Blog Posts

Talking with Judith Fertig, Author of The Cake Therapist

6/2/2015

NOTE: This originally appeared in my Literary Life column for the Dayton Daily News on May 31, 2015.

An award-winning cookbook author with local ties to the Dayton/Cincinnati region has put a taste of our area into her debut novel.

Judith Fertig (www.judithfertig.com) grew up in Reading just outside of Cincinnati and was the first in her family to go to college. She attended Wittenberg University in Springfield, and there studied English, graduating with a B.A. in 1972.

“I still remember how much I cherished the treat of my mom and dad coming to whisk me away and come to Dayton to have dinner at the Pine Club,” Judith says. “Though I loved my classes at Wittenberg, it was definitely a treat to get away from cafeteria food and savor an excellent meal.”

She says her time at Wittenberg taught her how to be a fast writer, and then revise deeply, and that has been a big boon to her career as a writer, especially when creating articles on tight deadlines.

Before delving into that career, however, Judith taught high school English after graduation, married, earned her M.A. in Humanities from Ohio State University in 1981 and eventually settled in Kansas City with her family.

Her love of excellent food led her to become...

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Just for Pi(e) Day...

3/13/2015

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Tomorrow, 3/14/15 at 9:26 a.m., a fun little contest will pop up on my Sharon Short Author Facebook page.

I hope you'll pop on over to check it out. It's just a fun little celebration of Pi(e) day, because what's better than pie and a good pun?

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A Mom's Snow Days Diary

1/8/2015

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NOTE: This piece originally ran as a Sanity Check column in the Dayton Daily News several years ago. Given the snow and -6 F temperature in my area, I thought it was worth a re-run!

Snow Day One.

Dear Diary,

What a delightful day with the children! School was cancelled due to a snow day—well, really, a bitter cold day, with a wind chill temperature of negative 20. Brrrr!

I made scrambled eggs and cinnamon toast for breakfast; a rare treat on weekday mornings, since we’re usually so rushed.

One of the benefits of self-employment is getting to take a snow day with my darling progeny! So, after breakfast, we all cuddled up in front of a blazing fire in the family room fireplace, read books, and played many games of Yahtzee, Uno, and Backgammon. Then we had hot chocolate. Even the cats and dog curled up at our feet. So cozy!

I’m so glad I took the day off to share with my beautiful offspring, as I’m sure tomorrow it will be warm enough for school to resume.

Snow Day Two.

Dear Diary,

What a surprise! A second day of school cancelled, again due to cold weather.

Warmed up left-over scrambled eggs and cinnamon toast for the children. They complained that the food was rubbery, but I patiently pointed out that elsewhere are plenty of children who would love a warm breakfast, however rubbery.

One can only take off so many days, even if self-employed, so I tried to work. Notice the word “tried.” With one kid watching TV, and the other listening to the radio, it was difficult to concentrate.

So I suggested the kids play Yahtzee and Backgammon and Uno again, just the two of them, while mom worked. Well, I tried to work—but I had to stop a few times to interpret rules.

No fire in the fireplace today… although I did light a candle and say a prayer.

The cats and dog are hiding.

Ah well. It’s supposed to warm up tomorrow.

Snow Day Three.

Dear Diary,

Yeah, it’s another !#$% snow day. This time because it really did snow.

Told the little rug rats they could scrounge up their own blasted breakfast; what’m I—their personal chef?

So they arm wrestled for the last piece of leftover cinnamon toast, and the dog came out of hiding to eat the last of the rubbery eggs. Haven’t seen cats.

Suggested to spouse that perhaps the kids should go see where daddy works. I guess he didn’t hear me through his ear muffs, since he didn’t respond… but he did look panicked as he ran out the door.

Thought I might have a few moments peace when the urchins got out Yahtzee, Uno and Backgammon on their own. But no. Who knew there were combat variations of these games?

Am considering applying for jobs that would force me to work outside my home office. Perhaps in Hawaii.

Heard a rumor we might get more snow flurries.

