If you’ve followed me for any length of time, you know I’m a coalminer’s granddaughter. My story, Coal Dust On My Feet, published 2006 in my collection of short stories, Southern Fried Women, is near and dear to my heart. Based on a real town with real characters, it's a love story set amidst the longest and most violent coal strike in our country’s history. A story that involved my family.
So when I read the following essay, published in the April 14th newsletter of the West Virginia Writers, I had to give honor to it.
Mourning in the Mountains
By: Denise Giardina - writer-in-residence at West Virginia State University. This essay was published in Charleston, WV on April 6, 2010
People in West Virginia had hoped that on Monday night we would gather around televisions with family and friends to watch our beloved Mountaineers face Butler in our first chance at the men’s N.C.A.A. basketball title since 1959. Men working evening shifts in the coal mines would get to listen thanks to radio coverage piped in from the surface. Expectations ran high; even President Obama, surveying the Final Four, predicted West Virginia would win.
Then, on Tuesday morning, we would wake to triumphant headlines in sports pages across the country. At last, we would say, something good has happened to West Virginia. The whole nation would see us in a new light. And we would cry.
Instead, halfway through Saturday night’s semifinal against Duke, our star forward, Da’Sean Butler, tore a ligament in his knee, and the Mountaineers crumbled. And on Monday evening, while Duke and Butler played in what for us was now merely a game, West Virginians gathered around televisions to watch news of a coal mine disaster.
On Tuesday, the headline in The Charleston Gazette read instead: Miners Dead, Missing in Raleigh Explosion. And we cried.
Despite the sunny skies and unseasonably warm weather, the mood here in southern West Virginia is subdued. As of Tuesday afternoon, 25 men have been confirmed dead, two are critically injured, and four are missing and presumed dead. Their fellow West Virginians work round the clock and risk their own lives to retrieve the bodies.
Already outrage is focused on Massey Energy, owner of the Upper Big Branch mine. Massey has a history of negligence, and Upper Big Branch has often been cited in recent years for problems, including failure to properly vent methane gas, which officials say might have been the cause of Monday’s explosion.
It seems we can’t escape our heritage. I grew up in a coal camp in the southern part of the state. Every day my school bus drove past a sign posted by the local coal company keeping tally, like a basketball scoreboard, of “man hours” lost to accidents. From time to time classmates whose fathers had been killed or maimed would disappear, their families gone elsewhere to seek work.
We knew then, and know now, that we are a national sacrifice area. We mine coal despite the danger to miners, the damage to the environment and the monomaniacal control of an industry that keeps economic diversity from flourishing here. We do it because America says it needs the coal we provide.
West Virginians get little thanks in return. Our miners have historically received little protection, and our politicians remain subservient to Big Coal. Meanwhile, West Virginia is either ignored by the rest of the nation or is the butt of jokes about ignorant hillbillies.
Here in West Virginia we will forget our fleeting dream of basketball glory and get about the business of mourning. It is, after all, something we do very well. In the area around the Upper Big Branch, families of the dead will gather in churches and their neighbors will come to pray with them. They will go home, and the same neighbors will show up bearing platters of fried chicken and potato salad and cakes. The funeral homes will be jammed, the mourners in their best suits and ties and Sunday dresses.
And perhaps this time President Obama and Americans will pay attention, and notice West Virginia at last.
West Virginia Writers, Inc. Established 1977 http://www.wvwriters.org/
Blessings to the people of West Virginia this day and in the days to come.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
A True Writer
Every year I purchase at least one new book on the business of writing. This year, the Writer's Guide to 2010 tickled my interest. (Writer's Institute Publications/Editor Susan M. Tierney/Publisher Prescott V. Kelly)
I'm reading a section called A Mosaic of Images by Cindy Rogers and there I find the best description of a true writer that I've heard in a long time. Cindy quotes Annie Dillard from her essay, "Living Like Weasels." Cindy compares the essay to the tenacity of writers. Cindy says about reading and writing "... I will never give them up; I will let them take me wherever they want, until my eyes burn out, until my flesh falls off in shreds, until my bones unhinge and scatter."
Powerful. The cliche 'until I die' seems rather boring after reading the above.
Blessings to you and yours.
I'm reading a section called A Mosaic of Images by Cindy Rogers and there I find the best description of a true writer that I've heard in a long time. Cindy quotes Annie Dillard from her essay, "Living Like Weasels." Cindy compares the essay to the tenacity of writers. Cindy says about reading and writing "... I will never give them up; I will let them take me wherever they want, until my eyes burn out, until my flesh falls off in shreds, until my bones unhinge and scatter."
Powerful. The cliche 'until I die' seems rather boring after reading the above.
Blessings to you and yours.
Thursday, April 08, 2010
Fingers For Rent
I've been plowing my literary field this spring. My office is a mess. I've written scenes for my next novel; they're splayed across a long, skinny table as I work relentlessly on this story. I'm concentrating on my research and pulling it in as needed. In a few weeks I'm visiting a wolf sanctuary. If my suspicions are correct, wolves are not what they have been portrayed. A critical piece of the narrative, the wolves represent the strange and the misunderstood. That which needs protected. Not destroyed.
As I roll deeper into the story, I'm finding--once again--my characters have voices of their own, totally separate and apart from me. It's a bizarre metamorphosis. I look down and suddenly my fingers are those of a thirteen-year-old girl, fair and fragile. Within minutes, they turn old and masculine. They're covered with tobacco that clings to my arms like pine resin. They belong to a black man who types as fast as the wind. He's got a few things to say. Because it's 1960, and the times, they are a changing.
A scene change and my hands belong to another character. They're slow and angry, and hot to the touch. Dangerous. They belong to a man, this time he's white and wrinkled. The fingers pound the keys and occasionally they ball into a fist. But just like that, they fade into another set of hands and suddenly I'm needing to get up and find my own fingers again. I need coffee. A break. It's not easy allowing these characters to flow through you and come out your fingers. It's not easy.
I have to laugh. I think I've read and studied every good book on writing from here to eternity in the past twenty years. But nobody can teach you how to tell a great story. Don Maass has come about as close to anybody I've heard, but in the end ... I've learned it's almost a spiritual thing. My explanation is that we have to become somebody else.
We have to look out the eyes of the man/woman/boy/girl/animal we're writing. A good storyteller can write it down and make it believable. But a great storyteller can become his or her character and make it real. I've learned that, I can only hope that in the end, that is my accomplishment.
One does not write to fulfill a fantasy. Or to become rich. A real writer writes because if they don't, they go mad and become a conglomerate of all of the characters stored inside them. Or worse, the writer shrivels up and fades away. Take away a writer's pencil or keyboard, and you strip the soul away. A writer is many people, patiently waiting for their turn to tell their story.
That's it. It's how God made me. I can't help it. I plow my literary field and life goes on. Until one day when it stops. Hopefully, by then, every character inside of me will have had their chance to use my fingers.
Blessings to you and yours.
As I roll deeper into the story, I'm finding--once again--my characters have voices of their own, totally separate and apart from me. It's a bizarre metamorphosis. I look down and suddenly my fingers are those of a thirteen-year-old girl, fair and fragile. Within minutes, they turn old and masculine. They're covered with tobacco that clings to my arms like pine resin. They belong to a black man who types as fast as the wind. He's got a few things to say. Because it's 1960, and the times, they are a changing.
A scene change and my hands belong to another character. They're slow and angry, and hot to the touch. Dangerous. They belong to a man, this time he's white and wrinkled. The fingers pound the keys and occasionally they ball into a fist. But just like that, they fade into another set of hands and suddenly I'm needing to get up and find my own fingers again. I need coffee. A break. It's not easy allowing these characters to flow through you and come out your fingers. It's not easy.
I have to laugh. I think I've read and studied every good book on writing from here to eternity in the past twenty years. But nobody can teach you how to tell a great story. Don Maass has come about as close to anybody I've heard, but in the end ... I've learned it's almost a spiritual thing. My explanation is that we have to become somebody else.
We have to look out the eyes of the man/woman/boy/girl/animal we're writing. A good storyteller can write it down and make it believable. But a great storyteller can become his or her character and make it real. I've learned that, I can only hope that in the end, that is my accomplishment.
One does not write to fulfill a fantasy. Or to become rich. A real writer writes because if they don't, they go mad and become a conglomerate of all of the characters stored inside them. Or worse, the writer shrivels up and fades away. Take away a writer's pencil or keyboard, and you strip the soul away. A writer is many people, patiently waiting for their turn to tell their story.
That's it. It's how God made me. I can't help it. I plow my literary field and life goes on. Until one day when it stops. Hopefully, by then, every character inside of me will have had their chance to use my fingers.
Blessings to you and yours.
Friday, April 02, 2010
Good Friday Thoughts
It's difficult to put into words, really, my random thoughts about this day.
Years ago, Good Friday for me meant a four-to-five hour Holy Communion Service, which consisted of a hell, fire, and brimstone sermon, worn-out choir numbers, a miracle massacre healing service, concluding with a candlelight "shhhh, angels are in the midst of us" communion service. Long, drawn-out, Hollywood productions where we sang the Old Rugged Cross over and over and over. But I honestly believe few of us really knew the true meaning of that day.
Guilt and anguish washed over me for just wanting to be home, filling my kids Easter baskets with jelly beans, Reese's peanut butter eggs, and those marshmallowy peeps. (Hey, it was the 70s, we didn't do nutrition back then.)
My point is, I was always so wrapped up in a Please God, get me out of this church service prayer, that I never saw Good Friday for what it truly was. I was forced to go to church, at gunpoint it seemed, and then blasted out of my pew with fear, guilt, and shame for not wanting to join the rest of the congregation while they flocked to the altar for their weekly obligation of weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth. If the preacher didn't see us prostrate at least once a month, then we were not walking in the "divine" will of the Lord.
As far as I know, this is still going on in that messed-up church- to this very day. I know. Sick.
So, Pam, what do you believe about Good Friday?
Do I believe Jesus was brought before Pontius Pilate and that he had him flogged until the flesh fell off his bones?
Yes. I do.
Do I believe that Pilate declared Jesus innocent, washing his own hands in water to show he had no part in this condemnation?
Yes. I do.
Do I believe Pilate handed Jesus over to be crucified in order to hold off a riot and ultimately to keep his job?
You bet.
Do I believe Jesus carried his cross to the place of the Skull, or Golgotha as it is known in Hebrew, or Calvary-the Latin word for the site of execution?
Yes.
Do I believe Jesus agonized on the cross for six hours. And that during his last three hours on the cross, from noon to 3pm, there was darkness over the whole earth?
Absolutely.
Do I really believe when Jesus died that there was an earthquake, that tombs broke open, and a centurion on guard at the site of crucifixion declared, "Truly, this was God's Son!"
With all my heart, I believe it.
Did Jesus die for the sins of the world?
Yes. He did.
Was he resurrected on the third day?
Yes, He was resurrected!
Is Jesus the Son of God?
Without a doubt.
I never doubted it. I never doubted the story, because my heart tells me it's true. I believe we were created to worship Him. I never believed anything less, than Christ, His blood, and his righteousness.
But at least now, I can focus on the message, and never again the delivery.
Blessings to you and yours on this Good Friday.
