Supernatural Animal Connection

The story goes that my cousin's dog came up missing early one morning. My cousin, Margie, is blind. Her seeing-eye dog, a Labrador retriever, served as her eyes and lifelong protector. Her dog had been her best friend and partner for over 13 years.

Margie's brothers, my cousins David and TJ, set out on a hunt for her dog. They searched everywhere thinking that when Margie got out of bed, she would worry about her dog. Finally, after a three-hour search, they found him--near a creek a couple miles down the road. He had laid down and died.

When they arrived home, concerned about how to tell Margie about her beloved dog, they found that Margie had passed away in her bed some time during the night. Stranger than fiction, isn't it? A sad, sad story, but wondrous in another way. For it seems to me there is a world unknown to us. The world of animal connection.

Of all the animals in the world, I believe our pets hold a special connection to the human world we cannot see or hear. For centuries, our domesticated animals have been loved, nurtured, adored, and unfortunately abused, by humans. We've taught birds how to talk, dogs how to sniff out drugs and cancer, and I've heard of more than one cat that has saved their owner from a house fire.

I was told in church many years ago, that animals do not have souls. As God made man a little lower than the angels, he also made animals a little lower than man. That when a dog dies, that's it. No life after death for animals. I think that's a load of crap. (The ministry I grew up in dished out a lot of crap, as if every member were mentally challenged with no mind of their own. Things have changed.)

Obviously, I no longer believe that. I believe the bond between humans and their animals is often stronger than to other humans. For example, my dear friends, Tim and Tina. Their German Shepard passed away last year from a tumor. They're still grieving. The death of their dog, Casey, altered the course of their life. I don't believe they'll ever get over it. They'll get used to being without him, but never over it. My dear friend, Dena, does not have children, but don't tell her that. Her Lucy and Olivia kitties are her babies.

The unconditional love we receive from animals is a God-given virtue. It's why so many fight for animal rights. They've experienced that love somewhere along the way.

When I hear about someone who has abused an animal, I find it's always a demented and tormented individual. Somebody who needs either locked up, sedated on heavy doses of drugs, or wrapped in a straight jacket. Someone who should neither own an animal nor bear a child. And when you find a ferocious dog, it's usually because a human has mistreated it.

There are things in this life we cannot see or hear as humans. Dogs and cats, it seems to me, were created for our pleasure and enjoyment. We cannot hug a lion, but we can purr along with our kitty-cats. We cannot romp and play with a grizzly, but God has blessed us with the companionship of our pooch. We cannot hop on a rhinoceros, but we can trot all the way to the next county on top of our palomino. Only in Heaven will the lion lay down with a lamb.

But your animals are your extended family members. They deserve love. They know us, often, better than we know ourselves. They talk to us in ways we don't think about. They save us from cancer, fires, floods--from death.

I believe, with my whole heart, God gives us the desires of our hearts. He did not give you the love of your dog or cat to never see it again after its passing. I believe Margie and her dog are together in Heaven, except now, Margie can see her dog. Your precious pet that is loved by you is awarded a piece of your soul. You'll see it again.

I'm sure of it.

Blessings to you and yours.

This 'n That (or rather) Bitch, Bitch, Bitch

Don't you just want to kill somebody when you receive an interesting email, telling you they're going to give you some great information, teach you something you've been wondering about, and then they lead you off into cyber-space, making you SEARCH FOR IT? I received an email yesterday from a well-respected local editor who promised a tutorial on when to use the word which and when to use that. Although I'm relatively sure I know how to use these words, I thought I'd take a look and see what Ms. Editor had to say. Not.

I like to click and go directly to what I want to read. I WILL NOT spend my time clicking and searching and clicking and searching. Nobody's information is worth that.

***

In comparing the area I just moved from to the area I just moved to: in a word - LITER. I don't understand it. I recently lived in a beautiful area, consisting mostly of people from the North (transplants) educated folks, professionals living in high-dollar homes. So then, in order to downsize, save money, return to full-time writing, I now live in the real South. For the most part, this town bulges with blue-collar folks who have lived in NC all their lives. Sprinkle in a few red necks, lower-priced homes and what do you got? Liter. The town I'm living in is covered in it. The previous place was liter-free. Go figure.

***

For me the negative to living in a neighborhood - clueless neighbors who keep dogs on chains, in backyards, fenced up and barking their poor heads off. All day. All night. And don't give a damn about their neighbors. Time to call Animal Control.

***

But we did have a successful garage sale in Blue-Collar Town. Sold a ton of junk, people got great deals, and we made some extra cash. But I think the best part of hosting a garage sale is the socializing. People get to talking and don't want to go home ... the most memorable conversation was with the lady who talked to me for twenty minutes about her love-affair with her cast-iron skillet. "If somebody would tell me my house is burning down and I can only take two things, I'd grab my kitty-cat and my iron skillet. Don't nobody in my house mess with my skillet. You reckon I love my skillet more 'n my husband?"

Now that's a priceless line for a writer.

***

It's Sunday Night, time to veg out in front of the TV, find a movie, clear my head for the week ahead. Y'all have a good week ... I'll do the same.

Blessings to you and yours.

The Gifts Of Old Age

Sometimes when I look in the mirror, I don’t recognize what I see. Where did the angry young woman go? Who is this person gazing back at me with crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes, sagging chin, and thin lines on the edge of her smile? Then I take a second look and realize that time has taken her away, replaced her with what's staring back at me. A different woman is beginning to reemerge from years of distrust and suspicion that was chiseled away by grace and mercy.

A mellow tongue, a quiet disposition, and peace in my heart. Age does give women a few gifts. But we have to learn to accept them. Some women refuse the precious gifts of aging. Instead, she's holding on to the demons of her youth.

Some hold on to their short-tempers and manipulative ways. They enjoy shutting down people who get in their way and avoiding those who put a mirror in front of their face. It drives some women nuts if anyone interferes with their plans. They don't like anyone to think of them as poor or needy. If you catch some women when they're in the mood to socialize, you’ll love them. Shower them with compliments and they’ll deliver the sun and the moon. But controlling women hate being told what to do. Deception is her middle name. These ladies (if you can call them ladies) honestly believes the world owes them a buck. Their sense of entitlement is unparalleled. I've seen them chew up girlfriends and spit them out, repeatedly.

When you attempt to uncover a woman like this, she flies into a full-blown war defensive. You can’t out talk her. You won’t win. There’s no such thing as an intervention. Borderline Personality Disorder, I believe it's called.

By the time they're in their 50s, they're already old, bitter, ugly, and on their way to becoming alone and miserable old hags.

It makes me thankful that when age handed me my gifts, I took them and never looked back.

Blessings to you and yours.

Courage Versus Fear

Someone recently asked me - "As a writer, what is your definition of courage and fear?"

This was my response:

In terms of writing, courage is not confidence, nor the opposite of meekness. It’s feeling a measure of confidence, and then acting on those feelings. It’s a quality of spirit that enables you to face the moment, whatever comes, and keep on going.

Courage allows you to see, hear, smell, and taste things as they really are. Courage makes you face facts, unfiltered by rosy daydreams. Courage frees you to be creative. It pushes you to prepare for the unknown without obsessing over it. To be open to what may come.

A writer can’t be open to new ideas if dazed and confused by fear. Courage enables you to be prepared and wide awake in every situation.

There were times in my youth I didn’t write because I was afraid of failing. I didn’t prepare for success because I was afraid it might happen. I didn’t look, really look, into my past because I was afraid of what I might find. As I grow older, I don't give myself those options. Not anymore.

Fear is passive-aggressive. It’s the lazy writer’s excuse for not moving forward. It’s a great immobilizer, an avoidance technique.

Fear puts the focus on what we might encounter, distracts us from what’s actually there. Courage empowers a writer to pay attention.

In the end, a writer can do without a lot of things. Remembering your journey is not one of them. Courage is the other.

Blessings to you and yours.

Politically Incorrect?

I try very hard to keep my political opinions to myself. I really do. I know I'm a bit "preachy" at times, probably more than a writer should be. But those who know me, know that I'm a little different "Christian." I'm certainly not a Christian in the traditional sense. Although I believe in the basic fundamentals of scripture, I also believe God takes each of us in a different direction. We're not all the same in our goals, our ideals, and yes ... even in our politics. I don't think God wants us to all be the same, think the same, act the same.

My parents, for example, tend to "parrot" their favorite TV preacher. They also parrot the news, believing if they heard it on Fox News, it must be true. Well, I excuse them most of the time because they're getting up there in age. I'm not sure my mother has ever thought for herself. Bless her heart.

I've been embarrassed by the actions, words, and deeds of so many Christians, famous and otherwise, I hesitate to call myself one. I've said this before, but a personal relationship with Christ, is just that. Personal. I realize God does not contradict himself, but I don't feel for a minute that He tells us all to walk the same path. Otherwise, we would not have been blessed with different talents!

So what am I getting at?

I don't care if you're a Democrat or a Republican, I really don't. I think good, bad, and ugly exists in both parties. In every city and state. In all walks of life. In all races. In every church, school, boardroom, and university. I've seen the ugly side of those who call themselves Democrats and those who call themselves Republicans. Living in a free society, I have voted for candidates on both sides. Do I ever take a stand on anything political? Sure I do. But I don't pretend to know all the ins and outs of every reform bill before Congress. I'm not going to parrot another person's opinion.

