SEEING IRAN WITH A CLOUDED LENS

I’ve left the beautiful shores of Hawaii and returned to the real world. Well, real in the sense that I need to fly up to Washington State, take care of an ailing hubby, finish my Iran book, and try to find an agent/publisher who’s excited about this timely memoir.

I noticed on the flight home that I was having trouble reading my Kindle. I had it up to the largest font and still it was difficult. I had on my glasses, a light above me, and still it was difficult. My seat-mate seemed a little nervous as I leaned his way to get some light from the window. “Care to change seats?” he asked. Not really, I told him, I’d just take my eyes with me.

I was now more than concerned. What if the retina had grown another membrane since surgery? The doc did say it could return; in a week, in a month, or in a year, or…never.

On my last visit to the retina surgeon, I was 20/25, without correction. Now, wearing my cutesy Versace glasses, I am only at 20/40 and barely eking out the consonants. The vowels usually come easier because they’re more obvious, especially the As, Es, and Os.

I saw an ophthalmologist before I flew to Washington, who told me that there was a small membrane behind my new lens that was clouding up, and that it could be taken care of very easily. It was uncommon, he said, but it did happen, and with a YAG laser procedure they could zap it, put a hole in the membrane and it would clear up the opacification. Fine! How many more “uncommon” problems am I going to have with this body of mine?

Since I’ve returned from Hawaii, I’ve written about fifty more pages in my Iran book, but it’s been difficult. When I use my glasses, I have to lean back and it’s uncomfortable. When I take my glasses off, I have to sit with my nose touching the monitor, then lean back and try to read it.

I made an appointment to have this taken care of here in Washington, but when the ophthalmologist examined me, he felt it was too soon after the retinal surgery to be probing around in my eye, and suggested I wait about a month, which shouldn’t change things, he said.

Now I’m at my computer, dredging up all my memories of life in Iran, and need Windex to clean the nose prints off my monitor. However, the book is moving right along, my poor vision has not altered my memory’s vision, so here I go.

You can check the progress of my book: A Broad Abroad in Iran: One Strappy-Sandaled Foot Ahead of the Mullahs (during the revolution) on my website at dodiecross.com as I add a few chapters to whet your appetite. Click on the bottom of the page where it lists the book.

GOODBYE HAWAII, HELLO MAINLAND

Today is my last day in Paradise; leaving tomorrow for home. It does feel different in this small island. You forget that somewhere out there beyond your vision is an immense body of water, which reduces you to just a small blip on the island.

This is truly a multicultural blend of people; Hawaiians, Filipinos, Japanese, Chinese, Korean, Vietnamese, Tongan, Cambodian, Micronesian, Portuguese, a smattering of Hispanics and about 20% Caucasian. Intermarriages over the years have changed the appearance of pure-bloods, and the result is what I term exotic-looking. The men, handsome with their huge Schwarzenegger builds; the women, with their dark almond eyes, long shiny black hair and itty-bitty bodies: I hate 'em. Not really, but they do make me feel like I'm just one Big-Mac away away a heart attack.

We toured the island, ate in quaint little towns, sat on the beach at Waikiki in close proximity to the overt over-eating tourists, making us appear downright svelte.

I will miss noshing on the pork hash and the Leonard's malasada, (original if you please) hot out of the oven and filled with custard that are part of the native fare. I only consumed these delicacies to show the islanders that I cared!

I sadly say goodbye to my host, Lola, my wonderful friend and school chum (since the sixth grade), her handsome son, Paco, and his gorgeous girlfriend, Huyen.

Tomorrow I leave here, back to the land of the over-eaters and I shall miss this land.

Aloha!

THE HAWAII MUSE

I’ve been in Hawaii eleven days and I’ve written more in my upcoming Iran memoir than I’ve done in two years.

I don’t understand where the muse goes, why she goes, or why she returns, but return she did and I am so pleased I shant ask any questions.

Every morning my inner clock wakes me at 5 a.m. and I hit the floor ready and excited to get to my computer. A cup of coffee to get the eyes open, place fingers to keyboard and look out at the beautiful Manoa Valley from my view on the fourteenth floor. It’s as though the view is subliminal, causing my fingers to take on a life of their own.

Thoughts of the revolution and the one-and-a-half years I lived in Isfahan, Iran, come flowing forth, sometimes faster than my fingers can keep up with them.

“Whoa!” I say. Wait for me. Then…oh yeah! I remember that, and I’m off, watching my fingers fly over the keyboard while reliving things that happened during the Islamic revolution, thirty-two years ago.

