Forehead Knocker

It's a little ditty my mother taught me a long time ago. I taught it to my children, and now, I've taught it to my grandchildren.

You put the toddler on your lap, facing you. And you say ...

Forehead knocker (point the child's forehead)
Eye winker (point to one of the child's eyes)
Eye blinker (point to the other eye)
Nose dropper (point to the child's nose)
Rosemary (point to the child's cheek)
Rosecherry (point to the other cheek)
Mouth eater (point to the child's mouth)
Chin grinner (point to the child's chin - if it's a girl)
Then tickle her neck and say ... get her! get her! get her!
OR
If it's a little boy on your lap, you point to his chin and say, Chin grin 'em
Then tickle his neck and say ... get him! get him! get him!

For an excellent example, go to my daughter-in-law's September 24, 2010 post at www.kidsandcoupons.blogspot.com. There you will see Andrew demonstrating it. Perfectly.

Blessings to you and yours.

They Don't Call It The Bible-Belt For Nothing

Hmm. Can one truly write about the South without including the spiritual? Someone once told me there's too much God in southern writing. I wonder if that person really knows what the South is all about? Sure, there's good, Christian people in every corner of this country. But down here, in the real South, they don't call it The Bible-Belt for nothing. In every southern tale I've ever read, God is mentioned many times over. In some novels more than others. But He's there, whether in the positive or the negative, He's there.

I've compiled a long list of books that are NOT published by the Christian publishers, are wringing wet with religion, and were New York Times Bestsellers. In fact, some weren't even set in the South. (i.e. - The DaVinci Code by Dan Brown.)

But the South is rich in religion, steeped in Christian heritage, and yes, as well as hypocrisy. Do you know how many churches are in the South? In any given town? Look it up. Writing about the edgy South, the dark South, the gritty South ... you better put God in it somewhere.

Otherwise, it's just feel-good fluff.

Not that there's anything wrong with feel-good, buttered-biscuit, sweet-potato fluff. I read it, if its good writing. But give me a story that feeds that spiritual part of me, and I'm happy. Even if it conflicts with my own beliefs.

I tend to weave God into my stories in bold and subtle ways. In the positive and in the negative. He shows up a lot. And that's because my readers are spiritual and/or religious people. They like it. I like it. My characters tend to be from a South of long ago, and if you know anything about the south of the 50s and 60s ... it rocked with God.

So give me a gutsy story that some author isn't afraid to write, and you can bet, somewhere inside the book, God is mentioned somewhere.

Blessings to you and yours.

Down Days

It's been a long month. So much has happened and here we are, nearing the end of September. My friend, Tina, came to visit. We spent the week doing "girlie" things, and taking in the sights and sounds of Bookmarks 2010 in Winston-Salem. I think that was the highlight of the week for Tina, getting her picture taken with Diana Gabaldon, one of her favorite authors.

When Tina flew out of Charlotte, Michael and I headed to Atlanta. My sister's 50th surprise birthday party lasted the entire weekend for me. Fun in the Hotlanta sun. Kathy's not at all wanting to face that big 5-0 birthday but she was a good sport about it, after all. I met two ladies at the party, friends of my sister, who are quite the book enthusiasts! Both belong to large book groups and one is a member of The Margaret Mitchell House. It was fantastic, spending over an hour with these ladies, talking about books. I find more and more, women and men, who love the time they spend with a good book. A real book, not a piece of plastic with words on a monitor. Until my generation dies out, there will always be book buyers. Real books, not fake ones.

Oh sure, I'll eventually break down, buy one of those cold, plastic, book monitors. But you can be sure, if it's a book I love, the hard copy, the "real" book, will sit on my library shelf at home.

Tomorrow, I'm off to speak to a group of book lovers at our local library, and of course, about my work. I'm looking forward to it. But today, I'm up to my eyeballs in laundry and unpacking.

There's something about being away from home that makes one so grateful for a Down Day. A day to regroup, think about your next step in the road of life, and just how blessed you are to have so many friends and family who care. Down Days are good to not only relax a bit, but to develop your next strategy. Eventually, you find, you can't make everybody happy. Things happen that folks take entirely the wrong way, they develop ideas and thoughts about you that you have no control over. They may be wrong, but you also discover you can't do much to change it. Possibly you've made mistakes, but it's done. There's no going back and redoing anything.

