Yes, it's a new year. Time for "resolutions." bla bla bla bla bla. After all these years, you'd think I'd learn how to stick to at least one of them. Well, (giggle) I did.
Last year, I resolved to publish my first book. And damn, I did it. "We" did it, Michael and I. This year, today, I've "upped the stakes."
In 2007, I'm turning inward, as well. I'm going to get healthy. Writing, I'm afraid, can be hazardous to your health. Sitting all day ... well, you can imagine the damage and the toll it's taken on my health (which spills into every other area of your life, unfortunately.) Do I still believe in my December 15th blog of Holiday Eating Tips? You bet I do. Life is not a rigid boot camp of do it or else! It's realizing that having fun is one thing, but getting down to business is quite another. And the thing is, my friends and family have all seen me "lose weight." (Many, many, oh God, many times.) But they've NEVER seen me "get healthy."
It's time.
My life, at this stage, has got to change physically and I believe in saying that publicly ... the other wonderful changes will follow.
Is this, yet another resolution? Maybe. Not really, but my friend, Dena, is right. What better time than the first of a new year to wipe the slate clean and give it all you got. Whether it's to quit smoking, or loose weight, or get healthy, or clean up your debt, or remodel the kitchen, or go back to school, or sell your house ... whatever the goal is for your year ... resolve now to head in the direction of your dream. Today. Not January 15th. Not wait until Valentine's Day. NOW.
I did it last year. And that, my friends, has given me all the incentive I need to set my feet on the next path ... the path to wellness.
Because God knows I'll need it ... TELEVENGE is just around the corner. My novel is in the final stages ... by the end of the year, I want a deal in hand. Why not? Lofty? Hell, yeah it's lofty. It's been 15 years in the making ... is there a stronger word than lofty? Because that's it.
There you have it ... Portion control ... less sugar ... treadmill, weights, and yoga ... and finish the novel.
I shall return to this blog page on December 31, 2007 ... and either eat my words or write them on a medal and pin it to my chest.
We shall see.
Blessings this new year, to you and yours.
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
Sunday, December 31, 2006
The Eve Of The Best New Year Ever!
May peace break into your house and thieves steal your debts.
May the pockets of your jeans become a magnet for $100 bills.
May love stick to your face like Vaseline and may laughter assault your lips!
May your clothes smell of success and not smoke.
May happiness slap you across the face and may your tears be that of joy.
May the problems you had forget your home address!
May 2007 be the best year of your life!
A very Happy New Year to you all!
Blessings as always to you and yours.
May the pockets of your jeans become a magnet for $100 bills.
May love stick to your face like Vaseline and may laughter assault your lips!
May your clothes smell of success and not smoke.
May happiness slap you across the face and may your tears be that of joy.
May the problems you had forget your home address!
May 2007 be the best year of your life!
A very Happy New Year to you all!
Blessings as always to you and yours.
Friday, December 29, 2006
Plunge Into The New Year
I've avoided blogging, (or working for that matter) as much as possible over the Christmas Holiday. Feeling the need to relax a bit, I scaled back and only worked on my novel ... Hmmm. Now I feel ... behind. I'm not sure I'll ever feel caught up. I seem to have this ability to be one step behind in my TO DO list. Why is that, I wonder?
Am I a slacker? Hardly. I think I work more hours than I ever have in my life, including the time I was a medical practice administrator. I believe these days it's entirely the fact that I'm more anal in working for myself. I've got to lighten up. I take every email, every phone call, every piece of mail serious and immediate. Michael tells me I've got to not worry if I can't get to it the same day. That folks don't really expect you to answer them "immediately."
But, God knows I don't want any project, any invitation, any person to be left hanging. So, I'm still trying to learn how to let someone else do all the planning, booking, and message taking while I attend to things ... like writing.
It's a never ending process.
So now we're between Christmas and New Years. I'm really looking forward to kicking back and cooking for my friends on New Years Eve. Relaxing, having fun. And in the back of my mind, I'm also anxious for the New Year to start because I've got a feeling this New Year could be the start of something big. This is the week to teeter on the edge, isn't it? Like jumping off a high dive ... you know the thrill of the jump will land you into cool water and if you don't lean too far one way or the other, you won't hurt yourself. I feel like that right now. My toes are over the edge of the board. I'm ready to take the plunge.
I'm just wondering if my suit's up my crack and anybody's pointing and laughing.
Oh well. Time to go answer a few emails and pull my suit down.
Blessings to you and yours.
Am I a slacker? Hardly. I think I work more hours than I ever have in my life, including the time I was a medical practice administrator. I believe these days it's entirely the fact that I'm more anal in working for myself. I've got to lighten up. I take every email, every phone call, every piece of mail serious and immediate. Michael tells me I've got to not worry if I can't get to it the same day. That folks don't really expect you to answer them "immediately."
But, God knows I don't want any project, any invitation, any person to be left hanging. So, I'm still trying to learn how to let someone else do all the planning, booking, and message taking while I attend to things ... like writing.
It's a never ending process.
So now we're between Christmas and New Years. I'm really looking forward to kicking back and cooking for my friends on New Years Eve. Relaxing, having fun. And in the back of my mind, I'm also anxious for the New Year to start because I've got a feeling this New Year could be the start of something big. This is the week to teeter on the edge, isn't it? Like jumping off a high dive ... you know the thrill of the jump will land you into cool water and if you don't lean too far one way or the other, you won't hurt yourself. I feel like that right now. My toes are over the edge of the board. I'm ready to take the plunge.
I'm just wondering if my suit's up my crack and anybody's pointing and laughing.
Oh well. Time to go answer a few emails and pull my suit down.
Blessings to you and yours.
Monday, December 25, 2006
Have A Merry One!
It's Christmas, 2006 ... where did the year go? I've not blogged much lately ... we've been quite busy this season. Michael and I had last minute shopping and baking to do. We saw the movie "Holiday" ... GO see it ... great movie. Then we spent two days in Atlanta with my sister, Kathy and her family. My parents were also there. She has a large home that's tastefully decorated to the brim! Oh my ... talk about a beautiful home. I'll put some pictures here for you. She's a top realtor in the Atlanta area, but her house is a showcase. And so is her life. She's six years younger, but has been married twenty-five years to her high school sweetheart. They've been dating since they were fourteen!
True, I swear to God.
He was the captain of the football team, she was a varsity cheerleader. I know. Right out of American Graffiti. They have three exceptionally talented children, all blonde haired-blue eyed beauties. Sara ... a graduate from Georgia State and newly engaged and newly employed with a top notch medical company in Atlanta ... Sam ... a junior at a college in Louisiana--full ride football scholarship (he bench presses 300 pounds) ... and Shaina ... thirteen, tall, thin; she doesn't know it yet, but somebody in New York would give her a cool million for her face on the cover of Seventeen Magazine.
I adore them all. And they love their crazy Aunt Pam. But I don't get to see them much, so when I do ... it's usually a party. My brother-in-law, Dave, grilled filet mignon's for everyone ... it seems we ate like Kings the entire two days ... well, hey, we are the Kings! (Kathy and me -- our maiden name ...)
Anyway, the weather this Christmas is not quite white down here in the South. Today is a bit dreary. Rainy, dark, and yet ... the lights are all on in the house, making it a little more cheery. We're expecting company later for food and more fun. We'll open presents and drink a few glasses of wine. Then it'll all be over. Another Christmas gone. It seems we all look for our perfect Christmas. I'm not sure there is such a thing. For me, it's a holiday of such mixed emotion. I don't ever think it'll ever feel right again. But ... we put on our happy face and get through it. I'm thankful to be loved by my family and friends. It's really what it's all about anyway.
I hoped you are loved this Christmas and I truly hope you have a merry one ... no matter your circumstances. Today is a day to forget pain,
grudges, heartaches, and calories. The world stands still one day a year ... and relishes the sights and sounds of the holiday. It's not all about food, presents, and tinsel. It's about love ... come down from above, and from those who cannot be with us. It's about love from those who spend the day with us ... It's about making new memories.Here's to yours.
Love to all this Christmas,
Pam
Sunday, December 17, 2006
Have Yourself A Sunny Little Christmas!
Yes, it's Christmas ... but you couldn't look out my front door and tell it by our weather. 70s and sunny. The trees are bare, and there's Christmas decorations all over the place, but watching a few Christmas Shows last night (Home Alone, and It's a Wonderful Life) I realized ... it snows in every one of them!
I've seen very little snow since moving to North Carolina. Only when we make trips north during winter, do I see accumulated snow. I think a white Christmas would be nice, I suppose. To look outside and see flakes collecting on the ground. Christmas always means snow to most of the world.
But for me, if I could control it, it'd last for that one day only. Then poof! Gone.
Do I miss the stuff? No. Our Christmas time in Northeast Ohio was full of the white, wet, stuff. For many, many years I treked through gray days, grayer dirty snow on the highways, deicing my car every morning during November, December, January, February, and March. I don't ski or ice skate. I haven't been on a sled in 40 years. So no. That white precipitation can stay away from my door. If I ever get in the mood for snow during the holidays, I'll travel to it rather than for it to come to me.
