A Writer's Words - Mitigated Success and Unmitigated Failure

One Writer’s Journey: The Book Tour

By Jill Culiner

Episode Seven: Mitigated Success and Unmitigated Failure

in Winnipeg, Manitoba and Regina, Saskatchewan

I’m on my way, by bus, to Winnipeg, Manitoba. The city takes its name from Lake Winnipeg, the Western Cree word for muddy water. Early nineteenth-century settlers heading west to take up offers of cheap land took the newly constructed railway to Sarnia, but impenetrable forest forced them to continue on by steamship over Lakes Huron and Superior.

The Canadian Pacific Railway line finally reached Winnipeg in 1881, and the city now developed rapidly. Poor immigrants, hoping for a better life in the west, packed into overcrowded trains chugging across the country. They slept on the wooden seats and purchased food at stops along the line. Some were high-spirited, unruly, even destructive, and women in towns and settlements hastily gathered up their children to protect them when the trains filled with “rowdies” pulled in.

The new railway line effectively divided the city of Winnipeg in two: the well-off Anglo-Saxon population lived in the southern section; the North End was settled by immigrants, and locals dubbed it “the Foreign Quarter,” or, because of the large number of Jewish incomers, “New Jerusalem.” Soon enough, the great influx resulted in overcrowding, a shortage of drinking water, open cesspits, and unpaved, filthy streets. Health inspectors found ten-room houses occupied by five families with one water closet, one sink, one bath, and washbasin; an unsympathetic press accused the newcomers of idleness, lack of cleanliness, and suggested deportation was the solution to the problem.

But the immigrants were here to stay, and they were anything but idle. Eking out a living as bottle collectors, rag pickers and peddlers, or taking up dangerous, badly-paid jobs in brickworks, factories, railway yards, and on construction sites, their children integrated, went on to study, become successful, move southward into the city’s better quarters.

The Jewish Historical Society has invited me here to talk about my book Finding Home, and the venue is out on the University of Manitoba campus. I am sharing the talk with Joil Alpern, a well-known local figure, and the auditorium is quite full. Alpern is presenting his book, No one Awaiting Me, in which he describes how he, his brother, and a mere handful of Romanian Jews survived the Holocaust and deportation to Transnistria. However, Alpern, a gentle, sensitive man, has decided he is incapable of speaking about this traumatic experience in front of an audience. After excusing himself, his wife takes the microphone and reads a prepared text. When the presentation is over, the audience sits in a respectful but shocked silence, for no one can remain indifferent to such a story.

Now it’s my turn, and it’s up to me to change the mood — no easy task. My book is the story of those who crossed all of Romania on foot between 1889 and 1907 determined to reach America and freedom. Some of them were those first immigrants who arrived in this city. When I recount that, to research the book, I, too, crossed all of Romania on foot, I see that the audience is there with me. Soon they are laughing in all the right places and hanging on my every word. When that sort of thing happens, it’s magic.

When my time is up, there is enthusiastic applause. I then ask if there are any questions. One man, elderly, aggressive, and with a heavy accent, immediately pops to his feet.

“I don’t believe you,” he shouts. “I don’t believe one word of this story. I don’t believe you walked across Romania. I don’t believe people walked across Romania back then either. You made the whole thing up. It’s a lie from beginning to end.”

Well, now what am I supposed to do? No one ever told me this sort of thing would happen at a book talk. There’s no way I’ll convince that man that the story is true. Do I have to try? Of course, I don’t. In any case, I’m so surprised by his outburst, that I start laughing.

Then, suddenly, there is another shout — high pitched, and furious. An elderly woman, several rows behind him, stands and begins waving her fist. In heavily accented English, she berates the man.

“Who do you think you are, you good-for-nothing? What do you know about Romania? Nothing. You’re a Pole, and you think all the truth in the world is in your hands. I believe this whole story. But you? You’re too stupid to know the truth when it hits you in the head.”

“Who do you think you are to tell me off?” shouts the man.

And so, the verbal battle continues. Soon, everyone in the audience is roaring with laughter.

I do manage to sign and sell a few books — not a vast amount, of course — but enough. And tomorrow is another day, as everyone says.

***

In the morning, I wander through the icy cold streets, passing fine old buildings in a slow state of crumble, although in Winnipeg’s famous “warehouse district” many are being converted into fashionable bars and shops. After crossing the railway tracks, I find myself in the more desolate North Main, and here, paint flakes off in chunks from the frames of boarded-up windows, brickwork looks nibbled, garbage fills empty lots, and a population of no-hopers shuffles past pawn shops and a closed-down soup kitchen. Things don’t seem to have changed much since the bad old days.

Eventually, I head out to quite another section of town where Angela, my publisher’s ineffectual publicity agent has miraculously arranged a reading and book signing of my mystery, Slanderous Tongue, at the wonderful Whodunit Mystery Bookstore. At six-thirty, I’ll be catching a plane and flying to Regina, 356 miles away, for another talk at eight-thirty this evening. It’s a tight schedule — and it makes me feel somewhat like a big shot — but the bookstore is close to the airport, so I’m not unduly worried.

However, when I arrive at Whodunit, the door is locked, and there are no lights on inside. I pace around for a while, glance at my watch, pace some more, go for a coffee, come back. The door is still locked. I call the bookstore — perhaps someone is hiding inside — but there’s no answer. Finally, an hour and a half later, the door opens. I burst in, announce I’m the author who will be doing the reading. The owners, Henrietta and Gaylene are kindly women, but they stare at me with undisguised surprise.

“You’re certainly early.”
“I am?”
“You are. The book talk and signing isn’t until seven o’clock.”
“It isn’t?” I know my expression is one of astonishment. And dismay. And horror. “But Angela said that it was at four-thirty…”
“She did? But we did tell her our book talks always start at seven. There will be quite a crowd coming, too.”
“Thank you, dear Angela,” I mutter and, via telepathy, send her an evil message.
In the end, Henrietta and Gaylene have me sign a few books. “You can always come back another time.”
Sure, I can. It’s only several thousand kilometers from home.
“Maybe some people will show up early.”

I hang around chewing my knuckles. Yes, a few people do show up and I do a hasty blah-blah, but I have to leave. I’ve cut time as short as I can, and now there’s every possibility I’ll miss my flight.

I race through the airport, squeak through as the plane doors are closing, arrive in Regina and get to the bookstore in record time. Then I pace around waiting for people to show up.

