Hamilton – a Slow-Cooked Love Story

I’ve been painting portraits for the past five years, and just began a foray into landscapes this spring of 2016.  Not surprisingly, it wasn’t until my sixth plein air painting that I finally felt like I was starting to get the hang of things. This 8 x 10 with a bright red background was a breakthrough piece for me on several levels. Not only did it provide a steep technical learning curve, but its genesis involved some truly dedicated artistic commitment, resulting from a difficult choice between one creative path (writing) and another (painting).

I’d been invited to do a book signing for the third novel of my trilogy in my hometown indie bookstore. A long-awaited coup! But they wanted me there in the fall, after I’d returned to my home in San Francisco from my annual Back East summer. I’d found a bargain $350 round trip flight. It still would have been warm enough to sleep at my unheated cabin a mile from the bookstore, but money was tight and I could easily see this ego-stroke turning into a $1K weekend, without much tangible reward. I would also have to lug copies of my book in a suitcase, to be sold on consignment. Lastly, in the hierarchy of author events, a book signing is not nearly as prestigious as, say, and author reading. I’d just read a horror story of a poor writer relegated to sitting at a lonely table at the back of a bookstore for his book signing event. I’d known the support and enthusiasm of a crowd at numerous book readings in the past, where I was able to tell tales and spin yarns to an interested audience that asked brilliant questions and bought lots of my books.

So for several reasons, I remained on the Left Coast and went plein air painting that weekend instead with my painting buddy, Emily; making a conscious commitment to my new passion/profession. We’d been wanting to paint palm trees and Em suggested Hamilton Field in Novato, for its many mature and beautiful specimens.

In any plein air sojourn, there’s always what I call the “thrashing around” stage. The first hour or so you’re scouting out the exact perfect spot to paint, scrutinizing the view, cropping the image in your mind, squinting down the darks and lights, and simplifying all the complex visual information. You’re also catching up on each other’s lives, setting up equipment and materials, and generally flailing around the canvas as you make your first tentative marks. Complaining often happens at this stage too, for example, “I should’ve sprung for the sable brushes!” or “Why didn’t I buy the two lb. pochade (paint box) instead of the 50 lb. one?” (as the tripod collapses).

This is a time where curious bystanders are not a delight, because I have no confidence yet in whatever I’m working on. Well-meaning and enthusiastic passers-by often want to chat or have their photo taken with a plein air painter, especially around the Bay Area’s many iconic tourist attractions, I found out recently, on another outing near the Golden Gate Bridge.

Mercifully, this thrashing around stage gradually gives way to an absorbed focus and flow state as the image starts to “work” on the canvas. (Unless there is wind, rain, or other external disturbance, like the sun suddenly jumping out from behind the shady tree you so carefully arranged your kit under and broiling the artist.)

At the flailing about phase on this particular day, I heard myself telling Emily—who had set up right next to me to catch the same vantage point and scene—that I draw much better than I paint. I try to witness and minimize my complaints these days, after practicing Vipassana meditation daily for 20 years, and mostly because I grew tired of hearing myself complain years ago. On observation, however, this remark struck me not so much as a complaint, but as a piece of wisdom I should listen to.

So I did. I spent the next two hours just sketching the scene in Ultramarine Blue on the Cadmium Red-primed canvas board.

A mission-style building with hundreds of meticulously hand-rendered tiles and very straight architectural lines materialized on my canvas, along with one very detailed date palm and a vaguer Mexican Fan Palm in the distance.

By the end of our session, Emily had a very realized rendition of our scene while I still had a series of outlines. But I felt satisfied. I had a strong skeleton on which to build. When I hurry the process, I find the quality of my results poor. So I committed to the slow cooking of Hamilton.

I did actually add some Cobalt Blue mixed with Titanium White to create a sky at the very end, as I needed the satisfaction of laying down some color. I noticed, on my return home, however, that Cobalt Blue is very transparent, which on closer inspection, didn’t look so good. (Nevertheless, I ended up deciding I liked the color, and layered a more opaque treatment of the same colors onto the sky at the very end of the painting process, a couple weeks later.)