Thank you very much, I'll live with sunshine for Christmas for the rest of my days. It suits me just fine.
Blessings to you and yours.
I've seen very little snow since moving to North Carolina. Only when we make trips north during winter, do I see accumulated snow. I think a white Christmas would be nice, I suppose. To look outside and see flakes collecting on the ground. Christmas always means snow to most of the world.
But for me, if I could control it, it'd last for that one day only. Then poof! Gone.
Do I miss the stuff? No. Our Christmas time in Northeast Ohio was full of the white, wet, stuff. For many, many years I treked through gray days, grayer dirty snow on the highways, deicing my car every morning during November, December, January, February, and March. I don't ski or ice skate. I haven't been on a sled in 40 years. So no. That white precipitation can stay away from my door. If I ever get in the mood for snow during the holidays, I'll travel to it rather than for it to come to me.
Thank you very much, I'll live with sunshine for Christmas for the rest of my days. It suits me just fine.
Blessings to you and yours.
Friday, December 15, 2006
Holiday Eating Tips
This was sent to me recently, I'm not sure who wrote it, but hey ... it's a great guide for the holidays! Enjoy!
1. Avoid carrot sticks. Anyone who puts carrots on a holiday buffet table knows nothing of the Christmas spirit. In fact, if you see carrots, leave immediately. Go next door, where they're serving rum balls.
2. Drink as much eggnog as you can. And quickly. Like fine single-malt scotch, it's rare. In fact, it's even more rare than single-malt scotch. You can't find it any other time of year but now. So drink up! Who cares that it has 10,000 calories in every sip? It's not as if you're going to turn into an eggnog-aholic or something. It's a treat. Enjoy it. Have one for me. Have two. It's later than you think. It's Christmas!
3. If something comes with gravy, use it. That's the whole point of gravy. Gravy does not stand alone. Pour it on. Make a volcano out of your mashed potatoes. Fill it with gravy. Eat the volcano. Repeat.
4. As for mashed potatoes, always ask if they're made with skim milk or whole milk. If it's skim, pass. Why bother? It's like buying a sports car with an automatic transmission.
5. Do not have a snack before going to a party in an effort to control your eating. The whole point of going to a Christmas party is to eat other people's food for free. Lots of it. Hello?
6. Under no circumstances should you exercise between now and New Year's. You can do that in January when you have nothing else to do. This is the time for long naps, which you'll need after circling the buffet table while carrying a 10-pound plate of food and that vat of eggnog.
7. If you come across something really good at a buffet table, like frosted Christmas cookies in the shape and size of Santa, position yourself near them and don't budge. Have as many as you can before becoming the center of attention. They're like a beautiful pair of shoes. If you leave them behind, you're never going to see them again.
8. Same for pies. Apple. Pumpkin. Mincemeat. Have a slice of each. Or, if you don't like mincemeat, have two apples and one pumpkin. Always have three. When else do you get to have more than one dessert? Labor Day?
9. Did someone mention fruitcake? Granted, it's loaded with the mandatory celebratory calories, but avoid it at all cost. I mean, have SOME standards.
10. One final tip: If you don't feel terrible when you leave the party or get up from the table, you haven't been paying attention. Reread tips; start over, but hurry, January is just around the corner.
"Life should NOT be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand, martini in the other, totally worn out and screaming, "WOO HOO what a ride!"
Blessings to you and yours.
1. Avoid carrot sticks. Anyone who puts carrots on a holiday buffet table knows nothing of the Christmas spirit. In fact, if you see carrots, leave immediately. Go next door, where they're serving rum balls.
2. Drink as much eggnog as you can. And quickly. Like fine single-malt scotch, it's rare. In fact, it's even more rare than single-malt scotch. You can't find it any other time of year but now. So drink up! Who cares that it has 10,000 calories in every sip? It's not as if you're going to turn into an eggnog-aholic or something. It's a treat. Enjoy it. Have one for me. Have two. It's later than you think. It's Christmas!
3. If something comes with gravy, use it. That's the whole point of gravy. Gravy does not stand alone. Pour it on. Make a volcano out of your mashed potatoes. Fill it with gravy. Eat the volcano. Repeat.
4. As for mashed potatoes, always ask if they're made with skim milk or whole milk. If it's skim, pass. Why bother? It's like buying a sports car with an automatic transmission.
5. Do not have a snack before going to a party in an effort to control your eating. The whole point of going to a Christmas party is to eat other people's food for free. Lots of it. Hello?
6. Under no circumstances should you exercise between now and New Year's. You can do that in January when you have nothing else to do. This is the time for long naps, which you'll need after circling the buffet table while carrying a 10-pound plate of food and that vat of eggnog.
7. If you come across something really good at a buffet table, like frosted Christmas cookies in the shape and size of Santa, position yourself near them and don't budge. Have as many as you can before becoming the center of attention. They're like a beautiful pair of shoes. If you leave them behind, you're never going to see them again.
8. Same for pies. Apple. Pumpkin. Mincemeat. Have a slice of each. Or, if you don't like mincemeat, have two apples and one pumpkin. Always have three. When else do you get to have more than one dessert? Labor Day?
9. Did someone mention fruitcake? Granted, it's loaded with the mandatory celebratory calories, but avoid it at all cost. I mean, have SOME standards.
10. One final tip: If you don't feel terrible when you leave the party or get up from the table, you haven't been paying attention. Reread tips; start over, but hurry, January is just around the corner.
"Life should NOT be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand, martini in the other, totally worn out and screaming, "WOO HOO what a ride!"
Blessings to you and yours.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
E.T. Santa
She was only six years old. Jillian's eyes, green like her mama's, watched me with enthusiasm make Santa heads out of old pantyhose, some cotton, and some thread. I was into crafts in those days. The year was 1982. We lived in a little town called Mogadore, Ohio. It was a kinder, more gentle time. Aaron was in school that day and Jillian had a bad cold, so I kept her home with me ... oh, so many years ago now. I remember this day vividly, because Jilly and I hung around the house and baked cookies then decorated the tree. She stayed in her Holly Hobbie pjs and we turned on some Christmas carols before settling down on the couch with our "Santa craft."
That particular year was the year of stuffed Santas. (It was the 80s, what can I say?) I stuck those awful things on all our packages and on the tree, as well.
"Me too, Mommy." Of course, how can you say no to a brilliant six-year-old, which she was. At that age, Jillian was reading Aaron's second grade books and doing third-grade math. So, I threaded a needle for her, showed her how to use it and said, "Be very, very careful or you'll prick your finger like Sleeping Beauty and not wake up until after Christmas!" Anyway, the child was too smart to buy that line of crap. She laughed at me, as usual. But, darn, that little blonde-headed beauty gave it her best shot.
She worked the needle back and forth and told me not to look. We cuddled up together on the couch that day with our crafts and talked about what she and her brother wanted from the "real" Santa. E.T. lunchbox, E.T. bedspread, E.T. TV trays, E.T. doll!
"All done! Open your eyes, Mommy!" I looked at it. I smiled. I sighed. It had to be the ugliest looking Santa I'd ever seen. And she knew it. I've always said, Jillian's heart has been filled with tears since birth. The child (now a grown woman) could cry easier than eating a Christmas cookie. (She still can.) God knows, I can stand anybody's tears, but hers.
"It's awful ugly, Mommy." The tears fell.
How do you agree with a little girl that's tried so hard? "Well," I said. "I think it's cute. It looks like ... IT LOOKS LIKE E.T. SANTA!" The tears dried up, the smile came back, and all was right with the world.
And so goes the story of E.T. Santa. The movie was just out back then. Everything was all about E.T. for my kids that year. And ever since then, E.T. Santa has been on my tree. It's a memory I'll cherish always. E.T. will be passed down to Jillian, but not before I enjoy it a while longer.
Christmas isn't Christmas, without it.
Blessings to you and yours.
Monday, December 11, 2006
Catch the Spirit
I'm having a wee bit of trouble getting into the mind of Christmas this year. The year has flown by so quickly and we've been so wrapped up in book stuff it feels like it should still be Fall. There's always the added stress of gift giving, holiday cards, extra cooking, parties -- and though its all fun and should be a joyous time ... all I feel like doing is ... working on my novel. Am I nuts? Am I a workaholic? Maybe it's because I feel the pressure to get it done. Maybe its because Michael has been so sick the past several days (cold and flu) and my dern back is acting up ... but I think a poor Christmas spirit for me stems from way back.
Growing up, my holidays were wonderful. My parents made them that way. As a Goodyear employee, Daddy took us every year to the big Goodyear theater for cartoons and candy and every child got to pick out a gift. It was a highlight of my year, let me tell you. I'd plan all year what toy I wanted. You see, we only received toys on birthdays and Christmas.
Mom loved to bake, so the house smelled wonderful all season. We had great tree, filled with those old bubble lights and angel hair that you hoped never got on you, or you'd itch all night. She was always in a good mood over the holidays. I loved every minute of it.
