Why Do Writers Need Blog Tours?

 



Last night, around midnight, I completed the last of my submissions for my first blog tour. I have another blog tour coming up but it felt good to get this one done, although I find I rather enjoy the process.

When I attended the BookExpo in New York this past June, I met many bloggers. These folks are serious about what they do. Blogging with a passion, some are writers, some combine it with their day jobs, and some are stay-at-home moms and dads who simply love books. But book bloggers number into the thousands these days. Each one has a unique interest and you as a writer, need to understand that in your approach.

Think of it as if you're standing on somebody's front porch, and knocking on their door. Wouldn't you feel more comfortable if you knew the person opening the door? You need to know a bit about the blogger before you go knocking on their door. As you would be a guest in their home, you're a GUEST on their blog. Familiarize yourself with their blog. What are their passions, their pursuits, what do they care about? What kind of books do they read and review? And if they "invite you in" be kind, courteous, and meet their deadline.

What do you notice about their website? What is their appeal? To readers or writers or both? On the day your post appears, be sure to visit the site regularly throughout the next few days to respond to comments. Post your appearance throughout your social media sites and your web site.

Does the public buy books from book reviews? There are differences of opinion when answering that question. There are many factors that play into why readers buy certain books. But the one thing almost everyone agrees on is that we have grown to trust the book blogger. Their honesty, their appeal has driven the book-buying public to reading their favorite blogger on a daily basis.

Your obligation as a writer, is to utilize this service. You can pay for a blog tour that is set up for you, or you can take the time to research the bloggers on your own. Some blog tours offer wonderful additions to their services, like contests and giveaways. But whatever you decide, you must remember that word of mouth is paramount when it comes to selling your book. And to sell you book, a blog tour can reach thousands of readers.

As you write the next bestseller, keep this in the back of your mind. Either you or someone willing to help you must take the time to set up a blog tour. Besides getting out there and meeting your readers up close and personal, blog tours are your best bet to successfully marketing your work.

Blessings to you and yours.

When You Can't Find Your Courage



 

To me, the hardest jobs in the world are … coal miners, deep sea divers, living on a submarine, painting high bridges, skyscraper builders and window washers, prison guards, firefighters, policemen, garbage men, working with the mentally challenged, roofers, emergency room nurses, street pavers, brain surgeons, and farmers.

The physical stamina required for these positions is near god-like. It's tough to find the words needed to describe the courage that must be found to wake up every day and face these jobs.

It doesn’t take much physical stamina to sit at a desk and type all day. I don’t want to be a brain surgeon, or even a coal miner.

I just want to write great literature.

But I have to wake up … every day … and find my courage. Just like the brain surgeon.

The next time you can't find the courage to face your day, think about the iron men teetering on that steel I-beam 70 stories in the air. Those New York City skyscrapers don't build themselves. Think about the coal miner dropped miles underground to dig coal in the dark, cold earth. Think about the emergency room nurse fighting to save the next car accident victim.

We writers may not put our lives on the line, but we put them on the page. And that, my friend, still takes courage. Writers can do without a lot of things. Courage isn't one of them.

Remember that.

Blessings to you and yours.

What Do Christians Read When The Pastor Isn't Looking?



Years ago, I taught a class at a Romance Writers Conference in Kentucky. I asked a group of about 25 women, "What do you think Christian women want to read in fiction?"

The answers were all over the board.

But what surprised me was most agreed Christians do not necessarily opt for Christian literature each time they walk into Barnes & Noble, or log on to Amazon. Unbeknownst to their pastors, they want a good story first. It must move them in some way. Heart wrenching, painful, shocking, gritty -- romance should encompass all of these and more. And here's the best part: the industry is finally discovering that women (Christian or not) are now demanding it.

In fact, one woman in my class expressed herself in such a way that it hit me hard. Enough to write down some of it. She said, "Christan romance has quite possibly been developed to hold women captive within the boundaries of legalism." I recently read something like this on a recent blog post, which stimulated my need to write about it again.

The big publishing houses no longer have control over what is being written, published, and read by thousands. Formula romance, though beloved by many over the years, is suddenly being squeezed out by real, redemptive romance. Romance that includes suspense and the paranormal. Or mystery and murder. Crossing genres, romance is often woven through many of today's great novels.

In Outlander, by Diana Gabaldon, for example. The romance between Jamie and Claire is some of the best I've ever read. But no one can deny the sheer suspense of time travel in and of itself. You can't read the series without knowing a little more about Scotland and its history. I've read Outlander more than once, and I can tell you I'm glued to every bit of its 627 pages.

I want to see writers put their characters under mind-blowing pressure. And then I want the writer to make their worst nightmare -- worse. Stretch the characters to the limit and then bring them back. Real love is like that. It doesn't have to involve a Christian message or even erotica. Just kill us with tears, gasps, and sighs by the time we get to the last chapter.

A gripping love story, one that readers will remember, includes great sacrifice, incredible courage, and breaks the bonds of the selfish. If it includes sex, it's not only well written, it's full of emotion and yearning. Any novel where the writer labors over the romance, making it come alive, will captivate a reader.

Christians are not looking to have their ears tickled anymore. They're not bound by the church as to what they read. With conviction, they may steer away from the "shades of grey" but they're not afraid to tackle the reality of romance.

If you're a Christian who writes, as I am, don't hold back. Write your heart. You may be surprised where it takes you.

Blessings to you and yours.

What Do Romance Readers Want And Why?

I recently asked readers in my circle, a group of church-going women and more than a few professed agnostics, their thoughts on Christian fiction, romance, and where you draw the line. I've also been reading opinions, post, and blogs to discover once and for all ... what do romance readers really want? It's been a fascinating revelation.

I found that although a few enjoy the "Calgon-take-me-away-moments" in fluffy, funny, happily-every-after novels, the majority demand the guts and glory of the story to show them something they've never seen, learn something they didn't know, take them somewhere they've never been. It's a daunting task for the writer.

At the end of my three-week research, I got a clear picture from the mostly 35+ women I spoke to. They have to see the stakes raised on every page to keep them immersed in the pages.

I've been told most publishers believe women who read romance don't want to be challenged, inspired, or enlightened. That women don't want to think. They want to feel. I don't know about you, but that's insulting to me. (Okay, Okay. With one exception: if I'm relaxing in a bubble bath with a few lit candles on the tub and glass of Merlot within arm's reach, I need something soothing and well written. I don't need to read anything that'll cause me to drop my Kindle in the soap suds.)

But with that said, more than 50 % of the women don't want graphic material or sex kitten fantasy: They want reality-based fiction. No matter what they're reading.

I questioned two women who poke their noes in a romance novel only on occasion. They find them silly, trite, predictable. However, when I asked them if they've read the, oh, so popular 50 Shades of Grey, one told me she honestly felt embarrassed for the author. Her words, not mine. The other's face reddened and said, "I had to. I wanted to see what the fuss was about. But I threw the book away when I finished it. I didn't want my daughters to find it."

Other readers I spoke to and heard from want to be transported to the point they have to look up from the pages to remember where they are. They need to feel the raw emotion as tears on their faces. Listen up romance writers, readers are wanting more. Are we prepared to give it to them?

They want to see their hero and heroine fight against insurmountable obstacles to be together, even if they don't end up together in the end. Readers don't care about unrealistic expectations. We all have them; our lives are plagued with them, so why shouldn't the character's lives be full of unattainable goals The readers told me they still, indeed, rooted for them.

I've been told by those in the industry that truth is stranger than fiction because it can be. That fiction has to make sense. It can be as fantastic as you care to make it, but it must have an inherent logic to it at all times.

My question is -- logic to whom? What is logical to me is not logical to someone else. What is plausibility? To whom must it be plausible? The readers I spoke to agreed with me, the whole issue with logic and plausibility lies in the lap of the reader.

So go for it, writer.

