London Blog: December 2010

Did you receive a Nook, Kindle, Sony, I-pad or other electronic reading device from Santa this year??

David Shanks, chief executive of Penguin Group USA said in a Dec 23rd New York Times article when asked about the exponential growth of the electronic format of reading, "...the limitations of the great brick and mortar bookstore is that they only have (room) to display X amount of books. Now if you find an author you love, you can find their books immediately at your fingertips."

Oh so true and exciting! The prospect of the burgeoning of ebook readers as leveling the playing field between the handful of well known authors and all the rest may at first seem wonderful. HOWEVER --- You can have all the availability in the world, but if people don't know your book exists, it doesn't matter.

My dear readers,

My New Years resolution is to interact with as many new and known friends and readers via this wonderful social platform as possible. I write to uplift, inspire, educate and entertain and hope to continue to meet as many of you as I can over the months and years.

Accessibility.

Interaction.

New Years is a time of beginnings and ardent wishes. If you appreciate my blog, my books, my openness, please tell others. In this new digital age it is the word of mouth that spreads like a virus for good or ill.

A toast to you who appreciate writing that will never be dumbed-down to conform to some alleged national reading level and genre fiction that takes you to places you might only dream about, but can visit via the best vehicle in the world--your imagination.

Thank you for being the wind beneath my creative wings. A toast to you!

I hope you enjoy the four new offerings that will be published in 2011 by Christine London. In the meantime let's drop in on Jackson as he rushes home from yet another long film shoot in Hollywood to spend New Year's Eve in London.

Jackson stumbled backwards against the conveyor belt, impacting the edge. The leather boot he tried to slide on wouldn’t cooperate and the plastic bin containing his coat scrolled past him before he could nab it.

“This yours?” He straightened and lifted his eyes to see what brand of idiot might be asking the obvious.

“Uh…yeah.” Jack nearly dropped the boot again as his eyes met hers. Sprinkling of freckles across pug nose and blue peepers roughly the colour of the Mediterranean peered at him, wisps of honey blonde peeking out from the gray striped skull cap pulled down over her ears. Longer tresses cascaded about mint green angora jumper like ribbons of spun gold.

She pushed his navy blue wool coat toward him, his boarding pass in her other hand.

“Ta.” He said.

“There’s a chair, a whole line of them.” She nodded toward the industrial queue of aluminum framed sling backs strung together some five meters from the end of the TSA conveyor.

He stabbed his toe into the boot and yanked. The thump of his heel engaging the sole was gratifying.

“Fine. Have it your way,” she said.

Before he could drape the coat over his forearm, she’d turned, making way down the burgundy speckled carpeting toward the gates.

“Hey,” he raised a finger. “You’ve got my pass.”

The sway of her denim-covered behind didn’t slow as she continued toward the bank of floor to ceiling windows, yellow illuminated gate numbers strung along them like ornaments.

A couple stomps to insure boot solidarity, a quick grasp of the telescoping handle of his carry on and he was off. Good thing the legs of a bloke six foot two could outpace a petite American girl.

“What are you doing?” He huffed along side of her as she strode toward the final gate.

“Trying to get to my plane.”

Duh. “Can I please have my boarding pass?”

“Don’t know—can you?” She continued unwaveringly toward gate ten.

Jackson snagged her at the elbow. She spun about like a top.

“What?”

He released his grasp on the carryon and her, placing hands on hips. “I don’t fancy having to stand in the queue at the gate.” Palm to ceiling he extended his hand toward her, shifting his weight to one hip.

“Fine!” She pulled the white rectangle from her shoulder bag and slapped it in his hand.

“And the reason to want a stranger’s boarding pass is?” He raised one brow.

“I’m having a bad day.”

“Naturally that means you must extend the joy to others.”

“Please.” She tugged the strap of her bag back to her shoulder. “Let’s just leave it at that.”

“We are going to be breathing the same germ laden recycled air for ten hours. Perhaps it would be better to clear the metaphorical air here in the waiting area.”

“I don’t like so called ‘celebrities’.”

