These Dreams

Consider these song lyrics by Heart, made popular by the same group:

Spare a little candle, save some light for me. Figures up ahead moving in the trees. White skin in linen, Perfume on my wrist, and the full moon that hangs over these dreams in the mist.

Darkness on the edge, shadows where I stand, I search for the time on a watch with no hands, I want to see you clearly, come closer to this come closer to this. But all I remember are the dreams in the mist.

Is it cloak and dagger, could it be Spring or Fall? I walk without a cut through a stained-glass wall. Weaker in my eyesight, a candle in my grip, and words that have no form are falling from my lips.

There's something out there I can't resist. I need to hide away from the pain. There's something out there I can't resist.

The sweetest song is silence that I've ever heard. Funny how your feet in dreams never touch the Earth. In a wood full of princes, freedom is a kiss. But the Prince hides his face from dreams in the mist.

CHORUS
These dreams go on when I close my eyes. Every second of the night, I live another life. These dreams that sleep when it's cold outside, every moment I'm awake, the further I'm away.

Pretty song but a bit spooky. Yet to a dreamer like me, it speaks volumes. I’m a dreamer. Not the heady kind who consistently has her head in the clouds daydreaming, fantasizing, scheming, an optimist with no vision of reality. No, not that kind of dreamer.

I dream dark, murky, and often violent dreams. At night. When I’m in a deep sleep. Often, I have night terrors, waking my husband with a scream or in a sweaty fit. I’m infected; it seems, by visions of my past. For some unknown reason, there are two things I dream about consistently. Tornados and the house I grew up in. Last night was one of strangest dreams about the old house on Waterloo Rd.

During my growing up time, nothing scared me there. I felt loved by my parents, safe, cared for. But truly, strange things happened in that house. Mostly to my mother, who has always been sensitive to “things not seen.” But that’s a subject for another blog.

Anyway, in this latest dream, I was standing in my mother’s kitchen. It looked exactly as it did when we lived there. My parent’s house was full of antiques, but tastefully done. I was peering out the windows over the kitchen sink which happened to be the front of the house. Suddenly, a large bolt of lightning exploded in a straight line from a violent sky. It seared across the front yard, like a ban saw, heading straight to the middle of house. As it cut the house in half, a train track appeared and a passenger train crashed through the house. The train stopped, as if the middle of my parent’s house was a train stop. People got out. Nice folks, apologizing for this horrible intrusion. I was screaming, “How can you do this? Why did you ruin this house? Watch out, don’t touch a thing! Stay away! Get out of here! Get out!”

In a way, I suppose it sounds funny. But in the dream, it was no less than terrifying. In other dreams, I’ve watched my parent’s old house slide off the face of the earth into some red, hot abyss. Tornados tearing it apart, and on and on. But always, my nightmares are about this old house. A house I’ve not seen since the day they moved out over a decade ago. I’ve heard the new owners have all but trashed it. But I dream about this place of my growing-up years, at least once or twice month.

Why?

I’ve not a clue. I heard once that someone died in that house. Way back in the 20s or 30s. It was a pretty house. My dad worked endless hours on it, remodeling every part of it. His handiwork was evident in each room. Mom, however, worked like a dog to clean it, repair it, fix it, and decorate it. She was glad, she said, to leave it and move back to the South. It was nothing but work to her.

To me, it’s nothing but a memory. And often, a nightmare. But again, I have no idea why.

I think it’s time to pray it out of my head. I need to get a good night’s sleep.

Blessings to you and yours.

River Song

River held tight to the end of her rope. He'd left her for the last time, he’d said. He'd left her every Valentine’s Day. But this time he’d packed his favorite shirt, his socks, and his dog.

Piney’s words echoed off peeling walls and cardboard ceiling tiles. "Cain’t do it anymore. I cain’t pretend this is where I'm supposed to be."

River could hear his Dodge, as eager to get out of town as her husband. The truck’s muffler rumbled and spit behind foggy windowpanes. She sat in tense silence and stared at the faded green carpet, averting her eyes from the conflict. Slumped down into the old, overstuffed couch, venturing sheepish glances as she clutched her mama’s throw pillows, this time felt different.

Wiping tears from swollen eyes, River whispered to her daughter who straddled the arm of the couch as if sitting atop her horse. "Sit by me, Kip."

But the nine-year-old, transfixed by her daddy’s fit, licked at her own tears while her parents bludgeoned each other with words.

"You know where you can find me," said Piney. His mouth was set in its distinctive smile, but his eyes were hollow.

"Go then!" River shouted. He’d worn her down with authoritative edicts that made no sense. Every time she presented a logical explanation, Piney shot back with something asinine wrapped in his typical theological and patronizing tone. His agitation bubbled under the surface of his reasons for flight, but his face bore no sign of fire. It only grew more rugged and redder by the second.

********************

This is the first part of my new short story, River Song.

Blessings to you and yours.

Yikes!

Lordy.

It's been forever, it seems, since blogging.

Maybe I've given it up for lent. My lent happened back in February, I suppose. I've been taking a sabbatical from every thing I used to do.

Except writing stories.

I've written a couple stories for contests and have been working steadily on Book Three of the Televenge Trilogy. But since I'm working full-time right now, blogging takes a back seat. Like when you used to sit in the back of your dad's station wagon. Way back.

It's my life right now.

My blog on my dog has mysteriously disappeared, so in case you're wondering about Harley, he's doing just great! I love my dog! Love, love, love him. He's the best dog ever, I swear. He's learning new tricks ... like stay, come, down, speak.

It's been fun, despite the cold North Carolina weather. Our recent snow accumulation is about gone, the daffodils and spring flowers are poking through the ground. Soon the South will draw in it's famous hot weather and we're back to our norm for this time of the year.

Ah, yes ... the plight of this writer is just to get from one day to the next, one story to the next, and not worry about the blog, which, I'm sure I've lost most of my readers anyway. But I'm moving forward once again in getting something published this year and there's only so many hours in a day. So peak in from time to time.

I'll hit this blog every so often.

Yikes!

Blessings to those who continue to watch for me, despite my shortcomings.

Groaning and Griping

It's winter. A season a gripes and groans.

I'm griping because school systems in the South tend to think they need to close at the very thought of a patch of ice on the road and a dozen snowflakes. Can you imagine? They closed the schools here today. By noon the temperatures were in the high 50s with sun-filled skies. The roads had been dry all day. A patient called me before I left for the day, informing me she might not be able to make it in for her early morning appointment "due to snow."

These folks need to live a month in Cleveland. Northern folk seldom, if ever, close their schools for a whole dang day due to snow. Those of us who live in the South, yet have spent a period of our childhood in the Snowbelt, laugh at the spooked Southerners and their fear of bad weather.

I'm groaning at the cold. Despite the fact my blood has thinned from this milder climate, I still hate cold weather. Even North Carolina cold. I'm ready for robins and daffodils. Trees with buds and sultry breezes across my back porch. I want to wear my flip-flops. Open the doors in the morning and feel the sun on my face. My heart yearns for green grass, coffee on the deck, the neighbors rooster to crow again.

I guess I'll just groan and gripe all the way to Spring.

Blessings to you and yours. Stay warm!

Medicare 101

My boss thought it would be a good idea for me to attend a one-day seminar on Medicare. We do see Medicare patients from time-to-time, and the more I know about the Medicare process, the better for the practice. So he paid the sixty bucks and I spent the day in a Marriott ballroom learning all about Medicare 101.

Shoot me.

Please.

Who makes this stuff up? I'm convinced that nerds from all over the country get their revenge in one simple way. Medical Insurance. And the biggest nerds write the rules for Medicare.

I know we need it. Thank God we have it. But I cannot imagine for one minute that anyone really enjoys working with this stuff. Prior to my full-time writing career, I slaved in the medical field for a good many years. I learned enough enough about the insurance process to get the job done and supervise others to do the job for me. But to study it? Get excited about it? Memorize the ICD-9 and CPT codes?

I'd rather not, thank you very much.

The room buldged with women (of course) who work in medical offices all over the state. Some of them, you could tell, have spent their life working claims, dealing with irate patients, doctors, and administrators. It showed. Their faces and personalities were lined with endless years of dealing with this stuff. Of being stapled to their desks, tied to their phones, glued to their computers. It alters ones personality and eventually, it'll kill you. I'm convinced.

I, of course, sat at the back of the room and observed it all from a different point of view. Now, that's not to say I didn't get something out of it. I did. It truly is my desire to do a great job for my boss, he's such a good guy, and I appreciate his position. He heart is in the right place, as the man really cares for his patients and their welfare. So, I gathered as much from the conference as I could, asked a few questions, made some notes, and went home. I had to at least get sixty bucks worth to take back to the office with me. Right?