Something bizarre happens when you write a memoir. Your subconscious mind takes you back to the events as if you were living them at the moment. I see myself walking through the Bazaar, haggling with merchants; soaring down a river in a raft while irate men throw stones at me; driving through the beautiful countryside, drinking from an ice-cold stream as it rushes down shimmering rocks from the snow-covered mountains above; watching the mammoth tanks roll into town when martial law was ordered by the Shah.

Well, as you can see, I have much work to do. So, now it’s time to get back to my memoir.

THANKS TO THE SEA BIRDS

It’s 9 a.m. Hawaiian time, 6 a.m. Pacific time, and I find myself sitting on the lanai of a friend’s condo in Oahu.

I can’t sleep. My body’s on Pacific time so I must get up. I stagger to the kitchen, make a pot of coffee, then I look up and out. What an incredible view.
Her unit is on the fourteenth floor of a thirty-five story building, and the view is breathtaking.

I grab a cup of coffee, my laptop and head for the lanai. The view is of massive green mountains, partially obscured by dense, bloated clouds, black on the bottom, rising to white cumulus, thinning into oblivion as wisps of filigreed lace, and all ringed in a dazzling gold by the sun’s fierce glow behind them.

Towering high-rises sit plump and regal amidst Banyon, Mangos and Fan Palm trees, while tiny roads thread their way through the city to the suburbs and beyond.

Delicious aromas of plumeria, antherium and gardenia float on the tropical breezes bringing a soothing balm to all.

I close my eyes and visualize what this island looked like before it was covered with concrete, wood, glass and asphalt.

What spark of life led this heretofore lava mountain to come to life. Geologists say that after eons of volcanic eruptions in the seabed, the first and largest volcano reared its head from the ocean and looked about. Novelist James Michener credits a tired sea bird who deposited the beginnings of the flora and fauna of this verdant island. I imagine that after a long flight from some far-off place, the little sea bird came upon a wondrous site; somewhere to perch and gain strength to fly on.

After depositing the remnants of his last meal onto the bare lava, he blithely set out again as his DNA required. And from that one small offering, to what I see before me, I’d like to thank that little sea bird as I sit here and marvel at the wonder of nature and creation.

MARKETING YOUR BOOK....or selling your soul!

MARKETING AND BOOK PROMOTION 101
From the Stakeout to the Kill:
Or: Secrets from a Self-Promoting Slut

I've had several writers ask me to talk about marketing and how I go about it. I wrote this blog a year ago, but nothing has changed, it's just gotten harder. Marketing is something that you have to do whether you want to or not, whether you're tired or not, whether you'd rather curl up with a good book and forget the world.


Okay, here’s the deal. We have to promote ourselves! There’s only one person who knows the book and thinks it’s the Greatest Story Ever Told; and that person is the author. I have no shame when it comes to promoting, selling or getting in someone’s face (or dinner plate) to sell my book.

The first thing I did after my cover was designed was to design and make a bookmark. It was easy. All I had to do was set my margins on my word document to the size of a normal bookmark (2”x7”) and then start typing….In this laugh-out-loud memoir, Dodie Cross…yada, yada, yada. You’d a thought I had just been awarded the Pulitzer by the way I bragged. But, why not? Whose going to walk up to you and say: “Hey, I read your book, and it wasn’t a ‘Laugh out loud.’”

Next I called around and got some quotes on 500 bookmarks; some prices were higher than my mortgage payment, some companies took six weeks to deliver. Then I found Office Depot. They were fast, did the work in-house, and the bookmarks turned out lovely! Then I began my attack:

The Stakeout: Every time I left the house I made sure I had at least 50 bookmarks stuffed into my purse. The second I saw a straggler, a woman sitting alone, two or more women together, or husband and wife, I began reaching into my purse. “Hi,” I’d say, giving my best local author smile, “I’m a local author and this is a bookmark for you.” “Oh, thanks,” most would mutter as they haltingly accepted it, hoping I wasn’t a rabid cult member trying to lure them into my church.