In the end, you know yourself, your own integrity, your own flaws, your own hopes and dreams. So you plow forward, have a Down Day, regroup, and hope for the best. That's it and that's all.

If you've had a busy month, like me, do yourself a favor ... and have a Down Day. I may, in fact, treat myself to an entire Down Week.

Blessings to you and yours.

A Little Girl Named, Lily

Meet Lillian Marie. Our newborn granddaughter. Is she not just precious? Just look at that hair. 7 pounds 2 ounces, 19 inches long, she's sleeping peacefully on my shoulder, loving Mamaw's soft, squishy chest. Dreaming of things only babies dream. Probably of the Heaven she just came from. Lily already has her daddy wrapped around her teeny finger. And her mama, well, Annie is thrilled to say the least. We spent a few days, doing nothing but loving on this bundle of joy. She's not sleeping through the night, yet ... and I think her mommy and daddy are a bit sleep deprived, but oh my, the love of their life has happily consumed them. I'm one proud Nana, you can bet on it. I look forward to watching Lily grow. The happiness she already has brought me is priceless. There's nothing like it. Being a grandmother (or whatever word she chooses to call me) is just the coolest thing. It's nothing like it used to be. Grandma's are pretty cool these days, for the most part. But this little punkin, mmm-mmm, I'm living large today because a little girl, named Lily, has entered my life.

Blessings to you and yours.

A Southern Writer's Soul-Mate

I can't believe it's been a week since spending the day with my dear friend, Beth Hoffman. www.bethhoffman.net. WE, I really must say, are cut from the same burlap bag. I met her on her turf in Kentucky and we laughed all the way through lunch and dinner. Her wisdom, her humor, and her sense of style - I look back on it as one of the best days in my life. Swept up in our love of writing, sharing the pain and pleasure of our work, we didn't lack for things to talk about, I assure you.

Somewhere in time, our great grandmothers had to have rocked together in the same swing, and snapped beans on the same front porch. It's just that simple.

And it's not just that we share the same backgrounds, we also agree on many aspects of the publishing industry. Finding a writing soul-mate is a rare thing. Very much so. Therefore, I look forward to the future, knowing I have Beth Hoffman as my friend. A southern writer who gets me. Is there anything better?

Blessings to you and yours.

Frustrations

I'm frustrated over subordinating conjunctions. I tried to read an excerpt from some new book on writing, but my eyes crossed. If I had to read all the "how-to" and "don't-do-this" articles written for writers, I'd never get any writing done.

I tell great stories, I work harder than most, and I labor over words and paragraphs until I'm dizzy and sick. Do you, as a reader, care more about a misplaced comma, or that you've not wasted your time reading a dull book?

~~~

House Hunters. I'm sick to death of watching twenty-somethings buy a 4,000 square foot first home. They travel around with their real estate agent and complain about things like the color of the walls and laminate counter tops. My first home was a single-wide that we plugged up the holes to keep the mice from getting in. Olive green kitchen, purple bathroom, and red velvet bedroom. I didn't have the money to worry about chic and designer this and that. I was grateful for a roof over my head. But HGTV sometimes gets on my last nerve. I don't begrudge these young folks wanting a nice home. But I think we've gotten way to big for our britches in America. We want it all up front. That frustrates the hell out of me.

~~~

And last, but not least ...

I'm frustrated I haven't seen my baby granddaughter yet. I've seen pictures, sent via email, of her. Of everybody else holding her. But I've not even laid eyes on her yet. It's no ones fault, I'm just wanting to hold her. Naturally. She's beautiful, and I'm so proud of Annie and Aaron, but I'm really ready to be a grandma, whisper in her ear how much I love her, and snuggle her up to my neck. I'll see her soon, but it's not soon enough.

Blessings to you and yours.

Lillian Marie Is Here!

Born at 5:03 p.m today. 7 pounds 2 ounces. 19 3/4 inches in length. Black, thick, curly hair down her back, and she looks like her aunt Jill.

I'm so proud. I'm a grandmother once again.

Little Lily.

How blessed I am today.

Words can't even describe it.

Blessings to you and yours.

Congrats Ali and Roberto!

I am a hopeless, hopeless romantic. Oh yes, tis' true. I followed ABC's Bachelorette from the beginning, and last night Roberto proposed to Ali. The stuff fairy tales are made of.

But, from what I could see, this couple may really be in love. They just might make it, bless their sweet hearts. Certainly, farther than some of the others.

