The Original Heather Graham’s Blog

Ah, Friday the 13^th! Be afraid, be very afraid.

                But why?

                Well, the number has to do with several events in myth and ancient history.

Most familiar to Americans and Christians worldwide would be the fact that there were twelve apostles and Jesus, making the number 13, and, hm, we all know about Judas, whose name has become synonymous with betrayal, and it’s hard to thinking of a time of greater fear or mourning than the death of Christ.

And, remember, Jesus Christ was crucified on a Friday.

Beyond that, once Christianity was established, and looking into Judaism and the Moslem religions, we know that there were angels, and once there were angels, there were fallen angels—including the devil, or Satan. In ancient times, covens consisted of the number 12—but, actually, they were considered to consist of 13—Satan and his twelve apostles.

Actually, originally, some cultures saw the number 13 as lucky. Somehow, across the millennia, they were voted down. In certain ancient societies, the number 13 was viewed as an odd number—after all, there were twelve months. But this came about in a strange way, and not to get the battle of the sexes going, 13 was fine in matriarchal societies because there were (usually) 13 cycles for a woman in a year. When matriarchal societies gave way to male dominated cultures, well, that 13 had to go, and the solar calendar built the hell out of the lunar.  

The Hindus consider 13 an unlucky number for any grouping. They might have somehow gotten that from the Norse. Once upon a time, the gods were having a grand old time at Valhalla. Only twelve gods were invited, but—totally uninvited—Loki showed up anyway, making the number 13. Loki then tricked Hoder, the blind god of darkness, into shooting Balder, the god of joy and happiness, with an arrow dipped in mistletoe. Balder died, and the world became dark, and, naturally, joy and happiness departed the world. Okay, no joy and happiness sounds very unlucky indeed.

They say that people who feel that there are unlucky are more disturbed by the day than others. We’ve all noticed that some buildings don’t have a 13^th floor. Some people won’t go to work, and others won’t dare step out the door, that’s how bad it might be!

There’s a name for it.

 Paraskevidekatriaphobics.

  Okay, so these are some aspects of our little human minds and psyches that lead to the fear of 13—but Friday? Well, there is the Crucifixion. It was also hanging day in the middle ages and so on, but worse! Friday was dedicated to Freya, the Norse goddess who was dedicated to love and sex, among other things. And in Rome, Friday had been dedicated to Venus, another mistress of love—and sex.

When trying to tamp down the ancient religions, the Christian rulers wanted to be very careful with Friday—which became known as the witch’s Sabbath. It was just a bad day all along, as they saw it.

Ah, well.

I happen to like Friday the 13^th. My sister was due to be married on Saturday, the 14^th—a big grand church wedding. Well, she’d forgotten to get her wedding license, so she had to fly with her groom to be to Georgia, where she didn’t need to have the same waiting period to be married legally–so that she could be married in the beautiful ceremony that was planned. (My parents, naturally, were ready to throttle her.) Anyway, time went by, she celebrated both, her church wedding in Florida—and her first wedding , in Georgia, on Friday 13^th. She wore a black dress—they had to pack fast!

My nephew, DJ, one of my favorite people in the word, was born on Friday, February 13^th, 1981. If that’s not lucky, I don’t know what is!

Ghosts, goblins, and ghoulies will be out soon. Not to mention vampires and rock stars, princes, princesses, Jedi warriors and more. Halloween.

It’s a fun holiday! It’s a religious holiday! It’s just the scene in Chinatown, it’s both, especially when you slap it all around.

For many of the ancient peoples, it was already a holiday. Especially in Great Britain, Ireland, and northern France, where pagan Druid and cultures and others similar were very real. The night, for them, was sacred to the harvest, the gods and godesses of harvest, and a Celtic festival known as Samhein. (For those of you, like him, who call this sam-hine, it’s closer to sowe-in.) It marked the end of one year, and the beginning of another. To honor that passing and beginning, the people dressed up in animals’ skins and other such array. They believed that the spirits of the dead came back on this night, and the priests and priestesses could better foretell the future, and help the people through a hard and lonely winter. They had great bonfires and sacrificed animals (animals, I can’t find a specific reference to sacrificing people, though we kind of do know because of peat bodies that they did offer up human sacrifices!)

