DEBORAH PRUM

PODCAST-JOYRIDE-MOVIE REVIEW I saw a snippet of Joyride on a long airplane flight. I found the film intriguing and always wanted to watch the whole movie, which I did last night with my fellow members of The Quirky Movie Club.The plot: Twelve-year-old Mully (played by Charlie Reid) is singing in a pub to raise money for a charity that benefits cancer patients, the disease that recently has taken his mother. While singing, Mully notices his reprobate father making off with the collected cash. He chases his father, grabs the money, and hops into the driver’s seat of a cab idling outside of the pub. As Mully peels off, he notices Joy, (played by Oliva Colman) and a newborn in the backseat. Clearly inebriated, Joy tells Mully to keep driving. She confesses that she’s going to give her baby to a friend. Mully is horrified. But Joy tells him, “People give babies away all the time! To Romanian orphanages, to child traffickers, to Chinese gymnastic academies.”The two are already familiar with each other. It’s a small town and everyone gathers at the pub. Mully refers to Joy as “Vodka and Tonic” because of her drinking proclivities. Joy knows him as the boy who lost his sweet mother (a schoolmate of hers) to cancer.They start off on a road trip that involves busting through police barriers, stealing two vehicles, and hitching a ride with an offbeat farmer. At times, the screenplay feels contrived and predictable. To enjoy this movie, you need to suspend your disbelief and relax into the improbable storyline. I encourage you to do so, even if it’s just to see the sparkly chemistry between Colman and Reid.Colman has won an Academy Award, an Emmy, a Golden Globe award and has stayed happily married to the same man for twenty-four years, all admirable achievements. Her acting range is impressive—the queen of England, an intrepid detective, and in this movie, an alcoholic woman who is about to give up her baby. She fully embodies the role of Joy, which made for a great viewing experience.Charlie Reid is mesmerizing on screen. In the opening scene, he sings a very silly song with such conviction and style, I wanted to pause and replay it. His acting is both nuanced and robust, providing a balanced counterpoint for Colman’s portrayal of Joy’s forceful character.The soundtrack complemented the film well. I especially enjoyed some of the upbeat tunes. Shots of the Kerry countryside made me want to hop on a plane and spend a few weeks exploring.I’d love to see Charlie Reid in another movie, but I couldn’t find much about him online, other than his appearing in a few plays. If you want to get to know Olivia Colman better, check Amy Poehler’s interview of her on the podcast, A Good Hang.Near the end of the movie, a street person refers to Mully and Joy as “Reckless Joy and the Half-Orphan,” which is an apt summation of the story. Is the movie worth seeing? My fellow members of The Quirky Movie Club couldn’t quite get past the farfetched plot. However, I loved the acting and the overall spirit of the movie so much I could easily watch it a second time.###Interested in other movie reviews? Check out: NINE DAYS, DADDIO, or GHOSTLIGHT. 0:00 / 0:00 Joyride (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum's fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

PODCAST-SMOKE-TV SERIES Smoke is a nine-episode Apple TV series based on Dennis Lehane’s book, Firebug. This thriller is dark and gritty, with its main theme being no one can escape the negative effects of a traumatic childhood. All the primary characters have backstories that have left them flawed. The writing is good and is often laced with a cynical and biting humor.            As the story opens, we viewers learn that a serial arsonist has set more than twenty fires in the city. The investigators are under great pressure to find the perpetrator. The plot is comprised of a series of twists and turns, so many, that you can predict another is just about to happen, which is not optimal. That being said, the story kept my interest.            The acting is terrific and that alone makes the show worth watching. Jurnee Smollett does an amazing job capturing the complexity of her character, a detective who’s survived terrible abuse. Taron Eagerton delivers an stellar performance as an arson specialist who seems charismatic and charming in a twitchy and almost maniacal way. I felt a special affection for the character, Ezra Esposito, played convincingly by John Leguizamo. Ezra is a fired cop, despised by everyone because of his past failures. Yet, this guy, whose behavior can be described as amoral at best, is the one person who wants to find the truth, whatever the cost. This skilled ensemble has great chemistry. In fact, I might call it phenomenal negative chemistry, in that many of the characters have contempt for one another or histories that entangle them in unhealthy ways. Their interactions felt genuine, and the dialogue felt authentic. This thought-provoking series would be great to discuss with others.            Writers included a subplot that I found riveting—true to life and thoroughly moving. Ntare Guma Mbaho Mwine’s performance as Freddy is amazing. I don’t want to say any more about this, except that the segment is worthy of your close attention.            The pacing felt slow at times. I think the narrative tension would have been higher if they’d condensed the series into six episodes. My husband lost interest at episode three, but I hung in through episode nine. I found the last episode annoying. Lehane decided that he wanted to “go big or go home.” Up until that point, I appreciated the nuance of the material. The choices the main character made at the end strained credulity and did not fit with her street-smart way of handling crisises. At the very end, they portrayed an unrelated fire, maybe to entice viewers to show up for a possible season two? I found this confusing and thought that it diluted the intensity of emotion viewers might have felt at the conclusion of the series.            If you like watching flames, little fires and big conflagrations, this movie is for you. The ethereal shots of collapsing buildings and blazing forests are mesmerizing. All these gorgeous scenes are complemented by a topnotch soundtrack.            What I liked most about this series is the complex portrayal of each of the main characters, how we can’t escape our pasts and how no one is completely good nor completely evil. This show may be too grim for some viewers. However, I feel it’s worth watching based on the superb acting, engaging soundtrack, and beautiful (but terrifying) cinematography.### Interested in watching other TV series? Check out: THE PERFECT COUPLE and HIGH POTENTIAL . 0:00 / 0:00 SMOKE (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum's fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST

PODCAST-NINE DAYS MOVIE REVIEW I watched Nine Days a week ago. I’ve been thinking about it ever since. Written and directed by Edson Oda, this surreal film is set in a clapboard house in the middle of a bleak desert. In this house, over the span of nine days, Will (Winston Duke) decides if a soul will be given the gift of life. If the answer is yes, that soul will be born on Earth with all the attributes they already possess. If they are not chosen, they cease to exist.The souls traverse the desert in batches of five, arriving one after the other. Will interviews the individuals separately, sometimes with the aid of Kyo (Benedict Wong). Will’s questions differ for each candidate; his interrogation style ranges from tender to shockingly aggressive. All along, Will insists there are no right or wrong answers. But it’s clear that some answers will lead to the gift of life and others to permanent extinction.Once souls are born on Earth, Will observes each of their lives on a 1950’s style TV, a separate screen for each person. A small room contains a bank of televisions running concurrently. The entirety of each life is recorded on a VCR tape(!) and stored in file cabinet (!)—all of which adds to the quirkiness of the film.As the story opens, Will is dressed in a bow tie and suit jacket. He and Kyo are looking forward to watching one of their charges experience a celebratory milestone in her life. Instead, something shocking happens to this person whom they deeply value. This shakes Will to the core and makes him second guess his ability to accurately choose a soul who can thrive on earth.Soon after the unsettling event, one by one, members from a new cohort arrive. They are a diverse group, differing in appearance, responses to the questions, and attitudes about the selection process and their prospects. The actors include Tony Hale, Bill Skarsgard, Ariana Ortiz, David Rhysdal and Zazie Beetz. Beetz plays Emma, a vibrant soul who doesn’t play by the rules. She answers Will’s questions with her own questions and surreptitiously observes what happens to the other candidates. Emma’s behavior challenges Will's rigid perspective on life.Nine Days is a visual treat. I loved the grim desert shots, which were filmed at Bonneville Flats in Utah. I also like the stuffy, claustrophobic interview scenes that take place in a house that my grandma might have furnished. Both spaces contrasted with the grainy, yet gloriously sensual scenes on earth that are portrayed on the televisions. The cinematographer’s use of color creates a dreamy, intense tone evocative of the tone Edward Hopper achieves with his painting, Nighthawks, a depiction of late-night clientele at a city diner.The film moves in a non-linear fashion. Oda builds his story slowly, with every detail laden with significance. The structure is much like a hawk circling over its prey, at each turn swooping closer, until a final dive toward its target. Narrative tension builds as the viewer becomes emotionally invested in each character and at the same time realizes only one of them will receive the gift of life.Will offers a consolation prize to those souls who are not chosen. He creates a simulation of an experience  they would have liked to have had on earth. Of course, it is an imperfect facsimile. Oda’s superb storytelling and directing led me to feel deep empathy for each character, even the ones I didn’t like that much. Viewing these consolation scenes just about eviscerated me emotionally.The film leaves many questions unanswered. Will describes himself as “only a cog in the machine.” We never find out who operates the machine or why they put Will in charge, a man who is so damaged by his own past life on earth. Oda intentionally leaves the questions unanswered, which he says reflects “the gaps” we experience in our lives. Oda is a Japanese Brazilian man who grew up in Sao Paulo, Brazil and later received a master’s degree film in California...

PODCAST-SLOW WALKING OUT OF BABYLON *This originally appeared in Literally Stories, an international literary journal. One day, I meet Beelzebub standing ahead of me in line at the To God Be the Glory Soup Kitchen. Bathed in the glare of the fluorescent lights that flicker above us, the man glistens. Shards of hard white light reflect off his glimmering jacket, obscuring my view. But that one glimpse gives me the shivers. Our line inches closer to the table and away from the dazzle-splattering tubes. I notice the expanse of him, almost seven feet stretching toward the ceiling. Tuxedo jacket with wide lapels, crisp white shirt with tiny black buttons, tux pants with a satin stripe and the crease ironed in, patent leather shoes. Pretty glamorous for a soup kitchen. Looking closer, I notice the too shiny jacket, frayed shirtsleeves, a missing onyx cufflink, highwater pants, and significant lifts on the heels of his shoes. I hear a familiar whisper. “Run, child!”  It’s the same voice I sense when I attend a Sing Loud and Pray Hard meeting at the soup kitchen. My heart, that duplicitous muscle, quivers. Shall I run? If so, in which direction? Toward or away? I lean my ear toward God’s lips, waiting for instruction. But the man steps between me and God, catching my eye. He sparkles in my direction, reeling me in. I lower my gaze. Why? Am I flirting or terrified? Inches between us now.  I inhale. I smell sulfur and bug spray with notes of Old Spice and cookies baking. You wouldn’t know it now, but I used to be a sommelier of men, not that I ever had the willpower to heed warnings. I don’t lift my head. He turns back to the full table. After he piles food onto his plate, the glittery guy whips around. With a warm smile, or maybe a hot leer, he says, “Join me for lunch.”  A command more than an invitation. I freeze. I gasp. Usually, when people get a full look at my face, they turn away in horror. I realize that he’s not repulsed. I barely tip my chin in assent. Beelzebub beams and bows. Like a magnificent prince of darkness, he takes my elbow. He leads me, his damaged princess to a rickety card table onto which he slides his paper plate. With a flourish, he pulls out the folding chair, “For you, my lady.” Of late, I’ve been called Whatever Your Name Is, Hey You, and Girlie plenty of times, but never anything like, “my lady.” At least not since the beginning of my ending. Now, hand on my shoulder, he guides me into the seat. At his light touch, the hair on my neck bristles. He removes his jacket, rolls his sleeves and tucks into his heaping plate. We talk. Specifically, he talks. Beelzebub comes at me all end times and Armageddon and the beauty of a Texas cactus and swing dancing in a barn, the benefits of ivermectin and the perils of vaccines. Now and then, he lures me into his word tornado with an alluring image, like the sweet taste of that first ear of summer corn, especially when you pick it straight from the stalk then toss it into boiling water. He spouts paragraphs without taking a breath. All the while he’s inching his arm along the back of my chair, until the flesh of his arm rests heavy on the flesh of my neck. I feel hard muscles, icy knots.  At first, I edge away from his intrusion.  But then the rush of his words beguiles me, entices me into his world. I re-frame my experience. I give new labels to these feelings I’m not even sure I’m feeling. I relax into his protection, enjoy being surrounded by his strength. We dine on juicy franks, dripping with mustard, ketchup and relish, heaps of sugary brown beans, crisp Doritos that cover our fingers with orange dust, and a dessert of Mott’s Applesauce in a foil cup. He proposes a cranberry juice toast. We raise our plastic ups, touch rims. He declares, “You are special, my dear. Let no man, no misplaced morals, no selfless thoughts impede your path to the pursuit of pleasure, no matter who or what must be set on fire along the way.”

PODCAST-DON'T ARRIVE BEFORE YOU GET THERE You can read this essay in Streetlight Magazine where it first appeared or down below.***My writing mantra used to be, Fine is good enough. I made sure whatever I sent out was the best it could be. However, I worked fulltime and was the primary caretaker for three children. When I finished a manuscript, I checked for issues, then hit “send” before anyone came down with croup, required a ride to music lessons, or needed four zillion forms signed. I never lingered at the finish line, which meant some manuscripts went out not quite fully polished.You’ve heard of the tyranny of the urgent? Those years, I happened to be the tyrant’s loyal subject. The process worked, sort of. It may have taken up to thirty submissions, but most of my stories and essays found a home.When my children were young, a scarcity mentality fueled my anxiety. I felt driven to send out my work as quickly as possible. Given my tenuous circumstances, this strategy seemed both practical and reasonable.Now, that the kids are grown, I’ve learned to let my writing simmer. My mantra has changed to, “Don’t arrive before you get there.”  It helps that I’ve created a Repository of Random Ideas notebook. In it, I record character sketches, story concepts, essay topics, weird phrases, silly words that tickle my ears.  When I first jot down an idea, I’m convinced that it’s hysterically funny and/or amazingly brilliant. I wind up using about 10 percent of these “amazingly brilliant ideas.” However, just knowing this resource exists tamps down my drive to send out a project before it’s fully ready.            Here’s an example of how the repository works. One hot afternoon, as I walked up a steep hill in my neighborhood, I experienced significant chest pain. A normal person would have called for help. But my mind went to how dying by the side of the road might an interesting way to start a story. Back home, I swallowed antacids, took out the notebook, then dashed off thoughts about a young woman who experiences chest pain followed by a heart attack. She’s a quirky accountant who’s led a solitary and quiet life. That’s as far as I got.A year later, an extremely cautious 65-year-old friend of mine went sky diving. My friend’s surprising decision inspired the second half to my quirky accountant story. After my character’s heart attack, the young woman throws caution to the wind, goes skydiving, then experiences an epiphany. Called Gravity, the story appeared in Across the Margin.            When I take the time to record the world around me— parent-child interactions in an airport, glimpsing a shooting star, an elderly woman struggling to put on an earring—any of these observations could be material for a story or essay. The trick is to relax and trust that the whole piece will ultimately materialize.            Currently, I am waiting for the rest of a short story to arrive. So far, I only have the title, Slow Walking Out of Babylon and the first line, “He comes at me all Jesus and pancake breakfasts and pine tree air fresheners….”Beyond that, I find myself peering at the edge of a black abyss. As fog swirls around me, I glimpse a flicker of light in the distance. My space is not yet illuminated, but I know it will be, and I will wait.###Note: Slow Walking Out of Babylon was just accepted by Literally Stories and will be published in June 2025. 0:00 / 0:00 Don't Arrive Before You Get There Photo appears  courtesy of Alessio Lin.INTERESTED IN MORE CRAFT ESSAYS? CHECK OUT:THE CELESTIAL VAULTEFFECT OF FORGIVENESS ON CREATIVITYALL ABOUT THAT BASSWHEN TO CARE AND WHEN NOT TO (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum's fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post,