I'm not a fan of reality TV. I prefer fiction, of course. But the reason I stayed glued to Monday nights the past couple of months was because they chose a classy young lady for this season. Ali was truly, one of nicest and d0wn-to-earth girls I've seen on this show. Some of the sleeze the producers put on this show, Lordy, I realize it's for ratings. To draw folks in. In fact, I think their next show, Bachelor Pad, is all about sleeze. I won't be watching. I'm drawn to honest and wholesome. And that's what this year's Bachelorette seemed to be.

I hope I'm right. She was a sweetie, and although I rooted for the underdog, Chris, I changed my mind last night. There was no question once the show drew to a close, Ali was in love with Roberto, and he was just as in love with her. Sigh.

I know, I'm a hopeless, hopeless romantic. And shall forever be.

Blessings to you and yours.

Friday the 13th, A Good Day

My parents were married on October 31st. Halloween. I was born the next year on August 13th. A Friday. Friday the thirteenth. I've often wondered, after a string bad days, whether or not that had something to do with my run of bad luck. But then, after many, many blessings in my life, it's hard give merit to the superstition. It is strange though, how I can pooh-pooh it off, laugh and joke about it, and then turn around and blame it when something doesn't go my way.

Over the years, however, I've learned to use it in stories, in essays, and in speeches. A number is just a number. Thirteen comes after twelve. I didn't realize I was born on Friday the 13th until later in life when I looked at a calendar of my birth year. I think my mother decided it was best I didn't know. But now, I kind of like the mystic of it. In studying my family--mountain folk of Appalachia, these people lived and died by their superstitions, their gift of second sight, and of course, by the holy scriptures. Somehow, they rolled it all into one way of life.

But I like to think I've turned this adversity into my advantage. There's nothing I can do about it. Not a thing. And now, I have a little granddaughter about to make her entrance into the world, and unless her mama goes into labor within the next week, she may well be born on her grandmother's birthday. And this year, it is once again, on a Friday.

What a blessed day that would be.

Blessings to you and yours.

Reading By Candlelight

Due to a major thunderstorm this past Saturday, the power was out for eight hours. I watched the neighborhood change before my eyes. Folks sat on their front porches to brave the rising temperatures in their otherwise, cool, air conditioned homes. Kids played in the street. There was no noise of TV, heat pumps, radios, refrigerators. Nothing. Just people and quiet. It was awesome.

For eight hours I had perfect quiet inside the house, reading out loud. I've been reading a hard copy of my manuscript out loud and, wow! What a difference. You catch all kinds of little hiccups you wouldn't otherwise. But by evening, the light from the windows faded, so I gathered my candles and began to read by candlelight.

The mood was perfect for the book, it added to it somehow. A strange eeriness that brought it alive. I'm thinking that electric or no electric, reading by candlelight may be a way to do this from now on! You never know. What seems to be a major inconvenience can be a blessing in disguise.

Of course, after a while, I got tired of living in the 1800s and was ready to watch Jay Leno. The electric came back on by 10 pm but those eight hours taught me something. Sometimes when the thunderstorms of life seem their loudest, we learn our most memorable lessons.

Blessings to you and yours.

The Inspirational Process

Inspiration comes to us in many forms.

For me it's all about the what-ifs. In creating the two main characters for my new novel, The Sanctum, I didn't just throw two people together and try to make it work. No. Although I had one of the characters developed somewhat in my mind, I took my time, thinking long and hard about a possible plot first. That's unusual for me, because my stories are all character-driven.

I knew I wanted to write a story that involved my three favorite aspects of story. The possibility of the paranormal, spirituality from different points of view, and like I said, a character-driven plot. Also, I knew I wanted to write this book in first-person from one main character's line of sight and reasoning. And last but not least, I knew I wanted the story to include an animal that has fascinated me all my life. I wanted to write about the wolf.

Since the day I let go of my first novel, Televenge aka The Rose and the Charlatan, I wanted to take a different route with this new story. That first novel's plot spanned a thirty-year timeline. Writing The Rose and the Charlatan was a labor of love that also spanned over a decade of hard work. It kicked my butt, but made me a much stronger writer.

So, with that said, as I contemplated the next book, I knew I wanted a coming-of-age story. I had a picture in my head of a fuzzy red-headed, young girl. And for a while, that was all I had. No name, just this image in my mind of a skinny, lonely, parentless, country girl who lived on a tobacco farm.

