Kimberly Menozzi, Author
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Thursday Thirteen: Happy Anniversary Edition!

27/2/2014

20 Comments

 
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Ciao a tutti! Hi, everybody! It's that time again, and this week, I've prepared a special little tribute to my hubby of ten years - and tomorrow, that number is official! That's right, our tenth wedding anniversary is Friday the 28th, and I thought I'd "celebrate" a bit by sharing some of my favorite photos of my hottie hubby, Alessandro, taken over the years.

So now, please allow me to share with you:

Thirteen Photos of My Hubby!

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1) August 2003, when we first met in person after a months-long "courtship" on the internet and telephone.
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2) 2004 - Our first (and so far, only) Christmas in Tennessee. The weather was remarkably warm that year.
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3) 2004 - Alle in his Green Cross gear. (Gotta love a man in uniform, eh?)
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4) 2006 - Alle tries to persuade Santa that we'd both been very good that year. Santa wasn't buying it, though.
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5) 2005 - Our first trip to Ferrara for Easter Monday.
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6) 2004 - A stop in Lucca on our honeymoon trip.
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7) The photo Alle sent me in 2003 which made me fall head over heels for him. Taken in Ireland.
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8) 2004 - Alle clowning around in Siena during our honeymoon trip.
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9) Alle (on the right) poses with his friends during a rest break on a ride. (I think this was 2006 or 2007, but I'm not sure.)
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10) Alle with his newborn niece, Mia in 2008.
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11) Alle poses for me in Fontanellato in 2006.
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12) Alle and me, in Pisa (of course) in 2006.
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13) Alle has some Daddy-Daughter Bonding Time with Doodle in 2008.


And there you have them: Thirteen Photos of My Hubby!






I think you'll agree he's a cutie, eh?










And since this is a special edition of my Thursday Thirteen, I've prepared an equally special final photo for you all.
















It's a little different from the usual fare (to say the least), but...























I sure hope you don't mind!
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Squeeeee! Baby Alle!
Ciao for now! :)
20 Comments

Thursday Thirteen: Thirteen Photos Which Inspired 27 Stages

25/4/2013

26 Comments

 
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Ciao a tutti! Hi, everybody! Thanks for dropping by for this week's Thursday Thirteen. Since I'm very busy, preparing for my trip to the US next week and wrapping up all the work on 27 Stages, I thought I'd share a few pics which have inspired me throughout the long slog from start to finish.

So, yeah, it's a blog of cyclist photos. *clears throat*

Anyhoo... Please, allow me to present to you

Thirteen Photos Which Inspired 27 Stages!

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A rider cleans off post-race in the famous Paris-Roubaix velodrome shower hall.
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Post-crash recovery.
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Philippe Gilbert's legs after winning a stage of the Vuelta a Espana.
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I'm endlessly amazed at how closely they can ride together in the group.
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A peek inside a team bus during the Giro d'Italia. The "crash pad" for Alta VeloCidad's bus is based on this shot and a few other team buses I've found online.
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This is *literally* the moment where the story started taking shape in my head. As I watched Cancellara receive the maillot jaune, I was speaking to my husband on the phone (he was in Italy, I was in the US). When the camera panned out and showed Cancellara on the podium, I said, without thinking, "I want to lick his legs." My husband didn't miss a beat and said "If you can catch him, go right ahead." That moment, combined with the team politics on display by the Astana riders (specifically Contador and Armstrong) led to the creation of 27 Stages.
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Fabian Cancellara's legs as he stands atop the Paris-Roubaix podium after winning the race in 2010.
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This is one of my all-time favorite photos, and even now, looking at it makes me want to write a story for it.
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There is a scene in 27 Stages which was written before I saw this photo, but which mentions a photo Abby takes over her shoulder without even looking, after sensing someone is watching her. When she looks at it later, she finds Federico was in the crowd after all. This is *literally* the sort of image I imagined her capturing.
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Riding in the rain isn't just wet, but cold, too. No wonder they all look so miserable, eh?
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In my next life, I want to come back as a fly so I can spy on the boys in the bus.
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This year's Milan-Sanremo race proved that there is nothing - absolutely *nothing* - I can write which will ever compete with real life. But I will keep trying.
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Cancellara falls to the ground after winning this year's Paris-Roubaix by a bike length.
And there you have them: Thirteen Photos Which Inspired 27 Stages.




Of course, there were many, many more photos than this to inspire me since 2009. I simply can't share them all, though.
















Which is a bit of a shame, really.






















And I know I owe you at least one more pic, so...






















I hope this will do.
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Gilberto Simoni. Cyclist.
26 Comments

Thursday Thirteen: 13 Snippets from 27 Stages!

21/3/2013

26 Comments

 
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Ciao a tutti! Hi, everybody! Sorry about the hiccup posting last week - by which I mean, no TT last Thursday - but I had a good reason (don't I always?). I've been working hard to get things done, writing-wise, and while I'm still lagging behind, I made some time this week to share another sampling of my biggest WiP ever.

So, with your kind indulgence, I'd like to share

13 Snippets from 27 Stages!

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Abby:

Around me the spectators waved flags and signs and cheered – not only for their favorites, but for every rider coming in. All at once, there were excited shouts and piercing whistles all around. Everyone turned to watch the giant screens on the sides of the road. Renard, the rider Charles thought looked so angry, had cleared the second checkpoint in record time. He was presently burning up the road on the descents out of the park, occasionally leaving the less-daring motorcycle cameramen behind. They weren't willing to take the curves at the same rate of speed.

Clearing a bend in the road to fly down to the straightaway beyond, Renard shot past a rider who'd left the start house a full two minutes ahead of him. The next switchbacks in the road made the crowd gasp, and my heart pounded so hard I could scarcely breathe. Finally he swept past yet another rider and out onto somewhat more open road.

The crowd tensed, watching along the road for him. On the screen another dramatic scene played out. Renard had just surpassed the time of his teammate and fan favourite, Heinrich Brunn – quite easily, by the look of it – and was now making his way toward the finish. The seconds which separated them began to expand: Brunn's time was five seconds longer, ten, twenty. The standings on the screen shifted accordingly. Renard rose higher and higher, from fourth to third to second and then to a clear first-place finish.

My camera all but forgotten, I leaned over the barrier and watched eagerly for his arrival. I needn't have worried about missing him – the roar of the crowd swept along with him as he closed in on the finish line. The sound grew louder and louder still, every possible noisemaker being improvised and then employed. Cheers and shouts which bordered on screams, megaphones used to amplify shouts of joy, inflatable "thundersticks" thwapped together to produce manic, percussive sounds. People clapped their hands and banged on the barriers, jumping up and down.

And then, there he was. I gathered my senses and snapped photos of him approaching the line, one arm raised over his head in a show of jubilation, complete and utter joy on his face.

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Federico:

Back at the hotel, I had two thorough goings-over at the same time. The team masseur worked his magic on my legs – cooling the fire smouldering just beneath my skin – while Jerzy tore into me with a restraint I'd never seen before.

"Grandstanding," he growled, pacing the length of the room. "Shameless grandstanding, Ciccio. I don't approve of such things. It could have cost you time."

"But it didn't," I said, looking up at him from the massage table.

He whirled around and narrowed one eye at me, his signal that I should shut up if I intended to keep all my most precious body parts. The masseur kept his head down and continued working as though the threat weren't hanging in the air amongst us.

"It could have, is what I said. Save the shows for when you join the circus."

The blood drained from my face as shame filled it. He was right. Sure, I'd managed a phenomenal lead – fifty-five seconds ahead of Brunn, forty seconds ahead of Schlessinger and Maxxout, who would be marking my ass as a personal vendetta for sure – but starting tomorrow, the stages would be longer and harder, and I wouldn't be on my own.

"Work with the team, Ciccio, not against them."

I nodded, chastened. Jerzy remained at the foot of the table, behind the masseur, and glared at me before storming off. The masseur glanced up at me with a sympathetic look and I closed my eyes, exhausted.

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Abby:

...we stood at the barriers along the road, along with other spectators waiting for the stage to begin.

The riders wouldn't race within the city limits. They'd ride slowly together behind a car full of Tour officials until they reached a more open part of the road. Everything would get off to a proper start then, likely with a group breaking away from the pack to try and gain time, while the rest sat back and waited for their chances closer to the finish.

As for us, once the riders had gone past, we'd check out of the hotel, then drive our rental car to Castro Verde, where the stage ended. I'd take pictures of the finish, and in the morning I'd photograph the opening of the next stage.

This was the plan for the next few weeks, too.

