing beats that! So, with no real plans, we three gypsies were off to parts unknown on this beautiful island—seemingly, going nowhere.

Our first stop was the Star Store in Langley to get fried chicken. The best fried chicken on the planet, in my book. The dogs, I found out later, agreed with me. I pulled the car over to breathe in the aroma of the flowering plum trees at the north end of town. We could have lingered there all day, sniffing like fools and watching those dark branches, fat with fragrant, pink blossoms swaying in the breeze as they arched over the road, but we moseyed on.

Flowering plum trees on both sides of the north end of 3rd Street in Langley (photo by Marsha Morgan)

A quick turn down Coles Road and we were in the forest. I love that road. It’s curvy. It’s peaceful. On a sunny day the light filters in—sunbeams reaching down—it’s heavenly. Swinging a right onto 525, we made a pit stop at WiFire to visit my favorite baristas and get my usual blended soy latte and we were off again!

Minutes later we passed Greenbank Farm; had it been lunchtime, and had I not had the dogs in the car, I would have stopped for a tasty bite. Eating at Whidbey Pies is like eating at Grandma’s House. It’s cute, it’s quaint, it’s oh-so-yummy. But the café, galleries and prairie walk would have to wait for another day as we were on a mission.

I turned off the highway to the right and came upon Coupeville from the back way—past the farms and houses along the water. I like going into town that way. Whidbey and Camano Tourism have it right when they say that the islands are “The Shortest Distance to Far Away” because I get the wind in my hair and the water views from the road and I am far away and nowhere I’ve ever been and everywhere I’ve wanted to be.

We drove through town and stopped at my favorite bakery, the Knead & Feed. I hopped in and got a cookie and, as a bribe, fed part of it to the dogs so that I could take ten minutes and jump into Aqua Gifts and nose around a bit. I adore that shop! I could have lingered in others but I felt a pull northward, so onward we went!

And then we were just driving. Admiring the forests and the farms and the beautiful landscape that had turned overnight into blossoming Spring. A flowering pink crab here, a white apple there, ruby quinces, redbuds, others I didn’t recognize. It was lovely. This is my first Spring on the island and I truly feel I am somewhere Oz-like and Eden-esque.

We flew past Penn Cove and up through Oak Harbor and northward to Deception Pass. As we neared the bridge I realized I didn’t want to stop just yet; something inside me said, “Keep going.” I felt we were just minutes away from something even more spectacular—and we were. We drove off-island (oddly feeling like I needed my passport) and east a few minutes. And as I pulled my car onto one of the many country roads in the La Conner area, my heart knew we had arrived.

Fields of daffodils with Mt. Baker in the distance, near La Connor (photo by Les McCarthy)

I got out of the car and just stood there, mouth agape like some big ol’ codfish, and looked upon the acres and acres and acres of golden glory swaying under that blue sky.

The daffodils were in bloom!

I took pictures, called a friend and, before heading back, the dogs and I walked the side roads, taking in those rows and rows of springtime splendor.

Looking east from Deception Pass bridge, and Mt. Baker’s there, too! (photo by Les McCarthy)

A trip north isn’t complete without a jaw-dropping walk across Deception Pass Bridge (so gorgeous and only an hour from home), so I stopped on the way home and strolled up and back, snapped a few photos, uttered a few barely audible, “wows” and then headed home.

It was a good day. I was relaxed. I felt good. My head was clear. And all because I went nowhere.

Les McCarthy is an author, entrepreneur and IPPY bronze medalist for her yearly “Healthy Living ~ Healthy Life: 365 Days of Nutrition & Health for the Family” calendars. She is still somewhat new to the island and the NW and loves every bit of it. She joyfully tends to her geriatric fur factory and is happy the slugs are back!

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CLICK HERE to read more WLM stories and blogs. Have a great story idea? Let us know at info@whidbeylifemagazine.org.

WLM stories and blogs are copyrighted and all rights are reserved. Linking is permitted. To request permission to use or reprint content from this site, email info@whidbeylifemagazine.org.

March 18, 2015
Play That Song Again || What do you believe in? The All-Time, Top Five musical beliefs

BY ERIK CHRISTENSEN
March 11, 2015

“And what do you believe in?” This question is posed in my favorite scene from a favorite film, “Bull Durham.” (Warning: some strong language at the start of this passionate rant.)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A8W8GGdD6pc

I’ve always wanted to string together a list like Kevin Costner does in that scene. Musically, I have a lot of strong beliefs.

• I believe that cello is the sexiest instrument. (Close second: saxophone.)
• I believe in Irish drinking songs.
• I believe it’s cool if your band has a female bass player.

But let’s dig deeper, shall we? Here are my All-Time, Top Five Musical Beliefs:

Number Five: I believe one should go easy on the “confessional singer-songwriter” pose.

It’s not the fault of James Taylor, Joni Mitchell or Paul Simon. They are amazing artists, craftsmen of the highest degree, and we should never blame them for the 27,000 bad imitators they have created. Just because lesser talents think it’s OK to get up there and sing tortured pages from their diary doesn’t mean I have to like it.

