I Am Gobsmacked

Truly, I am.

Gobsmacked, that is.

I just read a recent review on amazon about my latest book, "Bensy and Me". 

The lady who wrote it is a great writer herself. Her poetry will bring you to your knees.

She taught creative writing as her profession before she retired a few years ago.

On top of everything else, she's a hoot.

It's hard for me to brag about my own work, in fact, it's even hard for me to try and sell my own work. I'd never make a living as a salesman of any kind. It's just darned embarrassing.

However; this is something even I want to shout from the rooftops. Not only because of what was said, but who said it.

So, here goes:

Lucy Harris here. I struggle to do justice to this wonderful masterwork of Southern humor. I have been reading daily since I was six years old - I am now sixty-five, and for most of my reading years I have clearly understood how difficult it is for a book to shake loose a deep belly-laugh. In my vast reading experience, only a few have succeeded though many have tried. Yet, Bensy and Me has at least one big laugh and sometimes many more per page. I know because I put a check mark on each page which contained at least one. I giggled as I read the author's note in the front, and then as directed, turned to Uncle Wend's Dictionary in the back - been laughing ever since. This is the only book I have ever read slowly because I wanted to savor the surprise and delight. I would not allow myself to read more than a few pages a day. I kept thinking, "This can't go on," but it does. From first page to last, it is purely filled with light, not to mention small town love, wisdom, and plain old-fashioned good, clean living. The cast of characters spans a country mile but centers on the reflections of a man who many call Charlie as he is thinking, "I hate being called Charlie," through the regular ups and downs of being the proud father of six children, four of whom are delivered as quadruplets at the beginning of the story. How Ms. Harper squeezed so many twists and turns and so much laughter out of plain old life is a hilarious mystery to me (which often involves cows, hair salons, Christmas - I could go on), but I am so glad she did; and if you have any sense at all, you’ll get a copy and find out what I mean.

Thank you, dear, sweet woman. Thank you.

So You Think You Can Write A Book

Maybe you can. Maybe you have. And if you have you know how hard writing a book is.

Especially after "The End".

After the end, there is endless rereading by the author. Editing and proofing follows every single reread.

After you think you might throw up if you have to read the book again, you pass it off to "readers"; folks who are sick kind enough to read the book for you, red pencil in hand. These folks are usually English majors, people who have proofread or edited in a professional manner, or other authors. They have a keen eye for mistakes and aren't afraid to share them with you.

After you change all that mess, you, the author, get the joy of rereading it. Again.

It's then off to the publisher who  changes the manuscript into an interior file, make it looking just like a book!  The publisher then sends it back to the author to read it and make sure it's okay to go to the printers. 

It never is. This time I found twenty something errors, one so glaring that I couldn't believe someone, especially me, had not seen before.

Publisher sends correction page(s) back and asks you to review again. (You know what this means.) Fortunately for  me,  Daughter took half and read it and I read the other half.

Of course, she found some mistakes. I sent a correction sheet. He sent corrected text back. I checked to make sure he'd corrected the mistakes, but did not read the book again.

There's some things a person just can't do.

I am in love with the book cover, both front and back. I think you'll like it, too.

If there's more mistakes in there when you read the book, well I think they reproduce when the book is closed. Diana Gabaldon said that, and I think she ought to know, being a famous author and all.

I haven't even talked about the photo shoot for the cover, or having to have my own durn picture struck. Eww.

Of course, many authors have nothing to do with the outside cover, but I'm too controlling and usually by a few pages in I know what the cover should look like. 

Also, there is the fearful task of trying to make sure you thank all the folks who helped make the book what it is. I am always afraid I'll leave someone out, even though I take notes.

The next step is receiving the manuscript back from two authors who are previewing the book in order to do blurbs on the cover about how great it is. If they don't like it, I'm in a heap of trouble.

Once the publisher gets a hard copy back from the printer, guess who has to read the book again.

But this time will be different because, magically, I will hold a book in my hand that I wrote.

I'll read it, I'll pray it's as funny as I think it is, the printer will print, and I will get books weeks after that.

So, say a little prayer that a book signing will occur in  mid-November.

If I'm not too tired to do one.

Finally!

The book that was supposed to be here before Thanksgiving got here just before Christmas.

Not that it made any difference, 'cause I been sickern a hound dog after eatin a rotten carcass.

I am finally almost well, and am begging meeting with folks to set up interviews and book signings.

I'll be on the local tv station morning talk show Monday, Februrary 9 at ten a.m.. Watch if you dare.

March 14, 2014 from 1p.m. to 3p.m. the Gilmer Arts and Heritage Association will host a book signing for me.

I'll do something I've never done before at a book signing - I'll be reading a short excerpt from the book.

Now, I have attempted to make this a funny book, and let's all hope folks laugh.

And not at me.

The book is "The Year of Nine: Where the Rain Begins" and is set in 1963. Tansy Corbin is nine years old that year, and she tells in first person her view of the world during that time.

Some folks have already purchased it, and invariably ask: Is Tansy really me?

Yes. No.

If you are a writer, you know that there is a part of you in everything  you write.

This book is also an outline of sorts of my childhood.

I describe the town and neighborhood where I grew up, and it is indeed almost identical to the real town and neighborhood. (In fact, on the back of the cover is a photo of my granddaddy's store, the name Corbin photoshopped to cover up the real name). But Tansy isn't really me on the inside, nor are all the people who populate the book real people I knew. Some of the characters you might recognize by behavior - especially one, if you are from 'round these parts in those years.

