A Pink Ribbon For A Broad-Shouldered Man

I asked him, "When did you notice it?"

"It's been a little tender," he replied. "I thought it was just a pimple."

A month ago my husband had a routine chest x-ray prior to cataract surgery. The cataract surgery was cancelled because they found a small nodule in his right breast. After a mammogram, an ultrasound, and a biopsy, it was discovered that my precious husband has stage 1 breast cancer.

Breast cancer. Isn't that a woman's disease?

Apparently not. Although rare in men, it happens. He was scheduled for a mastectomy on Friday but has since been rescheduled for Tuesday, May 8th, to give the doctor adequate time instead of squeezing him into a packed schedule. I suppose we just have to wait, although we're mentally prepared.

Or is one ever mentally prepared for this sort of thing?

But the prognosis is excellent. It was caught, thank God, very early. It's small, and there is a good possibility he won't even need chemo. All he'll have is a scar. "Women like scars," I told him. "Maybe you can get a tattoo there in a few years." We're bathing ourselves in prayer, and my friends and family have jumped into the pool with us. Including my Facebook Friends. :-)

It's a scary word. But we are people of great faith. It surrounds us like tinted windows, we can look out, but nothing can penetrate. Michael's life is a testimony to the human spirit. From his early days in the military to the death of his daughter and the years of struggle that followed, until now. I just may have to write a book about it. Someday.

And Michael may have to wear a pink ribbon on his lapel the rest of his life. But at six foot two with broad shoulders, he is very much a man's man. He's never been one to fear his feminine side. Pink ribbons? He'll wear them proudly. I assure you.

I can also assure you, Michael Cable will beat this monster, just like he's beat every other monster in  his life. And I will continue to be blessed by this man. Thank you all for your continued prayers, and I'm sure we'll be able to give you a good report in a few short weeks.

Blessings to you and yours.

What Do You Hold Back As A Writer?

One of my favorite quotes, a quote I often recite when speaking to groups of writers, is the quote by Dorothy Allison from the New York Times Book Review, Sunday, June 28, 1994: She said, "Everything I know, everything I put in my fiction, will hurt someone somewhere as surely as it will comfort and enlighten someone else. What then is my responsibility? What am I to restrain? What am I to fear and alter-my own nakedness or the grief of the reader? I want my stories to be so good they are unforgettable; to make my ideas live and my own terrors real for people I will never meet. It is a completely amoral writer's lust. If we begin to agree that some ideas are too dangerous, too bad to invite inside our heads, then we stop the storyteller completely. We silence everyone who would tell us something that might be painful in our vulnerable moments."

I remember being told that God doesn't just tickle our ears with sweet scriptures. I have reasoned that God not only reveals Himself through miracles, but also through our realities. What is real. What we know.

As a writer, I decided a long time ago that whether or not it sounds like something a "Christian" would write, I would write what is real. I would be a fearless writer. Come what may.

My characters are not all God-serving men and women. They don't all live within the sheltered walls of christian schools, homes, and they don't all spend their weekends at choir practice or church socials. They don't say "shoot" when they mean, "shit." They're real. They have a voice, and I won't betray that, any more than I would betray the voice of an evangelist. My stories and novels are not written for the Christian audience, but my message of faith is clear. I like to think that I roll the camera, recording the scene exactly they way the characters react and speak.

Life is messy, gritty, dirty, and dark. But out of that comes pin-pricks of light and hope.

I feel like a pioneer of sorts. I can't write any other way. There is no condemnation heaped upon my shoulders, and yet I'm quite sure the message of love and redemption is apparent, to the point it jumps off the page and pierces the reader's heart.

Wishy-washy? Compromising? Some might think so, I suppose. I prefer to think of it as a double-edged sword. It cuts quick, before you know you even know you're bleeding. I think the world is ready for reality-based writing. For somebody to write stories off the straight and narrow, and yet never losing sight of the truth and the way.

A bit too open-minded for some, maybe, but I like to think God made me this way. He's just been waiting to see what I do with it. Televenge will be available to the public in October. A novel not for the faint of heart.

And like Dorothy Allison ... I held nothing back.

Blessings to you and yours.

Pez Dispensers Full of Antidepressants

Sometimes I think being a writer during this time of flux in the industry is enough to drive most of us to carrying around Pez dispensers full of antidepressants.

I wonder how Eudora Welty would react if her publicist (if she even had one) told her to learn how to Twitter. Do you think William Faulkner would spend an hour a day on Facebook? I doubt if many of great writers of the last century worried over book tours, book festivals, and book returns. They turned in their manuscripts, and were off to writing their next novel.

My, how things have changed.