My grandparents were wonderful to come on Christmas Eve and bring a gift, but grandma's cooking was something out of this world. Santa came every year, it always snowed, and I felt loved. It molded my image of how the Christmas spirit should be.
It was years later that Scrooge showed up and ruined the Christmas spirit for me for many, many years. He blew in like Freddy Kruger, Jason, and the Grinch all wrapped up in one. After all these years, I still fight that old bugger.
So ... here I sit again, two weeks before Christmas, trying like the dickens to catch the spirit. The house is decorated, we did get that much done. It twinkles all over the place. You can't turn on the TV without getting bombarded from the advertisers that its time to spend money. But I guess, its a combination of so many things that drags my spirit into one of humbug.
If you have any ideas on how to catch that spirit, let me know.
Blessings to you and yours.
Growing up, my holidays were wonderful. My parents made them that way. As a Goodyear employee, Daddy took us every year to the big Goodyear theater for cartoons and candy and every child got to pick out a gift. It was a highlight of my year, let me tell you. I'd plan all year what toy I wanted. You see, we only received toys on birthdays and Christmas.
Mom loved to bake, so the house smelled wonderful all season. We had great tree, filled with those old bubble lights and angel hair that you hoped never got on you, or you'd itch all night. She was always in a good mood over the holidays. I loved every minute of it.
My grandparents were wonderful to come on Christmas Eve and bring a gift, but grandma's cooking was something out of this world. Santa came every year, it always snowed, and I felt loved. It molded my image of how the Christmas spirit should be.
It was years later that Scrooge showed up and ruined the Christmas spirit for me for many, many years. He blew in like Freddy Kruger, Jason, and the Grinch all wrapped up in one. After all these years, I still fight that old bugger.
So ... here I sit again, two weeks before Christmas, trying like the dickens to catch the spirit. The house is decorated, we did get that much done. It twinkles all over the place. You can't turn on the TV without getting bombarded from the advertisers that its time to spend money. But I guess, its a combination of so many things that drags my spirit into one of humbug.
If you have any ideas on how to catch that spirit, let me know.
Blessings to you and yours.
Saturday, December 09, 2006
Famous?
Today I sat for a couple hours in a model log home, (owned by Kuhns Bros.) in Mebane, NC ... talking to customers, eating fresh baked Christmas cookies, drinking hot cider, enjoying a fully decorated Log Home, and selling Southern Fried Women. Donna and Linda, from Kuhns Bros., greeted visitors to the home with "we have a famous author here with us today, please take a look at her book, she'll be happy to sign one for you, and they make great Christmas gifts!"
Famous? Naturally, I start giggling in the beautiful breakfast nook where I am set up to sign. Famous. What a word, huh? Like ... hardly. Michael laughed and so did I, I've never been called famous before. I think of the struggle we writers go through. The hours we labor over just one sentence. Or the research that drags on for weeks. And, then there's the publishing and the promoting ... oy vey. You can read day after day where I blog about the undertakings of writing a book.
But then, there's always a little sweetness thrown in. Like being called famous when you know damn well that about the only thing famous about you is how your family calls you a "drama queen." I'm famous for that within the confines of family. But the word is fun to hear. It really doesn't sell any books though. What sells my book is first the cover, then the content. Folks really don't give a rat's pittutie if I'm famous. They just want a good story.
Now should I turn into a "Sue Monk Kidd" or a "Pat Conroy," then folks would line up because of the famous author. Many times, the famous author does sell the book first ... the story becomes secondary.
But until then, I'm very happy to be who I am. I'm Pamela King Cable, and I write Southern Fiction. And there ain't no shame in that. Or fame either.
Not right now, anyway.
Blessings to you and yours.
Famous? Naturally, I start giggling in the beautiful breakfast nook where I am set up to sign. Famous. What a word, huh? Like ... hardly. Michael laughed and so did I, I've never been called famous before. I think of the struggle we writers go through. The hours we labor over just one sentence. Or the research that drags on for weeks. And, then there's the publishing and the promoting ... oy vey. You can read day after day where I blog about the undertakings of writing a book.
But then, there's always a little sweetness thrown in. Like being called famous when you know damn well that about the only thing famous about you is how your family calls you a "drama queen." I'm famous for that within the confines of family. But the word is fun to hear. It really doesn't sell any books though. What sells my book is first the cover, then the content. Folks really don't give a rat's pittutie if I'm famous. They just want a good story.
Now should I turn into a "Sue Monk Kidd" or a "Pat Conroy," then folks would line up because of the famous author. Many times, the famous author does sell the book first ... the story becomes secondary.
But until then, I'm very happy to be who I am. I'm Pamela King Cable, and I write Southern Fiction. And there ain't no shame in that. Or fame either.
Not right now, anyway.
Blessings to you and yours.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
My Cold Mountain
If you ever get the chance to travel Interstate 77 from North Carolina up through Virginia, then into West Virginia ... do it. It has to be one of the most scenic interstate routes in the country. I've driven it this year, about a dozen times. (Or close to it.)
In the winter, the water is frozen that seeps out of the huge mountainsides in West Virginia. Like a waterfall suspended in time, its beauty is only enhanced when the sun hits it. The trees, though barren, appear asleep waiting for some mysterious kiss from spring to awaken them. Pop in an Enya or a Christmas CD, and it's a virtual Imax theater during that drive, you can be sure.
I spoke in Charleston this morning ... to the Vandalia Rotary. A smaller group, about 20 or 30 Rotarians gathered at 7:30 in the morning. Unfortunately, I was in severe pain during the entire speech. I had twisted wrong in the shower (I know, comical ... laugh) and something popped or slipped in my back. The pain shot through my hip and down my leg ... Michael literally had to dress me. Thank God, I was able to do my hair and makeup after a mouthful of Ibuprofen.
So, I limped in. Put a smile on my face and did my best. Which certainly wasn't my best, but the show must go on ... as they say. But I sold 18 books. So possibly, nobody noticed.
My wonderful cousins, Mick and Donna, were my guests this morning and it upset me that it wasn't my peak performance for their sakes ... but hey, family love covers a multitude of pain sometimes. And it was so great to see them again.
We drove home like wounded soldiers. Michael was running a fever. He's been coughing non-stop, it seems, since last week. A cold that won't stop. My back was only mildly better, but I propped myself up in the car with pillows and more Ibuprofen. Pay attention writers ... it's the price you pay when you take your book on the road. Your body wears out before your book does, usually.
I'm ready to stay home for a while. I think there are no long trips scheduled until January. That's a good thing ... but I enjoyed the trip home, despite the pain. The mountains and scenery are something to behold. I never tire of it. It must be something in my blood. I love the area between the two tunnels, an area called Bland, VA. Which is anything but. It's like a slice of heaven.
Although my favorite part in that trip home, is riding down the mountain near Fancy Gap and looking off to the left and seeing North Carolina from a distance. On cold, sunny days in winter, the air is crystal clear and you can see majestic Pilot Mountain. It's my favorite mountain. It tells me, I'm home. It's my "Cold Mountain."
Blessings to you and yours.
In the winter, the water is frozen that seeps out of the huge mountainsides in West Virginia. Like a waterfall suspended in time, its beauty is only enhanced when the sun hits it. The trees, though barren, appear asleep waiting for some mysterious kiss from spring to awaken them. Pop in an Enya or a Christmas CD, and it's a virtual Imax theater during that drive, you can be sure.
I spoke in Charleston this morning ... to the Vandalia Rotary. A smaller group, about 20 or 30 Rotarians gathered at 7:30 in the morning. Unfortunately, I was in severe pain during the entire speech. I had twisted wrong in the shower (I know, comical ... laugh) and something popped or slipped in my back. The pain shot through my hip and down my leg ... Michael literally had to dress me. Thank God, I was able to do my hair and makeup after a mouthful of Ibuprofen.
So, I limped in. Put a smile on my face and did my best. Which certainly wasn't my best, but the show must go on ... as they say. But I sold 18 books. So possibly, nobody noticed.
My wonderful cousins, Mick and Donna, were my guests this morning and it upset me that it wasn't my peak performance for their sakes ... but hey, family love covers a multitude of pain sometimes. And it was so great to see them again.
We drove home like wounded soldiers. Michael was running a fever. He's been coughing non-stop, it seems, since last week. A cold that won't stop. My back was only mildly better, but I propped myself up in the car with pillows and more Ibuprofen. Pay attention writers ... it's the price you pay when you take your book on the road. Your body wears out before your book does, usually.
I'm ready to stay home for a while. I think there are no long trips scheduled until January. That's a good thing ... but I enjoyed the trip home, despite the pain. The mountains and scenery are something to behold. I never tire of it. It must be something in my blood. I love the area between the two tunnels, an area called Bland, VA. Which is anything but. It's like a slice of heaven.
Although my favorite part in that trip home, is riding down the mountain near Fancy Gap and looking off to the left and seeing North Carolina from a distance. On cold, sunny days in winter, the air is crystal clear and you can see majestic Pilot Mountain. It's my favorite mountain. It tells me, I'm home. It's my "Cold Mountain."