I in no way attempted to get into anyone's skin and write about them, I just used their outline and filled it up with an imaginary person.

Some things you read about happened. Some things did not.

Anyway, here's hoping you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.

A Meeting of Minds

I attended a book club yesterday.

The guest author, Deirdre D. Grogan, is a lady who wrote, "Advice for Alyson", which is a book written to her daughter. She doesn't consider herself an author because she says she will never publish anything else as she did this for a specific person.

She also is dying of terminal cancer.

It's her story to tell, of course, but suffice it to say she was misdiagnosed for three years, and by then the cancer had advanced. She has had everything there is to do at this point, except, of course, continue living her life.

Most of the people who talked were also authors, and the conversation was lively. The book store owner asked us to introduce ourselves, and if we were authors to mention our books. We did this briefly before we got down to business of discussing the current book.

The book is an interesting compilation of wisdom and wit.

I kept thinking about what if this was me, and I was writing to Daughter?

I do write to her. When things are going rough, when she is in great anticipation of something, when she has a birthday, when sadness occurs.

But what if I knew for sure my days were very limited. Would I say anything differently?

I hope not. I hope I say and show love and beliefs every day so that Daughter has no doubt about who I am and what I believe.

It's important to review inside yourself. Do those  you love know everything  you want them to know about you?

If the answer is no, get busy.

Today may  be all you have.

Birds of a Feather

Saturday, in spite of rain and fog, I journeyed to an event that focused on writers. I was a member of a round table discussion, with an audience listening, and many of them were 'wanna be published writers'.

It was fun, listening to what drives folks to write, what their passion is in their subject manner, and realizing what a strange lot we are.

One lady writes inspirational essays accompanied by scripture. She is working on the fourth one. Her affect, however; was a grimace and an air of unapproachability. I think she was sincere and perhaps had no idea how she appeared to others. I know I certainly don't sometimes. Maybe she was just  having a bad day. She read one of her essays and it was quite good.

Another woman wrote a memoir about her deceased son, who became addicted to drugs in seventh grade and finally died from AIDS at age twenty-six from sharing needles. He died many years ago, and she is now able to talk about it removed from overwhelming emotions.

Yet another woman wrote a book about an era circa World War II and how ethnic groups had separate neighborhoods up North who never spoke, much less had relationships. The drama is about an Italian boy marrying an Irish girl.

A gentleman who looked like a homeless man began to speak eloquently about the Korean War and the group of  men he fought with. Sounded like a great book.

One man wrote a book on two potters in Cherokee County in the early 1900's who furnished pots, jugs, etc. to homes for many years. Their pottery is now collectible, of course, and he said if he didn't write about them, he was afraid they would be lost to history.

There was the woman who wrote about haunted things...but the story she read from her book was about an elderly woman on her deathbed surrounded by family, when the smell of cigar smoke suddenly hung heavily in the air. Her deceased husband smoked cigars, no one else did. They couldn't find the source and felt he had come for her.

A man from Haiti talked about his book and how he wanted it to be a movie. He felt God was directing his steps toward that very thing.

A young woman spoke of her book and how a certain percentage would go to summer camps, as that was the subject of her book, stories from summer camps of her own childhood.

A  young mother, along with her husband, has written a children's Christmas book. With the book comes a big Santa stocking. This is for children to give toys they no longer play with, to Santa. He can take them to other boys and girls.

My favorite was the cowboy poet. He is a teacher, raised in Texas and Oklahoma, and he writes poetry through a cowpoke's eyes and voice. He read a Christmas poem that was delightful.

I was privileged to read an excerpt from "Out on a Limb of the Family Tree", which brought laughter and applause. Did that make me feel good, or what!

Each author felt deeply, passionately, almost urgent about what they had written. We know it is in the writing that keeps us fed, not the public relations, not the selling (although we want them to sell, but preferably by magic), or even the publishing, past the first stroke of the new book's cover.

I guess that means we need a benevolent agent, and as far as I know that's magical thinking, too.

What I'm trying to say to you, especially if  you want to be a writer is this: if you are writing now, you are a writer. Whether you are ever published, or whether anyone else even reads your work.

You are a writer.

Books

As you know, I love books.

And for the past two days, all I've talked about are books. My books, specifically.

Having written five and working on my sixth, it is exciting to have someone who actually wants to talk about them.

Yesterday, I talked to my publisher, kicking around ideas about upcoming book signings with other authors who have books about Christmas. What a neat idea! Christmas books, cookies, punch, little kids running around, Santa...I don't know, it sort of gets me in the spirit of the season.

Today I talked to another author who was having a book signing in a neighboring county. He introduced me to the owner of the store, who welcomed me, agreed to look over my books for possible purchase and sales, and even invited me to have a book signing there.

The fellow author also told me of another place that sells local author books, which I will check out in the near future.

I'm not much of a salesperson, I don't have a lot of physical stamina, and I can't afford a publicist. So most of my books sell by word of mouth.

And if you have read and like my books, that would be your mouth.

If you are a member of a book club that has speakers from time to time, I'd love to be a guest. If there's one thing I can do besides write, it's talk.

Even if I never sell another book, I will keep on writing.

Because, you know, I have to.