Rubbing It In

I woke up to a blizzard this morning. In Cleveland. On the Weather Channel.

(Can anybody hear me laughing?)

I'm so happy I live in sunny, mild North Carolina. Where the birds are singing and the sun is shining and the temp is in the 50s. And my daffodils are in full bloom. Spring has come to the South. Although yesterday reminded me of lake effect weather (it rained all day) North Carolina does not have day after day after day of the stuff. The kind of pea soup weather that can drive you out of your mind. Where you wonder how you ended up on a planet with no sun. Ohio weather.

Ah yes, my daughter (who lives in Columbus) tells me that the sun is over-rated. Well, I suppose when you live in a state that sees very little of the fat, powerful Mr. Sun, you'd say that.

For me, I love the sunshine. Every minute of it. Open the blinds and let the rays pour in ... while I laugh at the thought of my son de-icing planes in Cleveland.

Sorry kids. Your mom loves her mild winter wonderland. You can have your blizzards and zero degree weather. I think I'll go have my coffee on the deck now.

Tootles.

... and blessings on this warm Carolina morning. (hee hee hee hee)

Hallowed Halls And Stained-Glass Windows

Monday evening I spoke to the High Point First Presbyterian Church. This time, to both the women and the men. Loving, warm, these folks opened their arms to me a year ago when they asked me to lead their women's retreat. This year they blessed me again with their enthusiasm as they sat on the edge of their seats while I presented Coming Out of the Dark and into the Life of a Writer. Their standing ovation at the end moved me to tears.

And just as I suspected, they wanted to know when Televenge was going to be available. One woman even begged my husband for a copy of the manuscript. Told him she'd pay him for a copy. Of course, we can't do that. But I sure wish agents and editors could see what I see each time I get up to speak. It might be a done deal by now.

So ... we wait. Patiently. Still. It'll happen.

America is made up of churches, just like this one. Have you ever counted how many churches sit in your immediate neighborhood? Someone once told me there were four Baptist churches on corners across from each other down the street from where she lived. On Sunday mornings, do you wonder who attends these little hometown churches? Ever count the number of cars in the parking lot?

Recently, I heard that organized religion is on the down swing. That the youth are drawn to the more charismatic megachurches. This concerns me. Not that I'm a huge fan of organized religion, but I can tell you the honest hearts who sit in the pews of the steepled churches across this country are the fiber that holds the country, and many of its families, together. In my humble opinion. Now you don't have to attend church to be a good person. If you know me, you know I believe that wholeheartedly. But the folks who attend church regularly, many of them have belonged to that specific church all their lives. Or to that denomination. They've raised their children inside those hallowed halls. It's their belief system. It's their social club. It's their support group, and for many, it's their family.

Megachurches offer big thrills. And sure, there are wonderful people who attend these mega places of worship. But megachurches also need mega bucks to operate. And they prey upon your mega heart to give. And give some more. Most of them are televised. And that's a blog for a different day.

My heart is in the little sanctuary, tucked inside small-town America. There are great stories within those ornate doors and stained-glass windows. This fall, I shall reveal a few in Southern Fried Faith. In the meantime, I will continue to speak to the churches I love and their flocks who sit in the pews. Thank you, HP Presbyterian Church. Y'all touched my heart.

I'm no preacher. God knows that and laughs each time I say it, I'm sure. I love to speak to all types of organizations, clubs, and civic groups. But it's when I stand in front of a congregation, I'm thrown back to my roots, and I let loose. I don't have to worry about offending somebody with "religious connotations." I can be who I truly am. Somebody who cut their baby teeth on the back of a church pew.

Blessings to you and yours.

In Case You're Wondering

I'm speaking Monday evening at a local Presbyterian Church, a special event. One of the questions that will, no doubt, be asked is, "Is your new book out?" Seems like I'm asked that question every week.

Truth is, the process of getting the right agent and the right publisher is a long one. Unless your cousin's best friend is an agent or an editor at Random House, it's a process that tests every ounce of your patience. But you learn a lot about yourself, believe me.

Even though I had connections to a few agents, those agents are "not taking on new clients" at this time. And, yes, I thought I had an agent, but due to a severe illness in her family, and the fact that she cannot devote the time needed to sell my book because of her family issues, we had a friendly parting.

So, I'm hot on the trail of another one. And I'm encouraged by the response, so far. I'll be sure and keep you posted.

But, I've decided not to let another year go by without publishing a book. I've been working on another book of short stories. Southern Fried Faith will be published sometime this Fall, in time for the Christmas season. A sequel to Southern Fried Women, the stories will be filled with much the same thread of religion and themes of hope, survival, and what really goes on inside a Wednesday night prayer group. Lookout! It will answer the question why Baptists are Baptists in the sanctuary, but turn into Methodists at the beach. Biting edges that keeps you turning the page!

Southern Fried Faith will contain a Christmas story I've been working on since last year. A Thrill of Hope. I'm looking forward to launching Southern Fried Faith this year and all the PR push that goes with it.

So ... just in case you're wondering ... a new book is on it's way. And I do, without a doubt, believe the Televenge trilogy will be sold in 2008 and published sometime in 2009. By then, you can look for me on Larry King, denying his comments about who the televangelist in Televenge really is.

Blessings to you and yours.

Grease Is The Word

One of my all time favorites! HBO ran the entire movie two nights ago, and since I hadn't watched this flick in such a long time, I decided to enjoy the entire nostalgic two hours. What I had never realized before, is this movie has some fantastic old one-liners ... "bite the big weenie" "eat your heart out" "sloppy seconds" "crusin' for a brusin'" ... on and on ... funny things we said in high school. (Well, they were funnier back then.) Still, I laughed harder this time, just taking it all in and processing it as if I'd never heard it before. "Bite the big one, Rizzo!" It still cracks me up.

Watching the movie this time was different for me. Although the story of Grease takes place in the 60s, it reminded me of the early 70s. And that, my friend, was one of the greatest times of our lives. Well, for us baby-boomers anyway.

Okay, okay ... the clothes of the 70s really, really sucked. I'll give you that. But the TV shows changed overnight. We went from the sweet, Leave It To Beaver and Ozzie and Harriet to the controversial Good Times and All in the Family with Archie Bunker's loose lips and narrow mind. The hippies of the 60s led the way for the 70s and its painful changes. Especially for my mother's generation. Ouch.

For me, the best part of the 70s was the music. Clapton, Zepplin, even the Beatles evolved. Carol King and Fleetwood Mac ... just hearing any of these artists today throws me way back into a time when I drove my dad's red Mustang with the top down and felt like the Southern Belle that I was. Then. But the music plays on my Ipod today. Who knew that a tiny Ipod would someday replace my 45s?

Boy, if I only knew then, what I know now, huh? But the early 70s saw a ton of social change. The Vietnam war was ending, there were "four dead in O-Hi-O", and Nixon-we realized-needed a spanking. Women burned their bras, took over political offices, and demanded equal pay for equal work. (Not sure that's ever going to change.) But still, it's seems to me that in the early 70s we suddenly woke up from a very long nap. The generation that was in elementary school in the 60s and watched the Civil Rights movement on TV, suddenly came of age and began to change (slowly) the way future generations lived and worked together. God knows, there are a ton of changes yet to make, but from where we started ... my point is ... the 70s was the decade of twisting folks' arms. Change was coming, whether we like it or not. I love the fact that I was a part of that movement.

Watching Grease was fun. It's meant to be light-hearted and nostalgic. But it also serves as a reminder that although we've grown and changed in 30-some years, there still a lot more we need to do. Beginning with ourselves.

Then again, you can just watch a younger, thinner John and Olivia dance, make out, and turn Rydell High upside down and not think twice about it after you've switched the channel.

Grease is the word, is the word, is the word, is the word ...

Blessings to you and yours.

In Search Of The Perfect Literary Agent

It's worse than looking for the Holy Grail. Every agent does it different. Some want ONLY snail-mail queries. Some want ONLY e-mail queries, without attachments. If you send an attachment, be prepared. They'll delete you on the spot. And some ... only want your query submitted through their web site application. Some, don't care. Just send the damn thing.

Do you know how difficult it is to get a query, synopsis, and the first three chapters embedded into the body of an email to look nice? You work your butt off to get your query looking pristine and perfect, then your email program displays it all out of whack. So, you spend even more time fixing it on the email. You wonder what it really looks like when it arrives in the agent's Inbox. Do they realize your hard copy is perfectly formatted and isn't all wompy-jawed?

