Writer Woman

Check out my website

2010-10-28T09:45:00.000-07:00

I now have my own website so you can track the progress of my book.

So come on over to www.annhite.com

More Madness From The Front Lines of NaNo

2009-11-05T07:36:00.001-08:00

Writing 50,000 words in less than thirty days is pure madness on a good month when life is going like you want. Ah, but how often does life go like you want it? So far my total for the first five days is 20,459 words.

This is totally amazing to me considering what has been taken place here on the home front. First, I have my granddaughter with me. So, I’m mom to a lively toddler again, and she has a cold. Second, I volunteer at the local school every week. I read for three hours. Talk about exhausting. But I so love reading to the kids. Third, I have accepted book review assignments for three new books not counting my reviewing I do for a New York Publisher. But these new reviews were offered to me by publishers where I reviewed before. In other words they requested me. It is hard to say no when the books are so important and come from smaller literary presses that are sending important writing voices into the world. Plus, I am exposed to some of the finest writing in the country. One being Mary Jo Bang’s new book of poetry. You talking about beautiful.

So, what have I learned from the madness this year? I think I’ve learned the same thing I learn each year but need a reminder. I can do whatever means most to me. Writing and reading goes hand in hand. I learn tons about my own voice from both.

The word count of 20,459 is nothing to sneeze at. I’m almost to the halfway point. I think this is my best year ever if I don’t lose footing along the way. It is my goal to get a rough, rough draft of the whole novel.

Off to write and then a little walk.

Day Two Of Nano

2009-11-02T08:55:00.000-08:00

Well, I'm off to a decent start. I have written 12,306 words. Not to bad. I love allowing myself the time and space to write this many words. But as of now, I really don't have much more to say. ;) I'm saving it for tomorrow's word count.

Ann

So What's There To Say

2009-09-18T07:51:00.000-07:00

I find it hard to write about life sometimes. How about you?

In The Space Of Five Minutes

2009-08-29T09:32:00.000-07:00

In the space of five short minutes, one’s whole life can change. My friends, you think you this to your bone—I was sure I understood—but you don’t know. You can’t until you look the change in the eye.

On Wednesday August 26, 2009, around 5 pm, I opened my back door to make sure my daughter was playing next door. They small group played under the carport and I could hear my daughter laughing. All was well. I went to turn the TV channel, and then decided to put a DVD into he player. I chose the DVD and was placing it in the tray when I saw one of the little boys my daughter was playing with under the carport. He is four years old. I opened the door, not thinking too much about the visit.

“What do you need, Buddy?”

He smiled. “Ella is in trouble by the police.”

I laughed. Ella, a smart lively young girl, was not a child to be in trouble with anyone, especially the police. Becoming a police officer is on her long list of career possibilities.

“Tell her to come home.” I closed the door.

I went to the back door to make sure Ella was on her way. What I saw next is one of the two images that appear imprinted on my mind every time I close my eyes. A police officer was kneeling on one knee reaching to the ground. I knew. I knew. I knew. I screamed to my older daughter that I thought Ella had been hurt. I ran down the hill and realized I was screaming and sobbing. Then I saw the second image that floats into my mind just as I start to slip into a sleep. One of her sandals, with a strap broken, hanging to the side, torn, was turned on its side.

The police officer looked at me. “She came out of nowhere. I never saw her. I couldn't stop.”

From this point forward, I don’t have the courage, as of yet, to write about. I just can’t wrap my arms around the pictures that flicker in and out when I allow myself to be still. But in that moment that the police officer spoke to me, I became calm. I believe this calm came from God. I understood Ella had been hit by the police car. She was awake and not sure what had happen. I knelt beside the police officer and began to speak to my precious, panic-ridden child. I took her hand and began to speak in a calm voice. I talked through a throng of EMTs. I talked through an ambulance ride that seemed to last forever. I talked as needles were used. I talked as vital signs beeped and blinked on a screen. I talked through a battery of x-rays. I talked until the doctor came into the room with the best words I had ever heard. Only a mild concussion, badly bruised knee, and a deep cut under the eye. She could go home once the wound was closed.

I have been strangely silent, unable to speak of the personal hell I walked through. I couldn’t sleep and writing was a joke. I’ve always been able to write my way through problems.

My child was alive and healthy and I was overjoyed. Life was crystal clear. But at the same time I sunk head first in to the reality of the event. I have no control, none. This is a lesson I thought I had learned already.

Today I spoke to the investigating officer. I told him Ella was back to her normal fun-loving self. I ask him to tell the officer that struck Ella that we didn’t blame him and that we should all move forward and leave that day behind. But can I? At this point, I don’t think so. At this point, I think this experience has soaked into to who I am, transforming me once again.

When I hung up the phone, I was more at peace than I had been since this ordeal began. The images have not gone from my mind. Last night I began to cry to think I had to let go and send Ella back to school Monday. But all of this does not have the power that it held two days ago. Will it disappear? No. A close family member, who went through something similar, says the emotions can come back years later, but still we go on. We celebrate life and live it to its fullest.

And as you can see, I’ve been able to compose sentences again. God is good. Count your blessings today. In this way you honor our wonderful, dynamic little girl we call a miracle.

God Bless

Ann

All I Wanted To Do Was Ride The School Bus

2009-08-06T13:59:00.001-07:00

You know summer is almost over when you take your child for sneak a peek at school. This is where everyone is prepared for school on the first day. Mom and dad meet new teacher, see the room, and get their list of supplies. Well when I went to school--I know my kids are rolling their eyes right now--I walked to school on the first day and everyday, rain, sleet, and snow, by myself, armed with a class schedule that was surely wrong. My mother never--and I mean never--set foot into the school unless I was in deep trouble. I liked it that way.

I lived a quarter of a mile from the school. No big deal to walk, unless the walk was along the main bus route to school. Yes every bus delivering to my Jr. High came down this road to drop of their kids.

I started my walk by praying that I could make it to school without one bus passing me. Fat chance. When a bus passed, it was a blessing only to have a knock on the window or the flattened face of some stupid boy against the glass. The dreaded response was a friend opening a window and yelling.

"Hey, Ann, walk a little faster!"

At those times, I hated my mother for moving so close to the school. When I brought the problem up to her, she only looked at me and frowned.

"Most kids would be thankful they didn't have to ride those horrible buses."

In what universe?

Not one of my four girls wanted to ride the bus. They thought it was the worst curse put upon them.

I always said, "If you had to walk, you'd hate it. Believe me. I know. Most kids would love to ride the school bus."

They only rolled their eyes and wondered in what universe?

Some things never change!

What Did We Do Before All The Safety Rules?

2009-07-15T18:12:00.001-07:00

What in the world did we do before all the safety rules came along? I thinking of one in particular.

Don't eat raw cake batter!

Understand I can see all the reasons for this warning, and as a mother, I enforce it with no exceptions. But as my granny used to say: What you don't know most of the time won't hurt you. It is the word 'most' we stress about now. Once of my best memories from childhood is mixing cake batter in my granny's small kitchen with my younger brother. Granny gave us all the ingredients--no box mixes for us--and stood back.

"Whoever runs the mixer gets to lick the beaters." I called out first, grabbing the mixer.

"I get the bowl," yelled my brother. Of course everyone knows that the bowl has more left over batter, but there was something about running my tongue over the beater, savoring the buttery tasting concoction. My brother would have to use a civilized spoon and not drip it on anything. Me, I would stand over the big kitchen sink licking my fingers along with the batter.

In all my years of cake batter licking, I never became sick, neither did my brother. And to be honest, in all my years of licking, I never knew anyone who became sick from cake batter. Why is that? Were we just lucky or was it a different time when our food was handled more carefully? Nowadays it breaks my heart to tell my nine year old daughter she can't lick. I'm a good mom.

But hey, when she leaves the kitchen, I have been known to hold a beater to my mouth and lick until my heart's content.

Are you a cake batter licker? Isn't it funny where our joy springs?

Ann

Camping In The Backyard

2009-07-04T07:55:00.001-07:00

Who said you can't have a vacation at home? We, like most of the country, are feeling the money crunch, so our annual short camping trips have been curtailed for a while. Ah, but does that defeat us? Nope. We set up camp yesterday in our big spacious backyard, complete with decent size kiddie pool, spacious tent, and the fire bowl.

We swam most of the day, ate dinner, and invited the neighborhood kids to make smores over the fire. At one point I had seven kids running through our yard, catching fireflies in the dusk. At that moment, I realized it's not where we go on vacation that makes the trip fun. We were making huge memories right there in our own space. Around eleven we went to bed in our tent that has a roof of screen. The sky never looked so beautiful. I fell asleep watching the stars. What could be better?

The neighbors want to know when we're going to go camping again ;).

Speaker and Teacher

2009-06-11T12:12:00.000-07:00

I have been invited to speak at Scribbers Writing Retreat and Conference in August of this year. See information below.

Scribblers’ Retreat Writers’ Conference 2009

Literacy is our purpose.

Fulfilling dreams is our goal.

1-800-996-2904 (Registration/Reservations)

@ Sea Palms Resort, St. Simons Island, Georgia

February 12-15, 2009 - History Fiction/Non-Fiction/Romance

Elizabeth Blahnik, Ernest Gilbert, Pam Mueller, Kathy Kerr, Maggie Toussaint, Dr. Jim Outlaw, Lee Carter, Millie Wilcox, Monica Simmons, Roger Pinckney

May 14-17, 2009 - How To…

Dickie Anderson (F), Ed Ginn, Harlan Hambright, Holly McClure, Cappy Rearick, Dr. Ervin Williams, Constance Daley, Bud Hearn, Mary Wagner, Dr.William Rawlings

August 13-16, 2009 - SciFi, Fantasy, Mystery, Inspirational- This World and Beyond

Linda Armstrong, Charlotte Babb, Maggie Carter-de Vries, Nina Munteanu, Tom Dent/Andy Lamon, Jaclyn Weldon-White, Dr. Thom Brucie, Ann Hite, Victor DiGenti, Jack McDevitt

November 12-15, 2009 - Novels, Short Stories, Etc.

Chris Rumble, Lois Ruby, Len d’Eon, Cornelia Bailey, Prof. Richard Krevolin, Julie Grimm, Carolyn Howard-Johnson, Patricia Patterson, Prof. Tom Williams, Gary Ferguson

Scribblers’ Retreat is a non-profit organization established with the goal of reaching writers of all ages to inspire and promote their hidden gifts and talents.

By involving the local community, authors, publishers, editors, journalists and all forms of the literary world, we are opening their minds and bringing hope where there was doubt.

Scribblers’ Retreat is not the typical classroom setting. It was designed to bring world-class authors, literature professors, editors, journalists, and publishers one-on-one with those who are hungry for the power of the written word. It is the opportunity of a lifetime for someone who has had a manuscript in a desk drawer for 40 years or who has an outstanding poem that simply must be read.

Scribblers' Retreat Writers' Conference

“Where “can’t” is not in our vocabulary.”

City of Victory

2009-06-03T12:52:00.000-07:00

City of Victory

Anita Saran’s short story, City of Victory, is one of the best crafted stories I’ve read in a long time. She has a knack of bringing the setting to the forefront without intrusion. To call this piece of work a short story is an understatement. I find it to be more of a novella.

The story is set in sixteenth century Vijayanagar, a city in India known as Hampi today. Jehaan is a gypsy girl, who is forced to be one of the maids of honor to the queen. This gives her great privilege: jewels, fine clothes, and good food. But Jehann is not satisfied to be part of this glittering procession. She is an Egyptian and wants to return home to her father and estranged lover. She longs for the fresh air and earth, not a stone floor palace.

Meherbanu escapes a horrible life when she approaches the king and suggests that she care for his zenana (his group of concubines and the queen). He says that he will put her in charge because of her boldness. She becomes the mentor and mother to the women. But what happens to a group of women protected by one man, the king? The author handles this complexity with beauty.

City Of Victory had its debut as a broadcast on BBC Radio 4 in 2004. So many of the images haunted me and remained in my mind long after I read the work. The photos that illustrate the book are as interesting as the characters. I’m delighted to say I found this ebook a wonderful experience.

To purchase:

Pinching Myself

2009-05-22T05:25:00.000-07:00

I found out last night, in a weird way, that my novel, Beautiful Wreck, was a semi-finalist in the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Contest. I explained it this way to my nine year old daughter: Making it to the semi finalist is like being one of the last six couples in Dancing With The Stars before I got voted to go home. There were originally 10,000 entries. As a semi-finalist I did receive a review from Publishers Weekly that was favorable but pointed out the reasons they didn't pick my novel as a finalist. I'm on cloud nine. Beautiful Wreck going this far in the contest gives me a better chance of attracting a publisher in these hard times.

Now here's the weird part: I was under the impression that Amazon would contact me through my email if I went any further than the first two thousand chose from the original ten thousand entries. I never got an email, so I figured the book was lost in the shuffle of so many fine pieces of work.

Yesterday I was searching for a link to one of my essays online and ran across a link to my first three chapters published by Amazon. Now, I knew that only quarter finalists had their first three chapters published on Amazon. So, I started freaking out because yes, quarter finalists was great. I went back to the original site where I submitted my novel for the contest. There were two messages on my page. One informing me that I had made it into the quarter finalist round. The other telling me my Publishers Weekly review was ready, and my novel had made it to the semi finalist before it went down.

Because I never knew until last night, a day after they announced the three finalists, I couldn't view this as anything but a huge success. There was no disappointment involved.

Writers have to search those moments in their earlier careers that help them shine. This is one of mine!

If you would like to read the first three chapters published by Amazon just click on the link and download the pdf.

Documentary Film Festival On DVD

2009-05-21T14:27:00.000-07:00

I watched a haunting short film documentary today. It is called Album and was made by Barbara Bird. The film chronicles a family with old 8mm home movies 1943-1975. Family members narrate in the background. When I first began watching, the documentary seemed nice and sweet. As the movie progresses, little bits and pieces pull together. It is a moving story of a family that falls apart through drug abuse, mental illness, and adultery. The results are staggering.

One brother ends up in a long care facility until he dies alone one night in 2001. Another brother dies in a construction accident ten years after the family breaks up. The remaining three siblings carry with them a legacy of addictive personalities.

Barbara Bird came to filmmaking later in in life. She was a nurse for a number of years. Further proof that women have so much to give!

The Album is feature on a DVD call Full Frame (Documentary Film Festival).

Listening Is Part Of Writing

2009-05-15T06:19:00.001-07:00

I just finished listening to a podcast on Writers On Writing hosted by Barbara DeMarco-Barrett. This show was an interview with Elizabeth Strout. Her book Olive Kitteridge just won the Pulitzer for fiction. It is an amazing book of short stories. The voice rings so true. Let me tell you folks: you know Olive Kitteridge. I'm providing a link to Writers on Writing so you can download and listen to the podcast. http://writersonwriting.blogspot.com/

Scroll down the page and click on the download for Elizabeth Strout, or go to the I-tunes store and subscribe to Writers on Writing. Then you can listen to all the great interviews they do on this show. It is well worth the effort.

Also remember my ebook Life on Black Mountain is still avialable for a free download. I'm not sure how much longer it will be available. I'd love to hear what you think.
http://www.deadmule.com/fiction/2008/08/life-on-black-mountain-the-book/

click on download the pdf file.

Enjoy

Losing Your Child At A Church Dinner or Please Help Me Things Are Becoming A Bit Much

2009-03-26T05:38:00.000-07:00

You may ask yourself how can a mom lose a nine year old at a birthday dinner at the church? A party that is taking place in a fairly small room? Well, I did and now it's even funny to nine year old daughter, but let's face it: I traumatized my child.

The evening started off rushed. Husband comes home and we make a mad dash to reach the dinner on time. We arrive just as the last person is making herself a plate. At this moment, I realize we will eat my pasta dish for supper the following night. Oh well, my chin is up. I'm looking forward to eating a meal that someone else has prepared. Ah, there is a catch. We are the last people to go through the food line and yes, most of the good dishes have gone the way of other dinner plates. But there was that yummy pasta dish that was brought by the family who was late. Once again I am determined to make the best of the situation. At heart I'm a idealist and search for the best case scenarios. I rarely admit defeat. We sit down and have a lovely dinner with my brother and mother in-law. I didn't allow myself to wonder why they wouldn't have called dibs on some of the better dishes in our honor. I would have done this for them. No, I wouldn't let my mind entertain this idea at all. I ate my canned biscuits--all the homemade ones were gone--and pasta. Oh yeah, I did score a large salmon patty--that's southern for salmon croquettes, breaded in cornmeal and deep fried. It was a treat. Two bites into the our dinner, the preacher's wife announced that they would sing happy birthday to the preacher and cut the cake. Husband began to shove food in his mouth so as not to miss a piece of the birthday cake. Ah, but I knew we had no fears. Brother in-law had purchased the cake.

Now, what you have to realize about brother in-law is when he buys the cake, the whole state of Georgia can attend. Every Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter my table is blessed with cakes of all sorts. At Halloween we received three dozen assorted cupcakes, a mummy cake--this is a cake that looks like a a mummy's face--and a ghost cake.

At the church dinner, there was two huge sheet cakes, one chocolate and one strawberry. My eye was on the strawberry. After dinner I decided to socialize with a few friends. Socializing for a writer is rare. I spend most of my time here creating important blog posts for my followers. No seriously, I can spend days without speaking more than ten words to an actual adult. I'm not talking about Husband. So I go to another table and begin a wonderful conversation with a friend from high school. We both like to read and love similar books.

In minutes I realized I haven't seen nine year old daughter. Husband walks by and I grab his arm. "Where's our child?"

He shrugs. "She's not with you?"

"Maybe you should find her." There are several reasons I gave him this task, but the main one is: it was his turn.

I continued my talk and minutes went by with me glancing around the room to see if my daughter had appeared. It was around this time began to hear a loud bump. BUMP BUMP BUMP BUMP! No one else seemed to notice, so I decided it was a bad frig or a furnace turning on. The sound continued. Husband walked by.

"Did you find her?"

"No, did you?"

My heart began to beat like that of a mother who has not been at her post as she should. The annoying noise continued.

"Where is she?" I tried not to scream at him.

"I'll look outside."

I refrained from pointing out he should have done this the first time. The noise grew louder. No one seemed to notice. I felt like I was in a bad horror movie. The preacher's wife looked up and went to a closet, opened it, and looked inside. She shrugged to herself and went back to her seat. The noise began again. I walked back to the hall where the closet was located. There was the ladies bathroom. I whispered to the door. "Are you in there."

"Gosh Mom, it took you long enough! I've been in here forever. The lock is broken. I can't get out! Where were you? Couldn't you hear me beating on the wall?"

Friends, take this as a lesson. Don't become so accustom to blocking out loud noises that you don't hear a cry for help! Oh well, Daughter is fine, even if she's not so sure about her mother's rescue capabilities. But I'd be willing to bet this will be one of those stories she tells her own kids. And as for me, I need a vacation. Anyone out there know where I can get a cheap writing retreat. Free would be great.

