Our Ladye of Melbourne

With all this fuss about the new Pope, I’ve got a confession to make.

I’ve been going to church.

Not to masses per se. No, I’ve starting sitting in the front pew  just thinking.

It started a couple of weeks ago when I was walking along Elizabeth Street in Melbourne and noticed the imposing church of St. Francis. I thought I’d pop in for a peek. Or a stickybeak, as they say here. Inside I found this lovely little chapel called the Ladye Chapel where a painting of the Mother and Child hangs to the left of the altar.

I tucked myself into one of the pews and looked around, mesmerized by the beauty: the rose walls, stained-glass windows, the gold swirls, all shimmering in candlelight. I soon became aware that there were many like me, sitting quietly in the darkness. More people wandered in from the hot, sunny, busy street, in cut-off shorts, in business suits, in tied-dyed halter dresses. Each one  made a bee line for the painting and reached up to touch it like an icon.

I was amazed. In this crazy twenty-first century world men and women  still finding comfort in a 2000 year old tradition of touching an icon.

I stopped being a Catholic long ago. I couldn’t match my feminist ideals with an institution which seemed to have no place in its headquarters for women. (Though I do recognize the lifeline the church has been for the poor.)

But I’ve always loved old churches and the scent of incense and myrrh. And I especially love the idea of Mary.

I guess I really love the idea that someone is listening.

So I sit and say “Hey, it’s me again.”

And in my mind I hear her say, “How you doing, honey?”

Because for some reason– I don’t know why– she’s got this salt of the earth accent. This Seen-it-all attitude. She’s one of those women who is so busy she’s the only one who has time to do you a favor.

I picture her with lines on her face like a seabed and crazy grey hair zinging from her halo. She’s got floppy arms and a heavy belly under that blue robe.

But mostly she has a heart so big you can take yours and tuck it inside hers with all the others who have come in to touch her picture.

And I know– (I also know some of you might disagree with this)–that my not being a practicing Catholic is OK by her. Because love, as the Church agrees, bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.

So I like to say hello.

And she says hello back.

I chat about my worries.

She listens.

And when I finish she says, “Well, hon, I’ve heard worse.”

Of course, she says it the nicest way.

So I nod in agreement and tip toe out, trying not to bother the ones with the real problems.

photo by Dale Allman (flickr)

#auction fail

We’ve been looking at houses to buy in Melbourne. Anyone who knows me knows my complete obsession with property and my complete failure to do anything about it. But we arrived in Melbourne keen to finally buy the family a family home.

And when we looked at the house prices our jaws hit the floor.

They make London look like a fire sale.

OK, yes, I’m exaggerating.

A bit.

But what’s equally challenging is their favorite mode of sale: auctions.

No private negotiating with an estate agent here. No, in Melbourne you have to come out in broad daylight (inspection reports done, bank finance ready) and go mano a mano with any other interested parties.

It’s house buying gladiator-style.

It’s also a party. All the neighbors come. Picnic chairs are set out. People gather in front of the house, the lucky few under the shade of a tree.

You can usually tell who’s going to be bidding. They’ve got that steel, confused, deranged look in their eye. And there is usually a lady standing in the back, talking on a mobile phone. She’s a buyer’s agent, hired for an exorbitant amount of money because her client just can’t face the fray.

And then the auctioneer comes out. Usually male, dressed impeccably, with a shark’s smile. With a flourish he rips down the For Sale flag and gets the auction going.

He starts by rambling off the houses finer details. And always put a great spin on things.

When we were waiting for the house we were going to bid on, a car roared by as if the road was a well used freeway. “And look, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, not missing a beat, “the make of that car, a BMW. That is the stature of this neighborhood.”

I read that Melbourne house auctions are better attended than football games. Not surprised. Though I’d say they are more akin to watching a tennis game. The swishing back and forth of heads as the bidders, usually two in the end, battle it out. It is high drama rewarded with clapping at the end.

We didn’t get the house last Saturday. There’s a real art to bidding at auctions and we failed miserably.

The young woman who bought it psychologically demolished us. Fixing us with a withering stare, she bid high and with conviction while my husband and I bickered about how much to go up by.