But no more Barbie and Ken characters. Readers want a flawed protagonist. Inside and out. She may have gorgeous blond tresses and wear stilettos to work, but she's a recovering drug addict. He's a firefighter with chiseled cheeks and a hard body, but he's fighting an incurable disease. Readers don't buy perfection. Not anymore.

I'll write more about Christian fiction tomorrow ... you wouldn't believe what they're asking for.

Blessings to you and yours.

How To Get A Free Copy of TELEVENGE!

Win a signed copy of Televenge, a saga of religion, romance, and crime! Sunday is the deadline at www.goodreads.com!

Andie Oliver is a faithful woman—to God, to husband Joe, and to televangelist Reverend Calvin Artury, a Godfather in a Mafia of holy men.

 

Raised to be subservient and submissive in the tradition of the Bible-belt South of the 70s, she becomes a prisoner of that tradition. As a reluctant member of Artury’s evangelical megachurch, the House of Praise in Winston-Salem, North Carolina, Andie’s dream of children, home, and marriage falls apart when Joe is hired on the ministry team.

 

The charismatic Reverend conducts faith-healing crusades, creating the largest religious TV audience in the world, surpassing the income and followers of Oral Roberts and the Reverend Billy Graham combined. Working limitless hours, Joe is sucked deeper into the ministry while Andie attempts to free him from the Reverend’s control and far-reaching influence.

 

But it is Mavis Dumass, Andie’s best friend since birth, a sassy African-American woman and aspiring recording star, who holds the secrets to Reverend Artury’s carefully veiled debauchery. What happens to Mavis will not be forgotten as it leaves Andie near mental collapse and struggling for freedom from the cult’s grip.

 

Andie is still unaware of the extreme danger their pastor wields until she witnesses the murder of a church member. Fearing for her life, Andie plummets from a dreadful existence to a horrific one as she uncovers Reverend Artury’s long-hidden truths, and loses everything, including her children. But she strikes back, threatening to expose the Reverend to the world.

 

Reverend Artury reverts to the twisted “cleansings” of his childhood. Raised by two psychopathic aunts, he mentally declines and quickly, Andie must go into hiding. Fighting for redemption for her family and herself, Andie confronts the very definition of sin, and shakes the Christian evangelical world to its core. Evading ruthless adversaries who will go to any lengths to protect Reverend Artury, Andie battles the dark side of televangelism, forever changing a nation of evangelicals.

 

With more twists and turns than the Blue Ridge Parkway, Televenge exposes chaos in the megachurch, and embraces those who discover unconditional love in a world of religious deception. An unforgettable tale of heartbreaking loss, an invincible spirit, and incredible courage.

 

Why Public Speaking Is A Writer's Best Friend

 

 

You've written the book. Now what? How do you get your book noticed? After the good reviews, nice blurbs, a pretty book cover, guest blogging, interviews, and diving into social media, what else can authors do to promote their book?

Selling thousands of copies of my first book was no small feat. To say any writer can hand sell their book out of the trunk of their car would be a false statement. To market and sell your book is hard work, to say the least. But writers, fearless writers, can be fearless marketers.

Writers know about platform and branding. Very simply, a platform is your customer base, your brand is your promise. A platform is the people who could, now and in the future, buy your books. Your brand will keep them reading your work. Hopefully.

 

Writing conferences, securing online presence, and joining networking groups will help a writer build that solid platform. There are a zillion web sites available for writers to promote their books. But, it’s been my experience the best possible marketing tool for the writer (drum roll, please) is public speaking. Meeting your readers, up close and personal.

 

I know, I know … it’s not what writers want to hear. We’re solitary folk, writing in the privacy of our homes, offices, attics, and basements. So why would we want to speak publicly?

Whether you’re published by a big house, small house, or self-published, YOU ARE YOUR BEST PUBLICIST. Speaking about your book is your best tool--especially if it’s self-published. Although I have an awesome publisher (Satya House Publications www.satyahouse.com) Michael and I decided to take a little advance money and put it toward travel. And travel, we did.

It's about to start all over again this October with the release of Televenge. A much bigger tour this time. From sea to shining sea. Lordy.

Anyway, I’ve spoken at over 150 venues to date, from New York City to Orlando, Florida. You've probably heard me say this before, but we wore out two cars and burned up lots of tax-deductible gas these past few years. Listen up. You never, ever stop marketing your book. You are in control. After six years, I'm still selling Southern Fried Women everywhere I go. How?

 

After I speak, I sell and sign books at the back of the room. 

My speeches are tweaked for each event. And always, I talk about my book and my future books. Want the real secret? It’s simple. Get the audience to fall in love with you and they’ll flock to your book table afterward to take a piece of you home. Be humble, be kind, be gracious, but most of all ... be genuine.

Smiling as I watch folks line up, I have signed as many as 150 books at one event. I can attest it’s the best confidence-builder in the world. PUBLIC SPEAKING sells books that would otherwise sit in boxes inside your garage, basement, or your publisher’s storage room.

REMEMBER THIS: IF THEY LOVE YOU, THEY’LL BUY YOUR BOOK. And how do you get them to love you? GIVE A GREAT SPEECH.

But first things first. If you're doing this on your own, without a publicist (like I did for my first book) you need a press packet or press booklet. A press packet contains an overview page, letters of reference, press releases, book reviews, a sample of your first chapter, and your bio. Actually, you can put anything into a press packet or booklet you want. There are no hard and fast rules. Anything that will open the door to a speaking engagement is fair game.

I prefer booklets, they’re cheaper and you can make them yourself. But they have to look professional. If you can’t do this, you’ll need to find a graphic designer, or a talented friend who can help you. Your press packet will be small at first, but as you speak and add letters of reference, you’ll impress any group leader, president, or activity director. Sign the back of each press booklet as a “signed limited edition.” They’ll be less likely thrown away.

Second, develop one or two speeches. That’s all you need at first. You may wish to seek out a qualified speech coach, life coach, or teacher. Practice your speech on professionals. Not family. Family members will love you and your speech no matter how it sounds. Give your speech to someone who can not only critique it, but also assist you in your delivery. Public speaking classes are available at most local colleges, or join Toastmasters. Enroll, apply, do whatever you have to do to hone your speech.

Southern Fried Women, published June 1, 2006, sold over 2,000 copies in the first year. Not bad for a first book, small press, and mostly regional sales. My book was sold at the back of boardrooms, conference rooms, lunchrooms, and ballrooms. In restaurants, book fairs, banquet halls, country clubs, beauty shops, gift stores, town halls, cultural centers, festivals, libraries and yes, a few book stores. I’ve spoken at book clubs, women's groups, church workshops, assisted living centers, book festivals, writing conferences, a slew of Rotaries, Junior Leagues, and many other civic groups … the list is a long one. There are hundreds of groups out there looking for good, qualified speakers. The trick is, finding them. Use your contacts. Or your family's contacts. Pull in a few favors. But once you've given a great speech and obtain a letter of reference, you're on your way.

Remember, as a published author you have an advantage over a professional speaker. However, professional speakers are catching on to this. At a National Speaker Association meeting I attended in Charlotte, these folks who speak for a living are putting together CD’s, gadgets, booklets, all kinds of things and selling them after their speech. Where? AT THE BACK OF THE ROOM. They know it’s another way to make money, as well as giving their audience something to remember them by.

How do I write a speech and talk about my book, you ask?

There are five attributes any writer needs to be successful: Raw talent, commitment, passion, luck, and unique voice. But YOU CAN APPLY EACH OF THOSE attributes AS A SPEAKER. You’ve heard WRITE WHAT YOU KNOW. I SAY --- don’t just write what you know about --- write what you care about. Your writing then has an edge, becomes intense, the stakes are raised, and your characters become larger than life. When you SPEAK the same applies. Speak about what you care about. What matters to you the most?

Sure, we all know it’s easier to develop a speech if you write non-fiction. If you wrote a book about Growing the Perfect Rose, you could develop a speech around organic gardening or composting. In our country, writing a book automatically makes you “an expert.” But you can build your speech around your fiction, too.