Ahha. Along came the Romans.

 Feralia and Pomona! Let’s face, one did not conquer the known world by being stupid. The Romans wanted to keep control of subdued people who learned to co-abide. It was really difficult, you see, to instantly repopulate the known world with Romans. Feralia was a holiday that celebrated the spirits of the dead. The second of the imported celebrations, Pomono, celebrated fruit and the bounty of the earth.  

Hey, folks, let’s have one holiday that we all acknowledge. And thus, from this, the concept of bobbing for apples became part of the holiday as well.

By the early eighteen-hundreds, Christianity had replaced what had come before–almost. In the collective soul of many of the people, the old holidays still existed. The pope was a bright man, too. He decreed that all Hallow’s Eve might be the eve of All Saints day, and therefore, all together in a holiday that was religious–and still one that celebrated the secrets of the human mind.  

Some Christians dressed up as saints, angels, and demons. Others were still dressed up as animals. Trees, maybe Roman soldiers, Celtic priests and priestesses, and more.

Now, you will still see animals, saints, angels, trees, and demons. You’ll see warlocks, witches, and vampires. You might just bob for apples, though in these days of terrible flu strains, it’s unlikely!  

But you will see a few handsome fellows from Twilight now, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, a few rock stars, and more. There’s always my favorite. Dropping by church one night, I saw a wolfman and a vampire walk in together. Luckily, I attend a university church, and the Father–dressed in his favorite Dolphin colors–went on with the rite of communion though his church was filled with costumed creatures–and then warned everyone to be careful!  

So, whatever your mode of celebration, go forth and enjoy–just be careful. As the good Father said, “We don’t need to be adding any more souls in for next year, we’ve plenty to honor as it is!”

It is always so hard to believe that summer is gone, fall is here, and winter is on the way. (Especially in South Florida!) But as I write this, Halloween is almost here–so happy Halloween–and then, as usual, Thanksgiving will come and before anyone knows it, it will be Christmas. Time goes so quickly, which is one holiday message that we all need to heed. And that, of course, is why the holiday season–no matter what your belief–is such a great time.

I love the whole historical concept of Halloween. Make sure, when you’re trying to influence those of pagan religions, to match up your religious holiday with ones that the native peoples recognize. Good idea–and a nice point. No matter how we see our spiritual lives, no matter what religion we call ourselves–we are simply on different paths. So, first, Halloween–and maybe it’s good to think of the dark side as well as the pure fun! Let’s face it, no one living has the answers! On that note, out right now and on the shelves is Unhallowed Ground. It’s a murder mystery, a ghost story, and hopefully, a good and chilling read.

Onward to Thanksgiving. Okay, most of us are annoyed that the Christmas commercial season crashes down on us before our grand old America holiday. Still, turkey day is grand. I’m thrilled by this holiday, because it gets harder and harder, as time goes by, to get my family together. But I do feel like a wicked witch when the season approaches and I get to think, “Mine! All mine!” The whole family, including our newest member, Noah Davant.

Christmas, yes, I get them all then, too! I have Christmas novels out right now as well, There Be Dragons, illustrated by Fortin and Sanders and including a CD by the Slush Pile Band is available on the Internet sites (Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Borders,) and one that is just popping out on the market October 27^th, Home in Time for Christmas. Both were lots of fun to write, and hopefully, will get you in the spirit of the season!

Going from summer into fall was crazy. I left home on September 1^st and have been back only a few scattered days since. Writers for New Orleans was wonderful, after which I wound up on an Amtrak ride out to California for Zombie TV, and then on to Killercon in Las Vegas. After Killercon I was headed out on tour when I discovered that the publishing industry had suffered a tremendous blow and I had lost a dear friend, my first editor, Kate Duffy. Her death still leaves us all reeling. People say that we all live on in the memories of those who loved us–in that respect, Kate will live forever, because we all have so many stories to share about her.

