Marie, who served as a war correspondent for The Sunday Times of London, was killed yesterday during a shelling of the Syrian city of Homs, possibly the most dangerous place on earth right now. She was 56. The besieged citizens of Homs had cheered her arrival and that of photojournalist, Remi Ochlik, hoping that their horrific stories would finally appear on the world stage. Sadly, Ochlik was also killed.

No stranger to danger and seemingly having little fear, Marie was recognizable for the eye patch she wore. She had been covering the atrocities in Sri Lanka when in 2001 a grenade attack took out her left eye. Even an injury such as this did not deter Marie from her mission to report on the “real” events, no matter how dangerous. Many of the comments I’ve read online about her death say when one puts oneself in harm’s way like this, one has to accept the consequences. No one forced her to go into a war zone, they say, as if somehow this makes her death and others like hers, more acceptable.

I wish I could feel that way, too, but instead I keep picturing this beautiful, brilliant young woman sitting at the computer in our small bureau tucked inside the Trenton Times building.

She often worked the 6:30 a.m. to 3:30 p.m. shift at UPI and always greeted me with a smile. No hour was too early for her, no story too dull or too difficult. I knew I could always count on Marie to handle everything assigned to her with professionalism and enthusiasm.

All journalists survive on caffeine and Marie was no exception. She was so dependent on coffee that the first thing she did every morning was fill a king size mug of coffee and take it into the shower with her.

She was laid back, acting calm under wire service deadlines and breaking news and bringing serenity to a frenetic newsroom. Even her personal life had a peaceful quality to it.  She’d tell me stories about her large family with whom she was so close. Working one Christmas Eve day I asked her if she had finished her Christmas shopping. “I haven’t started yet,” she replied. “Marie, you get off at 3:30, have to catch a train to New York and the stores close at 6 p.m., how will you get it done? It’s not possible!” In her usual modest, self-assured manner, she told me, “I will.”

The next day I saw her at work and asked how many gifts she had managed to buy before the stores closed. “All of them,” she told me. “There was never any doubt.”

The truth is I had no doubt either.

In a world that values knowledge, awareness and a free press, we have lost one of the very best. My deepest sympathies go out to her family.

Marie Colvin, Cub Reporter is a post from:

Forget to send flowers and she’ll think you’re not romantic. Send them and she’ll wonder why they aren’t a dozen long stem roses.

Buy a box of candy and she’ll find the receipt. You know, the one that also lists shaving cream and deodorant. Don’t buy candy and she’ll think you’re hinting that she needs to go on a diet.

Chose a card because you like the picture and she’ll be disappointed in the sentiment. Is it for the “Love of my Life” or  “My Special Someone” or so generic she’ll wonder if you meant to give it to your elderly neighbor.

Ignore her requests for you to do nothing as in NOT A THING on this holiday and well, lots of luck tomorrow.

Like I said, damned if you do and damned if you don’t. So how can I help? By suggesting that you do whatever it takes to show her she is the most important person in your life. Hopefully, you know her well enough to know what that means. Do that, and then some more.

Besides finding the appropriate gift; definitely think sexy lingerie, a cashmere sweater or jewelry (she can tell her friends and coworkers about these or better yet show them), this holiday also demands a meal, one for which you’re responsible. Is there a romantic dinner for two planned for tonight or for this weekend? Is there a wonderful home cooked meal (by you, of course) with candles, wine and a decadent dessert? Or are you coming in from work, dropping the grocery store bouquet of flowers on the kitchen counter and saying, “What’s for dinner?” Uh. Not tonight.

So if you’re reading this blog at your desk and thinking you have plenty of time to take care of Valentine’s Day, please step away from the computer. The Hallmark store already has a line, the flower shop is running out of roses and pretty soon Burger King will be the only place left that doesn’t require a reservation.

I wish you a very Happy Valentine’s Day, and good luck!

Valentine’s Day – So Not the Day to Be a Man is a post from:

“Move UP!” I want to scream. “He’s ordering a large coffee with cream and one sugar, not planning a hostile takeover!”

For years I have observed only men doing this. Women appear much more comfortable cozying up to the stranger standing in front or behind them. A couple of feet of space is more than enough. They don’t act like the male customers at CVS, for example, who allow so much wasted space between them and the person at the counter that I could push four shopping carts – ear to ear – through the space. And this reminds me. I really hate when this happens and I invariably get pushed back down an aisle, where I find myself staring at on-sale Christmas candy. Come on. You know I’m weak.

But lately, I have found that women have begun developing the same habit, backing off from the person in line in front of them, as though they forgot to bathe. Frequently, they are so preoccupied texting or talking on their cell phones that they are completely oblivious to the cavernous spaces they create.

Does anyone else see the irony in all of this? With social media, cell phones, and cameras on every inanimate and animate object, we already have zero privacy. So why do we suddenly feel the need to create a force field around us when we are actually WITH other human beings.

We hold onto our little personal acreage like squatters, forcing the person behind the counter to yell across the room, “Can I help the next in line?”

