tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83029474268619754852024-02-20T08:09:44.914-08:00SandyDidner's DreamsSandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06114801404757819618noreply@blogger.comBlogger16125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8302947426861975485.post-74456891680713685672015-04-27T20:01:00.000-07:002015-04-27T20:01:20.789-07:00Finding Great Literature on Social MediaI used to love to browse in old, musty book stores and fascinating libraries. In fact, one of my favorite places in the entire world is Powell's Book Store in Portland, Oregon. Where else can one buy John Ciardi"s translation of Dante's Divine Comedy for $2.25 or Le Morte D'Arthur by Sir Thomas Malory for a little more? Pondering over great classics while imbibing a delicious cup of coffee as the rain pitter patters on Portland's roof tops is heavenly for a dedicated reader. Alas, there are so few book stores in Florida. My college library has more computers than books, and most of my reading is done on my Kindle. While the Kindle has great advantages (no shelf space, a built in dictionary, Wikipedia, and instant delivery), the romance of looking for a book is greatly diminished.<br />
Fortunately, I have found great books on Facebook, Twitter, and Google Plus that I would never have found otherwise. <br />
<br />
First, I saw an ad on Facebook of a novel with an appealing little dog wearing boots on the cover. Who could resist? Little did I know that this book, Following Atticus, would have a tremendous impact on my life. The author, Tom Ryan, is a profound philosopher whose views have influenced me greatly. Not only have I read the book and given copies of it to all my children, but I look forward to his blog and Facebook posts which give me an emotional uplift.<br />
<br />
Tom recommended several writers in his posts, two of whom are now favorites of mine: Louise Penny and the great poet Mary Oliver. I had taught many poems of Miss Oliver in the past, but her latest book <i>Dog Songs</i> contains some of the most inspirational works I have ever read. One of the poems, "Percy Wakes Me," provoked a fifteen minute discussion in my American Literature class. <br />
<br />
Louise Penny has transported me to Canada and the intriguing world of Three Pines where a clever and endearing detective not only solves mysteries, but also teaches me about art and music.<br />
<br />
Yossi Gremillion, a librarian in Boca Raton, recommended a book on Facebook called The Golem and the Jinni by Helene Wecker. After I read it, I emailed the author and asked if she had been influenced by Jorge Luis Borges, Isaac Bashevis Singer, and Gabriel Garcia Marquez. She kindly answered me, and through the magic of the internet we had a wonderful discussion of her magnificent opus.<br />
t<br />
Two weeks ago, through a post on Twitter I read a short story called "The God of The Donkeys" by Steven W. Wise. Since I have written a book, <i>The Conspiracies of Dreams </i>in which a donkey narrates the prologue and epilogue, I was intrigued. I thought so highly of the story that I asked Mr. Wise for permission to teach his story to my college class. Not only did he kindly give me permission to do so, but he also sent me an advanced reader copy of his new book entitled <i>Sing For Us</i> which I am avidly reading. It is a poignant novel of wounded Confederate soldiers who are recovering in a hospital in Richmond, Virginia under the care of a compassionate nurse. Mr. Wise tells his story of the soldiers, their doctors and nurses with profound wisdom. He condemns the evils of war, but does not judge the soldiers who are mere pawns in the political calisthenics of the era.<br />
<br />
Finally, my childhood friend, Alan Fleishman, has written a comprehensive trilogy of the Jewish experience ranging from the Ukraine of 1894 to Germany of the 1960's. I never would have known that he had written these books if not for the Internet. He graciously came to my college and gave my students an informative presentation of the first book in the trilogy, <i>Goliath's Head</i>. They were thrilled to meet him, and I know that many of them have read the second and third books in the series: <i>A Fine September Morning </i>and<i> Lara's Shadow.</i><br />
<br />
Leigh Podgorski is another author I met through Twitter. She has written a historical novel of the highest order entitled <i>The Women Debrowska. </i>She has also written several books for young adults, and I am thrilled to report that she is writing a movie which will be produced during the Christmas season on television. Someday, I hope we will meet for she has written plays which could possibly be produced by one of our local Floridian theaters.<br />
<br />
Rarely, I meet someone and from the first second I know that person and I will be great friends. First, I met Tanya Peterson on the internet because she and I have the same publisher. We communicated via Facebook, and during my college's winter break I had the opportunity to leave sunny, warm Florida and visit cold, damp, rainy Oregon. (I hate cold, damp, rainy climates). But one look at Tanya was all it took to confirm what I had suspected from Facebook and her three books: she is a friend I will always cherish even though we are separated by 3,000 miles of the continent. <br />
<br />
Thus, while I no longer have the chance to browse in local book stores, through the technology of the internet I have been introduced to works by Tanya Peterson who lives in Oregon, Steve Wise from Columbia, Missouri, Helene Wecker, Alan Fleishman, and Leigh Podgorski from California, Tom Ryan from New Hampshire, Mary Oliver from Massachusetts, and Louise Penny from Montreal. <br />
<br />
Of course, I still read books reviewed in the New York Times and by the big Six (or is it Five by now) publishers and the Pulitzer Prize, National Book Awards, and the Mann Booker winners. But it is so emotionally satisfying to discover a writer and communicate with him or her personally and even become friends through the magic of social media. <br />
<i><br /></i>
What books have you discovered and which writers have influenced you? Your answers may lead me to find new friends.Sandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06114801404757819618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8302947426861975485.post-91037464893448036602014-10-21T12:35:00.000-07:002014-10-21T12:38:55.167-07:00How can one accept the end of a love?<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><tbody>
<tr><td><div style="margin-bottom: 3px;">
<b style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 3px;">
<b style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">For the last few years I have been reading Tom Ryan's wonderful blog and Facebook posts </b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 3px;">
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none;"><b>which are about many spiritual and emotional thoughts he shares with his readers. Most of his work depicts his exploits in his beloved New Hampshire hills and mountains with his marvelous dog Atticus M. Finch. If you are unfamiliar with his book and internet communications you still can guess what kind of man he is by the name he gave his canine companion. His posts contain quotes from works as simple as Winnie the Pooh and as profound as Emerson and Thoreau. ( I do, however, think Winnie the Pooh is extremely profound). The language is simpler, but Milne's ideas are just as transcendental as the Bostonian Brahams. </b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 3px;">
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 3px;">
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none;"><b>Two years ago, Ryan undertook the care of an extremely abused dog with the idea that he would give the old codger a few months of loving care and give him the chance to live his last days with a modicum of dignity and grace. Again, as a picture into Ryan's soul, he named the dog William M. Garrison. Will, of course, has a double meaning, for not only is it the name of a great person, but also symbolizes the hope that the dog has the will to live.</b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 3px;">
<b style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 3px;">
