Betsy FitzgeraldBetsy Fitzgerald is an award-winning author who lives and writes in Groton, Massachusetts. Her first Phred Rivers novel, October Run, is available from Amazon.com, BarnesandNoble.com, and brick and mortar bookstores everywhere. The next Phred Rivers adventure is in the works.

`Lyrically written' and `page turner' aren't adjectives that are often used together to describe a single novel, but October Run is both. Betsy Fitzgerald had better have a sequel in the works, because I want to follow Phred on more adventures." -- Charlotte Libov, award-winning journalist and author.

"... I was captivated and simply could not put it down! ... Just when I thought I knew what was next- TWIST! Another adventure! I found myself really connecting with all of the characters and wanting to learn more. I am very eager to pick up the next Phred adventure and cannot wait to read more work by Betsy Fitzgerald. Highly recommended!" -- Amazon Review by A. Bouchard of Boston

"If you like Stephanie Plum (Janet Evanovich), you'll love Phred Rivers... You'll be waiting for the next installment by the time you get half-way through this book... you'll want to know more about these damaged and vulnerable people... " -- Amazon reader review

Betsy's blog: Life Between the Lines

It’s a Noble, Nobel Bird

Posted on January 14, 2012 by Betsy 1 Comment

As I understand it, northern states are seeing an ”irruption” of snowy owls. Irruption being the scientific word. I know this thanks to WBUR’s All Things Considered, source of interesting tidbits as well as in-depth journalism. According to the story, lemmings, small furry creatures who have a false rep of throwing themselves off cliffs, are the source of the migration. An overbundance of lemmings, food stuff for the owls, led to an overabundance of owls. So they expanded their territory.

The part that really caught my attention: kids are getting excited about the owls. They’ve not suddenly become naturalists. They want to see a real life Hedwig. In the same way that J.K. Rowling popularized Neapolitan Mastiffs (Fang), she created a larger than life snowy owl. And they are already pretty darned impressive without the magic. With five foot wing spans and a bit of a cocky attitude, the owls are well suited for harsh artic life. When they show up in fields in our northern states, they rule.

J.K. Rowling rules as well. With buzz this week about a potential Nobel Prize coming her way, she is headed for the stratosphere. This is where I admit that I have only read the first of the Harry Potter books. I am surrounded by fans who camped out to snatch up each successive volume; fans who read and re-read the hefty books.  Personally, I gravitate toward magic in form of the magical realism of Gabriel Garcia Marquez, who did win the 1982 Nobel Prize for Literature, or captivating Massachusetts author Alice Hoffman.

I am mesmerized by Rowling’s expansive storytelling and brilliant vision. Her choice of bigger than life animals-the mastiff and the snowy owl–allows us to see the magic around us. We don’t need to find Hogwarts–we simply need to see an owl that has strayed south. That’s magic enough for me. For the children who are Harry Potter fans, the irruption is magic come to life.

 

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Burning Bright in the Night

Posted on January 7, 2012 by Betsy Leave a comment

Children dashed about in the dark, oblivious to the cold. I pulled a scarf up over my head, regretting my decision to forego a hat. Families gathered, talking, with occasional glances to check on their kids. Some were easily tagged with those crazy sneakers that sport flashing lights in the soles.  As the hour drew near, the kids who had been body-rolling down the grassy slope towards the trees began to move back to their parents.

The trees, shorn of their lights and garlands and ornaments, had been gathered throughout town as part of the Fire Department’s annual tree collection. For a few bucks, donated to the benevolent association, your tree could be picked up and added to the festivity.

The winds were quiet, the night warm and the bonfire was about to begin.

Working in the dark, firefighters had been preparing the massive pile of evergreens. Gasoline fumes cut through night. A fire truck stood ready. The crowd moved back, leaving cautious distance as the fire tenders took up position.

Last night was the close of Three Kings Day, the night of Epiphany. It was also a night with a moon, bright and watchful. I dug my hands deeper into my pockets. The trees formed a small green hill, maybe 100 feet in circumference, 20 feet high. It would be a perfect place in a mystery story to dispose of a body. I tossed that thought away as quickly as it came, since Ruth Rendell and John LeCarre both used a Guy Fawkes bonfire as a devious device. It was simply enough that it was the end of the Twelve Days of Christmas and those of us who had braved the night were about to mark that fact.

I understand it has been a town tradition for about a decade, but I’m new here (less than five years) and it was my first bonfire. I hoped for a large lovely blaze. Perhaps there would be a countdown. It had the feeling of waiting for the fireworks on the 4th.