I hate this part, too.  I don’t want to yell from my otherworldly location, “Make that a double caramel latte with vanilla and non-fat.” Whose business is it to judge me on my breakfast drink? Hah, a double caramel latte with syrup and she bothers with skim milk! I can actually hear the snickers.

Well, I would, if I weren’t standing so far away.

Space Between the Lines is a post from:

It’s a paid gig!

If you are interested, take a look at www.acx.com and plug in my name, Ellie Slott Fisher, or the title of one of the books. They’ll walk you through the audition process.

Maybe we’ll get to work together!

Audition for Audiobook?!?!? is a post from:

It’s easy to put off everything until “after the holidays.” It’s a satisfying feeling, giving ourselves permission to procrastinate. We get to postpone what at any other time of the year, we’d insist upon getting done.

Need to make that dentist appointment? Wait until after the first of the year. Want to start that diet? No sense doing it while we’re still going to holiday parties and finishing off the Christmas cookies.

This week between Christmas and New Year’s is actually a gift. There’s no guilt associated with delaying the inevitable. You’ll never reach that insurance guy anyway because EVERYBODY is on vacation this week. So don’t even bother.

For me, this is unstructured time. I submitted my final grades nearly two weeks ago, and I don’t resume school until the third week in January. I purposely stressed out myself between Thanksgiving and Christmas, finishing next semester’s syllabus and lesson plans so I could spend my month vacation doing what I love most: writing. But even that has a way of evaporating during the Bermuda Triangle week.

Is there really a need to write a new blog? After all, it’s the week between Christmas and New Year’s and my readers are too busy playing, celebrating, vacationing to sit at a computer and read. At least that’s what I tell myself.

While we enjoy this week which soars in and out with the seamless speed of Brigadoon (I’m a total sap for that movie), we know that as soon as New Year’s Day is over, all hell will break loose.

So, enjoy the remaining days of 2011 and even if you match me as an obsessive Type A, know that this is the one week of the year that you can put off today what you can do tomorrow.

The Guilt-free Week is a post from:

“Dress modestly,” comes the first email to those friends of theirs who are not personally familiar with the Lubavitch community. “You’ll sit together, but you can’t dance together. The women will dance with the women, the men with the men.” Funny, how Jon’s bum knee starts to act up. “And dress warmly because regardless of the weather, custom requires that the ceremony be held outdoors.”

So with a little bit of dread and a good deal of curiosity, we drive the one and a half hours to Livingston, New Jersey with friends David and Jackie. I have added black tights to my dressy three quarter length organza skirt and a black tank to wear under my beaded cropped sweater. Despite it being only October 30, it is cold and damp and I have on a long wool coat, scarf and gloves. I don’t feel as much modest, as I do frumpy.

The wedding begins with a bountiful buffet of all sorts of foods and an opportunity to see and congratulate the bride and the mothers of the bride and groom. As a woman, I am allowed to hug Erica. Jon isn’t. He, in fact, heads upstairs with the men who are conducting their own rituals with the groom.

At one point before the wedding vows, the groom comes down to make sure he has the right bride, and returns again to cover her face with a veil as thick as the curtains in Tara. I keep focusing on how gorgeous Erica looks.

As promised, the ceremony is held outdoors in the cold, raw, gray late afternoon. The men in black suits and black hats and the women in warm coats and gloves create a contrast to the bride who looks illuminated in her long-sleeved, high-necked lace gown and thick, opaque veil.

I take in everything, fascinated by a culture that I am unfamiliar with but one that has invited me in as a guest. The bride and groom smile a lot but they do not touch. In fact, up until this point in their engagement, they have not been permitted to touch. That will come after the ceremony, and in private.

We all head into the party – women dancing on one side of a cloth wall that divides the dance floor, men on the other. I am not prepared for how much fun it is to dance to energetic music and with Erica’s friends. No one remains seated.

All evening long the music continues, as well as forms of entertainment for the bride and groom. There is the fire twirler and the man who balances three chairs on his nose. And the dance performed by Erica’s roommates, all of whom don brightly colored wigs for the number. We jump and gyrate until, well, at least until my feet hurt.

Despite the requirement that the men and women dance separately, at one point Ori dances with his daughter. I don’t know whether this follows custom, but I do know there isn’t a dry eye.

As the evening winds down and we say our goodbyes to everyone, I realize I’ve been smiling all night. It has been a beautiful wedding and, maybe a little bit unexpectedly, a total blast.

Jon even forgot about his bum knee.

To LIFE! is a post from:

Book Signing Today in Peddler’s Village!!! is a post from:

Gulp.

I learned a few weeks ago that I will soon become the subject of my book. My daughter, the older of my two children, has become engaged and plans to wed next summer.  Before you say to me, “Uh huh, let’s see how you feel now that the shoe is on your foot!” – let me just say the following:

First, I love my future son-in-law. He’s smart, hardworking, compassionate and, above all, adores my daughter. He’s made it easy for me to approve. I’m not sure he’s yet read Chapter Two of It’s Either Her or Me but he’s instinctively following the single most important piece of advice: Always, always, always put your wife first.