Jack looked behind him, then back to her. “I don’t see any.”

“You’re going to try to tell me you aren’t him.”

“I’m not him.”

She puffed out a fabricated chortle. “Why do you suppose all the waiting passengers are looking over here then?”

“Maybe because you are acting like an arse?’

A wash of feigned insult swept across her features. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”

“Perhaps you need Lasik then.”

“Okay. You look like my ex. That better?”

“Only if your ex is accosted in every hotel and restaurant by paparazzi, evidently.”

“I hope you’re not in first class.”

“All the way.”

She marched toward gate ten’s counter.

“Whoa,” he spouted, quickly moving to block her way. “Okay,” he said, lowering his head and voice. “I am ‘him’.” He pushed the thick black frames of his retro eyewear against the bridge of his nose.

Her lower lip thrust outward, chin wrinkling. “I knew you were an ass.”

“Excuse me— who took who’s boarding pass?’

She crossed her arms over her chest. “It was a mistake.”

“Good, uh huh.” He laid on the sarcasm.

“I wanted to make sure I didn’t have a dull flight.”

“So you’re one of those infantile girls who come online saying you’re incessantly bored? Pleezze, do grow up.”

“Yeah, that’s me. Bored stiff. Not a thing going on in my life. Only one funeral this month so I thought it best to hijack some Hollywood movie star’s pass so I wouldn’t have to sit across the isle watching him sleep all the way to Heathrow.”

He watched her unravel until she dissolved into a pool of tears. Arms about her, he drew her to him. Questions swirling about his brain, he held her in safe harbour until the emotional tempest passed. Loosening his hold, he gave her leeway.

Raising reddened eyes, lower lip still aquiver she apologized. “I’m sorry. It’s not you.” She ran the back of a hand under her nose. “I snapped. You do look like my ex who just happens to look like you. Trouble is he’s not very good at fighting off the women that worship at the alter of his celebrity look-aliked-ness. One too many fell into his bed last night it seems and I just—” Dropping head into hands, her bag fell from her shoulder tugging at her arm.

Jackson lifted the bag and put his arm around her. He ferried her to sit. A flush of embarrassment coloured her face. Fingers intertwined, she held her hands between her knees.

“Look, if it helps any, I’ve had a bit of a time of late. Seems most women would rather lift my wallet than my heart.” He shifted in his chair, shielding her from the bulk of the passengers seated behind them. “My mum warned me not to have my head turned by the glare of the spotlight, but I think most of we humans have to learn the hard route.”

“When I saw you I just wanted to tear your face off—sorry.”

“I understand. Not an unreasonable first reaction.”

“Look, I wouldn’t blame you if—”

“No, no, not at all. I appreciate a woman unafraid of acting on her impulses. Rather refreshing after the plotters and planners.” He dug in his pocket and handed her a tissue.

Dabbing at her running mascara, she lowered her eyes. “When I went back to the apartment this morning just to check in with him between the service and the wake. He’s been down with a cold. And my best friend from work was there I thought nothing of it. Just returning the DVD she borrow last Friday.

"‘Come back to bed you minx.’ Not the words of endearment I hoped to hear floating down the stairwell. He already had another woman upstairs with him. I mean really…some people are so damn greedy.”

Jack shook his head. “Who’s funeral?”

“My step dad. Mom passed last year and seems there really is true love still to be found somewhere in the world. He just couldn’t manage to go on without her. Broken heart and all that. Only in his case it was true. Imagine that.”

“I’m sorry.”

She laughed. “Me too.”

“Fuckhead.” He spouted, returning to thoughts of her ex.

“Well they say best to find out before the wedding, eh?”

“You were engaged?”

“Five years.” She blew into the tissue and dropped it in the bin next to her. “I should have gotten the hint, huh?” she said.

“What an idiot.” The irony was not lost. Jack had done his fair share of playing about the last three years since entering the limelight... never at the expense of anyone but himself. How could a man cheat on his fiancée?

“Not like I’m perfect.”

Pretty damn close. “None of us is,” he consoled.

