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About Dr. Karen Stephen

Author ~ Flamingo Lover ~ Psychologist

To err is human…

fly in ointmentThe fly in the ointment when self-publishing is thinking you can copy edit your own book and get away with it. In my rush to have MOTHER TONGUE released in Kindle and paperback versions before the holidays, I did my own copy editing. WRONG!

Just before my rush to publish, I had completed a major re-write in which I had changed from a third person point-of-view to first person. Unfortunately, one is capable of doing mass change-all edits with WORD and pronouns are incredibly capricious little devils. What’s worse is that spell-check does not always pick up the resulting grammatical errors because they are perceived as being correct even though the meaning is entirely altered. Case in point: “our” and “their”.

Example: I listened closely to our conversation when what I meant was I listened closely to their conversation. The first is not poor grammar but totally incorrect in terms of meaning.

can-you-read-this2You’ve all probably seen the passage pictured here about the power of the human mind. This is why it is so difficult to pick up these errors. Skimming over large volumes of material, our gaze slides over the little words like pronouns, especially when we’ve written them ourselves.

So, until a generous copy-edit-minded friend gave me the horrendous news  yesterday, I had no idea that there were over a hundred uses of “our” when I meant “their”. And a few minor typos to boot.

So, my sincere apologies to those who purchased either the Kindle or the paperback version of MOTHER TONGUE. I have made the corrections, resubmitted the interiors, and both versions will be available within the next 24-48 hours at Amazon.This is the up side of self-publishing. Corrections are very easily made.

For any of you paid good money for my novel and then threw your hands up in frustration or your Kindle down in annoyance, I would be happy to make reparations. A new paperback version can be sent to your door as soon as it is available or a gift certificate for a new Kindle version. Please use my CONTACT PAGE to send me your druthers. And a special kudos to those who gave me excellent reviews in spite of this–and they weren’t even relatives! You are kindhearted to the Nth degree or speed readers who never read the pronouns to begin with!

Je suis Charlie

je suis charlie crowdWith yet another mass assassination in the headlines, I think about of the string of banner headlines that have punctuated my seven plus decades here on earth. Assassinations, acts of terror, natural calamities. Just like you, I remember where I was and what I was doing at the exact moment that these tragedies came into my awareness.

funeral jfkThe first was the tragic death of JFK…the moment that our innocence as a nation was lost forever. I was nineteen, out of college for a semester due to a personal trauma of my own. I was in the family room of our three bedroom rancher high in the hills above La Jolla, the quintessential beach town where nothing could possibly go wrong. Our long-term cleaning woman, a proud and industrious black woman named Ezarine, was ironing one of my mother’s white blouses as I sat on the nearby couch numbing my own pain by watching As The World Turns when a CBS news bulletin flashed across the screen. As a truly shaken Walter Cronkite came on the air, I heard Ezarine gasp and watched her buckle to the floor shouting “oh, no” over and over. Later, as we both sneaked a smoke out on the patio out of sight of my mother, I watched the pain of lost hope drift across her face like an evening shadow stealing the last light of day.

rfk newspaperI was back at the University of Illinois living in the graduate dorm and excited to be involved in my very first political campaign…for Robert Kennedy. I was proud to have graduated from the namby-pamby I Like Ike politics of my mother to be part of the social justice scene. I recall sitting alone for hours on my bed weeping and staring at the eleven-inch screen of my television as they replayed the bloody scene in the back hall of the hotel again and again.

mlk balconyA year had not passed when Martin Luther King was struck down. I was in the hallway taking a class break when someone rushed in with the news. I remember the sense of isolation, realizing that few of my white classmates shared my own particular pain.

Len and Karen airportI was married to a black man at the time and immersed in the black community. I had experienced the slings and arrows of racism up close and personal. Four white college boys stopping suddenly in front of us and jumping out of their car with baseball bats, fleeing only when my husband drew a revolver out of the glove compartment. Being pursued through O’Hare airport by a redneck shouting obscenities at us at the top of his lungs moments after this photo was taken.

911 towersWoken by an early morning phone call from a friend on the morning of 911 just in time to flick on the television and see the second plane hit was shocking…yes. But somewhere deep inside, I slipped the images into place beside all the others and knew they would not be the last.

Now, the Paris I love, that I have visited almost a dozen times, that has always felt safe to me, even on the Metro in the dead of night, is stained with the blood of another brave generation of French revolutionaries. The only difference is that guillotine has been replaced by automatic weapons. Je suis Charlie. Je suis Martin. Je suis John. Je suis Robert. Je suis 3000 souls.

