Back To Work

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blessings to you and yours.

Shacks

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blessings to you and yours.

First Lines

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blessings to you and yours.

Time In A Bottle of NyQuil

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

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

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

Blessings to you and yours.

Little Bits of Nothing

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

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

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

I like it that way.

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

Blessings to you and yours.

Troubleshooting or Shooting the Trouble

Troubleshooting? A message from an angry customer.

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

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

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

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

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

I've Come Undone

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

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

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

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

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

Blessings to you and yours.

I'm Back!

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

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

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

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

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

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

That's worth it all.

Blessings to you and yours.

Update

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

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

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

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

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

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

Signing off ...

Big blessings to you and yours until then.

A Real Place

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

I can see the end of the tunnel, however.

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

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

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

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

Blessings to you and yours.

Buelah Land

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

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

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

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

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

Blessings to you and yours.

We Begin A New Chapter

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

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

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

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

... and the story begins ...

Blessings to you and yours.

Pay Dirt

It was a very good day. A very good day, indeed!

Seven great chairs to fit around my dining room table. (Will need painted, but they're in great shape.) And a round wooden pedestal table thrown into the bargain.

A wicker settee, complete with pillow seating and decorator pillows. All very clean and in super, new shape. (For my covered back porch.)

A whitewashed four-drawer dresser. An antique. Just beautiful.

A large antique-looking picture in a fabulous frame.

And all for the mere price of 70 bucks!

But it didn't end there. Mike and I (trying to furnish our new house) visited a few consignment stores yesterday evening. There we purchased a white computer desk for my new office, a great comfy couch and matching chair and ottoman, and an antique armoire for our TV.

But the cherry on top was the very, very old ironing board for 20 bucks. Quite possibly, turn-of-the-century old. The wood was worn and magnificent! I only wish the thing could talk. What stories it would tell.

One woman's trash is another woman's treasure. How trite, but how true. I love Saturday treasure hunts. Especially when I hit pay dirt!

Blessings to you and yours.

Treasure Hunt

My how time flies when you're crazy busy. When I finally got home from the wedding, I thought I might have some time to write, but as fate would have it ... I've got boxes to pack. My list is as long as my leg. Because we're moving! (More details to come.) But this morning we're off to find a few treasures. And you know what that means. Garage sales.

It's early, but despite my aching back, sore muscles, and bum leg, I'll be out the door in a few minutes with coffee in hand, hair pulled back, no makeup, and my treasure map. A list of sales spewed throughout the area. Hopefully, I'll find some chairs for my chairless kitchen table.

Who knows what the day will bring?

Only the Garage Sale God knows.

Blessings to you and yours.

A Wedding of Dreams

I think this is the longest time I've ever gone between blogs since 2005. But for good reason. I wanted to take time off, spend time with my family, and participate (without interruption) in all the wedding festivities on June 21st.

Here I am, back home in North Carolina, realizing my first-born is now a married man. Aaron and his beautiful bride, Annie, are now exploring Nova Scotia on their honeymoon. It was, for lack of better words, a wedding of dreams. (See pictures below.)

The week began with final details and all the running around a bridal party experiences. Last minute tux fittings, a forgotten corsage to order, food trays to keep hungry guests happy between the ceremony and the reception -- you know, the crazies everybody in the throes of a big wedding goes through. But cool-headed Anne Marie handled every detail with flawless etiquette. Her kindness and ability to create calmness out of possible chaos is simply a goddess-like virtue. My new daughter-in-law is nothing less than a gift from God.

God, in His infinite wisdom, smiled on my son this past week, bestowing him with the most precious gift of his life. As Aaron's new bride walked down a long aisle between her parents, tears filled their eyes. Tears of happiness, and of course, a little sadness. Memories of their precious daughter, watching her grow through the years ... I'm sure flashed through their mind's eye at that moment. The crowd was breathless.

The ceremony, officiated by Father Steve, held us in awe. A string quartet within the acoustics of this magnificent Catholic church sent goosebumps to every arm. Elegant, the bridal party in black, strolled to the front while Michael and I sat mesmerized on the front seat. A birds-eye view. The place was full of guests, both bride side and groom side. I was amazed at the multitude who came to share this sacred moment.

Later, at the reception, it was time to par-tay. Big time. Under a white bridal tent hooked to a grand and restored Wooster Inn, a mouth-watering and glorious meal was served to the mass of guests. Beer and wine flowed freely. Aaron danced with his new bride to "Making Memories of Us" by Keith Urban. Handing her to her father, they danced to "Annie's Song" by John Denver. Next, the groom danced with his mother (me) and my new memory book began. As the evening progressed the party grew more and more intense, until at the end of the evening the dance floor evolved into a packed club-scene-strobe-light-get-down dance fest. Awesome. The young and young-at-heart rocked the night away. Until the last dance.

And then ... it was over.

I drove away with a smile on my face. Aaron's happy. Annie's happy. That's all that matters. We love them. We wish them love. All the rest of their lives. Together.

A special blessing to Annie and Aaron this day. And as always, blessings to you and yours.

On Hold

Aaron and Annie are getting married next Saturday. My son and his fiance' are now counting down the days. I'm nursing a bad back, packing, and getting ready to make the long trek north. So much is going on at home, the stories I was working on last month are stuck in a file to be continued ... later. Life, and all the obligations that go with it, often make a writer's life take a back seat.

It seems it's been that way for me since spring. As hard as I try to hole up in "a room of my own" and write, my Virginia Woolf writing mind is pulled elsewhere. I continually keep a plot working in my head, and I will write many phrases and ideas down in the process of getting back to the computer. But I long to sit, uninterrupted, and pour myself into my work. It's just not the time to do that.

I'll get back to it. Eventually. With luck, prayers, and the good wishes of my friends and family, my agent will call me with good news soon. That will send me into the madness of my work with a smile on my face. In the meantime, I have lots of packing to do, traveling, and a son who is about to step into the land of matrimony. I want to be there for every precious moment of their adult lives, as well.

So my writing life will have to wait a few days. Who knows what great story will come from this? A writer looks at each day, each life experience, each opportunity and sees a story. My point is, it's okay to take a break now and then. In fact, you need to step back and let life happen to have something to write about. It'll catch back up to you. And when it does, your fingers will be itching to find a keyboard or a pencil.

I'll be back in a week or so.

Blessings to you and yours.

Political Correctness

The following is the 2007 winning entry from an annual contest at Texas A&M University calling for the most appropriate definition of a contemporary term. This year's term was
'Political Correctness. '

The winner wrote: 'Political Correctness is a doctrine, fostered by a delusional, illogical minority, and rabidly promoted by an unscrupulous mainstream media, which holds forth the proposition that it is entirely possible to pick up a turd by the clean end.'

