Whew! Too much time between blogs. All the things you're not supposed to do if you're a blogger, I've done. But I've been blogging since 2005. The rules for blogging were not clearly defined back then. Then again, I don't follow many rules, I'm afraid. Anyway, after all this time, I'm not about to stop blogging now. My intentions of becoming a super-blogger are still in the works, however, they're taking a backseat to getting my new book out. Something has to give somewhere.
I've received eight "yes's" to my request for blurbs from my list of respected authors. I'm extremely happy about it. There are a few more authors I'm waiting on, but as the deadline grows nearer I wonder if I'll hear from them at all. As it is, I'm thankful for those kind and courteous authors who have at least emailed me back. And for those who have decided to give me a bit of their time to say nice things about my book. As a writer, every kind word, gesture, helping hand, and loving heart that sends help my way, I'm not only thankful for, I'm moved beyond words. People are busy these days, and when you are lucky enough for someone to give you a piece of themselves, it's a tremendous blessing that should never go unrecognized.
I have a large, ornate serving dish hanging on my dining room wall that says, Don't just count your blessings, share them. This is a tough business, and sometimes I feel as though I'm out here all alone. I'm sure I'm not the only writer who feels that way.
For me, I'm coming down the home stretch. The book cover is done and everything else is rolling into place. There's still much to do, but after a decade in the writing, TELEVENGE will soon see the light of day. It's a big book. Over 700 pages. Blood, sweat, and plenty of tears cover each of those pages. So when someone says to me, Yes, I'll send you a blurb, I don't take it lightly. Once again, I'm grateful beyond words.
Blessings to you and yours.
Monday, March 12, 2012
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Oh Brother, Can You Spare A Blurb?
Blurbs.
I've spent the past three days emailing well-respected authors. Hopeful for their endorsements, I gathered the contacts I made the past ten years, as well as emails from other writers I love, and sent them my genuine and heartfelt request. A request for a blurb. A blurb from great writers who I hope remember what it was like . . . searching for someone to give their debut novel a boost. A leg-up. I worry everyone is so busy with their own work, their own life, they'll forget their days of struggle. Forget what it's like to receive any stroke of good fortune. For someone they respect to turn their way with a nod, and and kind word.
I understand some of these folks receive dozens of requests nearly every day, and it's impossible to honor them all. Especially, if they don't like the manuscript in front of them. I get that.
Oh God, look my way, just once.
It's been such a long journey. Televenge has been over ten years in the writing. I'm so close, I can taste it. I can't even describe the angst. These few final months before the novel is published is filled with publicity work and preparing for a book tour and many sleepless nights.
It's the story of lifetime.
Just give me a chance, God. Give me a chance.
Julie Murkette and the team at Satya House are like branches of a great oak, holding me up, supporting me through every battle, every storm. We're determined to break barriers, and hopefully, with the support of my readers, create a sensation.
It's in God's hands, now. I just have to remember to leave it there.
Blessings to you and yours,
I've spent the past three days emailing well-respected authors. Hopeful for their endorsements, I gathered the contacts I made the past ten years, as well as emails from other writers I love, and sent them my genuine and heartfelt request. A request for a blurb. A blurb from great writers who I hope remember what it was like . . . searching for someone to give their debut novel a boost. A leg-up. I worry everyone is so busy with their own work, their own life, they'll forget their days of struggle. Forget what it's like to receive any stroke of good fortune. For someone they respect to turn their way with a nod, and and kind word.
I understand some of these folks receive dozens of requests nearly every day, and it's impossible to honor them all. Especially, if they don't like the manuscript in front of them. I get that.
Oh God, look my way, just once.
It's been such a long journey. Televenge has been over ten years in the writing. I'm so close, I can taste it. I can't even describe the angst. These few final months before the novel is published is filled with publicity work and preparing for a book tour and many sleepless nights.
It's the story of lifetime.
Just give me a chance, God. Give me a chance.
Julie Murkette and the team at Satya House are like branches of a great oak, holding me up, supporting me through every battle, every storm. We're determined to break barriers, and hopefully, with the support of my readers, create a sensation.
It's in God's hands, now. I just have to remember to leave it there.
Blessings to you and yours,
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Shoutin' Hallelujah! A New Computer!
HP w185e! My new computer! Laws-a-mercy! After 11 years. A new computer. I can't even tell you what it's like. Everything moves at the speed of sound, I'm having trouble keeping up! Finally, I've been able to upgrade and what a wonder.
Sorry to say, I'm still carrying around my flip phone. IPads scare me to death, and I'm all thumbs when it comes to the remote on the TV. Nook? Kindle? No. I like to open a real book. Not fake one.
I'm a word person and I make no apologies. I keep up with what I need. Not what everybody else is using.
But . . .
I do plan to dig into my social media now. Now that I don't have something equivalent to dial-up. Now I can pull up You Tube without waiting twenty minutes for it to load. I even like the feel of this new keyboard. Coffee spots and toast crumbs from 2006 have wedged themselves into the spaces between the keys on my old keyboard. God knows what else.
So I say goodbye to my old Dell. It's been a good computer. Wrote my last three books on it. It has served me well but it's time to move on.
Blessings to you and yours.
Sorry to say, I'm still carrying around my flip phone. IPads scare me to death, and I'm all thumbs when it comes to the remote on the TV. Nook? Kindle? No. I like to open a real book. Not fake one.
I'm a word person and I make no apologies. I keep up with what I need. Not what everybody else is using.
But . . .
I do plan to dig into my social media now. Now that I don't have something equivalent to dial-up. Now I can pull up You Tube without waiting twenty minutes for it to load. I even like the feel of this new keyboard. Coffee spots and toast crumbs from 2006 have wedged themselves into the spaces between the keys on my old keyboard. God knows what else.
So I say goodbye to my old Dell. It's been a good computer. Wrote my last three books on it. It has served me well but it's time to move on.
Blessings to you and yours.
Monday, February 13, 2012
Touchdown Pass For Publicity!
And so it begins! My radio interview this morning sent me spinning! I'm pumped. Ready to rumble. Live internet talk radio is the coolest thing. From your own home, in your jammies, you can talk to the world. Susan Rich Talks, was my host this morning, talking about my books, my writing life, and specifically--about Southern writers and dialect in writing. Twenty minutes of discussion ... giving writers something to think about. Tune in to her show! Susan Rich is doing a great service out there on the west coast for all types of writers, so check out her website and tune in!
It's one way to get the marketing machine started as we make our way toward publication day.
I'm convinced the success of any book is the amount of leg work you put into it after it's written. My head is spinning with ideas and I'm wondering if there will be enough time in the days ahead to do all I want to do. I'm working hand-in-hand with a great publisher and publicist to give Televenge a huge push into the literary public. It's exciting. It's scary. It's a hell of a lot of work. I do believe I could spend twelve hours a day just reading the blogs and websites that deal with book publicity.
In the days to come, I'll be posting my ideas, what worked, what did not. And of course, I'll rely on my old tried-and-true ... public appearances. For Southern Fried Women I spoke at over 150 venues, only scratching the surface. It's going to be a busy year, and it's already Valentine's Day.
The road can seem daunting. There are monsters everywhere. The bad economy, the fluctuating publishing industry, and bookstore after bookstore closing their doors. But I'm reminded, strangely, of the Tom Brady story. The Aaron Rogers story. Those quarterbacks that nobody wanted in the beginning of their careers. Their struggle was years in the making. But eventually, the best won out. Boy-howdy, did it ever. It's enough to give this writer that extra push I need on most days to keep going. Who knows? Televenge may be the touchdown pass I was hoping for.
Blessings to you and yours.
It's one way to get the marketing machine started as we make our way toward publication day.
I'm convinced the success of any book is the amount of leg work you put into it after it's written. My head is spinning with ideas and I'm wondering if there will be enough time in the days ahead to do all I want to do. I'm working hand-in-hand with a great publisher and publicist to give Televenge a huge push into the literary public. It's exciting. It's scary. It's a hell of a lot of work. I do believe I could spend twelve hours a day just reading the blogs and websites that deal with book publicity.
In the days to come, I'll be posting my ideas, what worked, what did not. And of course, I'll rely on my old tried-and-true ... public appearances. For Southern Fried Women I spoke at over 150 venues, only scratching the surface. It's going to be a busy year, and it's already Valentine's Day.
The road can seem daunting. There are monsters everywhere. The bad economy, the fluctuating publishing industry, and bookstore after bookstore closing their doors. But I'm reminded, strangely, of the Tom Brady story. The Aaron Rogers story. Those quarterbacks that nobody wanted in the beginning of their careers. Their struggle was years in the making. But eventually, the best won out. Boy-howdy, did it ever. It's enough to give this writer that extra push I need on most days to keep going. Who knows? Televenge may be the touchdown pass I was hoping for.
Blessings to you and yours.
Friday, February 10, 2012
Paper, Rock, Typewriters
I'm blogging from a different computer today, as mine has just about given up the ghost. It's gone bonkers. Done all kinds of crazy things lately. Not good timing. But is it ever when your computer is your livelihood?
I guess I've been around a while, because I remember typing on manuals, and then on selectrics, as well as mag-card typewriters. Those were the good old days when we went to the library to do research, dug through encyclopedias, and collected boxes of magazines in our basements. I think I've mentioned this before, but I used to type on a noisy IBM late at night when my children were asleep. I'd cram pillows around it to muffle the sound. Mimeograph machines. Remember those? Good grief, I'm dating myself. Of course, I know some writers who pound out their first drafts with pen and paper. I can't imagine it.
Back in the 8o's, I worked for a law firm that was cutting edge when it came to the "new" windows programs. Those tiny monitors with green-tinted type. I took to computers like a bear in the woods. Well. At least to word processing. I loved the feel of the "new" keyboards, learning the software programs. I remember thinking ... someday, everybody will have one of these in their homes. Little did I know we would carry them around in our pockets.
What's next?
I don't try to keep up anymore. I've settled in with a dated version of Word, a few online programs for writers, and good ol' Google. My energy is better spent these days writing the book, and exploring the best ways to market it. Tweeting, Facebook, keeping up with it social media is difficult enough.
Right now--I'd just like to have a computer that doesn't crash every time I open my Internet program.
Blessings to you and yours.
I guess I've been around a while, because I remember typing on manuals, and then on selectrics, as well as mag-card typewriters. Those were the good old days when we went to the library to do research, dug through encyclopedias, and collected boxes of magazines in our basements. I think I've mentioned this before, but I used to type on a noisy IBM late at night when my children were asleep. I'd cram pillows around it to muffle the sound. Mimeograph machines. Remember those? Good grief, I'm dating myself. Of course, I know some writers who pound out their first drafts with pen and paper. I can't imagine it.
Back in the 8o's, I worked for a law firm that was cutting edge when it came to the "new" windows programs. Those tiny monitors with green-tinted type. I took to computers like a bear in the woods. Well. At least to word processing. I loved the feel of the "new" keyboards, learning the software programs. I remember thinking ... someday, everybody will have one of these in their homes. Little did I know we would carry them around in our pockets.
What's next?
I don't try to keep up anymore. I've settled in with a dated version of Word, a few online programs for writers, and good ol' Google. My energy is better spent these days writing the book, and exploring the best ways to market it. Tweeting, Facebook, keeping up with it social media is difficult enough.
Right now--I'd just like to have a computer that doesn't crash every time I open my Internet program.
Blessings to you and yours.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Another FREE Story From SOUTHERN FRIED WOMEN!
Vernell Paskins, Mobile Home Queen!
Below is the link where you can purchase it for free at this moment in time. The story is available in all ebook formats with embedded links. The links to buy the whole ebook or paperback are at the end of the story.https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/126565
Enjoy the story!
VERNELL PASKINS, MOBILE HOME QUEEN, spoke to me in ways I never dreamed a character could. While studying a map of North Carolina one day, I saw a tiny town (a crossroads, really) named Needmore. Not living far from there, my husband and I decided to drive to the area. A beautiful little spot in the country, but there wasn’t much to see. The place did ‘need more’ to be called a town. Still, the name of the locale intrigued me.
What type of person lives in Needmore and do they really … need more?
Over the next several days, a character popped into my head and I placed her in Needmore, with a dose of humor, hopes and dreams, and huge disappointments in her life. A woman with little education most people look at and call “low life” or “white trash.” Although Vernell struggles to make a way where there seems to be no way … living from paycheck to paycheck (like so many women I know) the deck is stacked against her. I asked myself, what if ... she lived in a doublewide and worked at the interstate flea market ... what if ...
Friday, January 20, 2012
What Not To Wear? Who Cares?
I'm stylin', baby.
It's 3:50 p.m. and I've just had my shower for the day. (The times at the bottom of these blog posts are screwy, but I'm on track for a new blog in the near future.) Anyway, please allow me to tell you what I'm wearing. And no, it's not khakis. A pink-knit flowered nightgown to my knees, brown fuzzy socks, light blue slippers over my cold feet, and of course, since it's only 3 degrees here in the snow-belt, I've thrown on my black zip-up hoodie sweatshirt. No makeup, wet slicked-back hair, and a ton of Victoria-Secret Vanilla body cream to fight the winter dry skin.
Hot, huh?
I'm working on a one-hundred word description for my novel, with a looming deadline set by my publisher. And I doubt she gives a rat's patutie what I look like doing it.
Lucky for me, I'm not expecting anybody to come to the door. My husband is working, and I put a pot of spaghetti sauce to simmer on the stove. The house smells like an Italian bistro, I'm clean, and I'm in my element. I don't have to fight the traffic, worry about icy roads, or compete with the pretty 30-something girls in the workplace. I love my job. I love where I work.
I think I'd slit my wrists if I had to wake up at 6 and apply makeup to puffy eyes, go out in the cold only to get stuck in a traffic jam and be late, again, for work. I'm way past watching the clock, clocking in at 8 and out at 5, hoping I can make it home by 6, only to start the madness all over again the next day.