Guest blog by digital artist Bob Keck…on growing old gracefully

DegreesofObsession240Digital artist and illustrator Bob Keck was kind enough back in 2005 to create a digitally produced cover for my first novel Degrees of Obsession from an idea I had come up with. It took dozens of hours for his computer to create the image as we tweaked the content over several weeks.

Download Christmas 2014 to see Bob’s Christmas Letter in its original pdf form AND SCROLL TO THE BOTTOM to see the incredible sci-fi and fantasy digital artwork he has produced in just the past year. More of his digital art can be found at DigitalDreams.com.

I so resonate with his comments on growing old and how it affects our abilities, our attitudes, and our art. And if I wrote fantasy or sci-fi, I would head straight to Bob Keck for a fantastic original book cover. Send inquires to my CONTACT page and I will forward them to Bob.

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Just Cruising by Bob Keck

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Moon rise by Bob Keck

 Here is the text of BOB KECK’S CHRISTMAS LETTER–A paeon to aging gracefully

Well, I almost didn’t write a letter this year. Not much happens when you are semi-retired and work from home. It’s mainly because you are almost always at home. It’s hard to write about nothing. Getting older is strange; you start to become more of a homebody. You no longer want to deal with, or have to deal with, daily stress, traffic, waiting in lines, or the many things that upset you. With the Internet you can even get most things on line and delivered to your front door and don’t have to deal with going shopping, the crowds, and finding a parking space. All the things you put up with to go to work and all the other life events you had to deal with seem to become minimal and fade away. You no longer are into fashion, image, impressing people, bars, and hot spots to go to. All the days seem almost the same and one of the hardest things is remembering what day it is. I’m not sure if this is good or bad.

Being cool is not the same as it was in my twenties. In your twenties you want to be accepted and try to fit in to your social circle (your tribe). In my generation, if your group had long hair or wore jeans and a t-shirt, you did too. Things haven’t changed. In today’s generation if their group of friends has tattoos, they feel like they should get one too. They think it’s a form of rebellion, doing something their parents hate, but actually it’s a form of conformity to fit in and be accepted. Everyone seems to do it in different ways depending on who you hang out with. When you are young to be accepted is what makes you cool. Things change when you are older. I think that when you are older and retired you are cool when you can talk about something besides your kids, the expensive trip you took or your old job.

Now, all this doesn’t mean that you become a hermit, which is really easy to do. It means that you have to come up with things to do that interest you or stimulate your mind. You end up contemplating your past failures, successes and how you got to where you are now. You realize you only have so many years left, so you don’t want to waste them on boring people, stupid events, bad movies, and unproductive tasks. I’ve always said that the hardest thing in life is not getting what you want, but knowing what you want and being happy with what you have now.

There is a certain freedom that comes with age. It’s similar to the freedom you had when you were a kid. You are again on the quest to discover what defines who you are. You no longer have to fit into the restraints of the working world. You can do whatever you always wanted to do. The only thing is that most of the time you forget what that is. Heck, sometimes you even forget why you walked into a certain room.

Anyhow, Christmas and New Year’s seem to be way markers in your life. They are a time when you get to stop and see where you have been, where you are, and where you are going. Hopefully, you appreciate what you have, the friends that have shared your life, and the fact that you are still here.

As I’ve said not much has gone on in the past year. I’m still doing graphic design work for my last company as a consultant. It keeps me somewhat busy. When I’m not doing graphics, I try to do some art or work on my house. I’m still doing sci-fi and fantasy illustrations and even got to do another book cover. I’m also doing some fine art and photography too. I won some more art show awards, which is always nice, but having people buy my art is always better. Sales have been going down the last few years. I’m not sure why.

My cats have changed. Ramone passed away. He was a very nice cat. His nickname was “Mr. Mello”. He has been replaced by Sally. One of my neighbors moved away and left her. She was somewhat feral and ran away from them when they tried to get her. They told me that she hated to be touched. It took me about a month or so before I could pet her. Now she lives in the house. She is like a clingy girlfriend. She seems to always want to be on my lap and loves being petted. At night she sleeps by my head. She is a really old sweet cat. My other cats Frank (the gourmet) and Cindy (the gray ghost) are doing fine and get along with her.

There isn’t too much else to talk about. My house is good. It’s a slow constant project. I’m still trying to update it. My car is still running fine. I keep tinkering with it to make it even better. I’m doing fine too. I have been lucky. There really isn’t anything wrong with me, just the usual getting old aches and pains and basic memory loss. I still exercise and walk fast for a mile or two up and down the hills almost every day. I’ve always exercised and taken vitamins for most of my life. Guess it was a good thing.

