GUARANTEE A FINISH

Even though I've been writing for many, many years, I often still feel nervous or guilty about devoting time to my writing. The ugly voice sitting on my shoulder whispers, "So what good is this wasted time? Published anything recently?"

And every writing how-to book either reminds me how few authors find a home for their work, or screams "with persistance, you can be on the NY Times Bestsellers list." (Yeah, right!) Either way there is something just "hammy" enough inside of me to want others to read my work--no matter where it is posted.

Publishers/agents are equally hard to find, especially within the last 5-10 years. The economy and falling numbers of traditional publishers have a great deal to do with that. So after months of frustrating search, last year I paid to have "Pink Poodle Pie" published. Not the happiest time of my life, believe me.

Recently, an editor/publisher I know from her excellent quarterly magazine, "The Storyteller," began a publishing company. She put out a call for "Southern Weird" books, as I told you here on this blog before. So away my book went and--I'm still in shock, I think--it was accepted. The four-year quest has paid off. I'm so excited that Mockingbird Lane Press (www.mockingbirdlanepress.com)is my publisher!

I will promote this book to the best of my ability. I will sing its praises, carry one around with me everywhere I go, sell at book faires, and twist the arms of everyone of my many friends, and family members. I want, not just for me but for this new publishing company, my book to be a huge success.

Of course, I want you all to read my book. That will encourage me to write another one, or maybe another short story collection--maybe that one about ghost stories of the south--really weird events, there. And if you want to read one of them, I just might give it away free on my website.

Wait a minutes. I don't have a website any longer.

Darn, there's another part of that promotion stuff I have to get busy creating.

ACCEPTION!

I received a call from the editor/publisher today and---

She accepted "Aunt Lutie's Blue Moon Cafe" for publication. HOORAH! Percistance does pay off; I have been working on this book, off and on, of course, for four years or more. It has been through numerous rewrites and several critiques--even a rather funny one with some dear friends. Like so many people not familiar with the culture, they just don't get "Southern fiction," "Southern weird," or any of the language we people down there speak.

Bless their hearts! (That can mean I really care, or it can mean you're to be pitied, Honey.) I dearly love them but am glad I kept on plugging along.

And what could be better than a Southern gal for an editor/publisher--someone who will understand every word.

Now, off to those edits/rewrites/tightening up.

DEATHBED POEMS

While on our recent cruise to South America I picked up a book in the ship's library, "The Zen of Creativity" by John Daido Loori. One of the intriguing things I read about was the fact that haiku was first written in China before it "immigrated" to Japan. And in the author's quest of history, he found the haiku form of poetry was often written by poets to be used as their deathbed poems.

Zen Master Ikkyo (1394 to 1481) death poem:

I won't die.
I'm not going anywhere.
I'll be here.
But don't ask me anything.
I won't answer.

When I read Liza Dolby's book including her notes on the fictional writing of the life of Murasaki Shikibu ("The Tale of Murasaki"), I found the deathbed poem written by the real Murasaki.

Why do we suffer so in the world?
Just compare life to the short bloom
of the wild mountain cherry.
Murasaki Skikibu (early eleventh century)

Have you ever thought about writing a poem to be read or shared after your death--a poem that reflects on the beauty you experienced in life?

MEMOIRIST'S HAVE COURAGE

I'm a writer who tries to write. And I do a lot of researching and reading for pleasure. I subscribe to all the top writer's magazines (and Southern lifestyle, cooking and literary ones to encourage memory of my roots). But the problem is, I am always behind in reading them. Therefore, I didn't read, until recently, a controversial article by a fiction writer swiping at memoirists.

The quote that really bothered me was "how many books of addiction can you write in a lifetime?" This author is ignorant--that's the reason I won't even mention his name. I am being judge and jury here. I don't want to promote his fiction--and I certainly don't want my memoir-writing students to read this whack job aimed at their love for telling their stories.

I feel with a statement like this, he is pushing the hypothesis that these writers have only one story in them--and that all such stories are depressing. Has he ever used his brain to understand how helpful another's story can be for you? Thousands of lives have been changed by reading memories in which the afflicted readers can see themselves and realize there is hope for them, too.

He seems to think that novelists are the most important writers on earth. But are all the books on the market wonderful pieces of prose? Absolutely not. And, he claims it's a "cop out," "playing it safe," "just telling their life story"--that writing a memoir is sooo easy. Having written a memoir, "Growing up Barefoot in the South," I can tell you from experience, no way is that easy.

What does he mean memoir writers "don't start from scratch?" All writers--of nonfiction, fiction, poetry--start from scratch each and every time they sit down at a keyboard or pick up their pencil and pad. These things do not write themselves, fella!

The faux pas of this particular fiction writer is so obvious-especially when he calls memoir writers cowards. Because they write truth? Because they write what they know? Because they can write with such clarity and description, readers buy and put them on the bestsellers list month after month? (I've never seen his name there.) Or does he believe that your life, your problems, the victories you've won, the hills you've climbed to get there, are inconsequential? Too easy to write compared to his fantasies?