Years ago, Good Friday for me meant a four-to-five hour Holy Communion Service, which consisted of a hell, fire, and brimstone sermon, worn-out choir numbers, a miracle massacre healing service, concluding with a candlelight "shhhh, angels are in the midst of us" communion service. Long, drawn-out, Hollywood productions where we sang the Old Rugged Cross over and over and over. But I honestly believe few of us really knew the true meaning of that day.
Guilt and anguish washed over me for just wanting to be home, filling my kids Easter baskets with jelly beans, Reese's peanut butter eggs, and those marshmallowy peeps. (Hey, it was the 70s, we didn't do nutrition back then.)
My point is, I was always so wrapped up in a Please God, get me out of this church service prayer, that I never saw Good Friday for what it truly was. I was forced to go to church, at gunpoint it seemed, and then blasted out of my pew with fear, guilt, and shame for not wanting to join the rest of the congregation while they flocked to the altar for their weekly obligation of weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth. If the preacher didn't see us prostrate at least once a month, then we were not walking in the "divine" will of the Lord.
As far as I know, this is still going on in that messed-up church- to this very day. I know. Sick.
So, Pam, what do you believe about Good Friday?
Do I believe Jesus was brought before Pontius Pilate and that he had him flogged until the flesh fell off his bones?
Yes. I do.
Do I believe that Pilate declared Jesus innocent, washing his own hands in water to show he had no part in this condemnation?
Yes. I do.
Do I believe Pilate handed Jesus over to be crucified in order to hold off a riot and ultimately to keep his job?
You bet.
Do I believe Jesus carried his cross to the place of the Skull, or Golgotha as it is known in Hebrew, or Calvary-the Latin word for the site of execution?
Yes.
Do I believe Jesus agonized on the cross for six hours. And that during his last three hours on the cross, from noon to 3pm, there was darkness over the whole earth?
Absolutely.
Do I really believe when Jesus died that there was an earthquake, that tombs broke open, and a centurion on guard at the site of crucifixion declared, "Truly, this was God's Son!"
With all my heart, I believe it.
Did Jesus die for the sins of the world?
Yes. He did.
Was he resurrected on the third day?
Yes, He was resurrected!
Is Jesus the Son of God?
Without a doubt.
I never doubted it. I never doubted the story, because my heart tells me it's true. I believe we were created to worship Him. I never believed anything less, than Christ, His blood, and his righteousness.
But at least now, I can focus on the message, and never again the delivery.
Blessings to you and yours on this Good Friday.
Monday, March 29, 2010
The Deer Hunter Is Having A Girl
Received a telephone call today ... my son, Aaron and his wife, Annie ... are having a girl.
I'm thrilled!
Everything looks great! Her grandparents are in hog heaven today, as well as her Aunts and Uncles. Baby Girl's not even here yet, and I feel as though we know her already. The ability to tell the sex of a child before it's born makes the whole process much more real and closer to us somehow.
My son, who served his country as a U.S. Marine and sports arms the size of Montana, those tree-trunk arms are ready to hold his baby girl. The thing is, although Aaron has a neck as big and round as a tractor tire, works on jets, drives a pickup truck, and hunts deer in his spare time with bow, muzzle loader, and a Remington ... having a girl is perfect.
Yes, perfect. For Bub's heart, as I've seen and experienced on many occasions, is soft. I think a girl will soften it even more. His wife, Dr. Annie, a college professor, is as precious is the day is long. She's smart and funny, and thank you Annie, you did good!
Their little girl will be the best thing that ever happened to both of them. I'm quite sure. Get some rest, Annie and Aaron ... I love you both.
Aaron's comment to me on the phone this morning made me laugh -- "Well ... Mom," he said, "It's all good. Except with a boy you only have to worry about one penis. With a girl, I'm going to have to worry about a hundred of 'em."
It'll be fine. His Remington shotgun may come in handy for something after all, besides deer.
Blessings to you, my little grand baby girl.
I'm thrilled!
Everything looks great! Her grandparents are in hog heaven today, as well as her Aunts and Uncles. Baby Girl's not even here yet, and I feel as though we know her already. The ability to tell the sex of a child before it's born makes the whole process much more real and closer to us somehow.
My son, who served his country as a U.S. Marine and sports arms the size of Montana, those tree-trunk arms are ready to hold his baby girl. The thing is, although Aaron has a neck as big and round as a tractor tire, works on jets, drives a pickup truck, and hunts deer in his spare time with bow, muzzle loader, and a Remington ... having a girl is perfect.
Yes, perfect. For Bub's heart, as I've seen and experienced on many occasions, is soft. I think a girl will soften it even more. His wife, Dr. Annie, a college professor, is as precious is the day is long. She's smart and funny, and thank you Annie, you did good!
Their little girl will be the best thing that ever happened to both of them. I'm quite sure. Get some rest, Annie and Aaron ... I love you both.
Aaron's comment to me on the phone this morning made me laugh -- "Well ... Mom," he said, "It's all good. Except with a boy you only have to worry about one penis. With a girl, I'm going to have to worry about a hundred of 'em."
It'll be fine. His Remington shotgun may come in handy for something after all, besides deer.
Blessings to you, my little grand baby girl.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Supernatural Animal Connection
The story goes that my cousin's dog came up missing early one morning. My cousin, Margie, is blind. Her seeing-eye dog, a Labrador retriever, served as her eyes and lifelong protector. Her dog had been her best friend and partner for over 13 years.
Margie's brothers, my cousins David and TJ, set out on a hunt for her dog. They searched everywhere thinking that when Margie got out of bed, she would worry about her dog. Finally, after a three-hour search, they found him--near a creek a couple miles down the road. He had laid down and died.
When they arrived home, concerned about how to tell Margie about her beloved dog, they found that Margie had passed away in her bed some time during the night. Stranger than fiction, isn't it? A sad, sad story, but wondrous in another way. For it seems to me there is a world unknown to us. The world of animal connection.
Of all the animals in the world, I believe our pets hold a special connection to the human world we cannot see or hear. For centuries, our domesticated animals have been loved, nurtured, adored, and unfortunately abused, by humans. We've taught birds how to talk, dogs how to sniff out drugs and cancer, and I've heard of more than one cat that has saved their owner from a house fire.
I was told in church many years ago, that animals do not have souls. As God made man a little lower than the angels, he also made animals a little lower than man. That when a dog dies, that's it. No life after death for animals. I think that's a load of crap. (The ministry I grew up in dished out a lot of crap, as if every member were mentally challenged with no mind of their own. Things have changed.)
Obviously, I no longer believe that. I believe the bond between humans and their animals is often stronger than to other humans. For example, my dear friends, Tim and Tina. Their German Shepard passed away last year from a tumor. They're still grieving. The death of their dog, Casey, altered the course of their life. I don't believe they'll ever get over it. They'll get used to being without him, but never over it. My dear friend, Dena, does not have children, but don't tell her that. Her Lucy and Olivia kitties are her babies.
The unconditional love we receive from animals is a God-given virtue. It's why so many fight for animal rights. They've experienced that love somewhere along the way.
When I hear about someone who has abused an animal, I find it's always a demented and tormented individual. Somebody who needs either locked up, sedated on heavy doses of drugs, or wrapped in a straight jacket. Someone who should neither own an animal nor bear a child. And when you find a ferocious dog, it's usually because a human has mistreated it.
There are things in this life we cannot see or hear as humans. Dogs and cats, it seems to me, were created for our pleasure and enjoyment. We cannot hug a lion, but we can purr along with our kitty-cats. We cannot romp and play with a grizzly, but God has blessed us with the companionship of our pooch. We cannot hop on a rhinoceros, but we can trot all the way to the next county on top of our palomino. Only in Heaven will the lion lay down with a lamb.
But your animals are your extended family members. They deserve love. They know us, often, better than we know ourselves. They talk to us in ways we don't think about. They save us from cancer, fires, floods--from death.
I believe, with my whole heart, God gives us the desires of our hearts. He did not give you the love of your dog or cat to never see it again after its passing. I believe Margie and her dog are together in Heaven, except now, Margie can see her dog. Your precious pet that is loved by you is awarded a piece of your soul. You'll see it again.
I'm sure of it.
Blessings to you and yours.
Margie's brothers, my cousins David and TJ, set out on a hunt for her dog. They searched everywhere thinking that when Margie got out of bed, she would worry about her dog. Finally, after a three-hour search, they found him--near a creek a couple miles down the road. He had laid down and died.
When they arrived home, concerned about how to tell Margie about her beloved dog, they found that Margie had passed away in her bed some time during the night. Stranger than fiction, isn't it? A sad, sad story, but wondrous in another way. For it seems to me there is a world unknown to us. The world of animal connection.
Of all the animals in the world, I believe our pets hold a special connection to the human world we cannot see or hear. For centuries, our domesticated animals have been loved, nurtured, adored, and unfortunately abused, by humans. We've taught birds how to talk, dogs how to sniff out drugs and cancer, and I've heard of more than one cat that has saved their owner from a house fire.
I was told in church many years ago, that animals do not have souls. As God made man a little lower than the angels, he also made animals a little lower than man. That when a dog dies, that's it. No life after death for animals. I think that's a load of crap. (The ministry I grew up in dished out a lot of crap, as if every member were mentally challenged with no mind of their own. Things have changed.)
Obviously, I no longer believe that. I believe the bond between humans and their animals is often stronger than to other humans. For example, my dear friends, Tim and Tina. Their German Shepard passed away last year from a tumor. They're still grieving. The death of their dog, Casey, altered the course of their life. I don't believe they'll ever get over it. They'll get used to being without him, but never over it. My dear friend, Dena, does not have children, but don't tell her that. Her Lucy and Olivia kitties are her babies.
The unconditional love we receive from animals is a God-given virtue. It's why so many fight for animal rights. They've experienced that love somewhere along the way.
When I hear about someone who has abused an animal, I find it's always a demented and tormented individual. Somebody who needs either locked up, sedated on heavy doses of drugs, or wrapped in a straight jacket. Someone who should neither own an animal nor bear a child. And when you find a ferocious dog, it's usually because a human has mistreated it.
There are things in this life we cannot see or hear as humans. Dogs and cats, it seems to me, were created for our pleasure and enjoyment. We cannot hug a lion, but we can purr along with our kitty-cats. We cannot romp and play with a grizzly, but God has blessed us with the companionship of our pooch. We cannot hop on a rhinoceros, but we can trot all the way to the next county on top of our palomino. Only in Heaven will the lion lay down with a lamb.
But your animals are your extended family members. They deserve love. They know us, often, better than we know ourselves. They talk to us in ways we don't think about. They save us from cancer, fires, floods--from death.
I believe, with my whole heart, God gives us the desires of our hearts. He did not give you the love of your dog or cat to never see it again after its passing. I believe Margie and her dog are together in Heaven, except now, Margie can see her dog. Your precious pet that is loved by you is awarded a piece of your soul. You'll see it again.
I'm sure of it.
Blessings to you and yours.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
This 'n That (or rather) Bitch, Bitch, Bitch
Don't you just want to kill somebody when you receive an interesting email, telling you they're going to give you some great information, teach you something you've been wondering about, and then they lead you off into cyber-space, making you SEARCH FOR IT? I received an email yesterday from a well-respected local editor who promised a tutorial on when to use the word which and when to use that. Although I'm relatively sure I know how to use these words, I thought I'd take a look and see what Ms. Editor had to say. Not.
