Was It As Good For You As It Was For Me?

A year in review? Not much to review in 2011, as far as my life goes. Two major happenings: After living in North Carolina for ten years I moved back to Ohio, AND I signed a contract with a publisher for my novel, Televenge.

I feel as though I lived with a paintbrush in my hand the first five months of this year. We partially renovated the old farmhouse we’re now in (and still loving every minute of it.) The last seven months were spent on the final drafts of my book. It’s a big book, so there has been a tremendous amount of editing to do. I was hopeful for my novel, The Sanctum, but it was just not the right time for it. It's a story whose time is yet to come. And it will, I have no doubt.

But it's interesting to see how things unfold. I secured a well-known literary agent in 2010, and that in itself gave me a whole boatload of validity. Although he could not work his magic for The Sanctum, it did not stop the right publisher to come knocking on my door for Televenge.

Looking back at previous January posts, they're almost depressing. I suppose because--they were. The last three years were tough years to wade through. This year feels different.

In between all the moving and working on my book, we celebrated birthdays (my granddaughter’s first) and holidays with family, hot summer months, a gorgeous autumn, and finally here we are—about to enter the coldest months of winter. 2011 came and went by quickly.

Unfortunately, it looks as though 2012 will sail by even quicker.

Michael is looking at eye surgery soon (cataracts) and I’m up to my nose hairs in preparation for a sizable publicity blitz. I need to exercise more, eat better, and stop sitting at my computer sixteen hours a day. God, how do I break that habit? I’m thinking about getting a little dog this year. Nothing big or hard to handle, just a little non-shedding, housebroken dog that will force me out of the house every day. To walk! I think I need the distraction.

I’m still trying to figure out the social media onslaught of information that I feel so inept about. I need a faster computer. The list of needs still outweigh the wants. But Michael is working every day and that’s positive. I have to say, 2011 was much better than the three years before it. I’m looking for the new year to jump leaps and bounds over them all. My optimistic self still believes in the good of mankind, the healing of the economy, and in a God who has our best interest at heart. Well, let’s hope so, anyway.

Happy 2012 to you and yours, and may you see the fruits of your labors unfold into many, many good blessings this new year!

Happy New Year!

One Writer's Publishing Dream Has Come True, Baby!

If you’ve been wondering where I’ve been, I can tell you I’ve been slaving at my computer, going over and over and over again the final edits of my novel, Televenge. After seven years, the story has been through its final rewrite. I’ve polished the last of it.

Ninety days ago, I felt an urging in my spirit to finish this book. What I thought was done, simply was not. It was as if the sky opened up and showed me every trespass, every omission, every place I overwrote, every misplaced comma, and every undotted i and uncrossed t. I’ve worked, literally non-stop for weeks and weeks, and now I know why.

Satya House Publications came calling with an offer I could not refuse. I have signed on the dotted line. Televenge will be released in October of 2012. My first novel. I cannot express my overwhelming sense of peace and pride in this endeavor. So many good folk have come together to make this possible. Since 2004, I have worked on this story nearly every day, even when I was working on The Sanctum, I spent a little time each week on Televenge.

It started way back in the late 80s. That's when I formed the outline in my mind. But I never put pen to paper until the late 90s, writing only bits and pieces. Finally, in 2004, I wrote the first draft. Since then, I’m not really sure how many drafts it’s been through. Over a dozen I can assure you. I’ve blogged about it many, many times throughout the years, thinking I was close to publication when I wasn't. And I've talked about Televenge at nearly every speaking engagement where I’ve been booked, having had more than one member of the audience ask to purchase even the manuscript.

When Southern Fried Women was published back in 2006, three of the stories were off-shoots of Televenge. Stories created from minor characters or chapters taken out of earlier drafts. SFW was put together to create a platform for Televenge. A launching pad, if you will, and it’s done marvelously well. I suppose I'm simply amazed at how far we've all come. All of us who have worked to see this dream come true.

Between now and next October, there are ten months to prepare once it has passed through the editors hands at Satya House. My publisher is pulling out all the stops. She's gone "whole hog," as my daddy used to say. But anyway you say it, our plans are taking shape. We have to play with the big boys on this one, but I’m looking forward to it. Despite the odds and the condition of the publishing industry, I anticipate good things. Very good things.

What was once just a dream, Televenge, one woman’s journey through the dark side of televangelism, is now a reality.

Blessings to you and yours this holiday season.

The Magic Of This Writer's Christmas

It's the holiday season, but my mind is elsewhere. I'm hoping I can get away with the minimum amount of holiday hoopla this year. At least my tree is up, and my manger scene is sitting on my dining room table. Maybe I'll find time to bake a batch of cookies, wrap a few gifts, send a few cards. Maybe.

If you're a writer, quite possibly you know what I'm talking about when I say that I have a looming deadline. A deadline extended one full week. With great intensity I'm working around the clock to not only finish the story, but to put every ounce of magic I can into it. A story I've been working on for over a decade. Believe me, if I had a bag of pixie dust, I'd be shaking it into my computer right about now.