Know your audience. Develop more than once speech and make the titles available in your press packet and on your web site. Each speech can be adjusted for any audience. Choose wisely the speech that best fits the group. I have several speeches that I carry with me. Be a good judge of character of any group, just like you are of an individual. Be prepared to switch gears. If I walk into a room and feel the atmosphere of the room would respond better to a lighter or different speech, I’ll switch to another speech and they are none the wiser.

Unless you talk to other writers about your process, experience, and tips on writing … what do you speak about? How do you develop a speech and draw your book into your speech? And how do you market it? Motivational? Inspirational? Educational?

Draw from life experiences. My speech, Out of the Dark, is not for the faint of heart or the squeamish. I talk about coming out of a religious cult, and how that affected me as a writer. I grew up in church, so I talk about why my stories are filled with religious threads.

Southern Fried Women is written about what else? Southern women. And so, I developed a speech called What is a Southern Fried Woman? I’ve given this to many women’s groups. A speech about women born and raised or transplanted to the South. It’s funny, lighthearted, and compels those who hear it to remember their growing up years.

Later, I wrote the speech, Keeping the Southern Accent in Southern Literature. I have a lot of fun with this speech. It’s a blast and folks relate to it in a big way.

When I speak to business groups, and depending on what they ask for, I give a speech called, Reinventing a Life from Office to Author. How I transitioned into a writing career after many years in the medical field. Retirement Homes and Assisted Living Centers often request The Music of Southern Fried Women. I read excerpts from Southern Fried Women and sing some of the old timey church songs I grew up with. My husband accompanies me on the guitar. They love it!

And of course, I speak at Writing Conferences. I talk about The Voice of a Woman. My favorite is Publicity, Public Speaking, and Pulling Your Hair Out.

As an event speaker you not only meet the nicest folk, but the opportunity to sell and sign so many books is a real shot in the arm to your confidence. It’s thrilling to see a line of folks waiting patiently for you to sign their copy. Whereas, at a bookstore, you might, if you’re lucky, have five or ten people show up. Maybe. But when you’ve been requested to speak at an event you have a priceless advantage. You have a captive audience.  

One important note to remember: If you’re self-published, you can pocket the profit from book sales. If you’re not self-published, you’re still making money, and you're continually building your platform. Michael and I funded our last book tour from book sales at the back of the room! But EXPOSURE, EXPOSURE, EXPOSURE is the most important thing you're after.

Here’s another tip: Civic groups (non profits) have many fund raising projects. When negotiating an event, I often donate a percentage of book sales that day toward their event. It cuts into your profit a little, but the reward is tremendous. Word of mouth is also your best friend. If you’ve developed a great speech, soon you’ll have folks calling you to come speak because they know you’ll not only entertain them, but give to their efforts, as well.

Attend a meeting at your local Rotary! Anybody can go to a meeting or two without joining. Ask a Rotarian what would be the possibility of you speaking at one of their weekly meetings. Rotaries, as well as other civic groups need good speakers who are not out to sell them insurance or aluminum siding. They want motivational, inspirational, and speakers with a message. Small groups mean smaller sales, of course. But word spreads.

SPEAK locally first, and then branch out regionally. All it costs you is TIME. Time to research your markets and the tax-deductible GAS to get there.

Okay, if you sell 50 books at the back of the room and your book sells for $15.00, that’s $750.00 for about 2 hours work. If you really want to see your profit, deduct YOUR cost for each book, your sales tax, your expenses to get there, and donate 20% back to the group. That takes the profit down, but even $500 is a great profit margin. And what else? Once again, you’re building YOUR PLATFORM.

For my first book launch in 2006, I teamed up with my local Literary League, and donated 50% of the profits to their scholarship fund. I RECEIVED A TON FREE PRESS, TV TIME AND RADIO SPOTS.

Your best opportunity for speaking opportunities is NETWORKING. Join your local chamber. Go to a meeting of your Red Hat Society Ladies, Garden Club, and Book Clubs, Schools, anyone you know who belongs to a group who utilizes speakers. How about your church? There are a host of networking groups you can join. The Internet is great place to gather contact information for civic groups. But don't spam. And don't push. If they say no, then move on.

Writers must be overcomers. It’s an old church term I’ve heard for years. We have to overcome fear: the fear of public speaking, the fear of promoting ourselves, and the fear of failure. It's important to me that the hours and hours I spent on my passion are not wasted. Not only do I want my work published, I want it read. Every day presents new challenges in my writing career, but public speaking is no longer one of them. 

If it worked for me, it can work for anybody.

 

Blessings to you and yours.

What Makes A Writer Wipe Tears From The Keyboard?

 

There is great personal sacrifice in writing.

 

A few years ago I knew someone who said, "... she's wasting her time. Why doesn't she just get off her fat ass and go get a job?"

 

The man had no clue. He still has no clue. He has no idea the sacrifice that Michael and I have willingly gone through for me to stay home and write. Nor does he care. He's a twit, anyway.

 

For many of us, writing involves years of going without. Buying only what we need, wearing out cars, clothes, shoes, and eating lots of PB&J. I'm fortunate to have my husband's income. But there's no doubt our lives could've been much better financially had I kept my j-o-b way back when.

 

Writers like me don't get published because our face shows up on the cover of Time or People magazine. We get published by the sweat of our brow, suffering through the process, and wiping many tears off our keyboard. A real writer writes because if they didn't they'd shrivel up and die.

 

What makes a writer wipe tears from the keyboard? Snide remarks like the one above from someone who was supposed to be my friend. Strange enough, after the tears are wiped away, the words hang around. They churn and drill holes in my heart and wa-la! a character is born! That cruel man will someday show up in one of my stories, along with his unkind words and who knows what fate will await him? A gift bestowed upon every writer is the ability to wipe tears away and save them for later. I think one of the worst things you can do is piss off a writer. (wink)

 

I've traveled across the country. Given hundreds of speeches, presentations, and talked to a lot of different people. I'm about to do it again with the release of Televenge in October. I work seven days a week, most of the time. We've studied the industry for years. Jumped into the deep end of social media. And I have loved every minute of it. I wouldn't change a thing. I don't need to explain why I do what I do, especially to twits like the one above. In fact, sometimes I think comments like that are a good thing. It just makes you that much more determined.

 

 

 

You see, it's not about fame, fortune, or greed. It's about great personal sacrifice, and the satisfaction is brings in the end. Some will understand, others most definitely will not. But you never stop. No matter what. For me, there was no other way. There never was.

 

So wipe the tears off your keyboard, baby. And keep going.

Blessings to you and yours.

Where Can Writers Read Their Story Online?

The most unique feature in Southern Writers Magazine http://www.southernwritersmagazine.com, in my opinion, is the ability for authors to read five minutes of their novel online. It's called Take Five. My suggestion is to subscribe to this writing magazine, and as a subscriber you can then take advantage of this feature, as well as a few others. Kudos to Southern Writers Magazine for lifting up the arms of writers everywhere, standing behind us, and leading through open doors to find our readers.

After your book is published and prior to its release, upload Audacity software and record the first few pages, scenes, or paragraphs. If you don't like the sound of your voice, ask someone to do it for you. It's free, and it's one more way to connect with your network. Pretty simple.

Below is my sound bite. The first scene in my debut novel, Televenge. Pub. Date Oct. 2012. Enjoy!

http://www.southernwritersonline.com/take-five.html

Blessings to you and yours.

Why Is There A Labor Day?

It's an ancient porcelain top table with a date stamped on the bottom ... 1929. It was covered with old clothes and canning jars and sat in my grandmother's basement for decades. When she died, Daddy found it and carted it home. Eventually, it ended up with me. There's barely a scratch on it.