The publishing industry has gone through so many changes, I wonder if it even recognizes itself. The number of experts offering me words of wisdom pop up in my email every day. You have to weed through them. Find the ones that need pulling, and take time on the few that spark your interest. Most of the time I delete them.

I would like nothing more than to bury myself in a good book, sit in the library for a whole day, and develop characters and scenes just for the fun of it. Writers don't have those by-gone luxuries anymore.

I'm getting ready for the upcoming promotion surrounding my novel, the book signings, the speaking engagements, and the traveling involved. And really, I don't mind it. I enjoy meeting my readers, getting inside their heads, finding out what they're reading these days. Connecting. Writers have to connect with their readers more often than they used to. Technology demands that we do.

E books can be read overnight. Stories are shorter. Reviews are plastered over the Internet so readers can make intelligent choices. It's enough to give Margaret Mitchell a migraine. I'm not sure the writers of yesteryear would know how to handle it. I wonder if they'd embrace it, or give up in the midst of such fierce competition.

I'm in the midst of a countdown. There are lists of preparation. Each month before the novel is released to the public, the writer, publisher, and publicist have their work cut out for them. I'm about six months out from pub date, and every day my list grows longer. Even though I have a great team behind me, my list remains long and detailed.

I don't have a Pez dispenser full of antidepressants, but I am considering increasing my coffee intake.

Blessings to you and yours.

Have You Earned Your Social Media Merit Badge?

How many of us sit at our computers and decide we're going to take over the world with social media? We're going to blog every day. Set aside time for tweeting. Dive into the depths of our Facebook account. Build our writing platform come Hell or High Water!

And then you look up from your desk and it's already noon and you've got to get something out of the freezer for dinner; fold the clothes in the dryer before they wrinkle; talk to your mother who complains you never call her, and run to the store for eggs and toilet paper. Before you know it, it's time for the kids to come home, or the dog has escaped and your neighbor is calling you to get Barney out of his flowerbeds.

Or maybe the warm spring air is calling you outside, and you notice how awful your own flowerbeds look from the winter, so you dust off your garden tools and dig up a few weeds. Before you know it, it's time to pull dinner out of the oven, eat, clean up the kitchen, on and on ... and there's always that novel on your bedside table staring at you. The one you fall asleep reading five minutes after your head hits the pillow.

The next morning brings new resolutions, or pretty much the same ones you made the day before as you sit at your computer, staring at your list of things to do you should've tackled the day before.

Come on. Admit it. How many of us really want to spend time on Facebook, Twitter, Linked-In and all the other sights designed to suck time away from us. How does one successfully find the excitement in it? The feeling of accomplishment? All while knowing we need to start the next book, outline, research, edit, and query? I think maybe it's that we use time as an excuse. Think? The fact of the matter is ... we really don't want to do it. So the question becomes, what can we do to make ourselves want to spend the time tweeting? Facebooking? Caring about every Linked-In email that plugs up our Inbox?

Sure, sure ... we've heard it all before ... it's something we have to do to be successful. So you wonder how many tweets are sincere and how many are working toward their Tweetie Bird Merit badges? "How many followers/friends do you have?" Na-na-na-na na, na.

I'm finding too many people whose lives are wrapped around their Facebook account, when really, they desperately need to mow their dang yard, play with their kids, bake a pie for their sick neighbor. There's got to be line drawn somewhere in all this. Any ideas?

Blessings to you and yours.

There's a Price to Pay for Your Memories

They say when you're born, you begin to die. Not something we want to think about. But I sat at the funeral of my ex-mother-in-law last Friday and thought about that very fact.

I was close to this amazing woman. She was a mother to me in so many, many ways. I knew her from the time I was eight, married her youngest, and spent most of my young adult life at her feet. She was my spiritual mentor in my youth. So many memories ...

I think Martha and I talked long into the night on countless occasions, about God and church and Heaven and family ... I was Ruth and she was my Naomi. Your people shall be my people and your God, my God. Well. Anyway, I can still smell her pies baking in her yellow stove. Smell the coffee and bacon frying in her old and dated kitchen; and if I try hard enough, I can still taste the roast beef Sunday dinners. The hot air on a summer night, eating ice cream from the Dariette, sitting out under that old shade tree in her backyard. Feeling the wind in the breezeway, the sinking mattress in the old spare bed in the back room, hearing the sound of the trucks at night on the highway. Precious memories, how they linger.

I washed more loads of clothes and diapers with Mom than a body has a right to. That ancient wringer washer, hoo-boy, I wouldn't take a million dollars for that memory. Totin' loads upstairs and out to the miles of clothesline that zig-zagged across the backyard by Dad's shop.