Excitement In A Rejection

2009-03-09T13:16:00.000-07:00

First as I write this email a dear friend should be undergoing a liver transplant. It has been a long wait and she never gave up. So keep her in your prayers.

Second, I received the best rejection today. I never thought I'd write that. A year and a half ago I sent a story to a rather large magazine, knowing or thinking I would never hear from them. It's one of those magazines that has a story in each New Stories From The South anthology. It is a tough magazine. This morning I received an email about the story from so long ago. First they told me how sorry they were that their response took so long. It seems my story went into the hands of every editor and was debated. They loved the voice and style of writing, but felt the story wasn't right for the magazine. Then--this is the good part--they went on to say that they were so 'impressed' with my writing that they wanted me to take this email as an encouragement to send them more stories soon. Whoa, this is a magazine I never thought I'd hear from. This is a magazine that publishes the likes of Louise Erdrich, Ellen Gilchrist, and Amy Bloom.

So, now I just have to decide what stories to send. Wish me luck.

Ann

Writing Underwater

2009-02-26T08:57:00.000-08:00

Up until this point in my life, I've never experienced the dreaded 'B' word. You know the word that all writers hate. Block. I have never had it in my vocab list. Why? Because I've always had a wealth of ideas and had no trouble acting on them. But since October of last year, I've dead in the creative sense. It's only when this opressive weight lifts that one can see the weight you were under.

My block built a stone wall around me and everything that wanted to make art. What caused it? Well if I knew that, by gosh I'd be a rich woman. I could point fingers, but honestly, I can only say that a combination of overwork, underplay, and refusal live my life a different way brought on this malady.

I had the ideas by the dozen. I would sit down to write, sometimes I would even write pages, only to find that I hated everything about the idea. My characters had claimed up, no longer speaking to me. My inspirations for essays went dry like a drought ridden river. I moaned: Why, why me. Is my writing over. I knew this couldn't be because I thought about it all the time.

And then, I had a dream that I was pregnant with a neglected baby. Hm. When I gave birth in the dream, I was told if I nutured the child it would grow, but I couldn't continue doing things in the same way I had before. I had to approach life in a fresh new way. I woke that morning sure it was a sign that I should revive some old work of mine. Nope not at all.

I began to look at me work and my whole approach to life. What was different? Well, by gosh, everything! But mostly I was different. I had blocked myself inside a shell of what I thought writing was supposed to be and it had caught up with me.

The first thing I did was go to the library. I hadn't been since October when I taught the writing workshope. I was surrounded by the workers when they saw me. Where have you been? We missed you? This warmed me. Then I began to choose books and books. More books than I could ever read in my alloted time, but took them anyway. Ten books and two audio books.

As I was leaving, one of the workers said, "Good to see you with us again." That's when I realized I had been living underwater. And folks, writing doesn't work well underwater.

The following week a new character came out of the blue and began to speak to me. I'm on a roll again, but I'm careful, careful not to caught up in what I think should be and just allow what will happen.

Thoughts On The New Year

2009-01-19T05:56:00.000-08:00

Here we go. A list. Oh Yes a list. Things I want to accomplish this year.

1. To finish the first draft of my novel in-progress.

2. To read twenty novels.

3. To read twenty nonfiction books.

4. To spend ten minutes in stillness each day.

5. To continue journal writing.

6. To give. I want to be a part of a group locally that makes giving a must.

7. To spend more one on one time with hubby.

9. To spend more time with my brother.

10. Learn to say no. (Boy that is a big one.)

I could go on with more, but honestly lists sometimes defeat me, so I will stop here. What do you have in mind to do this year?

Ann

Choosing Joy To The World

2008-12-20T05:23:00.001-08:00

We have a hawk that appears to have adopted our yard--I think because we have a tiny patch of trees. He flies in at the most surprising times. Sometimes I will have completely forgotten about him, and he will streak across the yard with his wide wing span. He has come so close to perch that I've actually had time to study his beauty. Native Americans believe the hawk is a totem of strength. When I watch this bird swoop and glide across the sky, I think of grace. He never seems to be in a hurry, even when looking for supper.

Our house sits right on the edge of Atlanta. At night you can see the skyline from my bedroom window. I have a love-hate relationship with this area. At times I long for open spaces and quiet. But I know I would miss this place. I know I'm where I'm supposed to be. I've come to know what to expect here: the grumpy drivers, the firehouse nearby, the school, other walkers, the city workers. I have a community.

This is a time of year where we focus on community more. For example, my church has adopted a women's shelter down the road. Eight children--ages newborn through seventeen--live there at this time. We are finishing homemade Christmas cookies to complete the stockings that have been stuffed.

This is the time of year for choices. Do we take the time to make a difference or do we look at the season through Mr. Scrooge's eyes? Do we say we don't make enough money to help anyone this year? Or do we give because we are to give no matter how little we have?

The women of this shelter can be found under the bridges of Atlanta every evening without fail. Why? Because they take part of their supper to those who don't have a place to sleep. They do this without fail with an open heart, filled with Joy.

Joy is not something that falls upon us when we receive our favorite present. Joy is chosen. Joy comes because we choose to experience it. And the good news is we can choose it at any time, even in the seems to be the most trying of times. The experience is easy, much easier than fighting it.

The hawk can fly higher than any bird with the exception of the eagle. It is known that often instead of choosing to fight, he moves to an altitude the enemy can't reach. He rises above.

The fine women at the shelter have chosen to rise above, even while others feel sorry for them, even while many people walk around saying they can't 'afford' to help anyone this season. These women haven't called off Christmas because they can't afford to spend money. They have taken to a higher altitude. They are experiencing the true joy of the season.

Where will you fly?

Who Do I Think I Am?

2008-12-11T06:14:00.001-08:00

Twice during this week, from two different sources, I was told to search out some of the WPA essays. These are essays written by out of work writers for the government during the depression. So I googled WPA Essays. Wow! The amount of hits were mind-boggling. The subjects covered everything from knitting to history. But I was drawn to the slave narratives. These are scans of the original handwritten interviews of former slaves still alive in the early 30s.

These pieces of art--they are art--are archived in a digital form on the Library of Congress' website. I couldn't imagine these treasures had been around and I never knew about them. The writer in me wanted to read this work, these stories. I began with an one hundred year old former slave still alive in the 30s in south Georgia. At any time in my life I would have been entranced with this writing, but now, it holds a more poignant interest. My family became richer and more diverse with my youngest daughter's wedding a couple of summers ago. And with the birth of my new granddaughter, a new history and culture was added. I guess what I'm trying to say is all those years of pledging that I would continue my outspoken belief in civil rights and my open love of the many different voices we have in this country just became personal, more than wonderful words. And maybe it was this personalizing that led me to read these essays with new eyes.

A germ of an idea sprang up two-thirds of the way through the second essay. I could begin a body of work concerning slavery. Whoa! Who do I think I am with my white southern relatives, who always believed the south was a country of its own and who weren't always people I wanted to claim as kin? I couldn't even pretend to crawl into a skin of a different color. Or could I? Is it not expected of me as a fiction writer to be open and willing to be any character that presents itself? The thought is scary. Why was it I wanted to begin this project? I spent the afternoon pondering this question. And then it came to me. I always write about what is nearest and dearest to my heart. A body of work always begins with a need. The need in most cases involves me finding the answer to a questions. In this case there is more than one? But the biggest is: how important is our family history in our lives? How does our relatives' choices form who we are, even if we never knew them?

So, I have decided to take on the challenge of writing from a completely different point of view. Who do I think I am? I am a wife, mother, and grandmother, who wants to leave a legacy for those far ahead of me, a path to explore. Yes I will take the road less traveled on this one and prepare to open to my art and allow it to flow in the direction it chooses.

A World of Difference

2008-11-24T10:56:00.001-08:00

This morning as I drank my coffee I saw on a morning news show that a farming couple in Colorado decided to allow the locals to gather what onions and potatoes were left after they harvested their crops. The couple thought, possibly, thousand people would show up. Forty-three thousand was the end result. As I watched this spot, I was moved. What could I do?. I mean if I lived in Colorado instead of Georgia, I would have been in line for the free veggies. Times are tough for many families this year. What is tough? I asked this question of myself? I looked around my home. I had everything I needed. NO, I don't have a flat screen TV. I don't even have dish or cable. I made a choice two years ago to follow my dream of writing full time. This required an adjusted budget. No more eating out two and three times a week. Not as many raids on the bookstore :). But, what have I gained in this endeavor?

Ah, I have a completed novel that is now sitting with my agent. I have a slower more productive lifestyle. I take the time to listen to others. I've published many short stories and personal essays. I'm no longer beating my head against a glass ceiling that will never break. Instead, my worth is measured by something much bigger than mere money. I'm living a life of art, creativity, and peace. Gees, what kind of price tag can one put on this?

What has this change done for my family? Have they been hurt from the lack of material things flowing through our door? I'm here everyday when my nine year old comes home from school. She gets my attention and help with homework. My husband comes home in the evening to conversation about writing, family, and such. In my previous life, any given night was a blur of conflict and aggravation. Just this summer my granddaughter was born nine weeks early. She now spends her days here with me as I write each morning, so her mommy can go back to being a chef.

In Christine Baldwin's book, Storycatcher, she says: "Every person is born into life as a blank page--and every person leaves life a full book." We are the writers of our lives.

The farming couple in Colorado chose to write a new chapter when they allowed others to come into their fields to gather what would otherwise have rotted. I chose to give up what the world thought of me for a more inspiring life. In these choices people are changed. No, I haven't touched forty-three thousand people, but I seek to make a difference. We leave our mark on every day with our choices. I'm glad I'm awake and aware of the designs I'm leaving behind.

What chapter of your life is waiting to be written?

Babies, Grandmas, And Writing

2008-11-14T12:31:00.000-08:00

I forgot what it's like to have a baby in the house, the different smells and sounds. My granddaughter, the one who was a preemie, has come to live with us for a while. Yes, at the age of fifty, my husband and I seem to be starting over. Of course the difference this time is my daughter, granddaughter's mommy, has moved in too. So, not only did we gain a baby, but weacquired an extra grownup. Thank goodness we never downsized our home.

As I write, this the wonderful bundle is sound to sleep in her chair. The rhythm of her breathing is enough to put me under. Yes, I agreed to watch her during the day while mommy goes back to work. Yes, I do work out of my house. Writing is work, even though many don't view it as that. But how could I say no? How could I allow someone else, someone that doesn't even know us, take care of a child I have such a huge investment in? Now there's a question.

I listen for changes in her breathing just like I did when my others were babies. I hold my breath when she wiggles, praying she doesn't wake until I finish my thought on in a coherent sentence. Today she did not sleep from seven in the morning until one-thirty in the afternoon. She's not even three months old and only weighs ten pounds. But she'salseep right now and all is straight and proper in the world.

The art of writing with one hand while balancing a baby on your shoulder does come back to you. Don't let anyone tell you it doesn't. Her little head bobs around and once in a while she leans enough to get a good view of my face. Then, she breaks into a smile. Baby smiles stop me dead in my tracks every time. I can walk away from a novel scene or an important point I was about to write.

One of my children was raised on my lap as I wrote. She's now nine and loves to read, write, and draw. I take complete credit for that. I can give you one reason why she is a math whiz with scores that goes through the roof. She listened to many of my story drafts and slept nearby just as this little one does.

All week I've slowly taken my writing room apart so Mommy and Granddaughter will have a private space. I thought I would mourn this. I wanted this space for so long, but I found I write just as well tucked away in my bedroom that seems to sit high in the trees. I've found I am a writer and that means I fall into writing no matter where I am. So, I believe when VirginiaWoolfe wrote of a room of one's own, she spoke metaphorically about that part of our soul that must be closed away so we can create. I believe women can create anywhere. I think of my own grandmother, who never had any true space that wasn't invaded by usgrand kids. She made the most intricately designed baby dresses. What she call handwork was art.

My bundle is still asleep. I look at her and see the future. One day she'll look at me and see an old woman with white hair and a pink scalp. She remember that closeness even though she might not be able to remember exactly when the bond began. We are the essence of our own lives. Live up guys. Each moment is a hoot.

Vote 2008 It's Your Power

2008-11-04T11:20:00.001-08:00

I received a call from my middle daughter this morning. She was standing in a two hour line to vote. I praised her for making the effort. She said, "You're the one that taught me, Mom. You said it didn't matter who I voted for as long as I vote. I have to vote."

I was struck silent. Yes, I was hearing what my father told me over and over as a child. He believed in our right to vote. He always said it is the only real power we have and he never, ever missed voting.

My father actually gave more than most of us so others could vote. In World War II, he fought during D-Day. In Korea, he saw combat. By the time he went to Vietnam, he was a mechanic for the fighter jet engines and did not see action. But in all cases he served his country.

Today I took my nine year old daughter and we walked a mile to the voting place. She was allowed to come in and watch me cast my ballot. When we were finished, she was given a voting sticker too. I looked at her and knew I had passed on the message that was given to me.

What have we taught our children? They are watching us.

So my message today is to vote. I'm not here to tell you who to vote for. I don't care; just exercise your right. You owe it to men and women like my father, who have put in an effort to preserve our freedom. Voting is the one power we truly have, even when we feel like we're not making a difference.

Brave the lines and vote.

A Woman of Consequence

2008-11-03T12:59:00.000-08:00

Here's another personal essay.

My husband asked me after the birth of our fourth daughter in 1999, how I could stand the pain? How did I endure it without screaming? I just laughed it off with some joke about women being stronger than men, but inside I knew the truth. The beatings I survived as a child were much worse. I learned the art of taking my mind and soul to another place so as to stay alive.

At the age of fifteen, Mother burst into my room one night, informing me I had a doctor's appointment the next day. She had noticed my ongoing sickness each day.

Now, I'm not going to insult the reader here. I was fully aware of my condition or suspected anyway.

The exam room was cold. The paper sheet was the only barrier between the doctor and his diagnoses. He stripped his rubber gloves off and threw them on the metal table.

"Go get the mother." His disgust was evident.

The year was 1973 and the country was not accepting of teen pregnancies. Mother entered the exam room.

"Your daughter is pregnant. I would guess she is eight or nine weeks." He stared at me over half glasses that sat on his nose. I could see he had daughters and never, ever would they act like me. "You could take her to New York City. It's the only place in the country where the procedure is legal."

"How much does it cost?" Mother looked at me as if she held the leather belt in her hand.

"A thousand dollars."

"I guess it's the only way to save our name. Give me the information."

Two adults were deciding my baby's future. Neither held one ounce of compassion. Somewhere deep inside my chest a voice stirred, screaming at me to fight.

"No." My voice was quiet.

Mother looked at me.

"I don't care if you beat me to death, Mother. You can't make me have an abortion."

A flicker of sorrow passed through the doctor's eyes. "You have until she is twelve weeks." He clicked his pen down and handed Mother the information.

"You will do what I say!" Mother stared at me.

I held her gaze without pulling away.

On September 20, 1973, after seven hours of labor, my oldest daughter was born. She was the first beautiful thing to come into my life, my first ray of hope. Full of youthful determination and dreams, I planned our lives. Mother predicted my failure with glee, and I'd be a liar if I said I didn't fail many times. But each time I was knocked to my knees, I struggled back onto my feet, brushed myself off and moved forward. At the age of eighteen I escaped my mother for good after I gained my high school diploma and decent employment.

Twenty-two years and two weeks after the birth of my oldest daughter, I looked into the eyes of Morgan Leigh, my first granddaughter. She stared at me with big eyes, and my world converged. In that moment, with that little bundle in my arms, I knew all my struggles, the beatings, the heart-breaking attacks, brought her to me. I was part of a new legacy; one that taught the women in our family to be strong, to go for what they wanted. Morgan's birth allowed me to believe wholeheartedly in my efforts. At thirty-five, I found myself, held her in my arms, and gave her a pure compassionate love that she deserved.

I came back into my mother's life when I turned forty-five. She had lost her power, shriveled in a wheelchair, struggling with kidney disease. My successes were never acknowledged. But I knew she saw the woman I had become, the woman of consequence.

Ayana

2008-10-29T07:12:00.000-07:00

Here's my new baby granddaughter.

Writing Workshop

2008-10-22T07:26:00.001-07:00

Have you ever thought about writing? Do you have a story to tell, but you don’t know where to start? Or are you a closet writer? Make plans to bring a friend and attend a free writing workshop given by The Friends Of The Library and writer, Ann Hite on Thursday, October 23, 2008 7 pm to 8 pm or a little later. Some of the topics that will be covered:

1. The importance of writing bad.
2. Keeping a writing notebook.
3. Writing even when you don’t feel the inspiration.
4. READ, READ. READ
5. How many drafts?
6. Listen to others talk. (Making Dialogue Sound True)
7. Novel or short story?
8. How do I get published?
9. How do I find an agent?

And more topics will be touched on within this session.

Ann Hite’s story, The Christmas Tree Hunter, will appear in Christmas Through A Child’s Eyes in bookstores October 17, 2008. Her personal essay, Surviving Mom, was part of Marlo Thomas’ latest collection, The Right Words At The Right Time, Vol., 2, which made number 14 on the New York Times Best Sellers List (May 2006). Her short stories have appeared in numerous publications. The Dead Mule featured 18 selected Black Mountain Stories in their May 2008 Issue. Ann lives with her family in Smyrna, where she has over 1,000 books, a butterfly garden, and her laptop. To find out more, feel free to visit her websites: http://www.freewebs.com/annhite/index.htm and her blog http://womanwriter.blogspot.com/

Hope to see you there for a great night!

Purple Moon Shadows

2008-10-18T14:33:00.001-07:00

This is another essay I wrote for my class.

Purple Moon Shadows

When Jeff, my brother, and I were young, we shared a bedroom. Our full-size bed was positioned under a double window. On some nights we would talk and laugh as the moon moved across the sky. Full moons were our favorite. We would watch the shadows and half light stretch across the backyard.

"Purple moon shadows." Jeff would call them.

But brothers grow up and become adults. The change is inevitable. In this growth barriers and differences far to vast may develop. Jeff and I went into our separate lives. As years came and went, so did we until one day we stopped seeing each other at all. Was it my straightforward way of stating my position? Was it his drug use? But through our distance I clung to a belief we were both survivors of a turbulent childhood, connected through moon shadows.

Our mother died on September 27, 2003, throwing us together once again.

"What funeral home will be coming for your mother?" The hospital nurse asked.

I dialed Jeff's cell and went into voice mail. "I chose Crestlawn Funeral Home to pick up mother."

The next morning I still had not heard from Jeff. How does a sister plan a funeral for her mother all alone? At noon I called Crestlawn.

"Your mother's body was picked up by another funeral home this morning at your brother's request."

My heart beat in my chest and my head spun. I left to go to my mother's house in hope to retrieve some clothes for her. I made up excuses for Jeff. He had been out of Mother's life for over two years. He was probably overcompensating for his guilt. I was in denial.