<b style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">And so, the blind, crippled, deaf dog, angry at the world, responded to Ryan's patience, love, and above all , empathy, and lives and loves. Strangers, entranced by Tom's writing, have sent Will flowers, paid for his grooming, knitted blankets for him, and cared for him. </b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 3px;">
<b style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">All of this concern is a tribute to Ryan's writing which is the epitome of what great writing is.</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 3px;">
<b style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 3px;">
<b style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">This week, however, the time has come to allow the dog to become one with Tom's beloved mountains. This morning Tom wrote that it is so hard for the heart to realize what the head tells one to do.</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 3px;">
<b style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 3px;">
<b style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I understand how Tom feels because on July 2, my beloved Duffy died. </b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 3px;">
<b style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">How did I love Macduff? When I first saw him, he was 12 weeks old, traumatized because he had just been separated from his mother, who no doubt lived in a puppy mill, and shipped via airplane from Saint Louis to New York. He was a miserable bit of fluff sitting forlornly in a cage. I took him out of the cage, held him in the palm of my hand, and we looked at each other.</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 3px;">
<b style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 3px;">
<b style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">At that moment, a spark went through both of us, and I knew, and from the way the dog behaved, I knew he felt that we would love each other as long as either of us lived.</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 3px;">
<b style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 3px;">
<b style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">When Duffy was 6 months old, I bought another dog to keep him company. I care for Pippen, but I adored Macduff. What my husband and I did not realize was how much Pippen loved Duffy. When Macduff was 15 years old, arthritic, crippled,almost blind, and seizure prone, we knew it was time to stop killing him with kindness, and we took Pippen to the vet with us, so the dogs and my husband and I could spend our last few moments together. We let him stay with the corpse for quite a while. Of course, we have no idea what he understood, but we were shocked by how depressed he became. His depression has deepened as the weeks crawl by, and now, 3 months later, I fear for Pippen's life. Is it possible that a healthy dog can die of a broken heart? </b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 3px;">
<b style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 3px;">
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none;"><b>As Tom Ryan, Pippen, and I know with our reasoning faculties that love will last to the edge of doom, our hearts cannot reconcile the fact that the loved one is no longer able to share our lives with us. Robert Frost expressed this knowledge best in the last few lines of his great poem "Reluctance."</b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 3px;">
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 3px;">
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 3px;">
<b style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 3px;">
<b style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Reluctance</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 3px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 3px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 3px;">
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">The heart is still aching to seek,</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 3px; margin-left: 25px;">
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">But the feet question "Whither?"</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 3px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 3px;">
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Ah, when to the heart of man</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 3px; margin-left: 25px;">
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Was it ever less than a treason</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 3px;">
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">To go with the drift of things,</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 3px; margin-left: 25px;">
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">To yield with a grace to reason,</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 3px;">
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">And bow and accept the end</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 3px; margin-left: 25px;">
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Of a love or a season?</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 3px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 3px; margin-left: 160px;">
<i style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Robert Frost</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 3px; margin-left: 160px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 3px; margin-left: 160px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 3px; margin-left: 160px;">
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none;"><i>As Louise Penny said in her book How The Light Gets In, the best qualities a dog has is he knows how to love, and he knows he is loved.</i></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 3px; margin-left: 160px;">
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 3px; margin-left: 160px;">
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none;"><i>May you all experience such love.</i></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 3px; margin-left: 160px;">
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 3px; margin-left: 160px;">
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Sandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06114801404757819618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8302947426861975485.post-71595256066314044232014-09-30T19:27:00.002-07:002014-09-30T19:27:35.959-07:00Great novels about British historyWithout realizing it, I started reading a great many British historical novels this spring and summer. I am fascinated by the history of words, and one way to study etymology is to trace the development of British literature through its historical novels. I began with a rereading of Seamus Heaney's magnificent translation of Beowulf- might as well begin at the dawn of British literature and history. Dear Reader, I loved it. The author calls the ocean "the whale road" and the mountains are "eagle barriers." The imagery, the ethics of the hero and the character of the villain and his monstrous mother are brilliantly depicted in Heaney's epic work. <br />
<br />
Next, I tackled Chaucer's Canterbury Tales." I had taken a course in college on the Tales and rereading them as a woman of a certain age (never mind what age) I appreciate Chaucer' s work so much more now. I loved reading about the "very, parfait, gentile knight" and the "good Wife of Bathe" who was somdeel deef." I especially enjoyed this poem because I visited the site of the Tabard Inn in Southwerk many years ago and could imagine jolly Harry Bailey serving the pilgrims before they set out to Canterbury.<br />
<br />
I then spent most of August reading The Norman Conquest by Mark Morr. As I read it, the conflicts in the Middle East were and are still raging. Incredibly, the battles between the Normans, Saxons, and Vikings were more savage than the news from Syria, Iraq, and Afghanistan. Beheadings, drawn and quartering, bubonic plague, and brother killing brother, father killing son, and wife killing husband, filled every gory page. I came to the conclusion that the most inhumane animals on earth are humans.<br />
<br />