But oh, my, gosh. At one point I sat in the back of the room and laughed. (To myself, of course.) Why in the world would anyone indulge in this type of self-torture for a living? I was ready to slit my wrists.

And then it occurred to me. A story line. A character came into view. She works medical claims by day and walks the street by night. Hmmm.

It's amazing what you can walk away with from a Medicare conference.

Blessings to you and yours.

A Strange Friend

It's strange how we separate our friends into categories. Friend is a loosely-used term, I think. One day they appear, seemingly out of the blue, stick around for a while, then poof ... they're gone.

But like I said, friends fall into many slots. Those we email - occasionally. Friends we write to once in a while, sending a card or thank-you note. We lunch with friends who are great for a couple hours of stimulating conversation. Then with a well-meaning kiss and a wave good-bye ... you don't see or hear from them again until the next lunch date. And that's perfectly - okay.

First friends, boy friends, childhood friends. It's true, friends can leave us as quick as they appear. Then pow - we run right into them in the produce section, or the Walmart parking lot. Or the dreaded class reunion. Old friends who instead of sending us their own snap shot, send portrait pictures of their kids in Christmas cards. A younger version of themself, hoping to trip your memory of when you were all just ... kids.

Sisters can be friends. Or not. And some friends can be more like sisters than real ones. Best friends, it is said, mate for life. They can be tossed over-board and still swim back to you. Half drowned and naked, she's still a friend. Not a drop of love has been lost between you. You cherish that kind of friend. It takes a lifetime, I believe, to make a friendship like that. It's not until a person goes through most of your weakest and worst moments with you, along side of you, that you can call them a best friend. Best friends have the unique ability to see you for who you really are, and still love you to pieces in spite of yourself.

Your spouse can be a best friend. Or at least recognizes the need for his best friend/spouse to have yet another best friend. Sounds complicated, but really, that's a priceless virtue in friends: the ability to share the friendship, and not get all jacked out of shape about it.

Every girl, however, should have a best girl friend. One who knows how to be there, and be quiet. Scream in your face, then know when to back off. A best friend who knows which buttons to push and which not to touch. One who is selfless, has been there all or most of your life. One who will hold your hand while you're dying, while making sure there are no hairs to be pulled on your chin before you're laid open in your casket. That kind of friend.

Friends, for the most part, are human. But there are other friends. A dog or a cherished animal of any species can be a friend. How many stories have been written about the animal friends in our life? Lassie, Free Willy, Marley and Me ... wow. Often, our animal friends, are our best friends.

Well, to be honest, I set out writing this blog thinking about a different kind of friend. The strangest friend anyone could have. An inanimate object with no feelings. A thing. Something that most would look at and think nothing about. The perfect noun ... uh, or rather, friend. A lifelong friend.

Linus had one. Most babies carry one until it's tattered and torn. Some children rub one against their face while sucking their thumb. Even college-age kids will sneak one into their dorm, hidden between the shirts and pants in their suitcase.

My security blanket, has been my lifelong friend. Here's why: Back in 1971, my then mother-in-law-to-be (who was in her late 40s at the time) crocheted. A lot. She made one afghan after another with a real ivory crochet hook. She was good at it, and I told her so. Young I was, only 17, when she promised to make me an afghan for a wedding present. She made more than an afghan. She made thirty-plus years of memories.

This huge, hand-crocheted afghan is plain blue with ivory, yellow, and variegated-blue stripes on each end. Ugly as sin. But this blankey of mine has gone with me everywhere. It has slip-covered many a hideous-looking chair or couch since the 70s. It's toasty warm and can be doubled, still covering every part of me. It has wrapped its warmth around my children when they were sick. Covered them as babies, first-graders, eighth-graders, and when they had their wisdom teeth pulled. It covered my son the day he came home on leave from boot camp and slept for 24 hours straight. It rocked and lulled my daughter to sleep after a broken heart. It has soothed me during my darkest hours. This old blankey has seen the three of us through some hard, hard times.

It has absorbed a ton of tears. Believe me.

It waited for me, patiently, as I lost my mind and then found it again. Folded, it has rested on my beds, sofas, and now hangs in a place of honor in my hold farmhouse. A place where we can still grab "covey" as my husband calls it, and snuggle. I've done a whole lot of "snuggling" under that old friend. It has warmed my cold legs while I sat at the computer writing story after story. It never complained, never yelled at me, never told me to quit. It just covered me.

"Old Blue," as I call it, has appeared in many family snap shots. No matter my decor at the time, this afghan looks better with time. There's not a hole to be found, after well over thirty years. It's been through hundreds of washings, laid in a heap on the floor for days, covered doll babies, puppies, kittens, and resisted the heat of an old attic once while packed away for a period of time.

Wrapping it around me is like a time machine. I can see where we've been, how far we've traveled, and how we have ever so gracefully - aged together. I realize now, I've never gone anywhere, without it. It's been my most loyal friend. It's been on most car trips, enjoying the back seat. Old Blue has covered the ground for a picnic or two, has laid on a few beaches, and rode in an airplane. It's quite the traveller. And for all it's wanderings, it has welcomed me home day after tired-day.

There's something about that old afghan that draws me to it. I either want it buried with me or cremated with me. Ha! Now, that's a friend.

My now ex-mother-in-law, who by the way I still love, is in a nursing home. Tucked away in her 80s, she no longer flips a crochet hook around her fingers. But not long ago, I asked her if she remembered that old afghan she made me. She looked at me strange with a twinkle in her eye and said, "You know, I prayed over that thing as I made it. I prayed it would cover the wrinkles in your life."

"It did," I said. "It really did."

Old Blue is my most trusted friend. A strange one, indeed.

Blessings to you and yours.

The Chill of Winter

Filling a writer's well can mean different things. It's winter here in NC. In more ways than one.

As plants, flowers, trees, and some animals lay dormant or hibernate, they are, in fact, preparing to pop once the sun's warmth signals spring. Remaining still in their "beds," they're gathering nutrients, strength, and conserving energy for their moment of rebirth.

This winter, I'm filling notebooks with dribs and drabs. Nothing coherent to the reader, just ... stuff. I can't find my muse, but I've got a good hold on thoughts, ideas, words, a jumble of mixed and matched scenes and places.

When I'm not at work, I've decided to rest. Read. Watch a few movies. Old and new. Also, pray. Pray for inspiration. Guidance. And Believe. Believe that I'm just in flux. That old will become new and that eventually, spring will come to us all.

There is peace in winter's landscape. A soft pattern of frost and fog fills and smears itself across the fields around my house. Shadows are long. Huge, bare trees stand guard over it all. It's quiet. A few birds gather at the feeder. There's no vegetation to speak of. Only the chill of the season. It pulls the covers over itself and whispers to me in the mornings, I'm going to sleep a while longer.

I've decided to be patient with myself. Fill this well of mine and get through the chill. I'll thaw with the landscape, I think. Winter will eventually end, but until it does ... I'll just make a few more notes, watch a movie, read a book, try not to worry so much. That might take the edge off.

Blessings to you and yours.

A New Year

The sun is shining, it's a new year. In working with patients day in and day out, I find myself counting my blessings. And the blessings of those I love and care about.

We whine and pine. Mope until all our wants in life become giants. Searching for things to be thankful for has been a lifelong obsession of mine. After writing blogs, then re-reading them the next day, I sometimes feel as though my writing is bi-polar. Me, on the other hand, I keep my outward emotions (for the most part) in check. Stable. No extreme highs or lows. There is, yes, a bit of a drama queen who rears her ugly head once in a while, but I'm realizing as I grow older -- I like simplicity. Quiet. Less bumps in my road.

Yet, we can't always steer the rudder of our existence.

This morning I heard John Travolta's son, Jett, has passed away. A 16-year old, who suffered from seizures. Although I don't agree with the Church of Scientology, I'm not looking at that right now. I'm looking at parents who have lost a dear boy. A son they loved. All the money in the world cannot bring him back, or restore to the Travoltas what they had only days ago.

I've followed John Travolta's career, sort of. I mean, I was there the first time Vinnie Barbarino came into our living rooms. Saturday Night Fever liberated me. (It's a long story for another blog.) I watched Travolta grow older, along with me. We're the same age, approximately. I've never met him, but I've always liked his smile. All I really know about him exists in the characters he plays.

But my heart goes out to the Travoltas today, regardless.

We don't know what 2009 holds for us. We can make resolutions, determinations, and attempts at change. In the end, it's the character inside us that tells the tale of who we really are. How life's disappointments affect us, writes our true story.

Be thankful each day. Laugh when it hurts. Keep an open mind. And remember to pray for those less fortunate. We can't have everything we want. But we can be thankful for everything we have. Like a new year.