Thank you very much, I'll stick to my pink nightgown, brown fuzzy socks, and clocking out in time to watch American Idol.
What not to wear? Ha! Who cares?
Obviously, not me.
Blessings to you and yours.
It's 3:50 p.m. and I've just had my shower for the day. (The times at the bottom of these blog posts are screwy, but I'm on track for a new blog in the near future.) Anyway, please allow me to tell you what I'm wearing. And no, it's not khakis. A pink-knit flowered nightgown to my knees, brown fuzzy socks, light blue slippers over my cold feet, and of course, since it's only 3 degrees here in the snow-belt, I've thrown on my black zip-up hoodie sweatshirt. No makeup, wet slicked-back hair, and a ton of Victoria-Secret Vanilla body cream to fight the winter dry skin.
Hot, huh?
I'm working on a one-hundred word description for my novel, with a looming deadline set by my publisher. And I doubt she gives a rat's patutie what I look like doing it.
Lucky for me, I'm not expecting anybody to come to the door. My husband is working, and I put a pot of spaghetti sauce to simmer on the stove. The house smells like an Italian bistro, I'm clean, and I'm in my element. I don't have to fight the traffic, worry about icy roads, or compete with the pretty 30-something girls in the workplace. I love my job. I love where I work.
I think I'd slit my wrists if I had to wake up at 6 and apply makeup to puffy eyes, go out in the cold only to get stuck in a traffic jam and be late, again, for work. I'm way past watching the clock, clocking in at 8 and out at 5, hoping I can make it home by 6, only to start the madness all over again the next day.
Thank you very much, I'll stick to my pink nightgown, brown fuzzy socks, and clocking out in time to watch American Idol.
What not to wear? Ha! Who cares?
Obviously, not me.
Blessings to you and yours.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Adoration For A Daughter
She is the only one who remembers my January wedding anniversary. But then, she remembers every person in the family, their anniversary and birthday, always sends a card, hand writes her thank-you notes, and wraps gifts with a style all her own. With real ribbon and pretty paper not from the Walmart. She's a little bit country. A little bit rock and roll. And a little bit of a girl. Thank goodness, she didn't take after me in the body department. But she's not a girl anymore, and I have to keep reminding myself of that. Her voice is higher-pitched than mine, and she has very little curl to her thin, baby-fine hair, but other than that, the similarities are many.
We adore many of the same movies, books, political views, and convictions. We could watch Sense & Sensibility from morning to night, read Outlander again and again, and we know every great line in Steel Magnolias. Neither of us likes to run. Or jog. Our hands are the same, down to the tips of our short-round fingernails.
She's anal to a fault, just like her mother. Would rather do it herself, than trust anyone else to help. We hate balancing a checkbook, and would rather have our finances handled by someone else. (Sorry, Suzie Orman.) She far surpassed me in education, but our work ethics cannot be tampered with. We work like mules with our eyes to the ground, and give it all we got and then some. We can work around the clock.
We love to play just as hard. Picnics with family, barbeques, holidays, we'll find an excuse to visit friends and family. Well, she does more than me. But we have best friends, and we keep them for life. We love all things spiritual, but believe in one God. We both dream a lot, have nightmares about religion and wrath-of-God type stuff. She will not watch movies about war, apocalypse, or end-of-the-world drama. Refuses to watch it.
But we do share a love for a good chick-flick, snow, and a great pizza.
Of course, we also share a deep and abiding love for Lily, and every child. But she has opened her arms and heart to those most challenged, the physically and mentally handicapped. Her life's calling is to provide the opportunity for them to read great books. Both of our lives revolve around great books, it seems.
She's loyal, considerate, and would rather talk to you about you than about herself. She loves a good, cold beer. Ice cream. Great restaurants and fine wine. We share these loves, and some hurts, too. We hurt over "stuff" that happens in our families. She loves her father and adores her step-father, and long ago stepped in to fill a void in his life. The loss of his own daughter. A pain neither of can imagine.
We support and pray for our President and we root, wholeheartedly, for the Ohio State Buckeyes. Although I'm not quite sure she understands my love for South, she certainly visits it often. But that's where her nanny lives.
Together we share a love for "Nanny & Pop" and my nieces and nephews, every last one of her cousins ... are also her friends. She never tires of visiting those she loves, and her aunts and uncles are extremely important to her. Her ability to love is boundless, and I've rarely seen her angry. Drawing attention to herself is not something she does well. Living in the limelight is not on her agenda. And as biased as I may be, her faults are few.
We both love to travel. But I've rarely gone anywhere with her. Although, we've certainly walked a very long spiritual road together. We share the same key to the door of our past. But our lives, as much as they are the same, are quite different. I once worried about those differences, but now I think the thing to do is to celebrate them, enjoy them, live vicariously through those differences, and try to see things through each others eyes.
Her loyalty to her brother and sister-in-law is repaid by their loyalty in return. Their mutual respect will see them through the years, and when they are old and sit around and talk about their parents, they will remember how alike we all were. I try, as I get older, to see nothing but the good in my children. To remember that although they are indeed human, they are the pieces of me that will go on long after I am gone. I want to know what motivates them, what moves them, what makes them the loving individual that they are.
What I have learned is that Jillian is a rare flower that busts up through hard-packed clay and spreads happiness on the faces around her. She'll not read this, I don't think she reads my blog much. And I won't call her to tell her to read it. She already knows how I feel about her. I just like to think that those who know her, are all the more blessed for it. A simple statement, but true.
Someday, I will talk about my sons. Oh, Lord. Where do I start?
If this is all too syrupy-sweet for you today, I make no apologies, but maybe you need to remember the few things about your children that motivate you. They are, after all, why we keep moving forward. Or they should be.
Blessings to you and yours.
We adore many of the same movies, books, political views, and convictions. We could watch Sense & Sensibility from morning to night, read Outlander again and again, and we know every great line in Steel Magnolias. Neither of us likes to run. Or jog. Our hands are the same, down to the tips of our short-round fingernails.
She's anal to a fault, just like her mother. Would rather do it herself, than trust anyone else to help. We hate balancing a checkbook, and would rather have our finances handled by someone else. (Sorry, Suzie Orman.) She far surpassed me in education, but our work ethics cannot be tampered with. We work like mules with our eyes to the ground, and give it all we got and then some. We can work around the clock.
We love to play just as hard. Picnics with family, barbeques, holidays, we'll find an excuse to visit friends and family. Well, she does more than me. But we have best friends, and we keep them for life. We love all things spiritual, but believe in one God. We both dream a lot, have nightmares about religion and wrath-of-God type stuff. She will not watch movies about war, apocalypse, or end-of-the-world drama. Refuses to watch it.
But we do share a love for a good chick-flick, snow, and a great pizza.
Of course, we also share a deep and abiding love for Lily, and every child. But she has opened her arms and heart to those most challenged, the physically and mentally handicapped. Her life's calling is to provide the opportunity for them to read great books. Both of our lives revolve around great books, it seems.
She's loyal, considerate, and would rather talk to you about you than about herself. She loves a good, cold beer. Ice cream. Great restaurants and fine wine. We share these loves, and some hurts, too. We hurt over "stuff" that happens in our families. She loves her father and adores her step-father, and long ago stepped in to fill a void in his life. The loss of his own daughter. A pain neither of can imagine.
We support and pray for our President and we root, wholeheartedly, for the Ohio State Buckeyes. Although I'm not quite sure she understands my love for South, she certainly visits it often. But that's where her nanny lives.
Together we share a love for "Nanny & Pop" and my nieces and nephews, every last one of her cousins ... are also her friends. She never tires of visiting those she loves, and her aunts and uncles are extremely important to her. Her ability to love is boundless, and I've rarely seen her angry. Drawing attention to herself is not something she does well. Living in the limelight is not on her agenda. And as biased as I may be, her faults are few.
We both love to travel. But I've rarely gone anywhere with her. Although, we've certainly walked a very long spiritual road together. We share the same key to the door of our past. But our lives, as much as they are the same, are quite different. I once worried about those differences, but now I think the thing to do is to celebrate them, enjoy them, live vicariously through those differences, and try to see things through each others eyes.
Her loyalty to her brother and sister-in-law is repaid by their loyalty in return. Their mutual respect will see them through the years, and when they are old and sit around and talk about their parents, they will remember how alike we all were. I try, as I get older, to see nothing but the good in my children. To remember that although they are indeed human, they are the pieces of me that will go on long after I am gone. I want to know what motivates them, what moves them, what makes them the loving individual that they are.
What I have learned is that Jillian is a rare flower that busts up through hard-packed clay and spreads happiness on the faces around her. She'll not read this, I don't think she reads my blog much. And I won't call her to tell her to read it. She already knows how I feel about her. I just like to think that those who know her, are all the more blessed for it. A simple statement, but true.
Someday, I will talk about my sons. Oh, Lord. Where do I start?
If this is all too syrupy-sweet for you today, I make no apologies, but maybe you need to remember the few things about your children that motivate you. They are, after all, why we keep moving forward. Or they should be.
Blessings to you and yours.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Would You Drink The Kool-Aid?
Isn't is amazing that you know to what I am referring?
'Drinking the Kool-Aid' in urban slang, has nothing to do with that wonderful, fruity drink we guzzled by the gallon when we were kids. Oh, no. It smacks of the 1978 cult mass-suicide in Jonestown, Guyana. It is believed the televangelist, Jim Jones, took cyanide and some kind of sedative and mixed it with Kool-Aid to poison his following at Jonestown. It may have been Flavor Aid, but no matter what he used, we know what it means when somebody says, "Don't drink the Kool-Aid!"
I watch a great deal of religious TV, mostly because it's what I write about. Some of it moves me, most of it -- does not. Watching one particular evangelist this week, I was moved to tears. Not because of what he was saying, singing, or pushing. I was moved by the tears on the faces in the crowd. Every face was wet with tears. Those precious, precious people, reaching out for hope, for God. Their hands raised, these folks and their honest hearts had come to that great arena to worship, receive a blessing, and touch the hem of their creator.
It grieved me so, I eventually had to change the channel.
I sure hope that televangelist knows the massive responsibility on his shoulders. I wonder.
The fact remains, televangelists can lead sheep to the slaughter like nothing and no-one else. They can bring out the tears and sell God better than Tony the Tiger sells cornflakes. They can also whip up a batch of Kool-Aid, knowing there are millions of honest hearts who would drink it. And for some reason, we Christians are hesitant to hold our pastors accountable for what they say and do. They don't have to be perfect. In fact, I'd prefer if they were not perfect. But we tend to overlook their celebrity, and confuse the human with the divine.
People are human. Televangelists are human. We tend to forget that. Are there any good televangelists? I'm sure there are men and women out there, preaching, whose hearts are in the right place. Whose intentions are admirable. But it is my personal opinion there have been few who have retained those intentions, that good heart, the humility required. I won't name them because it's certainly not up to me to judge, or pick, or choose. That's God's department.
I run on experience. On personal testimony. I say, be careful. The wolves are out there. And so is the Kool-Aid.
Personally, I love a cold glass on a hot day. Even on a cold day. What a treat! Just keep out the poison!
That goes for televangelists, as well.
Blessings to you and yours.
'Drinking the Kool-Aid' in urban slang, has nothing to do with that wonderful, fruity drink we guzzled by the gallon when we were kids. Oh, no. It smacks of the 1978 cult mass-suicide in Jonestown, Guyana. It is believed the televangelist, Jim Jones, took cyanide and some kind of sedative and mixed it with Kool-Aid to poison his following at Jonestown. It may have been Flavor Aid, but no matter what he used, we know what it means when somebody says, "Don't drink the Kool-Aid!"
I watch a great deal of religious TV, mostly because it's what I write about. Some of it moves me, most of it -- does not. Watching one particular evangelist this week, I was moved to tears. Not because of what he was saying, singing, or pushing. I was moved by the tears on the faces in the crowd. Every face was wet with tears. Those precious, precious people, reaching out for hope, for God. Their hands raised, these folks and their honest hearts had come to that great arena to worship, receive a blessing, and touch the hem of their creator.
It grieved me so, I eventually had to change the channel.
I sure hope that televangelist knows the massive responsibility on his shoulders. I wonder.
The fact remains, televangelists can lead sheep to the slaughter like nothing and no-one else. They can bring out the tears and sell God better than Tony the Tiger sells cornflakes. They can also whip up a batch of Kool-Aid, knowing there are millions of honest hearts who would drink it. And for some reason, we Christians are hesitant to hold our pastors accountable for what they say and do. They don't have to be perfect. In fact, I'd prefer if they were not perfect. But we tend to overlook their celebrity, and confuse the human with the divine.
People are human. Televangelists are human. We tend to forget that. Are there any good televangelists? I'm sure there are men and women out there, preaching, whose hearts are in the right place. Whose intentions are admirable. But it is my personal opinion there have been few who have retained those intentions, that good heart, the humility required. I won't name them because it's certainly not up to me to judge, or pick, or choose. That's God's department.
I run on experience. On personal testimony. I say, be careful. The wolves are out there. And so is the Kool-Aid.
Personally, I love a cold glass on a hot day. Even on a cold day. What a treat! Just keep out the poison!
That goes for televangelists, as well.
Blessings to you and yours.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
A Visit From A Dead Grandpa
Me and Grandpa Oaks.
I told my publisher I'd been in the same nightgown for three days. Sorry to say, it's true. The list is long, the deadlines are looming, and thank God, I'm not out to win a beauty contest. For me, poor hygiene and writing deadlines go hand-in-hand. My poor husband, what that man puts up with. But after turning in my final draft, it was like poking a hole in a balloon. The pressure was gone, at least for the moment. Time for a shower, clean clothes, shave my legs, and a little make up. And some sleep.
Last night I had a dream about my grandfather. How many times in a week do you think about your grandfather? I'll bet not a whole lot. I suppose that depends on how well you knew him. I haven't seen my grandfather in, oh, I don't know, twenty years maybe. Maybe longer. I'm talking about my mother's father. I've talked a lot about my father's father. The coal miner. But my mom's father worked in the steel mills. He was hard of hearing and a bit mysterious. He divorced my grandmother when he was in his 60's. He should've divorced her years earlier. Anyway, that's another story.