PODCAST-INSTANT FAMILY-MOVIE REVIEW Straight out of college, I took a job that gave me a year to “de-institutionalize” a group of 17-year-old kids who had spent their lives bouncing from one placement to another. My task was to equip them with the survival skills they hadn’t learned during their formative years. I was supposed to accomplish this before they turned 18, at which point the state would dump them on the curb.            These kids had heartbreaking histories. Angie lost her parents and siblings in a car crash. Lenny spent his early childhood chained to a radiator. My favorite was Jimmy, a lanky man-child with unkempt shoulder-length hair and the saddest face you could imagine. All he wanted was a two-hour home visit with his family. I spent weeks arranging the trip. I helped Jimmy practice how to how to interact with his family. I found clean clothes that fit him. I made sure he showered on the day of the trip.Giddy with excitement, Jimmy could barely sit still during the one-hour drive. No one came to the door of the apartment when we knocked. A neighbor told us the family had left for the day. Jimmy cried all the way home. I could barely keep from crying myself. To this day get weepy when I think about the depth of his grief. At the end of that year, I felt so distraught about the plight of my charges, I wrote a grant asking for funds to finance a halfway house that I wanted to establish. I didn’t find a single donor.            Because of that experience, I was interested in seeing Instant Family, a movie about the foster care system and adoption. The film is based on a true story about a couple who decide to adopt three siblings.            The main characters in the movie, Pete and Ellie, had never thought much about whether to have children. Even when they join a foster care discussion/training group, they seem ambivalent about proceeding with the process. However, they do wind up taking in three siblings, two elementary-aged children and a feisty teen. Early on, they seem to regret their decision, not quite anticipating all the challenges the traumatized kids would present. Later, when the bio mother of the children is released from jail and re-enters her children’s lives, they also weren’t prepared for the heart wrenching situation they found themselves in.            You couldn’t ask for a better cast and good performances overall. Mark Wahlberg and Rose Byrne play the adoptive parents. Octavia Spencer and Tig Notaro portray case workers, who act more like a comedy duo, with Spencer interjecting unfiltered opinions and Notaro trying to keep her colleague in check. About halfway into the movie, Grandma Sandy (played by Margo Martindale) shows up and adds a burst of energy to the plot as she expresses lavish love and plenty of no-nonsense direction for her new grandkids.            The film seems mostly true to life, not that my one year of post-college work makes me a big expert. They don’t cover up the flaws in the foster system nor do they sugarcoat difficulties in caring for traumatized children. I’m glad they include plenty of laughs in the depiction of daily life. This is a difficult topic, and we viewers need the comedic breaks. But I would have appreciated less slapstick and more nuanced humor. Some of the over-the-top scenes (similar in style to Cheaper by the Dozen) did not seem authentic and detracted from the film. One example is the scene where Pete and Ellie arrive at their teen’s high school and start threatening and chasing various people.If you are interested in viewing a slightly different take on foster kids, check out Short Term-12 which stars Brie Larsen. I like this movie, although it’s not for everyone, especially not for a friend I invited over to watch it one time. He felt it was too grim and hated it.            All in all, I’m glad I watched Instant Family. I especially loved seeing all the real-life photos of adoptive families at the end of ...

PODCAST-PISTOL PACKIN' MAMA Photo Courtesy of Taylor Brandon 0:00 / 0:00 Pistol Packin' Mama  Ninety-five years ago, my grandfather, Gaetano Boccaccio named my mother after his favorite Longfellow poem, Evangeline. Despite raising five children on a barber’s salary during the Great Depression, Gaetano made sure my mother took ballet, tap, and had French horn lessons. In high school, she played the French horn so well that she won a place in the All New England Orchestra.Eva loved classical music, over the years becoming an expert of sorts. After listening to a few measures of even the most obscure work, she usually could identify the genre, composer and name of the piece.My parents shared a love for musical theater and were devoted attendees of all the latest productions at the Schubert Theater in New Haven, CT. Back home in our tiny apartment, they’d gather with friends and sing show tunes: The Bells are Ringing, Summertime, Some Enchanted Evening.After my father died seven years ago, Eva moved to a retirement community near us in Charlottesville. She took full advantage of the place: exercising three times weekly, reading to her heart’s content, and blasting her classical music like a teenager. Often, I could hear it from the hallway as I approached her apartment.This winter, my mother’s Parkinson’s symptoms worsened, causing memory issues and several falls, resulting in her entering hospice care at her retirement community. In January, Covid and another bad fall put her into Hospice House, an eight-bed facility in a lovely old Victorian home.My mother is in her fourth month at Hospice House and is continuing to fade, experiencing many indignities of old age which I will not enumerate. Suffice it to say, she is enduring them without complaint. (I did not inherit that attribute. Recently, I had minor foot surgery for a hangnail and have been whining about it ever since.)These days are hard on my mother. They are also hard on all of us family members who are watching a once vibrant person suffer and slowly disappear before our eyes.On a whim, I picked up a collection of 1,000 old show tunes at a library book sale. I read song titles to her. Whenever she recognized a title, she accurately sang the first verse and chorus of each song, which is remarkable, given that she’s now forgotten much of the past fifteen years.Now, a week later, she’s confusing some of the tunes, but one song has stuck with her, Pistol Packin’ Mama I find this fascinating because the song is neither classical nor from a musical but instead is based on the true-life experience of Al Dexter who saw a pistol-packin’ woman chase her philandering husband through his tavern.My respectable, tee-totaling mother sings the song in a deadpan manner and will perform for aides on cue. Here are the illustrious lyrics:Drinkin’ beer in a cabaret,And, I was havin’ fun!Until one night she caught me right,And now I’m on the run.Lay that pistol down, Babe,Lay that pistol down.PISTOL PACKIN’ MAMA,Lay that pistol down!            At the end of the ditty, Eva always pauses dramatically to hit the low “D” note on the word “down”, which makes me giggle every time.Despite her anguish and all her terrible losses, I believe my pistol packin’ Mama is telling me that her pistol packin’ self is somehow still in there, alive and well.  And furthermore, she’s letting me know that she has no intention of going gently into her good night but will continue to make music, perhaps a little raucously, at the dying of the light.### Check out Bing Crosby's rendition of PISTOL PACKIN' MAMA.Want to read another essay? Check out CODE RED. (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum's fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post,