I like to click and go directly to what I want to read. I WILL NOT spend my time clicking and searching and clicking and searching. Nobody's information is worth that.
I like to click and go directly to what I want to read. I WILL NOT spend my time clicking and searching and clicking and searching. Nobody's information is worth that.
***
In comparing the area I just moved from to the area I just moved to: in a word - LITER. I don't understand it. I recently lived in a beautiful area, consisting mostly of people from the North (transplants) educated folks, professionals living in high-dollar homes. So then, in order to downsize, save money, return to full-time writing, I now live in the real South. For the most part, this town bulges with blue-collar folks who have lived in NC all their lives. Sprinkle in a few red necks, lower-priced homes and what do you got? Liter. The town I'm living in is covered in it. The previous place was liter-free. Go figure.
***
For me the negative to living in a neighborhood - clueless neighbors who keep dogs on chains, in backyards, fenced up and barking their poor heads off. All day. All night. And don't give a damn about their neighbors. Time to call Animal Control.***
But we did have a successful garage sale in Blue-Collar Town. Sold a ton of junk, people got great deals, and we made some extra cash. But I think the best part of hosting a garage sale is the socializing. People get to talking and don't want to go home ... the most memorable conversation was with the lady who talked to me for twenty minutes about her love-affair with her cast-iron skillet. "If somebody would tell me my house is burning down and I can only take two things, I'd grab my kitty-cat and my iron skillet. Don't nobody in my house mess with my skillet. You reckon I love my skillet more 'n my husband?"
Now that's a priceless line for a writer.
Now that's a priceless line for a writer.
***
It's Sunday Night, time to veg out in front of the TV, find a movie, clear my head for the week ahead. Y'all have a good week ... I'll do the same.
Blessings to you and yours.
Blessings to you and yours.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
The Gifts Of Old Age
Sometimes when I look in the mirror, I don’t recognize what I see. Where did the angry young woman go? Who is this person gazing back at me with crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes, sagging chin, and thin lines on the edge of her smile? Then I take a second look and realize that time has taken her away, replaced her with what's staring back at me. A different woman is beginning to reemerge from years of distrust and suspicion that was chiseled away by grace and mercy.
A mellow tongue, a quiet disposition, and peace in my heart. Age does give women a few gifts. But we have to learn to accept them. Some women refuse the precious gifts of aging. Instead, she's holding on to the demons of her youth.
Some hold on to their short-tempers and manipulative ways. They enjoy shutting down people who get in their way and avoiding those who put a mirror in front of their face. It drives some women nuts if anyone interferes with their plans. They don't like anyone to think of them as poor or needy. If you catch some women when they're in the mood to socialize, you’ll love them. Shower them with compliments and they’ll deliver the sun and the moon. But controlling women hate being told what to do. Deception is her middle name. These ladies (if you can call them ladies) honestly believes the world owes them a buck. Their sense of entitlement is unparalleled. I've seen them chew up girlfriends and spit them out, repeatedly.
When you attempt to uncover a woman like this, she flies into a full-blown war defensive. You can’t out talk her. You won’t win. There’s no such thing as an intervention. Borderline Personality Disorder, I believe it's called.
By the time they're in their 50s, they're already old, bitter, ugly, and on their way to becoming alone and miserable old hags.
It makes me thankful that when age handed me my gifts, I took them and never looked back.
Blessings to you and yours.
A mellow tongue, a quiet disposition, and peace in my heart. Age does give women a few gifts. But we have to learn to accept them. Some women refuse the precious gifts of aging. Instead, she's holding on to the demons of her youth.
Some hold on to their short-tempers and manipulative ways. They enjoy shutting down people who get in their way and avoiding those who put a mirror in front of their face. It drives some women nuts if anyone interferes with their plans. They don't like anyone to think of them as poor or needy. If you catch some women when they're in the mood to socialize, you’ll love them. Shower them with compliments and they’ll deliver the sun and the moon. But controlling women hate being told what to do. Deception is her middle name. These ladies (if you can call them ladies) honestly believes the world owes them a buck. Their sense of entitlement is unparalleled. I've seen them chew up girlfriends and spit them out, repeatedly.
When you attempt to uncover a woman like this, she flies into a full-blown war defensive. You can’t out talk her. You won’t win. There’s no such thing as an intervention. Borderline Personality Disorder, I believe it's called.
By the time they're in their 50s, they're already old, bitter, ugly, and on their way to becoming alone and miserable old hags.
It makes me thankful that when age handed me my gifts, I took them and never looked back.
Blessings to you and yours.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Courage Versus Fear
Someone recently asked me - "As a writer, what is your definition of courage and fear?"
This was my response:
In terms of writing, courage is not confidence, nor the opposite of meekness. It’s feeling a measure of confidence, and then acting on those feelings. It’s a quality of spirit that enables you to face the moment, whatever comes, and keep on going.
Courage allows you to see, hear, smell, and taste things as they really are. Courage makes you face facts, unfiltered by rosy daydreams. Courage frees you to be creative. It pushes you to prepare for the unknown without obsessing over it. To be open to what may come.
A writer can’t be open to new ideas if dazed and confused by fear. Courage enables you to be prepared and wide awake in every situation.
There were times in my youth I didn’t write because I was afraid of failing. I didn’t prepare for success because I was afraid it might happen. I didn’t look, really look, into my past because I was afraid of what I might find. As I grow older, I don't give myself those options. Not anymore.
Fear is passive-aggressive. It’s the lazy writer’s excuse for not moving forward. It’s a great immobilizer, an avoidance technique.
Fear puts the focus on what we might encounter, distracts us from what’s actually there. Courage empowers a writer to pay attention.
In the end, a writer can do without a lot of things. Remembering your journey is not one of them. Courage is the other.
Blessings to you and yours.
This was my response:
In terms of writing, courage is not confidence, nor the opposite of meekness. It’s feeling a measure of confidence, and then acting on those feelings. It’s a quality of spirit that enables you to face the moment, whatever comes, and keep on going.
Courage allows you to see, hear, smell, and taste things as they really are. Courage makes you face facts, unfiltered by rosy daydreams. Courage frees you to be creative. It pushes you to prepare for the unknown without obsessing over it. To be open to what may come.
A writer can’t be open to new ideas if dazed and confused by fear. Courage enables you to be prepared and wide awake in every situation.
There were times in my youth I didn’t write because I was afraid of failing. I didn’t prepare for success because I was afraid it might happen. I didn’t look, really look, into my past because I was afraid of what I might find. As I grow older, I don't give myself those options. Not anymore.
Fear is passive-aggressive. It’s the lazy writer’s excuse for not moving forward. It’s a great immobilizer, an avoidance technique.
Fear puts the focus on what we might encounter, distracts us from what’s actually there. Courage empowers a writer to pay attention.
In the end, a writer can do without a lot of things. Remembering your journey is not one of them. Courage is the other.
Blessings to you and yours.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Politically Incorrect?
I try very hard to keep my political opinions to myself. I really do. I know I'm a bit "preachy" at times, probably more than a writer should be. But those who know me, know that I'm a little different "Christian." I'm certainly not a Christian in the traditional sense. Although I believe in the basic fundamentals of scripture, I also believe God takes each of us in a different direction. We're not all the same in our goals, our ideals, and yes ... even in our politics. I don't think God wants us to all be the same, think the same, act the same.
My parents, for example, tend to "parrot" their favorite TV preacher. They also parrot the news, believing if they heard it on Fox News, it must be true. Well, I excuse them most of the time because they're getting up there in age. I'm not sure my mother has ever thought for herself. Bless her heart.
I've been embarrassed by the actions, words, and deeds of so many Christians, famous and otherwise, I hesitate to call myself one. I've said this before, but a personal relationship with Christ, is just that. Personal. I realize God does not contradict himself, but I don't feel for a minute that He tells us all to walk the same path. Otherwise, we would not have been blessed with different talents!
So what am I getting at?
I don't care if you're a Democrat or a Republican, I really don't. I think good, bad, and ugly exists in both parties. In every city and state. In all walks of life. In all races. In every church, school, boardroom, and university. I've seen the ugly side of those who call themselves Democrats and those who call themselves Republicans. Living in a free society, I have voted for candidates on both sides. Do I ever take a stand on anything political? Sure I do. But I don't pretend to know all the ins and outs of every reform bill before Congress. I'm not going to parrot another person's opinion.
But what I do know is that in just one of our major cities, there are 90,000 homeless people. 90,000! When I brought this fact up to someone recently, they said (and I quote) "Yeah, and those people crowd our emergency rooms, costing us millions of dollars because they can't pay!"
I was speechless.
And ... so ... what do you propose they do? Stand outside and die?
I certainly can't solve this healthcare problem, I wouldn't know where to start. But it's statements like that make me want to cry. I can't imagine turning my back on a person in need. I know church groups go into missions and soup kitchens, volunteering their time to feed the poor. These good folks stand for hours to dish out food to the hungry. But I wonder what you think when you spoon food onto a ragged man's plate? Would you be willing to touch his life by taking the time to talk with him one-on-one? Go to where he lives or sleeps, and minister to him on his turf? Be his friend? It's an admirable thing, volunteering your time. I don't discount that. But what is your real motive? Just to say you've done it? Or because your heart cries out to help?
Homogenized Christians worship every Sunday in the comfort of their big, clean, churches. They shout hallelujah with the rest of the families around them who are all pretty much of the same class, the same educations, the same race. (What did I hear recently, that 90% of our churches are still segregated?) These good church-goers hand out their testimony like candy to those who resemble themselves. They boldly testify to their fellow church-goers who nod their head and agree with them. You can say what you want about the Jehovah Witnesses and the Mormons but at least they are out there pounding the pavement for their beliefs.
Are you? (I'll bet hundreds of reasons why you can't just flew through your brain. Yeah, me too.)
Again, what's my point?
Until we are willing to go out into the highways and the hedges, and really put our money where our mouth is ... we have no right to tell others what needs to be done or how to do it.
I don't know how President Obama is going to solve, or even attempt to solve all of our problems. But I can tell you one thing - I'm going to pray for him. Instead of stepping on top of my soapbox - I'm going to pray for him. I wonder how many Christians in this country actually pray for him and mean it?
Instead of wagging my tongue, parroting what I hear on the news - I'm going to pray for him. I do believe it is our obligation to pray for every President ... whether we agree with him or not. I believe that is one thing God would have us all do, every day - without fail. Pray for our President. You may not like him, you may not have voted for him, but sometimes I just want to scream ... JUST SHUT UP AND PRAY FOR HIM! If anybody in this country needs it, deserves it - HE DOES!
Do I pray for him? Yes. And I prayed for George Bush, too. When it comes to praying for our President, we have to put the politics aside.
Don't parrot another person's opinion just because it sounds good. Don't stand in judgment over your fellow man because they're not like you. Don't think God belongs just to people like you. Lift somebody's heart today. Show love when it's not expected. And pray for your President.
Blessings to you and yours.
My parents, for example, tend to "parrot" their favorite TV preacher. They also parrot the news, believing if they heard it on Fox News, it must be true. Well, I excuse them most of the time because they're getting up there in age. I'm not sure my mother has ever thought for herself. Bless her heart.