So instead of lighting fire or candles, I’m lighting a heat lamp and running all over town with it. Plus, I’m buying out the grocery’s salt supply and sprinkling it on the roads myself.

Not A Snow Day.

Dear Diary,

It warmed up to a balmy 20-some degrees above zero! School is in session!

The peace and quiet is astounding. I can get back to work.

Except… I think instead I might go see a counselor.

Because, truth be told, I miss my darling progeny and am counting the days until spring break…

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Giveaway of "ALASKA" now through Jan. 5!

1/2/2015

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The ever gracious Beth Hoffman, author of "Saving CeeCee Honeycutt" and "Looking For Me," is graciously hosting a giveaway of two copies of my novel, "My One Square Inch of Alaska" on her Facebook Author page now through Jan. 5! Just visit her Facebook Author page by clicking here; like and follow (if you haven't already) and leave a comment on the giveaway post.

To whet your appetite, you can read the first chapter of "My One Square Inch of Alaska" on my website by clicking here.

Good luck and spread the word!

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Fireworks for Christmas? Yes... Ribbons of Light and Grace

12/23/2014

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NOTE: This piece originally appeared in the Dayton Daily News several years ago in my "Sanity Check" column. Though our daughters are now adults, this is still one of our favorite Christmas memories, and I wanted to share it with you. Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to one and all!

A few evenings ago, my family and I went out for dinner after a long Saturday of errands, chores, and activities. Not particularly remarkable, until our drive home.

Were those fireworks that we saw in the pitch dark sky?

On a bitterly cold Saturday night in December?

We quadruple-checked amongst ourselves and confirmed we really were seeing fireworks in December. And not just pretty-good-for-a-backyard-launch fireworks. A real, July-4-worthy fireworks display… only five months late, or seven months early, depending on how you like to look at things.

Now, as I mentioned, we’d all had a long day. And all we’d planned on doing after dinner was to go home and turn in early, since the next day promised to be busy, too.

But, suddenly, there were fireworks in the December sky, and our kids… for all their teenage posturing about being nearly grown-up… sounded just like they had as little girls, saying “Don’t go home yet! Find the fireworks’ location! Please, please, please, mom and dad?”

OK, that got us. It’s been awhile since our kids said “please, please, please,” in the manner of children.

So instead of turning right, toward home, my husband turned left, toward the fireworks.

A minute or so later, we found the source of the fireworks: someone was setting them off in a huge, wide yard. We pulled off the side of the road within yards of the fireworks’ set-up, and quickly realized this was no amateur endeavor; a fire truck was parked nearby, so whoever was putting on the display must have had a permit.

We weren’t the only people who’d followed the sight of the fireworks to their source. It’s hard to say, given how dark it was, but probably forty or more cars were parked on the sides of the road. And people were out, watching and cheering the display.

We, too, got out of our car and not only watched the fireworks display, but, close as we were, also felt it, reverberating through our bodies.

It was beautiful, not just because fireworks always are, but because it was such a surprise…

Fireworks in December…

Lighting up the sky.

Inviting anyone who saw them to come a little closer, take a little break, from the hustle of everyday life. From the extra hustle of the holiday season.

I have no idea who decided to put on the fireworks display, or why. Maybe in celebration of the season, of a birthday, of a special event?

I’ve been thinking about it ever since that evening, and realized that the “who” and “why” of the fireworks isn’t so important.

What’s important to me is the simplicity of the event. People saw, and responded to, and took delight from the lovely surprise of December fireworks, without planning or scheduling or deciding we’ll do this instead of that.

Sure, our kids gave us the child-like urging of “please?” but it took us only a micro-second to respond “yes!” and turn left, toward something unexpected and touching and lovely, instead of right, toward the familiar and comfortable and planned.

I wonder… maybe this is the real gift of this season: Rediscovering how to say yes, like a trusting child, to a surprising display of beauty when it beckons, unbidden, unpaid for or planned for, like streaming stars of light in a dark December sky… like grace itself.