But what I do know is that in just one of our major cities, there are 90,000 homeless people. 90,000! When I brought this fact up to someone recently, they said (and I quote) "Yeah, and those people crowd our emergency rooms, costing us millions of dollars because they can't pay!"

I was speechless.

And ... so ... what do you propose they do? Stand outside and die?

I certainly can't solve this healthcare problem, I wouldn't know where to start. But it's statements like that make me want to cry. I can't imagine turning my back on a person in need. I know church groups go into missions and soup kitchens, volunteering their time to feed the poor. These good folks stand for hours to dish out food to the hungry. But I wonder what you think when you spoon food onto a ragged man's plate? Would you be willing to touch his life by taking the time to talk with him one-on-one? Go to where he lives or sleeps, and minister to him on his turf? Be his friend? It's an admirable thing, volunteering your time. I don't discount that. But what is your real motive? Just to say you've done it? Or because your heart cries out to help?

Homogenized Christians worship every Sunday in the comfort of their big, clean, churches. They shout hallelujah with the rest of the families around them who are all pretty much of the same class, the same educations, the same race. (What did I hear recently, that 90% of our churches are still segregated?) These good church-goers hand out their testimony like candy to those who resemble themselves. They boldly testify to their fellow church-goers who nod their head and agree with them. You can say what you want about the Jehovah Witnesses and the Mormons but at least they are out there pounding the pavement for their beliefs.

Are you? (I'll bet hundreds of reasons why you can't just flew through your brain. Yeah, me too.)

Again, what's my point?

Until we are willing to go out into the highways and the hedges, and really put our money where our mouth is ... we have no right to tell others what needs to be done or how to do it.

I don't know how President Obama is going to solve, or even attempt to solve all of our problems. But I can tell you one thing - I'm going to pray for him. Instead of stepping on top of my soapbox - I'm going to pray for him. I wonder how many Christians in this country actually pray for him and mean it?

Instead of wagging my tongue, parroting what I hear on the news - I'm going to pray for him. I do believe it is our obligation to pray for every President ... whether we agree with him or not. I believe that is one thing God would have us all do, every day - without fail. Pray for our President. You may not like him, you may not have voted for him, but sometimes I just want to scream ... JUST SHUT UP AND PRAY FOR HIM! If anybody in this country needs it, deserves it - HE DOES!

Do I pray for him? Yes. And I prayed for George Bush, too. When it comes to praying for our President, we have to put the politics aside.

Don't parrot another person's opinion just because it sounds good. Don't stand in judgment over your fellow man because they're not like you. Don't think God belongs just to people like you. Lift somebody's heart today. Show love when it's not expected. And pray for your President.

Blessings to you and yours.

Rock On, Church Lady!

So I'm driving down the street this morning, on my way to Walmart instead of my local Baptist church (shame on me) and I stop at a red light. To my right sits a large white church, steeple bells ringing, bringing in the sheaves and everything. The parking lot is jam-packed with shiny cars that probably took a Saturday evening bath just to show off in the Sunday morning sunshine. It's the first breath of spring here in my neck of the woods, and it brings out the church-goers in droves.

I live in the South. The so-called "Bible Belt." Winter is hard on church-goers. Any news of the least bit of snow, ice, or even a wet road will cancel church. Most folks down here depend on their weekly fix of church gossip like Fox News depends on evangelicals for their ratings. Once the weather turns warm, every Sunday is Easter in the South, I swear.

As a writer, I'm constantly aware of my surroundings. So when I see a large woman to my left, big pink hat on her head like a flamingo's nest--feathers and all, I'm engrossed. This church lady is about to lay into her grandchildren. Lagging behind, the three young boys, ages (my guess was 12, 9, and 7) had already pulled their shirts out of their pants and one had taken off his tie and was about to wrap it around his brother's (my guess) neck.

Well, this pink church lady (her billowy dress matched her hat) wasn't about to stand for this behavior. She had her large black Bible firmly in her right hand and took to swatting the backsides of these little fellas. Hollering and cussing, she put a whole new spin on Bible thumping. Overflowing in her shoes, this hot-pink church lady didn't care who heard her. I had to crack my window ... If you think I would miss this golden opportunity, you're crazy!

"Get in there! Get in that church! You're late! Quit tormenting ... go on, now! I mean it, Gerald!"

Finally, somebody honked behind me. I'd almost sat through a green light. But I didn't care. I was about to turn around and go in for church, hoping to hear more from the pink church lady. I applaud her diligence. She was bound and determined to get those three boys into that church.

Then I thought, that wild woman could have been yelling at me. I mean, it's been a while since I've sat through a real, live church service. Mike and prefer to worship at home, for many honest reasons. (A blog for another day.)

I drove away thinking about the book, The Shack. Maybe God really is a big, African-American woman, swatting our backsides in the right direction. Hmmm.

Something to think about.

Rock on, church lady.

Blessings to you and yours.

Speaker For The Day

I spoke to a group of business women yesterday at their monthly meeting at our local community college. Sometimes people ask me what I speak about. Actually, I have several topics that are tweaked to the specifics of the group and what they might be looking for. But once in a while, a group leader tells me to speak about anything I want. And that's what happened yesterday. I had heard there were a few women in the group who were thinking about writing a book. I had about fifteen minutes to deliver something they could carry home with them. Here are bits and pieces of my notes from my talk yesterday. Oh, my topic?

The Life of a Writer. What else?

"My candle burns at both ends; it will not last the night; but ah, my foes, and oh my friends, it gives a lovely light!" A quote from Edna St. Vincent Millay

I say, she was talking about the life of a writer.

My name is Pamela King Cable, I’m a writer, an author, and a speaker. I often say I was born and raised by a tribe of wild Pentecostals. My mother, however, would not admit to that fact. She would admit that I cut my teeth on the back of a church pew, however.

Today, I want to talk to you about the life of a writer, the writing process, or as you may have been told - the mystical and magical world of a writer.

What is a writer? Do writers write only what they know? I say writers write what they are passionate about. There are events in the lives of most writers which possess powerful magic, influencing the stories they create.

But let me ask you, are there any books or stories you’ve read recently, or years ago, that you remember vividly?

Characters that linger and come to mind … at the strangest times?

Have you ever read a novel that has had the capacity to haunt you for days, weeks, years?

Do you have a favorite author?

What in their voice gives them an edge?

It is not a myth, that if you belong to a family with a writer in it, there are no safety zones. ...

One of my favorite quotes is by Harlan Ellison. He says, “It is not enough merely to love literature, if one wishes to spend one’s life as a writer. It is a dangerous undertaking on the most primitive level. For, it seems to me, the act of writing with serious intent involves enormous personal risk. It entails the ongoing courage for self-discovery. It means one will walk forever on the tightrope, with each new step presenting the possibility of learning a truth about oneself that is too terrible to bear.”

A writer’s life is a solitary life. For the most part. We have a room or a place where we prefer to write. A routine, a time of day, music we listen to, and habits and superstitions we refuse to break or talk about. We hope we possess that raw talent, unique originality, and gut emotional appeal. We raise the stakes on each and every page and hope, and pray, and believe that some day … we’re blessed a bit of luck.

I can tell you I have labored days over a paragraph. On the book I just recently completed, The Rose and the Charlatan, that book began over fifteen years ago. But that’s really not the norm. I have, however, spent many twelve-hour days writing. I can tell you that I have sat at my computer so many long nights that I thought I was going blind. I have been told by my doctor, that because of all the sitting in my chair, the disks in my back are degenerating and I’ve gone from 5’4” to 5’3 ½“ Writing, my dear friends, can be hazardous to your health.

But let's talk about the traditional publishing industry a bit. It's cutthroat. Since the recent recession, the chance to “make it” has gone from slim to almost none. The rejections by major agents and New York publishing houses, can discourage the very elite.

For the majority of writers, it can take up to a good two years to write a bestseller. You cannot submit unsolicited manuscripts to traditional publishers. So you need a literary agent. Once the manuscript is complete, a query letter is sent to secure an agent. This process could take another six months to a year.

Then once you land an agent, you hope they know their stuff and get you the best deal from a reputable publisher, preferably a major house. Then all parties negotiate rights, foreign rights, film rights, and the ever-shrinking advance. You sign away some rights, such as book cover, maybe even the title of your book, and a few other things. Once the contracts are signed, then comes the editing process.

Ah yes, we have already edited the hell out of our book, but no, it’s not enough. There’s another possible few months spent with our publisher’s editors. And there’s a deadline for that, too. A deadline to get it back to the publisher or everything you’ve worked so hard for, for so long, becomes null and void.

Then there’s the waiting. And waiting, and waiting some more. Next come the book galleys to proofread and edit yet again. And finally a year or two later, the book comes out.

It’s at that time you realize that writing the book and everything up to now was the easy part. It’s what comes after the book is out- that’s the hard part. Because unless your name is Nora Roberts or Stephanie Meyers or James Patterson or Nicholas Sparks … there’s very little publicity money for you. If you’re a first-timer, you’re on your own to get that book marketed. And hopefully, unless you go into a second printing in a relatively short time, your precious novel is removed from the shelves at Barnes & Noble, Borders, and Booksamillion. You’ve got about six months, if you’re lucky, to make it a hit.