I've been embarrassed by the actions, words, and deeds of so many Christians, famous and otherwise, I hesitate to call myself one. I've said this before, but a personal relationship with Christ, is just that. Personal. I realize God does not contradict himself, but I don't feel for a minute that He tells us all to walk the same path. Otherwise, we would not have been blessed with different talents!
So what am I getting at?
I don't care if you're a Democrat or a Republican, I really don't. I think good, bad, and ugly exists in both parties. In every city and state. In all walks of life. In all races. In every church, school, boardroom, and university. I've seen the ugly side of those who call themselves Democrats and those who call themselves Republicans. Living in a free society, I have voted for candidates on both sides. Do I ever take a stand on anything political? Sure I do. But I don't pretend to know all the ins and outs of every reform bill before Congress. I'm not going to parrot another person's opinion.
But what I do know is that in just one of our major cities, there are 90,000 homeless people. 90,000! When I brought this fact up to someone recently, they said (and I quote) "Yeah, and those people crowd our emergency rooms, costing us millions of dollars because they can't pay!"
I was speechless.
And ... so ... what do you propose they do? Stand outside and die?
I certainly can't solve this healthcare problem, I wouldn't know where to start. But it's statements like that make me want to cry. I can't imagine turning my back on a person in need. I know church groups go into missions and soup kitchens, volunteering their time to feed the poor. These good folks stand for hours to dish out food to the hungry. But I wonder what you think when you spoon food onto a ragged man's plate? Would you be willing to touch his life by taking the time to talk with him one-on-one? Go to where he lives or sleeps, and minister to him on his turf? Be his friend? It's an admirable thing, volunteering your time. I don't discount that. But what is your real motive? Just to say you've done it? Or because your heart cries out to help?
Homogenized Christians worship every Sunday in the comfort of their big, clean, churches. They shout hallelujah with the rest of the families around them who are all pretty much of the same class, the same educations, the same race. (What did I hear recently, that 90% of our churches are still segregated?) These good church-goers hand out their testimony like candy to those who resemble themselves. They boldly testify to their fellow church-goers who nod their head and agree with them. You can say what you want about the Jehovah Witnesses and the Mormons but at least they are out there pounding the pavement for their beliefs.
Are you? (I'll bet hundreds of reasons why you can't just flew through your brain. Yeah, me too.)
Again, what's my point?
Until we are willing to go out into the highways and the hedges, and really put our money where our mouth is ... we have no right to tell others what needs to be done or how to do it.
I don't know how President Obama is going to solve, or even attempt to solve all of our problems. But I can tell you one thing - I'm going to pray for him. Instead of stepping on top of my soapbox - I'm going to pray for him. I wonder how many Christians in this country actually pray for him and mean it?
Instead of wagging my tongue, parroting what I hear on the news - I'm going to pray for him. I do believe it is our obligation to pray for every President ... whether we agree with him or not. I believe that is one thing God would have us all do, every day - without fail. Pray for our President. You may not like him, you may not have voted for him, but sometimes I just want to scream ... JUST SHUT UP AND PRAY FOR HIM! If anybody in this country needs it, deserves it - HE DOES!
Do I pray for him? Yes. And I prayed for George Bush, too. When it comes to praying for our President, we have to put the politics aside.
Don't parrot another person's opinion just because it sounds good. Don't stand in judgment over your fellow man because they're not like you. Don't think God belongs just to people like you. Lift somebody's heart today. Show love when it's not expected. And pray for your President.
Blessings to you and yours.
Sunday, March 07, 2010
Rock On, Church Lady!
So I'm driving down the street this morning, on my way to Walmart instead of my local Baptist church (shame on me) and I stop at a red light. To my right sits a large white church, steeple bells ringing, bringing in the sheaves and everything. The parking lot is jam-packed with shiny cars that probably took a Saturday evening bath just to show off in the Sunday morning sunshine. It's the first breath of spring here in my neck of the woods, and it brings out the church-goers in droves.
I live in the South. The so-called "Bible Belt." Winter is hard on church-goers. Any news of the least bit of snow, ice, or even a wet road will cancel church. Most folks down here depend on their weekly fix of church gossip like Fox News depends on evangelicals for their ratings. Once the weather turns warm, every Sunday is Easter in the South, I swear.
As a writer, I'm constantly aware of my surroundings. So when I see a large woman to my left, big pink hat on her head like a flamingo's nest--feathers and all, I'm engrossed. This church lady is about to lay into her grandchildren. Lagging behind, the three young boys, ages (my guess was 12, 9, and 7) had already pulled their shirts out of their pants and one had taken off his tie and was about to wrap it around his brother's (my guess) neck.
Well, this pink church lady (her billowy dress matched her hat) wasn't about to stand for this behavior. She had her large black Bible firmly in her right hand and took to swatting the backsides of these little fellas. Hollering and cussing, she put a whole new spin on Bible thumping. Overflowing in her shoes, this hot-pink church lady didn't care who heard her. I had to crack my window ... If you think I would miss this golden opportunity, you're crazy!
"Get in there! Get in that church! You're late! Quit tormenting ... go on, now! I mean it, Gerald!"
Finally, somebody honked behind me. I'd almost sat through a green light. But I didn't care. I was about to turn around and go in for church, hoping to hear more from the pink church lady. I applaud her diligence. She was bound and determined to get those three boys into that church.
Then I thought, that wild woman could have been yelling at me. I mean, it's been a while since I've sat through a real, live church service. Mike and prefer to worship at home, for many honest reasons. (A blog for another day.)
I drove away thinking about the book, The Shack. Maybe God really is a big, African-American woman, swatting our backsides in the right direction. Hmmm.
Something to think about.
Rock on, church lady.
Blessings to you and yours.
I live in the South. The so-called "Bible Belt." Winter is hard on church-goers. Any news of the least bit of snow, ice, or even a wet road will cancel church. Most folks down here depend on their weekly fix of church gossip like Fox News depends on evangelicals for their ratings. Once the weather turns warm, every Sunday is Easter in the South, I swear.
As a writer, I'm constantly aware of my surroundings. So when I see a large woman to my left, big pink hat on her head like a flamingo's nest--feathers and all, I'm engrossed. This church lady is about to lay into her grandchildren. Lagging behind, the three young boys, ages (my guess was 12, 9, and 7) had already pulled their shirts out of their pants and one had taken off his tie and was about to wrap it around his brother's (my guess) neck.
Well, this pink church lady (her billowy dress matched her hat) wasn't about to stand for this behavior. She had her large black Bible firmly in her right hand and took to swatting the backsides of these little fellas. Hollering and cussing, she put a whole new spin on Bible thumping. Overflowing in her shoes, this hot-pink church lady didn't care who heard her. I had to crack my window ... If you think I would miss this golden opportunity, you're crazy!
"Get in there! Get in that church! You're late! Quit tormenting ... go on, now! I mean it, Gerald!"
Finally, somebody honked behind me. I'd almost sat through a green light. But I didn't care. I was about to turn around and go in for church, hoping to hear more from the pink church lady. I applaud her diligence. She was bound and determined to get those three boys into that church.
Then I thought, that wild woman could have been yelling at me. I mean, it's been a while since I've sat through a real, live church service. Mike and prefer to worship at home, for many honest reasons. (A blog for another day.)
I drove away thinking about the book, The Shack. Maybe God really is a big, African-American woman, swatting our backsides in the right direction. Hmmm.
Something to think about.
Rock on, church lady.
Blessings to you and yours.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Speaker For The Day
I spoke to a group of business women yesterday at their monthly meeting at our local community college. Sometimes people ask me what I speak about. Actually, I have several topics that are tweaked to the specifics of the group and what they might be looking for. But once in a while, a group leader tells me to speak about anything I want. And that's what happened yesterday. I had heard there were a few women in the group who were thinking about writing a book. I had about fifteen minutes to deliver something they could carry home with them. Here are bits and pieces of my notes from my talk yesterday. Oh, my topic?
The Life of a Writer. What else?
"My candle burns at both ends; it will not last the night; but ah, my foes, and oh my friends, it gives a lovely light!" A quote from Edna St. Vincent Millay
I say, she was talking about the life of a writer.
My name is Pamela King Cable, I’m a writer, an author, and a speaker. I often say I was born and raised by a tribe of wild Pentecostals. My mother, however, would not admit to that fact. She would admit that I cut my teeth on the back of a church pew, however.
Today, I want to talk to you about the life of a writer, the writing process, or as you may have been told - the mystical and magical world of a writer.
What is a writer? Do writers write only what they know? I say writers write what they are passionate about. There are events in the lives of most writers which possess powerful magic, influencing the stories they create.
But let me ask you, are there any books or stories you’ve read recently, or years ago, that you remember vividly?
Characters that linger and come to mind … at the strangest times?
Have you ever read a novel that has had the capacity to haunt you for days, weeks, years?
Do you have a favorite author?
What in their voice gives them an edge?
It is not a myth, that if you belong to a family with a writer in it, there are no safety zones. ...
One of my favorite quotes is by Harlan Ellison. He says, “It is not enough merely to love literature, if one wishes to spend one’s life as a writer. It is a dangerous undertaking on the most primitive level. For, it seems to me, the act of writing with serious intent involves enormous personal risk. It entails the ongoing courage for self-discovery. It means one will walk forever on the tightrope, with each new step presenting the possibility of learning a truth about oneself that is too terrible to bear.”
A writer’s life is a solitary life. For the most part. We have a room or a place where we prefer to write. A routine, a time of day, music we listen to, and habits and superstitions we refuse to break or talk about. We hope we possess that raw talent, unique originality, and gut emotional appeal. We raise the stakes on each and every page and hope, and pray, and believe that some day … we’re blessed a bit of luck.
I can tell you I have labored days over a paragraph. On the book I just recently completed, The Rose and the Charlatan, that book began over fifteen years ago. But that’s really not the norm. I have, however, spent many twelve-hour days writing. I can tell you that I have sat at my computer so many long nights that I thought I was going blind. I have been told by my doctor, that because of all the sitting in my chair, the disks in my back are degenerating and I’ve gone from 5’4” to 5’3 ½“ Writing, my dear friends, can be hazardous to your health.
But let's talk about the traditional publishing industry a bit. It's cutthroat. Since the recent recession, the chance to “make it” has gone from slim to almost none. The rejections by major agents and New York publishing houses, can discourage the very elite.
For the majority of writers, it can take up to a good two years to write a bestseller. You cannot submit unsolicited manuscripts to traditional publishers. So you need a literary agent. Once the manuscript is complete, a query letter is sent to secure an agent. This process could take another six months to a year.
Then once you land an agent, you hope they know their stuff and get you the best deal from a reputable publisher, preferably a major house. Then all parties negotiate rights, foreign rights, film rights, and the ever-shrinking advance. You sign away some rights, such as book cover, maybe even the title of your book, and a few other things. Once the contracts are signed, then comes the editing process.
Ah yes, we have already edited the hell out of our book, but no, it’s not enough. There’s another possible few months spent with our publisher’s editors. And there’s a deadline for that, too. A deadline to get it back to the publisher or everything you’ve worked so hard for, for so long, becomes null and void.
Then there’s the waiting. And waiting, and waiting some more. Next come the book galleys to proofread and edit yet again. And finally a year or two later, the book comes out.