Yes, I know it’s deep, it’s meaningful, and they’re singing about their TRUE FEELINGS, but, as I tell my Creative Writing students, Oscar Wilde stated that all bad art comes from your true feelings. “I wish I had a river/I could skate away on,” indeed.

Number four: I believe the statement “If a song is stuck in your head, just sing another song to get it out of your head” is absolutely FALSE.

As the poet Billy Collins has said, if you try to force the song out of your head with another, sometimes it just makes the first song mad, and it really digs in. You can try “My Bucket’s Got A Hole In It,” but then “My Bucket’s Got A Hole In It” will be stuck in your head, or, better yet, the song “Tainted Love,” which will destroy any song in its path. Now, how to get “Tainted Love” out of your head? You can see the conundrum.

Number three: I believe in real encores.

When was the last time you saw a REAL encore, not something pre-programmed and thought out well ahead of time? Was it always an excuse for the band to drink a quick Budweiser backstage, then come out and play the latest song that’s on the radio? I love something unexpected, or better yet, dial down the volume and play something quiet.

I remember back in the late 80s, (the apex of The Big Rock Show era) Billy Joel came out at the Tacoma Dome, by himself, and played “Souvenir” on solo piano. After two hours of loud rock and roll and bright lights, 18,000 people just ate up this quiet ballad. Amazing.

Better yet, Dire Straits has finished hundreds of shows with the instrumental movie theme “Going Home” while the lights came up and the crew came onstage, breaking down the microphones and other equipment. This felt like a real farewell and an end to a great evening of music—much more so than some big boom-boom anthem and a shout of, “Thank You, Cleveland,” or whatever. And speaking of that…

Number two: I believe you shouldn’t address the crowd by the name of the city.

My name is not “Seattle,” especially if the performance is in Bellingham, Mt. Vernon, Bainbridge Island, or Olympia. There must be better ways to engage a crowd—right, Whidbey? Let’s hear it, Langley! I can’t hear you! (OK, just kidding….)

And now, the Number one, All-Time, Top Five Belief: I believe in real drummers, not machines or tape loops.

Yeah, real drummers are a pain. They play too loudly, twirl their sticks in the air, show up late and hit on somebody’s cousin. They can sometimes murder a quiet song and ignore dynamics.

But nothing beats a real human keeping time and using some of that God-of-Thunder vibe to build a song into something danceable. And it’s thrilling when the big, loud drums get pulled back to focus on the lyric, then comes crashing back into the chorus.

Our Jacobs Road drummer, Mitch Aparicio, is a master at this; he plays to the song, and he doesn’t just bash at one volume. (Still, if something goes wrong, our band motto is: “Blame the drummer.” Others include “find out how much we’re getting paid,” and “never give your real name.”) The best of the best—I’m thinking Levon Helm or Charlie Watts—are a joy to listen to: drummers who are musical, who add to the song without showing off.

Drummer Mitch Aparicio of Jacobs Road, hard at work (photo by Hannah Christensen)

So what are your musical beliefs? I tend to agree with Texas songwriter, poet, actor, and activist Steve Earle:

“…I believe in miracles.
Something sacred burning in every bush and tree.
We can all learn to sing the songs the angels sing.”

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Erik Christensen teaches English at Oak Harbor High School, writes songs and poetry, and hates encores that don’t happen when the audience really wants one. C’mon dudes, just come back out and jam for a bit….

Erik Christensen’s band plays at Blooms winery in Bayview from 3-5 p.m. on Sunday, March 22, at 9 p.m. at the Oak Harbor Tavern on March 27 and from 6-8 p.m. at the Front Street Grill in Coupeville on Wednesday, April 22. All info on the Jacobs Road band can be found at www.jacobsrd.com.

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CLICK HERE to read more read more WLM stories and blogs. Have a great story idea? Let us know at info@whidbeylifemagazine.org.

WLM stories and blogs are copyrighted and all rights are reserved. Linking is permitted. To request permission to use or reprint content from this site, email info@whidbeylifemagazine.org.

March 11, 2015
Sirithiri || Writing My Book

BY SIRI BARDARSON
Whidbey Life Magazine Contributor
March 4, 2014

Both “Read Across America” (otherwise known as “Dr. Seuss Day”) and “World Book Day” are being celebrated this week. Long live the book!

Reading is the socially acceptable way to withdraw. I was a confirmed reader by the age of ten and for a never-enough girl like myself, there were always more books. Over-indulging on bazillions of words like chocolate chips… Into paragraphs like cookies… Four dozen thousand words later, I’d ingested them all.

Sweet.

When I was eight or ten, I tried to write my first book. The story began with the smell of bacon and the sound of a screen door slamming. These were comforting images that I typed very carefully onto erasable onionskin stationary with a Smith Corona typewriter on the dining room table.

The onionskin paper was thin and could barely hold the idea of bacon, like carrying a large rock in tissue paper and expecting it not to rip. The screen door seemed like a harmless thing and I struggled to get it right but I couldn’t know that beneath the simple words roiled my intense desire to escape my giant family. It was a mob scene and we had the bacon rule.