It was a relief to read The Hare With Amber Eyes by Edmund De Waal. De Waal is an artist whose great uncle knew Monet, Degas, and Renoir and might have been the model for Marcel Proust's Swann in Proust's great work Remembrance of Things Past. This book traced the author's relatives from 18th century Ukraine to contemporary England. One highlight of the book which astounded me detailed how his uncle became the Archbishop of Canterbury, yet he donned a yarmulke and said Kaddish, the traditional memorial prayer for the dead, in London's Main Synagogue for his Jewish mother at her funeral. I was pleased to read that De Waal had an exhibition of his ceramic wares at the Metropolitan Museum of New York this summer. The book is a very cerebral and amazing story of a family's history during many European conflicts. The Hare with Amber Eyes is a little Japanese statue which symbolizes how De Waal's family survived these wars. The language is almost as challenging as Chaucer's, and the book is just as entertaining.<br />
<br />
<br />
Since I love history, my account of 3,000 years of Middle East activity which culminates in a love affair between an Egyptian Military Intelligence Agent and a beautiful Israeli actress is detailed in my novel The Conspiracies of Dreams. It is 90 per cent factual and depicts how the people who live in the land between the Jordan River and the Mediterranean Sea are affected by conflicts, while ancient in origin, affect the contemporary lovers in a poignant and heartbreaking manner.<br />
While the hare with amber eyes is central to De Waal's book, a donkey is key to mine. In fact, many readers have told me that the donkey is their favorite character. <br />
The book is available at barnesandnoble.com/theconspiraciesofdreams<br />
Amazon.com:theconspiraciesofdreams<br />
iBooks.com/theconspiraciesofdreams<br />
Inkwaterbooks.com/theconspiraciesofdreams<br />
And independent book stores.<br />
<br />
I also can provide signed copies. <br />
My email address is didner16@hotmail.com<br />
<br />
<br />Sandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06114801404757819618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8302947426861975485.post-14337315457916398502014-08-24T10:20:00.000-07:002014-08-24T10:25:57.289-07:00What is a home?<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Robert Frost said in one of his poems that a home is a place you go
to when no one else will take you in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">But a home or a homeland is much more than that. I asked one
person what a home was to her, and she said, "Where my husband and child
are." The physical building, its size and condition, or locale did
not matter to her; rather if the people she loved were with her, any place was
her home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> To other people, location is of utmost
importance. Konrad Lorenze stated that all beings (plants included) have
built into their genes the "territorial imperative." A certain
area and only that area can be home and beings will not only fight, but die to
protect that locale. If they are not in that place, they will turn in its
direction when they pray, and spiritually claim it as their homeland even if
they do not live there, or ever intend to visit it. They may move from
their original home for political, economic, social, or religious reasons, but
they find it difficult to assimilate to the new place and bring mementos of the
old to the new.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Thus, America has places such as "New" York,
"New" Jersey, "New" Hampshire, Ithaca, and Plymouth to
symbolize that the colonists could not forget their original homes. They
will view the original natives of the area as enemies or savages and reinstate
their homeland's ethics, morals, and culture, which they regard as far
superior than the indigenous people's into their new territory. Nostalgia runs
deep in the heart of the immigrants or exiles when they come to a new land.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> Often, conquerors refuse to learn the
language of the natives and superimpose theirs on the original inhabitants, and
they resent any immigrants from any another country who cannot learn the tongue
they have brought to America. Interestingly, "America" is the
name of an Italian mapmaker who gave his name to land found by a fellow Italian
who used Spanish funds to seek India. It is purely outcomes of war that
English is the dominant tongue in the United States instead or French,
Spanish, Cherokee, Navajo, or Lakota. How important language is in making
people feel at home is demonstrated in the book<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>The Hare With Amber Eye</i>s.
In this memoir,<i> </i>the author states that his grandfather
insisted that each of his children learn to speak five languages because he
said" if you can speak the language of a country, you are always
home."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> A home should offer love, respect,
acceptance, sustenance, and protection both from the vicissitudes of nature and
those who seek to harm either the building or the land people call their own..
Wars everywhere have been fought since the beginning of life on earth either to
protect or secure homes which can offer these entities.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> What is most puzzling to me is that once a
group has a home, it insists that all others conform to its dictates. Why
does everyone in the home or the land have to have the same beliefs, religion,
culture, emotional state, and customs? Why is there no respect for
uniqueness? What honor is there in killing someone who does not conform
to the culture's mores? Why hang or crucify someone who rebels against
someone who wants to defend his home against a conquering nation?
Is a home so important that any deviance from the "norm"
evinces shunning, exile, or murder? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> As I write this, horrendous conflicts rage
across the globe in the Ukraine, Middle East, China, and Africa over defensive
or offensive attacks on homelands. Immigration policies in the United States
are controversial as refugees from horrendous homelands are seeking shelter and
a better life in a safer place. Those who are already here, ironically, want to
deny to others what they now have. They or their ancestors are acting
towards the refugees the way that a white man from Tennessee reacted when he
heard a Hispanic girl was missing. He stated that Hispanics do not
belong in his state and he hopes she is either raped or killed so Tennessee can
belong to true Tennesseans. I am sure, the true natives, the Cherokees,
agree with him, that all who are not Cherokee, especially the whites, should go
back where they came from and leave the state to its original homeowners. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> HOME: such a simple word with such
complex meanings. I explore this word in my historical novel<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>The</i><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>Conspiracies of Dreams<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></i>as Christians, Muslims, Jews,
and even pagans try to redeem their ancestral homeland. Right now the
conflict is a nightmare. Can it ever be such stuff as dreams are made of?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">sandradidner.weebly.com<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">didner.blogspot.com </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> The Conspiracies of Dreams is available at amazon.com, barnes&noble.com, ibooks.com, and independent book stores.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Sandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06114801404757819618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8302947426861975485.post-73406457627925270982014-07-24T16:27:00.001-07:002014-07-24T16:27:14.376-07:00The people of my dreamsOne of my favorite songs from the play Les Miserables ( although all the songs are my favorites) is the one with these lyrics: There's a grief that can't be spoken<br />
Now my friends are dead and gone...<br />
There's a pain that goes on and on<br />
When my friends are here no more.<br />
<br />