But Grandpa's past is sketchy. I know he served in the Navy, grew up in Alabama and Tennessee, and loved baseball. He said he saw Satchel Page play once. And it's a well known fact, that grandpa drank more than he should have. Probably because of my grandmother. I can still see his face. It came to me nice and clear last night in my dream. He had a sweet face. Big cheeks. A great laugh. And he loved my mother. My mother has his eyes. I think he loved all of his kids. I have a feeling he was a bit of a simpleton but nobody said as much.
In my dream he spoke to me, but I can't remember what he said. All I can remember is seeing his face light up as he walked into a room where I was writing behind a desk.
His name was Claude. I didn't go see him as much as I should have. I don't even remember when he died. There wasn't even a funeral. But I found myself missing him today.
He was a good grandpa to me and I loved him. I hope he knows that. Somehow, I think he does.
If you're a writer, get up from your computer and stretch, take a shower, change your clothes. You never know who is coming to visit. Even in your dreams.
I miss you Grandpa.
Blessings to you and yours.
Friday, January 06, 2012
Old Time Religion Made New Again
The Paper Journey Press in Wake Forest first published my short story, Old Time Religion, in 2004 in the anthology, Original Sin: The Seven Deadlies Come Home To Roost. Under the sin category of gluttony, this story won its special place in the book.
In truth, this story touches on many sins. I performed a reading at The Regulator Bookshop in Durham, NC early in 2005. The story has been described as funny, dark, and the most disturbing story in Southern Fried Women.
If you've not had the chance to read Old Time Religion, you can purchase the book or download the e-book, Southern Fried Women, from Amazon.com or go to Satya House Publishing.com for more information on where to get it.
But my point is this: Although the story takes place in the 'sixties, it is not far removed from the congregations of today. I'm not saying these atrocities take place in every church, but I am saying every church is run by human beings. From the Pastor to the Deacons to the Praise and Worship leader to the Sunday School teacher to the Janitor. They're all human, and we need to remember that. Chances are, if you attend church, you belong to a wonderful congregation of folks who are nothing short of an extension of your own family. But every member has a responsibility to hold their pastor accountable.
Cults come in all shapes and sizes. Just last week someone told me her thirty-something son could not miss church unless he called an elder of the church and got permission. The church is local. It has a following of members that blend into the community like any other. The very idea of giving someone that kind of control over me, makes me want to scream.
It's old time religion all over again. A form of godliness ...
Keep your eyes open, people. Those wolves are always at our doors.
Blessings to you and yours.
In truth, this story touches on many sins. I performed a reading at The Regulator Bookshop in Durham, NC early in 2005. The story has been described as funny, dark, and the most disturbing story in Southern Fried Women.
If you've not had the chance to read Old Time Religion, you can purchase the book or download the e-book, Southern Fried Women, from Amazon.com or go to Satya House Publishing.com for more information on where to get it.
But my point is this: Although the story takes place in the 'sixties, it is not far removed from the congregations of today. I'm not saying these atrocities take place in every church, but I am saying every church is run by human beings. From the Pastor to the Deacons to the Praise and Worship leader to the Sunday School teacher to the Janitor. They're all human, and we need to remember that. Chances are, if you attend church, you belong to a wonderful congregation of folks who are nothing short of an extension of your own family. But every member has a responsibility to hold their pastor accountable.
Cults come in all shapes and sizes. Just last week someone told me her thirty-something son could not miss church unless he called an elder of the church and got permission. The church is local. It has a following of members that blend into the community like any other. The very idea of giving someone that kind of control over me, makes me want to scream.
It's old time religion all over again. A form of godliness ...
Keep your eyes open, people. Those wolves are always at our doors.
Blessings to you and yours.
Thursday, January 05, 2012
Dreams/Not For The Faint Of Heart
I had lunch with my sister-in-law today who told me she'd had some really weird dreams last night. We got on the subject of dreams, and I realized I'd had some off-the-wall dreams myself lately. Those early morning dreams, the ones you remember, seem to be the ones that haunt me the most.
I have a lot of dreams about a ginormous tornado, air plane crashes, and end-of-the-world type stuff. Dreams where I wake in a sweat, clutching my sheets. Once in a while I have a nightmare, waking my husband with a skin-prickling scream. And always, those dreams are about the rapture.
Growing up in a evangelical congregation where the rapture of the church is held over your head like the fire and brimstone of hell, has been torturous. Note to pastors: don't do that. Don't use it to force-feed the threat of hell. Shame on you if you do that. I can name numerous people I know, my children included, who have suffered because of it. If it is the joyous event the Bible claims it to be, then leave it at that.
I've learned how to handle all these dreams. The ones I remember, I write down. The ones I forget, I don't worry about. On some level I know dreams mean something. But as a writer, I have used them in my stories. I wish I could sleep and not dream, but for some reason, I've always been a dreamer.
"Here's hoping all your dreams come true," they say. They have no idea what they're talking about. For me, goals and ambitions are one thing, dreams are entirely another.
Sweet dreams, to you and yours.
I have a lot of dreams about a ginormous tornado, air plane crashes, and end-of-the-world type stuff. Dreams where I wake in a sweat, clutching my sheets. Once in a while I have a nightmare, waking my husband with a skin-prickling scream. And always, those dreams are about the rapture.
Growing up in a evangelical congregation where the rapture of the church is held over your head like the fire and brimstone of hell, has been torturous. Note to pastors: don't do that. Don't use it to force-feed the threat of hell. Shame on you if you do that. I can name numerous people I know, my children included, who have suffered because of it. If it is the joyous event the Bible claims it to be, then leave it at that.
I've learned how to handle all these dreams. The ones I remember, I write down. The ones I forget, I don't worry about. On some level I know dreams mean something. But as a writer, I have used them in my stories. I wish I could sleep and not dream, but for some reason, I've always been a dreamer.
"Here's hoping all your dreams come true," they say. They have no idea what they're talking about. For me, goals and ambitions are one thing, dreams are entirely another.
Sweet dreams, to you and yours.
Wednesday, January 04, 2012
The Silver Lining Of Winter
From my warm house, looking out over the pastures to the east, I'm loving the snow. Working in warm jammies all day, never having to step foot in it, the bleak and frosted landscape gives off an almost surreal glow. I do, however, feel sorry for my husband who has to drive in the mess. People in their four-wheel drive vehicles ride on his back bumper, as if that's going to make him go any faster. Not going to happen. Lake effect snow is new to him. The bands of snow and ice, the contact attack of Lake Erie weather, it can be maddening. When the great lake is still warm, the snow seems worse. Somehow, the folks up here in the snow belt get through it.
Getting through the winters in our lives, I find the trick is discovering the beauty in winter. Not everyone would agree, I'm sure. Many become snow birds and head south until spring, and I may do that myself someday. But right now, I'm enjoying this cold, brown earth. The coziness of huddling up with a bowl of popcorn and a good movie. Or a fire and the latest bestselling novel.
And after talking to my publisher today, I have a plethora of stuff due before February 1st. So, I'm glad I'm not distracted by wanting to spend time outdoors. This is the winter preparation, so it will go fast.
The winter of our lives. Find the silver lining.
Blessings to you and yours.
Getting through the winters in our lives, I find the trick is discovering the beauty in winter. Not everyone would agree, I'm sure. Many become snow birds and head south until spring, and I may do that myself someday. But right now, I'm enjoying this cold, brown earth. The coziness of huddling up with a bowl of popcorn and a good movie. Or a fire and the latest bestselling novel.
And after talking to my publisher today, I have a plethora of stuff due before February 1st. So, I'm glad I'm not distracted by wanting to spend time outdoors. This is the winter preparation, so it will go fast.
The winter of our lives. Find the silver lining.
Blessings to you and yours.
Friday, December 30, 2011
Was It As Good For You As It Was For Me?
A year in review? Not much to review in 2011, as far as my life goes. Two major happenings: After living in North Carolina for ten years I moved back to Ohio, AND I signed a contract with a publisher for my novel, Televenge.
I feel as though I lived with a paintbrush in my hand the first five months of this year. We partially renovated the old farmhouse we’re now in (and still loving every minute of it.) The last seven months were spent on the final drafts of my book. It’s a big book, so there has been a tremendous amount of editing to do. I was hopeful for my novel, The Sanctum, but it was just not the right time for it. It's a story whose time is yet to come. And it will, I have no doubt.
But it's interesting to see how things unfold. I secured a well-known literary agent in 2010, and that in itself gave me a whole boatload of validity. Although he could not work his magic for The Sanctum, it did not stop the right publisher to come knocking on my door for Televenge.
Looking back at previous January posts, they're almost depressing. I suppose because--they were. The last three years were tough years to wade through. This year feels different.
In between all the moving and working on my book, we celebrated birthdays (my granddaughter’s first) and holidays with family, hot summer months, a gorgeous autumn, and finally here we are—about to enter the coldest months of winter. 2011 came and went by quickly.
Unfortunately, it looks as though 2012 will sail by even quicker.
Michael is looking at eye surgery soon (cataracts) and I’m up to my nose hairs in preparation for a sizable publicity blitz. I need to exercise more, eat better, and stop sitting at my computer sixteen hours a day. God, how do I break that habit? I’m thinking about getting a little dog this year. Nothing big or hard to handle, just a little non-shedding, housebroken dog that will force me out of the house every day. To walk! I think I need the distraction.
I’m still trying to figure out the social media onslaught of information that I feel so inept about. I need a faster computer. The list of needs still outweigh the wants. But Michael is working every day and that’s positive. I have to say, 2011 was much better than the three years before it. I’m looking for the new year to jump leaps and bounds over them all. My optimistic self still believes in the good of mankind, the healing of the economy, and in a God who has our best interest at heart. Well, let’s hope so, anyway.
Happy 2012 to you and yours, and may you see the fruits of your labors unfold into many, many good blessings this new year!
Happy New Year!
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
One Writer's Publishing Dream Has Come True, Baby!
If you’ve been wondering where I’ve been, I can tell you I’ve been slaving at my computer, going over and over and over again the final edits of my novel, Televenge. After seven years, the story has been through its final rewrite. I’ve polished the last of it.
Ninety days ago, I felt an urging in my spirit to finish this book. What I thought was done, simply was not. It was as if the sky opened up and showed me every trespass, every omission, every place I overwrote, every misplaced comma, and every undotted i and uncrossed t. I’ve worked, literally non-stop for weeks and weeks, and now I know why.
Satya House Publications came calling with an offer I could not refuse. I have signed on the dotted line. Televenge will be released in October of 2012. My first novel. I cannot express my overwhelming sense of peace and pride in this endeavor. So many good folk have come together to make this possible. Since 2004, I have worked on this story nearly every day, even when I was working on The Sanctum, I spent a little time each week on Televenge.
It started way back in the late 80s. That's when I formed the outline in my mind. But I never put pen to paper until the late 90s, writing only bits and pieces. Finally, in 2004, I wrote the first draft. Since then, I’m not really sure how many drafts it’s been through. Over a dozen I can assure you. I’ve blogged about it many, many times throughout the years, thinking I was close to publication when I wasn't. And I've talked about Televenge at nearly every speaking engagement where I’ve been booked, having had more than one member of the audience ask to purchase even the manuscript.
When Southern Fried Women was published back in 2006, three of the stories were off-shoots of Televenge. Stories created from minor characters or chapters taken out of earlier drafts. SFW was put together to create a platform for Televenge. A launching pad, if you will, and it’s done marvelously well. I suppose I'm simply amazed at how far we've all come. All of us who have worked to see this dream come true.
Between now and next October, there are ten months to prepare once it has passed through the editors hands at Satya House. My publisher is pulling out all the stops. She's gone "whole hog," as my daddy used to say. But anyway you say it, our plans are taking shape. We have to play with the big boys on this one, but I’m looking forward to it. Despite the odds and the condition of the publishing industry, I anticipate good things. Very good things.
What was once just a dream, Televenge, one woman’s journey through the dark side of televangelism, is now a reality.
Blessings to you and yours this holiday season.
Wednesday, December 07, 2011
The Magic Of This Writer's Christmas
It's the holiday season, but my mind is elsewhere. I'm hoping I can get away with the minimum amount of holiday hoopla this year. At least my tree is up, and my manger scene is sitting on my dining room table. Maybe I'll find time to bake a batch of cookies, wrap a few gifts, send a few cards. Maybe.
If you're a writer, quite possibly you know what I'm talking about when I say that I have a looming deadline. A deadline extended one full week. With great intensity I'm working around the clock to not only finish the story, but to put every ounce of magic I can into it. A story I've been working on for over a decade. Believe me, if I had a bag of pixie dust, I'd be shaking it into my computer right about now.
My hope is that this time next year, the book will lay in your lap as your hands turn each page, forgetting the time and the place where you sit. That your heart and mind will be completely taken over by characters who will live with you the rest of your life. Quite a tall order, I know. A magical one.
So forgive me for sparse blogging. Deadlines eat up great chunks of a writer's time and force us to put life on hold. But know this, wonderful things lay at the end of it.
Blessings to you and yours.
If you're a writer, quite possibly you know what I'm talking about when I say that I have a looming deadline. A deadline extended one full week. With great intensity I'm working around the clock to not only finish the story, but to put every ounce of magic I can into it. A story I've been working on for over a decade. Believe me, if I had a bag of pixie dust, I'd be shaking it into my computer right about now.
My hope is that this time next year, the book will lay in your lap as your hands turn each page, forgetting the time and the place where you sit. That your heart and mind will be completely taken over by characters who will live with you the rest of your life. Quite a tall order, I know. A magical one.
So forgive me for sparse blogging. Deadlines eat up great chunks of a writer's time and force us to put life on hold. But know this, wonderful things lay at the end of it.
Blessings to you and yours.
