Wife, Mother &...Spy?

Sorry for the delay of this Revolutionary Saturday post. Both of my sons needed my attention, which had to come first.

This is a fitting segue into my introduction of Anna Smith Strong, a Setauket, Long Island resident during the Revolutionary War. Anna was a devoted wife and mother – and, we can say with relative certainty – she was also part of George Washington’s Culper Spy Ring.

Why we can only say this with relative certainty is because there is no definitive proof – only circumstantial evidence. Historians believe she was involved with the ring, but never mentioned in the letters because she was a woman.

Legend has it that Anna hung her petticoats on a clothesline as a signal that a message was ready to be taken to Washington (hopefully this coincided with her laundry needs.) This story has been told so often that most people who know about the Culper Spy Ring name her as a member.

The Daughters of the American Revolution clearly embrace Anna's petticoat legend.
They have an Anna Smith Strong chapter.

As a matter of fact¸ Anna was the reason I became intrigued with the spy ring.

School children in the Setauket area are taught about Anna's petticoats.

I was visiting a sick friend, who’d recently moved from Setauket.

“I miss being there,” he told me.

“Why?” I asked. All I knew about Setauket was it was way out on the island – pretty secluded.

“It’s so historical there,” he said.

“In what way?” I pressed.

“A woman used to hang her petticoats as a signal for George Washington’s spy ring,” he told me.

WHAT? My story sensor spiked. A WOMAN spy during the American Revolution? I didn’t even know that Long Island was involved with the revolution at all!

Thanks goodness for Google. When I got home I entered a few key words, and presto – I knew enough about the Culper Spy Ring to know that I wanted to know more. I wanted to write their story.

The ironic thing was that I couldn’t include Anna in the events of my story, because I couldn't prove she was a spy. The person who’d ignited my passion had to be edited out.

Here’s to Anna Smith Strong: A patriot, for sure. She stayed on occupied Long Island and took care of the family homestead while her husband was confined to a British prison ship.

Was she a spy?

 I think so.

But we’ll never know for sure....

Guest Blogger Joe Lunievicz Gives Tea Some Equal Time!

Today I welcome my friend and co-WestSide Books author Joe Lunievicz!

Joe's book Open Wounds received a starred review from Publisher's Weekly (read below)!

And here's a funny coincidence:

Joe was married on my aunt's floating concert hall, Bargemusic!

Today you are treated to a wonderful piece about something you'll probably never read about again on this blog: TEA!!!

You would think that a guy named Joe would drink coffee,

but this is no ordinary Joe!

Inspired by my "bean blog" of a few weeks past, here is Joe's take on tea. (I read it as I sipped my morning coffee, lol.)

Whether you are a tea totaler or not, you will enjoy Joe's words! Read on:

Of Tea and Sympathy

Coffee had been associated with writing for a long time. But perhaps longer still there is an association with tea.

Tea is a way of life in India. I am lucky to have a deep association with Darjeeling teas, which are good for one’s health. They elevate your mood and keep you happy. Tea rejuvenates the body and rejuvenates the mind. Tea is creative. Drinking tea gets you thinking. Tea encourages dialog, it encourages company, it encourages discussion, whereas a cola is encouraged to be drunk in solitude. Even the color is black. It is dull. it is dreary.

By and large humans are habit oriented. You need to have a habit, whether it is a smoke or chewing tobacco or paan (betel leaf), or liquor. I think I’ve got a good habit - I drink tea. I don’t smoke. I don’t chew paan and I don’t lose my temper. I drink tea.

- Shiv Saria, Chairman of the Siliguri Auction Committee - The Meaning of Tea by Scott Chamberlin Hoyt.

Now it’s not Starbucks philosophy about the bean, but it does speak to the qualities of the tea leaf and of cola, of which the part about cola may or may not, depending on how you read it sound a bit racist.

But tea, as Shiv says, is creative, or it helps to loosen creativity which could be the same thing. And tea does elevate the mood and rejuvenate the body/mind - which is pretty much what any caffeinated beverage does. And it makes you happy which is what stimulants do. But when you drink tea you do need to drink multiple cups of tea to take in the same amount of caffeine in a single cup of coffee (5 to 1 for black tea, up to 10 to 1 for green and 20 to 1 for white tea) which essentially means the tea makers are simply smart businessmen and women. And drinking that much of anything makes you have to pee. I’m not sure that helps me write but it does help me procrastinate.

As for encouraging dialog, discussion, and company - it indeed helps me with internal dialog and discussion though sometimes too much tea can cause too much internal dialog or crossed discussions about both what happens next and where is the nearest bathroom.