I like snail-mail, personally. You send your perfectly formatted work through the mail, along with a Self-Addressed Stamped Envelope (SASE). Then they send back their accept/reject letter. (Or most of them do.) With email - you're lucky to hear anything. It's way too easy to hit delete and never have to bother with the writer at the other end, whose praying for some kind of response.

Some agents want only the first three pages of your work. Others demand the first 50 pages. Some want sample chapters. For the majority, it's query only! On pain of death you, if send anything else, you're "outta there!" Strike out!

Some agents want stroked. They want to know why you chose them, what books they've sold that you've read, and how you heard about their agency. Others, don't care how you heard about them, they want a well-written query letter, a SASE, and are clear that they are building their client list. But "don't call us, we'll call you," is pretty standard across the board.

A few agents I've researched look really stuffy. Like, "Hey look at me, I'm really something here in my New York City corner office. You'd be damn lucky to get me, baby, so don't bother writing unless you're the next Dan Brown." Some even state that unless you've been published with a major publisher, don't bother to send a query letter.

Then there are others, who go out of their way to visit you at writing conferences in remote parts of the country, like West By God Virginia and even in Vancouver. They dedicate hours to teaching writers what it takes to publish with a major house. Talking long into the night, the agents who attend writing conferences experience meaningful conversations with some writers, while offering tons of encouragement. The writers, in return, always take home with them a sense that they've made an "agent connection." That maybe they have a chance to make it.

Always looking for that diamond in the rough so they can polish it to a brilliant shine, caring agents (yes, they're out there) work with new writers and first-time authors. That's a man or woman of great character. You may be lucky to be their big fish in their small pond someday. And as long as you're not a pain in the ass, caring agents will hold your hand through the entire process so both of you win big in the end.

And then ... some don't. They don't have to. They've got lots of little fishies in their big lake.

A writer wants a great agent, just like an agent wants a fantastic, best-selling writer. It's definitely a two-way street. If you're a writer, hopefully, you'll find an agent that "fits." But let it said, it's by far, the worst part about writing a book. Finding a caring, qualified agent. You'd like to think that if you do your job, act professional, and meet every deadline, (on top of stellar writing) that you're a diamond.

But in the end, writers are looking for those diamond agents, as well. Sometimes we just have to dig through a mountain of coal to find them.

Blessings to you and yours.

My Unexpected Blessing

We all go through periods when we feel like giving up. It's happens when you've had a bad day, week, or month ... as the case may be. But this morning, I got a real shot in the arm. A special email, unexpected. From a lovely person I've met somewhere in my travels. God just seems to know when I need to be reminded that this journey I'm on is a special one. It's not just for me, but for others, as well. Sometimes when you least expect it, you get an email like the one I'm sharing with you below:

Hi, Pam,

I certainly had intended to write to you before this - life is full and overflowing with activities. I finished Southern Fried Women and want to share some of my reactions.

First, it was a wonderful ride! I remember that you told me some people were not in favor of your use of photos at the beginning of each story - they were obviously wrong. Sometimes I found myself studying the photos, even after I had begun reading the story - often going back and looking again - imagining how this story might truly have wrapped itself around the people and places in the photographs.

Secondly, your use of simile and metaphor is filled with imagery and life; painting with words what most people can only hold in their imaginations. "Cry" is so full of painful reality and "Coal Dust on my Feet" broke my heart. "Beach Babies" is probably my favorite - Bertie is a tragic character, but one that has so much to teach us.

Thank you for sharing your gift with the public. Sometimes as I read your words, I heard my own voice. We share many of the same beliefs, attitudes, joys, and heartaches in our observations of the world. Reading your book was like sitting down and spending an afternoon with you in conversation. Thank you.

Shalom, Debra

The pleasure was all mine, Debra. Thank you for your kind words.

Blessings to you and yours.

Who Decides Cool?

Is there a hard and fast rule book somewhere that determines what's in style this year? What's cool, trendy, in vogue? Who decides what's hot and what's not?

Why, all of a sudden, are popcorn celings yucky? Why are flat ceilings out and vaulted or "tray" celings in? Who said decks are out and patios are in? Who makes this stuff up?

About the only TV I watch is either the Food Channel, the History Channel, or HGTV. I love home design, but I'm amazed at the designers and the home appraisers who say unless you have granite countertops and stainless steel appliances, your kitchen sucks. Huh?

They all need to come live in the rural deep South a while. Some folks down here are lucky to get a new couch for their front porch every few years.

That being said, I'm bothered by who makes design rules. It's my opinion that you can have "nice" without paying a lot for it. Soap and water doesn't cost much, as my mom used to say. In other words, it doesn't take much to keep things clean. And if you know me, I'm a huge fan of yard sales and thrift stores. Paying full price for anything other than food is just about impossible for me to do. Maybe it was the way I was raised. How much things cost does not impress me. It's what you can do with a bargain that gets me excited.

I watched the top 10 Kitchens last night on HGTV. Beautiful, big, and all owned by the mega rich. Nobody I know has a 1,500 square foot kitchen. They all said things like, " ... oh, it's so functional and comfortable, and we spend all our time in here." Hmmm. I wonder. I suppose I'd have a nicer kitchen if I could afford it. But I want my kitchen to be a part of me. A reflection of my cooking, my style, and talent to stretch a buck.

I don't care a whip whether I walk on tile, wood, or vinyl as long as it's clean and pretty. My point is, why are we made to feel inferior if we can't afford stainless steel or marble tile? Who decides cool?

Function over fashion, and price over everything, I say. It's fun to see what the rich are wearing, the colors they're painting their bathrooms these days, and the latest household gadget on the market. God knows, we won't be cool if we don't buy it. But if you like yourself, I've learned, you'll not care what's cool.

I don't think there's any show on HGTV like that.

Blessings to you and yours.

A Sensible Valentines Day

My husband and I agreed to save the ten bucks and not get each other Valentines Day cards this year. Or candy. Lord knows, neither of us need it. Or any trivial gift that will end up in a drawer somewhere until our next garage sale.

Although Valentines Day may keep the economy running, it bites into many budgets. Especially since it falls not even two months after Christmas. Romance, love, and all the mushy things Valentines Day stands for should be incorporated into couples lives all year round. So no, I don't feel guilty about not getting my sweetheart a memento of my affection.

Michael is my Valentine every day of the year. Believe me, he knows it. I don't need Hallmark or American Greetings to help me tell him that, either.

If we have anything to celebrate this Valentines day, it's the pieces of life we are most thankful for. Not the material, but the sensible. Like the fact that I'm ever closer to seeing my manuscript in print! Yes! It's true ... my life is "falling into place." (Thanks for that line, Jackie.)
And we celebrate Michael's new job today, and that our cars are now working, and our children have productive lives, and I've been asked to be keynote speaker for the Kentucky, Ohio, West Virginia Romance Writers Conference in April!

Whew. Sounds like I'm combining Thanksgiving with Cupid. But maybe more of us should. And then again ... next year on Valentines Day ... I just might ask for that diamond necklace I've been wanting forever.

Blessings to you and yours.

When It Rains ...

So, my husband started a new job yesterday. And yesterday at noon he calls to say when he got in our car to go to lunch, the car's engine light was blinking. Needless to say, he left early his first day on the job, to limp back home and to our mechanic around the corner.

Okay, no problem. We have another car. A second, older car in the garage. One that I drive on occasion. So this morning, I take him to work and we're riding up I 85 when the second car overheats. Once again, we limp back home, he drops me off at the house, and off he goes to the mechanic. This time to sit and wait, because we have no more cars to break.

Never give up. Never back down. Never lose faith.

Sometimes I wonder.

Blessings to you and yours.

Ceaseless Encouragement

Rolling with the punches. Give me a break. If it weren't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all.

