speaking of susan sarandon




I sometimes think I have special powers. I once thought that my local, tv newscaster was pregnant and a few days later she announced that she was. I was recently thinking about the College of Charleston on my way to Safeway and entered the store to immediately see a young girl in a College of Charleston sweatshirt. Not long ago, I wrote a paragraph for a book submission with a sentence that included the name Susan Sarandon. Susan Saradon? Long story. But a day or two later or maybe that same evening, I was watching a sit-com and who should be making a guest appearance–yes, Susan Sarandon, swear to heaven. She was playing an author, a silly and drunken writer, who was not only staring right at me, but who also delivered a line that hit home with a whallop: write about what you don’t want anyone to know. Holy crap. I did that. Susan the author/actress, summoned by my powers, said that’s what I was supposed to do.

I know there is nothing unique about these experiences, but it happens to me so often that I can cite numerous and specific incidences. I told my hairdresser of thirty some years about my talent and he told me there are people out there who can help develop this gift. Freaky. I don’t think it’s a gift, however, sometimes I think it’s just a matter of paying attention. He also told me to please let him know if there is anything like a pregnancy coming into his life anytime soon.


photo credit: screencrush.com

note: I originally used this photo for the post below. It made perfect sense for both stories but decided to go with using it for only one. I think about the art chosen a great deal. Do not be surprised if the photos are different next time you visit – the beauty of wordpress.


five women




Several years ago, I rode with three women from work to a wedding in Ohio. I loved everything about this little trip. The car company, the cold, the wedding couple, the reception, on and on (if you follow this blog, you know I love everything wedding). The mother of the groom was our co-worker, a woman on-the-wagon so as not to embarrass her son, a future hall of famer in the world of crazy, workplace pals. We loved her and were honored to be there. The wedding was a humble, low-budget affair, but the guests were enthusiastic, the food was good, the dj excellent, and the mother of the groom was on her best behavior–although I secretly and selfishly wished she had tumbled just a bit–a wedding should always leave you with something to talk about.

During one of my several trips outside for a smoke, I saw two women coming from their car, two very made up ladies, probably in their late 50’s. I heard their laughter before the engine turned off. The husbands, lifeless looking things, were sitting up front, the ladies coming from the back seat along with a rush of car heat and cologne. I was fixated on this simple scene. They were large but dainty women, so prettied up, their laughter turning to howling as one extended a coaxing hand to the other so they could traverse the icy parking lot. They were perfect, perfect girlfriends, with the same laugh, sadly the same husbands, the same love for life. I saw and felt and understood their perfection immediately.

A good girlfriend is like heaven, perhaps the most satisfying relationship a woman could have. It’s unconditional, it’s shared sensitivities and sensibilities, it’s belly laughing and crying, it’s dressing up, it’s knowing why you dress up and how to dress up, it’s reaching for and holding another woman’s hand. I followed the lovelies back into the reception hall but they went into another ballroom and I never saw them again. I did, however, flirt with some sweet young thing on the dance floor who graciously flirted back, but spent the best part of my evening laughing with the women that brought me.


artwork by nancy denommee





I am new to the facebook game. I did join many years back for work purposes but never did anything with it, which actually may have been a factor in my getting fired. I find it inane. Totally inane. Which is not to say that I don’t care about the many I have asked to be my close and trusted friend, they are all lovely people. But it perpetuates the popularity game which I have struggled with since losing out to Shelley Garrettson for “most liked” in my senior class. Yes, there is some valuable information passed around, as in updates on a dear friend who was recently in a horrific accident. Short of that, it’s a yucky, self-indulgent, waste of thought and word (gulp, unlike a blog, right?).

I will be perfectly honest. I am on facebook because I wrote an e book and need to promote it. Done, said it, buy the book when it comes out in August, okay? I recently posted a teaser on its upcoming launch – 3 likes, that was it. Three! While the following post, put up by a very intelligent lady, received 15 likes as of this morning and will probably reach 30 likes by noon:  Three blueberry plants in my back yard. Have eight blueberries!   Sigh. Next book will be about dogs or babies–or blueberries.

But hey, since we’re on the subject, visit me on facebook, Pamela Naruta. And the book is titled The near Transformation of Claire.






from Shopgirl by Steve Martin:

“Ray is lured on not simply because he is a guy and she is a girl. It is just that Mirabelle’s body, as he will soon discover, is his absolute aphrodisiac. His intuition sensed it, led him to the fourth floor, and has been reinforced with every whiff and accidental touch. He deduced it from the sight of her, and from the density of her hair and the length of her fingers, and from the phosphorus underglow of her skin. And tonight, he will feel the beginning of an addiction that he cannot break, the endless push and pull of an intoxication that he suspects he should avoid but cannot resist.”


Photo credit: sugarcoatedevil.deviantart.com

shopgirl / steve martin / a favorite novella


the near transformation of Claire




I’ve spent the past four years writing a story, a dirty little story titled The near Transformation of Claire. Claire’s e reader launch is August and I am thrilled. It is not, and never will be, a literary phenomena, but I believe it has significance and an audience. It is my first-born book and I love it, and really, perhaps what I love most is that I did it, I wrote it, I persevered.