Another thing that factored into Hamilton’s meticulous execution was my coming down with the flu after receiving a flu shot at work. (Yes, I think it’s possible.) As the various viruses slowly percolated throughout my system, and because life doesn’t stop for flu shots, I attended a wedding the next weekend and then spent a weekend in Venice Beach the following one. All these activities worried me as I find it’s easy for me to drop the ball and sometimes never finish a piece. Nevertheless, I persisted with Hamilton.

Years ago at a workshop, a friend drew an image to represent my inner essence. On it she wrote a single word: “create” below a nest containing three speckled eggs. I remembered that image as my viral load peaked, and it struck me that the times I’ve been most productive (like when I wrote my first book), I incubated the project; sticking with it doggedly, so that distractions wouldn’t win.

I fleshed out Hamilton; fitting in an odd hour or two here or there at home, working around illness and the day job. I thought through every decision, every color change, each object’s relationship with another. I researched opaque vs. transparent colors. I gazed at how one of my favorite contemporary artists (Anne Garney, of Kansas City) treated expanses of undefined foliage (I ended up creating a mottled, camo-type mass that worked). I read through a how-to on painting a palm tree. I studied palm trees; identifying the species I was painting. New questions surfaced. What was that other, scraggly palm I’d painted out on the jetty outside my studio in Sausalito a few months back? The one that gave me so much trouble because it only had three sparse, whippy branches. A Queen Palm!

Knowledge inspired more interest and keener observation. The “distraction” of Venice Beach turned into an opportunity for extensive palm study and photography. My lifelong love of palm trees expanded. I remembered the magickal night I stood outside my Santa Monica apartment in 2009, looking up at the shiny ribbons waving overhead; soothed by the clattery sound of their fronds. Back in San Francisco, I gazed with admiration at the highlights and reflections of my neighbor’s Mexican Fan Palm.

Piece by piece, Hamilton came together. And it was only when one question was answered to my (and the painting’s) satisfaction, that I moved onto the next.

So while I could’ve been promoting my book for dubious benefits, I was gifted with this breakthrough painting—one where careful execution and a lot of pleasure were woven into the mix. In the great scheme of things, either path would’ve been fine. But trusting that little nudge from the subconscious seemed to work well for me this time. I’ll keep listening.

Advice for aspiring writers/The best thing about being a writer

My advice for aspiring writers?

Don't give up! Surround yourself with other writers and artists regularly, for the support you so very much need. And of course, do your Morning Pages and Artist Dates.

The best thing about being a writer?

It's the perfect place to hone your l'esprit de l'escalier; a French term for when you think of the perfect answer to something after you've left the room and are doing something ordinary like walking up a staircase. Not being a hothead by nature, I find well-thought-out arguments bubbling up later, after I've had the time to digest a perplexing conversation. Hopefully I've left the other person with a graceful (or possibly clueless) exit remark. On my own time, I can weave the situation into that of one of my characters; resulting in a satisfying display of verbal gallantry (at least on the part of my protagonist)!

What did I learn while writing The Secret of the Cylinder and what was the biggest surprise during the process?

I learned about daytime discos in Tehran in the 1970’s – one of the few places young people could kiss; similar to the way young people in Mexico City steal away to churches to do the same! At the Basilica of the Lady of Guadalupe in 2012 I was surprised to find myself sitting behind teenagers necking. Blasphemy! (I’m kidding here.)

The biggest surprise was when the actor who I’d talked with about playing the male lead, Mirza, was framed and thrown into jail for 2 ½ years in Dubai, while I was converting the screenplay into a novel. I was shocked and saddened by Farzan’s misfortune. But he never gave up, and neither did I. I signed his MoveOn.org petition to urge that his case be reconsidered by Sheikh Mohammed of the UAE (Prime Minister of the United Arab Emirates) a.k.a. His Highness Sheikh Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum. That didn’t feel like enough, though. So, using the power of positive intention, I wrote the character Mirza into, and then out of prison before three years had gone by. (Farzan was starting to approach his third year and he’d just turned 30!). The Swedish-Iranian model wrote a rap song while in prison, called “Save my Life” asking for the sheik’s forgiveness, mercy, and pardon. The audio for the music video was recorded through a phone booth from inside the Central Jail in Dubai. The sheik listened to the song. Farzan was released this past December, 2015. He appreciated my story!

