What a Scene

The beggar comes towards the terrace. His words float upward lost in the blare of music,

chosen by an aging host hell bent on slowing down his waning vitality. He holds the hand

of his young second wife as though she is an emblem, like the BMW Sport he feels he

deserves. After all, he worked hard for years to raise three children. Not to mention the

stressed out fifty-two-year old wife he’d put up with when he struggled. When money

was short. When he had nothing but a small house and an old car that wouldn’t start most

winter mornings.

“She wanted to stay in the suburbs and I had a life in the city,” he says and pats the hand

of his new wife's hand. 

“Yes,” she says, gazing at him. “I saved him.” 

She smiles at him as he reaches into the pocket of his Armani jeans and pulls out a few coins.

He tosses them into the air. They spin and sparkle in the moonlight for a second then fall

like lead to the ground. The beggar drops to his knees, searches the grass blade by blade

next to a black poodle sniffing the urine of some wild animal.

Buddha and Beads

“He will bring us good luck,” my mother said showing me the little china Buddha. She brought him and a box of incense home one Saturday afternoon. She may have bought him from a store crammed with beaded slippers, silk blouses, and tea pots or someone may have given it to her. She didn’t say. She lit the incense and put it inside him. Smoke seeped through slits on his colourful painted gown and the smell of sandalwood filled the room.

“Don’t use all my matches firing it up,” my grandfather said. He lit his pipe and lay back in his chair by the window. 

My grandmother peeked around the corner from the dining room and shook her finger at me. “Elaine, you are not to touch him,” she said. Then she returned to sorting mail at the mahogany sideboard.

Mother placed the Buddha on the shelf above grandfather’s desk. “Yes,” she said, stepping back and admiring him. “He is good for us.”

I loved the Buddha. Whenever Mother and Grandmother went into town, I climbed up and took him down to join my tea parties. He sat regally on the table amongst dolls and stuffed animals. My aunt Dot didn’t care. She sat in front of the mirror all day putting her hair in rollers and thinking about boys. As long as I didn’t get into mischief and I didn’t lock myself in the bathroom. And she didn’t have to get a ladder to climb through the bathroom window, I could do what ever I wanted.

The Buddha had been with us for a week when I stuck him in the pocket of my uniform and took him to school for show and tell.

“My mother says he’s good luck,” I announced to the class.

Sister Matilda glared at me over the rim of her glasses. “Superstitious garbage,” she shouted. Her red face turned crimson. Her fingers moved quickly over the black rosary hanging from her belt. She held them up and shook them at me. “Only God and these beads can bring good fortune and certainly not to wicked little girls.”

She banished me to the chapel to reflect on the state of my soul. I sat alone in the candle lit church watching shadows of Jesus, Mary and Joseph dance on the walls. Then Sister Teresa came down the aisle with a girl from one of the upper classes dressed as Mary. A procession of girls singing hymns and throwing rose petals followed behind. One of the girls stepped out of the line.

 “What are you doing in here by yourself?” she asked.

 I showed her the little Buddha.

 “You’re stupid,” she said.

Sister Teresa yanked her back into the procession and they disappeared out the side door. I stared at the Buddha. He was making my life miserable. Sister Matilda was making my life miserable. Mother and Grandmother were making my life miserable. Sister Matilda had rules about families being good Catholics. Mother was divorced and couldn’t go to church. Grandfather said he wasn’t putting on a suit like a prize rabbit and refused to go to mass. Not only that, Mother and Grandmother had their own rules. Theirs had to do with luck. Pictures of birds were not allowed in our house — bad luck. We had paintings of ships coming into port — good luck. Elephant ornaments with upturned trunks bringing luck to us from the east were placed around the house. In December Grandmother and Mother planted rice seeds in a pot. On New Years Day they checked it.If the rice grew tall and a healthy green, it meant a good year. If it didn’t, anything bad could happen. Now we had a Buddha. But Mother and Sister Matilda were wrong. The Buddha was wasn’t lucky nor were the beads. At least not for me.

Sheila Horne - Sunshine Girls Review by Elli Davis, Sales Representative, Royal LePage

Summer is just around the corner, even though it may not seem like it, and that means it's time to start stocking up on light, relaxing reads. Whether you plan to spend your free time on the beach, at the cottage, or simply getting a breath of fresh air at your local park, it never hurts to have a good book on hand. Sheila Horne's Sunshine Girls is the perfect quick and easy read for your relaxation plans. Told through the eyes of Toronto-born Ella, Sunshine Girls is like Sex and the City but about 20-something Canadians during the 1970s rather than 30-something New Yorkers around the 2000s. It's fun, sexy, and not afraid to touch on important social issues along the way.

Having recently been dumped by her long-time boyfriend, Ella is on the hunt for a new man. But finding one that lives up to what she has in mind proves harder than expected. From nice guys that just aren't quite right to guys who want nothing more than sex, she has her work cut out for her.

When Ella decides to spend her weekends up in Wasaga Beach with her friends — the sexually adventurous Raynie, the ready-to-settle-down Meg, and the chilled-out Jessie — all kinds of adventures take place. The four of them are ready to spend their summer hitting the bars, meeting boys, and making memories. But what starts out as four friends looking for fun times soon turns into a coming-of-age story as their lives begin to take unexpected turns and they face challenges they can't ignore.