“You’re not a local author, so you might not get much of a crowd,” says the sympathetic and kindly owner.
He’s absolutely right. Only one man shows up: Lionel. He isn’t here for the book signing. He just happens to be in the store, but he is a member of the local historical society, so he comes over and asks me a few questions.
“Not much of a turnout,” he says.
“Nope,” I say with feigned indifference.
He buys a copy of Finding Home.
No one else shows up. Finally, it’s closing time.
Lionel is still here, and he feels sorry for me. “Come, I’ll take you to a nice place for a glass of wine.”
“Yes, please.”

I think about all those people in the Whodunit who, earlier this same evening, showed up for a book talk that didn’t take place. I think about all the books I could have sold and signed. I think about how much fun I could have had. I think about the vagaries of fate. I think about murdering Angela. And, I mutter,
“Tomorrow is another day.”

©2019 Jill Culiner All Rights Reserved Long ago, J. Arlene Culiner set out to have a life of adventure, not one of security and comfort. She has crossed much of Europe on foot, traveled, by bus, train, car, or truck throughout North and Central America, Europe, and the Sahara, has lived in a Hungarian mud house, a Bavarian castle, a Turkish cave dwelling, on a Dutch canal, in a haunted stone house on the English moors, and presently in a 400-year-old former inn in a French village. Her experiences in out-of-the-way communities with their strange characters and very odd conversations are incorporated into all her stories. http://www.j-arleneculiner.com

A Writer's Words - Episode Six: a Boomtown

One Writer’s Journey: The Book Tour

By Jill Culiner

Episode Six: a Boomtown (almost the Wild West)

I break my journey westward across Canada in Thunder Bay, once known as a wild place, a Gomorrah. Originally called Prince Arthur’s Landing — this was a landing stage for immigrants arriving by steamer from Toronto, some 780 miles east — the city’s name was changed because the word “landing” wasn’t to the taste of residents who preferred a more upmarket image.

After silver was discovered in 1868, Thunder Bay became as wild and woolly as any American boomtown. “Ruffians and rebels, the poor, the uneducated, the pioneers with a hunter-trapper mentality” all flocked into town, but many a get-rich-quick dream came to naught. Salaries disappeared into the bottomless pockets of greedy boardinghouse landlords or were spent on doctored alcohol in the many tent saloons with their sawdust floors and spittoons, or in the bawdy taverns that opened at dawn.

In the summer, vicious stray dogs roamed the streets and scavenged for food — they were used in dog trains in winter. The crystal-clear waters of Lake Superior and the Arthur Street stream became dumping grounds for human waste and offal; cholera and typhoid epidemics spread like wildfire; and by 1870, there was sufficient pollution to guarantee that the waters remained contaminated for the next thirty years.

When the price of silver collapsed after 1890, an economic depression followed. But the Canadian Pacific Railway line, completed in 1883, guaranteed that immigrants continued to pass through town. Some disembarked and settled.

In 1893, a case of smallpox was reported in one of the carriages of an immigrant train traveling between Schreiber and Thunder Bay. Everyone panicked. The passengers were forbidden to disembark, and local natives threatened to shoot anyone who did. As a precaution, the train’s windows and ventilation shafts were closed down.

The desperate passengers — there were seventy-four men, women and small children packed into one carriage — said there was no water left, the toilet was blocked, and there was no air to breathe, but the train continued to shunt back and forth along the line all night.

The next day, it was finally permitted to stop outside of Thunder Bay where a small patch of land was staked out so the immigrants could walk around and fetch water. Local women did take pity on these unfortunates, and they provided them with clothing and food.

*** 

Determined to see what’s left of the past, I head into town. The bus terminal is on a busy four-lane road way out in the back of beyond, so I go up to the smiling young woman at the information counter and ask for directions to the center.

Her smile immediately disappears. “What do you mean, the center?”

“Downtown. Where the library is. The main part of Thunder Bay.”

She reflects for a good long while. “Well, there’s the shopping mall across the road. You’ll find everything you want there. Winners, McDonald’s. All the chains.”

“No. It’s the old center, I’m looking for.”

She frowns, turned to her co-worker. “She wants to know where downtown is.”

“The old part,” I prompt. “The original part of town. The area that existed long before the shopping mall.”

“There’s only the mall,” says the second young woman with bland certainty.

There must be something left here that isn’t a mall, so I set out along the roaring road, then duck into a Mexican food joint.

The sweet young thing with flaxen hair behind the counter greets me: “Hi. How’s your day been so far?”

I think that’s a rhetorical question — or, at least, I hope it is. “Could you please tell me where the town center is?”

“Well, there’s the mall just up the road.”

I do find the center…eventually. It’s a mile or two away, past the fast-food joints, the furniture warehouses, tire centers, gas stations, used car lots, and video rental shops. And there are still a few vestiges of the past too — not a whole lot of them — but a few. Some turn-of-the-century square brick buildings do lend the town some atmosphere. But in the library, I find photos of all that has vanished: high, elegant Victorian frame buildings with broad terraces; red brick vernacular architecture; tree-lined roads.

*** 

A very curious story is told by Joseph M. Mauro in his, Thunder Bay: A History: The Golden Gateway of the Great Northwest.
     In 1908, the Paquette Dam on the Current River burst, and floodwaters severely damaged the railway bridge, causing a westbound freight train to derail. It plummeted down into the swirling waters of the river, killing train engineer Joseph Savard, brakeman Albert Inman, fireman James Mc Bride, and two hoboes who happened to be aboard. Albert Inman shouldn’t even have been on the train; he had traded places with someone else because he didn’t want to wait two hours for his scheduled run. The only two to survive the wreck were rear brakeman Ed Geroux, and conductor George Roos.
     Shortly after the crash, Geroux moved west, but within a few months, he died in another accident. Roos resigned from the Canadian Pacific — perhaps he was worried that his luck just might run out — and started a small business in the town of Schreiber, 127 miles away. Only a few months later, he died in a canoeing accident. Thus, within a year, the entire crew of the ill-fated train had died in accidents: rumor said that fate had pursued them.

*** 

There are no longer tent bars on the main street, of course, and the spittoons and sawdust have vanished along with the scavenging dogs. In the bars that remain, video clips have replaced talk of silver, but perhaps there’s still a bit of that old-time spirit in Thunder Bay: in 2012, this city had the highest per-capita rate of homicides in Canada; in 2014, the per-capita rate of homicides in Thunder Bay was more than double the 2012 rate.

I return to the bus station to wait for the night bus to Winnipeg. On the television screen right above my head, there are exploding vehicles, screams of suffering, hysteria, great violence, car chases, and police sirens: this is the modern Hollywood version of today’s Wild West.