My hope is that this time next year, the book will lay in your lap as your hands turn each page, forgetting the time and the place where you sit. That your heart and mind will be completely taken over by characters who will live with you the rest of your life. Quite a tall order, I know. A magical one.

So forgive me for sparse blogging. Deadlines eat up great chunks of a writer's time and force us to put life on hold. But know this, wonderful things lay at the end of it.

Blessings to you and yours.

A FREE STORY from Southern Fried Women

How about starting your holiday off with a free short story!

Below is the link to No Time For Laura where you can purchase it for free at this moment in time. The story is available in all ebook formats with embedded links. The links to buy the whole ebook or paperback are at the end of the story.

No Time for Laura will be up on Amazon Kindle within the next 24 hours for 99 cents.

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/108566

I originally wrote No Time For Laura in 1985. Based, in part, on a true story. Laura was my best childhood friend. Sweet memories of her are now immortalized in words and a few old snapshots. After a couple of rewrites, the story won an award at the Burlington Writers Club Awards in April 2004. The judge's comment on the manuscript stated, ". . . you have a way of touching the hearts of your readers." As a writer, I want to inform and transport my reader's mind — what I wish for even more is to jolt the reader's heart. In this story, my desire to find the true meaning of friendship begged the question, "How far will a person go for the love of a best friend?"

As I edited this story for Southern Fried Women, the character of Laura remained steadfast in her appearance and personality. She refused to let me change her. I gave in. The real Laura will always have a special place in my heart. This story is dedicated to her.

Enjoy the story!

Blessings to you and yours.

Broadway Tunes for Thanksgiving?

Show tunes for Thanksgiving this year! Oh yes, make no mistake. We rocked the house! My sister-in-law, who knows how to have a good time, suggested this year (after we eat our fill of turkey and all the trimmings) that instead of sitting around and moaning about our overstuffed guts--we get right to the festivities.

First, Uncle Tom, (now in his late 70s) played a beautiful arrangement on the piano. And everyone cried.

Next, my three nieces, Ashlie, Melissa, and Lindy, sang. Sisters close in age, they're as beautiful as they are sweet. But boy-howdy, can they sing! Having had the opportunity to perform in church all their lives, belting out a few tunes comes pretty natural to these girls. Their first song was "Sisters" from the musical, White Christmas. Then they performed a gospel number, He Leadeth Me, which of course sent tears streaming down a few faces. Their husbands sang and played the piano, while the the rest of us sat wondering -- um, this is a tough act to follow! How are we going to measure up?

But, by golly, I think we did! The rest of us donned straw cowboy hats and marched right up to the baby grand piano and crooned our hearts out to the musical, Oklahoma! I doubt nary a one of us were in tune, but we laughed until our sides about split open. I think it may be on You Tube in the near future, I'll let you know. All I can say is we would've made Rodgers & Hammerstein proud! And of course, we won the prize! I'm not sure what the prize was, but my sister-in-law accepted the award on all of our behalf. Our first Tony Award. (Kinda-sorta.)

Singing around the piano in that big old farm house is about the most fun any family can have on Thanksgiving. A family where nobody fusses at anybody, hurts and sorrows are left at the door, and love is dished out like candy from our pockets. There's nothing like it.

That is Thanksgiving to me. I'm more than thankful for this family, my children, my grandchildren, and my loving husband. I'm beyond grateful for the goodness we can still see in the world, despite the atrocities that plague us every day on the news. Love reigns supreme within this unbroken circle. Who can ask for more than that?

Blessings to you and yours during the crazy holiday season this year.

Breaking Dawn of the Twilight Series Holds No Candle to The Real Paranormal

I'm amazed at the vampire and werewolf craze going on in movies and books. The walking dead, the zombies, and the updated 'Twilight Zone' shows. Horror and science fiction combined with romance, it's pretty hot stuff these days.

The paranormal enters my writing to one degree or another, but not from the imagined. From the real. Always from real life. Many of the stories in Southern Fried Women were inspired from real life instances that made the hair stand up on the back of my neck. I think there's a marked difference between the unexplained in true life experiences and the Hollywood glam of vampires. And personally, the unexplained is more exciting.

The spiritual side of life includes the miracles of God, which when you think about it, is some pretty hot stuff. I believe that due to her childlike faith, my mother has seen and heard and even felt things that many, if not most, would not believe. But I know my mother. She doesn't lie just for the drama of it all. Her hair-raising experiences date back to when she was just a girl, and some as late as a few years ago.

It seems to me, that if you're really interested in the paranormal (which I am) then investigate and read the real.

Of course, fiction they say, is imagined. But there's often a fine line. My mother, now in her late 70s, would tell you the following actually took place in her living room. I used her experience to write the following scene. A piece from my short story, Coal Dust on My Feet - a story from my collection, Southern Fried Women. Enjoy.

The social hour passed. DeDe intended to devote the next hour to the scriptures, reading and praying. She scarcely found her voice as she preached. “I’m going to read the scripture Pastor Jessie read last week in service from Ephesians the sixth chapter, verses ten through seventeen. I believe it’s appropriate for this evening.”