It's 2009. Use it wisely.

Blessings to you and yours.

After-Christmas Rush

It's already started. The New Year.

Normally, I don't pack away my tree and all the trimmings until January 5th, 10th, or even the 15th. But that's because prior to this year, we lived with Mike's mom. We pretty much did Christmas her way. This year was refreshing. I set the table how I wanted it, cooked what and when I wanted to cook, and lit candles every day. I reveled in the simplicity of our very own Christmas.

In the new Cable household, the tree came down today! I was ready. With balmy NC temperatures, the weather afforded us ample opportunity to pull all the boxes out of the storehouse and begin the process.

Christmas, unfortunately, carried a mixed bag of emotions. Along with the wonder and excitement of Christmas in our old farmhouse, our oldest son, daughter-in-law, and grandson have decided to move to Arizona. Again. For Chris, a major job promotion made the decision, actually. It's hard to turn something like that down in today's ecomony. Still, we're dreading it. In just a few days, they'll be gone. I can't even say when we'll see them again. Arizona is so far away, we can't just hop on a plane like we used to, and with a new baby on the way, I doubt they'll be heading back to NC anytime soon. It's taking some gettin' used to.

But our daughter spent the holiday with us, so she helped heal the sadness surrounding the move. The three of us took in a Love Feast at a Moravian Church on Christmas Eve, spent Christmas Day in our pajamas, watched old movies, napped, ate until we couldn't find another corner in our bodies to fill, and spent the rest of the next day in a food coma.

The house was warm, cozy, and only mildly decorated. No elf threw up on my walls, not this year. Candles, a beautiful tree, and the sound of Christmas music filled the house from Thanksgiving until yesterday.

But as of today, it is officially spring. (In my mind anyway.) I'm thinking of paint colors for the porch and perennials for the garden. HGTV ran wonderful landscaping shows today, and I thought I saw a robin this morning.

Probably not.

It's just that once the tree is down, the holidays are over for me. My After Christmas Rush. Rush to get winter well on its way, as well as our lives. I'm believing in a better 2009 for everyone, despite what CNN says.

I'm thinking I just might look for daffodils in the yard tomorrow.

And I have even sang Auld Lang Syne yet.

Blessings to you and yours.

Checking In

Ah, yes. It has been over a week since opening this blog. My fingers just feel, well, dead. Like they've been hijacked or beamed up into some abyss. A world of watching the clock, daily reports, and one-hour lunches.

Although I'm thoroughly enjoying my job, I miss my old one. The daily grind of writing in my jammies, and making coffee to get through a night of rewrites. Nowadays, I find myself dozing on the couch at 9 p.m., ready to hit the sack. A pile of stories ... untouched.

I like the routine of this new job. I love my boss and his wife and kids. I feel as if I've known them forever. He's even letting me sell my book at the front desk. How cool is that? The work is fairly easy, I enjoy our patients, and I'm taking home a real paycheck. That's nice.

Someday, in the future, I'll return to writing full-time. When that will be, is in God's hands. Right now, I'll try to blog more than once a week and find the energy to stay up past Gray's Anatomy. The world is flat at the moment. I don't want that to carry over into my writing. I'm working on a way to change my writing routine, as soon as the holidays are behind us.

In the meantime, if you care to check back once a while, you just might catch a new blog.

Blessings to you and yours.

Christmas Tree Time

Tonight was our little town's official Christmas Tree lighting. The mammoth pine in front of the Bed & Breakfast was the center of attention as folks bundled up and waited for the Mayor to flip the switch.

Unfortunately, I didn't last that long. An unusually frigid day for North Carolina kept the crowds huddled around hot chocolate, coffee, and hot cider tables. After helping out at the hot apple cider table for an hour, my feet froze to the cement pad and my head pounded from the bitter cold. My fifteen-month-old grand baby wasn't interested in waiting another hour to see Santa. I worried whether he was too cold as my nose dripped and my fingers grew numb. So, we headed to the warmth of the car and home.

Inside my house, the tree is lit and the mantles are decorated for the season. It's warm and cozy as the fire roars. It's Christmas tree time.

I love driving by houses at night, getting a glimpse of Christmas trees showing off in the windows. They blink and stretch toward the top of the curtain rods. Some are formal, dressed in white lights, while others dare to twinkle entirely in blue or even red. Occasionally, I sneak a peak at an old one, with those retro mammoth lights we had as kids. They came in every Crayola color, remember? Even orange. Hurling me back to the sixties when every tree was covered in angel hair and sprayed with fake snow, I love Christmas tree time.

But tonight, a fifty-foot tree in our town stands as host of the Christmas Season. I'll see it often, get some pictures, and remember it always. It will record itself in my memory book of my first Christmas Tree Time here.

I like that.

Blessings to you and yours.

The Joys of Working Women

I've got a blog post lurking in my head. Would love to stay and work on it. But it's 7:00 a.m. and I've spent too much time reading other friend's blogs. I better get my butt in gear or I'm going to be late for work -- writing for somebody else.

Oh, the joy of watching the clock.

Later, dudes.

Blessings to you and yours.

Post Thanksgiving Thanks

There comes a point in your life when you realize: who matters, who never did, who won't anymore ... and who always will. So, don't worry about people from your past, there's a reason why they didn't make it to your future.

I'm thankful, this rainy Sunday morning, for the friends and family members in my life. They are the substance of my existence. I'm also thankful, for my relationship (though sometimes a shaky one) with Jesus. Yes, I'm a believer.

It doesn't mean I'm a Bible-thumping, right-wing Conservative, in-your-face fanatic. No. It simply means, I've experienced the miracle hand of God moving in my life. I have seen the evidence of him as he has passed my way. I'm grateful he's in my present and future. I know what it means to have the blessed hope.

He is a living God. Make no mistake.

Not a fire-breathing, old man with a beard and lightning bolts in his hand, or a pissed-off God. A God ready to strike mankind off the face of the earth.

No.

He's my friend.

And like a true friend, he's always there when I need him. Never imposing, always patient, kind, and ready to remind me that I can talk to him ... even when I don't need him. He's misses me.

Thanksgiving was busy, but I was reminded of how he, like my friends and family ... needs to see me more often. We've had an on-again off-again relationship, but I've always known him to be there, waiting, faithful, and responsive. He's real to me. Very real. And above all this Thanksgiving, I'm thankful for that.

It was one of the best Thanksgivings ever.

Blessings to you and yours.

Thanksgiving Blessings

This week, I'm fixing Thanksgiving Dinner for eight adults and one 15-month old. I started last week, planning, plotting, and pouring over my recipes. It's not an easy feat. Each day demands that I cook something ahead of time.

Saturday, Mike and I scrubbed floors (my hands and knees still hurt) and caught up on laundry. Last night I looked out my kitchen window and my husband had built a blazing fire under the stars. Down by the barn, the flames shot up into the cold Carolina sky. I thought it a blessing to live in the country ... where you can still burn leaves and logs and not worry about your neighbors. (Personally, I love the smell of a good bonn fire.)

Thing is, it was time to relax. For me it was sitting next to the fire inside the house, reading a book. For Mike, (he'd had enough of the Panthers game) ... it was time to piddle outside.

A great way to end a busy week-end. Now all I have to do, is stay on target the rest of the week. I am looking forward to the holidays this year. (New house and all.) There's always a new set of problems, stress, and things to "worry" about. But somehow ... we'll get through it. We always do. I'm learning more lately about how to let all that worry turn into positive energy.

I'm standing on solid ground. I refuse to walk into my future backward, glaring at my past. This week is going to be a good week. For you, also.

Thanksgiving Blessings to you and yours.

Once In A Blue Moon

That's my blogging efforts these days. Once in a blue moon. The weeks fly by. This working full-time thing has tied up my time, my writing mind, and my sincere efforts to blog consistently. I'm amazed at how fast time has passed since my last entry. Thanksgiving is next week and I find myself still dreading computer time at home. When you work all day on one for somebody else, it's not fun to face it at home for yourself. It's just not.

I've determined that after Thanksgiving, I'm going to find a routine to write. Although I do squeeze in a bit of writing time nearly every day, it's not enough. Not compared to past years.

All I can do right now, at this minute, is say I'm sorry I'm such a wus when it comes to my blog. I will try harder in the future. And if by some miracle you decide to check in from time to time, just know that eventually ... I'll be writing under that blue moon.

Blessings to you and yours.

Whining For No Good Reason

I've spent the end of October and the first part of November getting busier at work, crashing when I get home, then waking at the crack of dawn only to start yet another day. Weekends fly by. I feel as though I'm outside myself, watching my life pass by like an old movie. Halloween has come and gone, and thankfully, a President has been elected. All while I'm attempting to squeeze in time for laundry, a new recipe, and yard work.