On January 29th of this year, 2010, The Greensboro News & Record published a special magazine dedicated to the new International Civil Rights Center and Museum, located in the old and newly restored Woolworth's building, in downtown Greensboro. In an act of courage, four black students sat peacefully at a whites-only lunch counter on February 1, 1960 and changed the world. The civil rights movement had begun.

There is another reason I wanted to write The Sanctum. A few southern writers today have pulled from deep in their memory, growing up under the care of an African-American woman hired by their family to cook, clean, and care for them. They fondly remember her as a piece of their childhood. Their family fondly remembers her. She will always be a precious piece of their history, inspiring them to write such books as: The Help, by Kathyryn Stocket; Plantation and Sullivan's Island, by Dorothea Benton Frank; The Secret Life of Bees, by Sue Monk Kid, and The Queen of Palmyra, by Minrose Gwin.

But for me, it was quite different.

Although my mother and father taught me respect for all people, I discovered a great deal of prejudice in other branches of my family. My grandparents believed, wholeheartedly, in segregation. During a reunion not many years ago, a family of distant relatives arrived wearing Ku Klux Klan t-shirts. The town this reunion was held in seemed rather proud of their Klan history, printing old photographs of their Klan members from the 20s and 30s in the local newspaper. It affected me so deeply, I never returned to future reunions. This began my quest to write stories, uncovering the evils of racism.

I wish I would've had the wonderful memories of the above authors. But I am sorry to say, that was not the case. But quite possibly, the passion in my stories bubbling up from way deep down in my gut, will come alive for my readers in a totally new and unique way.

As I thought about the civil rights movement, I thought of it in terms of rights for all people. It wasn't long and two Native Americans came into my view. They didn't talk much at first, but within time I saw them clearly, and I heard their voices within this story, as well.

Living in the South, having spent a great deal of my youth here, I am naturally drawn to its conflicts. To me, racism is the biggest white elephant in the South. I began to think about my little red-headed white girl and placed her in the loving hands of the most opposite character I could create. A seventy-year old African-American male. A rugged individual who isn't afraid of his gentle side. The story began to take shape. The what-ifs began to roll. And each morning a little more of the plot was revealed with the characters telling me their story. I call this time, a time of "gleaning."

Like the gleaning of wheat, I gather tons and tons of notes, complete research, write dialogue, paragraphs, whole scenes, time-lines, and sketch out an outline. (Although I never stick to the outline, I still make one.) For some writers, I suppose it's called preparation. But for me, it's harvest time. I believe when God gives a person a talent, He doesn't just leave you hanging with it. I believe God makes sure stories are cultivated, planted, and grown inside the minds of writers long before any of us see the evidence sticking up through the dirt. We just have to wait, water it, let it grow, then harvest the story God gives us, using our talent to put it together.

For my new book, the wolf came into play. I have always loved the face of a wolf. Not the scary, teeth snarling face of Hollywood wolves, but the pack wolf in the wild. Wolves are about family and order. I suppose God cultivated my attraction to wolves from the time I first heard the story of Rome's Romulus and Remus, a pair of twins suckled as infants by a wolf.

In The Sanctum, the wolf is a subtle character, but still a voice to be reckoned with.

My best friend, Tina, lost her German Shepard last year to a tumor on his hip. She and her husband, Tim, adored their dog beyond reason. He was their autistic child, as far as they were concerned. I don't think they will ever get over the death of Casey. But he was not a dog anyone could just walk up to and pet. It seemed to me the ancient wolf in him was more prevalent than the domestic dog part of him. But I watched how my friends interacted with their "wolf-dog." And I began to study the wolf more intently, and discovered there were some folks who loved wolves. Still others loved them enough to create wolf sanctuaries. I got on-line and found a wolf sanctuary in the mountains, a two-hour drive away. After the winter snows had melted enough to allow safe passage, Michael and I went for a visit.

When we pulled up to the side of a mountain that led to the property where the wolves were housed, the sign at the bottom read, The Wolf Sanctum. Light bulbs, fireworks, shotguns, and pea-shooters went off inside my head! That sign confirmed the title of the new book. From that moment on, I called my story, The Sanctum.

The story takes place from November 1959 until March 1960. I'm realizing that not only is each book I write a journey to another time and place, it is my own journey of hope. The hope of dreams fulfilled.