“Finally, my brethren, be strong in the Lord, and in the power of his might. Put on the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil. For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places. Wherefore take unto you the whole armour of God that ye may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand. Stand therefore, having your loins girt about with truth, and having on the breastplate of righteousness; And your feet shod with the preparation of the gospel of peace; Above all, taking the shield of faith, wherewith ye shall be able to quench all the fiery darts of the wicked. And take the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God.”

The darkness from the outside permeated the room, even with DeDe’s single lamp that sat on her bookcase. The night sounds of frogs and crickets, and an occasional dog’s bark were the only noise. Then, as if on cue from God, these sounds also ceased.

There was no breeze to speak of. The air around them felt heavy and dead. The screen door to the porch was open and DeDe’s white chiffon curtains at the windows suddenly blew gently inward, billowing like angel’s wings, as if some supernatural being had glided into the room. Lottie put a hand to her mouth. The breeze stopped, the women froze, and their fanning ceased. Nothing moved, not even the wind.

The singing came from outside. As if a choir were floating up Nicholas Street. A soft carol of voices. The song escalated in strength, grew stronger, louder, and became recognizable—a chorus. A mass of voices singing in a heavenly language. The sound grew as if someone had turned up the volume on a radio. It floated through the doorway and as it did, a light came with it, filling the room. It expanded and appeared to seep into every mind and heart. And then, just as it came, it descended out the west window, as if someone opened a vacuum and the singing was sucked out.

No one could speak for a period of unknown time, as every watch on every wrist had stopped. Even the mantel clock on DeDe’s bookcase ceased to chime the hour. Sounds of murmured praise came first from their lips. Hephzibah whispered to Opal that she saw tongues of fire over each woman in the room. Opal reached for her hand and smiled. “I see ‘em too.”

Questions oozed from every mouth … “Did you hear it?” “Yes, what did you hear?” “What was it? A choir?” “Angels, yes it was angels singing.”

Sylvia and Tessa believed it was the radio next door and an electric surge. Lottie and Goose cried. Ossie, Opal, Tootsie, Imogene, Fleeta and Edith sang, “Praise Him, Praise Him, Praise Him in the mornin’, Praise Him in the noontime, Praise Him when the sun goes down …”

One by one, the ladies bid their teary good-byes. Pearle pulled DeDe aside after most had gone and a few waited for their rides. “Was it a sign? A good sign or a bad sign? What’d it mean?”

Hattie Mae couldn’t hold back any longer. “It was a sign of the second comin’.”

“Oh, hush, Hattie Mae! You don’t know that.” Pearle shook her head at her elderly aunt.

“I know somebody’s comin’,” she said.

Hephzibah looked at Mama Ola. “What you think, Mama?”

The old black woman stared at DeDe and grinned. “She know. She know what it was.”

Pearle’s hand, still on DeDe’s arm, trembled. She asked her again. “What do you know, DeDe?”

“I know it’s late. Thank you all for coming.”

Blessings to you and yours.

Planning For Thanksgiving

The Aunts in the family have become the matriarchs. For years we have been gathering on the farm for our traditional Thanksgiving feast. Everyone spends the night and we eat from sundown on Thursday until sunup on Friday. Food, Football, and non-stop fun. It's quite a musical and talented family, and the festivities at the piano can roll on until bedtime. The week before, Auntie Elaine sends her traditional email. This year's email went as follows:

Hello, Family!

It's Thanksgiving Time!

So, I'm hearing all the girls will be here with husbands--WOW! Great! We're also looking forward to Aunt Teresa joining us this year. All in all, prepare for 19 or 20 people!!!! And just think, Lindy, with some stores opening at 10 pm, you may not even have to go to sleep before Black Friday begins! We're glad you're staying with us either way.

Here's the assignment list. I don't think there's any surprises--we've been doing this awhile!

Auntie Elaine and Uncle Gordon--turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, stuffing, cornAuntie

LaVonne--orange fluff jello, luscious salad

Melissa and Derek--pumpkin pie

Ashlie and Jeremy--rolls and butter

Lindy--cupcakes (!)

Aaron & Annie & Lily--green bean casserole

Jillian--sweet potato casserole

Auntie Pam and Mike--peach cobbler, peanut butter pie

Can't wait, can't wait, can't wait!

Meanwhile, we were trying to come up with a theme for this year's frivolities.

Two words: Show Tunes! That may mean something different to each of us, but I'm just warning you to be prepared! Personally, I'm an "Oklahoma" and "King and I" kind of gal. Then, there's "South Pacific", "Cats", "Annie Get Your Gun". . . uh-oh, better stop. See you all soon. Did I mention that I can't wait?

XOXOXOX

Auntie Elaine and Uncle Gordon

Blessings to you and yours as you plan your holidays this year.

Little Dirty Feet

My Aunt Emogene died today. She was 81 years old. My father's oldest sister. There were five children in his immediate family. All boys, except Emogene.

Can you imagine being the older sister to four brothers? I'm sure my dad and his brothers tormented the living daylights out of her. I remember she always wore her blue jeans rolled up at the bottom, and when Emogene married her husband, Uncle Cab, she moved five doors down from grandma. That's where she had her four kids and lived until she died. In that same coal town she grew up in. I doubt she traveled anywhere other than to Ohio and back a few times.