This has been a heartfelt month for me. Three of my closest friends have died. To compensate, I have a new gorgeous grandson. As so poignantly expressed in the great novel Charlotte's Web, we are all inextricably woven into the threads of life and death. What we must do is remember and cherish the wonderful experiences we had with those who have died in order to assuage our grief.<br />
<br />
First, my friend Sandy died after a three and a half year battle with cancer. She was the happiest person I have ever met. She brought grace and joy wherever she went. Her enthusiasm for all facets of life were her trademark, but she especially loved music. Ten months before she died she began to take banjo lessons and this classically trained musician started to play blue grass!<br />
I have 3 special memories. Once we were riding in my car and I turned on the radio. The station was playing a concerto I had never heard before, and I prided myself on my musical knowledge. Sandy listened intently to 6 or 8 notes and declared, "That's a violin concerto by Jan Sibelius." At the end of the work, the commentator did indeed announce that he had played a very rare recording of the concerto by the great Finnish composer. Who else but Sandy would recognize such an obscure work? <br />
<br />
On another evening we bought the cheapest seats in an amphitheater in a small town in Florida to hear Yitzhak Perlman play. Thirty seconds before the concert was about to begin, Sandy noticed 2 empty seats in the front row. She asked the usher if we could sit there. When the usher hesitated, Sandy said that Mr. Perlman would never notice if there were 2 empty seats in the last row, but if he saw unoccupied chairs in the first row, he might not want to return to our venue. The usher promptly escorted us to the front and we sat together with Palm Beach royalty. Since she neglected to give us programs, I had no idea what the maestro was going to play. I said in a very loud voice since there was a great deal of hubbub, "I do hope he plays the Bruck." Mr. Perlman glanced my way and smiled. A few minutes later, the gorgeous strains of the opening bars of the Max Bruck Violin Concerto floated through the star filled night of the Mizner Amphitheater in Boca Raton. At the end of the program, our husbands who stayed in the back row told us they could barely hear the music. Because of Sandy, I heard the concerto at its most glorious with someone who loved it as much as I did. <br />
<br />
Later, Sandy, who did not belong to my book discussion group, asked if she could attend a discussion of the book Strapless which I was going to lead. This book depicts the history of the painting of Virginie Gautreau (Madame X) by John Singer Sargent. During the discussion I mentioned that the painting which caused a great scandal for both the model and the painter is exhibited in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The next day I asked a group of people who belonged to the group if they wanted to go to the museum to see the painting. Only Sandy wanted to make the 240 mile round trip from the Poconos to NYC with me to view the magnificent painting. She made my excursion so enjoyable even though music, not art, was her forte.<br />
<br />
These are just of the many, many precious moments we shared in our too brief 14 year friendship.<br />
<br />
Two weeks ago, a dear friend of ours died. Abe was a renowned doctor whom we only knew socially. We met him and his wife in our Pocono community, and when we decided to become snowbirds which is the term applied to Northerners who spend the winters in Florida, we bought a house about 10 miles away from his. One day I told him that I was able to acquire a position teaching literature at Palm Beach State College. <br />
"What do you teach?" he asked. <br />
"A play by Shakespeare, John Donne, John Keats, Dylan Thomas, Edwidge Danticat, Pablo<br />
Neruda, and any other writer who belongs to the same ethnicity as any of my students. If I have a Chinese, African, or Muslim student, I discuss a story by an author from his or her culture." <br />
"May I come to your class!<br />
"Certainly," I replied, "but why?<br />
"All my life I only read scientific and medical works. I have never read a play by Shakespeare or studied poetry. I feel it's a real gap in my education."<br />
Dear reader, Abe was 85 years old, successful, wealthy, and well-respected, and he was worried that he didn't know Dylan Thomas! <br />
He sat in the front row of my lit class and was an inspiration to the 18-22 year old students who appreciated every comment he made.<br />
<br />
Sadly, he did go gentle into that good night recently. My husband and I will miss his sweet smile and compassionate manner.<br />
<br />
Fourteen years ago I fell in love with the saddest, most poignant eyes I have ever seen. They belonged to a 2 pound, 2 ounce great soul who was sitting in a cage. I asked the attendant to let me hold him him in my hand, and the little dog begged me so eloquently with those mournful eyes,"please don"t put me back in that cage." I looked at the wee puppy and an electrical spark flew between us that only happens once or twice in a lifetime if one is fortunate. It was a moment in which we both knew that we would love each other completely and devotedly. Until July 2 we were inseparable. He thought his main duty in life was to protect me, and he did-all 12 pounds of him. I will not enumerate all the exasperating and wonderful experiences we shared, but he was, as Auden said, " My north, my south, my east, my west, my workday week, my Sunday rest. Bless you Macduff, who could not love enough.<br />
But he came to me last night in my dream, and I reminded him that he<br />
was my muse who sat by my side as I wrote my book The Conspiracies of Dreams. I composed much of it on our many walks. The world is so empty without him.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Sandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06114801404757819618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8302947426861975485.post-50528350409670262142014-07-23T14:35:00.001-07:002014-07-23T14:35:32.538-07:00SandyDidner's Dreams: A dog came to me in my dream last night<a href="http://didner.blogspot.com/2014/07/a-dog-came-to-me-in-my-dream-last-night.html?spref=bl">SandyDidner's Dreams: A dog came to me in my dream last night</a>: A song from Les Miserables has the lines: there's a grief that can't be spoken, now my friends are dead and gone. There's a pa...Sandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06114801404757819618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8302947426861975485.post-33479772166196185962014-06-01T14:57:00.001-07:002014-06-01T14:57:11.723-07:00Fantastic Day. My grandson is 8 days old and we had a huge party to celebrate his Brit Milah this afternoon. Before I describe the marvelous occasion I was astounded to see some of the guests. One young man who has been a close friend of my son since the boys were 18 months old came hundreds of miles just for the event. As I looked at this person whom I hadn't seen in a few years I remembered one Saturday night I left the 2 boys ( who were all of 13 years old) alone on a Saturday night and came home to find an absolute mess in the kitchen because they spent the entire evening baking a German Chocolate Black Forest Cake which was Julia Child delicious. How many teenage boys would do that to surprise parents? Another guest was my son's college roommate who is now the head of a history foundation at Southern Methodist University and came all the way from Texas to our son's home in Pa. I was so touched that he would travel such a great distance to celebrate with us. The mohel was also a cantor and after the ritual everyone joined in many songs. Thanks to lidocaine and Manischevitz wine my grandson slept through the entire procedure. Above all, my son's giant 4 month old puppy who now weighs 43 pounds and is chewing every piece of furniture in sight behaved. Of course, my husband walked her for an hour early this morning and I walked her twice before the guests arrived, so she,as well as my grandson, slept during the party. A Brit Milah is the only kind of party in which one hopes the guest of honor sleeps through the event. At one point, both grandmothers, the grandfather, the parents, and the baby posed for a photo. The love flows from generation to generation. <br />