It’s at that time you realize that writing the book and everything up to now was the easy part. It’s what comes after the book is out- that’s the hard part. Because unless your name is Nora Roberts or Stephanie Meyers or James Patterson or Nicholas Sparks … there’s very little publicity money for you. If you’re a first-timer, you’re on your own to get that book marketed. And hopefully, unless you go into a second printing in a relatively short time, your precious novel is removed from the shelves at Barnes & Noble, Borders, and Booksamillion. You’ve got about six months, if you’re lucky, to make it a hit.
And then somebody decides to make it available as an ebook, thus taking your profit from about a 1.00 a book to even less than that. There you have it. The life of a writer.
Is it worth it?
Yes, is my answer.
I began to chase the dream of writing as a child in the early 60s in the coal towns of West Virginia where my grandparents lived. Many of the stories in Southern Fried Women are based on truth, shreds of truth, people I’ve know, places I’ve been, and of course history plays a great part in some stories, like Coal Dust On My Feet. I was born a coal miners’ granddaughter. That fact inspired this story. A love story set amidst the longest and most violent coal strike in the history of our country. It is truth and fiction.
My mother was a skilled storyteller without knowing it. All I wanted to do when I was a teenager was to duplicate my mother’s life. ... She would agree with Pat Conroy, I’m sure. He said that the whole south runs on denial. If you don’t say it, it doesn’t exist.
What I didn’t know is just how much I would treasure her conversations someday. How they would become a part of me, part of my very existence as a writer.
More than anything else, I wanted to sit and listen to what came out of her mouth next and write it down. ...
But the most precious gift she gave me was a love for the written world. Be it the word of God or of Mother Goose, she was my inspiration, and one day I picked up a pen in the sixth grade and began to write and I haven’t stopped.
The next forty years would play into my storytelling, and how after surviving life’s heartaches and hardships, it gave me plenty to write about. From that moment forward I wanted to inform, educate, and entertain my reader’s mind, but more than anything I wanted to touch my reader’s heart.
As writer you must know more than how to put together a correct sentence. Yes, there is a never-ending learning curve to the elements of writing … but unless you are great storyteller, the other means nothing.
Allow me to quote ... So you want to be a writer by Charles Bukowski
if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don't do it.
if you're doing it for money or
fame,
don't do it.
if you're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don't do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don't do it.
if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
don't do it.
if you're trying to write like somebody else,
forget about it.
if you have to wait for it to roar out of you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.
if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you're not ready.
don't be like so many writers,
don't be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don't be dull and boring and
pretentious, don't be consumed with self-love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to sleep
over your kind.
don't add to that.
don't do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don't do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don't do it.
when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.
there is no other way.
and there never was.
Thank you.
Blessings to you and yours.
The Life of a Writer. What else?
"My candle burns at both ends; it will not last the night; but ah, my foes, and oh my friends, it gives a lovely light!" A quote from Edna St. Vincent Millay
I say, she was talking about the life of a writer.
My name is Pamela King Cable, I’m a writer, an author, and a speaker. I often say I was born and raised by a tribe of wild Pentecostals. My mother, however, would not admit to that fact. She would admit that I cut my teeth on the back of a church pew, however.
Today, I want to talk to you about the life of a writer, the writing process, or as you may have been told - the mystical and magical world of a writer.
What is a writer? Do writers write only what they know? I say writers write what they are passionate about. There are events in the lives of most writers which possess powerful magic, influencing the stories they create.
But let me ask you, are there any books or stories you’ve read recently, or years ago, that you remember vividly?
Characters that linger and come to mind … at the strangest times?
Have you ever read a novel that has had the capacity to haunt you for days, weeks, years?
Do you have a favorite author?
What in their voice gives them an edge?
It is not a myth, that if you belong to a family with a writer in it, there are no safety zones. ...
One of my favorite quotes is by Harlan Ellison. He says, “It is not enough merely to love literature, if one wishes to spend one’s life as a writer. It is a dangerous undertaking on the most primitive level. For, it seems to me, the act of writing with serious intent involves enormous personal risk. It entails the ongoing courage for self-discovery. It means one will walk forever on the tightrope, with each new step presenting the possibility of learning a truth about oneself that is too terrible to bear.”
A writer’s life is a solitary life. For the most part. We have a room or a place where we prefer to write. A routine, a time of day, music we listen to, and habits and superstitions we refuse to break or talk about. We hope we possess that raw talent, unique originality, and gut emotional appeal. We raise the stakes on each and every page and hope, and pray, and believe that some day … we’re blessed a bit of luck.
I can tell you I have labored days over a paragraph. On the book I just recently completed, The Rose and the Charlatan, that book began over fifteen years ago. But that’s really not the norm. I have, however, spent many twelve-hour days writing. I can tell you that I have sat at my computer so many long nights that I thought I was going blind. I have been told by my doctor, that because of all the sitting in my chair, the disks in my back are degenerating and I’ve gone from 5’4” to 5’3 ½“ Writing, my dear friends, can be hazardous to your health.
But let's talk about the traditional publishing industry a bit. It's cutthroat. Since the recent recession, the chance to “make it” has gone from slim to almost none. The rejections by major agents and New York publishing houses, can discourage the very elite.
For the majority of writers, it can take up to a good two years to write a bestseller. You cannot submit unsolicited manuscripts to traditional publishers. So you need a literary agent. Once the manuscript is complete, a query letter is sent to secure an agent. This process could take another six months to a year.
Then once you land an agent, you hope they know their stuff and get you the best deal from a reputable publisher, preferably a major house. Then all parties negotiate rights, foreign rights, film rights, and the ever-shrinking advance. You sign away some rights, such as book cover, maybe even the title of your book, and a few other things. Once the contracts are signed, then comes the editing process.
Ah yes, we have already edited the hell out of our book, but no, it’s not enough. There’s another possible few months spent with our publisher’s editors. And there’s a deadline for that, too. A deadline to get it back to the publisher or everything you’ve worked so hard for, for so long, becomes null and void.
Then there’s the waiting. And waiting, and waiting some more. Next come the book galleys to proofread and edit yet again. And finally a year or two later, the book comes out.
It’s at that time you realize that writing the book and everything up to now was the easy part. It’s what comes after the book is out- that’s the hard part. Because unless your name is Nora Roberts or Stephanie Meyers or James Patterson or Nicholas Sparks … there’s very little publicity money for you. If you’re a first-timer, you’re on your own to get that book marketed. And hopefully, unless you go into a second printing in a relatively short time, your precious novel is removed from the shelves at Barnes & Noble, Borders, and Booksamillion. You’ve got about six months, if you’re lucky, to make it a hit.
And then somebody decides to make it available as an ebook, thus taking your profit from about a 1.00 a book to even less than that. There you have it. The life of a writer.
Is it worth it?
Yes, is my answer.
I began to chase the dream of writing as a child in the early 60s in the coal towns of West Virginia where my grandparents lived. Many of the stories in Southern Fried Women are based on truth, shreds of truth, people I’ve know, places I’ve been, and of course history plays a great part in some stories, like Coal Dust On My Feet. I was born a coal miners’ granddaughter. That fact inspired this story. A love story set amidst the longest and most violent coal strike in the history of our country. It is truth and fiction.
My mother was a skilled storyteller without knowing it. All I wanted to do when I was a teenager was to duplicate my mother’s life. ... She would agree with Pat Conroy, I’m sure. He said that the whole south runs on denial. If you don’t say it, it doesn’t exist.
What I didn’t know is just how much I would treasure her conversations someday. How they would become a part of me, part of my very existence as a writer.
More than anything else, I wanted to sit and listen to what came out of her mouth next and write it down. ...
But the most precious gift she gave me was a love for the written world. Be it the word of God or of Mother Goose, she was my inspiration, and one day I picked up a pen in the sixth grade and began to write and I haven’t stopped.
The next forty years would play into my storytelling, and how after surviving life’s heartaches and hardships, it gave me plenty to write about. From that moment forward I wanted to inform, educate, and entertain my reader’s mind, but more than anything I wanted to touch my reader’s heart.
As writer you must know more than how to put together a correct sentence. Yes, there is a never-ending learning curve to the elements of writing … but unless you are great storyteller, the other means nothing.
Allow me to quote ... So you want to be a writer by Charles Bukowski
if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don't do it.
if you're doing it for money or
fame,
don't do it.
if you're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don't do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don't do it.
if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
don't do it.
if you're trying to write like somebody else,
forget about it.
if you have to wait for it to roar out of you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.
if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you're not ready.
don't be like so many writers,
don't be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don't be dull and boring and
pretentious, don't be consumed with self-love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to sleep
over your kind.
don't add to that.
don't do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don't do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don't do it.
when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.
there is no other way.
and there never was.
Thank you.
Blessings to you and yours.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Scattered Families
I watched a Sunday morning program; a family in India who all lived under one roof. Not out of necessity, but by choice. This appeared to be a more affluent family who pooled their earnings into one bank account. (Can you imagine?) One part of the family ran a coffee shop, another were contractors and builders, and a third (I think) ran a flour mill. In total there were over 20 family members, working together and living under one large roof. Taking care of one another.
I'm sure there were problems. And I'm not sure the women in this family experience the same freedoms as American women. But there was something comforting about this big family. The old were not cast out or made to feel like children. They were honored and loved. They were not burdens, or made to feel like flies shooed away from milk. No, on the contrary. The old grandfather was blind, but worked in the mill with a family member nearby to insure his safety.
It makes me wonder about American families. What have we become?
In my own family we are spread over many states. I have come to despise this fact. I wish to God in Heaven we all lived at least in the same state. We are missing so much of our grandchildren's lives. We've already missed years with our children. Regret doesn't even come close to describing how I feel about that. I am becoming more and more aware of my need to feel my family around me. I am obsessed with turning this around, because my question is ... are scattered families-- happy families?
In my perfect world, Mike and I would live around the corner from our parents. Our children would live no further than a 20 minute drive. Sisters, brothers, nieces, nephews would all live an hour away or less. How wonderful would that be?
Oh for sure, there are families who live in the same town, and I'm positive they roll their eyes and say they have their share of problems because of it.
But please, allow me to say with great emphasis--count your blessings if that is you.
Michael and I receive a DVD every few months of our Arizona grandchildren. Watching them grow up this way only puts holes in our hearts. And although we are more than grateful to receive these precious DVDs, it dosent leave us with smiles on our faces when the TV is turned off. Quite the opposite really. Hours later I can still hear my grandson, his face large in the camera ... "Hi Papaw, hi Mamaw!" It simply breaks our hearts.
There's a new baby coming in August. And there is a new baby in Texas, born to my niece. I have little great nieces and nephews whom I barely know. These four, five, and six-year olds don't know me from a stranger on the street.
My own nieces and nephew--Lord, I'd give anything to be a small, small part of their lives. But, (sigh) I am not. They're busy. They stay in touch with my mother (their grandmother) and that's wonderful. My siblings, well, that's another story for another day. But I wonder if we all lived closer, would we be closer? I would like to think so.
My sister, Kathy, and I talk about this often.
Then there are extensions of family I know and love. Dear friends and folks who mean as much to me as a family member. Why is it only once a year we manage to connect? Are we that busy? Is money the motivating factor that makes us work day and night and never reach out to those we think about, but never see? Does it have to be that way?