I still have dreams about that old homestead. Who wouldn't? My entire youth is tied up in that place. But, ah, time heals wounds, and for that we should all be grateful. Unconditional love is the thread that binds this family. I'm more than thankful for it.

We're all going to miss her. God is so good to fill in those cavernous gaps and put the joy we so desperately need at this time into our hearts. Yes, it is a very sad time, but it is a tremendous time of celebration. A circle unbroken.

Martha was 89. She raised five children, (six, including me) and influenced her nine grandchildren in ways I never knew until the funeral this past Friday. It was a crazy week of
family and friends and laughter mixed in with the tears.

And then, yesterday, my dear, sweet current mother-in-law, ends up in the hospital. So, we are on another wait-and-see, moment-by-moment, stand-by-the-phone kind of thing. Bobbie Sue is a real sweetheart, as well as a true Southern broad. I'm sure she's giving those nurses plenty to laugh about.

All of this has made me think about the passage of time, and how quickly we can go from a little girl in pig-tails, to a wrinkled woman in a nursing home. But for those of us who believe in the promise of Heaven ... it's just a little easier to take when it's over.

So I've been away from my computer for a week. It's good to be back.

Blessings to you and yours.

Does Your Pastor Wear An Armani Suit?

Bravo to the comment left as a result of my previous post. Bravo! Tithing and giving can be looked at in many different ways. For me, giving to a down-and-out family across the street is doing God's work. Giving to the "Because I am a Girl" program is also the hand of God reaching out. Giving to the poor and the homeless, toys and coats for kids, any reputable charity -- in my humble opinion, is the mark of a Christian.

You don't do it for recognition, but for love and compassion for your fellow man. That, my friend, is following in the footsteps of true Christianity.

I think many evangelicals have lost their focus of what it means to give. We've become so wrapped up in believing that God wants His people to have the best, that we forget Christ lived and dwelt among the poor and the destitute. I'm not saying it's wrong to have nice things, and I don't have a problem with sitting in a pretty church, but I do have a problem when it becomes the focus of a church to make sure their pastor lives in the lap of luxury. I have a problem with pastors who wear designer clothes when the majority of his congregation can barely feed their kids!

I realize there are churches claiming to be good stewards with their money. I'm sure they'd be happy to let you see where their money is spent. Many congregations where I lived in the south, were extended family to their members, loving them and taking care of their needs during a family crisis. Church families can be a beautiful thing to have as part of your life.

But when you're hounded week after week to give your 10% and your love offering so that He will pour out His blessings upon you! -- It makes me wonder. TV preachers and marathon praise-and-worshippers know exactly what to say to make you weep. They can send you to the phone to donate before you realize you've left the comfort of your Lazy boy. You ever think about the psychology that goes into all that?

We can reach out in many directions, inside and outside of the church. And we shouldn't feel guilty for it. I believe He blesses us according to the intents of our heart. Just my humble opinion. I don't belong to any church. I doubt I ever will. So I can't judge, but I've experienced the strangle-hold of a megachurch. I know first-hand the guilt involved in not paying your tithes.

I also know not all churches are bad when it comes to forcing you to give, and even in the bad ones, there are still good people. But you'll never see me clutching my hard-earned money in my hand and walking down the aisle to throw it at the pastors feet. A pastor who wears Italian leather shoes for $500 bucks a pop. I'd rather take my chances and give it to the pan-handler on the corner.

Just my humble opinion.

Find a reputable charity. Sponsors for children in underdeveloped countries are needed, as well as here in our own country. With our economy the way it is, there are many families in your own neighborhood who need help. Be an anonymous donor. If you know a family who is hurting, pay their light bill. Send them a gift card to their local grocery store. Leave a note on their door with a word of encouragement. Don't wait to be an angel of mercy just at Christmas.

That, is all of our priority. Christian or not.

Blessings to you and yours.

Does Jesus Really Need Money?

So I'm channel surfing yesterday, and I flip to a religious station. A marathon "praise-a-thon" to raise money. For the station or missions or whatever. Folks are standing at their seats with their arms raised, moving and swaying to the music, eyes all watery, and sending up a few shouts in between stanzas. A large group of singers and musicians blanket the stage, leading the auditorium from one song to the next, on and on and on and on. I wonder if they classify this as entertainment? Are the people who tune in moved to donate by watching this? An occasional testimony is relayed, the person in 70's couture talking loud and long about sowing seeds of prosperity. Giving in faith. And how God has blessed them, saved them from a life of poverty, sickness, and disease. All because they sowed their seed.

Phone numbers blink at the bottom of the screen and I wonder how many of these I've sat through in my lifetime?