PODCAST-THE GOD OF THE WOODS BOOK REVIEW Liz Moore’s literary mystery is set in 1975 at a prestigious summer camp in the Adirondacks. This place requires coed campers (aged eight through teens) to participate in a minimally supervised survival exercise. They are placed in small groups, given scant supplies, then are sent into the deep forest overnight to fend for themselves. The last instructions they hear are, “Do not get in touch unless someone is dying.”What possibly could go wrong?            In this case, the campers capture and roast a squirrel for supper. Prior to the gruesome dinner, a stabbing wound occurs. Within a few hours, the situation becomes bad enough to legitimately call for help.            This camp attracts bad luck. Soon after the squirrel supper and knife wound debacle, back at the cabin, a camper goes missing. Not any camper, but 13-year-old Barbara Van Laar, rebellious daughter of Peter and Alice Van Laar, fabulously wealthy owners of Camp Emerson (named for Ralph Waldo).  Furthermore, the Van Laar’s 8-year-old son had disappeared from the campground fourteen years before.            Despite the Van Laars being blessed with vast generational wealth, the family is not one to envy: two missing children, a least one unhappy marriage, one grumpy grandfather, a person with serious addiction issues, and a collection of family secrets that figuratively and literally destroy lives.            The first Peter Van Laars founded the camp decades before. He intended to welcome children of all backgrounds, giving them an appreciation for nature and teaching them outdoor survival skills. By the time Peter III (father of Barbara and Bear) becomes director of the camp, most attendees are from rich, well-connected families. Workers from town manage the camp. Since area factories shut down, these folks depend on camp work to survive, barely scraping by.Each summer, Peter III and Alice leave their mansion in Albany, New York to live on grounds in large house which Peter I named, Self-Reliance. Of course, the current inhabitants are anything but self-reliant. In fact, the ill-paid townies perform all the menial labor and are expected rally at a moment’s notice to do additional work.            A prominent theme in this book is the ongoing tension between the elite flatlanders and the downtrodden townies. We readers learn that no matter who commits the crime and no matter how irrational the logic, the townspeople are the first to be blamed. For the most part, law enforcement is complicit in this process, letting the imperious ruling class off the hook and detaining and blaming poor folks based on little or no evidence.            Another theme in the book is sexism/chauvinism, both of which are prevalent in 1961 and sadly still in 1975. The Van Laars family treats Alice like a complete idiot, barely concealing their contempt. When disturbing events occur, they lie to her, over medicate her, and hide her away.Another example of sexism is how everyone treats, twenty-six-year-old Judyta Luptack, the first female investigator in the state of New York. Despite her achievements and multiple awards, Judyta contends with disrespectful, condescending treatment from all but one of her colleagues. They dismiss her suggestions, take credit for her successes, and consign her to meaningless tasks. Her family provides zero support, her own brother mocking her on a regular basis. However, Judyta is my hero. Throughout the investigation, Judyta resists the braindead allegiance her law enforcement superiors have pledged to the Van Laar family.            The God of the Woods is well-worth reading, however, the structure of this book is daunting. Moore told her tale via several points of view, which required me frequently required me to re-read prior sections in order to figure out what was happening. Also, she switched between two time periods, Bear’s disappearance in 1961,

PODCAST-CODE RED Photo courtesy of Jason Leung 0:00 / 0:00 Code Red Have you ever seen Das Boot (1981), the movie about a German submarine? I don’t recommend it. I don’t remember much about it except a terrifying few moments of sirens blaring, lights flashing, and Germans screaming, “ALARM!” This scene convinced me I’d never want to set foot on a submarine.            Sad to say, I feel as if I am in a Code Red Das Boot moment every time I turn on the news. So, these days I’ve been searching for ways to lower my level of stress and increase my emotional wellbeing.I read that the scent of lavender is calming so I bought a three-pound bag of lavender-scented Epsom salts. One evening, I dimmed the lights and drew a warm bath. I poured half the bag into the water, figuring I’d use an amount lavender proportionate to my gloom. More lavender less existential despair, right?            After five minutes, my head ached as waves of nausea hit me. I felt faint and dizzy as I struggled to haul myself out of the tub. The sad truth: I had lavender-poisoned my body, which in no way decreased my feeling of angst.            When my life feels out of control, I de-clutter. Right now, my life feels out of control. So, I organized my desk, kitchen, and car. Next, I non-gently persuaded my husband to clean out his study, an 8” by 10” room filled floor to ceiling with books, papers, photographs, and doodads from all eras of his life. My spouse is not one to throw anything out.He tossed only .01% of the items in the room. Then, he boxed the remaining books and papers, pulled down the rickety ceiling ladder, and began lugging them up into the attic. My fear of heights and the sketchy ladder had dissuaded me from ever checking out what my husband had been squirreling away over the past twenty years. However, my feeling of dread overtook my fear of heights. So, I white-knuckled my way up the ladder and joined my husband. I discovered hundreds of household goods I’d believed we’d tossed but still existed in various states of disfunction.At the center, I saw three disintegrating cot mattresses made of foam. A giant military-style board game sat atop them. Both the game and mattresses looked as if they’d had been eaten by attic trolls and/or mice. I pushed the mattresses toward the open stairwell, which jostled the broken-down cardboard box. Tiny pieces scattered everywhere, including into the insulation below. As I tried to catch the box, I lost my balance. I grabbed hold of the edge of the rotting mattress, which was anchored to nothing.As I slid toward the eaves, pulling the grody mattress with me, I realized no floor existed beneath the insulation. I screamed for help, although not loudly because my husband stood only eight feet away, watching my ill-conceived efforts. My significant other didn’t budge, instead he fixated on small bits of plastic. A stickler for keeping belongings intact, he yelled, “Oh no, you’ve lost the game pieces. We’ll never be able to find them!”Trying to inspire my hubby to enter rescue mode, I shouted motivational words that involved swearing. Lucky for him, my husband chose me over the game parts, walked the eight feet, then yanked me away from the mounds of insulation.My conclusion: both the lavender and the de-cluttering proved ineffectual in ushering me out of CODE RED status.This is the current plan:  I am taking life slowly, trying not to borrow trouble from each day ahead. I am a planner, so staying in the present is challenging but I am attempting to build resilience for the long haul. My goal is to remain in my lane, figuring out what is mine to do.Right now, additional coping strategies include having dinner with dear friends, filling my house with the orderly sounds of Bach, and trying not to squirm while listening to mindfulness clips on YouTube. So far, those activities have not resulted in life-threatening events,