Blessings to you and yours.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Dirty Santa
Ever play that game?
I took a break last night from endless hours at my computer and attended the Christmas Party for my Women Over 40 group! We meet each month at Mahi's Restaurant in Greensboro, and last night's meeting ... well ... have you ever been in a room with 55 women over 40 in a party mood? The place was flowing with estrogen, glasses of merlot, and Christmas carols sung off key.
Mahi's serves great meals, especially their fish. Our buffet is always yummy. But most of us couldn't wait until dinner was over. Time to play Dirty Santa.
It's the game where everyone brings a gift. This year, all gifts were to be re-gifted gifts. (Of course, some were-some weren't) but it didn't matter ... the end result was a blast. Anyway, everyone gets a number. Number 1 went first and chose a gift and opened it. It was a roll of new duct tape and a book on 1,001 uses for duct tape. Number 2 then had a choice ... she could either take the duct tape and book or choose a new gift.
Obviously, she chose a new gift. Then number 3 could choose from any gift already opened OR choose a new unwrapped gift. It goes on like that until eventually, you've got women stealing each other's gifts all over the place. So many of the gifts were not as nice as others. So when there was a nice gift like wine glasses, or a soft cashmere shawl, everybody tried to steal it.
Here's the kicker. A gift could only be stolen twice. If Nancy opened a gift and Susan stole it from Nancy instead of opening her own gift, then Nancy could choose another unopened gift. BUT if next you stole Susan's gift (the one she stole from Nancy) THEN the gift was "retired."
A woman in front of me had her gifts stolen 5 times! Finally, she stole back her Playboy calendar she really wanted. But I had my eye on a mirror. In my opinion, the nicest gift of the night. It was beautiful. I couldn't believe somebody wrapped it for this party. Antique finish, hand painted frame, nice size, heavy ... a real treasure.
My number was 32 ... and by the time it was my turn, said mirror had already been stolen once by a woman who had decided where she was going to put it. Her friend beside her agreed it was a great mirror. The woman kept it by her chair, half hidden, hoping nobody would remember it.
Then it was my turn. Each of us got to do our 30 second networking commercial before choosing our gift ... so I said, "I want to thank everyone that bought my book this year, I hope everyone has a happy holiday ... and ... I'm sorry honey, but that mirror you got back there, is going to look real nice in my house. Hand it over."
The mirror was retired. It was mine. I think she ended up with Santa Claus salt & pepper shakers.
It's the chance you take playing Dirty Santa.
Blessings to you and yours.
I took a break last night from endless hours at my computer and attended the Christmas Party for my Women Over 40 group! We meet each month at Mahi's Restaurant in Greensboro, and last night's meeting ... well ... have you ever been in a room with 55 women over 40 in a party mood? The place was flowing with estrogen, glasses of merlot, and Christmas carols sung off key.
Mahi's serves great meals, especially their fish. Our buffet is always yummy. But most of us couldn't wait until dinner was over. Time to play Dirty Santa.
It's the game where everyone brings a gift. This year, all gifts were to be re-gifted gifts. (Of course, some were-some weren't) but it didn't matter ... the end result was a blast. Anyway, everyone gets a number. Number 1 went first and chose a gift and opened it. It was a roll of new duct tape and a book on 1,001 uses for duct tape. Number 2 then had a choice ... she could either take the duct tape and book or choose a new gift.
Obviously, she chose a new gift. Then number 3 could choose from any gift already opened OR choose a new unwrapped gift. It goes on like that until eventually, you've got women stealing each other's gifts all over the place. So many of the gifts were not as nice as others. So when there was a nice gift like wine glasses, or a soft cashmere shawl, everybody tried to steal it.
Here's the kicker. A gift could only be stolen twice. If Nancy opened a gift and Susan stole it from Nancy instead of opening her own gift, then Nancy could choose another unopened gift. BUT if next you stole Susan's gift (the one she stole from Nancy) THEN the gift was "retired."
A woman in front of me had her gifts stolen 5 times! Finally, she stole back her Playboy calendar she really wanted. But I had my eye on a mirror. In my opinion, the nicest gift of the night. It was beautiful. I couldn't believe somebody wrapped it for this party. Antique finish, hand painted frame, nice size, heavy ... a real treasure.
My number was 32 ... and by the time it was my turn, said mirror had already been stolen once by a woman who had decided where she was going to put it. Her friend beside her agreed it was a great mirror. The woman kept it by her chair, half hidden, hoping nobody would remember it.
Then it was my turn. Each of us got to do our 30 second networking commercial before choosing our gift ... so I said, "I want to thank everyone that bought my book this year, I hope everyone has a happy holiday ... and ... I'm sorry honey, but that mirror you got back there, is going to look real nice in my house. Hand it over."
The mirror was retired. It was mine. I think she ended up with Santa Claus salt & pepper shakers.
It's the chance you take playing Dirty Santa.
Blessings to you and yours.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
The Evolution Of Hot And Heavy Work
If you haven't heard from me for a while, it's because I'm into hot and heavy work ... edits (major and minor) surrounding my novel ... TELEVENGE. Since returning from my Thanksgiving trip, I've buried myself in my novel. My goal ... submit by Spring. Spring is a broad term as far actual dates, but still ... Spring. Therefore, every waking minute available, I'm working on the novel.
Yesterday was a 16-hour day. I dragged myself to bed at 2 a.m. And still, the story rumbled through my head like an oncoming storm. I like what's happening, however. I'm thrilled when I tighten a chapter even more and it works. I toast myself with whatever I'm drinking at the time when I find hidden and unnecessary backstory. I get goosebumps finding the perfect word that has eluded me since the third draft. And I hug myself when I decide ... I'm writing this the way it needs to be written, not the way an editor thinks it should be written. Okay, I break some rules, but I know why I'm breaking them.
But I damn well know the rules of the craft I can't break. This is draft number 7 and by God, I'm landing on my feet with this one. And yet ... I know there will probably be at least one more quick rewrite before the final send off. Do I want the brass ring? Doesn't every writer?
Yes, I'm still promoting Southern Fried Women. It's doing very well, thank you, in fact ... it's like a recipe you try and don't expect much and WOW! It's a hit! I intend to speak at least once or twice a week at venues ... talking about SFW and wetting appetites for TELEVENGE.
But as I look back, this novel has been 15 years in the making. I began making notes and outlining the manuscript in 1991. But the story evolved as my life evolved. Time passed, I kept writing. Pieces of the story languished in typewriters, in drawers, in my head, and on yellow notepads. An overheard word, phrase, and a Southern-sounding name written on a napkin, intended for the manuscript, was found stuck in an old purse several years later during a move.
Stacks of spiral notebooks filled with scenes from Part I, cluttered the bottom of my file cabinet for years. Rewrites of outlines, chapters, character sketches littered my box marked, "FOR THE BOOK."
More changes in my life and major changes in the book occurred simultaneously. Working a full-time job left little time, other than weekends and occasional nights for changing or adding a sentence, a chapter, a word or two. But still, the story never faded from view. Never.
Every so often, another character, another chapter appeared on paper. Not a week went by for years, but what I wrote something for this massive work. It grew over time; the magnitude of it often overwhelmed me. Taking classes, working on the craft, throwing away the first and second drafts. Traveling all over the country to learn from the experts, one writing conference after another. I almost quit a time or two, convinced it was all crap.
Oddly, the story evolved again and at the strangest times. Got tighter, clearer, I "found my character's Achilles' heel and stomped on it" a time or two. I remember writing sixteen pages of TELEVENGE longhand in an airport. Tucking a notebook full of opposing outlines into my briefcase and missing my lunch over a period of weeks - cutting scenes and rewriting the entire second part of the book.
I remember writing when I should've been preparing payroll. Laboring over Chapter 33 for a whole week, when I needed to be compiling marketing material for my department. I also recall sitting in a writing conference in New York City, pulling out the synopsis, and tearing it up. Several days worth of work ... thrown in trash.
I remember sitting across from a literary agent, telling me the title sucked and that I needed to rename the book. So I told her to give it a shot. She did. And it was brilliant. Unconditional became TELEVENGE. (Looking back, it really did suck.)
I put the book on the shelf for a year, taking it down only occasionally. Wrote like a maniac for six months, then put it on the shelf again. Attended critique groups. Spent big bucks on a full edit of the first 100 pages. I read Donald Maass's book and the accompanying workbook on Writing The Breakout Novel. Twice. And then a third time. Then decided, as much as I respect him and like him, I don't agree with everything he says. And that's okay. I don't have to.
In addition to Don's book, I skimmed over a dozen other books on writing in addition to all my classroom work. The books pretty much said the same things to varying degrees. So I kept on writing.
I think of the professionals that wanted to chop here, and delete there, add this, subtract that ... I remember sitting at a table in front of Don Maass who laughed at the monster manuscript. I, however, only glared at that 4th draft of over 1,000 pages and cried.