The best definition I've heard in a long time.

Blessings to you and yours.

Map Your Own Success

This past Wednesday, Michael and I sat on a panel at the Winston-Salem Library. Along with Press 53 and other local well-known authors, we talked about the world of publishing. To a packed house, I might add. Sponsored by the highly-popular Winston-Salem Writers, this panel showed a glimpse of how to, "See Your Work In Print." Afterward, lots of familiar faces in the crowd came up to talk and grab a hug. Folks I'd not hugged in a while. I sold and signed more copies of Southern Fried Women, and met a few new area writers. What fun.

I like panels like this. I don't have to do all the talking, for one thing. As much as I push folks to learn to speak in public, it's refreshing when you can sit back and listen sometimes. My 2 cents, however, is more along the line of marketing. When it comes to marketing my work, I can usually say, "been there, done that." Building a platform for your work, whether fiction or non-fiction, is just as important as writing the book. Lordy, how many times have I said that, I wonder? But you've got to draw your own map to success.

The list of things to do never ends. I struggle to get my web site updated, my face on the ever-popular Internet sites of today along with setting up more speaking engagements, and of course, finding time to write! Nobody can do it all! It's simply not possible. Unless you're loaded and can afford a secretary, a high-priced publicist, a web designer, along with a cook and a maid. Otherwise, you're finding your own way. And very often--it's in the dark.

I suppose you have to figure out what is most important to you. I used to freak out every week that I wasn't getting it all done. My writing has consumed me at times. I see it on the faces of other writers, as well. Writing! It's such a passion! Every waking moment, you're thinking about the next story. Riding down the road, your thoughts are wrapped up in plot and character. When you're in the midst of putting pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard, you can forget your name even. Bathing, grooming, and eating ... it all takes a back seat to life at the keyboard.

But after a while, when the book is done, your eyes open. You realize, I have a life. Not just as a writer--but as a wife, a mother, a sister, a best friend, and a grandmother. Although I would probably give my left foot to be an A-List author ... I have to find balance in my life. It's never easy. Nothing good ever is, is it? It's like searching for buried treasure.

Maybe that should be a topic for the next panel discussion. Or the next How To Book for Dummies. Getting it All Done, in Six Easy Steps. I've said it before; life gets in the way of our dreams. Living day-to-day can squash all plans to put that marketing plan into action. Our children, our spouses, our family--they pull at us, and though we give of ourselves freely ... by the end of the day who feels like putting in more time at the computer?

So the trick is to find your own day-to-day balance. A good quote on Jackie Stanley's web site http://www.encouragementalways.com/ is by John W. Gardner: What we have before us are some breathtaking opportunities disguised as insoluble problems.

Our attempt to do it all, get it all done, may often seem insoluble. But it's not. You can be a great writer and speaker. Sometimes you just have to draw your own map.

Blessings to you and yours.

Breaking More Rules

I just read a book by Alice Hoffman, Here On Earth. Riveting. Wonderful. I highly recommend it. Alice writes an easy read, with fully developed characters. She weaves the backstory in and out, and she does it in such a way one would hardly notice.

One thing, however. She switches point-of-view often. And I mean ... within the paragraph, even. One minute you're in Gwen's head, thinking her thoughts, the next--you're in March's head, remembering her past. Masterfully done, however.

I wonder. Are the rules meant only for the unpublished? What am I missing?

It doesn't matter; it worked. I was never confused. Not once. The book was well written and kept me reading until the end. I see why one of Jodi Piccoult's favorite authors is Alice Hoffman. I'm going to be on the lookout for her work. My point is, it's interesting as a writer to read the popular authors. To study what they do that makes their work stand out in the massive amounts of submissions to New York. I'm fascinated that so much of what we learn -- we unlearn. I'm realizing that a key to writing a great story, is practice. There are other things, but it's that good old fashioned work ethic, the diligence, persevering when you don't feel like writing ... practice.

It's what molds us into the writers who can bend, break, and blow all the rules right out of the How To Write books.

According to Don Maass (Literary Agent) it takes ten years to become a breakout novelist. What I think he was saying is that it takes ten years to learn the rules well enough to know how to break them and make it work.

Blessings to you and yours.

Celebrity Playlists

It’s no secret. I’m a huge I-tunes fan. I love the 99cents-for-a-song deal. Trouble is, they add up, and before you know it, you’ve spent 20 bucks. But the amazing thing to me, are the Celebrity Playlists. Famous people who list their favorite songs. Every week, some famous actor/actress/singer posts their favorite songs, and it’s supposed to make us want to buy them. The Sex and the City ladies have recently posted their top tunes. Oh. So I looked.

Yuck.

Okay, not all yuck. But a lot yuck.

Do celebrities choose to be that extremely different just so they come off as cool to the rest of us? But I got to thinking ... hey, maybe they really do love those songs. Who am I to say what's cool?

Yet, just because it’s their favorite song list, doesn’t mean we have to buy it. I have to admit, though, a golden nugget often hides in a Celebrity Playlist. It’s either a song I’ve not heard, or one I’ve forgotten about. And if I find myself going back again and again to listen to the “sample,” I usually buy it and download it.

So, I started thinking again, I’m a connoisseur of music. Loving all styles of music, I glean from every category, except maybe rap (it's not singing) and the really hard, nasty stuff that makes absolutely no sense. I’m a child of the early days of classic rock, so naturally, I adore The Stones and the Beatles. But I was born into a family of fiddle players and banjo pickers, so country and bluegrass runs in my blood. I find myself drawn to movie Soundtracks. And I love Bach, songs from the 40s, and Elvis. I once downloaded Mel Torme. It’s great music if you’re entertaining a large group and you want to keep the evening lively. I’m all over the place when it comes to music.

When I’m writing, I live in my headsets. Usually, it’s soft music, new age, or some soundtrack that plays in the background, setting the mood for the scene, chapter, or the “movie” rolling through my head.

Driving music is usually, rock, pop, R&B, or country. Nothing like flying down the road to a little “Sweet Emotion.”

Bluegrass plays when I cook or clean or when I want to write about the rural South. I’m not really into the old stuff, mostly Alison Kraus, Gillian Welch, Dale Ann Bradley, and Vince Gill. Sitting around a bon fire at night, there’s nothing like bluegrass. Oh yes, my cousin, Clint Lewis, wow. Fantastic!

My cell phone rings to Brooks & Dunn’s, Red Dirt Road. What can I say? Love the lyrics.

Whatever my mood, I’ve got great stuff to listen to.