“So I’m going home.”

“London is home?”

“I know, I sound American. I grew up here, but ever since university I’ve lived in London. I’m just here for the funeral and to see ‘Fuckhead’ while he’s on business. He has a flat here in L.A. Home away from home sort of place.”

“Screw it.” She added abruptly. “Screw him.”

“I like your style.”

“Thanks.” Her melancholy smile tugged at him.

“Laura.” She extended a hand. “Laura Beckwith.”

He took her hand, she shaking his firmly. “Hello Laura.”

“Hi.”

“What are you doing New Years Eve?”

A bulletin of surprise morphed her features and lifted her brows. “Tonight?”

“Well if you aren’t too badly turned off by my apparent resemblance to your ex, I would rather like to share a bottle of champagne with you. My flat. Elevenish?”

“We don’t get into Heathrow until half nine.”

“Exactly. No point in suffering jet lag alone.”

She frowned, indefinable emotion warring behind her eyes. “I have Lucille to tend to.”

“Your daughter?”

“My old tabby.”

“We’ve established I’m not much to look at— but ouch.”

She slid her hand under his arm, hooking him at the elbow. “I’d be happy to share more than a meow at midnight.”

He smiled. “Lovely.”

February 2011 Shadows Steal The Light
June 2011 Hog WIld
August 2011 Reluctant Companions
November 2011 When We Were Amazing

www.christine london.com

May your dreams and aspirations pale against the stellar reality of your 2011 success and happiness.

Warmest Best Wishes,

Christine

The cold gray twilight glows pink at the horizon. Robert E. Lee’s mansion looms on the brow of the hill. Perfect rows of white tombstones gleam in the final gasps of daylight and the call of a night bird breaks the silence.

Wrapped in dark woolens, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold, visitors walk the narrow paved road toward the Kennedy plot.

Three brothers whose lives have profoundly changed the landscape of the American heart rest against the hill.

My friend Bill and I walk down the steps that bisect the final resting place of many, descending to the tomb of the unknown.

Pine wreaths with simple scarlet bows have been carefully laid at the head of each.

No one talks. Each person is in the solitary confines of his thoughts. The breeze whispers through the bare trees, a rush of December air across the lonely landscape.

Iwo Jima was one of the bloodiest battles of the Pacific theatre in World War Two. Eight hundred American lives lost for every mile. A foothold in the Pacific from which to defeat the Japanese.

One of the ‘walking dead’, my friend’s father.

He lived beyond the terror of Iwo Jima; his body host to more shrapnel than the medicine of the day was able to remove. He died on July 4^th 1959. A piece of that shrapnel broke free and shattered the walls of his heart. He died six months before his son---my friend, Bill—was born.

The final legacy of a soldier, Bill has led an amazing life in spite of the absence of a father. Son of just one of that war’s heroes, he walked through the solitude of the graves. Only he may know the contents of his thoughts, but from the heart of one who looked on as the guard marched his lonely vigil at the tomb of the unknown, I have nothing but gratitude to convey for these men and women whose lives were cut in twain in their youth to uphold an ideal.

Freedom.

The most expensive of ideals.

My father served in the same Pacific theater in WWII. He also carried the shrapnel of a battle—an air battle-- throughout his life. He passed March of this year, the victim of the cruelest of neurological diseases—Parkinson’s. Not the walking dead, he lived his life out. A member of ‘the greatest generation’ he was the recipient of many humanitarian awards and kudos in his business life. First to fly over Hiroshima after the bomb—photographing what not even he knew what-- first to take his plane into the eye of a typhoon, my father lived a life of firsts. He had the gift of words that inspired many to their higher self.

How much might Bill’s father have done had the legacy of war not taken him from his family too soon? How much have we lost with each life in pursuit of a stable world in our own times?

Silent Night.

Rest easy, sleep well my brothers, fathers, sons, sisters, mothers and daughters.

Know the line has held, your job is done.

Rest easy, sleep well.

Others have taken up where you fell, the line has held.

Peace, peace, and farewell...