All common cliches for moments when we feel as though we've been punched in the gut. One of my favorite people is Jackie Stanley. http://www.encouragementalways.com/. My Chief Encouragement Officer. You need to read her blog. Every day. An amazing woman, she inspires, motivates, and lifts you up with just a few words. She's gifted. Someday, if they haven't already, her children will call her blessed among women. And the reason I say that is not to patronize this woman, but to give honor where honor is due. Here's why:

I was hit this week with a huge disappointment. Someone I had great high hopes in ... fell short of the mark. Someone who asked me to trust, was not trustworthy. Someone who appeared to be really something special ... wasn't. I should've trusted my gut in the end. You know those feelings you get in the pit of your stomach when you try to get someone on the phone and they never all back? Or they do call back, only days later and act like it's no big deal? Or they show up late for a meeting? Really late. Or they send you emails that they're going to call you at a specified day and time, then don't? Or when they say they'll do something for you, and then you find out they can't? They can't because they really can't. They have plenty of wonderful reasons and excuses and their defense is rock solid. But they're lacking in integrity.

I should've known.

But I wanted to believe. I really wanted to believe. I was convinced I'd made the right decision. After all these years, you'd think I recognize the signs. Pay attention to my gut. I can moan and groan and allow all those negative feelings to wash over me, make me cry, and make everybody around me miserable ... or I can say, I never get a break, and withdraw from the world. And though, in some small way I feel justified in those feelings after all these years of struggling, I have to somehow find my faith. Once again.

Part of that is reading Miss Jackie's blog every day. Yesterday, it put me back on top. Maybe just in my mind, but I'm back doing what needs to be done ... I've got work to do. This is just a set-back. Another moment of paying my dues. Life goes on.

This morning, I'm back to work. And it feels good.

Thanks to my husband's ceaseless encouragement, the kind words and encouragement of my colleagues, and Jackie's ongoing words that lift me up.

To quote my friend from her blog: "I must confess that whenever my life seems like a series of unfortunate events, it is usually because I have lost sight of the profoundly simple fact that 'there is always something you can do to improve the situation.' And whenever I begin doing what needs to be done, my life takes a miraculous turn for the better."

Right back at 'cha, Jack.

Blessings to you and yours.

Queen's Council

This past Saturday I was the Keynote Speaker for the Red Hat Queen's Council Luncheon at the Yadkin Valley Senior Center in Jonesville, NC! These ladies are so much fun! Wild and wooly! Five counties of Red Hatters! Enjoy the pictures.

Hopeless Romantic

My husband took me to a restored farmhouse for our anniversary. In the middle of nowhere. Nestled in the mountains, not a sound, not a car, nothing but the beauty of the countryside and quiet. Heaven. For four whole days. Pure heaven. No TV, except we did watch a few movies in the evening with popcorn, and all kinds of junk food for fun. I cooked. We read, talked, hiked, I worked on my book ... some. Talked some more. Heaven.

But then, we're both hopeless romantics. Cards, candy, flowers ... Hallmark Valentine's Day stuff, anybody can do that. I want to live a romantic lifestyle. And it doesn't have to be expensive. In fact, it's not.

A clean house, beautiful linens, my favorite books, simple things that bring me joy. To me, romance is an important part of my life. A well designed home inspires me. All my favorite things that I've collected over the years, they soothe me. Ah, some day.

Vintage pictures, jewlery, linens, furniture, worn and wonderful. All vestiges of a more genteel time. A day when a woman would apply lipstick with style and grace or when a cocktail hour required a gown or black tie.

I love antiques. They connect you to people and places with a tawdry past. It's why I'm a collector, a lover of history. I imagine those who wiped the same serving dish, wore my antique necklace, gazed at the same painting. Who were they, where did this picture hang? Did they wear my necklace to a party? Did they use this dish just on Sunday?

My parents were the ultimate role models in my romance with antiques. They know each and every piece of furniture in their home as if it were an old friend. They can tell you where they purchased it, how much they paid for it, how they restored it, and in that order.

Living a romantic lifestyle for me is creating something special out of an old picture frame, finding that rare piece of pottery at a garage sale for fifty cents, seeing a masterpiece in one of my husband's photographs.

I like to celebrate. Get-togethers with family, parties with friends, an evening with wine and a few couples. Laughing is romantic. Feeding those you love is intimate to me. I'm a detail kind of girl, something I've been since childhood. I don't have to have it all, in fact, I don't. But I appreciate the little things, and I pay attention to what makes the people I love happy.

To be a romantic, one takes pride in their surroudings, they notice the unusual, a functional find, the beauty of a glass door knob, the line of a table, the feel of a quilt, the way light reflects through a piece of pink depression glass. I prefer the unique. I typically steer clear of department stores. I like the out-of-the-way stores in the little towns nobody cares about. They feel comfortable to me. You can sometimes get the history of a piece of furniture, or a basket, or even a doll, by striking up a conversation with the store owner.

I love fresh pink roses and keep them long after they're dried out. I collect and see things that comfort me, no matter the color, dent or scratch. I don't worry about where I'll put it. The romantic in me knows I will find the perfect spot in my someday house.

This year, for Valentine's Day, take your sweetie someplace unique. Like a winery. Or a restaurant you've never been to. Buy her a vintage ring from an antique store. Frame a picture of his father or grandfather and set it on his desk with a homemade card attached. Do something different. Set the table with an antique tablecloth or a lacy curtan panel, a candle, and have pizza and beer. Just do something different. Out of the ordinary.

Hallmark, Russell Stover's, and FTD Florists make enough money. Be romantic. Think of something different to make your Valentine Day sparkle.

Blessings to you and yours.

I'm Giving Away My Age

A dear acquaintance sent this to me awhile ago. I happened to come across it again today and decided to share it on my blog for anyone who hasn't read it. Besides, I'm having trouble coming up with today's post. My mind is on overload. I'll do better tomorrow. In the meantime, this is a sweet read. Enjoy!

Do You Remember when?

All the girls had ugly gym uniforms? It took five minutes for the TV warm up?

Nearly everyone's Mom was at home when the kids got home from school? Nobody owned a purebred dog?

When a quarter was a decent allowance?

You'd reach into a muddy gutter for a penny?

Your Mom wore nylons that came in two pieces?

All your male teachers wore neckties and female teachers had their hair done every day and wore high heels?

You got your windshield cleaned, oil checked, and gas pumped, without asking, all for free, every time? And you didn't pay for air? And, you got trading stamps to boot?

Laundry detergent had free glasses, dishes or towels hidden inside the box?

It was considered a great privilege to be taken out to dinner at a real restaurant with your parents?

They threatened to keep kids back a grade if they failed. . and they did?

When a 57 Chevy was everyone's dream car...to cruise, peel out, lay rubber or watch submarine races, and people went steady?

No one ever asked where the car keys were because they were always in the car, in the ignition, and the doors were never locked?

Lying on your back in the grass with your friends and saying things like, "That cloud looks like a .." and playing baseball with no adults to help kids with the rules of the game?

Stuff from the store came without safety caps and hermetic seals because no one had yet tried to poison a perfect stranger?

And with all our progress, don't you just wish, just once, you could slip back in time and savor the slower pace, and share it with the children of today?

When being sent to the Principal's office was nothing compared to the fate that awaited the student at home? Basically we were in fear for our lives, but it wasn't because of drive-by shootings, drugs, gangs, etc. Our parents and grandparents were a much bigger threat! But we survived because their love was greater than the threat.

Nancy Drew, the Hardy Boys, Laurel and Hardy, Howdy Dowdy and the Peanut Gallery, the Lone Ranger, The Shadow Knows, Nellie Bell, Roy and Dale, Trigger and Buttermilk.

Summers filled with bike rides, baseball games, Hula Hoops, bowling and visits to the pool, and eating Kool-Aid powder with sugar. Didn't that feel good, just to go back and say, "Yeah, I remember that"?

Double dog dare

And remember when the perfect age was somewhere between old enough to know better and too young to care?

Candy cigarettes, Wax Coke-shaped bottles with colored sugar water inside

Soda pop machines that dispensed glass bottles

Coffee shops with tableside jukeboxes

Blackjack, Clove, and Teaberry chewing gum

Home milk delivery in glass bottles with cardboard stoppers

Newsreels before the movie

P.F. Fliers

Telephone numbers with a word prefix...(Raymond 4-601).

Party lines, Peashooters, Howdy Dowdy, 45 RPM records, Green Stamps

Hi-Fi's, Metal ice cubes trays with levers

Mimeograph paper, Beanie and Cecil, Roller-skate keys

Cork pop guns, Drive ins, Studebakers, Washtub wringers, The Fuller Brush Man

Reel-To-Reel tape recorders, Tinkertoys, Erector Sets, The Fort Apache Play Set, Lincoln Logs

15 cent McDonald hamburgers, 5 cent packs of baseball cards - with that awful pink slab of bubble gum

Penny candy, 35 cent a gallon gasoline, Jiffy Pop popcorn

Decisions were made by going "eeny-meeny-miney-moe"?