Over a year ago, I stopped working on the sixth draft on a daily basis (only opening the file every once in a while.) Southern Fried Women took priority for a while. I finished the short stories, found a publisher, and began promoting it ... and now here I am. It's coming down to the end of this long journey. Should I have trashed the novel years ago? Or is it my destiny? How many books have I started and not finished because TELEVENGE calls me to attention every time? I have other books in me, yes, some nearly done. But this one has gripped my heart with a firm hand. It's the book many professionals declare you should write and throw out. "Get that first novel off your chest. Write the sucker and throw it out."
Yet, the green light is still on. I can't help but believe when you know, without a doubt, that there's a higher power involved in finishing a book like this ... you don't throw it out. You finish it. You take it all the way.
And so ... I am. I will do my part and pour myself into the story, one more time. Making it as perfect as I can make it. Then I will leave this book in God's hands. In the meantime, I've got some hot and heavy work ahead of me tonight.
Blessings to you and yours.
Yesterday was a 16-hour day. I dragged myself to bed at 2 a.m. And still, the story rumbled through my head like an oncoming storm. I like what's happening, however. I'm thrilled when I tighten a chapter even more and it works. I toast myself with whatever I'm drinking at the time when I find hidden and unnecessary backstory. I get goosebumps finding the perfect word that has eluded me since the third draft. And I hug myself when I decide ... I'm writing this the way it needs to be written, not the way an editor thinks it should be written. Okay, I break some rules, but I know why I'm breaking them.
But I damn well know the rules of the craft I can't break. This is draft number 7 and by God, I'm landing on my feet with this one. And yet ... I know there will probably be at least one more quick rewrite before the final send off. Do I want the brass ring? Doesn't every writer?
Yes, I'm still promoting Southern Fried Women. It's doing very well, thank you, in fact ... it's like a recipe you try and don't expect much and WOW! It's a hit! I intend to speak at least once or twice a week at venues ... talking about SFW and wetting appetites for TELEVENGE.
But as I look back, this novel has been 15 years in the making. I began making notes and outlining the manuscript in 1991. But the story evolved as my life evolved. Time passed, I kept writing. Pieces of the story languished in typewriters, in drawers, in my head, and on yellow notepads. An overheard word, phrase, and a Southern-sounding name written on a napkin, intended for the manuscript, was found stuck in an old purse several years later during a move.
Stacks of spiral notebooks filled with scenes from Part I, cluttered the bottom of my file cabinet for years. Rewrites of outlines, chapters, character sketches littered my box marked, "FOR THE BOOK."
More changes in my life and major changes in the book occurred simultaneously. Working a full-time job left little time, other than weekends and occasional nights for changing or adding a sentence, a chapter, a word or two. But still, the story never faded from view. Never.
Every so often, another character, another chapter appeared on paper. Not a week went by for years, but what I wrote something for this massive work. It grew over time; the magnitude of it often overwhelmed me. Taking classes, working on the craft, throwing away the first and second drafts. Traveling all over the country to learn from the experts, one writing conference after another. I almost quit a time or two, convinced it was all crap.
Oddly, the story evolved again and at the strangest times. Got tighter, clearer, I "found my character's Achilles' heel and stomped on it" a time or two. I remember writing sixteen pages of TELEVENGE longhand in an airport. Tucking a notebook full of opposing outlines into my briefcase and missing my lunch over a period of weeks - cutting scenes and rewriting the entire second part of the book.
I remember writing when I should've been preparing payroll. Laboring over Chapter 33 for a whole week, when I needed to be compiling marketing material for my department. I also recall sitting in a writing conference in New York City, pulling out the synopsis, and tearing it up. Several days worth of work ... thrown in trash.
I remember sitting across from a literary agent, telling me the title sucked and that I needed to rename the book. So I told her to give it a shot. She did. And it was brilliant. Unconditional became TELEVENGE. (Looking back, it really did suck.)
I put the book on the shelf for a year, taking it down only occasionally. Wrote like a maniac for six months, then put it on the shelf again. Attended critique groups. Spent big bucks on a full edit of the first 100 pages. I read Donald Maass's book and the accompanying workbook on Writing The Breakout Novel. Twice. And then a third time. Then decided, as much as I respect him and like him, I don't agree with everything he says. And that's okay. I don't have to.
In addition to Don's book, I skimmed over a dozen other books on writing in addition to all my classroom work. The books pretty much said the same things to varying degrees. So I kept on writing.
I think of the professionals that wanted to chop here, and delete there, add this, subtract that ... I remember sitting at a table in front of Don Maass who laughed at the monster manuscript. I, however, only glared at that 4th draft of over 1,000 pages and cried.
Over a year ago, I stopped working on the sixth draft on a daily basis (only opening the file every once in a while.) Southern Fried Women took priority for a while. I finished the short stories, found a publisher, and began promoting it ... and now here I am. It's coming down to the end of this long journey. Should I have trashed the novel years ago? Or is it my destiny? How many books have I started and not finished because TELEVENGE calls me to attention every time? I have other books in me, yes, some nearly done. But this one has gripped my heart with a firm hand. It's the book many professionals declare you should write and throw out. "Get that first novel off your chest. Write the sucker and throw it out."
Yet, the green light is still on. I can't help but believe when you know, without a doubt, that there's a higher power involved in finishing a book like this ... you don't throw it out. You finish it. You take it all the way.
And so ... I am. I will do my part and pour myself into the story, one more time. Making it as perfect as I can make it. Then I will leave this book in God's hands. In the meantime, I've got some hot and heavy work ahead of me tonight.
Blessings to you and yours.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Taste of Thai and Ihop
Last night's speech, given to the Southern Guilford New Generation Rotary, was delivered at the Taste of Thai Restaurant. A warm group of Rotarians listened intently and received me with open arms and ... they purchased my book. I love Rotary clubs. They get it. They really do. A growing group, this small but active Rotary feeds the homeless and is involved in children's charities. They are to not only to be commended, but encouraged to continue their quest for growth. Kudos to these great Rotarians.
I invited two of my dearest writing buddies (Ed and Dena) to last night's event to hear my speech. Afterward, we headed into the restaurant, soaking up a few glasses of wine and some spring rolls. Thirty minutes later we decided the Thai food had not quenched our appetites. That's when Ed said, "Ihop ... just around the corner ... anybody up for chocolate chip pancakes?" We paid the bill and lit out of Thailand like pigs at a picnic.
Going from spring rolls, peanut sauce, and wine to pancakes, patty melts, and coffee ... it's a wonder we didn't go home and get sick. But what fun! Writers spend so much time alone, that when they do get together ... it's a party. We celebrated too. Having just ended a long and grueling couple of years on the board of a writing group, that I'll not name, we toasted our relief to be out of it. Kind of like going from spring rolls to pancakes.
Blessings to you and yours.
I invited two of my dearest writing buddies (Ed and Dena) to last night's event to hear my speech. Afterward, we headed into the restaurant, soaking up a few glasses of wine and some spring rolls. Thirty minutes later we decided the Thai food had not quenched our appetites. That's when Ed said, "Ihop ... just around the corner ... anybody up for chocolate chip pancakes?" We paid the bill and lit out of Thailand like pigs at a picnic.
Going from spring rolls, peanut sauce, and wine to pancakes, patty melts, and coffee ... it's a wonder we didn't go home and get sick. But what fun! Writers spend so much time alone, that when they do get together ... it's a party. We celebrated too. Having just ended a long and grueling couple of years on the board of a writing group, that I'll not name, we toasted our relief to be out of it. Kind of like going from spring rolls to pancakes.
Blessings to you and yours.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
A Week Off
A week off from blogging to take time and enjoy family and friends over the holiday. But, as much as you try to relax, it's a stress-filled time. The push to load the week with visiting the masses can wear a body out. Yet, Thanksgiving included all the trimmings. Tina and I cooked all day Wednesday (pies, beans, salads, dressing to name a few sides.) Thursday we popped a turkey in the oven, mashed potatoes, threw the rest in the oven and WaLa ... a Rich and Cable turkey fest! Tim, Dustin, Tina, Michael and I ate until you could nearly roll us from the table to the couch. But the table would've made Martha Stewart proud. I thoroughly enjoyed myself this year. Truly. Thanks to my dear friend, Tina who said, "It's your day ... do it your way!" And I did. Don't you appreciate friends like that. I love these Ohio friends. Tina is a rare diamond in my pocket of rocks from the past.
A day filled with football, food, and fun! I think I watched more TV this week than I do in 6 months at home. Tina and I enjoyed watching the classic, Gone With the Wind. In the end, she didn't really see the attraction of this old film. I suppose when you compare it to the special effects of the thriller movies of today it comes up lacking ... and yet, the epic remains a classic in my mind. The music, the words, the STORY.
Saturday, a book signing and reading at the Learned Owl Book Shop in Hudson, Ohio! We packed the small room downstairs and sold a "right smart many" books. Those yankees know a good book when they see one, bless their hearts.