And then somebody decides to make it available as an ebook, thus taking your profit from about a 1.00 a book to even less than that. There you have it. The life of a writer.

Is it worth it?

Yes, is my answer.

I began to chase the dream of writing as a child in the early 60s in the coal towns of West Virginia where my grandparents lived. Many of the stories in Southern Fried Women are based on truth, shreds of truth, people I’ve know, places I’ve been, and of course history plays a great part in some stories, like Coal Dust On My Feet. I was born a coal miners’ granddaughter. That fact inspired this story. A love story set amidst the longest and most violent coal strike in the history of our country. It is truth and fiction.

My mother was a skilled storyteller without knowing it. All I wanted to do when I was a teenager was to duplicate my mother’s life. ... She would agree with Pat Conroy, I’m sure. He said that the whole south runs on denial. If you don’t say it, it doesn’t exist.

What I didn’t know is just how much I would treasure her conversations someday. How they would become a part of me, part of my very existence as a writer.

More than anything else, I wanted to sit and listen to what came out of her mouth next and write it down. ...

But the most precious gift she gave me was a love for the written world. Be it the word of God or of Mother Goose, she was my inspiration, and one day I picked up a pen in the sixth grade and began to write and I haven’t stopped.

The next forty years would play into my storytelling, and how after surviving life’s heartaches and hardships, it gave me plenty to write about. From that moment forward I wanted to inform, educate, and entertain my reader’s mind, but more than anything I wanted to touch my reader’s heart.

As writer you must know more than how to put together a correct sentence. Yes, there is a never-ending learning curve to the elements of writing … but unless you are great storyteller, the other means nothing.

Allow me to quote ... So you want to be a writer by Charles Bukowski

if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don't do it.
if you're doing it for money or
fame,
don't do it.
if you're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don't do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don't do it.
if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
don't do it.
if you're trying to write like somebody else,
forget about it.
if you have to wait for it to roar out of you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.
if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you're not ready.
don't be like so many writers,
don't be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don't be dull and boring and
pretentious, don't be consumed with self-love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to sleep
over your kind.
don't add to that.
don't do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don't do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don't do it.
when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.
there is no other way.
and there never was.

Thank you.

Blessings to you and yours.

Scattered Families

I watched a Sunday morning program; a family in India who all lived under one roof. Not out of necessity, but by choice. This appeared to be a more affluent family who pooled their earnings into one bank account. (Can you imagine?) One part of the family ran a coffee shop, another were contractors and builders, and a third (I think) ran a flour mill. In total there were over 20 family members, working together and living under one large roof. Taking care of one another.

I'm sure there were problems. And I'm not sure the women in this family experience the same freedoms as American women. But there was something comforting about this big family. The old were not cast out or made to feel like children. They were honored and loved. They were not burdens, or made to feel like flies shooed away from milk. No, on the contrary. The old grandfather was blind, but worked in the mill with a family member nearby to insure his safety.

It makes me wonder about American families. What have we become?

In my own family we are spread over many states. I have come to despise this fact. I wish to God in Heaven we all lived at least in the same state. We are missing so much of our grandchildren's lives. We've already missed years with our children. Regret doesn't even come close to describing how I feel about that. I am becoming more and more aware of my need to feel my family around me. I am obsessed with turning this around, because my question is ... are scattered families-- happy families?

In my perfect world, Mike and I would live around the corner from our parents. Our children would live no further than a 20 minute drive. Sisters, brothers, nieces, nephews would all live an hour away or less. How wonderful would that be?

Oh for sure, there are families who live in the same town, and I'm positive they roll their eyes and say they have their share of problems because of it.

But please, allow me to say with great emphasis--count your blessings if that is you.

Michael and I receive a DVD every few months of our Arizona grandchildren. Watching them grow up this way only puts holes in our hearts. And although we are more than grateful to receive these precious DVDs, it dosent leave us with smiles on our faces when the TV is turned off. Quite the opposite really. Hours later I can still hear my grandson, his face large in the camera ... "Hi Papaw, hi Mamaw!" It simply breaks our hearts.

There's a new baby coming in August. And there is a new baby in Texas, born to my niece. I have little great nieces and nephews whom I barely know. These four, five, and six-year olds don't know me from a stranger on the street.

My own nieces and nephew--Lord, I'd give anything to be a small, small part of their lives. But, (sigh) I am not. They're busy. They stay in touch with my mother (their grandmother) and that's wonderful. My siblings, well, that's another story for another day. But I wonder if we all lived closer, would we be closer? I would like to think so.

My sister, Kathy, and I talk about this often.

Then there are extensions of family I know and love. Dear friends and folks who mean as much to me as a family member. Why is it only once a year we manage to connect? Are we that busy? Is money the motivating factor that makes us work day and night and never reach out to those we think about, but never see? Does it have to be that way?

I'm not old in the true sense of the word. Certainly. But I'm beginning to feel the shortness of life and how fleeting time really is. It scares and concerns me. My heart and personality has mellowed and softened, like the skin around my eyes and on my neck. Once hard and calloused, my youthful face and I plowed forward in life, doing and saying pretty much anything we wanted to do and say. The selfish part of me met with life's pitfalls and became instead--self-loathing. The oceans of fire I walked through and endured ... left many bad memories in its wake. But it did something to my heart and the way I look at life. Most assuredly.

When we are young, we are immortal. If we possess basic health, we do not see, think, or feel our immortality. It is not until we have gone through the fire and flood that we begin to realize there is an end to this life. How much of it is spent in quality time with those we love?

There's nothing more important than the love between a man and woman, their children, and the people dearest to them.

Not even money.

Will the circle be unbroken? For many of us, it already is.

Why can't we get along? Why can't we put aside petty differences and see our lives for what they really are? Short. Father along, will we really understand it all by and by?

The families in history, now dead and gone for decades, did they have something we no longer possess? There were no phones, no computers, no technology for communicating every day. Yet they were closer to each other than those of us who live with abilities they couldn't even wonder about. Think about this. My God, this fact just blows me away.

Some day, Michael and I hope to live closer to our children. Our grandchildren. Or at least see them more than twice a year. If we can accomplish that, we'll grow into old age with smiles on our faces. Most assuredly.

Blessings to you and yours.

To Have Or Have Not

The other day I watched the Sex and the City movie, feeling stupid about "labels." I suppose, if you live in big cities like New York, Philadelphia, and Chicago -- designer labels are just something you grow up with. My guess is that people who work and live in fast-paced environments know instantly what you're "wearing" and if you have a sense of "style." They have been schooled in what not to wear. Socialites can tell immediately whether you're carrying a Louis Vuitton or a knock-off.

Carrie, in the Sex and the City movie, bought throw pillows for $300 a piece. A PIECE!

Do people really live like that?

Shocking, but yes, they do.

If money were no object--would I?

No. I'm sure I would not.

Like so many who were raised in the Great Depression, our older citizens continue to wash out sandwich bags and save tin foil. Now I'm not that bad, but I can tell you that should I ever have "money" ... I will still shop at Walmart and continue my Saturday morning garage sale hunts.

I have scrimped and done without so much for so long that ... well, hold on ... yes, it would be nice to travel, buy better pieces of meat, or slip my feet into more than one new pair of shoes every six months. It would be nice not to clip coupons or color my own hair. I would love to indulge in pedicures and facials once in a blue moon. I can think of a few more things I'd like to buy and not worry how much it would ruin the budget.

But to spend even $50 for a throw pillow? That will never happen in my lifetime.

Are the clothes in Walmart only for poor people? Should you drop into depression because you shop at Kohls or Target? Just because you grill hot dogs and not steaks ... does that mean you can never expect anything better in life? Good grief, no.

Yes, I would love to pay off every bill I owe, shower my family with gifts, give money to my favorite charities, and have a little left for myself. But that would not change who I am inside or my future spending habits.

I've heard the world is quickly becoming a society of haves and have nots. That may be true but there are worse things than doing without, believe me. I believe since this dang recession hit, there are many who would agree.

Besides, I like hot dogs on the grill. And I've never owned a Louis Vuitton anything. That's okay by me.

Blessings to you and yours.

Southern Fluffy Literature

As a reader, I keep a "southern" book within reach at all times. Southern studies, short stories, novels, essays, memoirs ... all by southern authors, I immerse myself in the works of its rich, rich culture. Mixing in a book or two here and there by the current works of Piccoult or Gabaldon or Russo or Shreve ... authors who make no claim to southern roots, I really can't say I prefer one culture over another. It's just that my roots are in the South. I may live in the North someday, but those who came generations before me were southern born. Living in the South today, I am influenced by the people, the language, the landscape, the culture around me. Good, bad, or ugly ... the South continues to deliver prose near and dear to my heart.

However, some of this "cutesy southern fluff" is starting to get to me. It's becoming cliche, rather fast. Maybe already is to a few folk. I'm not sure if there are many who would agree with me, but I'm suspecting some of it has run its course.

I'm not talking about dealing with the issues of the South. The Grit Lit, so to speak. Or the gut-wrenching messages in Southern Literature.