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November 19th, 2014

11/19/2014

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I love Thanksgiving... I truly do... but haven't we all had moments during the holiday that wobble between hilarity and utter awkwardness? In my earlier comedic mystery series, I devoted an entire novel "Hung Out To Die," around the theme, complete with family feuding, a turkey in flames, a top-secret cranberry recipe, hilarious holiday sweaters... and more hi-jinks. (Read a sample by clicking on the cover photo to go to the Josie Toadfern mysteries page.)

Visit my Facebook Author Page, like it if you haven't already, and share a comment or two on the top post about Thanksgiving (whether sentimental or humorous) between now and next Monday, Nov. 23, and I'll draw one commenter to receive an ebook of "Hung Out To Die."

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"Free Wood," A Short Story in Chagrin River Review

11/13/2014

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I'm delighted that a short short story of mine is published in the newest issue of Chagrin River Review, which launched today.

Here are the opening lines to tempt you...

Driving down Blossom Ridge Road she sees the barn again when it’s half gone, the route an involuntary reflex minutes after the call: Zoe! Your father! His heart! This time, this time…—a nearly forgotten after school back road short cut to what used to be home.

From his booster seat in back, Harry--look, look! Godzilla was there!—bangs her headrest with his happy meal green lizard, roaring for it with the joy of destruction...

Want to read the rest (and all the other stories and poems)? Here's the link! http://www.chagrinriverreview.com/issue-5-fall-2014.html

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Author Guest Post: Yona Zeldis McDonough on her new novel, "You Were Meant for Me."

11/10/2014

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My novels typically begin with a character tapping me on the shoulder, a character whose insistent whisper urges to me to get the story down, and to get it right. But for my most recent novel, You Were Meant for Me, inspiration came to me in a very different way: an actual news event in which a man found a newborn infant on a subway platform and eventually ended up adopting him.

The story stayed with leave me, and I found myself returning to it again and again in my mind. What had driven that baby’s mother to leave him not in a hospital, police or fire station—safe havens, all—but on a subway platform? And what random stroke of luck or divine intervention averted all the horrific ends to this tale—and there could have been so many—and instead turned it into one of salvation and grace? As I mulled over these questions, it occurred to me that there was an even bigger theme here, one that was both mythic and archetypal. The foundling, the infant abandoned and rescued, is motif that occurs over and over in literature and can trace its roots as far back as the Bible. Wasn’t Moses himself a foundling, set in the ark and concealed in the bulrushes by his mother, whose fear for his life was so great that she was willing to give him up to save him? And wasn’t Moses rescued by the most unlikely of saviors, an Egyptian princess who found and then raised him as her own?

It was the connection to the Moses theme that sealed the deal for me; this story was too good, and had too much in it, to leave alone: I had to write it. But because I am a novelist and not a journalist, I made several important changes along the way. I turned the man of the real story into Miranda Berenzweig, a single woman who has not thought of having a child but whose biological clock is nonetheless ticking loudly. I changed the baby boy to a girl. And unlike the real story, in which no one came forth to claim the child, I introduced the birth father, an up-and-coming black real estate broker who did not know he had a daughter. Once his paternity is proven, he steps up to claim her. This plot turn raised issues about what makes a good or fit parent and once again, I found I was once again grappling with a Biblical theme—this time, it had to do with King Solomon who must adjudicate between two women who come to him with an infant each swears is her own. Both of my characters have a claim to the abandoned baby as well but which claim is the one that should prevail?

Novels can come from surprising sources and lead to equally surprising destinations; sometimes their themes are not out there front and center, but are buried in the story and must be coaxed out gently. I did not know that my reconfiguring a contemporary news event would take me back to ancient stories and universal themes, themes that stirred my heart and mind—and galvanized me to write.

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Farewell, Sweet Cosmo

10/29/2014

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Cosmo Short, 2001-2014

Eleven-plus years ago, our first (and only) family dog came into our lives.

Our kids (ages 9 and 11) had been campaigning for some time for a dog, even crafting a faux dog from an old milk carton and dragging the plastic pooch through the kitchen on a yarn leash every night while I made dinner.

