Reaching Across The Isle

Reaching across the isle goes both ways.  Some how it is expected that only our more conservative congresspeople compromise and do the reaching.  When the Democrats dig in and hold their ground it's heralded by the media as political sagacity.  Let the Republican side of the isle take the same action, and it's called stonewalling, divisive, do nothing.

MATTIE

Can it be? My first book, MATTIE, is going to print January 9, release date, March 12, 2013  I'm afraid I'll wake from this wonderful dream.  It's well worth the humiliation of asking authors for endorsements, scheduling book signings, attending book signings. Ugh!  I do enjoy working with the wonderful  folks at Cedar Fort who are making it all possible. Taking one small bite at a time of the elephant makes the overwhelming project achievable.  The cover is a first draft.  The little girl holding a solitary flower encapsulates all that is Mattie, just a bit lost, just a bit lonely.

 MATTIE 

Born in Colonia  Juarez, Chihuahua, Mexico, nine-year-old Mattie’s faith in God is shattered when her father dies.  At age eighteen, moving to Bisbee, Arizona to live with her sister and husband, Mattie falls in love with a handsome banker from Texas.  Tragedy strikes plunging her into an abyss of dark despair.  At her lowest ebb, Mattie discovers that though she may have left God, He never left her.

Alonzo Skousen, Mattie’s childhood sweetheart, a tall, good-natured red head, wants to collect on her old promise to marry him.  Enos Wood, the handsome, dark eyed, gun-packing nemesis of her youth, leaves no doubt that he too has designs on her heart.  Mattie learns that trusting God is not without its trials and can lead to grief, especially when the Mexico Revolution threatens her fragile faith and wedded bliss.

GET REAL

Have you noticed that the heroine in any romance is the most beautiful woman he has every seen ?  Furthermore, she bounds out of bed requiring only thirty minutes to make ready before going to work or meet a date.

What? 

She doesn't eat?  

Bathe?  

Apply makeup?

Okay, maybe she needs just a swipe of mascara on her long curly lashes that touch her flawless, porcelain skin when she blinks and only a splash of lip gloss on her full, pouty lips. Maybe she has a wash and wear hairdo (a myth, by the way).  And what female doesn't try on three different outfits agonizing over the five C's of fashion; circumstance, current, color, chassis,( c-word for butt), and complain. Oh, yes, and accessories. Not to mention that ten minutes into her routine, even a beautiful woman requires more than a momentary tinkle on the commode.

Thirty minutes, you say? Unless she’s headed for the gym, garden, or she just doesn’t care,

I DON'T THINK SO.

BLESSED CHAOS

Six Children, spouses, and thirteen grandchildren; each room beyond capacity, the overflow sleeping in a truck camper; menus , daily runs to the grocery store, irregular mealtimes, and constant snacks; disposable cups assigned and labeled; ice water served from a thermos on the deck to offer relief for the overworked refrigerator that can’t keep up; constant hum of washer and drier; late nights, early mornings; swimming, volley ball, a day on the river; perpetual towels and swim suits draping the deck; smudged gliding doors, muddy handprints on the white banister, daily vacuuming.  

As my friend, Neva Scott says, “Blessed Chaos.” 

And I miss it.

Looking forward to next year.

Midnight Taco Truck Run

River Day

Baseball Night

 Family Dance

One of many swim days

HOW DID I GET HERE?

In my acne prone stage of self-conscious insecurity, I had no hope of a social life much less marriage and children.  Sometimes I have a surreal moment where I find myself hovering in the past looking at the present wondering how I got here.  It seems only yesterday I was a newlywed, yet evidence proves otherwise.  Five boys and one girl spanning twelve years, whining, helpless, and insubordinate, are now gracious, competent, thoughtful adults.  Beautiful little children call me grams reminding me that my offspring have offspring.  And of course, the mirror…! When did that happen?

Firmly in the present, life goes on as if it has always been today--the gray, the wrinkles, married with children—who are good parents in their own right, adding twelve to our number with a promise of more.  The past fades into obscurity. 

Until the next surreal moment when I hover in yesteryear and wonder how I got here.

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY

        Early in our marriage, I told my husband I was not his mother, he was off the hook for Mother’s Day.

        Stupid me.   

        Children don’t do Mother’s Day without parental support, not even simple things much less breakfast in bed.  No big loss.  I don’t even like eating in bed.  It’s messy, and uncomfortable, and doesn’t allow for seconds.  Thanks to school and cub scouts, I received my first macaroni necklace and a Mother’s Day card decorated with stick figures, one of which represented me. 

         IN MY DREAMS! 

        My six children got older and remembrances got more sophisticated—meal prep and clean up, impressive art, flowers, grain mill, landscaping, interior decorating, and letters of adoration obviously written about someone else’s mom.  Or maybe it was a wish list.

        I asked my sister if she had a happy Mother’s Day.  “Yes” she said. “I had no expectations, so there were no disappointments.”  A mantra for contentment.  While laud, pomp, and circumstance is always welcome, expecting it is selfish and presumptuous and robs me of finding joy in the simple things—a phone call, an e-mail, even a macaroni necklace. This year, one of the most unexpected pleasures was a card from the grandchildren.  And an invitation from my number three child, —“Hey, Mom, I have to speak in Church today. You want to come?  I’m going to talk about our family problems."