I'm talkin' 'bout the twangy debutantes swooning over their rich, country club, tennis-playing boyfriends, who graduated from Ole' Miss. The Ida Maes and the Patsy Sues who bake the best sweet potato pies in five counties, despite their bee-hive hairdos and press-on nails. The Mee Maws and the Pee Paws who save their bacon grease in coffee cans and praise Jesus every Sunday morning at the corner Heaven Bound Baptist Church. Precious Dahlins and Sugahs who wear nothin' but pearls, all day long, drive convertibles and only shop at the Piggly Wiggly. (By the way, there are no Piggly Wigglys within a hundred miles of where I live.) Stories so sugary sweet, so full of chicken pie and Aunt Beulah's homemade molasses--well, it makes me want to throw out my Tupperware and salt & pepper shaker collection. The Driving Miss Daisy, Steel Magnolia, Green Fried Tomato, Ya Ya Wannabes. Stop! It's been written already.

I steer clear of these stories today. The South is not all about cornbread and pinto beans. As far as rednecks go, they live in every state in the union. They are not synonymous to the South. Though it is absolutely true that the South gives us plenty to write about, we have to be careful not to write characters our readers have already overdosed on. Originality in writing is key to the next great story to come out of the South.

Personally, I like Bubba and Betty Lou. They're fine folk. I just don't want to read about them all the time.

Blessings to you and yours.

A Brown And Cold Winter

Winter grass in North Carolina is brown and lifeless. It's the ugliest color this time of the year. Everything appears dirty and frost-bitten. I think most of us would rather skip January and February altogether. Fighting the traffic on ice-covered roads, gasping for warm fresh air; the birds are gone, the flowers and gardens are asleep. Life is still and quiet. Nonexistent.

It's hard to find beauty in winter, unless you're an honest-to-God nature lover and live in the woods.

I'm thinking about the season today. It seems endless. Winter. I've never been too fond of it. I'm looking forward to March and the blooming Bradford Pear trees. It signals the beginning of warm temperatures for me.

I'm a summer girl. Always have been. Always will be. But as much as I moan about the winter, I think I would miss it somehow. I love the seasons. The changes they bring. What they mean. And somehow I think God created the winter so we all slow down a bit. Hibernate. Rest.

Sooner or later winter always comes and eventually stays. As does spring, summer, fall, and winter once more. This cycle is the very definition of time passing; each season’s death brings me a little closer to my own. It's not a morbid thought, not really. It's time reminding us to live each season to its fullest.

No matter how cold and brown that season may be.

Blessings to you and yours.

In Defense Of The Telemarketer

They're annoying. Agreed. Right in the middle of meal, or a good book, or at the end of a movie. They call, with their syrupy voice that smiles through the phone. Even at your place of employment, they call. "Is the Office Manager there?" Recently, I found myself hanging up on them. With no energy extended on my part. Just a "click." That'll teach 'em.

Most can't be understood anyway. You want to scream, "If your chosen profession is telemarketing, at least learn to speak English properly!" Right? Low-lifes. Can't they get a real job? Probably illegal aliens. If I want to buy something, I'll shop for it myself!

Hmmm.

I felt this way until I began to write a story about a man who is down on his luck, can't find employment to support his five children, and resorts to telemarketing. In my plotting and research, I thought hard about this individual. Who is he? Why is he in this financial shape? What events caused him to resort to telemarketing?

How does he handle the rejection that's not just daily, but minute by minute?

Has anyone ever thought how difficult it is to be totally dependent on commission sales?

He's a good man, a kind man. A man who worked hard all his life to be thrown out on his ear at 55 because some younger stud could pull twice the weight. He's an ex-con, but it was a white-collar crime he didn't commit. Still, who is going to hire him now? He can't sell real estate, insurance, or even cemetery plots. One must be licensed. Background checks knock him out of every ballpark. He can't even sell cars. His wife is dead, his children age from ten to twenty. He needs cash flow. What does a man like this do?

I began to sympathize with my telemarketing character. I think many telemarketers are at dead-ends. Perhaps they hate having to smile on the phone. Perhaps they despise trying to entice you with a product that not only you don't want, but they don't want either.

I think the next time I get a call, I'll not be rude. I'll put myself in their shoes. I'll simply say, "No thanks, but have a good day."

Then again, who knows? Maybe this person has something I can't live without. Maybe I'll even listen to the whole presentation. They're not all out to get us. Some, I've found, have good intentions. Honest products. A sense of humor. Some, even, represent wonderful companies with awesome products and opportunities not found anywhere else. How would one ever know about them, except by way of a ... telemarketer.

The point is. Be kind. He may very well be a schmuck. But you don't have to be.

Something to think about.

Blessings to you and yours.

The Women In My Family

She's nineteen. Today's she having her first baby. She is young, beautiful, and single. Surrounded by her sisters, her mother, and her grandmother, my niece is in labor as I write this. Her baby son is about to make a grand entrance into the world. A grand nephew, indeed.

In my immediate family, there are twelve women. Each of us, unique and different. Some of us, vastly different from each other. But what my sisters and I have in common is that we gave birth to some stunningly beautiful girls. And now, they are birthing their own children.

For my mother, my sisters, and myself, the road has been full of potholes the size of canyons. It's our daughters who motivate us forward, to fill those damn blasted potholes.

No matter their course, our daughters will forever receive the support from the women in their lives. Today, as my young niece finds herself in the throes of hard labor, she will contemplate this new road chosen. She will consider the many potholes that await her. My wish for her is courage, supernatural strength, and an abundance of patience. More than anything, she must carve out a life for herself and her son that will be full of good things for him and for her--separate and apart from everyone, and yet remaining a close member of her family. The women in my niece's life have caught her in the midst of a great fall, lowering her softly to solid ground and the security she has known all of her young life. And that's a good thing.

Yet, I'm positive this is the hardest thing she's ever done.

My daughter, and each of my nieces, also possess class, charm, humor, intelligence, and a love for their own mothers. But I doubt any of them know the boundless love their mothers hold for them. It's something a woman doesn't see in its entirety until we become a certain age.

I'm hoping, as my precious niece goes to death's door to give life, she's allowed a little peek at the love the women in her life have for her. It'll give her the courage, strength, and patience she needs to go forward.

God bless our new baby boy.

Blessings to you and the women in your life today.

Late Night Memories

Watching the news as a young girl, American soldiers dying in the Vietnam jungles and rice patties, the networks brought the war into our living rooms. Along with the twangy little girl selling Shake n' Bake, and the plop, plop, fizz, fizz of Alka Selzer, we were also dished out a daily ration of sensational conflict.

Except at my house, my mother refused to allow TV watching during dinner. As much as the war fascinated me, it scared Mother to death. Boys with whom I’d grown up, attended my school and church—just three or four years older than myself—were coming back to the states broken, busted up, or in body bags.

One night after his late shift, Dad arrived home tired and moaning loud enough for me to hear. “I want to relax tonight, clear my head, and fall asleep to the TV. Shultzie's son. They're bringing him home. Tomorrow. The guys at the shop took up a collection.”

I peeked around the corner. Mom had positioned herself at the end of the couch, rubbing Daddy's back. “Want your usual?” Mom asked.

“Uh-huh.” I heard her tip-toe to the Zenith, which sat next to my bedroom. Mom had a habit of fiddling with the knobs on the TV longer than necessary, searching for a late night Western movie for Dad to watch. Preferably one with John Wayne or Jimmy Stewart. I had curled up on the floor, just inside my room in time to watch Dad toe off one shoe and then the other and groan with delight. He’d stood on his feet all day at the Plant 5 Chemical Division of the Akron-based Goodyear Tire and Rubber company. A job that over time, broke him physically.

It wasn’t supposed to do that. We were decendants from a long line of West Virginia coal-miners. My dad escaped the mines hauling his family north, hoping to add years to his life. In reality, he’d traded one abusive job for another.

“What you doin’ up, Sissy?” He'd caught sight of a corner of my pajamas.

I crawled out on hands and knees. “Just wanna kiss you goodnight, Daddy.” Reaching where he lay, I hugged him. He hugged me back, then pointed to the kitchen.

“There’s a candy bar in my lunch bucket, don’t let yer mama see.”

"Daddy?"

"Yeah?"

"What happened to Mr. Schultz's son?"

I could see it in my dad's eyes. He was thankful for his three girls. "He died for his country, darlin'."

"In Vietnam?"

"In Nam," he nodded. "Get on to bed. Eat that candy bar tomorrow."

“Okay, Daddy ... g'night.”

“‘Night, darlin’.”

Dad brought himself home, every night. He was faithful to his wife and his children—that was worth all the candy bars in the world to me. But I remember thinking about Mr. Schultz and his three sons. Then I prayed my childish prayer for all the sons there. In that awful place torn by war. I looked back to see my dad sprawl across our L-shaped couch. I recognized Jimmy Stewart's voice on the TV. Though the sound was turned low, the music and words soothed me, along with the glow from that late night movie.

I heard my mom walk in. I knew she was carrying a tray of heated-up leftovers. Their nightime ritual of chit-chat was interruped as Walter Cronkite broke in to report the latest casualties from a place called Khe Sanh. A Marine base had been hit. A shattering barrage of shells, mortars and rockets had slammed into the base. Eighteen Marines were killed instantly, forty were wounded. I heard Dad’s heavy sigh and my mother's bleak response, “When will it end?”