The list is way long but for what it’s worth, here’s my “celebrity” (ha!) playlist. It’s really, just the tip of the iceberg in my collection, Enjoy!

-Caribbean Blue – Enya
-Gabriel’s Oboe from “The Mission” – Ennio Morricone
-Theme to Out of Africa, Ghost, Rainman, Road to Perdition, Legends of the Fall, Dances With Wolves, Titanic, The Piano, Gladiator
-Photograph – Def Leppard
-Sweet Emotion – Aerosmith
-Mama I’m Commin’ Home – Ozzy Osbourne
-Kyrie – Mr. Mister
-Dancing Queen – ABBA
-Whiter Shade of Pale – Annie Lennox
-Missionary Man – Annie Lennox
-Crazy – Alanis Morissette
-No One In The World – Anita Baker
Anything Alison Kraus sings
-Gone Country – Alan Jackson
-Boondocks – Little Big Town
-Georgia Rain – Trisha Yearwood
-The Devil Had a Hold of Me – Gillian Welch
-Making Memories of Us – Keith Urban
-Gotta Keep Moving – Kelly Pickler
-Before He Cheats – Carrie Underwood
-Bless the Broken Road – Rascal Flatts
-Ruby With The Eyes That Sparkle – Dirk Powell
-This One’s For the Girls – Martina McBride
-I Need You – Tim McGraw and Faith Hill
-Colder Than Winter – Vince Gill
-Wave On Wave – Pat Green
-Caleb Meyer – Gillian Welch
-Redneck Woman – Gretchen Wilson
-Day Tripper – The Beatles
-Paperback Novel – The Beatles
-Revolution – The Beatles
-Alabama Bad – Marshall Chapman
-Jumpin’ Jack Flash – The Rolling Stones
-Ode to a Butterfly – Nickel Creek
-Copperhead Road – Steve Earle

Oh let’s cut to the chase – too many to list! Bon Jovi, Bo Bice, BackStreet Boys, Bangles, .38 Special, Boston, Bread, Brownstone, Alan Parsons Project, ALABAMA, NSYNC, Argent, Bachman-Turner Overdrive, The Bangles, The Beach Boys, Benny Mardones, Billy Ocean, Bruce Hornsby, BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN, Bryan Adams, The Calling, Carpenters, The Cars, Celine Dion, Cher, Christopher Cross, Clark Anderson, Crosby-Stills-Nash&Young, CREEDENCE, DAUGHTRY, Def Leppard, Don Henley, Doobie Brothers, Duran Duran, Earth Wind & Fire, Electric Light Orchestra, Elton John, Eric Carmen, Eric Clapton, FLEETWOOD MAC, Fergie, Foo Fighters, The Fray, Genesis, Gloria Estefan, Graham Colton, The Guess Who, Guns n’ Roses, Gwen Stefani, HEART, James Taylor, Jane Child, Janet Jackson, Michael Jackson, Johnny Hates Jazz, Jon Secada, Joni Mitchell, JOURNEY, KIM CARNES, LeAnn Rimes, LEONA LEWIS, Lifehouse, LINDA RONDSTADT, Lou Graham, Madonna, Maroon 5, Michael Bolton, Nelly Furtado, Nickelback, PETER CETERA, PHIL COLLINS, Pointer Sisters, R.E.M., Roberta Flack, Seal, Sly and the Family Stone, Diana Ross, Gladys Knight, Smokey Robinson, Sergio Mendez, STEELY DAN, STEVIE NICKS, STEVIE WONDER, Sting, Taylor Dayne, Three Dog Night, Tom Petty, Tori Childs, U2, Tears for Fears, Van Halen, The Who, Marvin Gaye, The Four Tops, ARETHA, BEE GEES, Four Tops, FRANKIE VALLI, Prince, Lovin’ Spoonful, The Mamas & the Papas, The Righteous Brothers, Steppenwolf, Steve Winwood, THE DOORS, Stone Poneys, Temptations, Tommy James

and on … and on … and on … Just because they're my favorites, doesn't mean they should be yours. Point is, start your OWN LIST!

Is there anybody I don’t particularly like? Yeah. Jimmy Buffett, Billy Joel, and John Denver. The final point, find what you like. Immerse yourself in music once in a while. Turn up the music in your life, get away from the TV, kick back and enjoy. Choose your own favorites, sink into your comfy spot with a good playlist and a great book. That's living large.

Blessings to you and yours.

Grandma's Apron

This was sent in to me by a dear friend. I have no idea who wrote this, but I loved it. It brings back so many memories of my Grandma King and her apron. She's gone now, but I can see her use her apron in each one of the following scenarios:

The principal use of Grandma's apron was to protect the dress underneath, but along with that, it served as a potholder for removing hot pans from the oven.

It was wonderful for drying children's tears, and on occasion was even used for cleaning out dirty ears.

From the chicken coop, the apron was used for carrying eggs, fussy chicks, and sometimes half-hatched eggs to be finished in the warming oven.

When company came, those aprons were ideal hiding places for shy kids.

And when the weather was cold, grandma wrapped it around her arms.

Those big old aprons wiped many a perspiring brow, bent over the hot wood stove.

Chips and kindling wood were brought into the kitchen in that apron.

From the garden, it carried all sorts of vegetables.

After the peas had been shelled, it carried out the hulls.

In the fall, the apron was used to bring in apples that had fallen from the trees.

When unexpected company drove up the road, it was surprising how much furniture that old apron could dust in a matter of seconds.

When dinner was ready, Grandma walked out onto the porch, waved her apron, and the men knew it was time to come in from the fields to dinner.

It will be a long time before someone invents something that will replace the 'apron' that served so many purposes. But you can bet, I'll be wearing one in the very near future.

Blessings to you and yours.

Commentary on Memorial Day

My grandfather was a veteran. My father is a veteran. My husband is a veteran. My son is a veteran. All three of my uncles were veterans. My great uncles were veterans. My family has a long and dedicated history of service to this country. In fact, on my father's side, we have documented history of a very, very great grandfather who fought in the Revolutionary War.

Monday, May 25, 2008 article from the Associated Press states, "... Military veterans are being buried at such a rapid rate that national cemeteries use heavy equipment to make room. 'We're still in growth mode right now,' said Bill Tuerk, undersecretary for memorial affairs at the U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs. 'We're in a very high-demand time period, and we're trying to respond to it.' An average of 1,800 veterans die each day, and 10 percent of them are buried in the country's 125 national cemeteries, which are expected to set a record with 107,000 interments, including dependents, this year. And more national cemeteries are being built ..."

Memorial Day is a sad day. Yes, we love our parades, fly our flags, and salute our veterans as they proudly march past. But for me, it's a day to mourn those fallen in battle. To pray for peace. And to really begin to ponder ... who do we want next to lead our nation?