Unfortunately, one of the deserts was a chocolate rum, Elysian concoction truffle which was absolutely addictive; however, I couldn't eat too many because I had eaten tons of peanut butter-banana ice cream parfaits. Since I am a vegan, the menu included a barley-mushroom pilaf and Chinese sesame noodles. Those who were not vegans dined on incredible edibles, and the house was filled with the joy that only great meals accompanied by great conversations can provide.<br />
<br />
Tomorrow, my husband and I return to the flat, tropical land of alligators, egrets, and blue herons. <br />
I will miss the rolling hills, rhododendrons, robins, and maple trees of the land of my birth: Pa. I love her Appalachian mountains and rivers, but I can no longer tolerate the 16 degree below winters when I walk my little dogs. <br />
<br />
My son who flew in from Oregon for this wonderful event is giving me tips on adapting my book The Conspiracies of Dreams into a film script. After all, he was one of my editors, and he gave me much valuable advice as I was writing my novel. Yet, I have seen so many movies that fall far short of their literary twins. I think only The Wizard of Oz and Smoke Signals are better than their prose versions; let us see what will happen if my novel is ever made into a visual medium. I will try to finish the script this summer after I complete my summer session at Palm Beach State College. I cannot teach 3 classes, take care of my dogs, play tennis, practice the piano, and write creatively at the same time. So I am waiting for summertime when Gershwin said the "livin' is easy."<br />
<br />
My book The Conspiracies of Dreams is available from every on line distributor and independent bookstore. Please support the independents. Their businesses are unique and wonderful places to inhale the wonders of literature.<br />
<br />
May you all have as great day as I had today.<br />
<br />
<br />Sandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06114801404757819618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8302947426861975485.post-78758146963734709282014-02-21T16:16:00.000-08:002014-02-21T16:16:05.008-08:00What Do Your Dreams Say About You?Yesterday I taught a story by Sherman Alexie called "This is What They Mean When They Say Phoenix, Arizona". One phrase in the story particularly affected the class. The protagonist, a Native American, states that most of the people on the reservation only have a bottle of alcohol and broken dreams. We had a discussion in which we defined the term "broken dreams." One of the students recalled Langston Hughes" poem "What Happens to a Dream Deferred?" For those of you who may not be familiar with this which so tersely and eloquently depicts the frustrations of those who realize their dreams are two inches beyond their farthest grasp I quote it here:<br />
<br />
What happens to a dream deferred?<br />
Does it dry up<br />
like a raisin in the sun?<br />
Or fester like a sore-<br />
And then run?<br />
Does it stink like rotten meat?<br />
Or crust and sugar over--<br />
Like a syrupy sweet?<br />
<br />
Maybe it just sags<br />
Like a heavy load.<br />
<br />
Or does it explode?<br />
<br />
So many of us hope our dreams will not be deferred. My students are in college because they have dreams. I teach them because I want them to accomplish their dreams. I love to see them experience epiphanies. It is marvelous to see the glow in their eyes when they achieve a great goal, grasp a new idea, or learn the difference between fact and opinion and begin to think critically.<br />
<br />
What happens, however, when dreams of individuals, groups, cultures, and nations go unrealized? So many athletes at the Olympic Games have dreamed for years of winning a medal and only three will. I have watched those who win silver cry in disappointment on the podium. I see buildings go up in flames because citizens are disappointed with their governments, presidents kill their citizens because they must maintain their dream of power, and states endure endless wars over shattered dreams.<br />
<br />
Can a person, a culture, a nation be defined by his or her or its dreams? Or to rephrase the question, "What makes us happy?" Dreams are perhaps the conscious or unconscious expression of our deepest desires. If we stop dreaming, do we stop existing? What is the difference between a dream and a nightmare?<br />
<br />
I use this line from Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream:<br />
<br />
Man is but an ass if he go about to expound this dream<br />
It shall be called Bottom's Dream because it has no bottom.<br />
<br />
as the epigram for my novel The Conspiracies of Dreams since Bottom was transformed into an ass from the waist up while the manly part of him was was on the lowest rung of the social ladder. Yet the part of him that was human dreamed of achieving the highest heights and for one wonderful night he did. <br />
<br />
Every character in my novel, even the donkey (seems nicer to call her a donkey instead of an ass) has a dream. Each is a dream shared by all humans for eternity: reciprocal love, respect, a safe homeland, and a search for that which gives spiritual meaning to one's life. <br />
<br />
And I have a dream that everyone will keep on dreaming dreams that will fulfill him or her. <br />
<br />
<br />Sandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06114801404757819618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8302947426861975485.post-13590540888656763402014-02-01T10:24:00.001-08:002014-02-01T10:24:09.486-08:00 Macduff and I<br />
<br />
<br />
Fourteen years ago I fell in love with the saddest, most poignant eyes I had ever seen. They belonged to a 2 pound ,4 ounce mournful puppy who was looking at me beseechingly from a wire cage which, as we all recognize, is a shelter's euphemism for a prison. I asked an attendant if he would take the little dog out of the cage and let me hold him. The puppy sat in my hand and his eyes asked me as eloquently as any tongue can speak, "Please don't put me back in that cage again."<br />
<br />
I looked at the mournful little mite; he gazed hopefully at me, and a spark that I have only felt when I met my husband and when I saw each of my three children for the first time ignited. I knew that the dog and I had bonded in the same way: total, reciprocal, unconditional love which would never be broken.<br />
"As long as I live," I promised him solemnly, "you will never be placed in a cage ever again."<br />
<br />
I took him home and my children who were still mourning the death of our 120 pound Samoyed who had died 8 years ago stared at the pygmy and pronounced, "That's not a dog; that's a rat."<br />
<br />
Undeterred by my sons' negativity, the tiny Yorkie wobbled over to my sneaker which was twice as big as he was, seized it ferociously in his teeth and shook it vigorously. We all laughed at the sight of the chutzpah of the midget tilting against his giant windmill. Since I had been teaching the Shakespearean play <i>Macbeth </i>that day I shouted, "Lay on Macduff, and damned by the sneaker who first cries, 'Hold, enough!'" <br />
<br />
The name could not have been more appropriate. Macuff truly believes it is his duty to protect me. He has bitten or threatened the wallpaper hanger, the carpenter, the exterminator, the painter, and the electrician. . On the other hand, my New York next door neighbor whose house was burglarized every winter when she went to to Florida was never robbed again after Macduff protected her back yard.<br />
<br />
When we moved to the Pocono mountains I would take him and his little friend Pippen, whom I acquired to keep Macduff company while I worked long hours both as a nurse and an adjunct instructor at a college,on 5 mile walks every day. While we walked they sniffed every three inches of the hike and sprinkled their pee mail on the next three inches. It took hours to walk the miles and we often took a swim in a mountain lake half way through the hike. Therefore, I kept a little notebook with me and began to write my novel while we hiked and lolled on the beach. After 10 years the notes evolved into my novel <i>The Conspiracies of Dreams.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Now Macduff is 14, suffering from arthritis, and Pippen has cataracts and hypothyroidism. Thus, our daily walks are limited to the twice daily visits to Okeeheelee dog park.<br />
<br />
