Column Clip 1

Learning to take a bow A column by Nancy J. Parra for the DeKalb Daily Chronicle, 2006  I used to dream of being a dancer, graceful and elegant.  That is until reality brought me down.  Have I mentioned I’m a bit clumsy?  I thought you were supposed to outgrow that awkward stage where you run into things and fall down in inappropriate places.  Unfortunately I never did.  A couple of years ago I went to Denver to attend a writer’s conference.  I brought my daughter because she had been born there and had not seen it since she was a baby.  We arrived a few days early so that I could show her how cool the mountains are.  We took a day and drove up the foothills.  We did some touristy things and ended up at a mountain man museum.  It was at the top of a mountain overlooking hundreds of miles of prairie to the east.  Breathtaking.  There was a cement platform and several of those viewers that allow you to see things far away.  A bit nervous of the height, my daughter refused to go near the railed edge of the platform.  I teased her.  She was seventeen at the time.  I jumped up and down and told her, “See, you can’t fall.”  She did not believe me.  It turns out she was right.  Across the parking lot was a small hiking trail.  We wandered down the trail to get a look at the craggy mountains to the west.  I climbed up one of the red rocks scattered along the path.  It wasn’t very high, but my daughter refused to come see the view.  Sighing and shaking my head at her, I walked to the edge of the rock and jumped the short distance to the ground.  Except the ground was not where I expected it to be.  I knew I was in trouble.  I was falling face first through the air.  I did what any right minded person would do- well as right minded as anyone is who gets themselves in such a silly situation- I stuck my hands out to brace my fall.  Except there still wasn’t any ground.  How the heck high up was I?  My mind scrambled.  I did the next thing I could think of, I curled and turned so I would roll.  Right?  Wrong, there was no rolling.  Only grunting as the ground smacked me in the face.  Dirt flew.  My daughter stood there goggle-eyed.  “Are you all right?”  I sat up. Looked down and saw that my knee was split open and I did what any humiliated person would do, I started laughing.  Then my daughter started laughing.  We both laughed until we couldn’t breathe.  When that was over, she said, “I’m so glad you laughed. I didn’t know what I would have done if you had cried.  I swear I’ve never seen anyone take so long to fall.”  What can I say, I’m a master.  She went to get something to stop the bleeding and I noticed that my thumb had swollen and turned purple. I knew it was broken.  I glanced at the red rock I’d jumped from. It couldn’t have been higher than the seat of a chair.  How did someone turn a little hop into some thing so spectacular?  Needless to say I spent the rest of the conference with my knee in bandages, my shoulder raw and purple and my thumb in a splint.  Whenever anyone asked what happened, I told the truth.  “I fell rock climbing.”  It wasn’t my fault that they all thought I was actually…climbing.  I’ve gotten quite used to being the one who stubs her toe on the sidewalk or trips over a wrinkle in the carpet.  Or worse, fallen off my high heels as I walk across a stage, like Sandra Bullock in Miss Congeniality.  Yes, I’m that one. The person you love to tease with sayings like: “Walk much?”  “Have a nice trip?”   I’ve learned to take it all in stride, no pun intended.  I’ve learned to take a bow whenever I do something stupid.  Most recently I was touring a house and gabbing with friends.  Someone offered to show us the back yard.  They opened the slider door and I stepped forward- face first into the screen door.  “Oh,” I said, “that’s not open.”  Duh.  Everyone laughed. I shook my head and took a bow.  At least this time I escaped with only my pride dented.

Column Clip 2

Ah, to be Rich and Famous Column by Nancy J. Parra For the DeKalb Daily Chronicle, 2006               You like me. You really like me.           Okay so that line has been overused a bit, but I was happy to get the notice that I was one of the columnist.  When I told my family, the response was, “that’s nice mom.”  Then they wanted to know what was for dinner and did I remember to pick up the dry cleaning?           “Mom, I’m bored.”           “Honey, do you know where my tan socks are?”           So much for fame and fortune.  But to be honest my family is used to my “fame.”  I’ve been writing my kid’s whole lives. In fact when my son was in first grade he was asked what his mommy did. His answer was “she stays in her room and types stuff.”  Glamorous, isn’t it?           The best part is when someone asks me what I do for a living and I get to tell them I’m a published author.  They look surprised and pleased.  Then comes the inevitable next question.  “Are you famous?”           I never know how to answer that. If I were famous, then they wouldn’t have to ask that question.  Would they? Thus the paradox of asking a published author if they are famous.           I suppose I could reply by asking them if they’ve ever heard of me and see what they have to say.  Somehow I just don’t have the heart.           The next question is part of the natural progression of fame.  So, are you rich?            I look down at my generic jeans and tee shirt and smile.  There is no real way to answer that question.           My daughter tells me that she can spot writers a mile away now.  They are the ones who dress haphazardly and have a far away look in their eye.  That comes from working in our pajamas.  On a good day I’ll manage to put on sweats and actually comb my hair.           Usually I get up, manage a cup of coffee, check the internet and then delve into the minds of my characters.  Imagine getting to play make believe all day and getting paid for it.  Like pretending I look like Sandra Bullock. Since there are no mirrors in my office and no one home to tell me any different I get to be beautiful.  Until I walk by a mirror and am shocked into reality.           That’s when I usually retreat back into the mind of a killer, or cowboy or woman with a deadly secret.  The thing about being a writer is I can be any person I choose.  It can be any time of year. One day I can be running through dark city alleys and the next riding a horse through the mountains.  All without  leaving the comfort of my office.           Someone asked me recently if I put my husband in any of my books.  Um, No-  I make this stuff up.            Still you have to be careful. There are those fanatics who will write you a letter telling you that there is no way your guy could be playing poker in 1810.  Poker, they’ll tell you, was not even a real card game until closer to the civil war.  They should know.  They spent their whole life researching the history of card games.           My answer is always, oh, thanks for the information. It’s fiction.  That means I was just making this stuff up.           Good thing I’m not famous. Imagine the letters famous people get, and for anyone who feels cheated by my fiction, as soon as I find my fortune I’ll return the price of the book.  But you may be waiting a long time.  Right now I’ve got to get back to my glamorous life…after all it’s my turn to pick up the dog doodoo in the yard.