Mistakes were corrected by simply exclaiming, "Do Over!"?

"Race issue" meant arguing about who ran the fastest?

Catching the fireflies could happily occupy an entire evening?

It wasn't odd to have two or three "Best Friends"? The worst thing you could catch from the opposite sex was "cooties"?

Having a weapon in school meant being caught with a slingshot? A foot of snow was a dream come true? Saturday morning cartoons weren't 30-minute commercials for action figures?

"Oly-oly-oxen-free" made perfect sense?

Spinning around, getting dizzy, and falling down was cause for giggles? The worst embarrassment was being picked last for a team? War was a card game? Baseball cards in the spokes transformed any bike into a motorcycle?

Taking drugs meant orange-flavored chewable aspirin? Water balloons were the ultimate weapon?

I think I just gave my age away ...

Blessings to you and yours.

Interesting Idiots

I'm putting the final touches on my manuscript since splitting it in two. (It's not a book until it's published.) It will be on its way to my agent this weekend and then Mike and I are heading to a cabin for some R&R. Rest and relaxation. A belated anniversary spot.

I feel as though my body's been welded to this chair. Every morning, however, there are a few web sites and blogs I tune in to. Dena Harris has the best blog. Funny, well written, and full of surprises. Especially today's blog ... http://blogsbydenaharris.squarespace.com/ ... she's honest about herself, which makes her not only funny... but interesting.

Interesting people. They're what make the world go around. Interesting comes in all sorts of shapes and sizes. People, like Dena, are interesting because of their wit, their humor, their love for animals, their stamina to weather the storms. She's an animal lover, and get's physically ill when she sees a stray dog or cat. I thought about my friend this morning.

Some folks, though interesting ... aren't worth the time to write about them. Like our neighbors across the street. Today I realized there's a new kind of interesting breed of people. Interesting idiots. What makes these people tick, I wonder?

This morning, there's a little dead puppy at the end of my driveway. The neighbors across the street had this precious dog, a Rottweiler mix, that played in their front yard. It lived on their porch. No leash, no supervision. More than once we chased the dog back into their yard as we went to our mailbox. A friendly little fella, but we knew in the back of our minds, it was doomed.

And this morning ... it happened. Michael ran out to the end of our driveway. The dog was still breathing. Immediately, I called the police, while Michael watched the owners back out of their driveway in a beat-up pickup, take a look at their puppy laying in our driveway and then took off. But a few minutes later, guilt must've got the best of them. They backed up and got out of their pickup. Michael let them have it. Then the police came. But in the meantime, the poor puppy died. The animal protection officer also let the yahoos know a thing or two about taking care of pets.

The house across the street is a rental that changes occupants about every six months. And about every six months, a new dog moves in, as well. A dog that is usually dead before the renters move out.

I don't understand people. Interesting people? Interesting idiots. My heart goes out to animals like this. I wish I could steal these dogs and give them to a good home. We just knew this puppy's days were numbered as he would wander toward the street every day.

I think from now on, any more loose dogs I see, I'm taking action. Of some kind.

Blessings to you and your animals this day.

I'm Celebrating!

I come from people of faith. A long line of believers. No agnostics in my lineage, that’s a fact. It’s not something we can help. It’s part of our DNA.

Well, folks, it’s been a long, hard, uphill road. At times I’ve felt like a loser, a complete idiot for trying this hard for so little reward. At other times, I’ve felt on top of the world. But my faith refused to allow me to give up. My belief that the good Lord wanted this book written, and written by me, was often all-consuming. Anyway, my faith gave me the strength and courage to write for unbelievably long hours, even days at a time. With very few interruptions. Suffering (and I mean suffering) through grueling edits. Kind and cruel. Deciding what to use and what to ignore. Slaving over words, paragraphs, scenes. There are more drafts of this book than I can remember at this point. It was, and is ... a labor of love. It had to be in order to finish it. As a result, my butt has spread a little more from sitting in the same chair for years, and … my back and the nerves in my leg give me fits if I don’t get up and move some during the day.

I almost gave up. I really almost said, "to hell with this." Fortunately, I have a husband who rescued me before it ever got to that point. But every writer goes through those dark hours. Every writer is tested and tried by fire. Writers, artists of all kinds, struggle harder than most, I think. They see virtually no money for their efforts. For many years some of us. The drive is divinely inspired. It has to be. You either write, or you die. It’s that strong in those that persevere.

Some are luckier than others. They have agents/editors/publishers/Hollywood banging their doors down long before their book is finished. Sometimes it’s for books you wonder … why? How did this get published? Whoa.

And then, there are those, who have written ripping great stories. (I’ve read some of those manuscripts.) Writers with no hope to publish other than submitting over and over. They have no connections, can’t afford to go to conferences. They possess few funds to do anything but buy reams of paper on sale at Wal-Mart, printer cartridges, and stamps. Do you ever wonder how many classics have gone unseen, unread, unpublished?

But then, one day … the clouds part, the sun comes out, and somebody decides to take a chance on an unknown. It happens. Rarely. But it happens.

For me, I must’ve made God smile a little as I completed my novel, because low and behold, today as I sit here, I can say, thank you, Jesus. I HAVE AN AGENT! Talk about serendipity!

After submitting query after query, I have to laugh. My agent turned out to be a woman I found last summer by bidding at a silent auction at the WV Writer’s Conference. The highest bidder received a free critique of their query letter and the first 50 pages of their novel. At the time, I thought, okay … I’m game. Why not? She’s not in New York City, but who cares? It’s a free critique of my query letter, at least. That interested me. So for $35.00, (best money I ever spent) I won the opportunity to submit my work to Christine Whitthohn. And I'll be damned, she loved it. I have since met her, talked at length, and am convinced; this little bulldog of a literary agent is going to sell TELEVENGE, the trilogy.

Trilogy? Oh yes, three books. With Christine’s encouragement, and hours and hours of pouring over the plot, I have been able to split the book into two. And the third book is well on its way. For so long I couldn’t see my way clear to take such a huge manuscript and make it two books. But one day last week, the sky just opened up. It became as clear as the diamond on my left hand. I felt like a surgeon. After careful surgery, cutting, tweaking, adding, taking out, moving a few scenes around, and two more read-throughs, it not only works … it’s good. It’s really, really good.

And so, as of this week, I have signed with an agent. A good one. One I believe in. One that knows the industry, has sold books to major publishers and negotiated contracts, has pounded some New York City pavement, and ... she believes in me.

The next few months are going to be interesting.

In the meantime, I still have lots of work to do. My Publicity Agenda is staring me in the face, waiting to get started again. My web site will be changing its look in the very near future. Again, there’s a ton of work to do. But it’s exciting, to say the least.

I’ve also been asked to be the judge for the West Virginia Writer’s Book-length Contest. (7,000-word limit.) I'll see submissions by April, with the contest to end in May. I’ll be awarding first, second, third, and honorable mentions at this June event. And Dena http://www.denaharris.com/, my dear writing colleague, and I will be speaking about writing again. In May we’ll once again rock and roll with our presentation, but this time to Seniors who want to write their life stories. I love that about writers. No age limits.

So, say a prayer, won’t you? Believe with me. Exercise a little faith. Even a mustard-seed amount of faith can move the publishing mountains of the world, wouldn’t you say? I know my family is believing. Yes, for a miracle.

But in the meantime, I’m celebrating. I HAVE AN AGENT!

Blessings to you and yours.

Anniversary Day!

Today is our Fifth Wedding Anniversary!

January 18, 2003, what a day to remember. But for me, the words to the song below are as precious now as they were then. They still move me. We wrote our own vows, the wedding was simple. Our children stood beside us on that cold day in the middle of winter. A special day, the day we became a family.

In front of guests in a small, country church ... we cemented the rest of our lives together. I love him more today than ever. He is everything good, strong, and wise. The love of my life.

We walked down the aisle to this song by Don Henley. I don't know who wrote the lyrics, but they say it all. It was Michael's gift to me. I'll never forget it. Happy anniversary, darling.