My mom only cooked bacon on Sundays and then it was just one piece for her and the five of us girls and two pieces for our dad.

I erased the onionskin until there were dark blurs and rips in the fine paper that held my six sentences and then I gave up. It was a terrible discovery—the fact that reading and writing are so different.

Reading felt great and writing felt horrible.

At the beginning of the summer, my sisters and I walked down our steep hill to the library and slowly dawdled back up after enrolling in the summer reading program. I remember carrying fourteen novels back up the huge hill and zipping through them in that first week of summer. I diligently filled in the list with the titles and authors on the special paper the library gave us that smelled like a Weekly Reader.

Then the Pacific Northwest summer turned on and the great escape wasn’t reading but being outside.

The infamous Wigwam Store (from the author’s private photo collection)

The switch from reading indoors to playing outside seemed to coincide with getting our new summer tennis shoes. My mom would take us to the Wigwam store in the big station wagon to buy our shoes and on the drive home she would issue a warning.

“Do not ride the wagon down the hill! If you drag your feet when you ride the wagon down the hill and ruin your tennis shoes, it will be too bad. These are the only tennis shoes you get this summer!”

We heard the contradiction in the first two sentences and avoided making eye contact with her as she glanced at us in the rear view mirror.

Riding the wagon down the hill was not allowed. It was a very dangerous hill down a neighborhood road, about a 100-yard-long freefall before it took a harrowing ninety-degree left turn at a yellow painted concrete barricade. To the right was an empty dirt lot and relative safety.

We had broken the rule the previous summer and we knew that the only way to slow down enough and careen right into the dirt lot was for all three kids in the wagon to simultaneously brake with their feet down on the road and lean to the right when the wagon driver yelled.

Riding the wagon down the hill was a break for freedom. And the price of freedom was ruining your tennis shoes.

When it was your turn to ride the wagon down the hill, you would drag your feet and grind the rubber soul into a jagged slant that made you walk on the outside of your feet from that moment on. This would hurry up the process of poking your big toe through a hole on the top of the shoe because you were walking funny, and then the rubber sole would pull away from the material at the sides of the shoe. And then your shoelaces would break.

It is impossible to lace up your laces with the fuzzy ends no matter how many times you lick them. And so the tennis shoes are laced up through only the first two holes because the lace is VERY short. And then, you just start sliding your foot into the shoe instead of lacing it up, because you can. And then you slide it on halfway and crush the heel part down because you are in a hurry. So now the new tennis shoes are just slip-ons or flip-flops, which are worthless if you play outside a lot. So you just go barefoot for the rest of the summer, which is the truest sign of personal freedom.

And your mother yells at you and grounds you. And you have nothing else to do but curl up with your book in your bare feet.

Summer is really happening now and the screen door slams. And if it is Sunday, there is the smell of bacon.

Siri Bardarson is a cellist and vocalist who performs with the best duo in the universe, Siri and Steve. She writes a lot and is ecstatically happy when she makes stuff! You can visit Siri at www.siribardarson.com or https://www.facebook.com/siri.bardarson/

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CLICK HERE to read more WLM stories and blogs. Have a great story idea? Let us know at info@whidbeylifemagazine.org.

WLM stories and blogs are copyrighted and all rights are reserved. Linking is permitted. To request permission to use or reprint content from this site, email info@whidbeylifemagazine.org.

March 4, 2015
Pigment, Perspective, and Pandas | The Idea Factory

BY ANNE BELOV
February 25, 2015

“Where do you get your ideas?”

People want to know, especially about my cartoons, as they have no idea how I thought that up, and just what it had to do with pandas in the first place.

You do know about the pandas, don’t you?

They started inhabiting my head about seven years ago and they are still there.

So THAT’S what it looks like inside Anne’s head! (cartoon by Anne Belov/(c) 2013)

But, I’m getting sidetracked. The creative process is a mysterious thing to many people, not the least of whom are those in the middle of said process. Not to disillusion anyone, but for the most part we are just as clueless as the rest of you about where all these ideas come from. If only…if only…if only there was…an idea factory!

Well, actually, I have one.

It’s outside, in my garden. I suppose calling the collection of ferns, blackberries and miscellaneous plants that threaten to overwhelm the house like a modern day Sleeping Beauty tale a garden is a bit of a stretch. My version of gardening takes place when the driveway is just about to choke off like the arteries belonging to the guy who eats nothing but cheeseburgers and fries (with mayonnaise), topped off with a large bag of potato chips for fiber. Froggwell, it ain’t.

There is nothing like bashing away at some particularly enthusiastic blackberry vines, (which I have ignored for the last three years because they weren’t quite covering the driveway,) for stirring the creative juices till they spill over in a rolling boil. I have many more brilliant thoughts while toiling away with my loppers and rake than I do while staring at a blank computer screen.

My miniature, found art bonsai garden, courtesy of Mother Nature (photo by Anne Belov © 2015)

As for panda satire cartoons, one of my favorite places for story ideas comes from the radio, specifically our Seattle NPR station, KUOW. One of the things that pandas like best is making fun of news of the real world. I do hear the occasional story on Morning Edition that says: “This is a job for panda satire!” But the show that most often feeds my need for a quirky story is Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me, the news quiz show. They find the most bizarre stories imaginable, and hide them among made-up stories, and the guests and panelists have to tell truth from fiction.