©2019 Jill Culiner All Rights Reserved
Long ago, J. Arlene Culiner set out to have a life of adventure, not one of security and comfort. She has crossed much of Europe on foot, traveled, by bus, train, car, or truck throughout North and Central America, Europe, and the Sahara, has lived in a Hungarian mud house, a Bavarian castle, a Turkish cave dwelling, on a Dutch canal, in a haunted stone house on the English moors, and presently in a 400-year-old former inn in a French village. Her experiences in out-of-the-way communities with their strange characters and very odd conversations are incorporated into all her stories.
http://www.j-arleneculiner.com

A Writer's Words - Episode Five: Halifax

One Writer’s Journey: The Book Tour

By Jill Culiner

Episode Five: Halifax

I was on the bus, traveling to Halifax where I’d be presenting my book to a group at Dalhousie University, and I was quite excited. Yes, I know. I should have been wary—after all, it was Angela, my publisher’s ineffectual publicity agent who had arranged the event. She had also arranged those fateful talks in Ottawa and Montreal, the ones no one had shown up for or known about. Foolishly, I do tend to be an optimist.

Outside, it had started snowing. Serious snow.
“We’re running way behind schedule,” said the bus driver.
Well, no problem. My talk wasn’t until tomorrow afternoon. Because I was in a cheery mood, I made the mistake of saying something to the young woman seated beside me—how was I to know this very round, ruddy creature was a monument to logorrhea? That I had opened a sluice gate.

She was soon giving me the details of her recent wedding, the venue, the weather, the caterers, and the meal. Each bridesmaid was described, her dress, and hairstyle. There was information about the priest, about relatives who had attended — all one hundred and twenty-five of them, since mother is one of twelve children. Then came minutiae about her own wedding dress — how she’d made an effort to diet, but those pounds simply didn’t budge, and to think she hardly eats anything because she really has a small appetite. Throughout the monologue, she steadily pushed one M&M after another between her ruby lips: the package in her lap was giant-sized.

At one point, masticating heartily, she announced: “I’m on my way to Moncton for a conference. I’m a psychologist.”

***

Running very late, we wouldn’t arrive in Halifax before two or three in the morning. At that hour, the hostel where I’d planned to stay would be closed.
    “And there’s a wine festival on at the moment,” said the driver. “You won’t find a free room anywhere. It would be best if you got off at the next stop. There’s a good motel close by, and you can catch the morning bus into the city.”

Always open to good advice, I stepped off the bus, and slogged through the snow. Discovered the motel was closed. Now what? I schlepped back to the station. The bus had gone, of course. No, there would be no other buses heading east that evening. The woman at the ticket counter felt sorry for me; I felt sorry for me.
     “Well, there is another motel way up the road,” she said. She picked up the phone, called them. Yes, they were open, and, yes, they had a free room.
    They were very nice people too, a Lebanese family who had arrived in Canada during the civil war.
    “Our whole family immigrated. Well, almost the whole family: one sister can’t get a visa.”
    “Why not?”
    “It’s the fault of all those immigrants they’re letting into the country.”

***

At one o’clock the following afternoon, I trudged through slush and sleet, searching desperately for the building where I was supposed to give the talk. I found the street, all right, but there was no building with the number 116-42. Up and down I went, the brown sludge seeping into my boots. No passerby could help me, and, of course, there was no public telephone in sight. I didn’t have a cell phone with me—not everyone did, back then—but even if I could have reached dear Angela, I knew she’d be of no help.

Now what? The talk was supposed to have started, and here I was, with a heavy backpack filled with books, and a huge folder of photos mounted on cardboard that my publisher was certain would be useful.
    Suddenly, through the sleety gloom, I spied a little knot of people stamping their feet, trying to keep warm and alive. I approached with much desperation. Did they know where number 116-42 was?
    “No,” said one. “We’re looking for the same address, but we can’t find it either. Are you here for the book talk?”
    “Actually…I’m the author.”
    “Oh, well that’s a relief. But where should we go? The organizer hasn’t shown up.”
    We stood around for a little while longer. The organizer and Angela must be in cahoots, I thought grimly. Several would-be fans, fearing death from exposure, toddled on home. Then, finally, the organizer arrived.
    “Well, I did notice the address was wrong,” she said breezily. “If you want, I can try and get the key to the Women’s Center.”
    Soggy, cold, and disheartened, we survivors—about ten of us—plodded over to that little house. It was up to me to cheer things up. So pulling out a few good tales, and using a lot of exaggeration, I did manage to get everyone chuckling.
    “You’re obviously not an academic,” said one.
    In the end, all but one person bought a book: this was success, in a modest way. A very, very modest way.

***

The woman who hadn’t bought a book did offer to drive me back into town. Why did I accept? That warm and cozy car was a lure, and I, a mere captive, received all the details about a daughter, now in Europe, who had once been a dancer. Her former studio was described, her close friends, her wedding (it had taken place three years before) her wedding dress, and how cute and beautiful her baby is. I heard about feeling problems, allergies, and potential genius. I received intimate information about colic.

Eventually, I did manage to escape, and I headed for the highly interesting Maritime Museum. In the bookshop, were many books on nineteenth-century immigration. My book would fit in nicely here, I thought, and I asked the woman running the shop if she’d be interested.
    “Why not talk to the museum director?”
    The director was charming. I told her about that afternoon’s book talk, the sleet, the cold, the incorrect address.
    “What a shame.” She shook her head with sincere regret. “Why didn’t your publisher contact us instead? We have great success with author talks here at the museum. We’d love to have you come and present your book. Let us know when you’ll be back in this part of the world.”
    “Yes, I’ll do that,” I said. But since it had taken me a whole lifetime to get to Halifax, I doubted I’d be back in the neighborhood anytime soon.

***

Back in the city center, I sat at the counter of a bar and dreamt about eating oysters (far too expensive). Two rich-looking men were sitting nearby. One was handsome and interesting-looking; the other wasn’t. The handsome guy was quiet; his chum wasn’t, and he did love boats. He told me all about boat design—okay, he did buy me a drink or two—but believe me, by the time I stumbled out the door, I knew all about mono and multihulls, design software, boat plans, fiber reinforced plastic, high-performance sailing, twin canting, T-foils, ballast, and roll stability at low speed.

I was becoming quite an authority on a great many subjects.