What is the meaning behind the title of The Secret of the Cylinder?

The cuneiform-inscribed cylinder that the protagonist steals is made of a special clay that has magical properties, brought to Earth by an interstellar traveler. The abilities it confers on anyone who touches it are exactly what the planet needs. “He who possesses it will be most powerful. Yet what most think is power will be taken by its touch.” The ultimate weapon, the Cylinder has the power to geld one’s enemies . . . or bestow peace upon all who touch it.

How do I get inspired to write and what do I do when I have writer's block?

I need to be in that sweet spot that yogis aim for; where they are calm yet poised for action at the same time. This means I need to have already run in the morning or at least have done my daily yoga, in addition to at least a 10 minute meditation in addition to my three daily Morning Pages. Then I'm ready to commit to the page. I need to have a situation in a character's life that needs resolution. Sometimes I will meditate/trance and "channel" the character, in order to write from their point of view. I often get my best ideas while meditating (and yes, I try to write a word or two down so I can remember later) or while running, where a scene will work itself out in my head like a movie. Nature and periods of idling provide my best inspiration; providing the "fertile ground" for my imagination to tend.

What do I do when I have writer’s block?

I paint, just like Henry Miller did! For an eye-opening article about this famous author's foray into visual art, see https://www.brainpickings.org/2015/01...

What is the “Cultic Mistake” referred to in Chapter 2 and how does Belshazaar correct it in Chapter 14?

Nabonidus, the last king of the Neo-Babylonian Empire, reigning from 556–539 BC and a Biblical figure, mentioned his son Belshazaar, on one of the clay cylinders he commissioned, where he also describes his renovation of the temple of Ur. While he did not ignore the gods of Babylon during his reign, Nabonidus did not treat them in the approved way, and gave much attention to the moon god at two other cities, Ur and Harran. I believe he is setting forth the wish that his son remain politically astute as to what religious cult of the day he aligns himself with. With history being written and rewritten by the conquerors, and religion and power hand-in-hand throughout history, this is a not-so-subtle hint to his successor to choose his allies wisely, perhaps based on some negative fallout Nabonidus endured for his choices, or as a forshadowing because he knew the jig was up for him. Cyrus, Nabonidus’ conqueror, claimed the Babylonian god favored Cyrus.

By murdering the Sheik of Shiraz, who in turn, had murdered Amat, Belshazaar’s beloved. The Sheik had been unforgivably unkind to Amat and the other women in his harem. His contempt for the feminine and the Goddess put him in a most unlovable camp, as far as Belshazaar was concerned. Bel honored Amat and her heroism after her death by commissioning the Cylinder that bore her story, creating an artifact that honored the divine feminine and Amat in particular.

Silk Starfish in the Springtime

My mother had a ritual that ushered in Spring every year—starching the doilies. With the first caress of warm breezes wafting in through the kitchen window of our Cape Cod-style house, she harvested the soft, floppy creations from the cedar chest, dresser tops, and chair headrests. Some were two feet wide—reaching arrogant arms out to the world for attention to their lacey finery. Other, more modest ones were the size of a saucer—little rounded, regular wheels meant for a small girl’s bureau. Some were off-white, or ecru. Some had greens, pinks, and yellows worked into starfish arms of silk or cotton.

I remember hauling my excited 5-year-old self onto the kitchenette chair to watch her. From the vantage point of a gray, marbled plastic seat perched atop hollow, chrome legs, I hunched—elbows to tabletop, chin to hands. This ritual of renewal always thrilled me. Witnessing it, I felt part of the turning of the wheel of the year—the wheel in this case, being made of lace. Spring unfolded as the doilies unfolded, perennially, like flowers. After my mother’s magical ministrations, they stretched toward the sun, all clean and fresh again.