As a woman, I'm thankful George's reign is just about over. As a woman, I want an end to this war and the tears of mothers and wives in this country. And as a woman, one day before I'm gone from this earth, I want to see a woman in the White House. A woman with sons.

Then, quite possibly, there may be fewer veterans to bury in our future.

God bless our veterans this Memorial Day.

... and you and yours, as well.

Who'll Give A Dollar?

I'm a garage sale fanatic. A yard sale junkie. A flea market hound. Tag sale, moving sale, church bazaar, auction expert. I browse consignment stores, thrift shops, and every now and then, I'll "dumpster dive." Oh yes. True.

My parents are garage sale people from way back. Having found rare antiques, they've been hitting the garage sales since the early 60s. They can tell you a story about each piece of furniture in their house. Where they found it, how much they paid for it, what they wore and ate for breakfast the morning they bought it. But don't ask them what they ate yesterday. They probably won't remember. My point is, this has always been fun for them. It's rubbed off on their daughters, I can tell you that.

I bought a beautiful bench this morning. One that you put at the end of a bed, upholstered in floral material, with rolled arms at each side ... fifteen bucks. Perfect shape, never been used. I've seen them in consignment stores, stained and scratched, for fifty bucks. I've always wanted one. What a find!

In fact, I've converted my husband. He is now fully convinced we can furnish an entire house for next to nothing in price. Here's some tips:

- Don't waste expensive gas money going across town. Usually the best garage sales are in your own backyard. I've found my best buys just a mile from my own street.

- Get out there early. You'll find top notch stuff for dirt cheap at 6:30 and 7:00 on a Saturday morning.

- Garage sales are usually over by noon or one o'clock. But you can bicker on price as the day wears on. A five dollar item at 7 a.m. may cost only four dollars by noon. But don't wait if you really want it, because it'll be gone. I've learned the hard way.

- Most folks have garage sales to get rid of stuff. Making money is not the object of the game, it's just a benefit. So if you hit a sale that seems too pricey, walk away from it. Garage sale vendors need to learn that customers aren't going to pay store prices, discount and otherwise.

I once had a guy at a garage sale try to sell me some porcelain for $300.00. The retail sticker was still on it. I asked him what he was asking for it and he said, "I never used it, I'm selling it for what I paid for it." I laughed in the guy's face and walked away.

You got to be willing to nearly give things away. If not, sell them on eBay or put an add in the paper. Even though it may be a treasured find, I'm not going to pay much for your junk, no matter how bad I want it--no matter how much you originally paid for it. I'll take it off your hands for pennies on the dollar, otherwise, you can keep it. (That should be your yard sale attitude.)

- Get out there, rain or shine. This morning it poured rain. Who cares? It keeps the competition from walking off with that lamp you got your eye on. But, because of the rain, most yard sales listed in the paper never got started today. However, there were a few garage sales. That's where I found my bench. I found an antique mirror for 2 bucks at a church bazaar, held in their fellowship hall. The UAW was holding their parking lot sale for homeless veterans this morning, despite the rain. We stopped and walked around, getting wet, but I found a beautiful blue bowl. They wanted fifty cents, I gave them a dollar. It was for a good cause.

I'm happy with my haul.

Thing is, you've got to love bargains in order to do this. For every great sale, there are five sales filled with pure crap. You have to weed through it. Overlook the scratched and dented. You never know what you're going to find.

Blessings to you and yours.

For The Love Of The Name

I've been poking around in my notes, searching for the right name for a new character. She's a bit silly and brash, but her heart's in the right place. The poor girl isn't aware that folks go out of their way to avoid her. Mostly because every word she says is the truth. Her social skills evaporated early in life, but it doesn't make her less attractive to one peculiar man in town. She's the town misfit. The woman that's never asked to parties, church events, or to join the literary league. All because she calls it as she sees it. To say the truth hurts in Hillsville, is mildly stated.

I love this character. I'm attracted to her innate desire to become loved. Liked even. She's flawed in that she was born with a curse. A curse to tell nothing but the truth. Right now, my problem is naming her. Naming a character is not as easy as you might think.

I've struggled with names in the past. To pull a name out of thin air doesn't work with me. It has to feel right. I have to see the face with the name, at least in my head. I know what my characters look like and their names have to match. Otherwise, you run the risk of losing the punch that character brings to the page. For me, Scarlett OHara could never have been called Jane or Betsy or Cora. She was Scarlett! That name will forever be synonymous with the character. Get it?

I collect names from everywhere. From people I meet, names I overhear, baby books, and from folks I've known in my past. Here are a few of the names I'm considering for this wonderful character in my latest story: Leola, Hennessy, Faye, Pudge, Sioux, Jule, Atlanta, Readith, Macel, Dulcie, Bella, and Izzy Mae. Oh yes, all quite Southern in origin.

I may not hear her name until the story is finished. To fully develop this character, I have to name her. But the plot is in full bloom at the moment, so maybe it's just not the right time to know what to call her. It may come to me in my sleep, as has happened in the past. And then again, she may tell me herself.

I love it when that happens.

Blessings to you and yours.

Just Give Me A Great Story

I once had someone say to me, "Truth is stranger than fiction because it can be. But 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 to that is – logic to whom? What is logical to me is not logical to someone else and vice versa. What is plausibility? To whom must it be plausible? This whole issue with logic and plausibility, I believe, lies in the lap of the reader.

My best friend, Tina, is part of a large book club in Ohio. Like a litter of starved puppies, they devour one story after the other. Their opinions vary -- widely. Each member takes a turn and chooses their "book of the month." But in the meantime, my Tina will read an average of three or four novels in addition to the book-club pick. She's got more books in her library than Congress.

A voracious reader, Tina is any writer's best friend. She eats, sleeps, and breathes books. Has been helplessly addicted all her life. Would rather read than eat. She's been known to go without a shower for days and days while her nose is stuck in a book. I remember when she read the Outlander series, her speech turned Scottish for a while. If she loves the book, Tina will immerse herself in the story. She allows herself to be transported into the midst of the action. And she's not all about one genre. She'll read anything that appeals to her. She's my best critic, by far.

She should've been part of the industry, gone to New York, worked for a major house. She knows every major and mid-list writer. Tina is a great reference for me. But I have to laugh when I get the call after a bad book. Her comment usually goes like this. "... oh my God, Pam ... how did this book get published? It was awful! Just awful. I could barely get through it! And then there's your book, a page-turner, a book just waiting for a publisher!"

