Nothing like Family!

By the time you see this, I will be on my way to a gathering of family. When we first conceived this particular gathering, our son, John, who has a better grasp on marketing than I, said, "If you call it a Family Reunion, that sounds like a bunch of old maiden aunts, sitting under a tree, drinking lemonade and gossiping." I had to give him props for that. His next suggestion? "You need a jazzy name, something that sounds like a rock festival, like . . . how about AylaPalooza?"

We now stage an AylaPalooza every two years with different family members hosting from one to the next. This year, our daughter, Rebecca, is the host of AylaPalooza 8. She and her husband, Jonathan, have found a resort lodge on the shores of Bear Lake in the northeast corner of Utah where we can all kick back, relax, and enjoy one another.

We will spend most of a week in the company of people we love. Since we'll be on the borders of two other states, we plan to visit caves in southern Idaho and a fossil dig in western Wyoming.

That's in addition to a day on the lake, family game night, a kids' talent show, posing for family pictures, and a variety of other silly, fun, share-the-love activities. This year I'm packing bubbles and beach toys for the little kids, puzzles for the slightly older ones, and a variety of nonsense photos to play 'Remember This?' with the teens and grown-ups.

The future of AylaPalooza will also be on the agenda. As the next generation grows up, will they want to take turns hosting? Will we recycle the hosting sequence we've run through once already? We will have plenty to talk about. Then, as we drive away at AP's end, my husband and I can look at one another and say, "We started all this!"

Past AylaPaloozas have seen us gathered on the shores of Lake Almanor in northern California and on the shores of the great Pacific in Baja. We've gathered in mid-summer and once, at Thanksgiving. The planning takes up plenty of time and there's expense involved for everyone, but the moment AP8 is over, we'll be planning for AP9. It's worth it. There's nothing like family.

Susan Aylworth is the author of 18 published novels. Her latest is SUNNY'S SUMMER, a romance set in the Sierra foothills near her northern California home in the aftermath of the devastating #CampFire. She lives with her husband of 49 years, Roger. She loves to hear from readers. Find her at www.susanaylworth.com, @SusanAylworth, susan.aylworth.author@gmail.com, or facebook.com/Susan.Aylworth.Author. Also on Pinterest and Instagram.

Ablaze with Color!

It's crape myrtle time here in northern California, and our city is ablaze with color. Trees loaded with blossoms line many city streets and most yards. The blooms come in shades from pale lavender to deep burgundy red. Some are even stark, brilliant white. The trees are everywhere!

I exult in crape myrtle time and look forward every year to the summer weeks when our world fills with color. When we chose the landscaping for this home, you can guess what I chose. These are the views looking both ways from my front porch.










It's possible there are folks who don't appreciate these trees as I do. Maybe they're allergic? I suppose that would justify turning one's back on this glory. For me, when the crape myrtle are blooming and my roses follow suit, it's easy to overlook much of what's wrong in the world. A world this beautiful must also have a great deal of good in it.

For fourteen months in 2017 and 2018, my husband and I lived in Kayenta, Arizona in the heart of the Navajo Nation. Our Navajo friends have a traditional ceremony called the Beauty Way which admonishes us to "walk in beauty."


Wherever you are this summer, may you also walk in beauty.

Watch the language, please

I’m a sucker for a good story.  It’s an occupational hazard for fiction writers, but a great story line wins me over easily. Two of my favorite movies are Moonstruck and As Good as it Gets, both unusual rom-coms, both with Oscars for best scripts. I love a good story in other genres as well.

Designated Survivor seemed like a natural. I loved it—for the first two seasons. Did the show get new writers in Season 3? Or did the producers, seeing their ratings in decline, simply decide it was time to up the ante with saltier language? I put up with it for a couple of episodes. Then, when the F-bomb was dropped four times in the first three minutes, I was done.

Some apologists explained such language was “realistic” in the pressure cooker of the real-life White House. Although I’d love to deny it, I suspect that’s the truth. Who cares? If I wish to be assaulted with obscenity, I’ll take a walk on the campus of our local university. Besides, don’t we all want the people who hold the fate of the world in their hands to be better than that?

To be clear, it isn’t just the language that got me. Characters I had come to care about, even love, were suddenly behaving in uncharacteristic ways, using language we hadn’t heard before, but also changing job titles and love interests, and in one case, moving into a completely new story arc.

Suddenly, instead of watching “people” I cared about, I saw actors reading lines and being moved around on a set. The suspension of disbelief that lets us slide into fictional worlds went out the window. That transition started for me when their version of the White House began sounding like an NFL locker room.

In my first career as an academic, I learned to use ten-penny words when two-penny ones work fine. As a writer of romantic fiction, I’m sometimes tempted to use those words, since they now come fairly naturally. When I catch myself, I deliberately dial it back—not to dumb it down, and not because I don’t respect my readers. I do, very much.

I choose not to use words that draw attention to themselves, words that pull my readers out of the story. I want my characters (and even my narration) to use language that moves the story forward. In effect I’m saying: “Dear Reader, please love my story, not my impressive vocabulary.”