Saturday, November 26, 2011
A FREE STORY from Southern Fried Women
How about starting your holiday off with a free short story!
Below is the link to No Time For Laura where you can purchase it for free at this moment in time. The story is available in all ebook formats with embedded links. The links to buy the whole ebook or paperback are at the end of the story.
No Time for Laura will be up on Amazon Kindle within the next 24 hours for 99 cents.
http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/108566
I originally wrote No Time For Laura in 1985. Based, in part, on a true story. Laura was my best childhood friend. Sweet memories of her are now immortalized in words and a few old snapshots. After a couple of rewrites, the story won an award at the Burlington Writers Club Awards in April 2004. The judge's comment on the manuscript stated, ". . . you have a way of touching the hearts of your readers." As a writer, I want to inform and transport my reader's mind — what I wish for even more is to jolt the reader's heart. In this story, my desire to find the true meaning of friendship begged the question, "How far will a person go for the love of a best friend?"
As I edited this story for Southern Fried Women, the character of Laura remained steadfast in her appearance and personality. She refused to let me change her. I gave in. The real Laura will always have a special place in my heart. This story is dedicated to her.
Enjoy the story!
Blessings to you and yours.
Friday, November 25, 2011
Broadway Tunes for Thanksgiving?
Show tunes for Thanksgiving this year! Oh yes, make no mistake. We rocked the house! My sister-in-law, who knows how to have a good time, suggested this year (after we eat our fill of turkey and all the trimmings) that instead of sitting around and moaning about our overstuffed guts--we get right to the festivities.
First, Uncle Tom, (now in his late 70s) played a beautiful arrangement on the piano. And everyone cried.
Next, my three nieces, Ashlie, Melissa, and Lindy, sang. Sisters close in age, they're as beautiful as they are sweet. But boy-howdy, can they sing! Having had the opportunity to perform in church all their lives, belting out a few tunes comes pretty natural to these girls. Their first song was "Sisters" from the musical, White Christmas. Then they performed a gospel number, He Leadeth Me, which of course sent tears streaming down a few faces. Their husbands sang and played the piano, while the the rest of us sat wondering -- um, this is a tough act to follow! How are we going to measure up?
But, by golly, I think we did! The rest of us donned straw cowboy hats and marched right up to the baby grand piano and crooned our hearts out to the musical, Oklahoma! I doubt nary a one of us were in tune, but we laughed until our sides about split open. I think it may be on You Tube in the near future, I'll let you know. All I can say is we would've made Rodgers & Hammerstein proud! And of course, we won the prize! I'm not sure what the prize was, but my sister-in-law accepted the award on all of our behalf. Our first Tony Award. (Kinda-sorta.)
Singing around the piano in that big old farm house is about the most fun any family can have on Thanksgiving. A family where nobody fusses at anybody, hurts and sorrows are left at the door, and love is dished out like candy from our pockets. There's nothing like it.
That is Thanksgiving to me. I'm more than thankful for this family, my children, my grandchildren, and my loving husband. I'm beyond grateful for the goodness we can still see in the world, despite the atrocities that plague us every day on the news. Love reigns supreme within this unbroken circle. Who can ask for more than that?
Blessings to you and yours during the crazy holiday season this year.
First, Uncle Tom, (now in his late 70s) played a beautiful arrangement on the piano. And everyone cried.
Next, my three nieces, Ashlie, Melissa, and Lindy, sang. Sisters close in age, they're as beautiful as they are sweet. But boy-howdy, can they sing! Having had the opportunity to perform in church all their lives, belting out a few tunes comes pretty natural to these girls. Their first song was "Sisters" from the musical, White Christmas. Then they performed a gospel number, He Leadeth Me, which of course sent tears streaming down a few faces. Their husbands sang and played the piano, while the the rest of us sat wondering -- um, this is a tough act to follow! How are we going to measure up?
But, by golly, I think we did! The rest of us donned straw cowboy hats and marched right up to the baby grand piano and crooned our hearts out to the musical, Oklahoma! I doubt nary a one of us were in tune, but we laughed until our sides about split open. I think it may be on You Tube in the near future, I'll let you know. All I can say is we would've made Rodgers & Hammerstein proud! And of course, we won the prize! I'm not sure what the prize was, but my sister-in-law accepted the award on all of our behalf. Our first Tony Award. (Kinda-sorta.)
Singing around the piano in that big old farm house is about the most fun any family can have on Thanksgiving. A family where nobody fusses at anybody, hurts and sorrows are left at the door, and love is dished out like candy from our pockets. There's nothing like it.
That is Thanksgiving to me. I'm more than thankful for this family, my children, my grandchildren, and my loving husband. I'm beyond grateful for the goodness we can still see in the world, despite the atrocities that plague us every day on the news. Love reigns supreme within this unbroken circle. Who can ask for more than that?
Blessings to you and yours during the crazy holiday season this year.
Friday, November 18, 2011
Breaking Dawn of the Twilight Series Holds No Candle to The Real Paranormal
I'm amazed at the vampire and werewolf craze going on in movies and books. The walking dead, the zombies, and the updated 'Twilight Zone' shows. Horror and science fiction combined with romance, it's pretty hot stuff these days.
The paranormal enters my writing to one degree or another, but not from the imagined. From the real. Always from real life. Many of the stories in Southern Fried Women were inspired from real life instances that made the hair stand up on the back of my neck. I think there's a marked difference between the unexplained in true life experiences and the Hollywood glam of vampires. And personally, the unexplained is more exciting.
The spiritual side of life includes the miracles of God, which when you think about it, is some pretty hot stuff. I believe that due to her childlike faith, my mother has seen and heard and even felt things that many, if not most, would not believe. But I know my mother. She doesn't lie just for the drama of it all. Her hair-raising experiences date back to when she was just a girl, and some as late as a few years ago.
It seems to me, that if you're really interested in the paranormal (which I am) then investigate and read the real.
Of course, fiction they say, is imagined. But there's often a fine line. My mother, now in her late 70s, would tell you the following actually took place in her living room. I used her experience to write the following scene. A piece from my short story, Coal Dust on My Feet - a story from my collection, Southern Fried Women. Enjoy.
The paranormal enters my writing to one degree or another, but not from the imagined. From the real. Always from real life. Many of the stories in Southern Fried Women were inspired from real life instances that made the hair stand up on the back of my neck. I think there's a marked difference between the unexplained in true life experiences and the Hollywood glam of vampires. And personally, the unexplained is more exciting.
The spiritual side of life includes the miracles of God, which when you think about it, is some pretty hot stuff. I believe that due to her childlike faith, my mother has seen and heard and even felt things that many, if not most, would not believe. But I know my mother. She doesn't lie just for the drama of it all. Her hair-raising experiences date back to when she was just a girl, and some as late as a few years ago.
It seems to me, that if you're really interested in the paranormal (which I am) then investigate and read the real.
Of course, fiction they say, is imagined. But there's often a fine line. My mother, now in her late 70s, would tell you the following actually took place in her living room. I used her experience to write the following scene. A piece from my short story, Coal Dust on My Feet - a story from my collection, Southern Fried Women. Enjoy.
The social hour passed. DeDe intended to devote the next hour to the scriptures, reading and praying. She scarcely found her voice as she preached. “I’m going to read the scripture Pastor Jessie read last week in service from Ephesians the sixth chapter, verses ten through seventeen. I believe it’s appropriate for this evening.”
“Finally, my brethren, be strong in the Lord, and in the power of his might. Put on the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil. For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places. Wherefore take unto you the whole armour of God that ye may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand. Stand therefore, having your loins girt about with truth, and having on the breastplate of righteousness; And your feet shod with the preparation of the gospel of peace; Above all, taking the shield of faith, wherewith ye shall be able to quench all the fiery darts of the wicked. And take the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God.”
The darkness from the outside permeated the room, even with DeDe’s single lamp that sat on her bookcase. The night sounds of frogs and crickets, and an occasional dog’s bark were the only noise. Then, as if on cue from God, these sounds also ceased.
There was no breeze to speak of. The air around them felt heavy and dead. The screen door to the porch was open and DeDe’s white chiffon curtains at the windows suddenly blew gently inward, billowing like angel’s wings, as if some supernatural being had glided into the room. Lottie put a hand to her mouth. The breeze stopped, the women froze, and their fanning ceased. Nothing moved, not even the wind.
The singing came from outside. As if a choir were floating up Nicholas Street. A soft carol of voices. The song escalated in strength, grew stronger, louder, and became recognizable—a chorus. A mass of voices singing in a heavenly language. The sound grew as if someone had turned up the volume on a radio. It floated through the doorway and as it did, a light came with it, filling the room. It expanded and appeared to seep into every mind and heart. And then, just as it came, it descended out the west window, as if someone opened a vacuum and the singing was sucked out.
No one could speak for a period of unknown time, as every watch on every wrist had stopped. Even the mantel clock on DeDe’s bookcase ceased to chime the hour. Sounds of murmured praise came first from their lips. Hephzibah whispered to Opal that she saw tongues of fire over each woman in the room. Opal reached for her hand and smiled. “I see ‘em too.”
Questions oozed from every mouth … “Did you hear it?” “Yes, what did you hear?” “What was it? A choir?” “Angels, yes it was angels singing.”
Sylvia and Tessa believed it was the radio next door and an electric surge. Lottie and Goose cried. Ossie, Opal, Tootsie, Imogene, Fleeta and Edith sang, “Praise Him, Praise Him, Praise Him in the mornin’, Praise Him in the noontime, Praise Him when the sun goes down …”
One by one, the ladies bid their teary good-byes. Pearle pulled DeDe aside after most had gone and a few waited for their rides. “Was it a sign? A good sign or a bad sign? What’d it mean?”
Hattie Mae couldn’t hold back any longer. “It was a sign of the second comin’.”
“Oh, hush, Hattie Mae! You don’t know that.” Pearle shook her head at her elderly aunt.
“I know somebody’s comin’,” she said.
Hephzibah looked at Mama Ola. “What you think, Mama?”
The old black woman stared at DeDe and grinned. “She know. She know what it was.”
Pearle’s hand, still on DeDe’s arm, trembled. She asked her again. “What do you know, DeDe?”
“I know it’s late. Thank you all for coming.”
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Planning For Thanksgiving
The Aunts in the family have become the matriarchs. For years we have been gathering on the farm for our traditional Thanksgiving feast. Everyone spends the night and we eat from sundown on Thursday until sunup on Friday. Food, Football, and non-stop fun. It's quite a musical and talented family, and the festivities at the piano can roll on until bedtime. The week before, Auntie Elaine sends her traditional email. This year's email went as follows:
Hello, Family!
It's Thanksgiving Time!
So, I'm hearing all the girls will be here with husbands--WOW! Great! We're also looking forward to Aunt Teresa joining us this year. All in all, prepare for 19 or 20 people!!!! And just think, Lindy, with some stores opening at 10 pm, you may not even have to go to sleep before Black Friday begins! We're glad you're staying with us either way.
Here's the assignment list. I don't think there's any surprises--we've been doing this awhile!
Auntie Elaine and Uncle Gordon--turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, stuffing, cornAuntie
LaVonne--orange fluff jello, luscious salad
Melissa and Derek--pumpkin pie
Ashlie and Jeremy--rolls and butter
Lindy--cupcakes (!)
Aaron & Annie & Lily--green bean casserole
Jillian--sweet potato casserole
Auntie Pam and Mike--peach cobbler, peanut butter pie
Can't wait, can't wait, can't wait!
Two words: Show Tunes! That may mean something different to each of us, but I'm just warning you to be prepared! Personally, I'm an "Oklahoma" and "King and I" kind of gal. Then, there's "South Pacific", "Cats", "Annie Get Your Gun". . . uh-oh, better stop. See you all soon. Did I mention that I can't wait?
XOXOXOX
Auntie Elaine and Uncle Gordon
Blessings to you and yours as you plan your holidays this year.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Little Dirty Feet
My Aunt Emogene died today. She was 81 years old. My father's oldest sister. There were five children in his immediate family. All boys, except Emogene.
Can you imagine being the older sister to four brothers? I'm sure my dad and his brothers tormented the living daylights out of her. I remember she always wore her blue jeans rolled up at the bottom, and when Emogene married her husband, Uncle Cab, she moved five doors down from grandma. That's where she had her four kids and lived until she died. In that same coal town she grew up in. I doubt she traveled anywhere other than to Ohio and back a few times.
Emogene was a West Virginia mountain woman. Wary and suspicious of outsiders. Not many visitors meander to that part of the country. The coal camp all but shriveled up when the miners left town. But her family and a few others stayed. My, how she loved her family.
Like so many descendants of coal miners who moved north to Ohio, we took to the roads every weekend to go "down home." Down home was Widen, West Virginia. I remember staying with Aunt Emogene when I was bitty girl. The thing was, my mother liked to keep me pristine. Cleanliness was godliness in my mother's book. But I loved to play with my cousins in the dirt roads, in the creeks, and on my grandmother's front porch. And my aunt loved to see me get nice and dirty. It's hard to keep a little girl clean in a coal camp, she used to say.
My mother threatened me with a whipping if I took off my shoes to play at Aunt Emogene's house. But inevitably, the bottoms of my feet were as black as soot at the end of the day. Along with every other part of me. I recall my aunt just hollering laughing when Mama finally got a hold of me.
I suppose it's her laugh I'm remembering today. She was a quiet woman most of the time. But every time she got a hold of me, she stripped off my frilly dress and threw me into a pair of overalls. Watching me get dirty tickled her silly, especially when my fussy deep-south mama had a fit over it.
It's sad to know your elder family members are passing away. I didn't see her much through the years, but I'd like to think she thought of me from time to time, as I did her. And of my little dirty feet.
Blessings to the Woods family today. Blessings to you and yours.
Can you imagine being the older sister to four brothers? I'm sure my dad and his brothers tormented the living daylights out of her. I remember she always wore her blue jeans rolled up at the bottom, and when Emogene married her husband, Uncle Cab, she moved five doors down from grandma. That's where she had her four kids and lived until she died. In that same coal town she grew up in. I doubt she traveled anywhere other than to Ohio and back a few times.