Well that’s about it. I hope you have a Happy Christmas and a great New Year. Take care, Bob

 

The day AFTER Christmas

2014-12-05 21.54.33I find the quiet today a bit disconcerting after eight days amidst the energy and enthusiasm of my four grandchildren. Although I’m still enjoying my annual flamingo Christmas tree.

The holidays began with a six-day trip to Oregon where my son Zach and daughter-in-law Amy are raising my two grandsons, Ryan almost 15 and Sam 11.

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At the beautiful Pittock Mansion in Portland

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Sam’s NinjaBread Cookies!

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The Oyster Themed dining room at the Pittock Mansion

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Zach and Amy whipping up great dinners in their kitchen

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Sam…the real ninja!

 

And I enjoyed watching the “boys” play with their Anki Drive car racing set–played on an iPad with real cars that zipped around the track on the floor. 

Then back to San Ramon for a Christmas Eve of baking…not one but two bûches de Noël plus Grandma Kinnison’s famous Christmas cookies. And Christmas day with Santa coming through with a train around the tree and much “FROZEN” bounty to the delight of the girls.

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Christmas dinner–oysters, salmon, foie gras (shipped in from New York!), caviar, butternut squash soup, filet de mignon and all the fixings

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Aveline and Estelle with some of their favorites.

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“I’m hiding!”

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“Peek-a-boo!”

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Bûche de Noël

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A wonderland of new Dicken’s houses for my daughter.

And finally, a Christmas greeting to my French friends on FB via my bilingual daughter and granddaughters and a French Christmas song by Aveline.

WANTED: French writer for translation exchange

templa1MOTHER TONGUE has stirred up much interest in Corsica, but my fans there are clamoring for a version in French. Paying for translation is beyond the means of this semi-retired grandmother. BUT I HAVE AN IDEA!

GOOGLE TRANSLATE is a starting point but, as we all know, yields a rather fractured version of the translated language.
 alt=I would love to locate a French author who would like his or her novel or work of non-fiction or even website translated into perfect and very literate English, starting with a basic GOOGLE TRANSLATE version. And he or she, in exchange could translate my novel into perfect and very literate French. An equal amount of effort on both our parts would produce publishable versions in each others language, with credit given of course.

Please spread the word to any of your French friends or colleagues who write and are looking for an excellent, ready-to-publish English translation at no cost. Those interested can reach me via my CONTACT page.

A icy 2002 winter in France

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These are a few of my favorite blogs…sing along!

graham-welch-a-year-in-perigord-1
“My name is Graham Welch and I am a Francophile. This blog is a celebration of all things French – from France’s cuisine to its culture, from its people to its places. I intend to update it each day for a year, starting on 1 January 2014.”

BLOG: A YEAR IN PERIGORD

Lighting up Lyon and champagne for toasters
Cassoulet, confit, and camembert roasters
Provençal pleasures all tied up with strings
This is a blog of my favorite things.

 

jf_portraitI was born  to Irish parents living in England but spent most of my early life in Ireland. After years of teaching and traveling – everywhere but South America – i settled in Singapore and live here with my Malay family

BLOG: Johnpoetflanagan

Slums bulldozed clear as the afternoon passes
Tropical air as slow as molasses
Poetry lifting my heart with sure wings
This is a blog of my favorite things

 

cropped-dual-photo-blog-header-watermarked2Living on the French Riviera ~ Following your dream

BLOG: 24/7 in France

Matisse in Vence and Christmas in Nice
Fashions and fêtes and stuffed foie gras geese
Events and expats, and secrets of kings
This is a blog of my favorite things
~
When my drain clogs
When the sky fogs
When I’m feeling sad
I simply remember my favorite blogs
And then I don’t feel so bad!

Happy Holidays from San Francisco

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Nothing like a trip to the Golden Gate Bridge the day after Thanksgiving to start the holidays off right. My children and grandchildren enjoyed a stroll across the famous span. And then it was time to put of the tree. … Continue reading

They make up…Excerpt from MOTHER TONGUE

french colonial villaLeaving a tense encounter at the house with the oblique staircase in the wilds of Niolo, Antoine pulls up to an seemingly out-of-place and dilapidated French colonial villa, its crumbling walls stitched together with ivy. At the end of a bizarre dinner prepared by their enigmatic host and having had a few whiskeys, Liz turns flirtatious.

whiskey fire

I wanted to stay away from the sensitive areas, at least for now. With the whiskey diminishing my resolve, I tossed out a flirtatious remark. “So, confess, Antoine, is that when you developed your passion for American women?”