A firefighter touched a torch to a narrow path of gasoline that lead to the trees. Small flames raced the flammable line, hitting the accelerant soaked trees. WHOOOOSHH. Fire exploded through tinder dry limbs. It roared, soared orange-yellow, then red against the black sky. Cinders shone like black stars against the flames.

Children leaned in against their parents. Little ones sitting on the grass looked up. There were no ooohs and ahhhs. It was not sparkling, controlled display. It was a beast of a blast taking over the winter night. The firefighters tended the edges; the onlookers began to unbutton coats and remove hats as waves of heat found us. In less than 15 minutes, the pile of trees fell in on itself, burning bright. The firefighters would be there for hours after we left, tending the embers.

I walked with my husband back to our car, stunned silent by the fierce beauty of the fiery spectacle. I pulled my scarf back up over my head as the cold found me again.

Firefighter at bonfire photo by Art Campbell/The Groton Line

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Chop and Roll

Posted on January 1, 2012 by Betsy Leave a comment

I found myself caught in a marathon of Chopped, a cooking reality show. As a writer, reality shows are anathema. I want a carefully crafted story and  dialog that zings. Chopped appeals to me because I’ve found myself in situations similar to the chefs who compete for the $10,000 prize money.

Chopped puts experienced chefs through their paces by forcing them to create appetizers, entrees and desserts from crazy mystery ingredients. They race against the clock to put the food on the table. As a woman who has at different times in her life  (1) been single and on a very limited budget; (2) been too busy with toddlers to take the time to shop; and now (3) caught up in long work/commute hours — I often find myself facing a hodgepodge of  ingredients that somehow need to turn into a meal.

When life gives you lemons — make lemonade.  Right? The chefs are faced with things like rattlesnake, miniature coconuts, animal crackers,  rack of elk, cactus, astronaut ice cream, lamb testicles, Chinese spinach, cherry soda. Watching an executive chef from a top Boston or New York restaurant trying to blend pretzels into a fish appetizer is a bit like facing a fridge that holds deli ham, cocktail sauce and a stale English muffin. I usually have an emergency bottle of champagne tucked in the back. That can smooth the edges of any meal.

These chefs bring attitude. They are owners, executive chefs, entrepreneurs. Some are divas and some diamonds in the rough. They face a panel of still-more accomplished chefs. The judges evaluate the odd concoctions for flavor and creativity. It might be my bias, but I always cheer for the ones who set aside their bravado and put their heads down and just work their tails off. Drama rises, fingers often get sliced, hearts broken in defeat. Occasionally episodes end in tears, from the contestants or judges or both.

I think I learned the chopped way from my mother (along with a lot of other things). A family favorite was homemade pizza but we would find the cabinets empty of things like pepperoni and mozzarella. There was a memorably bad version topped with tomato soup and hot dog slices. Not something that was ever repeated, but it got the job done. When she first heard about tacos, long before Mexican food was rampant, she grabbed some corn meal and was grilling tortillas in no time. The competing chefs have the option of pulling other ingredients from a well-stocked pantry. My mother did not have that luxury. She ran on pure ingenuity and determination.

Making something from nothings brings me a sense of pride. Clearly, I’m not alone–and I like the company. And that $10,000?

 

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If Wishes Were Horses

Posted on December 22, 2011 by Betsy 1 Comment

If wishes were horses … I would have gotten that pony for Christmas one year. Or, years later, the shiny convertible with a giant red bow on top.

“If wishes were horses, beggars would ride; if wishes were eggs, I’d have some fried,”my mother used to like to say. I don’t think it’s the original version, but for a girl who always wanted a pony, it gave me pause.

When my daughters were young, I told them they could make wish lists for Christmas. The lists were surprisingly modest and they usually received most of their wishes plus gifts that I just wanted to buy. There has to be surprises under the tree. I admit to playing loose with some of the items. The year Emma wanted a Husky dog, she got one but it was a Steiff–not the type that needed kibble and care.

My wishes today? World peace has always been on the list. Jobs for those who need them. Good health for those I love. Topping the list of things I can reasonably expect: my family gathered together. It’s become more difficult with a daughter in London and one in Brooklyn and me living now in Massachusetts.

Last year, we became a cyber family and gathered via Skype on Christmas morning. It was afternoon in England and very early morning in California for their father who joined in as well.  It’s not the same, but it was a good substitute. I can highly recommend it if you are longing to gather and cannot manage it. My husband, tech savant that he is, took the lead and signed up for Skype’s free trial for video conferencing–which we cancelled at the end of the 30 days.