Well, of course, she loves me. She knows how hard I've worked to get Televenge into the light of day. Her advice and edits were critical on this book. But we don't always agree. Some of the books she's read and not liked, other readers absolutely love. And yet, certain scenes, characters, and whole books that make sense to her and are totally logical, have made no sense to me or a few of the readers in her group.

My whole point here, is that logic and plausibility and backstory and even, yes, the craft of writing itself (to a degree) ... is subjective. (I can hear the boo and hiss from the creative writing teachers now.) I agree, you need to know the rules before you break them. But I'm finding that most experts believe unless it's written a certain way, unless you follow their formula for story arc, character development, and conflict enhancement, then you can kiss your chances of publication good-bye. Unless a book grabs them by the balls in the first two pages, they (or their 22 year old assistant) fast-pitch it into the slush pile. How sad for them.

I believe many of the finest and best stories ever written, will go unread. All because writers are at the mercy of opinion. These unknown writers don't even get the chance to market their work, because some industry professional who has been in the business since God was a boy, believes they know best.

I say, just give me a great story. As much as I believe every writer should study the craft and write well, I want a story that moves, inspires, and makes me cry. Or laugh. Or cleverly holds my interest until the writer's skill sneaks up behind me and shocks me with a powerful punch to the gut. Break the rules and give me an unnamed lead character, as with Elizabeth Kostova's, The Historian.

Of course, not every book is good. Not every story can be published. But don't force your formula, your opinions, your "doesn't fit my list" on the rest of us. The Internet has been instrumental in bringing readers and writers together, bypassing major book publishers altogether. I believe the face of publishing will change in the future. The rules will change. Opinions will change.

Because in the end, all we really want is just a great story to read.

Blessings to you and yours.

Inspired By My Elders

Last evening, my friend Dena http://www.denaharris.com/ and I spoke to a lovely group of seniors at Well Spring Assisted Living Community in Greensboro. These folks wanted to hear our presentation on the topic of "Passing Down Your Family Stories." Many in the group filled shoe boxes with photos, notes, and letters, expressing interest in writing their memoir. A few were storytellers. Others, just came for the pure entertainment of it. One thing for sure, it was fun! I'd return in a heartbeat. Even to just sit and talk with these folks.

Dena and I could've listened to their stories for hours. Some were retired professors, teachers, homemakers. One man wanted to write his own obituary. They were interested in how to get started and I think we helped them with advice like--set aside ten minutes a day to just jot down notes and memories in a notebook. Keep your pen and paper handy because you never know when inspiration will strike. Develop a ritual. Find your own writing spot and train yourself to enter it at the same time every day. Make it a good habit. Use your five senses--allow them to dig into the cobwebbed corners of your memory. On and on ... we spoke for an hour, answered questions, laughed, and then ... we listened.

What we took home from this beautiful facility, was the warmth of these folks. They reached out and we reached back to embrace them, encourage them. In return, they removed a little bit of our apprehension of growing old. It's scary to many of us who lead full lives with so much left to do. But for me, I looked out over the room of beautifully lined faces, and realized these people were happy. Really happy. They're content. They've lived, loved, and learned how to accept the fact that old age can be a beautiful place to be. One woman told me they're all busy, every day. That's one of the reasons she came to hear Dena and me. To figure out how to squeeze more time out of her schedule in which to write!

This gorgeous facility gives these folks not only a sense of security, but of family, and purpose. How wonderful. Yes, it's truly more blessed to give than to receive, but in this case--I enjoyed receiving inspiration from these gracious senior citizens.

I suppose my point is that although we went to Well Spring to give of ourselves, we took with us even more than we gave. My heart is full this morning.

Don't you just love it when that happens?

Blessings to you and yours.

Mom's Day All Year Long

Every morning I get up and read my normal blogs, along with coffee in hand. And then I think ... I've got to blog more than once or twice a week. Though my once or twice a week is consistently that, I know I may attract more readers if I'm a daily blogger. It's often difficult, however, to find that much interesting stuff in my daily life/routines. Although my friend Dena, would disagree. Except Dena writes some great and funny stuff. Me? I tend to ramble on when blogging. http://blogsbydenaharris.squarespace.com/ Check it out.

Anyway, yesterday was Mommies Day. I wished Mike's mom a happy one, then my mom by way of telephone, my kids called ... all is well in the world. Just another Hallmark holiday. It's my opinion that every day should be Mom's Day. For every good thing a mother does during the course of her lifetime, think about it, who could ever repay her? We need to send mom a card or flowers or a good book just on a whim. In August. Or November. Who cares if it's not her birthday or Mother's Day? Do we really need a corporation like Hallmark or Walmart to tell us when to celebrate Mom? Or Dad, for that matter?

But we do it in May for those who forget. Actually, I plan to give my mother something very special in the near future, so all I sent was a card. She'll have to wait a couple months, and then we'll celebrate big time. My point is, you don't have to give your mom a thing on that May holiday. Maybe a phone call or a card, but presents are not the goal. Gifts from the heart come at the most surprising times. That makes the whole idea of "Mom" more special.

Love is free. You can give it to anybody at any time. We don't need Hallmark to do that.

Blessings to you and yours.

You Can Feel It

I arrived home from Ohio with great expectations. Contemplating the marriage between my son and his future bride, I feel a certainty. This one will defy the odds. You can just feel it.

Aaron Christian and Anne Marie. Or Annie, as she's called by those who know and love her. The couple's shower, given by Uncle Gordon and Aunt Elaine, was a total success. A beautiful day for Northern Ohio, the guys went golfing early in the morning, and later ... everyone gathered on the farm to celebrate the upcoming nuptials.

For two people who do not like to be in the spotlight, Annie and Aaron were certainly the center of attention last Sunday. But along with that, Auntie Elaine and her dear friend, Jane, put on a regal shower ... We feasted on top-notch food, wine, and exquisite cupcakes for dessert. Everyone introduced themselves and told their relationship to the soon-to-be bride and groom, and then the comfortably-seated 40+ folks in the room watched as this precious couple opened their gifts.

No longer in their twenties, this 30-something couple are in control of their direction. You can feel their devotion to each other. I think we all felt it.

Later, a gaggle of golfers lined up to hit golf balls across the pond, hoping to be the first to hit the dock. My friend, Tina, won that honor. When the air chilled, it was time for a bon-fire. Cigars for a few, cold beer, and side-breaking laughter rolled around the fire from each of us. Though most who lived a distance away left before dark, the rest stayed and shared memories, stories, and tales of yesteryear.

Uncle Gordon and Aunt Elaine have been surrogate parents to my children for many years. Aaron lives on their farm in the "extra" house. A large farmhouse behind the main house. Gordon raises Clydesdale horses on this gentleman's farm. Watching those magnificent beasts in the pasture at sunset brings a sigh of peace to your lips. Tranquil and inviting, this patch of land has been home to G&E and their two beautiful children for the past few decades. Their farm is the perfect spot for a shower, or a wedding, or a tractor ride.