What can I say? Cat lady though I am, I was finally worn down.

Our daughters had grown up enjoying visits with their godmother's beagle, so it only made sense to us to consider adopting a beagle. If we were going to adopt a dog at all. Which we definitely weren't, my husband and I assured one another one sunny Sunday summer afternoon in 2003, on a "let's just visit" trip to a beagle rescue near Columbus, called Beagles RRRRRR Us.

Ten minutes after we arrived, this smart funny little 2-year-old beagle focused on the most reluctant-to-adopt-a-dog member of our family, my husband. The beagle hopped into his lap, gave my husband a big wet beagle kiss on the cheek... and an hour or so later, we were on our way home with the beagle.

Within a few days, we settled on the name Cosmo, as in Cosmo Brown, as in the hilarious character from Singing In The Rain who does the fantastic song-and-dance "Make 'Em Laugh," because our new beagle had already done just that... made us laugh at his antics and cuteness.

This morning, my husband and I made the decision to let Cosmo go peacefully at our vet's office. Cosmo has been suffering from congestive heart failure for over a half year now. He was nearly 14, The three medicines we had him on had worked for a time, but finally those stopped working as his heart enlarged and pressed against his diaphragm. Nearly every breath had become an agonizing gasp. The only other option left was to let him pass without assistance, but that would have meant up to another two or so weeks of suffering for him.

Our daughters, now 21 and 22, were able to call in and say goodbye to their family dog via FaceTime in Cosmo's last hour. It was tough and emotional, as letting go of a beloved pet always is.

But I don't want to memorialize Cosmo with only sorrow. For most of his life, he was funny and cheery and loving, and I think he'd rather be remembered that way.

So instead, here's a look back, with the first piece I ever wrote about him, in my Sanity Check column that ran from 2002-2012 in the Dayton Daily News:

A few days after we got our new dog, I laid down the law: a never-before-experienced, super-sanitized cleanliness shall reign upon our household!

This was because I discovered that when a beagle shakes himself, fur goes flying everywhere. Including onto the table and countertop.

So, I called everyone together and proclaimed: We shall clean and sanitize the kitchen countertop and table with disinfectant before cooking/dining!

We shall have color coded sponges—the pink one for cleaning the cat/dog food bowls, the blue one for cleaning countertop/table... and of course the sponges shall be sanitized in hot water after each use!

And we shall teach the dog the all-important commands—Down! and Sit!—so that said dog shall refrain from begging in the kitchen or at the table!

After I proclaimed these quite reasonable commandments, several things happened.

The kids and husband gave each other long, knowing looks.

The cats snickered.

The dog hid.

Still, I persevered.

And made it through an entire day, following my own rules. Then, as I stood in my kitchen, proudly surveying its sparkling clean, super-sanitized floor and countertop and sink, my 11-year-old daughter came in and said, "Mom, weren't we supposed to make deviled eggs for the church potluck tomorrow?"

As we boiled eggs, the dog came into the kitchen. I said, "Sit!" He did, on my super-sanitized floor. Then gave me a look that barked, "Lady, I'm not so sure about living here, you know?"

My daughter and I cut the boiled eggs in half (on our super-sanitized cutting block), and put the yolks in a small (super-sanitized) measuring cup.

My daughter started mashing (with a super-sanitized fork) mayo and mustard and seasonings into the egg yolks. The dog, licking his lips, stood on his hind legs. "Down!" I said. So, he lay down and heaved a weary, bedeviled sigh.

And for the first time that day, I could empathize with the dog. After all my cleaning and sanitizing, I was weary, too.

So I said to my daughter, with years-of-cooking wisdom, "Dearie, let your smart, ol' mama show you a little short-cut!"

I got out the mixer and put just one beater in the small measuring cup that held the egg yolk/mayo/mustard.

The dog stood again.