The rest of the week we visited the Ober Farm, my kids, my sister and her four beautiful girls and four extrodianarly beautiful grandchildren ... and yesterday evening we arrived home. What a week! Gordon and Elaine Ober, their children Martin and Claire, remain part of my beloved family. It was truly a treasure spending time with them and with Aaron, Annie, and Jillian, my children. (Well, Annie is Aaron's girlfriend and I've claimed her.) They fill their lives these days with work, friends, and family all on their own. But I managed to hold my 30-year old daughter on my lap and snuggle a bit.
My sister made us yet another Thanksgiving feast on Sunday ... her family is the light of her life, as they should be. Paula Deen could learn a few things from this family of great cooks. I swear.
Now ... I have to catch up with work. Lord, Lord, I have so much to do and never enough time. Tonight I'm speaking and I need to prepare for that!
Excuse the short blog ... but enjoy the pictures of our great adventure to Ohioland.
A week off and I feel so far behind I think I'm first! (Somethin' my daddy used to say ...)
Blessings to you and yours.
Monday, November 20, 2006
An Ohio Thanksgiving
Off to the land of Champions ... Ohio, home of the Buckeyes. Whoo Hoo! Did you see that game? Me neither. I couldn't open my eyes long enough to watch. A nervous wreck, I had Michael come into my office during commercial intervals and give me the score update.
I think the only attachment I have to Ohio these days, are a few friends, some family, and The Ohio State Buckeyes football team. Jillian (my daughter) lives in Columbus and received both degrees from OSU. My son Aaron, lived, worked, and attended college in Columbus for a while, so we became very attached to the school and its football team. My whole family loves the Buckeyes. Except my stepson, a Penn State fan, but we won't talk about that. Will we, Christopher? We all still love him anyway. Especially his stepsister although she made sure to rub this victory salt in while partying in Columbus last Saturday.
So ... it's going to be the talk at the dinner table in Ohio this week. All the way through Thanksgiving. But isn't that what most American families do on Thanksgiving? Eat until you can't stand up, nap, read the paper, read, watch football. Eat. Enjoy the company of friends and family. Eat. Play games, clean up the kitchen. Eat.
Yeah, us too.
We'll be spending the day with our dear friends, Tina and Tim. At some point during the day, the kids will pop in. I'm going to enjoy this turkey day, I can already feel it.
Here's an update on the Kentucky Book Fair just in ... Email received this morning from the Director: Out of 209 authors SOUTHERN FRIED WOMEN was #11 in Sales--quite a feat for a first time attendee to the Book Fair.
Whoo Hoo, AGAIN!
Just made my Thanksgiving quite the holiday! I give thanks this year for so many rich blessings the good Lord has bestowed on my family and me ... I truly do.
Y'all have a great one, many happy wishes on this blessed day.
Blessings to you and yours. (I won't be blogging again until Tuesday, Nov. 28th ... see you then!)
I think the only attachment I have to Ohio these days, are a few friends, some family, and The Ohio State Buckeyes football team. Jillian (my daughter) lives in Columbus and received both degrees from OSU. My son Aaron, lived, worked, and attended college in Columbus for a while, so we became very attached to the school and its football team. My whole family loves the Buckeyes. Except my stepson, a Penn State fan, but we won't talk about that. Will we, Christopher? We all still love him anyway. Especially his stepsister although she made sure to rub this victory salt in while partying in Columbus last Saturday.
So ... it's going to be the talk at the dinner table in Ohio this week. All the way through Thanksgiving. But isn't that what most American families do on Thanksgiving? Eat until you can't stand up, nap, read the paper, read, watch football. Eat. Enjoy the company of friends and family. Eat. Play games, clean up the kitchen. Eat.
Yeah, us too.
We'll be spending the day with our dear friends, Tina and Tim. At some point during the day, the kids will pop in. I'm going to enjoy this turkey day, I can already feel it.
Here's an update on the Kentucky Book Fair just in ... Email received this morning from the Director: Out of 209 authors SOUTHERN FRIED WOMEN was #11 in Sales--quite a feat for a first time attendee to the Book Fair.
Whoo Hoo, AGAIN!
Just made my Thanksgiving quite the holiday! I give thanks this year for so many rich blessings the good Lord has bestowed on my family and me ... I truly do.
Y'all have a great one, many happy wishes on this blessed day.
Blessings to you and yours. (I won't be blogging again until Tuesday, Nov. 28th ... see you then!)
Sunday, November 19, 2006
How Thick Is Your Skin?
I love entering a room of Rotary members, or a full room of working women who have come just to hear me speak during their lunch. Any writer would appreciate the attention of 200 folk gathered at a hotel for a seminar. I've spoken to groups as large as a 300-400 people. Delivering a speech to that many souls is exhilarating, and yes, a bit nerve-wracking.
But I need to tell you of the lesser events. Of the disappointments. Of the events that humble your spirit, let you know just where you fall in the scheme of things. For to say every place I go is an event, a success, a triumph ... I'd be one foolish writer. One hamburg short of a happy meal. For this blog to be real, you need reality. So ... here you go.
The past couple of days I've spoken at two different libraries. One with an audience of two, and today's audience ... five (one was my husband.) Is it exhilarating and nerve-wracking? No. Obviously, not. But as a writer promoting her first book, I've learned not to take it personal. Many factors are involved. But you're there to get the word out. Even if only to ONE soul.
So, you throw away the speech. Today was really ... pleasant, because not only did I read from the book, of the five in the audience two were writers. We had a great conversation about writing and encouraging each other. The library had set a table with snacks, juice, and soft drinks ... so we enjoyed ruining our supper while we talked.
Was it a waste of time? Some writers would definitely think so. But, I sold six books from those two sparse audiences. It more than paid for the gas to get there. Sure, I could've used the time to be home writing, but I've got a book that's in the process of being promoted. I'll go wherever and whenever to do that. And if only one person shows up, that one person may lead to more book sales than you could imagine.
You have to have a thick skin as a writer. A thick skin not only to ward off rejection and criticism, but showing up to read and talk about your book to an audience of ... one.
Here's a quote by Srully D. Blotnick for every writer to wrap their head around and never forget. "What looks like a loss may be the very event which is subsequently responsible for helping to produce the major achievement of your life."
An old Appalachian song my grandma sang and played on her banjo was, "Keep on the sunny side, always on the sunny side, keep on the sunny side of life ... it will help us every day, it will brighten all the way, if we'll keep on the sunny side of life ..." (Don't know who wrote the lyrics, but it's an old song and maybe you've heard it ...) Just remember to sing it during those times you need to thicken your skin.
Blessings to you and yours.
But I need to tell you of the lesser events. Of the disappointments. Of the events that humble your spirit, let you know just where you fall in the scheme of things. For to say every place I go is an event, a success, a triumph ... I'd be one foolish writer. One hamburg short of a happy meal. For this blog to be real, you need reality. So ... here you go.
The past couple of days I've spoken at two different libraries. One with an audience of two, and today's audience ... five (one was my husband.) Is it exhilarating and nerve-wracking? No. Obviously, not. But as a writer promoting her first book, I've learned not to take it personal. Many factors are involved. But you're there to get the word out. Even if only to ONE soul.
So, you throw away the speech. Today was really ... pleasant, because not only did I read from the book, of the five in the audience two were writers. We had a great conversation about writing and encouraging each other. The library had set a table with snacks, juice, and soft drinks ... so we enjoyed ruining our supper while we talked.
Was it a waste of time? Some writers would definitely think so. But, I sold six books from those two sparse audiences. It more than paid for the gas to get there. Sure, I could've used the time to be home writing, but I've got a book that's in the process of being promoted. I'll go wherever and whenever to do that. And if only one person shows up, that one person may lead to more book sales than you could imagine.
You have to have a thick skin as a writer. A thick skin not only to ward off rejection and criticism, but showing up to read and talk about your book to an audience of ... one.
Here's a quote by Srully D. Blotnick for every writer to wrap their head around and never forget. "What looks like a loss may be the very event which is subsequently responsible for helping to produce the major achievement of your life."
An old Appalachian song my grandma sang and played on her banjo was, "Keep on the sunny side, always on the sunny side, keep on the sunny side of life ... it will help us every day, it will brighten all the way, if we'll keep on the sunny side of life ..." (Don't know who wrote the lyrics, but it's an old song and maybe you've heard it ...) Just remember to sing it during those times you need to thicken your skin.
Blessings to you and yours.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Mt. Airy Business Women Rock!
Mt. Airy, North Carolina. Name ring a bell?
Picture a simpler time ... a fishing pole, a sheriff and his deputy, a little redheaded boy, a town drunk, a goofy gas station attendant, a nosy barber, and a roly-poly mayor ...
Mayberry. The Heart and Soul of America.
The real Mayberry was patterned after the town of Mt. Airy. After all, it is the hometown of Andy Griffith. But my, my ... how times have changed.
Upon entering Main Street today, it still exudes a certain amount of nostalgia. The shops are much the same as they were in the 50s and 60s. Snappy Lunch, the Drug Store, the Sheriff’s Office.