It was a quick trip, but one of the best trips ever to Ohio. It was wonderful to see my sister and her two lovely girls, as well as meeting all of Annie's family. Michael, as usual, snapped tons of pictures. We enjoy ourselves with any trip to Grand Maples Farm. This was definitely another treasured memory. We now look forward to June and the storybook wedding. Between a conservative country boy who loves to hunt and a liberally dark-haired beauty, a doctor who said, "Yes. Yes, I'll marry you." No two people could be so different, yet so perfect together. You can see it, you can feel it.

Thank you, G&E, for all you've done. We all appreciate it more than you know. This shower rates as one of the best ever. A first-class event for a first-class couple.

Blessings to you and yours.

Smelling History

The High Point Literary League hosted Erik Larson this week. Author of The Devil in The White City and Thunderstruck, I found him entertaining. Especially because he put us in a time machine and transported us back to turn of the century Chicago. Can you imagine?

A writer of historical fiction, Mr. Larson evoked our senses ... especially that of smell. "If you opened this time machine," he said, "and stepped out into the Chicago of the past, the first thing your mind would register is that of horse." Yes, horse. He pointed out that during this Gilded Age in Chicago, there were over a million horses at any one time in downtown Chicago. Each horse excreted 30 gallons of urine a day. Allow your sense of smell to take over. Nasty.

Ha! It made me think of our country's history and how technology and our modes of travel have changed not only the landscape, but what we hear and smell.

Evidently, back then, every man smoked cigars. (Probably to cover their own smell or that of their horse.) But Mr. Larson was quick to point out those were the two most dominant smells of any city. Horses and cigars.

As a writer, we must not forget to titillate our readers with the sense of smell. There's no more powerful sense that can pick us up and transport us back in time.

Smelling Chicago of the past was fun. It made me think of how other smells bring back memories of my own past. Like opening a box of Pampers- (My early years as a new mom.) A freshly mowed lawn- (Summertime as a kid.) The inside of a freezer- (My grandma's basement.)

Smelling history. It's like stepping into your own time machine.

Blessings to you and yours.

What Day Is This?

This past weekend is a blur. Friday we headed to Kentucky and the KYOWA 180 Writing Conference at the Greenup County Resort, in KY of course. Accommodating, the resort and grounds were storybook-beautiful. Much of the surrounding vegetation bloomed and blossomed, sending pollen and fragrance into the air. The lodge nestled itself into a hillside and every room had a view of the lake. Quiet, serene, one night of ... crack! Spring thunderstorms! The electric went off Friday evening ... long enough to shrug and say, "Might as well go to bed." But it was so dark, and so quiet, I had a quite a time getting to sleep.

Saturday, all was well and the sun came out. I sold books, spoke for an hour in the morning to a room full of romance writers, then headed to a quick meeting in Ohio. All in all ... another hurried weekend that's going to roll into another trip to Ohio this coming weekend. A couple's shower for my son and his fiance. In the meantime, I have an agent who wrote and requested chapters of Televenge, a meeting on Thursday, and final stories to read for the West Virginia Writers Contest.

It's no wonder we wake up one morning and ask our self ... "what day is this? May? I thought it was March!"

Blessings to you and yours.

Odds And Ends

First, let me get this out of my system ... I should NEVER gloat over the fact that the sun shines more in NC than in other states! LESSON LEARNED. Never, since I've lived here all these seven years, have I seen such a string of sunless days! I HATE THIS WEATHER!! To quote my best friend in Ohio, "....it's weather that makes you want to slit your wrists!" Okay, that's over-reacting, but I'm really not used to weeks of solid gray skies anymore. This stinking low has hovered over us now, for what--a month at least. It's depressing, and there's not a damn thing anybody can do about it. My apologies to Ohio. The South is stuck in your normal weather pattern ... maybe just to remind me that I should never gloat about the sunny South again.

I'm rapidly putting final touches to a speech I'm delivering this Saturday at the Dogwood Writing Conference in Kentucky. My speech to writers of mostly the Romance genre, will focus on issues of writing yourself out of a dark spot. It will be video-taped and hopefully, with any luck, I'll put pieces of it on the web. I've taken the speech, Coming out of the Dark and into the Life of a Writer, and put a spin on it. A new twist for a writing audience.

Michael and I have a few new projects on the horizon, and some very good news about Southern Fried Women! So keep your eyes open for these future blogs: A Re-release for Southern Fried Women ... Home is Where the Heart Hopes to Be ... AND Fearless at Fifty. The New Trend - Corporations letting go of their older employees. How to survive as a baby-boomer who's too young to retire!

Ah, the ranting continues.

Blessings to you and yours.

Making It Real

My favorites subjects in school were English, Art, and History. I remember those special teachers and have long forgotten the rest. I loved writing, literature, book reports, the history of my State, of America, and of the World. My imagination ran wild in those classes, whereas math, science, and french class--I wouldn't give you a nickel for. I hated those dreadful subjects then--and I hate 'em now.

So whenever a bestselling book is made into a movie, a book I've read and adored, I set aside writing time to watch the movie. Albeit, the movie is usually never as good as the book. (How can it be, now really?) But I still love to watch the characters come to life.

Lately, I've been wrapped up in my Sunday fix of the HBO mini series, John Adams. A mixture of everything I love. This Pulitzer Prize winning novel has captured my enthusiasm for not just a great story, but oh my gosh ... it has made the history of this great nation come alive for me. I remember that in high school I memorized the Declaration of Independence. In fact, for a project, my best friend at the time (Wendy was her name as I recall) together we made up a cheerleading routine to the Declaration of Independence. It was for "extra credit."

What sacrilege as I think of it now. How utterly stupid. I hope John Adams and the rest of the founders weren't watching. All I can say now is that ... we were young, and had no idea the cost paid for that magnificent moment in time where a nation of free people was born. The founders knew. They most certainly were aware of the unborn generations they would affect by their actions.

As I watch this program, I am in awe of the fight, even among the Representatives of the 13 colonies, to get to the point where they could agree in mass to break from England. The love story between John and Abigail is touching and heartbreaking. The hardships these people suffered in early America ... it boggles the mind. There's a scene where John Adams, as President of the United States, is searching a seedy section of some city for his son. President Adams is alone, walking up and down dim alleyways, dark and dirty streets, and I'm wondering ... where are his bodyguards? Silly me. Who knew what the President looked like back then? Nobody knew him! And the luxuries known to our Presidents today were certainly not available to George, John, and Thomas, our first three Presidents.