Emogene was a West Virginia mountain woman. Wary and suspicious of outsiders. Not many visitors meander to that part of the country. The coal camp all but shriveled up when the miners left town. But her family and a few others stayed. My, how she loved her family.

Like so many descendants of coal miners who moved north to Ohio, we took to the roads every weekend to go "down home." Down home was Widen, West Virginia. I remember staying with Aunt Emogene when I was bitty girl. The thing was, my mother liked to keep me pristine. Cleanliness was godliness in my mother's book. But I loved to play with my cousins in the dirt roads, in the creeks, and on my grandmother's front porch. And my aunt loved to see me get nice and dirty. It's hard to keep a little girl clean in a coal camp, she used to say.

My mother threatened me with a whipping if I took off my shoes to play at Aunt Emogene's house. But inevitably, the bottoms of my feet were as black as soot at the end of the day. Along with every other part of me. I recall my aunt just hollering laughing when Mama finally got a hold of me.

I suppose it's her laugh I'm remembering today. She was a quiet woman most of the time. But every time she got a hold of me, she stripped off my frilly dress and threw me into a pair of overalls. Watching me get dirty tickled her silly, especially when my fussy deep-south mama had a fit over it.

It's sad to know your elder family members are passing away. I didn't see her much through the years, but I'd like to think she thought of me from time to time, as I did her. And of my little dirty feet.

Blessings to the Woods family today. Blessings to you and yours.

A Controlled Fire

The farm next door was recently sold. The new owners decided they didn't like the house that came with the land, so the local fire department, in all its glory, arrived yesterday afternoon to torch the place. It went up in one big swoosh. Flames shot into the sky and smoke billowed across the landscape for a few hours while firemen used the opportunity to teach and practice their firefighting skills.

Quite a production, really.

Wouldn't it be nice if we could control the sorrows of life that way? Light a torch, watch them burn to the ground? Get rid of the mess in one big swoosh. Watching the flames shoot into the air, I thought about the destruction of fire, but also, how very cleansing it is. Controlled fires have many uses. I just wish we could manipulate the fires of life that way.

Start them when needed. Put them out when and how we want.

It's a nice thought, anyway.

Blessings to you and yours.

Veteran's Day Cake

I understand that my very great grandfather fought with General Washington. I've been told my great grandfather was a WWI veteran, and that my grandfather was a veteran of WWII. Daddy is Korean War veteran. My husband is a Vietnam vet. My son is a veteran, having honorably served his country in the Marine Corp. I have great uncles who stormed the beach at Normandy. Cousins who lost their lives in Vietnam. My family is a family of patriots. Veterans. So every V-Day I bake a cake in their honor. I call it my Veteran's Day Cake.

My mother-in-law gave me this recipe many years ago. I was just a girl of sixteen, dating her youngest son at the time. I call it a Veteran's Day Cake because the day she gave me this recipe, we received a long-awaited phone call from her daughter's husband, a medic in Vietnam. The family had not heard from him for some time. It was a good day, and we baked this cake to celebrate. As I sit typing, this wonderful cake fills my whole house with a scrumptious aroma and warm of memories of the past.
Enjoy!

COCONUT WALNUT POUND CAKE

Combine the following wet ingredients and beat:
2 cups sugar
1 cup veg. oil
4 beaten eggs

Combine the following dry ingredients:
3 cups flour
1/2 teaspoon salt, baking soda, and baking powder
1 cup walnuts
1 cup coconut

Mix WET and DRY ingredients together, AND then add 1 cup buttermilk and 2 tsp. coconut extract

Pour into well-greased Bundt pan and bake 325 for one hour (maybe longer depending on your oven.)

Take a fork and carefully poke holes in top of hot cake.
WHILE cake is still hot, pour the following syrup-melt over cake allowing to absorb

3/4 cup white sugar
1/4 cup light brown sugar
2 tablespoons butter
1 teaspoon coconut extract
boil for ONE minute

Let cake set for 4 hours before serving.

Blessings to every Veteran today!

For The Love Of Snow

It's 11/11/11. I woke to snow on the ground for the first time this year. Some would sigh about that I suppose, but having lived in the South for many, many years, waking to snow is a delight. Right about February 1st I may be ready to slit my wrists because of it, but today I'm enjoying it.

The snow blankets the pastures leaving just enough green for the horses. White clumps cling to the trees and fence line like great dollops of frosting. And now that the leaves are all but gone, I'm noticing things about the barn I've never seen. Like the arched wooden windows. They look like "Ten Commandment" tablets stretching across the top. I wonder who took the time to design and build that beautiful old barn. Old shacks in the South spoke to me years ago, and now I find that the barns and rolling hills in the North have a voice all their own.

I was a wild child. Born a coal miner's granddaughter, I spent most if not all my time letting my imagination run free. I loved the snow covering the Appalachian mountains in West Virginia. It reached far and wide--from the north to the south and it carried me in both directions.