And I took my hand from the measuring cup handle to point at him and say, "Sit!"... just as I turned on the mixer... thus turning the little measuring cup into a madly spinning Tasmanian devil that wildly flung egg yolk everywhere—on the floor, the counter, the ceiling, my daughter, me, the dog...

Desperately, I yelled at the mixer: "Down! Sit!"

It didn't heed my plea, and neither did the dog, who happily jumped up and down in a little dog dance, while yipping a little dog song: Hurrah! Hurrah! At last, cleanliness is not reigning! But deviled eggs are—raining, that is! Doggy manna from heaven!

My daughter unplugged the mixer.

I picked up the blue super-sanitized sponge.

And the dog eyed me with a look that woofed, "hey, maybe you're OK after all!" then started licking up deviled egg yolks from the floor.

I'm so glad I sanitized it for him.

Hey Cosmo... turns out you were much more than OK after all. Here's to you, up there in Doggy heaven, running around, whole and sound, yipping up a storm, and enjoying all the Doggy manna your sweet beagle heart desires.

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My Month as a Thurber House Resident

10/24/2014

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I finally saw the Thurber House ghost! Well, OK. This is a Halloween decoration, in James Thurber's old bedroom...

Today marks my last day as this year's John E. Nance Writer-in-Residence at Thurber House in Columbus, Ohio.

I came on Sept. 29 with 15 months' worth of writing, re-writing, researching, brainstorming, character-creating and outlining completed for my novel-in-progress, only about 125 polished pages, and the rather extreme goal of completing that novel.

Before I pack up and head back home today, I want to summarize my experiences while still living, for a few more hours at least, in the third-floor apartment at the Thurber House. And then I'll let you know.

Ghosts

Let's get this--ghosts, no-such-thing-as-ghosts, maybe-yes-maybe-no-ghosts--out of the way first.

Truth be told, I don't think much about ghosts, although I do love a good ghost story, and even have an idea for a fun one that I might (or might not) someday write. It never crossed my mind that Thurber House might be associated with ghosts... until I received news of this residency.

Then, it seemed, everyone kept saying to me: "You know Thurber House is haunted, right?"

Turns out, there's even a Ghost Hunters episode about Thurber House. No, I haven't watched it. Yes, I probably will eventually. (I actually hadn't even heard of the Ghost Hunters TV show before this residency. Read the whole blog and maybe, just maybe, you'll find a link to the episode at the end!)

So since I know I'm going to be asked "did you experience any ghosts?" I'll just answer right here: probably not. Well, maybe.

After I'd been here about a week, I woke early one morning, about 6:15, to the distinctive sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. The sound was definitely not birds or branches or the expected pops and creaks of a 140ish years old house.

My very first thought? "Oh, wow, Susanne is in early!"

Susanne is the program director; the residency apartment occupies most of the third floor, but Susanne's office is in a room on the other side of the apartment door.

So, I went about my morning ablutions, and then popped out to tease Susanne about coming in so early. But Susanne wasn't there. In fact, the Thurber House employees didn't arrive until 8 a.m. or so.

I've since been told this is the sound that inspired Thurber's story, "The Night The Ghost Got In." So... ghostly mischievousness? Or a writer with a big imagination hearing some ordinary sound, in the early twilight, and interpreting the sound as footsteps?

Sorry, I'm going with the latter.

But it did make me think about ghosts. And here's the conclusion at which I arrived: if there are ghosts at Thurber House, then there are ghosts pretty much everywhere, and thus I've been walking amid ghosts my whole life. There is nothing I can do about the existence of ghosts (or the non-existence), so I'm fine either way.

The Residency Itself

I've been asked a few times by local high schools if a student who is interested in being a writer could job shadow me. I've always said "no," or offered to meet the student at the school to answer questions about writing careers, because this is what the poor student would otherwise have to do: Watch my yoga-pants-and-t-shirt-wearing self frown, grump and/or type at my computer or write in a notebook or stare in space. For hours.

The most interesting part of the poor kid's day would be observing me pour a fresh cup of coffee, or suddenly stop writing and start pantomiming wildly with gestures or punches or expressions as I try to figure out just how to describe said actions.