A trip up to Mt. Airy, Pilot Mountain, and the Snappy Lunch Diner last Saturday lifted our spirits. The air was crisp and Autumn colors exploded over the foothills. A fleeting afternoon that although fun, it flew by.

I don't remember life being like this when I worked full-time before. I'm forcing myself to find a good book this weekend. I've started several bad ones, which have all landed back on my shelves with note to self: give away. (Somebody publish something worth reading, how 'bout it?!) But lately, it seems all I want to do is cuddle up with my husband on the couch and watch hours of mind-numbing TV. This past week election coverage was interspersed with HBO and ESPN. Nothing great, just plain old TV. I'm not a TV person, that's the weird part!

Quite possibly it's the season. Other than building a new fire pit out by the barn, we don't spend much time outside. The cooler weather means winter is coming. Life, in and of itself, is slowing down. In nature and inside me. I'm whining when I should be writing!

Work is good. In fact, it's great. If I have to work, this is the place for me. A fantastic boss, I work alone, I enjoy meeting the patients, and it's over at 5:00 p.m. There's no taking work home, worrying about getting behind, fear of tomorrow. It's perfect and I'm thankful for it. But I'm feeling guilty for not writing while I'm dozing on the couch.

I suppose it's going to take some time to sort it out. Get the feel of this full-time work thing again. Now if someone would just buy my novel ... my whining would stop. Ha!

Blessings to you and yours.

Halloween Fun In Oak Ridge

Ahh, been a while. Sorry about that. Working full time leaves me pooped at the end of the day. Last Saturday was our Halloween bash in town. Enjoy the pictures!

Hauling The Trash Out Of Our Life

I'm not pack rat. I love a clean house, order, and simplicity. But during last week's garage sale, I realized I had trouble letting go of a few things that ordinarily, I would've stuck right out there on the table and slapped a price tag on it. Maybe it's because these items have belonged to me for such a long time, it didn't seem natural to watch them being carried off by somebody else.

Things like - lamp shades I'm not using, chipped knick-knacks, picture frames, and dishes. It's not like I'm going to use these "things" any time soon. If ever. So why couldn't I bear to part with them? Possibly I didn't want to dig them out of the closet and haul them out to the garage, just to haul them back in if they didn't sell.

Habits, problems, issues in our lives are like that. We hold on to them, because they been there for so long, they couldn't possibly belong to anybody else. We're embarrassed to "put them out on the table" for folks to see. And what would happen if we tried to rid ourselves of the habit, when in the end ... we take it back anyway?

Something to think about, eh?

Blessings to you and yours.

Getting To Know The Neighborhood

Not all garage sales are alike. Today we had our first garage sale at our new place. We host a bi-yearly sale, inviting family to bring their junk/treasures to sell along with ours. In years past we've seen our first customer before dawn, usually at 6 a.m., selling out by 10 a.m.

Today, we didn't see customers until about 8. Everyone had had their coffee. There was no mad dash to be first in the door. Nobody bickered over the prices. It was a constant, steady, and slow stream of customers. In nice cars, clothes, and even full make up on a few women. (We're not in Kansas anymore.)

I tried to hide. My idea of doing a garage sale is falling out of bed, throwing my dirty, unbrushed hair into a pony tail, washing the night's grease off my face, and pulling on any pair of sweat pants and t-shirt regardless of the holes, paint, and coffee stains. Hey, at garage sales, I'm selling my junk, not my books. I'm not out to win any beauty contest. I like making $150.00 on crap that's been sitting in my shed and closets. It's worth a morning's work for that.

But it was interesting, having a garage sale in this new neighborhood. At first I thought we'd made a mistake, because there was nobody waiting to get in. But eventually, they trickled in until most of our stuff sold. Most people wanted to talk, find out who we were, where we came from, and if we knew the history of our house ... because after all, they'd lived in this town all their life, their grandma used to know the old lady who lived in our house, and they could tell us all about it. After all.

I felt like it I was hosting a family reunion instead of a garage sale. It was a blast, the folks were friendly, complimenting our home and barn. But I'm drained. I feel like I could go back to bed. Except there's $150.00 burning a hole in my pocket.

Garage sales, I've discovered, are the perfect way to meet your neighbors. It's like an invitation to coffee, and browse the tables for old books, Nascar paraphernalia, beanie babies, and mugs with and without cracks. And the talk is always light, fun, and friendly. Not a bad way to start a Saturday.

Blessings to you and yours.

Leonardo

When you hear the name, do you think DaVinci or DiCaprio?

So I was reading Parade Magazine last Sunday (October 5, 2008) because one of my favorite actors adorned the cover. In an interview with Dotson Rader, Leonardo's star power has no boundaries. And neither does his burning desire for normalcy. He seems to be grounded with a better-than-average head on his shoulders. Not just in looks, but smarts. I love the way he's matured, grown not only as an actor, but as a man.

My point in mentioning this is that he said something amazing. It struck a chord with me. A loud, hard chord. Talking about his parents, he said, "All I have left are my parents ... I know that if one of them had been any different, it would have sent my life into a spiral of misunderstandings and insecurities about the world and about the relationships I have. Ninety-percent of the people I meet are dealing with issues they can't overcome because of bad parenting. That's the truth. There's that side of you that says, 'Time to get over the hurt and move on,' ... it's hard to do. So you just hang on to the emotion that this one didn't love me, or why didn't that relationship last? That stuff stays with you forever. You want to say, 'Get over yourself! Come on! Time to grow up!' Some people are able to do that, but a lot of us remain victims of it. So I was fortunate with my parents. Without them, I would never have been able to be as level-headed as I am, considering everything that's happened to me."

DiCaprio's parents were divorced when he was very young.

Made me think of my own grown children. I don't they they've ever gotten over some of it. It's my opinion anyway. I think they've been dealing with issues of bad parenting for many, many years. But it's over. Way over. We can't undo what's been done to us. They both are wonderful, wonderful people, thank God. Adults now, on their own, with great lives they've carved out all on their own.

Or did they?

I think they became such admirable adults because they were so determined not to make the same mistakes their parents did. They did a good job. But instead of feeling like DiCaprio feels about his divorced parents, I think ... their dad and I are still (on some level) the 'bad' parents. Now, no misunderstandings here, I know they love me ... and of course, their dad. They really do love us.

Maybe it's just I'm feeling the miles between us. They live so far away.

Anyway, not to worry. They don't read my blog. Or my books. I really wasn't the perfect mom. But they are and always will be, the reason my heart beats.

Leonardo says he wants to be known as someone who stood for something. I guess we all do.

God bless you, Leonardo DiCaprio, and your mom and dad ...

And blessings to you and yours.

Learning Something New

I'm learning a new software system. A medical software system. For my new job. And it's not easy. This weekend, I felt as though I were cramming for a final. My head hurt, I drank pots of coffee, and finally last night, my eyes gave out. Thing is ... I'm only half way through the book.

It's relatively easy to understand. But you know me, I have to know this thing! I pour myself over each page, making notes, trying to imagine each sequence. Ah-ha! I finally realized last night that this is the first time I've ever learned a software system totally on my own and entirely from the book! Not an easy task, especially when you're new to physical therapy and it's been a few years since running a medical practice.

The office is still under construction. A new physical therapy practice that is almost, but not quite, ready for patients. So I can't get my hands on a computer with this program on it, and until that time, there's been no sense in getting any instruction from the maker.

I'm wondering if I'm going to be so far ahead when I finally do get hands-on instruction, that I'll just whiz right through each application. Or, I'll have learned it wrong on my own, and become totally confused.

But in some aspect, working in medicine is like riding a bike. Some things have been drilled in so far, there's not a chance of forgetting. While others are new, fresh, interesting. The business side of medicine is complicated, and the insurance companies all have their own language. It's not easy. Yet I know, like anything else in life, once you apply it, learn it, know it ... you've got it! Until the next update. Policy change. Medicare notice.

Life goes on. I think I'll go read some good fiction.

Blessings to you and yours.

Strong Women

Strong Women ...
May we know them
May we raise them
May we be them

An anonymous quote, beautifully scripted on a decorator pillow that adorns my bed.

How many strong women do you know? Have you known any? Don't think about Mother Teresa or Eleanor Roosevelt, but consider the women you meet every day. What makes a strong woman? Do you raise your daughters to be strong women? How?

Are you a strong woman?

Think about it.

Blessings to you and yours.

SCREAM!

Is there nothing more disgusting, disturbing, and annoying than some jackass punk who has turned up the bass on his "radio" so loud that you can hear it a half-mile away, in your house, with the windows closed? (No exaggeration, here.)