The barns, outbuildings, clapboard churches, and towns dotting the landscape were the same. In both directions. I found the people were the same. With families and jobs and hopes and dreams, it didn't matter where they originated. They loved and had been loved. They lived good and hard and when they died, they were mourned by honest hearts whose lives they touched.

People are the same when you get right down to it. Just like the snow that covers the ground. It falls on old dilapidated buildings in the country like it falls on the city's glass skyscrapers. It looks the same when it covers the BMW as it does on my brother-in-law's John Deere. It's no respecter of persons. I guess my point is that there is a fine line dividing the north and south. Does is really stop at the Mason Dixon line or is it broken in places? I realize men defined it in 1865 for the purpose of war, but in my mind, today on 11/11/11, that line is a little less apparent. The landscape doesn't seem to care where you're from. It loves you right where you are. Just like a family. Just like snow.

Blessings to you and yours.

Check It Out!

There is a signed free copy of Southern Fried Women available!

Click here: http://familyfocusblog.com/southern-fried-women-book-review-and-giveaway/

And while you're there, check out her blog!

Blessings to you and yours!

Unconditionally Loved

Last night, watching him sleep, I saw his hair has changed to more salt, less pepper. I detected a few more lines around his eyes and forehead and I don't remember his neck sagging quite so much. Today, he discovered he has to have cataract surgery. "It's an age thing," his doctor said. He once stood six feet two inches. I think he lost an inch somewhere between 55 and 58.

But his gray-green eyes sparkle when he talks to me. He still holds my hand and calls me sweetheart. God knows, his sense of humor has not diminished one iota.

His cousin once called him, "flaky." Consider the source, I said. What few folks understand, is that not much rattles the man. Nothing shakes his tree. A few unfortunate blows before I met him changed the course of his life, knocked him to his knees, and turned him into the man he is today. Fiercely loyal, wonderfully courageous, and the most hard-working son-of-a-gun I've ever known.

He doesn't know I'm blogging about him today. He would tell me to stop. But God knows, men like Michael Cable are few and far between. He's not perfect, sometimes he drives me nuts, and I know I run the risk of sounding sappy and stupid, blogging about my husband. Who cares? Is love so unpopular these days? Is it considered bad taste to say you love your spouse. Do I need a reason to talk so fondly of him?

I can proclaim without hesitance, if nothing significant happens to me the rest of my days, I've been blessed enough, I've been blessed because I knew him.

In a world where more than 50% of us are getting divorced, domestic violence runs rampant, and the other 50% barely tolerate each other, there's nothing more valuable knowing the one mistake you haven't made is marrying the love of your life.

To be unconditionally loved. How can you put a price on that?

Blessings to you and your special someone today.

Betty Crocker Comfort

So I'm watching the Food Channel yesterday and not only do I realize it's November, time for planning the Thanksgiving menu, but I'm feeling guilty for not trying new recipes. All the cool-looking dishes whipped up by Paula, Ina, Giada, and Rachel. It seems they're all using fresh herbs in everything these days. A little basil here, some parsley there, dill, rosemary, thyme, and even something called cilantro.

Okay. Now I'm no gourmet cook. I admit that. But what's wrong with the tried and true? Those recipes handed down from our mothers and grandmothers that didn't have one bit of fresh herbs mixed into the olive oil and butter? Hmm? (Or the Crisco, whatever the case may be.)

Well, fine. Grow your herbs, slice and dice all you want. I pulled my Betty Crocker cook book, circa 1961, off my shelf. Published by McGraw Hill it includes this paragraph at the beginning of the book, directed I'm sure, at women:

Hints for the Homemaker: Every morning before breakfast, comb hair, apply makeup and a dash of cologne. Does wonders for your morale and your family's, too! Think pleasant thoughts while working and a chore will become a 'labor of love.' Have a hobby. Garden, paint pictures, look through magazines for home planning ideas, read a good book or attend club meetings. Be interested--and you'll always be interesting! If you have a spare moment, sit down, close your eyes and just relax. Wear comfortable shoes and easy-fitting clothes while working. Stand erect. Good posture prevents fatigue. Have sink, worktable, counter tops at height that is comfortable to eliminate strain. If dishpan is too low, set it on a box. Use a dust mop and long-handled dust pan. Use self-wringing mop to prevent stooping."

Seems like Betty Crocker was not only concerned about our cooking, but our homemaking spirit, as well!

I love this old retro cook book. There's not an herb mentioned in the whole darn 450 pages that I can see. Here's a recipe you can try, straight out of 1961!

SKILLET MEAT LOAF
"My guests like this," says Helen Ayres Davis, who combines homemaking with an advertising career."
1 1/2 lb. lean ground beef
1 can (8 oz.) tomato sauce
6 to 10 large stuffed olives, sliced
1 medium onion, chopped fine (1/2 cup)
1/3 cup rolled oats
1 egg
1 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. pepper

Heat oven to 350 degrees. Mix beef, 1/3 cup of the tomato sauce, olives, onion, oats, egg and seasonings. Spread in heavy 10 inch skillet. Cover with remaining 2/3 cup tomato sauce. Bake 1 hour. Remove excess fat from skillet before serving. Cut in wedges to serve. 6 servings.