Emogene was a West Virginia mountain woman. Wary and suspicious of outsiders. Not many visitors meander to that part of the country. The coal camp all but shriveled up when the miners left town. But her family and a few others stayed. My, how she loved her family.
Like so many descendants of coal miners who moved north to Ohio, we took to the roads every weekend to go "down home." Down home was Widen, West Virginia. I remember staying with Aunt Emogene when I was bitty girl. The thing was, my mother liked to keep me pristine. Cleanliness was godliness in my mother's book. But I loved to play with my cousins in the dirt roads, in the creeks, and on my grandmother's front porch. And my aunt loved to see me get nice and dirty. It's hard to keep a little girl clean in a coal camp, she used to say.
My mother threatened me with a whipping if I took off my shoes to play at Aunt Emogene's house. But inevitably, the bottoms of my feet were as black as soot at the end of the day. Along with every other part of me. I recall my aunt just hollering laughing when Mama finally got a hold of me.
I suppose it's her laugh I'm remembering today. She was a quiet woman most of the time. But every time she got a hold of me, she stripped off my frilly dress and threw me into a pair of overalls. Watching me get dirty tickled her silly, especially when my fussy deep-south mama had a fit over it.
It's sad to know your elder family members are passing away. I didn't see her much through the years, but I'd like to think she thought of me from time to time, as I did her. And of my little dirty feet.
Blessings to the Woods family today. Blessings to you and yours.
Monday, November 14, 2011
A Controlled Fire
The farm next door was recently sold. The new owners decided they didn't like the house that came with the land, so the local fire department, in all its glory, arrived yesterday afternoon to torch the place. It went up in one big swoosh. Flames shot into the sky and smoke billowed across the landscape for a few hours while firemen used the opportunity to teach and practice their firefighting skills.
Quite a production, really.
Wouldn't it be nice if we could control the sorrows of life that way? Light a torch, watch them burn to the ground? Get rid of the mess in one big swoosh. Watching the flames shoot into the air, I thought about the destruction of fire, but also, how very cleansing it is. Controlled fires have many uses. I just wish we could manipulate the fires of life that way.
Start them when needed. Put them out when and how we want.
It's a nice thought, anyway.
Blessings to you and yours.
Quite a production, really.
Wouldn't it be nice if we could control the sorrows of life that way? Light a torch, watch them burn to the ground? Get rid of the mess in one big swoosh. Watching the flames shoot into the air, I thought about the destruction of fire, but also, how very cleansing it is. Controlled fires have many uses. I just wish we could manipulate the fires of life that way.
Start them when needed. Put them out when and how we want.
It's a nice thought, anyway.
Blessings to you and yours.
Friday, November 11, 2011
Veteran's Day Cake
I understand that my very great grandfather fought with General Washington. I've been told my great grandfather was a WWI veteran, and that my grandfather was a veteran of WWII. Daddy is Korean War veteran. My husband is a Vietnam vet. My son is a veteran, having honorably served his country in the Marine Corp. I have great uncles who stormed the beach at Normandy. Cousins who lost their lives in Vietnam. My family is a family of patriots. Veterans. So every V-Day I bake a cake in their honor. I call it my Veteran's Day Cake.
My mother-in-law gave me this recipe many years ago. I was just a girl of sixteen, dating her youngest son at the time. I call it a Veteran's Day Cake because the day she gave me this recipe, we received a long-awaited phone call from her daughter's husband, a medic in Vietnam. The family had not heard from him for some time. It was a good day, and we baked this cake to celebrate. As I sit typing, this wonderful cake fills my whole house with a scrumptious aroma and warm of memories of the past.
Enjoy!
COCONUT WALNUT POUND CAKE
Combine the following wet ingredients and beat:
2 cups sugar
1 cup veg. oil
4 beaten eggs
Combine the following dry ingredients:
3 cups flour
1/2 teaspoon salt, baking soda, and baking powder
1 cup walnuts
1 cup coconut
Mix WET and DRY ingredients together, AND then add 1 cup buttermilk and 2 tsp. coconut extract
Pour into well-greased Bundt pan and bake 325 for one hour (maybe longer depending on your oven.)
Take a fork and carefully poke holes in top of hot cake.
WHILE cake is still hot, pour the following syrup-melt over cake allowing to absorb
3/4 cup white sugar
1/4 cup light brown sugar
2 tablespoons butter
1 teaspoon coconut extract
boil for ONE minute
Let cake set for 4 hours before serving.
Blessings to every Veteran today!
My mother-in-law gave me this recipe many years ago. I was just a girl of sixteen, dating her youngest son at the time. I call it a Veteran's Day Cake because the day she gave me this recipe, we received a long-awaited phone call from her daughter's husband, a medic in Vietnam. The family had not heard from him for some time. It was a good day, and we baked this cake to celebrate. As I sit typing, this wonderful cake fills my whole house with a scrumptious aroma and warm of memories of the past.
Enjoy!
COCONUT WALNUT POUND CAKE
Combine the following wet ingredients and beat:
2 cups sugar
1 cup veg. oil
4 beaten eggs
Combine the following dry ingredients:
3 cups flour
1/2 teaspoon salt, baking soda, and baking powder
1 cup walnuts
1 cup coconut
Mix WET and DRY ingredients together, AND then add 1 cup buttermilk and 2 tsp. coconut extract
Pour into well-greased Bundt pan and bake 325 for one hour (maybe longer depending on your oven.)
Take a fork and carefully poke holes in top of hot cake.
WHILE cake is still hot, pour the following syrup-melt over cake allowing to absorb
3/4 cup white sugar
1/4 cup light brown sugar
2 tablespoons butter
1 teaspoon coconut extract
boil for ONE minute
Let cake set for 4 hours before serving.
Blessings to every Veteran today!
For The Love Of Snow
It's 11/11/11. I woke to snow on the ground for the first time this year. Some would sigh about that I suppose, but having lived in the South for many, many years, waking to snow is a delight. Right about February 1st I may be ready to slit my wrists because of it, but today I'm enjoying it.
The snow blankets the pastures leaving just enough green for the horses. White clumps cling to the trees and fence line like great dollops of frosting. And now that the leaves are all but gone, I'm noticing things about the barn I've never seen. Like the arched wooden windows. They look like "Ten Commandment" tablets stretching across the top. I wonder who took the time to design and build that beautiful old barn. Old shacks in the South spoke to me years ago, and now I find that the barns and rolling hills in the North have a voice all their own.
I was a wild child. Born a coal miner's granddaughter, I spent most if not all my time letting my imagination run free. I loved the snow covering the Appalachian mountains in West Virginia. It reached far and wide--from the north to the south and it carried me in both directions.
The barns, outbuildings, clapboard churches, and towns dotting the landscape were the same. In both directions. I found the people were the same. With families and jobs and hopes and dreams, it didn't matter where they originated. They loved and had been loved. They lived good and hard and when they died, they were mourned by honest hearts whose lives they touched.
People are the same when you get right down to it. Just like the snow that covers the ground. It falls on old dilapidated buildings in the country like it falls on the city's glass skyscrapers. It looks the same when it covers the BMW as it does on my brother-in-law's John Deere. It's no respecter of persons. I guess my point is that there is a fine line dividing the north and south. Does is really stop at the Mason Dixon line or is it broken in places? I realize men defined it in 1865 for the purpose of war, but in my mind, today on 11/11/11, that line is a little less apparent. The landscape doesn't seem to care where you're from. It loves you right where you are. Just like a family. Just like snow.
Blessings to you and yours.
The snow blankets the pastures leaving just enough green for the horses. White clumps cling to the trees and fence line like great dollops of frosting. And now that the leaves are all but gone, I'm noticing things about the barn I've never seen. Like the arched wooden windows. They look like "Ten Commandment" tablets stretching across the top. I wonder who took the time to design and build that beautiful old barn. Old shacks in the South spoke to me years ago, and now I find that the barns and rolling hills in the North have a voice all their own.
I was a wild child. Born a coal miner's granddaughter, I spent most if not all my time letting my imagination run free. I loved the snow covering the Appalachian mountains in West Virginia. It reached far and wide--from the north to the south and it carried me in both directions.
The barns, outbuildings, clapboard churches, and towns dotting the landscape were the same. In both directions. I found the people were the same. With families and jobs and hopes and dreams, it didn't matter where they originated. They loved and had been loved. They lived good and hard and when they died, they were mourned by honest hearts whose lives they touched.
People are the same when you get right down to it. Just like the snow that covers the ground. It falls on old dilapidated buildings in the country like it falls on the city's glass skyscrapers. It looks the same when it covers the BMW as it does on my brother-in-law's John Deere. It's no respecter of persons. I guess my point is that there is a fine line dividing the north and south. Does is really stop at the Mason Dixon line or is it broken in places? I realize men defined it in 1865 for the purpose of war, but in my mind, today on 11/11/11, that line is a little less apparent. The landscape doesn't seem to care where you're from. It loves you right where you are. Just like a family. Just like snow.
Blessings to you and yours.
Tuesday, November 08, 2011
Check It Out!
There is a signed free copy of Southern Fried Women available!
Click here: http://familyfocusblog.com/southern-fried-women-book-review-and-giveaway/
Click here: http://familyfocusblog.com/southern-fried-women-book-review-and-giveaway/
And while you're there, check out her blog!
Blessings to you and yours!
Monday, November 07, 2011
Unconditionally Loved
Last night, watching him sleep, I saw his hair has changed to more salt, less pepper. I detected a few more lines around his eyes and forehead and I don't remember his neck sagging quite so much. Today, he discovered he has to have cataract surgery. "It's an age thing," his doctor said. He once stood six feet two inches. I think he lost an inch somewhere between 55 and 58.
But his gray-green eyes sparkle when he talks to me. He still holds my hand and calls me sweetheart. God knows, his sense of humor has not diminished one iota.
His cousin once called him, "flaky." Consider the source, I said. What few folks understand, is that not much rattles the man. Nothing shakes his tree. A few unfortunate blows before I met him changed the course of his life, knocked him to his knees, and turned him into the man he is today. Fiercely loyal, wonderfully courageous, and the most hard-working son-of-a-gun I've ever known.
He doesn't know I'm blogging about him today. He would tell me to stop. But God knows, men like Michael Cable are few and far between. He's not perfect, sometimes he drives me nuts, and I know I run the risk of sounding sappy and stupid, blogging about my husband. Who cares? Is love so unpopular these days? Is it considered bad taste to say you love your spouse. Do I need a reason to talk so fondly of him?
I can proclaim without hesitance, if nothing significant happens to me the rest of my days, I've been blessed enough, I've been blessed because I knew him.
In a world where more than 50% of us are getting divorced, domestic violence runs rampant, and the other 50% barely tolerate each other, there's nothing more valuable knowing the one mistake you haven't made is marrying the love of your life.
To be unconditionally loved. How can you put a price on that?
Blessings to you and your special someone today.
But his gray-green eyes sparkle when he talks to me. He still holds my hand and calls me sweetheart. God knows, his sense of humor has not diminished one iota.
His cousin once called him, "flaky." Consider the source, I said. What few folks understand, is that not much rattles the man. Nothing shakes his tree. A few unfortunate blows before I met him changed the course of his life, knocked him to his knees, and turned him into the man he is today. Fiercely loyal, wonderfully courageous, and the most hard-working son-of-a-gun I've ever known.
He doesn't know I'm blogging about him today. He would tell me to stop. But God knows, men like Michael Cable are few and far between. He's not perfect, sometimes he drives me nuts, and I know I run the risk of sounding sappy and stupid, blogging about my husband. Who cares? Is love so unpopular these days? Is it considered bad taste to say you love your spouse. Do I need a reason to talk so fondly of him?
I can proclaim without hesitance, if nothing significant happens to me the rest of my days, I've been blessed enough, I've been blessed because I knew him.
In a world where more than 50% of us are getting divorced, domestic violence runs rampant, and the other 50% barely tolerate each other, there's nothing more valuable knowing the one mistake you haven't made is marrying the love of your life.
To be unconditionally loved. How can you put a price on that?
Blessings to you and your special someone today.
Wednesday, November 02, 2011
Betty Crocker Comfort
So I'm watching the Food Channel yesterday and not only do I realize it's November, time for planning the Thanksgiving menu, but I'm feeling guilty for not trying new recipes. All the cool-looking dishes whipped up by Paula, Ina, Giada, and Rachel. It seems they're all using fresh herbs in everything these days. A little basil here, some parsley there, dill, rosemary, thyme, and even something called cilantro.
Okay. Now I'm no gourmet cook. I admit that. But what's wrong with the tried and true? Those recipes handed down from our mothers and grandmothers that didn't have one bit of fresh herbs mixed into the olive oil and butter? Hmm? (Or the Crisco, whatever the case may be.)
Well, fine. Grow your herbs, slice and dice all you want. I pulled my Betty Crocker cook book, circa 1961, off my shelf. Published by McGraw Hill it includes this paragraph at the beginning of the book, directed I'm sure, at women:
Hints for the Homemaker: Every morning before breakfast, comb hair, apply makeup and a dash of cologne. Does wonders for your morale and your family's, too! Think pleasant thoughts while working and a chore will become a 'labor of love.' Have a hobby. Garden, paint pictures, look through magazines for home planning ideas, read a good book or attend club meetings. Be interested--and you'll always be interesting! If you have a spare moment, sit down, close your eyes and just relax. Wear comfortable shoes and easy-fitting clothes while working. Stand erect. Good posture prevents fatigue. Have sink, worktable, counter tops at height that is comfortable to eliminate strain. If dishpan is too low, set it on a box. Use a dust mop and long-handled dust pan. Use self-wringing mop to prevent stooping."
Seems like Betty Crocker was not only concerned about our cooking, but our homemaking spirit, as well!