In the end, The Sanctum came together as a coming-of-age story about giving sanctuary to those we love, the healing power of second chances, and overcoming prejudice during a volatile time in our country when the winds of change begin to blow.

I hope you will enjoy it.

Blessings to you and yours.

Wise Words From Maya Angelou

My sister forwarded me the following email. I seldom post stuff like this in my blogging, as they’re usually forwarded around the email circuit a few times. But I felt it was worth posting. Maya Angelou is one of my favorite writers, and this is a classic. I don’t know who originally put the following together, but kudos. I’m glad you did.

Enjoy.

Oprah recently interviewed Maya Angelou on her birthday. Oprah asked her what she thought of growing older. And, there on television, she said, regarding body changes, there were many occurring every day, like her breasts. They seemed to be in a race to see which will reach her waist, first. The audience laughed so hard they cried. She is such a simple and honest woman, with so much wisdom in her words!

Maya Angelou said, “I've learned that no matter what happens, or how bad it seems today, life does go on, and it will be better tomorrow.”

“I've learned that you can tell a lot about a person by the way he/she handles these three things: a rainy day, lost luggage, and tangled Christmas tree lights.”

"I've learned that regardless of your relationship with your parents, you'll miss them when they're gone from your life.”

"I've learned that making a 'living' is not the same thing as 'making a life.’”

"I've learned that life sometimes gives you a second chance.''”I've learned that you shouldn't go through life with a catcher's mitt on both hands; you need to be able to throw some things back”

"I've learned that whenever I decide something with an open heart, I usually make the right decision.”

"I've learned that even when I have pains, I don't have to be one.”

“I've learned that every day you should reach out and touch someone. People love a warm hug, or just a friendly pat on the back.”

"I've learned that I still have a lot to learn.”

"I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

Blessings to you and yours.

Time Well Spent

My speaking engagement at the High Point Country Club was one of the best ever. Over thirty women gathered for their monthly meeting of the Triad Women's Forum. I was the guest speaker. I love venues like this. These women opened their hearts and received me with warm hugs and words I really needed to hear. Their encourgement and compliments sent me home wishing I could speak to groups like this every day.

Southern Fried Women is still selling! The ladies stood in line while I signed their books. It did my old heart good. And, of course, I got to plug Beth Hoffman's book in the meantime! Oh yes, I did. Writers can either resolve themselves to total and complete competition with other writers or absolute support. I choose support.

I can't even count how many times I've talked about my friend, Dena Harris, during my speeches, encouraging others to check out her web site and buy her book, Lessons in Stalking. I've only met Jodi Picoult on three different occassions, and I've recommended her books for years. Now I'm toting Beth Hoffman's book everywhere I go. Saving CeeCee Honeycutt is a warm and wonderful feel-good read. It stirs the heart, and I have put it into many hands the past few months. It should be read and enjoyed. Kathryn Stockett's book, The Help, is another one of my favorites this year.

Writers should be part of other writers success stories. I've been told and have read that the industry is cut-throat. That may be the case, but I won't have any part of it. There are plenty of readers to go around, and although the tastes in reading varies from reader to reader, I will continue to market the books of my dear writing friends, as well as my own.

My focus has changed since beginning this journey. Someone said recently, that they haven't seen me at any writing conferences lately. Well, there's a good reason.

Where I used to spend boatloads of time and money on regional and national writing conferences, critique groups, classes--I find my time is better spent these days concentrating on producing the work. So, where is it you ask? Hold on to your hats, folks. It's right around the corner. After a few years of bumps and bruises, I'm hopeful. With two novels in hand, I hope to see the light of a publishing day in the very near future.

Conferences, critique groups, and classes are important and I do encourage writers (especially beginners) to take part and find the resources to attend as many as possible. But there comes a time when you got to write! There are only so many hours in a day, and when you divide those hours with the time you need to spend with family and other necessary daily functions (like cooking, eating, bathing, blogging and RESEARCH) well you get the picture. Your time for writing can slip away and nothing can bring it back.

One day I began to wonder how many conferences, critique groups, and classes was Harper Lee involved in? Or Margaret Mitchell. Or Flannery O'Conner. Or Eudora Welty. Or Truman Capote. Or Louisa May Alcott. Or even Dorothea Benton Frank, Barbara Kingsolver, Diana Gabaldon, Ken Follett, Anita Shreve, or J.K. Rowling. I know these writers gave of themselves by teaching ocassional classes, and probably did their fair share of marketing, but did they neglect their writing time? Of course not.