In her emerald gingham dress, my mother tumbled the clear starch crystals from a pink box (which bore a smiling, aproned 50’s housewife) into a shallow pan of warm water. She’d swirl the mixture with her hand—releasing a pleasant, sweet, oatmeal-like scent that I always associate with springtime. The scent was actually lighter and cleaner than oatmeal, and I must have received some kind of warning, because I never sipped it, inviting as it was.

She plunged a handful of lace into the bath. The doilies soaked for an appointed time, while the crystals performed their magic of reanimation on the threads. Then she extracted them, one at a time, squeezed them, and mounted them on a stretching board. The board was a quarter-inch thick sheet of varnished plywood about four feet square. She’d work the warm net of each creation wide and flat, and pin it to the panel. With long, clean pins, she arranged each star point or scalloped edge, anchoring down a strategic border—stretching and shaping the loops upon loops—with her artful, ever-busy hands.

She usually performed this ritual on a sunny day, and often left the board outside under the drying rays—keeping a watchful eye out for bugs, of course. When the sun set, I would help her pull out the pins and remove the dry doilies from the board. Stiff as a triple-starched shirt, they could have been used as Frisbees at this point—if I dared. Mom would place her favorites around the house, and tuck the rest away for replenishment. Other rituals like this—waxing and polishing the kitchen floor when guests were expected, hanging new drapes and curtains with each new season—gave the fabric of my childhood a whole and cared-for feeling.

I tried tatting once, when I was around twelve years old—hoping to recreate the painstaking process I’d watched my grandmother perform. Squeezing the seedpod-like tatting shuttle as if it were a castanet between thumb and forefinger, I started my first and only doily with a tiny circle of thread. With my mother instructing me, I created more loops off that tiny circle, and then loops around each loop, until the netted structure took on a regular pattern and a usable shape. Well, maybe usable in a doll house—I lost interest before my creation became even saucer-sized. This was much more labor-intensive than all the other handiwork I’d ever done.

The process reminded me of lacemaking—still done by talented artists in Ireland and Spain. With multiple bobbins of thread painstakingly twisted around pins to create the pattern, a lacemaker grows the tethered piece in minute increments. I feel a pang when I think of such skills of a bygone era. It seems like there was once a time when people had large swaths of hours to devote to the creation of a masterpiece. At my office job, my hands tap constantly on computer keys. Nevertheless they feel idle and dumb performing their mundane, repetitive, and unartistic actions. Unlike my childhood, when I was constantly folding fabric, tying yarn, weaving threads, shaping clay, cutting paper, or slathering on paint.

I think we pay too high a price for our “civilization” and technology. We moderns might fill our gas tank and pay our bills on time (the measure of a successful life in this day and age) through office jobs that result in carpal tunnel syndrome. I for one have a soul that aches for more time to do artwork with my hands, spirit and eyes. While my mind and fingers are still nimble, I want to weave silk starfish, and do nothing else on a tantalizing spring day but starch them, stretch them, and admire my handiwork.

~

My mother was forced by her father to leave high school prior to graduating, to work in a cotton mill (the Kerr Thread Mill in Fall River, MA) to help support her family. My grandmother kept Mom’s artistic dreams alive by paying for a correspondence school art course for her. Mom moved onto office work, then married, taking the standard 1950’s route of motherhood and housewifery. Busy as she was with four children, however, she was always sewing a dress, knitting mittens, or baking cookies. Her life wasn’t compartmentalized, as mine is, and perhaps that’s why the switch from hard fluorescent-lit electronics to soft, handworked fabric seems like a greater and greater stretch for me, with each passing year. Mom changed a baby, crocheted a pillow, then threw in another load of laundry—all in the rhythm of her day.

In between raising six boys, my grandmother produced a prodigious amount of handwork in her lifetime. I imagine it couldn’t have been easy for her either, having eight babies in her bed at home; two died at birth, another was killed in a construction accident at nineteen years of age. It must have been trying, living within the strictures of a traditional French Catholic immigrant family. But the thing I remember most about her was her frequent, velvety soft laugh. She never spoke of hardship. My mother laughed all her life too, until the Alzheimer’s silenced her a year ago. Now I am the forty-something adult in the family in the midst of her productive years—juggling the callings of my spirit with the newfound freedoms and responsibilities women have in these times.

