The Middle Of The Book

Back in the ‘sixties when geezers over fifty drove DeSotos and watched Lawrence Welk and kids under twenty drove Volkswagen vans and painted peace signs on their faces and me and my sisters were the only ones on our block who wore bobby socks and saddle shoes, this girl moved two doors down with poker-straight hair and Bob Dylan records and no mother.

Well. Talk about your run-on sentence. But this first sentence sets the tone of the new book I'm working on. I want it to speak volumes to any reader's first glance. To draw them into the life of the narrator without knowing it.

First sentences of any novel should do that. They should pin you to the wall and hold you like super-glue. A first sentence is filled with magic and pierces your heart or peaks your interest to the point that before you know it, you're five chapters in.

But what about the middle of the book? Doesn't it deserve the same?

Lately, I'm finding I've spent as much time on the arc of the story and the chapters following it as I have on that first sentence. Some novels I've read lately have left me flat in the middle. As if the writer had a great idea for the beginning and end, then just filled in the middle the best they could. Sometimes with paragraphs and chapters that have very little to do with the actual story. As a result, my eyes skim over a third of the middle just to find out what happens at the end.

I think the middle of any story should be every bit as thrilling as the beginning. It sometimes answers questions, agreed. Maybe even ties up a few loose ends. But a skilled writer knows how to up the ante, raise the stakes, and turn the tide in the middle pages in ways the reader never sees coming. A good writer can introduce a new character (another rule breaker) or change point of view all while keeping the tone and voice throughout. Keep me enthralled through page 200 and I'll be your biggest fan.

The middle should set up the ending without giving it away. But it's often the most overlooked. It is also where readers find giant pauses. A place they can stuff in their bookmark and put down the book. The question is, are they anxious to get back to it or do they hesitate to pick it back up again?

The middle of the story is where the heart is. Writers, by all means, pay attention to it. Give it as much love as the rest.

Blessings to you and yours.

A Good Writer

How does one know if they are truly a good writer?

One of the mandates to becoming a writer is reading and writing every day. Every day without fail. Even if it’s for five or ten minutes. A good writer reads. A good writer writes every day. Or so I’ve been told.

And there are many writers with much more impressive literary pedigrees than mine. It seems to me that many folks (especially those within the industry) measure a writer’s greatness by the number of previous publications.

Well. Thank the good Lord that Literary Agent Susan Ramer and Amy Einhorn Books loved The Help as much as I did, because Kathryn Stockett was rejected 60 times before they got a hold of it. My question is, why was it rejected 60 times? I’m sure Ms. Stockett didn’t send out her beloved manuscript willy-nilly to just anybody. And according to this article, (http://www.more.com/kathryn-stockett-help-best-seller) the rejections took their toll on her. So what do some see in debut novels that others don’t?

Is there something in a writer’s DNA that makes us good? Is there such a thing as natural-born talent? Even if one follows all the rules, reads and writes every day, and possesses a natural storytelling ability, how do you know you’re a good writer?

Is it because your friends and family gush over your work? Or because you’re published? Because you've won a contest or two? Or is it because something inside you pushes you forward. To not write would send you to the looney bin. Suck the air out of your lungs. Stop your heart. But does that really make you a good writer?

Every writer receives good and bad reviews. Some have thousands of followers who buy every one of their books, as well as folks who turn up their noses at the mention of their name. Is it all about personal preference?

Who decides? What qualifies them, for crying out loud? And yet what, pray tell, makes up the essence of a good writer? Is it the marketing and publicity machine behind the writer? (I hardly think so.)

Writers often question their worth. They have peaks and valleys in their careers and hold on to each and every positive comment, turn of phrase, and head nod. They possess the patience of a saint. After all, what kind of person does it take to persevere through 60 or even a hundred rejections? Years of waiting for an offer. Writers bend with the wind and roll with the god-awful punches. Even though the words come out of us like a rocket and keep us up all night we wonder--will we ever get a break?

Literary Agent Donald Maass says it takes ten years to develop a breakout writer. What if those ten years have come and gone?

Who or what determines a good writer?

Well. I really don’t know.