A writer can spend years in class, and never be published. I don't have that kind of time.

Now, I hardly put myself in the league of the above greats, but I'm striving for it. I'm working my butt off to get there sometime before I pass on. It's a goal, and if I see even a portion of it, I'd be thrilled beyond words.

It takes huge blocks of time to produce great stories, and although we never know it all--we're always learning more about our craft--I sincerely doubt I'll ever spend the kind of time I spent in years past on more writing conferences. Sometimes, you just have put your nose to the grindstone. Do what Diana Gabaldon told me once. Read. Write. Don't Stop.

So, in a nutshell, that's what I do. Throw in speaking engagments, where I continue to support other authors and sell my work, and my time is spent. I do look forward to coming up for air, speaking when I can, and meeting my readers--but if I don't spend time writing, then what a waste of the past twenty years. I got a lot of great stories inside me. It's not fair to keep them all to myself.

Blessings to you and yours.

Bits And Pieces of June

Much goings on, down here in North Cakalacky. Too many things to even blog about, actually.

I'm writing like mad, of course you know that. My research this month is taking me to Native American reservations, digging into the meaning of Wakan Tanka, and just what, exactly, is a peace pipe? And how, after all these centuries, does the American Indian seemingly lag so far behind in their civil rights? It's painful research. I learned that just because my great-grandfather's wife was a full-blooded Cherokee, it doesn't make me one. But what it does do, is cause me dig for terrible truths that will find their way into my books.

For the most part, June has been hot, hot, hot. Thunderstorms pop up every day, and so do the weeds in my flower garden. I manage to water the poor suckers every day, but that's about it. Every few hours, I stand, stretch, and walk around, just to clear my head. My story is all-consuming.

We had a baby shower for my daughter-in-law in June. Or rather, Jillian, Elaine, and Claire had one for her. Annie is coming right along, cooking that bun in her oven. The baby is growing and we're coming down to the wire. Michael and I will be heading to Ohio in the near future, this baby is a blessing for all of us. The parents have requested that they be alone with their new baby girl the first week of her life. Therefore, Mike and I will wait until sometime later to see our granddaughter for the first time. (I know, unusual request. My family is used to one big party during the birth of any new baby in the family. A party that starts at the hospital and lasts a full week. My mother stayed with me two weeks after each birth.)

But, hey, Annie and Aaron want that special time to be all theirs. I can understand that, as well. They want to do it on their own. I don't have a problem with that, at all. In fact, they may have the right idea. New parents are nervous enough, without everybody watching them, poking fun. And baby girl needs to bond to mom and dad, first. Not to her twenty-five other relatives who will be following her every move the rest of her life anyway. She'll get to know the rest of her crazy family soon enough.

So, I'm heading to Kentucky, soon, to see my dear friend, Beth Hoffman. I can't even tell you how much I'm looking forward to it. Beth Hoffman, NY Times bestselling author of Saving CeeCee Honeycutt, has been a great fan of mine, as much as I am of her. We have so much in common, and I'm just chomping at the bit to spend time with her. I'll keep you posted. If you have not treated yourself to a great read this summer, get Beth's book. It's a five-star read! You'll love it.

I'm excited about the future, my hopes are high, and although the hot weather is a drag, I'm thankful for every day. If you don't see a new blog, just know my fingers are flying across the keyboards. My novel, The Sanctum, is coming down the home stretch, and I'm loving every minute of it. It's a beautiful, courageous story and I'm looking forward to seeing it print!

Blessings to you and yours.

Writing Weather

The summer months have always been my favorite time of the year. Days are long, I personally don't mind the heat and sometimes even the humidity. It's like the sweating lodges of Native Americans, the bad inside us just oozes out our pores. Air conditioning is nice, but for the most part, I like bright blue skies and hot sunshine. Salads, eating light, ice cream in the evening, large glasses of ice filled with tea, hamburgs on the grill, summer tomatoes and corn on the cob--summertime trips to anywhere are the best.

On the flip side, I can hibernate in winter with the best of the bears. Tons of snow and ice, stock pots of soup on the stove, reading by the fire-curled up with my favorite blanket. I love looking at cold weather, I don't like driving in it. So working from home fits into winter for me. Blistery, snowy days can be heavy work days for me. For some reason, my mind flips into high gear on a day everybody else stays home to keep off the roads. I enjoy winter, as long as it's from my warm, snuggly house.