A ripple of applause made its way toward us, reaching a peak when the peloton passed. I smiled as Renard went by, clad in the royal-blue jersey which marked him as the Tour's current leader. I framed him carefully and took several successive shots while he raised his hand and waved at the crowd on my side of the road. An obviously disgruntled Jürgen Schlessinger of Team Maxxout rode alongside him.

A flare of excitement flashed through me and I continued taking photos of the rest of the pack as it streamed by, southward bound.

The whole event didn't last long. Even with all the behind-the-scenes 'mood' shots I'd captured, Charles and I had only been out for a couple of hours.

"Finally," he said with a sigh. "Now let's get our bags before someone steals them, and find some lunch before the restaurants close for some bloody siesta or something."

"There's plenty of time." I checked my watch for good measure. "It's barely twelve-thirty."

He shrugged and turned in the direction of the hotel. "Let's go to that pub again. It's English-owned and they had a nice fry-up listed on the menu. Could be worth trying."

Turning my head so he couldn't see me roll my eyes, I packed up my things. "If you say so, hon."

"I do." He took me by the crook of my elbow and led me through the crowd. "I suppose this whole travel thing isn't so bad, once you find decent places to eat."

"There are lots of great restaurants in Lisbon, Charles. You just have to be willing to try something different."

"And risk Montezuma's revenge? No thanks."

"That's what you call it in Mexico, I think," I offered in mild protest. A shake of his head dismissed me.

"It's all the same, darling. I don't doubt that some of this lot would do it on purpose."

"I think that's pretty unlikely. I mean, they'd lose business if that were the case."

"Not with the bloody Euro in the marketplace. Now they can do as they please without fear of losing their livelihood."

"You're talking like a businessman again. Couldn't we just play happy tourists and have fun?"

He held the door of the pub open and I stepped reluctantly inside.

"Maybe later," he said. "Right now, I want my fry-up, all right?"

"All right. But I'm having the cozido this time."

"Suit yourself – and best of luck to you."

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Federico:

While I warmed up with my teammates on the stationary trainers alongside the team bus, I puzzled over the lack of communication from Solange. Still no calls in response to mine. No messages, either. An unpleasant voice in the back of my mind insisted something was going on: she'd never gone so long without contacting me before.

When I noticed Rom watching me with open curiosity, I returned my focus to what I was doing. I couldn't afford distraction.

I thought about the route ahead for that afternoon. I closed my eyes and visualized the profile: a few gently undulating hills but mostly flat, with one climb once we were well out of Lisbon. The whole course would run about two-hundred kilometres. Remembering the day before, my mood lightened.

I could do this. I knew it.

Supporters watched while we warmed up, taking photos, calling out good wishes to us. I turned up the volume on my mp3 player and let the percussive techno beat drive me on. I looked up only when my trainer nudged me and motioned for me to adjust my position on the bike.

Shit. Focus, Renard.

I let the music play and narrowed my world to the rhythm of my feet on the pedals and to keeping myself steady on the bike. I concentrated until I didn't hear the music anymore, just the thrumming of energy passing through me to power the bike. My legs pistoned smoothly and the hum of my rear wheel reassured me of my steady pace. The longer I went, the better I felt and the clearer my head became.

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Abby:

"Come on, Abby," Charles said from where he lay under the covers, "let's go to sleep."

I looked at my watch; it was only seven p.m.

"I'm hungry." I stood and got my handbag. "I'm going out for a bite. Do you want me to bring anything up for you?"

Charles groaned in reply and rolled over.

"Fair enough. I'll be back soon."

Key in hand, I eased the door shut and went down to the hotel restaurant. I'd forgotten that the Spanish tend to dine late, with dinner beginning around nine at night. Most of the restaurants, including the one in the hotel, weren't even open yet. I certainly didn't want pub fare so I headed along the street in search of something light.

In the main plaza people mingled and chatted around the fountain and in the cafés and pubs. Fathers played with their children or sat with their wives (or girlfriends) sharing coffee or sweets at the outside café tables.

I felt decidedly out of place, flying solo as I was.

I bought an iced lemonade and sat on a bench in the plaza, wishing I had my camera. What wonderful shots I was missing!

The last of the summer evening light gave the plaza a nostalgic feel. The sepia-toned light cast soft shadows with an almost liquid texture in the fading heat of the day.

Finishing my drink, I decided to go and get my camera. Maybe I could still get some good photos after all. I hurried up to our room and slipped inside quietly, hoping Charles was asleep and would stay that way.

No such luck.

"You're back," he said sleepily.

I stopped, putting my camera bag back on the table. "I thought I might get some photos. It's a beautiful evening."

"No, no… Why don't you come to bed? You can get your little snaps in the morning."

I wanted to protest but I was in no mood to argue. Instead, I went to the window and pulled the curtains closed on the plaza.

My 'little snaps' would just have to wait.

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Federico:

With each crank of the pedals, liquid fire ran through my legs. My skin burned in the late afternoon heat radiating from the tarmac. A grimace carved itself into my face, a death's-head grin for exquisite suffering under the summer sun.

Up ahead, a motorcycle swayed to and fro, going slowly up the steep incline so the camera operator on board could keep filming. In its wake the crowd on either side of the road spilled toward us, swallowing us up in a constantly shifting, screaming mass of humanity – all of whom were too close for comfort.

All the usual chaos of a mountain stage on the Tour d'Europa.

The peloton had broken apart prior to the climb, with the leaders and the better climbers forging well ahead of the pack. The blur of colour and noise on either side of my head was lost to my tunnel vision and the sounds inside it.

"You're doing fine, Ciccio." The voice in my earpiece was Michael, our directeur sportif's-second-in command. "Once this climb is done it's straight down to the bottom for the stretch to Granada."

That we were doing well wasn't news to me. That it wasn't Jerzy's voice in my ear, however, was. Brunn had caught up with me after we'd cleared the previous, rather dodgy, descent, where I'd thought he was well behind me. Now he was recovering on my rear wheel and Rom and Attila were doggedly leading us up the hardest climb of today's stage.

I still had no intention of letting Brunn ride my slipstream all the way into Granada. His job – at least for now – was to help protect me and keep the Royal in my possession as long as possible.

Right now the greater threat was Schlessinger, coming up slowly alongside me. Maxxout's blue-green team colours stood out even in the confusion of the crowd surrounding us. I refused to look his way, knowing his smug expression awaited me.

There was a basso profundo shout from somewhere in the crowd as Schlessinger made a subtle gesture in my direction – something between a wave and an obscenity, I thought – and then he crept upward,  first aligning himself with his support and then slyly sidling next to Rom.

I ducked to avoid a carelessly-handled German flag, and heard yet another guttural shout, this time cheering Brunn on. There was no point in responding, no sense in coming any further out of my trance. Some of these people cheered for all of us, which gave the riders the will to dig deeper and make the climb. Others were oblivious to the mayhem they caused while they mugged for the television cameras, and frankly, for the most part, so were we.

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Abby:

We only just made it into Granada before the end of the race. I changed quickly into my walking shorts and left Charles unpacking at the hotel before hurrying to the finish line, camera in hand, still hoping to salvage something of the day. The crowd was raucous and I knew something huge was happening. Fuming over my continued lack of credentials, I pushed through the crowd, trying to get close to the road.

Thanks to a generous group of Germans, I managed to squeeze up to the barriers where I could hold my camera out and snag some shots. I managed just a few as the breakaway group crossed the line, fighting for the stage win in a bunch sprint.

The chanting began soon after the sprint ended. It started out at a moderate tempo, accentuated by handclaps: "Brunn! Brunn! Brunn! Brunn!"

I looked up at the screens showing an overhead shot of the final stretch into Granada. Five cyclists – two of them in Alta VeloCidad's violet and grey colours, one in Maxxout's blue-green, one in the red and blue of Ligne Infinie and Renard in the distinct Royal jersey – had broken away from the peloton and were bearing down on the finish with all their might.

One in particular was swiftly pulling ahead.

At this, the chanting grew louder, and one of the Germans next to me began to pound out a steadily intensifying rhythm on the barrier ahead of us. With every thunderous whap of his hand on the plastic banner taped over the railing, my heart sank lower into my stomach.

"BRUNN! BRUNN! BRUNN! BRUNN!"

I looked up at the times on the screen above the road. Brunn had broken away from Renard and Schlessinger. As I watched the broadcast, the other rider in Alta VeloCidad's colours dropped back, head hung low, slowing while he drifted to the side of the course to wait for the peloton to pick him up. Renard's domestique was exhausted, unable to help him any more.

In spite of the late afternoon heat, my arms were covered in gooseflesh.

No…Please, no.

I didn't know why I wanted so much for Renard to win, but I did. I wanted it with all my heart.