Macduff still loves to listen to me play the piano, still gazes at me with all the love I have ever seen in another living creature, and still barks protectively whenever anyone comes to the door.<br />
<br />
He is inspiring me to adapt my novel into a screen play and Louise Penny, the great Canadian mystery writer has given me permission to quote this line from her last book <i>How the Light Get In</i> which has been nominated for the Agatha Award. In her novel she describes the fictional detective Armand Gamache's dog , Henri, as a dog who is so dumb he will never get into Harvard but he knows two things; he knows he is loved and he knows how to love." What better compliment can be given to anyone? Lay on Macduff, and blessed be you who can never love enough! <br />
<br />
My book The Conspiracies of Dreams which is a story which is 90 per cent true about an Egyptian spy who falls in love with an Israeli and must decide if he will be true to the only woman he will every love or betray his religion, his country, and his religion. It also reveals the political intrigue involved in the 1956 Suez War in which MI6 agents betrayed England and France bribed Israel to attack Egypt. Above all, a donkey is the true victim. Intrigued? the novel is available as an ebook for $2.99 from Amazon.com, Barnes&Noble, com, Ibooks.com and as a paperback for $12.99 from the same sources. Sandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06114801404757819618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8302947426861975485.post-79621791026409785602013-12-22T15:40:00.001-08:002013-12-22T15:40:29.047-08:00Adapting a novel to a filmLast night I saw <i>Saving Mr. Banks</i> and understood completely how protective Mary Travers was of her characters as Walt Disney adapted her book into the wonderful film <i>Mary Poppins. </i>As she<i> </i>said, the characters in her novel are family. I feel the same way about the characters in my novel <i>The Conspiracies of Dream,s,</i> and I know how I want the cast to interpret my words, and the cinematographer to film the scenes. I know how a cast can change the entire tenor of a film. Do you know that originally Ronald Reagan and Anne Baxter were to star in <i>Casablanca</i> and Shirley Temple and W.C. Fields were the first choice to play Dorothy and the wizard in <i>The Wizard of Oz? </i>What different films they would be. <br />
<br />
The same is true of readers who peruse my book. I have had about 15 presentations of my novel, and at the end of each talk I ask the attendees what they think the theme of the novel is. So far, the audience has given me 8 different answers, and while each is valid, none is the one I have in mind. Therefore, literature is a two way path: the writer writes and the reader interprets what he or she will. Sometimes the reader understands all that the writer intended; sometimes the reader surprises the writer by surmising more than the creator realized he had imparted in his work. That has happened to me when someone in my audience says something about my book that I did not realize I had implied. Serendipity!<br />
<br />
But the play is not the thing. So much depends on the cast, the director, the cinematographer, even the music, and especially the publicity, the marketing, and the distribution. <br />
<br />
So, I will write away this winter break and who knows? Perhaps I will finish the script; someone will be interested, and my dream of seeing The Conspiracies of Dreams on the screen will come true. Will the film be better than the movie? Perhaps they will both be excellent. A girl can dream, can't she? Sandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06114801404757819618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8302947426861975485.post-48314867308425880032013-09-22T13:25:00.002-07:002013-09-22T13:25:22.219-07:00Although I am a teacher,I am the one who is learning from my studentsMy class of college freshmen and sophomores are extremely diverse. My students' ages range between 17 to mid 50's. Some of them have only been in America for two years, others claim Cherokee and Taino heritage. A few can barely read English, but they know how to solve an algebraic equation with two unknown quantities. One young man, who was persecuted for his Ba Hai faith in Iran, told me of his harrowing escape through mountain passes during many dangerous nights, while another told me how she and her family were threatened by the Tonton Moucoutes in Haiti. Despite their disparate backgrounds and lack of the cultural and educational opportunities people who belong to the upper middle class take for granted, they have insights many of the privileged do not have. One girl broke down in class when she analyzed the poem "The Black Snake" by Mary Oliver because the poet compares the snake to "a beautiful dead brother" and her brother had just died. Another boy analyzed "Dulce et Decorum Est" by Wilfred Owen because he had returned from Afghanistan and saw the horrors of war. Now he will be redeployed to that forsaken land the day before his wife is due to give birth to his first child.<br />
<br />
Despite their lack of knowledge of English grammar and vocabulary they have an immense hunger to learn. They are amazed that "gh" in the word "enough" and "ph" in the word "physician" and "f" in the word "farm" all have the same sound. Why does " a part of" mean "belong" when the words are written separately, but "apart" when written as one word means "separate? The word which completely confuses them is "sanction" since it has 2 completely opposite meanings. If one plays in a sanctioned tournament, the match is approved by a board, and one acquires a ranking. If the United States applies sanctions to another country, we do not approve of that country's actions.<br />
<br />
I was born in a very homogeneous town, went to colleges whose student bodies also were very homogeneous in the Northeast, and lived in a community where everyone was my race and religion. To read about other cultures or see them portrayed in movies or on television is not the same as interacting with people of different races in a very intimate setting.. Until I began to teach in Florida, I was not aware of the myriad linguistic, cultural, racial, and religious difficulties that our diverse populations confront every day. These problems are major obstacles to getting an education, a job, even an apartment. <br />
<br />
The most wonderful moment, however, happened this week. I did not teach my class last Saturday because it was the holiest day in my religion, and a professor who is not Jewish covered for me. On Tuesday, a concerned Haitian student inquired why I did not come to class.<br />
"Were you sick?" she asked.<br />
I told her I did not come because it was the most sacred holiday in my religion. <br />
"You're Jewish?" she exclaimed.. <br />
I nodded, and she gave me a big hug and yelled out to the rest of the class, "Hey, everybody wish Professor Didner La Shanah Tovah." <br />
"How did you know how to say "Happy New Year" in Hebrew?" I asked her in astonishment.<br />
"I work for Jewish people" she replied. "Boy, Jews have great food on their holidays."<br />
I told her that my definition of a Jew is someone who feeds you before you sit down to eat, and the entire class roared with laughter.<br />
"Is that why you always bring us Dunkin Donuts if we answer a hard question?" someone asked. (I always ask a difficult question at least once a month and bring the donuts if someone finds the answer).<br />
"No, I bring you donuts, blueberries, grapes, and strawberries because I want you to know that learning is sweet," I smiled.<br />
The class applauded in appreciation, and then we settled down to analyzing Langston Hughes poem "A Dream Deferred." <br />
<br />
I hope their dreams will not be deferred.<br />
<br />
By the way, my book <em>The Conspiracies of Dreams </em>will be featured on the web site <a href="http://www.indieauthorland.com/">www.indieauthorland.com</a> It is available until December 31 at the discounted price of $2.99. Also, look at the other books featured on this site. They all are good reads.Sandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06114801404757819618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8302947426861975485.post-75956133669497696902013-09-09T09:34:00.000-07:002013-09-09T09:34:20.496-07:00Incredible Rescue<div class="text_exposed_root text_exposed">