Does God really need my money? Or does He really intend to test my faith on a regular basis by whether or not I give my last dime?

I suppose that depends on whether or not we take the scriptures literally. The condemnation I feel for even writing this blog post weighs heavy on me, because you see, I was brought up on the covenants of God. On the conviction of the Holy Spirit. On the literal meaning of each and every scripture. And if you did not believe as I did, then whoa be unto you. You were dead already.

I understand why these praise and worship marathons exist. I know the love they feel for their Creator, but I also understand the fear involved. The sorrow they feel for anyone who does not believe like they do. Or walk their same path. I swallowed that dogma for years and chased the feelings of eternal security until my feet were worn to bloody stubs.

Am I now an apostate? Have I forsaken the cross?

No.

I've grown tolerant. I've learned that more than anything, God's love can not be explained or compared to the love we know as humans. I will never walk in fear again. I learned that we cannot control God by "giving until it hurts." I've even grown tolerant of folks praising God on camera and living like the devil when the house lights are turned off.

I changed the channel eventually. At least Ellen DeGeneres isn't using guilt to get my last dime. And she makes me laugh. That's more than I can say for a gospel-singing marathon.

Blessings to you and yours.

Sharing A Piece Of Yourself

Whew! Too much time between blogs. All the things you're not supposed to do if you're a blogger, I've done. But I've been blogging since 2005. The rules for blogging were not clearly defined back then. Then again, I don't follow many rules, I'm afraid. Anyway, after all this time, I'm not about to stop blogging now. My intentions of becoming a super-blogger are still in the works, however, they're taking a backseat to getting my new book out. Something has to give somewhere.

I've received eight "yes's" to my request for blurbs from my list of respected authors. I'm extremely happy about it. There are a few more authors I'm waiting on, but as the deadline grows nearer I wonder if I'll hear from them at all. As it is, I'm thankful for those kind and courteous authors who have at least emailed me back. And for those who have decided to give me a bit of their time to say nice things about my book. As a writer, every kind word, gesture, helping hand, and loving heart that sends help my way, I'm not only thankful for, I'm moved beyond words. People are busy these days, and when you are lucky enough for someone to give you a piece of themselves, it's a tremendous blessing that should never go unrecognized.

I have a large, ornate serving dish hanging on my dining room wall that says, Don't just count your blessings, share them. This is a tough business, and sometimes I feel as though I'm out here all alone. I'm sure I'm not the only writer who feels that way.

For me, I'm coming down the home stretch. The book cover is done and everything else is rolling into place. There's still much to do, but after a decade in the writing, TELEVENGE will soon see the light of day. It's a big book. Over 700 pages. Blood, sweat, and plenty of tears cover each of those pages. So when someone says to me, Yes, I'll send you a blurb, I don't take it lightly. Once again, I'm grateful beyond words.

Blessings to you and yours.

Oh Brother, Can You Spare A Blurb?

Blurbs.

I've spent the past three days emailing well-respected authors. Hopeful for their endorsements, I gathered the contacts I made the past ten years, as well as emails from other writers I love, and sent them my genuine and heartfelt request. A request for a blurb. A blurb from great writers who I hope remember what it was like . . . searching for someone to give their debut novel a boost. A leg-up. I worry everyone is so busy with their own work, their own life, they'll forget their days of struggle. Forget what it's like to receive any stroke of good fortune. For someone they respect to turn their way with a nod, and and kind word.

I understand some of these folks receive dozens of requests nearly every day, and it's impossible to honor them all. Especially, if they don't like the manuscript in front of them. I get that.

Oh God, look my way, just once.

It's been such a long journey. Televenge has been over ten years in the writing. I'm so close, I can taste it. I can't even describe the angst. These few final months before the novel is published is filled with publicity work and preparing for a book tour and many sleepless nights.

It's the story of lifetime.

Just give me a chance, God. Give me a chance.

Julie Murkette and the team at Satya House are like branches of a great oak, holding me up, supporting me through every battle, every storm. We're determined to break barriers, and hopefully, with the support of my readers, create a sensation.

It's in God's hands, now. I just have to remember to leave it there.

Blessings to you and yours,

Shoutin' Hallelujah! A New Computer!

HP w185e! My new computer! Laws-a-mercy! After 11 years. A new computer. I can't even tell you what it's like. Everything moves at the speed of sound, I'm having trouble keeping up! Finally, I've been able to upgrade and what a wonder.

Sorry to say, I'm still carrying around my flip phone. IPads scare me to death, and I'm all thumbs when it comes to the remote on the TV. Nook? Kindle? No. I like to open a real book. Not fake one.

I'm a word person and I make no apologies. I keep up with what I need. Not what everybody else is using.