Mother was a self-medicating bipolar and displayed her insanity throughout my childhood and adult years. The products of her existence as a mother was one overachieving, co-dependent daughter and a son who was addicted to both drugs and alcohol. Who could blame how either of us acted?

I slid the key into the lock of mother's front door. It froze and would not turn. On further investigation, I found the side window of the house had been kicked in from the outside. Now a board had been nailed over the opening from the inside.

Jeff had stolen my right to be part of the burial of my mother. I attended the funeral. Still clinging to the idea that all would be good between us, I told myself he just misunderstood. He was in pain. I stared holes into the back of his head, willing him to turn and look. If he could just turn and look at me, then I'd know he believed in what he did. He left the chapel without ever looking my way.

Rage built inside of me. I went to my car and screamed. I screamed at God for ever letting Mother be the mother she was. I screamed just to scream. Finally I screamed that I was all alone. How could one forgive this kind of betrayal? How could one walk through this kind of pain?

Healing was a long slow process, but slowly I worked through my pain one step at a time. And then one day I was able to forgive. It didn't come overnight. But I became aware of it for the first time one night when I watched a lunar eclipse in my front yard and smiled. I enjoyed the memory of a young girl looking out a double window into the night sky.

Jeff appeared in my life two months ago, five years after my mother's death. He was eightenn months clean. I cried for what we never had. Still I searched for purple moon shadows, but the logical part of my mind understood that the shadows were only figments of two children's imaginations. Children who desperately wanted to believe in magic and fairytales. Ah, but I've always been one to follow my heart before my mind.

Book Junkie

2008-10-17T09:13:00.001-07:00

The Book Junkie

I have a dark secret. Yes, I am an addict. My addiction takes money out of my grocery budget, and it sure doesn't help that a bookstore is located next where I shop for food.

"Yes, I'm Ann, and I'm a bookoholic."

You think I'm kidding, but I've been known to have several copies of one book, example: The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd. I use this book to lure unsuspecting readers into the hardcore material.

I've been known to have both hardbacks and softbacks of the same title. And--this is even worse: I will purchase a book I own because the cover art changed; case in point, The Hours by Michael Cunningham.

Of course at Christmas and birthdays, I'm an easy present. Just give me a Barnes and Noble gift card. I just love their bargain book selection. Shame on me! That is not how a published author is supposed to act. We're support the industry by paying full price. What can I say? My need outweighs my ethics.

My addiction has worked for me. I have a writing career due to my insatiable desire to do more than just drink in words. I allow sentences, paragraphs, and pages to move through me onto paper. I still write a lot of old fashion longhand, just like I must hold books in my hand, instead of looking on a screen. My writing room's walls are lined with floor to ceiling bookcases and every shelf is full. This leaves my desk to sit in the middle of the room, a queen overseeing her subjects.

My addiction has been widely accepted and even useful. High school and college students will come to me for required reading of the classics. Friends and family now understand they will receive a book for special occasions, whether they want it or not.

I've accepted my need, embraced it. Those closest to me have learned to live with my passion. I am what I am, a book junkie.

When Someone Shows You Who They Are!

2008-10-13T12:47:00.000-07:00

Maya Angelou says if a person shows you who they are, then be smart enough to accept it the first time. She also says when you allow a negative person into your space her energy soaks into your walls, sofa, drapes, and then you.

So, I pass on these words of wisdom. Let the negative people in your life go and move forward.

I'm off to do more writing workshop stuff!!! My week long conference is so awesome!

A Muscle Ache or A Heart Attack And What This Country Is Coming Too

2008-10-06T12:48:00.000-07:00

That is a loaded title. Don't you thing? Let me tell you, readers. You had better have some kind of insurance in this country or friends you headed over Niagara Falls in a barrel. Because the bare facts are this, without insurance, you are a nuisance, a piece of paper, a bad debt. And the truth is the uninsured are soon to become the norm. Of course that's just this writer's opinion, but after a morning in the emergency room, I'm no longer the confident, motivated person.

Now, to be honest the whole situation began before the hospital found out my husband, who is a contractor for the company that employs him--part of the outsourcing trend--didn’t have insurance. We were greeted by a woman who hated her job. The disgust shown in the way she walked into the room.

Assistant: “Why are you here?” She said this as if a child had come to ask for a snack before dinner.

Husband: “I’ve had a dull pain that developed in my left shoulder Friday night and has grown worse over the weekend. I have a history of heart attacks at an early age in my family and I need to know this pain has nothing to do with a heart attack.

Assistant: “Do you have any history of heart attacks in your family?”

Duh?

Husband repeats the above.

Assistant looking over her glasses and down her nose at him: “Did anyone in your family have a heart attack before the age of sixty?”

Husband, who is a saint: “My brother died of a heart attack at 48, my oldest brother died of a blood clot to the brain at twenty-five, my next to oldest brother had a stroke at 52, and my sister had a heart attack at 54.”

Assistant: “Normally pain for heart attacks do not start in your shoulder blade. You would be aware of the pain of a heart attack.” Assistant takes blood pressure it is 181/104.

Now, I’m no dummy. That is HIGH.

Assistant: “It is high due to your pain.” Once again she speaks to my husband as if he is a child in a clipped disgusted tone. Then she says. “We’ll run an ekg just for you, but you’re fine.”

I hoped she was right. But she was really bothered to make sure Husband wasn’t having a heart attack. And then she gave the zinger. “You shouldn’t wait from Friday night until Monday morning to come to the hospital if you think you’re having a heart attack.”All that is true, but gosh if you were going to meet her, would you hurry?

Husband: “I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t a warning. I’ve been told that discomfort in the left shoulder that moves around to the chest could be a warning. The pain began to move around to the front of the chest this morning. I came. I’m trying to be careful.”

Assistant sniffs and leads us to a room. Here we are greeted by the nurse, who loved her job, and told Husband that she would do the ekg. This was training morning and an EMT from the fire department was there. He turned out to be the most helpful. When I expressed my concerns about Husband’s blood pressure, he explained the numbers to me and told me it wasn’t unusual to have a higher reading during pain.

Thank goodness it was determined that Husband had a pulled muscle by his shoulder blade and no heart problems. The doctor then wrote out a prescription for—Yes You know what—the dreaded pain pills. Husband explained he could not take them. No way, no how. So instead he wrote out a prescription for a muscle relaxer.

As we were checking out, there were two trainees and a trainer, who obviously wanted to show them she knew her stuff.

Trainer: “Do you have the money for the bill?”

Husband: “How much is it?”

Trainer: “Well, it will be days before we know that?”

Husband: “Why did you ask then?”

Trainer: “Because we want to make sure you can pay.”

Husband: “I can’t decide that until I know my bill. How about sending it to me?”

Trainees step out of room.

Trainer: “We’ll collect if we have to.”

Husband: “I’m sure you will.”

And he left with me not far behind.

This is a scene that is being played out all over America everyday. People are putting off going to the doctor and hospital because they don’t have insurance. These are hardworking people, who pay their bills and taxes. I realize that some people work the system and always will, but the normal citizen without insurance is not about walking away from their obligations.

So, friends, who have insurance, don’t get all warm and cozy. Unless things change more and more workers will lose their benefits, along with their jobs. And those that have it won’t be able to make the deductible when the need arises. We are a nation of excess, but we don't care about the health of our citizens.

What is the answer? I’m not sure. I don’t have it. I only know that each day I get up and come to my paper and write. But I know that something has to change. Each person has to care. What can we do to change the way things are done in this country?

And that’s my two cents worth. J

Gas, Gas, Where Did The Gas Go?

2008-09-27T06:13:00.000-07:00

I don't how it is in the rest of the country, but us guys here in Georgia don't have much gas :). I live just four miles north of Atlanta and my county had two gas stations with the pumps open. Two. Do you know how many people live four miles north of Atlanta. Just about the whole city! This is something out of the seventies or worse than the seventies. We've been walking a lot. I walk my nine year old back and forth to school. We walk to the nearest store for the quickie purchases, but alas, we had to get in line for gas. The big family reunion is taking place in North Georgia. Gas is required.

Hubby had a plan. He was on the road early before seven a.m. This is unheard of in our house for a Saturday. But he was off. Here we are like some fools sitting in line, using what precious gas we have, to obtain more gas at the tune of 4.19 a gallon. What is wrong with this picture, friends? You don't even want me to get on my soapbox about this. :)

Hubby's strategy paid off. And there was the little matter of a woman who motioned him in before her. What you want to bet she's on my 29 give challenge site and lists this as her give for the day? Within ten minutes and one giant give, my husband has gas in our car. He then went to his mother's house and picked up her truck. He went back to sit in the mile long line again. This time around it took an hour, but hey we all have gas now. So we're off to the family reunion.

But still I keep thinking of what our fate as a country would be if gas didn't exist any longer. What would we do? And should we all look at this question and begin to approach life with this thought in mind? It makes this woman take a harder look at living a green life. What is the lyrics to that song? "It's not easy being green."

Ebb Tide

2008-09-13T08:01:00.000-07:00

Today I moved into my novel with ease. I spent the biggest part of the day lost in this world I am creating. When I emerged, I exchanged IM with my brother's girlfriend. We talked at length concerning chaos that has entered their life. I left the conversation with a promise that I would take the time to put all my thoughts in writing for my brother. Reuniting after years of separation has proven to be a tenuous affair for me. Sometimes I'm not as strong as I thought. Sometimes I'm stronger. It comes in shifts. I'm reminded of an ebb tide.

The first time I experienced an ebb tide was on a small island on the coast of Georgia. Each night I would walk the miles of beach alone as the wind brought the only music needed. On the last night, I went out to walk and found a complete and profound stillness. The ocean seemed to have disappeared. The air was thick and heavy, making it hard to breath. The birds were gone and the moon rode high in the sky. I made it my mission to walk out to meet the silent water. I walked straight to where the surf should have been and kept going. I didn't look back. Soon my toes touched the motionless water. I looked around and saw that if the tide came in suddenly, I would be underwater and far from land. But there I stood with my arms open, looking at the stars in the sky.

Moving back into my brother's life gives me the sensation of standing where I might drown at any minute. Do I run back to safety or do I open my arms and search for the stars?

My give to myself and him is to risk the ebb tide and remain in place. I won't dwell on what is behind me, the safety of what is known.

My hawk appeared again today. As most of you know, I live on the fringes of Atlanta. At night I can see the skyline just up the road. A hawk here is unusual. Today he landed in the tree outside my writing window. He is huge and beautiful. For me he represents strength. I went to get my camera to capture his image for a future blog post, but he was gone when I returned. Sometimes we can only live in this very moment and that's all we have. I did hear his call an hour or so later, reminding me he would be back.

Retrospection

2008-09-12T06:37:00.000-07:00

Retrospection:

Pronunciation:: \ˌre-trə-ˈspek-shən\
Function:: noun
Date:: 1674

: the act or process or an instance of surveying the past

Last night I had what I consider bad news. Maybe at some point I can see it as something more. My oldest niece signed away her right as a mother to her little girl. My younger niece's adoption went through. She is fifteen. I only recently learned of their whereabouts and their circumstances. The older niece (21 in Oct) is unreachable. She is addicted to drugs and I don't know where she is and she wants nothing to do with family. The fifteen year old niece doesn't know her father sought me out. She doesn't speak with her father anymore. So here I am in this situation where I don't seem to make a difference. A voice in my head says it's too early to make that judgment.

But what does one do when she is whisked back into a lost family? Once again the voice says, "Do what you do best. Write." How can writing help? I'm not sure. But what comes to mind are all the beautiful young women in my family, six total. Can I give them a path to follow, a suggested route, or is that too much to ask? Would my story in some way help, give them some map? These are questions that can only be answered by action. Write.

So, I look back into the past. I will survey the way one survey's land for a map. I will measure the distance from one year to the next. I will unearth the truth. My truth.

Revisiting The Past through the Now

2008-09-04T07:46:00.000-07:00

For those of you who do not know, my brother's girl friend found me two weeks ago. I had not seen my brother since my mother's funeral five years ago. I had not spoken to him since Ella was born. So, that gives you the picture of our present relationship. None. Yesterday morning began with details on what happened to my brother's daughters, my nieces. I've had to take the story in small pieces. My nieces have been in my mind for many years. Children are always the fallout of the messes adults make along the way. I wrote letters to the last known address. I knocked on doors with no answers. The whole family disappeared. The truth is I didn't want to find my brother or his wife at the time. So, I had to settle with sending the girls thoughts, love, and prayers that prove well under what they needed.

The news I received yesterday was heart wrenching. My oldest niece has followed in my brother and his ex wife's footsteps, drug abuse at twenty-one and the lost of a child to DEFAC. The youngest was taken into foster care over two years ago. She is doing well and chooses to remain in foster care rather than go to my brother, who is clean now. But clean is such a subjective word. The Webester Dictionary's definition is as follows: 1. Free from dirt, impurities, or contamination. 2. Free from wrong-doing: honorable. Can any of us claim this? So clean is something that happens after we become dirty and there's always the chance we will become dirty again.

I can understand my niece's need to remain in the place where she found peace and love. You see it is that young abused girl, who still resides in me that relates to her decision, who cheers her on, reminding her to outgrow the legacy left to her by her family. But in doing this I walk away from protecting my baby brother, who is now 44. Has the time come to release my role in this family? Is is way past time?

Here I would like to give you a poem by Nastasha Trethewey called Momument. She wrote this poem after visiting her mother's grave that did not have a headstone. Her mother was murdered by her second husband when Ms. Trethewey was 19.

Monument

Natasha Trethewey

Today the ants are busy
beside my front steps, weaving
in and out of the hill they’re building.
I watch them emerge and—

like everything I’ve forgotten—disappear
into the subterranean, a world
made by displacement. In the cemetery
last June, I circled, lost—

weeds and grass grown up all around—
the landscape blurred and waving.
At my mother’s grave, ants streamed in
and out like arteries, a tiny hill rising

above her untended plot. Bit by bit,
red dirt piled up, spread
like a rash on the grass; I watched a long time
the ants’ determined work,

how they brought up soil
of which she will be part,
and placed it before me. Believe me when I say
I’ve tried not to begrudge them

their industry, this reminder of what
I haven’t done. Even now,
the mound is a blister on my heart,
a red and humming swarm.

© 2007 University of North Carolina Green

My mother was many, many things that I will not go into within a blog. But I had a revelation with this news. She was the handhold to these two girls. Never in our lives together was she able to be this for me, but she gave my nieces a small tiny life of security, not perfect by far, security all the same. When she left this world, they were abandoned.

We are so many different people. My mother was because of her mental instability. Her faces changed on a daily basis, but yet, she did touch these girls' lives.

It is my plan to reach out to my youngest niece through her caseworker only when they determine she is ready. I would never do anything to jeopardize her well being. I do want her to know she has an aunt who loves her and now knows where she is. This news was tough on many levels. It brought to light, once again, what my family was like when I was a child. Many times I've been told: You are so strong. How did you come out so together, so successful? I would never guess. That's my favorite.

It's times like these I'm reminded I didn't come out of it ok. I'm marked, a reflection in a younger girl's life.

Where I am right now is due to my spiritual background and my refusal to stay down. Also, my gift of writing brought me through with my sanity and that is why it is so much more than a mere career and publishing credits. I became a storyteller and I surround myself with creative people when I have a choice. The only way we take a journey like I've taken over the years is by giving and receiving. They go hand in hand. Period.

Yesterday after my news I met with a new friend at the coffee shop one block from me. This is a independently owned shop called REV. I go there to write when I just need to see something different. My suggestion of meeting at REV was my way of giving a glimpse of me to this person. We had a wonderful talk and goooood coffee. I was given handmade necklaces. One for myself and the other with a prayer box for my new mommy daughter. The conversation was healing for me. When I returned home it was with high spirits and determination to continue my journey and not go back into the past any more than is needed. But we never leave the past completely behind. We can't. I've come to accept this and in this I find peace.

And this my friends is what living is all about. There is no physical matter to the gift's existence. The spirit is what brings the action alive.

I passed the prayer box necklace on to new mommy daughter. I told her where it came from and all about my day. Her eyes filled with tears and she said, "I can put all my prayers in here and wear them."

We must push our journey forward. Push, friends, push.

Stuff

2008-09-01T16:06:00.000-07:00

A little over a month ago I began participating in a new challenge. The challenge is called 29 Day Give Challenge. I did it just to see what the buzz was about. Cami, the founder, began this site after someone challenged her to give when she was at her lowest with MS. Not long into her giving she began to see a remarkable occurrence. Not only did she feel better, but wonderful things began to come her way. You see when you give it comes back to you. I know we've been taught this, but so many of us think of a give as money. Money is good, but there are so many other gives out there.

I am rotating through my second round of 29 days. I've given a lot of myself. Most of the time the recipient doesn't even understand. They enjoy. And this is the point. I have given anything from my time to my writing. This challenge makes me keenly aware of what I do each day. How do I approach life and what is important to me.

These are the things I've found on the site. Strong women from all walks of life are everywhere. Many live right here in the Atlanta area. We've planned a meet up for later in the month. The topic of the meeting will be giving. How can we as a group give?

Each day I log on to the site and write a blog post about my giving for the day before. We tell our stories. And, these stories are amazing. The site is full of artists of all mediums. This doesn't surprise me. What have I gained from this effort? I've learned more than ever that I need to simplify my life, take it down to just what I need, not want. I've learned that you can travel, shop, eat out, buy new cars, and toys of all kinds, but that will not quench the need to change your life and move into something much more important.

Since I began to think more about my gives, I feel lighter, more compassionate than I ever have. I forgive easier and open myself to others more. I fully believe this is the reason my brother picked this moment to come back into my life. I'm ready now. I can give. I don't watch others and wish I had what they had or could go where they go. I'm content to look at myself in the mirror. My writing has expanded, and I've even allowed myself to be imperfect. That's a big one. Even when I do get angry--and it has happened--I get over faster.

I strongly urge you to take a look at the site. If you're looking for something that to add more substance in your life, this is the place.

http://www.29gifts.org/

You won't regret visiting the site.

Story Download

2008-08-28T12:30:00.000-07:00

A free download of my selected stories can be found at: http://www.deadmule.com/fiction Enjoy.

The Whole Dirty Deal. Worms and All

2008-08-26T10:15:00.000-07:00

I am currently reading, When You Are Engulfed In Flames by David Sedaris. I needed something butt-kicking humor after the past few days that I will attempt to touch on here. The first essay is about worms crawling out of a woman's wound and how this is the topic of conversation one Christmas Eve. Now most might not find the combination of worms and wounds funny, but me and my warped sense of humor finds this topic totally acceptable. This coming from a woman who gave her husband a pain pill instead of his antibiotic yesterday morning. Now, it just so happens, said husband noticed he was awful lightheaded as he drove to work. He then noticed he was going to puke his guts out because he doesn't handle pain pills all so well. And me, the said murderess, is having a fit at home on the phone with him because he tried to make his work deliveries.

Husband: I think I might have to call someone to come get me.

At this point has driven over forty miles from the earth he lives on.

Murderess: I can't believe you went ahead and drove.