The stories are funny enough as they are, but immersed in the world of panda satire, well…let’s just say that more than one person wonders what the inside of my head looks like and if I’m entirely sane.

So, I was listening to Wait,Wait… last Saturday morning, and one of the questions was about which one of three stories about things that might make you crazy was true. The correct one was about a study that proved that cats can make you crazy.

If you have a cat, this is probably not a surprise to you. I have a cat, and yes, she does make me kind of crazy, but the first thought that went through my head, was that I was glad my friend, Mr. Badger, does not listen to the radio, because he would point out this story and that yes, cats do make you crazy. I thought I was safe from his anti-feline comments, but it turns out he was listening to the radio and called me to ask if I had heard the story. Sigh…

But what does this have to do with pandas? Well, I don’t know yet, but I wrote the idea down on a post-it note (my preferred way of keeping track of cartoon ideas) and sooner or later the idea will fill itself out, and a cartoon will go forth into the world.

So my advice to all present and would-be Whidbey creative types, is that when you are stuck for an idea, the best thing you can do is step outside, take a deep breath, and let the ideas pile up, along with the weeds.

Anne Belov is a painter, printmaker, and master of panda satire, an only recently discovered field. She has published five collections of The Panda Chronicles cartoons, most recently Pandapocalypse NOW! All five, along with her wordless picture book, Pandamorphosis, can be found at Moonraker Books in Langley, as well as on Amazon. She is working on more panda silliness, some of which will appear in the not too distant future. Her paintings can be seen at Rob Schouten Gallery in Greenbank, including a brand new painting at their upcoming first Friday opening on March 6. And, sadly, while several cartoonists have won MacArthur Awards, there still is no award for panda satire.

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CLICK HERE to read more WLM stories and blogs. Have a great story idea? Let us know at info@whidbeylifemagazine.org.

WLM stories and blogs are copyrighted and all rights are reserved. Linking is permitted. To request permission to use or reprint content from this site, email info@whidbeylifemagazine.org.

February 25, 2015
The Chief Milkmaid | Comfort food: The pot pie

BY VICKY BROWN
February 18, 2015

The weather has been unseasonably beautiful, but nice weather in February does not equal barbeque weather in our house. This week, warm comfort food is still on the menu.

Pot pies are new to me this winter. You might remember my last blog was about the pie-making class I took.

Now that I know how to make a decent pie crust, it’s time to extend that knowledge.

As a big fan of one-pot meals, I thought I would enjoy making little personal meat pies—if only I had some little pots to make them in.

Fortunately on Whidbey Island we are surrounded by talented artists. A friend of mine, Brenda Lovie (did you read about her last week?), has been studying with the talent at Cook on Clay. When I told her about my dilemma, she took on the challenge of making pot pie pots for me.

You wouldn’t believe what she came up with. Inspiring pots really can make you a better cook. I promise!

Gorgeous pots, locally made by local talent

The week I brought these pots home and used them three times. Most recently I actually made the intended pot pies.

A little crust made with our Little Brown Farm’s Ugly Butter as the base was a great place to start.

Ugly Butter steals the show in pie crust.

While the dough was resting I was able to make the filling.

The crust waiting to be filled

I made a simple filling with potatoes, parsnips, carrots, celery, onion and beef.

Veggies in beef broth simmer on schedule

From start to finish it was about four hours, with a little over an hour of that as prep time.

Color added, ready to fill those pots

I could offer you the recipe, but what I would rather do is inspire you to buy some meat you haven’t cooked before. Try some veggies you don’t know how to prepare. Experiment with substituting quinoa or wild rice in a meal. Have fun in the kitchen. The internet is a great source for recipes or inspiration, but the community we live in is, too.

Wondering how to cook goat meat? Ask a goat farmer.

Not sure how to prepare those mushrooms? Ask the person who harvested them.

Wanting to break your routine of chicken AGAIN for dinner? Ask a chef.

We have resources all around us. Gratefully, most talented people feel most complete when sharing their knowledge.

You don’t need a bunch of expensive gadgets to have fun in the kitchen again, just some curiosity and a willingness to fail (those dough ribbons on the top of the pies below were going to be hills for the goats, but then the goats were way too big, so I improvised).

If you would like to get a little knowledge before you make the plunge, try some of the many classes offered locally. If you don’t see classes for what you want to learn, find someone who is successful making it and ask them if they’d consider teaching a class. If we’re lucky a whole new teaching venue will be coming online this summer. The Orchard Kitchen is currently raising funds to finish their teaching kitchen.

I am about as much of an expert in the kitchen as I am at blogging. I just keep trying; sometimes I hit success, sometimes I just keep trying. Hopefully my willingness to put things out there will inspire you to the same.

Cute little pies (yes, those are goats!)

I couldn’t leave you hanging—the pies were delicious but a little dry. Consider keeping more sauce/gravy/juice reserved for when you fill the pies.