Helen Keller once said, “Character cannot be developed in ease and quiet. Only through experiences of trial and suffering can the soul be strengthened, vision cleared, ambition inspired and success achieved.”

And yet it’s not success that defines us as a good writer. Our MFA degree, the hundreds of folks who turn up at our book signings, or our fifth New York Times bestseller. It's not that at all. Because at the end of the day, it's still just you and your computer.

So how do you know you're a good writer?

Do you ever?

Maybe that in itself is what keeps us moving forward.

Blessings to you and yours.

The Brevity Of Life

I think the one thing that surprises me the most as I enter the youth of old age is the brevity of life. Time passes in a wisp of an eyelash. I look at my granddaughter (I'm even surprised I'm old enough to have one) and I think ... shouldn't that be my daughter? After all, it was only a day ago I was changing my own baby's diapers.

Evangelist Billy Graham says that a lifetime is fleeting, but that our soul is eternal. That once we are born, our soul will never die. It's a scary thing to contemplate. There is no end to us. Only an end to what we know as life. As a believer, and a writer, I have been meditating upon this lately. And whether or not you believe in the hereafter, you have probably felt the spiritual side of yourself at some point. Something tugging on your soul.

Yes, contemplating eternal life in Heaven can be an exhilarating and yet a scary thing. For me, the very thought of atheism or agnosticism frightens me to the core. My inner spirit confirms to me daily the presence of God. The love of my creator greets me each morning and to not believe in the Heaven He has prepared, well I simply don't have that in me. I cringe when I hear celebrities on TV say there is no God. It's like fingernails down a chalkboard to me.

As I grow older, I find I'm not all wrapped up in theology, or denominations, or whether or not one should tithe, attend church, or become a deacon. What I am is at peace with myself. Sunday mornings on my front porch watching the sunrise ... that's where I feel Him the most.

Life is short. An old and overused cliche that somehow passes right over our heads when it's said to us. But oh, my friends and ah, my foes ... a cliche that should never be taken lightly.

Blessings to you and yours.

Where I Write

I'm working on my third novel and for this mountain of work, I'm now writing in my new office. The farmhouse we remodeled, or fixed up, or whatever you want to call it is about done. It's beautiful, I really must say. But my office is the best part of the house. It's roomy; plenty of space for the antique table I use as my desk, a soft leather love seat, and six cherry wood bookcases. Bookcases filled with a collection of books I've read and books I intend to read in the next five years. Artwork I love fills each wall that's not covered by books. There's even new carpet on the floor. It's the office I've dreamed of, and now ... (giggle) ... here I sit.

I listen to music when I write which comes from Pandora Internet radio piped in from the living room. It's perfect. I can choose the music according to my mood. Typically, it's music without words. New age music is great writing music. But once in a while I get a notion for a little 60s rock and roll, and then I play it loud, often setting the scene for the next chapter I'm working on. Sometimes a little bluegrass fits nicely, or a Celtic number.

Finding inspiration is as easy as a glimpse outside. The farm is a beautiful place to work, clear my head, and breathe in the fresh air flooding through my window. My style is eclectic, and so is my work. I paint my stories in broad strokes, which is how I decorate. Fearlessly. Mixing the old with the new. Lace curtains with rustic round-bottom baskets dating back fifty years or more. An old pottery collection with hand-embroidered dresser scarves. I'm eclectic in about every avenue of my life, come to think about it. I won't be dictated to. And that includes what I write.

But where I write is important to me. And where I write now is pretty damn near perfect.

Blessings to you and yours.

The Help

I saw the movie today. Based on the bestselling novel by Kathryn Stockett, the movie surprised me. I really loved it. I laughed, I cried, and I want to see it again.

The Help is a story of prejudice and the ignorance of our country during the "simpler times" of the 60s. Were they really all that simple? I believe it was an extremely complicated time; however, The Help digs far deeper than the story of abuse against African-American maids in Mississippi. This is a film about women who looked down their snooty noses at anyone black or white, who did not agree with them or follow their lead. It exposes not only the constant battle of the black maid to survive during that time period, but also shows the hate in those who inflicted their horrible working conditions.