New York led to Jacksonville, St. Augustine, and Savannah; which included an amazing evening with new friends headed by Sprout–Peace River Ghost Trackers. I had a chilling, fascinating, enlightening time with them at the old Spanish military hospital in St. Augustine. In Savannah, I was able to stay in Room 204 at the 17 Hundred 90 house. I didn’t see the ghost, but Miley Cyrus, a previous guest in Room 204, apparently had her luggage rearranged a bit, according to the diary kept at the bedside for guests! (She didn’t use her name but her note was written one of the nights of her stay! Miley didn’t want to take anything away from the ghost!)

Super ghost tours–by hearse, trolley, and foot. Savannah is a truly beautiful city. Jason, my oldest son, went on this tour with me, and we had a great time visiting an Irish pub, and then heading out to Bonaventure, surely one of the most artistic and atmospheric cemeteries in the world.

On to Bouchercon! Bouchercon always makes me feel like a happy puppy in a basket with a lot of other happy puppies. I loved getting to spend time with the British contingent, Paul, Alex, Harley, both halves of P J Parrish, and many more friends. My panel was with Charlaine Harris, Deborah LeBlanc, Carolyn Hart and moderated by Judy Clemens. What a blast we had! Tremendous fun on a panel.

Home again, home again. The dust bunnies have dust bunnies. And talk about bizarre! I keep coming home to dead bees. I’m hearing eerie music in my head!

Next up–Miami Book Fair International. I will be speaking on Sunday the fifteenth, in downtown Miami. After that, we’ll be enjoying the holiday season with a few trips down to Key West, where I’m now setting a ghost trilogy, Orlando, where there’s much to do, and then the New Year. Right off, I’ll be attending my FRW’s cruise–ah, just how bad can be. Work–in the midst of the Caribbean!

After which–crossing the big pond! I’ll be throwing a party with Helen Rosburg at the World Horror Convention this year in Brighton, England. The Slush Pile will be playing–our first International gig. I’m thrilled to be heading to England, a fantastic convention, and a chance to see old friends.

But right now, a quick moment to breathe and catch up. Pictures from the cemetery will be up soon–and by Halloween, you can check out the video from Writers for New Orleans. Oh, and if you have a chance, check out Zombie TV! Just key in the words. 

I’m in New Orleans as I write this–I’m up here to settle last minute details for the Third and a Half Annual Writers for New Orleans. First up–why we do we love what we love? And, certainly, we love different things. But when I’m here, I just love the city. Ah, crime, yes. Major league problems, yes. It can be a serious zoo–so many people, so much alcohol, frat kids, the wild bunch. Yes–upon occassion, you can side-step vomit on Bourbon Street. The city has changed subtly since Katrina. Some people have moved on, some people have moved in. 

 
But I arrive, and again, I love it, but no, I don’t think that I was born here in a different life. 

I just love the good, bad, the ugly–and the beautiful. I love the architecture, I love the history, and I love all the cultures that have come through and made their mark. Community Coffee–pecan praline being my favorite. Shops that are not part of a chain–okay, sure, you may have the same T-shirts offered over and over again, but you still find the one of a kind places that sell incredible jewelry, costumes and all sorts of mega cool stuff! There is Fifi Mahoney’s–one of my favorite places in the world, a wig shop where the proprietors have the most amazing imaginations. No trip is complete for me without trying on a few. I love to walk in Jackson Square, hop into the Cathedral, and see the museums. There are the zoo and the aquarium. And the cemeteries. For writers, they are a strange breeding ground for reverence, reflection, and imagination. 