The Assault: I can’t tell you how many times my cheapo little cards sold a book for me. In restaurants: I’d scope out the room looking for happy faces—crinkles around the eyes shows a propensity for laughing; women chattering over a glass of wine (I always approach drinkers, they’re happy people). I’ve left the restaurant with two people trailing me to my car for an on-the-spot purchase. I suspect it might have looked like some sort of a drug-buy, but hey, you’ve got to market at any cost! On airplanes: I walk the aisles looking for women reading. They’re easy prey. “Hi,” I say brightly as I check out the name of the book they’re reading. “You look like you’d enjoy this type of book,” as I insert a bookmark into their book. There’s really no way to avoid a sales pitch on a plane. Where are they gonna go to get away from you? At the post office: Lines of women, just waiting to get their minds off of the dreary duty of picking up “held” bills. I think they’re the easiest marks. They have no book with them; they are bored beyond endurance; and their eyes light up when I tell them that the back of my bookmark is “for women only.” Then I lurk just outside the door, knowing I’ve interested a few of them, and sure enough, I have captured at least one to three bored housewives longing for some excitement in their lives, and honey, I tell them, this book will do it. Once I ran out of bookmarks before the line of women ran out, and I actually had a lady look ticked off. “Where’s mine?” she asked. Doctor’s offices: Another sure-fire captive audience. They’re all reading; either books or magazines left over from the pterodactyl period or boring health leaflets. “Hi,” I say, giving them the “local author” bit, “I’ll bet this book might be more interesting than reading about the heartbreak of seborrhea and psoriasis.”

Coming in for the Kill—The Guarantee: “This is a woman’s book,” I tell them. “Very funny, fast reading, and if you don’t laugh out loud I’ll refund your money.” “Oh!” some would reply, suddenly interested. “Well, gee. Okay. Um, where can I get it?” they’d ask while turning the card over and reading the hilarious synopsis I devised to trap such hold-outs. “Well, if you’re interested in saving some money in shipping and handling costs, I have copies in my car for just your type of smart shopper. Plus, I can autograph it for you if you purchase it right now.” I do believe I have sold more from my trunk than from my website.

I guess what I’m trying to say with all this airy persiflage is: don’t be a bunch of nattering nabobs of negativism. Get out and be a self-promoting slut!

Addendum: I need to add here that you must also try to find every book club in your area, and sometimes they may not be near you (I've been to Hawaii and Mexico to market my book), but if you don't get it out, who will?

Unless you're a King or a Grisham, you better get yourself some good walking shoes, and get hopping!


By: Dodie Cross

LOOK OUT DRIVERS, HERE I COME!

I distinctly remember the first time I scooted behind the wheel of an automobile. It was the summer of my Junior year (notice how I ignored the year?), and my uncle had come to visit for the weekend. He called me aside and asked if I’d like to take a drive with him.

Now, in the 50s, there was usually just one car per family (okay, now I’ve given away my age), and the idea that I might have a chance to drive my father’s car was a non-starter. No one drove it but him, and I always wondered what the big deal was. It was an old beat up Mercury, spewed black smoke and the interior headliner was always sagging at some inappropriate spot. But he loved that car, and it was off limits to me.

When my uncle asked me that question, I knew immediately what he had in mind. My heart raced as we pulled away from the curb. “Don’t tell your folks about this,” he said, “they’d kill me.” What a brave thing for an uncle to do, or anyone to do for that matter.

In the 50s, we had Driver’s Ed as an elective in our Junior year, so I’d already aced the test (well, after hitting a few curbs and nearly running down a few little old ladies), and knew I’d be up to the task.

We parked about a block from our house and we changed places. It was a feeling like no other. My hands were clammy and my mouth was dry. I had to do this perfectly so he’d tell my folks that I was ready for my first car. I knew there would be no such item coming, as we were just plain middle-income working class people, and to have two cars in the driveway signaled some sort of prosperity. We couldn’t be show-offs.

My uncle launched into a five-minute speech about rules; turning to look out the window when pulling from a curb, left arm out straight, or bent up if going right, down if going left, etc. Basically it was the same sort of car that our class instructor used, so I did know the names and places for the stuff on the floorboard. I'd just never drove anywhere other than the school parking lot. But,I felt I was ready.

I looked out the rear-view mirror, the side mirror, put my arm out straight, and was ready to go when I realized that I’d forgotten what to do with the two floor pedals and the one large gearshift at the same time. I put my hand on the gear shift, put both feet on the clutch and brake. Nothing happened. “Give it the gas,” my uncle prodded. “Oh, yeah, right.” I then put my left foot on the clutch, right foot on the gas, and slowly pushed down. Nothing happened. “Put it into gear,” my uncle said, patiently. “Oh, yeah, right.”

I then grabbed the gearshift like a long-haul truck driver, pulled it down, pushed on the gas, held in the clutch…and we were off. But I forgot to look out the window before doing so. There was a deafening screech as an old man swerved around the car, honking and giving obscene hand gestures.