Today, it sits in the middle of my old farmhouse kitchen. The table holds pies and cookies to cool, bowls of fruit, and cookbooks when needed. It's the perfect height for grandchildren to color or make Popsicles. It's a workhorse. A relic to the time when every kitchen had a workhorse table. I've always wished for a modern kitchen with all the bells and whistles. But I think I'd miss this old table.

I was born in the middle of the 20th century. I've grown up with technology. I love what it can do for us, how it can make our lives easier. Faster. I'm not sure I could write like I do without my computer and laptop. Smart phones and Blue Ray players. HD television and GPS systems. Lord knows, we've worked hard to keep up with it all. I've come a long way since that old Royal manual typewriter I learned on.

But there's something to be said about my old kitchen. Farm living forces you to slow down. Take a break. To stop and feel the breezes blowing through open windows. To listen to the sounds of early morning cows and horses, watch storms roll in, taste fresh tomatoes from the garden. There's always a barn cat or two with a mouse in its mouth. Views of pastures in every direction. It makes you breathe and grateful to be alive. Makes you realize ... you can do without technology for a day.

It's Labor Day. A time to remember how the past labored a whole lot harder than we did. The original family who lived in our old farmhouse were up with the chickens and to bed with the sun. They seldom ventured more than twenty miles from home. They read books by lamplight and slept on the porch on hot summer nights. The news came in spurts via newspapers, or a gossiping neighbor. They lived off the land and the sweat of their brow, and never dreamed that someday a writer would roll out pies inside their house after a morning of talking to friends in cyberspace.

 

Trouble is, we got so busy we had to come up with Labor Day. A day to not only appreciate the laborers in our country, but give them a day off. The world has gone and got itself in a big hurry. I like a simple life. A life that includes an old farm, a black and white kitchen floor, and a workhorse table from 1929. I wish every day was Labor Day.

 

Blessings to you and yours.

 

What Are The REAL Shades of Grey?

 

All of a sudden shades of grey are in the news! It's old news to me. Women my age, Lord, we've experienced the real shades of grey for a couple decades. What's new is suddenly what the shades of grey represent. In literary terms, the words conjure up images of erotica. You know what I mean if you've read the oh, so popular book. I'm sure you've heard about it. It's like someone just created sliced bread or something. Good grief. Shades of grey have been around for thousands of years, folks.

The real shades of grey are not in whips and chains, force and pain. The best shades of grey are whispered into a lover's ear on a pillow of down. The soft caress of a weathered and wrinkled hand on the hand of a partner after 50 years of marriage. Laying beside a lover on a hot summer night, skin-on-skin, only to find you can't be parted. To yearn from the inside out. To be held so warmly and loved so deeply, those are the shades of grey that matter. The real grey. The grey we live for. Die for.

Shades of Grey? It means pretty crazy stuff to some. But to me ... oh, Lord ... it's to be swept off my feet, in love and in words. These are the shades of grey that melt my butter.

Sex without love is like a poorly written book. You can read it, but secretly wish you hadn't. Sex with love will carry you to the end of your days like one of the classics. Even if you only read it once in your life, the story remains in your head and your heart forever.

Blessings to you and yours.

When Do You Leave Your Church?

 



My daughter, Jillian, and me. I love her hands. They look like mine. A mother never lets go of her children's hands.

My parents took me to Sunday school, revivals, and holy-rolling church services from the time I was in diapers. I don't remember my first church experience. But I do recall when my parents began to attend a large church near our home. I was eight. A fountain loomed into the sky on the mammoth front lawn of the church. At night after a long, hot church service, a bunch of us knobby-kneed kids would play under the fountain's cool water spray that turned colors in the dark. Pink, blue, green, and finally we stood in awe as fake blood trickled down the illuminated white cross in its center. On the cross was the word "LIFE." It was exactly what that church took from us. Our lives.

We were taught to resist the devil so he would flee. Turn our backs on society, because society would send our souls to Hell. We were told to pray for those we admonished, because until they walked inside our sanctuary and received Jesus as their savior, they were all doomed. We were right, they were wrong. We were good, they were evil. We were the elect of God because we spoke in tongues, they would never make the rapture. We had come out from among them and lived where the healing water flowed.

We gave our last dime and saw the blessings of the Lord in everything. A sale on pantyhose, a bigger tax return than we expected, a great parking spot at the grocery store, a found five-dollar bill at the bottom of our purse. We worked out our salvation in fear and trembling and never, ever doubted the Bible, our salvation, and most of all, our pastor.

We testified to the godless, but never associated with them, unless they joined our church. Not another church. OUR church. And we never cast our pearls before the swine.

I grew up in doctrine and dogma, until one day after I turned seventeen and married my childhood sweetheart, my parents decided they'd had enough. They left the church for good.

But my mother never let go of my hand.

I was to shun my folks, "give 'em a good lettin' alone!" I knew my parents wished they had never stepped foot in that church, but it was too late for me. I was married to it. The relationship with my parents became strained.

I continued to attend what had become a megachurch, striving to please, wanting to be one of them, hoping for good things to happen, believing the blessings of the Lord were right around the corner. I was held over Hell on many occasions when they felt me pulling away. But I always came back, falling to my face at the altar. I had surrendered all. All to Jesus I surrendered, always hoping He would notice and reward me for it. My faith wavered, but I was proud. My husband was on the ministry team, my children were active in the children's church, and I never talked much about our church life to my mom. It was a sore spot.

But my mother continued to pray for me.

As my children grew, they were discouraged by the church to attend Friday night school or social functions. (Our big church service was on Friday nights.) The fear of God had been planted in them. One day, something magical happened. I saw in them what my mother had seen in me. Bondage. It grieved me. I began to pull away. Slowly. It took time, but I wanted to do it before my children became fully indoctrinated. Before I lost them, as my mother had lost me for a time. I wanted to give them a choice. Freedom. And that's when I realized ... I should have left that place long before I did.

The years following were a nightmare. For all of us. I kept waiting for the time I would drop dead and fall into Hell. But it never happened. And it took a long time to shake the fact that I could not convince my husband to compromise. He chose his God and his pastor over me. I had become a contaminant. He did not need to understand me, and there was no reason to try. I was not redeemable. I was, in fact, the dog who returned to its vomit. My fate was sealed. I was dead already.

It took years, but one day I woke up to find my hand had never slipped from God's hand. Through my mother, He had held on to me. I had clawed my way out of the darkness and into the light of God's grace.

Many churches do not hurt. Their members are free to experience life in and outside the church. The church family is an extension of their own. If you belong to that kind of church, consider yourself greatly blessed.

But if your spirit is grieved and hurting, something is wrong. When should you leave your church? I think inside you know the answer to that question. Look into your children's eyes and answer it for yourself. Then you'll know.

Blessings to you and yours.

A Writer's True Passion Comes From Anguish

 



I listened to David Wilkerson last night. A well-known fire and brimstone evangelist whose messages stir the emotion and bring most either to their feet or their knees. Clips of his sermons are posted on You Tube. You can search for him there.

"True passion comes from anguish," he said. His words flew into me like a fiery arrow, illuminating my past. Wilkerson's message centered around anguish and how todays church is void of it. He's a big believer in, Cryin' Holy unto the Lord. He professes the church has gone soft, that we're basically a bunch of babies who want to be soothed and coddled. That we no longer tarry for hours before the Lord, prostrate at the altar. That God wants to see our anguish over the state of the world and our Godless nation. Wilkerson has that pastor voice. You know what I mean? He's learned how to wail when he speaks, allowing us to hear his heart as it breaks for the sins of mankind. And if you've grown up as a fundamentalist, it moves you. Even if you've never sat in a tent revival, I think it would move you.

Whether or not you agree with Wilkerson's message, you have to agree that true passion is definitely born from anguish. As a writer, I believe the heartaches and hardships we experience give us plenty to write about.

The kind of anguish I'm talking about is not about a fender-bender in the parking lot. A bad grade on a test. Losing your wallet. Or a fight with your spouse.