And when I think of Mayberry women, I think of Aunt Bea, Helen Crump, and Thelma Lou. The plethora of women in that old TV show was ideal specimens of women during that time period. They wore house dresses, perfectly coiffed page boys or French twists, baked pies, and waited on Andy and Barney to come a callin'.
Well, let me introduce you to the women of Mt. Airy (Mayberry) today.
Last night, I spoke to the American Business Women's Association of Mt. Airy ... and these gals have turned the tide of "hometown women" into "women in business." Thirty-five women gathered at the Elks Lodge for their Annual Business Associate Event and to honor their elected Woman of the Year. Their motto, "Changing women's lives ... one woman at a time." My keynote speech to them reflected on the power of the Southern voice, and to be proud of their heritage ... but you could already see it in their eyes. This was their town, and they had made a difference as women in Mt. Airy.
This networking group of women belongs to the larger group, a national group of the ABWA. They've been asked to sponsor the statewide event next year in Greensboro, so their pride is well deserved.
Mt. Airy may be Mayberry in the fictional sense ... but in reality, Mt. Airy women have made their mark. They have rocked their community, their world, and have come out on top.
My hat is off today, to the women of Mt. Airy. I was very proud to be a part of them, if only for one evening in November. (And I have to say, the food was fabulous! I thought possibly Aunt Bea might've joined the ABWA and had agreed to cook for this event!)
Blessings to you and yours.
Picture a simpler time ... a fishing pole, a sheriff and his deputy, a little redheaded boy, a town drunk, a goofy gas station attendant, a nosy barber, and a roly-poly mayor ...
Mayberry. The Heart and Soul of America.
The real Mayberry was patterned after the town of Mt. Airy. After all, it is the hometown of Andy Griffith. But my, my ... how times have changed.
Upon entering Main Street today, it still exudes a certain amount of nostalgia. The shops are much the same as they were in the 50s and 60s. Snappy Lunch, the Drug Store, the Sheriff’s Office.
And when I think of Mayberry women, I think of Aunt Bea, Helen Crump, and Thelma Lou. The plethora of women in that old TV show was ideal specimens of women during that time period. They wore house dresses, perfectly coiffed page boys or French twists, baked pies, and waited on Andy and Barney to come a callin'.
Well, let me introduce you to the women of Mt. Airy (Mayberry) today.
Last night, I spoke to the American Business Women's Association of Mt. Airy ... and these gals have turned the tide of "hometown women" into "women in business." Thirty-five women gathered at the Elks Lodge for their Annual Business Associate Event and to honor their elected Woman of the Year. Their motto, "Changing women's lives ... one woman at a time." My keynote speech to them reflected on the power of the Southern voice, and to be proud of their heritage ... but you could already see it in their eyes. This was their town, and they had made a difference as women in Mt. Airy.
This networking group of women belongs to the larger group, a national group of the ABWA. They've been asked to sponsor the statewide event next year in Greensboro, so their pride is well deserved.
Mt. Airy may be Mayberry in the fictional sense ... but in reality, Mt. Airy women have made their mark. They have rocked their community, their world, and have come out on top.
My hat is off today, to the women of Mt. Airy. I was very proud to be a part of them, if only for one evening in November. (And I have to say, the food was fabulous! I thought possibly Aunt Bea might've joined the ABWA and had agreed to cook for this event!)
Blessings to you and yours.
Saturday, November 11, 2006
Call Me Kentucky Happy!
Sitting in my hotel room, after returning from the Kentucky Book Fair in Frankfort, euphoria has overtaken my mood.
(In case you're wondering, that's me and Ann B. Ross in the picture.) I headed to KY with no real exectation (nor excitement) for sitting AGAIN all day behind a table, waiting to sell my book ... nor did I expect anybody to show up as I awoke to nasty weather and lots of rain in Frankfort. But this book fair took on a whole new meaning to sitting behind a signing table! What a trip! These folks in KY know what they're doing! Kentuckians love their books!
The committee was friendly and bent-over-backwards-helpful. They filed past my table all day, asking if I needed anything, even brought me lunch. But beside the typical networking, the crowds were enormous! All day long, folks filed past, saw the book and ... smiled. Many made the rounds then came back to buy. It didn't hurt that I sat directly across from two of my favorite authors, Ann B. Ross and Silas House. And what was so cool ... I was interviewed by local cable TV right there at my table! I'll take free TV publicity any day. I made great connections and created more speaking possibilities in the future.
In the end, I nearly sold out ... I sold 80 books! That's a whole lot for a venue like this where there are hundreds of books to choose from. And believe me, folks noticed. I got to speak today to a room full of authors. We traded information about book promotion and public speaking.
The entire book fair was run by Connie Crowe, manager of the Kentucky Book fair, and her crew. Joseph Beth Booksellers assisted in check out. They came to my table twice to ask if I had enough books because ... "we're seeing lots of your books sold at the cash registers ... want to make sure you won't run out!"
Thank goodness, Michael threw an extra box in the car before we left home. But ... Joseph Beth was able to get a clear picture of the top sellers ... do you think they might put the book on their shelves, without someone coming in and ordering it? Hmmm. I sure hope so.
Today was a great success. We more than paid for the trip ... take note writers.
The picture here is the first crowd of the morning, but as the day progressed, so did the crowds. By 10:30 a.m., you couldn't move. Mike and I were astonished as men and women bought bags of books. It renewed my faith in the reading market. It thrills me there are still so many folks reading books out there!
One woman stopped at my table and bought EIGHT books. Count 'em ... 8! They were for her book club. They're going to read Southern Fried Women! And it's plain thrilling when someone walks up to your table and says, "I came today just to see you and get this book I've heard so much about!" Made me want to get up and kiss them. I swear ... I had to refrain myself!
Michael and I were road-weary on our way here ... but when you see the fruits of your labor up close and personal like we did today ... it made the trip more than worth it.
I'm eternally thankful to the many readers who bought Southern Fried Women and said, "would you sign my book?" I'm more grateful to the KY Book Fair committee for believing SFW would be a great addition to their long list of books. The day flew by, so many folks walked past, stopped to talk, then buy.
I'm just plain ole' happy tonight. Thank you, Kentucky.
Blessings to you and yours.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
Stuck in the South
Traveling across the South, delivering speeches from the bottom of my heart, I've met a few transplanted Southerners who amaze me.
And not in a good way.
It's been an eye-opening experience for me lately, that some people just don't want to live where they've ended up. An awakening. In fact, a few women I’ve met … two, as of late … walked up to me after my speech and declared with innate sadness in their voices, “I hate the South … I’ve been here (30, 25) years … and I hate it. I’m originally from the North! I want to go back!”
I wanted to cry. Why? What made them tell me this, I wonder?
One lady hailed from Michigan, the other born and bred in Minnesota, but both women were quite clear in their voice and in their meaning. They hated the South.
“I’m stuck down here!” Their proclamation astounding, but nevertheless, they wanted me to know it!
And I thought to myself … Nobody should be stuck anywhere. Not in America.
But then, I’ve been thinking about these women for the past few days … why in God’s earth would they say this to me? There I was, clearly a Southerner, I’d just delivered my heart – an inspiring speech about Southern accents, Southern women, and my love for this region of the country … and these women, without warning, blurt out … “I hate the South!” I think it surprised them as much as did me.
Suddenly, I was at a loss for words.
Next shock ... they buy my book. (Maybe they bought it to be nice and then went home and buried it in the backyard or something, who knows ...)
I mulled their statement over and over for hours. Then I realized … I had to "put this experience to bed." I couldn't figure it it out. We all know there’s good, bad, and ugly everywhere you go.
Ah, but once you fall in love with a place … it’s like falling in love with a person … you love them faults and all. And just like a human, every area of the country has its good points and not-so-good points. Even Minnesota and Michigan.
But most, or rather the majority of women who hear me speak … have found a sense of pride in the fact they were born, grew up, and have lived, worked, and will die in the South. They’re women who’ve raised their children in the suburbs of Atlanta, Memphis, and Birmingham. They’ve carved out careers in the cities of Savannah, Tallahassee, and Charleston, and labored side by side with their fathers and then their husbands on rural farms in Arkansas, Tennessee, and North Carolina. They’re women who’ve returned to the Southland when the rest of the country made no sense to them. The land of tobacco and cotton, mountains and sea dunes, red dirt and bayou—this land speaks to them, like none other. It’s home to them. It’s life to them.
My reply to the women stuck in the South was simply, “I’m sorry, it’s a real shame you feel that way, Ma’am.” And I smiled. Because whatever it was that made them feel this way … I am truly sorry it happened. Sorry they couldn’t get comfortable here. Because clearly--they’re miserable, unhappy women. The look on their faces were evidence to it.
As they walked away, I mumbled, “I would love to know how many Southern women live in the North and feel STUCK.” And then it hit me like two by four! Wham! I WAS ONE OF THOSE WOMEN!