All of a sudden it wasn’t so fun. My hands were still clammy, my heart was racing, but for the wrong reasons. I was no longer excited, I was scared to death. “No problem,” my uncle said. Just sit there awhile and calm down. You can try again in a few minutes.

“Can’t we go to a parking lot?” I asked, terrified he would think I was a big baby and wasn’t ready to drive. He got out of the car to take over and drove to a parking lot. I got out with shaky legs, not sure I wanted to do this.

After several bump-and-runs, and giving my poor uncle whiplash, I finally mastered the gear-shift and gas pedal at the same time and was flying high. I felt that I’d just passed puberty; I’d just ascended into the realm of young woman and no longer a kid. I couldn’t get the smile off my face.

Well, here’s the thing. My cataract surgery and retinal surgery was a success (YEAH!) However, the surgeon did say that the growth can return, but I’ll worry about that later. For now, I’m back on the highway again.

Today I picked up my beautiful Versace glasses (if you have to wear glasses, might as well look cool). I drove home with a stupid smile on my face. I felt like a teenager again. I could see trees two blocks away, not to mention pedestrians and cars. What a thrill. I had been driving like I did in my Junior year, hoping that no one had the misfortune to step in front of me while I was behind the wheel.

Okay, I exaggerate a tad, but it has been scary. Last week, before my glasses were ready, I had a scare. On the 91 Freeway, whether you want to or not, you must drive 80 miles per hour to keep from getting rear-ended. So as I’m streaking down the freeway I see something strange ahead of me. You know those rubbery yellow poles that separate the FastTrack Lane from the other lanes on the freeway? Well, they came up on me so fast that I didn’t see them, and I mowed about ten of them down. Of course, they popped right up again, but I was glad they weren’t humans.

Thanks for those of you who wished me well. I will be taking the test for my driver’s license for renewal in the middle of September. Glad they don’t have gear-shifts and clutches in cars anymore.

A TRUISM: YOUTH IS WASTED ON THE YOUNG: THE RECALCITRANT RETINA

It’s Friday, June 26th, and I’ve just learned that the recalcitrant growth on the retina will have to undergo a shaving. The “cellophane retinopathy,” an old medical term no longer used in the prestigious halls of UCLA Medical School, heretofore known as the “epi-retinal membrane," will have to be surgically peeled off.

Now, why I get these little hanger-oners, I have no idea, but I’m damn tired of it. First it’s the herniated disk that refuses to unherniate, even after the good doc does the surgery; then the thumb joint decides to do away with anything as helpful as some nice little cushioning between bones; next the cataract decides to obliterate my vision, while hiding the fact that stuff was piggybacking on the retina, so now I have to get that sucker peeled off before I go blind.

I asked the good doc how the procedure was carried out. He said to imagine trying to remove a piece of Scotch tape from a photo. If you go real slow and hold your mouth just right, it might come off completely clean, without taking any of the photo paper with it. However, and here’s the sad part, if some of the photo paper (e.g. the epi-retinal membrane) decides to come off with the Scotch tape,(e.g. the paring knife) then… he stopped right there, shrugged, and said not to worry. Anything could happen, he continued… “I could drop the knife in your eye, an earthquake could shake the building and then…. or the knife could get a little germ on it and it would be transferred to the eyeball…”

ENOUGH! I cried. If he wasn’t so dang good looking I would have run from the room, screaming, but alas I'm a sucker for a gorgeous face.

There is definitely something to be said about “The good old days.” Why didn’t we appreciate those days when we had them? I guess we… (“We” as in anyone over 50) just took those days as they came, always thinking of what the next day would bring and never realizing that the good days were slipping away as we pushed them aside and called on the next day. Oh, I want them back!

But I digress:

Here’s what the good doc told me when I queried, “Just tell me the risks because I already know the benefits.” He didn’t hold back…

For starters, how about: vitreous hemorrhage; infection; elevated eye pressure (glaucoma); non-healing corneal defects; double vision; eyelid droop; loss of circulation to vital tissues in eye, resulting in decrease or loss of vision; permanent blindness or diminished visual acuity; loss of eye; anesthetic complications, including death! Now, how could I refuse to undergo such a noninvasive surgery?

Actually, he said that the odds were 1 in 1000 that things could go wrong. I would have preferred a 1 in 100,000,000, but he didn’t offer that. So, I go, because I have no choice. No go…no license…no driving…no shopping…no freedom…a whole lot of “nos.”

Wish me luck!