MY EARLY MORNING FLIGHT

 Barely out of pajamas, eyes still puffy from lack of sleep, second day hair, cosmetics hurriedly applied. Long lines at check in counters. Longer lines at security.  Like cattle prodded through chutes, we advance forward, but in silence, smiles buried under stress of hurry up in a long line of wait. Finally, my turn with the security agent. Produce ID again, shoes off, jacket off, 3 oz liquids exposed in quart-size zip lock, laptop rides alone outside its protective sleeve. Did I remember everything?  The beeper sounds. No! Cell phone in my pocket. Blast! Back to the conveyor belt. Deposit phone into tub—not the one with the laptop. Laptop rides alone, remember.  Choose another tub. I have four.  I pick the tub with the shoes. Back to security booth. Place feet to match painted prints on floor, arms over my head, hold my breath, not unlike being at the doctor’s office for my annual pap and mammogram. (Does the x-ray show my red face)? Step through the booth. No beep. Repack; computer in its sleeve, phone in pocket, reload shoulder bag, slip on shoes, grab jacket, grab pillow, stack tubs. It’s a race. While not actually run over by the fellow who follows, he who hesitates hazards deep sighs and furrowed brows for holding up the dance. Find my gate. Relax. Look at the schedule. Two hours to departure.

 Hurry up and wait.

The departure gate changes twice, but I’m not informed. The first time, I over hear the attendant telling another passenger.  The second time, a half hour before departure, I sit alone at the gate B93. Something is wrong.  I check the Departure board. The gate has been changed to B52. Heart pounding in my temples, I sprint, twenty five pounds on one shoulder, ten pounds on the other, a death grip on my pillow.  With ten minutes to spare, I’m second to the last passenger to board. I find my seat.  We don’t leave for another fifteen minutes.

Hurry up and wait.

Take that......Spring

As of this morning, my long sleeved tops are folded neatly into a big plastic storage bin where they will live until Thanksgiving. My husband says I’m rushing things, temperatures being what they are.  But the birds have arrived, the sun makes an appearance more often than not, yard work is back on the agenda, and the first day of spring was heralded nearly three weeks ago.  Someone needs to rush things, to pressure the fickle season that bounces back and forth between summer and winter just to hear me groan—like that’s going to make a difference.  Nevertheless, I cave to summer clothes demanding release, and winter clothes begging for retirement.  And within easy reach, hangs an assortment of sweaters and jackets.
Take that……spring.

Until

Critiquing my first short story, my writer's group made comments like "skilled transitions" and "flowing sentences".  They were smiling so I assumed it was a good thing because frankly, I had no idea what they were talking about. I just wrote.
Until it made sense.
Until it sounded good.

Pouring over three years of Writer's Magazines, I was overwhelmed by critiques on show don't tell, passive verbs, action verbs, extrapolation, character development, cause and effect, blah, blah, blah, blah.  Writing to the rules is like diagramming a sentence before speaking. (You know what I mean if you have ever learned a foreign language. There’s a mental exercise before we ever open our mouths. Is the noun feminine or masculine? Does the object agree? Does it go first or last?  How do I conjugate the verb, present, past, future? Or is it subjunctive)?

But I finally get it.  I scour my writing for redundancies, fluff, and passive action.  I might even loose a goodnights sleep worrying over my characters or mentally rewriting a chapter. But mostly, I just write.
Until it makes sense.
Until it sounds good.

Happy Anniversary To Us

No, he isn’t my BEST FRIEND, but he is one of my friends. And I am his only friend.  (LOL, as they say in texting vernacular).  

Six children, 13 grandchildren, and 39 years later, we are still lovers.  I received red roses.  He gets his favorite apple pie.  Dinner is our favorite Thai restaurant and then home for a decadent dessert from Olive Garden—triple layer strata.  With ice cream.  

And then…..well, I’ll just say his kiss is still magical.

You Should Be a Writer

You should be a writer." My mother's voice echoed in my head over the years. I wrote entertaining letters, back in the day when long distance communication required such archaic means.  And, I was skilled at producing THE CHRISTMAS LETTER, abhorrent as the Christmas fruit cake which is re-gifted, making its way around the world until finally one year it ends up at your house again.
Nevertheless, creative letters does not a author make.

Authors are English Literature Majors.  They don’t read for pleasure and entertainment.  They study the classics concluding what their professor claims was the author’s point, or impetus, or skill.  I imagine the authors of yesteryear looking down from their Heavenly perch—or up from their scorching post, as the case may be—with arched brow thinking. “So that’s what I meant.”

I nearly flunked my first and last lit class.  I was a college dropout.  And I was mother of six young children spanning a mere eleven years—each one an insurmountable barrier to writing, to my way of thinking.  A successful playwright assured me that neither a lit major nor college education was a prerequisite to good writing.  My young children became adults and moved out.  No more excuses.  I took a couple of writing classes, subscribed to writer’s magazines, wrote three novels, entered contests, joined a writer’s group, and signed my first publishing contract January 2012.
Finally an author.

What looks easy on paper took sixteen years and a myriad of rejections.
And my dream has become a nightmare; another email account, Facebook, Twitter, Blog, Web page, endorsements, speaking engagements, book signings, Trailers, etc., etc., etc.
I’m hyperventilating.