Just watching the differences in time, how small pox spread and how Abigail dealt with it ... John Adams' desperation to insure the colonies become a free nation for his children, and their children ... ah, well ... the whole made-for-TV story moves me. Alas, this is one movie I am watching where I have not read the book first. So I'm anxious to read John Adams afterward, to see if it is indeed, better than the mini-series.

Although I loved History class, they were in essence just stories to me back in school. I loved stories. But History is reality. And as much as I loved it -- it was not real to me. Oh sure, I memorized the long list of Presidents, I learned about the wars, the immigrants, the Gold Rush, and the Great Depression.

But until my grandparents disclosed their fight to stay alive during the 30's, it was just a story to me. Until I walked the coal camps of Appalachia for myself, I found it hard to relay them to my reader.

The Vietnam War was worlds away from my door until the names of young men I went to school with turned up in our local newspapers as M.I.A.

Until I visited reservations in Arizona and Oklahoma where American Indians still struggle after centuries, I'm afraid it would never have become real to me.

As I walked the hallowed halls on Ellis Island, those thousands of tired, poor, huddled masses yearning to breathe free, would never have come alive to me.

Exploring Williamsburg, walking her cobbled-stone streets, visiting Monticello, Mount Vernon, Philadelphia, and the tobacco plantations of the South, my mind's eye was dim as to what our founding Fathers saw until then.

The day I walked over the vast battle grounds at Gettysburg and then at Appomattox, the Civil War's blood bath was not a part of me until that day. I read the books, but to see where history was made, the story was not real until standing on the ground where those soldiers fell.

Until I visited places near and dear to those who fought for civil rights, Martin Luther King's struggle was only pages of History. But to really listen to him, feel the inflections in his speech, to hear his voice, then study his words, walk where he walked ... well, his mission, though respected, wasn't as real as it has since become.

I love reading stories that become real to me. And although I read many books that take place in countries or places where I have never stepped foot, I often like to research the areas for myself, online, just to see a picture of the land, the people, or something to give me a connection to the place. I'm not always successful, and I may still love the story, but when it becomes real to me, then the story sticks in my head for a long, long time. That's why a movie like John Adams is important. It makes it real.

Maybe that's why I love to write about the South. I know this place. Place is about touch and smell and sight ... the senses that glues the story to our memories.

So as I watch John Adams for its final episode tonight, I fall in love with History all over again. A history that screams out ... "This is how these people lived, they REALLY lived here, they walked and talked and founded this country on little more than guts and an instinct for survival!"

They weren't perfect, these Founding Fathers. Issues of slavery were ignored for another 100 years. Women had no say, except in private, with any matters of government. But the men who put together the foundation of our freedom, they were men who took a stand against tyranny. It was a start. God help us, it's still not perfect. I wonder what they would think if they could see us now?

Anyway, kudos to HBO for making it real.

Blessings to you and yours.

Use Rejections

Writing is a profession where you pour your guts out on the page, spend years writing the best story your mind, heart, and fingers can produce, labor days and nights on perfecting work that may or may never be seen ... and somebody is always waiting in the wings to tell you how bad you suck.

Sometimes, after reading over your work for the millionth time, you still find mistakes. You cry, pound your fist on the keyboard, run your hand through your hair and think -- they're right. I do suck. You begin to understand that perfection can only be born out of rejection. And yet, even then, the perfect manuscript does not exist.

Rejection is not only part of becoming a bonifide writer, it's essential. Each rejection is a brick upon which we build our tower to Heaven. A writer who has not experienced the critical reviews of their peers, the public, and those within the industry is missing something special. The chance to experience the rush of adrenaline that fuels the fire inside to never give up. It's truly a rush.

Recently, I've read some amazingly bad reviews on books I've devoured and loved. Books I thought incredible. AND I'm licking my own wounds, as well. Though I'm satisfied and thrilled with the response to TELEVENGE, there has been rejection. BUT what's finally sinking into my thick skull is how extremely different opinions run in not only the written word, but in every aspect of life. Think about it. How different we all live. Our religious beliefs, political agendas, the area of the country we were born and raised. Think about the differences in even you and your best friend. Or those you've known all your life. Within your own family! Every one of us look at books, movies, and life in general ... different, to one degree or another. So why sweat the rejections?

Remember that even rejections vary in size and shape. In stupidity and brilliance. In kindness and cruel. Every opinion varies from one degree to another. It's just an opinion, after all. And of course you've heard the trite, old, and crude saying ... opnions are like assholes, everybody's got one.

Do everything you can possibly do to learn the craft and be the best writer you can be ... and then, in the end, write for yourself. Use rejections. Don't let them use you!

Blessings to you and yours.

What Do You Bring To The Page?

As a writer, I've wondered what I offer to my readers? Do I possess what it takes, really? What do I have to say that anybody wants to hear? Some books are lofty volumes of prose that deliver profound messages, soothing to the ears. Some keep you spellbound with intrique or humor. And then some curl the hair on the neck as you quickly turn the page to discover the killer. Besides constantly polishing your knowledge of the writing craft and striving for the title of great storyteller, I'm finding there's another element to this writing thing.

The author's ability to share knowledge, life experiences, and enlightenments within the context of a story. To make it matter.

What have you learned or experienced in your life that you bring to the page? Many of us bring our writing degrees, our teaching degrees, our years of contributions to magazines, lit mags, newspapers, and we bring awards. Oh, so many writing awards. And, that's wonderful. Commendable, in fact. But that's not what I'm talking about.

To quote Dorothy Allison (one of my favorites.) She made this profound statement at the Maui Writing Conference. " ... writers come to the page for many, many reasons. In fact many of us do come in the hope of justice! We do come in the hope of balance! We do come with an agenda of love! But I'm telling you now, lots of us start with a desire for genuine revenge."

Do you bring revenge to your written pages? Anger? Truth?

"Are you saying there has to be some deep, dark reason why we write? Can't I just write for fun?"

Well, sure you can. And many do. But once again, in my humble opinion, the writing that lasts for generations ... is written from the cobwebbed corners of a writer's mind. Those basements and attics where the writer fears to tread, but goes anyway.

"But," you say, "I write humor."

Ah, yes. Dissect that humor. Much of our humor also comes from pain. You know that old cliche spoken in the midst of a pissed-off moment ... "We're going to laugh about this later." Laughter through tears ... it's a powerful emotion. Take it to the page.

"Do you mean, then, write what you know?"