Well, shoot. Add some mashed potatoes and creamed corn and you've got yourself one fine meal. What can I say?

Blessings to you and yours.

The Blessing Of A Distraction

Now I know why people have babies when they're young. Whoo-wee. I took a day off from writing to watch my 15-month old granddaughter, Lily. But what a grand day we had, reading storybooks, dancing, and playing with every kind of blinking, talking, singing toy you can imagine. Where do they come up with these toys? What happened to Jack-in-the-box and rag dolls and plain old blocks? These days we have baby cell phones, and personal computers, and even baby remote controls for those toddlers who would rather play with daddy's remote than the hundreds of bright, shiny toys in the corner.

I loved spending the day with Lily. She's a pretty perfect little girl with cobalt blue eyes the size of nickels, chocolate curls that fall down her neck, and a tiny rosebud mouth that grandma can't stop kissing! Oh my goodness, I could eat her up! Biteable legs, I swear! She's just starting to walk, but isn't quite sure after two steps. She's faster on all fours and boy-howdy is she. She can get away faster than her dog, Rocky ... who really ... could take her or leave her.

I suppose most every grandmother's heart bursts at the seams when they talk about their grandchildren. Lily is my third, after Andrew and Lauren. But Andrew and LaLa (a nickname that has stuck) live in Phoenix and we're lucky to see them once a year. Michael and I dream of the day we all live in the same state. We not only dream about it, we pray for it. Grandchildren are a wondrous thing when you think about it. It's like God wasn't finished blessing you after your last baby was born; He had to figure out another way to keep adding on to that blessing.

Maybe some folks would contest the word 'blessing' when it comes to describing children, but for Michael and I, our children and grandchildren have been the biggest blessings of our lives. In between writing and getting all wrapped up about my work, I have the blessed distraction of grandchildren. And they're about the only thing that can distract me these days, take away my focus. But they're a welcome distraction. I hope you have a few little distractions around your house as well. They sure do keep us grounded, don't they? Remind us of why work so hard to leave the legacy of the written word. So those little distractions have something to remember us by.

I loved feeding, bathing, and playing with Lily yesterday. I think I even changed a poopy diaper or two. This morning I'm tired and my knees are a bit sore from playing on the floor, but it's a small price to pay for taking the day off. Sometimes a writer needs distraction. It's refreshing.

Blessings to you and yours.

Social Media Meltdown

I'm in the midst of social media meltdown. Thank God I have an expert working on all of it for me, as well as fantastic publishers who have made me realize I need to be "connected" to readers by way of Facebook and Twitter. I admit I've kept my nose to the grindstone the past two years, working my behind off on two novels and haven't kept up with it. But all that is about to change.

Very soon I'll have a new look to my blog, my website, and book page on Facebook and Twitter. I'll be able to tweet with the best of them. It's going to take a little time, but I see my updated self on the horizon, and I guess it's about damn time.

Oh, for the days when all we needed was a pen and paper. But those days are long gone. Hmm... that's even a little before my time. I should've said a ream of typing paper, a fresh ink cartridge, and a new bottle of white-out. Now. That dates me. But keeping in touch with readers is a must in this market, and so we old farts got to learn the ropes.

At least I know if I want to read a certain article in the New York Times, I can pull it up online. That I don't have to find a newsstand that sells the paper. I can find my way around the Internet and I'm a whiz at word processing. I think I type over 100 words per minute, or something like that. Not that anybody cares. But downloading software, changing domain names, installing feed burners -- um, not so much. I don't have a clue.

It's why I have an expert who is doing it for me. She's superfantastic. So there's more to being a writer these days than just putting words to paper. Unless you enjoy the business of writing, you better be prepared to hire some help. Otherwise, you'll find yourself two years behind the times and wondering ... am I supposed to tweet or twerp?

Blessings to you and yours.

Southern Billboards

Just got back from a whirlwind trip to Nashville. My publisher, Satya House, represented Southern Fried Women at The Southern Festival of Books this year, and as the author -- I signed books for six hours on Saturday. I must have sold and signed over a hundred books! Of course my husband and my publisher's husband had a lot to do with that. They took a handful of publicity cards with a description and picture of the book and walked up and down the length of the mall, distributing cards, talking with groups of women, and just pushing the book. Bless their hearts.

But, by God, it worked! I think I sold more books than even some of the featured authors. At least my line was longer. Folks stood in line to chat, buy a book, get it signed, eat free candy, and then move on. Of course, after all these years, I do know how to work a crowd. Above everything, I let them know I'm grateful. A few wanted their picture taken (with me) and although I'm not very photogenic ... as a humble writer, I do it. I do it because I love my readers. I love 'em to pieces. I'm grateful for every ounce of love sent my way, especially from readers.

And it was great sitting at the table with Julie Murkette, publisher extraordinaire, who has become quite accomplished in her own right. She's good at encouraging me and I'm looking forward to talking with her more in the near future.