Of course this is the guilt speaking.

Husband: I can't take this. I feel so bad.

Murderess: I told you to get some coffee and some food.

Husband: I got to go. I'm going to be sick.

But don't worry. Your favorite all time Writer Woman is not behind bars. No, she's at home reading her book. Said husband made it home, where he slept in the back of the work van for three hours in a rainstorm because he could not walk into the house. Around 8:00 pm he came into the house and passed out on the bed. All this from one pain pill he took twelve hours earlier. This morning said husband woke rested and bright-eyed.

Ah yes worms are a wonderful thing. I'll take worms and wounds any day over my sometimes crazy upside down life.

Signing Off

Murderess

Week One Of Walking and More Writing Stuff

2008-08-15T05:45:00.000-07:00

I've decided wouldn't it be fun to journal about my commitment to walking my daughter home from school. I wrote a little about this at the end of the school year. Now we 've begun a new year and with the gas prices like they are, my commitment is stronger than ever.

This week is what I call warming up. If you read between the lines, you see that for one reason or another I have not walked regularly all summer. So warming up is a nice way of saying this walking stuff is for the birds, except birds rarely walk. They get to use their wonderful wings. I wish I had wings. If I did then I could both address the fuel prices and save my arches. Enough whining.

Since May the city has placed a sign at each crosswalk telling drivers that its the law to give foot traffic the right away. Yeah city! No doubt foot traffic has increased. I've seen this with my own two eyes. Many more people are using the buses and the sidewalks are busier. The temps this year are beautiful. This time last year I had to contend with 100 degree weather. This week I've seen 85 as the hottest temp.

Rain: Ah, I always struggle with rain. We dodged the downpours this week. They occurred overnight and cleared out by the next day. Since we've had a drought, I don't pray for it not to rain. I'll deal with it.

While walking this week, I've listened to two podcasts. One was an interview with Wayne Dyer. I found it very useful. I also discovered a solution for my novel. Walking does that for me. Yes, I look funny standing in front of the school, scribbling on a note card, but so is the life of a writer.

Yesterday I began an hour long podcast interview with Andre Dubus III author of House of Sand And Fog and his newest novel, In The Garden or something like that. I was mostly interested in what he had to say about plotting a book. He said don't. I love this man. He said allow your characters to show you where they are going and what they are doing.

So often I am asked how I plotted that story. And I just shrug my shoulders and tell the person asking he or she would have to speak to the characters. You wouldn't believe the looks I get from that comment.

Andre Dubus says to plot is to tell your imagination you don't trust it.

Thank You!

So my week of walking has been intellectiually stimulatling, even if my body has cried.

Walk more. You might be surprised where it will take you.

First Day Of School And Writing Routine

2008-08-11T08:50:00.000-07:00

Today I saw my daughter off to school. Wow, time flies by. It's so quiet here. In front of me is this large amount of time. Did I say it was quiet here? I miss my daughter calling to me just as soon as I get into the best part of what I'm writing. I never thought I'd miss that.

So this is the first day for both of us. I'm back to writing four to five hours a day. Today I managed three before I broke for a blog break. I'm nearing the end of my novel polishing. In front of me stretches a new project. Many writers hate the first draft part, but I love finding the new voices and following their lead. I love the thought of this so much, I find it hard to focus on finishing this project.

Over the summer I've spent time writing in my notebook. Many sketches for the new project appeared here, but much of it is still too foggy to talk about it. I might talk it away :).

Sometimes it's tough being a writer. Bet you never thought I'd say that! Many people don't get that it is work. They see me as having it made, and in many ways I do. I work on my own time. I don't have a boss breathing down my neck. I knock off when school is over. I have school holidays off. But it is a little harder than it sounds.

First: I set a goal of at least one chapter a day. This runs roughly three to four thousand words. I don't have to show it to anyone, so I can fudge if I want. Sounds good! But to be a professional working at home, I have to produce. So, I'm the boss of me, and let me tell you I'm my own worse nightmare. No writing in pajamas. No being sick. No checking email while writing. No going on the internet. No breaking for coffee and a stretch. Gees, I had it made when I worked in an office.

Second: I have a certain amount of editing I do each day. This requires me to sit someplace and really focus. I can't answer the phone. I can't watch TV. I can't do the dishes from that morning. Edit only.

Third: I only get a half of an hour for lunch. When I worked in an office, I got an hour. Gees.

Fourth: I have to fight off the questions: When are you publishing that book? How much money do you make? Really, how many people do you know asked that question of a corporate professional? Can't you skip writing today so you can do what I need? Now most people don't ask in this way, but they ask this question in many of their own ways. Why does it take so long?

Fifth: Working on the filler stuff. What is filler stuff? It is book reviews, short stories, and book introductions. This is the work that keeps my name out in the publishing world, and yes, brings in some money, so I can answer that income question.

So as you can see, I have to be my own boss, multitask, focus, and develop tough skin. Many of you are saying why do it? Get a job where you're noticed and you can make more money? Are you kidding? This is the best job in all the world and I would not change a thing. I know this each school day when I see my daughter come out of the school looking for me. God, just keep me writing.

Off to edit.
Ann

Dancing In The Streets

2008-08-04T12:57:00.000-07:00

When is the last time you danced in the streets? Well, I did this past Saturday night, after a huge thunderstorm, when Smyrna celebrated their 136th birthday. I danced with my youngest daughter and hubby to really bad Jimmy Buffet music. Once a Parrot Head, always a Parrot Head. We danced while people lined up for free birthday cake and ice creame. We danced until the fireworks began just over our heads. Wow, what a show!

It felt so good to let go and just dance. Try it. You may just enjoy your new freedom.

This night has helped a lot while wading through the chaos that comes at us from all sides. Give yourself a night. It's well worth the effort, my friends. Daughter begins school next Monday, so this is our last week of summer together. Both of us are ready for a change, but yet, we'll miss the summer routine. This week we are doing all those things that we missed. Today we watched Titanic. Daughter is a romantic, and I just need a good reason to be one. Tomorrow we will make shower plans with middle daughter for pregnant daughter. I don't know what we will do on Wednesday. Whatever hits us.

My collected stories published at The Dead Mule will be available in a pdf file soon. I'll give you a heads up.

Ann

What's Your Legacy?

2008-07-28T05:16:00.000-07:00

"...The brick walls are there to stop the people who don't want it badly enough. They're there to stop the OTHER people." --Randy Pausch The Last Lecture

I found out on Friday afternoon, while staying at my daughter's house, that Randy Pausch had died. This is a man that changed my life by changing my way of thinking. I urge all of you to take the time to read The Last Lecture. Even if you're not a reader, even if you think you're too busy, take the time. You can also watch the actual lecture on the web. Google Randy Pausch. A special will air Tuesday night at 10 on ABC. It will be well worth your time to watch.

This man left a legacy that reached out to millions of all ages. He didn't leave his mark by making tons of money or climbing some corporate ladder. No, he touched people through his effort to sew a net for his children to fall in after he left the world. What kind of legacy will we leave? What's important in our lives? What will people remember about us when we're gone? All of these questions are very important to me.

Just some food for thought.
Ann

Slow Down

2008-07-14T05:46:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure how many times this message must present itself to me. One thing is for sure, the words slow down will continue to work their way to the surface until I heed the meaning. I've battled an ever-changing rash for the past two weeks. It began while I was on my trip and raged for a week afterwards. At first I decided to ignore its existence. Ha. It showed me a thing of two. Last week was much better, but it is far from being gone. I know exactly what has caused the nasty creature to show itself. My lack of concern for myself. On the days I slow down and relax, few and far between, the rash seems to heal and disappear. But just let me commit myself to something I shouldn't, that I really don't want to do, but say yes to anyway, and boom it is back in full bloom. If a stressful situation should show itself, there it is among the chaos, striking me with all its force.

For some reason, I feel this need to prove that I am a writer. Never mind that I've published well over fifty pieces since the first of the year. It's not enough. Always I say yes to projects that take me away from my focus, novel, novel, novel. It's as if I'm sabotaging myself. So, once again I know I must clear my desk and life of intrusions and trust that my work will speak for itself. I have three book reviews due in the next months. After this, if I don't take on anything else, I will be free to focus on nothing but polishing the novel and then presenting it to those who can help me shop it. I so hate that word, shop.

I will focus on taking on only what lends me peace not obligation. We shall see. Next week Little Daughter and I will go stay with Oldest Daughter for a week. This will be down time for me. Even though I will take my laptop--I take my laptop everywhere--I will not write except in my notebook and journal. This will be a good time to fill up the well and enjoy my daughters and grandchildren. So, I will take next week off from blogging. I will struggle to slow down.

I think slowing down is a lesson on many readers' plates. I wish you luck. I let you know how my attempt goes.

Ann

Fireworks, Eighty-three, and Pool Fun

2008-07-07T06:53:00.000-07:00

Hubby, Little Daughter, and I began our Fourth with a cookout. My mother in-law and two brother in-laws came to our house. Mother in-law is eighty-three and beginning to show the wear and tear that age takes on one's life. As we ate our hamburgers and hot dogs out on our deck, I couldn't help but wonder what this strong lady has seen in her lifetime. Sure I've heard the funny and even some sad stories told over and over. But what about the ones never told? One can just look into the face of Miss Ruth and see a map of the most intricate kind. What would her family know if they heard all the tales?

I guess it's the writer in me that seeks out the untold stories. Just the thought allows my imagination to run wild. But the fact is Miss Ruth has seen many Fourth of July holidays. What about The Fourths when her husband was fighting in Germany? She's seen a world that has changed radically and continues to change. And now she observes it all from her wheelchair and more often these days with foggy thoughts anchored in the past. But still she has much to give to anyone who will take the time to work around the many obstacles.

As the day came to a close, we loaded Miss Ruth and her boys up to go to a fireworks display. The picture above shows her waiting like all of us for the great event. Right at dark the first firework was shot into the sky. Daughter and I sat on a blanket in front of Miss Ruth. I heard girlish giggles from behind me and turned to find Miss Ruth beside herself in pleasure. How simple was that pleasure? So simple that many would not take the time to embrace it. Red, Gold, Silver exploding in the night and Miss Ruth giggled on. The giggles were contagious and soon both Daughter and me were laughing too.

The night lit up and I thought of my father, gone now for twenty years. He had a soldier's pride in The Fourth. He served in three wars beginning with World War II. He knew the meaning of freedom up close and firsthand.

As the grand finale came to a close and all the people scrabbled to get to their cars and pull away first, Miss Ruth, sitting in her wheelchair, looked at Daughter and said, "You want a ride." My heart cracked open when Daughter said, "No Maw Maw. I'll push you." We made slow progress but progress all the same. I began to see the true meaning of patience as we snaked through the traffic. How often do we label an event to turn out a certain way and grow deeply disappointed when it doesn't pan out to be what we see as a success? When we made it back to the car, all the traffic had cleared out. We were free to go home at any pace we desired.

Yesterday I wore the shoes of Miss Ruth. I went to spend the afternoon with Oldest Daughter, Her Hubby, and Grandchildren. Granddaughter is pictured above in their pool. I will save you from the sight of me in the pool. Grandson put on his own display of jumping and splashing to my complete pleasure. At one point Granddaughter said, "Granny go underwater." Of course I didn't want to do this. I had my makeup on and it would run all down my face and into my eyes. I heard the request again. Why was it so important for me to go underwater? I don't know but somehow I saw it was much like Little Daughter pushing Miss Ruth. It was an offer, a closeness. Just when Granddaughter was quite sure I would never go under, I plunged into the water.

I heard voice on top, muffled. "She did it!" The magic of a grandchild's approval.

We came together around the table, eating fresh tomatoes, lettuce, and of course hamburgers. I came home with a bagful of fresh green beans and tomatoes. The taste of summer. The taste of love and hard work. We can learn so much from the old and the young. And we know that old is after all only someone's opinion.

Ann

The Meeting With The Muse

2008-07-01T06:44:00.000-07:00

Let me start by saying no trip ever turns out the way we imagine. That's because we put so much pressure on this get away time to be perfect. Always there are challenges. But if we open ourselves to the changes, we might find some inspiration at the very least. My challenge came in the form of no power, as in light bulbs and air conditioning, in our cabin when we returned the first night at 9. Our day was wonderful. We went to Clingsman Dome, where I watched a thunderstorm move in. It was awesome. Hubby caught the different phases of the storm's movement in photos. His work is so wonderful. We pretty much spent the day on top of the mountains.

While I was there, the muse whispered many times, teasing me with ideas just out of reach. When we returned to the cabin and found no power, I was angry and ready to scream at someone. Then, the place where we were staying upgraded our cabin. Not so bad. It had a good size table that I was able to drag onto the large porch. I worked next to the river as the muse revealed to me new work. I accomplish quite a bit. Each morning there after I woke, wrote in the early morning light, meditated--I haven't taken the time to do this in months--and listened to music. The days were filled with enlightenment. I now know that my next novel will take place in the Smokemont area. This area was once a booming logging town called Bradley Town. Yes, this is where I saw the ghost. I know that a preacher will be involved.

I also found the house that Emily, one of the protagonists in my current project, lived in, complete with the shed that she converts into a studio for her art. I took several pictures so I can look at the details as I go back to the polishing. Now I can bring this part of the setting alive. I've included a photo above. This turned out to be quite a creative trip in spite of the challenges and there were plenty.

Ann

Bear Hunt

2008-06-30T07:48:00.001-07:00

On our trip we went on a bear hunt. Twenty-five bears were given to local artists in Cherokee to do with what they wanted. Fifteen can be found by driving around town. Here are four of my favorites. You must see them in real life to get the full beauty.

I will write more later about encountering the muse and where she took me. For now there's a glimpse of the cabin we stayed in during the trip at the top of the page.

Ann

Not One Minute Too Soon

2008-06-23T08:24:00.000-07:00

Did you ever get the feeling that the walls are closing in on you? I've spent the past few days with the tedious part of writing. I've been going cross-eyed looking over proofs of my introduction and story that will appear in Literary House Review. I have to go over these several times, searching out typos or formatting problems. When I'm proofing another writer's work, this is not such a tough job, but on my own work, that is another story. Those nasty little mistakes such as new when I meant knew hide out in plan view. The whole time my artist child is screaming to write, really write.

Part of this weekend I spent revising a book review that will appear in Internet Book Review Magazine. Dear American Airlines is the name of the book. I'm not at liberty to talk about it, but people you must read the review when it's published. Making editor changes, once again, makes my artist child throw a tantrum. She is very angry at this point. So, angry she is insisting on listening to Sheryl Crow's Best of Music on my I-Pod. Rebellious to the core.

And this brings me to the best part of this post, the part artist child is itching to tell you. We leave for a four day trip to the Smoky Mountains this week. This trip hasn't come a minute too soon. I can already feel the cool, crisp morning air. The rows of mountains, resembling ocean waves, gives artist child a peace she can't find anywhere else. The important tools are ready to be packed away in the car. A writer never leaves home without her laptop and writing notebook. And, of course there is the I-Pod. Artist child needs her music to create.

We will stay in a little cabin not far from Raven Fork River and only three miles from the entrance to the park. Artist child is the boss on these trips. She insists that all writing projects are left at home. No work allowed. What she takes is imagination and of course the muse is somewhere hiding, waiting for just the right moment to reveal herself. There seems to be a trend among artists, especially writers, not to believe in muses. I'm of the old school. My muse is both my best friend and enemy. She flirts with me and then disappears, leaving me to do the hardest part of my creative work. But always she knows best. And always she channels some delicious character or scene my way.

I know not to wait on her because she'll never show. Instead, I begin to string words together into sentences, paragraphs, and pages. But she never fails to appear. She especially loves when I give artist child a trip. Her visits are then full of insight and inspiration. They are such good friends after all. When artist child and muse play together, I'm reminded of why I turn down that lunch date with friends, or unplug my phone so I don't get caught up in conversations. I'm brought back to pen and paper. To images and silly poems. To Sheryl Crow and funny jokes.

Sometimes we can get so lost in the career part we lose sight of the art. My trips to the mountains refill the well. Have you ever slept in a tent beside a rushing creek? Or dozed on a warm boulder, absorbing its wisdom? The Cherokee believe rocks hold wisdom and teach us. Have you watched the mist settle in the mountain valley for so long, sprites and fairies begin to appear in the dusky light? This is the magic of taking artist child along. She makes up for all her whiny ways.

We're packed and ready to hike to that one waterfall that allows us to walk behind the wall of water without getting wet. While there, we'll stand still on the edge of a world we only visit. We'll explore the old cabins and cemeteries. Scenes, characters, images will paint on our canvases their own unique stories. Imagination will be the rule of the day.

Ann

Workshop, Father's Day, and The Muse Speaks

2008-06-16T10:00:00.000-07:00

Last week I faced one of my biggest fears in the face. I taught a writing workshop to thirty rising 3rd graders to teens. It's one thing to teach adults what you know about writing. It is quite another to approach a large group of children that possibly 'had' to be there. It didn't take me long to fall in love. The group was so creative. We made friends as they revealed their wonderful imaginations. It was a magical night as we built a story together. We concentrated on character, setting, and plot. We hung out long past our allotted time. I will teach a writing workshop to the adults in the fall.

On Sunday we did what most fathers in our area wanted to do for Father's Day. We played hooky from church and took to the road. Here's my hubby and daughter, spending quality time together at the lake. Please notice the bunny ears that have appeared close to Hubby's head. Mom is on shore taking time to finish her latest book review.

Everyone must buy Tomato Girl by Jayne Pupek when it comes out on August 26th. It is one the most profound books I've read. Watch for my book review.

Next week we leave for a trip to the Smoky Mountains. I'm already planning on what to take: my hiking boots, i-pod, and laptop. Who needs clean clothes and food? :). When I a new project is stirring, several things happen. The first is the giving birth dream. I always dream I'm giving birth. I can feel the child kicking in my womb. It is weird. Then not so long after the dream I get an antsy feeling. You know like something is about to happen but hasn't yet. Sometimes it takes a few weeks but I'll be somewhere doing something and I see a picture, a friend is talking, or a sentence will shoot through my head. I never know what will trigger the yearning, but when it hits, I know a big project is brewing. Yes, I've had the dream, the antsy feeling, and last week I picked up a book on churches in the Smoky Mountain Park. Bam! The yearning feeling nearly knocked me to my knees. I pulled the book off the shelf. One picture from 1915 keeps calling to me. It is a picture of an old bridge crossing a river. The bridge is full of people and the banks of the river are dotted with several people. The women are wearing long dresses and the men suits and Sunday dress hats. In the river stands who I presume is a preacher and a man about to be baptized.

More than once this weekend I've been moved to look at this photo. I've learned when all this happens, I just wait, bide my time, and soon the character begins to speak. The exciting thing is I will have the opportunity to visit this very bridge next week. I can stand on it as long as I'd like. I can also walked the quarter of a mile into the woods and visit the church nearby. Maybe if I'm lucky the character will choose then to speak to me.

Stranger things have happened.