Often, when I visit my hometown of Westport, and walk along Drift Road, near the beach, I am startled by the engine of a car whooshing by. When I vacation there, I sink into a space that expects the soft clop of horse and buggy, like my grandfather drove on that very street to woo my grandmother on her farm in the 1920s. That seems like the right pace for me. This path we 21st century gals walk requires the tenacity of a lawyer, the sensitivity of a surgeon, and the strength, grace, and agility of a ballerina. The struggles and the pitfalls are different from those of my mother and grandmother, but I still have the same need to pick up a piece of handwork and feel the satisfaction of building something tangible, loop by loop, stitch by stitch. To create softwear instead of software. Perhaps we’re not so different than our gingham and taffeta-swathed ancestors—we just need to remember what feeds our souls. And make the time to honor that, as we honor where we came from.

What is the book's style and who is its audience?

The book's style is intense, quirky, and sensual. Like me.

Its audience is not necessarily mainstream, but could be. They’re intelligent, Jungian, inner-journey-oriented, fantasy enthusiasts, dreamers, xenophiles. Women from ages 18 – 80 plus, feminists, pagans, Goddess-respecting, real. They hang out in yoga studios and belly dance classes. They’re interested in travel and personal growth, but they’re grounded, connected to the Earth. You see them in coffee houses like the Depot in Mill Valley, Urth in Santa Monica, Real Foods in Fairfax, Whole Foods. They’re West Siders in LA, most are politically left, aware and concerned with the current Middle East events and the fate of this planet.

Why Iran?

I settled on Iran as the location for this third novel in 2009. The feminine and relics representing it from the goddess era (a matrifocal time) have been denounced, destroyed, and demonized for millennia. I wanted the ultimate sacrifice and story of Amat, heroine of Book 1, to be carried forward, immortalized and made relevant in modern times. Amat’s story was about discovering personal power (as opposed to power-over). The cradle of civilization has experienced a stronger demonizing, suppression, and expunging of the feminine than many other areas of the planet. Amat’s story takes place in what is now Iraq, in 500 BC.

I came to know many new Persian friends while living in LA in 2009 and 2010. Some of these friends attended college in Tehran in the late 1970’s, while I was having the American experience of discos, exam deadlines, and a very different culture. Also, an actor who I’ve been in discussion with to play Mirza, the male lead of this book, was born in Tehran, and moved to Sweden at a young age with his diaspora family. His story and interest definitely informed The Secret of the Cylinder.

What was the most challenging part of writing the book?

One challenge was I had to stop and take a long break after researching weaponry used in Iran during the late 1970s. The heaviness of the topic was too much for me.

And a bigger challenge was that this third book actually began as a screenplay! I was taking a screenplay writing class at UCLA taught by the amazing Bill Boyle in 2009. As an exercise for class, I adapted my first novel, Harem Sister, into a screenplay. The page count grew as I tried out new, more visual/visceral methods of storytelling; some of which were unique to screenplay writing.

To my initial dismay, my screenplay Meetup group requested more current-day characters, insisting that dusty ancients wouldn’t interest modern-day moviegoers. Their feedback resulted in a 120-page script being pared down to ten good pages to move forward with, after six months of writing.

To my delight, I discovered that by adding a modern story layer to my ancient tale, and reincarnating my original characters yet again, new life was breathed into my fictional family. Those “ten good pages” traveled with me from LA to San Francisco where I was determined to reverse-engineer the screenplay into a novel.

A year of writer’s block followed, from all the editing, auditing, and striving for marketability that goes with screenwriting, as well as the truncated, haiku-like style that is required to create the technical document called the screenplay. I could only write in shorthand for a while; stretching my creative wings in other new directions with paint and canvas.

Eventually, my writing muse returned, and the roadblocks that I’d perceived as hindering that part of myself disappeared. I realized I am at heart a novelist with my love for flowing, embroidered prose, and that I was at last ready to rework what was a screenplay back into the writing style I love most. The third novel was born!