But . . .

I do plan to dig into my social media now. Now that I don't have something equivalent to dial-up. Now I can pull up You Tube without waiting twenty minutes for it to load. I even like the feel of this new keyboard. Coffee spots and toast crumbs from 2006 have wedged themselves into the spaces between the keys on my old keyboard. God knows what else.

So I say goodbye to my old Dell. It's been a good computer. Wrote my last three books on it. It has served me well but it's time to move on.

Blessings to you and yours.

Touchdown Pass For Publicity!

And so it begins! My radio interview this morning sent me spinning! I'm pumped. Ready to rumble. Live internet talk radio is the coolest thing. From your own home, in your jammies, you can talk to the world. Susan Rich Talks, was my host this morning, talking about my books, my writing life, and specifically--about Southern writers and dialect in writing. Twenty minutes of discussion ... giving writers something to think about. Tune in to her show! Susan Rich is doing a great service out there on the west coast for all types of writers, so check out her website and tune in!

It's one way to get the marketing machine started as we make our way toward publication day.

I'm convinced the success of any book is the amount of leg work you put into it after it's written. My head is spinning with ideas and I'm wondering if there will be enough time in the days ahead to do all I want to do. I'm working hand-in-hand with a great publisher and publicist to give Televenge a huge push into the literary public. It's exciting. It's scary. It's a hell of a lot of work. I do believe I could spend twelve hours a day just reading the blogs and websites that deal with book publicity.

In the days to come, I'll be posting my ideas, what worked, what did not. And of course, I'll rely on my old tried-and-true ... public appearances. For Southern Fried Women I spoke at over 150 venues, only scratching the surface. It's going to be a busy year, and it's already Valentine's Day.

The road can seem daunting. There are monsters everywhere. The bad economy, the fluctuating publishing industry, and bookstore after bookstore closing their doors. But I'm reminded, strangely, of the Tom Brady story. The Aaron Rogers story. Those quarterbacks that nobody wanted in the beginning of their careers. Their struggle was years in the making. But eventually, the best won out. Boy-howdy, did it ever. It's enough to give this writer that extra push I need on most days to keep going. Who knows? Televenge may be the touchdown pass I was hoping for.

Blessings to you and yours.

Paper, Rock, Typewriters

I'm blogging from a different computer today, as mine has just about given up the ghost. It's gone bonkers. Done all kinds of crazy things lately. Not good timing. But is it ever when your computer is your livelihood?

I guess I've been around a while, because I remember typing on manuals, and then on selectrics, as well as mag-card typewriters. Those were the good old days when we went to the library to do research, dug through encyclopedias, and collected boxes of magazines in our basements. I think I've mentioned this before, but I used to type on a noisy IBM late at night when my children were asleep. I'd cram pillows around it to muffle the sound. Mimeograph machines. Remember those? Good grief, I'm dating myself. Of course, I know some writers who pound out their first drafts with pen and paper. I can't imagine it.

Back in the 8o's, I worked for a law firm that was cutting edge when it came to the "new" windows programs. Those tiny monitors with green-tinted type. I took to computers like a bear in the woods. Well. At least to word processing. I loved the feel of the "new" keyboards, learning the software programs. I remember thinking ... someday, everybody will have one of these in their homes. Little did I know we would carry them around in our pockets.

What's next?

I don't try to keep up anymore. I've settled in with a dated version of Word, a few online programs for writers, and good ol' Google. My energy is better spent these days writing the book, and exploring the best ways to market it. Tweeting, Facebook, keeping up with it social media is difficult enough.

Right now--I'd just like to have a computer that doesn't crash every time I open my Internet program.

Blessings to you and yours.

Another FREE Story From SOUTHERN FRIED WOMEN!

Vernell Paskins, Mobile Home Queen!

Below is the link where you can purchase it for free at this moment in time. The story is available in all ebook formats with embedded links. The links to buy the whole ebook or paperback are at the end of the story.

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/126565

Enjoy the story!

VERNELL PASKINS, MOBILE HOME QUEEN, spoke to me in ways I never dreamed a character could. While studying a map of North Carolina one day, I saw a tiny town (a crossroads, really) named Needmore. Not living far from there, my husband and I decided to drive to the area. A beautiful little spot in the country, but there wasn’t much to see. The place did ‘need more’ to be called a town. Still, the name of the locale intrigued me.

What type of person lives in Needmore and do they really … need more?

Over the next several days, a character popped into my head and I placed her in Needmore, with a dose of humor, hopes and dreams, and huge disappointments in her life. A woman with little education most people look at and call “low life” or “white trash.” Although Vernell struggles to make a way where there seems to be no way … living from paycheck to paycheck (like so many women I know) the deck is stacked against her. I asked myself, what if ... she lived in a doublewide and worked at the interstate flea market ... what if ...