But writers are creatures of habit. I know I am. I don’t smoke or chew tobacco or paan, and keep my beer intake to a minimum (I’ve never found liquor to be helpful in any way to writing though others may argue with me). Don’t get me started on losing my temper - I have a nine-year old and patience wears thing multiple times a day.

So that leaves me with a small caffeine habit that along with the taste and fragrance and ritual of making... tea helps me to align the words wandering around inside my head into sentences that tell a story.

Thanks, Joe!!!

Starred Review of Open Wounds:
Lunievicz s impressive debut is a dark, often brutal story, balancing some of the meanest villains in recent memory with a beautifully portrayed historical New York and a movie-obsessed boy determined to overcome the hand life has dealt him. In late-1930s New York City, Cid has been physically abused by both his grandmother and his father, the latter blaming him for his mother s death in childbirth. His only bright spots are seeing movies with his grandmother and playing with some local kids (while avoiding eighborhood bullies). When his father vanishes and his grandmother kills herself in front of him, Cid is sent to an orphanage and later adopted by his long-lost cousin, crippled veteran Lefty, who helps foster his interests in acting and fencing. As Cid gains confidence, he is drawn back into the tough gang crowd while he econnects with friends and bullies from his younger years. Lunievicz paints a grim picture of Depression-era New York: anti-Semitism, violence, and poverty (an early eviction scene stands out) dominate the storytelling, yet bright spots like Cid s love of cinema are painted with equal brilliance and realism. Ages 14 up. --Publishers Weekly
Joe's bio:Joe Lunievicz has taught stage fencing to actors at HB Studio in NYC and performed improvisational comedy. He drew on his experiences as a fight choreographer, playwright, and competitive fencer in writing Open Wounds, his debut novel. He lives in New York City with his wife and son.

Win A Kindle!!!!

Here is a re-post of last week's contest.
Enter today to win a free Kindle!


It's time for miracles!

To celebrate the season of giving, I'm inviting you to enter to my contest & win a KINDLE!!!

There are several ways:
1. Follow this blog.
2. Post this contest in your status on any social media.
3. E-mail your favorite quote on "miracles" to Ldymcbeth@aol.com.
4. Review one of my books (there are four) on your blog, Goodreads or Amazon.
5. I'm open to other creative ideas for entries. Try me!

You will receive one entry for each thing you do. I will select ONE winner out of all the entries on Thursday, December 15.

Here's another miracles quote:

"Miracles are a retelling in small letters of the very same story which is written across the whole world in letters too large for some of us to see. "

-C.S. Lewis

Let the miracles begin!

Going Hollywood: Book & Movies CAN Play Nice Together

You have to hand it to J.D. Salinger.

He was a man who stuck to his principles.

In The Catcher in the Rye, Holden Caulfield trashes the “phony” film industry. He is quite disappointed that his brother, D.B., has sold out as a writer – heading out to Hollywood to write scripts.

Despite Salinger’s clear contempt for movies (or maybe he didn’t actually read Catcher), aspiring film director Hubert Cornfield courted the author. It is perhaps because Cornfield was just starting out that Salinger answered him at all.

Here’s the letter:

An interior novel like Catcher would of course be a challenge to portray on screen. But I would’ve liked to see someone try.

I love you, J.D. But here’s where we differ. I am sooo ready for Hollywood. Someone fetch my sunglasses!

Now I will practice my Hollywood diction:

Dahlings...Kiss, kiss!

Okay – That’s all I’ve got.

I’m with Holden about that phoniness...I became overwhelmingly nauseous when I was in L.A. on my honeymoon – and I think the pregnancy was just the icing on the cake of disgust.

That said, I think there’s a place for books in movies. They simply have to be done well, like anything else. Harry Potter lost me after awhile (I’m a reality chick) – but those first few movies were well-done. The key, in my opinion? J.K. Rowling retained creative control.

The best example I’ve seen of a book turned into a movie is Holes. OMG, I cried. Beautiful. Why? Because the author wrote the script as well.

People, we need to roll with the changes or get flattened. These days, movies rule – and writers can think of it as more exposure for their work. Plus, Most authors don’t have the luxury of turning down money like J.D. did. Let’s face it. If we get paid well for a movie, that’s money we can use to fund future writing projects. Because, sadly, it costs money to live.

My Revolutionary War books would make excellent films. So much action – but a great portrayal of humanity as well (if I do say so myself.) My editor and I have had casting conversations about By the Sword. Unfortunately, Orlando Bloom – my lead pick – is getting a bit long in the tooth now.

The vampire guy from Twilight would be good as the boy dying of cancer in a movie of The Girl Next Door. He’s so very pale.