As one, the crowd turned their attention away from the screen to watch Brunn's actual arrival. His name was no longer being chanted, the crowd was screaming it, the noise riotous and manic until my heart raced so hard I could barely keep my camera in hand. I managed to lean out across the barrier to capture his arrival. I squeezed the release and the shutter obligingly snapped shot after shot in quick succession as Brunn lifted his hands from the handlebars of the bike and waved to the tumultuous crowd, long before he crossed the line.

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Abby:

The sky grew dark, the clouds gathering for a late-afternoon shower. Photographers instinctively covered their precious cameras and other equipment as thunder rumbled and rain began to fall. I couldn't speak for the others, but I was slightly relieved. In the muggy mid-afternoon heat, the rain brought some relief after standing out on the tarmac for so long. The rainfall was short, but intense, over almost as quickly as it had begun, leaving shallow puddles to reflect the reemerging sunlight.

As the helicopters hovered overhead, harbouring the arrival of the riders, more photographers assembled until the lines of our designated box seemed completely arbitrary. A final few arrived at a dead run, one of them vaulting the barrier to take a place directly in front of me.

"Hey!" I jostled him out of my way, gesturing angrily toward the road and the line at my feet. He shook his head and made as though to take the spot again, before another man reached out for his arm and tugged him roughly to one side. I glanced over to find my supporter was the French photographer who had sneaked me inside the barriers a couple of days ago. He smiled warmly and gave me a wink and I couldn't help smiling in return.

The crowd noise ratcheted up a notch – or ten – and all of the photographers took their positions. Some lay on the ground sniper-style while others, like me, knelt precariously in a line, aiming our cameras down the final stretch. The rest stood waiting, ready to jump or shift as necessary to capture their shots.

A rising roar of excitement rolled toward us, chasing the bunch sprint as it thundered our way. The battle for the stage win was fierce, and even though I'd photographed a few finishes already, this was the first time I'd seen one from this point of view: through my lens, it seemed that they were barrelling straight toward me with no sign of slowing. Several riders skidded through the water still on the road, losing control of their bikes before they could slow down.

One moment I was taking photos of riders crossing the finish line, the next I was backing up and stumbling over the feet of one photographer and being knocked to the ground by the elbow of another.

I landed hard, breath wooshing out of my lungs even as I held my camera aloft in an attempt to protect it. I was aware of equipment scattered around me – lenses, battery packs, memory cards – some of it mine, some of it theirs. Then the base of a crowd-control barrier was at my back, the sharp metal edge of one foot biting into me.

Winded, I lay on the pavement, my eyes closed, one hand clutching my side as though I could press the pain so deep I wouldn't feel it any more. I was dizzy; taking quick, short breaths had pushed me to the point of hyperventilation.

A moment later the sun broke through the cloud, warming my face before shadow settled over me.


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Federico:

Brunn and I were riding at speed amongst the peloton, but the group containing the sprinters was well ahead of us, gunning for the finish at the end of this flat stage. From Valencia to Torreblanca, Alvaro had sparred with Teodoro, promising his own victory to even the score with his brother. Teodoro had instead assured us all of his own imminent victory, going so far as to predict a one-second gap at the finish.

Braggadocio, all of it – but the good-natured teasing between the brothers was enough to entertain the rest of us for the length of the stage.

A burst of shrieking and screaming across the team's radio frequency was difficult to comprehend. Either Jerzy had just slipped over the edge into insanity, or somewhere closer to the line, one or more of my teammates had made a tactical mistake.

Brunn glanced at me, his expression inscrutable, save for a flicker of concern in his eyes before he turned back to the matter at hand.

Listening to the invective spewing over the airwaves, I had the feeling things weren't exactly going according to plan at the finish.

We pressed forward, the final roundabout looming ahead when Attilio gave a shout and bumped shoulders with another rider who was riding too close as the curve tightened.

Rom broke through the last few cyclists blocking us and I followed close on his wheel, the two of us making our way up to the head of the pack to lead the group through the roundabout and down the short final stretch.

We breezed our way down Avinguda de Sant Jordi, avoiding the concrete lip of the island separating the lanes of the road, but other riders weren't so lucky, judging from the shouts of the crowd and the skree of titanium on pavement which followed the final turn.

Rom fell back behind me in short order and Brunn was soon at my shoulder, a slight grin on his face the only indication that he was pleased with how things had gone. As far as I could tell, there wasn't even a hint of curiosity regarding Jerzy's previous rant, not one iota of concern for Alvaro or Teodoro or for how they'd fared.

We'd find out soon enough.

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Abby:

I did my best to remain professional as Renard stepped out to receive his Royal for the stage. A strange melancholy came over me as he stepped off the podium and shook hands with the town officials and other guests, before making his way backstage.

I thought of his expression when he'd checked on me after the crash and felt a slow melting inside. Ridiculous. A schoolgirl's crush, and I was – what? – at least ten years older than he was. At least.

I made a mental note to look up his birthdate online when I got back to the hotel. Or maybe I'd look it up on my netbook from the bar before I went up to the room. I didn't really feel like enduring any snide comments from Charles when I returned to Barcelona.

Then again, maybe he wouldn't be making them anymore, now that I'd called him on his "phone mate" and everything.

Drifting back to my car, I paused as a shiver ran along my spine in a light, tingling caress. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up and I turned toward the Village, where the remainder of the crowd milled around just outside the team areas.

There was no-one there, but I would have sworn I'd felt his gaze on me, if just for a split second. I clucked my tongue dismissively. I'm getting dotty in my old age, I reckoned, and resumed my walk to the car.

When the feeling came again, I took out my camera, aimed it over my shoulder, and clicked the shutter. I'd examine the shot when I got to Barcelona.

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Federico:

James sat on the edge of the big bench, his head hung low, only chancing a glance at Jerzy as he moved away. He caught my eye and his expression was one of purest misery. He'd fucked up and he knew it.

And so did Jerzy.

"It was stupid! Careless! What the fuck were you thinking?"

"Jer-" Alvaro didn't get the chance to finish.

"Where was your focus? On your stupid jokes with your brother? When you race you aren't brothers, do you understand? You are teammates. You are riders, nothing more!"

A torrent of rather colourful Spanish followed, and Teodoro, seated next to James, winced.

Adrie was reflected in the back window of the bus even though he stood just out of my sight. When Jerzy turned on James, Adrie's arms were folded across his chest in the posture of someone about to be sick.

"Sloppy! I should send Goosh out there tomorrow in your place, if I only could. He'd do a better job, if that's the best you can do. You had it! You fucking had it, and then you let the American get it? The American? It's his first fucking Tour and your third, and you still let him by? You fucking Brits are useless!"

I couldn't bear to watch any more but I couldn't avoid hearing it.

"Did you see how he was riding?" Adrie shouted back, and the murmur of conversation in the main cabin of the bus silenced. "It was too dangerous to hold the line, Jerzy. If James hadn't let him go, he'd have taken the whole lot of us out! The pack was too goddamn tight!"

"I watched the video, Adrie. I watched it. Where the fuck was your defence?"

"I shouldered as hard as I could, and he came back with more," Adrie answered calmly. "That little fucker is crazy. The finish was suicidal in that last turn – you saw how many got taken out by the kerb – and, frankly, I thought I'd like to end the stage without a busted collarbone or a broken neck."

Another silence, this time including the group at the back of the bus. Only Brunn had ever been so bold with Jerzy in the past, and he got a special pass by being his best friend.

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Abby:

"You've been drinking...?" Charles put his cell phone on the bedside table and gave me a quizzical look.

"Not much. Just a little wine with dinner. You know, as you do." I shrugged and went through my suitcase, digging out my nightgown and slippers.

"Are you upset about something?"

The disingenuousness of the question was insulting.

"Charles, how do you play at ignorance so well?"

"Come on, Abby." He stood and came over to my side of the bed to stare down at me while I changed clothes.

"You can't honestly be this oblivious." I looked up and met his eyes, daring him to pretend further.

He didn't.

Instead, he returned to his side of the bed. After a moment's silence, he sank down onto the bed and sighed. "This is why I thought we should consider…"

"I've already told you why I don't want that." I got under the coverlet, and Charles kept his back to me.

"I'd just feel better, Abby, if I thought you had someone with you when I'm away."

Bullshit.

"No, you'd feel better if I said you could have someone with you when you're away. That's what this is all about."

"No, it isn't."

"For all I know, you already have."

"Abby…"

I turned onto my side and resisted the urge to sigh, too.

"I didn't want you to feel this way about it," he said.

"How else would I feel? You're talking about taking a lover." I turned to face him and found him staring at the carpet, shaking his head. "And me, giving you the okay."