As a consumer of other writers’ fiction, I ask the same when it comes to obscenity. If that’s the natural speech for your characters, I’m not your audience anyway. If you suddenly need to up your ratings, please do so with a fascinating twist in your story line, not with verbal assaults or manipulating your characters. You’ll win me over easily when you do.  

Independence Day in small town style

For the Fourth of July this year, my hubby and I visited the beach. Although we live in California's beautiful Central Valley, only a short distance from the waves as the crow flies, we aren't crows. The windy roads that take us through the coastal range between our home and the sea require a half-day's travel and, for me, a scopolamine patch behind my ear.

 We spent the week along the northern California coast and loved it. The weather could not have been more cooperative and the small town Americana celebrations of the holiday made the visit even more memorable

Ft. Bragg, California has a farmers' market every Wednesday afternoon. We watched as streets were closed and the market set up. Then we were among the first to wander through the stalls, examining the produce, the baked goods, and the other wares vendors had for sale. We went home with some delicious bread and berries.


On Thursday, we watched a similar set-up in the community of Mendocino as they prepared to welcome the Fourth of July holiday. The volunteer fire department started the day with selling breakfast burritos. Sometime around eleven o'clock, they switched over to hamburgers. The fund raising went on throughout the day as the fire volunteers fed people and collected funds. Down the street at the local park, another organization roasted hot dogs as its annual fund raiser.

Outside the Masonic Hall, George Washington appeared every hour or so, reading aloud from The Declaration of Independence. Small groups gathered at his feet. The parade began at noon, small town Americana showing off its stars and stripes. For reasons known only to them, the locals scheduled their fireworks for Saturday evening, not Thursday, so we missed that part of the celebration, but by the time we returned home, we felt we had enjoyed the holiday in style.

We've been in different places on the Fourth and we always celebrate. We honor the sacrifices of those who gave us this nation and kept it for us when its independence and peace were threatened. We share in the pride of a peaceful and prosperous homeland. While recognizing its many faults, we celebrate its virtues. Having been present during Bolivia's most recent revolution, I always celebrate the peaceful transfer of power that happens every four or eight years. America isn't perfect, but it's home and I, for one, am grateful to be here.

Susan Aylworth is the author of 18 published novels. Her latest is SUNNY'S SUMMER, a romance set in the Sierra foothills near her northern California home in the aftermath of the devastating #CampFire. She lives with her husband of 49 years, Roger, and one old, arthritic cat. She loves to hear from readers. Find her at www.susanaylworth.com, @SusanAylworth, susan.aylworth.author@gmail.com, or facebook.com/Susan.Aylworth.Author. Also on Pinterest and Instagram.

Thoughts on the Fourth

The fourth of July lands this week and I find it a bit intimidating. For me, it follows my brother's birthday on the second and the first anniversary of my mother's passing on the third. If I have some mixed feelings about the celebration, please bear with me.

Mike is seven years younger than I am, so I was old enough to remember his birth in some detail. Mom spent the last three months of that pregnancy on full bed rest, so many of my memories of that time are a blend of watching my mother sit half-way up to crochet one item after another, or sitting in the bed beside her while she read to me and my younger sister, one book after another.

In her last couple of years, after Macular Degeneration blinded her, my sister returned the favor, reading a couple of chapters on every visit to our mother, one book after another. I lived too far away to be a regular reader, but Mom loved hearing the stories I wrote. Pat read them all at least twice.

Meanwhile Mike, despite a rough start and some difficult years along the way, is now living his personal dream in a lovely little cottage situated in a town where outdoor living is paramount. He is one happy camper. Mike is happily situated and Mom is no longer in pain. Those will be my happy thoughts for the beginning of this week. That brings us to the Fourth of July.

I grew up as a flag-waver. Although my views of our country have become somewhat more rounded and less idealized, I still proudly claim my citizenship. Other nations, particularly in Europe, have much of the personal freedom we enjoy, but the opportunities that have fulfilled my life are found in abundance only in America.

Someday I may yet write about my experiences with my daughter stuck in Bolivia during the most recent overthrow of their government in 2005. Having seen how power transitions are handled violently in some other places, I'm deeply grateful for the peaceful changes I've seen every four to eight years in our country. When the Bolivian transportation strikes let up enough that my daughter and I could get safely out of La Paz, I swore I would always celebrate independence Day.

This year, although the celebration may be somewhat diminished by the power of the day before, I will celebrate with my husband at the seaside, watching the waves roll in, enjoying a pancake breakfast cooked by the local fire department, and watching a parade that is sheer Americana, all fun and flags. I'll be thinking of my father, my father-in-law, and others who sacrificed so much to save our freedoms during WW II, and of the many others who have served before and since, now including two nephews who proudly wear American uniforms.

I'll be having some mixed emotions, but I'll be celebrating, just as I promised, hoping and praying that America will always remain "the land of the free and the home of the brave."