©2019 Jill Culiner All Rights Reserved
Long ago, J. Arlene Culiner set out to have a life of adventure, not one of security and comfort. She has crossed much of Europe on foot, traveled, by bus, train, car, or truck throughout North and Central America, Europe, and the Sahara, has lived in a Hungarian mud house, a Bavarian castle, a Turkish cave dwelling, on a Dutch canal, in a haunted stone house on the English moors, and presently in a 400-year-old former inn in a French village. Her experiences in out-of-the-way communities with their strange characters and very odd conversations are incorporated into all her stories.
http://www.j-arleneculiner.com

A Writer's Words - Episode Four: From Montreal to Halifax

One Writer’s Journey: The Book Tour

By Jill Culiner

Episode Four: From Montreal to Halifax

All work and no play? That doesn’t sound like me. This is not only a book tour: I’m already scraping together information for another project, one that promises to be quite exciting. And today, I’ll be interviewing Ruben in Montreal. He, in his late nineties, sounds perfectly coherent on the phone, and I’m meeting him at the retirement home where he now lives. The place is way out somewhere—who knew this city was so huge, so spread out? It’ll take me hours to get to him on public transportation, but Ruben has the information I need—or so I’ve been told by an archivist in Toronto who helped set up this meeting two weeks ago.

Ruben is ready and waiting for me, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, grinning from ear-to-ear. He’s quite excited that an author has come to talk to him, and he likes me too, I can see that right away. That’s a good thing; it means the interview will go well.
“You married?” asks Ruben.
“Ah, no, not exactly, but I—“
“Then you’re free to go out on a date with me.”
“Well no, not—“
“Why? What’s wrong? You doan wanna date older guys?”
“I have nothing agai—“
“So you got nothing against dating older guys, why don’t you wanna go out to dinner with me?”
“Ruben, I’m here to interview you. And right after we talk, I’m getting on a bus and heading for Halifax.”
“So you get on a bus tomorrow, not today. Tonight, we go out to dinner.”
“I can’t possibly do that. I have a book talk to give in Halifax. What I would really like to do now, though, is hear your story.”
“Ah, come on,” says Ruben. “That old stuff is history. Who cares about crap that took place seventy years ago? I doan even wanna talk about it. What matters is now. You gonna go on a date with me or what?”

***

At the bus ticket counter, I smile, am polite, but this is one of those days when life wants to show me that nothing is easy. The highly unpleasant-looking witch facing me is hostile: she hates me at first sight. Is it my face, my smile, my very existence she loathes? Or is it my accent when I speak to her in French? I’ll never know, and, frankly, do I care? I hand her my perfectly legitimate bus pass purchased a week ago, and ask for the coupons for the Halifax bus.
“I want ID,” she says.
The pass isn’t enough? But I’m not arguing; the Montreal bus terminal is not the hill I want to die on. I hand over my French driving license.
She smirks happily, punches one sausage finger down on the hapless card. “The names aren’t the same.”
“What names aren’t the same?”
“The bus pass is issued to Culiner,” she spits, furious. She isn’t going to let any run-of-the-mill con-woman get by her.
“Yes, that’s my last name.” I try to keep my voice level.
“The license belongs to Jill Arlene.”
“Those are my first names.”
“So it’s not the same person.” She pushes the license back at me, turns away, begins doing something else.
“How about you?” I yelp. My irritation now matches hers. “You don’t have a first and last name? If you just take a look at the next line on the license, you’ll see my last name.”
This pronouncement results in her total fury—she isn’t going to give in with easy grace—and the rest of the transaction is carried out with dizzying rudeness.

***

The bus rolls through towns with wooden houses, and some are truly lovely. However, aberrant renovation has destroyed many, converting fine Victorian and Edwardian structures into those of banal suburbia: Canadians are far inferior in heritage preservation than Americans, I think. And this also true in Rivière-du-Loup where I have decided to spend the night.

I don’t know the town, but I’ve decided to spend the night here, break up the 22 hour long bus journey simply because I like the name Rivière-du-Loup (Wolf’s River, in English) named after the resident loups-marin (sea wolves or seals) although humans managed to exterminate them a long time ago. Another local disaster took place in 1950 when, due to engine problems, a USAF B-50 was forced to release a nuclear bomb it was carrying. The bomb was destroyed before it hit the ground, but the explosion scattered at least 100 pounds of uranium over the area.

Still, I have imagined a beautiful town along the river, and despite the gloomy weather, I set off for a little sight-seeing. Of course, nothing is the way you expect it to be—shouldn’t I know that by now? Outfall pipes are disgorging a brown liquid sludge into the St. Lawrence River, and where there should be a beautiful waterfront, the Trans-Canada Highway roars by. And, running alongside it, are the usual fast food joints, car dealerships, motels, and gas stations. Yes, this was a beautiful place…once upon a time.

***

“I want to be a writer,” says the young woman working at the hostel. “That’s always been my dream.”
“Do you write?”
“I really want to, but I don’t have time to write.”
“In order to be a writer, you have to write.”
“I have so many ideas, I know I could get a whole book out of them.”
“Write the ideas down. That’s the way to begin. It’s called doing your apprenticeship.”
“But I have family commitments.”
“Then get up half-an-hour earlier each morning, sit down and write something.”
She stares at me, horrified. “Half-an-hour earlier? Are you joking?”
“Well…if you don’t take the time to write, you’ll never be a writer.”
“Of course, I will be. I have all these ideas. For one, I want to write a book about my mother. She was raised by her grandparents instead of her mother, can you imagine? That must have been very hard for her.”

***

In the morning, I trudge through the freezing streets. The only place open for breakfast is a sterile chain type restaurant. Still, in here it’s warm. I take out my notebook, prepare to write—I am, after all, a fairly disciplined writer. But my pen stays poised above the page: I have nothing to say.

©2019 Jill Culiner All Rights Reserved
Long ago, J. Arlene Culiner set out to have a life of adventure, not one of security and comfort. She has crossed much of Europe on foot, traveled, by bus, train, car, or truck throughout North and Central America, Europe, and the Sahara, has lived in a Hungarian mud house, a Bavarian castle, a Turkish cave dwelling, on a Dutch canal, in a haunted stone house on the English moors, and presently in a 400-year-old former inn in a French village. Her experiences in out-of-the-way communities with their strange characters and very odd conversations are incorporated into all her stories.
http://www.j-arleneculiner.com

A Writers Words - Episode Three: On the Road…Finally

One Writer’s Journey: The Book Tour

By Jill Culiner

Episode Three: On the Road…Finally

I was on the road, finally, dragging along a small but heavy rolling suitcase full of books with my right hand, another small rolling suitcase with essentials in my left (thud-a-thud-a-thud-a.) This was it: the book tour starring yours truly. I was the first author my small publisher had sent out in this way, and the venture was due to a combination of events: I wanted to do it; there was grant money from the Canada Council available; my publisher wanted publicity, and hoped that a cranky sort of person like me could drum up a little business and sell books — many books.

