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."

Where I've Been This Summer

This summer may be just getting started, but I've already been to some fascinating places. At the end of May, my husband and I made the trip across the desert to visit friends and family along the Wasatch Front in northern Utah. We heard an amazing concert (if you ever get a chance to hear the Millennial Choirs and Orchestra, go!) in which our daughter and her twelve-year-old sons both sang. We spent time with people we love and even enjoyed the trip across the Nevada desert. I've never seen Nevada look so good!

That is the only trip I've made in person, but through the miraculous power of books, I've visited a number of places and have even traveled through time.



Heather Moore's All For You took me to the very romantic small town of Pine Valley. Last I checked, this book is one of eleven in the Pine Valley series. I've read three now, and I find them all light, fun, satisfying romances. I can recommend them highly.

Moore is also one of a group of authors who've collaborated on a series called the Belltown Six Pack. Grizz, one of the pack, is the catcher in the book you see at right. This is another fun and satisfying romance.


Until I Met You, by Kimberly Rose Johnson, took me into rainy Seattle. It's a novella, short and sweet, but the story is complete and satisfying. Somewhat longer, and perhaps a bit darker, is Magdalena Scott's Midnight in Legend, TN. I expected the story would start, or largely take place, in the middle of the night. Not so! Midnight, very aptly named, is the heroine of the tale. Although I identified this as  "a bit darker," it's a sweet romance with the emphasis on the characters' emotions and their involvement with the complex but welcoming community of Legend. I enjoyed it greatly.

Equally sweet and satisfying were The Sweetheart Test, by Alicia Street, and Cowboy Boots, by Christine Bush. Sweetheart carried me to Long Island's North Fork with a clever, sweet story about a young woman who devised her own test for a man who could be "a real sweetheart." You'll enjoy it, too! Meanwhile, Christine Bush shared a short story of "love that blooms in the second half of life." I've seen a few second-half romances. Chester and Annie are a cute older couple and the cowboy boots are real. Anyone who appreciates country living is likely to enjoy this short book. Meanwhile Roxanne Rustand took me to a productive, but still struggling, working ranch in Montana and introduced me to a cowboy I loved reading about and a woman who is in every way his equal. Who wouldn't love a Montana Legacy?


Because books have the power to transform our everyday lives, I've even visited another time. Josie Riviera's Seeking Patience delivered me safely into the England of 1913. Lady Patience Blakwell is a wonderful, compassionate heroine who happens to fall for a "traveler," a Romany man who has inherited responsibility for his tribe. Luca Boldor is a dashing, handsome, brave and flawed hero who knows better than to love an English aristocrat, but can't help being drawn to her. I thoroughly enjoyed this sweet story and I think that you will, too.

From Montana to Tennessee to Long Island and even into the England of 1913, I've traveled a great deal this summer. I've met some fascinating people and have enjoyed sharing their stories. I expect to travel a great deal more before this season is over. Stop back later in the summer and I'll happily recommend more such trips you too might enjoy.

Father's Day Joys and Sorrows

Another Father's Day has come and gone. For me, this one brought both joy and sorrow. For the joy: What's not to love about a houseful of eager grandchildren, accompanied by a pair of sons who are excellent fathers and their wives who are wonderful moms? For the sorrow: I can't help missing my own dad, a kind, loving man who left us in 2012. Both emotions were plentiful this year.

Only two days before the Big Day, I got a text from a daughter-in-law: "May we join you for Father's Day?" By the following day, it was a party: Our two youngest sons and their families, including eight children age nine and younger, were all coming to our house for the big celebration. I had bought a rack of ribs for the slow cooker and planned a simple meal. With the locusts about to descend, I picked up a second rack of ribs, planned more food, and asked both daughters-in-law to load up. 

We ended up with more than we could possibly eat. Two full sets of Kansas City Rub pork ribs, slow-cooked all day, were enough to go around. Then the dil's added baked beans, cheesy potatoes in another slow cooker, green salad, and three desserts. I brought out a pan of fresh yeast rolls and several bottles of homemade jam. We ate. And ate. And ate some more. At the end of all that eating, we got out the dessert, complete with five different containers of ice cream (everyone brought some) to add to the peach cobbler, fresh cherry pie, and apple crisp the kids brought along.

Little people played games in the yard and tested one another on Grandpa's new exercise machine, terrorized the cat until he hid for his life, and alternated between wild laughter and hysterical sobbing--rather expected among those five and younger. Grown-ups talked business, child rearing, weather, food and more food, and eventually took a short tour of one son's new office building, soon to be completed here in town.

In short, it was a joyous family occasion. If my dad had been here, it might have been perfect. Dad loved nothing better than getting the family together. He adored little people and was especially good with babies. The craziness when they all started crying and accusing one another of being unfair would have bothered him (it bothered me!), but he'd have been the first to step up to soothe Evie's bumped knee or coo soothing songs to baby Ian. 

I loved having the gang together. I liked seeing my husband in the midst of his progeny, honored by those who love him. I missed my father. It's the kind of Father's Day I am learning to enjoy. I expect to have many more of them in years to come.