We spent at least two hours opening presents on Christmas morning and chatting to the video images of each other. Wrappings piled up, we jockeyed to keep in view of the laptop’s video “eye” and the miles disappeared.  The best present was the chance to be together.

This year, Abi is with her in-laws in Warsaw, Poland and she is not sure about the schedule and the internet availability. Emma is visiting her Dad in California. So we proclaimed Christmas a moveable feast and are going to gather and Skype on December 30th. The tree is ready–and we get an extra week for shopping! There’s a strong will and we found a way to make it happen again this year.

May you be where you want and with those you love for Hanukkah and Christmas and Solstice.

* It took work, not wishes, to get that pony. When I was old enough to work and earn money, I bought a beautiful blue-eyed white horse and named him Galahad. Sometimes you just have to make the wishes happen.

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Eating Like a Bird

Posted on December 19, 2011 by Betsy Leave a comment

I earned a girl scout “birding badge” eons ago. I was a short-termer when it came to scouts, lured away by rock ‘n roll.  Now, names flash through my mind, not necessarily attached to the right bird. Nuthatch. Titmouse. Chicakadee. Names bigger than their wingspans. And the larger common ones that I do recognize: dove, bluejay, cardinal, woodpecker. From my desk, I can see the feeding station that my husband dutifully maintains. Birds swoop and grab a seed at a time. They give meaning to the saying “eats like a bird.” They move with determination and purpose, all to feast on nothing. Or nearly so.

For hierarchical reasons I don’t understand, the doves wait til last. A pair will share the feeder, with sleek dun gray feathers, a shade as soft as their warbling voices. Unlike the other birds that dart and elbow each other away, the doves move with careful calm. They mate for life, these quiet birds. They seem to appreciate shared mealtimes as well.

With the exception of the bizarre early snow storm that toppled trees and pulled down pulled  power lines, winter has not really arrived this year. When snow does cover the ground, the feeding flock will grow as it does every year. The cardinals will appear shocking red against the winter blanket. Sun yellow finches will look like they missed their ride back to the tropics. They will all queue up in the branches close to the house. It amazes me that the snatched seeds sustain them as temperatures dive. It surprises me even more how much I’ve come to enjoy watching them.

I am mesmerized by the endless ballet of aerial flights and pas de deux and the occasional tragedies when one of our cats intercedes. It’s a good deal; the seeds for the show. Not rock ‘n roll, but quietly satisfying.

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Going to the Dark Side

Posted on November 6, 2011 by Betsy Leave a comment

This morning I’m enjoying the extra hour of sleep, but tonight I’ll be hating the early onset of darkness. I’m an unequivocal SAD (seasonal affective disorder) person. I chalk it up to being born a Leo. Give me sun, give me light.

This year’s switch in time comes after a crazy week that brought us eleven inches of snow, a nor’easter, power loss and a scary night that had nothing to do with Halloween. The scariness came  when trees tumbled and crashed all over our house, including one that  exploded with the weight of snow and came through our bedroom window at 2:30 a.m. I woke from sleep to the gunshot sound of a tree cracking, followed by the brittle cacophony of breaking glass. Miraculously, we survived without cuts. I cleaned up glass shards from our bed and then took to the couch in the living room, away from the direct path of windows.

No one wants to go without power — no light, heat or water. The temperature ran around freezing outside which brought the inside down to the fifties. Loss of power meant that we had no hot water; we had no water at all because a pump drives our well. Still, as our house settled into blackness pierced by candles, a sweet hush took over our lives.

First, I noticed that there were no digitally driven numbers glaring in red or blue. Did you ever count how many times a day the insistent glare of clocks affronts you? In our kitchen, there are clocks on the coffeemaker, stove and microwave. In our family room, weather monitor, TIVO and clock. Bedroom, we each have a digital clock on our matching nightstands plus there is a CD player.

Despite the cold, I found a peacefulness in the natural flow of night, sans light. Sleep came more easily and held me deeply. There’s plenty of research about the value of sleeping in true dark. I had only half believed it until this week. I had grown up in the country streetlights didn’t exist. It was pre-digital days so night fell dark and full. But then I adjusted to city life in New Haven where streetlights shined all night and porch lights were left on. Safety lights would trip to brightness when a cat or possum or raccoon ambled through the back yard.