(BTW: I do not endorse Twilight, in book or movie form. That needs to be clear. Garbage in print begets garbage on screen. ‘Nuff said.)

Hollywood moguls: Are you out there? I’m ready for my [book] close-up.

Tightrope Tuesday: It's High Noon!

             I’m in a rush today, so I’ll have to keep this brief. I was waylaid by the arrival of my mother on my doorstep last night (if you want to know about that relationship, read my novel Saved by the Music.) Suffice to say, I had a rough time until the Valium kicked in.

            Today I’m feeling kind of sunrise-sunsety. Except the sun’s not setting. It's at "high noon."  But the metaphor works when thinking about my kids – especially Michael.

            I can’t get over him being 17, a high-school senior, and a licensed driver. I mean I can, but then suddenly the thought hits me: “How did this happen?”

            He’s soooo tall!

            I’m used to him towering over me, but I glanced at his leg the other night and was struck by how adult it was. You know, hairy. Like the leg hanging over the bridge on the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disney – but without the grime.

            When did puberty occur? He was so quiet about it. Unlike my younger son Casey, who is reveling in puberty like it’s Mardi Gras and asking me questions which make me blush.

            Michael has always been one to work things out quietly. When he was little and we went somewhere, the first thing he would do is scope out a “mad place.” Usually, it was under a table. This was a place he could go when he got upset, and he would stay there until he worked it out.

            He made himself his own time-out place!

(This is not Michael - it's a Google Image)

            He only threw one fit in his childhood, when he wanted a pacifier in a drugstore, He had a collection in his pockets. “Me-me! Me-me!” he cried, pointing.

            “No more me-me’s!”

            “Me-me! Me-me!”

            I took his hand and tried to lead him away, but just like in the picture book Knufflebunny, he “went boneless.”

            “Me-me! Me-me!”

            I was dumbfounded. He’d never acted like that before. But I knew enough not to buy him that me-me. I dragged him out of the store. It must have been very disturbing for bystanders.

            When we got to the sidewalk I asked him, “Done now?”

            He nodded and stood.

            That was it. He must’ve realized that the fit tactic was futile with me. That’s the kind of kid he was – and is (even though he’s a man now.) He learns from experience. Can you imagine?

            We have such a great relationship. At a college visit on Saturday¸ one of Michael’s friends' mothers asked me, “Do you two just laugh together all the time?”

            We do.

            Somehow, my son turned out to be the perfect man I could never find for myself. He is empathetic, honest and reliable. He’s a man of his word. He’s self-motivated. And he’s darn good-looking to boot.

            How about that?

Michael & me: And he was only about 13 here!

Method to my Madness Monday: Grammar vs. Voice

Welcome to Method to My Madness Monday!

On Saturday I Facebooked a couple of comments my 92 year old aunt Olga Bloom made.

Bargemusic - my aunt's world-famous floating concert hall, which I helped build

This reminded of me of Aunt Olga’s reaction to the beginning of my novel, Saved by the Music – which is autobiographical, and also a tribute to her.

Aunt Olga in the early days of Bargemusic, with her dog, Lovely Bloom

Here’s the beginning of my novel:

The taxi’s spinning wheels spit pebbles and dirt as it left me behind at the marina’s gate. The dusty haze was a perfect fit for my state of mind.

I wobbled across the driveway and into the marina, trying to balance with my heavy suitcase. Sweat beaded under my bangs.

It was unbearably bright, like the sun was aiming right at me. But looking around, I decided that the marina needed all the brightening it could get. Damaged boats lined the gravel-filled boatyard, all of them in dry dock, up on stilts like big crutches—a nautical hospital. Their exposed insides were like my wrecked life. But at least someone cared enough to fix them.

The sounds of saws, drills, and hammers punctured the air as I passed the workers using them. I tried tuning out the men’s jeering whistles.

One yelled out, “Nice ass.”

Another called, “Hey, Slim.”

Some people really got off on taunting strangers.

I crunched though the gravel, kicking up pieces as I moved toward the water. Sailboats, cruisers, and yachts were all tied with rope to the docks.
So where was my Aunt Agatha’s barge? What did a barge even look like?

Aunt Agatha had told me about the barges that kings rode on centuries before, but she’d never actually described their appearance. There didn’t seem to be anything worthy of royalty bobbing about in this marina, at least not anything I saw.

“Over here, Willow!” a scratchy voice called out.

There was Aunt Agatha, waving from the deck of a huge and hideous metal monstrosity. This blows, I thought, doubting there’d be any cable TV on this scow.

My aunt hurried off the vile green vessel, prancing along a wooden plank across the water to reach me.

“What is that ugly thing?” I asked.