I was just a bitty girl during the early sixties, a third-grader when Kennedy was shot, but I remember the race issues and the snide comments made by the members of my community, even though we lived in a sheltered Midwestern town. Nobody where I lived hired any "help." Except the big shots in the rubber industry. In fact, my white grandparents were hired help. My maternal grandmother was a maid and my grandfather was a groundskeeper. They worked for a man who owned one of the rubber companies in Akron, Ohio. But I can guarantee you, they never suffered like the black maids and groundskeepers in Jackson, Mississippi. Not in the least. They lived on the premises and used whatever toilet in the house they chose to pee in.

I highly recommend the movie. Go see it. It's a history lesson everybody needs to see. A real refresher on the south of the 60s.

Blessings to you and yours.

Thoughtless Comments

I heard a comment, if you can call it that, made about a certain struggling writer two days ago.

"Why don't they give up? Why don't they get off their fat ass and go get a ten-dollar an hour job and contribute?"

I know what you're thinking. What a jerk. But every writer struggles with these thoughts. When do we give up? When do we throw in the dirty towel and just cut our losses? Most writers have day jobs and write in the early and late hours of the day. I have been extremely blessed in that my husband believes in me (even more than I do at times) and refuses to let me ... give up. I have worked hard all my life for the opportunity to write full time, and now that it's here, I'm not giving that up. For nobody.

But the poor writer with the fat ass has to endure this arrogant comment rolling around in his/her head. How do they overcome the thoughtless words that were flung at them like rotten fruit? The answer is, they just keep writing. Maybe they find another way to earn a little extra money, but they keep on writing. And someday, when their book hits the bestseller lists, they can put the comment to bed.

Ask God to bless the idiot/psycho who said this. Ask God to bless 'em real good.

Blessings today, to struggling writers everywhere.

Southern Fried Women - A New Version

August 1st is the re-release date of Southern Fried Women! My publisher for Southern Fried Women, Satya House, is excited to announce the new version!

Yay!

The stories are the same and the look of the book is only slightly different, but the excitement has not wavered a bit. Available for purchase from your local bookstore, Amazon.com, Satyahouse.com, or on my web site, Pamelacable.com, this cult classic continues to sell and gain momentum. Sometimes it amazes me. I receive mail each week from my readers and I'm thrilled. The characters, the stories, the themes of death, love, guilt, grief, and overcoming life's biggest obstacles resonate with each person who has ever picked it up and found themselves immersed in it.

Southern Fried Women is here to stay. I hope you'll pick up a copy soon!

Blessings to you and yours.

Boo Kitty And Scout

Every day there's a parade at my house. I live on a working horse farm. Each morning and evening when my brother-in-law leaves his house and heads toward the barn, he is followed by his big red dog (a Labrador Retriever) and a sleek black cat.

The dog, Scout, and the cat, Boo, are best friends. Boo occasionally gets side-tracked as he hunts for a mouse or a bird, while Scout sometimes takes a quick detour into the pond but they're never far from each other. Watching Boo kitty tumble with frogs in the yard is a hoot. But when the barn swallows know he's coming, they'll dive bomb him and taunt him like little fighter planes in an air raid. I love to imagine what Boo is thinking. Oh give it your best shot, you little pipsqueaks. Come any closer and you're toast! Before you can blink an eye, Boo has gone from hunched in the grass to a leap in the air.

The gift of bones and feathers ends up on my sister-in-law's front porch.

Scout and Boo were named after character's in Harper Lee's classic, To Kill a Mockingbird. My sister-in-law is a lover of books, which makes living next door to her nothing but pure pleasure. Drinking my morning coffee, watching the parade of Gordon, Scout, and Boo gives me my first smile of the day. They are nothing less than God's gift to me each morning.

Blessings to you and yours.

Is The Grass Greener?

It's July.

Summer in Ohio. Cool, crisp nights, sun-filled days. Low 80s, usually. Some humidity. A shower passes from time-to-time. But Ohio summers are the best. Everything is green and the pastures are full of new life. Only occasional air conditioning is needed.

In North Carolina you can drink the air. You can't find a spot of cool shade to save your life. 95 is the norm. Parched earth dots the landscape. Wavy heat rises above blacktop roads. You can't live without air conditioning. Most hibernate until Autumn.

