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It was a rainy Saturday afternoon.  Fat, melancholic clouds lumbered slowly across the sky.  The swirling summer breeze seemed to carry with it a restlessness that had me pacing about the house in search of some pleasant diversion. Oddly, there wasn't a book in my vast library that could hold my interest, nor did I feel like working on my novel. My soul yearned for that which I could not express.  Escape, perhaps.  I decided to escape to 16th century Venice, an exciting locale filled with gorgeous courtesans, corrupt noblemen, religious zealots, diabolical intriguers, and lavish soirees.  I watched Dangerous Beauty , a biographical movie about Veronica Franco, a sixteenth century Venetian courtesan and poet who charmed a legion of men with her wit and beauty. In the movie, young Veronica falls in love with Marco, a dashing young man from a noble family.  As Veronica is without a dowry, Marco is forced to set her aside in favor of a politically and financially advant

Yesterday, I began reading Ernest Hemingway's For Whom the Bell Tolls .  Although many critics consider it to be one of the finest novels ever written by an American author, I worry its themes of death and suicide will prevent me from appreciating Hemingway's brilliant prose. I knew the title was a reference to a poem, but must confess, I did not know to which poem it referred.  I assumed it was a poem about love and romance. My assumption proved woefully incorrect. John Donne, an English poet, satirist, and clergyman, wrote "for whom the bell tolls" in his Devotions Upon Emergent Occasions, Meditation XVII: Nunc Lento Sonitu Dicunt, Morieris. "Perchance he for whom this bell tolls may be so ill, as that he knows not it tolls for him; and perchance I may think myself so much better than I am, as that they who are about me, and see my state, may have caused it to toll for me, and I know not that.  No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a

I watched From Here to Eternity again yesterday.   After writing  Letting Go of Dreams  (a blog piece partly inspired by the movie), I received an email from a faithful reader who told me my view of Burt Lancaster's character was sadly skewed.  Sadly skewed?  Those seemed like awfully strong words.  Then, I realized it had been twenty years since I had watched the movie.    It got me to thinking, What if I had it all wrong?  What if my measure of the man was inaccurate?   And so, I got out my old copy of From Here to Eternity and popped into the Blu-ray.  For those of you who have not watched the movie, From Here to Eternity is a romantic drama set in Hawaii in the days leading up to Pearl Harbor.  Burt Lancaster plays Milton Warden, an Army Sergeant conducting an affair with his Commanding Officer's wife (played by Deborah Kerr).  About thirty minutes into the movie, Burt and Deborah have a romantic liaison on a secluded beach.  After splashing in the surf

Have you ever had a wonderful dream, a dream so powerful it rolled across the landscape of your life like a thundercloud, obliterating the sunshine?  A dream so magical that you woke with a sense of regret and longing?  A dream that made you sit up, look around at your life, and find everything wanting? I have had those types of dreams.  Growing up the only child of a single, working woman, I spent a lot of time by myself.  Besides getting into mischief, I liked riding my bike to the library, an old brick building with creaky wooden floors and sunlit filled window seats. I would grab a pile of books and magazines and sequester myself in a distant alcove. It was in that library my love  affair with Hawaii began.   One day, while flipping through the pages of the latest National Geographic , I came to an article about Hawaii's volcanoes and how they helped shape the island's lush landscape.  I gazed at pictures of black sand beaches and thick tropical jungles and felt s

I have been working at the craft of writing for over thirty years.  In that time, I have probably written a million words.  You would think, someone who possessed my passion for phrasing would find it easy to express her thoughts.  That is not always the case. Recently, I tried to use my words to express  a tornado of thoughts swirling around in my brain, but they came out all wrong and someone I truly love was hurt.  Despite appearances to the contrary, I am an "in the head" kind of person, always thinking, analyzing, over-analyzing.  So it was only natural that I sit and ponder the cause of my verbal devastation.  I concluded that fear was the cause.  F-E-A-R.  A nasty four letter word that keeps people from achieving, obtaining, expressing. The problem with being a wordsmith is that sometimes I reach into my bag and pull out more than I need.  I have a tendency toward verbosity.  An unfortunate trait I am attempting to master through the careful study of the works of

I recently learned that an old friend had died.  His death came upon me like a phone call in the night, unexpected and emotionally jarring.  I found myself reminiscing about the times we had spent together.   Over twenty years have passed since I last saw him.  And yet, in my mind's eye, I can see him as if it were yesterday. He is wearing a leather jacket, a broad smile stretching across his handsome face. I remember the way my heart flipped when I saw him, and the voice in my head that said, " Give it up, Leah.  He will never be interested in you."   I thought I would never see him again. But, Fate had other designs... It turned out he was interested in me.  We had a brief, passionate romance that ended in heartache. I soon discovered that his interest in me was merely superficial.  He enjoyed visiting, but became less interested when he saw the emotional baggage I was toting.  To use street vernacular: he was a Play-ah. Though I was distraught, our par