It all happened so quickly: our opponent steam-rolling along; our children whispering, We hate the house, We hate the house; the bully, I mean the auctioneer, sneering at our bids. He tried his best to get us to go higher, even disappearing into the house to give us time to rethink. But we knew that whatever increments we would go up by the lady would just nod her bid. So we stopped. It’s called psyching out the opposition. And she was rather good at it.

Luckily we weren’t mad about the house. My children were right. It was pretty ugly. Even the auctioneer called it unassuming in his preamble. That pricked my ears. For that kind of dough, honey, I want my house to be dressed to the nines and ready for its close-up.

I mean, it’s what you have to tell yourself. Right?

So the woman, flanked by cashed up 60-something parents, was quickly escorted into the house to claim her prize and put her signature to the legally binding proceedings.

We wandered off in a daze and had a good lunch.

But we’ve seen another house online….

Heaven help us.

For an idea of how these things go you can actually watch them on youtube.

And no, the house we bid on didn’t look a thing like that one.

photo by geoftheref (flickr)

No Worries

2012 was the year I was going to finish my novel.

Ha ha ha ha!

That was the plan before my husband came home and said What would you think about moving to Melbourne?

Melbourne. Australia?

10496.09 miles away to be exact.

But I love London. In fact I had just become a British citizen. It was home. I am very comfortable with the word No.

Not forever, he said. We’ll come back.

How long is not forever, I asked.

Not sure, he said.

Well, to make a long story short, I went for it.

An adventure. A change. A middle life crisis. Call it what you will.

We had to arrange everything: schools, places to live, visa’s , forms, form, forms and more forms.

I finished the last form and was ready to get back to that novel.

I sat down at my computer, rubbed my hands and raised them above my keypad….

Sniff sniff, what’s that smell, I thought.

It was our house. Burning down.

Our roofers had set our roof on fire and gone out to lunch.

After about ten minutes of trying to find the source of the fire while our house was filling up with smoke, my husband and I finally called the fire department. Not a moment too soon. The firemen pushed through our front door in their space suits and gas masks and had to pull our whittering selves out.

Outside I looked up to see the top of the house on fire. A black tongue of smoke shot up high into the sky. A helicopter roared above. Three firetrucks idled blocking the street. A flock of worried neighbors stood in front, offering cups of tea and places to stay.

I watched dumbfounded as the fire descended towards my office on the second floor. The room began to fill up with smoke, the window sills began to blacken.

My work, I murmured.

A kindly neighbor asked, Is your computer backed up?

Yes. I said.

He smiled in relief.

To the little machine next to my computer, I added.

We stood and stared at the window. The smoke began to seep from the cracks.

The London firemen did stop the fire and the computer was saved. (These firemen were amazing; kind, heroic, thoughtful…effective. They deserve anything they want!)

But we never lived in the house again. That night and for several days after we stayed with a variety of gorgeous generous friends and rented a short-term place.

We then flew to Melbourne.

To begin our midlife adventure.

This is the view from my window:

We’ve been here three months, blinking in the sun, riding our bikes around, and learning to say ‘No worries.’

I’ve also written 90,000 words of my novel.

Must be the view…..

Here’s to Lucy

My mother died recently. I gave this eulogy at her funeral. I miss her very much.

 

My father had trouble coming up with a heading for my mother’s obituary heading. As you probably know, in The Washington Post, everyone has a heading, director of this, president of that, fundraiser, teacher…

How could he possibly decide on Lucy’s? She was so many things: mother, grandmother, reporter, painter, diplomatic wife, a huge diplomat herself. Fundraiser, Russian historian, teacher, crossword demon. Highly intelligent woman. So what I wish he could have put was just LUCY. Because that’s who and what she was. Lucy. And she is unforgettable.

She was one of the funniest people I know. In fact my sister and I have been a bit embarrassed about how much laughing we have been doing. But no one can think of Lucy without a smile. She was hilarious and we will treasure our ‘Lucyisms’ and our memories.

Lucy was constantly learning. And reading. She gave her children that deep love of reading. I remember when I was a young kid she worried that I would never read for pleasure. I was too busy watching ‘Petticoat Junction’ and ‘I Dream of Jeannie.’ But she didn’t worry in that drastic way parents do now. I was never labeled or tutored or despaired over. But when we moved to Copenhagen and I couldn’t understand the Danish television she saw her chance. She brought me to the library where they had an impressive line of English books and introduced me to Nancy Drew and Laura Ingalls Wilder. And I was off.