Ann

Would You Know A Ghost If You Saw One?

2008-06-13T10:49:00.000-07:00

We leave for the Smoky Mountains in less than two weeks. I always look forward to making the trip. The rewards are wonderful. But today I'm thinking about the first visit I ever made.

Hubby has been going to the mountains ever year since he was born. For the longest time they went to the same place, a campground just inside of the park, called Smokemont. My first tagging along on this trip took place when I knew Hubby almost a year, 1992. He was so excited to take me camping. Now you guys got to realize my idea of nature back then was walking around the block of my urban neighborhood, but I went. And it rained. It always rains at this campground when it's not raining three miles down the road.

On the fourth night of our seven night stay, the stars were out and the temps were cold. Hubby and I stayed up past all the family, eight more members, had gone to bed. Remember we were still young and romantic. We just needed time to stare into each other's eyes and be in love. He He. That night we just sat in front of the fire until it turned two in the morning. No one in the campground was stirring. I was so tired from all the hiking I couldn't move from my chair. Hubby was awake watching the fire.

I looked up and saw a figure moving toward us from the little road. Now, this is a National Park with no electricity except in the bathroom. A bathroom stood several campsites over from us, but its outside light could be seen. It did not light our campsite. The figure came closer. I looked at Hubby, who looked back at me. On its path, the figure would walk right through the middle of the campsite instead of down the path that took you to the bathroom. I remember thinking of all the nerve. The figure did not carry a flashlight or lantern. As it came into the campsite I saw it was a woman. Her hair was piled on her head in a ball with lots of little wisps curling around her face and down her neck. She had no shoes. I noticed this first because the direction she had come took her over gravel and through some tangled brush. She looked to be in her early thirties of spanish decent. She wore an old fashion slip that hung to the ground. Not what one would wear to sleep in while camping. The slip was edged with what looked to be handmade lace. I know my antique clothes and this looked like a slip from the mid to late eighteen hundreds. I couldn't take my eyes off of her.

She walked in the middle of our campsite, right past the big fire, stood, looked at me, but more like through me. Around her neck was a tiny cold chain. The expression on her face made me think she had to be sleepwalking because she wasn't there with me and Hubby. She turned away and continuing walked toward the bathroom.

This particular bathroom had a door that screeched so loud when it was open it woke me in the night.

I looked at Hubby. "She was weird."

"What was her deal? She gave me the creeps."

I kept waiting for her to open the bathroom door, but never did I hear the sound or see her walking away.

A few minutes later I looked at Hubby. "She never went to the bathroom. The door didn't squeak."

He shrugged.

"Let's go in the tent." And we did.

The next morning I still couldn't get the woman off my mind. I decided to walk in the same direction as she had come. If she were real, she had to cross a rushing river and walk through heavy woods, not to mention the afore mentioned gravel and tangle of brush.

Who was this woman? I did some research when I got home and found that two cemeteries were on the Smokemont property. A logging camp had settled there in the late 1800s before the land became part of the park.

I told my future mother in-law at the time and she only smiled and said, "Child you've seen what my granny would have called a haint."

I've been back to Smokemont countless times. The woman has never showed up again. I have not camped in the campsite either. I refuse to test fate, and mostly I go to bed around ten.

But the woman is always remembered. The kids and adults alike ask to hear the story each time we stay, always in front of the campfire.

Would you know a ghost if she came walking up to you?

Ann

Too Hot For Wilbur

2008-06-09T05:37:00.001-07:00

This weekend it was so hot in Georgia, even the pigs came to the beach! We spent the day at the lake Saturday. The water felt like a warm bath, but it was better than sitting in the house. You have to be careful in this kind of heat. The lake can fool you into thinking you're cool when your body is getting too much sun. I know because I spent most of my time in the lake and didn't drink as much as I normally would. I could feel the effects by the time I left. We did get a strong storm on Friday that dumped lots of rain on us, but the temps still remained high. They are calling for a break in the temps this week. Chance of rain is in the forecast too. We leave for the mountains next week. Yeah!

This week I teach my writing workshop. I always get nervous when I stand up in front of people. I also am on a book reviewing roll. I have four great upcoming novels to review.

Dear American Airlines by Jonathan Miles
Tomato Girl by Jayne Pupek
A Dangerous Age by Ellen Gilchrist
The Plague of Dove by Louise Erdrich

It so happens two of these authors are my favorite authors and I own all their books. Along with pay, I receive a hard cover book instead of the customary advanced copy in paperback. What fun!

I also have a new Black Mountain story coming out in Literary House Review. This is a annual print journal that is a beautiful anthology of stories and poetry. I will also write the introduction for the book.

Novel work is coming along. I am submitting chapters to my writing group. They are wonderful help. All writers should have a group where they can go to get trusted feedback on their work. No matter how good the writer, they always need another set of eyes.

So, there you go. This post has mostly been about me, but I'd like to mention the sand art is once again Hubby!

Ann

Artist In The Making

2008-06-04T12:22:00.001-07:00

As I said in early posts, we're getting slammed here with the humidity and temps, but mostly the humidity. It feels like August in early June, but that is the weather in Georgia. Yesterday one of my dear friends called. We hadn't talked in weeks, so I settled Daughter with her supper in front of the TV--I know I'm bad--and started playing catch up. We talked about I-Pods, writing, family, the amount of water that is needed to make it through the day. It was glorious. Then, I remembered Hubby's supper in the oven that by the way did get just a teeny bit overcooked. I entered the kitchen and there sat Daughter, who is eight, scrubbing at her legs with wet paper towels. The empty paper towel tube sat next to her on the white floor.

The scrubbing was only spreading a white substance up her legs. It also covered her arms and hands. She took one look at me on the phone and said, "Don't tell 'Friend's Name' about this."

Now normally this would give me a melt down, especially when I saw the little white footprints on my hardwood floors. The look on this child's face and maybe the heat caused me to begin to giggle. I giggled until I cried. Maybe I was hysterical.

"What have you done?"

Daughter, catching on that she would live another day, smiled. "I painted you a picture."

And that she did. I received a lime green paper with white hand prints and foot prints. She painted a memory that will stay with me forever. This is one of those stories I'll tell when she is grown and married. The ones we tell our grandchildren to get our children back, to plant ideas in their little minds.

I read somewhere that an artist suppressed her art for years because her mother threw a fit when she painted on her bedroom wall. Well, Daughter doesn't have to worry about her creativity being blocked this time :).

Ann

Stimulating The Economy

2008-06-02T05:43:00.000-07:00

Well, Hubby and I got our stimulus check. I swore I would not spend any of it, but you know it was our patriotic duty to boost the economy, so we compromised and took a third to spend. Yeah! Now, I've lusted after a new i-pod ever since the new design came out, but I just couldn't justify buying one since my daughter bought me a shuffle Christmas of 2006. It was everything I needed, and she had it engraved.

What to do with my spending money? I could go on a book buying spree! This was tempting, but I just couldn't get that slim, sleek nano out of my mind. So, you know what happened. I broke down and bought one. What else could I do when I saw it behind the locked case. I could put all my podcasts, audiobooks, and music in one place. I can even watch videos if I wear my strong glasses and store my favorite photos on it for showing off. It's a beautiful thing.

Hubby bought a new tent. Yes, camping at its best. And we still put two-thirds of the check in savings, so we're feeling good. We are off for a vacation to the mountains at the end of the month with Jack's side of the family. This will be our first all-family vacation in years. I'm looking forward to the mountains. I will take my writing notebook and maybe my laptop. Who knows I might get some good fodder. That's how the Black Mountain series began.

Did I mention that I hate summer :). The temps here promise to be 89 today. It's the humidity that kills us 84%. It causes chaos. This morning we're nearing eighty and it's not even nine o'clock. My morning started early. Little Daughter woke up at seven again this morning. So, there goes quiet journaling time. Older Youngest Daughter called as Hubby was going out the door to work. She is going to have a baby in October, and the whole situation is beginning to sink in, along with our damp, oppressive heat. Hubby decides to come back up to the front door to tell me something he forgot. Little Daughter is yelling to get Older Youngest Daughter's new phone number. Older Youngest Daughter is still talking, and I'm crazy!

This is summer! Gone are the quiet mornings where the neighborhood empties out and leaves me to the birds and hum of the traffic on the nearby highway. Gone are the days when I don't speak a word after seven-thirty until I pick Daughter up at school. It is culture shock at its best.

But this morning I will buckled down and work on another novel chapter. The whole summer stretches out in front of me. This is the time of year Publishing takes a breath and relaxes a little until August. I have time. I will write, just not in long stretches.

Ann

Someone's Idea of Holiday Fun

2008-05-27T05:18:00.000-07:00

Yes, this is Hubby at the lake, where we spent most of the weekend. His idea of fun is creating sand art of the largest kind. We had a wonderful day, soaking up the sun, sand clinging to everything in sight. I read a novel and listened to podcasts. Ella made a friend and played the whole day. Ham and cheese sandwiches never tasted so good.

On Monday, we celebrated by have a large cook out for Jack's side of the family. We moved out to our deck, using the patio table and chairs we acquired last summer. We broke in our fire bowl and warmed up the grill. It was a feast to beat all feasts. I'm still full this morning.

Now life has to find a pace for me. I've had some interesting writing offers over the weekend, and you know I'll accept because they fit in with the overall plan.

Stay tuned tomorrow for the first of two real-life ghost stories. These posts were inspired last night as we told ghost stories around the fire and roasted marshmallows. I think, if nothing else, you will understand where I get some of my writing material.

Ann

Rain, Thunder, and A Plan For Summer Writing

2008-05-21T08:52:00.000-07:00

Last night we were smashed by a horrible storm. Rain, hail, and lightning came on us in a flash. Due to the weatherman's prediction that a tornado sat right up the road from us, we all moved to the basement. We heard the road that runs parallel to ours was hit with downed trees.

We survived. My flowers and grass look better for the chaos. While I sat in the basement, I thought of how different this summer is beginning from last year when we had no rain at all. This led to thinking on the upcoming summer and our plans. I have to be honest here. I'm not a big fan of summer in Georgia. If I had it my way, I'd move away, somewhere north or south, anywhere but here. I always have big plans of gardens, exercise, and day trips outside. It doesn't take long and they go the way of migrating birds.

The heat and humidity wins out. I retreat into reading a book under the tree just to get fresh air and barricading myself in our air conditioned home. So, last night I promised myself I'd look at this summer realistically. I won't be walking after daylight once the temps hit the nineties. Bike riding will be a joke until the sun goes down. Trips to the lake and the pool will be reward for making it through the work week. My garden will have to fend on its own. The grass will stop growing, stunted by heat, unless we have a rainy summer. And most of all the wonderful expanse of time to write will disappear.

Now, with this realization came another aha moment. This week while typing an email to a dear friend, I realized an answer to one of my questions had been answered through my own words. I have been seeking the next step in my writing. Most of the readers are aware of my calling to write a memoir. They are also aware how I have fought it tooth and nail. Why? Because I just can't imagine what I have to say about my life that would benefit any person. Ah, but here's the catch. I do have a lot to say if I will only allow my voice to ring out; instead, of attempting to keep it in check.

So, as the rain beat the windows and I faced the summer ahead, I saw I had to write the memoir. I would have to write the truth and talk about my spiritual side that I keep mostly to myself. In plain words, I would have to call God, God and not be politically correct. What kind of life would we lead if it were all politically correct anyway? My next question was how? When would I get the time during the summer with Daughter home? The answer: She will remind me of how far I've come in this life. In other words, the craziness will keep me grounded. This project will not be easy to complete just like seeing summer as perfect in Georgia is a myth. But I will attempt the work, and I will remain in Atlanta for the summer. Like I have a choice. And before I know it, fall will be here. And maybe, just maybe, I'll have something to show for my efforts.

Ann

I'm Starry Eyed In Love

2008-05-20T08:22:00.000-07:00

Yes, Jack has something to worry about. I have fallen in love with my new frig. You must understand the former frig, who died a slow lingering death, was so small I couldn't fit a week's worth of food in it.

This one is the size of the fish who swallowed Jonah. I could crawl in here and live. Notice the crisper drawer with its own temp control. Heaven.

I'm mighty proud.

Ann

Walking Throughout The Year or Taking One's Life In Her Own Hands

2008-05-19T07:41:00.000-07:00

When I imagined this post in mid August last year, it was with the intention to rant about the weather, temps, and drivers I encountered while walking. As the reader will see, it came out quite different, and I learned an awful lot from writing the piece.

This school year began a first for me. I embarked on a full time writing career. Which is to say, I was going on a tough budget. Also it was a first with Daughter. She would have her mother to herself each afternoon when school let out. We pondered transportation. Because of my decision to be a full time writer, we had one car and one car only. So the choices were limited. We decided to make a lifestyle change. We made this decision in the middle of record one hundred degree weather and a disabling drought, not to mention the pollution index. We decided--and thank goodness for our gas tank that that we did--to walk the mile to and from school. This would mean two miles for Daughter, and four miles for me. Oh did I mention that our walk would take us up and down one of the busiest highways in the county? Oh yeah and the walk to the school is up hill three quarters of the way.

As we began the school year, I prayed for rain. I would not have cared if buckets poured down on me it was so hot. We loved Tuesdays and Thursdays because the condos next door used their sprinklers that covered a good stretch of the sidewalk. It was divine. We fought drivers who chose to stop over the crosswalk and block our safe passage across the intersection. On more than one occasion, I wished I had my camera so I could photo the said offenders and post the photos on my blog.

But a week or two into the routine I began to slow and really see my neighborhood. Daughter must have felt much the same because on one hot morning, she composed a beautiful poem while we walked in the dawn light. On more than one morning, we were witnesses to the most spectacular sunrises. The sky would be streaked with purple and pink. As we topped Killer Hill, an orange ball of fire sat between two twenty story buildings. The cars were bumper to bumper, going nowhere fast. But we were moving, covering ground.

I began to use my mp3 player on my part of the walk. I listened to writing podcasts that I had been promising myself I would listen to for forever. Before I knew what was happening, I began to see some of the same faces everyday: a woman walking her terrier, an older woman dressed in a security guard uniform at the bus stop, the fire fighter jogging as his shift ended, high school kids laughing and talking at the corner. We began to smile, nod, and speak to one another. My neighborhood was coming alive for me after seven years of dashing up the road in my car.

Of course the rain did come two months later when the weather had changed, but we managed. We bought boots, umbrellas, and raincoats. Then the weather turned cold and we geared up with warm hats, gloves, and extra thick coats.

By this time our bodies began to show a difference from the exercise and diet changes. I drank mostly water and only one cup of coffee each day. Daughter could ride her bike five miles on the local bike trail with no problem.

When we emerged into spring, parents came up to me, commenting on how wonderful it was I chose to walk. By this point gas prices had really soared and walking was becoming a consideration for many. We became expert judges of careless drivers. But mostly we found that drivers gave the right away to walkers. We soon made a habit of stopping at the local international food market for extras, carrying our purchases home in totes.

Maybe by walking we have saved a barrel of oil! But as the school year ends this week, I've come to realize how important this time is for me. I've gone through tons of writing podcasts and NPR story readings. I spend much time in uninterrupted talks with Daughter. I've seen countless birds that I never dreamed were in this busy area. My favorite is a large hawk that catches the breeze and glides high over the traffic.

The whiny piece I intended to write turned into a self discovery. My world is so much larger than I ever imagined. I've grown and become polished in my efforts. Will I continue through the summer to get the exercise? Of course, I have to be ready for next school year!

So, the moral of this story is take the time to walk. You just might be surprised at what you learn.

Ann

All About Me

2008-05-16T09:37:00.000-07:00

This is one of those blogs where it's all about me. First I'm guest blogger on

A Good Blog's Hard To Find. The owners are a variety of southern authors. It was fun and a pleasure to work with the blog. You should check the entire blog out.

I'm dead tired. I've been soaked and abused this morning. Yes, I spent the morning at Daughter's school, helping out for field day. I'd rather write for ten hours straight. Once again I was given the water pipe game. This game is proof it doesn't take much to entertain our youth today. It's just good old fashion fun. For them!

You begin with eight mop size buckets, four pvc pipes, capped at one end, and holes drilled down the length. The object is to get as much water from one bucket to the other bucket seven feet across from you by using the pipes and a ladle. Total chaos! Total. Water flies, kids run, and I clean up before the next class comes my way. I did this for three hours. Of course it was wonderful to see Daughter for ten minutes and eat a Life Saver Popsicle.

When it was over I ran like a mad woman to the my home, down to my study, and checked my email. Ah, now I'm writing this, writing with words, no screaming children, just writing. Peace. It makes me appreciate Daughter and even the one or two kids she brings over.

Well, it's over until next year.

Ann

Dr Pepper With A Little Foam

2008-05-13T06:26:00.000-07:00

I just love those days where I play around writing blogs instead of working on my novel. Anyway this story was too good to let it pass. It's a story about how my hubby got what was coming to him :).

Anybody that knows me, knows I'm not a Dr. Pepper lover. I believe you either love it or hate it. There is no in-between. Hubby, on the other hand, would walk a mile to buy a bottle. Everybody that has met Hubby knows he is a fun-loving kid at heart. This is the very thing that I both love and battle.

Example: I came downstairs the other night after my bath to find him and my daughter playing bubbles in my kitchen, where I'd just mopped the white floor. Hubby doesn't blow bubbles the normal way. Nope, he uses a straw and blows into the sudsy dishwater I left in the sink. Daughter was right there blowing until the bubbles not only filled the air but ran over into the floor. Hubby even added extra dishwashing liquid to make more bubbles.

I transformed into crab-mom, raised my pinchers in the air, and chased said husband and daughter out of the room with threats of dismemberment. I guess that's what I get for leaving the dishwater in the sink.

Ah but, the next afternoon I caught Daughter in the kitchen with a straw in her hand and bubbles floating in the air. A small puddle of dishwashing liquid was on the counter. When I questioned her, she had no idea how the bubbles materialized. Because I was late for an appointment and it was just easier to walk away, I didn't question her any further. We moms have to pick and choose our battles.

The next morning was Mother's Day. Hubby got up before me--big deal for him--cooked breakfast, and served it to me on a tray. He then rewarded himself with a cup of Dr. Pepper--I give him grief about his caffeine intake.

"This Dr. Pepper sure is foamy."

Daughter giggled.

I ate.

Hubby took one big gulp and sent the offensive taste all over the room.

"It tastes like soap. Did you rinse the cups good?"

I ate.

Daughter giggled.

When Hubby left the room to rinse out the glass and start again, Daughter giggled more.

I ate.

"This cup must have been full of soap. I can't rinse it out." He yelled from the kitchen.

I looked at Daughter, who shrugged.

"Did you blow some big bubbles?"

Daughter giggled.

The way I see it Hubby got what he had coming to him. He taught Daughter to play bubbles in the kitchen. She just happened to use his cup to hold the soap since I'd learned my lesson about leaving dishwater in the sink.