If you'd been with me at the residency, that's what you'd have observed me doing, for 10 or so hours a day, with a few breaks here and there for yoga, meditating and walking. I did take some longer breaks to enjoy Columbus--the art museum, the Franklin Park Conservatory, browsing at a great vintage shop called Flower Child in the Short North, and dining at Katzinger's Deli, Jeni's Splendid Ice Cream, and Rubino's Pizza. And of course I enjoyed getting to know the wonderful staff at Thurber House, and exploring the historic, beautiful first and second floors.

Which makes the month sound boring... except it wasn't. It was glorious.

What a gift... spending a whole month on solely delving into my novel-in-progress, hanging out with my characters, writing, re-writing, polishing, tucked away in a comfy, cozy, quiet apartment. (As part of the terms of the residency, I did lead two brief evening writing classes and give a reading of my work-in-progress, but other than that, I was writing. And occasionally pantomiming.) Such concentrated time, away from all obligations other than the rudimentary needs of being human... ah! Joy.

The residency came at a perfect time, both creatively and personally. Creatively, I had reached the point in my current project where I simply needed to concentrate on pushing through to "the end." Personally, I'm wise enough to know this kind of opportunity is extremely rare, and I didn't squander a bit of the time. What's more, our kids are grown (one in college, one just graduated from college and working at her first professional job), so though of course I missed my husband, taking time away wasn't as complicated as it would have been just a few years ago.

It sounds odd--after all, I've had ten novels published, been a weekly newspaper columnist for 12 years, and direct a writers' workshop, but the experience also affirmed that I Am A Writer. Affirmation, though, isn't something we 'arrive' at and never need again. I think we all need re-affirmation time and again of ourselves as beloved, as creative, as worthy, and this residency was a delightful reaffirmation of myself as a creative writer.

So, Did I Meet That Goal?

On October 18, I hit "The End."

I made myself take 24 hours to just relax... I went to a movie, binge-watched Parks and Recreation, napped, walked, met a cousin who lives in Columbus for coffee, talked with my husband and daughters, shopped a bit at Flower Child. (I purposefully didn't bring any books with me for pleasure reading; I only brought books for research, two inspirational writing books--"The Mindful Writer" and "Seven Steps on the Writer's Path" and my well-worn copy of the Tao.)

And yet, the demons rushed in.

Remember how I said I don't actually believe there are ghosts? (Or if there are, I don't believe I can sense/experience them?)

Well, that doesn't mean I don't believe we aren't all haunted.

That demons--of doubt, despair, fear, apprehension--don't find us all from time to time. Or maybe even pretty often.

Somehow, I always forget how vulnerable I am to my own 'haunts' when I reach a major milestone, even an obviously positive, celebration-worthy one. Haunts about my work. Haunts, even, about my own worthiness as a person, what's more as a writer.

So, it became very tempting to simply... delete everything. Toss it aside. Let those haunts possess me.

Here's the thing about despair, though. It quickly becomes pretty boring.

I finally gave myself the lecture I always give myself at these times: so what you've created might not please everyone? Well, d'oh! Of course it won't! So what? I don't like every book I read, movie I watch, art piece I observe, and so on. That doesn't mean it doesn't touch others... or that it wasn't important for the artist to create.

What you've created might not find a publishing home? Well, d'oh! No one gets to create with a guarantee of success. In fact, such a guarantee would only stifle any real creativity.

And so, even while still struggling with those haunts (which I share, because I think everyone has them, and it helps, doesn't it, to know we all do), I didn't delete everything I'd created. I've spent the last week copy-editing and proofing, and yesterday I sent the polished draft to my agent.

What happens next? Well, obviously I hope she's enthusiastic about it. I'm sure (I hope!) she'll have suggestions for improving my novel. And then... we'll see.

In any case, this has been an affirming, once-in-a-lifetime creative and personal experience for which I'll always be thankful, and will always cherish.

P.S. And in case you really want to watch the Ghost Hunters episode about Thurber House, here's the link.

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