Speaking of learning about the past, as Clare did yesterday, I just received a blast from my family’s past. A big truck arrived at Chez Kathryn on Sunday morning, bearing a treasure trove of inherited family artifacts. I use the word “artifacts” advisedly. Some of the items we just received, while interesting and beautiful, are also a tad…unusual.

For example: there’s a Victorian-era bronze replica of the Farnese Bull  being wrestled to the ground by men wearing fig leaves. I  call this piece “The Creature,” but it actually depicts the Roman myth of Dirce. According to the rather misogynistic tale, Dirce is tied to the bull as punishment for her “wrong” behavior. (I’m ashamed to admit to Clare that I had to look up that info on Google).

Then there’s a pair of carved wooden busts picked up during Grand Tours undertaken by 19th-century kinfolk. I have reunited the couple for the moment on a fireplace mantel.

There’s also a Civil War-era saber. The saber was discovered hidden inside the walls of the family home in Whistler, Alabama. (When I unpacked that little treasure, I of course swung it over my head and let loose with a Rebel Yell, in honor of my vanquished ancestor.)

And as interesting as that saber is, it can’t hold a candle compared to the Crusader sword and Assyrian shield, which have yet to find placement on the walls of our extremely contemporary home.

Then there’s a silver, wagon-wheel thingee. I can’t figure out what the heck the thing is. It’s very ornate, and obviously was wheeled out for some kind of formal purpose. A special wine presentation, perhaps? Anyone have a clue about this one? Clare? I’m thinking about calling it the Chariot of the Bacchus Gods. It’ll come in handy during our housewarming party, I’m sure.

I was going to discuss writer quirks and superstitions today, really I was. But I think my rambling and these pictures give you an idea of the theme I had in mind: as writers, we all inherit our share of odd quirks. Some of those quirks inevitably find their way into our writing.  At the rate I’m going, I foresee writing a family saga spanning decades and generations–something very James Michener-ish. Or perhaps more torrid, like THE THORN BIRDS.

So my question for you today: what odd quirk have you inherited as a writer? Or what have you inherited from your ancestors that’s bizarre or fascinating? 

I went to my 40th high school reunion last weekend, and I’m so glad I did. I had a small and treasured group of friends in school, but over the years my peripatetic lifestyle had caused me to lose touch with them. When it dawned on me that our graduation digits were turning the Big 4-0, I decided to step on a plane and head from Los Angeles to Boston. 

As anyone who has attended a major reunion for the first time already knows, it felt strange at first to suddenly reconnect with people I hadn’t seen in decades. I remembered us all as kids, but now we were all older adults. I had to quickly reconcile my memories of the past with the mature present.  The gangly, shy boy I’d known is now the dapper periodontist; the former tom boy and gal pal is now the accomplished television professional.   

Getting my first wheels, circa ’73

I think we attend reunions to reconnect, not just with others, but with a sense of ourselves from an earlier time. As I sat at the reunion table, I tried to remember what I was like in high school, what my ambitions had been back then. I remember that I loved English class, especially creative writing assignments. But I didn’t connect my vague enjoyment of writing with any notion of a future career. I come from a family of scientists and academicians. Our clan regards writing as a tool, not an aspiration. I thought the ambition of becoming a writer was only meant for the literati and artistes.  

I wish I’d known when I was young that “real” people can become writers. It would have helped me get started earlier. So, here’s my advice to all the high school English teachers out there: invite a local novelist to speak about writing to your class. You might just be giving that quiet girl in the third row a vision of her future.

Question for you all: have you ever braved a high school reunion before? How did it go?

Update: I just added a picture of me “back in the day”–thanks to Jordan for the suggestion! 

There’s a tradition on social media called “Throwback Thursday”, in which people post pictures of themselves from the past. I was reminded of Throwback Thursday yesterday when I read an article in The Guardian, a British newspaper.