I'm not old in the true sense of the word. Certainly. But I'm beginning to feel the shortness of life and how fleeting time really is. It scares and concerns me. My heart and personality has mellowed and softened, like the skin around my eyes and on my neck. Once hard and calloused, my youthful face and I plowed forward in life, doing and saying pretty much anything we wanted to do and say. The selfish part of me met with life's pitfalls and became instead--self-loathing. The oceans of fire I walked through and endured ... left many bad memories in its wake. But it did something to my heart and the way I look at life. Most assuredly.
When we are young, we are immortal. If we possess basic health, we do not see, think, or feel our immortality. It is not until we have gone through the fire and flood that we begin to realize there is an end to this life. How much of it is spent in quality time with those we love?
There's nothing more important than the love between a man and woman, their children, and the people dearest to them.
Not even money.
Will the circle be unbroken? For many of us, it already is.
Why can't we get along? Why can't we put aside petty differences and see our lives for what they really are? Short. Father along, will we really understand it all by and by?
The families in history, now dead and gone for decades, did they have something we no longer possess? There were no phones, no computers, no technology for communicating every day. Yet they were closer to each other than those of us who live with abilities they couldn't even wonder about. Think about this. My God, this fact just blows me away.
Some day, Michael and I hope to live closer to our children. Our grandchildren. Or at least see them more than twice a year. If we can accomplish that, we'll grow into old age with smiles on our faces. Most assuredly.
Blessings to you and yours.
I'm sure there were problems. And I'm not sure the women in this family experience the same freedoms as American women. But there was something comforting about this big family. The old were not cast out or made to feel like children. They were honored and loved. They were not burdens, or made to feel like flies shooed away from milk. No, on the contrary. The old grandfather was blind, but worked in the mill with a family member nearby to insure his safety.
It makes me wonder about American families. What have we become?
In my own family we are spread over many states. I have come to despise this fact. I wish to God in Heaven we all lived at least in the same state. We are missing so much of our grandchildren's lives. We've already missed years with our children. Regret doesn't even come close to describing how I feel about that. I am becoming more and more aware of my need to feel my family around me. I am obsessed with turning this around, because my question is ... are scattered families-- happy families?
In my perfect world, Mike and I would live around the corner from our parents. Our children would live no further than a 20 minute drive. Sisters, brothers, nieces, nephews would all live an hour away or less. How wonderful would that be?
Oh for sure, there are families who live in the same town, and I'm positive they roll their eyes and say they have their share of problems because of it.
But please, allow me to say with great emphasis--count your blessings if that is you.
Michael and I receive a DVD every few months of our Arizona grandchildren. Watching them grow up this way only puts holes in our hearts. And although we are more than grateful to receive these precious DVDs, it dosent leave us with smiles on our faces when the TV is turned off. Quite the opposite really. Hours later I can still hear my grandson, his face large in the camera ... "Hi Papaw, hi Mamaw!" It simply breaks our hearts.
There's a new baby coming in August. And there is a new baby in Texas, born to my niece. I have little great nieces and nephews whom I barely know. These four, five, and six-year olds don't know me from a stranger on the street.
My own nieces and nephew--Lord, I'd give anything to be a small, small part of their lives. But, (sigh) I am not. They're busy. They stay in touch with my mother (their grandmother) and that's wonderful. My siblings, well, that's another story for another day. But I wonder if we all lived closer, would we be closer? I would like to think so.
My sister, Kathy, and I talk about this often.
Then there are extensions of family I know and love. Dear friends and folks who mean as much to me as a family member. Why is it only once a year we manage to connect? Are we that busy? Is money the motivating factor that makes us work day and night and never reach out to those we think about, but never see? Does it have to be that way?
I'm not old in the true sense of the word. Certainly. But I'm beginning to feel the shortness of life and how fleeting time really is. It scares and concerns me. My heart and personality has mellowed and softened, like the skin around my eyes and on my neck. Once hard and calloused, my youthful face and I plowed forward in life, doing and saying pretty much anything we wanted to do and say. The selfish part of me met with life's pitfalls and became instead--self-loathing. The oceans of fire I walked through and endured ... left many bad memories in its wake. But it did something to my heart and the way I look at life. Most assuredly.
When we are young, we are immortal. If we possess basic health, we do not see, think, or feel our immortality. It is not until we have gone through the fire and flood that we begin to realize there is an end to this life. How much of it is spent in quality time with those we love?
There's nothing more important than the love between a man and woman, their children, and the people dearest to them.
Not even money.
Will the circle be unbroken? For many of us, it already is.
Why can't we get along? Why can't we put aside petty differences and see our lives for what they really are? Short. Father along, will we really understand it all by and by?
The families in history, now dead and gone for decades, did they have something we no longer possess? There were no phones, no computers, no technology for communicating every day. Yet they were closer to each other than those of us who live with abilities they couldn't even wonder about. Think about this. My God, this fact just blows me away.
Some day, Michael and I hope to live closer to our children. Our grandchildren. Or at least see them more than twice a year. If we can accomplish that, we'll grow into old age with smiles on our faces. Most assuredly.
Blessings to you and yours.
Friday, February 19, 2010
To Have Or Have Not
The other day I watched the Sex and the City movie, feeling stupid about "labels." I suppose, if you live in big cities like New York, Philadelphia, and Chicago -- designer labels are just something you grow up with. My guess is that people who work and live in fast-paced environments know instantly what you're "wearing" and if you have a sense of "style." They have been schooled in what not to wear. Socialites can tell immediately whether you're carrying a Louis Vuitton or a knock-off.
Carrie, in the Sex and the City movie, bought throw pillows for $300 a piece. A PIECE!
Do people really live like that?
Shocking, but yes, they do.
If money were no object--would I?
No. I'm sure I would not.
Like so many who were raised in the Great Depression, our older citizens continue to wash out sandwich bags and save tin foil. Now I'm not that bad, but I can tell you that should I ever have "money" ... I will still shop at Walmart and continue my Saturday morning garage sale hunts.
I have scrimped and done without so much for so long that ... well, hold on ... yes, it would be nice to travel, buy better pieces of meat, or slip my feet into more than one new pair of shoes every six months. It would be nice not to clip coupons or color my own hair. I would love to indulge in pedicures and facials once in a blue moon. I can think of a few more things I'd like to buy and not worry how much it would ruin the budget.
But to spend even $50 for a throw pillow? That will never happen in my lifetime.
Are the clothes in Walmart only for poor people? Should you drop into depression because you shop at Kohls or Target? Just because you grill hot dogs and not steaks ... does that mean you can never expect anything better in life? Good grief, no.
Yes, I would love to pay off every bill I owe, shower my family with gifts, give money to my favorite charities, and have a little left for myself. But that would not change who I am inside or my future spending habits.
I've heard the world is quickly becoming a society of haves and have nots. That may be true but there are worse things than doing without, believe me. I believe since this dang recession hit, there are many who would agree.
Besides, I like hot dogs on the grill. And I've never owned a Louis Vuitton anything. That's okay by me.
Blessings to you and yours.
Carrie, in the Sex and the City movie, bought throw pillows for $300 a piece. A PIECE!
Do people really live like that?
Shocking, but yes, they do.
If money were no object--would I?
No. I'm sure I would not.
Like so many who were raised in the Great Depression, our older citizens continue to wash out sandwich bags and save tin foil. Now I'm not that bad, but I can tell you that should I ever have "money" ... I will still shop at Walmart and continue my Saturday morning garage sale hunts.
I have scrimped and done without so much for so long that ... well, hold on ... yes, it would be nice to travel, buy better pieces of meat, or slip my feet into more than one new pair of shoes every six months. It would be nice not to clip coupons or color my own hair. I would love to indulge in pedicures and facials once in a blue moon. I can think of a few more things I'd like to buy and not worry how much it would ruin the budget.
But to spend even $50 for a throw pillow? That will never happen in my lifetime.
Are the clothes in Walmart only for poor people? Should you drop into depression because you shop at Kohls or Target? Just because you grill hot dogs and not steaks ... does that mean you can never expect anything better in life? Good grief, no.
Yes, I would love to pay off every bill I owe, shower my family with gifts, give money to my favorite charities, and have a little left for myself. But that would not change who I am inside or my future spending habits.
I've heard the world is quickly becoming a society of haves and have nots. That may be true but there are worse things than doing without, believe me. I believe since this dang recession hit, there are many who would agree.
Besides, I like hot dogs on the grill. And I've never owned a Louis Vuitton anything. That's okay by me.
Blessings to you and yours.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Southern Fluffy Literature
As a reader, I keep a "southern" book within reach at all times. Southern studies, short stories, novels, essays, memoirs ... all by southern authors, I immerse myself in the works of its rich, rich culture. Mixing in a book or two here and there by the current works of Piccoult or Gabaldon or Russo or Shreve ... authors who make no claim to southern roots, I really can't say I prefer one culture over another. It's just that my roots are in the South. I may live in the North someday, but those who came generations before me were southern born. Living in the South today, I am influenced by the people, the language, the landscape, the culture around me. Good, bad, or ugly ... the South continues to deliver prose near and dear to my heart.
However, some of this "cutesy southern fluff" is starting to get to me. It's becoming cliche, rather fast. Maybe already is to a few folk. I'm not sure if there are many who would agree with me, but I'm suspecting some of it has run its course.
I'm not talking about dealing with the issues of the South. The Grit Lit, so to speak. Or the gut-wrenching messages in Southern Literature.
I'm talkin' 'bout the twangy debutantes swooning over their rich, country club, tennis-playing boyfriends, who graduated from Ole' Miss. The Ida Maes and the Patsy Sues who bake the best sweet potato pies in five counties, despite their bee-hive hairdos and press-on nails. The Mee Maws and the Pee Paws who save their bacon grease in coffee cans and praise Jesus every Sunday morning at the corner Heaven Bound Baptist Church. Precious Dahlins and Sugahs who wear nothin' but pearls, all day long, drive convertibles and only shop at the Piggly Wiggly. (By the way, there are no Piggly Wigglys within a hundred miles of where I live.) Stories so sugary sweet, so full of chicken pie and Aunt Beulah's homemade molasses--well, it makes me want to throw out my Tupperware and salt & pepper shaker collection. The Driving Miss Daisy, Steel Magnolia, Green Fried Tomato, Ya Ya Wannabes. Stop! It's been written already.
I steer clear of these stories today. The South is not all about cornbread and pinto beans. As far as rednecks go, they live in every state in the union. They are not synonymous to the South. Though it is absolutely true that the South gives us plenty to write about, we have to be careful not to write characters our readers have already overdosed on. Originality in writing is key to the next great story to come out of the South.
Personally, I like Bubba and Betty Lou. They're fine folk. I just don't want to read about them all the time.
Blessings to you and yours.
However, some of this "cutesy southern fluff" is starting to get to me. It's becoming cliche, rather fast. Maybe already is to a few folk. I'm not sure if there are many who would agree with me, but I'm suspecting some of it has run its course.
I'm not talking about dealing with the issues of the South. The Grit Lit, so to speak. Or the gut-wrenching messages in Southern Literature.