Not just what you know, but what you feel. What you've seen. The gut-wrenching moments in your life that cut deep into your heart. Write about that. Write about the scars. Who gave them to you, and how you healed, or how you still suffer from those scars. Give your character a piece of your life story that you want to share with the world. Dig out the best and worst of your memories, and include them in your stories. Write not just what you know, but what matters. What has brought you out of a dark spot? What makes you uncomfortable? Write your passions, your desires, what moves you. Write that.

Those are the guts of a good story. Bring that to the page.

Blessings to you and yours.

A Piece Of Heaven

Driving down a country road, far from the sound of traffic, I could see the roof line in the distance. A distinct three chimneys, one on each end and a third, ramming itself through the center of the old house. 1888. That's when it was built. A relic. A piece of North Carolina history.

The front of the house faces the South, while the country road slides along the Western edge of the property. When you pull into the drive, you're on the North side of the house where a new crop of asparagus is peeking through their raised beds. A potter's shack nestles itself near the tiny, rich tomato and lettuce garden that hugs the gravel walkway to the entrance. And what an entrance ... tulips, a mixture of new flowers, wisteria winding itself up and over a white picket fence and an archway ... a rock garden that bids you welcome like a friendly dog with a wagging tail.

Greeted by a wide, covered back porch, comfy furniture bids you to take a seat before even knocking on the door. Once inside, the restored elegance of the place made me tear up. Several times. Six fireplaces, a side porch, a fireplace in the kitchen. I saw myself there, fixing an amazing dinner for family and friends. A large dining and living room lead into the magnificent master suite and office. A perfect office. The whole house smiled at me.

Full of glorious light! Surprising! Large windows let in the light in every room. No closed blinds! 2,000+ square feet of first floor living. Perfect.

Upstairs, two large bedrooms and a shared hall bath, completely updated ... just the ticket for guests. Speaking of the stairs, nice and wide for an old farm house, and open. The wood work, though painted, is original to the house. In fact, most of the walls and ceilings are as well. The wood floors, redone to a glossy-wood shine, reflect the mood of the place. A shiny, happy place. An old place. Just what we want.

Large closets, pantry, laundry room/half bath ... what more could one need? Except a beautiful new barn and two old, restored outbuildings. Nearly a two-acre spread in the middle of the most beautiful farm country God ever made. Quiet. Relaxing. Unique. A home looking for a new owner.

I'd love for it to be us. Who knows?

We'll see what blessings God bestows on two middle-aged wanna-be new home owners.

Say a prayer, wont you?

Blessings to you and yours.

Ahhh ... SUNDAYS!

Mow the grass ... trim ... pull weeds ... Michael's job for now ...

Read the newspapers ... Real Estate Section ... Book Section ...

Catch up on the news ... current events ... wish I hadn't ...

Church ... sometimes ... or catch a televangelist or two ... or not ...

Laundry ... 2 loads ... whites first, then darks ... on the even weeks/wash sheets ...

Sunday dinner ... begin planning at 7 a.m. ...

A drive in the country ... on sun-filled days ...

Stop for ice cream at the dairy in the country where the cows come to the fence ...

Lay on bed, front porch, couch ... some place comfy ... read novel ...

Visit an open house ... for the fun of it ... or to dream ...

Phone parents ... daughter ... son ... laugh ...

Itunes ... dig it ... listen and enjoy ...

Watch the History Channel ... Discovery Channel ... learn something new

Listen to sports TV ... from the other room ...

Watch an HBO movie ...

Write a note to a friend ... or two ... or three ...

Drink wine ... or a pitcher of rum punch ... or a case of cold beer with ribs on the grill ...

Blog ... Read favorite blogs ...

Plan the week ahead ... the month ... redo calendar ...

Up the stakes to a new story by adding a character to the mix of misfits ...

Go grocery shopping at favorite grocery store ... buy at least one thing you don't need but want ...

Stop at favorite boutique ... do the same ...

Play with grandson ... hug him to pieces ...

Garage sale ... slam on brakes ... bicker on price ... fill the trunk with treasures ...

Take a long bath with candles ... music ... glass of iced coffee with cream ... and a magazine ... try not to drop into the bubbles

Try to forget troubles ... try hard ...

Go to bed early ... and dream about a new house ...

Feel hubby warm and snugly next to you ... all day ... all night ...

Be glad this week is over ... be thankful we're one week closer to our dreams coming true ...

Believe it ...

Ahhh ... SUNDAYS!

Blessings to you and yours.

A Learned Virtue

Suddenly, (there's that drat LY word again) I realize I've not posted a blog for a few days! My calendar gets tighter as the year progresses. A few more churches have booked me to speak and I'm preparing for a keynote I'm giving in Kentucky this month, and as usual, I'm absorbed in writing most mornings. I feel I've become a morning person lately ... God, forbid.

I received a request from an agent, just yesterday, for the first three chapters of Televenge. And while that is a very good thing, and I'm excited to receive more interest in my novel, I find myself getting a bit antsy. But something stops me and I realize, that like a tomato plant--unless you water, fertilize, prune, and hoe the weeds around it, that juicy BLT you love in the middle of summer, just isn't going to happen. So you do what you're supposed to do ... and WAIT.

This whole process of getting an agent is a lesson in the art of waiting. Patience, it seems, is truly a necessary virtue all writers either must possess or learn quickly. I did not inherit patience. Neither my father nor my mother had a great deal of patience in their early years. They've got it now, but I remember when they didn't. I, like my folks, had to learn patience the hard way.

It certainly comes in handy these days. But like my friend, Jackie, says, "Sometimes we have to take the ego out of our work." We have to believe in ourselves, in our product, do our part, then let the publishing process do its thing. Timing, chemistry, the alignment of the stars and planets, maybe that's all part of how things happen.

My point is, you can miss a bus because you weren't supposed to get on it. Sometimes, we rush around and go crazy because we're late for work when minutes earlier, a plane has crashed into the skyscraper where we would've been sitting in our morning meeting. Our car won't start and we cuss and fuss and kick the tires, then hear about the five-car pile up on the interstate where several have lost their lives. An interstate where we would've been at about the time of the accident.

Sometimes we walk where angels fear to tread. It's an old saying, but as I grow older I believe in the power of my gut, or my spirit, or whatever you want to call it, when it whispers to me ... slow down. Stop. Don't go. Wait for their call. Send one last query letter.

My patience may be worn, but it's not worn out. It's thin in spots, but it still holds together. I can't always locate it, but it finds me. I don't recognize it at times, but it follows me like a shadow. My patience is as dear to me as an old friend. As comfortable as warm, soft jammies. The older I get, the more I treasure my patience. It had to grow on me. I didn't like it at first, but now, I couldn't survive with it.

Patience. Waiting. Endurance. There are no better friends to a writer.

Blessings to you and yours.