“That barge is our future concert hall!”
She couldn’t be serious.


You would think Aunt Olga would react in some personal way when she read this intimate story – which she was a part of!

But the first thing she did when she finished reading this opening was to look at me intently and ask, “Do you know the proper use of a modifier?”

This may sound harsh, but it was done with love. My aunt is old-school about grammar.

I said, “Not really.” I didn't even know what a modifier was, let alone the proper use of one. “But this is in the first-person voice of a fifteen year old, and they don’t tend to use modifiers correctly¸ either.” At least, this fifteen year old didn't - as she was based on the teenaged me.

She considered this for a long moment. Then she said, “Oh! I get it.”

This exchange illustrates today’s focus:

Sometimes, voice and grammar are at odds.

Sometimes, proper grammar kills.

I just ran my opening through an on-line grammar check service. It called my writing “adequate,” saying it could benefit from a revision.

It didn't like my modifier choices, either.

Furthermore, it recommended that I avoid contractions because they make my writing “too informal.” As a matter of fact, it called by use of contractions “a critical issue.” They were the largest reason why a revision would prove beneficial.

Guess what? A teenager’s voice IS informal.

To me, first person is like a running dialogue with the reader. However the person speaks, that’s how the writing should be. Once again I’ll use my favorite book The Catcher in the Rye as an example:

“If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where I was born and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don't feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.”

First page of Catcher - the underlining was done by someone else.

I’m going to go out on a limb and say this writing is less than adequate, according to the grammar checker. But as an opening, you can’t get more perfect than this. We know this kid – just from these few sentences.

This is what my oldest worn-out copy of The Catcher in the Rye looks like

Here’s another passage:

“Old Selma Thurmer - she was the headmaster's daughter - showed up at the games quite often, but she wasn't exactly the type that drove you mad with desire. She was a pretty nice girl, though. I sat next to her once in the bus from Agerstown and we sort of struck up a conversation. I liked her. She had a big nose and her nails were all bitten down and bleedy-looking and she had on those damn falsies that point all over the place, but you felt sort of sorry for her. What I liked about her, she didn't give you a lot of horse manure about what a great guy her father was. She probably knew what a phony slob he was.”

Ouch! The on-line grammar corrector would probably malfunction from overload here. But man, this is good stuff!

Everyone loves Catcher - even Chuck Schulz!

It would be fun to paste famous openings in the grammar checker and see what their “faults” are. If I had time, that is. (If you try any, let me know what happens!)

Bottom line: Be real. Unless your character is a grammar stickler like my aunt, don’t worry about modifiers – whatever they are. And embrace contractions. They are your friends.

Readers embrace authenticity.

That’s all I have to say about that.

J.D. Salinger's letter rejecting a film offer, which has nothing to do with this topic, but I found it on Google Images and I love it!

It's Revolutionary Saturday!

Last week I told you about Benjamin Tallmadge, who organized the Culper Spy Ring – recruiting old friends from his hometown of Setauket, Long Island.

Each member of that ring has a special story. Imagine someone like you or me secretly becoming a spy. These were ordinary people, which was why Tallmadge chose them. They belonged there, and they wouldn’t be suspected.

Today I will focus on Austin Roe. A tavern keeper – and the courier for the ring.

You know how Paul Revere did that all-night ride to warn people that the British were coming?

Austin Roe rode fifty-five from Setauket to Manhattan and back again many times during the war. He didn’t yell out anything. He did something more dangerous: He carried secret messages from Robert Townsend - the spy situated in Manhattan - directed to George Washington.

A sample of the spy code the Culpers used.
(They also used invisible ink when it was available.)

If caught by the British, Austin would surely be hanged.

If caught by highway robbers – who roamed the thick woods Roe’s horse galloped though on their long journey – he would surely be shot.

Indeed, at least on one documented occasion, Roe greeted his wife cheerfully upon his return – showing her a bullet hole through his hat.



Austin Roe and his horse, as depicted by illustrators Jeff Crosby & Shelley Ann Jackson



Austin Roe loved this fast and dangerous life. He thrived on propulsion and the thrill of the chase. It was sitting still which drove him to distraction -­ as he was forced to do when hiding out in Robert Townsend’s room, waiting for Townsend to gather information.



Austin Roe's Tavern



That Austin Roe was never caught in his years of carrying messages to Washington is akin to miraculous. He is another unsung hero of the American Revolution ­- an ordinary man driven to extraordinary measures by his immeasurable quest for freedom.



Austin Roe as depicted on a Setauket school mural, sans hat.



When you complain about your long commute, think of Austin Roe racing through the nights. And remember his poor, tired horse - whose name, alas, I do not know.