I love this old retro cook book. There's not an herb mentioned in the whole darn 450 pages that I can see. Here's a recipe you can try, straight out of 1961!
SKILLET MEAT LOAF
"My guests like this," says Helen Ayres Davis, who combines homemaking with an advertising career."
1 1/2 lb. lean ground beef
1 can (8 oz.) tomato sauce
6 to 10 large stuffed olives, sliced
1 medium onion, chopped fine (1/2 cup)
1/3 cup rolled oats
1 egg
1 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. pepper
Heat oven to 350 degrees. Mix beef, 1/3 cup of the tomato sauce, olives, onion, oats, egg and seasonings. Spread in heavy 10 inch skillet. Cover with remaining 2/3 cup tomato sauce. Bake 1 hour. Remove excess fat from skillet before serving. Cut in wedges to serve. 6 servings.
Well, shoot. Add some mashed potatoes and creamed corn and you've got yourself one fine meal. What can I say?
Blessings to you and yours.
Okay. Now I'm no gourmet cook. I admit that. But what's wrong with the tried and true? Those recipes handed down from our mothers and grandmothers that didn't have one bit of fresh herbs mixed into the olive oil and butter? Hmm? (Or the Crisco, whatever the case may be.)
Well, fine. Grow your herbs, slice and dice all you want. I pulled my Betty Crocker cook book, circa 1961, off my shelf. Published by McGraw Hill it includes this paragraph at the beginning of the book, directed I'm sure, at women:
Hints for the Homemaker: Every morning before breakfast, comb hair, apply makeup and a dash of cologne. Does wonders for your morale and your family's, too! Think pleasant thoughts while working and a chore will become a 'labor of love.' Have a hobby. Garden, paint pictures, look through magazines for home planning ideas, read a good book or attend club meetings. Be interested--and you'll always be interesting! If you have a spare moment, sit down, close your eyes and just relax. Wear comfortable shoes and easy-fitting clothes while working. Stand erect. Good posture prevents fatigue. Have sink, worktable, counter tops at height that is comfortable to eliminate strain. If dishpan is too low, set it on a box. Use a dust mop and long-handled dust pan. Use self-wringing mop to prevent stooping."
Seems like Betty Crocker was not only concerned about our cooking, but our homemaking spirit, as well!
I love this old retro cook book. There's not an herb mentioned in the whole darn 450 pages that I can see. Here's a recipe you can try, straight out of 1961!
SKILLET MEAT LOAF
"My guests like this," says Helen Ayres Davis, who combines homemaking with an advertising career."
1 1/2 lb. lean ground beef
1 can (8 oz.) tomato sauce
6 to 10 large stuffed olives, sliced
1 medium onion, chopped fine (1/2 cup)
1/3 cup rolled oats
1 egg
1 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. pepper
Heat oven to 350 degrees. Mix beef, 1/3 cup of the tomato sauce, olives, onion, oats, egg and seasonings. Spread in heavy 10 inch skillet. Cover with remaining 2/3 cup tomato sauce. Bake 1 hour. Remove excess fat from skillet before serving. Cut in wedges to serve. 6 servings.
Well, shoot. Add some mashed potatoes and creamed corn and you've got yourself one fine meal. What can I say?
Blessings to you and yours.
Saturday, October 29, 2011
The Blessing Of A Distraction
Now I know why people have babies when they're young. Whoo-wee. I took a day off from writing to watch my 15-month old granddaughter, Lily. But what a grand day we had, reading storybooks, dancing, and playing with every kind of blinking, talking, singing toy you can imagine. Where do they come up with these toys? What happened to Jack-in-the-box and rag dolls and plain old blocks? These days we have baby cell phones, and personal computers, and even baby remote controls for those toddlers who would rather play with daddy's remote than the hundreds of bright, shiny toys in the corner.
I loved spending the day with Lily. She's a pretty perfect little girl with cobalt blue eyes the size of nickels, chocolate curls that fall down her neck, and a tiny rosebud mouth that grandma can't stop kissing! Oh my goodness, I could eat her up! Biteable legs, I swear! She's just starting to walk, but isn't quite sure after two steps. She's faster on all fours and boy-howdy is she. She can get away faster than her dog, Rocky ... who really ... could take her or leave her.
I suppose most every grandmother's heart bursts at the seams when they talk about their grandchildren. Lily is my third, after Andrew and Lauren. But Andrew and LaLa (a nickname that has stuck) live in Phoenix and we're lucky to see them once a year. Michael and I dream of the day we all live in the same state. We not only dream about it, we pray for it. Grandchildren are a wondrous thing when you think about it. It's like God wasn't finished blessing you after your last baby was born; He had to figure out another way to keep adding on to that blessing.
Maybe some folks would contest the word 'blessing' when it comes to describing children, but for Michael and I, our children and grandchildren have been the biggest blessings of our lives. In between writing and getting all wrapped up about my work, I have the blessed distraction of grandchildren. And they're about the only thing that can distract me these days, take away my focus. But they're a welcome distraction. I hope you have a few little distractions around your house as well. They sure do keep us grounded, don't they? Remind us of why work so hard to leave the legacy of the written word. So those little distractions have something to remember us by.
I loved feeding, bathing, and playing with Lily yesterday. I think I even changed a poopy diaper or two. This morning I'm tired and my knees are a bit sore from playing on the floor, but it's a small price to pay for taking the day off. Sometimes a writer needs distraction. It's refreshing.
Blessings to you and yours.
I loved spending the day with Lily. She's a pretty perfect little girl with cobalt blue eyes the size of nickels, chocolate curls that fall down her neck, and a tiny rosebud mouth that grandma can't stop kissing! Oh my goodness, I could eat her up! Biteable legs, I swear! She's just starting to walk, but isn't quite sure after two steps. She's faster on all fours and boy-howdy is she. She can get away faster than her dog, Rocky ... who really ... could take her or leave her.
I suppose most every grandmother's heart bursts at the seams when they talk about their grandchildren. Lily is my third, after Andrew and Lauren. But Andrew and LaLa (a nickname that has stuck) live in Phoenix and we're lucky to see them once a year. Michael and I dream of the day we all live in the same state. We not only dream about it, we pray for it. Grandchildren are a wondrous thing when you think about it. It's like God wasn't finished blessing you after your last baby was born; He had to figure out another way to keep adding on to that blessing.
Maybe some folks would contest the word 'blessing' when it comes to describing children, but for Michael and I, our children and grandchildren have been the biggest blessings of our lives. In between writing and getting all wrapped up about my work, I have the blessed distraction of grandchildren. And they're about the only thing that can distract me these days, take away my focus. But they're a welcome distraction. I hope you have a few little distractions around your house as well. They sure do keep us grounded, don't they? Remind us of why work so hard to leave the legacy of the written word. So those little distractions have something to remember us by.
I loved feeding, bathing, and playing with Lily yesterday. I think I even changed a poopy diaper or two. This morning I'm tired and my knees are a bit sore from playing on the floor, but it's a small price to pay for taking the day off. Sometimes a writer needs distraction. It's refreshing.
Blessings to you and yours.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Social Media Meltdown
I'm in the midst of social media meltdown. Thank God I have an expert working on all of it for me, as well as fantastic publishers who have made me realize I need to be "connected" to readers by way of Facebook and Twitter. I admit I've kept my nose to the grindstone the past two years, working my behind off on two novels and haven't kept up with it. But all that is about to change.
Very soon I'll have a new look to my blog, my website, and book page on Facebook and Twitter. I'll be able to tweet with the best of them. It's going to take a little time, but I see my updated self on the horizon, and I guess it's about damn time.
Oh, for the days when all we needed was a pen and paper. But those days are long gone. Hmm... that's even a little before my time. I should've said a ream of typing paper, a fresh ink cartridge, and a new bottle of white-out. Now. That dates me. But keeping in touch with readers is a must in this market, and so we old farts got to learn the ropes.
At least I know if I want to read a certain article in the New York Times, I can pull it up online. That I don't have to find a newsstand that sells the paper. I can find my way around the Internet and I'm a whiz at word processing. I think I type over 100 words per minute, or something like that. Not that anybody cares. But downloading software, changing domain names, installing feed burners -- um, not so much. I don't have a clue.
It's why I have an expert who is doing it for me. She's superfantastic. So there's more to being a writer these days than just putting words to paper. Unless you enjoy the business of writing, you better be prepared to hire some help. Otherwise, you'll find yourself two years behind the times and wondering ... am I supposed to tweet or twerp?
Blessings to you and yours.
Very soon I'll have a new look to my blog, my website, and book page on Facebook and Twitter. I'll be able to tweet with the best of them. It's going to take a little time, but I see my updated self on the horizon, and I guess it's about damn time.
Oh, for the days when all we needed was a pen and paper. But those days are long gone. Hmm... that's even a little before my time. I should've said a ream of typing paper, a fresh ink cartridge, and a new bottle of white-out. Now. That dates me. But keeping in touch with readers is a must in this market, and so we old farts got to learn the ropes.
At least I know if I want to read a certain article in the New York Times, I can pull it up online. That I don't have to find a newsstand that sells the paper. I can find my way around the Internet and I'm a whiz at word processing. I think I type over 100 words per minute, or something like that. Not that anybody cares. But downloading software, changing domain names, installing feed burners -- um, not so much. I don't have a clue.
It's why I have an expert who is doing it for me. She's superfantastic. So there's more to being a writer these days than just putting words to paper. Unless you enjoy the business of writing, you better be prepared to hire some help. Otherwise, you'll find yourself two years behind the times and wondering ... am I supposed to tweet or twerp?
Blessings to you and yours.
Monday, October 17, 2011
Southern Billboards
Just got back from a whirlwind trip to Nashville. My publisher, Satya House, represented Southern Fried Women at The Southern Festival of Books this year, and as the author -- I signed books for six hours on Saturday. I must have sold and signed over a hundred books! Of course my husband and my publisher's husband had a lot to do with that. They took a handful of publicity cards with a description and picture of the book and walked up and down the length of the mall, distributing cards, talking with groups of women, and just pushing the book. Bless their hearts.
But, by God, it worked! I think I sold more books than even some of the featured authors. At least my line was longer. Folks stood in line to chat, buy a book, get it signed, eat free candy, and then move on. Of course, after all these years, I do know how to work a crowd. Above everything, I let them know I'm grateful. A few wanted their picture taken (with me) and although I'm not very photogenic ... as a humble writer, I do it. I do it because I love my readers. I love 'em to pieces. I'm grateful for every ounce of love sent my way, especially from readers.
And it was great sitting at the table with Julie Murkette, publisher extraordinaire, who has become quite accomplished in her own right. She's good at encouraging me and I'm looking forward to talking with her more in the near future.
Nashville is a vibrant Southern city. Full of country music, party people, and girls in cowboy boots. I understand I missed a nude karaoke contest outside our downtown hotel at 3 in the morning. Hmm. Sorry I missed it. But I think the thing that amazes me most about the South is not the sinners, but the saints.
Driving on Southern interstates you will find a plethora of religious billboards. Michael and I have driven on every interstate from New York to Florida to Mississippi and Louisiana, and inevitably there are always a series of billboards that capture my attention. This past weekend it was a group of three ginormous signs in a farmer's cornfield spread out over several acres.
The first one read, ARE YOU READY?
Next one: HELL IS REAL
Next one: PREPARE TO MEET THY GOD
It reminds me of my recent blog post from this past summer.
We attended a community sale at an old Moose Lodge in North Carolina, which has since been turned into a church. It wasn't long and I realized most of the money lenders, oh, excuse me --vendors--were church members who had set up their tables to not only sell their junk, but also to whip a little Jesus on us unsuspecting folks who only came to shop.
We walked past one vendor who had parked his shiny red pickup truck smack in the middle of the lot and set up two tables of pure clean-out-my-basement junk, consisting of moldy rugs, faded pictures of kittens in gold frames, and dusty macrame plant hangers from 1982. But that wasn't the best part.
He had opened both doors of his red pickup and turned the volume up on his CD player so that the good Lord Himself could hear it. I suppose Mr. Vendor wanted us to know what a good Christian he was and that we all should dare to be as good. I spent the next ten minutes walking around listening to a church choir belt out the last few lines of the Lords Prayer--"For thine is the kingdom ... and the power ... and the gloooooorrrrrreeeee ... foreeeevvvver ...." full tilt.
Man - o - man. I felt like I was in the middle of a Saturday Night Live skit.
Here's the thing. Doesn't the Bible tell us to just let our light shine? I'm not sure that means to build a bon-fire in the middle of community yard sale. Somehow, the red pickup just cheapened it. It did nothing but drive folks away. I think it's one thing to be proud of your faith, it's another to shove it down an unsuspecting person's throat.
It's no wonder the Bible Belt gets a bad rap.
So next time you drive past the PREPARE TO MEET THEY GOD sign on Interstate 71, just remember that yes, we all have to meet God someday, but that lightning bolt sign isn't anything but another reminder of the scare 'em-to-death sermons too many of us grew up with. Smile and drive on. And thank God for His mercy, grace, and His infinite patience with all of us.
Blessings to you and yours.
But, by God, it worked! I think I sold more books than even some of the featured authors. At least my line was longer. Folks stood in line to chat, buy a book, get it signed, eat free candy, and then move on. Of course, after all these years, I do know how to work a crowd. Above everything, I let them know I'm grateful. A few wanted their picture taken (with me) and although I'm not very photogenic ... as a humble writer, I do it. I do it because I love my readers. I love 'em to pieces. I'm grateful for every ounce of love sent my way, especially from readers.
And it was great sitting at the table with Julie Murkette, publisher extraordinaire, who has become quite accomplished in her own right. She's good at encouraging me and I'm looking forward to talking with her more in the near future.
Nashville is a vibrant Southern city. Full of country music, party people, and girls in cowboy boots. I understand I missed a nude karaoke contest outside our downtown hotel at 3 in the morning. Hmm. Sorry I missed it. But I think the thing that amazes me most about the South is not the sinners, but the saints.