Nashville is a vibrant Southern city. Full of country music, party people, and girls in cowboy boots. I understand I missed a nude karaoke contest outside our downtown hotel at 3 in the morning. Hmm. Sorry I missed it. But I think the thing that amazes me most about the South is not the sinners, but the saints.

Driving on Southern interstates you will find a plethora of religious billboards. Michael and I have driven on every interstate from New York to Florida to Mississippi and Louisiana, and inevitably there are always a series of billboards that capture my attention. This past weekend it was a group of three ginormous signs in a farmer's cornfield spread out over several acres.
The first one read, ARE YOU READY?
Next one: HELL IS REAL
Next one: PREPARE TO MEET THY GOD

It reminds me of my recent blog post from this past summer.

We attended a community sale at an old Moose Lodge in North Carolina, which has since been turned into a church. It wasn't long and I realized most of the money lenders, oh, excuse me --vendors--were church members who had set up their tables to not only sell their junk, but also to whip a little Jesus on us unsuspecting folks who only came to shop.

We walked past one vendor who had parked his shiny red pickup truck smack in the middle of the lot and set up two tables of pure clean-out-my-basement junk, consisting of moldy rugs, faded pictures of kittens in gold frames, and dusty macrame plant hangers from 1982. But that wasn't the best part.

He had opened both doors of his red pickup and turned the volume up on his CD player so that the good Lord Himself could hear it. I suppose Mr. Vendor wanted us to know what a good Christian he was and that we all should dare to be as good. I spent the next ten minutes walking around listening to a church choir belt out the last few lines of the Lords Prayer--"For thine is the kingdom ... and the power ... and the gloooooorrrrrreeeee ... foreeeevvvver ...." full tilt.

Man - o - man. I felt like I was in the middle of a Saturday Night Live skit.

Here's the thing. Doesn't the Bible tell us to just let our light shine? I'm not sure that means to build a bon-fire in the middle of community yard sale. Somehow, the red pickup just cheapened it. It did nothing but drive folks away. I think it's one thing to be proud of your faith, it's another to shove it down an unsuspecting person's throat.

It's no wonder the Bible Belt gets a bad rap.

So next time you drive past the PREPARE TO MEET THEY GOD sign on Interstate 71, just remember that yes, we all have to meet God someday, but that lightning bolt sign isn't anything but another reminder of the scare 'em-to-death sermons too many of us grew up with. Smile and drive on. And thank God for His mercy, grace, and His infinite patience with all of us.

Blessings to you and yours.

If There Was Ever A Time ...

I went to lunch yesterday with my sister-in-law. A drive in the country to lunch and to Walmart to pick up a few things and although it was raining, the trees captured my attention. I'd forgotten just how breathtaking and beautiful autumn is in Ohio. Living over ten years in North Carolina, I found that autumn usually didn't arrive until sometime the end of October or the first of November. And unless you live in the Blue Ridge Mountains, the leaves in the south just don't have that vibrancy and sparkle that the leaves do in the north. They just don't. So I was pleased to spend the day driving around in the midst of all that color.

Of course Elaine and I chatted about one thing and another, and like all good sisters-in-law, she allowed me to ramble on about my work for a good hour. Bless her heart.

But I've been thinking about little else these days. My manuscript, my pursuit to get it published, my life's work. For days now, I've been bombarded with emails about books and articles and memoirs and interviews with authors regarding books on cults. Here are the three that are attracting the most attention:

Holy Ghost Girl by Donna Johnson
A Thousand Lives by Julia Scheeres
When She Woke by Hillary Jordan

This thrills me to no end. It's my thinking, that if there was ever a time for Televenge, a story about the dark side of televangelism, it's now.

Blessings to you and yours.

A Poem About Marriage

After the rant I posted yesterday, I thought this morning I would soften it up a bit with a little poetry. I'm starting to read more and more poetry these days, finding I rather love it. This morning on Goodreads.com (an excellent web site for readers) I read a poem that is worth repeating. Thank you, Mr. Mallouk, for this lovely look at marriage.

Enjoy.

The Long Marriage

by Tom Mallouk

Tonight I close my book, turn off the light
and settle in beside you, finding in the just
right camber of my pillows and the space
between us the familiar comfort of our life.

I close my eyes, the stage goes dark and I
notice there are just the two of us
in the theatre and you are already asleep.
I listen to the rhythm of your shallow breath.

When we fell in love, I went first. Stepping
from the sidewalk, I darted between the cars
and got to the park on the other side
only to find you had never left the curb.

You are displeased. You have come a long way.
I am nowhere to be found. You are naked, standing
at the water's edge. The water is clear, the quarry
is bottomless. It's mid-May and too cold to swim.

Still, you dive in. When I find you, your goose
flesh and nipples blend seamlessly. We are breathless,
warm only where our bodies meet. You dive down,
your white soles recede into the darkness.

We are in your family's home, sitting at one end
of the dining room table, your parents at the other.
Your father leans on his elbows, listening.
Your mother weeps silently, her hands in her lap.

I am backed into the kitchen corner of our row
house, sprawled on the floor, my head in my hands.
You are lying awake in our bed, face to the wall.
But for the fading echo of slammed doors, there is silence.