Now and again I think of those nights, waiting for the sound of that front door to open, and my mother's heavy footsteps from somewhere in the house padding down the hall to greet him. The sounds of their voices, the dull gray light from the old TV set, and the smell of leftovers, I felt safe. Even in the midst of war.

Now late at night, watching my husband sleep, I turn the TV volume down and flip through hundreds of channels. A war overseas still rages. I think tonight, I’ll flip to the cowboy channel. Maybe I’ll find an old favorite of Daddy’s. The Man From Laramie. Jimmy Stewart just puts me to sleep.

Blessings to you and yours.

My Mother's House

"You should see it. It's gorgeous. Cinnamon Berry. The color is the perfect accent to the Carmel in the living room. I don't know why we didn't paint these walls sooner."

That's my mother. Last night. Talking about their latest house "fix." Long retired, my father is as into the aesthetics of his home as my mother, so he grabbed a paintbrush last week and went to work.

I learned how to "design on a dime" from my parents. Way long before it was popular. Decades before HGTV hit the airways. My parents "eye for style," particularly that of my mother's, is coded deep within her DNA. Her love of furniture, fabric, linens, dishes, paintings, lamps and accessories began at birth. My mother passed her love and appreciation of all things "homey" on to her daughters.

I remember walking into my friend's houses as a young girl thinking, Does her mother not know those colors are hideous? I wonder who picked out that wallpaper? My gosh, this couch needs thrown out! Oh yes, we King girls have been trained in the art of decor. Of house couture. A few times we've landed our butts in trouble because of our inability to pass by a furniture store, a gift shop, or a garage sale.

My mother's taste changed over the years. In the beginning, she was "Mid-Century Modern." But actually, that indeed was the 1950s. Then, long about 1965, she acquired an antique desk, and that began her voyage into the Victorian era. Slowly, she moved into rustic, then country, and now her home is full of antiques, lace, velvet, and all things Queen Anne and Victoria. Their Georgia home reflects their love of the past, having collected antiques long before it was popular. Therefore, you'll not find many homes like this one. You won't find an antique organ in many homes with a centennial carving on it that reads, "possession of the first English-speaking colony."

My father's artistic ability to "gingerbread" is overwhelming. Literally. A cabinetmaker with lots of time on his hands, Dad's trim work is unique and special, but it adorns every window and doorway. Home Depot has asked him to give lessons at their stores. But Dad is content to live in his workshop, carving out his latest project.

On vacation, touring many historical homes and mansions, I have to giggle. My parents could make a fortune, just from the sale of tickets to those wishing to tour their home.

It's not overdone, it's magnificent. The house and it's innards are extravagant, made for glossy magazine articles. House Beautiful has seen nothing like it, I'm sure. But the thing is, my folks have no clue how beautiful their home really is. It's their hobby. It's their life's work. It's their refuge and safe place. They live there, eat and sleep there. Entertain their children there. It's not a museum. It's home.

They are children of the Great Depression. They grew up poor. Dirt poor. They married with nothing more than the clothes on their backs. My mother's parents were alcoholics and abusive. She was torn from her family at an early age. My father escaped a life in the coal mines of West Virginia, went to college, and had brothers who were jealous of any little success in his life. So, now in their 70s, my parents live in the house they spent over 57 years building and creating. It's one of a kind. My mother's house will forever be burned into my memory, as well as the memories of all of her children and grandchildren. Nanny's house is where you go to breathe her in, feel the best of her, and rest a while.

My mother's house is as much a part of her, as her arms and legs. It truly is ... home.

Blessings to you and yours.

A New Day

Today is a milestone. Although I cannot go into detail at this time, it marks a rebirth. I'm excited for it. The change is here. It's upon me now and I have no choice but to surrender to it. January 2010 was a month of preparation. But now, after over 15 months of slow blogging, few submissions, countless rewrites, I can now say with enthusiasm ... I am BACK!

That's not to say I didn't learn a few hard lessons during these past 15 months, because indeed, I did. One would think at my age the lessons should all be learned. But I believe God had a few more up his sleeve with my name on them.

Reading my own blog submissions from this 15-month time period, I hear the frustration in my voice. It grieves me. I grieve for the time lost. Yet, the reading and writing sabbatical was needed in order for me to get to where I am now.

I have not taken steps backward. If anything, I have moved farther ahead in my writing than where I would've found myself had I continued at the rate I was going. Confusing, I know. I ask myself, who cares? Nobody, probably. It's just that I know where I'm headed, finally. The journey I took to get to today has been a rocky one. But I'm here. I'm full. My cup runneth over with good things to come.

It's a new day. And I'm glad it's here.

Blessings to you and yours.

Around The Corner

December is gone. (Good.) The holidays are behind me. (Yay.) Simple and rustic, they were relatively quiet. We spent virtually no money on Christmas 2009. A bit of baking, a trip to Atlanta to relax with family, and a small basket of goodies for my mother-in-law. It was one of those holidays that will be forgotten in time. Nothing much to remember, other than a "gift" from our son and daughter-in-law. A new baby is about to enter the family next year, right around my birthday. I suppose that news in itself was the best part of Christmas 2009. I look forward to holding that precious one in my arms come August.

I've been fighting asthmatic bronchitis since the holiday. Coughing my head off, it's been a bitch of a time getting well. But ... in between all of the above, the plan to write "full-time" is taking shape. The steps are small and the evidence of my writing doesn't seem like much, but it makes me warm and happy. I see my future. For the first time in a very long time, I see the opening to my long tunnel. The stories that have been floating around in my head this past year and a half are now getting to the page. Pages and pages of notes and outlines. Like ripe fruit trees, bulging with juice, just waiting to be picked.

But I've decided to take a whole new approach. An approach void of wishing and hoping for success. An holistic approach. Clean of the impurities caused by too much time spent on other "writer distractions." A simple plan. To read. To write ... and to never stop. Nothing else. Nothing less.

I will leaving the marketing, the promoting, the Facebook, the Twittering, the rest of Internet mania to my ever faithful husband. I produce the product. My job, my focus, my life's goal is within reach. It's now or never, and never is not an option.

I am currently working on final edits of my novel, Televenge. My story, Plastic Man, is in outline form. Three more stories are in process, for contests or submission elsewhere, who knows at this point in time. All I know today is that I'm back doing what I love to do the most.

So say a prayer, won't you?

Moving in and out of my old farmhouse has definitely taken a toll on me. Physically, spiritually, and financially. My emotions dipped, skidded, and rolled to a complete stop at times, but I'm feeling my old self come back with a new way of looking at things. I'm not old. I'm not dead yet. There's virility left in these bones, and by God, the passion of my life is about to unfold them.

I do wish you and yours the best of the best this year. I will dwell on many topics as this year's blog continues on a more regular basis. So stay tuned. This journey, now over fifteen years old, is just getting started.

Blessings to you and yours.

December Post

Ah yes, it’s December. If there’s anybody out there who has been diligent in reading my blog, despite my once-a-month effort, I pour out my heartfelt thanks to you.

No excuses now, but a whole lot of new stuff is happening, and if you’re patient just a little longer … my blogging will be current almost daily.

A special shout-out to the Minnesota Magnolia Southern Book Club! Because of you dear ladies, I have resurrected HOPE … Southern Fried Women is still out there, and among some circles has become a cult classic! I’m thrilled. And honored. I’d be most happy to speak to your group when you’re ready!

Although this Christmas is probably the most simple and uncomplicated Christmas I’ve ever experienced, my heart is in full bloom. Michael and I are about to step into a new chapter of our lives, and for me this includes writing/publishing/promoting on a major scale.

The new house is cozy, warm, and we’re loving it. It has become home, which is shocking to us after leaving the farmhouse. But we feel confident in our direction and know that God is watching out for us. Life is good, not perfect, but whose is? Eh? Still, I’m excited and ready to blast forward into this New Year.

I see great and awesome things ahead.

To anyone out there reading this, a Blessed Christmas to you and yours -- and a prosperous New Year.

Thanks, y'all ... for reading.

A New Adventure

Gone are my hardwood floors, my large front and back porches, my arbors, and my gardens. My new front porch is a good size for a little house. I have a nice deck out back, but there’s linoleum in the kitchen and bathrooms and I’m back to wall-to-wall carpet.

Gone is my country view on all four sides. My new neighborhood is full of well-maintained little houses and lawns, but there are lots of dogs and kids and basketball hoops.

Gone are my big spare bedrooms. My new house has one spare room with a queen-size bed that has to share its space with Mike’s desk. The smallest bedroom is my new office.

Gone is the three-car Morton barn building, the three-compartment out-building, and the potting shed. My new house has a utility shed in the back yard and a single-car garage.

Gone is Michael's weekly three-hour two-acre mowing, now he’s looking at a half hour … maybe … to cut the sweet little back and front yard.

Gone is my five-minute commute to work. Thirty minutes might get me there on time … at least for now.

Gone are my spacious bathrooms. I think I can turn around in both new bathrooms. I think.

Gone is my pantry, my laundry room. Now they are one in the same.

Gone are the six fireplaces, old wood mantels, and unique wooden walls and ceilings. My new house has one wood-burning fireplace and beautiful stonework, but the walls are drywall, the ceilings – popcorn. But clean. Clean is good, right?

Gone is my country kitchen. Hello range that needs replaced, and pink Formica countertops.