Driving on Southern interstates you will find a plethora of religious billboards. Michael and I have driven on every interstate from New York to Florida to Mississippi and Louisiana, and inevitably there are always a series of billboards that capture my attention. This past weekend it was a group of three ginormous signs in a farmer's cornfield spread out over several acres.
The first one read, ARE YOU READY?
Next one: HELL IS REAL
Next one: PREPARE TO MEET THY GOD
It reminds me of my recent blog post from this past summer.
We attended a community sale at an old Moose Lodge in North Carolina, which has since been turned into a church. It wasn't long and I realized most of the money lenders, oh, excuse me --vendors--were church members who had set up their tables to not only sell their junk, but also to whip a little Jesus on us unsuspecting folks who only came to shop.
We walked past one vendor who had parked his shiny red pickup truck smack in the middle of the lot and set up two tables of pure clean-out-my-basement junk, consisting of moldy rugs, faded pictures of kittens in gold frames, and dusty macrame plant hangers from 1982. But that wasn't the best part.
He had opened both doors of his red pickup and turned the volume up on his CD player so that the good Lord Himself could hear it. I suppose Mr. Vendor wanted us to know what a good Christian he was and that we all should dare to be as good. I spent the next ten minutes walking around listening to a church choir belt out the last few lines of the Lords Prayer--"For thine is the kingdom ... and the power ... and the gloooooorrrrrreeeee ... foreeeevvvver ...." full tilt.
Man - o - man. I felt like I was in the middle of a Saturday Night Live skit.
Here's the thing. Doesn't the Bible tell us to just let our light shine? I'm not sure that means to build a bon-fire in the middle of community yard sale. Somehow, the red pickup just cheapened it. It did nothing but drive folks away. I think it's one thing to be proud of your faith, it's another to shove it down an unsuspecting person's throat.
It's no wonder the Bible Belt gets a bad rap.
So next time you drive past the PREPARE TO MEET THEY GOD sign on Interstate 71, just remember that yes, we all have to meet God someday, but that lightning bolt sign isn't anything but another reminder of the scare 'em-to-death sermons too many of us grew up with. Smile and drive on. And thank God for His mercy, grace, and His infinite patience with all of us.
Blessings to you and yours.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
If There Was Ever A Time ...
I went to lunch yesterday with my sister-in-law. A drive in the country to lunch and to Walmart to pick up a few things and although it was raining, the trees captured my attention. I'd forgotten just how breathtaking and beautiful autumn is in Ohio. Living over ten years in North Carolina, I found that autumn usually didn't arrive until sometime the end of October or the first of November. And unless you live in the Blue Ridge Mountains, the leaves in the south just don't have that vibrancy and sparkle that the leaves do in the north. They just don't. So I was pleased to spend the day driving around in the midst of all that color.
Of course Elaine and I chatted about one thing and another, and like all good sisters-in-law, she allowed me to ramble on about my work for a good hour. Bless her heart.
But I've been thinking about little else these days. My manuscript, my pursuit to get it published, my life's work. For days now, I've been bombarded with emails about books and articles and memoirs and interviews with authors regarding books on cults. Here are the three that are attracting the most attention:
Of course Elaine and I chatted about one thing and another, and like all good sisters-in-law, she allowed me to ramble on about my work for a good hour. Bless her heart.
But I've been thinking about little else these days. My manuscript, my pursuit to get it published, my life's work. For days now, I've been bombarded with emails about books and articles and memoirs and interviews with authors regarding books on cults. Here are the three that are attracting the most attention:
Holy Ghost Girl by Donna Johnson
A Thousand Lives by Julia Scheeres
When She Woke by Hillary Jordan
A Thousand Lives by Julia Scheeres
When She Woke by Hillary Jordan
This thrills me to no end. It's my thinking, that if there was ever a time for Televenge, a story about the dark side of televangelism, it's now.
Blessings to you and yours.
Blessings to you and yours.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
A Poem About Marriage
After the rant I posted yesterday, I thought this morning I would soften it up a bit with a little poetry. I'm starting to read more and more poetry these days, finding I rather love it. This morning on Goodreads.com (an excellent web site for readers) I read a poem that is worth repeating. Thank you, Mr. Mallouk, for this lovely look at marriage.
Enjoy.
and settle in beside you, finding in the just
right camber of my pillows and the space
between us the familiar comfort of our life.
I close my eyes, the stage goes dark and I
notice there are just the two of us
in the theatre and you are already asleep.
I listen to the rhythm of your shallow breath.
When we fell in love, I went first. Stepping
from the sidewalk, I darted between the cars
and got to the park on the other side
only to find you had never left the curb.
You are displeased. You have come a long way.
I am nowhere to be found. You are naked, standing
at the water's edge. The water is clear, the quarry
is bottomless. It's mid-May and too cold to swim.
Still, you dive in. When I find you, your goose
flesh and nipples blend seamlessly. We are breathless,
warm only where our bodies meet. You dive down,
your white soles recede into the darkness.
We are in your family's home, sitting at one end
of the dining room table, your parents at the other.
Your father leans on his elbows, listening.
Your mother weeps silently, her hands in her lap.
I am backed into the kitchen corner of our row
house, sprawled on the floor, my head in my hands.
You are lying awake in our bed, face to the wall.
But for the fading echo of slammed doors, there is silence.
Two dream images: a ship runs aground on
a small island (in a week your period is late);
the wrong building materials are delivered to
the house (in a day your bleeding begins).
I am bending over you, looking down.
You are giving birth, pushing. Your left knee
and arm interlocking at my elbows. Her head-
the purple flower of your bloody thighs.
We are camped in the Blue Ridge and the puppy
is lost. We search on either side of the ravine. You
have taken one frightened child and I the other.
We call back and forth as darkness falls.
In the empty great room of the house we designed,
we review the punch list with the builder. My voice
dissipates in the cold drafts. We will move
again in ten years, never having unpacked.
You are poring over photographs: children
posing in oversized shoes and hats, mugging for
the camera; proud parents framing the graduates;
your parents' unlikely last trip to Ireland.
It is still night yet the room is lit
with moonlight streaming through
your grandmother's Irish lace curtains.
Shadows silhouette the far wall. I realize
I have grown old. My breathing is
shallow and you are sitting by the bed.
When you take my hand, I feel your
thin bones beneath my calloused fingers.
Blessings to you and yours.
Enjoy.
The Long Marriage
by Tom Mallouk
Tonight I close my book, turn off the lightand settle in beside you, finding in the just
right camber of my pillows and the space
between us the familiar comfort of our life.
I close my eyes, the stage goes dark and I
notice there are just the two of us
in the theatre and you are already asleep.
I listen to the rhythm of your shallow breath.
When we fell in love, I went first. Stepping
from the sidewalk, I darted between the cars
and got to the park on the other side
only to find you had never left the curb.
You are displeased. You have come a long way.
I am nowhere to be found. You are naked, standing
at the water's edge. The water is clear, the quarry
is bottomless. It's mid-May and too cold to swim.
Still, you dive in. When I find you, your goose
flesh and nipples blend seamlessly. We are breathless,
warm only where our bodies meet. You dive down,
your white soles recede into the darkness.
We are in your family's home, sitting at one end
of the dining room table, your parents at the other.
Your father leans on his elbows, listening.
Your mother weeps silently, her hands in her lap.
I am backed into the kitchen corner of our row
house, sprawled on the floor, my head in my hands.
You are lying awake in our bed, face to the wall.
But for the fading echo of slammed doors, there is silence.
Two dream images: a ship runs aground on
a small island (in a week your period is late);
the wrong building materials are delivered to
the house (in a day your bleeding begins).
I am bending over you, looking down.
You are giving birth, pushing. Your left knee
and arm interlocking at my elbows. Her head-
the purple flower of your bloody thighs.
We are camped in the Blue Ridge and the puppy
is lost. We search on either side of the ravine. You
have taken one frightened child and I the other.
We call back and forth as darkness falls.
In the empty great room of the house we designed,
we review the punch list with the builder. My voice
dissipates in the cold drafts. We will move
again in ten years, never having unpacked.
You are poring over photographs: children
posing in oversized shoes and hats, mugging for
the camera; proud parents framing the graduates;
your parents' unlikely last trip to Ireland.
It is still night yet the room is lit
with moonlight streaming through
your grandmother's Irish lace curtains.
Shadows silhouette the far wall. I realize
I have grown old. My breathing is
shallow and you are sitting by the bed.
When you take my hand, I feel your
thin bones beneath my calloused fingers.
Blessings to you and yours.
Monday, October 10, 2011
I Want To Hire Drew Rosenhaus!
So I'm watching football yesterday, until my husband decides all of his teams righteously suck and he turns the channel to 60 minutes, the TV show. They're doing a segment on sports agent, Drew Rosenhaus, and for the next half-hour I sat glued to my flat screen ready to crawl out of my skin. If you don't know Drew Rosenhaus, he's the sports agent Tom Cruise imitated in the movie, Jerry Maguire.
People either love Drew Rosenhaus or hate him. He's a shark, there's no doubt. Lance Briggs with the Chicago Sun-Times says, "He's a guy that gets it done, guys go to him because he's a shark. He's going to go in there and take care of business. He's not going to leave anything on the table. He allows a player to see his value more so than most."
I'm like ... YEAH! Isn't that what an agent is supposed to do????
Okay, I get it. The world of professional sports is not quite the same as the publishing industry. I get it. But my God, c'mon! To have a literary agent muster even 2% of that guy's presence, it just might turn the big dogs on Mahogany Row up there in Fat City on their ears.
Strong words for a writer like me, I guess. But maybe if the rest of the world's writers would quit trying to suck up to every literary agent who attends a writing conference, quit bending over and taking whatever they get, quit believing everything they read on the Internet, quit pussyfooting around and try to change things in this industry, maybe then ... just maybe more of us would get published. Even make a living at it.
They tell us writers can't get published without agents. Seems to me, without writers--nobody in this industry has got a job. It takes all of us working together and finding answers to the problems plaguing us.
Technology has only made a dent in publishing--as far as writers are concerned. Things need to change. Writers need better access to agents who will fight for them. I realize we still need to separate the sheep from the goats when it comes to good and bad writing, but for the purpose of this blog, let's assume I'm talking about writers worth their salt. We all need to be on an equal playing field.
A writer's world today is definitely different than even a decade ago. It's evolving, but it's still way behind when it comes to Agents/Editors/Publishers and what's happening on the rest of the planet. I know these days most agents/editors are reading manuscripts on their I-phones or I-pads, but they're still sifting through thousands of slush piles. How do you change that? In the end, doesn't it all boil down to money?
You can bet Rosenhaus gets a nice chunk of change for what he does. Do literary agents get paid enough for what they do? If they did more on behalf of the writer, couldn't they negotiate a bigger piece of the pie? Editors, I hear, change jobs like they change their underwear. About every day. The cost of printing, marketing, and publicity costs a few bucks. Publishers divide their publicity money according to the ever-present popularity contest going on between writers. So how do we change it for everybody, how do we make it better for writers, as well as the rest of book-reading world?
All I know is that until we start, until we get fed up with the way things are done, we writers are going to be sitting on manuscripts that should've been published years ago while the folks resting on their laurels are putting out book number 34. Those bestselling writers we all know so well, those big names everyone recognizes will continue to publish because their editors, their publishing houses know some housewife in Barnes & Nobles or Sam's Club is going to buy it. She's going to buy it because she only has so much money to spend on books and she'd rather risk her 30 bucks on a mediocre story than on some writer she's never read. And until she reads a great review on a debut novelist, or hears it from a trusted friend, she'll stick with the tried and true.
I know my best friend, Tina, who reads three new books a week and belongs to a large book club is just starting to understand my frustration. Traveling this road with me, hearing what I go through on a weekly basis, she refuses to read anything but debut novels, at least until the next Diana Gabaldon comes out. So I think there is one way to change things. Writers need to infiltrate book clubs. Let the readers know what's going on and what it really takes to get published. Create some empathy on behalf of the writers who give them the books they love to read. Encourage readers to read debut novels. In the end, some won't care a hoot. But some will. It's a start. It's something.
So there you have my rant for the week. I don't even pretend to have all the answers. Not even a little bit. And if I had money to put where my mouth is, you can bet I'd do more than just rant on my blog. But I do know that until a little bit of Drew Rosenhaus rubs off on this industry, writers are still going to bend over and take whatever they can get.
And that's just plain wrong.
Blessings to you writers out there, today. Blessings to you and yours.
People either love Drew Rosenhaus or hate him. He's a shark, there's no doubt. Lance Briggs with the Chicago Sun-Times says, "He's a guy that gets it done, guys go to him because he's a shark. He's going to go in there and take care of business. He's not going to leave anything on the table. He allows a player to see his value more so than most."
I'm like ... YEAH! Isn't that what an agent is supposed to do????
Okay, I get it. The world of professional sports is not quite the same as the publishing industry. I get it. But my God, c'mon! To have a literary agent muster even 2% of that guy's presence, it just might turn the big dogs on Mahogany Row up there in Fat City on their ears.
Strong words for a writer like me, I guess. But maybe if the rest of the world's writers would quit trying to suck up to every literary agent who attends a writing conference, quit bending over and taking whatever they get, quit believing everything they read on the Internet, quit pussyfooting around and try to change things in this industry, maybe then ... just maybe more of us would get published. Even make a living at it.
They tell us writers can't get published without agents. Seems to me, without writers--nobody in this industry has got a job. It takes all of us working together and finding answers to the problems plaguing us.
Technology has only made a dent in publishing--as far as writers are concerned. Things need to change. Writers need better access to agents who will fight for them. I realize we still need to separate the sheep from the goats when it comes to good and bad writing, but for the purpose of this blog, let's assume I'm talking about writers worth their salt. We all need to be on an equal playing field.