We came and slipped by Krazy Kat, where Kathy and Erin will host there welcome party this year. Zydeco–a real taste of the old city. Then we hopped over to see the steamboat Natchez–and had a ball. Helen is hosting a Friday night gala here this year. Southern belles and riverboat gamblers! We have the entire boat. A jazz trio will play upstairs, the buffet and karaoke will happen downstairs. From the boat, looking out on the Mississippi, history, long ago and not so long ago, all comes into being, and there’s a sense of nostalgia, something of a touch of pain, and something of incredible hope.

I can’t wait now for the month to go by!

 They know us at the Monteleone. We’ve been doing this for–well, of course, three and half years. I’m still grateful that we got in our “half” last year. Kathy, Erin, and Helen hosted such wonderful parties that to this day, to my knowledge, no one hates me for dragging them into an evacuation situation. I have been assured that it led to some of the world’s best blogging material.

 Back to basics . . . why do we love what we love? I don’t know. I can’t explain it. I wasn’t born here, and, as I said, I don’t think anywhere in my heart of hearts that I lived here in a previous life. I love the mule drawn carriages and the legends. I love the Civil War history, and I love the modern city. It’s not chocolate. It’s every color of the rainbow. It’s ecclectic music and I can walk down the street and see a gentleman playing on Royal in the same place I’ve seen him for years. He’s amazing–I never know what instrument he’ll be playing, he plays so many. And his voice! I’ve heard him do Broadway, jazz, and pop, and sing in every musical style known to man. I can stand in the street–in the heat, even–and listen to him forever.

 I love this place, and that’s just the way it is, and actually, we do love what we love in the world, and that’s the way it is. But more than anything, I realize, my love for this city has a lot to do with friendship. I have had so many friends help me here! Friends who fell in love with a place as well. New Orleans is a character, just as vital as any human being out there.

Today, I went to one of my favorite shops–it had closed. Here’s the thing. The city is coming back. There were a number of conventions here–but many came for the first years after the season of storms, and have now moved on. My favorite shop went down. There are a number of empty store fronts. 

So, I’ll keep coming back. And I’m incredibly grateful to my friends who have fallen in love as I have, and who continue to support me and this city. It’s not my city. It’s just a city I love–and one that is real, such a character! As writers, we owe her so much. 

Anyone interested check out www.writersforneworleans.com.

It’s almost here.

I walked into my nephew’s house this morning to baby-sit Graham while Franci went to school. She was still checking online, heading off to a class in which she was supposed to know the difference between race, ethnicity, and culture. Immediately after, I opened my email and found a brief bit on the signers of the Declaration of Independence. It was grim. Several were captured by the British, tortured, and then killed. Most had their homes burned to the ground. Many died in poverty.

They were probably mostly of the same race, even of the same ethnicity–with differences in their cultures, since they were in the colonies, far from Mother Britain, and I-95 didn’t exist yet, so getting around the thirteen colonies wasn’t all that easy.

Over two hundred years later, we’re heading for another celebration of Independence Day. And the world the founding fathers created has changed–grown tremendously, made mistakes, learned, grown, and made mistakes again.

Human beings create the world.

So . . . .

What a great question. What makes us different? What makes us alike? And, in the United States, how do we embrace our race, ethnicity, and culture, and then combine them all and be Americans?

When my parents came to the states, it was important to embrace everything American. Lose the accents, cherish the country that had taken them in and given them a new life, without the deadly prejudices of the place they had left behind.

But that’s not really right. We need to hold dear to the past, and love where and what we’ve come from. There’s a balance somewhere.

A taxi driver in New Orleans last year gave it to me right–we didn’t just elect the first black president. We elected the first mixed race president. Obama’s race is combined, his ethnicity is combined, and as president, he’s certainly finding out about culture!

He’s American.

That’s what we are as Americans. Mongrels. Mutts. Heinz 57. All these years later, trying to fulfill one of the promises made by the men who bled, died, and gave all for independence. Freedom for all men. 

Today, we fight a different battle. To defend ourselves, and to be a great country, strong and yet magnanimous. To do that, we start at home. To learn to live as Americans, and truly understand that we are all one, black, brown, yellow, red, white, and every shade in between. Because that’s what we have now. A palette of colors, and all Americans. An array of ethnicity–from Asia, Latin America, Africa, the Far East, Europe, the Near East, and, of course, the citizens who came here first, our native Americans. 