Lucy was interested in everything. As children my brother, Ted, my sister, Mandy, and I were brought to every museum under the sun. In fact, my brother once joked later that, during his travels, if he arrived in a new town, be it Tokyo or Ouagadougou, and he didn’t immediately check out the local art museum he felt incredibly guilty.

She used those wide ranging interests in her varied careers as reporter, university coordinator and docent for two museums: for Hillwood Museum where she recited Russian history and for Dumbarton where she used her amazing knowledge of American colonial history.

A common theme from the kind comments of my friends has been how glamorous my mother was. They don’t know the half of it. As a little girl I remember sitting with my sister at the top of the stairs in Brussels and watching my mother swan out into the night beautifully dressed. I still have one of her satin ball gowns.

She was presented to the Queen of England at the coronation at St. James Court in 1952. In fact she was so pretty that Prince Philip stopped to talk to her. I wonder what Queen Elizabeth thought of that.

She danced with King Juan of Spain and oh, so many, many others.

And she drove around in a cherry-red Alfa Romeo sports car until she was 83. Her license plate read: LUCY K.

But as glamorous as she was she was the most democratic person I know. She served dinners at So Others Might Eat and always fought for the underdog: the Wobblies of her childhood, the protestors during the Vietnam War, the Democrats during the dark years. And that perennial underdog: gun control.

My mother loved us so much and wanted the best for us. She worried about us. In fact she worried about everyone. And they didn’t have to be human. I remember her surreptitiously putting the neighbor’s cat, who had had one too many kittens, on the Pill.

She was a loving, gorgeous, loyal, funny wife to my father. I won’t go on about the deep love my mother and father had for each other because I will start crying. But that love was an anchor for Ted, Mandy and me and for our children, Hannah, Molly, Jordan, Lara and Ben. She bore the death of her beloved son, Ted, with grace and she tried her best to be an anchor to his son, Jordan.

Because one of her greatest gifts was as a homemaker. She always managed to foster a sense of home. Which for a diplomatic family is not easy. Home for us was always where she and my father was. It didn’t matter if it was London, Moscow, Brussels, Geneva, Newport, Georgetown or Maplewood, home was where they were.

Home was where Mom was.

So I wonder where she is now.

Where will I find her now?

And I realize she is in my heart.

I picture her there, sitting in a chair, with a cup of coffee, or a glass of wine. Being able to read again. She has a newspaper and a stack of her beloved mysteries. And that’s where she’ll stay. In my heart. In all of our hearts.

Here’s to Lucy.

Drinking the Kool-aid: epublishing a book

I did it.

I have drunk the Kool-aid.

I have self-published an ebook.

I retained the UK rights of my book, Believe Me, and, curious about all the fuss, I decided to publish it on Kindle through Amazon.co.uk.

Et, tu, Nina?

I’m afraid so. But, you know what?

It was fun.

Really fun.

I chose ebookpartnership and they acted exactly like that. A partnership. Always on the other end of the email. Friendly, business-like and prompt.

But that said, I am now am so much more impressed and GRATEFUL for what a traditional publisher did for me. Thank you, Bloomsbury and Penguin.

As my own publisher I had to:

Pay to have a cover made.

Pay to get my file transformed into efiles.

Pay to have any payment to me actually transferred to me.

I am going to release another book soon that has not been previously published and have had to additionally:

Pay to have the book edited.

Pay to have it copy edited. (Well actually that was a very nice gift from a friend. Thank you, Jessica Lerche.)

Not cheap. In terms of time or money.

But I like the sense of control. I like choosing the cover. In fact I’ve always been one of those authors never really satisfied with the cover my publishers assigned. Always kvetching. But when I have to choose a cover I immediately realize I have no idea what I was doing. And that maybe these professionals actually knew a thing or two. And all those covers I scoffed at: well, actually I’m not sure I can do better.

Believe Me is about a woman and her son and their debate about religion. She is a card-carrying atheist astronomer and he’s sneaking out to Bible class. I changed the cover from the Penguin cover which was targeting the female audience and have tried to entice more teenagers who I think might like the book. We’ll see.