In “From bestseller to bust: is this the end of an author’s life?“, editor Robert McCrum interviews authors who find themselves struggling to adapt to an era of reduced advances from publishers. The article suggests that the mid-list writer is an endangered species. Read the article, and then come back.

I was astonished by the defeatist mindset of the authors who were interviewed in the article. They seemed to assume that if they were no longer getting livable advances from publishers, the game was over. Say what? Has no one in Britain heard of indie publishing? Indie publishing wasn’t even mentioned in the article (one reader did describe indie alternatives in the Comments, which sounded a bit like Sir Walter Raleigh  bringing news of the potato and other New World wonders back in 1589.) Other commenters then proceeded to confuse the indie industry with vanity publishing.

Most of all, the article mourns the passing of a more “genteel” era in publishing:

Publishers were toffs, booksellers trade and printers the artisan champions of liberty. Like the class system, we thought, nothing would change. The most urgent deadline was lunch. How wrong we were. 

Indeed. When it comes to adapting to a changed publishing model, I think American writers are ahead of the curve. People on this side of the pond are used to changing the way they work. Many former mid-list writers have  reinvented themselves as their own author brands. (And in so doing, have been astonished to discover that they’re making more money than they did under the old system.) Other writers are content to remain in the legacy publishing fold, or they become “hybrids” who do both legacy and indie work. It’s a matter of finding your own comfort level.

But judging by the Guardian article, one has to conclude that British writers are stuck in the Grief stage about the changed publishing world. 

It’s not helpful to remain mired in the past. Maybe we should send our British friends some copies of WHO MOVED MY CHEESE?

Today’s topic is inspired by a question we received from a TKZ reader:

“When you were at your lowest point and about to give up writing fiction, what pulled you through?”

Over the last few days, the news has been filled with reactions to another high-profile murder case out of Florida–the so-called “Loud Music” Murder Trial.  From the cable news bloviators to the Twitterverse, everyone seems eager to second-guess the jury’s deliberations (at least, the ones that resulted in a mistrial).

Such passionate opinions! people shared. But here’s the thing–few of these people, if any, would actually want to serve on a jury. Or even be willing to.

Dodging jury duty. It’s an American tradition. We’ll plead anything to get out of serving this civic duty–we’ll claim job hassles, childcare responsibility, a passing gas attack–almost any excuse will do, as long as we can make it believable.

I remember the last time I got called up for jury duty. It was Wednesday, the week before Christmas. A robbery case. As a court official polled the rows of prospective jurors, people were practically diving under their seats to avoid being called. Meanwhile, I’d positioned myself in the front row. I was all but waving my hand like an overeager student: “Oh, oh! Choose me! Choose me!” As a writer. I’d been dying to experience a jury trial. This was my chance. 

The case itself was a bit anticlimactic.  The “robbery” we were judging turned out to be little more than a glorified shoplifting case. I was amazed at how lousy the defense attorney’s arguments were. Partly because of her poor presentation, I drove everyone crazy once we reached the jury room. My fellow jurors seemed to want to take a vote and get out of there, but I insisted on dissecting all the evidence. I think the others were afraid I was going to prolong the deliberations until Christmas. Finally, we found the defendant guilty of petty theft, a far lesser crime than robbery. The accused–a young male, he looked about 19 years old–collapsed his head to his knees with relief as we read the verdict. I imagine that the sentence would have been even shorter if he had actually got a good lawyer to defend him. If you’ve committed a crime then it would be wise to look into every option before you decide who you want to represent you. For example, if you live in Philadelphia then you will want to look at all of the philadelphia criminal lawyers to find the best one for you. You know never know how helpful a good lawyer can be to you. I wonder where that young male is today.

The writer’s part of my brain soaked up every drop of the jury experience. The next time I have to craft a court scene, I’ll be able to draw on real memory, not something I learned second-hand. Or, worse! from the movies. The next time I get one of those summons in the mail, I’ll be back in the front row, hoping to get called.

Am I the only person who gets excited about jury duty? Have any of your jury experiences been useful in your story-telling?