Here’s what struck me. It’s a day to celebrate, to honor the founders of our country. It’s also a day to remember our debt to them. That debt is to never stop fighting to create the country they risked all to form. A land where we embrace all that we were, but remember every minute the privilege of being American, and embrace each other, no matter what color, creed, sex, sexual orientation–race, ethnicity, or culture.

I have a habit of focusing on the moment, but I was reading a few blogs that stirred my memory on “firsts,” especially as far as career events. My “first” sale was actually for fifteen dollars for a horror story to the now defunct Miami New. Honestly, it wasn’t my fault the paper folded–that actually happened years later. I couldn’t frame the check–I needed the fifteen dollars. My first book sale was very strange. I had received a goodly amount of unsigned memographed
rejection letters, and then came the call. It was from Dell, and I was ecstatic. I hardly heard what was said; I hung up thinking that my book was going to be on the shelves in two or three months–I do mean, I was ignorant of the publishing process! (Yes, a book can be put out in a matter of months, but only if you’re a sports star in a scandal,
incredibly rich, or you’ve slept with the President or Brittany Spears.) I told my mother-in-law, whom I loved dearly, but who was not much in the realm of faith. She was certain that a friend called, and it was a joke. This became more
evident as the weeks went by and I didn’t hear from the publishing company again. I finally got the nerve to call a month later–yes, I should be getting the contract any day (it was eight weeks all told) and the book would be out the following year. 
 
I couldn’t wait. 
 
The day the book came out on the shelves I went to a Waldens at a local mall with Debbie, a friend from the time. As I blew my monthly budget to buy five of my own books–mom, sister, Debbie, me, and, of course, my mother-in-law–Debbie urged me to tell the cashier why I was buying so many. I told him it was my book. He didn’t even look up. “Great. Good for you. that will be twenty-five dollars,” he said. 
 
A good lesson in humility. 
 
Years later, at that same mall, that same store, with five children in tow, I dead-stopped when I saw I was actually dumped in a beautiful manner right in front of the store. (Set in those large cardboard box things with the art
on top!) I was so stunned that I didn’t realize I had lost a child for several minutes. Then I went insanely rushing down
the mall. Luckily, Derek had gotten down to Penney’s, where he paged his mother, who was lost. He hadn’t realized that his mother had frozen on the spot in absolute shock. 

Definitely, a favorite moment was in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. This time, the kids came to me all excited–my series was actually being carried in the Abe Lincoln Museum. Naturally, I followed them to the aisle where the books could be found and picked one up reverently. The sales lady came by and asked if she could help me. I looked at her and
told her that it was my book. She looked back at me and said, “Oh, no, honey, that’s not your book. Not until you’ve paid me for it.” 
 
Then, just to be sure that over the years I had not been kept completely in my place, came the day when I was called and informed that I was being given RWA’s Lifetime Achievement Award. Naturally, no one was home except for Chynna, who was about nine at the time. I told her, and she frowned, extremely worried. “But don’t they know–you’re
not dead yet!” 
 
It’s a hard business. We have our times of happiness, of celebration, and we should appreciate every single second of those times. But it’s a fickle field, and we have to always remember the craft and be grateful that we have accomplished what we have, but never stop forgetting that the work is the most important detail. We’re lucky to be bought–let’s face it, there is wonderful work out there that might never find the right publisher–but whatever we might have achieved, we have to remember that we must always keep doing our best to tell the best stories possible with the best and most unique voice that we can. Every work must always stand alone, and every time a book winds up on a shelf, we’ve not only worked hard, we’ve been lucky–and blessed. 
 
Even if we do have to pay for it!