I'm talkin' 'bout the twangy debutantes swooning over their rich, country club, tennis-playing boyfriends, who graduated from Ole' Miss. The Ida Maes and the Patsy Sues who bake the best sweet potato pies in five counties, despite their bee-hive hairdos and press-on nails. The Mee Maws and the Pee Paws who save their bacon grease in coffee cans and praise Jesus every Sunday morning at the corner Heaven Bound Baptist Church. Precious Dahlins and Sugahs who wear nothin' but pearls, all day long, drive convertibles and only shop at the Piggly Wiggly. (By the way, there are no Piggly Wigglys within a hundred miles of where I live.) Stories so sugary sweet, so full of chicken pie and Aunt Beulah's homemade molasses--well, it makes me want to throw out my Tupperware and salt & pepper shaker collection. The Driving Miss Daisy, Steel Magnolia, Green Fried Tomato, Ya Ya Wannabes. Stop! It's been written already.
I steer clear of these stories today. The South is not all about cornbread and pinto beans. As far as rednecks go, they live in every state in the union. They are not synonymous to the South. Though it is absolutely true that the South gives us plenty to write about, we have to be careful not to write characters our readers have already overdosed on. Originality in writing is key to the next great story to come out of the South.
Personally, I like Bubba and Betty Lou. They're fine folk. I just don't want to read about them all the time.
Blessings to you and yours.
Friday, February 12, 2010
A Brown And Cold Winter
Winter grass in North Carolina is brown and lifeless. It's the ugliest color this time of the year. Everything appears dirty and frost-bitten. I think most of us would rather skip January and February altogether. Fighting the traffic on ice-covered roads, gasping for warm fresh air; the birds are gone, the flowers and gardens are asleep. Life is still and quiet. Nonexistent.
It's hard to find beauty in winter, unless you're an honest-to-God nature lover and live in the woods.
I'm thinking about the season today. It seems endless. Winter. I've never been too fond of it. I'm looking forward to March and the blooming Bradford Pear trees. It signals the beginning of warm temperatures for me.
I'm a summer girl. Always have been. Always will be. But as much as I moan about the winter, I think I would miss it somehow. I love the seasons. The changes they bring. What they mean. And somehow I think God created the winter so we all slow down a bit. Hibernate. Rest.
Sooner or later winter always comes and eventually stays. As does spring, summer, fall, and winter once more. This cycle is the very definition of time passing; each season’s death brings me a little closer to my own. It's not a morbid thought, not really. It's time reminding us to live each season to its fullest.
No matter how cold and brown that season may be.
Blessings to you and yours.
It's hard to find beauty in winter, unless you're an honest-to-God nature lover and live in the woods.
I'm thinking about the season today. It seems endless. Winter. I've never been too fond of it. I'm looking forward to March and the blooming Bradford Pear trees. It signals the beginning of warm temperatures for me.
I'm a summer girl. Always have been. Always will be. But as much as I moan about the winter, I think I would miss it somehow. I love the seasons. The changes they bring. What they mean. And somehow I think God created the winter so we all slow down a bit. Hibernate. Rest.
Sooner or later winter always comes and eventually stays. As does spring, summer, fall, and winter once more. This cycle is the very definition of time passing; each season’s death brings me a little closer to my own. It's not a morbid thought, not really. It's time reminding us to live each season to its fullest.
No matter how cold and brown that season may be.
Blessings to you and yours.
Tuesday, February 09, 2010
In Defense Of The Telemarketer
They're annoying. Agreed. Right in the middle of meal, or a good book, or at the end of a movie. They call, with their syrupy voice that smiles through the phone. Even at your place of employment, they call. "Is the Office Manager there?" Recently, I found myself hanging up on them. With no energy extended on my part. Just a "click." That'll teach 'em.
Most can't be understood anyway. You want to scream, "If your chosen profession is telemarketing, at least learn to speak English properly!" Right? Low-lifes. Can't they get a real job? Probably illegal aliens. If I want to buy something, I'll shop for it myself!
Hmmm.
I felt this way until I began to write a story about a man who is down on his luck, can't find employment to support his five children, and resorts to telemarketing. In my plotting and research, I thought hard about this individual. Who is he? Why is he in this financial shape? What events caused him to resort to telemarketing?
How does he handle the rejection that's not just daily, but minute by minute?
Has anyone ever thought how difficult it is to be totally dependent on commission sales?
He's a good man, a kind man. A man who worked hard all his life to be thrown out on his ear at 55 because some younger stud could pull twice the weight. He's an ex-con, but it was a white-collar crime he didn't commit. Still, who is going to hire him now? He can't sell real estate, insurance, or even cemetery plots. One must be licensed. Background checks knock him out of every ballpark. He can't even sell cars. His wife is dead, his children age from ten to twenty. He needs cash flow. What does a man like this do?
I began to sympathize with my telemarketing character. I think many telemarketers are at dead-ends. Perhaps they hate having to smile on the phone. Perhaps they despise trying to entice you with a product that not only you don't want, but they don't want either.
I think the next time I get a call, I'll not be rude. I'll put myself in their shoes. I'll simply say, "No thanks, but have a good day."
Then again, who knows? Maybe this person has something I can't live without. Maybe I'll even listen to the whole presentation. They're not all out to get us. Some, I've found, have good intentions. Honest products. A sense of humor. Some, even, represent wonderful companies with awesome products and opportunities not found anywhere else. How would one ever know about them, except by way of a ... telemarketer.
The point is. Be kind. He may very well be a schmuck. But you don't have to be.
Something to think about.
Blessings to you and yours.
Most can't be understood anyway. You want to scream, "If your chosen profession is telemarketing, at least learn to speak English properly!" Right? Low-lifes. Can't they get a real job? Probably illegal aliens. If I want to buy something, I'll shop for it myself!
Hmmm.
I felt this way until I began to write a story about a man who is down on his luck, can't find employment to support his five children, and resorts to telemarketing. In my plotting and research, I thought hard about this individual. Who is he? Why is he in this financial shape? What events caused him to resort to telemarketing?
How does he handle the rejection that's not just daily, but minute by minute?
Has anyone ever thought how difficult it is to be totally dependent on commission sales?
He's a good man, a kind man. A man who worked hard all his life to be thrown out on his ear at 55 because some younger stud could pull twice the weight. He's an ex-con, but it was a white-collar crime he didn't commit. Still, who is going to hire him now? He can't sell real estate, insurance, or even cemetery plots. One must be licensed. Background checks knock him out of every ballpark. He can't even sell cars. His wife is dead, his children age from ten to twenty. He needs cash flow. What does a man like this do?
I began to sympathize with my telemarketing character. I think many telemarketers are at dead-ends. Perhaps they hate having to smile on the phone. Perhaps they despise trying to entice you with a product that not only you don't want, but they don't want either.
I think the next time I get a call, I'll not be rude. I'll put myself in their shoes. I'll simply say, "No thanks, but have a good day."
Then again, who knows? Maybe this person has something I can't live without. Maybe I'll even listen to the whole presentation. They're not all out to get us. Some, I've found, have good intentions. Honest products. A sense of humor. Some, even, represent wonderful companies with awesome products and opportunities not found anywhere else. How would one ever know about them, except by way of a ... telemarketer.
The point is. Be kind. He may very well be a schmuck. But you don't have to be.
Something to think about.
Blessings to you and yours.
Thursday, February 04, 2010
The Women In My Family
She's nineteen. Today's she having her first baby. She is young, beautiful, and single. Surrounded by her sisters, her mother, and her grandmother, my niece is in labor as I write this. Her baby son is about to make a grand entrance into the world. A grand nephew, indeed.
In my immediate family, there are twelve women. Each of us, unique and different. Some of us, vastly different from each other. But what my sisters and I have in common is that we gave birth to some stunningly beautiful girls. And now, they are birthing their own children.
For my mother, my sisters, and myself, the road has been full of potholes the size of canyons. It's our daughters who motivate us forward, to fill those damn blasted potholes.
No matter their course, our daughters will forever receive the support from the women in their lives. Today, as my young niece finds herself in the throes of hard labor, she will contemplate this new road chosen. She will consider the many potholes that await her. My wish for her is courage, supernatural strength, and an abundance of patience. More than anything, she must carve out a life for herself and her son that will be full of good things for him and for her--separate and apart from everyone, and yet remaining a close member of her family. The women in my niece's life have caught her in the midst of a great fall, lowering her softly to solid ground and the security she has known all of her young life. And that's a good thing.
Yet, I'm positive this is the hardest thing she's ever done.
My daughter, and each of my nieces, also possess class, charm, humor, intelligence, and a love for their own mothers. But I doubt any of them know the boundless love their mothers hold for them. It's something a woman doesn't see in its entirety until we become a certain age.
I'm hoping, as my precious niece goes to death's door to give life, she's allowed a little peek at the love the women in her life have for her. It'll give her the courage, strength, and patience she needs to go forward.
God bless our new baby boy.
Blessings to you and the women in your life today.
In my immediate family, there are twelve women. Each of us, unique and different. Some of us, vastly different from each other. But what my sisters and I have in common is that we gave birth to some stunningly beautiful girls. And now, they are birthing their own children.
For my mother, my sisters, and myself, the road has been full of potholes the size of canyons. It's our daughters who motivate us forward, to fill those damn blasted potholes.
No matter their course, our daughters will forever receive the support from the women in their lives. Today, as my young niece finds herself in the throes of hard labor, she will contemplate this new road chosen. She will consider the many potholes that await her. My wish for her is courage, supernatural strength, and an abundance of patience. More than anything, she must carve out a life for herself and her son that will be full of good things for him and for her--separate and apart from everyone, and yet remaining a close member of her family. The women in my niece's life have caught her in the midst of a great fall, lowering her softly to solid ground and the security she has known all of her young life. And that's a good thing.
Yet, I'm positive this is the hardest thing she's ever done.
My daughter, and each of my nieces, also possess class, charm, humor, intelligence, and a love for their own mothers. But I doubt any of them know the boundless love their mothers hold for them. It's something a woman doesn't see in its entirety until we become a certain age.
I'm hoping, as my precious niece goes to death's door to give life, she's allowed a little peek at the love the women in her life have for her. It'll give her the courage, strength, and patience she needs to go forward.
God bless our new baby boy.
Blessings to you and the women in your life today.
Wednesday, February 03, 2010
Late Night Memories
Watching the news as a young girl, American soldiers dying in the Vietnam jungles and rice patties, the networks brought the war into our living rooms. Along with the twangy little girl selling Shake n' Bake, and the plop, plop, fizz, fizz of Alka Selzer, we were also dished out a daily ration of sensational conflict.
Except at my house, my mother refused to allow TV watching during dinner. As much as the war fascinated me, it scared Mother to death. Boys with whom I’d grown up, attended my school and church—just three or four years older than myself—were coming back to the states broken, busted up, or in body bags.
One night after his late shift, Dad arrived home tired and moaning loud enough for me to hear. “I want to relax tonight, clear my head, and fall asleep to the TV. Shultzie's son. They're bringing him home. Tomorrow. The guys at the shop took up a collection.”
I peeked around the corner. Mom had positioned herself at the end of the couch, rubbing Daddy's back. “Want your usual?” Mom asked.
“Uh-huh.” I heard her tip-toe to the Zenith, which sat next to my bedroom. Mom had a habit of fiddling with the knobs on the TV longer than necessary, searching for a late night Western movie for Dad to watch. Preferably one with John Wayne or Jimmy Stewart. I had curled up on the floor, just inside my room in time to watch Dad toe off one shoe and then the other and groan with delight. He’d stood on his feet all day at the Plant 5 Chemical Division of the Akron-based Goodyear Tire and Rubber company. A job that over time, broke him physically.