"No, I'm not."

My throat tightened and I got out of bed. I stood up straight and smoothed down my nightgown, trying to keep my hand from shaking. I held up the other hand and started counting off: "You put down the phone when I come in the room, you stay late at work even if you don't have to, and you get more phone calls than you need from work…"

"That's not proof of anything, Abby. Circumstantial at best."

"Give me time..." I gathered my clothes and piled them into the laundry bag. "I'm sure I'll dig up ample evidence soon enough."

Charles said nothing, just exhaled softly behind me. I got back into bed and pulled the blanket up to my shoulder after putting my back to him. Silence stretched out between us until he switched off the light and lay down.

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Federico:

The pub was practically empty and I wasn't really surprised. The team made up the majority of the patronage of the hotel, and most of them were either with their families or attending the festivities in the city centre.

The server led us to a circular booth in one corner. I liked the enforced privacy of the set-up right away. Between the high edges of the booth seat, the plentiful greenery scattered around the top and the low lighting in the pub, there was little chance of someone spotting us.

Abby ordered a white wine and the server looked expectantly at me.

"Una birra, per favore," I said, figuring today I'd earned at least a beer.

We sat in silence, which gave me a chance to consider a few things. First, there was the fact I'd repeatedly run into Abigail in the pubs. The second thing was that I always found her alone, in spite of her claim she was married. I'd yet to see this phantom husband, though she said he'd somehow played a part in her photographing the Tour.

Any mention of her husband saddened her – that much was clear. When we discussed the stage, or I told her about events on the road, her mood improved. Every time she laughed – or even just smiled – I felt myself getting drawn in deeper than ever.

This is bad. Very, very bad.

My heart clenched tight with understanding: married woman or no, I wanted her. Never mind the Solange debacle. Never mind her mythical Charles, wherever he was. I wanted Abigail White, and I couldn't have her.

"Federico? What are you thinking?"

I had to laugh. Why do women always ask that? If men were ever honest enough to answer with the truth, women would never come near us again.

"What's so funny?" she asked. "Tell me."

"You really don't want to know."

"Sure I do."

Her wide eyes searched mine, and I had no choice but to be honest. Maybe it would be best if she did go away.

"For a while I was thinking about the next stage," I said. "Then I thought about how I keep finding you alone in these places. Then I wondered where your husband really is. And then…?" I shrugged, hoping to make light of my next thought. "I started thinking how much I want to kiss you."

I looked down at my drink, not wanting to see her disappointment. I'd had enough of that in the past week to last me a lifetime.


Well, there you have them: 13 Snippets from 27 Stages - due out this summer (or sooner, if I can manage it)!





I sure hope you've enjoyed them.














And in addition to all the lovely photos accompanying these excerpts, I'll share one more pretty photo.

















Of course, it's of my favorite cyclist, who provided much of the inspiration for the story.





















And you know what?
















I reckon many of you will understand why that is.
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Fabian Cancellara, Swiss cyclist. General hottie.
Ciao for now!
26 Comments

Thursday Thirteen: 13 Songs I'm Listening To - Over and Over Again!

25/10/2012

22 Comments

 
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Hello, everyone! This week, I'm going to provide you with a musical interlude - mostly because I'm writing and editing and have been listening to music endlessly while I work (it's part of my process, y'see).

So now, please allow me to present to you:

13 Songs I'm Listening To - Over and Over Again!


First up are three songs by Amanda Palmer (formerly with the Dresden Dolls, once upon a time). I bought her most recent album (Theatre is Evil, with the Grand Theft Orchestra) and quite enjoyed it, along with some of her older work. She might not be everyone's cup of tea right away, but I find she grows on you, and her original lyrics are frequently intriguing and stunning pieces of art.
Of course, I can't write without Samuele...

Well, there you go. Now you know how I've been spending my (musical) time, lately.




















I hope you've enjoyed this extended musical interlude.




















And now, if you don't mind, I'm going to get back to writing.



















And since I'm writing another story with Davide Magnani in it...


















It's only fair to feature Luca Argentero again.























I've missed him.

























Haven't you?
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Ahhhhh... Luca!
Ciao for now!
22 Comments

Thursday Thirteen: 13 Photos of Fabian Cancellara

29/3/2012

12 Comments

 
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This week, I ran a bit late (again) in trying to get a Thursday Thirteen post up. Since I'm a tad pooped, I thought I'd do a quick photo post with a pretty simple theme. After all, I'm coming down to the wire with 27 Stages, and hope to have it wrapped up pretty soon.

So, in the meantime, I hope you'll be entertained with these

Thirteen Photos of Fabian Cancellara

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Fabian training with his RadioShackNissanTrek teammates on the cobbles in Belgium.
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After being hit by another rider while getting a flat tire changed in a feed zone during the E3 Harelbeke race last Friday.
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Moments before stepping up to the second-place podium at Milan Sanremo.
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Waving to the crowd at Milan Sanremo.
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Goofing off at the Tour of Oman last February.
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Off-the-cuff interview in Oman, 2012.
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Racing to the finish in Qatar.
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SSSssssmmmmoooooothhhhhhh.
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Fabian gets a helpful push, post-repair, during the Strade Bianche race in Italy.
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Crossing the finish in Siena, miles ahead of the others (literally).
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Post-race, still covered in the white dust of the Strade Bianche.
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Atop the podium.
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My liege. My king. My Gracious Goodness Me!
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Just, um... Yeah, nothing but gibberish when I try too hard with this one. *ahem*



Needless to say, these are inspiring my story quite well.


















And just in case that wasn't enough eye candy for you (and I'll try to understand if it wasn't, really, I will!)




















One last little tasty bit for y'all who appreciate that sort of thing:

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I hope this suits ya!
Ciao for now!
12 Comments

A Matter of Place - Why Bologna?

20/12/2011

1 Comment

 
_ "Why Bologna?"

"Al centro esatto di Piazza Maggiore
con leggerezza da pattinatore
Bologna adesso voltati
mi fai commuovere
lo sai che esagero con le parole..."

"At the exact center of Piazza Maggiore
With the lightness of a skater
Bologna you now turn -
You move me
You know that I exaggerate with words…"
-        "A Bologna" ("In Bologna") by Samuele Bersani  (translation mine)

I frequently have to explain "Why Bologna?" I mean, I live in Italy – I'm surrounded by historic locations which could have hosted Emily and Davide's story in Ask Me if I'm Happy, right? So why limit myself to a frequently cold and foggy setting in northern Italy that readers might not be very familiar with in the first place?

Well, why not?

The truth is there was no other place as well-suited to the story as Bologna was. I cited some of the reasons elsewhere once, in an interview I did prior to Ask Me if I'm Happy's initial release in 2010: "It's the major train travel hub for northern Italy; it's simply a place I love; it is, as my husband might say, characteristic of the region where I live; and finally, it's a beautiful and historic city.

"Most of all, I feel it's one of the unsung locations in this country. Nearly everyone knows about Tuscany, Rome, Naples and Venice, but very few folks, it seems, are even aware of Bologna. I wanted my area of northern Italy to be represented, for better and for worse, and I think I've done that in Ask Me if I'm Happy."

I've done my best to give a real sense of the city and to show how it affects Emily and Davide throughout their relationship. I tried to not make the story feel like a travelogue, preferring to let the city peek through from time to time, by citing real places and inventing amalgamations of others. From what I've been told, I've done a decent job of it.

In spite of Ask Me… being a love story, I really hoped to write a story which could serve as an antidote of sorts to many other Italy-set stories. I wanted to show the Italy where I – and my ex-pat co-workers and friends – live and work every day. All of us had grown tired of the oh-so-perfect life described by so many novelists and travel writers, the false la dolce vita-isation of these places we know too well. As a result, I aimed to write about this place I've come to love with all my heart, but to write about it warts and all.

Yes, Italy is a beautiful country, there's no doubt about it. I don't deny that, and I do think this aspect shows through in Ask Me if I'm Happy. But there are other aspects of living here which fall quite short of the idealized imagery in those "Ex-pats in Tuscany/Rome/Venice" tales we're all familiar with. This discrepancy is what Emily struggles with, and it's something Davide deals with, too, although in slightly different ways.

From the beginning of the novel right through to the end, I've tried to show the Italy I know in the season I love best: the cold air, the grey skies, and the style of urban living which is the reality for the majority of Italians I know. I wanted to show the romance in a foggy afternoon and in warming one's hands over a hot cappuccino or in the grasp of an attractive companion. I wanted the reader to imagine strolling along the porticos of La Grassa, the city of Bologna, and see her rather weathered charms in all their flawed splendor.