I had a near death experience last Sunday and a marvelous man helped my husband and me. As I was driving south from Pa to Florida in our Honda Civic, a deluge suddenly fogged up my windshield and totally blinded me. I could not see one inch in any direction. Before I could put on the defroster, my car hydroplaned and made a 180 degree turn. I knew my husband was following me in our Honda Odyssey and I was sure I would hit him in a head on collision and he and I and our 2 dogs would die. </div>
<div class="text_exposed_root text_exposed">
Somehow, my car swerved and backed into the steel guard rail which separates the north and southbound lanes on I 95 and my husband drove safely by me. A few seconds later the rain stopped as quickly as it began, and I saw that he was able to drive to the shoulder on the right lane which fortunately was in front of an exit ramp. Although the rear fender and trunk of my car were badly damaged, to my surprise the engine and transmission worked perfectly. I was able to drive across the highway to join my husband, but both he and I could hear that my fender was scraping against the right rear tire and would quickly tear it to shreds.</div>
<div class="text_exposed_root text_exposed">
A man in a white pick up truck saw us looking at the wrecked car and he stopped on the side of the exit ramp and asked if he could help. My husband asked him if he knew where we could get a crowbar to lift the fender off the tire so I could drive another 200 miles. I had to be in college the next day, and all my insurance company would do is pick up the car with a tow truck and no mechanic would look at it on a Sunday. The man said he had a crowbar and would be back in 20 minutes. He did come back, but his crowbar was too small. He told us he would return with a larger one, and twenty minutes later he brought a larger crowbar which enabled him, my husband, and 2 policemen to pry the fender away from the tire. I tried to give him money and thank him, but his attention was focused on a pamphlet which he could see through my rear window entitled "The Beauty of John Keats' Hyperion" by Sandy Didner. <br /> "Who is Sandy Didner?" he asked. <br /> "I am," I replied as I still tried to pay him for the tremendous favor he had done for us.<br /> "I don't want any money," he said.<br /> I could see that he appreciated the poetry of John Keats who is one of my favorite poets and wanted to read my article, but both rear cars were so badly damaged I could not open them.</div>
<div class="text_exposed_root text_exposed">
He then asked my husband, "What kind of accent do you have? <br /> "Polish, Russian, Hebrew, Yiddish, and Pennsylvanian," my husband replied. "If you won't take any money, will you take a copy of my wife's book which is about an Egyptian spy who fell in love with my sister in Israel during the 1956 Suez War?" <br /> He assented, but I could not open the rear doors and give him one. <br /> "Just tell me the name of your book, and I"ll buy a copy from Amazon," he offered.<br /> I wrote down the name of my book, and then I apologized for taking up so much of his time.<br /> "Where were you going when you stopped to help us?" I asked. <br /> "To church," he replied.<br /> "You don't need to go to church; you are an angel already," I replied.<br /> He told us his name was Jason, but I don't remember his last name; all I recall is that it started with the letters "Ph." <br /> The next day Goodreads notified me that someone had bought a copy of my book. I am sure Jason who lives near Exit 358B on I 95 in Florida bought it. What a wonderful person! My only regret is that I cannot give him the reward he truly desires. The media is always full of the evil that people do; I would love to publish the good that this stranger did for us. Not only did he help people he did not know, he appreciates John Keats, is tolerant of faiths different from his own, and instead of taking money from me, bought a copy of my book. <br /> Oh brave new world, that has such people in it!</div>
<div class="text_exposed_root text_exposed">
<br /><br /><br /> </div>
<span class="text_exposed_show"><div class="text_exposed_root text_exposed">
</div>
<div class="text_exposed_root text_exposed">
</div>
<div class="text_exposed_root text_exposed">
</div>
<div class="text_exposed_root text_exposed">
</div>
<div class="text_exposed_root text_exposed">
</div>
<div class="text_exposed_root text_exposed">
<br /><br /> </div>
</span>Sandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06114801404757819618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8302947426861975485.post-13115985106788504182013-07-08T19:51:00.000-07:002013-07-08T19:51:27.852-07:00A Search for Lost TimeTonight I am trying so hard to accomplish a great deal, but as Woody Allen said, "In 100 years the complete cycle changes, and a new generation begins all over again." I tried reading some classic books which were written many years ago, ( one of which was Remembrance of Things Past, and shortly thereafter I read a savage satire of the first 40 pages in The New Yorker Magazine in which the writer mocked how anyone could spend 40 pages hoping that his mother would give him a good night kiss) and I marveled how much our language has changed, and how our culture, morals, and sensibilities have deviated so much from the past. I just received a notice that I cannot teach any work that has been written before 1945 in my Contemporary Literature Class next semester. Not F. Scott Fitzgerald, most of Hemingway, Eudora Welty, Flannery O'Connor, nor Sinclair Lewis can be in my syllabus. And in 50 years will all the works we hold sacred by contemporary writers be as outdated as Pearl Buck is today? Will someone have to translate every word we write to future generations the way I translate Shakespeare to my students?<br />
<br />
Two weeks ago I spent an hour and a half discussing Romeo and Juliet with my 15 year old grandson and I was thrilled that he understood every word of the play and, more than that, he realized how Shakespeare developed the psychological motivation of each of the characters. One of the reviewers of my novel said she didn't like the Romeo and Juliet plot similarity, but such love does occur. I fell in love with my husband at first sight, with two of my dogs at first sight, and knew instantly that some women would be my life-long friends at first sight. But, as in my book, and in real life, sometimes we say and do things that hurt the ones we love. Or the ones we love hurt us. Often, the pain can be forgiven even though it is never forgotten. Infrequently, I hurt someone I care about a great deal, even though I mean well and never dream that a statement I think is innocuous or well meaning may cause someone pain. But the essence of love is as Shakespeare said Love....looks on tempests and is never shaken."<br />
<br />
I love the last line of Woody Allen"s movie Annie Hall. Woody frequently ends his films with a brief speech to the audience and in this film he says, "II have a cousin who's crazy. She thinks she's a chicken. I'd take her to a psychiatrist, but I need the eggs." Isn't that the way we often feel about those we love or admire? I have a dog who has cataracts, is arthritic, neurotic, and drives everyone crazy. Yet I adore him, and I "need his eggs."<br />
<br />
Many cultural ideals or the "eggs we need" change with the times: Fortunately, slavery is outlawed, at least in this country. Women have more rights than ever before in the Western world. Some people are more aware of how inhumanly humans treat animals, although I have a neighbor who kills the chipmunks who dare to eat his basil and tomato plants and there is no way I can convince him that he is cruel. Are humans becoming more loving, more accepting of other people's mistakes, and more forgiving? The daily news does not convince me that we are. Paul McCartney said, "All we need is love." Also, we need empathy as well. Sometimes we say or do an act with the best of intentions and do not realize that it may hurt another person's feelings. The characters in my book do this to each other and only too late they learn the consequences of their actions. Unfortunately, my book is 80 per cent true, but then so is Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet. <br />
<br />