Charlie, my brother-in-law’s son, was married Saturday night to Rachel. Charlie is extended family to me, being my nephew’s cousin on the other side, and Teresa and Stuart, his parents, are family who rise above and beyond whenever the occasion demands. We were all delighted to be at the wedding, everyone making sure they were back from wherever they might have been in time for the sunset wedding. Naturally, at this wedding, we thought about all the recent family and, close-as-family friend weddings we’ve been to lately.

    Each wedding fit the couple perfectly.

    DJ–boater and fisherman–and Franci were married in the Keys at sunset, stunning, and yet casual. There were fireworks and a sand castle.

    Derek and Zhenia, the artists, were married at a real castle, and Derek wore his family Graham plaid. 

    Bobby and Alicia, a bit older, opted for a Vegas wedding, Chippendales, slot machines, and strip clubs for the guys, but come the moment of saying those vows, she was the traditional stunning bride.

    Stacey and Kevin, the most casual of all, and yet, the vows were beautiful, as Stacey’s daughter became a part of it, and they were announced not just man and wife, but a family. T shirts. And an outdoor ceremony by a fountain, lots of dancing, with lots of good eats in the friendly bar. And, to top it all off, we got a bit of the Lafayette dog parade, right before Mardi Gras.

    Now, Charlie and Rachel. They are attorneys. They love boats. (It’s a Davant family requisite.) Now this is great for me, since I’ve actually known the Davants longer than the in-laws and children since Vickie and Davis got together when I was about fourteen. Mr. Fred Davant was a major attorney in the Miami area then, and I was afraid of my first dinner at their house. I thought it would be stuffy and proper. There were five Davant children, and the food went around on a lazy Susan. Davis warned me to grab fast if I wanted food at all. He was right.

    This wedding was at the yacht club where Fred was once commodore and Stuart will be one day. This is a very good thing for me–the Davants answer all my boating questions, and if they cannot, they know who can. One might think as I once did, yacht club! Stuffy. Maybe even pretentious. No. Rachel vowed to be with him through Florida ‘Gator losses and nights with too much Miller beer. He vowed to make coffee–and never try to talk to her until she had been up for fifteen minutes. It was funny; it was beautiful. He’s a maritime attorney while she’s a fraud attorney. They have a house and a dog already. They have a bucket list of things to do before they start a family. Pretty cool, nicely organized. It’s a Davant family tradition that all grooms must get thrown in the pool. Rachel knew this–she was ready to jump in after him, wedding dress and all. As this all occurred, the Miami rain suddenly poured down–which was fine, it hadn’t done so at Sunset–but even those not in the pool wound up wet.

    A great wedding had by all.

    A really nice brunch the next morning.

    And it’s wonderful to have these moments, to share these moments, because the sad ones will come, too. Thankfully I refer to none of the brides or grooms. But on Monday we learned about a terrible accident that had occurred to a young woman who is friends with my children. She was a passenger in a car on US1 which became involved in a terrible accident. She has survived, but in critical condition, broken and stitched–a beautiful young person who will spend months in recovery. Another girl was injured; the third, just twenty-six, died at the scene.

    Traffic down here is crazy. People don’t always give pedestrian’s the right of way, I don’t think most drivers here realize that cars come with blinkers to signify turns, and there are clubs open just about around the clock, so the alcohol factor comes in frequently. I was terrified each time one of my children started driving, and yet, I know they have to drive, just as I know they have and might still move on where I can’t reach them easily. Accidents are frequent; we know that. Sometimes, they’re just fender benders. Sometime, they’re far worse. It’s always tragic to hear about bad accidents. It’s shattering to hear about them when it’s someone you know.

    The really simple point of all this is–confused. Family, friends, weddings, the good times–are all precious. They need to be cherished. And God knows, we can’t live our lives paranoid of everything, we can’t walk around on eggshells, or we’ll never really live. But I think it’s important for everyone–perhaps writers more than anyone–to always make sure to embrace life. We’re quick to be too busy for events. Life sometimes seems to be one giant and eternal deadline. But we never know when “too busy” will never matter anymore, because there comes that time when it just doesn’t matter how busy we were–life is, indeed, filled with final deadlines.