PODCAST-TIME OF THE CHILD-BOOK REVIEW The first half of Time of the Child by Niall Williams moves ever so slowly, taking its time to build a solid framework for the captivating events of the second half. By the middle of this novel, we readers are intimately acquainted with the village of Faha, its topography, history, climate, culture, spiritual leanings, its people and the fascinating ways they are connected.            Even though there’s not a lot of action for the first 130 pages, Williams builds narrative tension by making sure we readers care about the characters, both main and minor. He writes about the villagers with such humor and affection that as a reader I felt drawn in, eager to hear what life had in store for them.Another way Williams bumps up narrative tension is to make liberal use of foreshadowing. The book starts out, “This is what happened in Faha over the Christmas of 1962, in what was known in the parish as the time of the child….To those who lived there, Faha was perhaps the last place on earth to expect a miracle.” Then, just in case the child slipped our minds, the beginning of chapter three starts, “Before dawn on the day Jude Quinlan would find the child, a rough hand shook him awake.” That line alone kept me reading through the next sixty or so pages until Jude finally discovers the infant.Normally, I stay away for slow books and movies. It’s a flaw, I know. However, the writing in this book is so mesmerizingly gorgeous, I forgot about the plot. I loved the syntax, the clever humor, the descriptions of setting, and the sage observations about humanity and God. Regarding word choices, I saw words I hadn’t read since SAT prep years ago: lumpen, perspicacious, wodge, susurrus, and many more. The author’s writing is elegant without being pretentious. E.B. White would be proud.There are many well-drawn characters in the book, but for me three stand out. Dr. Jack Troy is the physician who serves the villagers, people show up at his house at all hours with all sorts of ailments, some of which are pretty gross. If a patient is not mobile, he drives to their homes in the countryside, no small feat. His work is more of a mission than a business, with payment often being in the form of cabbages and piles of wood. Jack experiences two great losses, his wife and a woman he loved after his wife’s death. He emerges from these losses with his faith battered, doubting God’s love, and often, God’s existence. Jack’s daughter, Ronnie, is the only one of his three children who chose to remain in Faha. She is his faithful assistant in the clinic, but otherwise keeps to herself, conversations between them rarely straying beyond the superficial. Yet, we readers learner that she is a writer who thinks deep thoughts, not that anyone seems to care. All this changes quickly once twelve-year-old Jude Quinlan finds the infant. Jude lives in harsh circumstances and has endured terrible suffering, but his response is to behave tenderly toward others. Jude Quinlan is the heart of the story and is by far my favorite character.The last half of the book is a page turner. I felt so invested in the characters that I couldn’t wait to see what happened. Williams did a great job of throwing curve balls into the plot. I found myself arguing with Williams over what I thought were some bad plot choices, but then as I read on, I realized that rascally author had tricked me. I wept through the last few pages of the book, all the way to the redemptive, but unexpected (by me) ending. It was wonderful. Do yourself a favor and read this book.###   0:00 / 0:00 TIME OF THE CHILD (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum's fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living,

PODCAST-HIGH POTENTIAL-TV SERIES Lately, I’ve been seeking low key, stress-free entertainment to keep my mind off reality. The television series High Potential fits the bill.Single mom, Morgan Gillory (played by Kaitlin Olson), is an exuberantly inappropriate savant whose antics get her in trouble with employers, past husbands, and the law, most specifically the LAPD, where she works as a janitor.The opening episode shows Morgan, music blasting into her air buds, wielding a dust brush, and dancing through empty offices. As she prances around swinging cleaning tools, she upends a stack of papers that are part of a murder case.Morgan possesses a photographic memory and can read a dense document at a glance. So, as she re-stacks the files, she gleans the salient info, and writes her opinion about a suspect on the case board, “Victim, not suspect,” she declares. Apparently, messing with the board is a crime, which the LAPD catches on film. When she arrives at work the next morning, they promptly arrest Morgan.Uncowed by her precarious legal situation, Morgan is mouthy and disrespectful as she describes her theory about the case to police officers. They throw her into a cell, while they check out her ideas, all of which turn out to be true. When they release her, her attitude is still so insolent that she is almost re-arrested. However, the chief (Judy Reyes, from Scrubs) recognizes that Morgan made headway on a case that had stumped her officers, so she hires the cleaning lady as a consultant, which is a good move, because Morgan goes on to solve the case.Lots of elements make this TV series fun. Kaitlin Olson’s high-energy portrayal of Morgan’s zany character is a joy to watch. If you love trivia, this show provides plenty of opportunities to learn about esoteric subjects like why many churches face in a specific direction, what kind of gun powder flashes white, and what direction the wind blows in during each season in LA. Both the presentation of trivia and Morgan’s theories are portrayed in amusing asides with cool graphics.Morgan Gillory is a multidimensional character. At work, despite her brashness, she has a soft spot for underdogs she encounters. At home, she is a wise and tender mother and a kind ex-wife.Daniel Sunjata plays Adam Karadec, the lead detective who is appalled by Morgan’s lack of regard for the actual law and is undone by her quirkiness. Although there is tension in their relationship, it’s nuanced, not cartoonish. I like that the two develop respect for one another over time.If you are a true crime aficionado, you will spend time muttering, “That would never, ever happen.” Yep, the show strains credulity. I do not have a background in police work, yet, several times, I found myself shouting at the screen: “Put gloves on before you touch that evidence!”Fun fact:  the show is based on a popular French series called, Haut Potentiel Intellectual. Apparently, you can stream the show on Hulu.Kaitlin Olson is no stranger to comedy. She performed with The Groundlings Theater in Hollywood. You might recognize her from Curb Your Enthusiasm, The Drew Carey Show, and It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia. The cast members have wonderful chemistry with Olson serving as the rug that pulls the room together. If you want to take a break from reality, I highly recommend this show.### 0:00 / 0:00 High Potential (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum's fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

PODCAST-IF I EVER DIE My father often started his sentences with the phrase, “If I ever die…”            I never corrected him. I didn’t say, “Don’t you mean, when you die? You understand that dying is inevitable, right?”Instead, I wondered how he thought his life might play out. Did he believe he’d be carried off to heaven in a fiery chariot like Elijah in the Bible? Probably not.My father’s pronouncement didn’t seem to be influenced by any theological theories. The man simply disregarded his mortality, which resulted in his making risky choices, choices that evidenced questionable judgment.A man of irrational optimism and mesmerizing confidence, my father possessed great skills of persuasion. In his eighties, he convinced seven fellow octogenarians to help him detach then carry a wrought iron porch from our home to the back of our one-acre lot. He wanted to create a clubhouse for his horseshoe buddies.So, during a raging thunderstorm, as lightning crisscrossed the sky, these old guys with shoulder, knee, and heart problems, staggered down the yard with the intact porch. All I could think about was how many ambulances we’d need to call and the lawsuits the stunt would engender.            Another time, my father visited me in Virginia the week before he was scheduled for cardiac bypass surgery. Our neighbor invited us to go to a horse stable to pick up manure for her garden. We were to follow her truck, then help her shovel. She wanted the freshest manure, so she steered into a steaming mountain of droppings. Her pick-up sank several inches. As she spun her wheels, horse poo splattered in all directions. Despite my protests, Dad stepped into the equine doody, leaned his shoulder against the two-ton truck and pushed hard, to no avail. Fearing my father’s heart would fail, I flagged down a farmer who used a tractor to haul the pick-up out of the pit.            When my father was ninety-one, I flew to Florida for a visit. I hadn’t been a passenger in his car for a while. As he drove down a highway in Ocala, Dad looked at an overhead sign. “What do you think that says?” The tone of his query indicated that he believed there could be more than one correct answer.            I gasped. The letters were about the same size as that HOLLYWOOD sign in California. I told my father he needed to give up driving. After three attempts, my mom finally hid the keys in a place my father couldn’t find. So, my dad used his golf cart to get around, a cart with faulty brakes and a broken headlight. After a couple mishaps, my mother hid those keys. One night, my father hot wired the cart, then headed for a neighborhood pinochle game. Soon after, my cousins made the golf cart disappear.            At ninety-two, my father’s health declined rapidly. He asked to come to Virginia, where I live. He felt too ill to fly. So, my intrepid cousins decided to drive my parents to Charlottesville. We wondered if we might find ourselves in a Little Miss Sunshine situation—the movie where on a family road trip, the feisty grandpa quietly passes to the Great Beyond in the back seat of a van. We discussed what to do if my dad died on the way. We all agreed—they’d just keep driving. Sick as he was, right before they left, my father tried to convince my cousins to bring him to one last neighborhood pinochle game.            Upon arrival in Charlottesville, my father entered hospice care and passed away two weeks later. Even though, he’d been ill for months and I watched him become weak and disoriented, I felt shocked when he died. He had spent his life taking risks and beating the odds.  At a subconscious level, I’d bought into his, “IF I ever die…” perspective.To this day, I still expect a phone call from him, telling me about his latest ridiculous exploit. I do feel relieved that I no longer have to worry about him endangering himself or some innocent bystander. But the truth is, I miss him.