My job was to conquer hearts, and I thought I’d manage, all right. I’d been to many book talks in recent months, and I knew one thing was essential: I had to stay lucid, although I might be as nervous as a sack of gelatin. I’d seen the tragedies that befell those who didn’t: some babbled senselessly; others were painfully bland, or terrified and mumbling; one shy gray mouse read a paper about her book, head down, never once looking up, but putting the entire
audience soundly to sleep. I’d heard brilliant, funny speakers too, and had come to the conclusion that what an audience wants is someone energetic, amusing, but disciplined. If I had to use notes, they were for reference only but I couldn’t read from them; excerpts had to be lively and short. Perhaps, it didn’t even matter what I said: when I was up there, in front of the crowd, I had to be entertaining.

From Toronto to Ottawa, I took VIA rail and it felt like luxury. I’d recently been living in and traveling through eastern Europe, taking not the sleek trains most tourists know, but small rattling branch line vehicles, and this modern Canadian train was quite a treat. There were carpets on the floor, comfortable seats, and the staff, smiling and polite, spoke in soft reassuring voices. This was not so for some of my fellow travelers.

When the service attendant came by with drinks and sandwiches, the woman across the aisle from me, she with hair frizzed into stalk-like clumps, said she wanted to see a menu. The attendant, smiling, patient (he’d seen it all) explained there was no menu, then he again listed what foods were available. There was a long silence while madam took in the information.
“I still want to see a menu,” she insisted loudly and with much entitled petulance.
Did she think this was the Ritz? The attendant was ever patient — he had to be — but I threw spikey clumps my dirtiest look. Which she returned, of course. Still, I think it was the dirty look that finally silenced her.

In Ottawa, I had two book talks to give: the one this evening was in the public library; a second, tomorrow, would be in a cultural center. I checked into the hostel where I was be staying (on a long book tour like this one, there would be no hotel luxury, but that was fine with me.) The hostel was inside a 150-year-old former jail — some claim the place is haunted. I hoped it was (for pure entertainment) but still, just to err on the side of caution, if you’d done an enforced stint inside, why send your spirit to serve more time? Nevertheless, my single room, once an authentic three-by-nine foot cell, was anything but dismal, and the jail was within walking distance from the library where I was scheduled to talk.

I killed time walking around town. I don’t know Ottawa at all well, and I hadn’t been there in years. Besides, what was the point in showing up at the library early? I knew things would roll on as smoothly as eggs on a sheet of glass: after all, my publisher’s publicity agent — she with sufficient piercings and tattoos to decorate an entire herd of cattle — had taken care of all the arrangements.

“We don’t get my people turning out for book talks,” said the nervous librarian, a polite young man who seemed puzzled by why anyone would even consider such a thing. “I did mention that to the woman who contacted me. But we do have copies of your books on the shelves.”
“Yes…well… we’ll just wait and see what happens,” I said with comforting bravado. We went into the small auditorium where the talk would take place. It was perfectly empty. So we sat, waited for something to happen.
“I did mention that we don’t get many people turning out for book talks,” said the librarian, once again.
“Yes, you did.”
“Unless it’s someone very famous, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Or someone who’s known locally.”
“Yes, there’s that too.”
“I did tell that to the woman who contacted us.”
“Yes, I imagine you did.”

Five minutes before the talk was to begin, my friend Isa showed up with her latest beau. I was pleased to see her. We chatted like old friends who hadn’t seen each other in quite a while. Her beau was charming. The librarian was a nice guy. Time passed. No one else showed up. I talked a little about my books, then I left with Isa and the beau, and we went out to eat.
“Tomorrow is another day,” I said confidently. And that proved to be true.

“You’re here for a book talk?” said the confused-looking woman at the cultural center.
“Yes, uh…it was arranged by my publicity agent.”
“Well, yes, she did contact us, and we told her we would be more than happy to do one, and that the date was fine with us. But she never followed up, so we haven’t publicized or arranged anything.”
“Oh, I see.”
“We could see if anyone in the lobby is interested.”
The idea was not highly successful. One woman said she would be more than happy to hear me talk about the book, so we sat and chatted for a while. She even bought a copy, which was success, albeit on a very minor scale. The events organizer — she probably felt horribly sorry for me — invited me back to her house for a drink. It was a lovely house, warm, secure, inviting, cozy. It looked rather ideal from the rather dreary position I now felt myself to be in.

Then I went back out to my cell at the former jail. “Tomorrow is yet another day,” I told myself. And I knew that, once again, I would probably be proved right.

©2019 Jill Culiner All Rights Reserved
Long ago, J. Arlene Culiner set out to have a life of adventure, not one of security and comfort. She has crossed much of Europe on foot, traveled, by bus, train, car, or truck throughout North and Central America, Europe, and the Sahara, has lived in a Hungarian mud house, a Bavarian castle, a Turkish cave dwelling, on a Dutch canal, in a haunted stone house on the English moors, and presently in a 400-year-old former inn in a French village. Her experiences in out-of-the-way communities with their strange characters and very odd conversations are incorporated into all her stories.
http://www.j-arleneculiner.com

A Writers Words - Episode Two: An Interesting Encounter

One Writer’s Journey: The Book Tour

Episode Two: An Interesting Encounter 

By Jill Culiner

Here I was, in Toronto. The sun was shining, birds were chirping, and I was strutting along the calm streets, dragging a small suitcase behind me. The world was my oyster — or so I thought. That little suitcase was filled with my own books, and in a few days, I would be heading for Halifax, Nova Scotia, for the first stop on my book tour — Dalhousie University. Quite a prestigious start!

I had just been to my publisher’s office where I’d worked out the final details of the tour with the publicist. There really was no reason for things to go wrong. Okay, I had no experience in this, my publisher was a small one with little money for such an undertaking, but she did have a publicist to help me: a big plus. Possibly…

To tell the truth, that publicist didn’t inspire much confidence. She certainly didn’t look like my idea of a publicist with her bleached white hair standing on end, and her very many piercings. My questions bored her, she was remarkably vague, she preferred looking into a mirror on the opposite wall, and she soon let me know she had better things to do than just arrange a book tour for little old me: “Actually, I’m really a poet.”

But, why worry? What could go awry? But, then again, what did I know? As I mentioned: I was new at this. I had, nonetheless, taken certain matters into my own hands, arranging some of my talks, and most of my travel plans. I loved having this opportunity to go on the road, meet people, speak about all the research I had done, the world I had seen. Therefore, I would use my publisher’s offer of plane tickets to some destinations, continue on by bus in order to lower costs and prolong the tour. And, here I was now, ready for the journey, and taking the rest of the day to stroll down memory lane.