Blessings to you and yours.

What Not To Wear? Who Cares?

I'm stylin', baby.

It's 3:50 p.m. and I've just had my shower for the day. (The times at the bottom of these blog posts are screwy, but I'm on track for a new blog in the near future.) Anyway, please allow me to tell you what I'm wearing. And no, it's not khakis. A pink-knit flowered nightgown to my knees, brown fuzzy socks, light blue slippers over my cold feet, and of course, since it's only 3 degrees here in the snow-belt, I've thrown on my black zip-up hoodie sweatshirt. No makeup, wet slicked-back hair, and a ton of Victoria-Secret Vanilla body cream to fight the winter dry skin.

Hot, huh?

I'm working on a one-hundred word description for my novel, with a looming deadline set by my publisher. And I doubt she gives a rat's patutie what I look like doing it.

Lucky for me, I'm not expecting anybody to come to the door. My husband is working, and I put a pot of spaghetti sauce to simmer on the stove. The house smells like an Italian bistro, I'm clean, and I'm in my element. I don't have to fight the traffic, worry about icy roads, or compete with the pretty 30-something girls in the workplace. I love my job. I love where I work.

I think I'd slit my wrists if I had to wake up at 6 and apply makeup to puffy eyes, go out in the cold only to get stuck in a traffic jam and be late, again, for work. I'm way past watching the clock, clocking in at 8 and out at 5, hoping I can make it home by 6, only to start the madness all over again the next day.

Thank you very much, I'll stick to my pink nightgown, brown fuzzy socks, and clocking out in time to watch American Idol.

What not to wear? Ha! Who cares?

Obviously, not me.

Blessings to you and yours.

Adoration For A Daughter

She is the only one who remembers my January wedding anniversary. But then, she remembers every person in the family, their anniversary and birthday, always sends a card, hand writes her thank-you notes, and wraps gifts with a style all her own. With real ribbon and pretty paper not from the Walmart. She's a little bit country. A little bit rock and roll. And a little bit of a girl. Thank goodness, she didn't take after me in the body department. But she's not a girl anymore, and I have to keep reminding myself of that. Her voice is higher-pitched than mine, and she has very little curl to her thin, baby-fine hair, but other than that, the similarities are many.

We adore many of the same movies, books, political views, and convictions. We could watch Sense & Sensibility from morning to night, read Outlander again and again, and we know every great line in Steel Magnolias. Neither of us likes to run. Or jog. Our hands are the same, down to the tips of our short-round fingernails.

She's anal to a fault, just like her mother. Would rather do it herself, than trust anyone else to help. We hate balancing a checkbook, and would rather have our finances handled by someone else. (Sorry, Suzie Orman.) She far surpassed me in education, but our work ethics cannot be tampered with. We work like mules with our eyes to the ground, and give it all we got and then some. We can work around the clock.

We love to play just as hard. Picnics with family, barbeques, holidays, we'll find an excuse to visit friends and family. Well, she does more than me. But we have best friends, and we keep them for life. We love all things spiritual, but believe in one God. We both dream a lot, have nightmares about religion and wrath-of-God type stuff. She will not watch movies about war, apocalypse, or end-of-the-world drama. Refuses to watch it.

But we do share a love for a good chick-flick, snow, and a great pizza.

Of course, we also share a deep and abiding love for Lily, and every child. But she has opened her arms and heart to those most challenged, the physically and mentally handicapped. Her life's calling is to provide the opportunity for them to read great books. Both of our lives revolve around great books, it seems.

She's loyal, considerate, and would rather talk to you about you than about herself. She loves a good, cold beer. Ice cream. Great restaurants and fine wine. We share these loves, and some hurts, too. We hurt over "stuff" that happens in our families. She loves her father and adores her step-father, and long ago stepped in to fill a void in his life. The loss of his own daughter. A pain neither of can imagine.

We support and pray for our President and we root, wholeheartedly, for the Ohio State Buckeyes. Although I'm not quite sure she understands my love for South, she certainly visits it often. But that's where her nanny lives.

Together we share a love for "Nanny & Pop" and my nieces and nephews, every last one of her cousins ... are also her friends. She never tires of visiting those she loves, and her aunts and uncles are extremely important to her. Her ability to love is boundless, and I've rarely seen her angry. Drawing attention to herself is not something she does well. Living in the limelight is not on her agenda. And as biased as I may be, her faults are few.