I moved out to the country for peace and quiet, and yet gangster-wanna-be high school punks out here in the sticks STILL race down my road on occasion, with the music cranked so dadgum loud, I can't imagine their hearing isn't affected. Mine is. And my windows are closed!

There's got to be a law. There's got to be some way this invasion of my peace and quiet can be stopped.

And I'm not an old fart! I'm a classic rock lover from way back. But this shake-the-windows-in-your-car-and-my-house has to stop.

Beware, crack heads. I'm taking down license plate numbers and reporting them, hoping eventually we can create a law to stop your stupidity.

I love to bitch on my blog. It's gets it off my chest.

For what it's worth.

To Be Content

I look back at the past five years of my writing career with smiles and moans. I never expected the turns and twists, the bumps and the bruises. Well, maybe a few.

But it seems this writing thing I do, has taken a mirror image of my past struggles. We writers often think there's going to be a big pay-off someday. That fate is going to hand us a trophy for our diligence and our damn-it-all tenacity to succeed. Many of us fully believe we will find our rightful spot on the shelves of Barnes & Noble. And some writers see their name on the bestseller lists across the country.

Yet, for as much as I believe in dreaming those big dreams, I'm finding the "pay-offs" if you will, are not always what we anticipate. And like my daddy says, "wishin' ain't gettin'."

I sat next to a couple of lovely ladies this past week at the High Point Literary League's Fall Luncheon, where Jodi Picoult was the guest speaker. These ladies were as enthralled with the fact that they were sitting next to me, the author who wrote Southern Fried Women, as they were to hear Jodi Picoult. To these women, Jodi and I were on the same playing field.

Ha! Can you imagine?

I tried to explain, I'm a starving artist compared to Ms. Picoult who is light years ahead of me. But they didn't care a twit. They said they loved my book, "as much as anything Jodi had written."

My book. A collection of short stories. My only book, so far. A small accomplishment in comparison to Jodi P. I felt a little embarrassed. Embarrassed that I have not been able to yet see the success I thought I would by now. Embarrassed I'm such a small fish in an ocean of authors.

But then, I got to thinking. If this is all the success I ever see, then I'm going to be okay with that. I'm going to hope that Don Maass is right, that it does take a good decade to make a great novelist, but if it doesn't happen ... I'm going to keep on writing because ... that's my heart. That's what I love to do. Not because I think I should be on the same playing field with Jodi, or Nora, or Danielle, or Diana. When you get to my age, and you've been through a few of life's wars, your accomplishments begin to take on different shapes. Strange how that happens.

Does that mean one should settle for whatever comes? No. It means we writers must find contentment to be who we are, not who we hope to be.

Should I continue to pioneer my way to publication? By all means. But it doesn't mean there's going to be a big party waiting at the end of the trail. By all means, dream big. Always dream big.

Just know, there may never be a big "pay off." There may only be one book and this blog. But as long as I write for the right reasons, believe there's a few who want to read what I write, then I'll keep plowing my field. Sowing my word seeds.

Harvest may be a ways off. I may have to pray for rain. But in the meantime, I'll just go ahead and write the next story.

Blessings to you and yours.

Cookie Weather

I love to bake cookies. Especially in the evening, they make the house smell yummy. But I especially love to bake on cold, wintery evenings. Like tonight. We've skipped Autumn and have landed on a Winter's day. A prelude of things to come.

After working for ten hours, there's nothing better to clear your head than fresh baked cookies, a glass of cold milk or hot tea, and a good TV movie. Along with a crackling fire. A toasty blanket. And a riveting book to read during the commercials.

This evening, I popped a couple dozen chocolate chips and peanut butter chips into a brown-sugar cookie batter, added a few chopped walnuts, and Wa La! Comfort food to get through a night of howling, cold wind, rain, and dropping temperatures.

It's amazing how a batch of hot cookies, fresh from the oven, can melt away your problems. (Godamighty, I sound like a commercial for Pillsbury.)

I feel like I'm preparing for the holidays. This year, in my new (old) farmhouse, I'm ready for it.

It's cookie weather. And I'm ready for it, too.

Blessings to you and yours.

What A Dish!

Saturday, Replacements Limited in Greensboro held the grandest yard sale of the year. A dish lover's paradise, over two acres of porcelain, china, dishes, bowls, serving platters, you name it ... they had it. In boxes on the ground. Hundreds and hundreds of them. Close out patterns, some chipped, but most were not. You could dig through the boxes, pick around and pull out a real find! The place was packed, but folks walked away with thousands of dollars of dishes for $5.00 a box!

And so did I.

After I hiked a mile from the parking lot, it was $5.00 to get through the gate and $5.00 for an empty box, which you could fill as full as you wanted. Or could carry.

I was in heaven.

Fortunately, Michael came to my rescue to carry my box instead of relaxing and waiting on me in the car. So then I decided ... I'm going to fill the darn thing up!

And I did.

Beautiful plates, a few serving bowls, and tea cups and saucers. 130 pieces in all. All for 5 bucks! That's almost for free!

What am I going to do with them, you ask? Some have already been through the dishwasher and have held my breakfast. Some are on my walls. The rest will end up in my own garage sale. I'll make more than 5 bucks on what I sell, you can bet.

But then, a few will be given as presents, Christmas and otherwise, to friends and family whether they like pretty tea cups or not. (So look out!)

My husband has always said I am "quite the dish!" Ha. I guess that's not far from the truth.

Blessings to you and yours.

Are These The Last Days?

I think Wall Street would like us to think so. CNN and the rest of the networks have to sensationalize something, don't they? I mean, well gosh, there are ratings to think of. They've got to keep us glued to the Boob Tube somehow.

Your remember Y2K?

Trouble is, it's hard to separate honest reporting from sensationalism. Folks are always running scared from one thing or another. From Anthrax, terriorism, long gas lines, poison Tylenol, coffee, sugar, and even colored toilet paper. But nowadays, they're running from just the possibility of bad things. Always looking over their shoulder for the next bomb to drop. In my opinion, this financial crisis could be solved in one fell swoop. Let's get out of Iraq. Period. Simple. (Well, I wish it was that simple ... but we spend billions every day fighting a war nobody wants.)

But that's too simple for Congress. Somebody is making money off that war, and it sure isn't the average American.

I'm also very, very familiar with "end-time" signs. The born-again Christian's belief in the end of the world. Go to http://www.raptureready.com/index.php and check it out.

It's not just the journalists who have everybody scared to death. I grew up with the fear that God was going to destroy the earth any second. Truthfully now, I vividly remember thinking that my children would never grow up. It was in the late 1970s and I honestly believed that we (the good Christians who were rapture ready) would never see the 1980s.

I'm not so gullible in 2008.

I'm also not so arrogant to think these aren't the "last days." But I don't worry about it anymore. I live my life. I can't change the gas situation, the money market situation, or the problems with the Federal Reserve. All I can do, is cast my vote and pray. Besides if you believe in the hereafter, like I do, our lives are just a blip on God's radar screen.

Are these the last days? Nobody really knows. Nobody.

What I can do, however, is have peace in my own house. I refuse to live in fear. Flat out refuse.

And if that means keep the Boob Tube turned off, that's what it means. If that means boycott web sites like "Rapture Ready," then I will.

My trust in God has nothing to do with the world and its problems. His eye is on the sparrow, you know? I won't bury my head in the sand, but I won't live as though these are the last days.

Even if they are.

Blessings to you and yours.

Pioneering A New Frontier

I've been thinking about the word pioneer. I wrote in yesterday's blog, "My plan is to pioneer a path to publication ... " Hmmm. What do you think I meant?

Numerous definitions in the Dictionary drove a chill down my spine, as if someone dropped an ice cube down my shirt:

One who is first or among the earliest in any field of inquiry, enterprise, or progress ...
To be the first to open or prepare a way ...
To take part in the beginnings of; initiate ...
To lead the way for a group; guide ...
Being the earliest, original, first of a particular kind, etc. ...
One who opens up new areas of thought, research, or development ...
Leading the way; trailblazing ...

Am I a pioneer? Can I do this?

Pioneers traveled to our country’s frontier for many different reasons, they all wanted an opportunity to start new lives.

I too, want an opportunity. A life as a writer where my work is read by millions.

Most pioneers were farmers.

Most writers are hard-working citizens. Not looking for a hand-out, we work relentlessly in solitude. Most writers are middle-class, average folk ... not celebrities who can't write a lick and are handed publishing contracts for their stories written by ghost writers.

Pioneers went to Oregon, Texas, and other areas of the frontier for land available for homesteading.

I, too, will venture into a frontier, an unknown territory, to homestead my place on the book shelves of America.