This week, the power returned after three days. Digital clocks now scold again from every corner. And to add to the confusion of light to dark, we’re shifting with daylight savings time. Designed to give more daylight in the summer and regulate time back when the railroads were running the country, it was the brainchild of G.V. Hudson. Most of us have been “springing ahead” and “falling back” since 1895. It’s not mandatory–Arizona and Hawaii never adopted DST. They might be on to something.

I’m wondering what it would be like if we let our days flow naturally. What if we didn’t change the time in spring and fall? What if we turned off digital clocks? Even more radical, what if we went to bed in quiet darkness and enjoyed a true rest?

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Nobody Talks About Talking

Posted on October 24, 2011 by Betsy 1 Comment

No one really talks about talking. I mean the talking that happens with a therapist. If we did, the stigma might drop away. People who are skittish with the idea might give it a try. People who have found it helpful might feel relieved to know they aren’t alone.

This week I had the honor of taking part in a panel discussion about creativity and healing as part of an ambitious endeavor by the Danforth Museum in Framingham. I’d been invited to the panel by my friend, artist Helen Meyrowitz. The challenges she faced as a caregiver for her husband during his decline due to Alzheimer’s disease inspired her recent work. The main body of that work, “Wind Beneath My Wings: Baskin Suite,” is a series of furious and poignant drawings that call on birds of prey as metaphor. I’m not a learned art critic, so I won’t go beyond saying: I love Helen’s work. The raw emotion of it vibrates with loss, anger, confusion, love.

Artist Helen Meyrowitz

As she talked about her beginnings as an artist, she gave credit to her “time on the couch” in psychoanalytic therapy. Helen and I have been talking for years, over dinners, about the things that feed our art. Therapy has come up before. Dream analysis. Life catastrophes. But this time, I made the connection as she said that therapy got her started. The same is true for me.

Though I like to track my writing back to a terrible ghost story I wrote in second grade, my fiction writing began many years later. I had decided to give therapy a try because there were some knots that were tangled up so tight that I could neither cut loose nor find a way to pull them apart. I found myself, not on a couch, but a comfy chair.

As Helen finished her opening comments this week and I took my turn, I told the audience that like Helen, my work began with a therapy session.

One day, I told the therapist about growing up in a family where hunting was part of life.  As I described being a child witnessing a slain deer laid out on the family kitchen floor, the therapist did something he rarely did. He made a suggestion: “Why don’t you write about it?”

At the time, I was a journalist. Since therapy is an expensive commitment, I’d vowed to make use of whatever came from it. So I went home and wrote three pages. Those pages became the basis of my first novel. It’s yet to be published, but it is my favorite. The three pages began with a scene reminiscent of the times I saw my father skinning muskrats. He was a trapper as well as a hunter. The words took off and turned into a novel, full fledged fiction but growing from a seed within me.

I do believe, as Socrates said, that “the unexamined life is not worth living.”

I also know that therapy saves lives. For some of us, it puts us into a place where we find our true paths. For others, it just keeps us on the path.

Opening excerpt from my novel Neelie James:

Neelie tucked her cotton flannel nightgown around her feet, poking at the worn soft material. Night dampness bit through the cloth and she shifted her bottom on the wooden step. A circle of light broke the darkness, showing ragged wet stars dotting the tufts of uneven grass. How could blood change so fast from scarlet to black-red?

photo by Art Campbell

 

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Monkey on My Back

Posted on October 15, 2011 by Betsy Leave a comment

It all started when I observed a friend poking at the screen of her smart phone. “Angry birds,” she said.  Curious, I did what parents do:  asked my daughter about it. In no time, I had the birds squawking at me from my phone. Abi tactfully mentioned I could mute the sound.

I played the game during vacation until my eyeballs got sore. In fairness to myself, I only played when I wasn’t otherwise engaged. Like waiting for my latte at Starbucks. Or in-between chapters of the book I was reading. Maybe occasionally when everyone else was having spirited conversations. I caught looks from my family as I huddled over my phone–stealing illicit moments with the birds. The twitch that developed in my eyes seemed a small price. I thought I’d leave it behind like a summer romance.

The game instills a faux sense of pride that comes from knocking open the cages and setting the tropical birds free. I should have known that it would not be simple to step away. I made it to the next game level to find that it had transitioned into what I call mad monkeys.  The game says they are also angry, but they look mad. If you’ve played, no explanation is necessary. If not, then take my word for it: monkeys screech at you as you try to bomb them with little missiles of various sorts.

I’ve learned that it is the most mainstream game out there, launched in 2009 by Finnish company, Rovio. Those crazy Finns.  I like to win and be done, but you win and then you have to take it on all over again. Ugh. And now I’m a monkey maimer.