But halleluiah, also GONE is the monster mortgage payment. Ginormous heating bills. Stressing over the economy. Time to make changes, sacrifices, and move forward. To a new dream. A new adventure, as my sister put it. A move back to Ohio in five years, to be near our children, grandchildren, and to build a new house. A new house that’s every bit as beautiful as the Farmhouse. Our current temporary, smaller, cheaper house is part of making that dream come true.

I’m grateful for it.

A Southern Fried Woman moving north? Yep. You heard it here first. At some point in the next few years, this southern woman will head north. The “South,” however, never leaves you. It remains in your heart no matter where you hang your hat. For me, as I grow older, what’s more important than my geographical location … is my family.

And that’s all I need to say.

Blessings to you and yours.

Hello November?

It's November 1st. I've skipped a whole month.

I'm moving. Yes, moving.

Again.

Downsizing, economy, moving closer to family ... too many reasons to name. It's a good thing. Truth is, October was filled with mixed emotions, tons of work (packing up a house is lots of work) and writing. WRITING, WRITING, WRITING.

Many good things loom on the horizon. More than ever before. Michael and I have entered into what we believe to be (despite the economy and the move into a much smaller house) the most exciting time of our lives. We welcome it.

We'll keep you posted.

Blessings to you and yours.

Goodbye September

September has blown in, spun around, and is threatening to leave the same way summer did.

Raining.

Rain. God, when will it stop? Occasionally, I think God likes to remind me what it was like to live Ohio with continuous days of rain. Falling on my gray moods, rolling fog penetrates my head as well as the air outside. The house is damp and cooler. I'd like to start making fires in the fireplace and forget the world exists outside of my cocoon. I withdraw once again to the computer, to my stories, and to a world in which I'm most comfortable.

I'm making decisions this month. Going so long between blog posts (as usual) is not because I'm not writing. In fact, I'm consumed with reading and writing these days. Blogging has taken a back seat, once again. I've been consumed by one book after another, and seldom sit without a book in my lap. My heart longs for the next chapter as my hands reach for my reading glasses. I'm engrossed in many genres I don't write in. It's refreshing.

I met with my best writing friend this week, and the one thing I realized while having lunch with her is that this whole year has taught me a valuable lesson about how I want to spend the rest of my life. Writing. The passion never wavered. In fact, it strengthened. Working a full-time job has forced me to look hard at my future. I'll blog more about that later.

But for now, I'm itching to do what I love most. What relaxes me, moves me, makes me who I am. It's been long enough, the funnel is full and I'm ready to get to it.

Blessings to you and yours.

Change

Change.

I see it, feel it. The air around me is enhanced by the smell of change. Hot and humid evaporated and left us with cool and cloudy. School buses, mums for sale, brown corn waiting for harvest. It's September. Not yet Autumn, no longer Summer. That in-between month not sure what season to call itself.

The air conditioner has been turned off. Crisp night air blows into my bedroom, carrying an aroma of plowed earth and the occasional scent of a far-off skunk. I'm waiting. For more change.

Change. Brilliant, earth-shattering change comes so seldom in our lifetime. An idea, a thought, a dream of success drives us to make changes. More often, change is subtle and we adapt to most of it. But unfortunate or deliberate mistakes force changes that are often perceived as horrific, when in fact, they are not. I thought perhaps this entire past year would stifle me, hurt me, turn my writing into scraps meant for the dogs.

The sabbatical, as I call it, has accomplished quite the opposite. As I read the dribs and drabs from the past months of here and there, I view my writing very much as grapes in a press. Condensed, but richer. Turned into something undeniably palatable. Smooth.

I like this change.

There are more changes to come. Some not so good, I'm afraid. But, as always, I'm a survivor. I'll get through it and it'll end up as prose somewhere in one of my stories. This year has proven to me one great fact. Unconditionally, I'm a writer. That, dear friend, will see me through the rest of my life. Every change in life can be twisted to the good. If we want it to be.

Blessings to you and yours.

Rules? What Rules?

I'm deep into the third book of the Outlander series. If you've never read the books by Diana Gabaldon, I highly suggest them. My head is wrapped up in the ecstasy and agony of Claire and Jamie and what could possibly happen next! I've been meaning to finish all five books before the new one comes out this year. I hear OUTLANDER has been successfully optioned for film and they're currently casting characters. But who knows where that stands, really. All I know is that they're going to have to go some to make the movie as magnificent as the novels.

But, here I am, not only devouring the novels, but studying Diana's writing style. She's quite a genious, in my opinion. Her research is amazing (like Jodi Piccoult) and, once again, Gabaldon holds me in the palm of her hand as my time slips into the stratosphere. We Gabaldon readers tend consume her books in only a few day-long reading marathons.

What's even more amazing to me, is she breaks every damn rule in the book. Not only are her novels 800 pages to over 1,000 pages in length, she does stuff like change point-of-view not only within the paragraph, but within a sentence!!! In the book VOYAGER, I recently read point-of-view being changed twice in one sentence. I just sat there. Stunned. I had to read it over and over. But then I started to laugh. The way she wrote it, it made perfect sense. I understood who was thinking when, and was not confused by any "talking heads."

Now, if you've ever sat through months/years of creative writing classes, as well as hours of never-ending writing conferences, you would know that changing point-of-view within a paragraph or a sentence is a huge WHAT-NOT-TO-DO RULE. A big no-no. It warrants immediate rejections from editors and agents. Unless, I guess, if you've already sold millions of books and your name is Diana Gabaldon.

You go girl. My hero.

Blessings to you and yours, Ms. Gabaldon.

Where Do You Draw The Line?

As a writer, we're bombarded with emails. It's our own fault. We signed up for every newsletter available.

As the Internet became the popular breeding ground for writers seeking to advance their careers, we found ourselves overwhelmed with information.

If you're a writer, you know what I'm talking about. How much time have you spent, reading one blog after another? Do you find yourself caught in a maze of Twitter, Facebook, and Myspace? How many Writer's Digest and Publishers Lunch emails land in your Inbox each week?

Then there are the writing groups and conferences, all pulling for your attention. Shoot, I just want to go for coffee with my writing buddy, Dena. Talk writing. Gossip. Share the latest in our quest for bestseller-status. Laugh about it.

Throw in a full-time job, family time, time to clean the house, mow the yard, and do the laundry ... hells bells, it's no wonder we're frustrated. We squeeze writing and editing time into the early morning hours or late in the day. Occasionally, when things are slow at work, I can write a blog. Like now.

As I sit here now, I yearn for the days to attend another writing conference, plan my next publicity and speaking tour, support the open-mic in Winston-Salem with the Writer's Group. I'd give a kidney for non-stop writing time. I want to live in my stories. Start the next book. Finish the current one.

Setting priorities is tough when there's so many of them.

I need a new website, gather my thoughts for a few magazine articles I'm wanting to write, set my writing goals for the rest of the year. The list becomes longer as I think about it. I'm ready to draw the line.

So very ready.

Blessings to you and yours.

Practice What You Preach, Pam. Take Time To Blog.

Where has the month gone? I strolled through Garden Ridge the other day. You know, the cheapie store that sells housewares. Well, I kid you not, they've stuffed the front of the store with Halloween yard decorations. Front and center. Smack dab as you walk through the door. Christmas trees and walls filled with every ornament imaginable are just beyond the pumpkins and broomsticks. Of course, summertime clearance items are now stashed way in the back.

I hate it when stores rob us of our time.

Our time on this earth is so fleeting. My children visited recently and we poured through bags of old pictures ... sighing ... remembering. They were babies only yesterday, it seems. Laughing and crying over one memory and the next, it made me stop and ponder real hard about how little time we have to make life matter. To write a letter. To perform a kindness. To learn from our mistakes. To say we're sorry. To express our love. To call an old friend. To rest. To leave a legacy.

To blog.

Take time to make life matter.

Don't let time take you.

Blessings to you and yours.

Garage Sales Can Be Hazardous To Your Health

Yeah, Yeah … another garage sale blog. But did you know, oh faithful reader, that there’s a dark side to these blissful Saturday morning outings?

A couple weeks ago my husband and I started out early. After three successful stops and a trunk full of rock-bottom, dirt-cheap, slap-me-silly fabulous finds, we ventured to the west side of town. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a gum-chewing, cell phone-gabber (and quite possibly texting) woman, bore down on our backside. She might as well have hitched a ride on our bumper and saved her gas.

My husband growled. “She’s too close!” And I said, as I ignored him, “Slow down, there’s big ole’ yard sale up ahead in that empty pasture next to the County Line Grocery.” So, he did what all obedient garage-saleing husbands do. He slowed down, put his signal on, and proceeded to turn right into the parking lot. Until …

SCREECH! WHAM! BAM!

The bumper-hugging woman rammed into us like two 1972 Ford Zephyrs battling it out in a Demolition Derby. Her air bags deployed. Her front end was smashed up to her steering wheel, and obviously she didn’t have her seat belt on. Her chin was a bloody mess.

We were shaken up a bit. But not injured.

The Fire Department, EMTs, and State Police showed up. Quite the three-ring circus, I must say. Nobody was hurt enough to go to the hospital, thank God for that.

She and my husband exchanged a few not-so-pleasant words. She said, “I was following one car length!”

“ONE car length?!?” Michael shook his head. “Go back and read your driver’s education manual! At 50 mph, you should’ve been FIVE car lengths behind us!”