Cowards?

Here are some of my favoite "cowards" I would love to write as well as:

Annie Dillard--Pilgrim at Tinker Creek
Isabel Allende--The Sum of our Days or Paula
Kathleen Morris--Dakota or A Cloistered Walk

GOOD FRIEND

"Friendship is a living thing that lasts only as long as it is nourished with kindness, empathy, and understanding. --Anonymous

We had lunch yesterday with dear friends, Linda and Vic. They are both still working, very busy with elderly family members, and therefore, we don't see each other as much as we would like. But when we do get together, it's like we saw each other yesterday. Linda and Vic are like family.

Linda and I met many years ago in a writing class taught by a college professor. She came in that first day with a story about her Japanese grandmother's butterfly chair and I was blown away. She wrote tight. She wrote with so much emotion. She gave readers the lovely story and got out. It was amazing writing. She became an intricate part of the small group that had formed within that group. After two years of taking the same course over and over again, four of us decided to break off and form our own writer's group. Luckily, Linda agreed to be one of the four founders.

That group grew and grew after a few months, until it was sort of out of control. Too many people do not always make a good creative writing group. Eventually, we once again had a small class and, in addition, three of the four intial founders (one moved to Hawaii) met once a week in my home. I got so much out of that--especially from Linda's critiques--and my muse was running wild--in a good way. Then, reason still unknown, we were a group of two.

Linda has been my writing soulmate all these years. She has been a true friend, one who can take a red pencil to my work relentlessly and I accept that she is right more times than not. She has shown up at booksignings and talks on writing to support me. She has purchased my books, written reviews, and given me great blurbs for the back of my books. She has been that solid rock of a writer/friend I need.

And we can share all of our ups and downs, angers and happinesses--can laugh and cry on each other's shoulders. It was no different yesterday when we met. I listened to her working woes and she listened to the HOA Board messes, our travels, and Ray's health issues. And it was bittersweet to hug them both goodbye, knowing we won't see each other again until May.

But we'll meet there and it will be as always. Friends will pick up right where we left off yesterday. She will want to know all the scoop on the new publishing company I'm working with (maybe), and I'll ask about the possibility of her once more being free to meet at the mall for a critique session.

She has a book in her and I want to encourage her to get it onto paper.

That's what friends are for, isn't it?

MANUSCRIPT OFF!

I've been working for the last few days on the last edits of the first three and (last) chapter of my latest novel. It seems that the more you go over your work, the more you find that can be improved. Don't all authors feel that way?

But I finally took a deep breath, said enough is enough, packaged up the chapters, my cover letter, and the synopsis and dropped them in the mail. Today. I left a message for my editor that the requested material was on the way. Now I wait.

That's not what I will do, however. All the experts tell writers they should begin right away on the next book, article, or short story. I must decide what will be the next book I work on. Shall it be "BJ and the Alligator Stomp," which just might fit into my editor's "Southern Weird" category. Or shall I begin another book starring Mary Margaret Butler (MM)to continue the series I've planned for the characters in the book I've just submitted? (Maybe I should wait on that until I see what my editor thinks of the characters, plot, and storyline.)

Or maybe I will concentrate on my poetry for awhile--this blog could use some extra tender loving care, too. Whatever it is, writing is something I won't give up on. There's no end to what I want to write about--so much to write, so little time.

MUD PIES

I'm glad I don't have Skype. You would not want to see the office I work in at home--it has a small wall of bookcases absolutely filled with books, even on their side in stacks, and notebooks. My computer desk is always messy except when I let my guilty conscious push me to file or toss the stuff on it. But the shelves hubby built to hold photos, copies of the three books I've published, and some memorabilia are neat as a pin. One of the framed pieces is a card I received from my stepdaughter for a birthday one year.

I've always been an outdoors gal so I'm sure I was the model for this little girl in her raincoat sitting in the mud. If there was a puddle or mud, I was in it. If there was a fence to be climbed over or under, I was there. My mother couldn't keep sashes on dresses because I tore them off climbing trees, or scooting under barbed wire. And either my toes or my shoes were forever covered with mud when it rained.

My friends and I took our toy dishes out under the large sycamore tree in the front yard to have our tea parties. When it rained one day, we decided to make mud pies in our little tin pie pans. The grass wouldn't grow up near the trunk so we had an abundance of ingredients for our "baking."

My brother was less than a year old and we often took him out with us in our play. Being the eldest daughter, I often had the job of entertaining him while Mama cleaned house or cooked super. On one particular day, he slapped around in the mud. We sculpted our pies in the pans and pretended to eat our concoctions. Only Ralph didn't just pretend.

When Mama came out to gather him up for his nap he had mud all around his mouth. After her screams of disgust and shouts at us, you might understand that was the end of making mud pies. And today, Ralph, denies he would have ever done anything so
gross.

LASER DAY

Ray had laser eye surgery today and I am playing nursemaid--not that he needs much taking care of. Just reassurance, I think, is the ticket. Since this is the same eye that he had retina surgery/cateract removal on a year ago, he is a little anxious that all will be well in a day or two.