PODCAST-DADDIO MOVIE REVIEW Daddio is shot in the interior of a yellow taxicab on its way from JFK Airport to an apartment in Manhattan, a trip that normally takes forty minutes, with traffic. However, on this late night, the trip stretches to one hour and forty minutes because of a car accident. Not only does the movie take place in the cab, but most of the shots are of Clark (Sean Penn) and his passenger whom he calls Girlie, (Dakota Johnson).  A few times, Clark turns to address Girlie, however, for the most part, viewers see their faces side-by-side, both looking forward.            You might think this is the set up for a boring movie. Not so. I never felt claustrophobic or bored. The chemistry between the two performers was mesmerizing because of their great acting skills, and because of the talented Christy Hall who is both the writer and director of the movie.Against all odds, narrative tension is high throughout the film. Hall builds tension in three ways: by the micro expressions and gestures of the two actors, by building anxiety as to whether Clark presents an imminent danger to Girlie, and by the dialogue Hall has written, which starts out with mundane exchanges but slowly intensifies into more intimate revelations. Hall shot the scenes in chronological order, which is unusual. The film unfolds in a way that feels like real time, with no flashbacks, no inclusion of other settings--nothing except for what we see and hear right before us in that tiny cab. Initially, Clark and Girlie share gripes about cell phone use, credit cards, and self-driving cars. But soon, crusty and foulmouthed Clark is making crude comments about past wives and is asking Girlie intrusive questions. Listening to him made the dials on my creep-o-meter start spinning. What are Clark’s intentions toward Girlie?At one point, Clark states Girlie seems like a person who can take care of herself. In fact, she says so herself. She doesn’t wilt when he makes his crass remarks. Girlie names them for what they are, responding with appropriate disgust. Interestingly, she doesn’t retreat from engaging with him. Their conversation morphs into a truth or dare game, each person taking turns one upping each other with true stories. The revelations become surprising and intense, dispelling any assumptions viewers might have held about Clark or Girlie.Christy Hall’s impressive writing and directing is on full display in this film. Her prose is sharp and economical, each word of the dialogue hits its mark. Both characters shift regarding vulnerability and world view. The tone of the dialogue modifies to reflect that shift, which makes the character changes both credible and deeply moving.In the hands of an inept director, this movie would have been unbearably dull. Fortunately, Hall conveys volumes with nuanced facial expressions, hand motions, (like Clark incessantly drumming on the steering wheel), and perfectly timed texts from Girlie’s yucky boyfriend. Even the occasional shots of the exterior of the car, especially the car crash scene, complements what’s happening inside the cab.This movie contains rough language and some gross texts from Girlie’s reprobate boyfriend. So, it’s probably not the best choice for family movie night.I had hoped for a different ending. However, what I had envisioned wouldn’t have been as true and deeply satisfying as the ending that Hall wrote.  All in all, this movie turned out to be 140 minutes well spent.###Check out more reviews:  His Three Daughters, The Perfect Couple, Presumed Innocent.  0:00 / 0:00 DADDIO MOVIE REVIEW (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum's fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places.

PODCAST-IRRESPONSIBLY GROWN POTATOES 0:00 / 0:00 Irresponsibly Grown Potatoes Recently, as I walked through the produce section of a grocery store, I passed a sign that said, “Responsibly Grown Potatoes.” Naturally, I began to imagine “Irresponsibly Grown Potatoes.”Would they be grown by a chain-smoking farmer, one who flicks his carcinogenic ashes on the crop?Or, maybe they’d be raised by a tipsy fellow who stashes a hip flask in his farmer jeans. Every day, he’d stagger around the fields dousing the nascent plants with a little hooch.Worse yet, that same man might drink and drive. All at once, my brain was flooded with disturbing images of cows, chickens and goats fleeing for their lives from the Irresponsible Farmer rampaging on his tractor.These thoughts rattled me, so I let my mind drift. What about irresponsibly grown children? What would those parents look like? Had we ever been irresponsible parents?Oh yeah…that time when Ian was eight.Our youngest child, Ian, was born seven years after his older brothers. And by the time Ian was eight, we’d been child wrangling for eighteen years. We felt worn down and mildly confused. Ian happened to be an easy-going, quiet child. So, we relaxed our parenting style.One Saturday morning, my husband, Bruce, and I met at Ian’s basketball game. We arrived in two cars, then gathered up Ian and headed, separately, to an electronics store to shop for a television. Bored, I went home after five minutes of shopping. Bruce, on the other hand, spent the next two hours checking out TVs in that store and other places.When Bruce returned home, I didn’t see him walk in. A few minutes later, a friend phoned asking if Ian wanted to go to a production of Peter and the Wolf. I asked Bruce where Ian was. He looked at me blankly. “I thought you had him.”Remember, Ian is eight, old enough to know his name, address and phone number, old enough to ask for help when left or lost. It’s been over two hours since we’ve seen him. We began dialing stores. At the first, a man answered. “Nope, no small boy here.” We received the same response at the second, third and fourth store.By this point, I stood in the driveway, hysterical. Then I heard a still small sexist voice in my panicking brain, “Wait. A man answered at that first store. That guy responded so fast, he probably didn’t even look.”So I called back that first place and asked for a woman, any woman. After I described our situation, she checked a side lounge of the store where she found Ian snoozing on a couch in front of a television that was looping The Pirates of the Caribbean.When we asked Ian if he’d been worried, he said no because he knew that “Dad was a very slow shopper.”Back to those potatoes. I’m not sure how Irresponsibly Grown Potatoes turn out. To be honest, I’m all for eating healthy food and protecting the environment. So, thank you to farmers who care enough to grow potatoes responsibly.I’m also for responsibly grown children, but sometimes raising a child is more of an art than a science. And, years later, as we now have discovered, a somewhat irresponsibly raised child can turn out just fine. (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum's fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