And who doesn't love a good thunderstorm? (I'm not talking about tornadoes, hail, hurricanes, and floods.) I'm talking about the storm that rolls in, bangs around a little, waters our gardens, and then floats away. Great stories have been written during thunderstorms, I am sure!

My point about summer/winter is this: As a writer, I pay attention to the weather. By itself, it is a great motivator. It can stir imagination, memories, and provide lines of prose for your readers, dropping them into season you want them to feel.

Can a writer make you feel the cold, the heat, a gloomy day even if the sun is bright outside your window? Too much talk about weather will cause a reader to skip to the next paragraph or close the book. But just the right amount, here and there, will keep a reader in the season you want them in. Even if it's July and they're reading about a Christmas blizzard.

Writing weather is a talent unto itself. It's all about paying attention.

Blessings to you and yours.

A Short Blog

Working ten-hour days on this new book is kicking my wide behind. I find very little time for myself. Meals are quick or non-existent. I've realized I can go two days without washing my hair if I pull it back in a ponytail and don't look in the mirror. Quick showers mean my legs don't get shaved but once a week. My wrists ache, and I won't even mention my back. Makeup? I throw on some lipstick and blush once a week, if Mike is lucky. Grocery shopping? That's my husband's dirty job. I do laundry when there's not a clean towel, pair of socks or underwear to be found. And I'm praying my flowers will make it through the summer with my inability to remember to water them.

Oh yeah, and blogging takes a back seat to it all. So please be patient with me, and know that I'm writing a great story.

Blessings to you and yours.

BRAVA!

http://bethhoffman.net/category/brava

Okay! So check it out! It's June and my summer juices are flowing! My new and dear friend, Beth Hoffman, New York Times bestselling author of Saving CeeCee Honeycutt, did me the honor of asking me to submit an essay to appear on her blog, BRAVA! It's the June issue, but be sure and read all past submissions! They're great! Interesting and funny people, Beth has invited wonderful authors to write on her blog.

Speaking of Beth Hoffman, do yourself a favor and check out her entire web site! http://bethhoffman.net/ What delicious stuff. This woman is made up of an eclectic mix of both North and South. She lives in Kentucky, but has spent a great deal of time on tour for her new hit book. We began emailing back and forth after I discovered she gave my book, Southern Fried Women, a five-star review on Amazon! When I wrote to thank her for that great review, our relationship took off like a rocket and we haven't stopped emailing since.

I think it's because we're made out of the same kind of mud. Our backgrounds are very much the same and we're both of the same generation. But it's our love for the written word that binds us. Our respect for each other's work. We think along the same vein and I feel within my heart, we honestly feel a mutual desire to see each other succeed in a great way.

It amazes me when two women come together and form, what I feel, to be a lifetime bond. I've experienced friendship with other women writers, and some of them were fleeting, but some were deeper, cultivated, and have grown stronger. It all comes down to being made out of the same kind of mud. I told Beth that some day she and her best friend, and me and my best friend will sit around a lunch table, hang out, drink "iced tea," roll onto the floor laughing, plot stories, and just plan share our lives. That's the best part of having friends, isn't it? Real friends who can share your burdens and your joys in life.

I was truly thrilled and honored to have appeared on Beth Hoffman's Brava! And if you have not experienced her book, let me introduce you to Saving CeeCee Honeycutt. There's a reason this book is hitting the bestseller lists all over the country. Find out for yourself and pick up a copy. It's a great read for the beach or anywhere!

Life is good on Brava! Thank you, Beth!

Blessings to Beth and her fans all over the world!

An Old Soul

I'm wondering if the sun will ever shine in North Carolina again. Dreary days are good once in a while. They're good for curling up, reading a good book, and making soup. But a long string of them are depressing! It might as well be Ohio! Augh!

I'm finding myself deep in research at the moment. Pouring over old maps, specifically a 1958 map of North Carolina, books on wolves, interviewing those who lived and worked in the towns of the late 50s that I'm writing about, gathering photographs, absorbing a real feel of place and time. I am taking a few liberties, but for the most part, I want it believable to my readers.

It's not as easy to write about history as you might think.