A writer's world today is definitely different than even a decade ago. It's evolving, but it's still way behind when it comes to Agents/Editors/Publishers and what's happening on the rest of the planet. I know these days most agents/editors are reading manuscripts on their I-phones or I-pads, but they're still sifting through thousands of slush piles. How do you change that? In the end, doesn't it all boil down to money?
You can bet Rosenhaus gets a nice chunk of change for what he does. Do literary agents get paid enough for what they do? If they did more on behalf of the writer, couldn't they negotiate a bigger piece of the pie? Editors, I hear, change jobs like they change their underwear. About every day. The cost of printing, marketing, and publicity costs a few bucks. Publishers divide their publicity money according to the ever-present popularity contest going on between writers. So how do we change it for everybody, how do we make it better for writers, as well as the rest of book-reading world?
All I know is that until we start, until we get fed up with the way things are done, we writers are going to be sitting on manuscripts that should've been published years ago while the folks resting on their laurels are putting out book number 34. Those bestselling writers we all know so well, those big names everyone recognizes will continue to publish because their editors, their publishing houses know some housewife in Barnes & Nobles or Sam's Club is going to buy it. She's going to buy it because she only has so much money to spend on books and she'd rather risk her 30 bucks on a mediocre story than on some writer she's never read. And until she reads a great review on a debut novelist, or hears it from a trusted friend, she'll stick with the tried and true.
I know my best friend, Tina, who reads three new books a week and belongs to a large book club is just starting to understand my frustration. Traveling this road with me, hearing what I go through on a weekly basis, she refuses to read anything but debut novels, at least until the next Diana Gabaldon comes out. So I think there is one way to change things. Writers need to infiltrate book clubs. Let the readers know what's going on and what it really takes to get published. Create some empathy on behalf of the writers who give them the books they love to read. Encourage readers to read debut novels. In the end, some won't care a hoot. But some will. It's a start. It's something.
So there you have my rant for the week. I don't even pretend to have all the answers. Not even a little bit. And if I had money to put where my mouth is, you can bet I'd do more than just rant on my blog. But I do know that until a little bit of Drew Rosenhaus rubs off on this industry, writers are still going to bend over and take whatever they can get.
And that's just plain wrong.
Blessings to you writers out there, today. Blessings to you and yours.
Friday, October 07, 2011
Writing With A Cold
I've been fighting a cold for days, but it won. I feel like I'm living underwater. My head is full, my throat is killing me, and my ears feel like they did when I was a kid and spent too much time in the pool.
I know. Yuck.
I managed to shower today. And we've got bright blue skies for a change. A final kick of warmth before the cold, raw Ohio weather sets in. The trees out in the pasture have turned bright shades of russet, lemon, and gold. I'm most comfortable at my desk with a cup of hot tea. Pouring over my manuscript still occupies most of of my day. As I look back on the years it took to get me to this point, I feel all fuzzy-headed. Tired.
I figure it's either from the cold or another bout of discouragement.
I think it's time to get up and stretch, walk outside and catch an autumn breeze or two, and then refill my tea mug. Try to breathe.
What? I shouldn't admit to discouragement? Every writer battles it. Even the most accomplished. But when our bodies are down, it only enhances the feelings.
So we wait until our heads unclog before passing judgement on the last chapter we wrote. Otherwise, it might end up in the trash along with hundreds of used tissues.
Writing with a cold ... not a good thing to do. Maybe it's time to just curl up with a good book and read.
Blessings to you and yours.
I know. Yuck.
I managed to shower today. And we've got bright blue skies for a change. A final kick of warmth before the cold, raw Ohio weather sets in. The trees out in the pasture have turned bright shades of russet, lemon, and gold. I'm most comfortable at my desk with a cup of hot tea. Pouring over my manuscript still occupies most of of my day. As I look back on the years it took to get me to this point, I feel all fuzzy-headed. Tired.
I figure it's either from the cold or another bout of discouragement.
I think it's time to get up and stretch, walk outside and catch an autumn breeze or two, and then refill my tea mug. Try to breathe.
What? I shouldn't admit to discouragement? Every writer battles it. Even the most accomplished. But when our bodies are down, it only enhances the feelings.
So we wait until our heads unclog before passing judgement on the last chapter we wrote. Otherwise, it might end up in the trash along with hundreds of used tissues.
Writing with a cold ... not a good thing to do. Maybe it's time to just curl up with a good book and read.
Blessings to you and yours.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
The Middle Of The Book
Back in the ‘sixties when geezers over fifty drove DeSotos and watched Lawrence Welk and kids under twenty drove Volkswagen vans and painted peace signs on their faces and me and my sisters were the only ones on our block who wore bobby socks and saddle shoes, this girl moved two doors down with poker-straight hair and Bob Dylan records and no mother.
Well. Talk about your run-on sentence. But this first sentence sets the tone of the new book I'm working on. I want it to speak volumes to any reader's first glance. To draw them into the life of the narrator without knowing it.
First sentences of any novel should do that. They should pin you to the wall and hold you like super-glue. A first sentence is filled with magic and pierces your heart or peaks your interest to the point that before you know it, you're five chapters in.
But what about the middle of the book? Doesn't it deserve the same?
Lately, I'm finding I've spent as much time on the arc of the story and the chapters following it as I have on that first sentence. Some novels I've read lately have left me flat in the middle. As if the writer had a great idea for the beginning and end, then just filled in the middle the best they could. Sometimes with paragraphs and chapters that have very little to do with the actual story. As a result, my eyes skim over a third of the middle just to find out what happens at the end.
I think the middle of any story should be every bit as thrilling as the beginning. It sometimes answers questions, agreed. Maybe even ties up a few loose ends. But a skilled writer knows how to up the ante, raise the stakes, and turn the tide in the middle pages in ways the reader never sees coming. A good writer can introduce a new character (another rule breaker) or change point of view all while keeping the tone and voice throughout. Keep me enthralled through page 200 and I'll be your biggest fan.
The middle should set up the ending without giving it away. But it's often the most overlooked. It is also where readers find giant pauses. A place they can stuff in their bookmark and put down the book. The question is, are they anxious to get back to it or do they hesitate to pick it back up again?
The middle of the story is where the heart is. Writers, by all means, pay attention to it. Give it as much love as the rest.
Blessings to you and yours.
Friday, September 09, 2011
A Good Writer
How does one know if they are truly a good writer?
One of the mandates to becoming a writer is reading and writing every day. Every day without fail. Even if it’s for five or ten minutes. A good writer reads. A good writer writes every day. Or so I’ve been told.
And there are many writers with much more impressive literary pedigrees than mine. It seems to me that many folks (especially those within the industry) measure a writer’s greatness by the number of previous publications.
Well. Thank the good Lord that Literary Agent Susan Ramer and Amy Einhorn Books loved The Help as much as I did, because Kathryn Stockett was rejected 60 times before they got a hold of it. My question is, why was it rejected 60 times? I’m sure Ms. Stockett didn’t send out her beloved manuscript willy-nilly to just anybody. And according to this article, (http://www.more.com/kathryn-stockett-help-best-seller) the rejections took their toll on her. So what do some see in debut novels that others don’t?
Is there something in a writer’s DNA that makes us good? Is there such a thing as natural-born talent? Even if one follows all the rules, reads and writes every day, and possesses a natural storytelling ability, how do you know you’re a good writer?
Is it because your friends and family gush over your work? Or because you’re published? Because you've won a contest or two? Or is it because something inside you pushes you forward. To not write would send you to the looney bin. Suck the air out of your lungs. Stop your heart. But does that really make you a good writer?
Every writer receives good and bad reviews. Some have thousands of followers who buy every one of their books, as well as folks who turn up their noses at the mention of their name. Is it all about personal preference?
Who decides? What qualifies them, for crying out loud? And yet what, pray tell, makes up the essence of a good writer? Is it the marketing and publicity machine behind the writer? (I hardly think so.)
Writers often question their worth. They have peaks and valleys in their careers and hold on to each and every positive comment, turn of phrase, and head nod. They possess the patience of a saint. After all, what kind of person does it take to persevere through 60 or even a hundred rejections? Years of waiting for an offer. Writers bend with the wind and roll with the god-awful punches. Even though the words come out of us like a rocket and keep us up all night we wonder--will we ever get a break?
Literary Agent Donald Maass says it takes ten years to develop a breakout writer. What if those ten years have come and gone?
Who or what determines a good writer?
Well. I really don’t know.
Helen Keller once said, “Character cannot be developed in ease and quiet. Only through experiences of trial and suffering can the soul be strengthened, vision cleared, ambition inspired and success achieved.”
And yet it’s not success that defines us as a good writer. Our MFA degree, the hundreds of folks who turn up at our book signings, or our fifth New York Times bestseller. It's not that at all. Because at the end of the day, it's still just you and your computer.
So how do you know you're a good writer?
Do you ever?
Maybe that in itself is what keeps us moving forward.
Blessings to you and yours.
One of the mandates to becoming a writer is reading and writing every day. Every day without fail. Even if it’s for five or ten minutes. A good writer reads. A good writer writes every day. Or so I’ve been told.
And there are many writers with much more impressive literary pedigrees than mine. It seems to me that many folks (especially those within the industry) measure a writer’s greatness by the number of previous publications.
Well. Thank the good Lord that Literary Agent Susan Ramer and Amy Einhorn Books loved The Help as much as I did, because Kathryn Stockett was rejected 60 times before they got a hold of it. My question is, why was it rejected 60 times? I’m sure Ms. Stockett didn’t send out her beloved manuscript willy-nilly to just anybody. And according to this article, (http://www.more.com/kathryn-stockett-help-best-seller) the rejections took their toll on her. So what do some see in debut novels that others don’t?
Is there something in a writer’s DNA that makes us good? Is there such a thing as natural-born talent? Even if one follows all the rules, reads and writes every day, and possesses a natural storytelling ability, how do you know you’re a good writer?
Is it because your friends and family gush over your work? Or because you’re published? Because you've won a contest or two? Or is it because something inside you pushes you forward. To not write would send you to the looney bin. Suck the air out of your lungs. Stop your heart. But does that really make you a good writer?
Every writer receives good and bad reviews. Some have thousands of followers who buy every one of their books, as well as folks who turn up their noses at the mention of their name. Is it all about personal preference?
Who decides? What qualifies them, for crying out loud? And yet what, pray tell, makes up the essence of a good writer? Is it the marketing and publicity machine behind the writer? (I hardly think so.)
Writers often question their worth. They have peaks and valleys in their careers and hold on to each and every positive comment, turn of phrase, and head nod. They possess the patience of a saint. After all, what kind of person does it take to persevere through 60 or even a hundred rejections? Years of waiting for an offer. Writers bend with the wind and roll with the god-awful punches. Even though the words come out of us like a rocket and keep us up all night we wonder--will we ever get a break?
Literary Agent Donald Maass says it takes ten years to develop a breakout writer. What if those ten years have come and gone?
Who or what determines a good writer?
Well. I really don’t know.
Helen Keller once said, “Character cannot be developed in ease and quiet. Only through experiences of trial and suffering can the soul be strengthened, vision cleared, ambition inspired and success achieved.”
And yet it’s not success that defines us as a good writer. Our MFA degree, the hundreds of folks who turn up at our book signings, or our fifth New York Times bestseller. It's not that at all. Because at the end of the day, it's still just you and your computer.
So how do you know you're a good writer?
Do you ever?
Maybe that in itself is what keeps us moving forward.
Blessings to you and yours.
Thursday, September 01, 2011
The Brevity Of Life
I think the one thing that surprises me the most as I enter the youth of old age is the brevity of life. Time passes in a wisp of an eyelash. I look at my granddaughter (I'm even surprised I'm old enough to have one) and I think ... shouldn't that be my daughter? After all, it was only a day ago I was changing my own baby's diapers.
Evangelist Billy Graham says that a lifetime is fleeting, but that our soul is eternal. That once we are born, our soul will never die. It's a scary thing to contemplate. There is no end to us. Only an end to what we know as life. As a believer, and a writer, I have been meditating upon this lately. And whether or not you believe in the hereafter, you have probably felt the spiritual side of yourself at some point. Something tugging on your soul.
Yes, contemplating eternal life in Heaven can be an exhilarating and yet a scary thing. For me, the very thought of atheism or agnosticism frightens me to the core. My inner spirit confirms to me daily the presence of God. The love of my creator greets me each morning and to not believe in the Heaven He has prepared, well I simply don't have that in me. I cringe when I hear celebrities on TV say there is no God. It's like fingernails down a chalkboard to me.
As I grow older, I find I'm not all wrapped up in theology, or denominations, or whether or not one should tithe, attend church, or become a deacon. What I am is at peace with myself. Sunday mornings on my front porch watching the sunrise ... that's where I feel Him the most.
Life is short. An old and overused cliche that somehow passes right over our heads when it's said to us. But oh, my friends and ah, my foes ... a cliche that should never be taken lightly.
Blessings to you and yours.
Evangelist Billy Graham says that a lifetime is fleeting, but that our soul is eternal. That once we are born, our soul will never die. It's a scary thing to contemplate. There is no end to us. Only an end to what we know as life. As a believer, and a writer, I have been meditating upon this lately. And whether or not you believe in the hereafter, you have probably felt the spiritual side of yourself at some point. Something tugging on your soul.
Yes, contemplating eternal life in Heaven can be an exhilarating and yet a scary thing. For me, the very thought of atheism or agnosticism frightens me to the core. My inner spirit confirms to me daily the presence of God. The love of my creator greets me each morning and to not believe in the Heaven He has prepared, well I simply don't have that in me. I cringe when I hear celebrities on TV say there is no God. It's like fingernails down a chalkboard to me.
As I grow older, I find I'm not all wrapped up in theology, or denominations, or whether or not one should tithe, attend church, or become a deacon. What I am is at peace with myself. Sunday mornings on my front porch watching the sunrise ... that's where I feel Him the most.
Life is short. An old and overused cliche that somehow passes right over our heads when it's said to us. But oh, my friends and ah, my foes ... a cliche that should never be taken lightly.
Blessings to you and yours.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)