Emily rediscovers these aspects of Italy every time she leaves and returns, just as I – and many of my friends who came here from abroad – do. And every time they open Emily and Davide's story and journey into an Italy they might not previously have been familiar with, I sincerely hope that readers of Ask Me if I'm Happy will do the same.

1 Comment

A few thoughts on "Ask Me if I'm Happy"

29/11/2011

0 Comments

 
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_"Felicità
improvvisa vertigine
illusione ottica
occasione da prendere…


… E infatti, infatti non dimentico
la mia fotografia
e l'amore se non ce l'ho.
Ripeterei tutto quello che è passato
comprese le tue bugie
perché le scoprirei molto prima e senza aiuto."


"Happiness,
Sudden dizziness
Optical illusion
(An) opportunity to take…

… And indeed, in fact I don't forget
my photograph
and love, if I don't have it (with me).
I would repeat all that has passed
including your lies
because I'd discover them much earlier and without help."


-        From "Chiedimi se Sono Felice (Ask Me if I'm Happy)" by Samuele Bersani (translation mine)

One of the first things people living outside Italy often say to me about Ask Me if I'm Happy is "I love the title!" Every time they do, I have to smile. I'm pleased they like the optimistic sound of it. I'm glad they'll likely remember it – or, hopefully, they'll remember something close enough for a bookseller to find it for them! And of course, I'm glad it sounds unique enough for them to comment on it in the first place.

Here in Italy, that's not the case. Here, my students and co-workers at the language school, my friends and acquaintances, have all asked me the same question: "You know that's the title of an Aldo, Giovanni and Giacomo movie (Chiedimi se Sono Felice), right?" And I have to laugh, and nod, and say "Yes, yes; I know. It's a favorite of mine." For, you see, this title had a life before my novel. I confess – much like Jackson Browne lifted "Tender is the Night" for his personal use, just as Kate Bush appropriated "Wuthering Heights" for her own haunting tune, I too have nicked this title from another source. Or rather, two.

I've quoted a few lines from the song at the start of this blog to show I'm aware of it. More to the point: I was inspired by the song. This story has nothing to do with the film in any way, but the song (which, incidentally, was featured in the film) has strong similarities. At least, it does on the surface.

I'd listened to this song many times, but I didn't think I had really taken it to heart until I had finished writing the first drafts and needed a title for what was – at the time – a novel consisting of four novellas. A couple of lines suddenly stood out to me, and I looked up the lyrics online to be sure I was hearing them correctly. With my novel in mind, these lines (among others in the song) took on a new meaning for me and were an almost perfect fit, considering the storyline. When I said to my husband that I thought it would be a good title for my story, he thought about it and eventually agreed.

So I went forward, aware that readers would bring this up if they knew about the film or the song. The title stuck, becoming known as Ask Me... in its abbreviated version. One of my students teased me, saying if the book should be translated into Italian, at least we'd already know the title.

The thing is, should I be so lucky that this book should merit an Italian translation, I doubt it'll take back the moniker of Chiedimi se Sono Felice. The fact is, most books and films translated from English to Italian rarely get direct translations of their titles. Common practice is to give it a new title – sometimes relevant, sometimes obscure – which seems to work better in Italian. I'm ready for them, though. I've already got an Italian title in mind, and it works on several levels, including English.

The best part? It was the title of the story when it appeared on the URBIS and Authonomy writing sites, where it first caught the eyes of those who would go on to support my work today. At that time, the story was called "Connections" and was a play on words, meaning travel connections, personal connections and the circumstances which connected Emily and Davide. And what is one translation of "Connections" in Italian?

Coincidenze: Coincidences.

So I invite you to go ahead, because I know you're dying to:

Ask me if I'm happy.

0 Comments

Thursday Thirteen: 13 Characters from 27 Stages

13/10/2011

16 Comments

 
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Well, now I'm getting back to serious work on my WiP, I thought I'd share some of the visual shorthand I've been using while creating it. So please, allow me to present to you:

Thirteen Characters from
27 Stages

1) Federico "Ciccio" Renard - cyclist (AltaVeloCidad).

Although he's half-French and half-Italian, the inspiration for Federico comes from both a Swiss rider and an Italian rider, who happen to be two of my favorites: Fabian Cancellara and Daniele Bennati.

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2) Abigail McGann-White - amateur photographer.

Abigail is another character with a split nationality.
Her father is American, her mother is British. Born in the US, she's lived in England with her mother since she was seventeen. Now forty years old, Abigail is dealing with a number of issues of identity and working to determine what she wants from her life. My visual inspiration for her is harder to pin down, but this stock image made a good starting point:
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3) Jerzy Jankowski - lead directeur sportif/team manager/Svengali for team Alta VeloCidad. This was another instance where I saw a photo by chance and thought: That's the look, right there. Of course, Polish actor Łukasz Simlat is much, much younger than Jerzy, but the photo below shows some of the intensity I picture every time I write about the team's boss.
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4) Charles White - Abigail's husband, a barrister in the UK. I'm sure quite a few readers, should they see this, will be rather displeased with me. LOL! But I thought Colin Firth was a perfect model to build Charles on - particularly since he has that "proper" air about him at times, but could also have a slightly "deviant" side, too, as Charles does.
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5) Heinrich Brunn - cyclist (AltaVeloCidad). Brunn, a German cyclist, was much harder to pin down. I had more of an "archetype" in mind when he started taking shape, but there was one cyclist in particular he seemed to resemble - at least, physically. No matter, this is fiction after all.
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6) Romuald "Robaczku" Brodowski - cyclist (AltaVeloCidad). When I saw this photo of French actor Stanislas Merhar, I knew I'd found my Rom.
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7) Adrie "Major" Meijer - cyclist. Athough he's a different type of rider, and a different nationality, Italian Filippo Pozzato (to my everlasting chagrin) has similar physical attributes to Austrian super-domestique Adrie. Temperamentally, however, I don't think they could be farther apart. LOL!
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8) Jurgen Schlessinger - cyclist (Maxxout). This character is probably Federico's strongest competitor in the sport, and still he is someone I have a lot of sympathy for. In my mind, he's the also-ran always struggling in Federico's wake, a sort of Salieri to Federico's Mozart, if you will. (I'm seriously considering a short story from his POV, too.) He's played in my mind by Gerald Ciolek.
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9) Solange Melo - model, former "podium girl", Federico's fiancée. I don't know the name of the girl in the photo, here, but she's a podium girl for the Tour de France. Solange is a model just starting to make waves, but her ambition proves to be a bit too much for Federico's taste.
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10) Pascal Savreux - professional photographer, French, an acquaintance of Abigail's. From the start, I've had in mind a Vincent Cassel-type, just a little rounder and a little softer 'round the edges. The fact he's closer to Abigail's age makes him an appealing potential disruption to her plans.
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11) Alvaro and Teodoro Mendoza - twin brothers, Spanish, cyclists (AltaVeloCidad).
Almost in spite of myself, I wound up picturing the Haedo brothers (Sebastian and J.J.) when I wrote these characters, even though they aren't twins (thank goodness). There are loads of brother acts in cycling, though.
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12) Philip Mason - cyclist (AltaVeloCidad). Welshman Geraint Thomas is a good fit for Philip, a British rider with a bizarre sense of humor, which is shared with his roommate, James.
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13) James Bradford - cyclist (AltaVeloCidad). Alex Dowsett was another rider who came to mind when writing many of the scenes when the riders are off the road. There's just something about his facial expressions which came to mind during James' and Philip's cutting up at various points in the story.
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And there you have 13 Characters from 27 Stages - my current Work in Progress.























I think you might agree there's a little something for everyone in this story, eh?



























And if not, well, c'est la vie!
























At any rate, I hope to include something that'll please a few of my regulars.
















After all...






















I'm a giver!

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Mathis Streitwieser
Ciao for now!
16 Comments

108 Presente

11/5/2011

5 Comments

 
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On Monday, I came home from the start of the third stage of the Giro d'Italia with the intent of posting a Thursday Thirteen consisting of photos I'd taken that afternoon. I was so excited to have gotten what I knew were wonderful photos - and my excitement grew when I got home and saw just how good some of them actually were.

I called my mother to thank her for the camera she'd given me. I called my husband to share my joy at having had the experience of my first-ever stage race start event. I shared my happiness on Facebook and Twitter.

And then I sat down to watch the race.

Roughly 24 kilometers or so from the finish everything changed. A rider crashed on the descent of the Passo del Bocco, heading toward the finish at Rapallo. Hardly surprising - it was a rather tricky descent, and riders crash all the time under such circumstances.