For My Wedding

For my wedding, I will dress in black

And never again will I look back

Ah, my dark angels we must part

For I've made a sanctuary of my heart

To want what I have

To take what I'm given with grace

For this I pray

On my wedding day

For my wedding, I don't want violins

Or sentimental songs about thick and thin

I want a moment of silence and moment of prayer

For the love we'll need to make it in the world out there

To want what I have
To take what I'm given with grace
For this I pray
On my wedding day

On my wedding day

I dream, and my dreams are all glory and light

That's what I've wanted for my life

And if it hasn't always been that way

Well, I can dream and I can pray

On my wedding day

So what makes us any different from all the others

Who have tried and failed before us

Maybe nothing, maybe nothing at all

But I pray were the lucky ones; I pray we never fall

To want what I have
To take what I'm given with grace
For these things I pray
On my wedding day

On my wedding day

Catch-up Blog

Ahh, I wish I could take the time to put lots of pretty pictures on my blog. But as it stands, I'm lucky to find fifteen minutes in the morning to type any kind of blog these days.

Is it really the middle of the month? It freaks me out that time goes this fast. Yesterday it was New Years Day. It seems, anyway.

I volunteer a small piece of my time with a new group, the Author Marketing and Promotion Group in Greensboro. Yesterday, we had our first meeting of the new year. This group is for published authors searching for new ways to market, promote, and distribute their work. It consists of goal setting, challenges, sharing opportunities, and all sorts of cool and innovative means to get the word out about our books. Right now, this group is in its infancy. And really, this meeting was just a kick-off to get the ball rolling. A meeting to get the "bugs out" before adding new members. I'm excited about this group and I expect great things from it as the year progresses.

Branding, a new web site, new connections all over the Internet, and more speaking engagements ... it's all part of writing and promoting my work.

There's exciting news about my book, that I can't go into detail about today. I'll share soon! Right now, I'm working like a mad woman ... we'll just leave it at that for now. Actually, there are a couple great and exciting pieces of news on the horizon. So stay tuned.

That's my catch-up blog!

A quote by Franz Kafka ... "If the book we’re reading doesn’t wake us up with a blow on the head, what are we reading it for? ... we need the books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us."

Something to think about.

Blessings to you and yours.

One Quote Is Enough

Good grief. I do tend to be a bit windy at times. Here's a short blog for today. An anonymous quote I just heard.

“Be who you are and say what you feel because those that matter don’t mind. And those that mind, don’t matter.”

Don't you just love it when one sentence wraps it up?

Today, this one little quote said it all.

Blessings to you and yours.

What Is A Writer?

Not just anybody can write. Yet most literate people in America have written something at some point in their lives. Are they writers? I believe that certain elements must come together to call yourself a writer. Like lining up the moon, the planets, and the stars. Elements more precious than just putting words on paper. Or just because you call yourself one. Giving yourself a certificate to write … does not really make you a writer. Sorry. Otherwise, anybody who owns a pencil could call himself a writer. That, my friend, dilutes the beauty of being a writer for the rest of us.

I could call myself a singer. I have sung a few solos in public. But it doesn’t make me a singer. I could say, “Screw what everybody thinks. I’m a singer.” But I’d fall short. Though I love to sing, I’m not a singer.

My dad loves to write. He’s penned many beautiful letters. Even a few stories. But he doesn’t profess to be a writer. What he is, is a storyteller. He knows little about the craft of writing. Doesn't know. Doesn't care to know. His purpose in writing is for his own benefit and for his children's pleasure. He loves to entertain us with his humor and recollections of his childhood, and occasionally he’ll write them down and send them to us. He dabbles in poetry. He writes out his Bible lessons and his thoughts on various aspects of theology. Often, Daddy types out his childhood memories on a manual Royal typewriter. And once in a while, he records himself on tape.

He’s a brilliant man. A master craftsman in woodworking … and in storytelling. He could be a writer, if he wanted to. But he doesn’t. His other passions in life far outweigh his desire to write and publish.

So what is a writer? Writers possess raw talent, unique voice, commitment, passion, and a dedication and determination to see their work in print. The desire to have their words read by the masses is an all-consuming obsession, a force, and a fire that isn’t easily quenched.

Writers have a message. Many have had dreams to write for a very long time. I would be the first to encourage any emerging writer to press on toward the mark … the mark of an author. But remember that the reward of seeing your work in print … has to be enough. You’re not going to get rich. (Although some do, the odds are stacked against you.) Not everybody is going to flock to Borders and Joseph Beth to buy your book. Not even if you think your story is Pulitzer material.

Okay, so that's the reality of it. Ah, but wait. Is it wrong to dream about selling a million copies of your book? To harbor such secrets, such lofty goals of success in your heart? Is it possible that silly dreams like these might propel a writer to achieve local, regional, even national success? International? (Some would say, God forbid. How dare you, you conceited writer, you.)

IF writing is your passion, (there’s that word again) if you dream it, eat it, sleep it, if it bubbles out of each breath you take, then by all means, be it. Get yourself published … one way or another. New York is not the only way to get published these days. (Yet a New York agent and publisher is a big dream for many writers. If it's your dream, then hold on to it.) At any rate, educate yourself in the publishing industry. In my opinion, if you don’t have the desire to see your work in print, then writing is just a hobby. A pastime. And there’s nothing wrong with that. In a sense, the world needs those kinds of writers. And if that’s all you aspire to, do it with gusto. But yes, write to publish!

Why not?

If you study the art of writing AND if you’ve got a storytelling gene, the world needs to read your work.

Now, that being said, not everyone can write a book, and not everybody should. There’s more to writing a book than the writing of it. If you don’t have the desire to market your book, then just write as a hobby and don't go to the expense of self-publishing. And don't expect New York publishers to market for you. It's not that you're in the wrong business, it's just that you need to know what to expect from it. You are not always going to get out of it, what you've put into it. Unfortunately.

So, tell me now, how much do you love writing? More than life itself? That's good. It's going to take all that warm, fuzzy love to carry you through the dark hours when you feel like a loser. The best way to avoid those pitfalls, is to quit listening to family members, friends, and other writers and experts who are so quick to kill your dreams, squash your efforts, and belittle what you've already accomplished with their "reality checks."

What lengths are you willing to go to get your book into the hands of your readers? The bottom line is, unless you’ve experienced that kind of sidewalk-pounding-sell-your-book-out-of-the-trunk-of-your-car marketing, you have no clue. You don’t know how hard it is. Marketing your book, is the hardest thing you’ll ever do. But the rewards are tremendous. Sure, it's tough. But you can learn how to market your work. There's many a good teacher out there. Lots of valid support. Authors are coming together these days and they're finding ways to get the word out. Never let marketing scare you or stop you.

Sure fine, once again I'll say that unless you’re one of the rare few that landed a great agent with connections to the New York publishing houses, you’re not going to be rich overnight. Writers are not rich. Well, not many of them. But it still shouldn't stop you from going after that brass ring! Why not shoot for the stars? Okay, try to keep a level head about it, but why not go for it? What's stopping you? If that's what you want, don't let some mealy-mouthed wanna-be influence you with, "writing is enough. Just putting words on paper is my reward. If I'm never published, my writing makes be happy ..." Waa-waa-waa. I'm really sick of some writers criticizing other writers for wanting breakout status. Just as there's nothing wrong with being humble, meek, and writing a legacy to your grandchildren, there's also nothing wrong with wanting to see your name on the NY TIMES BESTSELLING LISTS!

There's nothing haughty about that. If you're going to dream. DREAM BIG. Dreams, often, come true. Whose to say yours won't?

Alright. We've stated that it's okay to dream. But let's fall back to earth for a moment, shall we? "Reality check." Oh my gosh, God forbid, but do you write because you believe the world will flock to Borders and Joseph Beth to buy your book? Do you call yourself a writer because your friends and family said your story is the greatest story they've ever read? Hmmm. Let's think about that. Right now, it may be a long shot. Some would even think it arrogant to state such a thing. But what's wrong in aspiring to it? I can't believe when Dan Brown began to write, that he never, not one time, dreamed about his books becoming successful. That he thought to himself, I'm just going to sit my butt in the chair, put my hands on the keyboard, and be thankful I'm writing. Give me a break. The man knew he had talent. He knew he was on to something. He knew that if he dreamed big enough, pushed himself hard enough, he might just see his work read by millions.