The story takes note of some of the important social changes of the times, such as the gay rights movement, but it mostly focuses on Ella's experiences as she changes from relatively carefree young girl into a woman with real world concerns. In this way, though, it does deal consistently with the subject of the women's liberation movement on a more personal level. Ella and her friends' ideals are constantly at conflict, as they were raised to believe they needed a husband to be happy and established — but in the evolving world of the '70s, this once-steadfast concept is starting to shift. Which set of ideals will win out for Horne's young heroine is an interesting parallel to the women's rights movement being fought for on a larger scale across Canada.

Horne's style is perfect for a fun summer read. She paints a clear and interesting picture of the characters' surroundings and interactions without getting bogged down in pages of description. She also does a lovely job portraying four very believable young women and the fallout that can happen when life throws unexpected events their way. All in all, Sunshine Girls is an easy and enjoyable read.

The only downside to the book being such a quick read is it leaves you wanting to know more about Ella and what she decides to do with the new challenges that have come her way. She faces so many less-than-stellar men (to say the least) as well as some serious life-changing experiences, so you can't help but want to know more about what she'll do next. Horne introduces us to four incredibly different but equally interesting young female characters that develop beautifully over the course of the book. We only wish we could get a clearer picture at the end of where they'll be in a few years. Perhaps a sequel is in order?

The most intriguing aspect of Sunshine Girls is without doubt the period it takes place in. You'll feel transported back to 1973 Toronto as Horne subtly adds in little throwbacks that will constantly have you going, "I remember that!" Remember back when the only way to tell if someone who was picking you up that you couldn't hang out was to leave a note on the door, since cell phones didn't exist? Or when offices were filled with the sounds of typewriters and adding machines rather than the beeps and rings of computers and printers? You'll be taken back into the era when everyone smoked and a woman aspiring to more than finding a husband was only just starting to be considered a possibility.

If you're familiar with Toronto, you're sure to get an extra thrill from mentions of walks along the Danforth and tobogganing in Riverdale Park. If you weren't around to experience life in the 1970s or you haven't spent much time in Toronto, don't worry. Horne paints a clear and captivating picture of the city and its surroundings at that time, so young and old, Torontonian or not, can all enjoy Sunshine Girls.

You can get the hard copy or Kindle version at amazon.ca or get a copy for your Kobo at chapters.indigo.ca.

Sunshine Girls

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=sunshine+girls+by+sheila+horne

What A Drag. Words by Sheila Horne. Music by 3X. Mark Teixeira guitar. Louie LeCoche drums. Joe Spina bass. Chris Nicols Sax.

You Know You Are A Writer When...

The question: “How do you know you are a writer?”

My answer:  

You know you’re a writer when you dissect a sentence for an hour and decide it can be taken two different ways. Then spend the next hour wondering which way the author meant it, and is it a trick. When you read grammar books. When you write a story in two hours then re-write it for the next six months. When you look up the definition of a word in three different dictionaries. When the Thesaurus becomes your best friend and “Thesaurus it,” your favourite phrase. You know you’re a writer when you make up lives for strangers. When you take traits from five people and make one character. When you have stacks of filled notebooks and empty ones waiting for their turn. When you have an abundance of pens and pencils. When you read, not for relaxation but to look at sentence structure and style. When you start writing at eight in the morning then realize it's six in the evening, and you haven't eaten all day. When the only light on is the one in your writing room and the rest of the house is in darkness. You know you’re a writer when you’d rather spend the day with your fictional characters than with anyone you know. When you feel you can't deal with your characters’ problems anymore. When you are able to kill your little darlings. When you step back to do what's right for the story and not what you want. You know you are a writer when you detach from words and use the simple ones that mean more than the impressive big ones. When you have files and files of stories in your computer, binders on bookshelves, mounds of printed work in a cupboard and in file drawers. When you can remember exactly where you put the paper with a sentence you wrote three years ago, but you can't remember an appointment made last week. When you grow a thick skin. When you can accept critique. When you question your writing. When you don’t give up. When you step out of the box. When you get rejection or acceptance letters. Most important, you know you are a writer when you sit down and write.

                                                                                                                           

January 2014

Polishing the Jumbled Mess by Sheila Horne

Pages and pages of words, thoughts and ideas flow into sentences and paragraphs. It’s raw like a piece of wood or slab of stone waiting to be shaped. That’s when the writer turns into a sculptor and picks up their tools. There are many writing tools needed and I can tell you about all of them. But this isn’t about structure and rules. This is about what I consider the four most important tools a writer needs to start crafting their work.

With my words on the page, the first tool I use is intuition. It tells me how to approach the jumbled mess I’ve written. Where I should start, where I should make the first cut. Then I pick up the second one, trust. Along with intuition it’s important. It tells me to trust myself, and not listen to my critical voice.  Once I see what’s happening on the page, I turn to training. The know-how gained through education and experience. It’s knowing when to move or delete paragraphs and sentences.What works and what doesn't. The last and hardest tool to use is the polisher. It's stepping back, detaching from the work and doing what's right for the story.