Pioneers wanted the rich, fertile land for their crops.

My desire is to find rich, fertile minds -- hundreds of thousands of readers for my books.

Other pioneers traveled to the frontier because they had heard stories that made the new lands sound like magical places. Some went to the frontier in order to prospect for gold, to hunt and trade.

My frontier is filled with stories, new lands, and magical places. I will also prospect for gold, hunt, trade. My wagons have a way to go, my load is heavy, but my spirit is stronger than ever. It took time to cross the country, danger rode along with each pioneer, some never made it. But in the end, they blazed a trail. Found a better way.

My intentions are not to discredit the industry, but just to find a better way.

In the end, I recall and will live by the Pioneer's Creed: The Cowards Never Started. The Weak Died Along the Way. Only the Strong Survived.

Wagons Ho!

Blessings to you and yours.

Making Changes Everywhere

My new boss came to my house this morning, equipped with an armful of notes and physical therapy "stuff" he wants me to review. Michael was working away in his office upstairs while Andy (my boss) and I spread out a ton of paperwork on my dining room table.

I wrote a Press Release for him, reviewed his web site pages and rewrote his business brochure. Right up my alley, you might say. Fun stuff. We discussed setting up the new office. It's going to be sleek and contemporary, very cool. I've been reading up on physical therapists and what, exactly, they do. It's amazing how important they are to not only the injured and post-operative patient, but also to the athlete. Andy is one of only 16 Sports Certified Physical Therapists in North Carolina. There will be all kinds of runners, football players, soccer enthusiasts, and swimmers working out in our offices to treat an injury or to prevent one.

I'm looking forward to this change, working with my community, and getting to know most of the folks here in my new home town. And one thing is for sure, going back to managing a medical office will be a bit different this time. I'm starting at the beginning. I don't have to clean up somebody else's mess this time. There will be no patient charts, everything is on-line. I'm loving it. I can insure everything is done right the first time. It's a great way to work, if you're as anal as I am.

I'm already forming a story in my head. Strange how that happens. Another story for the next short story collection. The past few months have caused me to see things differently, as I've already blogged about, writing wise. My plan is to "pioneer" a path to publication, make my own success. There's a better way, and you can bet I'm going to find it. Somebody has got to change it, or at least try. Why can't it be me?

And so ... if I have to work a while to make that happen ... then that's what I do. I'm making changes everywhere.

In the meantime, I'm enjoying my dive into this PT practice. I'm blessed with a nice boss, a new place to work only minutes from my house, and I'm the only employee. Hey, if you have to work, this is a pot-of-gold situation.

You just never know when life is going to throw you a curve ball. I guess the best way to approach it is with a catcher's mask and good, strong, glove.

Blessings to you and yours.

Weathering Life

My thoughts this morning are like the rain. They're pouring in and disappearing in the cracks of my brain before I can write them all down. I'm growing older, I can feel it. But I'm not dreading it, as some would think. I find life is much like the weather. Blowing in and out, cold fronts, warm fronts, and a few hurricanes ... we withstand the storms, get through the droughts.

I'm thankful to be warm and dry this morning. It's pouring here in NC at the moment. The skies are gunmetal gray, the first signs of Autumn fill the soaked air. A day for ducks and umbrellas, it's not an enjoyable day, I just want to get through it. I look forward to the sunshine again.

Isn't that just like life? We can wander around down in some valley, yet we know there's a mountaintop ... somewhere. Somehow, we climb out of our situations, enjoy a little sunshine on our face.

I'm looking at life differently these days. I see things a little more clearly, even through the rain.

Blessings to you and yours.

On Being Friendly

Today I attended the Bookmarks Book Festival in Winston-Salem. As a featured author at the Winston-Salem Writers table, I spent my time meeting and greeting folks who meandered up to the table and perused the books by our authors. We just ... well ... talked shop!

I ran into to Quinn Dalton, a lovely lady with just as lovely of a personality. http://www.quinndalton.com/ We chatted awhile. Then I spent some time with Sheryl Monks (http://www.press53.com/) ... what a special woman with a heart for writers. I met her mama who sat next to her at the Press 53 table. It's a blast to talk writing with folks who love it as much as I do. I often run into the same writers/editors/publishers on the "circut." It's soothing to my writer's soul, catching up with these folks.

There are many emerging writers who attend these festivals. I love encouraging the newbies because there's much to learn and many routes in which to go. The new writers eyes are wide and their hearts are even wider. They absorb it quickly.

I find great and enormous satisfaction rise up when I plant a seed of encouragement. Then when I see the harvest of that seed, I know I did a good thing.

A few years ago, I spoke at historical society that really ... didn't draw many folks to the event. But one little, pretty lady showed up at my table and we talked for quite a while about writing. We shared our stories and our lives, and in the end we kept in touch throughout the years. She felt so unsure of herself, but over time this precious woman blossomed! Recently, she mustered up the courage to enter a writing contest, in which she won third place!

I saw her today. Her smile and her warm eyes were penetrating. She's still trying to gain confidence, but she's definitely on her way! I expect great things out of her in the future. I can feel it. It's coming.

Very simply, in taking the time to get to know her, encourage her, I encouraged myself.

Are you getting my point?

Today, I also sat next to a table (the group shall remain nameless) where a prominent member of this popular group manned the table. Few folks visited their table (at least not while I was there) but one thing really bothered me. The prominent member never smiled. Not once. Not to me or anyone who walked up to their table. The cold personality of this person blew my way. I felt it. I tried to make eye contact, speak, even nodded a hello ... but nothing was returned. Even though this person knew I've been a great supporter of the group. I felt heartsick.

Here's the thing, folks. It doesn't take much energy to be friendly. If you're in the public eye, representing a group, cover your bad mood and slap a smile on your face. I'm wondering how much of this cold personality has taken over their group? Oh sure, I watched this person speak to folks who they thought were "important." But to the little fella ... it was quite a different story. Amazing.

I hope to God, if I've ever snubbed another human being, I've made some sort of restitution. Listen, there's no excuse for not offering your hand to your fellow man. Do I sound preachy? I hope so. I'm about fed up with cruel people, unkind jerks, and holier-than-thou humans who think that because they've "been there" and "done that" that they don't have to lower themselves to befriend the woman standing next to them.

I'm no saint. I've made mistakes. Plenty of them. But God knows I'll never put myself up on some sort of a pedestal. We're all made out of the same kind of mud. If you're a writer that has experienced any kind of success, it's your responsibility to take the emerging writer's hand next to you and pull them up.

Let's all just get over our big, bad selves. How about it?

Love covers a multitude of sins. It's time we thought about that. So what if being friendly doesn't come natural to you. So what if you have to fake it. Maybe if you fake it enough, it'll become real. Be a friend. It's the best feeling in the world.

Blessings to you and yours.

Looking Back

I spoke to a large group of Greensboro Methodist women this past Tuesday evening. Warm, open, and receptive, these women (like so many other women I speak to) sat glued to their seats. Coming Out of the Dark and into the Life of a Writer has become my signature speech. Often a difficult speech to give, I'm left with a heightened sense of urgency after delivering this last one.

Maybe it's because I'm going back to work and I feel as though my time will now be limited. Limited to how many engagements I can actually book before wearing myself too thin. Strange, I've never felt more sure of my purpose than I do now. And yet, publication eludes me. I keep thinking that going back to work will allow me to take matters into my own hands, and get Televenge published and launched. And yet, I can tell I'm going to yearn to be home writing, like a mother of young children longs to be home with her babies.

I'm attending the Bookmarks Festival tomorrow, sitting at the Winston-Salem Writers table. I'll be talking to folks about books, my book, their book ... it's an author's paradise and a voracious reader's event of the year. I know I've got other engagements still booked for this year. But I'm now having to share my life with ... a 9-5 job.

I look back on all these blogs and I know this time was not wasted. Nay. Not at all. I will pick up the torch yet again in the future. And maybe this time, I'll carry it all the way to the finish line. In the interim, it's quite possible that I'll find even more time to write than before.

Let's hope so.

Blessings to you and yours.

Hanna

This hurricane is showing her back side to North Carolina. She's moving fast, about 20 mph, and dumping wind, rain, and misery on our coast, as well as in the Piedmont. I hear she's moving North. Doesn't much like our Southern hospitality, I reckon.

Life is like a hurricane, sometimes. One day the sun is bright in the sky, the next you're wondering if you should build an ark. Life goes along smoothly, just as you've planned it ... then out of nowhere, you're blindsided with troubles. It happens. To the best of us. The Good Book says that the rain falls on the just and the unjust. I suppose nobody is exempt from disappointment or, well ... rain in their life. Nobody.