PODCAST-WHEN TO CARE AND WHEN NOT TO Photo Courtesy of Omar Salom 0:00 / 0:00 When to Care and When Not To (This essay originally appeared in Brevity.)My vocation is writing, but my avocation is painting, mostly portraits. I belong to a Facebook group dedicated to showing the work of artists who are trying to create loose watercolor paintings. Members range from people whose pieces could be displayed at a prestigious museum to beginners who are asking for comments and helpful tips on their first attempts.A self-avowed beginner posted several portraits online. Using vivid colors and bold strokes, her paintings portrayed purple bruises, blood flowing, and anguished expressions. Each portrait revealed the artist’s compassion for the difficult lives of her subjects, but not in a gratuitous way.Her work evoked a strong, affirming response from group members, except one person. That member found the work disturbing and said so in an unkind way. She demanded the woman’s entries be banned from the forum.The novice artist felt crushed and expressed her distress online. She received many responses, including mine, which was something like, “Don’t accept harsh criticism from anyone you wouldn’t normally choose to go to for advice, someone who doesn’t necessarily care about you or understand your work.” I wish I’d included, don’t let her comments break your creative heart.My advice received lots of “likes,” clearly striking a chord among group members. It harkened back to a lesson I’d learned the hard way, when, early in my writing life, an esteemed author had delivered a withering and global assessment of my work—before rejecting me from her writing workshop.My first two years of writing, I had enjoyed beginner’s luck. Without much effort, I placed several essays and three short stories. One story won first prize in a statewide contest. Those small successes cheered me, but at my core, I felt like an imposter. Despite my self-doubt, I gathered the courage to apply to a ten-session fiction workshop led by the well-known author. She had a stellar publishing history that included novels, short story collections, and individual stories landing in impressive places, like The New Yorker. As requested, I submitted a writing sample, a short story that just had been published by a literary journal at a local university.The workshop was limited to five participants. Given my lack of experience, I expected to be rejected. What I didn’t expect was a phone call from the writer saying that not only was I not accepted, but also that I didn’t grasp the basics of short story writing. She delivered her pronouncement in a neutral tone, then hung up.I cried for a couple days, so devastated by her assessment that I vowed to give up writing entirely. A week later, the writer phoned again. Cool as ever, she invited me to join the workshop. I found the call so stunning that I cannot remember the reason she gave for changing her mind.I was terrified but said yes anyway. Turned out, I enjoyed the weekly sessions and my fellow attendees, who were warm and welcoming. They gave kind and beneficial insights on my work and on one another’s work. Our teacher facilitated the workshop well and gave good guidance.At the last session, she took me aside and said, “You have the most publishable writing that’s come through this workshop in a while.” She gave no further explanation.I accepted her words as a compliment. But later, I wondered if she meant them as a passive-aggressive dig, that my work had commercial but not literary appeal. (For the record, I am happy producing work that has both commercial and literary appeal.) I decided I didn’t care. My life’s calling is to write. I couldn’t stop myself from writing if I tried--evident by the random thoughts jotted on old envelopes, on the backs of grocery receipts, and in the margins of crumpled newspapers strewn in my car, in my gym locker,

PODCAST-GHOSTLIGHT-MOVIE REVIEW On the recommendation of my friend, I watched the Sundance, indie film, Ghostlight. Released in the summer of 2024, this movie hasn’t enjoyed a lot of buzz, which is unfortunate because it’s a gem.            I’m not going to say much about the plot because it unfolds in a nuanced way. I don’t want to reveal anything that would spoil the process. The film is an excellent depiction of a family processing a difficult loss. However, it’s not a downer. One of the characters, the dad, gets lured into a community theater production of Romeo and Juliet, a plot point that introduces plenty of comic relief into the movie.            The screenwriting feels raw and authentic. The plot unfolds slowly, but in a thoroughly engaging way. The director creates an emotional landscape around the three family members that is deeply moving.            The community theater piece of the story provides an excellent vehicle for working through difficult issues in a meaningful way. The themes in Romeo and Juliet happen to coincide with much of what the family is enduring.            After I watched the film, I learned two interesting facts. The actors who play the construction worker (father), the elementary school teacher, (mother) and the rebellious teenage daughter, are in fact related. Keith Kupferer and and Katherine Mallen Kupferer are parents to Tara Mallen. In addition, writer and director, Kelly O’Sullivan is married to co-director Alex Thompson.            I wept through the ending, in a good way. Rotten Tomatoes gave this movie a 99% critic score. And, I’ll have to say, I agree.  0:00 / 0:00 Ghostlight Movie Review (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum's fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

PODCAST-MY LIFE IN CARS My father gave me my first car, a 1965 Ford Fairlane. Although I had my driver’s license, I didn’t know out how to back up, park, or merge. To be honest, I couldn’t even start the car.  I’d always flood the engine.How did I get a license? The day of the exam, I aced the written section, but failed the road part. I couldn’t parallel park; nor could I negotiate a K-turn. For some reason, the examiner said, “Oh hell,” and passed me anyway.That first winter, the floor beneath the Fairlane passenger seat had rusted out so badly, you could see the road under your feet. One day, the front of the steering wheel fell into my lap. The final straw was when the top of the gas pedal snapped off while I was driving.Next, I inherited a Pontiac Tempest, which spent most of its time broken down. A plumber offered to take the car in trade for a wringer washing machine--a very bad deal.  You have to feed your clothing through an actual wringer, a task that requires attentiveness, manual dexterity, and durable garments. I routinely wound up with mashed fingers and mangled clothes.Moreover, I didn’t know that the washer needed a ground wire. On a particularly shocking morning, I placed one hand on the washer and my other on the utility sink, thereby completing an electrical circuit.  I experienced a remarkable jolt and that’s why I have curly hair to this day.I don’t know what possessed me to buy my next car, a Dodge Colt Hatchback, bright yellow with a black racing stripe. This car had a stick shift. I could barely drive an automatic car. What made me think I could manage a manual?I couldn’t. My kind roommate volunteered to teach me, a decision she deeply regretted. One memory stands out. She screamed, “The clutch. Hit the clutch! Get into FIRST!”  as we slowly slipped backwards down a hill, heading straight for the Quinebaug River.Several years later, I’d moved to Hanover, New Hampshire where the punishing winter weather had corroded the Dodge Colt. The Motor Vehicle people insisted that I repair the spots. Being cash-free, I decided to do the bodywork myself. These were pre-Google days, when a person just had to guess how to do things.I borrowed a rotary sander, bought Bondo then chose yellow spray paint.   Turned out, my zealous sanding created huge craters that the Bondo couldn’t fill.  The “yellow” paint I bought appeared puke green when applied, causing the car to resemble a giant bumble bee in camo.Two minutes after we married, Bruce listed the Dodge Colt in the local want ads. A few days later, a man arrived with the requisite cash.  He hadn’t driven 50 feet before the muffler fell off. For the next year, we saw the car all over town, stuffed with the man’s possessions. We believe he was living in it, but we didn’t ask. We were just relieved it was still working.Now I own a Toyota Highlander, perhaps my last car. I assumed we’d buy a smaller vehicle after the kids left. However, sometimes, all eight seats of the Highlander are filled with four generations of Prums. Usually, one of my children takes the wheel, which is just fine by me since they all are reasonably good at parking, backing up and most importantly, starting the car. 0:00 / 0:00 My Life in Cars-Podcast Version (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum's fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