There are plenty of experts out there that have written blogs, books, chapters, and article after article to discourage you. Too many. The odds are against you. Against us all. It's true. But if you can read them and still keep your dreams of successful publishing alive, then good for you! Strive to beat the odds. Perfect your craft, attend writing conferences, take classes, write your heart out. Then go on to win that contest or publish that book.

Get my point? Lofty goals are not a waste of time, just keep yourself grounded. Don't be haughty about them. Know who you are and be the best writer you can be. You may see a few of those lofty, haughty dreams come true. Keep them to yourself and smile when somebody tells you that your only goal as a writer should be to "just write."

Speaking of keeping yourself grounded, be aware that enthusiastic career goals and believing in your dreams is one thing ... getting your work edited and finding out the first part of your book sucks ... can knock the wind out of you. There are mountains to climb along the way. Like having your work edited again and again--then after your 17th draft--when you think you've written a masterpiece, you find it needs yet another rewrite. If you still want to be a writer after working on one paragraph for a week, I salute you. If you can still call yourself a writer after a hundred rejections, then you are one. If you write NOT to be praised but because you have a message, a story, a love for the craft, then you can consider yourself a giant among many. If you can write without fear, then darling, you may just be a writer!

My point is, yes writing is an uphill climb, but know the real reality of it is that it's a juggling act. One day you're on top, believing this is your year! The next day, you don't want to be within ten feet of your computer. True. But the success of writing is not an impossible dream. Keep your dreams alive, and get all fired up (kind of like I am today) when somebody tells you to be satisfied with "just writing."

Oh yeah, here's another piece of "reality." Unless you can afford a kick-butt PR firm, or you have a degree in public relations, you’re going to start at the beginning. Like the rest of us. And learn the hard way. I teach a class at Writing Conferences called, Public Relations, Publicity, and Pulling Your Hair Out. My colleague, Dena Harris, and I pull no punches. Even with conventional publishing, you’re going to be your best publicist. BUT ... DON'T LET REALITY STOP YOU. And you don't allow discouraging people (who think they know it all) to get in your way. All in all, it's a double-edged sword you're holding. One side is painful reality, the other is the dream of success. Disappointment and rejection is a sure thing, but you can't let it stop you from dreaming. That, in itself, is failure.

So … are you a writer?

Writing is my passion, yes, but I also write because I want my work published. Oh, get over it! So do you and don’t lie. If you’re a real writer, you want to see your work in print. There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s admirable. In fact, it forces you to perfect your writing, to be better than average, pushes you to breakout status and what’s wrong with that?

Those who are NOT writers don’t care if their story is well crafted, they couldn't give a flip if their characters are not larger than life, or if their plot lacks tension. They’re really not --- writers.

Make sense?

Please forgive me for being a bit preachy today. Long-winded. Mouthy. Pissed off. But I love writers. I love who and what they are, inside and out. I love and appreciate those who write out of their pain and their pleasures. I love writers with enormous dreams and big hearts. So, write for the right reasons, if you must. If you write just to make yourself happy, then fine. Write your butt off. But real writing comes from deep in your gut. It’s often painful. It sometimes rips your heart out. You’ll cry. You’ll find yourself tossing at night. You’ll laugh, too. You’ll laugh hard and long. But writing also hurts. And it cleanses. Yes indeedy, writing is about the journey, for MOST folks who call themselves writers.

For the rest of us, it’s also about the destination. And you better remember to turn around and lift another writer up along the way. Because being a writer, even a penniless one, means offering support and encouragement to any writer you meet.

Raw talent, unique voice, commitment, passion, luck … all these things are important. But in essence I’ve found that being a writer means different things to different people. Nobody has all the answers, and the rules bend. You’re a writer because you work hard at your craft and you possess the storytelling gene. You’re a writer because you’d rather write than just about anything. You’re a writer because before you die, you want to see your work in print. You're a writer because you've produced the evidence. You’re NOT a writer, just because you say you’re one.

There’s a difference.

One of my favorite authors of all time says it all: "Writing is a process of self-discipline you must learn before you can call yourself a writer. There are people who write, but I think they're quite different from people who must write." —Harper Lee

Blessings to you and yours.

A New Year of Priorities

Another year ... gone. Poof!

As I have done for the past five years, I spent last evening watching the HGTV Dream Home Special. The house they build all year long then give away to one lucky winner. This year, the house was built in the Florida Keys. A couple years ago, the house was built in Lake Lure, NC. I've been in that house. I think it's still empty. The winner sold it back to the land developer. Dream Home winners never live in the houses they've been lucky enough to win. They can't afford to pay the taxes. So ... in a way ... the contest is a joke. Just another advertising gimmick, really, that's what it is.

But I still watch, drool, and enter. Maybe this year, huh?

I've made no resolutions this year. Nope. Not a one. Zip. Zilch. Nada. I'm sick of them. They bog me down for the first three months until I can forget about them. All I know is that changes are definitely on the horizon. But I've mentioned that already. It just feels good to write it. To see it written. To hear it in my head.

If you're a writer, however, the act of sitting your butt in the chair and placing your hands on the keyboard ... must take over as a priority this year. If writing is truly what you were born to do, then you must find the time to allow your muse to overtake you. Blogging doesn't count. Blogging, it seems, has become a form of writing to "replace" the writing you put off. Blogging, though important, is no substitute for your storytelling, your poetry, your unfinished memoir.

I've clicked on some blogs that astound and amaze me. Long, beautifully crafted pieces that I'm assuming the author wants to eventually publish. But I wonder how much energy they have left to write the rest of the day. These blogs are endless entries of the blogger's travels, their gripes and complaints, their thoughts on everything from A - Z. My question is ... where is their book?

Although I love to read blogs, catch up on a few, and believe they are a way to warm up the fingers--writers who blog should not feel as though once they've blogged their word quota is up for the day. No, blogging (in my humble opinion) should be just what it is. An online journal. A way to wake up with a cup of a coffee every morning. The real work ... the writing that matters ... should come after the blog. Spending anymore time than 20 minutes on one blog entry is biting into your time. Time that could have been spent on your next article, outline, or prologue.

If you don't see a blog from me every day ... just know there's a story I'm working on instead. I'll get back to the blog when I can. Blogging is not a priority. My blogs are just a howdy. A few random thoughts on writing, a way to let off steam, a bit of sharing the events in my life. Maybe even a few pictures here and there.

And so, to end today's blog ... I begin a new year of writing. A new year of changes. A new year and a new book. A year of no resolutions. Just priorities.

Blessings to you and yours.

The Best Ever

Ten days ago was my last blog entry. Ten days. Wow. Well, what's happened since then? Nothing much. Just Christmas. A quiet Christmas in Ohio with friends and family. A little snow. A little cheer was spread. A little time of magic. No fancy holiday in New York or Mexico. Just a quiet and peaceful Christmas. Then home. For one night. The next morning Michael and I headed to Atlanta. For more holiday fun with family.

I've eaten too much, laughed too much, slept too little, watched too many holiday TV movies, drove too many miles, but we took some much needed time off from thinking about everything. Isn't that what the holidays are for? A sedative. A time warp. A chance to forget our problems for about two weeks. But now it's back to the reality of life. My life. And this year, things are going to change.

Michael and I are on a quest for major changes this year. In every area of our beings. And by God, we're going to make it happen. No fruitless New Year's resolutions to waste our time, just positive changes to soul, mind, and body. Christmas brought things into focus for me this year. A time to reflect on the past few years and realize that although I've made tremendous strides in my career as a writer and speaker, there's still a part of me that's searching. Christmas did not consist of lots of presents for either of us. We cut way back this year and decided that our gifts to each other would be a better year ... 2008 ... a year of changes.

I've lost myself along the way. Not a big part of myself, just a few minor pieces that fell off in my move to the South. But one of my favorite lines in a movie is from Sense and Sensibility. "There is nothing lost that may be found, if sought."

My novel will be bought this year. My next book will be finished this Spring. My life as a writer and speaker will continue to face the same challenges as most writers. But this year, I'm going to enlighten my reader's minds and jolt my reader's hearts. Open their hands to discover the possibility of reaching out with compassion. I'm giving them more than Southern Fried delights. I'm tossing caution to the wind. It's already in motion.

And life as we know it ... will change.