Well … you can imagine the rest.

Needless to say, she totaled her car. We, on the other hand, drove away with just a few scratches.

But the worst thing was … we missed the garage sale.

Phooey.

Blessings to you and yours.

The Day I Met God

It's an amazing thing. Meeting God. I remember the day, like it was yesterday. Have you met Him yet?

I'm not talking about the day you gave your heart to Jesus. That Sunday you walked the aisle and the preacher wrote your name in the Lamb's Book of Life. I'm not talking about confessing your sins to a priest or before a congregation. I'm not talking about that revival you walked away from, so full of hope and joy unspeakable. I'm not talking about shouting at the altar, or the day your lips trembled and your tongue got thick during a particular "come to Jesus" meeting.

I'm talking about a bonifide experience where God shows up and you know in the deepest region of your heart and soul, it's Him. The day He stepped out of nowhere and introduced Himself to me was a REAL life-changing experience. Have you had a meeting like that?

This weekend, I understand that 11,000 women (or more) are decending upon our local coliseum to listen to a few popular Christian women speakers. These evangelists, I'm sure, can lift a crowd of that magnitude to pinnicals of heart-felt glory. I've heard them speak on-line, they're really something.

The testimonies they sport on their web-sites are impressive.

The women I know who are attending are excited beyond belief. They've purchased their tickets months in advance.

Did you hear what I said? They purchased their tickets. 11,000 women at $75.00 a pop. Or more. You pay extra for your box lunch. That's a lot of money, folks. A lot. Makes me wonder. What about you?

Do you think these lady evangelists/teachers/prophets (whatever their titles) ... do you think they sell their books, tapes, cds, t-shirts, keychains, etc. at the back of the room? You bet they do.

Do they take up yet another offering during the services? (Not sure about that one, but my guess is ... yes.)

Do women really meet God there? I don't know. I hope for that kind of money they at least get a glimpse of Him.

If you're going, I hope you have a wonderful time. But I won't be there. Personally, though I am a proclaimed woman of faith, I don't do well in evangelical crowds. If you knew my history, you'd know why.

For me, I met God at the darkest hour in my life. Not in church, not in a crowd of evangelicals who all think alike, not in a Praise and Worship moment. No. I met God in a place where one would think God would not be.

Powerful does not describe it. Words have suddenly escaped me, trying to reveal the moment. To recognize Him, to see His hand moving swift and steady, it's an experience I will never forget. Never.

Miracles happen as He walks into your life, and you change as your circumstances change. For me, He revealed Himself during a great struggle. In the middle of the night. In the wee hours when silence rings so loud in your head it's disturbing. When darkness squeezed in around me so tight, I thought I would die ... when I believed my life was ending. That's when God showed up.

Now God certainly listens when 11,000 women gather together to sing and worship Him. He enjoys the praise of those who love Him. All I'm saying is that some of us are made differently. We don't need to be pumped up. An evangelist's message may be honest and pure and full of Rah-Rah Christian ladies!! But ... I do have a problem with the millions they rake in. I have a real problem with it. I suppose during hard economic times, revivals of any kind are money-makers.

It's just that I've come from a different spot. My message is different. It's not a made-for-TV message.

I'm not saying the way I met God is the best way. Maybe gathering together, listening to high-spirited messages is a good thing - for some. Maybe a few folks need that more than others. And then, maybe you can meet Him jumping for joy in the midst of 11,000 women ... but it's my belief that God doesn't charge admission.

You can find Him ... anywhere.

Everything I am, all that I know, feel, act, think or do ... changed that day I met God.

Blessings to you and yours.

Summer Romance

I'm deep into romance. A romantic novel, that is. The author writes scene by scene and ties them together with expert skill. In this case she has created one of the great love stories of our time. I'm convinced I'll never read a better romance novel. She has set the bar in the stratosphere.

I'm not one to read only romance. But hot summer breezes on my back porch demand a good love story. There's nothing better than a porch swing and a cool drink to transport yourself to another place and time. Romance novels are usually light, funny; a fast read. But not the one on my lap. It's 850 pages of intrigue and history. The love story is hot, constant, and keeps you involved. The skill of the author is consistent, her story never falls short. In other words, my eyes have not skimmed the pages to get to the next scene. Not once. I'm chewing on each word.

There's no better season than summer to immerse yourself in a good romance. Even if it is a hot, steamy novel.

Grab your book, a glass of ice tea, and a fan; come join me on my porch!

Blessings to you and yours.

Garage Sale Etiquette And Otherwise

I blog about this every July; it's my summertime passion.

$250.00 Frye Boots for an amazing $7. Cool-looking boots that some man wore only three times. Four beautiful sweaters for me - $1 a piece. One like-new couch (like never sat on) - $100. (Four decorator pillows thrown in for free.) One Lazy-Boy chair, in great shape and the perfect color - $20. Gorgeous antique side table - $5. Stemware; water goblets, wine glasses, juice glasses, and drinking glasses, service for eight, in perfect condition - $4. Hallmark Christmas ornaments - 50 cents each. L.L. Bean like-new jacket for Mike - $1. Tommy Hilfiger shirts in new condition - 50 cents each. Depression-glass antique plate - $1. Antique mirror - $2. Liz Claiborne purse and matching wallet, never used - $3. Hushpuppy winter boots, again, never used - $1.

Do I have your attention?

Never-used power and garden tools, great books, lovely jewelry, never-used purses, nice stock pots, awesome antique clock, clean rugs, spotless tablecloths, vintage linens as seen in Southern Living Magazine, to-die-for quilts, valuable framed artwork, pretty vases, plants and patio furniture, etc. etc. etc. ... all bought for REAL rock-bottom prices over the years.

Where?

Garage Sales. Yard Sales. Barn Sales. Estate Sales. Moving Sales. Sidewalk and Parking Lot Sales. Flea Markets.

I NEVER pay retail price for anything in my house. Well, maybe my TV, my computer, my mattresses, and my underwear. But I guarantee you, they were on sale for at least 50% off or more. So listen up! I've got better news for you than Fox, CNN Headline, and Nancy Grace!

Due to the economy, sell-your-first-born sales are in abundance this year. Hurrah for me! Hurrah for you! It's back to basics. An honest-to-gosh stimulus package for our finances - finding what we need (and sometimes what we want) at neighborhood garage sales.

Therefore, now more than ever before, it's time to lay down the rules for these sell-my-crap-to-pay-my-rent sales. If you're thinking about hosting a garage sale, you need to know the rules. If you're contemplating a sneak peak at your neighbor's garage sale, you still need to know the rules. The "nicer" neighborhoods are getting into the act this summer; more than ever before. Those folks, especially, need to know the rules. To get the most bang for your buck, everybody needs to know Garage Sale Etiquette. It's a must!

It seems everybody is hurting in the wallet area today. Making a few extra bucks these days is a great mood booster, agreed? Beginners are chucking their pride (please God don't let my Country-Club friends see my garage-sale signs) cleaning out their attics, basements and closets, and hosting an I'm-in-a-money-funk-so-I'm-selling-my-junk sale.

Well now, I've been hosting and hunting garage sales for over twenty-five years. (Mainly because I've always been in a money funk.) Rising at the crack of dawn every Saturday, summer-after-summer, throwing on pants I paint in and a t-shirt with holes, pulling my hair into a greasy pony-tail, and trudging across hundreds of dew-soaked yards to get to the first table of junk, I dare say that I'm a veteran. I know whereof I speak. Inevitably over the past few decades, I've learned a thing or two about garage-sale etiquette.

Here's the deal, folks -- you really do need to know the rules.

Rule #1. You can't charge RETAIL prices for your junk. Prime Example: Yesterday, a neighbor at the end of my street (in a pricey neighborhood) tried to sell her Longaberger basket collection for $35 per basket and up. Ha! Now I know they're collector baskets and folks pay $100 or more for just one of these "designer baskets" at Longaberger HOME PARTIES. BUT, you're not having a home party. You're having a GARAGE SALE! Oh yes, deary, there's a difference.

Note to Newbies: I've found Longaberger baskets (in like-new condition) for $1, $2, and $3 per basket at garage sales.

LEARN THIS HARD-FAST RULE: If you're hosting a garage sale to make a bunch of money, you're doing it for the WRONG REASON. (Unless for charity.) If you think your "stuff" is worth more than a few bucks, then you need to take your "stuff" to a consignment store, or sell it on e-bay. I don't give a flying flip if you were stupid enough to pay $200 for your designer purse or $50 for your pretty rug. I'll give you no more than $5 for it at a garage sale. It's as simple as that.

Remember this: Garage-sale hunters need a real bargain. Otherwise, they'll go to Walmart. Get it?

THE PURPOSE OF HOSTING A GARAGE SALE, is to clean out your closets! To rid your house of crap you don't want, and in the process you stick a few extra bucks in your pocket. That's it. There's no other reason to host a garage sale. It's BONUS money!

Therefore, Miss-My-Shit-Don't-Stink-First-Time-Garage-Sale Hostess, sell your precious Longaberger baskets to get rid of them or stick them on e-bay. (By the way, for the fun of it, I went back to her sale hours later. Every retail-priced Longaberger was still baking in the hot sun. Still beautifully displayed on her pretty table collecting dust. Along with the rest of her pricey junk. Still not sold. Shocker.)

