Karen Nichols

November Novel Writing Month has been taking place for years. Run by www.nanowrimo.org, you may go to that website for more information. It's a little late to sign up now, but there's always next year. The point is to write a 50,000 word novel in one month. I decided to try it this year. I write in different places, at home, at the library, at a coffee place on Estero Blvd., here on Fort Myers Beach, but write I must if I hope to complete this project. The first week ends tonight. I am up nearly 11,000 words. Three weeks and another 39,000 words to go.

An Exerpt from my novel: (Did I mention that my main characater is a Realtor and that the setting is Fort Myers Beach, Florida)

When introduced to Patti Harrison at the first Happy Hour convention by their broker, Sal, Patti shook Jan's hand warmly. Her bouncy brown eyes indicated a lighthearted, unreserved nature. By the way, I never slept with Eric, though I am married to George. Jan got the joke but didn't know quite how to react.

Too bad about Eric, she finally blurted out and the office crowd cracked up, as did the bartender who hovered over them as if he was one of them. In fact, Sal was so amused that he bought everyone another round of beers. Jan, who didn't think her response particularly clever, would have preferred a glass of wine, but kept quiet about it in an effort to fit in with these crazy Florida Realtors.

As it happened, Patti Harrison had been born Patti DelMarco. She married a young real estate lawyer named George Harrison. She was, indeed, Patti Harrison. The next week, just three days before her real state license exam, Jan received a call from Patti and an invitation to lunch. They met upstairs at the Beached Whale. Their table overlooked Estero Boulevard and beyond, the greenish waters of the Gulf of Mexico.

Sylvia Plath

This poem was inspired by the fact that I no longer know or care that I don't know the latest music.

The Last Rock Stars

Firstly, there was Bob

a folk artist going astray

Neil from the north country

strumming and strunged out

Eric making love to his guitar

and George's alluring wife

Jethro hypnotizing his flute

no longer too young to die

Brazen belting Bruce

and his Jersey beach town

Freddie being positive

Kurt taking his own life

due to Georgia's son, Michael

Lars riding that freight train.

Lastly, Steven Patrick Smiths

And Paul David Hewson

The voices of these two

Remaining with me in tune,

No other appears

Over these many years.

- written by Karen Nichols, Fort Myers Beach, Florida

The Long Hot Florida Summer is finally over. As I sit in the office at the computer here on this little island, Fort Myers Beach, windows open, I feel the longed for cool breeze on my shoulders(to northerners, this would, most likely, feel like a warm, summer breeze). Below are memories from Summer, 2008, from June at doggie beach with Mimi through Fourth of July to my husband's birthday in September.

It will be coming upon 10 years since we purchased our home on Fort Myers Beach. That seems like a long time to me. People think of island communities as being filled with tourists and transients. But, in fact, there are many long time residents here among the approximate 6500 full time residents. Across the street, there is Susan, who has lived in her house for over 40 years. Her disabled son lives with her. Her brother, Jack, owned and ran shrimp boats. He was an unusual man(an attorney who turned to the sea for his living) and was known far and wide. When he died, Susan had to sell the shrimp boats. A couple of houses down, there is Bonnie. She brought up her children at her place. Her oldest son is now 40, married, living in Seattle. Soon, the tourists and snowbirds will begin their trek down to us and our population will swell and there will be traffic. They will enjoy the magic of our island for a week or two or a few months, and then come spring, they will all leave, and Bonnie and Susan and the rest of us will enjoy the quiet and relaxing joy of island living.

From Fort Myers Beach to Chicago, Realtors, for your dining pleasure:

Real Estate News

ARMOUR AVENUE was the name of this street and door signs on empty houses read "The Silver Dollar," "Swede Annie" and the Christian names of madams such as "Myrtle" and "Jenny."
Scrap iron, rags and bottles fill the front rooms hither and yon and signs in Yiddish say Abe Kaplan & Co. are running junk shops in whore houses of former times.
The segregated district, the Tenderloin, is here no more; the red-lights are gone; the ring of shovels handling scrap iron replaces the banging of pianos and the bawling songs of pimps. Chicago, 1915.

-by Carl Sandburg