I like a good storm, though. And life's challenges only make us mighty. I just wish they were as easy to predict as a hurricane.

Blessings to you and yours.

Back To Work

I'm going back to work. Well ... the real kind of work. The eight-hour-a-day kind. For many reasons. But I'm no less of a writer. I'm no less of a speaker. I will continue to speak, write, and publish. Probably with more gusto than ever. Finding spare minutes in the morning or evening, time management will become like a prescription. A bitter pill I must swallow every day- like it or not.

I have a plan, you see. I have a vision, a purpose, a reason to fill up the piggy bank with as much as I can squirrel away.

I wonder how many writers are just naturally - well ... rich? Most writers work day jobs. I certainly have in the past. It's nothing I haven't done before. If a writer is lucky, she can write for a living. Journalism is always a favorite way to pass the time until the novel becomes a "hit." But I've been blessed. To have had the full-time ability to write day and night for the past few years and see the fruit of what I've sown.

However, I have a dream. (To quote a very famous person.) My vision to become a full-time published author doesn't end just because I've "gone back to work." Am I trying to convince myself? Well, sure. A little. But at my age ... after all is said and done, I know my life's path. True, I'll give 100% to my employer, but I will continue to push for the dream to come true - always.

The blog will continue, as well as my speaking engagements and my stories ... they'll still get published. In fact, I anticipate publication in a new anthology next spring. My fear, however, is that folks who have heard me talk about Televenge will think it'll never happen. Maybe I talked about it too soon, but I can tell you ... my enthusiasm for this novel will never, ever waiver. It WILL get published. It's a great story. So, if I have to save money to go to New York and hire the biggest and best publicist money can buy ... then so be it.

We do what we have to do. Or can do. God does the rest.

I received an email this morning from a dear friend. One who has read the manuscript. She's well respected and her opinions matter to everyone who knows her. She said, "... glad to hear you found a job, but I still believe in you and your book!" There have been other comments, much the same, and they're appreciated.

I'm speaking next week to a group of women. A large congregation who will gather to hear the speech Coming Out of the Dark and into the Life of a Writer. I'll always be a writer. But for the next few years, I'll also be working in a medical office, giving it my undivided attention, as well. Something I'm very familiar with. Who knows? I'm sure there will be a story or two that will come out of it.

I have a plan, you see. I have a vision, a purpose. Nothing will stop that.

Blessings to you and yours.

Shacks

After moving to North Carolina years ago, I began to notice the ever-present abandoned shacks that dot our counties. Travel down any country road and you'll see them. Old, dilapidated buildings constructed some fifty to one-hundred fifty years ago. I used to wonder why there were so many here in the South, but few in the northern states.

Duh. It didn't take long and I realized the milder southern climate does not wear on these relics as does the snow, salt, and consistent rain of the North. Either that, or our southern ancestors just loved to build more outbuildings than those who settled in northern states.

Of course, these buildings weren't always old, decaying shacks. What were they?

Good question. I'm guessing some of them were chicken coops, outhouses, smoke houses, sawmills, tobacco barns, potting sheds, moonshine stills, any number of reasons why these smallish buildings were constructed. I see them hugging the roads, covered in weeds, kudzo, and ivy ... abandoned for decades. I wonder who owned the land? Who built them and why were they left to rot? They squat like hundred-year old men, just waiting to die. But they don't. They're made of rock foundations and tin roofs. The wood walls, though worn, are so old they're almost petrified.

Home to the ground hog, a fox or two, spiders, and mice ... these old buildings serve only one purpose for today's generations. To remind us that once upon a time, a family lived on that piece of land. A family now gone. Dust to dust. The old shack won't die though. Not until some land developer decides to rape the land to throw up a hundred houses so close together you can hear your neighbor's toilet flush. Progress, they call it.

There's a cluster of old shacks across the street from me. I love them. Aged and care worn, their patina is a luster of all things mysterious. They scream out their story and I strain to listen to them. They're not eye-sores. They blend in with the trees and the red dirt. I hope they stay there always. I hope they will continue to be my only neighbors at least until I'm carried out of my house toes up. I hope they'll warm up to me and finish telling me who they are. I'll visit them often in my walks in the woods. Shacks can be scary, ominous, and uninviting to most folk. But to me, they're just a bit of history ... just waiting to tell their story.

Blessings to you and yours.

First Lines

I believe the first line to any story is crucial to the success of the book. That initial sentence will hook most readers. Sometimes a whole story comes to me after I've written the first line. The following are first sentences from my own stories, some published, some not. (But I thought I'd share.)

Howard was the last man to lay up on my bed under the blue patchwork quilt. (The Evidence of Things Unseen - unpublished)

Had I known my mother was going to leave me the day after I was born, I would’ve fought to stay inside her a while longer. (Cry: Southern Fried Women)

Peggy picked at the dirt between her toes and glimpsed up from time to time to watch a string of drool slide down Earl’s chin and land on his bright red satin tie. (Old Time Religion: Southern Fried Women)

I gaze up at the sky and wonder if it’s rain or pee from Victoria’s diaper that’s dripped on my leg. (Vernell Paskins-Mobile Home Queen: Southern Fried Women)

When I was ten, Mom gave up and spread us out among family members. (Macel and Annel - unpublished)

"You're ugly as sin, Stella. You stink like a dead cow, too." (Atlanta's Stories - unpublished)

"If I had heard you sing like that when we were little girls, I wouldn’t have wasted all those years thinking you were dumb as dirt." (Half Slip - unpublished)

In all of Andie’s youth, never had there been a time when she was more ripe and ready for love than the summer of her fourteenth birthday. (Televenge- unpublished)

Your mind can take over from here ... or you can read the story. My point is, I love first lines ... they, along with the last line, are the jewelry of the book. The earrings on the story. The cherry and the last slurp of chocolate of a sundae. They reel us in, then soften our landing. I never know when a first line will hit me. But when it does, I'm lost in time until the characters appear in my head. Then my morning is gone, the hours fly by, my day is shot.

Often, a first line will change once the story is in progress. I read other books and wonder how they came up with that first sentence. Or, why did they write that as their first sentence? Some authors pay little attention to it, while others (you can tell) have labored over it.

Open your favorite books, read the first lines again. Enjoy!

Blessings to you and yours.

Time In A Bottle of NyQuil

It's all a blur. The past few days I've been fighting what seems to be the worst cold/flu I can remember in quite a long time. And it started on my birthday. Happy birthday to me. My husband brought home what I thought to be just a head cold. He suffered a few days, while ingesting a ton of meds and herbal remedies. I prayed that I wouldn't catch it. But, as always, we share everything.

I'm on the upswing. It hit me harder, unfortunately. I've lost my voice. But I refuse to let this week copy last week. Aches, fever, congestion, and basically ... oh God, just let me die.

If I could save time in a bottle ... isn't that an old song? I can't even begin to think about time. I've taken the summer off from just about everything I'm committed to. A whirlwind of weddings, traveling, moving to this house ... it's overwhelming. My friend, Dena, says I'm just filling up the funnel for good things to write about. I hope she's right. At this moment, however, I just want to breathe through my nose again. All my time has been sucked up into a bottle of NyQuil.

Blessings to you and yours.

Little Bits of Nothing

After a dozen conversations with Time Warner and Earthlink, I believe we've finally solved the problem. But I find I'm not the only woman who loses her temper with computer glitches. My good friends, Dena and Blair, came for dinner Saturday night. Dena, it seems, has about as much patience with incompetent "help" as I do. Anyway, it was good for a few laughs ... comparing our all-too-patient husbands and our own what's-wrong-with-these-people! personalities.

Life here in Oak Ridge is quiet. Unless, of course, you include the loose horses running at break-neck speed down the street. One of our neighbors left her gate open and two young mares took the opportunity to make a run for it. Right toward downtown. I heard, what seemed to be a stampede, and then saw these two horses kicking up their heels and having a ball. Naturally, I was concerned for their safety and I called the fire and rescue. Eventually, "Thunder" and "Lightning" (my made up names for these horses) were captured and walked back to their corral.

I'm finally moved in completely. I feel like I've been here for years. The birds have returned to the feeders, evidently they've decided the new owners are friendly. Not much else happens in my neck of the woods. Little bits of nothing.

I like it that way.

But I believe it's way past time to get back to work. I'll keep you posted.

Blessings to you and yours.

Troubleshooting or Shooting the Trouble

Troubleshooting? A message from an angry customer.

Don't use Earthlink. Don't use Time Warner Cable. Don't. Save yourself time, grief, and effort. I really believe they hire anybody with warm blood.

After several attempts to explain we have moved to a new location, they are still screwing with our Internet and email. And cable phone? Don't bother. You can't hear well, there's static on the line, and frankly ... it's not worth the money.