I saw the live video on RAI, when they showed the rider being tended to. A heavy sickness settled in my stomach when I saw the boy was from my favorite team, Leopard Trek.

The fact I couldn't recognize his face was disturbing. The sense of "knowing" was worse still.

As the race continued, it quickly became clear just how bad this crash was. When they said his name, I started crying. That wasn't his face I'd seen. He wasn't there anymore.

I kept hoping. I kept praying he'd be okay, that they'd airlift him and he'd go to the hospital and someone, somewhere, would do whatever it took to put things right again.

But I knew better. Even before the director of the RAI broadcast shared the news long after the program was supposed to end, I, like so many others, already knew we'd lost one of "our boys".

Wouter Weylandt was only 26 years old. He has a baby on the way. His family has to deal with their loss - so sudden, so unexpected - but I hope they will find some comfort in his child, and I hope they know that his fans are thinking of them at this time, too.

A friend of mine said she felt as though the son of a friend had died. I think she captured perfectly the way so many of us feel. His loss isn't ours, and yet, it is. We will miss the young man we cheered for, pulled for and wished great things for. We didn't know him, but we mourn his loss and we celebrate his life.

Yesterday, the race stage was neutralized. No-one won or lost and the standings didn't change. Wouter's teammates crossed the line together, embracing and carrying along with them a member of another team: Wouter's best friend, Tyler Farrar. They wept, openly and without shame, and countless riders in the peloton wept, too.

It was, quite simply, one of the most moving events I have ever witnessed.

Today, Tyler and the Leopard Trek team have left the Giro. They will all go home to grieve and recover - at least a little - from the loss of their friend and teammate. They will ride again - they have to - because it is more than their job; it is their calling, their passion. But for now, the Giro continues without them. The show goes on. Life goes on.

For all my joking and silliness, I hold a deep and abiding affection for these young men who truly do risk themselves every day in a sport which, for all its faults, is still beautiful and frequently amazing to watch. They inspire me every single day, when I watch them race and achieve the things which I never could do in a lifetime.

Tragically, for some of them, a lifetime is all-too-brief a moment.

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Wouter Weylandt 1984-2011
5 Comments

13 Things I've Done in the Name of "Research"

31/3/2011

17 Comments

 
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Hello, all! Welcome to this week's Thursday Thirteen!

As some of you may have noticed, last week, I missed posting. The reason for this is pretty simple: I was working on one of my WiPs. I've finally found myself "back in the groove" as it were, and nearly have one project finished, while another project is slightly less complete but approaching the story's peak, from whence it should all be downhilll from there (almost literally, in this case. Heh).

Anyway, in the process of wrangling these stories toward the goal of completion, I've had some time to think about the things writers do to research their stories. And I've been watching Castle reruns, which prompted my thoughts about research.

Anyhoo... I thought I'd share something on the subject of research this week. So please, allow me to present to you

13 Things I've Done in the Name of "Research"

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1) When I was working on Ask Me if I'm Happy, I went back through train schedules from two years prior, to be sure they ran at the times I said they did.

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2) I also did my best to be sure that the types of trains I mentioned were running at those times, on those days.
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It's still up for sale, by the way. Wonder why?
3) I used real estate sites to help me envision the settings, too. The exterior of Jacopo's house in "Alternate Rialto" is based on this house in Venice, although I embellished it quite a bit. (For example, this house isn't on the Grand Canal, but the other side Jacopo's house is.)

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4) Although the story was mostly completed by the time I took this picture, I did go to Bologna and take photos of the area for prompts in adding more detail to some scenes. This corner is very much the sort of place where Davide's home in Ask Me if I'm Happy would be.
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Capesante. Scallops. Ick.
5) I exhaustively researched what the typical foods are in Venice for a single scene in "Alternate Rialto". I didn't sample them, however, because I'm not a big fan of seafood (and I recently learned that I'm mildly allergic to shellfish).

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Thanks to Felyx at Wikimedia Commons for this photo.
6) I also spent quite a lot of time finding the right words in the Venet (Venetian) dialect for describing that meal and even the name of the restaurant. However, in the interest of research, I'm doing my best to find someone who speaks/understands Venet to ensure I got it right before I publish the book.

My current primary project, 27 Stages, has led me down quite the merry path, research-wise, too. For example:
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7) I have actually been known to sit at my desk wearing a cycling cap. Of course, by writing this publically, I have just outed myself to my husband, whose cycling caps I have been wearing. Oops.

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8) In much the same vein, I have this object close at hand all the time. For those of you who are unfamiliar with what this is, I should tell you it's a bottle cage, which is normally mounted on the bike frame.
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9) Another cycling fetish (in the concrete sense) on my desk is this number, which is from a small, local race my hubby rode before we met.

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10) In order to learn more about how cyclists think and prepare for different disciplines, I purchased the above video for information about time trialling. Lucky for me, it features my favorite cyclist (and current muse), time triallist extraordinaire Fabian Cancellara.
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This made me so happy. The rubdown beforehand made me borderline hysterical.
11) Since this is the start of cycling season, I've been watching races every weekend on my computer or on the television and taking notes or writing scenes which come to mind while I watch. Some races have been more exciting than others, and some had me jumping around the house and laughing giddily afterwards. This summer, like last year and the year before, while I'm in the US, I'll be watching Le Tour de France every day in July from start to finish.

It's such a sacrifice, I tell you what... Heh.

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12) My husband - who has got to be the most understanding and indulgent hubby EVER - bought me a two-year subscription to this magazine so I could have research come right to my door! I start getting anxious at the beginning of the month if it doesn't arrive on time. I mean, hey, I've got research to do, dammit!
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Fabian's tweets are especially popular. Squee.
13) And finally, in the name of research, I got a Twitter account so I could stalk - er, follow cyclists who tweet as well as industry insiders, journalists and photographers. Which is why - to anyone who doesn't follow those same folks but does follow me - my tweets likely make absolutely no sense.

BONUS!

14) Another thing I've done in the name of research is to sit with a cycling jersey in my hands, considering the weight, the feel of the fabric, the sound it makes when it's zipped up, and so on and on.

And then I let my hubby go for his ride.  LOL!

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And there you go, 13 Things I've Done in the Name of "Research".

















So I think I can say with confidence that I'll go to some lengths to be sure my stories are rich with realistic detail.























And also that they're as accurate as it's possible for me to make them.




















I do try, anyway. Besides, most writers will agree that the devil is in the details.





















Indeed.

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Nicholas Roche, Irish cyclist.
Ciao for now!
17 Comments

13 Photos Currently Inspiring My WiP

3/2/2011

16 Comments

 
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ACK! <scramble, scramble>

Yep - I've been caught unprepared again this week. There's been a lot going on "behind the scenes" as it were, so I didn't have time to do a heavily-detailed Thursday Thirteen this week. I'm afraid I'll have to repeat a theme I've done before, but with new material. (Does that make sense?)

So here are

13 Photos Currently
Inspiring My WiP

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The Leopard Trek team at the Tour Down Under last January.
1) A morning briefing. This is a good example of the stuff most people don't think about when it comes to this sport. There is more to it than getting on the bike and going faster than everyone else (though that helps, of course). The tactics and strategy for stage races can be surprisingly detailed, and the riders meet to discuss the race before and after every stage.
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Heh. *ahem*
2) Prepping for the race. Numbers have to be pinned on to jerseys before the riders can get dressed for the race.

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Fabian Cancellara. I wuv him. (Look at that HAIR!!!)
3) More preparations - that helmet has to fit properly, after all - and as always: Safety First!
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Smmmmooooch!
4) A quick peck for your sweetie, and then...

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Um... What? Did someone say something to me?
5) Waiting to start the race. Seriously, for the material I'm working on, this is more than sufficient for inspiration. ;)

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Whoooosh!
6) They're off! Of course, this would likely be well into a stage. I love the movement in this pic.
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He's silly. Wuv.
7) Lunch time on-the-go! Things can get a bit silly, too, at this point during a race. Just about everyone takes it easy while they refuel. Or, at least, they should.

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A little to the left, please... Ah, that's the spot!
8) Actually, in a race everything has to be done on-the-go, whenever possible. Here my boy Fabian gets his shoe adjusted while discussing race matters with (presumably) his directeur sportif.
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Definitely not in the plan.
9) Occasionally, of course, things don't go quite according to plan...

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I mean, seriously. Look at that road. Now enjoy Fabian's legs.
10) This photo is providing much inspiration at the moment, as I'm working on a Stage featuring a crash modelled after a) what has been called the "Stockeau Massacre" in the 2010 Tour de France and b) the following day's ride over the cobblestone roads which normally feature in the Paris-Roubaix classic road race each year.
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Just so... Intense. Rawr.
11) Fabian again - this time in Time Trial mode. The picture isn't exactly clear because it's a screen capture. But it's an excellent screen capture, IMHO. It really conveys the intensity of the moment.