PODCAST-WE ARE ALL IN IT TOGETHER Photo Courtesy of Ryan Ledbetter-Unsplash 0:00 / 0:00 We Are All In It Together One morning, as I drove down a narrow country lane in Charlottesville, I spotted an African-American child, about eleven, perched on a small pink bike. He sat in the middle of the road, precisely at the center of a blind curve.I thought, If a driver speeds around that curve, the child will be killed. I need to tell him to get out of the way.Over the years, racial tensions in our town have been high. A millisecond later, that fact informed my second thought: Wait! He’s black. I’m white. Maybe he’ll think I’m harassing him.But then, my third: Doesn’t matter. He’s in danger.I pulled over to the right, off on my side of the road, and said, “Move! You’re going to get hit!”The child smiled then dashed onto a lawn on the left, away from my side of the road. Instantly, a car charged around that curve, then zoomed past us.I drove off, thinking, “That was close. I probably saved a life today.”The next day, as I headed past that same stretch, I re-played the incident, this time from the other driver’s vantage point. If I were coming around that curve fast and had a tree on my right, a child in the middle of the road, and a car facing me off to my left, I’d have swerved left to avoid the child. I’d have crashed head-on into the vehicle on the other side—the car with me sitting in it. In retrospect, the life I may have saved was my own.The incident got me thinking. Straight out of college, I served as a Peace Corps/VISTA volunteer. My job was to “deinstitutionalize” teenage wards of the state. These kids were not able to be adopted and had spent their first seventeen years bouncing around: foster homes, mental health facilities, detention centers. When they turned eighteen, they would be placed on the curb by the state. My job was to equip them with the life skills they’d missed the previous seventeen years. Informed by ignorance and idealism, I attempted the task.By the end of my stint, I realized my job was impossible. So, I sent around a proposal, asking for donations to fund a halfway house, run by me, a twenty-three-year old. No one gave me money. The kids wound up on the street.They didn’t stand a chance. A couple died within a year or two. A few wound up in jail. I don’t remember what happened to the other kids. Nothing good.Back then, the state I lived in did not invest much into their wards. Yes, a few people in power cared about the teens, but some did not, enacting policies that reflected that lack of regard. We failed them. Some came to great harm, and some caused great harm. We in the community, one way or another, paid for our collective negligence.We are all connected. What I do affects you. What you do affects me. That August morning, I chose to stop and warn a child. Most likely, my stopping shielded me from great harm.Working to improve the lives of others will cost us in time, money and personal comfort. Yet those actions enrich our own lives and ultimately will create a better world for all of us to share. (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum's fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

THE KEY TO FINDING INSPIRATION--CONVERSATION WITH SUE CUNNINGHAM ON LIVING POETRY Recently, poet and therapist, Susan Cunningham, interviewed me on her podcast, Living Poetry. We talked about how to find inspiration by paying attention, everywhere and all the time!In addition to sharing lots of good laughs, we touched on these topics:*Redeeming the pain of grief by channeling the energy of the emotion into creative endeavors. *Realizing that failing to forgive can block creativity.*Using dark humor to lighten the tone when writing about difficult topics.*Knowing when to stop revising and release your creation into the world.*At other times, letting a project simmer, allowing life experiences to inform your perspective. Waiting can provide the missing piece to your creation.*Imagining celestial vault where a person’s creations exist in perpetuity, meaning that they also exist before we create them, a concept that can take the pressure off us as we write.You can listen to the interview at LIVING POETRY, on Apple or Spotify.During our conversation, we refer to my stories. Head to the fiction section of my website to read HELP, IN DARKNESS AS IN LIGHT, GRAVITY, OUR LADY OF PERPETUAL MOLD, SPIDER, and THE DAY THE VIRGIN MARY APPEARED ON MY CAFETERIA WALL.Thank you for visiting. If you haven’t already, please subscribe to my blog and follow my podcast. If you really want to brighten my day, please give the podcast a five-star review. Thank you. 0:00 / 0:00 Living Poetry Here is Abyss, the watercolor painting I mentioned in the interview. (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum's fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

PODCAST-HIS THREE DAUGHTERS-MOVIE REVIEW Looking for a good movie? Check out His Three Daughters. Just after its release, the film received a 99% approval score. I am one of the 99%. I watched it on a Monday, then again, a day later. That’s how much I liked it.            Expertly written and directed by Azazel Jacobs, the film has a small, but outstanding cast. The oldest sister, Katie, played by Carrie Coons, is rigid and fierce—and that’s on her good days. The middle sister, Rachel, (Natasha Lyonne) is brash, tenderhearted, and can’t get through a sentence without including obscenities, even when she’s being affectionate. The youngest sister, Christina, (Elizabeth Olsen) is a lot younger than her siblings. She is an anxiously cheerful peacemaker. Her intention is to bring the family together but is unwilling or unable to honest about her own feelings.            The three estranged sisters gather at their father’s NYC apartment as he lay dying.  Rachel shares the apartment with him and is the one who’s been taking care of him for a while. Katie resides in Brooklyn with her husband, son, and a teenage daughter, with whom she fights constantly. Christina lives on the West coast in a large house with her husband and three-year-old daughter.At the beginning of the film, one of the characters observes that movies never portray death and dying accurately. Jacobs wrote the screenplay, including that line.  He must have decided that the movie he made would be an exception. And, it was. Based on my limited experience, this film was true to life. The screenplay managed to portray a credible combination of raw, painful scenes and dark humor that provided comic relief.            The movie opens to Katie sitting in a straight-backed chair against a blank wall. In a clipped voice smoldering with fury, she speaks straight at the camera, dictating her expectations regarding the experience that lies ahead.  She decrees how her sisters should relate to each other and the protocol they all must follow as their father dies.Katie works hard to convince herself that she can take control of an uncontrollable event. She obsesses over obtaining a do not resuscitate order, ostensibly to ensure that her father does not experience undue suffering. Yet, even after the DNR is in place, her rage and anxiety don’t diminish. Tragically, Katie is unaware of how her rigid, passive-aggressive behavior repels everyone.            Katie and Christina don’t seem to keep in touch with Rachel, the one who’s borne the brunt of their father’s care. Despite Katie’s comments about wanting to get along, it’s a hot minute before she attacks Rachel for smoking pot in the apartment. Her words drip with contempt. Rachel doesn’t defend herself. Instead, from then on, she smokes on a bench, in the cold, outside her apartment.            The sisters categorize and judge each other As a viewer, you will be inclined to do so, too. However, the beauty of this movie is in its exposition, how as we learn more, we see the characters in a new light.            Each woman copes differently with their father’s dying. Katie makes irate calls about the DNR, scrubs floors, forces food on everyone, talks about the hospice staff in a snarky way, but doesn’t spend time interacting with her father. Rachel avoids her father’s room completely. Her grief consumes and paralyzes her. At one point, she stands in the doorway of her father’s room and shouts in the statistics of a basketball game she’s bet on. The father is either deeply asleep or unconscious. Christina spends the most time in her father’s room, reading to him or singing Grateful Dead songs. Both Rachel and Katie ridicule Christina for being a Deadhead.            This movie nailed the tension between not wanting your loved one to die and at the same time, desperately wanting the horrible limbo state between life and death to end. Although Katie demands that a DNR be in place,