But, bless God, I unstuck myself! I wanted to say to the women I met … How horrible for you to live in a place you don’t want to be. How devastating it must be to you each day you wake up as life passes you by and you dream about your home … wherever that is.
I wanted to reach out and take them by the hand and say, “Don’t buy my book, Darlin’. Save your money … and find a way to go home.”
Don’t live the rest of your life feeling … stuck in the South, or anywhere for that matter!
Blessings to you and yours.
And not in a good way.
It's been an eye-opening experience for me lately, that some people just don't want to live where they've ended up. An awakening. In fact, a few women I’ve met … two, as of late … walked up to me after my speech and declared with innate sadness in their voices, “I hate the South … I’ve been here (30, 25) years … and I hate it. I’m originally from the North! I want to go back!”
I wanted to cry. Why? What made them tell me this, I wonder?
One lady hailed from Michigan, the other born and bred in Minnesota, but both women were quite clear in their voice and in their meaning. They hated the South.
“I’m stuck down here!” Their proclamation astounding, but nevertheless, they wanted me to know it!
And I thought to myself … Nobody should be stuck anywhere. Not in America.
But then, I’ve been thinking about these women for the past few days … why in God’s earth would they say this to me? There I was, clearly a Southerner, I’d just delivered my heart – an inspiring speech about Southern accents, Southern women, and my love for this region of the country … and these women, without warning, blurt out … “I hate the South!” I think it surprised them as much as did me.
Suddenly, I was at a loss for words.
Next shock ... they buy my book. (Maybe they bought it to be nice and then went home and buried it in the backyard or something, who knows ...)
I mulled their statement over and over for hours. Then I realized … I had to "put this experience to bed." I couldn't figure it it out. We all know there’s good, bad, and ugly everywhere you go.
Ah, but once you fall in love with a place … it’s like falling in love with a person … you love them faults and all. And just like a human, every area of the country has its good points and not-so-good points. Even Minnesota and Michigan.
But most, or rather the majority of women who hear me speak … have found a sense of pride in the fact they were born, grew up, and have lived, worked, and will die in the South. They’re women who’ve raised their children in the suburbs of Atlanta, Memphis, and Birmingham. They’ve carved out careers in the cities of Savannah, Tallahassee, and Charleston, and labored side by side with their fathers and then their husbands on rural farms in Arkansas, Tennessee, and North Carolina. They’re women who’ve returned to the Southland when the rest of the country made no sense to them. The land of tobacco and cotton, mountains and sea dunes, red dirt and bayou—this land speaks to them, like none other. It’s home to them. It’s life to them.
My reply to the women stuck in the South was simply, “I’m sorry, it’s a real shame you feel that way, Ma’am.” And I smiled. Because whatever it was that made them feel this way … I am truly sorry it happened. Sorry they couldn’t get comfortable here. Because clearly--they’re miserable, unhappy women. The look on their faces were evidence to it.
As they walked away, I mumbled, “I would love to know how many Southern women live in the North and feel STUCK.” And then it hit me like two by four! Wham! I WAS ONE OF THOSE WOMEN!
But, bless God, I unstuck myself! I wanted to say to the women I met … How horrible for you to live in a place you don’t want to be. How devastating it must be to you each day you wake up as life passes you by and you dream about your home … wherever that is.
I wanted to reach out and take them by the hand and say, “Don’t buy my book, Darlin’. Save your money … and find a way to go home.”
Don’t live the rest of your life feeling … stuck in the South, or anywhere for that matter!
Blessings to you and yours.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Trashy
Why is that when a woman looks a certain way, a little too heavy on the eye makeup or bad hair-dye job, folks just automatically assume … “oooh girl, look at her, she’s so trashy.”
Or a risqué song comes on the radio and your momma says, “Turn that nasty song off … it’s trashy.”
And then, according to my dad, there’s “trashy TV.” Desperate Housewives, (my mom’s favorite that she thinks we don’t know about) COPS, most reality shows … Dad just lumps them all into one big trash heap.
How about my neighbors across the street. It’s a rental house. These folks haul loads and loads of trash out every week to the side of the road. Where do they get this stuff? And it’s always the DAY AFTER the trash trucks pick up. Therefore, we have to look at their trash for a whole WEEK before pickup. I’ve called the City. All they do is whine that there’s nothing they can do. “It’s not their jurisdiction!” Better yet, they don’t even try. They’re not proactive enough to even think about giving me a name or phone number of anybody I can call who might be able to do something about it. They’re clueless. And we have to put up with trashy neighbors … all week.
But then, I remember a time in the distant past… those dark corners of my remembrance, about a instance I'd just as soon forget. A memory that sometimes comes back to me in my dreams. In those days, I walked in a dream world as if trudging through waist-high mud toward a shore I knew was there but could not see. Searching for some rocky substance I could grab hold of and pull myself out of the tar pit.
I faintly remember one cold, gray winter day from my long-ago past. A moment when I walked out of work to go to my car. My coat was old, tattered. My hair, in need of a good cut and combing. My shoes (funny how I remember the shoes) were worn down. And my countenance, I’m sure, as gray as the sky and tired. I walked past two young girls in the lobby of the building where I worked. I believe they were waiting in line to get into an expensive downtown restaurant. I remember being hungry, having no money until payday, and dreading going out into the cold to get in a car I had no idea would start or if I had enough gas to get home.
These trendy, hip, young girls, their world seemed rosy and sweet to me. In their early 20s, their hair beautifully done, pretty faces, nice smart clothes, I knew they worked in some law firm on the 14th floor. As I walked past, the one young girl said to the other …”She’s either poor as dirt or plain trashy.”
I suppose I was both. I recall thinking that if I ever saw a woman who looked like me; I would never think of her like that. I would never judge a woman by the color of her skin, the shape of her body, the newness of her clothes, or the countenance of her expression. I would assume she was in need, and that quite possibly, she’d just hoed a long row of sorrow. Maybe of her own doing, but who cares. I would know she was hurting, and nobody, not within my earshot would ever call her trashy.
The word stuck to me like glue for a long time … trashy. It’s a funny word … comedians use it a lot. It’s moved into a universal definition … for one who is a lesser human because they cannot afford the best food, clothes, cars, and homes. I think everyone should experience a little bit of “trashy” in their lifetime.
Maybe I should go across the street and ask my trashy neighbors if they need some help carrying it to the curb, think?
Blessings to you and yours.
Or a risqué song comes on the radio and your momma says, “Turn that nasty song off … it’s trashy.”
And then, according to my dad, there’s “trashy TV.” Desperate Housewives, (my mom’s favorite that she thinks we don’t know about) COPS, most reality shows … Dad just lumps them all into one big trash heap.
How about my neighbors across the street. It’s a rental house. These folks haul loads and loads of trash out every week to the side of the road. Where do they get this stuff? And it’s always the DAY AFTER the trash trucks pick up. Therefore, we have to look at their trash for a whole WEEK before pickup. I’ve called the City. All they do is whine that there’s nothing they can do. “It’s not their jurisdiction!” Better yet, they don’t even try. They’re not proactive enough to even think about giving me a name or phone number of anybody I can call who might be able to do something about it. They’re clueless. And we have to put up with trashy neighbors … all week.
But then, I remember a time in the distant past… those dark corners of my remembrance, about a instance I'd just as soon forget. A memory that sometimes comes back to me in my dreams. In those days, I walked in a dream world as if trudging through waist-high mud toward a shore I knew was there but could not see. Searching for some rocky substance I could grab hold of and pull myself out of the tar pit.
I faintly remember one cold, gray winter day from my long-ago past. A moment when I walked out of work to go to my car. My coat was old, tattered. My hair, in need of a good cut and combing. My shoes (funny how I remember the shoes) were worn down. And my countenance, I’m sure, as gray as the sky and tired. I walked past two young girls in the lobby of the building where I worked. I believe they were waiting in line to get into an expensive downtown restaurant. I remember being hungry, having no money until payday, and dreading going out into the cold to get in a car I had no idea would start or if I had enough gas to get home.
These trendy, hip, young girls, their world seemed rosy and sweet to me. In their early 20s, their hair beautifully done, pretty faces, nice smart clothes, I knew they worked in some law firm on the 14th floor. As I walked past, the one young girl said to the other …”She’s either poor as dirt or plain trashy.”
I suppose I was both. I recall thinking that if I ever saw a woman who looked like me; I would never think of her like that. I would never judge a woman by the color of her skin, the shape of her body, the newness of her clothes, or the countenance of her expression. I would assume she was in need, and that quite possibly, she’d just hoed a long row of sorrow. Maybe of her own doing, but who cares. I would know she was hurting, and nobody, not within my earshot would ever call her trashy.
The word stuck to me like glue for a long time … trashy. It’s a funny word … comedians use it a lot. It’s moved into a universal definition … for one who is a lesser human because they cannot afford the best food, clothes, cars, and homes. I think everyone should experience a little bit of “trashy” in their lifetime.
Maybe I should go across the street and ask my trashy neighbors if they need some help carrying it to the curb, think?
Blessings to you and yours.
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