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I'm wandering toward my happy place. Excuse me.
12) The boys have to make themselves presentable before they go on the podium. They get wiped down and cleaned up (I can't help thinking of racehorses when I see video of this. Is that wrong?), are given a fresh jersey, and then go out to be photographed with the pretty girls in front of the fans.
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Jens Voigt, chatting while getting his post-race massage.
13) A very useful photo. Without shots like this, the little details would get past me: note the placement of the blanket, the towels, the slow-cooker on the table (presumably to heat the oil before it's applied). Excellent stuff.




And there you have them - 13 Photos Currently Inspiring My WiP.

















I know, I know...

















After all the boys on bikes, you want something else.





























And it's only fair.



























So here ya go:
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Will this do?
Ciao for now!
16 Comments

Raising the Stakes

3/1/2011

0 Comments

 
I feel like I'm slowly getting back on track after a very unproductive holiday-filled six weeks. It's been difficult -- much harder than I'd have anticipated, actually.

However, I'm determined to get back into the proper headspace for 27 Stages, and I made a little headway last night, thanks in part to a documentary Alle and I watched about Italian cyclist Fausto Coppi. Yesterday was the fifty-first anniversary of Coppi's death from malaria at the age of forty-one, and since Coppi was one of Italy's greatest cyclists, it is not a day likely to pass without commemoration in this country.
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Memorial to Coppi at Pordoi Pass, Italy.
Just about every fan of cycling is aware of who Coppi is. The son of farmers in the Apennines in Northwest Italy, he rose to the heights of his chosen sport, fought in World War II, then returned to compete and achieve further acclaim as Italy worked to find its footing as a nation once again. Only his affair with a married woman -- while still married himself -- managed to tarnish his reputation in many eyes, and brought him into conflict with the laws of that time.

It's hard for me to imagine, now, that an extramarital affair could be punished by sending the participants to prison. It's hard to imagine how strongly he must have felt for "la dama in bianco" -- "the woman in white", as she was described in the press at the time -- that he would be willing to endure such public outcry (which included being spat on by spectators of the races he rode) and criticism (from no less than the Pope himself).

But he did.

He loved her and gave up his family and a good deal of his popular acclaim in order to be with her. Right or wrong, he followed his heart and did what he thought he had to in order to be with her. They dealt with the consequences, started their family (they had a son in spite of the fact they couldn't legally wed in Italy) and tried to go forward together. In the end, of course, it didn't work out the way they'd planned. Coppi died after contracting malaria during a safari trip in Burkina Faso. (The malady was misdiagnosed as influenza when it emerged after his return to Italy.)

In the last few weeks, I've seen this documentary and I've read William Fotheringham's biography of Coppi. Viewing what Coppi went through makes the prose on the page still more vivid.

After watching the documentary on television yesterday, Coppi has been on my mind even more: what he sacrificed and what he salvaged, who he loved and who he hurt, his own private losses throughout it all (his brother, Serse, who became a cyclist after Fausto did, died after crashing during the final sprint in the Giro del Piemonte in 1951).

And all of this gets turned over and over in my head, tiny elements sticking together and becoming a different whole.
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Coppi in a breakaway. There is a lithograph of this in my living room.
I'm thinking a lot about what I've written so far in 27 Stages. Yes, it's fiction, but it's clear to me that the stakes need to be raised, the risks need to be greater than what I've written up to now. I know, if only because the reality is so much greater than anything I could ever invent, I need to do my damnedest to do the stories justice.

Because their stories deserve no less.
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13 Book Covers Which Caught My Eye

14/10/2010

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I've been thinking a lot about book covers this week. This comes as no surprise to anyone who knows me, or to anyone who knows any writer who is about to be published, because book covers are a vitally important part of the whole publishing package.

Sometimes, a cover makes you say "Aha!" whether you've read the story behind it or not. Sometimes it - as a dear friend of mine put it recently - "...makes me want to run for the hills. Screaming."

All of this has led me to ponder covers of books I've loved and admired over the years, some very recently, some going back quite a ways. And so, I present to you:

13 Book Covers Which Caught My Eye

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OOohhh!!! SpooOOOOooooky!
1) Audrey Rose by Frank De Felitta

This is one of my earliest memories related to a book: spending hours (literally) staring at the cover of this book, trying to figure out what it was about. The book came out in 1974, and I recall holding this book when I was about five years old or so - if that - which would have been in 1976. I was fascinated/horrified by the imagery, but I couldn't understand the tombstone. It wasn't until I was old enough to cope with the concept of reincarnation that I finally got it. For the record, the book was my mother's.

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2) Carrie by Stephen King.
This was another one of my mother's books, from the same time period. I just sat and tried to understand what I was looking at - and failed miserably.

Once I was old enough to read them for myself, however, there was no going back.

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3) Watership Down by Richard Adams.

This book is something which borders on the mythical for me. I've even blogged about it for Diiarts. (It should go up on their Power of Language blog in a few weeks.) The copy I purchased when I was about nine years old had this cover. It's burned into my psyche as one of the most beautiful and perfect covers for a book ever. I still feel you get a real sense of the tone of the book from the image - the hint of the downs beyond the rabbit (who, presumably, is Hazel); the muted, almost foreboding colors; the sense of scope in the perspective. It's a wrap-around cover, so the image of the treeline continues onto the back (where the great reviews are printed). I've often wished I had a print of the whole cover, minus the blurbs, taglines and titles. I love it that much.

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4) The Gunslinger (Dark Tower Series) by Stephen King.

There have been so many different versions of this cover, it was hard to pick just one. I went with one of the more "epic" options, since even though the first book of the Dark Tower series was the shortest, it still had that sense of epic and grand adventure packed into fewer pages. This cover is no different. It has all the emotion of the whole series - the looming ominousness of the Tower itself; the rugged, not-quite-handsome gunslinger with the crow perched upon his back (which has got to make the reader wonder - if they haven't yet read the story - what the crow has to do with anything); the sunset which settles at the foot of the shadowy Tower. It makes me want to pick it up and read it all over again, especially to savor the perfection of that opening line.... sigh...

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5) Big Stone Gap by Adriana Trigiani.

I first read this title because I used to live very close to Big Stone Gap, VA. (Yes, it's a real place.) I'd heard about it on the Today show when I was living in Florida, and decided to seek it out. A friend had a copy and hadn't enjoyed it (a teenager who'd never lived outside of cities, she couldn't relate to the small-town atmosphere of the story), so she gave it to me. This is a cover, however, which doesn't quite grab me in the usual way. Later covers were better, I think, but this is the one I saw first. I like how the author's name is done, and I like the ambiguity of the sign post containing the title. Beyond that, I'm not too keen. It needs a little more "oomph" to do justice to the story inside. And it's a great read. I promise.

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6) High Fidelity by Nick Hornby.

This is a great example of how a simple photo can say a lot about the contents of the book. The simplicity of this cover is what really sells it, in my opinion. As I understand it, this is a reissue of the book, and all of Hornby's titles got similar treatments for their covers. This is my favorite of the bunch, since it really does give a sense of the story inside.

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7) Io Non Ho Paura (I'm Not Scared) by Niccolo' Ammaniti.

Some books I buy twice. Sometimes, I buy them twice for the cover. In this case, I bought it twice because I read it the first time in English, then read the Italian original. The Italian cover, here, is the exact one I own. I think it's absolutely perfect. You get the setting as described in the story - wheat fields stretching to the horizon, and ominous clouds dominating the scene. It manages to encapsulate the whole story, with vital elements from the beginning and the end. The fact the book is a stunningly beautiful read doesn't hurt.
The English translations have different covers, but the one I have here at home is particularly good, I think. Once again, the cover gives a strong sense of place as contained in the story. I can't recommend this novel highly enough.

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This is the English translation I own, as well.
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8) The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov.
The only thing that might be more surreal and delightful than this novel would be the countless different covers designed for it. And yet they almost always have one thing in common: Behemoth, the demon cat. Cover designers for this particularly strange and wonderful work of art seem to fixate on Behemoth. I'm led to wonder if many of those artists own cats and see some of their own demanding master pets in this character? My copy of the book is very similar to this one, except it has an illustration of the city (presumably Moscow, as that's where the action takes place) behind Behemoth and the piggy flying 'round the moon.

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Another take, focusing once again on Behemoth.
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9) Destiny by Tim Parks.