I grew up in Toronto, but left long ago. It’s quite an experience, coming back to a place you once knew. Everything is familiar, yet unfamiliar. Life has gone on without you, but in your memory, things have stayed as fixed as photos. How well I knew these streets, with their luxuriant vegetation, their huge trees. These fine houses, emblems of security, looked so comfortable, so solid, and the few people I saw, so prosperous. Perhaps they were my former schoolmates — I wouldn’t recognize them if they were; I could hardly remember their names. But what I haven’t forgotten, is how impatient I was to leave all of this behind, to set out on my own, taste the big wide world. I wanted schooldays to end, and adventure, excitement, even danger to begin.

My travels began on dark nights, when I climbed out of my bedroom window, shinnied down the solid drain pipe, and wandered through dark back yards, peeking into windows, trying to learn life’s secrets. Journeys were also snatched during school hours, and forging my parents’ signatures was easy work. I charted every corridor in every station on the subway line; I knew every single bus route, and free transfers took me to the city’s limits, out to where houses dwindled away to scrubby fields. And, finally, once I gained courage, I left town altogether, set out for another sort of life.

Now, all these years later, I was back, albeit temporarily, as a writer. Okay, unlike my school chums, I’d never have one of those big houses. I also had little money, but is that important? Having to improvise, negotiate, make do, can be far more interesting — and stimulating — than just purchasing what you want. And, best yet, I’ve lived the life I only dreamed of back then.

Emerging from the lovely back streets and joined a roaring main street, Eglinton Avenue. Up ahead, I saw a man, a homeless person, sitting on a blanket on the sidewalk with two dogs. Absolutely beautiful dogs. I stopped, told him so. The dogs, perfectly friendly, came over to me for a pat.
“I have dogs too,” I said. “I miss them, but they’re at home, in France.”

So we got into a good conversation about dogs, like all decent dog owners tend to do. Then, we exchanged names — his was Bert — and I settled down on the step beside him. From dogs, we went on to other subjects, told a few life stories. His ruin had been alcohol, he said, but now, associated with a church downtown, he tried to help other homeless people with the same problem.

He asked me what I did in life, I said I was a writer, that my non-fiction book, Finding Home, had just won a literary award. That I was about to go on a book tour.

“Hey, I love reading,” said Bert. “And here I am, talking to a real author. Tell me about your book.”

So I did, of course — what author would resist? Wasn’t this another book talk? I mentioned crossing Romania on foot, my research in the archives across Europe.

“That sounds just wonderful.” I could see Bert was sincere. “You don’t happen to have one of your books with you, do you?”

Suddenly, I felt quite uncomfortable. I was sure he was about to ask me if he could have free copy — after all, he was panhandling on the street: that was his job. My job was selling my books. There was a conflict of interest here.

Most people think that publishers hand their happy authors hefty piles of books to give away to friends, family, admiring fans, critics, would-be critics, and that nice lady who serves coffee in the delicatessen. However, that just isn’t true (as we authors know.) We do get a few free copies from our publishers — the actual number depends on the size of the print run, the marketing plan, the author’s stature, and what’s been agreed upon in the publishing contract. An unknown author takes what he or she can get, and that usually means ten copies: some receive a few more, others even less.

Publishers aren’t being unfair. They keep track of every book, including complimentary copies, because free books are the marketing tools they send to professional reviewers, bloggers, and anybody willing to spread the word. Authors are expected to use their own free copies in the same way. This means, you shouldn’t be giving a copy to Aunt Sadie because you love her. Once you’ve used up your allotment of freebies, you have to buy your own books, although you do pay less for them — somewhere between forty and sixty percent of the retail price, as specified in your contract.

“Yes, I do have some of my books with me,” I admitted to Bert. “I have copies I bought from my publisher, and I have to sell them.” I was feeling terribly guilty. After all, Bert was a homeless person. I, although very far from well-off, did have a home.
“No problem,” said Bert. “I’m not asking for anything free. I want to buy a copy.”
“You want to buy my book?”
“Sure, I do. You don’t meet authors every day of the week. And I like the story.”
“You’re sure about this?”
“Of course, I am. How much does one cost?"

Okay, you can see my dilemma, can’t you? This man, this homeless person, was about to buy a copy of my book. My book, at twenty-two dollars, was relatively expensive. This person had a plastic cup with a few coins in it, and a couple of nice dogs to feed. I wasn’t going to sell him a twenty-two dollar book, was I? Of course, I wasn’t. I wasn’t going to give one away either — that would be ridiculous, especially in my position. I could, however, sell him a copy with the same forty percent discount I had. I wouldn’t make any money on it, but I was doing a good deed. I could even chop down the price for him. Just to make me feel better.

“Are you really sure?” I asked. “It will cost you twelve dollars.”

“Great,” said Bert without the slightest hesitation. “If you just sit here and watch the dogs for a moment, I’ll cross over to the bank on the corner and get the money.” And reaching into a pocket, he pulled out a nice, golden credit card, then set off with a jaunty step.

I sat there on the step, stroking the dogs, and thinking hard. A credit card. He had a credit card. I didn’t. I’ve never had one. Ever.

If I wanted to make a success of this writing business, I certainly had a lot to learn.

©2019 Jill Culiner All Rights Reserved
Long ago, J. Arlene Culiner set out to have a life of adventure, not one of security and comfort. She has crossed much of Europe on foot, traveled, by bus, train, car, or truck throughout North and Central America, Europe, and the Sahara, has lived in a Hungarian mud house, a Bavarian castle, a Turkish cave dwelling, on a Dutch canal, in a haunted stone house on the English moors, and presently in a 400-year-old former inn in a French village. Her experiences in out-of-the-way communities with their strange characters and very odd conversations are incorporated into all her stories. http://www.j-arleneculiner.com

A Writer's Words - Episode One: How it All Started

The Book Tour: One Writer's Journey 

Episode One: How it All Started 

By Jill Culiner 

It was an icy winter, and I was holed up in a four-hundred-year-old stone house in a small French village. Two months before, I had run away from Hungary, from a love story I no longer believed in. Now, huddled beside a wood-burning stove, I was writing a mystery, Death by Slanderous Tongue, on
the kitchen table, incorporating into the tale, all the pleasant and unpleasant characters around me, much local gossip, and the strange goings-on that, when put in the right — or wrong — context, could lead to a (fictional) murder.