Pot pie recipe (four large-portion pies):

1 lb beef stew meat (premium cuts are wasted for this, buy the cheapest local meat cut and prepare it in small cubes)
1 tbs Worcestershire sauce
2 tsp balsamic vinegar
½ cup red wine
2 tsp salt
1 tsp black pepper
2 garlic cloves

Once the meat is cooked I pulled it out and set it to the side and added to the sauce:

3 cups water (more if your liquid boils off too quickly)
3 potatoes (cubed)
1 large parsnip (cubed)
2 carrots (chopped)
2 stalks of celery (chopped)
1 tbs salt
1 tsp black pepper

Once all the vegetables were cooked I added the meat back and filled the pot pies.

The pies required 25 minutes in the oven at 350F to brown and heat through.

For the crust recipe, I’m going to leave you on your own… maybe consider taking that pie class I talked about in my last blog!

For the pots, unless you know a friend, I recommend you check out the new shapes at Cook on Clay. I’m pretty sure they have something that will work beautifully.

(All photos by Vicky Brown)

Vicky Brown, Chief Milkmaid at the Little Brown Farm, puts her passions on the page writing about food, agriculture and the tender web of community.

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CLICK HERE to read more entertaining and informative WLM stories and blogs.

WLM stories and blogs are copyrighted and all rights are reserved. Linking is permitted. To request permission to use or reprint content from this site, email info@whidbeylifemagazine.org

February 18, 2015
The New Kid on the Block | Be Mine, Valentine!

BY LES McCARTHY
February 11, 2015

In a few days Cupid’s arrows will shoot through the air and countless hopeful/hopeless romantics will have their day. I love Valentine’s Day. I don’t know if it stems from my extreme fondness of all things pink and red, or my love of everything shiny, glittery or lacy, or that I just love that people have “an excuse” to express their adoration.

Whatever the reason, I love it— and that I, too, am one of those romantics doesn’t hurt, either.

Valentine’s Day card

It is the time of year when gloom seems to reign and a bit of glittery pink and red is welcome amidst whatever winter might be bringing.

Who doesn’t like Valentine’s Day?

I remember, as a child in school, the excitement of decorating our tissue boxes for the Big Day. I couldn’t wait for all those sweet and cheesy love notes! Apparently, the apple didn’t fall far from my family tree. My grandmother, born in 1903, saved her Valentines from year to year and then stuffed the whole lot into her decorated box leaving her classmates imagining that she was the most popular kid amongst them! Perhaps not the most popular, but surely the most cunning!

When I was little, an elderly neighbor dropped off a Valentine for me…it was one of those cards (in the early ‘60s) that was a cut-out of an animal with fuzzy “fur” on it. Inside was a little cellophane bag of red hot candies. It was probably my first Valentine from someone other than family and I felt so very special. I owe old Mrs. Wisniewski for the early pitter-pattering of my heart.

Lilies for Valentine’s Day

A few years later, I entered a contest for the best homemade Valentine at our local grocery store. I used a shirt box, gold and red doilies, a ream of construction paper, and a vat of glue and glitter. I won first place and an inflatable plastic bull! Whatever that had to do with Valentine’s Day I have yet to figure out, but hey—I won! With that win my creative and inner artist came ever more alive and Valentine’s Day, for me, was never the same ever again.

I love Valentine’s Day because you get to be a child again—you have reason to get out the glitter and glue, you can write an entire love letter using only candy conversation hearts—and then your intended can eat it, and because everyone has the opportunity to profess their adoration, via simple or grand gestures and indulgences that on any other day might seem nonsensical or overly extravagant.

Or maybe I’m just a sentimental soul for all things LOVE.

Tolstoy said, “Love is life. All, everything that I understand, I understand only because I love. Everything is, everything exists, only because I love.”

NECCO said, “I C U R A Q T.”

Some people think that Valentine’s Day is one of those “Hallmark” holidays manufactured by the greedy business owners of flower and candy shops portraying love by dollars spent and fueling consumerism and commercialism, striking guilt into the heart of people who forget, causing arguments amongst those who don’t buy into the whole “holiday” and heartache for the forgotten or unattached.

I’ve seen my share of jewelry store ads this week; I know commercialism and consumerism revolve around this holiday. And yet, I don’t seem to mind. I say, “Bring it on!” I am tickled with the thought of a holiday that honors all that is love and romance and matters of the heart whether man-made, natural or store-bought.

Hearts in a Nest

I have no problem whatsoever with heart-shaped boxes of candy, red ribbon-tied boxes of lingerie, or anything homemade. If it comes from the heart, how can you not love that?

But how, you may ask, did Valentine’s Day come about? Read on.

Saint Valentine’s Day (according to my online sources and a very fragile 1910 encyclopedia) is a holiday observed on February 14^th honoring one or more of the Christian martyrs named (yep)…Saint Valentine.

There are three renditions of how this all started. In the first story, Saint Valentine was persecuted as a Christian, and after Roman Emperor Claudius II failed to convert him to paganism and Saint Valentine failed to convert the Emperor to Christianity, he was executed. However, before his demise he performed a miracle and restored the sight of the jailor’s blind daughter. That story isn’t exactly romantic nor does it make me want to get out my construction paper and doilies and start making hearts.