Claire is erotic fiction written in a sixty year old, female voice. Erotica was unfamiliar territory, a risk, an embarrassment every time I handed my mentor a new chapter. But it was a voice I heard in the back of my head, at ladies luncheons, a voice that I pretended belonged to Tipper Gore or some other gray divorcee. Claire is not the story of the suburban mommy-wants-nasty, nor the story of some sweet, young thing, spiraling into carnal confusion—it is the story of a woman struggling with a thankless job and a sexless marriage, a woman who finds escape, desire and hope, in the erotic letters of a business relationship turned very, very personal. Some of these letters are found within this blog. The story is sexy, it is not slimy, it is contemporary and relevant. It is about women and men and love and sex and how change, transformation, as bright and shiny as it may seem, is not always what we imagine.

I hope you will read my lovely Claire when she arrives. She is my baby, flawed, stitched up, reworked again and again, but finally ready to face the world. I thank everyone who is reading this post and this blog for your support and validation. Carpe diem.


photo credit: imgkid.com


house proud




Of the many wonderful values instilled in me as a child, pride of ownership was, and is still, high on the list. In the spring and summer, my parents meticulously tended to twenty-one acres, the majority of which was rented as cow pasture, but with large plots of land set aside for flower and vegetable gardens. Fall and winter were for maintaining our colonial-era, Dutch-style farmhouse, my father spending at least an entire month on his knees polishing floors. They never complained about the tasks or time devoted to their home–a house whore’s to-do-list is never done, and obligation was built into the satisfaction. Yes, I gladly and willingly carry the legacy of my house proud parents, and have no problem saying that I’m a clean freak as well, because really, I don’t think you can be house proud and not be something of a clean freak. I mean, who can be proud of a dirty house?

House proud is difficult to explain, to separate home from memories. It’s poetic, personal, a deep love for something inanimate that so often seems real. Of course I love clean windows and bathrooms, and lovely gardens and a tidy driveway, the way the light enters my kitchen at 5 p.m. And I will admit to having a hard time liking anyone who doesn’t gush over my home–my obsession runs deeps. But it’s more than the palette, or the property, or the lovingly curated art and objects. It’s the feeling that comes with my house that makes me most proud. You can breathe here, sigh here, sing here, work here, be alone or not and still be comfortable. It is refuge and relief, it is untroubled. I gave birth to and nurtured a home, and along the way I created calm, and that is something to be extremely proud of.

I once read an interview in my favorite gorgeous home magazine where the designer said that calm was achieved with severe editing, deep storage, and good housekeeping. I could not agree more—all of it fits in perfectly with my clean freak mentality. But a view of the river doesn’t hurt. And some weed. Whistle while you work, right?


photo credit: pixgood.com


another letter to lucy


letter 1


Clarie to Lucy: (subject) more

Hello my lovey, Hope all is well in the UK, much better here since my last letter. I know you’re curious so I wanted to give you a quick David update. He’s fine. Any trace, any rumbling of humility he may have experienced has passed. What was I thinking? I’ve never known anyone so manipulative, although I do think he’s far more transparent than when we were together—sigh…more likely I’m finally waking up.

Anyway, it seems David is about to lose everything, or that which is most dear to him—Philip and the chateau. He’s pointing so many fingers I think he’s grown an extra hand. It’s a long and complicated story which I will tell another time, but it sounds like Lindy is taking Philip to Australia, the bank is taking the property, and David will be coming to the States to stay with his mother. He tells me his mother is getting him into a VA hospital and some kind of rehab program, which very well may be true, but I know he has no money and nowhere else to go. He called to let me know he wants and needs lots of physical therapy. Ha! Last time I saw him he was not interested in me at all. He’s lining up his U.S. contingent. I will keep you posted.

Enough about David. You? Edward? Are you painting? Talk to me.

And, oh, I saw Stuart McGowan! He saw me too, but of course we didn’t talk. It was okay, I didn’t freak out or anything. More to come, dolly.

Kisses, Claire


photo credit: ldswomenof god.com


home alone


house 1




The house was green and brown and cool and calm

and midday sun would find its way through shuttered windows

in a way she imagined was like a southern novel.

She often walked the upstairs hall and checked each room

as if they were the sleeping ones, just to see that all was right.


Play cards or read or watch tv,

feed the cat, the dog, the husband.

Work and friends and play and such

and she really did enjoy these things—

but always hurried home to the solitude, her secrets.


Oh how hard she tried to live a life in balance.

Oh how well she knew she lived a life of compromise. – pn



photo credit: rchitecture.wordpress.com


thursday the 4th




I want to acknowledge all who have taken the time to send me their encouraging and constructive thoughts on this blog and apologize for not responding. I have my excuses but they’re feeble and technical and I won’t bore you with them. But here are some broad stroke replies:


Blogging is not hard.

I have been writing for a long time but blogging for only a couple of months.

I can’t give you any technical advice nor explain any technical glitches ’cause I can’t even figure out how to reply properly.


If you’re compelled to write, do it. Nothing bad will happen, this is not a high risk endeavor. Play with writing, massage it, hone it as you would any other craft. Be proud of your effort as well as your work. Thank you, Laura Oliver.