I was filled with longing — for published books, for recognition as an author, for warmer weather, for candle-lit dinners and a wonderful new romance, for something unusual to take place. Of course, all of those things do require an impossible alignment of lucky stars, and that never happens in my universe.

I had already had two books published: my romance, Felicity’s Power, had been released by, Power of Love, in Australia, but the company had folded three months later. My non-fiction book, Finding Home: in the Footsteps of the Jewish Fusgeyers, had been published the preceding autumn. It was a project that had taken me six years of research in the archives of Romania, Austria, Germany, Holland, England, France, the USA, and Canada; the learning of a new language (Yiddish) so I could translate documents; much uncomfortable travel on buses and trains; and the crossing of Romania on foot. Then, came the hard work of writing, the torture of book proposals, and the discouraging rejection letters. However, the manuscript did soon find a welcome home at the now-defunct Sumach Press, in Toronto.

Finding Home received a few excellent reviews, but it earned no money. No surprise. Not earning money is nothing new in my life: I never did figure out how to do it, and I’m too old, and too ornery, to learn now. So, there I was, freezing, poor, living in a very unromantic French village. Understandably, life seemed rather flat, eventless. Thus, the murder mystery to cheer me up.

It was on a late Thursday afternoon that the telephone rang. It was Rémy — he’s a sculptor, a friend, a cultural attaché who had arranged several of my art exhibitions over the years.
“How do you feel about going to Egypt for eight days? It won’t cost you anything: free flight, free food, free travel, free hotel.”
“Sounds fine to me.” (I knew he was joking, of course.)
“Okay, we leave on Saturday morning.” He didn’t sound as though he were joking. “If you need a visa, you’d better get to Paris right away.”
“Oh come on. What’s the gimmick?”
“No gimmick. Just yes, or no. If you aren’t interested, I have to know right away. Now.”
“But what…”
“I’ll explain when we’re on the plane. Yes, or no?”

I took a train to Paris, almost three hundred kilometers away— sometimes you just have to take risks — and got myself to the Egyptian Embassy. I was lucky. Normally, obtaining a visa took three days, but I would have one that afternoon: there had been a terrorist bombing in Cairo and, at the moment, tourists were very thin on the ground. I then went out to the edge of Paris where Rémy had arranged I spend the night in a circus trailer. Yes, I know, dear reader. This all sounds so unlikely. Like some romantic, highly unbelievable fiction. But it’s all true, I swear it is. Rémy’s son had his own, very original circus, and one of the trailers happened to be empty. No, there was no heating. Yes, the bed was a lumpy affair. Yes, there was running water, but it was in a washhouse way out in the back of beyond. However, the accommodation was free (I did mention that money and I don’t often meet), and I got to watch a wonderful circus performance.

On Saturday morning, I joined Rémy out at the airport. He was with a small group of friends — three sculptors, two painters, a blue-eyed pastelist, an art photographer, his wife, and an art critic I knew from way back — he was a very slimy guy. I did like the blue-eyed pastelist, however.

On the plane, Rémy told me his story: he had originally planned to go on this trip with his mistress of the moment (he has always had a string of mistresses) but she’d left him the week before, after he’d made it clear he wouldn’t be leaving his wife. Now, he was broken-hearted. He had already paid for the mistress of the moment’s ticket to Egypt, for the hotels; weeks before, he’d told his wife he would be traveling with the art critic and a few artist friends — so he definitely couldn’t announce now that he’d suddenly found a ticket for her. But, why let that ticket go to waste? Besides, Rémy needed a shoulder to cry on: mine.

In Egypt, the days passed very pleasantly. We all went to museums, traveled to a few towns, spent hours (as the French do) over long lunches in shady gardens, drinking wine, discussing art at great length, and with much heated debate — French artists do like doing that sort of thing. I flirted a bit with the blue-eyed pastelist, and although he was polite, he wasn’t encouraging. We went to visit Egyptian friends of the critic, and they all lived in crowded back apartments; we took slow boats across the Nile to other shady gardens where we dined, drank wine, and

discussed art at great length, and with much heated debate. In the evenings, after wonderful dinners, a considerable amount of wine, and many fiery discussions about art, we strolled through the streets. Then, we’d bid each other goodnight and go to our rooms (the slimy art critic always suggested I join him in his — he was not an easily-discouraged man). I, of course, was sharing Rémy’s room — the one he would have stayed in with his mistress — but not his bed (we really are just friends). And, each night, he waxed on about the mistress, about how much he loved her, missed her, about how wonderful his wife was etc. The usual.

Then, suddenly, something very strange happened (very strange in my life, anyway.) Somewhere out in that very distant universe, a few stars aligned.

It was the day before we were due to leave. Not quite lunch time, we were all sitting in the shade outside a café in some forgotten town along the Nile and, as usual, discussing art at great length. Rather bored, I looked across the road and noticed a sign: cyber café. Announcing I was going to check my mail (the French artists I know have no modern cell phones, and they don’t travel with computers), I crossed the street, entered the café, paid my money, and went online.

Which was when I discovered that my publisher had written to announce I had just been awarded the Tanenbaum literary prize for Canadian history, and I was to fly to Toronto for the awards ceremony. I would then go on to speak at book festivals in a few cities.

I don’t know how many times I read that letter; how many times I checked that it really had been sent to me; that it had been sent by my publisher — I mean, things like this don’t happen to me. Stunned, I finally managed to stagger back outside into the sunshine, to lurch across the road, to announce what had happened.

Heated discussion about art stopped immediately. Everyone stared. Then, they began to cheer. Someone — was it Rémy? — flagged down a donkey cart filled with sacks of grain, and, pushed me into it. The blue-eyed pastelist jumped in beside me, handed the ancient and confused driver some money, and we were off, clomping through town with the group of artists walking beside us, cheering. It was quite a moment. All my hard work had paid off. I was on the dizzying heights. Finally. Well… sort of…

Okay, my publisher was a small one, there was probably no luxury in sight, but I vowed I would use this opportunity to the full: I would crisscross America, go on long book tours, meet readers, writers, talk, see places. Wasn’t that exciting? True, I would be back on those miserable all-night buses and trains again; I would probably stay in dreary hostels; in Toronto, I would be sleeping on a cot at my step-sister’s, sharing the back room with the cat’s litter box. Did any of that matter? Of course not. I was a recognized writer. I had won a much-coveted prize.