The second rendition comes closer to providing a connection with romantic love. Here we have Roman Emperor (Claudius II again) ruling the lands. Seeking to expand his army, he allegedly ordered that all young men remain single, believing that married men did not make good soldiers. In steps good old Saint Valentine—herald of conversation-heart candies and singing telegrams (not really)—who in defiance of the edict and in the name of love, married the young men to their betrothed. When the Emperor found this out he was not pleased and threw Saint Valentine into jail…and soon thereafter had him beheaded. This also does not make me want to get out the glitter and glue and red, shiny heart stickers or eat chocolate covered cherries.

Version three has Saint Valentine, for whatever reason, in jail. On the eve of his execution he (got out the glitter, glue, red and shiny heart stickers, construction paper and doilies) and made the first ever “Valentine” card. He sent it to the jailor’s lovely daughter, signing it “From Your Valentine,” leaving her with his heart for all eternity and (apparently) opening up the gates for the modern-day greeting card industry!

Oh, I just love a good story!

So, whatever version you like, we owe it to Saint Valentine’s devotion to love for this lovely little holiday and the excuse to eat an entire box of Turtles by oneself. Share the versions of the stories; if you really want to impress your love, recite the real poem stating that roses are red and violets are blue. It dates back to 1784 and was found in a collection of English nursery rhymes in Gammer Gurton’s Garland:

The rose is red, the violet’s blue. The honey’s sweet, and so are you.

Thou art my love and I am thine: I drew thee to my Valentine.

The lot was cast and then I drew, and Fortune said it shou’d be you.

Any holiday that promotes showing your love to someone else and eating candy all day long is a good day! Those that truly balk at this holiday, I figure, just need more chocolate!

So, make it special. Give a kid a Valentine, stuff your neighbor’s mailbox full of hearts and candies, smile at a stranger, give yourself flowers, write a poem, hold hands with someone you love, go eat some mussels or pop some champagne!

You still have a few days to come up with something extra special for your someone special and this island and all its offerings (trails and beaches to walk or picnic, floral, chocolate and jewelry shops, galleries, wineries, restaurants, tour and class offerings, concerts) is the perfect place to figure out exactly that! Go ahead, on this one day, unleash your inner Cupid!

And if nothing else comes to mind…you can always get out the glitter and glue.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

(All photos by Les McCarthy)

Les McCarthy is an author, entrepreneur and IPPY bronze medalist for her yearly “Healthy Living ~ Healthy Life: 365 Days of Nutrition & Health for the Family” calendars. She is still somewhat new to the island and the NW and loves every raindrop that isn’t a snowflake. She joyfully tends to her geriatric fur factory, neighborhood deer, squirrels and slugs.

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February 11, 2015
Creativity Café | Are We There Yet?

BY DEB LUND
February 4, 2015

I’m already there! Those dreams, those thoughts, those ideas that couldn’t possibly happen, happened!

That’s how a blog post of mine started out a few years ago. In that post, I went on to ask why no one had told me. And then I recalled comments others had made at the time. People had been telling me. People have been telling me this—I’m already there. There! That elusive place I had wanted to reach. And I always thought, and still think at times, no, there’s so far yet to go. (I couldn’t possibly list all there is to do to get where I want to go.)

Why do we think we’re never enough? What would we do if we were enough?

I remember being perplexed back then, wondering, why now, with no extra accolades, possibilities, or goals reached, did I come to the conclusion that I’m already there?

And why in the world—when we have these epiphanies—can’t we hand on to that feeling of success, accomplishment, peace, joy, or whatever it is that helps us understand that we’re already enough?

Why haven’t I hung on to that feeling ever since then?

The answer to that has never been clear, well, except for when I stop and intentionally see what is in my life. If I could just remember to take inventory a little more often. You’ve had those insights, too, right? Those ones that are crystal clear and then vanish?

What I do know now is that the epiphany involved figuring out what was real and what was childish dreaming. I don’t mean that as a judgment. I actually mean that my dreams were child-like in my expectations of how they would happen. Reflecting on my former dreams and my expectations of how they would come about brings with it an epiphany: the dreams were true and came true; it’s the expectations that were false.

Big dreams are not childish. What’s childish is not seeing the realization of a dream because the details aren’t the ones I envisioned. I didn’t recognize them because they didn’t come true exactly as I planned them. The world kept going on with its business. No one stopped me in the streets. Somehow all the other aspects of my life that I thought would get easier only got more crowded. And what about that idea that I would be filled with unbelievable joy? What happened to that?

It’s time to take that inventory I mentioned… I wanted to live “out west.” I wanted to adopt. I wanted to write books and get published. It’s here! And so are the dirty dishes, the trying teenagers, the dog who pesters me for walks, the aches and pains, the requested revisions (confession: I love revision). Still, the dream, it happened. It just came with some annoying details I didn’t expect. If dreams have fine print, I clearly didn’t read it.