The grass isn't always greener on the other side.

Until winter.

But then ... there's always North Carolina ice. And road crews that don't know what to do with it.

Ahhh, but there's always a great restaurant to choose from in Ohio. You can brave the snow to get there because the road crews were prepared. I wouldn't travel ice-covered roads for any restaurant in North Carolina. Sorry. It's true. I don't miss all the fried food and BBQ.

But let's face it. There's good and bad everywhere you go. I just didn't realize how much I missed Ohio until I came back. My memories of the south are fond ones. I'm southern in my heart, but right now ... I'm enjoying the culture, the food, and the true hospitality of the north.

There's nothing wrong with that.

Blessings to you and yours.

The Youth Of Old Age

The view out my windows and off my deep front porch is of a pond, horse pastures, and trees. It's Midwest farmland as far as the eye can see, and I'm loving every second of it. I've come back to a place I never thought I'd embrace again. But ... I am.

As I sit here writing this blog I'm thinking about my life and how many times I've moved. I'm tired of moving. Although I love to travel, I like the idea coming home to my things. My books, my old china, my junk. It's comforting. Every year that passes by, I become more inclined to dig in my heels and hole up in my house. Seems like every ten years in a woman's life, her life changes to where she can't recognize a damn thing. It's been that way with me. Except this time, I've come full circle. I recognize the landscape, but not the past. And that's a good thing.

The old house creaks like every old house I've fixed up. Every old house I've turned into a silk purse. A sow's ear is not an easy thing to contemplate as I enter the youth of old age. But here I am. There's a lot to do. I'm not in a hurry. The wind is cool as it blows through the screens. Summer storms rumble through in the afternoons and I feel myself drifting through old memories and another new adventure.

I've got a new book to write. And this is just the house and landscape to do it in.

Blessings to you and yours.

You Can Take The Girl Out Of The South

... but you can't take the South out of the Girl.

And so it goes. The past weeks I've been involved in packing, moving, and unpacking. I've moved north. Oh yes, true. I know. Shocker. But when there's children and grandchildren to consider ... the choice becomes an easy one.

I moved to North Carolina in June of 2001. Ten years later, almost to the day, Michael and I loaded up a truck and moved to the Midwest. It's been a long, hot, and exhausting couple of weeks. As I sit here (thankful to be back online) and gaze over the mountain of boxes that are waiting to be unpacked, I'm realizing that no mater where I live, where I go, or what I do ... I'm still Southern. And I'm still Fried.

Always was. Always will be.

Blessings to you and yours.

Rapture Foolish

The Rapture Zealots, yet again, have made even the idea of one seem foolish. What's wrong with these people?

Here's the truth of it all, if you really want to know. Most Christians, fundamental or otherwise, believe in the rapture of the church. But it is NOT the focus of our lives. It is NOT what we fear or think about every minute of every hour of our day. Our "vision" of it, comes in many shapes and forms, depending on how we interpret the scripture. But it cannot be a way to get out of paying your thirty-year mortgage. It cannot be a finger-wagging, soap-box stomping slam at the rest of the world that says, watch me disappear while the rest of you heathens suffer.

God didn't give us a Rapture Flag to wave. He told us to love one another, to take care of the poor, and to live as if every day might be our last. He didn't tell us to make His word look foolish.

No man knows the hour. How simple is that? You can crunch the numbers all you want, but He could come back a hundred years from now. Or tomorrow. It's His gig. Get over it.

If you're a believer, go on with your life. Be kind to your fellow man, let your light shine, and quit trying to be little gods, running around shoving the rapture down everybody's throat. There's a lot of hurt in this world, people who need prayer, their hearts mended, and homes that need put back together. Be about your Father's work. To me, that is the testimony of the Christian. Not turning your car into one big bumper sticker, declaring the end of the world. It's not going to happen that way.

Grow up.

Blessings to you and yours.

Flipping Through The Fear

Flipping through the channels last evening, I happened upon a portly televangelist from Texas. His sermon title was something like, WHAT WILL HAPPEN NEXT? Being one who studies the world of televangelism, I stopped to listen.