Christmas was fine. One more done and gone. It was a merry one. I'm hoping your Chrismas was, as well. But I for one, am glad it's over. Because it's 360-some days to next Christmas ... and I'm already looking forward to it. Because I know this year will be ... the best ever.

Blessings to you and yours.

A Grand Christmas

It's been an interesting week. I've talked to two literary agents this week and received great feedback, as well as possible representation. Nothing set in stone, as of yet. So much to think about, so much to consider. Still waiting to hear from a California agent. But I'm encouraged and the next book is well on its way. A special project Michael and I have been working on is going well. In fact, January may hold a special meaning for us ... in addition to our five-year anniversary. It's going to be a great Christmas this year.

For one, we'll be in Ohio with our children. Although Christopher, Nicole, and our grandson will be in Arizona with Nicole's parents (we'll miss them) we get to spend a few quality days with Jillian, Aaron, and our future daughter-in-law, Annie. And, of course, our best friends Tina and Tim. Like I said, it's going to be a great Christmas.

Then there's a few days after Christmas ... we'll be in Atlanta with my sister and parents. Lots of traveling this season, but still ... a great Christmas.

I've had all kinds of Christmas's. (What is the plural of Christmas? es, 's, s' ... ah who cares?) Point is -I've had good ones and not-so-good ones. Sad ones. And one or two Christmas's that were so wretched and horrible, I've pushed them out of my mind. Forgotten. But there are many more Christmas's that hold pleasant memories. And this is going to be one of them.

Last night our dear friends, Dena and Blair, went to dinner with us at the Bonefish Grill and then we had floor seats for the Trans-Siberian Orchestra in Greensboro. I'm hung over this morning ... from not just the wine at dinner, but the LOUD music, the smoke, the faux snow, and strobe lights. Whew. I'm not as young as I used to be, that's for sure. However, this was a concert to remember. I'm sure you've heard them, at least on the radio. But this group of musicians and vocalists were outstanding and the music made your heart swell. If you were a Grinch or a Scrooge, you were no longer after the sights and sounds of this magnificent performance. Truly remarkable.

It made me realize ... this is a GRAND CHRISTMAS!

Have a more than a merry one yourself. Have a GRAND one!

Blessings to you and yours.

Christmas Tuna

Last night Michael and I visited Tuna, Texas. At the Broach Theatre in Greensboro. Funny, to say the least. A play consisting of over a dozen characters ... played by two actors, Hall Parrish and Stephen Gee, they gave outstanding performances. These two men kept their audience laughing from beginning to end.

From Greensboro, they decked the halls of Tuna, a redneck town of political conservatism, religious fundamentalism, bouffants and bad taste. Split second costume changes transformed the actors into townspeople of every age, type, and gender. The characters names made me laugh as much as anything. The town sluts, Inita Goodwin and Helen Bedd won the Christmas yard display contest ... too funny!

A true poke at the small-town South, A Tuna Christmas has been around for twenty years of Christmas' in cities from Greensboro to Lubbock. If you get the chance, go see it. After all, one can never have enough Tuna at Christmas. Right?

Blessings to you and yours.

Christmas Lite

December is typically a crazy month. Shopping, holiday preparation, cooking, all the things that come with Christmas. But this year, compared to the rest of the year, December is quiet. A slowed-down pace from Christmas' of yesteryear. The reason it seems that way, I think, is because I've been running at full steam ahead for months now. Finishing a book, speaking, and traveling. But I'm researching and working through the next novel at the moment, traveling is down to once a week or so, and I'm scaling my Christmas spending back this year. Way back.

Christmas Light.

No, not like a light on a tree. Kind of like Bud Lite. Only ... Christmas Lite. I feel good about it, too. In fact, I think Christmas has gotten out of hand for most folk. They pay for it all year round until the next Christmas and then it starts all over. I like not having to run around like a crazy person, hoping you can get to the end of your list before the stores close. That's nuts. The traffic is bad, the stores are too hot, and the lines are too long.

Instead, I've done what little shopping I need to do ... online. Now, I'm looking forward to a Christmas play this Friday at our little community theater. And next week the Trans Siberian Orchestra is coming to town and we have tickets. A less stressful December for me than ever.

Wait ... hold on.

Yesterday, Michael and I met with a marketing and public relations agency. A new one. One that has proposed a new strategy. A three-phase campaign. One that will create a huge buzz for Televenge. One that will keep me busy for the rest of my life, it seems. One that will partner with me and open doors that I've not yet touched. One that Michael and I are very excited about.

There's another personal project on the horizon that's going to consume our attention come January. I'll fill you in on this exciting achievement ... soon.

And my son and his fiancee are waist-deep at the moment, planning a June 2008 wedding.

Before I know it, it'll be Christmas 2008.

I best enjoy this relaxing December. It may be the last rest I get for a while.

Blessings to you and yours.

A Long Quote

Every once in a while a special word of encouragement from another author gets me excited. Not often, though. Writers who write books on How to Write, Why I Write, How to Publish, How to Write Bestsellers, ya da - ya da - ya da ... it's my humble opinion that these writers like to hear themselves talk. Like they got all the answers. Not that they don't have valid points, and many have great published books, but listen ... what works for one writer doesn't work for every writer.

Today I received an e-mail from a dear friend who sent me the quote below from Elizabeth Gilbert, who wrote, "Eat, Pray, Love," (you know Oprah book/on all the TV shows) well, anyway, I got goose pimples when I read it. It's a great message for writers. I'm not sure where this was published, but it's strong. Every writer needs to read it. Enjoy Elizabeth's "quote" below:

Sometimes people ask me for help or suggestions about how to write, or how to get published. Keeping in mind that this is all very ephemeral and personal, I will try to explain here everything that I believe about writing. I hope it is useful. It's all I know.

I believe that – if you are serious about a life of writing, or indeed about any creative form of expression – that you should take on this work like a holy calling. I became a writer the way other people become monks or nuns. I made a vow to writing, very young. I became Bride-of-Writing. I was writing’s most devotional handmaiden. I built my entire life around writing. I didn’t know how else to do this. I didn’t know anyone who had ever become a writer. I had no, as they say, connections. I had no clues. I just began.

I took a few writing classes when I was at NYU, but, aside from an excellent workshop taught by Helen Schulman, I found that I didn’t really want to be practicing this work in a classroom. I wasn’t convinced that a workshop full of 13 other young writers trying to find their voices was the best place for me to find my voice. So I wrote on my own, as well. I showed my work to friends and family whose opinions I trusted. I was always writing, always showing. After I graduated from NYU, I decided not to pursue an MFA in creative writing. Instead, I created my own post-graduate writing program, which entailed several years spent traveling around the country and world, taking jobs at bars and restaurants and ranches, listening to how people spoke, collecting experiences and writing constantly. My life probably looked disordered to observers (not that anyone was observing it that closely) but my travels were a very deliberate effort to learn as much as I could about life, expressly so that I could write about it.

Back around the age of 19, I had started sending my short stories out for publication. My goal was to publish something (anything, anywhere) before I died. I collected only massive piles of rejection notes for years. I cannot explain exactly why I had the confidence to be sending off my short stories at the age of 19 to, say, The New Yorker, or why it did not destroy me when I was inevitably rejected. I sort of figured I’d be rejected. But I also thought: “Hey – somebody has to write all those stories: why not me?” I didn’t love being rejected, but my expectations were low and my patience was high. (Again – the goal was to get published before death. And I was young and healthy.) It has never been easy for me to understand why people work so hard to create something beautiful, but then refuse to share it with anyone, for fear of criticism. Wasn’t that the point of the creation – to communicate something to the world? So PUT IT OUT THERE. Send your work off to editors and agents as much as possible, show it to your neighbors, plaster it on the walls of the bus stops – just don’t sit on your work and suffocate it. At least try. And when the powers-that-be send you back your manuscript (and they will), take a deep breath and try again. I often hear people say, “I’m not good enough yet to be published.” That’s quite possible. Probable, even. All I’m saying is: Let someone else decide that. Magazines, editors, agents – they all employ young people making $22,000 a year whose job it is to read through piles of manuscripts and send you back letters telling you that you aren’t good enough yet: LET THEM DO IT. Don’t pre-reject yourself. That’s their job, not yours. Your job is only to write your heart out, and let destiny take care of the rest.