Rule #2. Don't worry about displaying everything as if you're running a store. Put price tags on whatever you can, or have dollar tables, 50 cents tables, etc. And get up EARLY. Open your garage door by 7 am. That's the typical time a sale should begin. Don't be dragging things out of your shed, house, barn, or bedroom closet at 9 am. You'll lose a lot of sales. Be prepared.

Rule #3. Get a garage-sale permit if your town requires one. Be respectful of local ordinances.

Rule #4. Always say "good-morning." Or "how-ya'll-doin' ?" Be friendly. That way, if you ask your host to lower their price on the Phalscraft lamp you have your eyes on, you'll stand a better chance of getting it for $5 instead of their $8 asking price.

Speaking of bickering for a better price, it's perfectly acceptable to wheel and deal at any and every sale. Period. Some beginner hosts are rather taken aback when approached, but they get the picture after the first few garage-sale veterans rummage through their precious "stuff."

"Will you take $5 for the whole set of dishes?" A good garage-saler will never pay the asking price on anything marked over $1. Especially at the end of the morning. Prices go down as the day wears on, just so the host won't have to haul it inside again. But please remember, anything under $1, just pay for it and be thrilled you got a vintage linen tablecloth for a buck. (Which I have done.)

There are enough garage sales every Friday and Saturday, that if hosts aren't willing to wheel and deal, you can move on to the next.

And remember to say "thank you" and "have a great week-end." It's the gracious thing to do.

Rule #5. Television sets, irons, toys, anything that must be plugged in to work, ask to plug it in. Check it before your purchase it. Don't be shy, just ask. If it doesn't work, they shouldn't be selling it. UNLESS, they post a sign on it, "Doesn't Work." Common sense stuff.

Rule #6. Use cash only. Enough said. And all sales are final. Don't ever return a garage sale item. It's tacky.

Rule #7. If you host a sale, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE take a course in proper signage first and foremost. Use large white or neon poster board folded over and write with a big, thick magic marker in HUMUNGO letters.

GARAGE SALE

SAT. JULY 11

555 OAK STREET

(draw an arrow pointing to the sale)

ALWAYS use arrows pointing in the right direction. Make it clear. ALWAYS USE THE DATE. NEVER list items you have for sale. It's too much to read for the garage sale hunter, and we don't care. DON'T nail your signs to a telephone pole. Use two sticks and pound the sign into the ground. Or use a metal frame from a real estate sign you may have lying around.

Make your sale easy to find. Post signs at all major and minor roads leading to your home. And for cryin' out loud! ... TAKE YOUR SIGNS DOWN AFTER YOUR SALE! I can't tell you how many sales I've searched for weeks afterward, only because some lazy garage-sale host didn't take her sign down.

Rule #8. If you don't live on a street where folks can park and get to your sale easily, then don't have one. Or find an empty parking lot somewhere and pitch a tent.

Rule #9. You don't have to list your garage sale on Craig's List or even in the newspaper. I rarely refer to them. There are enough garage sales every Saturday that if you just get out early and drive, you’ll find them.

Rule #10. Finally, make it fun, make it a treasure hunt. Somtimes I drive slowly past a sale, see that it's mostly all baby stuff, kids clothes, toys, (stuff I'm not interested in) and I don't stop. Sometimes even when I stop because I think it looks like a great sale, it's not. The stuff is dirty, broken, and should've been taken to the dump. Often I hit four or five bad sales before finding my treasure sale. The sale to beat all sales. Then the fun begins.

Last month I found a piece of Italian porcelain, over 75 years old at a yard sale. The host thought her inherited piece was ugly. She hated it, even though it had belonged to her great-grandmother. I bought it for $2. I can tell you it's worth much, much, much more than that. (Giggle.)

The thing is -- you never know. The old cliche' - one man's junk is another man's treasure - is true. You have to give up a few dollars of gas, a few hours of sleep, and a Saturday morning, but you may find the treasure of a lifetime. I think that even if I had all the money in the world, I'd still treasure hunt at garage sales. I'd continue to find what I need for pennies on the dollar, not because I'm cheap, but because it makes sense.

Just use proper etiquette to do it.

Here's to a successful garage-sale summer! Mike and I just might see you out there!

Blessings to you and yours.

The True ART Of Writing

Writing is an art. Don't let anybody tell you different. You're either gifted with this talent, or you're not. That doesn't mean you can't develop your talent; taking it from beginner to advanced. Talent given to artists, it seems to me, is awarded in varying degrees. I think God expects that once we discover our talent we must do something with it.

Yes, yes, like wine and cheese, a talent often requires that we age a little. A few decades of hard work to bring out the "Michelangelo" in some of us is a good thing. But what I'm wondering is, why are there so many published authors out there who continue to write one bad book after another? Is their fan base that strong? Are their stories so fantastic that the quality of writing is overlooked?

My husband thinks its because they wrote and published their first works way back in the 70s or 80s, and some in the 90s. When the competition wasn't like it is today. When publishers published anybody with a pulse and a half-way decent story. Over time, they developed a platform, a fan-base, that never went away. These writers didn't have to worry about a pristine-perfect query letter; marketing and promotion; 225 rejection letters. I can't tell you how many "mistakes" I find while reading published books. Mistakes that these authors get away with, while the rest of us unknowns would be rejected for. I think these authors continue to rest on their laurels. Well, some of them.

Others, mind you, deserve their good fortune. They paid their dues. I applaud them. The few of them.

At this moment, I'm heavily entrenched in reading. I'm deep into two novels at once. Actually, I'm studying the writing. Asking myself, why these writers? What is it about their work that makes them a success? These two well-known, New York Times bestselling authors have sold millions of copies.

The first writer, I'm concluding, is brilliant. Her story is mind-blowing. Though a very, very long book, I find she captures and holds you for ransom, insisting that you read well into the night. The depth of her research rivals that of any scientist, I assure you. Along with her millions of fans, I find myself lost in the made-up world she created by what else? Her talent.

The second writer, well-known, her work is seen on retail shelves in every state. Bookstores, grocery stores, and otherwise. (No, it's not Danielle Steele. They can't give "her" books away at fire sales in my neck of the woods.) No, the author I'm talking about, her work is full of air. That's my best description for it. Hot air. The reading is easy, true enough, you can fly through a 300 page novel. But the stories are surface. Flat. There's no depth to them. As if she wrote it quickly. Didn't take the time to have it edited for content. I'm skimming through chapters. On top of that, the story is not plausible. I hear myself saying, "Yeah, right. Like that would happen!"

Thing is, the first author writes about time travel. It's far easier for me to believe her story than that of the second author who simply wrote about a rich woman waking up one morning and finding herself destitute. Her adoringly-rich husband, whom she has loved with all her heart, has died and left his billions to his mean and horrible siblings.

I think it all boils down to one thing. Talent. How they tell the story, draw you in, hold you captive.

To write well is to allow the story to boil over and spill into your hands as you type or print. It's feeling, no- I mean really feeling what your character is experiencing. Can you pour yourself into another body? Are you able to transport yourself to another place and relay it, in all its beauty or horror to your reader? Can you write a great story and make me want to devour every word as if my life depended on it?

Can you?

That's the true art of writing.

Blessings to you and yours.

37 Years Ago Today I Married The Wrong Man

True.

July 1, 1972. I was 17 years old; what did I know? I'll tell you what I knew.

Not much.

It was a beautiful day. I was a blushing new bride who took hold of my daddy's arm and walked down a fifty-foot aisle to a young man in a crushed-velvet tux with two dollars in his pocket. He carried me across the threshold of our $100 a month rented trailer.

Of course, I'm sure he would relay pretty much the same thing, that we knew nothing about how to make a marriage last. Very few high school sweethearts stay together forever. Or were meant to. We, like so many others, just simply grew in two different directions. For seventeen years we drifted further and further apart, like two continents divided by one big ocean. Unlike my parents, or his for that matter, "for better or worse" didn't mean a damn thing.

Some say you need God in your marriage to make it last. In our case, there was too much "God." Too much religion, not enough love.

A couple good things came out of it. Two fantastic kids. A few good memories, (sigh.)

But now all these years later I look back at the bliss and the horror and find it tangled in my memory like some nasty vine that needs cut and trimmed back, making way for air and light to get to the buds. Thank the good Lord, time slapped salve on the worst of it and I've allowed myself to go on. I'm so glad I did.

Thirty-seven years later and six and a half years into my marriage with Michael, I wish I could wrap up what I know now and sell it on the Internet. I look back through time and see a foolish young girl. I wish I could talk some sense into her. Make her see her mistake. But all that's left is this middle-aged woman, in the youth of her old age. No, you can't go back. That's for damn sure.

Many times Mike and I look at each other and say we wish we could've met way back then. Back in our youth. But time has made us both different. Life's worst moments made us who we are today. They strengthened our resolve and created a love with bonds made of steel.

I suppose some marriages last a lifetime, while some drift along for twenty years before crashing into the rocks. A few long marriages should've ended decades ago, giving way to healing and a better life. And yet, I'm a strong believer that marriage is forever.

My forever had an ending.

I'm more than glad. Because sometimes you have to go through the fire and the flood to find the love of your life.

Blessings to you and yours.