The sermon, one in which I've heard hundreds of times, was about the end times. It begins with the rapture of the church and ends with The Great White Throne Judgment and an eternity of peace upon an earth that has been remade by God. In between these two events, you can expect seven years of tribulation (Hell on earth) and all sorts of cataclysmic events the world has never seen. Most of the world's population, according to this pastor's interpretation of the Bible, is doomed for Hell. Unless you're one of the lucky ones to make the rapture of the church, your chances of making Heaven are slim to none.

I have to tell you, the goosebumps invaded every part of my body. Old familiar goosebumps. Like I said, I've been exposed to this doctrine all my life. It may sound crazy, but I'm a believer in this end time message. My only problem was with the way in which it was delivered. Steeped in fear and intimidation, the message made me feel like I needed to move to Texas and join his church in order to make the rapture.

ding ding ding ding ding ding ding!

I wonder how many have actually done that? Scare 'em-to-death religion rakes in the members and their money. I'm not a believer when it comes to holding people over Hell. In fact, I'm rather sick of it. I lived in that mess most of my childhood and during my young adult life, and I wish I would've flipped the channel right past that pastor. But, I didn't. I wanted to hear if the message had changed much. It hasn't. It's pretty much the same.

I think what bothered me the most about his sermon, was that there was NOTHING about how to become one of the lucky ones and escape what was coming. How do you make the rapture? What qualifies you? Christianity, salvation, living a perfect life before God, is what this pastor would say. Sin will not enter in, I've been told. And then we can get into another long discussion about sin. Do people sin every day, whether they want to or not? If so, you better hope you're not sinning when the trumpet sounds, eh? And then there's the controversy that you have to speak in tongues to make the rapture. Oh yes, true. The list goes on and on, and I wonder - does anybody really know how much of a saint we have to be?

We can worry ourselves into such a tizzy about making Heaven we're no earthly good.

In my own humble opinion, I think it comes down to faith. It takes more than being a good person, I know that. One must believe in the sovereignty of God and that His word is true. I know that too. I believe in all the signs and prophecies, and I believe God's love covers it all. It will happen someday, and we may well be the generation to see it. But I'm not going to live in a religious world full of fear ever again. Nor will I subject myself to the fist of some pious pastor pounding on his pulpit, screaming at me. Never again.

I plan to make Heaven. But I don't need to be screamed at and threatened all the way to the pearly gates. And neither do you.

My answer for you is to become a seeker. Search the scriptures for yourself. Let the voice of God become real in your own life, and open your heart to hear Him. It is a scary future we're facing, I agree, but instead of fearing it - embrace it. Ask God to show you the way. I believe He'll do it with love, for you to accept it or not. He gives you the choice. He's like that. For now, at least. During this dispensation of grace that we live in. At least for now, you don't have to be screamed at.

Blessings to you and yours.

Only In The Bible Belt

Lord have mercy.

So yesterday, Mike and I are tooling around town hunting for garage sales. It's the season. And if anybody knows me, or has read even a few blog entries, you know I love garage sales. It's my major contribution toward being GREEN. I have no problem recycling somebody else's trash into my treasure.

Anyway ... we read on Craig's List there was supposed to be a community sale at the old Moose Lodge, which has since been turned into a church. You know, one of those recycled churches named House of Hallelujah, or Come Unto Me Church, or Shout and Sing To The Lord Church ... you know what I mean. One of those churches where you're not quite sure if the pastor has his divinity degree or whether you should demand to see it, like the Republicans did with Obama's birth certificate. "Well," I said. "Could be a good sale. Who knows? I've found a few treasures at church sales."

It wasn't long and I realized most of the money lenders, oh, excuse me --vendors--were church members who had set up their tables to not only sell their junk, but also to whip a little Jesus on unsuspecting folks. Patrons who stopped by only to find a set of used golf clubs, the perfect teacup to add to their collection, or an old bike to use for parts.

We walked past one vendor who had parked his shiny red pickup truck smack in the middle of the lot and set up two tables of pure clean-out-my-basement junk, complete with moldy rugs, faded pictures of kittens in gold frames, and dusty macrame plant hangers from 1982. But that wasn't the best part.