Anguish, suffering, agony, grief, sorrow and angst ... comes from a break in your spirit. A temporary disconnection with yourself and the world around you. The loss of anything dear to you creates real, gut-wrenching anguish. The kind you feel down to the soles of your feet. Buckets of tears. Nobody wants to experience it. Nobody wants to go through something like that, and I hope and pray you never do.

But if you do, what you do with that anguish, how you channel it, will determine your future in many ways. And if you're a writer, it can propel you into another level. I've read books where I know, without a doubt, the writer has suffered at one point in his/her life. You can feel it in the way they put the story together. Raising the stakes isn't so hard, because they've lived it.

Not a pleasant topic to blog about, but I think it needs to be said. Personally, I hope I never see another drop of anguish as long as I live. I've had my share. David Wilkerson can wail as long as he wants about anguish, but I never want to experience it again. Ever. It's not a pleasant place to go to.

I want you to remember this, if you've closed the door on your anguish, the memories of it ... and if you're a writer ... you may want to revisit that dark place. Your writing changes. Something inside you clicks and literary takes on a whole new meaning.

My passion was truly born from the sorrow, grief, and the anguish of my life. Now, at least I can say, the joy of the Lord is my strength. At some point the tears have to stop. The river of sorrow has to trickle to nothingness. We have to move out of that place and use what we've learned to write the story of our life. It's not something we want to think about, anguish, but be thankful for it. It's made you who you are.

And despite the fire and brimstone, that's a good thing.

Blessings to you and yours.

My Next Book ... The Sanctum

 

Televenge hovers only a month away ... and I'm thrilled to say the least. But I'm already working on the next book. Actually, I thought it was finished in 2010. After a couple rewrites, it has taken on a life of its own. Here is a preview:

Neeley McPherson accidentally killed her parents on her fifth birthday. Thrown into the care of her scheming and alcoholic grandfather, she is raised by his elderly farmhand, Gideon, a black man, whom she grows to love. Neeley turns thirteen during the winter of 1959, and when Gideon is accused of stealing a watch and using a Whites Only restroom, she determines to break him out of jail.

The infamous Catfish Cole, Ku Klux Klan Grand Dragon of the Carolinas, pursues Neeley and Gideon in their courageous escape to the frozen Blue Ridge Mountains. After Gideon’s truck hits ice and careens down a steep slope, they travel on foot through a blizzard, and arrive at a farm of sorts—a wolf sanctuary where Neeley crosses the bridge between the real and the supernatural. It is here she discovers her grandfather’s deception, confronts the Klan, and uncovers the shocking secrets of the Cherokee family who befriends her. Giving sanctuary, the healing power of second chances, and overcoming prejudice entwine, leading Neeley to tragedy once again but also granting her the desire of her heart.

The Sanctum is a coming-of-age Southern tale dusted with a bit of magic, and set in a volatile time in America when the winds of change begin to blow.

Blessings to you and yours!

Do Writers Brainstorm Better In A Group?

It's me, brainstorming. I sat with a group of writers in the kitchen, throwing ideas into the air, and bouncing names and places off the walls. I remember thinking how productive is this, really!

But for a writer, brainstorming with friends can produce massive amounts of storyline, character traits, and titles to refer to when you're pushing hard for that next book. So you've got a few thoughts rolling around in your head, but they're not going anywhere. You see a character. What is this person doing, how are they dressed, where are they in terms of time and place?

Literary Agent, Donald Maass has a unique system he uses to flesh out these characters. If you are blessed enough to take any of his classes and/or seminars, do it. It flushes out the gunk so you can think. Not to sound gross, but taking a class from Don, is like a colonic for writers.

In one particular brainstorming session, the light bulb went tilt! tilt! over my head.

When I finished Televenge, I contemplated my next novel. I love writing about the gritty south, the pretentious north. The religions of both are just as gut-wrenching, but from a totally unique viewpoint. My group threw out a few ideas and my subconscious went to work.

Over the next weeks, I knew I wanted to write a novel that included the possibility of the paranormal, spirituality from different points of view and a character-driven plot. I also knew I wanted to write in first-person, and last but not least, I wanted the story to include an animal that has fascinated me all my life—the wolf. I decided on the timeline between November 1959 until March 1960, which was a different route entirely for me. Televenge, my debut novel coming to you in October of 2012, spans thirty years, from 1972 to present day.

But for my new book, I focused on a young girl with fuzzy red hair who wore thick eyeglasses. For a while, all I had was an image of Neeley. A skinny, lonely, parentless country girl who lived on a tobacco farm. I quickly fell in love with her and needed to write her story. Placing my little red-headed white girl in the caring hands of the most opposite character, a seventy-year old African-American male, a rugged individual who wasn’t afraid of his gentle side, the novel took shape. The what-ifs began to roll, and each morning the characters revealed a little more of their story.

It wasn't long, however, and I got stuck. Back to my brainstorming group of friends.  

In a brainstorming session, bring a tape recorder, because you really can't write fast enough. Ideas and thoughts and words fly at the speed of sound. To capture it, you must record the session. But it was at that second brainstorming session that the plot began to thicken.

I contemplated the one social issue I feel strongly about. Prejudice. To me, racism is the biggest white elephant in the South. I know some southern writers have grown 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 precious piece of their childhood 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.

I wish I could say I experienced the wonderful memories of the above authors. But that is not the case. My experiences were quite different. Thus, creating a new perspective and a fresh voice.

Although my parents taught me respect for all people, I soon discovered blatant prejudice in other families around me. As a young girl, it affected me so deeply, I never forgot it. This began my quest to write a story about the evils of racism.

On January 29, 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. From that publication, my imagination took off once again. I wrote dialogue, paragraphs, whole scenes, and sketched it into my outline.

The area in which I lived at the time, is rich in tobacco history. Historically saturated with horse and tobacco farms, today they still dot the landscape. I also discovered James W. Cole (1924-1967) was ordained into the ministry in Summerfield, NC at the Wayside Baptist Church in 1958. He toured the Carolinas as a tent evangelist and broadcast a Sunday morning radio program, becoming an active member of the Knights of the Ku Klux Klan, and eventually the Grand Dragon of North and South Carolina. The man intrigued me. Since the story was shaping up to take place in North Carolina during that time period, writing Reverend Cole into it was a perfect fit.

As I further pondered the civil rights movement, I checked my notes from my brainstorming session and saw I had written down the word, Cherokee. I began to think of civil rights for all people, which led to the Native American plight in my story. According to my father, our family’s historian, my great grandmother was a full-blooded Cherokee. Listening to the pain of the Cherokee voices inside my head, I knew I had to include them.

The wolf finally appeared in the story. Wolves are about family and order. The wolf is a subtle character, but still a voice to be reckoned with. I had studied the wolf carefully, and found there were people who loved wolves enough to create sanctuaries for them. Later, I discovered a wolf sanctuary only a four-hour drive from my home. A wolf sanctuary in the Blue Ridge Mountains and the town of Bakersville. We drove up the side of a mountain leading to a sign that read, The Wolf Sanctum. From that moment, I called my novel, The Sanctum.

 

When I pulled my outline together, I sat for one last brainstorming session with my dear friends. It didn't take long before I felt I had the inciting incident. The book is complete and hopefully, with God's blessing, it will be published.

 

Televenge was such a personal story, I didn't feel the need to brainstorm. But for future books, you can bet I will gather my brainstorming group together for at least three sessions per story. In addition to your research, a writer should not be afraid to ask for help.

 

Brainstorming. It's a writer's boost from ideas rolling around in your head, to getting it onto the page.

 

Try it.

 

Blessings to you and yours.

Would You Drink the Kool-Aid?



 

 

Isn't is amazing that you know to what I am referring?

