The Van Cliburn Competition--and more

Every four years, Fort Worth hosts the international Van Cliburn Piano Competition. Young pianists come from all over the world to compete in this prestigious event--one of if not the most renowned in the world. Newspaper coverage is, of course, intense, and those of us who read the newspaper feel we get to know each competitor. The program starts with thirty; twelve make the semi-finals, and six the finals.
Fort Worth families host these young people, no small task. They have to assure the pianist will have privacy, and a grand piano or baby grand is imported into the house for practice. Some hosts request no practice after ten; others just enjoy the music. Host families provide entertainment, comfort, and support. Good friends of mine hosted a competitor this time around. He wanted steak every night--apparently our steak is better than that in his native Italy, and he wanted the protein to keep him in shape for the competition. So they took him for the best steaks in the city. My friends, Mary and Joe, fell in love with Alessandro Taverna, as they have with every competitor they've hosted, and they were crushed when he didn't make the semi-finals. In an article in the paper this morning Mary was quoted as saying Alessandro was more philosophical than she, saying he was just starting his career and he knew such disappointments were part of it. In the end, he wound up consoling her.
The article, with its quotes from Mary, got me to thinking about competitions. I admit to being fairly addicted to the Food Network, though "Chopped" is not one of my favorite programs. Still, if I'm in the kitchen cooking, I watch it and soon find myself identifying with one of the contestants. I'm always crushed when they are chopped. All are graceful about accepting it, but I sense their disappointment...and many had such great dreams of what they would do with the prize money.
Then my mind jumped to writing, not unusual for me, and I thought about all the competitions for writers. I've been fortunate enough in my career to win really nice awards for my western writing (including the Western Writers of America Lifetime Achievement Award) but none for my mysteries. I still feel a novice in the mystery field, with four books published, and am neither surprised nor disappointed. Some of the most prestigious prizes are based on votes from fellow writers, and I know I don't attend conferences and schmooze enough to get that well known. On the other hand, I treasure the fans who write me about how much they enjoy my books. And I'm not really good about submitting for contests--my children would tell me that's a defeatist attitude.
But it struck me that whatever your passion--music, art, cooking, writing and others--there are competitions and you have to go for the gold ring. Losing competitions is part of growth in your career, and more power to people like Alessandro who can be philosophical and accepting.
Tomorrow we find out who the Van Cliburn winner is, but great career opportunities will come to all those who made the competition (screening is pretty fierce) and I wish them all well as they carry their beautiful music out into the world.

Are you involved in the world?

I have a good friend who is involved in all kinds of statewide civic causes that reflect the wide variety of her interests—The Texas State Historical Society, the Texas Institute of Letters, the Texas Folklore Society, alumni organizations and boards, state committees on the humanities and other such. She’s been president of a lot of those things, and every week finds her flitting to Austin or some such. Now she says she’s accepted a spot on the board of the Dallas Public Library. And whatever she does, she does it full throttle. And then tells me her schedule is going to do her in. I chide her for spreading herself too thin, but the truth is I’m proud to know her and a bit envious of the contributions she makes to the state, particularly to the humanities.

One of the things I thought I would do when I retired was volunteer. Over the years, feeling the need to make some sort of contribution, I’ve tried various things: a stint at the Museum of Science and History, giving kids talks on beach trash and its dangers, a session with an on-line volunteer program that had me coaching young writing students via the internet—it turned out to be so poorly administered that I gave up. My vision of volunteer work is working more at my church (there was a period when I did a lot of that), making sandwiches at the local night shelter, being a museum docent, the hands-on kind of stuff.

But it has dawned on me that I do a lot of volunteer work, for causes I care about, right here at my computer. I am a volunteer monitor one day a week for the Sister in Crime listserv; I am a member of the steering committee and membership chair for Guppies, the Going to be Published sub-group of Sisters in Crime (publication does not mean automatic expulsion from the group). I edit my neighborhood monthly newsletter, which often runs into a 20-page publication, and each week I welcome first-time visitors to University Christian Church—by phone if I can catch them and by email if not. I actively promote rescue dogs and sites on Facebook because animal welfare is a subject I am passionate about.