Now, as with the traditional publishers, the marketing is up to me. Which explains this post

Though Bloomsbury and Penguin were good at getting my books reviewed. Again, thank you.

So tell me. Anyone out there doing the same thing? Any good stories?

And oh, yes, of course. Because you know you want to!!!

BELIEVE ME by Nina Killham

Writers, eat your heart out (Best fan letter ever!)

For those of you who might have noticed I have been avoiding the internet. And I have to tell you I have been getting a fair amount written. Two rewrites, and half of a first draft. And I’ve even started chatting to my husband and children. So all good.

Then I received this email today from a Russian woman (Mounting Desire was translated into Russian about two years ago) and I just had to share it because it made me laugh with gratitide and pleasure. This email has made all past work worth while.

And if I could bottle and take a sip every morning of the joy and exhuberance and the good will of this woman, I would live forever.

Thank you, Katerina. You made my day.

Dear Nina!
My name is Katerina. I am from Russia. I am very happy write the letter to you!! I am in love in you and your creative!You help me survive when i was in trouble. First I would like to thank you for enjoing you give by writing. Your books realy give relax and happy to readers!!!!You know the best romantic book i read was called “MOUNTING DESIRE”. The heroes are for ever in my heart. When i feel bad i think about them and i fell good myself. It was very very exiting!!!But that would be beautiful to read in in your native language))) Thank you very-very-very much for my the happiest houres with your book!!!!!! I just want to thank!!! I am a big fan of romantic book sinse i met your book!!! And now study english for read your book in english!!!I have been studing english for year. I am trying read the book in english but only with a diccionary. Bur i have goal and i will do it!!!! I going to know english as a first language))))).
Your creative made my life better. I think in the way more positively.
By the way there is not much yours book in Russia:((((((i would love to read all your works!!! your creative inspire me very much!!! Thank you for all!!! You are wonderful writer!!! You have so nice name! I saw your photo. You are the most beautiful women!!! I wish i live in your country. Then i could meet you and speak with you one day).You are sinshine for me. I respect you very much! When i feel i dont understand an english tense or rule i go to your blog and watch cover of yours works. And i feel how it inspire me!!! Well i believe i will speak fluently english one day)))
Have a nice day.
Best wishes.
Helth, love and happy!!!

photo by smuzz (flickr)

Thank you!

T’is the season to be rushed. T’is the season to fall behind. T’is the season to be just a wee bit grumpy.

I was thinking this the other day as I watched the early morning snow falling from the sky, trying its best to remain snow and failing. On the radio doom threatened: strikes, war, misery, all accompanied by the Wagner-esque symphony of possible global financial collapse.

My own season was becoming increasingly a list of things to tick off. And oh, the guilt. Yes, I was now personally responsible for the destruction of the high street by buying 85 % of my presents online.

I was thinking this when the door bell rang. I rushed downstairs, still in my robe, bleary-eyed and wild-haired, and at the door stood a delivery man, delivering yet another package I had ordered online (See? I told you). This package was big and round and he grinned at me—a delightful elf of a smile–and did a little bow as he twirled it into my hands.

And as that package passed from his hands to mine we both laughed. A joyous cosmic chuckle. A bright spark on a cold winter morning. Here we were two strangers, one up driving around in the early morning dark, the other still in her bathrobe, hurrying her children through breakfast. Such different lives and such different days ahead.

But in that split second we became one—sharing an unspoken joke, a joie de vivre on Dec. 16 at 8:05 on a nondescript street in London.

And as I closed the door, grinning, infected with this man’s joy, I thought ‘Now that’s the spirit!’

And I kept it with me for the rest of the day. So I thank him for that.

And I also give a HUGE THANK YOU to my subscribers and everyone else who has read my blog (you know who you are!).

Thank you so much for visiting. I appreciate the time I’m taking up in your head space. There is constant demand on your attention so I thank you for hanging out with me. I can’t tell you how much I enjoy your company.

I’m looking forward to meeting up again in the New Year. But right now it’s time to put down our pens, toss some tinsel and party!

X Nina

photo by Amber B McN (flickr)