What inspired me to make the leap into the fantasy realm with this book?

Fantasy is a new genre for me starting with this third novel. A fan of Charles de Lint, Mary Renault, and Neil Gaiman, I was inspired to draw on my own magickal experiences before and after becoming an initiated Wiccan priestess and shamanic practitioner in Marin County, CA. When truth is better than fiction, why not start there? Loosely based on people, beings, and nonordinary places I’ve encountered in my 25 years of shamanic study, the second half of The Secret of the Cylinder takes a detour down the rabbit hole and brings delightful surprises where I let my magickal muse run free.

What sets The Secret of the Cylinder apart from other books in its genre? And what is its genre?

I’m a Renaissance person, and so like many things I do, this book doesn’t fit into just one box. It is romance, fantasy, historical fiction, adventure, chick-lit and drama all rolled into one! Not only appealing to feminists, pagans, and history enthusiasts, this book will intrigue mothers, daughters, grandmothers, brothers, fathers, and grandfathers alike. Anyone who might be affected by war and all its consequences. It’s very timely as its setting is a volatile Iran, in 1979, during the Muslim Revolution; when all the efforts at westernizing the country were undone by a new regime.

Meticulously researched, The Secret of the Cylinder takes the reader on a magic carpet ride through intrigue, danger, love and chaos all amidst the backdrop of a culture and country unravelling. As the Middle East currently becomes more and more under the control of non-Western, non-Christian ideology, here is a firsthand glimpse of choices by Ground Zero stakeholders—what’s motivating them, and what they’re feeling. What sets this book apart is that it suggests our strongest weapon against darkness is love. And in this case love is hard-coded onto magical clay that was obtained from a star-traveler, into an instrument of peace. Love and peace are ideas. Ideals we feel very strongly about. By giving them physical form, and having this object, the cylinder, be a sort of relay-race baton, used by people and then nations to restore balance and harmony, I am planting the idea that we have what we need to ensure the longevity of our planet and mankind. Maybe with a little divine nudge. And the divine in this book isn’t bound to any belief system except love and healing.

Why did I set my new book, The Secret of the Cylinder, in 1979 Iran?

I was 19 years old in the US in 1979; just starting to spread my wings and enjoy the freedoms of adulthood in a Western nation. My world was expanding. By contrast, 1979 in Iran was a time of diminishing human rights, especially for women. Granted, Iran was westernized because of US interference and manipulation, as is done with so many other countries. We’re enjoying the fallout of this now, with the rise of Daesh. 

Back in 1979 Iran, women protested having to wear the hijab (headscarf). Today, a new generation has grown used to wearing it, and some prefer it. The contrasts intrigue me. I feel so lucky to have chosen in this lifetime to be born in the US, with all the freedoms we take for granted. Anoush takes is upon herself to try to protect those freedoms, by saving the cylinder and Inanna statue from clerics of the incoming regime, who would certainly destroy them. One because it bore the story of a woman; which would be blasphemy in a patriarchal era. The other, the statue, because it was a reminder of the power of the feminine. Then, as in some places even now, men were afraid of women and their true power.

First popup Art Show and Author Reading

Does combining an author reading with a show of one’s art sound like a good idea? I thought so. These are two of my favorite things, so this January of 2016 I threw a popup 48-hour event. The gallery of my favorite artist building in Sausalito, CA became available through an amazing bit of happenstance, friendships, and goodwill. I finally had 10 paintings I felt were strong enough to show and a book in prepublication. The timing was perfect to take the leap and organize my first art show/hybrid.

At some previous author events, I’d read in cafes, where one’s finely-crafted words are suddenly screeched out of existence with the frothing of each cappuccino. I figured I wouldn’t have a decibel dilemma reading in a gallery. Construction was underway just down the hall from the space where I’d be having this art show, but I figured it would be minimal over the weekend.