While you'd never know it from the cover, Destiny is a dark, moody and tragic tale, which takes place primarily in Italy. I love the fact that you don't know this based on the cover, but the bleak, numbing life of the narrator is epitomized by this image. Parks is simply one of the best writers writing about the reality of life for expats in Italy - his nonfiction strikes an exact balance between the bitter and the sweet - and his novels are equally perfect for their refusal to glorify life here. I adore him.

And hey - how clever is the insertion of the title and author here?

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10) Cleaver by Tim Parks.

I grabbed this because Parks wrote it and I liked the cover. The contents didn't disappoint, and the cover is - again - a perfect image for the words inside. You get much of the feel right away - cold, distant, isolated - but the whys and wherefores are doled out in an enticing manner while you start to wonder if the protagonist's choice to journey alone to a remote reach of the South Tyrol mountains was a good one.

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Before 'Slumdog Millionaire' was 'Q&A'.
11) Q&A by Vikas Swarup.
I like this cover for the very simplicity of it. It's one of those which makes slightly better sense in retrospect, too. I bought this before I knew there was going to be a film version. I'm glad I did. The film was beautiful, but there were some big departures from the content of the novel. Do a comparison sometime and see what I mean.

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12) A Widow for One Year by John Irving.

Another argument for "less is more". The picture hook is a key element in this story, but until you've read it, you can't quite understand the significance of it. Once you have read it, the impact finds you again and again. Unfortunately, when a film was made based on the first section of this novel, the movie tie-in cover was - in my opinion - just awful.

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13) Last Night in Twisted River by John Irving.

This one stands out for me because I just finished reading it a couple of days ago. It's not until you've nearly finished the novel that you understand the meaning of the cover image, but it speaks volumes once you get it. Less is more, once again, and the stark image of this cover is a rather literal take on a moment in the story. I'll let you read it if you want to know why it strikes home for the reader (and especially for the reader who happens to be a writer).





And there you go.













And here we go.



























Since I didn't post a Thirteen last week, I suppose I have to make up for that.





















And so, here you go:
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Since it's getting chilly back home...
And here I go. ;)
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Ahhh... Inspire!
16 Comments

The process of writing...

12/4/2010

1 Comment

 
Everyone's source of inspiration is different.

This week, I thought I'd share a little about how "Ask Me if I'm Happy" came about. In some ways, it's just like most people believe it would be:

I got an idea, and I wrote it down. It took two years of writing to get the whole idea down, though. And then it morphed and changed and became something very different from what I'd initially imagined.

It almost always does. Change, I mean.

The origin of the story was this: I watched an episode of Samantha Brown's Passport to Europe which took place in Bologna. There is a segment in that episode where she visits with a Bolognese family for dinner, and while I listened to them talking to her, I felt suddenly homesick. Or more accurately, I felt homesick for my students at the school where I teach. The Bolognese accent is different from a Reggiano accent, but the similarities were strong enough to bring my students to mind.

I continued watching the show, and started pondering what it would be like to have a native Bolognese taking me around the city. I love Bologna, and have loved it since I first visited with my husband several years ago. I go to the bookshops there, I have seen a couple of concerts there, and I just love the general atmosphere of the place.

Anyway, that night, I had a dream which took place in Bologna. It was a dream of the "Watching it on a movie screen" variety, where I was not an active participant, just a viewer. I saw a handsome man meet a plain but pretty woman on a train. I saw the newspaper headlines proclaiming a transportation strike, which kept her in the city. I saw him take her to lunch, and then seduce her, only to find his own personal conflict emerge when she left him. The would-be Casanova was caught in his own trap, and his prey escaped to return to her former life in another place.

The images stayed with me all day long. The sexy, sensual edge of the dream's images wouldn't leave me alone. This was a story I needed to write.

And someday, I might write it, too.

Instead, as I sat down and put pen to paper, the characters made themselves heard. Davide (as he was called) insisted that he wouldn't do such things. He was a nice guy, not a love-em-and-leave-em sort. Emily (as she was always called) said much the same. She was shy, and lacked self-confidence, and no matter how mad she was at her husband she wouldn't just run off for a dalliance with a stranger.

I had to change almost all of the story. I wrote it as a short story - roughly fifteen or twenty pages - called it "Lo Sciopero" (the Strike) and worked on it for the rest of my stay in the States. Now Davide was a gallant stranger offering Emily assistance when her trip to the US was complicated by the strike. He was a perfect gentleman who showed her the tenderness she needed to get past a difficult moment in her life, and nothing more.

But that didn't quite work either. I had to write more. And more.

And more.

The kernel of truth in the first version of the story survived. A friend critiqued it and made a suggestion which pulled the whole thing together. But the short story became a novella, and then the novella grew.

Davide insisted on telling more of the story. "You're not finished yet! What about what happened in Milano? What about when I came home?"

"Yeah!" Emily cried. "What about when I went home? What about the messages we wrote each other? What about...? What about...?"

Fine. I wrote it all down. I finished the tale two years after I started, after changes and rewrites and edits and agonizing hours spent deciding what could be cut, and what I believed needed to stay. And then cutting some of that, anyway.

An entire novella was added, then axed. With more work, I'll probably offer that separately, as a story of its own.

And, yes, there's much more to this process. This is just an overview. No story just "flows" out of a writer - well, maybe for some. Maybe when I've been writing steadily for a couple more years, I'll find the process easier. I doubt it, though. After all is said and done, this is me offering a piece of me to the audience, and that's never an easy thing to do.

But I can't stop doing it.

I hope you don't mind...
1 Comment

Thirteen Photos Currently Inspiring Me

4/3/2010

5 Comments

 
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Hello, all! Thanks for coming by this week.

Once again, cycling is the theme of this Thursday Thirteen. Next week I hope to have a different subject for you, but this week, I'm sticking with the tried-and-true. I hope you'll bear with me, 'cause I've got my WIP, 27 Stages, on the brain. That's a good thing, right?

And so, I present to you:

Thirteen Photos Currently Inspiring Me




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1) Fabian Cancellara, waiting as an official counts down at the start of a time trial. This was actually a key source of inspiration for the first Stage of the story.

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2) Inside the SaxoBank team bus. Very inspiring, particularly when writing scenes showing the team traveling in-between stages.

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3) Fabian Cancellara's leg. Umm...yeah. I think the pic says it all, really. Quite inspiring.

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4) Cyclists on holiday, sporting their "Cyclists' tan lines." I find this shot incredibly endearing. And inspiring.

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5) God bless Tim de Waele. He got this shot of Fabian Cancellara during the Tour of Oman. (Did you know there was a Tour of Oman? Now you do. It started this year.) Very, very inspiring. ...sigh...

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6) Fabian Cancellara, again. (Have you spotted a trend, yet?) Here he's toting his stuff around. Ah, yes... He's a down-to-earth kinda guy. And that's inspiring, no?

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7) Fabian Cancellara (center) during a rainy stage. (I believe it might have been a Tour of California a couple of years ago, but I'm not entirely sure.) Nevertheless, I find the smiles here very inspiring.

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8) Fabian after winning the maillot jaune in a stage of the Tour de France last year. Endearing, and exceptionally inspiring.

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9) Jimmy Engoulvent (in green) takes a fall during le Tour in 2008. He got up to finish the stage on a new bike. I find that inspiring.

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10) Daniele Bennati, sprinter. Darned inspiring. heh.

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11) Now that's a tuck, y'all! Maximum aerodynamics at work, here. When I see cyclists riding this way, it always makes me nervous. And yes, it inspires me to write scenes in hopes of making them just as nerve-wracking to read. (I hope I can do it.)

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12) This shot brings to mind the scenes in Reus, Spain, where there are several accidents in the final kilometers of the stage. The original inspiration was provided by using GoogleMaps and their 360-degree views of the city. Very useful. Very inspirational.

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13) Cancellara, yet again. Look at his leg!!! Very, very inspirational. Heh.

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14) Fabian Cancellara, post-World Championships road race in 2009. By the time he finished, he basically had nothing left to give. He made his goal of winning the Time Trials competition a couple of days before, but missed out in placing in the Road Race. It was a bad call on his part - he "went for it" too soon - and Cadel Evans took the title instead. But the photos of Fabian post-event are exceptionally inspirational for me. (And the photos of him with his family after this are heartbreaking, in my opinion.)

And now, a change of pace, of theme, of location.










Because, ya know, variety is the spice of life, they say.












And who am I to say they're wrong?









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Sorry, ladies. No name for this pic. My bestest-best friend Anthony took this one while on vacation in Puerto Rico last week. Anthony has a talent for finding the hotties, I must say... WRAWR!!!
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    Kimberly Menozzi

    Author. Happily Married. Survivor of life with two deranged kitties.

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