Second, I also love my future mechutonim (a unique Yiddish word that describes the relationship between the bride’s parents and the groom’s parents).  Coincidentally, before our kids ever met the groom’s mom and I had gotten to know each other through some mutual friends.  She generously attended the book launch for It’s Either her or Me and clearly understands how our kids are making a life for themselves. Plus, she loves my daughter.

Whew. Though what’s not to love…

Third, my future son-in-law has not one sister, but two. And from what I can tell they are fond of my daughter, as she is of them. Matter of fact, they seem pretty excited about their older brother marrying my daughter, who, having read the early, raw versions of It’s Either Her or Me understands her role in being a great sister-in-law to her husband’s siblings.

I know the road to wedding planning and thereafter is curvy at best and potholed at worst, but I’m hoping that after I have shamelessly just plugged my book, that I will, in fact, follow my own advice.

My Turn is a post from:

This is not just because I’m an author and bookstores are my stage, but I’m a reader, a lover of browsing, a toucher of paper covers. Bookstores are to me what candy stores are to sweettooths (though I’m one of those, too). And I have to admit to suffering a level of heartbreak with the closing of so many.

Of course, Borders, a place where I have done many readings and signings over the years, is no more. We can criticize them for not getting on board with the eReader like Barnes and Noble and Amazon did. We can say they had become more like gift shops and cafes rather than purveyors of literature. But really, they closed because we are no longer buying books in traditional ways.

Last week, I walked into Atlantic Books in Cape May, NJ, a shop where I have sated many beach reading desires over the years and where I have held my own book signings.  I was assaulted by a STORE CLOSING banner. Like a vulture that comes upon that unexpected carcass, I went in and gathered up a pile of reads at a going-out-of-business discount. I may have been happy at my acquisition but I’ve been grieving over the knowledge that it won’t be there the next time I visit that town. In fact, there will be NO bookstores at the shore since Atlantic is shutting all of them– unless there’s some tiny, independent that is still surviving that I don’t know about. And if you do, PLEASE tell me.

How did we let this happen? After all, books have been around for 500 years!

I am reminded of that scene in the 1960 movie “Time Machine” which is based on the H.G. Wells novel. The main character “George,” played by Rod Taylor, flies on his time machine into the future to a world of apparent paradise,  where everyone is healthy, youthful and serene. (The morlocks living underground are another story). George, desperately wanting to understand how their “future” developed, asks if they’ve written anything down, you know, like in books.  “Books? What are they?” Then one clear-eyed young man has a vague memory. “Books!” And he brings George to what must have once been a library.  The young man pulls back a dusty curtain and an ecstatic George reaches for one leather-bound book. It disintegrates in his hand.

The shame of all of this is that this scene is no longer farfetched. Books in our future will be as unfamiliar to our youth as phonographs and the Pony Express are to us today.

I’m trying, really trying, to understand that this is technology, and the price we pay for a better, safer and longer life is often at the expense of relinquishing something precious. But I can still mourn. I think you might even understand.

If not, then just read my lips…

Bookstores: Lost in Time is a post from:

Lucky me. I got to attend the wedding of Morgan and Lindsay in the unique position of being a guest of both families. I’ve known the couple since before they began dating at 15, which was 11 years ago.  My son, who was best man, his girlfriend, and all his old high school buddies were there. I hate to throw around clichés like magical and spectacular. But honestly, that’s what the wedding was.

It was very untraditional. A magnificent Vera Wang bridal gown in a hue between ivory and butter yellow, and belted around the waist with a long black sash. A multi-tiered artistically rich wedding cake that was cut and put out on plates without any cake cutting ceremony.  No throwing of the bridal bouquet. No dancing until after we had finished our meals. (You could actually enjoy the food and talk to your table mates without screaming.) No tchotchkes on the table, just exquisite displays of yellow flowers.

With all the traditional wedding details avoided, the evening turned into one huge, outdoor party with a truly awesome band and a bridal couple that looked to thoroughly enjoy each and every minute, as well as each other.

Even the weather was perfect, and the venue remarkable. The wedding was held at the majestic Crane Estate. Picture a mini Versailles – maybe not so mini – in Ipswich, MA. The view from the slate patio where we partied for hours was of rolling green hills spilling into the ocean. It was dreamlike.

We boarded three big tour buses to go from our hotel in Salem to the estate so no one needed to drive. The party continued throughout the night with some hardy souls, most notably the bride and groom still dressed in their wedding attire, watching the sun come up. Amazingly the bride looked as gorgeous then as she did when she stepped onto the lawn with her parents.

I’ve spent much too much time today avoiding my work so I could look at the hundreds of pictures on Facebook and relive the wedding. I’m sure I’m not the only one doing this.

Morgan and Lindsay: I know you’re somewhere without Internet and still basking in the events of the past weekend. Just so you know, the rest of us are, too.

Love you guys.

Wedded Bliss is a post from: