Writing - the ups and downs

KINDLE, editing OUT the mistakes...

2012-02-14T09:03:00.002-05:00

Jeez! When I sent my manuscript to the production company, I thought I'd ferreted out ALL the mistakes. NOT SO.

When I received the Kindle copy, and started line editing, I found mistake after mistake. Costly mistakes now that I'm paying for each mistake after
five - the first five mistakes being free with the cost of the production.

I've learned so much during this edit. First, I've learned how to line edit more carefully. I've learned not to be in such a hurry to publish that I don't take time to delete all the bloopers.

I'm learning NOT to use so many BUTS AND ANDS to begin sentences. I didn't realize I used them with abandon.

I'm learning to omit some of the colloquialisms.

I'm just learning learning learning. Darn. I thought I knew so much and now I'm learning after all these years that I don't know much about writing AT ALL.

Here's to a cleaner manuscript next time around.

Here's to bringing all I've learned to the table the next time around.

Here's to a brighter publishing future for all of us who write.

And a better reading future to those of us who read.

And to less mistakes on those books on Kindle.

I hate mistakes.

Blessings on your life today.

And please if you have anything to add about editing, please give me a comment.

Do you buy Amazon books for Kindle? Are you pleased with what you've bought?

Look forward to hearing from you. Thanks!

Production of ebook for Kindle...

2012-02-09T18:52:00.000-05:00

I'm so excited! The proof copy of Vada Faith arrived via email today. It looks great. Now, I need to look at each page and check for typos and mistakes.

Another week or so and I'll have it ready for Amazon Kindle.

It's been a long ride for Vada Faith and I. However, she's going to go to work for me soon and I will move on to other book projects waiting in the wings.

This has been an eye opening experience, from getting my copyright, to an employee id number to working with the producers to get this book ready to put into ebook form.

Now, I have to get Vada Faith into paperback format, which means more editing and saving it into pdf file for the publisher.

At this point I plan to go with Amazon Create Space unless things change.

Thanks for following the path of my friend, Vada Faith.

In another year or less I'll have a sequel to those who like her story. It's titled SWEET BABY JAMES, about a kidnapping in Shady Creek, West Virginia. Of course since I couldn't write a scary novel the kidnapper is a sad rattled little lady named Birdie. Stay tuned.

Thanks for stopping by.

More news soon.
Blessings, Barb

Update on Vada Faith/Hungry for Chocolate...

2012-01-30T15:57:00.000-05:00

In case I have not told you, I changed my book title again. It had been simply VADA FAITH for years. Then I thought that wasn't fancy enough and I changed the title to HUNGRY FOR CHOCOLATE, because she made that statement early on in the story.

However, when I started reviewing book covers, I could not find one that fit with the story and the title. It was then that I realized the story and title both belonged to the main character Vada Faith.

Plus I found several covers that seemed to fit her to a tee. I emailed those to daughter Jill and she found the perfect one and mocked it up for me. I love it. It is so the story and the characters. So the title and the cover were meant to be. As was this story.

After the cover was in my hands, I decided I needed to get the story copyrighted. I did that online and I am here to tell you it was easy. And it was inexpensive - $35 online. I believe if you get it through the mail it's $65. I have a budget for this project and so far I'm way under!

I started setting up my account on Amazon for when I'm ready to upload the book.

I'm doing last minute edits. Pulling some hair out yes, as there are still a few mistakes. HOW COULD THERE BE??? I don't know but there are.

I have a professional who will format my manuscript into a Kindle ebook when I have it ready. Also a Mobi whatever that is. I'm still in the learning phase.

I'm keeping a log of every step I take so that when I do it again, I'll know how. YES, I do plan to do this again. If all goes well I plan to convert my book of short stories into an ebook.

And then there is a follow up book using Vada Faith's family again. I do love these people and so happy that we can spend time together again, at my desk just them and me with plenty of coffee and tea.

Hope whatever you are doing is making you as happy as I am right now.

Blessings.

Author Jane Porter's Workshop

2012-01-21T21:19:00.000-05:00

Today I went to a workshop in Columbus featuring author Jane Porter. She's written a number of books including Flirting with Forty which was made into a television movie by Sony and aired on Lifetime in 2008. Filmed in Seattle and Hawaii Jane visited the set and spoke to the stars, Heather Locklear and Robert Buckley. Wow!

I'm excited to read the book, Flirting. Everyone was given a free copy, a nice canvas red tote that says READ on it plus pens, bookmarks, a mini note pad. Great giveaways.

The best part of the workshop was listening to Jane. She's a powerful speaker, she says because she once taught seventh graders and she may be right. However, my opinion is she is such an interesting personality we all held onto each word she said.

Some of what she said, I already knew. It never hurts to hear something twice, especially writing advice. And twice again after that. Eventually it sinks in.

Her topics included voice and market advice. Writing smart, writing well and writing to sell.

She covered tight dialogue. This was meaningful to me as I believe I can tighten my dialogue and get rid of some he said, she saids.

We discussed selling to Hollywood, mostly she shared that once you sell, they do what they want with your book. The matter is mostly out of your hands. But the nice check is all yours.

She talked about how emotion powers up our stories. I agree totally. If a book can make me laugh or cry, I'm in.

Jane writes mainstream as well as short contemporary. I write mainstream and could never write short contemporary, the way I feel right now.

For me it was a delightful day that started with a pajama party the night before with good friend Sherry. We stayed up late, talked writing, giggled, ate and drank and played on the computer. Then we did it all over again.

It was a gift I gave myself. A gift I enjoyed from the moment it started and will continue to enjoy over the coming months as I work on my own stories.

Just to let you know, I'll be back soon with more information on my own publishing endeavors as I go about getting my book Vada Faith on Kindle at Amazon.

Please stay tuned! God bless.

Publishing My Way...

2012-01-17T21:40:00.000-05:00

I'm learning the ins and outs of putting my novel on Amazon as an ebook for Kindle.

I'm nervous and I'm excited.

I'm ready to copyright my book and do all the other endless things needed.

I'm doing another nervous run through making sure there are no mistakes. Wish me luck on that one!

I've looked at book covers all day until my eyes feel crossed. I've found some wonderful sites if anyone is interested.

My daughter is helping me go through covers and I'm making a last minute change to the title.

I pray I'm making the right decision about that. This whole process is a little intimidating.

I'm much more confident and self assured when I'm writing. Publishing or getting ready for publication is
way out of my field.

I'd always thought if I ever published a book it would be with a big publisher who would do all
the work for me.

But the world of publishing is changing and so many doors are opening for authors with internet access.

I plan, if this ebook is a success, to publish a few paperbacks, if only to please myself.

I need to hold the book in my hands. I love the smell and feel of books. Plus you get a whole adventure within the pages.

I promised Vada Faith, the main character of this story, when I created her that I'd do everything in my power to help her see
the world after I breathed life into her.

And now I'm doing that.

Blessings to you on your adventures.

Hair and old age

2012-01-12T09:26:00.001-05:00

Lately I've lost my focus - at least my focus on the things I should be focusing on. Like life in my household. My husband. Things I need to be doing. Like finishing the novel I'm working on. I work everyday but not as much as I should. I'm busy focusing on, well see below.

My focus entirely is on a spot in my head where I'm losing hair.

You heard right. I have one small spot on the right side of my head, in the exact position where my head hits the pillow every night.

I can't get my focus off that one spot. Wondering why I have it, how I got it. What to do about it. Questioning, will it get worse. Am I doomed to lose all my hair at this young age. Well, not so young but who wants to have a bald spot right on the side of their head at any age?

So instead of doing more important work, I think about remedies for my "balding" spot. Sure I can still cover it with hair. Am I going to be like those old guys who do comb overs? I hope not. It's not entirely bald in that one spot either for which I am eternally grateful. I spend time in shops looking at hair products. Right now I'm using a shampoo for thinning hair. Don't know if it's helping but my hair smells wonderful, sort of a minty scent.

When we go out as we do most days, I have to ask R if my "spot" is covered. I drive him nuts checking my head. He always says yes yes yes. I know he's trying to appease me. And he always says my hair looks nice but can you trust a man you've been married to for 49 years? He's prejudiced. He still sees me as the young girl he married, with loads of hair and a bounce in my step. Yeah yeah yeah.

I'm slowly driving myself wild with this hair thing. (Him too!) I've tried sleeping in other positions but no matter how I fall asleep in the middle of the night I'm back on that one spot, grinding the heck out of it. I'm a restless sleeper. I thought of wearing some kind of head gear but not sure that would be comfy. My mother wore a silk sleep cap. She was sure it kept her hair style nice for a longer period of time. I'm not sure but I did love seeing her in her pajamas and that funny sleep cap.

My husband wants me to go with the sleep cap. He remembers my mother's. I don't think that is the answer. I think the answer is to stop grinding my head against the pillow. I grind my teeth too. I wear a mouth guard.

Do they make any such thing as a head guard to keep one from grinding one's head on the pillow at night?

Who knows. My goal today is not to focus on my head, hair, bald spot. Myself in general.

I did do something the other day that has perhaps helped a bit. I did a home color job- semi permanent, a rinse on. I picked out a nice brown shade. It went on my head jet black. R was talking to our little granddaughter and he told her Nan was painting her hair black and that had her worried. I had to assure her that was not true.

When I washed the color off my hair was dark auburn. For those who know me - auburn is not a color I've ever had. But it's different and I don't notice the spot as much. The color treatment itself has made my hair fluffier. Or is that all in my mind? No, I just tossed my head and it is indeed fluffier.

I'm off here to get my mind back on my novel. I have miles to go before I sleep. How about you, do you have some things you focus on that are not all that important in the grand scheme of things?

Here's to a great day. Blessings!

Happy New Year. The Good Life Hard to See...

2011-12-31T13:59:00.001-05:00

‘Good life’ hard to see when you have it

One winter several years ago, my husband and I traveled to Florida to visit my sister in a community built on a golf course.

CLICK ON THE TITLE TO GO TO THE SITE.

Thought you might want to check out my essay that appeared in the Columbus Dispatch today, New Year's Eve. A fun way to end the year with my essay in print. It's a very revised version of our move to and from sunny Florida.

Enjoy! And have a Happy New Year.

How to be an American Housewife...

2011-12-27T10:15:00.001-05:00

Just finished reading Margaret Dilloway's How to Be an American Housewife. Wow. What a read. Couldn't put it down. About a Japanese bride and her military husband. Shoko tries hard, harder than anyone I ever knew, to be the perfect wife and mother in her new country. More often than not she believes she has failed. You'll learn through her trials and tribulations that this is not so. She succeeds very well as a woman who loves her husband and children more than life itself. Even when her spirit is tested as she faces death.

Great characters and beautiful writing, the first novel by Margaret Dilloway.

I'm not giving away any more of the story.

It touched my heart and soul and these characters are still ambling around in my mind several days after I put the book down.

Here's to a new year of great books, great writing, and most of all good health to us all.

Blessings, Barb

Holidays Filled with Hope...

2011-12-18T10:55:00.000-05:00

I started to write about my regrets of the past two months. How I haven't been well and I haven't written, not much anyway and how blah blah blah - my life isn't going as I want it to. Bah humbug to that sort of post.

However I realized I needed to write about the hope that has filled my heart in the last few days. As I worked yesterday on "the" story, I felt motivation pour through my veins and I realized that spending time regretting something is spending valuable time I could have used anticipating what my characters would be doing next. Or anticipating the next story that's mulling around in my brain. OR actually working at the computer turning my dreams into reality!

I have a number of ideas with help from writing buddy Sherry Hartzler on epubbing some of our work. She's already doing a bang up job of promoting her books Three Moons Over Sedona and Island Passage over at Amazon, ebooks for Kindle. You might want to check them out. Very inexpensive and great reads. They're both available in paperbacks as well, if you prefer the old fashioned way of reading as I do.

I don't have a Kindle and am content to still hold a book in my hand but maybe someday my thoughts on that will change.

Right now my holidays are filled with hope. Hope for the well being and health of my family, hope for the future of our country - I know that's far fetched but still....I'm hopeful we'll get back on track. And hope I'll be able to get my three unfinished novel written to THE END.

Maintaining hope is often something we have to work at. I easily get bogged down in the silt of life and have to pick myself up and dust myself off and get back on the track of life. It's an ongoing process. We just have to hang in! Hope you are hangin'.

Hope your holidays are filled with hope and joy and goodwill toward man. After all. It's all we can do. HOPE.

God bless you and yours this hope filled holiday season.

Looking For the Good Life...

2011-12-05T09:47:00.004-05:00

Once upon a time we had a home in a subdivision outside Columbus. We lived there for fifteen years. My husband had been transferred back to Ohio from Michigan. In that lovely home we had family dinners and saw two of our three daughters graduate from high school. Our oldest was already living on her own.

Our beloved Pug, Sammy, came there to live when he was only six weeks old and so little he couldn’t master the jump up onto the back patio which was only a few inches off the ground. From Sammy we learned all about real love.

From that house, our youngest daughter graduated college a few years after her father retired there. In that house we met old friends and new. Found a church home. Established roots in the community.

From there, we married off all three daughters and began to welcome grandbabies.

Our middle daughter sadly got divorced and moved back in (sadly) with two babies. Whew. What a change in our lives! Then, she remarried and moved out again.

That house saw numerous sleep overs, pizza parties, birthday bashes, anniversary dinners, Bible study groups and graduation parties on the lawn.

We learned how to make the best peach jam in the world from the peach tree that hung heavy with fruit in the back yard every summer.

Each Easter while we were there we witnessed the ornamental pear trees lining our street offer up the most beautiful white blossoms. The crab apple in the back yard grew from a sprig to a beautiful pink blossomed tree that was the talk of the neighborhood. The splendor of our purple clematis overlapping the top of the white trellis on the front porch drew people in from the street to measure it’s height. It provided ample shade for our porch bench where we’d sit on hot summer days discussing exactly why that clematis grew so well. My husband swore it was because he cut it to the ground each fall.

My husband took up woodworking and turned out some beautiful pieces. He took up antiquing and filled our house and those of our daughters with some wonderful old pieces.

Then, he became bored. Go figure!

I was working on a novel at the time and taking this new found freedom in stride.

That winter we took a trip to Fl to visit my sister who lived in a retirement community built on a golf course with an enormous community center at it's core. Activities abounded. From the couch potato to the highest achiever there were things for everyone to do. Painting, writing, gardening, woodworking, swimming, golf and more.

We fell in love with that fantasy life. Notice I said fantasy.

We came home with numerous possibilities of life in the sun floating in our heads. We came reluctantly, as there was a severe ice storm predicted for Ohio. Of course it hit with all the vengeance of our usual ice storms in the midwest while we were still in the car.

It took only a few weeks of ice and slush for my husband to proclaim, "I want the good life. I want it now. I want to move."
We'd go slow we decided. Take our time making important decisions. Do nothing without thinking it through.

We called a local realtor and within a day we had a for sale sign in the yard. She said it would take months to sell the house and we’d have plenty of time to think about what we were doing.

The very first person to walk through the house bought it and wanted us out in thirty days. Well! That was a surprise.

We dashed to Florida thinking we had to to buy a house right away. And we did. It had a golf course only steps away. Not that we golfed. The yard was enclosed with swaying palms and red flowering hibiscus. My husband thought he’d died and gone to heaven. We bought a golf cart and rode through the new neighborhood congratulating ourselves on our new fabulous "upcoming" life.

Back in Ohio, we had only days to get out of the house. We threw away. Gave away. Sold. We paid people to haul away. Soon we had the accumulations of 35 years down to a manageable lot that could be hauled in a 50 ft. rental Penske truck. Our son-in-law drove our stash to the Gulf Coast and we drove the car.

The house we'd left had been meticulously kept over the years, with all large items recently replaced or updated. The house we bought was only five years old and hadn't been kept up. Understatement. It was right down needy. Advice: NEVER purchase a home in a hurry.

While my husband hired workers and replaced floors, stripped wallpaper, painted, put in new bathrooms and rebuilt our dream home piece by piece, I had a lot of free time to think - about our children, grandchildren, old friends, and church family who were 900 miles and two driving days away. It didn't console me to know the airport was nearby and a plane could get me to Ohio in a few short hours.

Though I've done my share of traveling by air, I'm beginning to adopt the attitude of my stepfather who used to say if God had meant us to fly he would have given us wings. He managed well in this life and his feet never left the ground. Therefore, I now save all my air travel for emergencies.

As the weeks passed idly by, each time I went to visit our dream house I was met by my smiling sweaty husband and a bunch of construction type men bearing jackhammers and whistling as they sweated over the new stone patio or hoisted a ladder to blow insulation into the attic. Or install a new water softener or to caulk the new shower floor. By then it was June and HOT as Hades.

I knew I'd be riding in a box soon and using up my air time quickly if I didn't call a halt to the good life. I begged to go home. Forget the new furniture ordered. Forget the china and family mementos stored in boxes in the garage of the new house. I wanted to go for a little break, I said, a reprieve. A rest. A trip to see my children and grandbabies. Perhaps a quick trip to our old doctor for some feel good meds. I was going to have to be drugged if I was going to enjoy this new good life.

However after being home for a visit and seeing the children and grandchildren and being able to breath again without anxiety attacks, I decided I couldn't live in the dream house, in the dream world I had created in my head.

The good life just wasn't for me. I wanted to be back in drought ridden dreary Ohio. Where often ice storms in the winter keep us housebound. Where tornadoes sometimes touch down too close for comfort - where on any given day I can see any one of my children and grandchildren or all of them ---if I want to throw caution to the wind and drive like - well - you get the picture.

So after a month of resting in Ohio we went back south. We packed the few things we'd unpacked in Florida, rented a truck, called our son in law, a different one this time, and he flew down and drove the truck home.

By then the house in Florida was finished and truly a dream home. Nine months later we sold it to a couple from Indiana who were in search of the good life in the sun. (At a great financial loss to us, I must add.) Truly, I hope they found what they were looking for. As for me, I'm content being in another house on a little piece of land back in Ohio.

All this was several years ago but I often think back on the experience and realize I gained more than I lost. We live near one daughter, another lives not too far away and while the youngest is eight hrs away by car, I can still get to her in a day when I am longing to see her and her family.

Sometimes without even looking for it, the good life finds us.

Blessings to you and hoping you've found your "good life."

Faith, Fireworks, and Fir by Pam Andrews Hanson

2011-11-27T13:14:00.000-05:00

This novel is set in the town of Evergreen, Michigan, home of The Christmas Store, where main character Faith works selling ornaments and trees along with a variety of newly arrived “special” angels, both beautiful and inspiring.

She soon becomes involved in helping the town’s elderly sisters, Cora and Carrie, save their Victorian Bed and Breakfast from being sold, thanks to their nephew David who has come to town to convince them to retire and move into a retirement community near him in Arizona.

Faith and David have both experienced broken hearts and try to guard their hearts from further hurt, by working actively to not fall for each other, even as they begin to feel a growing attachment.

They’re thrown together on enough occasions to make them miss each other when they are apart. Cora and Carrie help the romance along by setting them up on dates.

Faith and David volunteer to help organize the church’s Christmas in July Bazaar and work closely to set up booths and then end up standing in for the clown who is ill. AND, much to their surprise, they love doing it.

When David learns that Cora and Carrie are selling off family heirlooms to make ends meet, though they’ve been left a healthy inheritance and their inn business is thriving, he’s puzzled and does some snooping. He finally tracks the trail of money to the church and learns that Cora and Carrie are bankrolling many of the church’s new projects, including paying day care for any child whose family cannot afford the fees.

Unsuccessful in moving his aunts to Arizona with him, David returns to Arizona, selling his business at a huge profit with enough left over to help his spinster aunts with their church obligations. He moves back to Evergreen to be near them and to pursue a relationship with Faith.
By then Faith realizes how perfect they are for each other and when David proposes she says yes.

They have a lovely winter church wedding with all the town as guests.

A perfect ending to a perfect love story.

This e-book is available online at Amazon.com for $2.98. I know! I couldn’t believe it either.

Thanks Pam for a great read. It warmed me on these cold Ohio evenings!
Wherever you live it will surely warm your heart too. Give yourself an early gift or gift this e book to a reader you love.

Happy Thanksgiving!

2011-11-21T20:09:00.001-05:00

Thanksgiving 8000 Calorie Poem

May your stuffing be tasty,
May your turkey plump,
May your potatoes and gravy
Have nary a lump.
May your yams be delicious
And your pies take the prize,
And may your Thanksgiving dinner
Stay off your thighs!
- Anonymous

Blessings to you and yours, Barb

UNWANTED VISITOR

2011-11-06T19:20:00.000-05:00

Unwanted Visitor -

This Cold.

Making me miserable.

Making me Feel -

Other worldly.

Cotton-brained and

Blurrry eyed.

Sneezing- sharing

Germs with

Throw pillows

And my cozy blanket -

Making apologies

As I snuggle

On the sofa

I wish for

The enemy to

Exit - take this evil and go.

Instead -

I'm killing it softly

With an arsenal of vitamins,

Cold pills, antibiotics.

It will go down before

Seven to Ten days.

Or ELSE.

Blessings and may your days remain cold-free!

Saying good bye to summer

2011-11-02T08:48:00.000-04:00

The weather is cooperating and we've been able to get outside and put away all the things we enjoyed during the summer weather preparing for the season change.

We threw out the bedraggled red begonias from the front porch and all the dried geraniums from the back deck.

Our winters are often harsh so I'll clean and store our white wooden rockers in the basement til spring. A gift from our daughter, Lisa. I love rocking on the front porch when the weather is warm.

R has already stored our red metal chairs and table from the deck in his barn as well as the bigger table and chairs where we often have lunch - when I can get him off the lawn tractor!

I find comfort in putting to bed the items that bring me such joy in summer. I feel as though I'm wrapping them in a warm quilt to rest until beautiful weather when they'll claim their rightful place outdoors.

I put away the little green garden chair with the wreath and flowers - photo on my blog.

Even the pumpkins on the front step had to go yesterday as they were frozen and starting to rot! Is it that cold already???

Our fall leaves are at mid point in their descent. We have a few more to enjoy before the landscape turns barren and the trees will be dressed in ice crystals and glistening snow.

Other than a wreath on the front door covered in fall leaves, we'll be without decorations for a few weeks until it's time to bring out the sled for the front porch decked out with pine and red bows.

Outside my door the world will be yawning, preparing for a long nap. On the inside, I'll fill the house with pumpkin and cinnamon scent, soothing music, and be warm and cozy in a snuggie as I work to do some winter creating. I'll write, sew, and dream of warm sunshiny days when I'll sit in the white rocker on the front porch and count the Cardinals in the front yard or watch the Bluebird family return to their house in the side yard tree.

I'm thankful for each season that Our Creator has generously provided.

Each one offers its own individual beauty. For now, I'm in a resting/ holding pattern and looking forward to the brisk days when our thoughts turn to the holidays and to getting together with family.

To you and yours, I wish a happy, healthy, and safe transition from fall into winter.

Sad Home Going...

2011-10-23T23:04:00.001-04:00

The visit with our daughter Jill, her husband Jason, and the four grandchildren in Wisconsin went by too quickly.

We were able to spend some special time with Jill when the family was gone. We took her to lunch and she and I did lots of shopping by ourselves. I found the thrift stores in Wisconsin to be full of treasures. I came home with a beautiful nativity set, two pairs of jeans, a top, and a sweater. All looked new. Some with tags.

Jackson, their French Bulldog, and Samson, their English Bulldog were excited to see us. We are not dog people but we were able to exist peacefully. We got a kick out of both dogs for all their individual traits. Jackson guards food. It doesn't matter who has the food he stands on guard until every morsel is gone, I'm assuming to make sure he gets a crumb if it drops. He chases Samson away from the food area. And just looking at chunky Samson brings a smile to your face.

While R hung around the house I went to three fourth grade classes on Friday afternoon to be a mystery reader for the triplets. I'm not sure they were all that surprised that I showed up because they'd asked me beforehand. But they didn't know the day or time or if I'd show up. I read a quickly picked book from the nearby library called THE WITCHY BROOM. I picked it because it was short enough and ended with a bit of suspense. Jill took several photos of me in their classrooms and posted them on Facebook. That one day was the highlight of the trip for me - mostly because I had the opportunity to be with the grandchildren, to meet their teachers, and to encourage all the children to read read read. Of course I mentioned that I write and urged them to try their hand at writing.

That evening we treated them to pizza and cupcakes for their birthdays. Austin was six Oct. 14, and Mackenzie, Tanner, and Chase will be ten on Oct. 24.
We gave them their gifts. Books, of course. Books are food for the soul, in my eyes! And the books seemed to be a hit.

The weather was exceptional for our entire visit with the fall colors not quite gone.

One day I made a pot of delicious Thia Chicken Soup made with fresh cilantro and coconut milk. I picked up only two fans with it. Jill and Jason. R said it was okay and the kiddies said no thanks and ate leftover Chinese food from the night before. Jill loved the soup and she and I polished off the last bowl of the double batch. If anyone wants the recipe I'll be glad to share.

Our home going was sad. Some tears. Lots of hugs. ( I just knew it was time to leave after six days. We were tired and they were too. We've learned it's best to leave while everyone is still in love.)

However, I always leave a part of myself with them and I bring home a part of them with me.

A few months back, Mackenzie gave me a half of a heart on a chain and she kept the other half for herself. It reminds us that we are in each other's hearts she said.

Grandchildren are a precious commodity. Not one you can give away or trade. But one that touches your soul and stays in your heart.

Blessings!

A Change in Scenery...

2011-10-15T12:31:00.001-04:00

We're getting ready for a change in scenery. Tomorrow we head to Milwaukee from our home in Ohio to visit our youngest four grandchildren - Chase, Tanner, and Mackenzie - triplets - who will turn 10 while we are there. And Austin Cole who just turned 6. And our daughter Jill and her husband Jason.

We are so excited we can't stand it. I've been packing our bags and tucking in treats and little gifts all week.

We visited the neaby Apple Barn and bought fresh apple butter, honey and apples to take to them.

You'd think we were taking a trip to Europe, the way we've been assembling items. Don't forget to take this or that, we keep reminding each other. Of course at our age, it's DO NOT forget to pack your prescriptions. We'll only be gone a week but you'd think we were going for the winter.

We both look forward to the change in scenery. Especially with fall here and the leaves putting on a grand and colorful show. Our trip will take us through Indiana and Illinois and then into Wisconsin. Any time we've traveled this route in the fall, we've been given a rare and welcome show by the beautiful landscape.

When we arrive the kiddies are beside themselves with joy and throw themselves into our arms. Of course we love and welcome every gesture of their affection. We haven't seen them since June and pictures tell us they've grown by heaps and bounds.

They'll be surprised because Nana and Papa have a new car. They were used to riding around with us in the old gray sedan when they came to visit - now one of the first orders of business will be to take them for a ride in the new vehicle and as this one has many new features I'm sure all four of them will try out each button and switch.

I don't remember having these kinds of visits with my own grandmother. The only one living when I came along was my Grandma Casto and she was very sedate and old fashioned. She wore her gray hair braided and wound around her head. Later in her life she kept it cut and permed. She got a perm every three months like clockwork. She wore a sun bonnet on trips out to the cemetery when we went to decorate. We always took her peppermint sticks when we went to see her. She let us play with the buttons in her button jar. She liked to stay home and only went to church. Will I turn into Grandma? I don't know. I might. But I think it's unlikely.

Grandparents are more active today, perhaps because we're healthier and have more energy. Or because we didn't live through the depression nor work physically as hard as the generation before us.

Whatever the reason I can't wait to climb into the car tomorrow and head off to Wisconsin where our youngest grandchildren are waiting for us with hugs, kisses and love.

What more could one ask in this life than to be loved by a child?

We've been blessed eight times with grandbabies and are so thankful for each one.

Have a blessed day and hug someone today. If not a child then find a loved one and give him/her a big hug.

The Beauty of October

2011-10-10T09:33:00.000-04:00

Thanks to the beauty of October and it's brisk refreshing days, I've been hard at work again on my writing project - THE NOVEL.

I've been rewriting all 312 pages of it and its nearing the finish line. I passed page 215 in the rewrite yesterday. I'm updating and tweaking the story.

Once it's finished I have some new places to send it to. Keep those fingers crossed.

This book has been a work in progress for ten years from the day I had the idea to now. It's grown by leaps and bounds.

It's been around to dozens of places and has a fair amount of rejections. Okay, a huge stack.

On the other hand it's won one award and gained praise from many readers, editors and agents.

My dream has been to see this book published. My long ago goal was to sell short stories and essays. Those goals have been met.

Now it's back to the big dream. The published novel.

If the Lord's willing and the creek don't rise and I experience no other disasters by early November I'll have this thing on its way.

I'm delighted that I've kept at this daily writing schedule for the last month.

I'm a Gemini and have lots of irons in the fire. Too many things draw me away from my good intentions.

Any of you have that problem? Start something and then get lured away by a project that seems better than the one on which you are working???

Share your thoughts.

Thanks for reading and commenting. Blessings to you and yours, Barb

Plus, R and I are traveling to Wisconsin in another week to see the youngest grandchildren, the triplets who soon will be ten and their younger brother.

We're excited!

The days of my life...

2011-09-23T09:58:00.001-04:00

As the flowers in the fields grow, so grow the years, days, hours, moments of my life.

Each day I take out a day of my allotted ones on this earth. And I've already used up so many -

Uselessly, trying to get it.

But what am I trying to get?

Am I trying to get ahead?

But trying to get ahead of what?

Ahead of or outrun? I wonder.

Some of the days were filled with silt.

Others with pure gold.

Joy, laughter, fun.

Now at this time in the later days of my life,

I try to make each day I take out of my jar of days -

A day that matters.

Make this a day that matters in your life!

God bless.

Writng/Editing...

2011-09-10T19:10:00.021-04:00

Today I proofed the first 50 pages of my 300 page mainstream novel. I can't tell you how good it feels to be back working.

The other good news is, I still love this story and these characters. It's been a year since I looked at this novel seriously.

I decided to go with this project because I have two places to submit it. One publisher I found seems like a good match. And while this book has had an agent before, I have the name of another one that I think might be a great fit.

The main character in this novel is Vada Faith Waddell who has been unhappy for most of her life. She blames everyone besides herself for her
unhappiness. When she decides to answer a newspaper ad to be a surrogate mother for a childless couple, she sets in motion events that change her life and the lives of others in the small town of Shady Creek, West Virginia.

It's been a fun book to write and I hope it's fun to read.

Editing and finishing should only take a few weeks. Then I can get it out.

Hey, have a great week end. Weather here is beautiful and I AM on the mend.

Blessings for reading my humble offerings. And for all your good wishes. Barb

I'M BACK...

2011-09-04T08:54:00.002-04:00

Just to report that my nerve block for the pancreas pain went well. And I'm feeling much better. It takes a full week to feel the effects but I do already - a good sign according to the doctor.

Pictures of the pancreas showed signs FINALLY of chronic pancreas which I am not happy to have but having a diagnosis after years of pain gives me some relief and the feeling that I can develop a plan to live with this disease.

Right now I'm doing research on this so that I can eat right and do the things that will help me live a better life than I've had for a long time.

After I get my health plan in order - I'M READY TO WRITE. It's been a while and my novel is just wanting to be gone through quickly one last time before being sent off to two places I found that might make a good fit.

Last but not least my optimism is returning. My JOY. My fight. My determination. My strength and energy.

I could not be happier on this sunny Sunday morning. Hopefully next Sunday instead of blogging I'll be off to church. It's been months. It helps me get through my weeks better.

Have a great day and know that you will be seeing me on here more.

I hope one day this week I can devote some time to catching up with your blogs.

Blessings, Barb

YOGA AND MY PANCREAS UPDATE...

2011-08-25T16:26:00.003-04:00

On September 2 at O.S.U. Medical Center I'll be having an endoscopic ultrasound probe of the pancreas. This will result in photos of the pancreas and it's current condition - which was great two years ago during same procedure. I have a feeling I'm suffering from some nerve damage done when the Spinchter of Oddi in the pancreas was cut on 6+ years ago.

Procedure sounds not so fun but I'll be asleep and won't care.

The doctor at this point is planning to do a nerve block on a cluster of nerves in the pancreas - I thought he said they were called the Celiac nerves.

Not positive.

I'm trying to retain only enough knowledge to get by.

I'm tired of doing research and have decided to leave this to the experts.

I've quit worrying and that's helped. LOTS.

Today I did yoga for the first time in months. Other than being a stiff old broad, I did fine.

So my plan is to do yoga every day as long as I can. It's fun and I love the Rodney Yee tape. We work well together!!!

Thanks to all of YOU who have made my days brighter with great comments and suggestions.

I am on the road back.

Blessings, Barb

Stuck in time..

2011-08-18T09:29:00.000-04:00

I'm trying to turn over a new leaf. It's time. BUT the leaf just won't turn over.

I'm getting stronger after the pancreas procedure but I find myself wanting to stay stuck right where I am.

Not moving forward nor backward. Sitting on the sofa watching time pass me by.

Even the weather has improved to beyond beautiful with lots of sun and blue skies.

And still I sit. Contemplating possibilities. Options. Opportunities. Sometimes contemplating nothing.

Do I want to sit on the sofa forever and think sad thoughts about how upset I am that I have a pancreas disorder I do not understand.

I fit none of the criteria for this illness, disorder, disease or whatever it is called. Research has turned up nothing. Zilch. Zero.

Writing usually brings me out of any funk I fall into. I go to my desk now and slowly shuffle the papers. The stories. Scraps papers full of

endless ideas for stories. Notes on how to improve "the" novel. Yet I still do not move toward the office chair.

No possibility of sitting down and actually putting pen to paper or fingers on the keyboard.

Have any of you ever been stuck in a life situation and could not get out?

How did you manage to get started again? It seems my engine doesn't want to turn over.

I know it's psychological. I know I have to make the effort. I know. I know. I know. It's me. Yet I can't seem to make the first move.

Any thoughts on how I can move from this awful, horrendous place and get myself back out into the sunny world again???

I usually can shame myself back into action by thinking of people who have situations

much more dire than mine.

It's not working. I still sit--- on the sofa. Sometimes with my head in a book and

sometimes not. Sometimes just staring out the window at the sunny deck or porch.

I'm not sure I'd even finish this blog if I were you --- it's so boring! I hate to be bored when reading something.

Perhaps I'll get off this sofa this very moment and do jumping jacks. Then again, probably not.

Please can you throw me a rope and pull me up!!!

Anything, even loud yelling to make me stop this nonsense.

I'm a pig in mud.

Thanks to any of you who made it through this dreadful post.

What is your story and how do you pull yourself up when you are down.

Thanks! Barb

Pancreas Debuts Again...

2011-08-03T09:41:00.004-04:00

I haven't been around to read blogs or catch up on my own. I had another ERCP to put a stent in the pancreas duct. Ended with a three day hospital stay.
I'm home now and recovering. Feeling 100% better than before I went in.

Does anyone know anything about the workings of the pancreas?

I'm still looking for answers and I think there are none.

Dr. Groce doesn't know if this condition is genetic or caused by gall stones gone wild, scarring the pancreas duct. Scar tissue grows I assume and makes the opening more narrow.
.
Here I must say the doctor and his staff at O.S.U. have been terrific. (The pain not so much. The hospital stay not so much. But that's a story in itself.)

The balloon he uses to open the duct helps and then he puts in a stent that comes out automatically in several days. Thank God. Don't want him to go back fishing for it!!!

My daughter Susan and my sister have this problem as well.

It seems there is no cure for it. There is one surgery to "sew" open the duct permanently. My question is, "does the pancreas duct wish to be opened permanently???" And shouldn't they consider what the pancreas wants and what is best in the long run for it and me and our long term relationship?

I'm recovering and feeling better each day. I've had a number of these procedures and Doctor G says this is the last he'll do. Next time it will be surgery. I can balk and refuse which I might do. But I'd feel awful the rest of my life and then die.

Aren't the solutions endless!

Do you or anyone you know have this problem. I would certainly love to hear any comments, opinions, advice or just plain sympathy which is most
welcome. I'm over the part of feeling sorry for myself but could fall easily back into it.

I'm in the phase right now where I'm loving life, thanking God the pain is gone, the procedure is over and that I have some good months ahead.

Isn't that really all we each have?

Or is it just this one glorious second?

I'll leave you with that thought.

Any light you can shed on this will be welcome. Or if you just want to talk about something else entirely that's welcome too.

It' just good to feel well enough to be on here.

Blessings. B
PS the novel still awaits rewriting and I'll be back soon with a chapter for you to read! Smile! I know you can't wait!

THE HELP BRINGS BACK PAINFUL MEMORIES

2011-07-27T20:03:00.001-04:00

THE HELP by author Kathleen Stockett tells the story of a group of black maids working for white families before the term Civil Rights was ever born. Before the race riots. On the cusp of when the southern part of our country erupted into a period of hate that spread across the nation.
As I moved into the story of the complicated lives of these women, I could taste their joy and smell their fear emanating from the pages. I felt their heartbeats. Their unease became mine. At times, I felt the need to look over my shoulder.
This book is much more than fiction. It’s the many faceted tale of what really went on in the South. It was a time when black children were turned away from white schools, while their black mothers were at the homes of those white children baking bread for their supper and rocking their little sisters and brothers.
At the time, I was growing up in West Virginia, sitting happily in the safety of my living room watching bandstand with Dick Clark.
Until the news started breaking in on my shows, telling stories of unfathomable events - only then did I sit up and take notice. Blacks were being stopped from crossing a certain barrier while white people stood on the other side with clubs and rocks. I watched in horror as black men and women were dragged through the streets, screaming and crying, as policemen hit them with nightsticks. Protecting territory meant for white folk only: public schools, public pools, public libraries, public restrooms. Public? Not really.
These whites were not just politicians but included the rich and poor. The common thought was that “they” controlled the South. They demanded two lists of rules. One for whites. One for blacks.
I realized early on, I had nothing in common with these white people except the color of my skin.
Reading this book brought back those memories and drove home the fact that we humans can survive terrible adversity if we can keep hope alive. And those women, did they ever have hope!
I will not soon forget THE HELP. The story made me determined to be a better person. To help make the world a better place, to give a kind word, a helping hand, be more accepting of the differences in our world today.
I must thank Kathleen Stockett for letting the words of Miss Skeeter, Aibileen, Minny and the other characters pour from her veins onto the page for us to share.

I know this essay doesn’t come anywhere near being a proper review of this many layered novel. This is simply what I felt about it.

My Favorite Essay by Gladys Taber

2011-07-09T09:48:00.000-04:00

BUTTERNUT WISDOM

From an essay by Gladys Taber
Family Circle - September 1982

I sat in the sun the other day while the dogs dug up the lawn and thought about work. I wasn’t working. I was just thinking about it. I have found that when I cannot possibly accomplish everything I am supposed to and feel an unbearable pressure---as all homemakers must---if I just stop, life goes better.
I get a good book, make some spiced tea and sit down on my own corner of the sofa or in my favorite lawn chair. I let life settle in around me, and that is the only way I can express it. After 20 minutes or half an hour, I go back to the mechanics of living. AND at days end I am just as far along as if I had not stopped to think.

Another of her thoughts: time for thinking is a gift one can give only to one’s self.

Hope you enjoy reading this as much as I have over the years. When I've had it with my life some days - I have only to sit down with a glass of sweet tea and think of this essay and things kind of "right" themselves.

July blessings to you!
Barb

Moving Forward and Moving Backward!

2011-07-01T09:40:00.000-04:00

Why is it that some days we move forward and some backward?

As for me, I believe it's because I don't have a plan. Or I haven't this summer.

The days are flitting past like fireflies in the night, their illusive lights blinking, "Come - follow me."

And there I am running behind them - an imaginary Mason jar stretched out in my hand trying to catch each one. "Come back sunny days," I call, "so that I might use you as I planned all last winter when I lived beneath my cozy couch blanket."

This was to be the summer that I got things done. Great things! The summer of accomplishments!

I was going to rework one of my novels and make it into, well, into something other than what it is.

I was going to finish some short stories that had been languishing in the desk drawer.

I was going to get a natural tan, not too much, but just enough to not look sickly.

I was going to sit on the quilt my grandmother made in the shade of the big tree in our backyard and READ READ READ.

I was going to stretch out on that quilt and watch the sun make various leaf patterns on the blue sky, as a soft breeze swept through.

I was going to dream. Daydream like when I was a kid.

I was going to. I was going to. I was going to - move forward. And, maybe, some days I have.

But there have been more days that I haven't.

Some days I've just stood still.

Some days I've stood and watered the plants on the deck and watched the bug action in the soil. Watched how the plants absorb the liquid and watched how they come back to life.
I've spent more time with R than I'd planned due to some medical issues. We've laughed more. And watched more movies.

Moving forward and backward. And, sometimes not moving at all.

Maybe that's what this particular summer was meant for. Perhaps it was meant to have its own agenda.

For it surely has.

On my way to accomplishing what I thought I needed to, perhaps, I've accomplished some things unseen. Illusive, like the firefly. And it will unfold its truth to me as gently as the butterfly unfolds her wings. Slowly, maybe swiftly. But in her own time.

How's your summer going? Good bad or indifferent?
I'd like to hear from you. Always! Blessings!

Inspirational Novel vs. Christian novels

2011-06-24T17:43:00.002-04:00

I'm trying to do research on the difference between an inspirational and a Christian novel?

I'm coming up empty handed in defining the difference. I can define them apart but not one versus the other.

I have some scripture references in the novel, HUNGRY FOR CHOCOLATE, and I'm trying to determine if it would fit into the category of the inspirational novel but thinking it might be too lighthearted for the Christian market. In a quandary here!

I'm excited to go shopping soon and look at the categories at book stores to see what I can find. I thought I'd buy a few books to read to see if I can find the differences.

I've read inspirational romances and I know that category well. I like to read them but don't want to write one.

My book is women's mainstream and I'm willing to do a total rewrite - after I decide which way to go.

Any comments, suggestions, or advice will be much appreciated.

Any recommendations for reading in those categories.

I need to get busy.

Thanks, Barb

Hungry for chocolate

2011-06-21T21:55:00.000-04:00

I requested my novel submission, HUNGRY FOR CHOCOLATE, back from Woodland Press in WV. After emails back and forth the editor finally said he didn't have time to read it.

I feel as though I don't have time to waste. And wanted to move forward with the novel.

I've given this some thought and am thinking of rewriting the story as an inspirational.

That means I have research to do.

I believe the book would fit in the genre well.
I'll need to tweak the novel and do some additional writing.
I have to study the market and read several recent inspirationals. It's been awhile since I've read one.

I'm excited about this new venture and a little scared.

I just need to get back to writing fiction.

I've missed it. I wonder if it's missed me?

Any comments on writing inspirationals or on new titles to read?
Thanks!
Blessings!
B

WV writers contest/ Lessons in Losing and Winning.

2011-06-12T10:20:00.001-04:00

I'm learning that there are lessons in losing and winning writing contests.
Today I'm mourning not winning something, even honorable mention, in the West Virginia writing contest, winners announced last night. Four stories. Four stories, my babies, not cuddled or swaddled, or rocked.

I decided to give myself 15 minutes to be sad for myself and for them.
Then I'd get to work again! AND work harder.

The lesson in winning is that you have a few seconds of a high and it's over. You walk around feeling great about yourself and you don't have to get back to writing right away because after all you are a winner. Someone thinks your writing is good.

The lesson in losing is that you have a few minutes of mourning and you get busy getting better at your craft. Affirmation is good but getting better at your craft is even better.

I have many reasons - excuses - for losing and none for winning. Winning is the epitome, the proof that I can write.

Often when I lose I figure it's not any failing on my part, someone else made me do it. I was too busy with family things. I was taking care of business. I was I was I was. I wasn't writing. And I wasn't honing enough.

Judging is a tough job. The judge has his own system in which he judges by. He likes and dislikes particular types of writing. You can't expect one judge to like everything that comes across his desk.

I already know the path I'm on and where I'm going next in my writing life.

I've had a great time lately blogging, journaling, working sporadically on a novel or two or three and it's making me happy. So that's what you'll find me doing on any given day.

Right now we're watching the triplets and their little brother. Sharing with my daughter Lisa.
They are grist for the mill believe me. I've learned how to give a headlock, how to aggravate a little sister if I had one, how to be shot in the eye with a water shooter, and how to shoot back, I've learned how to make four plates of food and four drinks in under five minutes and I've learned how to rock four kids in one rocking chair.

It's been a good summer thus far.

Sometimes losing is actually winning.
Blessings to all who won and lost at the contest business.
Today I'm in the Nana Barb business - where I'm always the winner.
Have a great rest of this Sunday.
God bless.

What is a poem, actually?

2011-06-08T22:45:00.001-04:00

I'm unsure exactly what a poem is. I've never had formal training in poetry writing but with me the words come out and seem to know the order in which they wish to appear.

I've been writing with notebook and pen and discovering a creativity that has been lacking when I compose on the computer. It's been fun to experience some of the same feelings I had when I first started to write. Pure bliss. Plus, I'm in the process of renewing my commitment to my work.

It's a good solid honest feeling.

It feels as though I've been on a sabbatical without leaving home.

The four youngest grand kids I have here this week keep reminding my grand mothering duties come first. We are now on our tenth good night hug. But they're adjusting to the fact that mom is going on a week's vacation without them. A first and a real adjustment.
So far they've handled it well.

Thanks for continuing to read my posts and commenting.
Blogging really is a give and take relationship.

Blessings to you and yours.
Tonight I am blessed with not only a good birthday and some writing accomplished but so many little ones in the house who think I'm great. Nothing beats that feeling.

God bless all of you, my dear friends!

Comments on poetry are welcome as it seems my words want to take that form lately.

Soaring.

2011-06-07T13:39:00.000-04:00

I have to find
A new way to live.

I have to forget.
Not some. All.

The pain of the past
That rules my days.

I have to let it go.
Let it float away like a balloon.

The control.
The fear.

Yes, the peacemaker.
She, too, must go.

Untethering myself
I fly like a bird.

Soaring!

Beautiful Bird Don't Cry For Me...

2011-06-05T15:58:00.000-04:00

On the day of affliction

Pain

Unseen

Untouched

Unrecognized

Inside -

Where only

The heart

Knows, feels

Acknowledges -

Beyond anything

Understood.

Wanting, longing,

Needing it ALL to be

Felt by the one

Who afflicted...

Yet only the heart knows -

And the soul cries.

Beautiful Bird -

Don't cry for me.

A POEM - MYSELF

2011-06-03T14:58:00.001-04:00

Myself...

Today - I made a promise
To myself.

To forget old things;

To put on a new coat -

Of honor, respect,
And acceptance.

From now on,
I will be who I truly am
Who I deserve to be.

Myself.

May 1, 2011
From my journal

Graduations and Funerals...

2011-06-01T21:01:00.000-04:00

The new profile picture is of my granddaughter, Samantha, who graduated from H.S. with honors on Sunday.

We're so proud of her.

I represented our family at my brother in law's funeral that same afternoon. It's hard to believe Paul is gone. Quickly and painlessly. Lately I've had lots of time to think.

Suddenly, I'm faced with wanting to make some changes in my life and this poem prompted some serious thought.

I read it at the Military service at the cemetery in WV on Tuesday.

PRAYER FOR TODAY...

Lord, make me an instrument of Thy peace. Where there is hatred, let me sow love; where there is injury, pardon; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope; where there is darkness, light, and where there is sadness, joy.

O, Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled, as to console; to be understood as to understand; to be loved, as to love; for it is in giving that we receive, it is in pardoning that we are pardoned, and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

This came from an al-anon meeting which I attended.

Paul lived by this prayer especially in the last few years of his life. It's how I'd like to live my own life.

Anyone know where this is from? Or who wrote it?

Blessings!
Barb

PS May the next few weeks be uneventful and joyful as I'll be entertaining the triplets while their mom has a much needed vacation. Please pray.

Loving Paul...

2011-05-27T10:33:00.000-04:00

Dedicated to Paul, Ella, Dawn, Mark, Sue, Brownie, Debbie, Terri, Raymond, Lisa, Susan and Jill and all our family, especially loved ones who could not be here.

                    LOVING PAUL

    I was age five when I met Paul. He was holding Ella’s hand. Ella’s my sister, and she and Paul WERE a match from the start. When he met me I did not make a good impression. I wasn’t pretty like Ella and wear red lipstick. Mostly I threw tantrums. I’d never been on “A DATE.” And I wanted to go on one --- with them!
    Paul was the tallest man I’d ever seen and the most handsome. With his black curly hair, he was called Curly by his friends.
    When Ella and Paul married they became book ends, holding each other up and the life they built between them. Oh, he might have been a step behind ELLA. BUT he never faltered. When Dawn came along I’ve never seen prouder parents. I didn’t even know Dawn had legs until she was two or three. BECAUSE Paul NEVER put DAWN down. THEN along came his beautiful son AND he had to put Dawn DOWN. HE had to chase Mark, his busy wonderful little boy. BUT he did it with a smile. ALWAYS. His family was complete AND life was good.
    Ella energized Paul’s slow methodic ways. He softened her edges. (Yes, the girls in my family have a bit of an edge!)
    Paul walked slower than the rest of us OBSERVING what WE missed. He smelled the roses. WE WALKED PAST OR ON the bushes.
    Paul’s destination and purpose has been to walk closer to the Lord.
    I saw him change and grow. He’s always been tall among men but now he’s taller than the highest cloud.
    Most of us will never come close to where Paul was in his walk with the Lord, but   WE can always get on that path PAUL walked.
    I’m on that PATH. And I pray you are too.
    Paul’s never really been my brother in law. He’s always been my brother.
    Rest in peace my beloved brother.

RAKES AND FLOWERS AND MEMORIES...

2011-05-20T08:15:00.000-04:00

    When I was a child, the Saturday before Memorial Day was always reserved for going to the cemetery. Grandma would be up at dawn and waiting for us on her front porch. By the time our car rounded her street corner and rolled to a stop in a cloud of dust, she’d be out the gate, smoothing her crisp, cotton house dress and adjusting her starched sunbonnet. Her thick heeled shoes were no nonsense, her stockings sturdy. Though she was thin there was nothing sheer about Grandma.
    Yellow peonies, red geraniums and purple pansies spilled from the large wooden basket on her arm. She’d stow the basket and a variety of rakes and gardening tools into the trunk before climbing into the front seat beside mother.
    I didn’t know then about measuring love with rakes and flowers. But Grandma did.
    As the car snaked its way along winding country lanes, the somber mood in the front seat failed to inhibit my behavior. Hanging out the back seat window, with the wind rushing in my face, I’d laugh with delight and grab at the long stemmed wildflowers that slapped the sides of the car. The world was mine: the tall white farmhouses, the lush green fields, even the blue sky overhead.
    Eventually I would settle down, push myself primly into a corner of the back seat, and breathe deeply the scent of fried chicken drifting up from the car trunk. Occasionally, I’d look out the window to see a farmer with a horse drawn plow cutting furrows in reddish brown earth.
    The minute the car stopped I jumped out into the gravel driveway of the little country church and cemetery, scrambling to see if everything was the way I remembered.
    The old metal money box was still there, securely fastened to the cemetery gate with a piece of wire.
    “That box,” Grandma would say, “is to remind folks who come to visit but never to mow or clean that a cemetery has an image to keep. Besides,” she’d add, “the old caretaker has to eat.”
    Pushing open the rusty gate, I could hear coins rattling in the box.
    Inside the fence I’d stop, overwhelmed by the sight before me. Tombstones covered the little hillside. Some were huge and ornately carved. Others were small and simple. A few had been hand hewn from ordinary rock. It’s too bad,” Grandma said, shaking her head, “that even in death, money sets people apart.”
    When my eyes found our family plots, I didn’t have to count. I could tell by looking. All our graves were there.
    While the grown ups unloaded the car, I scurried over to the little white steepled church. On tiptoe, I’d stand at one of the dusty windows, and peer inside. I liked the purple attendance banner with the gold lettering that hung near the altar. Black hymnals were neatly lined in racks at the back of each polished pew. The church was ready for the next day’s memorial service.
    I’d wander out back of the church to the old oak tree. There, I’d sit at the picnic table, swinging my legs and watching the cows graze in a neighboring field.
    “There’s work to be done today,” Grandma’s voice would ring out, drawing me back to the cemetery.
    The old caretaker had been there with his mowing machine. Great sweeping paths had been made around the hillside. Yellowed bits of newspaper and debris had blown in from the roadway below and wedged against the tombstones. Weeds stood tall in every corner. Winter had, indeed, been long.
    Mother was in charge of the planting. She patted rich, black dirt around each plant. Then, she’d water all the flowers, old and new, from the Mason jar she’d brought from home. No matter how many flowers mother put on a grave, Grandma always came along and added one more. To her, there was no such thing as “over-decorating.”
    While Grandma raked, I carried baskets of twigs and leaves and dumped them into a rusty barrel by the fence. Sometimes a strong wind would swirl around us and the leaves would blow away faster than I could scoop them into my basket.
    Grandma’s bonnet would fly off her head and tumble pell mell down the hillside. Running between tombstones, I’d capture it in a corner.
    “Be careful,” my three aunts would cry out, almost in unison, “you’re going to step on someone.” My aunts always joined us early in th afternoon, bringing their own rakes, their own flowers, and their own ideas.
    “Will you pleeezzzeee be quiet!” They’d scowl at me. “You’re making enough noise to wake the dead!”
    In between the twig carrying, bonnet chasing and aunt dodging, I’d pause frequently to study two graves. They were the ones I got to put fancy floral wreaths on. Relationships were spelled out in red satin ribbon. FATHER. BROTHER. Mother became unusually busy during the time I arranged the wreaths on those graves.
    At last, Grandma put down her rake and wiped her brow. Mother would walk down by the fence near the road. Her hands shaded her eyes as she looked back up at us standing between the graves. Finally, she waved. Grandma smiled. Our decorations could be seen by everyone who traveled the little country lane.
    After loading the tools into the car, the adults slipped some folded bills through the slot in the metal money box on the fence and carried the picnic boxes to the table under the shade tree. There, the conversation took on contest form. Whose fried chicken was the crispiest? Whose pie crust the flakiest? Grandma’s blue eyes twinkled as she winked at me. We both knew; every morsel was delicious.
    On the way home I slept, my head resting in Grandma’s lap.
    Now that I’ve grown up and moved far away from the little cemetery on the hill, there is no set time to go back to clean and decorate. Vacations don’t coincide with Memorial Day. Or the Saturday before for that matter. But when I do go back I take rakes. And flowers. Lots of flowers. For Grandma. And now for mother.

NOTE:
This story was previously printed in The Plain Dealer (Cleveland) and The Charleston (WV) Gazette.
Writer retains all rights.

Pattie and Our Nerve Pill Plane Crash

2011-05-13T20:02:00.000-04:00

About 4 a.m. this morning, Pattie - my best buddy from high school - and I were in a plane crash.

Relax - don't panic - we're safe! It's almost 8 a.m. the next morning and I'm sitting right here on my sofa drinking a cup of Green Mountain Nantucket coffee and writing this event just as it happened. Or not

First of all Pattie and I have never been on a plane together. If we had it would be the best plane ride ever. All we have to do is look at each other and we smile. WE used to burst out laughing but now that we're old so we just smile! WE had so much fun in school it was sinful. Either playing pranks, getting the boys in trouble, or gossiping. Nearly every day, the teacher would call out, "Bobbie Null and Patti Jones, move those seats A-PART NOW and STOP that talking. Like talking was dirty. I guess she didn't see the laughing!!! So at the end of each day I'd be up front in my little wooden desk near the teacher and Pattie would be in back, or the other way around and neither of us were happy. At all.

But as I said earlier, I got up to go to the bathroom at about 3:15, having no idea that I was about to have this incredible journey with Pattie. I got back into my warm bed and curled into a fetal position which is how I sleep. Now, it's very painful to get out of bed in the morning because my bones are not fetal friendly.

Off off off I drifted.

Lately I haven't slept well nor do I dream much, not well anyway and not fun dreams featuring me and Pattie. Though this one was not completely fun.

Note: recently my doctor recommended a pink nerve pill to help me rest at night and to help me unclench my jaw which has been permanently clenched for two months. All right, so it's been three or four. So, at 10 p.m. that night, like a good patient, I took one of the pink pills.

And there we were, me and Pattie flying through the friendly skies, attendants or whatever they call those people who show passengers how to inflate the vests in case you fall into the water - I was hoping not to come into contact with any water since I can swim only two to three feet at a time - okay two feet, and those things that fall out of the ceiling if you lose air pressure. Which I am positive that neither Pattie or I know how to operate. WE mostly like fun things.

We were not doing any of those things.
We were deciding which ugly uniform to wear. Once dressed and in the air we learned that we had to stop in Chicago on our way to Charleston, West Virginia. Neither Pattie or I wanted to stop in Chicago. I don't remember why. We were running up and down the aisle of the plane smiling and talking when we noticed we were going DOWN, not anywhere near the Chicago airport.

I ran and buckled myself into a seat beside of one of the passengers which I'm sure it was not where I was supposed to be sitting. But it was the closest seat to the exit and I was taking no chances.

Pattie had decided she could no longer tolerate her ugly uniform - not really believing we were actually going down and she had gone in search of something cuter to wear.

Truthfully, an expensive carry on had fallen at her feet and she was oohing and aahing over this red sequined number and the next thing I knew she came prancing out of the tiny cubicle of a rest room and I had to admit it really jazzed up her look. Plus it was the particular red that goes with her dark hair.

Meanwhile, the ride down was going pretty smooth until we hit a pond of water which was pretty shaky and a bit nerve wracking.

Nothing fell off the plane and nothing burst into flames. My heart was beating like ninety. I don't remember anyone screaming. Yet nobody was joyful either except Pattie who had perched into a seat beside a nice looking business man type. Luckily the jazzy outfit had come with a pair of red designer stiletto's.

The next thing I knew someone was pulling the plane through the water with a barge like you see carrying coal on the Kanawha River (WV). Or it might have been some kind of pontoon as I am not up on boats. OR a lot of other things.

NOTE: I'm sleeping better now, my jaw is unclenched, my neck isn't stiff anymore and my stomach no longer in knots. I wonder how long the doc will want me to stay on those delightful pills? Forever??? I can only hope!

I can't wait to go to bed tonight. I'm thinking Pattie and I might take in a cruise.

Love you Pattie. Thanks for the memories.

Blessings to all of you as well.

Thanks...

2011-05-06T09:52:00.002-04:00

New Profile Photo is of Liz, and myself standing and Sherry Hartzler sitting with her book, Island Passage. Now on the my post:

For those of you who read my blog HELP - I'M IN CRISIS -a big thank you for your love and blessings and lovely comments of encouragement. Especially thanks to Liz who called the next morning out of concern for me.

I realized as soon as I read the post a day later that the post had filled its purpose. Saying what I needed to say and getting it all off my chest was part of the solution. Therefore I removed the post.

I do have a plan. I found a yoga class nearby, I'm looking for a counselor, and Liz gave me some great suggestions on how to put my new plan in action.

Liz just passed her 10 year anniversary cancer free. (Breast cancer). Congrats Liz.

I look forward to spending time with Liz on my front porch rockers this summer reminiscing about all the writing adventures we've had the last 20 years. I'm proud of every one of our successes, large and small.
Liz has several YA books out if you want to look her up. Google Elizabeth Vollstadt. A friend who is one in a million.

God bless each of you for sending me thoughts and prayers.

Barb

APOLOGIES....

2011-04-26T19:41:00.000-04:00

For those of you who regularly follow my blog, I wanted you to know that health issues and family problems have kept me from my computer lately.

Of course my mind has been busy coming up with great ideas to blog about but by the time I sit down late at night to write those lovely ideas have flown out of my head and gone back to wherever good ideas come from in the first place.

I miss posting. I miss thinking. I miss resting. I miss just standing and staring, as cows in the fields are known to do. I miss all of you too. Reading about your lives and reading your comments on mine.

However, I'm the eternal optimist and I see a teeny speck of light at the end of the tunnel.

In two weeks life here should be back to normal, whatever that is. Have any of you figured out what normal is, exactly.

I get up everyday and try to live the best life I know how. Is that normal? Or is normal different for each of us.

What about a new normal? Are we doomed to live our "normal life" for the rest of our lives, or do we reach a new plateau and then establish a new normal?

Well, I'm out of time.

Will be back up to speed in a few weeks.

Blessings to you and yours!

Barb

Shingles: not the roofing kind...

2011-04-09T22:22:00.001-04:00

Just when I thought things could not get any worse at our house my husband R came down with shingles.

On the day I had to be at the hospital in Columbus with one adult daughter in the morning and then go to Cincinnati to pick up her husband after his stomach surgery the day before, R gets up with a rash that had turned to blisters.

We made a quick dash 40 miles away to our family Dr. for a check up and yes my diagnosis was correct. Shingles! So armed with two medications we headed to the medical center to see our daughter, then to Cincinnati to pick up her husband and then home to collapse and hope that that's the end of our downward spiral.

I'm worn to a frazzle and so is R.

No time for writing or fretting about writing.

I do feel good knowing that I have some contest entries out (short stories and one novel) and will be working on my novel at least two days this coming week.

I have my writers meeting on Monday at Great Expectations Cafe and Book Store and look forward to that.

Have you had shingles or know anyone who has? Any tips or suggestions for ways to deal with this will be appreciated.

I promise to come up with a better topic for next time. Something very professional and writerly.

Blessings til next time.

A Revolutionary New Diet...

2011-03-28T15:31:00.001-04:00

Recently I went on a diet. Like most diets this one was scheduled around a major life event. My daughter's wedding. There would be no shopping for a mother-of-the-bride dress until the pounds came off.
Typically I go on a diet on Monday and by Wednesday I've folded beneath the weight of a German chocolate cake. I've been hijacked by as little as a stale pink sugar wafer discovered in the dark recesses of the bread drawer.
But this time things were going to be different. I could tell as I went to get the mail and discovered the first crocus of the season.
Life was looking up. Even though an icy rain began to fall, my spirits weren't dampened. Not even when huge drops pelted me on the head and I had to dash inside.
My latest plan would revolutionize dieting. If it worked for me it would work for the world. I smelled a book deal. I could see myself all made-over and liposuctioned sitting between Oprah and Dr. Oz.
It was full speed ahead. Gone were those complex menus. This plan called only for counting the calories of every morsel in my house that I did not eat. That's right. It wasn't what I ate that was important here. It was what I didn't eat.
I eliminated counting the calories I took in. The calories, or bonus points as I called them, would be converted to cash and spent however I desired. My reward would be a shopping spree at the local mall.
That very night I omitted biscuits with dinner. Thus, I avoided serving the leftovers with eggs the next morning. A quick bowl of Toasty Postys and I was out the door.
I worked up a sweat on the treadmill after work, walking to the tune of Ba-ba-ba, ba ba-ber-ann-oh-ba-ber-ann by the Beach Boys and made mental lists of all the foods I would eliminate in the coming days.
The next day I shelved the lemon meringue pie I'd planned and served a sugar cookie. The number of calories I managed not to eat at the end of that meal amounted to a tidy sum.
While doing dishes, I polished off the cookies in the box. My points were in the second bag I'd stashed in the cabinet and hadn't eaten. My bonus cup runneth over. I felt so ahead of the game I watched Oprah and planned my Chicago trip. I added a dollop of melted Land 'O Lakes to my popcorn.
Tiny mother-of-the-bride dress, here I come.
Everyday I drank at least eight glasses of water with lemon. Cheese cake in a glass. Well - almost.
I was building up muscles carrying in groceries. The more food I had in the house the more calories I counted as ones not eaten.
I made potato soup and eliminated the butter and cream. I threw in some low fat Parmesan. So, I had an extra bowl. I watched Oprah and took note of the colors of her set. My television debut dress would match to a tee. LATEST DIET BOOK AUTHOR would have nothing on me as I held up my new diet book.
Then something happened. My food bill tripled. And one tiny problem arose. The actual weight-loss part of my plan wasn't working. I still had to lie flat to pull on my old jeans.
What did work was the bonus part of the plan. My cupboards were overflowing with gobs of calories I hadn't eaten and I'd amassed enough points to spend an afternoon at the mall.
And in spite of the failure of my revolutionary new plan, I did lose some weight before the wedding. The thought of lighting unity candles in front of a huge congregation made me heave for a week before the big event.
Well, another major life event has passed and I have a brand new dilemma. I can't get into my Easter dress.
As I worried, another theory lit on my shoulder. It wasn't the food that was adding the weight to my body. It was the heavy air I was breathing. Would an air cleaner lighten things up? Or new furnace filters? How about dusting?
After I have a cookie I'll give this plan some thought and get right back to you.
PS
This was written a number of years ago when I actually did go on diets.
Bless you for reading. Comments or your diet stories welcome.

Mother's Leather Britches...

2011-03-25T13:53:00.000-04:00

My mother gardened all her life. It was one of her great loves, next to family, God, and country.

Because she grew up during the Depression, she learned to use every last item from her garden for canning, preserving, drying or pickling.

Every year at the end of the green bean season she made leather britches, dried beans that would keep for the winter.

These were the last beans hanging on the vines. The beans inside had grown to full size with outsides a bit withered. They were beyond the stage to can or preserve, or even to pickle.

Although her fried pickled green beans and corn bread were the best in the world. (Well, next to her biscuits and fried apples.)

Mother started the drying process with clean beans. She would spread a clean white sheet on a table in the wash room and spread the beans out on that, giving them space to dry. Sometime she would carry the sheet outside and put them on a table in the sun to further the process.

The next step involved needle and thread and when I was small and saw the needle and thread I wondered if she really was going to make a pair of leather britches out of the beans.

Using a large needle that was threaded with a knot in the end of the thread, she began to thread the dried beans onto the string. She often made five or six strings of beans, several feet long.

She would hang them on the clothesline with clothespins on a sunny day to speed up the drying. Then, she would hurriedly bring them inside if it looked like rain.

Eventually they would hang from the wash room ceiling out of the way and later, completely dried, they would be wrapped in a clean sheet and go into a spot in the closet, where they would wait to be used.

The end result was dry leathery looking beans.

To cook them she would fry a few slices of bacon, then add the beans, water and some salt and pepper.
‘Ole, leather britches.

Leather britches have the most distinct delicious flavor that only beans dried in that way can have.

It’s a taste I have not had since my mother passed away.

I’d love to hear from you. Have you ever had leather britches?
Is there any other preservation of food that a parent did that you’d like to share? Comments welcome! Thanks for stopping by.

Blessings, Barb

MY HIGH SCHOOL EXPERIENCE...

2011-03-16T16:15:00.001-04:00

Wednesday, March 16, 2011
High School - Poca High School, Putnam County, WV
What year was it?
Fall 1960 - Spring 1963

What were your favorite bands, or singers?
Sam Cook, Chubby Checker, Conway Twitty (It's only make believe), Johnny Rodriquez.
Meatloaf. ELvis.

What was your favorite outfit?
Straight skirts, blouses, cardigans or jackets, little heels.

Other Outfits?
Jeans and a white Dr. Ben Casey shirt.

What was up with your hair?
Everything. I put peroxide on it. Lemon juice, thinking it needed to be lighter.
I cut it, styled it, put it in a pony tail or a french twist. Hair was the most important thing in my life in high school. And hair spray, the stiffer the better.

Who were your best friends?
Patti Jones, Karen Mattox, and Susie Bailey all thru elem school. Then added on Donna Dailey, Sharon "Mouse" Hackett and Janice Wick and many others. Also Bonnie Kerwood who was older than me and lived near me so we hung out listening to records after school. Sometimes her parents would take us to the Valley Belle in Nitro to eat lunch and we'd have soda fountain cherry cokes, they mixed up with our sandwiches and sometimes lemon sherbet or an ice cream cone.

What did you do after school?
Home to my room. Or I would take long walks along the highway since it was the only place to walk or to the cemetery on the hill above our house where I'd read all the gravestones. I was enamored of all the people there and the variety of sayings on the stones. Everything from MY ANGEL, to BLESSED ARE THE MEEK FOR THEY SHALL SEE HEAVEN or was it Jesus??? Always interesting.

Where did you work?
I worked a month at a Superman Drive Inn. We took trays out to the people who ordered at the curbside. We work black pants, white blouse, white tennis shoes. Didn't last long at that job. It wasn't for the weak. Besides I was flashed and went home in tears one night when I worked alone in the dining room. Short career.

Where did you eat lunch at school? Sometimes in the cafeteria but often up the street from school. We would go to the Poca Dot, where you could get a hot dog with chili and coleslaw and an orange crush. My fave. They also had a jukebox and we could dance, usually with each other. Or we'd watch the seniors girls and boys dance and show off. The twist was popular then.

Did you take the bus?
Yes, all four years of high school. Actually I went to Poca High School in Poca, WV my freshman, junior and senior years. Sophomore year I went to Beeville High School in Beeville, Tx where my sister and her husband were stationed with the Navy. I lived with them due to family problems at home. I'm sorry I missed that year with friends but I had quite an education being out of WV. We had Mexicans in our schools and I learned what it was like to be the different kid, due to my WV accent. Plus I learned that during that time the latinos did not get any respect, much like the black population during that time. Really very sad. I had a crush on a boy named Geronimo Rodriquez. Very handsome, very nice.
Basically I was accepted and had two good friends. Patsy Donahue and Pat Nunn.
We skipped school one day to drive to San Marcus to the beach. We had all just gotten our licenses at age 15. Patsy had "borrowed" her sister's car. There was a tarantula on the dash and we skidded to the side of the road, barely putting the car in park, and jumped out screaming. Eventually one of the girls knocked the spider out of the car and we went on our way. It ended up being a cold day at the beach with zero boys and we went home disappointed.

Who did you have a crush on? In Tx I had a crush on a sailor from my brother in laws office, last name of Bamberg. He played a guitar and sang to me. HAVE I TOLD YOU LATELY THAT I LOVE YOU. I fell head over heels for him but he was too old for me and he was Mormon and believed in multiple marriages. End of that relationship.
Back at Poca, there were several boys on the football team I liked but none seriously. One boy I liked in my Freshman year (WV) at Nitro High School but I lost him when I moved to Texas. Just before my senior year I met Raymond, my husband, and I married him during my senior year. Mistake? No. It's been 48 years and we are still in love.

Did you fight with your parents?
Yes, I thought they were OLD. My mother esp. I gave her a hard time and I've been so sorry since. I was unruly and mouthy, and maybe a tad bit wild, again, this might have been in my mind. Sorry Mother! I really am.

Who did you have a CELEBRITY crush on?
Tab Hunter, Sal Mineo, James Dean. Read movie magazines constantly with a flash light after lights out.

Did you smoke cigarettes?
Sometimes - off and on.

Did you lug all of your books around in your backpack all day because you were too nervous to find your locker?
That was before backpacks so sometimes I lugged all my books in my arms, dropping them along the way.

Did you have a 'clique'?
I didn't really have a clique but i did hang around with my group of friends

Admit it, were you popular?
In my head, I was. Not sure with anyone else.

Who did you want to be just like?
I wanted to cut my own path. At a younger age I loved Liz Taylor, Jane Russell, and Debbie Fisher.

What did you want to be when you grew up?
At first I thought I wanted to be a hair dresser because I loved fooling with hair then I wanted to be married with children. Until I got there - then I wanted to be a student in college and a writer, in the worst way. That dream has come true and I'm grateful that it's brought so much fulfillment. And is still doing so.

Where did you think you'd be at the age you are now?
I thought when I was young that my age now was ancient. I didn't have any long term plans back then.
Now, I want to taste life, travel, and do things I haven't had a chance to do.

Hope you had fun reading - I had fun writing it. AND PLEASE
USE THESE QUESTIONS ON YOUR BLOG AND LET US GET TO KNOW YOU! THANKS!
Blessings. Barb

Rewriting/ Quotes by other writers

2011-03-10T20:15:00.000-05:00

Sometimes beginning writers say they don't believe in rewriting because they're afraid they'll "lose the spontaneity" of the first draft. This is naive; rewriting means making the work better by adding, deleting, and revising; what worked well in the first draft stays--that's the effective spontaneity. Most professional writers know the heady sense of control that comes with the revision process--this is where one knows one has mastery of the writing craft. Note the following comments. Not sure who wrote the above intro but the quotes below are worthy of sharing. Enjoy!

"It is no sign of weakness or defeat that your manuscript ends up in need of major surgery. This is common in all writing and among the best of writers."
- E. B. White

"I don't write easily or rapidly. My first draft usually has only a few elements worth keeping. I have to find what those are and build from them and throw out what doesn't work, or what simply is not alive."
- Susan Sontag

"Half my life is an act of revision; more than half the act is performed with small changes."
- John Irving

"I revise the manuscript till I can't read it any longer, then I get somebody to type it. Then I revise the typing. Then it's retyped again. Then there's a third typing, which is the final one. Nothing should then remain that offends the eye."
- Robert Graves

"I rewrote the ending of Farewell to Arms thirty-nine times before I was satisfied."
- Ernest Hemingway

"I do a lot of revising. Certain chapters six or seven times. Occasionally you can hit it right the first time. Most often, you don't."
- John Dos Passos

"I can't write five words but that I change seven."
- Dorothy Parker

"I have rewritten--often several times--every word I have ever published. My pencils outlast their erasers."
- Vladmir Nabokov

"First drafts are learning what your novel or story is about. Revision is working with that knowledge to enlarge or enhance an idea, or reform it."
- Thomas Wolfe

"A thing may in itself be the finest piece of writing one has ever done, and yet have absolutely no place in the manuscript one hopes to publish."
- Carolyn Forche

"Read over your compositions and, when you meet a passage which you think is particularly fine, strike it out."
- Samuel Johnson

"There are days when the result is so bad that no fewer than five revisions are required. In contrast, when I'm greatly inspired, only four revisions are needed."
- John Galbreath

"I rewrite everything, almost idiotically. I rewrite and work and work, and rewrite and rewrite some more."
- Laura Z. Hobson

"I retype everything four, five, and six times--critical passages more--and everything, say three times."
- James Michener

"Nothing you write, if you hope to be any good, will ever come out as you first hoped."
- Lillian Hellman

"Only amateurs don't rewrite. It's in the rewriting that writers bring ALL their knowledge--basic craft, technique, style, organization, attitude, creative inspiration --to the work."
- Gloria T. Delamar

"Writing a first draft is like groping one's way into a dark room, or overhearing a faint conversation, or telling a joke whose punchline you've forgotten. As someone said, one writes mainly to rewrite, for rewriting and revising are how one's mind comes to inhabit the material fully."
- Ted Solotaroff

"The waste paper basket is the writer's best friend."
- Isaac B. Singer

How do you feel the task of rewriting? Do you do a lot of it? Share your comments, please. Thanks!

Saving Fish from Drowning by Amy Tan

2011-03-05T11:31:00.001-05:00

HELP! Amy Tan's book Saving Fish from Drowning was recommended by two friends, Pam and Cheri.

I love what the story is about but I'm getting bogged down in so much detail in the beginning. What's that about? I suspect it's me and my hyperactive self having trouble settling down!

I want to know more about the story and what happens to these tourists who disappear in a foreign land.

But I've found myself skipping through some of the narrative and moving on to the more exciting parts.

Did you read this book? Did you have any trouble moving through the story? I'm leaving it on the end table and attempting a few pages every night. I find myself continually flipping over a few pages to see how long some of the details are.

IF you did read this, help me out here. Does it speed up in the middle. I enjoy Amy's beautiful writing and don't want to give up on this like I do some of the others.

I want to finish and I plan to continue to keep it close at hand.

But I'd love to have your opinion of this book and any other comments.

Thanks!
Blessings, Barb

A Story - Mommy's Visit - After she was gone...

2011-03-03T14:35:00.000-05:00

"Where did you get all those roosters on the top of your cabinets? I recognize the small set. It came from that little white house we bought up in Cass, there right along the main road into town. We bought it just after the train went in. Remember? One bedroom upstairs was ceiling to floor with jigsaw puzzles. Lordy! That house was something else. You still have the Bible I gave you from the little old lady who lived there?”
  “You know we kept the little one room cement block camp Bob, your step dad, had your cousin Dencil to build over on Jack Wiseman’s property, there where the little Dairy Queen was. The campsite was behind it. WE loved that little place. WE had an out house. I didn’t mind it at all. Why should I? I grew up with one. We had a fireplace in that little house and we’d pack for a week to go up there. Always stopped in Marlington to get groceries. We were on our way up there one time and at the store Bob had one of those mini strokes. I was afraid we’d never get home. But he pulled through enough to get us back on the road. Bob and Uncle Hank would go up there for a week at a time to hunt. Bob couldn’t really hit anything but they loved going. Uncle Hank got something every now and then.”

"By the way, you don't burn all those candles you got sitting around, do you? I hope not. They're dangerous as a cocked gun.”

"Where'd you get all those cookbooks lined on the shelf? They look too clean to ever have been used.”

"Who are the three little ones licking ice cream cones in that photo there? NO! Jill has triplets and a new baby. Whew. Miss Hoity Toity, who wanted no kids. Said her sister's children were too mean for her taste. Now what happened to Miss Career Girl? Got her college education and all. Well, she will have something to fall back on. That's what I always say. Have something to fall back on, something else you can do. Having babies don’t always last.”

"That a new stove? It don't even look used. Candles on it too. I don't smell food cooking either. I could go for a pot of beans and an iron skillet of good corn bread. Maybe, even a pot of potato soup. Can you make any of that? I know your older sisters can. They can even garden and can. But you being the baby, I think maybe I spoiled you. Especially since daddy died and you only two years old at the time. He had that coal dust in his lungs. He worked those mines in Beaver too long. But that was before your time. He's buried out there by the baby at Walker Chapel Church out past Grandview. We lost the baby, Cecil Junior, named for daddy, at nine months of a hole in his heart. Imagine. It would be easy to fix now. But it wasn’t then. But you know all that. Do you make it out to the cemetery every year, like you promised? I wonder.”

"Why does that husband of yours have so many auction papers here on the counter? Does he like auctions? I declare. Thinks have changed. Both of you retired and living the good life.

"Pretty little kitchen curtains. That's a big back yard you got out there. Never thought I'd see you in the country. Two acres. A lot of grass to cut. But then you don't cut grass, do you? If memory serves me right, your man does all the cutting. You're lucky in that, Bobbie Ann. Now, don't wince. I know you don't like your nickname. But, Daddy called you that from the time you were born. I think he wanted another boy. I named you for Barbara Jackson that ran Jackson's store over on the highway at the edge of Hometown, where you were born. Barb Jackson and Paul was good me over the years after daddy died, letting me run up a store bill and all. Dr. Bland delivered you in the back bedroom. Of course, you don't remember that. HE came so often one of the girls I think Sue maybe kept asking what he had in the black bag and he kept saying a baby. One day when he came he brought a black doll for her to play with. He was a good man.”

"That dishwasher looks like it's getting a run for its money. Never did use mine in the new house. Oh, once a year at Christmas maybe. And only then because everyone fussed at me for not using it. The house was something back then with all you grown kids coming home with your families. Maxine always wanted to run things. That red hair of hers. I can see her now zipping through the house. Ella, Sue, and you all there with your families. Good thing your mother in law put up your husband and the three girls. Of course LIsa and Jill used to like to come to my house. We never had enough room when we had company, even in the new house. You always had to stay with me and I loved having you. Remember the bed I made Jill in that closet when she was little. She loved that old comforter I made. Crawled right in and slept like a log.

"You girls always stayed up too late talking. I'd be in bed clearing my throat and coughing but it never moved you to bed. Next morning when I had biscuits ready at six I could never get you up. Staying up too late never done anybody any good.

"I do like this house, the way the kitchen opens into the dining room and the living room. Fancy French doors, though. Pretty. Yes, pretty.

"What are those red pillows in the living room made out of. Never heard tell of micro suede. I made my own throw pillows. Heavy material and batting. Just like we used for quilts. Never did much quilting - always making a living working. Mommy did some quilting and your aunts, Wandy and Lucy and Gae did some. You ever quilt? I guess not. I know you pieced a little helping me when you were little. You thought you were piecing anyway.

"Why do you keep that TV on? It gets on my nerves plenty. I never did play ours much. Some in the evenings. Bob always listened to the six o clock news. Like clock work. You might as well not have anything else to do at that time of day. He was in his recliner with the channel turned to the news. Bob never learned to read but he always got the news. Mostly bad news too.

"You've done well for yourself, Bobbie Ann. I know it's been hard, losing daddy and all. And having Bob for a step father wasn’t easy, he had plenty of faults. He did the best he could. But it still wasn't enough. Maybe it never is enough. What we do for each other.

"I don't regret a thing I did in this world and I hope you don't either. I'd done all I come here to do when I went home to meet the Lord. And it was time. Yes. It was time.

My time was then. Yours is now.

the end
Comments welcome!

Losing followers...

2011-02-25T10:31:00.000-05:00

I noticed after I put the post up of my review of The Shack I lost a few followers, well not a few, two. Once I get "friends" it makes me sad to lose them. Even if it's only two. Esp if it's my fault.

I didn't mean to offend. And if I did, I apologize.

The diversity of blogs and blogging is why I'm here. To learn. To offer what little bit I know about life and writing. And to make some new friends.

This platform gives us not only a place to share our thoughts and feelings and writings but a place to form a circle of supporters that we would not otherwise have.

I'd have never met the very funny Luvia and her wonderful baby Emma, or Deb S. and her beautiful essays so far away in Washington, or several of my friends from far away places such as Austrailia, and the Uk.

Or Granny Kate who writes of things that touch my spirit and heart and soul.

Perhaps I didn't lose the two people because of anything I said. It may have just been their time to move on and find other people to follow.

Whatever the reason I believe we all touch each others lives for a reason.
I hope in some small way I have touched your life and maybe even made it better.

Any suggestions or comments??? Would love to hear from you.
Blessings.

Like My Mother...

2011-02-19T17:00:00.001-05:00

I never wanted to be like my mother. Growing up, I thought she was strict, old fashioned, regimented, too old to really know what was going on in my life and certainly too old to know what was going on in the world. The very last thing I wanted to be was --- like my mother.

Today, as I started my day, I realized as I went about my routine I am exactly "like my mother."

Each day, first thing I do is have a cup of coffee and then breakfast. I'm not a big breakfast person and neither was she. Next, I make my bed, straighten each room in the house, get dressed and decide what I'll do with my time that day.

Since I don't work anymore I have the freedom to choose. It's a lovely freedom and one I never take for granted.

My mother did those exact same things every day of her life. Now, I do them too. In order. Very structured. Very orderly.

Most days, R and I have coffee and watch Good Morning America. Mother always checked out the news.

I can't sit and relax until I have all those little chores done. Mother couldn't either. Actually I rarely sit and relax and neither did she. If I am sitting I either fold clothes, makes lists of the things I need to do, or work on the computer. My mother usually mended. Her hands were always busy. Either in biscuit dough or pie crust, or washing dishes.

My mother was a hard worker, physically. I am too. (I don't mean digging ditches here!)

My mother and I were different in one area. She loved to garden and I do not. That is a big "DO NOT." She would rather work in the yard, cleaning, picking up sticks, planting flowers, carrying rail road ties one year with my step father to make a border for her flower bed, than to do anything else on earth. She loved to plant and harvest a vegetable garden. Always lots of plants, lots of weeding, lots of love. I've never even planted a tomato.

My mother loved the outdoors and I do too. She loved to WORK outdoors. I do not. To me the outdoors is meant for enjoyment, lazing around in a chaise lounge, or sitting on the front porch watching life saunter by on my country road, or reading the newspaper. Or sitting on the back deck in the evening watching the colorful array of birds and wild life skitter past. Often we see deer leaping across the fields.

Spring and summer are for sitting under a tree with a good book and a glass of sweet tea with a lemon slice, my feet propped either on my husband's lap or on the chair he has vacated.

All of her 87 years on this earth, my mother was devoted to her family.
My wish is that I can be at least a fraction of the good mother she was.

I'm sitting here remembering all the good things. How much fun we had together, talking laughing loving.

I'm hoping my children will remember some good things about me and who knows, maybe they'll turn out to be a little bit like me.

I imagine they will be.

But don't tell them I said that.

Any thoughts on this special topic?

Blessings to you and yours as we head for spring.

THE SHACK, my review....

2011-02-16T15:54:00.002-05:00

The Shack by William P. Young has been much touted in the last few years. Some people love it. Others hate it.

As it was one of the books discussed recently at our writers meeting, and the group was clearly divided in their feelings about the book, I decided to read it.

I knew very little about the book when I opened it and I was hooked in the first few pages. It's about the disappearance from a camp ground of a beautiful little six year old girl named Missy.

The shack comes into play early on when the little girl's bloody dress is found in the shack in the woods.

Okay, we move along backward getting to know the characters in the story.
Then, Mack the father gets a letter from papa, which is what they call God. He's invited back to the shack in the woods by what he assumes is God.
He goes. It's winter and it's been snowing and is icy.

This is where he started to lose me.
The weather which he's having trouble walking in turns suddenly to spring or summer with beautiful flowers growing in the field and a gentle warm wind blowing. He starts to feel pretty good about now.

Then three people - the trinity represented - Father, Son, Holy Ghost (I'm assuming)
appear. A black woman, a man and another woman, Asian, I believe.

I quit reading at page 89, chapter six. I couldn't suspend my disbelief. And I tried.
I became disconnected from the story.
Mack is feeling really good, laughing and enjoying these people even though he can't quite figure them out. But then neither could I.

I closed the book.
What made me do that?

I loved the story up to that point.
I was rooting for the little girl.
I was looking for resolution.
I started to lose faith. For a bit I clung to the hope that the author would do something to get the story back on track. He didn't. Not for me anyway.
Now I'll never know how the story ends.

Did you read this book?
What did you think of it?
Did you love or hate the story? And why.
I know it's a Christian story. I got that. I'm a believer.

I also believe that an author can do anything he wants with a story. He can make God send letters. He can make God any color or nationality he wants.
Among all the many things he can do, the one thing he MUST do is keep a reader on track with his story.

I'm only one person. This author did not keep this reader in the story.
How about you? I look forward to all comments. I'm open minded and will appreciate hearing from you.

Blessings!

The Funeral Home Visit, a short story

2011-02-10T10:12:00.000-05:00

Every Wednesday at noon, Joy Ruth takes old Minnie Hendrix to McDonald's. She pushes the wheelchair up to the counter where the old woman orders a Big Mac, large fries, and a black coffee.
Today, they are sitting in the newly remodeled section which has green plastic ferns hanging from the ceiling.
"My tail bone is killing me," Minnie complains as she eats. She has just turned eighty and is a finicky eater. McDonald's is the only place she will finish her food.
"Raise up a minute," Joy Ruth says, "I'll see if I can fix that skinny tail bone of yours." Minnie grasps the wheelchair and lifts her frail body up from the seat of the chair. The young woman reaches over and fluffs the flowered pillow underneath the old woman.
Satisfied, Minnie sinks back into the pillow and straightens her red satin dress.
Every week the old woman insists on wearing the red satin dress with food stains on the bodice. Joy Ruth always offers more appropriate outfits but the old woman insists on the red satin. When her mind is set, it is set. Like the funeral home issue.
"Miller's got in a batch of new caskets," Minnie says, eating a handful of fries. "Louella went with the Moose over there. To pick out a casket for that poor boy who drove his car into Lick Creek." She licked her fingers. "His daddy was a Moose. Or he was a Moose. Until he shot himself. Now the boy is dead too." She clears her throat. "Louella's on the payment plan over there. I'd pay cash. It can't hurt none. Just to go and look." Her eyes plead with Joy Ruth. "Well. Can it?"
***
"Mommy will want to go over to that funeral home," said Minnie's daughter, Laverne, as she chain-smoked from a crumpled pack of Kool's. "I bet on it." Her shiny red boots rested on a ladder back chair across from Joy Ruth. Both women were seated at Minnie's kitchen table.
It was Joy Ruth's first day on the job.
"Planning her own funeral is an obsession of Mommy's, and I'll tell you this," Laverne pursed her lips and blew a smoke ring right at Joy Ruth, "there is no telling Mommy no. Not when she gets something in her head."
Joy Ruth had applied for the job just that morning. "Driver and Companion for Elderly Woman Who Has All Her Faculties."
"Well, girl, you got yourself a job," Minnie said with a grin after Ruth had driven the old woman's '55 Chevy up and down the driveway a number of times.
When she returned to the house that same afternoon after taking Minnie to her weekly hair appointment, Joy Ruth found Laverne seated in the kitchen.
"Hell will freeze over before I'll take her to pick out stuff she'll wear when she's dead. I told her so too. I don't think I could make myself any clearer." The tall jean-clad woman lit another cigarette. "Mommy will put you up to asking Hollister. Well, Hollister might be her only son but he agrees with me on this one." She blew a line of tiny smoke rings at Joy Ruth. "Picking out burial stuff while you're still living is a sick thing to do." She smashed the long cigarette against the words "New York" in the bottom of the ashtray. "We didn't even pick out stuff for daddy."
She stood and shook long gray-streaked brown hair around her shoulders. She started pacing across the kitchen floor. "Mommy was too doped up on Librium to make decisions. The undertaker took care of it.
"I say we cross that bridge when we come to it." She went to the refrigerator, took the cap off a plastic bottle of Coke and tipped it to her lips. "Good luck is all I can say, Joy Ruth." She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and returned the bottle to the refrigerator. "You're gonna need it working for Mommy."
***
From the window of McDonald's, Joy Ruth and Minnie are watching a big car pile up out in front. "Maybe Laverne will take you over there," Joy Ruth says to Minnie and nods her head in the direction of the funeral home across the street. Joy Ruth knows the old woman's daughter won't take her, yet she can't help adding, "It's Laverne's place."
"Laverne's place!" The old woman sputters and spits out a bite of Big Mac. "When did Laverne ever know her place? Both of my kids together don't make one good kid." She starts chewing on her sandwich again. "I ought to change my will." She reaches for the pickle slice Joy Ruth has taken off her sandwich, and pops it into her mouth which is generously drawn on with a bright red lipstick. "That's it," she says, "I'll change my will." She bites into the pickle and puckers her lips at Joy Ruth.
"It's sundae time," Joy Ruth announces, hoping to take Minnie's mind off her will. It's the old woman's next favorite topic after planning her own funeral. The young woman eases herself out of the booth and gathers their sandwich wrappings.
"I want butterscotch," Minnie calls as Joy Ruth heads to the trash bin. "Tell that smart aleck girl to make mine with real ice cream. I hate imitation. Real ice cream. Hear?"
***
As soon as they returned home the old woman falls asleep in her rocking chair. Joy Ruth runs water over the dishes in the kitchen sink and stares out the window at the plastic flowers stuck in the window box below.
"They bloom summer and winter," the old woman said proudly the day she interviewed Joy Ruth, "no weeding and no watering." She leaned closer to the window to get a better look at her small yard. "See that white plastic duck out there and that bird bath. Laverne gave them to me." She turned from the window and made a sweeping gesture around her kitchen at the various knickknacks, "Laverne and Hollister give me things." She picked up a black and white ceramic cow with the lettering "Niagara Falls" and dusted it with the hem of her dress. "Only they don't have no time for me."
Now, as Joy Ruth washes dishes, suds from the Ivory Liquid trailing up her arms, she can see that the plastic duck with the bright orange bill has fallen onto its side and the ornately carved bird bath is full of dead leaves and rain water. Right then, she decides, she will take Minnie to the funeral home. Goose bumps cover her arms at the thought.
Miller's Funeral Home is never far from Joy Ruth's mind. But it isn't funerals Joy Ruth is interested in. It is Leroy Miller.
Joy Ruth's crush on Leroy Miller has lasted all her life. When he left West Virginia after high school to go to the Cincinnati College of Mortuary Science, she was sure she'd never see him again. When she heard he'd married a girl from there she stopped looking for him back. But he had returned and he returned alone. That was five years ago and in all that time she has never gone near the funeral home.
"Joy Ruth!" the old woman calls from the living room, "Joy Ruth!"
The younger woman hurries into the next room, wiping her hands on a dancing cow dishcloth. She finds the old woman smiling, sitting up in her chair, refreshed, ready to visit.
"Did I tell you Chenille is the only person who is good to me?" Minnie runs her hand across the afghan on her lap. "You know Chenille, Hollister's new wife? All that girl knows is to polish those long fingernails of hers. Silver. With stars on them. Blue. With a moon on each nail. Sometimes even black. But she kisses me and says, and how are you today, Miss Minnie? She says it every time. It counts for something, I can tell you that. Do you know how many people say, how do you feel today, Minnie?
"Not a one," she answers herself. "They don't want to know. Know why they don't want to know?"
Joy Ruth finishes drying her hands and sits down on the sofa. Minnie points her finger at Joy Ruth. "I'll tell you why. If they know, they might have to do something. Like get Miss Minnie a drink. Or hand her a pill. Or go to the grocery store. People don't want to do for their own people." She shifts her weight around in her chair and resumes her rocking. "I raised some smart cookies, I'll say that for myself." She leans back in her chair and closes her eyes. "Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Joy Ruth. And you can tell Laverne every word I said. I know she pumps you every chance she gets. Do you know how I know? I'm not always sleeping when my eyes are shut."
At home later, Joy Ruth makes a grilled cheese sandwich with tomato wedges for her supper. She eats, washes and drys the Teflon skillet, and hangs it on the wall behind the stove just above the shelf that holds her collection of little wooden houses.
In the living room she runs the remote through all the television channels. She stops at the Inspirational Network. Brother Robison has just finished preaching and is pacing across the television screen wringing his hands. Tears run in two streams down his cheeks. Joy Ruth curls up on the sofa to watch.
"Please brothers and sisters," the man says, "open your hearts and your checkbooks," he wipes his eyes with a white handkerchief, "and send your generous love offering to Brother Robison today. Do it now," sweat drips from the heavy-set man on the screen in front of Joy Ruth, "check or money order. Makes no difference folks. Whatever is easiest for you." He paces back and forth. "Riches will flow upon your life," he says, "and thank you again from the bottoms of our hearts for keeping this ministry alive." He bows his head in prayer as the credits roll across the screen.
His healing show comes on next. It is a rerun and Joy Ruth's favorite. Right off, Brother Robison heals a crippled Rabbi. The man walks off the stage pushing his own wheelchair. Then the minister puts his hand on the shoulder of a woman who is wearing a gold beaded dress. He asks if she knows she has a tumor. She shakes her head no, her eyes wide with fear. He clasps her shoulder tightly and then lets go. She reels backward and then starts jumping up and down pogo-stick-fashion.
Joy Ruth shivers and draws the quilt from the back of the sofa around her. She can feel Brother Robison's power right there in her own living room. Sometimes she has to reach over and place her hand on the Bible that sits on the table to steady herself. She is convinced Brother Robison is on the up and up. Minnie Hendrix believes in him too. They discuss Brother Robison for hours. They plan to visit him down in Houston, Texas. Maybe he can heal Minnie of the rheumatism that causes her legs to be useless at times.
***
"It's a wonder Hollister can't heal me," Minnie says when they watch Brother Robison's healing show together. They have seen it countless times. "Hollister's the most saved man I know. He gets saved every Sunday. They pray over him to beat the band. That's over to the Church of The Living Spirit. He says he renews his salvation. I guess you can't be too saved. Hollister don't believe in TV preachers. He didn't, that is, until he married Chenille. Her daddy preaches on WDOK."
The next day, Hollister brings Minnie's mail from the post office. Joy Ruth and Minnie are watching Brother Robison. Tears stream down both of their faces. Minnie sits stone-still in her rocker and Joy Ruth perches on the edge of the brown plaid sofa.
"That Robison guy has people right where he wants 'em," Hollister remarks, handing Minnie a Swiss Colony catalog and a statement from Medicare. "In his pocket," he laughs. "Get it? In his pocket!" He lowers himself onto the sofa beside Joy Ruth, his big frame taking up all the available space. "I can't believe people is stupid enough to send that thief money. Love offering. My foot."
Minnie's eyes catch Joy Ruth's and Joy Ruth gets the message loud and clear. With Hollister's eyes riveted to the television, the young woman slides the envelope holding their love offering under the worn black Bible on the table.
By the time the gold-robed choir comes on, Hollister is reclining on the sofa, eating a carton of raspberry yogurt from Minnie's hiding place in the back of her refrigerator, his feet resting on Minnie's brown leather hassock.
"Swing low, sweet char-i-ot, com-in' for to carry me home," Minnie's surprisingly strong voice rings out as she sings along with the choir, "swing low, sweet char-i-ot, com-in' for to carry me home."
"I want this sung at my funeral, Hollister," Minnie says, stopping mid song. "Now listen carefully to these words.
"Swing low, sweet char-i-ot, com-in' for-to-car-ry-me-home.
"Remember that, son." She closes her eyes, and sings with great enthusiasm, "Com-ing-for-to-car-ry-me-home!"
The next Wednesday, Joy Ruth drives Minnie's '55 Chevy past McDonald's and parks in front of Miller's. Her knees shake as she wheels Minnie up the handicapped ramp and into the service elevator where Leroy Miller is waiting for the ride up to the Casket Parlor.
"Let me warn you ladies," he says as the elevator door closes, "all you will see is caskets when this door opens. It may take your breath away. It does some folks that way. Now here we go."
They are quickly swooshed upwards. The elevator door pops open and they face a room full of caskets. He leads them through a doorway and into a sitting room that smells faintly of lilacs. Joy Ruth sees a can of Glade room spray on a little table in the corner.
"You'll want to read this over," Leroy Miller says to Minnie and hands her a form. She barely glances at it and hands it back. He motions Joy Ruth to sit down on a gold brocade sofa.
"We worked out most of the details on the phone," he says, "some of that information may change. Like the addresses of your kids. We can update that when the time comes. But we got the important stuff. Would you like a mint?" He hands Minnie a silver candy dish filled with miniature York peppermint patties.
"Well, thank you," she says, scooping up a handful of the mints and hands the dish to Joy Ruth. Without taking any candy, Joy Ruth places the candy dish back on the glass table.
"You better have a couple of those mints," the old woman says to Joy Ruth, "it's hard to tell how long this business will take."
"This business won't take long," Leroy says, briskly. He wears a dark suit and tie. Joy Ruth's eyes almost meet his but she blushes and turns away. She can't bring herself to look at him. She is aching to know if he remembers her. Everyone in school knew she had a crush on him.
"Now if you're ready," he says to Minnie and stands, "we'll go look at those caskets."
"I'm ready as I'll ever be," she says. She unwraps another peppermint pattie and pushes it into her mouth.
Gripping the wheelchair, the man turns the old woman in the direction of the Casket Parlor. "Let's see if we can find something in here you like." He wheels her from one casket to the other, patiently explaining the various features as the old woman peers into each casket and rubs her hand along each satiny interior.
Joy Ruth lingers in the doorway and twists her belt buckle. She notes Leroy's gentleness, and how from time to time, he pats Minnie's frail arm. Her heart pumps faster. She feels warm. It could be the sight of the caskets. Or it could be the closeness of Leroy Miller.
"I want this one right here," Minnie says, thumping her hand on a gray metal casket. The interior is pale pink.
"Good choice," Leroy says. "It's stainless steel." He walks over and opens a white louver door to reveal a row of chiffon dresses. He pulls out a pink dress and then chooses a lilac one and holds them up for the old woman to inspect. "What do you think?"
"Let me see that one." Minnie points to the pink dress. It comes with a strand of white beads. She takes the dress from Leroy. "This is the one I want. I love pearls." She holds the dress to her, fingers the beads, and turns to Joy Ruth. "How does this one look?"
Joy Ruth smiles and nods. Suddenly she catches Leroy's eye. He is smiling broadly at her. A twinkle is in his blue eyes. He remembers.
"Wait until Laverne sees me in this," the old woman chuckles, "I wish I could be there to see her face. She says I don't have good taste. This'll show her who has good taste."
"If that's the one you want, that's the one you'll have," Leroy says, and cheerfully jots down the style number of the pink dress on his yellow pad. He wheels Minnie back into the sitting room where he sits down behind the desk.
Joy Ruth returns to her spot on the gold brocade sofa.
"Write it all up and tell me where to sign," the old woman says and turns to Joy Ruth, "write the man a check, honey."
"Like I said on the phone," he points to some figures on the form, "one fee covers everything."
Minnie squints at the paper he hands her. "I can't make it out."
"Six thousand even. That includes a good steel vault. The service will be here in the chapel. You can decide on a minister and singers. If you want singers. Or your family can decide. When the time comes."
"I already planned the whole she-bang," the old woman looks at him over her glasses as she signs the check. "I wrote out my instructions. They're in my Montgomery Ward safe. The combination is under my handkerchiefs in the vanity drawer. I want Preacher Cobb," she hands Leroy the check, "he's from Hollister's church. I picked some singers. I like good singing, don't you?" She smiles up at Leroy. "I picked three groups. That's in case some of them can't make it. Who knows? They all may be dead. If so," Minnie starts to laugh, "Laverne can sing. Wouldn't that be a hoot."
"You are doing your loved ones a big favor," Leroy closes the folder on his desk. "Now you go out of here and live 20 more years. You can rest easy knowing everything is fixed the way you want it." He sits back and loosens his tie. "Did I tell you that price includes the hair-do? I was noticing your hair. You have nice hair. Our woman here is good with hair." He smiles. "We haven't had any complaints, anyway."
Minnie laughs. "That's a good one, now. Yes, sir, that's good!" Then Minnie sobers as she looks from Leroy to Joy Ruth. "You come on over to McDonald's with us, Leroy," she offers, smoothing the skirt of the red satin dress, "the Big Mac's are on me."
"Why, thanks, Miss Minnie," he says, taking hold of the wheelchair. I'll do that."
As the three of them move toward the service elevator, Leroy expertly maneuvering the wheelchair through the doorway, Joy Ruth feels light as air. Like she might fly away. She touches Leroy's arm to ground herself.

This story was published as JOY RUTH AND MINNIE HENDRIX in World Wide Writers Magazine, UK, a few years ago. Hope you enjoy!

"All the characters who have housed my stories now have permanent apartments in my head. I still

Marrying Off the Baby...

2011-02-06T14:18:00.001-05:00

Several years back we had two weddings in one year. Our oldest daughter married in June that year, our middle daughter in October. (Our middle daughter said all she wanted was a new car. Her father helped her get one. Next thing we knew, she wanted a husband as well. You cannot trust daughters.)

After that busy year, I figured when the time came for our youngest daughter to get married the wedding would be a snap. Not. It seems having two weddings in one year is a walk in the park compared to marrying off the baby. It wasn't just that the price of weddings had skyrocketed. Marrying off the baby was significantly different than marrying off a regular daughter.

This is the wedding of the one in whose presence the word "no" has never been uttered. Even if it was uttered it was quickly changed to "yes." She's had the best her family could give her. No. She's had better. And, as is the case with many last borns, our youngest offspring had perfected the art of sweet talking.
By the time this one was ready for her trousseau, we were old. Tired. Worn down. Besides, she had two older sisters standing in the wings to pick up anything the old people voted down. This girl always had her heart's desire. Her every whim. She was, after all, cute. Eyes of blue. Hair of gold. And, the baby.

Just try reining in the baby when shopping for the wedding gown. The dress in which she would present herself to her young groom. It was dress number 3000 to be marched into the dressing room at the eighth bridal boutique. The heap in the chair was the mother-of-the-bride, propped up by the matron-of-honor who had already turned stony-eyed. But the dress! Ah, the dress. It had billions of tiny seed pearls and sequins and a train that went to Chicago and back. What a find. Our baby whirled and twirled. She preened in front of those mirrors. Why, the dress was a buy at any cost!

Now, finding just the right veil to go with this ensemble wouldn't be easy. It couldn't be too frothy. Yet it had to be frothy enough. There would be no stinting on the shopping for The Veil. Even though it was but a simple bit of tulle, it would rest atop the bride's head like a halo, propelling her down the aisle. Veil shopping went on for many weeks. Finally, the ultimate veil craftsman was located, thankfully within the state, and she was fitted with The Veil.

Next, came the choosing of the wedding cake. At the cake shoppe we were ushered into an elegant room where the table was set with lace and flowers and where wedding cakes clearly reigned. Cakes with flowers. Cakes with pearls. Cakes with cherubs. We sipped tea and sampled. There was cake laced with raspberries, lemons, almonds, fudge. There were any number of variations. All lip smacking good. "How can you count cost," the father-of-the-bride whispered, "when it comes to the wedding cake? I'll take another piece of almond, thank you." The baby said it had to be many tiered. Lighted. With fountains and ribboned pillars. And pearls. It would taste delectable. And look spectacular. Atop this exquisite confection would perch a bouquet of fresh roses. And, so, our baby's cake would be the centerpiece of the celebration.

And then, there was the photographer who would record this glorious event - this wedding of our last born. The bride and groom would pose in the church. In the garden. In the reception hall. In front of a backdrop. With all the attendants. The parents. Grandparents. Alone. Together. With friends. With the flowers. Without the flowers.
And speaking of flowers. Did I say plenty? Make that plenty, plenty. Roses. Gardenias. Lilies. And Baby's Breath. Loads of Baby's Breath. Flowing from the pews would be yards of white frothy netting caught in huge bows. Did I mention centerpieces? Candles?

What about the reception? Say good bye to the V.F.W. hall, the Moose Lodge, the Eagles club. It was on to the local jockey club. The friends and relatives of our baby must dine in comfort.
And, they came from Pittsburgh. St. Clair Shores. Baltimore and Raleigh. There was the clan from Cleveland who cleaned up everything from the chicken to the quiche to the tortellini.

The bride was accused of being sensible only once throughout this joyous occasion. It was in her choice of a groom. We've known him almost as long as we've known her. And he will do what we've done for twenty-three years. Love, honor, and "obey" her.

Postscript: Updated essay on baby daughter will follow someday when I get up the energy. She divorced her high school sweetheart who turned out not to be so sweet and she's married again to Jason - I think this will work! She now has nine year old triplets - boy, boy, girl - and a five year old son. One thing that hasn't changed is - she can still sweet talk her family.

"All the characters who have housed my stories now have permanent apartments in my head. I still have tea with them." BW

WRITING IS LIKE GIVING BIRTH...

2011-02-01T12:26:00.000-05:00

SOMEONE said writing a story is like giving birth to a child. Each one has its own significance, its own breath, its own place, its own pain in becoming.

Beforehand you were in awe of it, a little scared of it, knowing not what to expect. It moves us forward to the next plane, the next level - giving us the knowledge and commitment that strengthens us for the task of caring for AND launching our charges.

What do you think?
Anything you'd like to compare writing to?
Look forward to hearing from you!
Blessings on this new and unfolding month.

Dear Critique Partner/Build it first/

2011-01-14T09:55:00.000-05:00

Dear Critique Partner:

In regards to recent criticism of your work, remember this:
when we give a piece of our story to someone to read - we expect them to see the whole. It's like building a house and giving someone a single piece of lumber. “Here, see the house I'm building.” SOME CAN SEE IT AND SOME CAN’T.

This step is as necessary to me as breathing. I need to give you single boards as I create them. AND I expect you to be a visionary and say, “Why yes. I see.” (EVEN if you don't!) I need you to see how special the piece of lumber is that I'm using and to see that eventually I'll add more pieces to make the whole.

Choose people to read your work who like the kind of stories you write. Then, they'll appreciate the pieces. There are as many kinds of stories as there are houses to live in. If you give a brick ranch to someone who only appreciates a high rise he'll have a hard time fitting himself into what you are offering.

Don’t rebuild your story until it's built. This is where I fall short. I try to restructure in the middle of structuring. I’M TRYING TO CHANGE THE WAY I WORK.

DO talk to other "builders" and let them see your structure and let them make comments but keep in mind what each particular builder builds and pick and choose what he offers making sure that what you take is helpful to your story.

I have people who can't read my work until it's finished because they can't see at all what I'm intending - although they may like the finished piece.
Others can be with me from start to finish. They are the visionaries. They like single paragraphs of my work.

DON’T take every piece of advice you get and nail it onto your structure - otherwise just as in house building you will have boards nailed every which way and end up with a structure that would not pass inspection.

Take heart, friend. You're doing wonderful work. You've done wonderful work in the past. Take what you can from each reader - you're the builder and you have to decide what you can use and what you can't - and build that sucker.

Blessings, Barb
PS I'm great at giving advice. Not so good at taking it.

Quote by Emily Carr 1871-1945

2011-01-12T13:40:00.000-05:00

"I think that one's art is a growth inside one. I do not think one can explain growth. It is silent and subtle. One does not keep digging up a plant to see how it grows." E.C.

Just as one does not dig up a plant to see how it grows ---one does not judge the hue or color of a flower until it blooms.

Yet we seem to want, I seem to want, to dissect and judge every piece of my story before it's completed - when it is in its infancy.

That's what I'm thinking about today.
Writing, it really is up and down.
Off here to create today's portion of my story.

Blessings!

YA fave - The Coffin Quilt by Ann Rinaldi

2011-01-12T13:27:00.000-05:00

I wanted to recommend a good book for you to read if you're stuck in the house due to bad weather. A few years ago a friend gave me COFFIN as a gift. I believe she bought it at the Tamarack in WV, which I love.
The book is classified as young adult but it satisfied my adult mind.
It's the fictionalized story of young Fanny McCoy of the Hatfields and McCoys.
The author warns: This is a historical novel. Read at your own risk. The writer feels it necessary to alert you to the fact that you might enjoy it.
I DID!
Go read this book and let me know how you liked it.
BLessings.

DR. OZ IS IN MY PURSE

2011-01-03T14:50:00.000-05:00

My husband and I are becoming addicted to the Dr. Oz show. Well, he watches and I’m addicted. I’m energized by this man’s vim and vigor. He jumps out onto stage and within minutes is giving me ways to live longer and better. I find myself jumping up and down with him at the very thought of living so long and feeling so good.

What’s not to like about a man named Mehmet who comes on every morning and cheers me while I eat my steel cut oats, walnuts, and blueberries.

But, let me warn you, if you haven’t watched his show, it involves a lot of diseased body parts and slabs of body fat brought out on trays to show us what our insides look like on a bad day.

Everything he talks about whether it’s a dysfunction with sex, sleep, or daily living, there is something that can be bought at the pharmacy or health food store to alleviate the problem. From erectile dysfunction to constipation - Dr. Oz is all over it.

Some of the stuff he recommends can even be plucked out of the yard. Take sassafras root for example. When I learned one of the trees in our yard was sassafras, I was out there on my knees paying homage to the tree and instructing my husband on how to cut one of its roots so we could enjoy a cup of healthy tea. After several hours of major chopping on his part with his trusty (but old) ax, and the exchange of some colorful words on my part, we ended up with a handful of roots. I cleaned and boiled the roots that very afternoon. The tea was quite tasty. But now, I have no idea what it’s good for.

Many feel Dr. Oz’s word is gospel SO I’ve tried to purchase every pill, vitamin, and herb. I had to move the contents of one kitchen cupboard out to the counter to make room for all my vitamins ranging from A-Z. I’ve added a number of spices and herbs to my collection, including curry, fennel, sesame, and turmeric.

My husband says after I take all this stuff, I’ll either be bionic or dead. I’m not sure which he’s rooting for. (Though it does seem he isn’t with me on this.)

Dr. Oz and I were clipping along and getting to know each other and then I discovered he was getting into my, well, into my purse. More specifically, my wallet.

All his “suggestions” were costing me a pretty penny. Many pretty pennies, actually. Along with some not so bad looking dollars.
I knew I had to put a stop to our relationship and I was dreading it.
However, I learned today its cold turkey for me and Dr. Oz.
Our satellite went out and will be out for a few days.
So,I guess it’s back to CD’s. Yoga, Rodney Yee, and Me.
Anyone want to join me?

A New Year's Greeting/OR untrimming the house

2010-12-27T17:55:00.000-05:00

A NEW YEAR’S GREETING FROM BARB
with apologies to Dr. Seuss

Cleaning up after the holiday
Isn’t quite as much fun,
As on the day
When the decorations were strung.
There was my family, all spruced, in the den,
With an eggnog toast, and a cheer, “Let’s begin.”
We set about bedecking every pillar and post,
Window and mantle -
With ribbon, wreath, Santa, and candle.
By the end of the evening
The tree was aglitter.
The windows were glowing
With the candlesticks flicker.
The children were happy
Mom and Pop, too.
To think we did all this.
You! You! and you!

But, then, the week after
Rolled quickly ‘round.
No time to untrim.
We headed to town.
To return all our presents.
To see a quick show.
What? It’s the first of January
The trimming must go.

Undo each ribbon. Undo each bow.
Untie the wreaths
Get that tree in tow.
It’s out to the trash bin
Arms loaded, we go.
Away go the boxes.
The cards and the letters.
Out comes our list of “Things to do better.”
Resolutions. Affirmations.
Declarations. Proclamations.
Where’s that old diet?
By jiminy, we’ll try it!
It’s a New Year we’re facing. And face it we will.
Without eggnog. Or fudge. Or even a pill.
We’ll face it together -
Oh, taste buds be still!
Until, oh no, here comes the BILL.
Or, as in our case, it’s many -
Giving the post man exercise aplenty.

At my house we’re still undoing the fun
Dusting and washing and rising and wiping
Trinkets and dishes and goblets, and griping,
“Next year, it’s a vacation we’ll take.
By Amtrak. Or horseback. Or roller skate!”
Who cares how we do it, we plan and we plot.
Next year it’s to the tropics.
Anywhere that it’s HOT.

But whatever we do, one thing is clear.
We’re wishing you and yours a VERY HAPPY
NEW YEAR!

God bless!

A Lonely Christmas

2010-12-16T15:53:00.001-05:00

A large statue of the Virgin Mary guards the entrance to St. Francis Hospital. Nearby stands a big, snow-covered pine tree bathed in blue lights. As I pass through the reception area, a life-size, mechanical Santa waves a cheery hello.
On the third floor, under an antiseptic sheet, mother’s form looks slight, fragile. I am glad I’ve come. We kiss and hug and cry. She fusses. I shouldn’t have driven so far. The weather is to unpredictable this time of year. The roads are unsafe for a woman alone. But, her eyes light up as we talk.
The food is tasteless, she jokes. The trays look suspiciously like the ones she sent back to the kitchen during her last stay two months ago.
Was our respite so short, I wonder?
As we chat, we drink cider from the container on her window sill and munch grapes from the fruit basket on her night stand. The doctors and nurses are good people, she says, but they’re just too busy taking care of the patients who’re really sick. Besides, she is going to be all right. She says so.
The heparin injected in the plug in her arm every four hours does seem to be clearing her lungs of the blood clots faster than the shots she had in her stomach last time. Her chest x-rays show improvement. If only she weren't so pale and thin.
Mother says she feels fortunate. Her roommate just came back from surgery. Breast cancer. So, mother, with only one leg and blood clots in her lungs, cares for their needs via the bedside buzzer.
From the intercom in the hallway, strains of “Rudolph, the red-nosed reindeer,” drift into the small room at the end of the long corridor. It doesn't matter that the television doesn’t work.
There’s enough activity, mother says, outside her doorway. We watch as the head nurse makes her rounds with the medicine cart. She pauses only briefly to direct an elderly man back to his room.
Last Christmas, mother enjoyed a healthy reprieve. No hospitals, no tumors, no radiation.
This year, well, mother says a hospital is a lonely place at Christmas.
From the third floor window, I look down on the dark, deserted city street below.
The other visitors have all gone home, past the mechanical Santa, the blue-lit Christmas tree and the Virgin Mary, who on this night will have help watching over her flock.

*Dedicated to my mother, Ollie Null Bailey, who passed away a number of years ago. I was her biggest fan and she was mine. She loved the essays I wrote, both published and unpublished. She told me one time that one of my essays about her made her cry. I told her I hadn’t meant to make her sad. She said, “Oh it didn’t make me sad. It made me happy to think you thought that much of me.” She was special.
Blessings to you and yours! And join me in doing at least one kindness for someone this holiday season.

Pearl Harbor, My Experience

2010-12-05T22:39:00.001-05:00

Shortly after my trip to Pearl Harbor, this essay appeared in The Cleveland Plain Dealer.

Pearl Harbor, My Experience

Dec. 7, 1941: The memories sear, the blame washes away

"War! Oahu Bombed By Japanese Planes." I read the shocking headlines, back in the eighties on a visit to Pearl Harbor, from a souvenir copy of the Honolulu Star-Bulletin, dated Sunday, Dec. 7, 1941.
I was waiting in line to board a tour boat to go to the USS Arizona Memorial. Finally, moving toward an empty boat, I noted that most of the people on the crowded platform were Japanese.
On the short ride across the harbor, I listened to a guide describe the events of that fateful day. As the small boat approached the white concrete building, the guide concluded, "The battleship Arizona still rests at the bottom of the harbor in 38 feet of water just eight feet below the water's surface. The memorial is an enclosed bridge that spans the sunken hull, but touches no part of the ship itself. Oil will continue to seep from the battleship for 38 to 39 more years."
When I stepped off the tour boat, I saw the American flag flying over a small part of the ship that is visible above the water. Inside the memorial, I was swept back to the day of the disastrous bombing. From the walls, pictures of the battleship in flames and sinking, looked down at me and seared themselves on my mind. I couldn't appreciate the mementos salvaged from the ship when I knew that 1,177 men were still entombed below in the battleship's blasted hulk.
A loudspeaker was effectively re-creating the day with the sound of bombs exploding and chaotic outcries. As I stared out an opening in the wall at the calm blue water, I was lost in thought for a few minutes. Then black oil gurgled to the water's surface. Though the temperature was 85, I turned away, chilled.
From the middle of the memorial, I could see the ship through a large opening in the floor. I thought of the many men and all the ambitions and dreams that had gone down with the ship. I thought of the mothers, fathers, wives and children who had been left behind with the burden of unanswerable questions. I wondered how the men would feel if they knew the memorial was filled with Japanese men and women.
Silently, I suffered their indignation. In the shrine room, where the names of the dead men are engraved on a marble wall, I stood in reverence, trying to wish away the horrors of war. Nearby, a Japanese gentleman left his group and gravely studied the wall. Over the speaker, the names of the men were slowly being read. Almost ceremoniously, the Japanese man removed an orchid lei from his neck and placed it next to several wreaths on a marble platform. He backed away and was lost in the crowd. Aboard the tour boat for the return trip, I tried to sort out my emotions. Before my visit, I'd thought of the memorial at Pearl Harbor as another tourist attraction. Yet, I'd been tremendously touched by the harsh realities of war and by the wasted lives and destruction.
Why, then, did I feel the need to condemn? Could I blame the Japanese man who had humbly offered the lei? Or the Japanese couple who sat on the boat in front of me? Or the somber young Japanese woman on my right? With tears in my eyes, I realized I couldn't blame anyone. I remembered Hiroshima.

HUNKER DOWN AND WRITE...IT'S WINTER!

2010-12-01T14:34:00.001-05:00

It's snowing here in Ohio which means it's time to hunker down and write. At least that's what it means for me. There's something about being inside a cozy warm house when the temperature outside is falling along with the beautiful snowflakes. My thoughts turn to the characters inside my head who are now demanding center stage.

What is it about a cold winter day that brings out the creativity in some of us?

I'm not sure --- but I believe it's born in us. A longing for something more. A longing that can only be sated by the sweetness of words on cold winter days.

It reminds me of fall when my thoughts turn automatically to buying notebooks and pens for the beginning of school --- though my school days are long over.

Thus, my winter writing odyssey begins.

This signals a new beginning for me. A time to renew friendships with the characters I abandoned back in the spring when the earth came to life with new buds and the Robins sang to me from their perch in the pine tree at the edge of the woods.

In cold weather, I'm ready to be clothed in the warmth of words and absorbed by new stories and characters I've never before met.

There is no other season quite like this one for writing.

I'm off here now to pick up where I left off.

And, please don't think I don't write in other seasons. I do. But I'm not as dedicated to it as I am in the winter. I seem to get more done without the pull of the sun to bring me outdoors.

NOW, here's to a profitable winter for all of us filled with words, characters, and stories enough to fill our hearts and minds and the dreary days ahead.

Today, I promise to do one act of kindness. How about you?

Blessings as we slid into our sleigh filled with words.

Giving Thanks....

2010-11-21T16:51:00.000-05:00

We're going away for Thanksgiving dinner and I'm giving thanks for the invitation to our daughter's house. No three days of cooking for this mom.

My oldest daughter does the turkey just the way I like it, tender and moist - she's a great cook and while there are many things I love about her, I especially love that she's a good cook and loves to cook. It's one other thing that we share as well as our love of books and reading. That's a whole other blog - all the books we've shared over the years. She started out just as I did. Reading books in bed late at night as a teen when she was supposed to be sleeping.

To our special dinner, I'm contributing the stuffing, candied sweet potatoes, plus the cherry and pumpkin pies. I may do homemade rolls as well. I know the grand kids who'll be there, Dan and Jillian, love my rolls and so they will be appreciated. All right, so I love them too!

Today I made the pie crusts and put them into the freezer. Makes the pie making go much smoother on baking day. With some leftover crust I made six applesauce tarts in my cupcake pan. R and I love them. I kicked the plain applesauce up a notch by adding nutmeg and cinnamon and extra sugar. Now that I've downed two tarts I can attest - they were delicious.

Whatever you are doing on Thanksgiving, remember to give thanks not only for the food, and for those who prepared it, but for those who are sharing it with you, and for those who might not be as fortunate.

This year, I'm especially thankful for the gift of writing.
I still believe it's a gift --- to be able to pull words out of the air and create a story that makes someone else feel happy or sad. Or some other feeling.
It's amazing.

I've had a prosperous year writing. And I appreciate the many friends I've gained through this blog. Thank you!

Have a Happy and Blessed Thanksgiving.
And keep writing.

Grandma's Rocking Chair...

2010-11-18T15:01:00.000-05:00

Grandma’s Rocking Chair
by: B.W.

Grandma’s rocking chair -
passed on to our daughter -
headed for Wisconsin
loaded in a U Haul, nestled
between an antique secretary,
and a refinished dresser -
mirror long gone.

Our three year old triplet
grandchildren, faces pressed
to the window of the van,
wave good bye to me and grandpa
in the driveway, their tears
breaking our hearts.

Our daughter, Jill,
heavy with the child of her new husband,
hums to the children
And soon they are fast asleep.

The rocking will start
while baby is in the womb,
this new grandson of ours,
whose name before
he's even born, is Austin Cole.
He will learn from his mother
How rocking soothes the soul.
Nourishes the spirit.
Links us one to the other
And to generations past and future.
just as we were linked
as children forming the circle
for ring around the rosey.

-the end-
Comments Welcome!

Is Life what you Gather or Scatter?

2010-11-01T22:36:00.001-04:00

RED MARBLES
By Anonymous

I was at the corner grocery store buying some early potatoes. I noticed a small boy, delicate of bone and feature, ragged but clean, hungrily appraising a basket of freshly picked green peas.

I paid for my potatoes but was also drawn to the display of fresh green peas. I am a pushover for creamed peas and new potatoes. Pondering the peas, I couldn't help overhearing the conversation between Mr. Miller (the store owner) and the ragged boy next to me.

'Hello Barry, how are you today?'

'H'lo, Mr. Miller. Fine, thank ya. Jus' admirin' them peas. They sure look good.'

'They are good, Barry. How's your Ma?'

'Fine. Gittin' stronger alla' time.'

'Good. Anything I can help you with?'

'No, Sir. Jus' admirin' them peas.'

'Would you like to take some home?' asked Mr. Miller.

'No, Sir. Got nuthin' to pay for 'em with.'

'Well, what have you to trade me for some of those peas?'

'All I got's my prize marble here.'

'Is that right? Let me see it' said Miller..

'Here 'tis. She's a dandy.'

'I can see that.. Hmmmmm, only thing is this one is blue and I sort of go for red. Do you have a red one like this at home?' the store owner asked.

'Not zackley but almost..'

'Tell you what. Take this sack of peas home with you and next trip this way let me look at that red marble'.. Mr. Miller told the boy.

'Sure will. Thanks Mr. Miller.'

Mrs. Miller, who had been standing nearby, came over to help me.. With a smile she said, 'There are two other boys like him in our community, all three are in very poor circumstances. Jim just loves to bargain with them for peas, apples, tomatoes, or whatever. When they come back with their red marbles, and they always do, he decides he doesn't like red after all and he sends them home with a bag of produce for a green marble or an orange one, when they come on their next trip to the store.'

I left the store smiling to myself, impressed with this man. A short time later I moved to Colorado , but I never forgot the story of this man, the boys, and their bartering for marbles.

Several years went by, each more rapid than the previous one. Just recently I had occasion to visit some old friends in that Idaho community and while I was there learned that Mr. Miller had died.

They were having his visitation that evening and knowing my friends wanted to go, I agreed to accompany them. Upon arrival at the mortuary we fell into line to meet the relatives of the deceased and to offer whatever words of comfort we could.

Ahead of us in line were three young men. One was in an army uniform and the other two wore nice haircuts, dark suits and white shirts.....all very professional looking. They approached Mrs. Miller, standing composed and smiling by her husband's casket. Each of the young men hugged her, kissed her on the cheek, spoke briefly with her, and moved on to the casket..

Her misty light blue eyes followed them as, one by one; each young man stopped briefly and placed his own warm hand over the cold pale hand in the casket. Each left the mortuary awkwardly, wiping his eyes.

Our turn came to meet Mrs. Miller. I told her who I was and reminded her of the story from those many years ago and what she had told me about her husband's bartering for marbles. With her eyes glistening, she took my hand and led me to the casket.

'Those three young men who just left were the boys I told you about. They just told me how they appreciated the things Jim 'traded' them. Now, at last, when Jim could not change his mind about color or size.....they came to pay their debt.'

'We've never had a great deal of the wealth of this world,' she confided, 'but right now, Jim would consider himself the richest man in Idaho.'

With loving gentleness she lifted the lifeless fingers of her deceased husband. Resting underneath were three exquisitely shined red marbles.

The Moral: We will not be remembered by our words, but by our kind deeds. Life is not measured by the breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath......

Today I wish you a day of ordinary miracles ~ A fresh pot of coffee you didn't make yourself...An unexpected phone call from an old friend...Green stoplights on your way to work....The fastest line at the grocery store...A good sing-along song on the radio...Your keys found right where you left them.

IT'S NOT WHAT YOU GATHER, BUT WHAT YOU SCATTER THAT TELLS WHAT KIND OF LIFE YOU HAVE LIVED.
PS
A friend sent this to me through email. It made me stop and think about how I conduct my daily life. Hopefully, I'll slow down some and scatter some kindness along the way.
God Bless!
Barb

Inspiration for Writing Found on the Road...

2010-10-18T13:27:00.001-04:00

Amazingly enough, I found some inspiration along the highway coming to Wisconsin.
Could it be the time I had to think? Or was it the quiet novel we listened to on the way? Or, the long stretches of road? Or the time to talk to R without interruptions or chores.

Whatever it was, I found myself thinking of several stories I'd like to write. Not going to say a thing about them here because I've learned that talking about a story before it's written can give it the only life it needs and when one starts to write the story it folds in on itself. This is true for me, at least.

Raymond and I were reliving some funny events that took place in the fifties in our families and all of a sudden, I could visualize my characters having these experiences. When this happens you need to run for pen and paper or pencil and napkin or whatever.

I jotted down ideas on the back of our map and when I get home I can give them some body.

It's good to take a vacation. Especially driving in the car for eight hours. It's not only stimulating for that "I'm away from home happiness gene" but it also gives the mind rest from daily stresses.

For me it's been a much needed break, going to see our daughter and her family, and the added bonus of finding my creative "self" along the way.

Hope that you will take a day soon to find your creative self. Whether it's away from home, at the library for an afternoon of thinking and browsing, or a long walk in the woods. It all works the same. Get away from the busyness that you wrap yourself in daily and let your mind wander.

Blessings to you and yours and may your creative self always be present. Take the time to hit the road for some R & R.

Nov. is Writing Month...

2010-10-15T13:36:00.000-04:00

Since I spent Aug/Sept sick and so far Oct. has been spent doing birthday/grandchildren things and catching up on the necessities of life, I've proclaimed November as writing month for me. The entire month. Every day. Well, Sunday off for church and cooking or whatever.

Nothing is allowed to get in my way except something of extreme importance. Emergency dental work etc.

I look forward to beginning on the first of the month and making as much progress as possible by the end.

I have several projects that I have in mind to work on as well as the KILL ME project. I find I have to give myself some freedom to move between projects. Otherwise, I freeze up. There's the fear of that anyway. My writing seems very precarious presently.

I may seek out some old stories. I left behind some characters that are worthy of saving from life in the back of a dark desk drawer.

And then there's the sequel to HUNGRY FOR CHOC. titled SWEET BABY JAMES who is about an abduction. Baby still hasn't been saved from the old women that took him.

So I have my work cut out for me in the coming months.

Right now we're leaving for a few days vacation to enjoy the fall foilage through the midwest and to visit the triplets and their little brother plus our daughter and her husband.

By Nov. 1, I'll be ready to commit. I should be refreshed and raring to go.

I joined NANOWRIMO and hope I can adhere to their schedule. I don't know that I'll submit what I've written as I may go between projects but if you have not checked out the novel writing in the month of Nov. check it out.

Blessings to you and yours!

Climbing outside the writing box...

2010-10-07T10:47:00.001-04:00

This week I've tried without success to get back into the story KILL ME OR DRIVE ME TO FL. First I read over parts of the story. I climbed into the car with this group going to Florida and it was stifling. Nobody would say or do anything. Nobody moved. Not even mouthy Daisy.

I was ready to chalk it up to another failed story attempt.

Then I started thinking. First I took myself outside the car, outside the box I'd written these people into.

I woke up thinking about the characters one day. I still didn't have anything to write. That night I went to sleep thinking about the story.

The next morning it hit me. These four characters had lives before they got into that car and that's where I had to start.

At that moment ideas started jumping out at me.

And with that I was/am back on track.

I keep having to re learn everything I've learned about writing in the 20+ years I've been at it.

Sometimes I think I'm not meant to write a novel length story. Or am I?

I've accomplished other writing forms.
And I'm not giving up on this one.

Hope you are staying on track and often climbing out of the box to see what the past, present, future holds for your characters.

Happy Writing.

Clara Walk's Fashionable Barbie Boutique...

2010-10-03T16:44:00.000-04:00

Every little girl who lived on Cherry Lane in the seventies knew about Clara Walk’s fashionable, affordable Barbie boutique.

I met Clara not long after moving onto the street. She was the matriarch of the weekly coffee klatch, having teen aged children and beyond. I learned a lot from Clara. And, not just about children either, though she clearly had a soft spot for little ones and a great flair for doll fashion.

My first taste of Clara’s Barbie fashion designs came when I accompanied a friend to Clara’s. Her daughter’s new Barbie needed a wardrobe.

The array of outfits that Clara offered for Barbie was astounding. She not only sewed the tiny garments she created on the sewing machine, but she hand stitched embellishments such as flowers, pearls, buttons, and fancy pockets. She crocheted and knitted suits, coats, hats, caps, and scarves. Barbie could be outfitted for everything from tennis lessons to ball room dancing to playing in the snow in a matter of minutes, all right in Clara’s living room. (Barbies on Cherry Lane needed a lot of winter clothes as they lived near the snow belt in Ohio).

Barbie could even go to work in the board room with her two piece black suit in a soft wool, paired with her smart white silk blouse, her red knit cashmere scarf and beret. Clara would add a black shoulder bag and black pumps, for a mere fifty cents more, to finish the outfit. Her pieces sold for a dollar or two, well below store prices and far outlasted their store counterparts. What she earned could never have covered her expenses or her time. Yet, she loved designing and making the tiny garments for dolls of the neighborhood children. And, eventually for her own little grand daughter, now grown and with a little Barbie doll girl of her own!

The neighborhood girls were welcomed at Clara’s door to peruse her Barbie collection any time.

I watched Clara treat the girls with patience and kindness as they labored over their decisions and each item of clothing, weighing each against the money in their pockets. She never rushed them. She respected their choices, and only made suggestions when they were pairing stripes with plaids.
Whether it was a fancy evening dress with a glittery wrap, or a cotton tunic, or a corduroy vest, each piece of clothing was lovingly tucked inside a clear plastic bag to ensure it went into Barbie’s wardrobe just as it came off the rack in Clara’s work shop.

I don’t know the story behind why Clara created a boutique of clothes for Barbie but I do know she made many little girls very happy, including my three.
She worked toward customer satisfaction, which she always got in the way of a big smile when the child walked out her door.

Clara is gone now as is the Barbie boutique. But I am confident if I searched through some drawers or an old box of doll clothes I’d come up with a piece or two from Clara’s collection. The clothes, like the wisdom Clara imparted, made our lives richer.

It really is the littlest things that count.

Giving Thanks for Legs and Arms...

2010-09-28T14:29:00.000-04:00

You're probably wondering if my heading is the title of a new story. It's not. Unfortunately it's a story that hits close to home.

My husband lost his left leg in a motorcycle accident when our middle daughter Susan was only two. She's in her forties now so that will tell you how long it's been.

Since losing his leg, and after a long recovery at the time, he's been in and out of the hospital dozens of times for a myriad of reasons, most related to the loss of his leg and that bike wreck all those years ago.

However, what I want to say has to do with giving thanks. Giving thanks for the things we have in our lives - like legs and arms and toes and fingers - and not harping on what we do not have.

I realized all over again this morning as he and I made our way to the prosthetic shop, how fortunate I am to have my arms and legs. His knee needed a repair, we thought, because it wouldn't bend anymore, but it ended up needing to be replaced. So, he had to leave his leg in the shop for repairs and come home on crutches.

As he came in the door at home from the garage, his crutches got tangled in the door or the rug and he went down, hitting the back of his head hard on the door.

Though we've made changes to make our lives easier here with only a few steps to get inside the house, we apparently need to do more. Or be more cautious.

I try to be there at every step but I can see I can't stop all his falls.

I know I need to be stronger. Physically stronger. And emotionally stronger.

Right now I'm just giving thanks that he's okay and that I have my legs.

I just wish he had his.

Blessings to you with whatever situation you are dealing with today.

Trouble Getting Back on Writing Track....

2010-09-26T12:11:00.000-04:00

I just spent 15 minutes doing a yoga work out. I feel stronger, more centered, and on my way back to being healthy again.

Yet, I seem to be having trouble getting back on the writing track.

My whole life seems off kilter.

Staying in bed for a week or so with an illness must turn ones mind and body to jelly. That's exactly how I feel. Shaky and unsure of myself.

I KNOW. It doesn't take much to get me off track in the first place. But why is it so hard to get back on?

Do you have that problem? When you've been away from your work for whatever reason, away from your writing for awhile, do you feel you'll NEVER get back on track again.

For me, writing always starts with writing. I can't think about it, reason it out in my head. It never works. All that works is actually writing.

So this afternoon I'll be doing just that. I'll be writing.

Blessings! Stay well, stay focused, and write.

Stoned by a Kidney Or Birthing a Stone...

2010-09-16T19:44:00.000-04:00

I have a kidney stone and that's why I'm not writing. Mostly I'm bending forward and moaning when I'm not taking a pain pill or an antibiotic for the infection.

This affliction hasn't hampered my reading - thank God - so I just finished reading the novel, COCKTAILS FOR THREE, by Madeleine Wickham. Very good. Pen name Sophie Kinsella who wrote the Shopaholic books.

As soon as this stoning by the kidney ceases, I'll get back to my writing. Under the influence of all this medication my dreams have certainly created some pretty weird characters. Probably best left in the closet of my mind.

I did finish the new and improved summary for HUNGRY FOR CHOCOLATE and sent it to the publisher. Will keep you posted on my new venture.

Must run- it's time for my pain pill. Tomorrow the doctor will give me the news on exactly how we are going to deliver my body of this precious "stone." Surgery, or lazer or who knows?
I'm busy now thinking of a name.
Do you have a stone tale? How did the birthing go? (I've heard you have to be a little crazy to write. Do ya think?)

Blessings!

HOW MANY BOOKS IS TOO MANY BOOKS?

2010-09-05T19:46:00.000-04:00

My friend Liz and her husband recently stayed two nights with us while on vacation in this area. I pulled a dozen or so books from my shelves to share with Liz - who is also an avid reader and wonderful writer. (She writes as Elizabeth Vollstadt and has various books and stories in print, including YOUNG PATRIOTS: Inspiring stories of the American Revolution- which she co authored with friend, Marcella Anderson. It's for children but I love this book!)

THEN, Liz unloaded the books she'd brought to share with me. (She'd also brought a gift for me - a book, what else!)

While she was here there were books stacked on the coffee table, the end tables, the dining room table, and the kitchen bar. A few books more than my usual stash covered every available surface.

I'd catch her reading as I puttered in the kitchen, or at night we'd have tea and then she'd head off to bed with a book tucked under her arm. Early one morning I looked out and she was reading a novel in the white rocker on the front porch, still in her pajamas and with her coffee in hand. Of course, I couldn't have her reading alone out on the porch so I joined her.

It was just the best visit ever - someone came into my world and totally "got it." She understood if I grabbed a book and read a few pages before or after dinner.

We both took notes - jotting down the names of books we'd read. Neither of us wanting to miss a single good book that's out there, novel, biography, mystery, YA, or whatever.

Luckily, we both married men who like to read. I saw Peter with the latest Steve Martini novel. And R was deep into newspapers and magazines.

So, how many books is too many books?

I think the number of books one has is irrelevant.

As long as one has a book on the nightstand, a book on the coffee table, a book in the office, one in the bathroom, and one at the dining room table and maybe one on the kitchen counter, well, I could go on and on. I guess maybe it matters not how many as long as you are enjoying what is inside the book you are presently reading.
That's it. One good book is essential. As essential as breathing.

Writing a New Summary/ Or setting as Character

2010-08-30T21:39:00.000-04:00

After I sent my 80,000 word novel, HUNGRY FOR CHOCOLATE, to the publisher last week, I decided I needed to do a new summary for this particular publisher.

Since the book is set in West Virginia and that's where the publisher is located, I felt I needed a summary that incorporated all the mountain state elements and flavors of the story.

Earlier summaries of this story centered on the surrogacy itself and on the relationships between the characters. Setting wasn't mentioned. Not so, this new one.

I wanted to play up the setting as character. The story takes place in 1998, in the small fictional town of Shady Creek, West Virginia. The people are close knit, not tolerable of strangers, or new ideas. And, surrogacy to the people of Shady Creek was indeed "strange."

The fact that the main character lives in a historic landmark, an old Victorian home built in the late 1800's, that First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt visited in the late 1930's when she toured West Virginia was never mentioned in any other summary but in this one it's relevant.

It felt good to tell this story from the perspective of setting. Funny, but you think of a story as having only one summary. I can see now how a story can have many summaries. It all depends on perspective. Looking at the story from another lens, or from another angle.

Am I crazy or do you think this is true? That a story can have many or at least more than one summary? I'd never thought about this before now, until I experienced it.

Let me know what you think.
And blessings to you whatever you think!

Small Steady Steps plus Hungry Update

2010-08-24T12:53:00.001-04:00

This post is about small steady steps and how going at writing in this way leads to success, in my opinion. Success being totally subjective and having different meaning for all of us in regards to our writing endeavors and how successful we want to be or even think we are.

I've never thought much about the process of writing or of how I pick and choose when and how and what I write. I just know I do something each day toward writing. One small step. And it's satisfying.

Whether it's journaling, blogging, reading - a huge piece of writing well, or working on an essay or a piece of fiction - somehow I am attending to the side of my self that needs to create with words. Small, steady steps.

My first story to get published was one of the first I wrote. That lead me to believe that getting published was easy. All I had to do was jot off an essay that was mildly interesting with a dash of humor, Erma Bombeck style - give it a nice beginning, a good strong middle and an ending that satisfied - at least myself. I had a run of several months of publication of my essays, for pay, with the Cleveland Plain Dealer back when they took slice of life pieces and paid for them. And then like that, it was over. The editor that liked my style retired.

Last spring the essay that I wrote on health care ran in two large newspapers and I was paid for neither. The success of that piece came because I said something that I needed to say about our health insurance concerns. And that to me was very satisfying.

Most of us are not in this to get wealthy. It happens but not frequently. We're in it because we can't do anything else. Most of us, anyway.

Since those early days it's been hit and miss and I have to admit I've loved every second of this ride. Not especially those months of hammering out a piece of fiction that simply wouldn't work or wouldn't work at that particular time.

And I have a fair share of stories that have been stopped mid way. Either because of a short coming on my part or that of the story itself. I could go back and moan and groan over the work that I didn't finish. (and I have to admit - I've done this at great length over the years.) OR, I can move forward and feel good that I learned something from each project and can take that information with me into my new story.

Thus said, I'm ready to start afresh on KILL ME OR DRIVE ME TO FLORIDA with Frank and Daisy and Lily. I look forward to getting re acquainted. I believe I left them stranded at the COAL MINER MOTEL in a snow storm.

NOW for a quick update: Hungry For Chocolate is now in a pdf file with a publisher in WV. It will take several months for them to review it. Wish me luck, send me your prayers and all that.

Now, let's get cracking. The day is a-wastin'

Blessings!

The Writer - The Pancreas - AND Octomom Lips

2010-08-16T15:07:00.000-04:00

Dang pancreas. It's had its way with me one too many times. I'm done with it. AND I'm declaring WAR on IT and any other body part that intends to stand in the way of my writing. FOR NOW AND FOREVER MORE!

I've had to stop too many stories, often for months at a time, to deal with the havoc it wrecks on my life. Not to mention my health. And that of my family.

After three or four such bouts with this cantankerous organ, I had to stop again recently while editing HUNGRY to tango with this persistently unhappy body part of mine.

Our dance was done a few days ago at Ohio State University Hospital. Outpatient with Dr. G and his staff officiating.

A balloon - perhaps a robust red party balloon - who knows? - was used to stretch some sense into the duct - hoping to put an end to all the shenanigans it had been doing, and then to assist the balloon a plastic stent was inserted to keep the little "devil" duct open as it is supposed to be naturally.

After a much needed talk and some roughing up from the doctor, the pancreas and duct should be believers. That remains to be seen.

After I recover in a few days - and my lips go back down, they somehow got mashed in the process and I came out looking like Octomom - I'll once again be ready to pick up the tools of my trade, my pens and pencils and laptop, and take to the writing fields.

Because I have HOPE, an endless amount, I believe that this time will be the last time.

But as I said, I've declared WAR. If it comes back we'll do battle again.

I hope while I've been dancing YOU have been working.
Blessings!

PS Previously, the pancreas duct was damaged by gall stones, leaving scarring which prevents its working at times.

Fifties Music Cure for What ails you...

2010-08-09T16:35:00.000-04:00

Yesterday I was feeling sick but went grocery shopping anyway to pick up a few things we needed.

I shop at one of those stores where you can buy everything from groceries, to the latest movie, to tires for the car.

I passed one of those machines that plays music. The ones where you punch the song you want to hear and it takes off. Mostly the machines offer Celtic tunes, or peaceful songs to lull one to sleep. Not this one. It had some great selections.

My choice was SODA SHOP CLASSICS and when it started playing, I was whisked back to the late fifties right there in the music/candles aisle of the super store. Back to when I was 12 or 13, just at the age when all of life seemed impossibly tragic and out of my reach.

WHY MUST I BE A TEEN AGER IN LOVE by Dion & The Belmonts sent chills up my spine because I remembered singing that to the Ricky Nelson and Elvis posters on my wall when my first boyfriend shunned me, pretend mike in my hand as I sprawled on my twin bed with the blond headboard. (Remember blond wood???)

Next came The Beach Boys singing, "Ba Ba Ba, Ba Ba Ba-A-RAN, Oh, BARBARA ANN," my own namesake song. I sang along with the boys as I twirled around the room in my skirt with a dozen starched crinolines underneath, my blond pony tail bobbing against my shoulders. The ribbon from the pony tail flying around my head as I flew across the room.

Oh those were the days. And those were the songs that made my heart beat faster. Still make my heart beat faster.

Since I bought the cd, I can whisk myself back to the fifties whenever I want with a turn of the knob on my cd player.

And you know, I don't feel nearly as bad now as I did before I went shopping. In fact I think I might be cured!

Blessings to you all and here's to you finding what makes your heart beat faster.

Parting Is Such Sweet Sorrow...

2010-07-30T15:45:00.000-04:00

Last week I noticed noises coming from my laptop, sort of like a low buzz that had never been there before - I thought it was static on the old radio in my office. But no! It was my baby, starting to groan a sad good bye.

The next morning I turned on the laptop and was flabbergasted. There were multi colored stripes running horizontally, a loud wall paper kind of thing, in shades of pink and brown. Not at all unpleasant but I knew the meaning behind the sight was not a good thing.

I'd seen that look once before on the unit and that was when the video part of the computer went bonkers and had to be fixed, both costly in time and money.

I'd hoped the laptop would last until fall. But it was living on borrowed time. It had been fixed two years earlier. I bought it used in the first place, though it wasn't cheap. Macs never are, it seems.

So, a quick trip to my Mac Lady told me that the innards on my baby were shot and could not be fixed. Even if it could be fixed no guarantee came with the costly repair this time.

Off I went to Micro Center and purchased a Mac Book Pro, on sale and just what I'd dreamed of having. A printer came with it for $30 plus a $30 rebate.

The Mac Lady - Lynn - at Mac Mobile in Columbus was able to save everything on my hard drive and get my programs set up on the new machine.

So begins a new love affair with my new Mac.

However each time I sit down at this new machine, I can still see my old baby opened up with all her parts strewn across the desk of the repair shop. Not a pretty sight.

Oh, parting is such sweet sorrow. Then, again, I'm sitting here smiling as I write.

My best to you as I now return to my corrections on HUNGRY!

Writer & Story: A Tale of Lovers...

2010-07-23T10:24:00.005-04:00

I'm totally excited at this point in my editing of my novel. I'm nearing the last 20 pages and as the story comes full circle - and I must say well edited by several friends and myself - I can see why I've always believed in this story centering on Vada Faith Waddell's quest to be "somebody" more than who she is when the story opens.

I'm excited as I begin to think of marketing this novel - again.

I was burned out a year or two ago when I worked to come up with a new marketing plan. My feet were dragging and I was no longer interested in the project. That's called STORY BURNOUT. It happens to all of us, especially those of us who have labored to birth a particularly difficult story over the period of several years. What started out as a glorious projects brings one into the depths of despair as they realize the story may never be read by anyone other than oneself and his/her friends.

The story wasn't difficult in the creativity phase. That was the biggest high I'd ever been on. It seemed to me it was the best story I'd ever read. Women's fiction anyway.

The relationship between myself and this story has gone through many phases. We were lovers in the beginning in the best of ways - we could not get enough of each other. Then the togetherness started to get on my nerves - what the characters had done in the beginning to excite me now depressed me. What was I thinking, writing such a story? Too many people going in too many directions. It involved much thinking, sweating, rearranging, rewriting, copying and pasting. Moving everything around was much like moving a house full of furniture cross country on a rickety pick up truck.
Pieces fell out, pieces got jostled, some pieces simply got crushed during the ride.

My relationship with HUNGRY FOR CHOCOLATE has come full circle and I'm in love again and ready to market the heck out of this story. With all that I have and all that I am I will see this story through to publication, one way or another.

That's dedication and my story of the changing relationship between this writer and her story.

How's your project coming along? What phase are you in on this hot July day?

Blessings on whatever and wherever you are with your writing and life!

Backstory on HUNGRY FOR CHOCOLATE

2010-07-14T14:53:00.003-04:00

Just a quick update on my progress reading through HUNGRY FOR CHOCOLATE. Since getting the BOLD print debacle corrected, things are going along much more smoothly with the story.

I'm going to skip back to the story behind HUNGRY because of a few questions I received. That manuscript was with an excellent literary agent for four years. It didn't sell after repeated efforts. It may be that the story was before its time. That's why my next marketing efforts will be directed at a publisher in WV.
Its tone is distinctly West Virginian.

HUNGRY is set in WV and is about a surrogacy gone wrong. The main character, Vada Faith Waddell, wants to make some extra money - she can't seem to make enough for a down payment from her job at the beauty shop for a down payment on a new home out in the fancy subdivision of Crystal Springs -SO she decides to answer an ad in the local paper and become a surrogate mother. She figures it can't be all that hard. She already has a set of six year old twins girls. She knows pregnancy is no picnic but in nine months she'll have her big new house and this dear sweet couple will have the precious gift of a baby.
An uninformed and impatient person, she agrees to use her egg to create this child, making it her biological baby. BIG MISTAKE.

Before long she realizes the couple is unscrupulous, and are in trouble with the law for bilking old people out of money through their home remodeling company. Their story is on national news.
But Vada Faith is already pregnant. Then she realizes she cannot give up her baby. Her husband, John Wasper, will do anything for his wife except raise a baby belonging to the alleged criminal Roy Kilgore and his ditzy wife Dottie.

Vada Faith miscarries before her nightmare of giving away this baby is ever realized. She nearly loses her husband and her family along with her unborn child. She's only a few weeks into the pregnancy but the time element makes no difference when you've lost a child.

The setting of the fictional town of Shady Creek, WV is almost a character as the townspeople rise up against surrogacy and make Vada Faith question her reasons for making this decision in the first place. Some of their battles are fought out on local television on the Maddie Magill talk show.

Vada Faith's story is one of complicated human emotions but also of redemption and the rebirth of a marriage.

Update on editing HUNGRY...

2010-07-10T11:23:00.002-04:00

As I was printing off the 300+ pages to read, I decided mid print that for some reason I'd put the manuscript in BOLD and that I needed to put it in regular print to save on ink. Not sure why I did it in bold in the first place as I was setting up the novel. Anyway, I went in and corrected the problem. Changed the print to plain for the rest of the pages.

After printing, I read the first 100 pages with no problem. Actually the novel read like a book off a book store shelf. (I always joked that my goal was to have a book on the bargain table at Big Lots.)

When I got to page 101, the material no longer matched though the page numbers were in sequence. It took a while for me to ponder the situation and figure out what was wrong.

Taking away the bold print had re figured the pages. I was now missing several chapters which I had to go back and print.

Anytime I come across a problem like this I've finally figured out at my age that I have to work on it first thing in the morning. As the day goes on my brain turns to mush and seems to concentrate on chocolate and other necessities of life. IT cannot wrap itself around problem solving.

I'm happy to report that the pages continue to read well and I'm excited. I hope as I finish this project for the tenth time that I can find a publisher.

I'll be seeking publishers in West Virginia as I believe that's the market for this particular story.

It's interesting that as long as I've been writing I still don't know everything there is to know about writing. I've learned how little I know - and that's part of the fun and excitement of writing. There's always something else to learn.

Did I tell you I started writing on a typewriter back in the seventies. Not electric either, with typewriter paper and carbon paper. I used to sit at the dining room table and I felt very writerly in jeans and t shirt with orange ear plugs sticking out of my ears to ward off the noise of children playing on the floor beside me. Those were the good old days. Really, I miss them.

Though I have to admit I love my laptop and all the luxuries it affords me.

Here's to happier editing days for all of us. Keep writing.

Blessings!

Hungry for Chocolate or endlessly editing...

2010-07-04T14:37:00.003-04:00

HUNGRY FOR CHOCOLATE is the novel on which I worked this past week. I finally finished making the changes my writing buddy/professor/friend Liz suggested. Now it's time to read the story through to see how it reads.

This is a work in progress that I've worked on for far too long. But in writing a story, how long is too long?

The story was born over ten years ago via a short story titled Joy Ruth and Vada Faith, twins - it never went beyond my desk, it may be more a character study than a finished story.

Then it branched into a novel and became Vada Faith's story - a much changed VF from the first story. It became the story of her life, her relationship with her twin sister, and with her husband and extended family, then gathers around her surrogacy- a surrogacy that goes wrong, both in hilarious and heartbreaking ways. She's always wanted to be something more than she was and goes about it entirely the wrong way.

More on this as I go through the endless process of editing.

Blessings.

Mabel and the Garage Sale - a short story

2010-06-26T11:40:00.002-04:00

Mabel and the Garage Sale was dramatized by British Broadcasting and used on their short story program worldwide on public radio. I can't help it. I still love Mabel. What do you think?

MABEL AND THE GARAGE SALE

Interstate 64 is taking Mabel's house. The highway is slated to run south, through the middle of her living room, all the way to the ocean. Mabel figures the road will roll down right where the gold velvet love seat rests now. She gets uneasy thinking about it. But it's too late. They have the house and Mabel has the money. All that's left is deciding where to go with it.
Her daughter, Donna Faye, has said she can move in with her. But Mabel knows the girl isn't sincere. So she's drawing out her last days in the house, trying to decide what to do.
She has thought about renting one of the new brick garden apartments near the center of town. Except she isn't good with figures and has no idea how long $30,000 would run her.
To make matters worse, Mabel has something wrong with her back. She has been unable to work at the Holiday Inn, where some days she can clear $25 cleaning rooms. Since she stopped going to work her back hasn't bothered her much. If anything, it seems to be on the mend. It could be she's too preoccupied breaking up housekeeping to notice the pain.
She's considered living with her son, Jackie Lee, but his wife, Cindy Sue, would not agree. Besides, they live across the tracks in a house smaller than Mabel's and have three rowdy boys.
At the garage sale Mabel is having, her friend MaryAnn wants to buy her corn popper. In fact, MaryAnn starts loading up a box with things she wants. In the box, she puts Mabel's corn popper, a heating pad with a blue flannel cover, a heavy duty extension cord which Mabel bought and never used, and several Tupperware bowls which are peeling and will no longer burp.
"I'll give you two-dollars," MaryAnn says, adding several coffee cans with snow scenes to the box as she talks.
"Sure," Mabel says.
Secretly, she thinks MaryAnn is doing her dirty. She practically took the corn popper out of the hands of a heavy-set woman who was ready to buy it. From the looks of the woman, she could afford to pay full price, too, what with her spectator pumps and matching handbag.
Between customers, the two women carry a box of dishes outside.
"I've never seen so much junk," MaryAnn says.
"Keep it you might need it." Her father's words echo in Mabel's head as she puts out the china plates trimmed in pink roses.
MaryAnn wheels Donna Faye's old red bike out of the shed.
MaryAnn has a table set up for her knickknacks. She is rearranging them now, putting the coconut with the monkey's face out front.
Mabel has a clothesline strung from the shed to the house. On it she hangs some polyester pantsuits. She doesn't mind selling them cheap. She picks them up for next to nothing at Goodwill. She hangs other odds and ends on the line.
When Mabel walks over to help a fat woman in an orange muu muu, MaryAnn goes through the clothes on the line.
"Mabel Jenkins," MaryAnn squeals, "where did you get a coat like this?" MaryAnn holds a black velvet jacket and twirls around the yard with it. Her yellow skirt balloons out around her skinny legs, revealing a run in her panty hose. The jacket is the same ink-black as MaryAnn's hair.
"Give me that," Mabel says, jerking the coat from MaryAnn.
Mabel got the coat at the dump. But she isn't telling MaryAnn. She wants MaryAnn to think she bought it for some fancy doings. MaryAnn is forever bragging about wearing her sister's fox trimmed jacket to a gospel singing.
"I got a lot riding on this coat, honey," Mabel says, trying to ease the tension. "It's the nicest thing I got. It's marked $20. But I need $10. Think I can get it?"
MaryAnn is miffed. She ignores Mabel and goes about setting up another table. She hums as she arranges plastic Smurf glasses on the table.
Mabel goes inside to get another box. She thinks the house appears lighter and more airy. Soon all her things will be gone. Then she too will go. Every time she thinks of moving she gets a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. If only Donna Faye hadn't grown up to be so different. They might have been friends. But her daughter has married a doctor and fills her days with music and voice lessons.
Outside, Mabel goes through the cardboard box. She runs across a dozen baseball caps belonging to Spook Lanham. He was not Donna Faye's daddy, though he thought so when he married Mabel. Mabel thought so too.
Donna Faye has a high IQ. She didn't get it from Spook. Mabel figures she got it from the Bible salesman who slept on their sofa. This was during the time Mabel's mother went to the Fifth Avenue Baptist Church three nights a week and twice on Sunday.
Mabel was sixteen and didn't know what hit her. She blamed it on his good looks. And the way he talked. About them one day living near the ocean.
It wasn't long before they were riding out to Tucker's Creek in her mother's old Chevy and not getting home until daylight.
But Mabel came home one day and he was gone. She'd assumed when he moved on he'd take her with him. But it didn't work out that way. With the Bible salesman went Mabel's dream of ever seeing the ocean.
In the box, underneath Spook Lanham's hats, was the ring the Bible salesman gave Mabel all those years ago.
She sells the ring for a quarter to a pimply-faced kid. The same kid bought the caps, too, stacking them on his head at one time, reminding Mabel of a monkey she once saw on Captain Kangaroo.
Spook Lanham came into Mabel's life just as the Bible salesman was leaving. She took him out to Tucker's Creek in her mother's Chevy then she married him. Donna Faye was two when Spook got run over by a train.
Jackie Lee Jenkins, the third man in Mabel's life and the second one she married, was as good-looking as sin itself. He hung around long enough to seduce the wife of the choir director at the Fifth Avenue Baptist Church.
From that marriage Mabel got her son, Jackie Lee Jr., and the house which I-64 will soon take.
"It's the devil in him," Granny Jenkins said. But she was proud as a peacock of Jackie Lee, Jr. He painted her VW candy apple red and wouldn't let her give him a dime for it.
"Nothing like his daddy," Granny said more times than once. She left the red VW to Mabel when she died. The car is still parked on the street where it's been since the funeral.
The garage sale is dead except for some neighborhood kids. Mabel goes into the basement and finds another box. She isn't sure what's in it. She sets it on the grass and lifts the dusty lid.
A leggy spider crawls out. Then Mabel lifts out an apple peeler and a paddle for a butter churn. She smiles. These are items she brought from her grandmother's farm. Something tells Mabel the items are money makers. She puts them on a separate table. She can't imagine putting a paddle for a butter churn next to a metal ice tray. She busies herself printing new signs.
Mabel hasn't seen hide nor hair of her children. She sees her daughter-in-law, Cindy Sue, drive by with the boys. She's glad she doesn't stop. Those demon-boys would destroy her garage sale in one swipe.
When the pick-up with the camper pulls into the yard, Mabel's giving change to the young woman who bought Donna Faye's bike. She gets light-headed thinking how quickly things are moving.
MaryAnn strikes up a conversation with the man in the truck. The women have learned that in order to sell stuff, you have to mix with the people.
The man doesn't ask for tools or lawn mowers. He goes straight to the clothesline.
"Do you have any clothes for a little girl," he asks.
"No," Mabel says, figuring he will leave. Instead he wants the history of each item.
"Whose shirt is this?"
"Where'd you wear this?"
Mabel, who is dusting a lamp nearby, answers his questions.
He inspects a wool pantsuit. "This new?"
"Yes," Mabel laughs. "It made me itch."
Mabel has never met a man like this one. She can't put her finger on what it is about him that sets him apart.
He picks out a blue silk dress for his sister and coveralls for his brother-in-law. He has kept a running conversation with Mabel, finally telling her he remembers her from school. He smiles and gathers up the Smurf glasses for his niece.
Maybe it's because he's so open that Mabel is drawn to him. Or maybe it's because he turns to her every little bit asking her advice. Then listens while she gives it. She vaguely remembers him from school.
He spends $20. He doesn't dicker as some people do. This pleases Mabel. He heads to the blue pick-up and puts his bags on the front seat. Then, he waves Mabel over to see his new camper.
Mabel looks around. There isn't a soul left. Even MaryAnn's gone home. Mabel steps up into the camper. Her feet sink into plush blue carpet. Even the seats of the dinette set are blue velvet. She thinks the camper must have cost a lot of money but Ralph seems like a regular guy.
"You won't believe this, " Ralph says. He has asked her to call him Ralph. She sits down across from him at the table. He has opened a Coke for her and a Little King for himself.
"You won't believe this," he says again, and then clears his throat. "I won the state lottery. For a million bucks." He laughs. "Now what does a guy like me do with a million bucks?"
Mabel isn't sure what to make of his story. She smiles, though, because she likes him.
"I don't even like money," Ralph says, seriously.
Mabel takes a sip of her Coke.
"I'm thinking of going out west." He clears his throat again and stares at Mabel.
She looks back at him.
"I'd like to take you with me."
Mabel sees herself in the mirror above the table and is pleased. Her brown hair, streaked with gray, is shiny. Her cheeks are pink.
"I'm serious, Mabel," Ralph says, "I've got to pack me up a few things. I'll come back and get you. What do you say?"
Mabel smiles and then promises to think about it.
Later, in her webbed lawn chair, she sits watching the dusk gather around her. She decides the garage sale has run its course. It is time to move on.
She will drive the leftover junk to the dump in Granny's VW. That will leave the house ready. For the bulldozers. For I-64.
She will not tell MaryAnn her plans. This gives her a good feeling. She hums to herself as she folds up her chair. She isn't scared anymore.
If Ralph comes back, she just might go with him. She'll send everyone a postcard. Maybe from a national park. Yellowstone. Or she'll send them a picture of a bear. Or of Old Faithful.
If Ralph doesn't come back, she'll gather up her life and get on with
things. She can always go back to the Holiday Inn. She might even move over there.
Or she might use her money to buy a pick-up. Or a van. She can travel. See things she's only dreamed about.
Yes. That's what she'll do. Buy herself a van. And head it south, down I-64, straight to the ocean.

A few short stories and essays...

2010-06-26T11:37:00.003-04:00

For the next few postings I'll be putting up a few essays and short stories - published - hopefully for your enjoyment. Comments welcome!

Happy Reading!

Wednesday Feels Like Monday...

2010-06-23T12:43:00.002-04:00

I was shocked to discover that it's Wednesday when I thought sure from the way I felt that it was Monday. I have a headache, I'm tired, out of sorts, our four wonderful grandchildren left with their parents this morning and there's a hole in my heart and I just want to lash out at someone or something.

Not sure what that's about. But it feels as though the world is off balance. How can Wednesday feel so much like Monday?

Our three daughters had an anniversary party for us on Saturday afternoon with family and friends from near and far. It was the best party in the world with great food and a scrumptious wedding-looking cake. I talked myself into a stupor as I visited with everyone and savored each second of the party.

Am I feeling the results of all that fun? Or the after shocks?

Is that what this deflated feeling is about? Having such a high from all the excitement and then being dropped suddenly to the ground without any warning when it was over? Have you ever felt like that? Had so much going on that when it's over you feel let down and neglected? Even rejected?

It's not that I don't have anything to do. There's bedding and dishes and all the stuff to put away after having house guests.

There's the writing that I'm way behind on. The novel to edit and the other novel to get back to.

And here I sit with debris all around me and I don't want to move.

I'm off to take an Aleve and a nap. Perhaps when I get up things will right themselves and I can get back into the groove of a Wednesday. I feel as though I'm inhabited by someone else. I wish the person that is inhabiting my body would clean the house while I nap.

Blessings!

Honorable Mention a Kick in the Pants...