I think I will ask my students this fall semester to define these terms: morality, moral ambiguity, and moral bankruptcy. I think it will be interesting to see how we (and by we, I mean everyone) obtains a moral code. Is it created by our family, by our culture, by our national mores, our religion or lack of religion, or our peers?<br />
<br />
Now with these thoughts in mind I'm returning to adapting my book into a film script. The script is so different from the book out of necessity. An agent told me no one looks at a script that is more than 120 pages long. So, I will have to hope that the actors' faces will express in a few seconds what I say in a few paragraphs. That is I will be able to write tonight if my neurotic dog allows me to do so.<br />
<br />
Live long and love faithfully.<br />
Sandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06114801404757819618noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8302947426861975485.post-70719982957525596682013-06-10T11:09:00.002-07:002013-07-08T19:52:54.795-07:00A Perfect Day for a book into a Film ScriptRain has pelted our area since early morning. Instead of going to my Writer's Group I am sitting at my desk, staring at the waterlogged trees which are bowing their branches since they are too full of moisture to stand erect. My dogs have decided that it is a great day to sleep, and for once, they are not begging to go on a five mile hike. I do feel guilty about not going to the Group, but I think I will have a more productive day writing here at home than listening to those authors brave enough to venture out in this damp, dank, dull day (I love alliteration).<br />
<br />
Changing a book into a movie script has been a revelation. Now I know why the book is usually better than the film. Dialogue is all important and metaphors, alliteration, and symbols are employed in a visual manner which is up to the director, cinematographer and actors to interpret.. When an author writes a book, he or she has full control of the media, The creative process is limited to the author and his or her readers which still allows for considerable variations in communication. In fact, when I gave the last presentation of my book I asked the group what they thought the theme of the novel was, and I received 7 different answers, none of which was the one I had selected. All of the 7, however, were equally valid. But the communication was still between the readers and me. So many different variables are involved in film. For instance, I read somewhere that <em>Casablanca</em> was originally going to star Ronald Reagan and Ann Baxter, and Shirley Temple and WC. Fields were goiing to play Dorothy and the W<a href="http://facebook.com,/">facebook.com, </a><a href="http://twitter.com/">twitter.com</a>izard in The Wizard of Oz. If these actors had appeared in these films the movies would have been quite different, even though the scripts would be the same. Thank goodness, <em>The Great Gatsby </em>will always be the same book no matter who plays the various roles.<br />
<br />
So have a good day everyone while I try to change my novel into a film script. At least, until it stops raining and the dogs (who really are my muses) want to go for a walk in the rain forest.Sandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06114801404757819618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8302947426861975485.post-54821624905289666112013-06-04T11:57:00.000-07:002013-06-04T11:57:14.944-07:00A synopsis of my novel The Conspiracies of Dreams
My new book is about Chrisitians, Jews, Muslims, and Canaanites who all share an ancient dream of possessing the land that lies between the Jordan River and the Mediterranean Sea which they hold sacred.
In 1956 an Egyptian spy, Ishmael al Mohammed, is determined to gain information which will reclaim the infant state of Israel for the displaced Palestinian Arabs. While on an espionage mission posing as an Israeli, he falls passionately in love with a Jewish woman, Rebecca Silverman. He must decide if he will betray the only person he will ever care for or be true to Islam, Egypt, and his family. A Christian, Danny O’Halloran, dreams of walking the Stations of the Cross while the pagan donkey goddess Palés dreams of being worshipped again by the original natives of Canaan. Israeli politicians dream of making Israel a nuclear power while Britain and France conspire to regain the Suez Canal, which the President of Egypt nationalized.
Against the backdrop of circumstances leading to the 1956 Suez War between Israel and Egypt a love story which encompasses the forbidden romance of Romeo and Juliet, Delilah’s betrayal of Samson, and the treachery of Britain’s MI6 double agents unfolds as Ishmael and Rebecca’s story spans three millennia of history.
Title: The Conspiracies of Dreams
Author: Sandra Biber Didner
ISBN: 978-1-59299-784-8
Publisher: Inkwater Press
Price: $12.95 paperback from www.amazon.com
Digital versions are $5.99 at www.amazon.com, www.barnes&noble.com, and at the Apple store for the IPAD.
Sandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06114801404757819618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8302947426861975485.post-48246580811464252612013-05-26T18:20:00.000-07:002013-05-26T18:20:51.768-07:00A cool late spring evening is a perfect setting for dreams to come true. My two dogs are snoring gently in front of the fireplace; I've practiced Johann Pachelbel's Canon in D for about an hour on the piano and am finally satisfied that I may be able to play it fairly well by August. Mr. Pachebel's fingers were much longer than mine are, but my heart is as romantic as his was. I will never be able to play it as well as Funtwo does on YouTube, but one of my dreams is to try. If you have not viewed this maestro of the guitar playing the Canon in D I urge you to do so. He is amazing.
My other dream is to adapt my novel The Conspiracies of Dreams into a film script. I read the first part of scene I to my writing group and to a friend and they liked it. I now know, however, why a book is better than a movie. So many metaphors and literary techniques must be left out. In the film a young man will simply parachute from a plane; in my novel I write "In a heartbeat I become a pendant dangled by the gods of gravity, wind, and war." Whie the sight of many men dropping through the air suspended by mushroom shaped parachutes into battle can be exciting, the poetic effect of the words is lost. Also, viewers will be passive prisoners of the director, sound effects, and actors' interpretation of the dialog, while readers employ their imagination and can compose their own images.
Have you ever liked a film better than the book from which it was adapted? I have only found one: The Wizard of Oz, although the chariot race in Ben Hur was more exciting visually than in print.
To be truthful, I am adapting the novel into a film as a cerebral challenge. Since I have written a novel and sold a modest amount of copies, I want to see if I can write a screenplay before my college classes start in the fall. My dogs are my muses. We take 5 mile walks every day when the weather permits, and while they smell their smells and read their pee mail and send quite a few pee mails as well, I think about plot, setting and character. By the time we come home Pippen and Macduff are so tired, they lie at my feet while I pluck away at my computer.
Then, every day I check Amazon, Barnes&Noble, and the Apple store to see if I have sold any copies. Sometimes my dream comes true.
Tonight I may finish Scene 3. My goal is to complete the script before August 15. I hope to be able to do justice to Pachebel's Canon before that. Last year I practiced a sonata by Mozart the entire summer. By August I decided that I played it as well as I possibly could and tried a Beethoven sonata. Macduff started to bark amd bark. "Do you want to eat? " I asked. He turned up his nose at the food. "Do you want to go out?" I inquired as I went to the back door. He stood silently by the piano. I played Beethoven; he barked again. Finally, I understood his canine dialect. He wanted me to play the Mozart sonata again. I played the first familiar notes of Amadeus' Somata Facile in C and he lay happily at my feet for the next half hour. Thank goodness he likes Pachebel's.Sandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06114801404757819618noreply@blogger.com0