Troubleshooting? Right now, I'd like to shoot the total idiots who've caused all the trouble.

Time Warner Cable - Earthlink. Don't bother. They're not worth it.

This was a message from our sponsor ... Southern Fried Woman. A woman who'd love to fry the folks at Time Warner and Earthlink who can't get simple English through their first grade brains.

I've Come Undone

I don't know why, maybe it's the summer breezes, but I'm finding it difficult to sit my butt in the chair and write. It's certainly not writer's block. I've got plenty going on inside my head, but the thought of plugging away on a story right now ... it just doesn't appeal to me.

I think maybe it's the house. Well, duh, in fact I know it is. I'm still in a new home owner zone, and I don't know how to shake it. Not sure I want to. The writing world is passing me by, and somehow - I don't care ... I know I'll catch up. But at this moment, I'm immersed in reading. All my books are now on shelves. Beautiful ones my dad built for me. Books that have not seen the light of day for years are now staring me in the face.

I'm reading Wally Lamb's classic, She's Come Undone. I'm also reading The Shack written by William Young. I'm finding myself absorbed in story, but not wanting to put my own into action. Not quite yet.

Discouraged that Televenge has not yet sold, I try to tell myself the process of selling to a major publisher takes time. That often, it's years before a bestseller is born after completion. But the long wait, the silence, doesn't make it any easier. My next book is in process, I just can't find the energy to finish it.

All I want to do is rest, read, and make great meals in my new kitchen. I've "come undone," and I don't care.

Blessings to you and yours.

I'm Back!

I've got Internet! And TV. And telephone. For the past two weeks I've been moving into a new house and waiting for Time Warner to get their butt in gear and hook me up. Finally.

In the meantime, however, I feel as though I've lived in some kind of time warp. My house, built in 1888, has not only kept me busy 24/7 organizing, cleaning, and finding a place for every little thing, it's held me captive. By not having all the technology at my fingertips, I've found my love of gazing at the morning sun again. Watching finches, hummingbirds, and cardinals eat, peck, and swirl around a feeder. Listening to a distant neighbor's peacock and roosters in the morning duel it out. I found the stars are brighter than ever. Felt the wet grass under my feet and picked corn from another farmer's field. (His welcome to the neighborhood present.)

I scoped out the best tree for a tire swing for my grandson. Found the perfect spot for a sandbox. Fell asleep to the sound of tree frogs and crickets from my open bedroom windows. Filled my kitchen with great smells from dinners I cooked myself. Enjoyed washing clothes from a new washer/dryer. Peeled peaches for a cobbler. Ate blackberries at midnight. Enjoyed a spider weaving her web. I've lost weight (a very good thing) from all the moving, streching, sweating, and cleaning. I've slept like a rock.

Did I miss the Internet? No. TV? No. Telephone? Not a bit.

But now, since I'm all hooked up and tuned in to the 21st century, I've no excuse but to get back to work. The list of things to do is still a long one, but they are little things that can be done over time. Everything is still new to me. This house. Waking up and having coffee with my husband on our covered back porch. Watching the wisteria and the rose bushes grow. It's a dream I never want to wake up from. Never. The views all around the house have thrown me into a different place in my life. I don't feel the rush, the hurry to get it done, the OMG I'm not hearing a thing from my publisher! Somehow, it just doesn't seem so important anymore.

I've taken a deep breath and blown out real contentment for the first time in my life.

That's worth it all.

Blessings to you and yours.

Update

90% moved in. I've unpacked over 70 boxes and still have another 20 or so to go.

I'm beginning to really miss my work, however. The stories are whirling around in my head, some are in outline form, some are half written, one in particular is reading for editing. Another two ideas are written on Panera napkins. I can't stand it. No such thing as writer's block for me. In fact, right now, I believe I'm being tormented. All these ideas and characters and plot points are ripe for the picking. What I wouldn't give for three or four days of writing time.

Huh. Like that's going to happen anytime soon. Thing is, Time Warner Cable has informed us that it will be August 2nd before they can hook up our cable, Internet, and land line. AUGUST 2nd!!

Now, I don't care much that I won't have TV. I can live without it. But my emails and the Internet, that's another matter.

Point is, after this blog, you won't hear from me until after August 2nd. I'll have no way to blog, unless I go to Kinkos or a friend's house. If you need to reach me, call me if you have my number. Any way you shake it, I've got enough housework to keep me busy until the cows head to the barn. (As my grandpa used to say.)

So despite the craving to put my hands on my keyboard and punch out a few stories, I've got a new house to put together. See you on August 2nd!

Signing off ...

Big blessings to you and yours until then.

A Real Place

It seems about once a week is my normal blogging time these days. At least for now. I'm spending my days boxing and unboxing. Organizing a kitchen again. Finding things I've not seen in years. Like letters from my son in 1995 when he went to boot camp. My daughter's bronzed baby shoes. A ceramic bowl given to me by my grandmother. My mother's china that serves 10. Pillows, lamps, linens, pictures, stemware, and on and on. The house is filling up.

I can see the end of the tunnel, however.

I'm pressing on. At times I feel like I'm walking through a dream. That at some point I'm going to wake up and it's all going to be gone. Funny how that moves me to finish. Like if I finish the house, then I won't wake up.

I've forgotten all the details to housekeeping. We've lived with my mother-in-law for seven years. Seven long years. It's been a blessing in a large sense. There are good reasons why we did this. But, well, two women in one house for that long ... it's not healthy. It's just time. Time to have our own home.

I'm hoping to be back to my old writing schedule within the month. For now, this house is all I can think about. You see, I've never owned my own home. Never had my name on a deed. My husband has been instrumental in the fulfillment of this dream. Yet isn't it strange, a woman of my age, homeless in a sense, all my life.

I'm grateful. You learn to never take anything for granted. I tear up and giggle at the same time. Almost every day. This summer I'm enjoying moving into my own house. Not a dream, but a real place I can finally call home.

Blessings to you and yours.

Buelah Land

I'm consumed with moving. Totally. Boxes, bags, furniture, a little of this and that spread over the old house and the new. I can't find my shoes, my favorite bra, or my Advil. It's a nightmare. How many times have I moved? Can't count at the moment, but this is bar far, the most unorganized move. There are issues to warrant that, but I'm trying to get it together. You'd think I'd have this down pat by now. No such thing.

Seven years of boxes and furniture have been collecting in Mike's mom's attic for this move. I can't even remember what's in them. I have to call the garbage man, cable guy, and buy a riding lawn mower this week. There's painting to be done. A new kitchen needs set up with everything from a coffee pot to groceries. I need to decide - do I want sage green in my living room or robins egg blue? My list is as long as both legs. Exciting, exhilarating, and scary all at the same time, this move into the house of my dreams is yes, all consuming.

I wish I could find more than an hour to sit and do what I do best ... write. But I have a new office to furnish. That motivates me to get it all done. My poor husband is working long hours, we both fall into bed each night ... exhausted. But deep in the back of my mind, I'm working on a new story that's developed from all this. I've got the title, the characters, and the message. Beulah Land. It's a metaphor for Heaven. It's also the name of my protagonist. A rough-edged woman, with a soft and doughy heart for her dog, a lost love, and an old house. Haunted by a confederate soldier. The words, Beulah Land, struck me recently as I walked over the property. I looked up the scripture.

"Thou shalt no more be termed Forsaken; neither shall thy land any more be termed Desolate: but thou shalt be called Hephzibah, and thy land Beulah: for the Lord delighteth in thee, and thy land shall be married." (Isaiah 62:4)

I'm moving to my Beulah land. I hope it has lots of stories to tell. But right now I've got to get seven years of ... whatever is in those boxes moved to the house, find my shoes, my bottle of Advil, and Lord help me ... my bra.

Blessings to you and yours.

We Begin A New Chapter

Michael and I have started a new chapter in our lives. We have purchased a home, complete with land, barn, outbuildings, and a house built in 1888. This house spoke to us the moment we drove down the long country road and caught the first glimpse of its beauty, tucked inside its magnificent trees. Surrounded by farms, this slice of heaven was God sent. Truly. His divine hand guided each and every move of this purchase. I believe it with my whole heart.

I plan to spend the rest of my days here. Reading and writing my stories. It's peaceful. It's where we're supposed to be. It's ours.

Few neighbors, at least within earshot, we love the seclusion. We were blessed to max. I'm weepy and elated all at once. It's been such a long, long time - years ... waiting, hoping, wishing, planning. Now here it is. Something I've dreamed of since a little girl. My own home.

Once upon a time, there lived a writer and photographer in a beautiful old house ...

... and the story begins ...

Blessings to you and yours.