2010-06-13T20:54:00.004-04:00

Thanks to 1st honorable mention win in the West Virginia Writers Contest this week end for KILL ME OR DRIVE ME TO FLORIDA, I'm back in the saddle again and ready to spur this story on to more adventure. Therefore, I'll be adding more pages and as Hemmingway said re: finishing a novel, I'll "write on through to the end of the damn thing." If the Lord is willing and the creek don't rise. (I'm covering myself!)

Why is it that we need these little boosts to move us forward? Is it just me who can't seem to keep moving forward or are there others out there who need a fire lit under their behind to get them going again?

I love the story I'm working on. I love all the stories I've worked on. It just seems that life keeps intervening and I fall off the wagon much like an alcoholic who wants to leave alcohol alone but just can't because the need to drink is greater than the will not to.

Whatever the reason for falling away from my writing, I'm renewing my effort to write write write.

Of course we have a big family party coming up this week end and that means out of town family staying in the house with us and other family from out of town coming and going.

Am I already giving myself an excuse not to write?

No! I'll get through the week end which I'm anticipating with great joy and then next week when things die down again as they somehow always do, I'll write.

If you are having trouble getting back to your writing like me - let this be your kick in the pants to get back to your writing. Or to get started on any other project you've been putting off.

Let's make June, July, and August as productive as possible. And let me know how you're doing and what you're working on.

Blessings!

Regrouping...

2010-06-06T15:47:00.005-04:00

Thanks to all who read my post about the loss of my niece dear sweet Charlotte and made such kind comments.

I'm home from the family reunion which is what it turns into when someone dies and we all gather in West Virginia at the funeral home. Kathy from Cleveland, Ella & Paul from Dayton, Joann, Barney & Guy from Florida. Karen, David and family from Pennsylvania, and my family from around Ohio. Plus dozens of local family members and friends.

I don't have an ounce of energy left today. I could go on with a long list of complaints. BUT I won't!

The words of my mother come to me now - if you can't say something good - then say nothing at all.

And today I can't think of one good thing to say. So I'll say nothing at all.

Except, I'll post again after I regroup. The well has to refill and I need to let the comfort of my own life settle in around me.

I'm praying the sorrow of loss gets easier for all of us to bear.

And, may you and yours be blessed!

The passing of Charlotte

2010-05-28T13:17:00.004-04:00

How could I write anything today without telling you that my sweet niece Charlotte passed away this morning, during the quiet hours before dawn. She leaves behind two adult sons, their wives, and four young grand children.

She endured a pancreas transplant and bowel removal two years ago at Univ. of Minneapolis. I stayed with her there for two weeks and some days it was touch and go.

She never fully recovered and never again ate a meal she could enjoy.

Approximately six weeks ago, she had a transplant of stomach, bowel, and all the digestive system at Georgetown, Univ. One of 12 such transplants in the world. I've decided it's better not to be among those numbers.

While it's the end of her pain and suffering it's the beginning for our family and her husband, John. She was such a dynamic and beautiful person both inside and out. A raven haired beauty with blue eyes that snapped with emotions, whether she was happy or sad. She never lost her West Virginia accent or her goodness while living around the world.

Now, she'll come home to her final resting place in the mountains of West Virginia where she'll be among family and friends.

Today, this Memorial Day as we pay respects to those who are no longer with us, let us remember to love the ones who stand beside us. It's the best we can do each day of our lives.

Blessings!

LET'S HEAR IT FOR RECUPERATION...

2010-05-26T15:45:00.011-04:00

It’s too bad you don’t feel good when you have the flu. Taking pills and
drinking juice doesn’t take up a whole lot of time. Then you have all this time while you’re feeling rotten to lay on the couch and stare up at cobwebs and dust you’re too sick to do anything about. The sun shinning through the window doesn’t help. Every flaw in the room is magnified. You finally have to put on sunglasses because of the floating dust. Its very presence makes you sicker.
When you don’t feel good the people around you change. They become impatient, short-tempered, and busy. Too busy to find the remote. Too busy to pour juice. Too busy to put on some soft music.
Forget asking them to shop for more Kleenex. They balk at wetting a washcloth for your feverish brow. They don’t have time to fill the vaporizer. Or make a piece of dry toast. Or darken the room because too much light hurts your eyes.
If you felt good you could enjoy the pot of chicken soup with the homemade noodles and the loaf of warm yeast bread that a thoughtful neighbor brought over. The rest of the family is kind enough to swoon and make smacking noises as they finish the last bite.
If you felt good your attention span might be long enough for something other than Phinneas and Ferb.
The way it is now the couch is full of lumps, the blanket doesn’t cover your toes, your elbows are raw from trying to get comfortable, your washcloth is dried out, your nose is stuffy, your eyes are watering, your head hurts, your ears feel like they’re stuffed with cotton and you’re achy all over.
What’s wrong with wanting to feel good when you have the flu.
If you felt good you might not mind the disinfectant that’s being sprayed in the air over your head.
As it turns out, only the dog is loyal. For 24 hours he sits patiently at your feet waiting for you to recover. But the question is - will he too leave when he gets the last dog biscuit on the table by the orange juice?

THIS WAS WRITTEN TO PAY TRIBUTE TO RECOUPPERATION - AND HOW GOOD IT IS TO FEEL BETTER WHEN WE'VE BEEN ILL.
PS I'm recovering from vertigo.

No time to stare...

2010-05-21T09:37:00.002-04:00

I've been in a reflective mood this morning. Wondering what all the busyness is about.
I run in circles every day, like an ant pushing a crumb toward a hole, only to turn around and do the whole thing over again. Gone are the days when we used to while away a Sunday afternoon on the farm porch swing and let the Sunday afternoon move slowly over us, as we counted cars on the country road, or watched the leaves move lazily on the trees. The horses and cows would graze in the field and we'd just stare at nothing in particular and enjoy everything in general.
This verse says what I'm feeling.
Before the busyness of summer sets in - let's find some time to just stand (I prefer sitting) and stare. Blessings and enjoy! Barb

Time to Reflect

What is this life, if full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare?
No time to stand beneath the boughs
Where squirrels hide their
nuts in grass;

No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies
at night;
No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance;
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began?

A poor life this if,
full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

By William Henry Davies

Priming the Pump...

2010-05-17T18:36:00.002-04:00

Why is it that when I’m away from writing for more than a day or two, I forget everything I’ve learned about the craft and about myself and the process of writing?

The last few days I’ve been "working" on my story. Or I've been trying to. I’d promised myself not to edit, therefore, I was not allowing myself to read over what I’d written previously on this new W I P. But, by not allowing myself access to any part of the story, I could not make the words come. Not words that made any sense to my story, anyway.

I’d made the rule that I couldn't read anything I'd already written because I'd want to edit and make it better. SO, I had to write something brand new. But I'd started the story days, no, weeks ago.

I was trying to make myself jump off the writing cliff without the safety net of the words I’d already penned, the foundation of my story. Without those sentences I had nothing to grip onto. I was holding onto nothing, giving it nothing, and I was getting nothing.

I completely forgot I had to prime the pump.

I remember once going out to the old well in the yard of the old home place where my husband grew up.

I’d pump and pump trying to get water, but nothing came out. Then my mother in law came with a quart of water and poured it into the pump and before long, as I pumped, the water gushed forth - magic, to my city eyes.

Today, I primed the pump with the words from the beginning of my story, and before long my pen couldn't keep up with the words pouring forth, almost more than I could catch with my fingers.

So, don't forget to prime the pump, the word pump. And remember we can't get anything out if we don't put something in. Just a word or two. That's all that's necessary. To remind us of who we are and where we're going.

Bon Voyage!

Gathering words - Gathering sea shells

2010-05-14T15:33:00.003-04:00

Gathering words together to form a story is much like going to the sea shore to gather shells.

The first day out, we gather all our arms can carry, and hold them close lest one slips away.

We aren't at all choosy in the beginning. WE pick up the ragged, the worn, the unfamiliar, the ugly, the beautiful, even the shards. Who knows what can be made of each piece.

A few days or weeks into our journey, we become more selective. Do we really need all that we've gathered, those words, those shells. Maybe? We don't truly know yet what our use is going to be for our stash. We decide to hang onto everything. Wise choice!

I'm in that place right now in my work in progress. Gathering everything to me, afraid to let anything go. Pulling everything out that I can from the inside, the outside, the subconscious, the conscious, the unconscious.

Until I've gathered all I can from the secret places where words come from, and only then, will I allow myself to start sifting through what I have. Weighing, judging, valuing, editing. My treasure trove of words.

There's nothing to match the feeling of creativity as it moves beneath our skin, beneath our fingers, into our souls.

My wish is that you too will take time to gather some words into a story. Or gather some shells for a lamp. Or simply to mark your path along the beach.

Blessings!

Writing without expectations...

2010-05-14T09:06:00.002-04:00

Today, I will go to my desk without guidelines, or a to do list, or goals or any expectations other than giving myself wholly and unconditionally to my story. There will be nothing between myself and my laptop- just an open mind.

Today, I'll write the way I was meant to write. Creatively. Without boundaries. Or lines keeping me in or out.

Today, I'll leave my perfectionism behind. We succeed not because of perfectionism but in spite of it.

Today I believe totally in myself.

I believe in my work.

And I believe in you.

So let's get started.

Today will be the first day of our lives. Let's get started. At least, for today.

Blessings!

Mother's Day brings family, fun, food, books

2010-05-09T16:43:00.004-04:00

I love when a holiday brings all the family together with good food, fun, and presents that revolve around writing and reading.

Jill gave me The Maeve Binchy Writer's Club book, which is full of Maeve's wit and wisdom, combined with writing advice from her as well as other writers. They even left some white space for notes by the reader. Then, included at the back of the book are columns written by Maeve for the Irish Times. Plus seven new short stories by her. Jill also included the latest cd by one of my favorite singers, Rod Stewart. Love the cd and can't wait to read the book. It will be a reward for getting lots of writing finished on my WIP. Thanks Jill.

Yesterday was ladies day out with a movie and mall shopping. We saw Date Night with Tina Fey and Steve Carrell. A total hoot. Laughed til I cried. A must see if you like comedy! Thanks Lisa and Susan. Also received bath and body lotion & a beautiful angel for my collection.

In the mall at Waldens Books I found a two for one sale so came home with two novels, women's fiction. I'm not allowing myself to start those as I'm still reading the series COUNTRY DOCTOR by Patrick Taylor. On the last one now. Thanks, Barb.

Today Lisa and Susan took us to brunch at The Ridge Inn in Laurelville Inn with grandchildren Steve, Samantha, and Jillian and exchange student, Katrin, from Germany. R and I came home and had apple dumplings with ice cream. Yum...

This week I'm finally kicking off my new "no editing til I'm finished with my current WIP" policy, I'm not allowing myself to read any fiction. It's a distraction. I might use it as a reward for so many pages written. We'll see.

Other than that not much going on at my house. The poison ivy is almost cleared up thanks to good drugs.

Tomorrow is my monthly writers meeting at Great Expectations Cafe and Book Shop. We're having Diana Hannon Forrester in to sign her new mystery release, GLORY.

May the sun ever be in your face and the wind at your back, or whatever that old saying is.
May you be richly blessed today and always.
Barb

Flying by the seat of my pants...

2010-05-06T23:00:00.004-04:00

I'm never setting a writing goal again. Tomorrow is Friday and as of yet I haven't written one word this week. THIS was going to be the week I put on those orange heels and covered new ground with my WIP. I was going to write and not edit.

Monday and Tuesday got away from me completely. (Husband is better, to all who asked, thank you). Then, I woke up mid week with a few red spots on both arms. Mosquito bites? Spider bites? I wondered. Then they started to spread. I had Poison Ivy - which I'm highly allergic to.

Made a trip into town to see the dr. Cortisone shot and an RX for strong cortisone tabs, and a $90 bill later. I'm counting on some relief and soon. It's welty, red, swollen, weeping. The blisters, not me, though I could weep easily enough. When the famed itching started I thought I was going to scratch my own eyes out. To anyone who has not had it. You do not want it. I promise. It's awful.
I've dealt with one crisis after another this week.

Tomorrow, barring anymore unpleasant events, I will write. But I'm not making any promises. Not setting any goals. I'll fly by the seat of my pants.

Are the odds ever stacked against you when you plan to write?

Is it just me? Am I jinxed? Have a black cloud over my head like Charlie Brown?

Whatever, I'm off to bed. Tomorrow has to be better.

Blessings!

Wearin' of the orange postponed but not cancelled

2010-05-04T16:23:00.003-04:00

I got up on Monday determined to wear my orange shoes and write my heart out. And then my eyes took in the basket where I keep the monthly bills and realized woe is me it was May 3 and time to write checks, etc. So, I put on my bill paying cap and sat down to pay bills which required a morning of calling, first, to clear up a bill that had been paid and put on the wrong account and another, my wireless which is my most valued possession. Though Verizon has already taken the money out of my account, somehow they can't "find" it. So the bank has faxed paperwork three times to amend the problem. Alas, they still hadn't "found" the money yesterday. That attributed to the beating of my head on the office wall for a full five minutes before I could control myself. Ok we're well into the afternoon by now. I got all the bills paid, problems ironed out, check book brought up to date, and it was dinner time. It came out of a can and the freezer.

BUT I had Tuesday coming at me fast. A fresh day in which to put on my orange shoes and write. About 9 pm Monday night my husband started having phantom pain in his stump. His left leg is amputated and while not often it still causes horrendous pain. That went on all night, he slept little and I slept some. The meds we had in the house couldn't control or stop the pain. A quick call this morning to the dr. got him a stronger rx. I'm the driver so I had to drive 80 miles round trip to pick up the prescription. Pharmacies do not take such rxs over the phone. On the way home I managed to eat a caramel and pull out a crown. That brought on an upset stomach which required a short nap. Now it's dinner time again. Who's for scrambled eggs and toast?

The medicine is helping tremendously. I've already blocked out Wednesday for writing. I have to write at least eight hours to make up for the lost time on Monday and Tuesday. Was it really lost time? Maybe yes, maybe no. I learned a few things. Don't beat your head on the wall because it hurts you and not the other guy. Don't eat a hard caramel when you have a mouth full of crowns. And if your husband always has your back you should always have his.

So I haven't canceled wearing my orange shoes and writing. I've just postponed it.

Orange High Heels Spark Creativity

2010-04-30T13:21:00.009-04:00

Yesterday I had lunch with "E" a literary agent and friend. She was in town to speak at the Romance Times Book Lovers Conference in Columbus.

It was sunny with blue skies as we walked from the Hyatt to a nearby restaurant, just enough warm breeze on our arms to feel good. Dressed up and downtown. How fun is that? Something I do only often enough to appreciate it.

As we ate we talked about her work, what books she's recently placed with publishers, how the industry is changing, how hard it is to sell good books, and then a bit about our personal lives.

Woe is me, she then asked about my current project. I was dreading the question. Let me explain, E was my agent for a couple of years and marketed my very first novel, a mainstream titled HUNGRY FOR CHOCOLATE, which was about a surrogacy gone wrong. Set in West Virginia, with a cast of zany characters, E loved it. (Oh, everyone in WV is not zany - just MY characters). The book was ultimately rejected and is now resting on my desk for another go through. The rough draft took two months to write and a year and a half to finish. When I first submitted it to E she didn't like the ending. I rewrote it and she then loved it enough to accept it.

I explained the premise for my current W.I.P. to her which she seemed to like. Then I told her about the three novels I had not finished. She wanted to know why. I explained that my process is to write a few pages, and then to start rewriting. Up until now that was the way I worked and I hadn't been able to change it.

I asked her for some advice. This is what she shared.

She tells her women authors who edit too early, to buy two bows, one blue and one pink - or any other two colors. One color is to be worn while creating the first draft - no editing allowed before writing the end. PERIOD. The other color will be worn when editing, and that begins only after the book is finished. (Guys will have to come up with their own version of the bows).

It got me to thinking as we finished our talk. I didn't dig the bow idea. But a light bulb went off when I thought of my beautiful orange high heels. Now my mind started racing. I would write daily on my story wearing my orange high heels. I would not edit, ever, while wearing those beautiful shoes. I'd finish the novel. Each writing session, the shoes would remind me that I'd made a commitment to myself. And to E. I think we high five-ed.

So I'm starting fresh on Monday. I'll be hard at work on my story wearing my orange high heels. I'll be wearing a smile. The shoes just naturally do that to me.

How about you? Do you have a process by which you work? Does it work well or not at all? How do you finish a novel? Or are you one of those persons for whom writing comes naturally, and you just write the novel and send it off?

I always start out loving my story and seeing so much potential. Then the rewriting starts and I lose focus and start changing everything. At that point, I become frustrated and overwhelmed.

This time, I'm going to let my orange high heels spark my creativity.

I'll be reporting my progress here weekly. If you have any advice, feel free to share. I hope you will share your tips as well as your progress with me.

Blessings on this lovely Friday afternoon! And on this next writing journey.

Celebrating Orange Shoe Day...

2010-04-28T09:27:00.003-04:00

I celebrated Orange Shoe Day yesterday by wearing my new orange strappy heels, jeans, and my orange tank top. It seemed the least I could do in their honor - was give them their very own day. Besides, once they're placed in my closet next to 22 other pairs of shoes they'll become ordinary. Or maybe not. Certainly, their brightness will cast a glow on the other residents in my closet. Plain beige, brown, and black shoes.

I was given my orange strappy heels by Katrin, my new YA friend from Germany. I felt I needed to give my new shoes a warm welcome and what better way to pay tribute to them than by by wearing them, proclaiming the day Orange Shoe Day, and turning an otherwise ordinary day into something special. Now, all orange shoes have a day of their own.

I feel pretty spectacular in them too. No matter that other things in my life were falling apart. All I had to do was look downward at my toes peeking out of those orange straps and I smiled. The sun shone brighter. The clouds were puffier. The sky was bluer. At least from where I sat at my computer in my orange shoes, that was so.

What I learned from my experience yesterday basically was how to turn lemons into lemonade. The day wasn't going so well. I needed a lift, and there were those orange shoes sitting on the floor looking, well, just looking very orange and bright. And they made me smile. So the rest is history.

We have the ability to be happy or sad. So do something today to give your day a lift.
Be it orange shoes or a sweet Florida orange to eat. Smile. And think of me in my orange shoes!

Blessings!

Clearing Your desk and Your Head....

2010-04-25T15:47:00.004-04:00

My thoughts can't seem to get wrapped around writing today. Instead, my head is filled to capacity with thoughts of not only our time in Wisconsin with Jill and the grandkids but also of putting the house in order and putting away all the clothes and suitcases. Now that most of it is finished, I'm having trouble switching gears. I can't seem to get into my story because of all that's playing out on the screen of my mind.

Usually all I need to do is to clear my writing space of clutter and sit down and turn on the computer.

Not today. I've done all that and it isn't working. It seems I must clear my head as well.

How do you clear your head for writing when you've been away for a week or so? What works for you? Can you just sit down and start tapping out words on the computer? Or do you have to fix a cup of tea? Put on a cozy sweater? Light a candle or two? Put on the coffee pot?

What signals your move toward the creative world?

Nothing has worked for me today. Instead, I'm having an early night.

I've learned that a well rested writer writes much better than one that has gone with too little sleep.

Look forward to hearing your tips! Thanks!

Tennessee Williams on writing...

2010-04-19T15:06:00.005-04:00

I'm learning to put myself first. It should be against the law of nature to have to learn to take care of oneself. (It's usually the female who has to learn this - it comes naturally to the male species!)

It certainly isn't something I've ever been encouraged to do. I learned from strong women who were married to strong men. They taught me to take care of the men first, then the children, then the community, and then the church. I don't remember anyone ever telling me to take care of myself. If anyone did, it would have been my mother, my greatest cheer leader and fan.

Taking care of oneself is kind of like money in the bank.

A financial counselor will tell you to pay yourself first before doling out to anyone else. Excellent advice for all of us, especially writers.

I'm slowly realizing that if I don't take care of myself, nobody else will. Knock me over the head. I feel as though I've JUST learned something profound. Shouldn't I already know this at my age?

Why do I feel compelled to take care of everyone in my life except myself? No naps for me. No built in vacations. No time off. I didn't think I was a martyr - but am I?

When it comes time for me, for my writing, I'm so exhausted, mentally and physically, that I work a short time and quit. My mind is clouded with the needs and wants of others.

So, paying oneself is essential to getting the work done. My new way of taking care of my writer self is to write first thing every day before I get exhausted with the cares and woes of the day. Those I can give attention to late in the day when my mind is already full of my own work.

Tennessee Williams said, "When I stop working the rest of the day is posthumous. I'm only really alive when I'm writing." I bet he didn't wear himself out doing things for other people or worrying if he didn't. I bet he would never go to his writing wrung out like a dish cloth. No, I bet he went to his work fresh and ready to do battle with the page, with his characters, his ideas. Like Tennessee, I am only really alive when I am writing.

What do you think about the writer doing his work first? How do you handle writing and the rest of your life. Are you like me, writing hit or miss, or are you dedicated and get to your desk first thing every morning?

Look forward to hearing from you.

Shedding my writer's skin...

2010-04-13T21:08:00.003-04:00

R and I are on our way to Wisconsin, driving and taking our time. We're going to visit our daughter, Jill, and her husband, Jason, along with the grandchildren, eight year old triplets, Mackenzie Lauren, Chase Andrew, and Tanner Riley, and their four year old brother, Austin Cole.

We saw Chase a few weeks ago when he came to visit but we haven't seen the rest of the family since Christmas. We're excited to be getting away from home for a few days and visiting them at their home. We love seeing all their "things," which they show us with great enthusiasm - what's new in their rooms, what treasures they've collected recently, their school papers. I read to them and I listen, to their stories - and they have dozens- and to them reading their books to me. They have quite a library of their own. I'm pleased that they love books, that they love to read, and that they love to write stories of their own.

On the trip, I'm working on shedding my writer's skin and donning my grandma's persona. (I won't say grandma's skin because I already have that!) I remind myself that for the next few days I won't get frustrated at not being able to write when the mood strikes. I'll think of someone else besides myself. O.K. that one is hard. Writers have to be selfish if they are to get the work done.

I promise only to check email. No face book, no blogging, no working on my story.

Once the hugs and kisses start I'll have no trouble changing gears. It's the one thing I can give up writing for, grandmothering. A few days of uninterrupted unconditional love. Nothing in the world compares.

Blessings!

Writing and there's always something else...

2010-04-10T11:41:00.004-04:00

Some days no matter how hard you try there is always something else to do before you can sit down to write.

I can't write when the sink is full of dishes. So I do the dishes.

I can't write when the bed is unmade. So I make the bed.

I can't write when there are wet towels. So I wash a load of laundry, dry, fold, and put everything away.

I check to see what's for dinner. (Can't write unless I know that!) Okay, tonight we can have leftover spaghetti, salad, and garlic bread.

Then a visiting baby boy, four months old, eyes of blue, and smelling of Johnson's baby lotion needs to be rocked. That takes at least thirty minutes to satisfy my nurturing gene. I come away smelling of baby - what a lovely scent.

Next, it's on to yoga for strengthening and limbering my body. Feels great. Thanks, Rodney Yee, for coming up with moves I can master.

Then I MUST read my Daily Bread and tend to my spiritual side.

Oh, I forgot to eat this morning - well a banana and a slice of apple bread didn't do the job. Okay, a piece of toast and I'm now good to go.

I notice my hair could use some attention and so could the kitchen floor.

I stop there. No more excuses. I'm pulling up my story on my laptop and sitting down.

Bon Voyage. I'm off to feed my creative side.

Happy writing.