'Drinking the Kool-Aid' in urban slang, has nothing to do with that wonderful, fruity drink we guzzled by the gallon when we were kids. It refers to the 1978 cult mass-suicide in Jonestown, Guyana. Televangelist, Jim Jones, took cyanide and some kind of sedative and mixed it with Kool-Aid to poison his massive following at Jonestown. It may have been Flavor Aid, but no matter what he used, we know what it means when somebody says, "Don't drink the Kool-Aid!"

I watch a great deal of religious TV, mostly because it's what I write about. Some of it moves me, most of it—does not. Watching one particular televangelist recently, I was moved to tears. Not because of what he was saying, singing, or pushing. It was the faces in the crowd that kept me glued to the screen. Each face was wet with tears. Those precious people, reaching out for hope, for a healing, for God. Their hands raised, these folks had come to that great arena to worship, receive a blessing, and touch the hem of their Creator. It grieved me so, I eventually had to change the channel.

I sure hope that televangelist knows the tremendous responsibility on his shoulders. I wonder.

The new face of televangelism is still pretty much the old face. One of prosperity messages and miracles. The difference is that the audience has grown by mega leaps and mega bounds. In a bad economy, a great majority turns to God for help. They’re attracted by those prosperity messages. The problem as I see it, televangelists can lead sheep to the slaughter like nothing and no one else. They can bring out the tears and sell God better than Tony the Tiger sells cornflakes. They can whip up a batch of Kool-Aid, knowing millions of honest hearts would drink it. And for some reason, we Christians are hesitant to hold our pastors accountable for what they say and do. They don't have to be perfect. In fact, I'd prefer if they were not. But we tend to overlook these rock stars of religion, and confuse the human with the divine, believing every word they speak comes from The Almighty.

Many years ago, I never missed church. I believed, tithed, raised my hands in every service, answered hundreds of altar calls, and gave love offerings instead of paying my light bill. I trusted and obeyed. Sowed my prosperity seeds and read every prosperity scripture over and over again. I gave out of my need. For years I lined the pockets of a pastor who traveled around the world, taking my husband with him, leaving me to suffer alone at home. Until one day I asked myself this question. Do I feed my kids or pay my tithe? I fed my kids.

For years I had loved my preacher, believed in my pastor, and gave everything I had, including my spouse, to the televangelist my pastor had become. In the end, it didn’t matter because I rebelled and “sealed my fate.” I was rejected, divorced, and eventually homeless.

Is there such a thing as a good televangelist? No doubt some possess honest hearts with admirable intentions. But it’s tough to retain those intentions, that good heart, the humility required and pay for expensive TV time. I speak from experience. Be careful. Don’t be a gullible Christian. The wolves are still out there. And so is the Kool-Aid.

 

Blessings to you and yours.

Dinner With The Girls



They were only 15 by the end of the summer. Girlfriends. Meeting for dinner at the Diary Queen next to the Ocean View Restuaruant because after they pooled their money, they only had six dollars. Besides, Jimmy Johnson, the cute boy in Social Stuies, lived on the same street.

Ten years later, the group of 25-year-old girlfriends agreed to meet at the Ocean View Restaurant because the beer was cheap, the band was good, and there was no cover. And lots of cute guys.

Ten years later, the 35-year-old friends shared the cost of a babysitter and met at the Ocean View Restaurant because the cosmos were good, it was close to the gym, and if they went late enough there wouldn't be too many whiny babies.

Ten years later, the 45-year-old girlfriends met at the Ocean View Restaurant because the martinis were big and the waiters were college boys with nice bums.

Ten years later, the 55-year-old girlfriends met, once again, at the Ocean View Restaurant because the prices were reasonable, the wine list was good, it had windows that opened (in case of a hot flash) and the fish was good for their cholesterol.

Ten years later, the 65-year-old ladies argued that the Ocean View Restaurant wasn't what it used to be, but the lighting was good and someone had a coupon for the early bird special.

Ten years later, the 75-year-old friends found their way back to the Ocean View Restaurant because the food wasn't too spicy and the place was handicapped-accessible. And it had an elevator.

Ten years later, the 85-year-old girlfriends discussed where to meet for dinner. Finally, they agreed to meet at the Ocean View Restaurant because it sounded nice and they had never been there before.

By Anonymous ...

Blessings to you and yours, :-) My how time flies.

Don't Get Your Panties In a Wad!

It was my first real writing award. 2003 at the Burlington Writer Awards in North Carolina. No Time For Laura, a short story that was eventually published in Southern Fried Women.  A baby step. A little taste of success that kept me hungry for more.



Some of us shoot ourselves in the foot before we take one step toward success. It could be the environment we were raised in, or lack of self-esteem, but the negativity has to stop at some point if you want to see a return on the thousands of hours you put into your writing.

I listened to a webinar last evening. Now, I'm not a fan of veg-o-matic salespeople pushing their get-rich-quick ideas on the Internet. I've listened to a few of them and they're a real turn off. The seller gets rich while the buyer gets confused and gives up. But Kristen White, a personal media expert, sparked my interest. I saw her at the BookExpo in New York City this past June, and decided to listen to five or ten minutes of her webinar. I ended up listening to the whole thing. Google her and sign up to listen to her next webinar. She's got some fantastic marketing ideas. Not sure I'm going to buy the program, but her step-by-step coaching system to put your product, book or brand in the spotlight and build a solid platform is intriguing. http://www.instantcelebritysuccess.com

However, some of the things she said got me to thinking. One something in particular, and that is I have to stop any negativity wanting to creep into my mind on a daily basis. I have to quit focusing on those who don't like me or my views or ideas and concentrate, instead, on those who do. Or will.

Lately, I've read a few Facebook posts by people who get all riled up because somebody doesn't agree with their views on one thing or another. Mostly politics and religion. The usual. But everyone has an opinion and the right to voice it. We don't have the right to sling mud in the process. Who cares, really, if someone doesn't agree with you? Our differences are what makes the world go around. It makes life interesting. As long as no one gets hurt, a little friendly banter is good.

Love your neighbor, and don't get all shook up if your neighbor doesn't share your views. There is something to love in everybody. Find it. Concentrate on that instead of the negative. And don't get your panties in a wad over things we can nothing about. Life is too damn short.

Give it a rest. Take a step back, and let go of the stress.

Laugh.

And just don't count your blessings. Share them.

Blessings to you and yours.



Does Jesus Really Need our Money?



It was a marathon "praise-a-thon" to raise money. For the religious TV station, or missions, or for a new satellite to preach God’s word to the world. I perched myself in front of the TV, watching folks stand at their seats with arms raised, moving and swaying to the music, eyes all watery, and shouting out a few praises in between stanzas.

A group of professional singers and musicians blanketed the stage, leading the auditorium from one tear-jerking song to the next. I sat thinking no TV audience could possibly be moved enough to donate by watching this. But the on-screen total kept growing by the minute. A man in 70s couture shouted loud and long about sowing seeds of prosperity. Giving in faith. He testified because he didn’t rob God of tithes and offerings, that had God blessed him. In fact, God had saved him from a life of poverty, sickness, and disease. And then one day, because he was a tither, a check for six thousand dollars mysteriously showed up in his mailbox. Praise God!

Phone numbers blinked at the bottom of the TV screen and I wondered how many of these marathon offerings I've sat through in my lifetime? Does God really need my money? Or does He really intend to test my faith on a regular basis by whether or not I give my last dime?

I suppose that depends on whether or not we take the scriptures literally. The condemnation I feel for even writing this weighs heavy on me, because I was brought up on the covenants of God. On the conviction of the Holy Spirit. On the literal meaning of each and every scripture. And if you did not believe as we did, then whoa be unto you, you sinner. You were dead already.

I understand why praise and worship offering marathons exist. Somebody needs to carry the burden to pay for TV time. It might as well be you or me. But I also know the fear involved. I swallowed that dogma for years and chased the feelings of eternal security until my feet were worn to bloody stubs.

Am I now an apostate? Have I forsaken the cross?

No.