Ann

A Wonderful Weekend

2008-05-12T06:11:00.000-07:00

I've had a wonderful weekend. We spent Saturday at the Cherokee Pow Wow. It was a lot of fun. Here is a print I bought. Her art so inspires me to write. The artist, Shannon, is pictured with a bird of prey. We had a wonderful conversation. You must check out her website. She is a spiritual artist that's not afraid to call God, God.

Melissa gave me a gift of her art. Check it out. These are photos that she took. I was so proud and touched she would share her work with me. It hangs in my study. So I can look at it as I write. Also a group picture of the three generations was in order.

My daughters all came to see me on Mother's Day with gifts that proved they knew there mother. I received flowers from Cassey and Ella. Beth and her husband James came to church with us.

Hope you had a wonderful day too.

Ann

To All The Mothers

2008-05-11T05:27:00.000-07:00

I will write a post in the next day or two about my wonderful weekend and an the artist I discovered and connected with. But for now my friends:

Have a wonderful Mother's Day. Baby yourself today and remember Mother's Rock!

Ann

Tag Your It

2008-05-09T06:14:00.000-07:00

I was tagged by my lovely daughter Melissa...so, here is my attempt.

Here are the rules:
1. The rules of the game get posted at the beginning.
2. Each player answers the questions about themselves.
3. At the end of the post, the player tags 5 people and posts their name, then goes to their blogs and leaves them a comment, letting them know they've been tagged and asking them to read your blog.

What was I doing 10 years ago:

I was working in corporate rat race, trying to climb some kind of later. I'd been married for one year and awaited a new grandchild, a boy, the first on our side of the family.

Five snacks I enjoy:

popcorn butter
cheddar popcorn
kettle popcorn (I LOVE POPCORN)
chips of any kind
chocolate

In the real world:

I am a writer
I'm a mom
I'm a wife
I'm a snob about what I read.
I'm addicted to Ghost Hunters.

Things I would do if I were a billionaire:

I would give my children a new house, car, and pay off their bills.
I would build my husband and me a house in the mountains.
I would create a scholarship for displaced homemakers so they could get back on their feet.
I would begin a publishing house for writers, owned by writers.
I would start an artist retreat, where artists could work for up to a month at a time.
I would begin a quality school in my area that was accessible to all children no matter the income.
I could keep going. I have a lot to give.

Five jobs I've had:

Freelance Writer
Technical Writer for BP Oil
Account Manager for Propex
Office Manager for Mini Maid
Team Leader for Mini Maid

Three of my habits:

reading in a hot bath
reading more than one book at a time
trying to control situations I have no control over (this is my biggy.)

Five places I've lived:

Macon, Georgia
Newport News, Virginia
Hahn Air Force Base, Germany
Pine Log, Georgia
Smyrna, Georgia

What do you want others to get from your blog:

Inspiration and a good laugh.

Now I'm passing this tag along to:

I'm pretty new to this blogging thing, so I don't have any personal blogs I can tag.

Sorry.

A Peanut Butter Sandwich and A Glass of Sweet Tea

2008-05-07T09:24:00.000-07:00

There's nothing like a good old peanut butter sandwich followed by a big glass of sweet tea. It's pure heaven. I should say ice tea because here in Georgia the sweat part is assumed. Now, I drink mine with a slice of orange. Yes, my granny would just roll over in her grave if she knew I polluted my tea with such a thing. She'd also roll over if she knew I only use three quarters of a cup of sugar per half gallon. It's not real tea if ain't syrup.

There was a time in my life when I only drank unsweetened tea and I would have rather died than admit I ate peanut butter. These were what I now call my smart years; the years I spent trying to outrun my southern history. This was nearly impossible given my background (That's a whole other post). I stripped all the accent from my words. I spoke only proper English. When I wrote stories, I never allowed my characters to speak as true southerners, natural and all. Nope these stories were the most intelligent stories you ever read. I even got quite a few published. But I never was too happy. I sure didn't have fun writing them.

So, that's why you won't see me ripping a piece of writing apart due to grammar and punctuation. I know there's a lot of ways to say what we as writers and storytellers have to say. Getting caught up in the perfection of it all has its price too.

I've spent way too much time eating dry, stringy roast beef instead of peanut butter sandwiches. My lesson was creativity and voice. Now, when I get a hankering for peanut butter or even butter beans, I go for it. It's a lot more fun. And, I always drink my ice tea sweet.

Ann

The Voice of Black Mountain

2008-04-29T05:51:00.000-07:00

Beginning tomorrow April 30^th my selected Black Mountain Stories will be featured in The Dead Mule. I’ve been asked by several people what is your process? How do you sit down and write everyday? How do I come up with the Black Mountain characters? This is as close as I could come to answering those questions.

For a decade I spent my energy outrunning my southern upbringing. I wanted no part of tall tales, superstitions, and folklore. I think some of my attitude stemmed from my grandmother, who was the first in her family to move from the country to the city. But mostly I was like a lot of others in Atlanta. My goal was to erase the old south out of my life and become chic and worldly. Gees!

I published my short stories in a variety of small literary magazines, but these pieces never rang true. There was nothing about these creations that reflected me, that reached way down to the bone. In May of 2004, my husband took me on a long weekend trip to a small mountain community, where they just happened to be celebrating the area’s 150^th birthday. The weekend was filled with storytelling, bluegrass music, and art. Something about the whole trip seemed familiar.

And then I thought of those Sundays once a month spent at my great aunt’s farm in the country. We’d sit in the living room with its high ceilings and homemade furniture and sip syrupy ice tea in jelly jar glasses from the depression era. I’d find a corner next to one of the large potted plants and sit quietly until I became part of the rose wallpaper. Soon the women—there was always a roomful of grown cousins—began to cast their spells. My great aunt would pull out her spittoon and offer my grandmother a dip of snuff, which she would take to my fascination. The talk would turn to the real stories. One of my favorites was how my great grandfather brought my great grandmother home from a trip to Atlanta not feeling well. She felt so bad she went straight to bed at two in the afternoon. Two days later her whole head turned black, and she died. Folks believed my great grandfather had a spell placed on her so he could marry a new wife, which he promptly did three months after my great grandmother’s death.

The celebration in the mountain community jogged me to connect to my past.

A few days after returning home from our trip, I stood at the stove cooking hamburgers, and a voice shot through my head. I know it sounds crazy.

“Mama warned me against marrying Hobbs Pritchard. She saw the future in her tealeaves, death.”

Thank goodness for writing notebooks. I grabbed mine—I keep it with me all the time to angst of my family—and wrote down what I heard. I knew instantly that this character’s name was Nellie, and she did marry Hobbs Pritchard, whoever he was and even though taking this character serious went against everything I was trying to do in my writing, I was hooked on her.

Nellie showed up in my dreams. She spoke to me on my day job. She told me all about her childhood while I attempted to write in my journal. Finally I gave in and wrote her story, Ghost on Black Mountain. This piece poured out of me in one sitting during my lunch hour at work. What would we do without laptops? I knew it was something special. I had found what many writers call their ‘voice’. You could have knocked me over with a finger. This southern, rural mountain girl had shaken my writing upside down.

In a matter of six months, more characters than I could count had popped up. All of them not only had a story to tell, but lived on Black Mountain. Eighteen stories were born. Black Mountain had become a subtle character in the background in each of these pieces.

The stories attracted an agent at a writers’ conference. I signed on with her in late 2006. She is currently shopping my novel, Ghost on Black Mountain, starring non other than Nellie Pritchard.

So have I developed a process in which to invoke new characters and their stories? Does a southerner use bacon grease to cook with? Thanks to some decent successes with essay publications and a wonderful husband, Jack, who said go for it, I write fulltime, a luxury I value.

Each morning at eight I begin with my iced cappuccino. I answer all emails and do what surfing on the internet that I need to do. Promptly at eight-thirty, I turn off my wireless router downstairs so I’m not tempted to check email and begin my writing time by journaling. Much of what I write is whining about the day, year, or decade, but with this out of the way, I address my expectations of the workday. Then I dive into my current project. Right now that would be my second novel, Beautiful Wreck.

I write until 12:30 without a break. This writing can involve keying into the laptop or writing in my notebook. I will write in longhand when I can’t get my hands around what the character wants to say. Longhand always works. It takes me closer to the character, kind of nose to nose. Before I break, I pick up my journal again. I spend some time writing about what was accomplished during the writing session. Many times this reveals where the next section is going or what problem has me stuck.

After lunch I go back and enter the longhand from the morning into the computer. I then take a long walk. Long walks are one of the most important tools I utilize. A walk allows me to meditate and most often many solutions and ideas appear. This is the only time I don’t have my writing notebook with me, but I do carry an index card and pen.

Why do I use both a journal and a writing notebook? My journal is a beautiful book that holds my thoughts and allows me to take myself seriously as writer. My writing notebook is the opposite. It is always a spiral notebook with different designs on the cover. I don’t take my writing life too serious in these books. They are invaluable to me. First drafts often pop up here.

My writing takes place most of my waking hours. I might write a first draft while my daughter takes her bath. This way I capture the idea as it enters my head. Writing is more than a career for me. It is a way of life. Thank goodness my family loves and supports me, offering all sorts of advice. Ella, my eight year old daughter, says I should write a children’s book about Black Mountain and its ghost. Maybe she’s right. You never know what I might get myself into next.

Ann Hite

Visiting The High

2008-04-28T05:31:00.000-07:00

I'm not much on blogging about what I'm doing, but this was too good to pass up. Yesterday, I had a day out with my dear friend Maria. We lunched at Cheesecake Factory and then went moved on to the High Museum of Art In Atlanta. If you haven't been, you must! Louvre Atlanta is worth the ticket alone. One must stand in front of the huge sculpture of The Tiber (Rome 74-125 AD) to understand how awesome artists are to the world.

But the whole reason for visiting the museum was the Georgia O'Keeffe and the Women of the Stieglitz Circle exhibit. While I went thinking that Georgia O'Keeffe's work would be all I wanted to see, I was struck by the photos of Anne Brigman. I'm still left to think of how she molded her body in the exposed roots of a huge tree. She becomes part of the tree, her long hair mingling with the fine roots. I found her work inspiring. You can watch her progression in life through her photos.

O'Keeffe's work is overwhelming in person. To stand in the room with her paintings is surreal. There were old favorites and paintings I had never seen. One Painting, Morning Glory with Black, moved me deeply I thought I would begin to cry. Maria asked me why? At the time I didn't know. But now I do. I was moved to tears because she's gone and while her paintings are left with us for apperciation and inspirtation, there will never be anything new.

I strongly suggest if you get a chance to visit the exhibit before it leaves Atlanta you would!

A Teacher And A Mentor

2008-04-26T12:21:00.000-07:00

Check out this blog post. My introduction is also been posted at The Dead Mule.

All this is fun and exciting, but something even better happened yesterday. While I was doing research on a school, I happened upon the name of a writing teacher that I had in 1991. I couldn't imagine it was really her.

This wasn't just any teacher. When I first heard her read from her novel Picture Makers at a writers conference in Atlanta in 1990, I felt legitimized for the first time as a writer. I then met her again when she moved to the small town I lived in. I eventually took an advanced writing class with her, where she did take an interest in my short stories. I shudder to think about those horrible stories, but she saw what my writing could be. And she infused in me, a newly divorced mother of three, a confidence in my abilities that I would not have had otherwise.

When I realized this was the very teacher from so long ago, I wanted to contact her and say thanks. But should I do that? Would she just think I was some crazy trying to get her to promote my writing? She has gone on to start The Atlanta School For Girls and is now the president and director at Literacy Action in Atlanta. Would she remember me? Why would she?

The idea was crazy. But I couldn't put it out of mind. So I contacted her. Not only did she remember me, she was thrilled I got in contact with her. She wanted to know if I had any success with my writing and invited me to visit and speak at Literacy Action. My head is still spinning.

So sixty published short stories and ten published essays later, life has come full circle. In the last year I have reconnected with both that one special teacher and my writing mentor. Both women who helped me see that every time I got knocked to my knees I had to come right back up fighting.

Both of these women were there when I reached out both in the past and now. Emily Ellison is the teacher/author's name. Becky Wilke is my writing mentor's name. Both have gone on to make literacy their life.

Thanks to both of you for helping me see the passion in my life. I am trying my best to pass it on.

Ann

It Is Done

2008-04-25T06:59:00.000-07:00

I have finished the introduction for The Dead Mule! When I really sat down to work on it, I found the job fun. But I must say every time I have to write about myself or my work, I procrastinate. All this begins to happen next week. It's a big deal for me because the mule has never featured a fiction writer before. Yeah!

Here's a tiny preview of the introduction:

Often I feel I’ve channeled the Black Mountain Stories from several of my eccentric relatives from long ago. I was born in

Georgia

and raised everywhere but

Georgia

until I was ten years old. That’s when my mother brought my brother and me back to live with my grandmother. It was then I began to absorb both wonderful and eerie tales told by my extended family. One of the first stories I heard upon arrival at my grandmother’s home was about a fighter pilot—an air force base was nearby—had crashed into the house down the street. The eighty-year old home was owned by two old maid sisters: one who had spent her life in a wheelchair and the other looking after her. The whole street ran to watch the fire. Some claim to have seen the pilot in the front seat of the jet trying to get out. Others claim to have heard one of the sisters screaming. The only survivor was the sister in the wheelchair.

Ann

Standing In Line At Wal-Mart

2008-04-24T08:27:00.000-07:00

Well, my publication of selected Black Mountain Stories in The Dead Mule is almost upon me. I've been asked to write an introduction to the stories. I'm not big on introductions unless they really provide the reader with information vital to the work. I thought it might be fun to give the reader some insight on how the stories came into existence. Some invented themselves in line at Wal-Mart. I carry a writing notebook with me everywhere I go to the angst of my family. And let's face it standing in line on Saturday afternoon is the perfect place to write.

Working with Valerie, the editor, at The Dead Mule has been a fun experience. The Mule has been around since 1995. It is one of the best places to find good southern literature and wonderful poetry. I'm honored to be a feature writer. I did finish the blog post for Valerie. It's so weird writing about yourself. I kept thinking who cares?

I also have a new goal. I want to get into the Artist Residency Program at The Hambige Center. This goal is set for the distant future. First I have to ween myself from my daughter and husband. Two weeks sounds like forever to leave my family. Plus, I want the writing project I am currently working on to be completed. But the thought of staying in one of their studios for two weeks with nothing to think about but writing is all too appealing. We shall see. Who knows what the future may bring. Someone said that. Who?

My writing workshop for Smyrna Library will be held in June. I'm putting together an outline now. Helping kids to love words and writing is another goal I have.

So, I'm off to work. The novel should be finished in the next month. Then I can polish. Gees now I sound like a shoe shine person.

Writer Woman (Ann)

Mother's Day Give Away

2008-04-23T05:21:00.000-07:00

Okay! Melissa, my daughter, is giving away a $25 gift card to Barnes and Noble. Yep, you heard right. This for mothers only. Sign up mothers at:

http://www.frommelissasdesk.com/

Good Luck because I'm playing too. It's books! I have to.

Ann

More Time and Ramblings

2008-04-18T06:02:00.001-07:00

We've only had two comments on last week's reading, so I'm going to give it some more time before I post on the this week's reading. I have finished the book and found it one of the best books I've read. I had to read this in school, but I didn't recall any of the book as I read it again. I guess being an adult and a write puts a whole different spin on the read. That's all I'll say.

I've been busy with several small projects, meeting deadlines, and of course working on my novel. Nope, I haven't worked on the memoir. I have put it to the side until I finish my second novel. The second novel will be completed in the next month. Yeah! It's title is Beautiful Wreck, so use your imagination. Sometimes I'm so sure of this work's message and on other days, I question the whole effort. Normal stuff for me.

My Black Mountain stories, Life on Black Mountain, will be published in the next issue of The Dead Mule. The editor is a beautiful person to work with, and she really believes in these stories. My blog post on my writing process will be live on April 28th or there about. The magazine issue will carry eighteen of the original Black Mountain stories. One of these are brand new and being published for the first time. I've since written a new story called Wiggle Room. It features new Black Mountain characters, three sisters: Barbara Jean, Carley, and Ida Tee. This story sprang from my effort to discover more about sister relationships since I don't have a sister. The voice in the story emerged in a writing practice exercise in my online writing group. I hope to find a home for this piece soon. I have only sent it out to one place. I've been so consumed with novel writing.

I finally received my copy of The Last Lecture. This book has sold out everywhere. If you listen to Randy Pausch speak, you will understand why. He has a powerful message. I strongly suggest all of you to order the book.

Today is Friday so I have to go write now. I don't get a lot of writing in over the weekends. Would I write on the weekend? I'd write all the time if I could get away with it. Do something creative today!

Writer Woman

better know as

Ann

Chapters 8-15

2008-04-11T05:43:00.001-07:00

Post on Chapters 8-15

My favorite scenes are grouped together here in this second section. Of course the whole book is my favorite scene. I can't begin to discuss all of what is wonderful about these chapters. There is just too much. So, I'll hit the high places. Forgive me if I miss your favorite quote. You'll have to post your comments too.

Winter finally comes to Maycomb County, Alabama. Scout's reaction is perfect.

(My screams brought Atticus from his bathroom half-shaven.

“The world's endin', Atticus! Please do something--!” I dragged him to the window and pointed.

“No it's not,” he said. “It's snowing.”)

Jem's idea of making a snowman was hilarious. I love how they go to Maudie's to borrow snow.

(“Yesum!” called Jem. “It's beautiful, ain't it, Miss Maudie?”

“Beautiful my hind foot! If it freezes tonight it'll carry off all my azaleas!”)

The fire that destroys Maudie's home is both serious and comical. Imagine pushing the fire truck to her house and then the hose busts.

We as readers finally get the satisfaction of Scout's realizing Boo is behind the gifts in the hollow tree when a blanket is placed on her shoulders as she watches the fire.

(Atticus said, 'Whoa, son,' so gently that I was greatly heartened. It was obvious that he had not followed a word Jem said, for all Atticus said was, 'You're right. We'd better keep this and the blanket to ourselves. Someday, maybe, Scout can thank him for covering her up.'

'Thank who?' I asked.

'Boo Radley. You were so busy looking at the fire you didn't know it when he put the blanket around you.'

My stomach turned to water and I nearly threw up when Jem held out the blanket and crept toward me.)

My favorite quote in this chapter comes from Maudie.

('Only thing I worried about last night (the night of the fire) was all the danger and commotion it caused. This whole neighborhood could have gone up. Mr. Avery'll be in bed for a week—he's right stove up. He's too old to do things like that and I told him so. Soon as I can get my hands clean and when Stephanie Crawford's not looking, I'll make him a Lane cake. That Stephaine's been after my recipe for thirty years, and if she thinks I'll give it to her just because I'm staying with her she's got another thing coming.')

The shooting of Tim Johnson (the mad dog) will always be my favorite scene both in the book and the movie. Atticus' age is finally redeemed with his marksmanship. His children are left speechless.