I’ve relegated game time to occasional snatches of play. Once the screen lights up and those monkeys start hopping and hooting–even when it’s muted you can tell they are mocking you for your bad aim–I get stuck in it again. I should remove the app from my phone. Right?  Then I could deal with my unhealthy fondness for Facebook Scrabble  … another monkey on my back …

Ignorance might have been bliss. Though I made the mistake of googling when I was writing this; there are green pigs in a new version…

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Room Enough for Me

Posted on October 10, 2011 by Betsy Leave a comment

I read Virginia Woolf”s A Room of One’s Own years ago on a flight to San Francisco. I’m a fiercely fast writer and a seriously slow reader, so the slender volume of her extended essay on women and fiction was just the right length for the flight. I turned the last page as the wheels hovered above tarmac. From title to finish, I kept thinking yes-yes-yes. Financial security and privacy still stand, for me, as hallmarks of surviving as a writer.

I have discovered my own space that cracked open the place in my soul where the alchemy of thoughts to words happens. For the past couple of decades, I’ve travelled to a magic island for one week in the fall. About  a dozen of us writers, led by a kind of raucous fairy godmother who organizes everything for us, take to our rooms for the day and write. Then we gather for feasting and sharing our work in the evening. It’s a common model for writing retreats but what is uncommon is the setting. A private island. A house that rambles in worn Victorian splendor, with nooks and ghosts. My room of my own is on a faux corner, with fireplace, window seat, faded photographs of the reigning family and a views of the kitchen garden to one side and Nantucket Sound to the other. I pull up a straight-backed chair, to a painted faded aqua nightstand, open up my laptop and the words flow and flow.

Is it necessary to drive, take a boat and hide away on a private island?

No. I write the rest of the year in my home office with activity buzzing around, my dog by my feet. But I’ve come to think of the island trek as my pilgrimage. I come back with chapters complete; I return with a clearer vision of where I’m going and why I’m going there.

As for Woolf’s second pillar, financial security, I’m working on that. It’s true for me, as it is for many writers, that I write because I need to tell stories. However, book sales mean that people are reading–a good thing. One of the best descriptions I’ve heard of publishing contracts is that they buy time. Time for writing.

I’m grateful to Woolf for many things, but most grateful for stating the obvious.

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Not Over Yet

Posted on September 5, 2011 by Betsy Leave a comment

Nestled in the saturated green of maples and birches and scrub sumac, a single scarlet leaf winked at me as I sipped my morning coffee.

The long, slow days are slipping away. Nights fall to temperatures in the fifties. School buses lumber down the roads. Apples quicken on the trees. Despite the signs, summer is not over yet. Not for me.

This week I head off to the place that makes summer–summer. It’s a 19th century seaside community on the southern coast of Maine. My family has been going there pretty much forever.

Ocean Park is a Chautauqua community, like some 350 others established around the same time. Founded in 1881 by Free Will Baptists on a .5 mile square piece of land, Ocean Park is a pocket of paradise. Sitting elbow to elbow with Old Orchard Beach, a honky-tonk kind of place with amusement rides, video arcades and every kind of fried food, Ocean Park is the yin to the yang of a different kind of fun.

Though church is not mandatory anymore and the community building is as packed for evening movies as it is for Sunday sermons, Ocean Park has the vestiges of its New England protestant heritage. You can’t buy alcohol or cigarettes within its borders. Luckily, there are NH state stores on the drive up and I don’t miss the smoke. At one time, you couldn’t play cards on Sunday. It might not seem like a hardship, except Hearts gets played passionately around our kitchen table after dinner is cleared away.

Why is it great? It sits on a seven mile beach that is one of the most beautiful in New England. The soda fountain keeps tip jars that show where the scoopers are going to college, in case you needed a reason besides the homemade ice cream. Shuffleboard is an all ages game. It’s home to a writers conference. People sit on front porches and say hi. Kids ride bikes and walk by themselves and no one worries about them. Reading is a sport. You can watch fireworks on Thursday nights, sitting on the beach in the dark.

We day trip to Portland ten miles north or go on a shopping frenzy in Freeport while we’re there; we come back to this home away from home and settle in for the night, listening to waves breaking on the beach.

I usually go with my family the last week in August and wrap up summer there. This year, we’re running a week late because schedules get more complicated when folks have to fly in from other states and across the ocean. Despite the schedules and changes in our lives, we’ve held on to this time and this place. Summer is not over yet.

 

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