I contacted two photographers (also artist friends) who had recently traveled to Iran, the setting for my new novel, The Secret of the Cylinder. They agreed to amend my show with prints of their work, and their sales would be donated to a charity. Another draw! Another win! Collaborative co-creation!

Since I had the time, I was able to plot and plan extensively; researching YouTubes on everything from the proper packaging of artwork for shipping to the 10 best and worst things to do at author readings. Now an expert on glassine, artist tape, and which side of the bubble wrap touches the paint, I also know to read for only ten minutes and make lots of eye contact.

I created an online presence for my paintings through ArtFinder.com, which required scribing each piece’s story, price, dimensions, and all kinds of other metadata, as for a book. I created a list of Suggested Questions for the Q&A part of the program after the reading (also useable for future radio interviews). Building content became easier and easier as I reviewed my process, inspiration, and challenges that went into every painting and chapter. Duel bios, Facebook pages, new Twitter and Instagram accounts…my fourth book was going to get the finest delivery into the world I could offer.

Just like a well-written story is reworked, layered, put down, then revisited, so I also did these things for every canvas until they each became part of a cohesive offering to the world.

As always happens, no matter how well you prepare, something comes out of left field. One of the photographers dropped out the day before the show after some impressive histrionics. The other became my hero; hanging his work precisely and beautifully using his carpentry background, and offering kind words to my battered spirit. (After the fiasco, it took singing my Power Song several times, casting a circle, calling in my allies, cleaning my chakras, transforming the heavy energy many times, and downing much EmergenC and Rescue Remedy to put me into a state where I felt the show could go on without me being a quivering wreck.)

Also on the day before the show, we had a rainstorm of the biblical caliber. Something Noah would find impressive. I set up the room myself. Initially carrying one box at a time in one hand and an umbrella in the other, I eventually gave up and tossed the umbrella; going for the drowned rat artist look. Luckily, with all the physical labor, I stayed warm in the unheated building, despite being soaked to the bone. (I decided years ago that extreme precipitation is a harbinger of good luck as I met my ex-husband on a blizzarding February evening, and have been offered great jobs on downpour days.)

The day of the show, my second hero, my partner, whisked me to Costco to stock up on the much-needed wine, cheese and crackers, then helped extensively with opening day setup. With Chardonnay chilling, the Afro-Cuban All Stars playing, and the lighting set “just so”, we began greeting guests, friends, and local artists from the building as they filtered in and floated around the gallery space. The energy built; the event’s own organic momentum grew and flowed beautifully through the reading. Guests offered astute questions (we discovered a link between the Cyrus Cylinder and columns in India that also contained a sort of declaration of human rights, placed in a central location of a community space). Four hours flew. And then it was time to close the doors for the day and head off to a local restaurant to recap the high points over champagne.

On Day Two of the show, another hero helped with setup and then the fast-track breakdown (just 45 minutes because we knew where everything was, how to do it properly, and all the doors and elevators were working…plus it wasn’t raining.)

Besides some earnest hammering at the neighboring construction during the second day’s reading, the show went without mishap.

Lessons learned: You can never prepare enough. Rehearse what you’ll be reading many times, so it sounds smooth in front of an audience and you don’t fumble the alliteratives. Be kind. Always. Forgive yourself and others for being imperfect. Enjoy your party!

Reading from The Secret of the Cylinder this January in Sausalito, CA!

Join me for a ROMANCE, REBELS AND A MAGIC CARPET RIDE - readings from my new novel, The Secret of the Cylinder - The Persian Love-Heist. Dates: January 30 and 31, 2016. Gallery 111, ICB Building, 480 Gate 5 Road, Sausalito, CA. Readings Saturday at 4 p.m. and Sunday at 2 p.m. and 4 p.m.

Presented in a collaborative exhibit TREASURES OF PERSIA with images of cultural, architectural, and historical sites of modern-day Iran by Robert May and Koorosh Ostowari, from their trip to Iran in October of 2015.

And also at Gallery 111, LIFE IS BUT A DREAM - a show of my figurative oils and portraits. Gallery hours: Sat. 3 p.m.to 7:00 p.m. and Sunday 1 p.m. to 5 p.m.