I can focus on not having or I can focus on having. I’m choosing having. Kid issues, schedules, health concerns, financial obligations, dealing with the business end of writing and publishing. So much on my plate. So much to complain about. But they are all the result of getting what I asked for!

Be careful what you ask for. It’s just an old saying that doesn’t apply today, right?

So, what was that dream you dreamed? The one that actually came true, but in disguise? What’s in your life now that you could only visualize before?

Don’t always think about the next, and the next, and the next thing you want. Don’t buy into the gotta have this, this, this…

Look at yourself. Look at where you are. Where you really are if you don’t buy into the poor me stuff.

You had a dream, however big or little it may seem to you now, and you did it. You changed something in your life. You became more you. In the middle of the mess of your life, you can hold on to that dream and to your fulfillment of it. Own it. It’s yours, and don’t ever toss it aside for the more glamorous elusive one.

You can have that one, too. In fact—take another look!—I bet you already have it.

I remember playing baseball with my dad as a kid. He would fire the ball into my glove and I learned to catch as a means of self-defense. Sometimes I was sure there was no way I’d catch a wild throw of his (intentionally wild—he was a star amateur player), but a leap or jump at just the right height or in the right direction, and that ball would surprise me as it slammed itself into my glove. Not the outcome I anticipated, but there was no time to hang on to that glorious catch. I was immediately focused on the next throw, the next catch, the next dream.

Celebrate! Take the time to acknowledge the fulfillment of your dreams. Keep your eyes and your glove open. Sometimes it stings and burns, but there you’ll find it—your dream, right there in your hand.

You’re Already There!

You figured that out before you got to the end here, didn’t you… without me even mentioning the G word. You know. Gratitude.

Deb Lund is the creator of Fiction Magic: Card Tricks & Tips for Writers. She keeps chasing after dreams, some of her own, and some for her coaching clients who enjoy watching her get as excited over their success as she does her own. Check out her website at www.deblund.com, send her a note at deb@deblund.com, or just remember that you’re already there.

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February 4, 2015
In Search of Truth and Beauty | The Nature of Stuff

BY JONI TAKANIKOS
Jan. 28, 2015

I will be the first to admit how much I love my possessions, my beloved treasures that hold beauty and memory. They reside in two places at once, past and present, straddling the worlds both visible and unseen.

Emerald Isle

To prepare for a three-month sabbatical to Ireland in 2011, I gave away many of my possessions. For those treasured items I could not part with, I found a few friends willing to store a few boxes. When I returned home from my sabbatical, my life had been changed profoundly; I wanted to follow that thread of change. Part of my new journey seemed to include the need to be unencumbered by nothing more than a few suitcases.

I inhabited my beautiful island home by house-sitting for friends. This allowed me to have periods of travel: back to Ireland for two months, California for six weeks, Costa Rica for a month, the Netherlands and France for a short stay. Grand adventures, indeed! As a house-sitter I was surrounded by other peoples’ things, and that gave me a chance to reflect on “stuff” I had no personal history with. I have always loved looking at curios of all sorts, and it was lovely to explore my friends’ collections of objet d’art, books, paintings and photos.

Corner songs (photo by Joni Takanikos)

I especially love the look of a shelf or table that has been lovingly curated. It becomes an altar for my eyes and heart to visit, and it allows me to lose track of my own wandering thoughts in a way that brings me back home to myself. I was with a friend at SAM many years ago and we were “lost” in an exhibit, a room full of cabinets of curios, carefully curated. As we silently made our way through the exhibit, gazing through the glass onto shelves that told story after story through the arrangement of the objects within, my friend turned to me and whispered, “This exhibit reminds me of your house.”

I loved her comment and took it to heart. I have a fondness for putting things together, letting each curious object—whether a book, photo, rock or dozens of other possible things—be in relationship to each other, playing with space and proximity. Once I had some interesting metal noise makers from a New Year’s Eve party that found their way around different parts of the house and each spot in turn was enlivened by their silent promise of noise making.

Curios in relationship (photo by Joni Takanikos)

Most of my “stuff” at the present time occupies one small room. While I love most everything in my room, I exercise the need to fill a bag or two of stuff, even things I love, to drop off at Good Cheer or give to friends. This cycle needs to happen at least every couple of months. You see, I have wonderful friends who frequently give me lovely things that I need to incorporate into my room. Without this pruning of possessions, this careful curation of my “life exhibit,” I can start to feel crowded, heavy and dense, just like my room would. Perhaps this is why “sacred space” is often so spare. It makes room for contemplation.

In my zeal to not become surrounded by stacks of old New Yorker magazines, lovely birthday cards containing proof of love and affection, and twenty sweaters instead of ten, I have donated or given away many things I may later even come to regret. But in the end this pruning back is necessary and must remain continuous throughout the year to deal with this growing thicket of “stuff.”

Love, memory and dreams (photo by Joni Takanikos)

My dearest friend, Virginia Burja Simpson, while discussing the dilemma of stuff, said, ” All I want to leave behind is a poem and a puff of pink smoke.” In that spirit, I offer you one poem on the subject (and admit I have more than a boxful of them).