I've grown tolerant. I've learned God's love cannot be explained or compared to the love we know as humans. I've learned that we cannot control God by "giving until it hurts." I've even grown tolerant of folks praising God on camera and living like the devil when the house lights are turned off.

After some time, I changed the channel. Tithing and giving can be looked at in a different way. For me, giving to a down-and-out family across the street is doing God's work. His hand reaches out to the poor and the homeless when we give food and shelter to the needy. You don't do it for recognition, but for love and compassion for your fellow man. That, my friend, is following in the footsteps of true Christianity.

I think many evangelicals have lost their focus of what it means to give. We've become so wrapped up in believing that God wants His people to have the best, that we forget Christ lived and dwelt among the poor and the destitute. I'm not saying it's wrong to have nice things, and I don't have a problem with sitting in a pretty church, but I do have a problem when it becomes the focus of a church to make sure their pastor lives in the lap of luxury. I have a problem with pastors who wear designer clothes when some in his congregation can barely feed their kids!

I realize most churches claim to be good stewards with their money. I'm sure some would permit you to see where their money is spent. Many church congregations are extended family to their members, loving them and caring for their needs during a family crisis. Church families can be a real blessing. But when televangelists hound you week after week to hand over your ten percent in addition to your love offering—they not only take away from the local church, they’re also manipulating you to give out of fear. Fear that you won’t get that raise, that new car, or the healing for your bad back. That you’ll miss out on an “anointing” that comes with supporting their ministry. TV preachers and marathon praise-and-worshippers know exactly what to say to make you weep. They can send you to the phone to donate before you realize you've left the comfort of your Lazy boy.

We can reach out in many directions, inside and outside of the church. And we shouldn't feel guilty for it. I believe He blesses us according to the intents of our heart. I've experienced the stranglehold of a megachurch. I know first-hand the guilt involved in not paying your tithes. But never again will you see me clutching my hard-earned money in my hand and walking down the aisle to throw it at the pastor’s feet. A pastor who wears Italian leather shoes and Armani suits. I'd rather take my chances and give it to the panhandler on the corner.

Find a charity. Sponsors for children in underdeveloped countries are needed, as well as here in America. With our economy the way it is, struggling families in your own neighborhood need help. Be an anonymous donor. Give your ten percent or more to a hurting family. Pay their light bill, a mortgage payment, or stock their cupboards with groceries. Control where your money goes. Leave a note on their door with a word of encouragement.

That is the priority of us all. Christian or not.


Blessings to you and yours.

It's My Birthday And I'll Cry If I Want To ...



Yes, this baby girl was me. I was Calendar Baby of the Year. They plastered my little face on calendars everywhere. Thank God there were no toddlers wearing tiaras back then, or my debutante mama would have toted my frilly butt from one Holiday Inn competition to the next. (Notice the finger waves in the hair. Lordy.)

She kept me in crinolines and frilly dresses. Bonnets, gloves, and patent leather shoes. Hair bows and lacy socks that matched the lace on my panties. They tell me I was a prissy little thing. Until the day I discovered playing in the dirt roads in front of Grandma's house was a lot more fun! Could be that stubborn Leo trait that follows me to this day ... "I'll play in the dirt if I want to!"

I can't believe it. Another year. Ugh. Loved those birthdays when I was a kid, but they can slow down a bit now. Trouble is, it seems they show up more often as I grow older. I was thinking about life back then. Back when a gallon of gas was 22 cents, a movie ticket was 70 cents and the cost of the average home was $11,000.00. What happened to us? We of the baby boomer generation, will we leave this world in a better place for our grandchildren? Well. I suppose that's a blog for another time.

It's my birthday, so I'll try to end on a happier note. I'm not saying which year I was born but you might guess from the following:

The year I was born:

Marilyn Monroe married Joe Demaggio

Elvis was King

Popular Movies:

White Christmas

The Caine Mutiny

Seven Brides for Seven Brothers

20,000 Leagues Under the Sea

Popular Books:

Live & Let Die - Ian Fleming

Lord of the Flies - William Golding

Lord of the Rings - JRR Tolkien

Born in my year:

Ron Howard

John Travolta

Christie Brinkley

and my friend, Oprah Winfrey

Swanson introduced TV Dinners! Yay!

The first mass vaccination against polio put scars on our arms

The first RCA color TV went on sale!

Eisenhower was President

Churchill was still Prime Minister of England

Snow tires with studs cost $15.00 each

and last but not least ...

Playtex Magic Controller Girdle went on sale.

You know, the one with reinforced garters,

no-roll sides and no-hike-up backs

$7.95 at your favorite department store

First grade picture. Still got those finger waves.

Blessings to you and yours.

Coal Dust On My Feet ~ part 14 ~ The End



~~~Sunday, May 10, 1953~~~

Odie spent the last night on his farm laying his important papers, along with a few pictures of Savina, where Thirl would see them. In the crude barn he’d built after the first one burned, Odie cleaned the horse stalls and said goodbye to his small herd. He fed his dogs, chickens, hog, and his horses, and then laid the feedbags where DeDe could find them easily. Hanging his head and dragging his body through the house, he gathered Savina’s belongings and what few clothes he owned and put them into two boxes to be given to the Baptist missionary fund. Finally, he collapsed into a chair and stared into a blazing fire until morning.

~~~Monday, May 11, 1953~~~

Outside, the low light of dawn came quickly. The sun won its battle and the storm clouds departed, leaving behind ragged wisps of black and gray streaking the blue sky like soot on a clean sheet.

 Odie had one last mission. His car totaled, his truck confiscated by the authorities at the cook shack, he relied on his bay colt to help him fulfill his last duty to his friends. Seizing the reins, Odie swung up onto his horse’s back, knees tight around the animal’s barrel of ribs. The horse uttered a great whinny, tossed his head, and broke into a lope across the hill. Odie wiped tears from his eyes with his coat sleeve and headed for Colored Holler.

~~~

DeDe’s body, slow and heavy, rolled out of bed early. She had filled her washing machine with boiling water from the stove. Sleeping the day away under a pile of blankets was an option she’d considered. Except something made her get out of bed. The sunshine, perhaps.

Sheets and towels went in first, then underwear, socks, Thirl’s T-shirts, colors, and lastly—Thirl’s work clothes. The same wash-load line-up every week for the past few decades.

At the bottom of the basket the smell of coal rose from dirty pants and shirts. Her hand shook lifting them out—they were her son’s. She shoved them into a paper bag with no intention to wash them. DeDe set the bag in his room and closed the door behind her. She wanted the room sealed off, kept as a tomb. What would we ever use it for anyway? DeDe forced her mind to go blank, refusing to think of the fresh graves at the end of town.

~~~

The sound of a horse brought men and women out to their porches in the hollow.

Nappy-headed children peeked through windows. Smoke floated out of every chimney. When the horse stopped in front of Jabo’s house, Mama Ola clopped out on the porch, her eyes stern and her lips stiff.

Odie tipped his hat. “Ma’am.” He remained on his horse. “Mister Kelly awake?”

“Nawser, you g’wan now … git. We don’t need no trouble up heah.”

Hephzibah stepped out on the dilapidated porch and wrapped a shawl around her mother-in-law. “Jabo’s in the house. He be out directly. We’re grievin’ too, Mist’ Odie.”

“I know. You loved my Savina, and I appreciate what you done. You know what I come fer?”

“I knows why,” said Hephzibah. “You ready to tell the Nettles the truth?”

“I am.”

Jabo walked out with his rifle. “You do this, Mist’ Odie, you do this right, or ah swear ah hunt you down mysef.”

“I promise, Mister Kelly. I promise to make the Nettles’ world a little happier today. I’m goin’ to prison, probably for the rest of my days. You’ll have no fight from me, Sir. Was my bullet that killed Cole Farlow two nights ago. I’m gonna pay for that.”