We both love to travel. But I've rarely gone anywhere with her. Although, we've certainly walked a very long spiritual road together. We share the same key to the door of our past. But our lives, as much as they are the same, are quite different. I once worried about those differences, but now I think the thing to do is to celebrate them, enjoy them, live vicariously through those differences, and try to see things through each others eyes.

Her loyalty to her brother and sister-in-law is repaid by their loyalty in return. Their mutual respect will see them through the years, and when they are old and sit around and talk about their parents, they will remember how alike we all were. I try, as I get older, to see nothing but the good in my children. To remember that although they are indeed human, they are the pieces of me that will go on long after I am gone. I want to know what motivates them, what moves them, what makes them the loving individual that they are.

What I have learned is that Jillian is a rare flower that busts up through hard-packed clay and spreads happiness on the faces around her. She'll not read this, I don't think she reads my blog much. And I won't call her to tell her to read it. She already knows how I feel about her. I just like to think that those who know her, are all the more blessed for it. A simple statement, but true.

Someday, I will talk about my sons. Oh, Lord. Where do I start?

If this is all too syrupy-sweet for you today, I make no apologies, but maybe you need to remember the few things about your children that motivate you. They are, after all, why we keep moving forward. Or they should be.

Blessings to you and yours.

Would You Drink The Kool-Aid?

Isn't is amazing that you know to what I am referring?

'Drinking the Kool-Aid' in urban slang, has nothing to do with that wonderful, fruity drink we guzzled by the gallon when we were kids. Oh, no. It smacks of the 1978 cult mass-suicide in Jonestown, Guyana. It is believed the televangelist, Jim Jones, took cyanide and some kind of sedative and mixed it with Kool-Aid to poison his following at Jonestown. It may have been Flavor Aid, but no matter what he used, we know what it means when somebody says, "Don't drink the Kool-Aid!"

I watch a great deal of religious TV, mostly because it's what I write about. Some of it moves me, most of it -- does not. Watching one particular evangelist this week, I was moved to tears. Not because of what he was saying, singing, or pushing. I was moved by the tears on the faces in the crowd. Every face was wet with tears. Those precious, precious people, reaching out for hope, for God. Their hands raised, these folks and their honest hearts had come to that great arena to worship, receive a blessing, and touch the hem of their creator.

It grieved me so, I eventually had to change the channel.

I sure hope that televangelist knows the massive responsibility on his shoulders. I wonder.

The fact remains, televangelists can lead sheep to the slaughter like nothing and no-one else. They can bring out the tears and sell God better than Tony the Tiger sells cornflakes. They can also whip up a batch of Kool-Aid, knowing there are millions of honest hearts who would drink it. And for some reason, we Christians are hesitant to hold our pastors accountable for what they say and do. They don't have to be perfect. In fact, I'd prefer if they were not perfect. But we tend to overlook their celebrity, and confuse the human with the divine.

People are human. Televangelists are human. We tend to forget that. Are there any good televangelists? I'm sure there are men and women out there, preaching, whose hearts are in the right place. Whose intentions are admirable. But it is my personal opinion there have been few who have retained those intentions, that good heart, the humility required. I won't name them because it's certainly not up to me to judge, or pick, or choose. That's God's department.

I run on experience. On personal testimony. I say, be careful. The wolves are out there. And so is the Kool-Aid.

Personally, I love a cold glass on a hot day. Even on a cold day. What a treat! Just keep out the poison!

That goes for televangelists, as well.

Blessings to you and yours.

A Visit From A Dead Grandpa

Me and Grandpa Oaks.

I told my publisher I'd been in the same nightgown for three days. Sorry to say, it's true. The list is long, the deadlines are looming, and thank God, I'm not out to win a beauty contest. For me, poor hygiene and writing deadlines go hand-in-hand. My poor husband, what that man puts up with. But after turning in my final draft, it was like poking a hole in a balloon. The pressure was gone, at least for the moment. Time for a shower, clean clothes, shave my legs, and a little make up. And some sleep.

Last night I had a dream about my grandfather. How many times in a week do you think about your grandfather? I'll bet not a whole lot. I suppose that depends on how well you knew him. I haven't seen my grandfather in, oh, I don't know, twenty years maybe. Maybe longer. I'm talking about my mother's father. I've talked a lot about my father's father. The coal miner. But my mom's father worked in the steel mills. He was hard of hearing and a bit mysterious. He divorced my grandmother when he was in his 60's. He should've divorced her years earlier. Anyway, that's another story.

But Grandpa's past is sketchy. I know he served in the Navy, grew up in Alabama and Tennessee, and loved baseball. He said he saw Satchel Page play once. And it's a well known fact, that grandpa drank more than he should have. Probably because of my grandmother. I can still see his face. It came to me nice and clear last night in my dream. He had a sweet face. Big cheeks. A great laugh. And he loved my mother. My mother has his eyes. I think he loved all of his kids. I have a feeling he was a bit of a simpleton but nobody said as much.