(“What's the matter with you, boy, can't you talk?” said Mr. Tate, grinning at Jem. “Didn't you know your daddy's--”

'Hush Heck,' said Atticus, 'let's go back to town.')

Then we meet Mrs. Dubose, the old lady with the civil war pistol under her blanket. In my opinion, Ms. Lee out did herself with this character. The dialogue is brilliant. The scene where the children are reading to Mrs. Dubose in her bedroom comes alive with all the senses. I love Mrs. Dubose never loses her sense of winning. The camellia in the cigar box is an excellent touch.

(In the corner of the room was a brass bed, and in the bed was Mrs. Dubose. I wondered if Jem's activities had put her there, and for a moment I felt sorry for her. She was lying under a pile of quilts and looked almost friendly.

There was a marble-topped washstand by her bed; on it were a glass with a teaspoon in it, a red ear syringe, a box of absorbent cotton, and a steel alarm clock standing on three tiny legs.

“So you brought that dirty little sister of yours, did you?” was her greeting.”)

The conflict between Calpurnia and Lula lent credence to this novel. The deep message of this book for me is: We're all basically the same. Period. Never assume you are above any train of thought or action.

The description of the cemetery in at Calpurnia's church makes me think of an old graveyard I saw a couple of years ago. The things that had been placed on the graves suggested visitors spent a lot of time visiting.

(“The churchyard was brick-hard clay, as was the cemetery beside it. If someone died during a dry spell, the body was covered with chunks of ice until rain softened the earth. A few graves in the cemetery were marked with crumbling tombstones; newer ones were outlined with brightly colored glass and broken Coca-Cola bottles. Lightning rods guarding some graves denoted dead who rested uneasily; stumps of burned-out candles stood at the heads of infant graves. It was a happy cemetery.”)

And we close this section with the men who have come to lynch Tom Robinson. They've arrived in four dusty cars with attitudes of justice, their justice. This is not so different than Lula's thought process of white children coming to a black church, of course minus the intent to do harm. But isn't that how all harm or so-called justice of this kind begins? With a thought that the person really does not belong or deserve to be treated the same, that somehow above the other?

One little girl saves the day doing what her father taught her to do, stepping into someone's shoes.

(“Entailments are bad,” I was advising him, (Mr. Cunningham) when I slowly awoke to the fact that I was addressing the entire aggregation. The men were all looking at me, some had their mouths half-open. Atticus had stopped poking at Jem: they were standing together beside Dill. Their attention amounted to fascination.)

I look forward to your comments on these wonderful chapters.

Questions To Ponder

2008-04-10T05:11:00.001-07:00

Here are some questions to ponder on the first seven chapters. Please feel free to comment. I will blog my post on 8-15 tomorrow. Hope you're enjoying this book as much as me.

1. Atticus tells the children several times that they need to walk in someone else's shoes before judging the person. Describe times when Atticus, Scout or Jem walk in someone else's shoes during the first seven chapters. How does this change how they view the situations? What role does this advice play in sympathy and compassion?

2. Who is your favorite character so far and why?

3. In Scout's account of her childhood, her father Atticus reigns supreme. How would you characterize his abilities as a single parent?

Love to hear your answers.

Writer Woman

Chapters 1-7 Only

2008-04-03T17:25:00.000-07:00

Chapters 1 through 7

When is the last time you sat and watched a sunset? I’m not even commenting on this. The scene below is one of my favorites because I remember lazy evenings, when I was kid, sitting in the front yard of my grandmother’s house, watching the sky come alive with orange, red, and yellow. It was so hot—most houses didn’t have air conditioning—the cooler evening air was welcomed, even to a young girl with tons of energy.

“In the summertime, twilights are long and peaceful. Often as not, Miss Maudie and I would sit silently on her porch, watching the sky go from yellow to pink as the sun went down, watching flights of martins sweep low over the neighborhood and disappear behind the schoolhouse rooftops.” (This comes from chapter five).

Can’t you just see that sunset and feel the air? It’s too hot to do anything but just sit on the porch and be silent. I love it. And it’s enough.

The first seven chapters of To Kill A Mockingbird remind me of an easier time, even though in reality it was one of the worst times in our country. The book is set in the south during the depression, but Harper Lee’s approach in the first seven chapters is to build a vivid place in the reader’s mind, a place that they feel comfortable and at home.

The characters in this book are real to life for me. I’ve met them all. Some of them are part of my family. I love Maudie. Isn’t she wonderful? I see her working in her garden, baking cakes, and calling the children over for a treat. All the while she is a woman with an opinion and drive, but she presents it in a way that is nothing but a Southern Lady.

“Miss Maudie stopped rocking, and her voice hardened. ‘You are too young to understand it,’ she said, “but sometimes the Bible in the hand of one man is worse than a whiskey bottle in the hand of—oh, of your father.’” (also from chapter five)

The description of Scout rolling in the tire made me feel dizzy. I knew where she would stop, but still I hoped for a different outcome because it is here that the children’s relationship with Boo begins. Some might argue it’s when Jem touches the house, but I beg to differ. The author’s use of description in this scene is once again so vivid she brings me into the story.

Jem’s dialogue is particularly real for me. I grew up with people who talked like this and told stories just as wild. My favorite:

“’What’s a Hot Steam?” asked Dill.’
‘Haven’t you ever walked along a lonesome road at night and passed by a hot place?’ Jem asked Dill. ‘A Hot Steam’s somebody who can’t get to heaven, just wallows around on lonesome roads an’ if you walk through him, when you die you’ll be one too, an’ you’ll go around at night suckin’ people’s breath—‘” (from chapter four)

When Ms. Lee’s art reveals itself in chapter seven. The reader sees everything through Scout’s eyes and thoughts. While we remain with Scout, we watch Jem’s reactions after he’s gone after his pants late at night. We know like Scout that he is bothered, but we begin to guess why. Then as the children find the hole in the tree filled with cement, we understand that Jem suspects Boo as the gift-giver. Steadily, Ms. Lee has Jem evolve in front of our eyes. He views Boo as a real man; instead of the legend in the Radley house. We see this through the eyes of Scout, who has not put two and two together. She is still trying to guess who has been leaving the gifts. One guess is Miss Maudie.

I can’t wait to read more!

Comment this week on chapters 1-7 while reading chapters 8-15. We will begin comments on week two on April 11th.

Happy reading
Writer Woman

Are You Reading?

2008-04-02T16:27:00.000-07:00

Is everyone reading there books? I have finished my seven chapters and written my post for Friday. I must confess I had to do this because of my workload. Wow! I am enjoying this book. I have decided when I was assigned this book in school, I must have cheated by watching the movie or using cliff notes. No more comments on the book before Friday.

Good news this week.

My selected Black Mountain stories will be featured in The Dead Mule, out April 28th. I will be following poetry month featuring Virginia's Poet Laureate. Scary stuff. Hope I can live up to that one.

The editor for The Dead Mule has asked me to write an essay for The Mule's Blog about my writing process. So, guys I feel like I've finally reach some bar. (Not sure which one) I've been asked as a writer to describe how I write. It is both the most dreaded and anticipated question for a writer. It does point to the fact that readers do see you as a writer. Wow! Now I just have to describe how I do it :), which is totally crazy on most days.

And finally, I've received my review copies of books to be reviewed for The Feminist Review, and this is the reason I read my seven chapters and wrote the Friday post. I'll be reviewing Ursula K. LeGuin's new novel Lavinia to be released this month and Gabriel Garcia Marquez's Collected Novellas. Lot's of good reading and writing. And of course there is always the current project.

And if that wasn't enough books, I'm reading a wonderful book called Pen On Fire by Barbara DeMarco-Barrett. Barbara is the host of Writers on Writing, a radio show that features Writers talking about their process and books. Excellent.

See you on Friday.
Writer Woman

Start Reading

2008-04-01T06:26:00.000-07:00

It's time to begin reading. You may comment on chapters 1-7 April 5th and forward. Can't wait to see your comments. I will post my comments on the Chapter on the 4th.

Writer Woman

More On Our Author

2008-03-28T12:37:00.000-07:00

I found this essay on one of my favorite online magazines, StorySouth. It reveals quite a bit about Harper Lee. Thought you might enjoy reading this before beginning the book.

http://www.storysouth.com/nonfiction/2006/01/hiding_harper_lee.html

Have a good weekend.

Writer Woman

A Little About the Author and What To Read and When to Comment

2008-03-27T05:04:00.000-07:00

First before I get started I'd like to recommend The Friday Night Knitting Club by Kate Jacobs. It's soon to be a movie, staring Julia Roberts. I did not expect to enjoy this book as much as I did. I highly recommend it to all women. It is about women relationships. Beautiful book.

Now on to the subject of the day, reading schedule and a little about the author. Because I'm a writer, I'm always interested in the author of a book I'm reading. Up until a few months ago, I believed Harper Lee had died. I'm not sure why I thought this; other than she doesn't get mentioned much anymore. That's what I got for thinking. I opened an Oprah magazine and found a letter she had written about reading. She was alive and well. So, how does a writer write one book, a book that takes the biggest prize, the oscar of writing, the Pulitzer, and then basically walk away from writing? Here's what I've found about her. Thought you might be interested to know.

Nelle Harper Lee (born April 28, 1926) is an American novelist known for her Pulitzer Prize–winning 1960 novel To Kill a Mockingbird, her only major work to date. She was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom of United States for her contributions to literature in 2007.

Harper Lee, known to friends and family as Nelle, was born in the Alabama town of Monroeville on April 28, 1926, the youngest of four children born to Amasa Coleman Lee and Frances Cunningham Finch Lee. Her father, a former newspaper editor and proprietor, was a lawyer who also served on the state legislature from 1926 to 1938. As a child, Lee was a tomboy and a precocious reader, and enjoyed the friendship of her schoolmate and neighbor, the young Truman Capote.

After graduating from high school in Monroeville,[2] Lee enrolled first at the all-female Huntingdon College in Montgomery (1944-45), and then pursued a law degree at the University of Alabama (1945-49), pledging the Chi Omega sorority. While there, she wrote for several student publications and spent a year as editor of the campus humor magazine, Ramma-Jamma. Though she did not complete the requirements for a law degree, she pursued studies for a summer in Oxford, England, before moving to New York in 1950, where she worked as a reservation clerk with Eastern Air Lines and BOAC in New York City.

Lee continued working as a reservation clerk until the late 50s, when she resolved to devote herself to writing. She lived a frugal lifestyle, traveling between her cold-water-only apartment in New York to her family home in Alabama to care for her ailing father.

Having written several long stories, Harper Lee located an agent in November 1956. The following month at the East 50th townhouse of her friends Michael Brown and Joy Williams Brown, she received a gift of a year's wages with a note: "You have one year off from your job to write whatever you please. Merry Christmas."[3] Within a year, she had a first draft. Working closely with J. B. Lippincott & Co. editor Tay Hohoff, she completed To Kill a Mockingbird in the summer of 1959. Published July 11, 1960, To Kill a Mockingbird was an immediate bestseller and won her great critical acclaim, including the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction in 1961. It remains a bestseller today, with over 30 million copies in print. In 1999, it was voted "Best Novel of the Century" in a poll conducted by the Library Journal.

Many details of To Kill a Mockingbird are apparently autobiographical. Like Lee, the tomboy Scout is the daughter of a respected small town Alabama attorney. The plot involves a legal case, the workings of which would have been familiar to Lee, who studied law. Scout's friend Dill is commonly supposed to have been inspired by Lee's childhood friend and neighbor, Truman Capote, while Lee is the model for a character in Capote's first novel, Other Voices, Other Rooms.

Harper Lee has downplayed autobiographical parallels of the book. Yet Truman Capote, mentioning the character Boo Radley in To Kill a Mockingbird, described the details he considered biographical: "In my original version of Other Voices, Other Rooms I had that same man living in the house that used to leave things in the trees, and then I took that out. He was a real man, and he lived just down the road from us. We used to go and get those things out of the trees. Everything she wrote about it is absolutely true. But you see, I take the same thing and transfer it into some Gothic dream, done in an entirely different way."

After completing To Kill a Mockingbird, Lee accompanied Capote to Holcomb, Kansas, to assist him in researching what they thought would be an article on a small town's response to the murder of a farmer and his family. Capote expanded the material into his best-selling book, In Cold Blood (1966). The experiences of Capote and Lee in Holcomb were depicted in two different films, Capote (2005) and Infamous (2006).

Since the publication of To Kill a Mockingbird, Lee has granted almost no requests for interviews or public appearances, and with the exception of a few short essays, has published no further writings. She did work on a second novel for years, eventually filing it away unpublished.[citation needed] During the mid-1980s, she began writing a book of nonfiction about an Alabama serial murderer, but she put it aside when she was not satisfied with the result.[citation needed] Her withdrawal from public life has prompted persistent but unfounded speculation that new publications are in the works. Similar speculation has followed the American writers J. D. Salinger and Ralph Ellison.

Lee said of the 1962 Academy Award–winning screenplay adaptation of To Kill a Mockingbird by Horton Foote: "If the integrity of a film adaptation can be measured by the degree to which the novelist's intent is preserved, Mr. Foote's screenplay should be studied as a classic."[citation needed] She also became a close friend of Gregory Peck, who won an Oscar for his portrayal of Atticus Finch, the father of the novel's narrator, Scout. She remains close to the actor's family. Peck's grandson, Harper Peck Voll, is named after her.

In June 1966, Lee was one of two persons named by President Lyndon B. Johnson to the National Council on the Arts.

When Lee attended the 1983 Alabama History and Heritage Festival in Eufaula, Alabama, she presented the essay "Romance and High Adventure."

Lee has been known to split time between an apartment in New York and her sister's home in Monroeville. She has accepted honorary degrees but has declined to make speeches. In March 2005, she arrived via Amtrak in Philadelphia — her first trip to the city since signing with publisher Lippincott in 1960 — to receive the inaugural ATTY Award for positive depictions of attorneys in the arts from the Spector Gadon & Rosen Foundation. At the urging of Peck's widow Veronique, Lee traveled by train from Monroeville to Los Angeles in 2005 to accept the Los Angeles Public Library Literary Award. She has also attended luncheons for students who have written essays based on her work held annually at the University of Alabama.[6][7] On May 21, 2006, she accepted an honorary degree from the University of Notre Dame. To honor her, the graduating seniors were given copies of Mockingbird before the ceremony and held them up when she received her degree.

In a letter published in Oprah Winfrey's magazine O (May 2006), Lee wrote about her early love of books as a child and her steadfast dedication to the written word: "Now, 75 years later in an abundant society where people have laptops, cell phones, iPods and minds like empty rooms, I still plod along with books."

While attending an August 20, 2007 ceremony inducting four new members into the Alabama Academy of Honor, Lee responded to an invitation to address the audience with "Well, it's better to be silent than to be a fool."

Thanks to Wikipedia for this info.

Reading and Comment schedule: (Comments can be made online through blog or sent to me through email)

April 5th you may comment on chapters 1-7
April 12th comments on chapters 8-15
April 19th comments on chapters 16-22
April 26th comments on chapters 23-31 complete book
April 22th announcing book for May

Okay guys, buy your books and have at it. I look forward to everyone's comments.

Writer Woman

And The Winner Is!

2008-03-26T05:21:00.000-07:00

I'm excited to say that we have six people that have voted and joined in this new adventure. The winner with five votes is (drum roll please. the model brings out the envelope.) TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD with five votes. Yeah! You know I love my southern writing.

You can begin reading the book anytime, but let's say we need to have the book by April 2, 2008. At the end of the week you may post comments or questions on chapters 1-4. If you don't read that far, don't read the comments. There may be spoilers. There is no limit on how little or how much you read, but only comment on chapters 1-4. We will do this each week in the month of April. The last week in April I will post the new book and questions to ponder on the current book.

I will make my comments as a post each week. You may make your comments in the comment section or send via email and I will post them for you.

I think this will be a lot of fun. Since we are online, there are no limits to how many members join. Please pass the word.

Now it's credit time. I wish I could say I came up with this idea, but I didn't. I was having a conversation with my oldest daughter about writing book reviews. She made the suggestion. Yeah oldest daughter!

I will post a reading schedule tomorrow. Remember you do not have to follow it. You may read the book all in one sitting or spread it out over the whole month. Follow the schedule only for comments.

Writer Woman

In The Spirit of Reading

2008-03-25T05:54:00.000-07:00

Why not a book club? Who is on board? In a day and time when meeting somewhere is always tough, lets give an online bookclub a shot. I'm thinking we should do a few classics to begin our group.

What do you think? What book would you like to read first? Choices below:

1. Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf
2. Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy
3. The Golden Notebook by Doris Lessing
4. To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee

Please leave your comments.

Hope to see your vote.

Writer Woman

Write A Story

2008-03-18T15:56:00.001-07:00

I’m reading Ron Carlson Writes a Story. I highly recommend this book for writers in all stages. He takes the process of writing and puts it into terms that writers get, or this writer anyway. He talks about the outer story and how in writing this, our inner story evolves on its own. ‘Just the facts please’ is a term he uses more than once. Bring your writing to life with detail or the inventory of the scene.

I plan on using some of his suggestions on a recent story rewrite. I’ve finally come to understand that the only way I’m going to be the best writer I can is by writing more and talking less. I’ve always known this, but I find ways to escape the writing. I get up and go get coffee. I check my email. I stop to do research right at that minute. All of these are excuses to get away from the guts of my story.

Tomorrow I will write without disturbing my writing. I will not check email, get coffee, or research. I will write. I let you know how the rewrite of the story goes.

Writer Woman

A Person is a Person No Matter How Small

2008-03-17T06:25:00.001-07:00

The grass is beginning to grow in the yard and that means the task of mowing will begin soon. After all the terrible storms we’ve endured the past few days, I’m surprised it’s not a foot high. Downtown Atlanta was hit by a tornado for the first time ever. My middle daughter lives in downtown. Her home escaped the storm, but two miles up the road in the lofts where she lived a year ago, there was complete devastation. The building in which she lived collapsed in on itself. The pictures and film clips on the news gives me a sick stomach. Everyone is well. My other daughters who live in North Georgia where tornados hit all day Saturday came out fine.

Hubby, Little Daughter, and I (writer woman) went to see Horton Hears a Who yesterday. It was a wonderful little movie with the original message Dr. Seuss intended. After the movie, we popped into Borders located next door to the theater. I bought two new novels. I just devour books now days. I splurged and bought Joshilyn Jackson’s new novel, The Girl Who Stopped Swimming, in hard cover, and an older novel by Emily Listfield. It was a wonderful to go home with two new books.

I hope to write a review on Jackson’s book. My book reviews help me keep my very fiction toes in nonfiction.

So I close today thinking of Horton as they are dragging him into the large cage and carrying the clover away saying, “Boil that dust speck. Boil that dust speck.” The people in Whoville are screaming, “We are here. We are here.” And then that one little quiet who adds its voice to the chant. And the crowd about to boil the dust speck hears the tiny screams. Speak up when you have something worth saying and be quiet, listen when the time comes. You may just save a world or hear something you would have missed if you were too busy trying to boil that dust speck.