And I’ve done my bit in the past, as president and longtime board member of Western Writers of America, chair of Church and the Arts Committee at my church, secretary of the Texas Institute of Letters.

So maybe it’s dawning on me that I’m not the sloth that I thought I was. I do contribute to my own special world and more important the things that I do keep me involved. That, besides having meaningful work, is what I hope will keep me young in spirit as my body ages. I truly believe being involved in the world is essential to the happy life.

Hobnobbing with the literati-Texas style

Tonight was the biennial induction into the Texas Literary Hall of Fame sponsored by the Friends of the Fort Worth Public Library. It was a grand event--hors d'oevres and plentiful wine aside, the best part was that I saw and got to hug a lot of people I really like. It felt like being home--and then I realized how lucky I was to feel at home among so many accomplished authors.
My favorite mystery writer, Deborah Crombie, was the master of ceremonies--but we chatted mostly about dogs, not books. The honorees were Sarah Bird, who is a good friend and once stayed in my garage apartment; Carole Nelson Douglas, another good friend that I see once a month at Book Ladies breakfast; Robert Flynn--he and his wife are special to me and I'm proud that while I was at TCU Press we reprinted and published several of his novels; Leon Hale, whose wife is a good Facebook friend and a former publishing colleague (we both got out of the business to a certain extent)--Leon was not able to be there and Jim Lee accepted for him; Stephen Harrigan, a Texas Institute of Letters colleague who we honored once with the TCU Texas Book Award and whose Gates of the Alamo is a book I much admire; Joe Lansdale, who I used to know a lifetime ago in Western Writers of America--it was fun to say hello, tell each other it's been a long time, and how are you doing now?; Rosalyn Story, whom I"m sorry to say I don't know and didn't meet tonight; and Jane Roberts Wood, another special person.
There were others there--a friend who hugged me and said she loved my blog (are you reading this, Gay?), another member of the Book Ladies, and a former Book Lady I haven't seen in forever. I'm not in such a mass of authors and readers often and it was a real treat. Fran and Ross Vick, who are special people in my sphere of friends for lots of reasons; Bob Compton, once book editor of the Dallas Morning News--now we keep in touch through Facebook. I'm sure I'm missing others. Thanks to Jim Lee for chaffeuring me.
Lovely evening.

History meets the modern world in a fine novel

I just finished reading Charlotte Hinger's Lethal Lineage. Charlotte and I have been friends for years, since our days in Western Writers of America (I suspect Charlotte is still a lot more active than I am), and I always considered her Come Spring a classic about life on the western prairies for women. Now she's turned her hand to mysteries--and a fine hand it turns out to be. Award-winning Deadly Descent was first in the Lottie Albright series (and I enjoyed it a great deal). Now it's followed by Lethal Lineage.
Having lived in western Kansas for most of her adult life, Charlotte knows that barren, wind-swept land and its people like she knows her own soul, and she pours that knowledge into her mysteries. Lottie, however, is a relative newcomer, albeit married to a longtime vet/rancher. Still Charlotte shows us Lottie learning about the land and its people, particularly by serving as head of the local historical society where she encourages people to submit written and oral bits of their histories.
Charlotte effectively blends that knowledge of the land with deep and thorough research, this time into the Episcopalian church in western Kansas, the ancient practice of glebes (land assigned to support a priest). Glebes were fairly common in the East, but there was only one in western Kansas. In addition, she weaves into her story the horrors of Africa's Hutu-Tutsi Wars and the terror that survivors carried with them, even into new lives in this country. And the oral histories of the folk of western Kansas weave into this in an amazing conclusion.
Hats off to Charlotte. This is the kind of book I wish I could write, and I give it five stars. Read it. You will too.
I understand that the FCC says if I am going to review books, I have to make a disclaimer that the above is my own opinion and also have to state my guidelines for reviewing books: well, this isn't a book review blog, though I have often reviewed for a variety of sources, including major newspapers. Nope, this is just one mystery reader's personal opinion. From time to time, I'll review books I liked. If I don't mention a book it means I've never read it or didn't like it well enough to recommend. So there you have it--I liked Lethal Lineage.