I think it's easier to write about a world where sleek, thin computers rule, cell phones ring, and IPads rest in the hands of those lucky enough to afford them. It's the world we know, right now, as it's happening. Times have changed so drastically from the 1950s. Fortunately, I'm old enough to remember a lot of the early 60s. At least from a writing standpoint. Or maybe it's just that I'm an old soul.

I'm not necessarily into nostalgia. "The good ole' days." They were not good for a lot of folks. But they were rich in story and that's the heart of my interest. Rich fertile dirt, stuff I can plow up and harvest. Don't get me wrong, every once in a while, I find myself wanting to watch a high-tech movie, or read about the here and now. It's a nice diversion for me.

But within my own writer's mind ... I can get into a 1945 Ford pickup and let it take me where it wants to go.

I guess I am truly an old soul. I think of my stories in sepia tones, dusty, and cracked with age. And I suppose someday my body will be there as well. Knowing who you are as a writer is half the battle.

But in the meantime, my cell phone is ringing, and a light is blinking on my monitor. I have an email. This old soul may just have to dig out her turquoise princess rotary telephone someday ... and hook it up.

Blessings to you and yours.

Resting On Our Laurels

I'm reading a book by a well-known author. One who pumps out a novel every year or so. The reviews on the back are stellar. The Boston Herald, Baltimore Sun, Washington Post Book World shout the author's praises, calling him/her gifted, as the author has won many publishing honors. I would have to agree the stories hold my interest and I'm always satisfied once I'm finished reading.

But here's what bothers me. As a writer, there are things you just don't do. For me, the stakes are even higher, because I have no laurels to rest on. For the sake of not embarrasing this author, I'm not naming him/her. It is not my intention to do that. There is nothing to be gained by it. My question is this: Do editors just skim the work of popular writers? Are popular authors so pressured to finish their next book, that they depend too much on editors?

In the book it reads: She pushes the hair off her face and tucks it behind her ear.

Then, on the same page, about three paragraphs down, it reads: Her hair falls across her face again, and she tucks it behind her ear.

It's not a huge mistake, and most readers would not even recognize it as one. But to me, as a writer, I would find another way to say tuck it behind her ear. Or write something else, entirely.

Lord knows, when I read my earlier published work, I cringe at the mistakes I find. I'm not beyond making them and all writers do. But I would like to think we all get better with practice, and that someday, if I am ever blessed with the kind of critical acclaim this writer is blessed with, that I will continue to pour over my manuscript as I do today. And before it's published, I trust my editor will do the same.

I have become anal to a fault. Maybe it's a good thing, and maybe it's not. But this I know for sure--should I ever have any laurels, I'll never rest on them.

I don't know who said it, but I once heard we are only as good as our last book. I have to agree.

Blessings to you and yours.

Perfume and Pot Roast

I sold more copies of Southern Fried Women this weekend, at two Mother's Day events. It's always good to stand in front of a bunch of women and talk about my stories and my world that moves my imagination. The people I know who cause me to want to write about them. The places I've been that leap into my head when I'm plotting a story. The stuff I make up, but feels real. Very real.

At the moment, I'm up to my armpits in story. I'm in the process of writing The Sanctum. The zone, as many writers call it. I'm writing ten hours a day. The scenes are coming at me as if some major league pitcher is throwing me a bunch of fast balls. I'm afraid I can't get them written quick enough and I'll end up forgetting words and pieces as they fly in and out of my head. When I'm like this, nothing gets done around the house. Meals get missed, dirty clothes pile up, and dust -- well -- who sees it anyhow?

That's NOT a good thing. I've got something going on this Saturday that demands I clean my house. So I'm torn! I need to get on my hands and knees and clean the kitchen floor. Damn it. When all I want to do is sit at the computer and hit a home run! It's awful. Every waking minute, I'm consumed with this story. I feel like if I could just stay in my office, have Michael throw me a sandwich every once in a while, I'd be in heaven. All I want to do is write! I don't want to waste a second when I know my protagonist is hanging off a cliff!

Life is like perfume and pot roast that way, isn't it? They both smell good, separate and in their own way. But mix the two and it's nauseating. That's where I'm at right now. My life smells like perfume and pot roast. I'm overwhelmed with it. I can't write a long blog today. Chanel No. 5 is wafting around my computer and I've got a pot roast in the oven.

But I'm loving every minute of it.

Blessings to you and yours.