I'll be back tomorrow night.

Butch

"We may worry about death but what hurts the most is to live without tasting the water of its own essence.--Rumi

Recently, I lost a dear friend. The husband of a fellow writer, Butch, and I had hit it off from the moment we met. Why not? He loved to read those same mysteries I cut my teeth on. We shared books at least once a month when we three writer friends got together; it was only every third month that I could get my hug and kiss from him as we trade homes to meet in. I can't believe Butch isn't there to greet me again.

He and his dear wife had been married for 60 years, raised two children, and were enjoying retirement. Though he had been in and out of the hospital with respiratory problems for several years, it was such a shock when it was discovered that he had stomach cancer. He was dead within a week. It broke my heart.

And the devastating moment for me was to come home from a 30-day vacation one day after his funeral--to find out he had died. I felt like I had let him, his wife and children down by just not being there for them. All I could do was call-- tell them what they already knew--how much I loved Butch, that I would have been there every step of the way, at the viewing, helping with the preparation, set-up and serving the luncheon at their home after the funeral, and standing by the family's side all day. And they know I'll be there, even now, when they need someone to talk to, to grab a hold of a hand when they need steadying, and to count on me to do whatever I can to make this healing period a little easier, if I can.

Each day I pray for my friend and her family. I don't pray for Butch now. I know where that sweet, gentle, loving, man is--he is sitting at God's feet, or bowling with the angels, or setting up a heavenly barber shop--just for that little trim God's children may need now and then.

Until we meet again, Butch....

THOUGHTS AFTER SEEING "CONSPIRITORS"

Mary and Jackie

Mary was dressed so fashionably
Was it pink like Jackie?
She sat beside her husband
In the theater box, enjoying a play
Jackie sat beside her husband
In a car, enjoying the crowds,
Did Mary hear the applause that night
As Jackie heard on that sunny day?

At the sound of the shot
Husbands slumped, wives,
Reached out, seeking help.
Mary was removed from the room by doctors
Jackie clung to his hand as
He was pronounced dead.
Does anyone know if a president’s blood
Spattered Mary’s gown as it did Jackie’s suit?

What we do know is this—
Both wives followed the caisson
Bearing assassinated presidents,
One to Illinois, the other to Arlington,
Both women clad in blue-black widow’s silk.

THE GREAT CRITIQUE----NOT!

Well, really I can't call "Aunt Lutie's Blue Moon Cafe" a new book. Haven't we all read about authors who claim they've written a book in six weeks, edited it in two days, and it was in the bookstores within a year? I wish I could write that fast and had that kind of luck with publishing. I don't know if it's such a good sign that I'be been working (off and on) on this book for four years.

I actually wrote the first draft pretty fast. It started with an idea that I decided to share with my critique group. As I wrote the book, I shared it with my fellow writers. I managed to get some fairly good help with that first draft. By the time I completed those corrections, the group had faded away. And my life was in one of those you-gotta-be-kidding busywork runs. So the book went into the file cabinet.

Two friends and I later formed a line-by-line critique group which is still a viable part of my writing life today. I thought it would be great to haul out "Aunt Lutie" and get her in shape so I could seek an agent, publisher, or both. I was so enthusiastic on the next day we met. I listened and critiqued my friends work with enthusiasm. When it was my turn, I began reading the first chapter, with copies in their capable hands.

And bombed!

I can look back at the experience now and smile. Then I was crushed. They didn't get my book at all! Now, I know I was expecting too much of my dear friends--one born and reared in Los Angeles, the other in Hawaii. They were city gals so far removed from the south, the speech patterns, the cultural posturing, there was no way they were going to understand this book in order to critique this. Read it one day, yes, but at that time they were trying to correct everything from the grammar, to the spelling, and the description. It was irritating back them, understandable now. But at the time, I threw it back in the drawer again.

And then my dear editor friend, one who has counseled me along my writing path for years, Regina Williams, "The Storyteller Magazine," started her own publishing company, "Mockingbird Lane Press" (www.mockingbirdpress.com)asked me if I had a book for her to consider. Did I have a book!

Gina is one humorous lady on the other side of that very serious, unique editor. She wants humorous or down right weird Southern tales. So I downloaded the book onto my computer and have been working on edits/rewrites/deletes--I have a few more pages and then will print it off for one last looksee.

And then Gina critiques. YIPES!

WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?

That question is complicated. For one thing, I can't believe it has been that long since I posted anything to this site. For another, I am not happy with the absence. Once again I have volunteered myself into a corner with a strangle hold on my old-ladies throat, and fight as I may, I can't seem to win the battle. And whether I have a great number of people reading or not, I need to keep this blog current.

Illnesses, deaths, travel, Board duties, holidays--they can all be used as excuses but there really is no excuse. All writers find the time to write--and I have done that. I've won a few prizes, had many things published, kept my bi-monthly newsletter going, and have a lot of ideas simmering on the back burner. What I haven't done is put some of that skill into the need to write here.

I hope to make up for that by writing frequently.