Two dream images: a ship runs aground on
a small island (in a week your period is late);
the wrong building materials are delivered to
the house (in a day your bleeding begins).

I am bending over you, looking down.
You are giving birth, pushing. Your left knee
and arm interlocking at my elbows. Her head-
the purple flower of your bloody thighs.

We are camped in the Blue Ridge and the puppy
is lost. We search on either side of the ravine. You
have taken one frightened child and I the other.
We call back and forth as darkness falls.

In the empty great room of the house we designed,
we review the punch list with the builder. My voice
dissipates in the cold drafts. We will move
again in ten years, never having unpacked.

You are poring over photographs: children
posing in oversized shoes and hats, mugging for
the camera; proud parents framing the graduates;
your parents' unlikely last trip to Ireland.

It is still night yet the room is lit
with moonlight streaming through
your grandmother's Irish lace curtains.
Shadows silhouette the far wall. I realize

I have grown old. My breathing is
shallow and you are sitting by the bed.
When you take my hand, I feel your
thin bones beneath my calloused fingers.


Blessings to you and yours.

I Want To Hire Drew Rosenhaus!

So I'm watching football yesterday, until my husband decides all of his teams righteously suck and he turns the channel to 60 minutes, the TV show. They're doing a segment on sports agent, Drew Rosenhaus, and for the next half-hour I sat glued to my flat screen ready to crawl out of my skin. If you don't know Drew Rosenhaus, he's the sports agent Tom Cruise imitated in the movie, Jerry Maguire.

People either love Drew Rosenhaus or hate him. He's a shark, there's no doubt. Lance Briggs with the Chicago Sun-Times says, "He's a guy that gets it done, guys go to him because he's a shark. He's going to go in there and take care of business. He's not going to leave anything on the table. He allows a player to see his value more so than most."

I'm like ... YEAH! Isn't that what an agent is supposed to do????

Okay, I get it. The world of professional sports is not quite the same as the publishing industry. I get it. But my God, c'mon! To have a literary agent muster even 2% of that guy's presence, it just might turn the big dogs on Mahogany Row up there in Fat City on their ears.

Strong words for a writer like me, I guess. But maybe if the rest of the world's writers would quit trying to suck up to every literary agent who attends a writing conference, quit bending over and taking whatever they get, quit believing everything they read on the Internet, quit pussyfooting around and try to change things in this industry, maybe then ... just maybe more of us would get published. Even make a living at it.

They tell us writers can't get published without agents. Seems to me, without writers--nobody in this industry has got a job. It takes all of us working together and finding answers to the problems plaguing us.

Technology has only made a dent in publishing--as far as writers are concerned. Things need to change. Writers need better access to agents who will fight for them. I realize we still need to separate the sheep from the goats when it comes to good and bad writing, but for the purpose of this blog, let's assume I'm talking about writers worth their salt. We all need to be on an equal playing field.

A writer's world today is definitely different than even a decade ago. It's evolving, but it's still way behind when it comes to Agents/Editors/Publishers and what's happening on the rest of the planet. I know these days most agents/editors are reading manuscripts on their I-phones or I-pads, but they're still sifting through thousands of slush piles. How do you change that? In the end, doesn't it all boil down to money?

You can bet Rosenhaus gets a nice chunk of change for what he does. Do literary agents get paid enough for what they do? If they did more on behalf of the writer, couldn't they negotiate a bigger piece of the pie? Editors, I hear, change jobs like they change their underwear. About every day. The cost of printing, marketing, and publicity costs a few bucks. Publishers divide their publicity money according to the ever-present popularity contest going on between writers. So how do we change it for everybody, how do we make it better for writers, as well as the rest of book-reading world?

All I know is that until we start, until we get fed up with the way things are done, we writers are going to be sitting on manuscripts that should've been published years ago while the folks resting on their laurels are putting out book number 34. Those bestselling writers we all know so well, those big names everyone recognizes will continue to publish because their editors, their publishing houses know some housewife in Barnes & Nobles or Sam's Club is going to buy it. She's going to buy it because she only has so much money to spend on books and she'd rather risk her 30 bucks on a mediocre story than on some writer she's never read. And until she reads a great review on a debut novelist, or hears it from a trusted friend, she'll stick with the tried and true.

I know my best friend, Tina, who reads three new books a week and belongs to a large book club is just starting to understand my frustration. Traveling this road with me, hearing what I go through on a weekly basis, she refuses to read anything but debut novels, at least until the next Diana Gabaldon comes out. So I think there is one way to change things. Writers need to infiltrate book clubs. Let the readers know what's going on and what it really takes to get published. Create some empathy on behalf of the writers who give them the books they love to read. Encourage readers to read debut novels. In the end, some won't care a hoot. But some will. It's a start. It's something.

So there you have my rant for the week. I don't even pretend to have all the answers. Not even a little bit. And if I had money to put where my mouth is, you can bet I'd do more than just rant on my blog. But I do know that until a little bit of Drew Rosenhaus rubs off on this industry, writers are still going to bend over and take whatever they can get.

And that's just plain wrong.

Blessings to you writers out there, today. Blessings to you and yours.