He had opened both doors of his pickup and turned up the volume on his CD player. I suppose he wanted us to know what a good Christian he was and that we all should dare to be as good. I spent the next ten minutes walking around listening to a church choir belt out the last few lines of the Lords Prayer--"For thine is the kingdom ... and the power ... and the gloooooorrrrrreeeee ... foreeeevvvver ...." full tilt.

Man - o - man. I felt like I was in the middle of a Saturday Night Live skit.

Here's the thing. Doesn't the Bible tell us to just let our light shine? I'm not sure that means to build a bon-fire in the middle of community yard sale. Somehow, the red pickup just cheapened it. It did nothing but drive a few folks away. I think it's one thing to be proud of your faith, it's another to shove it down an unsuspecting person's throat.

It's no wonder the Bible Belt gets a bad rap.

Blessings to you and yours this Mother's Day.

Milk Toast Blogging

I struggle between two kinds of blogging. Milk toast blogging and Let-it-all-out blogging. I don't want to be labeled as a bitch. Or a nag. Or somebody who stands on a soapbox and wails on and on. But I also don't want to be a bore. Or a wimp. Or somebody who only talks about rainbows and lollipops and never the seedy side of life.

Who wants to read a milk toast blog every day? Not me.

So it has become a struggle, often a tough one, as to what to blog about. Do I tell my readers all is good in my writing world, when really I'm dieing inside? Do I let it all out, tell the truth about how I really feel and run the chance of somebody thinking I'm hard to work with?

How does a writer juggle it all? How does anyone? Is the internet the place to let it all out? What kind of an example do I want to set, after all?

I'm not sure how I want to proceed with this blog, because I'm anything but milk toast. And yet, I don't want to give folks the wrong idea. Do I care? Is a blog or Facebook or any other type of social media the place to vent without being prepared to accept the consequences?

Lots of questions are ringing inside my head. And until this writer finds the courage to say what I'm really feeling this morning, I'm going to go eat my breakfast of milk and toast.

Blessings to you and yours.

The Green Thing

My sister, Kathy, sent me this. The author is unknown. But it's a great read, especially for anyone under the age of 30.

Enjoy!

A store cashier told an older woman that plastic bags weren't good for the environment. The woman apologized to her and explained, "We didn't have the green thing back in my day."

That's right, they didn't have the green thing in her day. Back then, they returned their milk bottles, Coke bottles, and beer bottles to the store. The store sent them back to the plant to be washed and sterilized and refilled, using the same bottles over and over. So they really were recycled. But they didn't have the green thing back in her day.

In her day, they walked up stairs, because they didn't have an escalator in every store and office building. They walked to the grocery store and didn't climb into a 300-horsepower machine every time they had to go two blocks. But she's right. They didn't have the green thing in her day.

Back then, they washed the baby's diapers because they didn't have the throw-away kind. They dried clothes on a line, not in an energy gobbling machine burning up 220 volts - wind and solar power really did dry the clothes. Kids got hand-me-down clothes from their brothers or sisters, not brand-new clothing. But that old lady is right, they didn't have the green thing back in her day.

Back then, they had one TV, or radio, in the house - not a TV in every room. And the TV had a small screen the size of a pizza dish, not a screen the size of the state of Montana. In the kitchen, they blended and stirred by hand because they didn't have electric machines to do everything for you. When they packaged a fragile item to send in the mail, they used wadded up newspaper to cushion it, not Styrofoam or plastic bubble wrap.

Back then, they didn't fire up an engine and burn gasoline just to cut the lawn. They used a push mower that ran on human power. They exercised by working so they didn't need to go to a health club torun on treadmills that operate on electricity. But she's right, they didn't have the green thing back then.

They drank from a fountain when they were thirsty, instead of using a cup or a plastic bottle every time they had a drink of water. They refilled pens with ink, instead of buying a new pen, and they replaced the razor blades in a razor instead of throwing away the whole razor just because the blade got dull. But they didn't have the green thing back then.

Back then, people took the streetcar and kids rode their bikes to school or rode the school bus, instead of turning their moms into a 24-hour taxi service. They had one electrical outlet in a room, not an entire bank of sockets to power a dozen appliances. And they didn't need a computerized gadget to receive a signal beamed from satellites 2,000 miles out in space in order to find the nearest pizza joint.