UNTITLED

“It’s not the load, it’s how you carry it.”—Lena Horne

I have carried a
handful of letters
for over thirty years.
Full of pain, misery,
despair and love.
I keep them like
sentries at the gate
of The Trauma.

They have migrated
to different houses
through the years
but have stayed in the
same nondescript
brown and beige file box.
They swim in the too-large
box, but at least they have
plenty of air to breathe.

Right now they ride in
the trunk of my car, traveling
the island roads, and the
potholes of my long driveway.
These letters I cannot
seem to let go of, although
the paper will eventually crumble,
the plastic file box may go on forever.

-Joni Takanikos

So, if you find you have stuff you are not using, why not donate it to a local charity like Good Cheer, Habitat for Humanity, Waif or Senior Thrift? And while I would not advocate a nomadic lifestyle for everyone, I suspect most of us could be better served by lightening our load.

Now just imagine this blog ends in a puff of pink smoke.

Joni Takanikos lives, writes, performs, teaches yoga and collects some lovely “stuff” right here on Whidbey Island.

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January 28, 2015
Four Writing Wonders

BY STEPHANIE BARBÉ HAMMER
Jan. 21, 2015

Whidbey may be an island, but we draw some of the most brilliant writers in the US to our foggy shores.

Recently, I’ve spent time with not one but TWO Washington State Poets Laureate. (By the way, it’s not Poet Laureates, but rather Poets Laureate. Like Attorneys General. Explanation courtesy of current Poet Laureate Elizabeth Austen.)

Current Washington State Poet Laureate Elizabeth Austen (photo courtesy of writer)

Two weeks ago at the Whidbey Island Center for the Arts (WICA), Austen taught a poetry workshop to 27 people. Although we could barely fit around the table, the crowded conditions hardly mattered because Austen made that crowded table feel like the kitchen counter at her house. We hung out, read together and chewed on some complex poetic imagery. We thought about trees, mustard, cheese sandwiches, and floods in Florence, allowing those images to help us cook up our own poems. We walked out with heads full of word-recipes for future work.

Previous Washington State Poet Laureate Kathleen Flenniken (photo courtesy of the writer)

That evening, several of us dined with Austen and former Poet Laureate Kathleen Flenniken. We sat at the Roaming Radish and talked about how to bring young people into the literature conversation. Flenniken’s eyes shone as she described the reactions of kids in the schools she visited. “How do these words make you feel?” she’d ask. And they’d tell her. We decided that poems can get at emotions in a way that no other word-work can.

I heard Flenniken again the following week at the Northwest Institute of Literary Arts (NILA) MFA program, which meets twice yearly at the Captain Whidbey Inn. In her class on listening, Flenniken asked us to make a poem using 10 words that she would assign to us. Each word needed to have its own line, and the whole thing had to make sense. But we got only one word at a time, so we didn’t know what was coming. That meant we had to really open up and hear the possibilities each word offered.

It’s amazing what comes out when you just listen.

Author Nancy Rawles (photo by Ingrid Pape Sheldon)

NILA also presented novelist Nancy Rawles, who taught a class on revisiting that great book idea you had once and then abandoned. Should you revisit it? How do you decide? How long will it take you to re-investigate the project? Great questions to consider. Subsequently, Rawles paid a visit to Whidbey Air Radio to discuss her critically-acclaimed novel My Jim, explaining that her book tells the story Huckleberry Finn does not tell: what happens to Jim’s wife and family after he escapes.

Nancy Rawles reading at Whidbey Air Radio (photo by Stephanie Barbé Hammer)

Rawles’s novel gives us insight into the lives of the majority of African American captive workers who lived and died as slaves.

Later that week Tananarive Due appeared in our NILA classroom. Due is a civil rights memoirist and best-selling horror/suspense novelist. She gave us pointers and examples of how to craft powerful characters, how to create suspense and what resources to use when doing research for historical fiction. In the class on research, she showed us a photograph of an elegant African American woman wearing a beautiful shirtwaist dress being dragged off by two white policemen. “That’s my mother,” said Due.

Tananarive Due reading at Whidbey Air Radio (photo by Stephanie Barbé Hammer)

In the subsequent talk she described how her family’s struggle for Civil Rights empowered her fictionalized narrative account of the remarkable Madame C.J. Walker, reputedly the first female African American millionaire. “Use your personal history to fire up your writing,” Due urged us.

I don’t know about you, but I’m fired up to read more by and about these incredible authors, and I’m proud of our island organizations for bringing these wonders to us.

Find out more about these authors at their websites:
Elizabeth Austen
Kathleen Flenniken
Nancy Rawles
Tananarive Due

Stephanie Barbé Hammer lives mostly in Coupeville with occasional treks into the wilds of Los Angeles. Her poetry collection “How Formal?” launched in May 2014 and her brand-spanking new novel “The Puppet Turners of Narrow Interior” (about German Americans, secret Anabaptists, bunraku puppets, ghosts, and hope) comes out later this year. You can follow her on twitter at stephaniebarbeh and read her blog here: www.stephaniebarbehammer.net.

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January 20, 2015