As for discipline – it’s important, but sort of over-rated. The more important virtue for a writer, I believe, is self-forgiveness. Because your writing will always disappoint you. Your laziness will always disappoint you. You will make vows: “I’m going to write for an hour every day,” and then you won’t do it. You will think: “I suck, I’m such a failure. I’m washed-up.” Continuing to write after that heartache of disappointment doesn’t take only discipline, but also self-forgiveness (which comes from a place of kind and encouraging and motherly love). The other thing to realize is that all writers think they suck. When I was writing “Eat, Pray, Love”, I had just as a strong a mantra of THIS SUCKS ringing through my head as anyone does when they write anything. But I had a clarion moment of truth during the process of that book. One day, when I was agonizing over how utterly bad my writing felt, I realized: “That’s actually not my problem.” The point I realized was this – I never promised the universe that I would write brilliantly; I only promised the universe that I would write. So I put my head down and sweated through it, as per my vows.

I have a friend who’s an Italian filmmaker of great artistic sensibility. After years of struggling to get his films made, he sent an anguished letter to his hero, the brilliant (and perhaps half-insane) German filmmaker Werner Herzog. My friend complained about how difficult it is these days to be an independent filmmaker, how hard it is to find government arts grants, how the audiences have all been ruined by Hollywood and how the world has lost its taste…etc, etc. Herzog wrote back a personal letter to my friend that essentially ran along these lines: “Quit your complaining. It’s not the world’s fault that you wanted to be an artist. It’s not the world’s job to enjoy the films you make, and it’s certainly not the world’s obligation to pay for your dreams. Nobody wants to hear it. Steal a camera if you have to, but stop whining and get back to work.” I repeat those words back to myself whenever I start to feel resentful, entitled, competitive or unappreciated with regard to my writing: “It’s not the world’s fault that you want to be an artist…now get back to work.” Always, at the end of the day, the important thing is only and always that: Get back to work. This is a path for the courageous and the faithful. You must find another reason to work, other than the desire for success or recognition. It must come from another place.

Here’s another thing to consider. If you always wanted to write, and now you are A Certain Age, and you never got around to it, and you think it’s too late…do please think again. I watched Julia Glass win the National Book Award for her first novel, “The Three Junes”, which she began writing in her late 30’s. I listened to her give her moving acceptance speech, in which she told how she used to lie awake at night, tormented as she worked on her book, asking herself, “Who do you think you are, trying to write a first novel at your age?” But she wrote it. And as she held up her National Book Award, she said, “This is for all the late-bloomers in the world.” Writing is not like dancing or modeling; it’s not something where – if you missed it by age 19 – you’re finished. It’s never too late. Your writing will only get better as you get older and wiser. If you write something beautiful and important, and the right person somehow discovers it, they will clear room for you on the bookshelves of the world – at any age. At least try.

There are heaps of books out there on How To Get Published. Often people find the information in these books contradictory. My feeling is -- of COURSE the information is contradictory. Because, frankly, nobody knows anything. Nobody can tell you how to succeed at writing (even if they write a book called “How To Succeed At Writing”) because there is no WAY; there are, instead, many ways. Everyone I know who managed to become a writer did it differently – sometimes radically differently. Try all the ways, I guess. Becoming a published writer is sort of like trying to find a cheap apartment in New York City: it’s impossible. And yet…every single day, somebody manages to find a cheap apartment in New York City. I can’t tell you how to do it. I’m still not even entirely sure how I did it. I can only tell you – through my own example – that it can be done. I once found a cheap apartment in Manhattan. And I also became a writer.

In the end, I love this work. I have always loved this work. My suggestion is that you start with the love and then work very hard and try to let go of the results. Cast out your will, and then cut the line. Please try, also, not to go totally freaking insane in the process. Insanity is a very tempting path for artists, but we don’t need any more of that in the world at the moment, so please resist your call to insanity. We need more creation, not more destruction. We need our artists more than ever, and we need them to be stable, steadfast, honorable and brave – they are our soldiers, our hope. If you decide to write, then you must do it, as Balzac said, “like a miner buried under a fallen roof.” Become a knight, a force of diligence and faith. I don’t know how else to do it except that way. As the great poet Jack Gilbert said once to young writer, when she asked him for advice about her own poems: “Do you have the courage to bring forth this work? The treasures that are hidden inside you are hoping you will say YES.”

When WHAT IF Isn't Enough

My nasty red nose can't stop my fingers from flying over my keyboard today. I'm going to finish my second novel. Just because I have a cold, it won't stop me today. Not today. I'm pouring over my notes and research for Mountain Lamb. A much shorter book, Mountain Lamb is roughed out and ready for Draft number 2. I expect to be finished with this manuscript in a few months. I find myself consistently examining three conflicts in my writing: religion, the extent to which a parent will go to save their children, and issues of race. God in His wisdom, I am sure, also deals with these human frailties. So I have no answers, just messages. I present the story. The reader deals with his/her own heart and conscience.

What if? It's one tool a writer uses to create a plot. But the political and current events throughout my lifetime have created so many questions inside my brain and heart that often times--a what if just isn't enough. Questions I would love answered. Faults, flaws, and the inconsistent behaviors of mankind that grate on my mind.

In my early days of being a flower-child, my peace and love days as I call them, I protested the Vietnam war and yet my heart went out to the boys caught in the middle of that "conflict." I was only a few miles from the campus during the Kent State riots, and yet a friend of my family was one of the National Guard that day. A young man who shot into the crowd of students. Mixed emotions? Yes, you could say that.

I sat and watched hours of the civil rights movement, glued to the TV each and every time Dr. King spoke. I'm probably one of the few Caucasians that wanted to be black as a little girl and go march on Washington. And then I didn't understand why later, some African-Americans delivered a much more violent message. I was angry about it. Conflict and unanswered questions? You bet.

Unconditional love. Is it impossible?

I burned my bra and then spent my lunch money on the latest shade of Cover Girl, the shortest mini-skirt I could find, and was thrilled to take home a fifty dollars a week in 1972. A fourth of what my male counterpart took home. Preach one thing, do another?

It's human. We all find ourselves talking out of both sides of our mouths at some point in our lives. Other than the Mother Teresas of the world, the rest of us are fickle and float around in life chasing our convictions and trying to get over the guilt of not achieving the goals that go with them.

I never missed church. I believed, tithed, raised my hands in every service, answered hundreds of altar calls, gave love offerings instead of paying my water bill, Trusted and obeyed. Every day. For years and years. I ended up homeless, rejected, divorced. So where was God? My children suffered. How could I save them?

After forty years of struggling, these questions of why I can't save the world from these frailties still haunt me. I know that I can't, so to deal with the conflicts of my soul, I write stories. Deep, meaningful, strong-plotted, and character-driven stories that hopefully will touch on some level of emotion in my reader. Because to me, everybody is plagued with the guilt and pain of the world's problems. If they aren't ... they're not honest. It touches us all.

Blessings to you and yours.

Aching

I wish I could say I'm busy writing like a mad dog these days ... but the truth is, my head is full of nothing but snot. I've come down with the cold of the century. Blowing, sneezing, fever, headache, aches and pains ... but each day I get a little better. I'm blogging today. That's something, at least.

During this time of chicken soup, boxes of Kleenex, and bags of cough drops--I've spent time reading and catching up on ideas surrounding my next book project. Televenge is still up for grabs. We're hoping to hear something soon, at least after the Holidays ... as to an agent and publisher. But for now, it remains in my computer. Waiting.

I must say that waiting is not one of my favorite things to do. Not a strength I attest to. I hear so many great stories of successes and failures. Televenge will be published, that much I know ... how and when ... is anybodys guess. There's more than one way to skin a cat, my dad says. It'll get published.

It's a ripping great story. Told from the inside out. It's well written, clean, and carries a message for the ages. A message of survival for those who have been offered little. Those who want to believe in God. Those who have been rejected, wronged, and left with nothing. It's powerful. It's eye-opening. And it's unpublished. So I'm aching. From this damn cold and from the fact this manuscript needs to find a home.

Ah, well. Faith. Something I write about, attest to. It's time to hang on to some of it. Right?

For now I think I'll put on a cup of tea, curl up in a blanket, and read. I'm starting Lisa Tucker's One Upon A Day. I pray colds and flu stay away from your door this winter.

Blessings to you and yours.