But that old lady is right. They didn't have the green thing back in her day.

Blessings to you and yours.

The Writing Talent

I got to thinking this morning, sometimes we writers need to take a good long look at ourselves. Pretend we're onions and peel back the layers. Will today's writers be looked upon the same we look back at writers of the past? With respect and awe? Will the age of technology hinder that somewhat?

Nobody knows. So I think it's important we understand the kind of writer we are. What is our writing talent, exactly.

Every writer is different. No two are the same. Nor should they be. I can't imagine writing like Barbara Kingsolver or Joyce Carol Oates. I read their books and wish I had a brain like that. To have those kinds of words flow off the ends of my fingers would be like an anointed gift. A divine touch from above. Hemingway and Steinbeck and Fitzgerald, the way they used their words, few writers today can even be compared to them. Pat Conroy just blows me away. His novel, Beach Music, breaks all the rules. I lived in the pages of it for weeks.

Though I've been writing all my life, and have received wonderful reviews, I'm humbled as I read the classics. I may not ever be as prolific, as artistic, as wealthy and well-known.

But I can tell a hell of a story.

I don't think that will ever go out of style.

Blessings to you and yours.

Shame On You, Pastor

My heart goes out to the people of Japan. I'm grateful there are so many who are willing to give time and money to assist these folks in their recovery efforts. If you can, please give to a reputable organization to help the relief over there. The Red Cross is accepting donations at their dot com web site, and I'm sure there are many other organizations being set up for this purpose. I doubt, however, the nation of Japan will ever be the same. The destruction was massive and I can't imagine the horror they're living through. My prayers are with the Japanese people.

But I heard something yesterday that although it didn't surprise me, it disgusted me. A well-loved pastor of a fundamental non-denominational church said, "They're finally getting a piece of what they deserve for the destruction they did at Pearl Harbor."

My first thought: Are you out of your mind?

My second thought: I thought we already won that war when we dropped "the bomb."

My third thought: That's like blaming American children born in the twenty-first century for slavery.

My final thought: Who died and made you God? It would certainly not surprise me that many of our conservative churches are parroting this same ignorant comment. I've sat in church services and have heard crap like this before.

I'm hoping for your sake, PASTOR, that God turned away for a second and didn't hear your comment. Shame on you.

I am a woman of faith. I believe in a compassionate and loving God. And although we do not understand why bad things happen to good people, I believe He aches for us all.

Blessings to you and yours, and the people of Japan this day.

Too Busy To Blog

It's the last day of February? Wow. How did we get here so quickly? Months fly by when I'm writing. So when it's a short month, like this one, I'm astounded when it's over and I've not blogged much.

I love to blog, but I don't do much blogging when my head is wrapped around a project, and lately, that's where it's been for months. And months. There's been some tremendous highs and lows in my career these past weeks rendering me insane! As time goes by, I'll fill you in.

But for now, please check back now and again. I'm in the process of getting a book published (hopefully) and I'm rewriting another book. (I've put my next manuscript on hold to go back to a "completed" book and tear through it. A story I love as much as The Sanctum.)

So. I seldom see the world outside of my office these days.

I'll blog more in March.

Blessings to you and yours.

Survival Mode

Well damn, folks. It's February. January, thank God, is over. It's the worst month of the year, the one month you want to come and go quickly. As much as I thought it would be the best month of my life, this year--it was just another January. I didn't blog much because as usual, I was busy, busy, busy. With writing and a few other things. Many of my readers are asking the same question right about now, "What's going on with the new book?" Here's my answer: It's now in the hands of my agent. All I have to do is sit on pins and needles for the next few days, weeks, months, or however long it takes.

In the meantime, I'm deep into plotting the next one. I'm digging in and staying focused. I'm surviving. Survival mode is painful. Two days ago I burnt the top of my finger on the fireplace grate. It's seeping and ugly and it hurts like the dickens. But I soldier on like most of us, trying to get through this awful winter. Survival mode is right where I am. Hanging on to every hope that somewhere in the dark I just might see my dreams come true.

Until then, I'll bury my head in the next book and nurse my burnt finger. The middle one, to be exact.

Blessings to you and yours.