Scafani shifted in his chair and faced me head on. He reached and tucked an errant strand of hair behind my ear. “Passion?”

The clatter of broken pottery and muffled shrieks from the kitchen interrupted the moment. “Those poor girls,” I said, downing the last of my third glass of whiskey.

incenseWith the meal was finished, I suggested we head back to Corte. As we walked back down the darkened hallway, Scafani reached again for my arm and tucked it under his. The front room was now filled with the pungent odor of sandalwood. He put his hand on my shoulder and turned me toward him. I paused a fraction of a second and then slid one hand around the back of his neck and pressed the other against his chest. Whether it was the whiskey or his obvious charm, I returned his eagerness as our kisses moved from tender to hot.

“Would you like to go upstairs?” he asked.

I jerked back to reality. “What!”

“If you really want to go back, we will. Just so you know, this is the only hotel in twenty kilometers.”

A laugh came from deep within my belly. “Do you bring all your women here?”

“Only the American ones.”

I allowed Scafani to take my hand and lead me through a door concealed in the room’s paneling. He guided me playfully up the steep staircase hidden behind, flicking his tongue over the nape of my neck on each riser.

“One bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling and I’m out of here,” I said, envisioning a shabby room with dingy sheets.

beautiful-bedroom-book-candle-candles-curtain-Favim.com-47709Scafani pulled me through the first open door at the top of the landing. I let out a soft whistle when I saw a mosquito-netted four-poster bed and three squat candles aglow on the dresser. “Spontaneous combustion?”

Scafani shushed me with a single finger to my lips.

They fight…Excerpt from MOTHER TONGUE

Liz doesn’t know whether to fear Antoine Scafani or be fearful for him. A chance meeting after a funeral only confuses her more.

DSC02945For nearly an hour, I wandered Corte’s empty streets. I found a cemetery on the outskirts of town, which, unfortunately, was equally deserted. Almost all the town’s businesses, even family-owned groceries and cafés, were closed, a Corsican flag or a black-edged portrait of Henri Soriano plastered on their doors.

Near exhaustion, I sat down on a high stone curb, holding my head in my hands and letting some well-deserved tears pour out. Maybe it was the curb, like the one I’d sat on as a child, but I hadn’t truly cried since the bombing.

Suddenly two strong hands seized my shoulders from behind and lifted me to my feet. I prepared myself for arrest or worse as my abductor forced me into the shadows of a nearby alley. When I finally managed to twist around, I saw not LeClerc but Scafani. His lips quivered with rage. “What the hell were you thinking? You had no business being there.”

“I just wanted to see what was happening along with everyone else.” My explanation sounded lame, even to me.

Scafani shook his head and released me.

I broke the long silence that followed. “How is Jean Louis?”

Scafani seemed not the least surprised that I had heard of his family’s tragedy. “He is being taken care of. Jocelyn and Pierre are with him.”

“I just—”

“You just didn’t think. You aren’t back in the States. This isn’t some Wild West TV show with cowboys and Indians.”

“If it isn’t a game, why did you bring me into it? I saw exactly what Jean Paul and Carla had stored in their living room in full color on the evening news. And the romantic bit? Please.”

“You don’t understand.”

“You have no idea what I need to understand. But if it has to do with why your uncles were shot, then you need to tell me.”

Scafani pulled over a couple of crates for them to sit on. “Why is anyone shot who stands up for their beliefs?”

“It had to be more than that.”

He glared at me, sarcasm filling voice. “A bit of wisdom gathered on your little lover’s tryst to Cap Corse?”

“How did you know about that?”

“He follows us. We follow him,” he said with a frankness I had not expected.

“And you both follow me. Why?”

DSC02918A police vehicle rolled slowly by. Scafani leapt up and pulled me with him to the darker recesses of the alley. If I was going to get information about Benatar out of him, I had to do it fast before he took off again. I decided to take the sympathetic route. “Shouldn’t you be in hiding? I was worried that you’d been arrested because of that scene at the funeral, the gun salute and all.”

“I was.”

“You were what?” I asked in my most innocent voice.

“Grabbed by LeClerc’s men on the way to the cemetery. Pulled right from under Uncle Henri’s coffin. Got interrogated by LeClerc, or should I say by your lover, Philippe. I was released a half-hour ago. They had nothing to hold me on.”

“I don’t know why you keep referring to LeClerc as my anything. There’s nothing going on between us.”

I sank down onto the back-entrance stoop of a store. Scafani hesitated and then turned a trash can upside down and sat beside me. My usually glib escort seemed to be struggling with his words, so I broke the silence again. I wanted to know more.