It wasn’t supposed to do that. We were decendants from a long line of West Virginia coal-miners. My dad escaped the mines hauling his family north, hoping to add years to his life. In reality, he’d traded one abusive job for another.
“What you doin’ up, Sissy?” He'd caught sight of a corner of my pajamas.
I crawled out on hands and knees. “Just wanna kiss you goodnight, Daddy.” Reaching where he lay, I hugged him. He hugged me back, then pointed to the kitchen.
“There’s a candy bar in my lunch bucket, don’t let yer mama see.”
"Daddy?"
"Yeah?"
"What happened to Mr. Schultz's son?"
I could see it in my dad's eyes. He was thankful for his three girls. "He died for his country, darlin'."
"In Vietnam?"
"In Nam," he nodded. "Get on to bed. Eat that candy bar tomorrow."
“Okay, Daddy ... g'night.”
“‘Night, darlin’.”
Dad brought himself home, every night. He was faithful to his wife and his children—that was worth all the candy bars in the world to me. But I remember thinking about Mr. Schultz and his three sons. Then I prayed my childish prayer for all the sons there. In that awful place torn by war. I looked back to see my dad sprawl across our L-shaped couch. I recognized Jimmy Stewart's voice on the TV. Though the sound was turned low, the music and words soothed me, along with the glow from that late night movie.
I heard my mom walk in. I knew she was carrying a tray of heated-up leftovers. Their nightime ritual of chit-chat was interruped as Walter Cronkite broke in to report the latest casualties from a place called Khe Sanh. A Marine base had been hit. A shattering barrage of shells, mortars and rockets had slammed into the base. Eighteen Marines were killed instantly, forty were wounded. I heard Dad’s heavy sigh and my mother's bleak response, “When will it end?”
Now and again I think of those nights, waiting for the sound of that front door to open, and my mother's heavy footsteps from somewhere in the house padding down the hall to greet him. The sounds of their voices, the dull gray light from the old TV set, and the smell of leftovers, I felt safe. Even in the midst of war.
Now late at night, watching my husband sleep, I turn the TV volume down and flip through hundreds of channels. A war overseas still rages. I think tonight, I’ll flip to the cowboy channel. Maybe I’ll find an old favorite of Daddy’s. The Man From Laramie. Jimmy Stewart just puts me to sleep.
Blessings to you and yours.
Except at my house, my mother refused to allow TV watching during dinner. As much as the war fascinated me, it scared Mother to death. Boys with whom I’d grown up, attended my school and church—just three or four years older than myself—were coming back to the states broken, busted up, or in body bags.
One night after his late shift, Dad arrived home tired and moaning loud enough for me to hear. “I want to relax tonight, clear my head, and fall asleep to the TV. Shultzie's son. They're bringing him home. Tomorrow. The guys at the shop took up a collection.”
I peeked around the corner. Mom had positioned herself at the end of the couch, rubbing Daddy's back. “Want your usual?” Mom asked.
“Uh-huh.” I heard her tip-toe to the Zenith, which sat next to my bedroom. Mom had a habit of fiddling with the knobs on the TV longer than necessary, searching for a late night Western movie for Dad to watch. Preferably one with John Wayne or Jimmy Stewart. I had curled up on the floor, just inside my room in time to watch Dad toe off one shoe and then the other and groan with delight. He’d stood on his feet all day at the Plant 5 Chemical Division of the Akron-based Goodyear Tire and Rubber company. A job that over time, broke him physically.
It wasn’t supposed to do that. We were decendants from a long line of West Virginia coal-miners. My dad escaped the mines hauling his family north, hoping to add years to his life. In reality, he’d traded one abusive job for another.
“What you doin’ up, Sissy?” He'd caught sight of a corner of my pajamas.
I crawled out on hands and knees. “Just wanna kiss you goodnight, Daddy.” Reaching where he lay, I hugged him. He hugged me back, then pointed to the kitchen.
“There’s a candy bar in my lunch bucket, don’t let yer mama see.”
"Daddy?"
"Yeah?"
"What happened to Mr. Schultz's son?"
I could see it in my dad's eyes. He was thankful for his three girls. "He died for his country, darlin'."
"In Vietnam?"
"In Nam," he nodded. "Get on to bed. Eat that candy bar tomorrow."
“Okay, Daddy ... g'night.”
“‘Night, darlin’.”
Dad brought himself home, every night. He was faithful to his wife and his children—that was worth all the candy bars in the world to me. But I remember thinking about Mr. Schultz and his three sons. Then I prayed my childish prayer for all the sons there. In that awful place torn by war. I looked back to see my dad sprawl across our L-shaped couch. I recognized Jimmy Stewart's voice on the TV. Though the sound was turned low, the music and words soothed me, along with the glow from that late night movie.
I heard my mom walk in. I knew she was carrying a tray of heated-up leftovers. Their nightime ritual of chit-chat was interruped as Walter Cronkite broke in to report the latest casualties from a place called Khe Sanh. A Marine base had been hit. A shattering barrage of shells, mortars and rockets had slammed into the base. Eighteen Marines were killed instantly, forty were wounded. I heard Dad’s heavy sigh and my mother's bleak response, “When will it end?”
Now and again I think of those nights, waiting for the sound of that front door to open, and my mother's heavy footsteps from somewhere in the house padding down the hall to greet him. The sounds of their voices, the dull gray light from the old TV set, and the smell of leftovers, I felt safe. Even in the midst of war.
Now late at night, watching my husband sleep, I turn the TV volume down and flip through hundreds of channels. A war overseas still rages. I think tonight, I’ll flip to the cowboy channel. Maybe I’ll find an old favorite of Daddy’s. The Man From Laramie. Jimmy Stewart just puts me to sleep.
Blessings to you and yours.
Tuesday, February 02, 2010
My Mother's House
"You should see it. It's gorgeous. Cinnamon Berry. The color is the perfect accent to the Carmel in the living room. I don't know why we didn't paint these walls sooner."
That's my mother. Last night. Talking about their latest house "fix." Long retired, my father is as into the aesthetics of his home as my mother, so he grabbed a paintbrush last week and went to work.
I learned how to "design on a dime" from my parents. Way long before it was popular. Decades before HGTV hit the airways. My parents "eye for style," particularly that of my mother's, is coded deep within her DNA. Her love of furniture, fabric, linens, dishes, paintings, lamps and accessories began at birth. My mother passed her love and appreciation of all things "homey" on to her daughters.
I remember walking into my friend's houses as a young girl thinking, Does her mother not know those colors are hideous? I wonder who picked out that wallpaper? My gosh, this couch needs thrown out! Oh yes, we King girls have been trained in the art of decor. Of house couture. A few times we've landed our butts in trouble because of our inability to pass by a furniture store, a gift shop, or a garage sale.
My mother's taste changed over the years. In the beginning, she was "Mid-Century Modern." But actually, that indeed was the 1950s. Then, long about 1965, she acquired an antique desk, and that began her voyage into the Victorian era. Slowly, she moved into rustic, then country, and now her home is full of antiques, lace, velvet, and all things Queen Anne and Victoria. Their Georgia home reflects their love of the past, having collected antiques long before it was popular. Therefore, you'll not find many homes like this one. You won't find an antique organ in many homes with a centennial carving on it that reads, "possession of the first English-speaking colony."
My father's artistic ability to "gingerbread" is overwhelming. Literally. A cabinetmaker with lots of time on his hands, Dad's trim work is unique and special, but it adorns every window and doorway. Home Depot has asked him to give lessons at their stores. But Dad is content to live in his workshop, carving out his latest project.
On vacation, touring many historical homes and mansions, I have to giggle. My parents could make a fortune, just from the sale of tickets to those wishing to tour their home.
It's not overdone, it's magnificent. The house and it's innards are extravagant, made for glossy magazine articles. House Beautiful has seen nothing like it, I'm sure. But the thing is, my folks have no clue how beautiful their home really is. It's their hobby. It's their life's work. It's their refuge and safe place. They live there, eat and sleep there. Entertain their children there. It's not a museum. It's home.
They are children of the Great Depression. They grew up poor. Dirt poor. They married with nothing more than the clothes on their backs. My mother's parents were alcoholics and abusive. She was torn from her family at an early age. My father escaped a life in the coal mines of West Virginia, went to college, and had brothers who were jealous of any little success in his life. So, now in their 70s, my parents live in the house they spent over 57 years building and creating. It's one of a kind. My mother's house will forever be burned into my memory, as well as the memories of all of her children and grandchildren. Nanny's house is where you go to breathe her in, feel the best of her, and rest a while.
My mother's house is as much a part of her, as her arms and legs. It truly is ... home.
Blessings to you and yours.
That's my mother. Last night. Talking about their latest house "fix." Long retired, my father is as into the aesthetics of his home as my mother, so he grabbed a paintbrush last week and went to work.
I learned how to "design on a dime" from my parents. Way long before it was popular. Decades before HGTV hit the airways. My parents "eye for style," particularly that of my mother's, is coded deep within her DNA. Her love of furniture, fabric, linens, dishes, paintings, lamps and accessories began at birth. My mother passed her love and appreciation of all things "homey" on to her daughters.
I remember walking into my friend's houses as a young girl thinking, Does her mother not know those colors are hideous? I wonder who picked out that wallpaper? My gosh, this couch needs thrown out! Oh yes, we King girls have been trained in the art of decor. Of house couture. A few times we've landed our butts in trouble because of our inability to pass by a furniture store, a gift shop, or a garage sale.
My mother's taste changed over the years. In the beginning, she was "Mid-Century Modern." But actually, that indeed was the 1950s. Then, long about 1965, she acquired an antique desk, and that began her voyage into the Victorian era. Slowly, she moved into rustic, then country, and now her home is full of antiques, lace, velvet, and all things Queen Anne and Victoria. Their Georgia home reflects their love of the past, having collected antiques long before it was popular. Therefore, you'll not find many homes like this one. You won't find an antique organ in many homes with a centennial carving on it that reads, "possession of the first English-speaking colony."
My father's artistic ability to "gingerbread" is overwhelming. Literally. A cabinetmaker with lots of time on his hands, Dad's trim work is unique and special, but it adorns every window and doorway. Home Depot has asked him to give lessons at their stores. But Dad is content to live in his workshop, carving out his latest project.
On vacation, touring many historical homes and mansions, I have to giggle. My parents could make a fortune, just from the sale of tickets to those wishing to tour their home.
It's not overdone, it's magnificent. The house and it's innards are extravagant, made for glossy magazine articles. House Beautiful has seen nothing like it, I'm sure. But the thing is, my folks have no clue how beautiful their home really is. It's their hobby. It's their life's work. It's their refuge and safe place. They live there, eat and sleep there. Entertain their children there. It's not a museum. It's home.
They are children of the Great Depression. They grew up poor. Dirt poor. They married with nothing more than the clothes on their backs. My mother's parents were alcoholics and abusive. She was torn from her family at an early age. My father escaped a life in the coal mines of West Virginia, went to college, and had brothers who were jealous of any little success in his life. So, now in their 70s, my parents live in the house they spent over 57 years building and creating. It's one of a kind. My mother's house will forever be burned into my memory, as well as the memories of all of her children and grandchildren. Nanny's house is where you go to breathe her in, feel the best of her, and rest a while.
My mother's house is as much a part of her, as her arms and legs. It truly is ... home.
Blessings to you and yours.
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