Yes, I know what you’re waiting for. You want a love story. That evening before we left Egypt, the blue-eyed pastelist discovered I wasn’t Rémy’s wife or his girlfriend (after all, we were sleeping in the same room), and he wanted to know if I would have dinner with him once we arrived in Paris. And, if I needed a place to stay, he could always put me up…

Of course, we all know that stars don’t stay neatly aligned for forever. But, dear reader, just in case you’re wondering, the blue-eyed pastelist and I are still together after all this time. As for reading about the book tour, you’ll just have to wait for next month’s Episode Two. In the meantime, take a peek at all my delicious books right here: http://j-arleneculiner.com/page-2-book-0.html

©2019 J. Arlene Culiner All Rights Reserved
ong ago, J. Arlene Culiner set out to have a life of adventure, not one of security and comfort. She has crossed much of Europe on foot, traveled, by bus, train, car, or truck throughout North and Central America, Europe, and the Sahara, has lived in a Hungarian mud house, a Bavarian castle, a Turkish cave dwelling, on a Dutch canal, in a haunted stone house on the English moors, and presently in a 400-year-old former inn in a French village. Her experiences in out-of-the-way communities with their strange characters and very odd conversations, are incorporated into all her stories. http://www.j-arleneculiner.com

A Writer's Words - Getting Myself into a Pickle

On getting myself into a pickle… 

By J. Arlene Culiner

Here’s the question: do I think life will be boring if I stop doing rash things? Probably... So the incident I’m about to relate has nothing to do with bravery or courage. Instead, it’s about being in a pickle — a fairly frequent position in my higgledy-piggledy life. It started like this:

Once upon a time, I found myself in a clapboard, rusty trailer, semi-ghost town in Nevada. The hotel I stayed in was a rundown has-been, where ceilings soared high, and the lumpy, almost colorless wallpaper was a century old. In the shabby bar, a talentless band whined out bad country music, and locals dished up tall tales. It was a singular place, and I’d give anything to be able to go back…

But where was it? Believe me, I searched for it over and over, and never found it again. What was it called? I can’t remember. So I’m still looking for that cranky community — even years later. Which is how I got myself into the pickle I mentioned a few sentences back.

I was on a book tour, making my way from Los Angeles to Oklahoma by bus because, believe it or not, I really like travelling on buses and trains. You get to meet some pretty strange characters — grist for the writer’s mill — as well as highly interesting ones. Long-distance bus drivers have told me some of the best stories I’ve ever heard: they’ve been around; they’ve seen it all. Also, my ecological conscience reminds me that, if I take a plane, I’ll add a significant amount of planet-warming gases to the atmosphere.

On this particular bus, the driver and I chatted about books, about unusual destinations too. I mentioned that I’d crossed whole countries on foot, that I’m ever on the lookout for odd places, that I collect such places as setting for my books.

“Well,” he said, “if you want to see a pretty unusual place, get off a few miles from here. There’s a date plantation, a restaurant where you can get a good meal, nothing else. But if you walk north, you’ll find the crankiest, finest community around. I remember it well. It might be what you’re looking for.”

Why not? I was around fifteen hours outside of Oklahoma City: I had time. So, feeling very optimistic, I stepped off the bus and headed for the restaurant — I was starving. Of course I hadn’t asked the driver any normal questions such as — “how far north do I have to walk?” or “is there anywhere to stay in the area?” or “when does the next bus come through?” I always think luck is on my side.

“Restaurant’s closed,” said the waitress as she slopped at gooey crumbs on the counter top.
“Don’t tell me that.”
“Well, it is,” she said with unpleasant satisfaction. She was dying to go home, prop up her aching feet, sit mindlessly in front of a television.
“Okay, then. Where can I get something to eat?”
She looked at me as if I were very strange. “Out here?”
“Yes… I just got off the bus, you see. The driver mentioned a community not far away. To the north. Walking distance.”
“He said that, did he?”
“He did.”
She harrumphed.
“It isn’t?”
“It’s a pretty big walk.”
“How big?”
“Hours away.” 
“Ah. How about a place to sleep? A motel, a room somewhere.” 
“Out here?”
“Well, yes…”
“Nothing like that out this way.”
“And out at that community?”
“Doubt it.”
I chewed over the information for a few minutes, then optimism abandoned me. “When does the next bus come through?”
“Tomorrow afternoon. Five o’clock.”

Outside, the sun sank with alarming speed. Now what? I wasn’t about to set off on a night trek. No, I’d just have to find a place to sleep, somewhere safe. Where would that be? I thought of all the hungry cougars, wolves, giant killer ants, and zombies, who were waiting for the moon and a victim. I thought of armed, dangerous two-legged cranks who roam through the night. I could hear teeth grinding and saliva dripping. I could see strange shapes. “Cut it out,” I ordered myself (but not too loudly.)

I found a little hollow far from the road, curled into it, pulled all the clothes out of my bag and hoped they would be as warm as a good blanket. I also hoped I would be able to sleep. That I would survive.

When I next opened my eyes, it was early morning. Amazing! Evil had passed me by. I headed north, taking the dirt road over a perfectly empty desert plain. It was a very lonely road. I didn’t see a living soul, but my imagination conjured up movement and shadows, created strange, unpleasant noises. Still, I kept walking: whatever was going to get me, would get me coming or going.

I reached the community an hour or so later — it wasn’t really all that far. It was a wonderful place. There was a clapboard bar run by two wild ladies; there were old timers and cranks; there was great conversation; there was food and drink; it was — albeit too briefly — home.

“Come back,” people said to me. “There’s plenty of place for you to stay. There are empty shacks.”
“I will,” I answered. I meant it too.

But I haven’t returned. Not yet. Will it be as wonderful as I remember? Who knows? What I have done, however, is mix it together with that first community, that rusty trailer, semi-ghost town in Nevada. Together, they’ve become a delightful fictional community called Blake’s Folly, and the setting for my newest contemporary romances, Desert Rose and All About Charming Alice: This place was a rusty trailer, scrapyard, abandoned car, clapboard shack, sagging old house community: a dead end if there ever was one. This was nowhere. This was the end of the line, socially speaking. This was a has-been. This was home.

But, then again, all my books have strange settings, so do come and visit.

©2019 J. Arlene Culiner All Rights Reserved
Long ago, J. Arlene Culiner set out to have a life of adventure, not one of security and comfort. She has crossed much of Europe on foot, traveled, by bus, train, car, or truck throughout North and Central America, Europe, and the Sahara, has lived in a Hungarian mud house, a Bavarian castle, a Turkish cave dwelling, on a Dutch canal, in a haunted stone house on the English moors, and presently in a 400-year-old former inn in a French village. Her experiences in out-of-the-way communities with their strange characters and very odd conversations, are incorporated into all her stories.
http://www.j-arleneculiner.com