Jabo nodded. “Come inside then.”

~~~

Thirl, having the week off, roamed the house, the porch, and the yard, bumping into his wife at every turn. His mind weary, his hands empty—his heart needing a reason to beat, he carried the heavy basket of sheets to the back yard for DeDe to hang them on the line. Needing to be near her, Thirl handed her clothespins, until the first glimpses of the funeral procession for Cole Farlow moved up Nicholas Street. Recognizing the few cars that followed the hearse, Thirl walked back into the house and stepped out on the front porch. His legs buckled under him—falling to the steps, his eyes fixed on the motorcade rolling by slowly. He had no idea where they were burying him … he didn’t care.

~~~

The sheriff arrived early to arrest Odie at his house, but when he walked up on the porch he saw a note had been tacked to the door. You can find me at Thirl Nettles’.

~~~

Squeezing with his feet, he gave a little hey-yup and set the horse into motion, waving goodbye to Jabo and his family. He headed to Widen. Odie passed houses at a slow trot; it’d been many years since folks had seen a horse in the middle of town.

DeDe heard the noise of the crowd getting louder as she hung clothes on the line. It sounded as if the whole town was walking up Nicholas Street again.

Thirl stuck his head out the back doorway. “DeDe! Come quick. It’s Odie riding his horse up the street. Ya ain’t gonna believe this.”

            DeDe wiped her hands on her dress and walked inside. The air in the house was electric. Watching Thirl limp out to the front porch, DeDe's head tingled and music played inside her again. Grief moved aside for a moment as she stepped out on the porch with her husband.

            Odie sat on top of his horse that pranced in the street by the gate. Odie’s right hand was wrapped around the chest of a smiling baby boy propped in the saddle in front of him. The baby looked to be about ten months old. DeDe ran to Odie and reached up. Tears flowed as she laid her hand on Odie’s leg. The book of life had never closed. In moments it was revealed to her mind.

Gazing at the boy for a second, Odie tentatively touched the child’s forehead and cheek. He folded the blanket down around him and allowed the baby to slip off his saddle, out of his large hands, and into DeDe’s arms. He had James’ eyes and Savina’s mouth. And red hair. Lots of dark red hair.

“The most powerful force in the universe is gossip,” said Odie. “Savina didn’t want anybody to know, didn’t want people pointing at her baby, calling him a bastard. It was my fault they didn’t marry sooner. But they was gonna leave town next month, get married, come back later, after some time had passed. Jabo and his family been takin’ care of the boy all this time, that’s why Savina spent so much time there. He was born last July fourth.”

Thirl walked up behind DeDe and put his hands on her shoulders, then touched the child’s head, smoothing down his fine hair. The baby smiled, its toothless little mouth opened with a gurgle. With his finger, Thirl wiped drooling spit from its chin.

Odie choked on his tears. “Thirl, meet our grandson. This here is Emery. Emery Curtis Nettles. Son of James and Savina, grandson of Deanna and Thirl, and Josephine and … me.”

Thirl unhooked a sack of clothes and diapers tied on the saddle. Odie laid his hand on Thirl’s shoulder and smiled.

“We’ll take good care of him,” Thirl said and nodded. He shook Odie’s hand.

DeDe kissed the baby and held him close as a silent police car nosed through the parting crowd and pulled up behind the horse.

~~~Thanksgiving 1953~~~

The music dueled in the barn. Thanksgiving held a special meaning this year to the residents of Widen. Groups of men and women played their fiddles, banjos, and mandolins. A few guitar pickers joined in. They danced and sang old mountain songs from their past and set rows of food for the town to partake together, giving thanks for an end to the strike.

Thirl raised Emery to his shoulders. “Mamaw, you want us to bring you some cider?”

“No, you boys go on. I’m gonna sit here a spell and listen to the music.” She hesitated a moment. “Thirl?”

“Yes?”

“I want … I want you to know how much I love you.”

He smiled down at her as he patted his grandson’s legs hanging around his neck. “You’re a fetching woman, Deanna.”

She smiled back. He had been her rock. She wanted him to know.

Watching her husband carry his grandson with the same love and affection he once carried James Curtis in the Thanksgiving barn, the pain of loss pulled at her insides. She’d grown weak in her mind. Mournful. Raising Emery only put a Band-Aid on the infected wound of losing her son. Even Doc Vance worried about her—part of his rounds to sick folk included a visit to the Nettles family every week.

Her foot tapped in time to the music. She shoved stray hairs back into place and closed her eyes, absorbing the low cry of the steel guitar.

“Nobody cares if you can’t dance well. Just get up and dance.”

She recognized him. Herald Wingate. DeDe turned toward the voice; her mouth opened but remained silent.

He hiked up his same nasty boot on the bench beside her and rested his arm on his leg. “God will not let you suffer what you’re not able to bear.”

“I cain’t bear anymore.” Anger filled her throat like she was choking on a piece of meat.

“He knows that. But you’ve got to find the strength He sent you a while back to raise this young’un.”

“What strength? When?”

“The night you heard the angels sing. That was for you, Deanna.”

“Just who are you? Why did you come back here?”

“He sent me, to tell you that. Who I am doesn’t matter. Your suffering is over. You’re to be a witness to those who will still have some suffering to do.”

“That’s my purpose? To help others get through their suffering?” She turned away from him, indignant, and stared straight ahead to watch people dance.

“Yes, and to raise their child. They’re watching you, you know. They’re proud of you.”

DeDe continued to stare at the dance floor, ready to match him word for word. “Who’s watching me?”

No answer.

Jugg Pyle’s fiddle began to play Angel Band, and the aroma of apple blossoms filled the room. She turned to speak to his face, but his face was gone. Along with the rest of him. Nobody had seen him that night, nobody but DeDe.

~~~

Odie’s trial lasted for months. He was found guilty of first-degree murder and given life in prison. The Clay County grand jury handed up a series of indictments, from holding up the railroad and stealing dynamite to blowing up the bridges, and the murder of Cole Farlow.

In November 1953 the evidence gathered by the FBI was finally laid before a federal grand jury in Huntington against the UMW strikers. More of the striking miners found themselves doing time in a federal prison. The United States Department of Justice regarded the indictment as the most important attempt to deal with labor violence under civil rights statutes. Widen’s reign of terror was over.

~~~May 1954~~~

Spring came again.

            In the mountains, near the shadows of town, side by side in their graves, the young lovers slept under the apple tree. Close by the humble walls of the little Baptist church, in the heart of Clay County they laid, unnoticed. Daily the tides of life went ebbing and flowing beside them. Every Sunday throbbing hearts filed past where theirs were at rest. Every Sunday Pastor Jessie searched the scriptures, but their minds were no longer busy. Their eyes were closed for eternity. Every Sunday the toiling hands of the Pastor shook those of his congregation while their hands ceased from their labors and a thin gold band laid forever buried under a stone in a cabin now abandoned. Every Sunday weary feet drug into a sanctuary to rest from a weeks’ worth of backbreaking labor in the mines, but their feet had completed their journey. Every Sunday the Pastor reached across his pulpit for the souls of his congregation, but their souls had walked to the light.

As Pastor Jessie concluded his sermon, his gaze fell upon Thirl, DeDe, and their grandson asleep in his grandmother’s arms. He stretched his arms above his head, and held his black King James in his right hand. His voice bellowed and he wept aloud. “The United States Government may have ended the strike, but Savina and James Curtis ended the hatred of family against family, brother against brother, man against himself. Their love was not in vain. God’s ways are not our ways, His thoughts not our thoughts. Who are we to know the plan of God?”

“The violence and sorrow in Widen will not be put away and forgotten like an old picture book, but passed on for future generations to never forget what has happened here. This tale of woe is not the sole possession of one family, but of all families in this town. For all are punished. Let us pray and let us remember.”

~~~

He played coal miner with his toy truck on Nicholas Street. On warm sunny mornings he could be found sitting in the dirt, a little redheaded boy with brilliant blue eyes and coal dust on his feet.

The End