In my dream he spoke to me, but I can't remember what he said. All I can remember is seeing his face light up as he walked into a room where I was writing behind a desk.

His name was Claude. I didn't go see him as much as I should have. I don't even remember when he died. There wasn't even a funeral. But I found myself missing him today.

He was a good grandpa to me and I loved him. I hope he knows that. Somehow, I think he does.

If you're a writer, get up from your computer and stretch, take a shower, change your clothes. You never know who is coming to visit. Even in your dreams.

 



I miss you Grandpa.

Blessings to you and yours.

Old Time Religion Made New Again

The Paper Journey Press in Wake Forest first published my short story, Old Time Religion, in 2004 in the anthology, Original Sin: The Seven Deadlies Come Home To Roost. Under the sin category of gluttony, this story won its special place in the book.

In truth, this story touches on many sins. I performed a reading at The Regulator Bookshop in Durham, NC early in 2005. The story has been described as funny, dark, and the most disturbing story in Southern Fried Women.

If you've not had the chance to read Old Time Religion, you can purchase the book or download the e-book, Southern Fried Women, from Amazon.com or go to Satya House Publishing.com for more information on where to get it.

But my point is this: Although the story takes place in the 'sixties, it is not far removed from the congregations of today. I'm not saying these atrocities take place in every church, but I am saying every church is run by human beings. From the Pastor to the Deacons to the Praise and Worship leader to the Sunday School teacher to the Janitor. They're all human, and we need to remember that. Chances are, if you attend church, you belong to a wonderful congregation of folks who are nothing short of an extension of your own family. But every member has a responsibility to hold their pastor accountable.

Cults come in all shapes and sizes. Just last week someone told me her thirty-something son could not miss church unless he called an elder of the church and got permission. The church is local. It has a following of members that blend into the community like any other. The very idea of giving someone that kind of control over me, makes me want to scream.

It's old time religion all over again. A form of godliness ...

Keep your eyes open, people. Those wolves are always at our doors.

Blessings to you and yours.

Dreams/Not For The Faint Of Heart

I had lunch with my sister-in-law today who told me she'd had some really weird dreams last night. We got on the subject of dreams, and I realized I'd had some off-the-wall dreams myself lately. Those early morning dreams, the ones you remember, seem to be the ones that haunt me the most.

I have a lot of dreams about a ginormous tornado, air plane crashes, and end-of-the-world type stuff. Dreams where I wake in a sweat, clutching my sheets. Once in a while I have a nightmare, waking my husband with a skin-prickling scream. And always, those dreams are about the rapture.

Growing up in a evangelical congregation where the rapture of the church is held over your head like the fire and brimstone of hell, has been torturous. Note to pastors: don't do that. Don't use it to force-feed the threat of hell. Shame on you if you do that. I can name numerous people I know, my children included, who have suffered because of it. If it is the joyous event the Bible claims it to be, then leave it at that.

I've learned how to handle all these dreams. The ones I remember, I write down. The ones I forget, I don't worry about. On some level I know dreams mean something. But as a writer, I have used them in my stories. I wish I could sleep and not dream, but for some reason, I've always been a dreamer.

"Here's hoping all your dreams come true," they say. They have no idea what they're talking about. For me, goals and ambitions are one thing, dreams are entirely another.

Sweet dreams, to you and yours.

The Silver Lining Of Winter

From my warm house, looking out over the pastures to the east, I'm loving the snow. Working in warm jammies all day, never having to step foot in it, the bleak and frosted landscape gives off an almost surreal glow. I do, however, feel sorry for my husband who has to drive in the mess. People in their four-wheel drive vehicles ride on his back bumper, as if that's going to make him go any faster. Not going to happen. Lake effect snow is new to him. The bands of snow and ice, the contact attack of Lake Erie weather, it can be maddening. When the great lake is still warm, the snow seems worse. Somehow, the folks up here in the snow belt get through it.

Getting through the winters in our lives, I find the trick is discovering the beauty in winter. Not everyone would agree, I'm sure. Many become snow birds and head south until spring, and I may do that myself someday. But right now, I'm enjoying this cold, brown earth. The coziness of huddling up with a bowl of popcorn and a good movie. Or a fire and the latest bestselling novel.

And after talking to my publisher today, I have a plethora of stuff due before February 1st. So, I'm glad I'm not distracted by wanting to spend time outdoors. This is the winter preparation, so it will go fast.

The winter of our lives. Find the silver lining.

Blessings to you and yours.