Moving Forward

2008-03-14T07:54:00.000-07:00

Writer Woman has spent the past two weeks with the flu. This sickness narrowed her world. The first three days she spent in bed unable to stand for more than two minutes at a time. On the fourth day, she moved her laptop in bed with her. Writing was not an option, but reading a few emails was doable. The fifth day brought a need to put words into the computer. She spent an hour writing on the memoir, or better known as the monster from the lagoon. But it felt wonderful to write. You know you have it bad when you write even though you can barely hold your head off the pillow.

Now nearly two weeks later, Writer Woman has begun to feel hunger pains. She sits at her desk in the bedroom conspiring to write a short entry for her blog. She has read many new books and drank cases of water.

What can a writer learn from this? Writing is part of you. It never goes away even when you're too sick to write. It just waits. All the words lined up, tapping their toes in anticipation.

I'm Back

2008-02-19T10:38:00.000-08:00

Yes, it's been almost a month since Writer Woman's last blog. Life has been turned upside down. Her mother in-law, Ruth, became ill and almost died. But being a tough little woman, she has recovered and finally after a long hospital stay, she is home in her own bed. She couldn't be happier.

Ruth's 83rd birthday came and went while she was in an induced coma.

So, Happy Birthday! I only hope to be half as strong as you are when I get your age. You inspire me.

Writer Woman

On This Day 01-22-2008

2008-01-22T06:51:00.000-08:00

On this chosen day, Writer Woman is glad to say the review for her online magazine was better than good. It was great! Kind of like Tony The Tiger. Anybody remember him? She really sweated over this review because you see Writer Woman is a writer not an editor. When she began her online magazine, it was with the thought that she would provide a safe place for short story writers to be published. Simple.

The magazine came together quickly. Hubby, the artist, donated his efforts on cover art for each issue. Writers came out of the woodwork to help launch the magazine. So, it was Writer Woman’s pleasure to pass on the wonderful review to Hubby and the writers who make it happen. Yeah!

Now Writer Woman has to go face the page this morning. She does much to avoid writing these days. Every excuse in the world, including her blog, keeps her from addressing her project; the beast of a project that threatens to consume her.

Most writers know exactly what I’m talking about. It’s the project that shuts them down and makes them search for excuses. When I do spend some time writing, it is always good. The prose flows and I like what direction the story takes, but it is exhausting because it is a story too close to my heart for any kind of gleaned comfort. I spend two days recovering from two hours of work. Really, I wonder if this is the project for me, but it’s been my experience that these kinds of projects are always my best work.

Back to the page.

Writer Woman

On This Day 01-18-2008

2008-01-18T06:12:00.001-08:00

On this chosen day, the sun streams into Writer Woman’s study for the first day in what seems like a month. Snow fell on Wednesday evening right before dark. Writer Woman’s husband and daughter went out and played as the snow swirled through the air. There is a good chance to encounter more tomorrow.

Writer Woman is struggling with a memoir project. Writing nonfiction is like wearing her shoes on the wrong feet for a whole day. She finds excuses not to write; such as writing in her blog. Fiction is her strong suit. Should she stop? Should she go back to what she knows?

Julia Cameron believes that each person has a well to be filled. The way one fills this deep whole is by playing, leaving work behind. On Sunday Writer Woman retreated to her study and looked at art books. She hung her favorite art posters from an earlier time. One the exposed brick wall, she hung a green shooting star with white lights inside. Beside the star, hung a big dragonfly lit by colored lights. These are to remind her during her writing not to take it all so serious.

Later that evening she found the opening paragraphs for her project floating inside her head. How does one fill her well? Play. Have fun.

Homework assignment: Play tomorrow and then listen.

Writer Woman

On This Day 01-11-2008

2008-01-11T16:14:00.000-08:00

On this chosen day, Writer Woman has to laugh at herself. She had dinner with a good friend and aspiring writer. While in the middle of the main and only course, Aspiring Writer’s phone rang, and she began to have a deep conversation with the caller. From Writer Woman’s side of the conversation, it seemed to be serious. The word turkey was mentioned and then Aspiring Writer points at Writer Woman. She mouths that Writer Woman has to help her.

Now Writer Woman has two big fears in her life: 1) flying in any kind of airplane. Just talking about it makes her break out in hives. 2) She cannot ask for donations of any kind. The thought of cold calling a business for a fundraiser knocks her to the ground.

And there was the mention of turkey, and Aspiring Writer was talking to someone from the church they both attend. Writer Woman began to prepare her speech in her mind of how she would say no. Hadn’t she promised that this year she would learn to say no more? Here was the perfect chance. The whole scene began to build in her mind.

Then, Aspiring Writer hung up the phone and said, “You have to help me with the devotional during our women’s meeting next week.”

Had Writer Woman heard correct? This was about a devotional reading not fundraising and flying in planes?

“Sure I can do that.” Now normally this would have been a terrifying proposal, but it paled in the light of what had built in Writer Woman’s mind. So, this Monday night she will step out of her box and lead the women’s meeting in a devotional.

How does this come close to being a writing lesson? Easy. How many times do writers defeat themselves before they ever start? They play out the responses to their short story before they hand it over to one reader. They create such a harsh response that it becomes next to impossible to allow anyone to read their work. So, the story goes back into the drawer, hidden away. And the writers go back to their safe little desks, a little empty, but safe, secure. But what if they handed it to a reader they trust and know loves them? What if the writers prepare for the harshest of comments and then, it is a better critique than they could imagine? What then? What if stepping out of their safe little boxes and handing over their work is the best thing they ever did for their art? What is to be made of it? This means they have to change, grow, evolve to the next level. Often writers don’t want to succeed because in success comes that dreaded word, CHANGE.

Remember just because someone says the word turkey it doesn’t mean it is a fundraiser, and allow the reader you trust to see your work. Then take a chance, step way out of your comfort zone, send the story off for publication. What’s the worse that can happen? You end up getting a no. It’s not the end of the world, but only the beginning of new life, of change, sharing your art.

Writer Woman is signing off so she can go work on her devotional.

Please notice the whole new look Camera Woman gave to Writer Woman’s blog. Beautiful.

On This Day 01-09-2008

2008-01-09T06:35:00.000-08:00

On this chosen day, with Little Daughter back in school, Writer Woman sits down to write. The computer screen of her laptop is intimidating. It shines like a lantern in a fog. Weeks have passed since she followed her writing routine. Has she lost her ability to form words into sentences, sentences into paragraphs, paragraphs into a decent story? Time will tell.

Yesterday, Writer Woman spent the day with her niece, who is visiting from London. It was one of those days that Julia Cameron (author of The Artist’s Way) talks about when she suggests that an artist has to fill up her well. We caught up on five years of talking. Niece is beautiful in ways she wasn’t before she left. She has this chic, confident look. Writer Woman is sure this is because she learned how to build her own brand of life; instead of the life pushed on her by well-meaning family members.

In another country, one is alone and left to fend for herself. This fending brings out the survivor instinct. Niece has learned more about life than she ever would within the location of her family. When she speaks, it’s with a self-assurance that most older adults cannot imagine. Writer Woman knows she will learn much from Niece’s visit. It wonderful to have the mentor learn from the student.

Niece brought Writer Woman a gift that indicated that she had listened when Writer Woman spoke to her about the life she was carving out of her passion. The gift hangs in Writer Woman’s writing room on the exposed brick wall. It is a carved resin plaque painted with bronze. The carving reads: Be Still and Know That I Am. This gift was purchased at Westminster Abby, where Niece works. It speaks of Writer Woman’s need for stillness and her belief in the great ‘I Am’.

The day was over all too soon, but Writer Woman knows that she has filled her well with wonderful conversation and love.

Writers need this well filled so as to dip into it and create. Carve out time today to fill your well and then write friends write.

Writer Woman is off to pound the keyboard. With what she is not sure, but hopefully creativity gathered from her rest.

Writer Woman

P.S.
Notice Camera Woman’s addition of new header. She is quite talented.

On This Day 01-05-2008

2008-01-05T16:20:00.000-08:00

On this chosen day, Writer Woman had a morning out. Qigong instruction…Oh you ask what is qigong? Don’t worry Writer Woman asked the same thing when she began this past September. First it is pronounced Chee-gong. A lot of people call qigong Chinese yoga. Writer Woman plays the New Forest Qigong. This was designed by John A. Bright-Fey. It’s much simpler for westerns, like herself, to understand than the intricate traditional Chinese Qigong. The only rule is one must wear a light smile.

So, Writer Woman’s qigong sessions started again today. Even though she plays a twenty minute session each morning, she missed the group interaction. After the session ended—and it was an especially relaxing session—there was a brunch. The food was magnificent. The house was warm and inviting. The conversation was stimulating. This all adds up to a wonderful day. This day made Writer Woman understand why the decision to stick with qigong was so good for her.

Since she started playing qigong, many changes have taken place in her life. The first was learning to slow her pace in writing. Before qigong she wrote in a manic fashion without coming up for air until she fell out and couldn’t write any longer. She learned this from her corporate life, and somehow her year away did not slow her pace. Next with the slowing of pace came the heightened creativity. Before she knew what had happened, she was meditating on most morning, and spending spans of time thinking. Imagine taking the time to just think. It’s awesome and every writer should try it. Next she noticed her spiritual side became more natural. She could sit and listen to someone talk without the need to inject her opinion. Big stuff!

Finally she took a spare room in her house and turned it into her space. It’s a beautiful room with large cushions and throws. The walls are exposed brick and a double window from ceiling to floor that faces east. In the morning Writer woman sits on a cushion and faces the window to meditate.

Her work has taken on a depth it did not have prior to joining qigong. A year ago she would not have made her a space to work, meditate, and play. There is no space for manic movement and crazy schedules in Writer Woman’s life now. Not to say her life is calm and serene all the time, but she approaches it in a steady pace. Art only comes when inspired. To be inspired one must slow down and allow the inspiration to work through the mind and the heart.

Writer Woman encourages all writers to find a way to slow their pace, to breathe, to take a walk and just think. It is wonderful what it will do for your work and the mind-body.

Writer Woman closes today with a saying from qigong: Everything you need is locked away deep inside of you. All you need is some keys to unlock a few doors. And now you know the secret.

Have a wonderful weekend.

On This Day 01-03-2008

2008-01-03T06:04:00.001-08:00

On this chosen day, Writer Woman woke early to temps in the teens. Now Writer Woman lives in the south—Atlanta to be exact—and weather this cold is not the norm. But she is happy anyway because she finally sat down at her desk and put words into her laptop! It’s been a crazy holiday and writing just doesn’t fit with the dynamics. Anne Lamott says all writers should just forget the month of December, but Writer Woman doesn’t listen; instead, she always tries to set goals and meet them. Ha!

Anyway, even though, her youngest daughter is still home from school, and ‘Newly Married Daughter’ along with ‘Love of Her Life’ decided to drop by and show off their new wedding rings, Writer Woman spent over two hours writing. She can’t promise any of it is worth keeping, but still the words were spilt into the air and onto the page. That is all a writer can ask.

Writer Woman has a new header thanks to her daughter, Camera Woman. If readers would like a treat, check out her blog Notice the wonderful photos and Writer Woman’s grandchildren. Aren’t they just wonderful?

Today seems to be a day for shopping since the cupboard is bare. All that is left is ham, black-eyed peas, and cornbread. And even though Writer Woman would love to be rich—you notice greens are not mentioned because Writer Woman forced them all down on New Years Day like a good Southern Girl—she can’t stand the thought of eating this combination again. She will write today, attempting to make sense of a large project without butchering it to death.

But best of all she has finally put her goals for 2008 into words:

Find joy in all the little things. (And some big things—like her novel being bought—would be nice.)
Write, Write, and Write
Walk, Walk, and Walk
Write, Write, and Write
Play, Play, and Play

Sit down at your desk today and find words to put on the page. If Writer Woman can do it, so can you.

In qigong we have a saying that goes something like this: If you think that all you are doing is waving your hands slowly in the air, then the exercise won't affect you very much. If however, you think you are slowly moving mountains with the turn of a wrist, then the exercise's effect becomes truly profound.

In other words don’t sit down to write thinking the effort is not worth your time; instead, believe you’re writing the next best seller, and you might just accomplish your dreams.

Writer Woman

On This Day 01-01-2008

2008-01-01T15:17:00.001-08:00

On this chosen day, Writer Woman begins the New Year. She spent New Year’s Eve forcing herself to stay awake and wait for 12:00 midnight. Now this isn’t a real problem for most, but Writer Woman has trained herself to rise early before anyone else in the house and write. Her body begins to shut down at 9:30 pm and by 10:00 pm, she becomes a person no one wants to be around. But Hubby was insistent that the family go to the fireworks at midnight. He chose to ignore all the glares Writer Woman shot in his direction.

After Writer Woman doses off and on for over an hour, Hubby gathers the family and herds them to the car. The air is frigid and all Writer Woman can think of is sleeping in her bed under quilts. This is how she wants to ring in The New Year. She imagines next year putting her foot down and spending New Year’s Eve taking a hot bath and reading herself to sleep. And then a horrible thought enters her head: her mother always said whatever a person is doing on New Year’s Eve; they will do the rest of the year.

As Hubby backs the car into a parking spot, Writer Woman wonders if this means she will spend the year staying up late to please Hubby. No way! She puts this old wives tale away in the same place as you must go out the same door you entered, not another door. At midnight the sky was ablaze with all colors, glittering and twinkling. Writer Woman did not want to admit how wonderful Hubby’s idea was. He might want to do it again next year. He might get the idea to push her to do more things outside of her box.

It’s no different when Writer Woman has received a really good critique on a story. Maybe the review points out a glaring problem that she would never want out in the public, but still there is something about not being perfect, something about another person finding the imperfection that makes her crazy. She knows it’s right on the money, but she wants to hate the messenger. Not for long of course because every writer knows that good critiques are the tree of life in her work. So, after giving some thought to the review, Writer Woman always has to make herself say thank you, but boy does she hate it when she isn’t perfect.

Perfection is the poison of art. All great writers had their editors. Period. So, today on this first day of the year, write without perfection perched on your shoulder. Admit when you’re having a good time, even if you stepped out of your box.

Happy New Year.

On This Day 12-31-2007

2007-12-31T08:08:00.001-08:00

On this chosen day, Writer Woman looks into 2008 with a backward glance into 2007. What can be said about 2007? It was a year of surprises and change. Writer Woman is becoming accustomed to both. She almost sold her novel and then the deal fell through at the last minute. A tree fell on her house due to the drought conditions. One of her personal essays was accepted for publication in a large popular anthology. She began a memoir on her mother’s last two years of life. Good news arrived on the eve of New Year’s Eve. Writer Woman was contacted by a magazine editor who wants to feature her Black Mountain stories in her April issue. This is a first for the magazine to feature only one writer for the issue, and Writer Woman is beside herself. Maybe this is a good sign for 2008.

What happened to the cake? ‘Love of Her Life’ came by last night and picked it up. He had no idea what he held in his hands. Writer Woman restrained from pointing out how long and what effort went into the baking. Instead, she only smiled.

Shortly before for ‘Newly Married Daughter’ and ‘Love of Her Life’ showed up, the Christmas decorations came down. With all the best intentions and promises, Writer Woman still didn’t get started until late afternoon. Funny how it’s so much fun to put up all the festivity, but when it comes to taking it down, the task is more like a household chore. Soon the house was stripped of any remaining sign that Christmas had arrived and left. The rooms had expanded in a matter of a few hours. She could breathe.

Writer Woman made vows not to put so many decorations out next year, but she knew this was just a lie to get her through the cleaning process. Next year would bring just as many decorations or maybe more.

It’s the same when Writer Woman writes a story. Always there is a paragraph, sometimes several, that she falls in love with. The sentences make her sound like such an articulate writer. It is just such sentences that takes away from the story and must be cut, put away for a better a use. She promises herself that she will not write such stuff again, will not get carried away with the sound of her own voice, but it is a lie. A writer has to write without the editor sitting on her shoulder, dictating the good and bad. A writer has to love her voice.

So, in this coming year, Writer Woman has promised to write only her best work, but this makes her laugh. Because it’s within the worst prose she writes the jewels, the glimpse of a wonderful story, a better chapter than the previous.

Writer Woman wishes you a Happy New Year and a year of writing. Now get to work.

On This Day 12-29-2007

2007-12-29T13:26:00.000-08:00

On this chosen day when Writer Woman debuts her new blog, she decides to cook a German Chocolate cake from scratch. Writer Woman is mostly a fiction writer with sometimes a flair for cooking, but more often just a struggling writer. Her cooking expertise seems to be in fast dishes such as tacos or salads. So why would she choose to bake a cake from scratch?

Last night Writer Woman's daughter was married in a civil service to the “Love of Her Life.” Writer Woman doesn't know “Love of Her Life” too well. She was asked by “Love of Her Life” to make a German Chocolate cake, his favorite. Writer Woman agreed. Why? That's a question she is still pondering.

As Writer Woman gathered her ingredients, she felt sure, confident, that yes she was the best. This confidence lasted until the three layers came out of the oven. By this point, her kitchen was covered with dirty bowls of every size: one to separate the whites from the yolks, one to cream the sugar and butter, and one to mix all the dry ingredients.

She knew she was in deep when the layers refused to let go of the cake pans. The coconut and pecan icing simmered on the stove as she knocked the edges of the pan with a knife. At first this was a soft beat, a rhythm, but then the energy increased into banging when it became evident that the layers would not release and fall to the plate provided.

Finally after much coaching, the layers were free, but not without damage. Writer Woman thought of giving up, throwing in the towel and driving to the bakery, but her husband had the car.

Another hour later, the icing was applied to the cracked and lopsided layers, hiding all defects, or most of them anyway. Writer Woman shoved the cake into the frig and closed the door, vowing not to look at it again. She then proceeded to eat a good size bag of Doritos. The salt enhances the sugar. She has done this ever since she kicked the habit of smoking ten years ago.

What does any of this have to do with writing? Well, for one thing, this piece of ranting and three journal pages amounts to Writer Woman's accomplished writing for the day. Second, cake baking has everything to do with writing.

When one begins a writing project, she has an idea of how perfect it's going to be. Let's say a short story is envisioned. It's simple write down what has been playing through one's head. Ah, but fifty pages later and a whole other story, she is lost and can't release the earlier project from her thoughts. The fifty pages are disconnected and fragmented. She patches here and there with cleaner sentences, an image or two, maybe even a few similes. After stepping back to review the damage, the story is not as bad as she expected, not the same story, but not too bad after all. If she puts it away for a while, the story seems stronger, better than she had ever hoped.

As writers we have to be prepared to make a few lopsided cakes. And on that bit of wisdom, Writer Woman signs off for today.

Oh yeah, she was going to post a picture of the cake, but alas her husband took his digital camera with him. Too bad. Readers will not get to feast their eyes on her cake.

Stay tuned for more adventures of Writer Woman as she fights to remain on the page.